It's technically Sunday morning. I just stumbled into my hovel. My Saturday night might seem mundane in America, but it was surreal to live such an ordinary night in Africa.
My friend picked me up around 7:30. We drove about three minutes to his brother's house. Wandered inside, greeted his brother, who was hard at work on the stove, and plopped on a couch to watch DVDs. Dinner was served. We gave up on the scratchy DVDs and switched over to good 'ol television. Then we all trooped outside into the cold, drove back to my friend's place, and chatted until I got tired and walked home.
Ordinary, right?
Except that the roads we drove on weren't paved, there were absolutely zero traffic signs, and the night was pitch black. Dinner was Ethiopian stew, made by an actual Ethiopian. The DVDs were traditional Ethiopian music and drama. The television stations were all South African, but playing terrible, old American films. Back at my friend's room (adjacent to mine; we're neighbors) we huddled around a space heater for survival. When we spoke to each other, we managed to comprehend only about a third of what we were each attempting to communicate. Turns out Amharic is rather tricky.
While I consider myself exceptionally lucky to have such great friends in Loopeng, spending time with them is always a bit, well, surreal.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Working with Others
Working with others is hard, particularly when the people you work with don't necessarily want to be associated with you at all. This is conundrum I find myself in lately. For years, practically ever since the founding of the local mission, do-gooders have flocked to Loopeng from Europe and Australia to do, well, "good". They are usually white.
Hey, I'm white too! In the minds of my fellow residents of Loopeng, this means that I exist on the same wave-length as the Euralian visitors, we are all associated with the same organization, we have each others phone numbers, are in constant communication and get along great. Absolutely none of that is true, of course, but I can't seem to convince anyone of that. I've barely convinced people that New York is in the US of A, not Germany or Australia.
Generally, I'm untroubled by people's assumptions, but lately it's been putting me in a real pickle. See, people keep pointing out different projects they want done, and sites they want visited, by the Euralians. The local impression of the Euralians is that they have deep pockets, and so people are eager to invite them here and there to help out with various maintenance projects.
"When are the people from Germany coming? Australia? They must come... They must see... I want them to..." I'm asked this frequently. What makes it so uncomfortable is that I have no idea when they're coming, no idea if they're able or willing to do said projects, and very little in the way of contact information. I just smile and nod along. I do know a group, or two, is coming later this month, so I usually mumble something about June and hurry away.
I'm thinking about hanging a giant banner from my house for when the visitors arrive.
"Welcome back! Please visit Mampestad and Agrico! Thanks!"
Other than that, I'm not sure what else to do. I just hope it all works out, because if it doesn't, who will be responsible for cleaning up the mess and soothing the ruffled feathers?
I will. I may not be formally associated with the visitors, some may routinely trash myself and my colleagues as "unqualified", many others may leave a trail of missed opportunities and frustration in their wake, but since we're all white foreigners in Africa, we have to stick together.
Anyone have a large banner they'd like to ship over?
(Don't worry, I promise that's not my only plan. Plan B is much more traditional. I have three e-mail addresses for people I plan to grovel to. Good thing Peace Corps teaches humility.)
Hey, I'm white too! In the minds of my fellow residents of Loopeng, this means that I exist on the same wave-length as the Euralian visitors, we are all associated with the same organization, we have each others phone numbers, are in constant communication and get along great. Absolutely none of that is true, of course, but I can't seem to convince anyone of that. I've barely convinced people that New York is in the US of A, not Germany or Australia.
Generally, I'm untroubled by people's assumptions, but lately it's been putting me in a real pickle. See, people keep pointing out different projects they want done, and sites they want visited, by the Euralians. The local impression of the Euralians is that they have deep pockets, and so people are eager to invite them here and there to help out with various maintenance projects.
"When are the people from Germany coming? Australia? They must come... They must see... I want them to..." I'm asked this frequently. What makes it so uncomfortable is that I have no idea when they're coming, no idea if they're able or willing to do said projects, and very little in the way of contact information. I just smile and nod along. I do know a group, or two, is coming later this month, so I usually mumble something about June and hurry away.
I'm thinking about hanging a giant banner from my house for when the visitors arrive.
"Welcome back! Please visit Mampestad and Agrico! Thanks!"
Other than that, I'm not sure what else to do. I just hope it all works out, because if it doesn't, who will be responsible for cleaning up the mess and soothing the ruffled feathers?
I will. I may not be formally associated with the visitors, some may routinely trash myself and my colleagues as "unqualified", many others may leave a trail of missed opportunities and frustration in their wake, but since we're all white foreigners in Africa, we have to stick together.
Anyone have a large banner they'd like to ship over?
(Don't worry, I promise that's not my only plan. Plan B is much more traditional. I have three e-mail addresses for people I plan to grovel to. Good thing Peace Corps teaches humility.)
What I Read
Today is a beautiful African "winter" day. The sun is shining, it's warm enough for flip-flops and I'm not wearing a hat, gloves or a blanket. Yay! I've spent most of the morning outside, basking the precious warmth for the first time in quite a while. During the late cold spell, when it was too cold to go outside, I spent a lot of time in bed with a book. I averaged about one book a day. It was ridiculous. My source of reading material was the school library. Between Books for Africa and the Northern Cape provincial library service, Moshaweng High School has quite the selection. There's everything from Shakespeare to John Grisham, including Agatha Christie, Sue Grafton and a host of unknowns.
First, I worked my way through Mary Higgins Clark-style mysteries which I once really enjoyed, but Stieg Larsson's trilogy has spoiled me and now the other books pale in comparison. I moved on to New York Times bestsellers by unfamiliar, and often first-time, authors. My only conclusion is that there must be no correlation between the bestsellers list and actual book quality. I wondered how a few of them even got published. I disliked Eat, Pray, Love, but at least it was coherent. In the interest of not bashing relative newbies to the literary world, my lips are sealed as to book titles and authors not worth your time. I'll let you discover them on your own.
However, I will tell you that the book I just finished last night was rather good. It's Nick Hornby's How to be Good. I tried reading another of Hornby's books (the Polysyllabic Spree) but I just couldn't get through it. How to be Good was a different story. Compared to authors I've indulged in recently, Hornby is a seasoned professional, and it shows. The book has definite structure and a distinct style. The theme is obvious and interesting. The plot is somewhat bizarre and not exactly enjoyable (a middle-aged couple on the brink of divorce, saved by an alternative "healer"), but Hornby's voice is amusing enough that I muddled through and wound up with some quality food for thought.
The premise of How to be Good is that everyone wants to be good. Everyone knows how to be good. But no one really is good. No one is willing to act on their beliefs, at least not to the full extent of their potential to be "good". As a Peace Corps volunteer whose job description might be summed up simply as "do-gooder", Hornby's analysis of the chasm between morality and charity was thought-provoking. As much as like to think, "I'm in Peace Corps! I'm a good person!" That isn't necessarily true. I could do more. I could do better. I'm not inherently "good", and unless you donate most of your income, give away your possesions and let the homeless sleep in your spare room, neither are you. How to be Good won't make you feel warm and fuzzy, but it is a good book and it may help you justify however much you spend on movies and take-aways instead of donating to, oh, say, Save Darfur.
First, I worked my way through Mary Higgins Clark-style mysteries which I once really enjoyed, but Stieg Larsson's trilogy has spoiled me and now the other books pale in comparison. I moved on to New York Times bestsellers by unfamiliar, and often first-time, authors. My only conclusion is that there must be no correlation between the bestsellers list and actual book quality. I wondered how a few of them even got published. I disliked Eat, Pray, Love, but at least it was coherent. In the interest of not bashing relative newbies to the literary world, my lips are sealed as to book titles and authors not worth your time. I'll let you discover them on your own.
However, I will tell you that the book I just finished last night was rather good. It's Nick Hornby's How to be Good. I tried reading another of Hornby's books (the Polysyllabic Spree) but I just couldn't get through it. How to be Good was a different story. Compared to authors I've indulged in recently, Hornby is a seasoned professional, and it shows. The book has definite structure and a distinct style. The theme is obvious and interesting. The plot is somewhat bizarre and not exactly enjoyable (a middle-aged couple on the brink of divorce, saved by an alternative "healer"), but Hornby's voice is amusing enough that I muddled through and wound up with some quality food for thought.
The premise of How to be Good is that everyone wants to be good. Everyone knows how to be good. But no one really is good. No one is willing to act on their beliefs, at least not to the full extent of their potential to be "good". As a Peace Corps volunteer whose job description might be summed up simply as "do-gooder", Hornby's analysis of the chasm between morality and charity was thought-provoking. As much as like to think, "I'm in Peace Corps! I'm a good person!" That isn't necessarily true. I could do more. I could do better. I'm not inherently "good", and unless you donate most of your income, give away your possesions and let the homeless sleep in your spare room, neither are you. How to be Good won't make you feel warm and fuzzy, but it is a good book and it may help you justify however much you spend on movies and take-aways instead of donating to, oh, say, Save Darfur.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
A Wet Start to the Dry Season
Most of Africa has only two distinct seasons: the wet and the dry. For equatorial Africa, spring and autumn are irrelevant when it's burning hot year round. For my little corner of the world, while the temperature does vary with the season, by far the most noticeable difference is the level of precipitation. During the hot summer months, rain is frequent. It rarely falls during the day, but I swear it rained every night in January this year. Winter is much different. It doesn't rain at all, not one drop, during the dry season. All the plants dry up, the landscape turns brown and ugly. Goats reach new levels of desperation in their endless quest for food. At least that's the theory anyway.
In reality, I haven't seen the sun for three days. It's been raining, or at least drizzling, all day, everyday. The high temperatures are only in the mid-fifties. It's cold and wet. In my opinion, that's the very worst weather combination. It's absolute misery. While the rain continues, the cold has done it's duty and most plants are dead. The school garden's moment in the sun is well over for this year. I'll try again next year, when and if it warms up enough to be outside again. Thankfully, I have wonderful neighbors and colleagues who cleverly invested in space heaters. As it is my last winter in South Africa, I can't quite bring myself to buy my own, but they certainly are nice. It's good to have feeling in my fingers and toes at least once a day.
I was quite toasty this morning, when the heater in the computer lab was turned on. Unfortunately, the heater sucked up what little electricity is available in that room and the lights promptly flickered and died, along with all the computers. *sigh* I switched off the heater. Maybe I can rip it out of the wall and take it to my house? Surely no one would notice. The sad part is that after a multitude of charities (including US-funded) outfitted the tiny, African classroom with heaps and loads of modernity and expensive electronic equipment, the space simply couldn't handle it and now it's mostly functionally useless. Shame. At least we get a good metaphor out of it.
On the bright side, I've booked myself an upcoming weekend in Kuruman. May hot showers, great food and excellent company ensue!
In reality, I haven't seen the sun for three days. It's been raining, or at least drizzling, all day, everyday. The high temperatures are only in the mid-fifties. It's cold and wet. In my opinion, that's the very worst weather combination. It's absolute misery. While the rain continues, the cold has done it's duty and most plants are dead. The school garden's moment in the sun is well over for this year. I'll try again next year, when and if it warms up enough to be outside again. Thankfully, I have wonderful neighbors and colleagues who cleverly invested in space heaters. As it is my last winter in South Africa, I can't quite bring myself to buy my own, but they certainly are nice. It's good to have feeling in my fingers and toes at least once a day.
I was quite toasty this morning, when the heater in the computer lab was turned on. Unfortunately, the heater sucked up what little electricity is available in that room and the lights promptly flickered and died, along with all the computers. *sigh* I switched off the heater. Maybe I can rip it out of the wall and take it to my house? Surely no one would notice. The sad part is that after a multitude of charities (including US-funded) outfitted the tiny, African classroom with heaps and loads of modernity and expensive electronic equipment, the space simply couldn't handle it and now it's mostly functionally useless. Shame. At least we get a good metaphor out of it.
On the bright side, I've booked myself an upcoming weekend in Kuruman. May hot showers, great food and excellent company ensue!
Thursday, June 2, 2011
What I Wore: Frigid Edition
I had an interesting exchange recently, on a phone call with my mother.
"Mom, it's so cold here!"
"I don't mean to make you jealous, but it's 65 and sunny here."
It was 76 in Loopeng. It seems like I've over-achieved in terms of adjusting to the heat. Now anything below eighty calls for a sweater.
Since this coversation with my mother, the temperature has dropped much further. When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I see is my own breath. As a cheapskate, I have nothing, no heater, no hot water bottle, to combat the freezing temperatures. I have only layers.
It is 51 degrees as I write this. I'm wearing slippers, two pairs of socks, flannel pajamas, two fleeces, a bathrobe, a hat and a blanket. While I have little to no feeling in my fingers and toes, I'm reasonably toasty otherwise. Still, it is at times like this when I wonder how I will ever survive a New England winter again. I'm dressed like an Eskimo now, but two years ago this was "skirt weather". No more!
On the bright side, wearing a blanket to work is perfectly acceptable here and you can bet that the blanket around my shoulders right now is goint to be there all through school tomorrow. Maybe I'll just wear it until it warms up in September. That's just 12 weeks away! I can do this for 12 weeks. The power of positive thinking...
"Mom, it's so cold here!"
"I don't mean to make you jealous, but it's 65 and sunny here."
It was 76 in Loopeng. It seems like I've over-achieved in terms of adjusting to the heat. Now anything below eighty calls for a sweater.
Since this coversation with my mother, the temperature has dropped much further. When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I see is my own breath. As a cheapskate, I have nothing, no heater, no hot water bottle, to combat the freezing temperatures. I have only layers.
It is 51 degrees as I write this. I'm wearing slippers, two pairs of socks, flannel pajamas, two fleeces, a bathrobe, a hat and a blanket. While I have little to no feeling in my fingers and toes, I'm reasonably toasty otherwise. Still, it is at times like this when I wonder how I will ever survive a New England winter again. I'm dressed like an Eskimo now, but two years ago this was "skirt weather". No more!
On the bright side, wearing a blanket to work is perfectly acceptable here and you can bet that the blanket around my shoulders right now is goint to be there all through school tomorrow. Maybe I'll just wear it until it warms up in September. That's just 12 weeks away! I can do this for 12 weeks. The power of positive thinking...
Town Bound
It's been a while since I recounted an average day as a Peace Corps volunteer in South Africa, so let me tell you about my day.
Due to some administrative error in the States, volunteer stipends were delayed by almost two weeks. Due to my recent vacation, I had no savings to fall back on. Basically, I've been living off scraps for about two weeks. It's been rough, though not impossible. Anyway, a recent paycheck, a desperate need for groceries and an opportunity for Shaka to see the vet all led me to pop off to Kuruman on a Thursday (it's exam time at school, nobody missed me).
Wednesday night I called my favorite taxi driver.
"Hello, buti (brother), are you going to town tomorrow?"
"Yes, I will pick you up at 7, ne?"
"Gosiame (okay)."
Of course, he showed up at 7:30. I waited by the fire my host mother had built for breakfast and attempted to de-freeze my hair. In preparation for visiting a white town where people know what clean hair looks like, I washed mine the night before. The temperature then dropped, and it quite literally froze. Once I was sufficiently warmed, I took Shaka for a short walk. Out in the nearby veld I saw something terrifying: frost. Ulp. Apparently due to all the rain this past summer, we're in for an especially long and cold winter. What fun.
The taxi pulled up, Shaka and I climbed in and settled down for the two+ hour trip to Kuruman. Well, it actually doesn't take that long to get to town, what takes so long is wandering around the village picking people up until the vehicle (a mini-bus) is full to bursting. I'm not complaining, all the people made the trip cozy and warm.
Once in Kuruman, I paid a single fare (R33) and began a brisk walk to the local animal clinic. The doctor was busy, so his wife prepared a cage for Shaka and I left him there while I did my shopping.
Or, at least I tried to do my shopping. The power was out. I had only a debit card. You get the picture. Luckily, I had a stash of borrowed cash at a guesthouse. Another volunteer was kind enough to lend me some funds to tide me over until our payday finally arrived. Due to school commitments and an unfortunate transport situation in my village, today was the first day I was free to pick up the money. I walked up to the guesthouse and settled in next to a space heater for a chat. What did we talk about? Oh, you know, mining strikes, the bush war against Swapo, literal battle scars, lack of service delivery in the villages... the usual.
Armed with cash, I finally worked up the inner-strength to leave the space heater and actually run my errands. That done, it was back to the vet's office to hear his verdict on the state of Shaka. The good news is that he'll be fine. The bad news is that the wound on his chest is a chemical burn. I have no idea how he got it, nor what sort of chemicals are used at a cattle post that would cause this kind of damage. Anyway, I've been given a special ointment to apply several times a day for a couple weeks. That's right, I'll be spending the rest of June playing doctor to a dog.
The good animal doctor gave Shaka and I a ride to the taxi rank in his bakkie. Shaka managed to not fall out this time. I was relieved. Near the rank were a few Loopeng taxis. The first two were full. The third was practically empty. It took two hours to fill. Actually, it left slightly less than full. No one wanted to sit next to my dog. While his wound was dirty and covered by matted fur in the morning, in the afternoon, after the vet visit, the area had been shaved, cleaned and covered with a greenish goo. Apparently, some people were afraid they'd become sick if they got too close. Nevermind, I paid for two seats and got some extra stretching room.
We arrived back in Loopeng after dark. Once I hauled all my bags back to my room, I realized I left my jacket in the taxi. Brilliant. It's likely gone forever now. It wasn't particularly cute, but I'm that much colder now. After wrestling Shaka to apply the ointment (it stings just a tad), I wandered over to my host family's indoor fire.
In a small building, just a couple metres from the main house, is an indoor firepit. At night, my host mother builds a fire and shuts up the building. The result is a refuge of warmth. I love it in there, even if the highly flammable thatch roof makes me nervous. Tonight I brought a bag of coconut marshmallows, a bar of chocolate and a pack of biscuits to make South African s'mores with my host mother, her grandchild and the three orphans. The kids and I did this last year, but it was new for my host mother. She was pretty pysched. So was I, for that matter. Coconut marshmallows are pretty great, especially when hot.
When I was sufficiently stuffed and thawed out, I ventured back to my room and crawled into bed. I get a lot of sleep in the winter here. It is simply too cold to be awake!
And that, is a fairly typical day for me here in SA.
Due to some administrative error in the States, volunteer stipends were delayed by almost two weeks. Due to my recent vacation, I had no savings to fall back on. Basically, I've been living off scraps for about two weeks. It's been rough, though not impossible. Anyway, a recent paycheck, a desperate need for groceries and an opportunity for Shaka to see the vet all led me to pop off to Kuruman on a Thursday (it's exam time at school, nobody missed me).
Wednesday night I called my favorite taxi driver.
"Hello, buti (brother), are you going to town tomorrow?"
"Yes, I will pick you up at 7, ne?"
"Gosiame (okay)."
Of course, he showed up at 7:30. I waited by the fire my host mother had built for breakfast and attempted to de-freeze my hair. In preparation for visiting a white town where people know what clean hair looks like, I washed mine the night before. The temperature then dropped, and it quite literally froze. Once I was sufficiently warmed, I took Shaka for a short walk. Out in the nearby veld I saw something terrifying: frost. Ulp. Apparently due to all the rain this past summer, we're in for an especially long and cold winter. What fun.
The taxi pulled up, Shaka and I climbed in and settled down for the two+ hour trip to Kuruman. Well, it actually doesn't take that long to get to town, what takes so long is wandering around the village picking people up until the vehicle (a mini-bus) is full to bursting. I'm not complaining, all the people made the trip cozy and warm.
Once in Kuruman, I paid a single fare (R33) and began a brisk walk to the local animal clinic. The doctor was busy, so his wife prepared a cage for Shaka and I left him there while I did my shopping.
Or, at least I tried to do my shopping. The power was out. I had only a debit card. You get the picture. Luckily, I had a stash of borrowed cash at a guesthouse. Another volunteer was kind enough to lend me some funds to tide me over until our payday finally arrived. Due to school commitments and an unfortunate transport situation in my village, today was the first day I was free to pick up the money. I walked up to the guesthouse and settled in next to a space heater for a chat. What did we talk about? Oh, you know, mining strikes, the bush war against Swapo, literal battle scars, lack of service delivery in the villages... the usual.
Armed with cash, I finally worked up the inner-strength to leave the space heater and actually run my errands. That done, it was back to the vet's office to hear his verdict on the state of Shaka. The good news is that he'll be fine. The bad news is that the wound on his chest is a chemical burn. I have no idea how he got it, nor what sort of chemicals are used at a cattle post that would cause this kind of damage. Anyway, I've been given a special ointment to apply several times a day for a couple weeks. That's right, I'll be spending the rest of June playing doctor to a dog.
The good animal doctor gave Shaka and I a ride to the taxi rank in his bakkie. Shaka managed to not fall out this time. I was relieved. Near the rank were a few Loopeng taxis. The first two were full. The third was practically empty. It took two hours to fill. Actually, it left slightly less than full. No one wanted to sit next to my dog. While his wound was dirty and covered by matted fur in the morning, in the afternoon, after the vet visit, the area had been shaved, cleaned and covered with a greenish goo. Apparently, some people were afraid they'd become sick if they got too close. Nevermind, I paid for two seats and got some extra stretching room.
We arrived back in Loopeng after dark. Once I hauled all my bags back to my room, I realized I left my jacket in the taxi. Brilliant. It's likely gone forever now. It wasn't particularly cute, but I'm that much colder now. After wrestling Shaka to apply the ointment (it stings just a tad), I wandered over to my host family's indoor fire.
In a small building, just a couple metres from the main house, is an indoor firepit. At night, my host mother builds a fire and shuts up the building. The result is a refuge of warmth. I love it in there, even if the highly flammable thatch roof makes me nervous. Tonight I brought a bag of coconut marshmallows, a bar of chocolate and a pack of biscuits to make South African s'mores with my host mother, her grandchild and the three orphans. The kids and I did this last year, but it was new for my host mother. She was pretty pysched. So was I, for that matter. Coconut marshmallows are pretty great, especially when hot.
When I was sufficiently stuffed and thawed out, I ventured back to my room and crawled into bed. I get a lot of sleep in the winter here. It is simply too cold to be awake!
And that, is a fairly typical day for me here in SA.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Porky the Pigeon
Moshaweng High School recently acquired a school mascot. His name is Porky, and he is a pigeon. A rather pathetic excuse for a pigeon, seeing as he can't fly, but an otherwise garden-variety pigeon. Actually, I only assume he's a pigeon. In reality, he may be some kind of fancy African bird species, but trust me, he looks just like a bird you might see in New York City, pecking at yesterday's pizza.
Anyway, Porky wandered into the schoolyard one afternoon and was caught by the general worker, who tried to hand him over to me in order to replace my missing dog. I politely declined, so he found an old cardboard box, poked some holes in it, sprinkled the bottom with some seeds and stuck the bird inside. The box was put in the storage room cum office space, and it has stayed there, with Porky inside, everyday since.
Well, technically, the bird just sleeps in the box in the storage room. During the day, Porky is taken out and allowed to roam about the school yard. Shaka discovered this today and promptly decided to make Porky his new play-mate. The poor bird didn't have a chance. Shaka started running for him, jaws agape, and all Porky could do was hop, waddle and flap helplessly. What Porky lacks in physical advantage, however, he more than makes up for in brains. He waddle-flapped into a classroom, I quickly slammed the door, and poor Shaka was left all alone, with nothing but a mouth full of feathers.
The Moshaweng Menagerie is growing. I'm so tempted to add a few goldfish to the collection. That's educational, right?
Anyway, Porky wandered into the schoolyard one afternoon and was caught by the general worker, who tried to hand him over to me in order to replace my missing dog. I politely declined, so he found an old cardboard box, poked some holes in it, sprinkled the bottom with some seeds and stuck the bird inside. The box was put in the storage room cum office space, and it has stayed there, with Porky inside, everyday since.
Well, technically, the bird just sleeps in the box in the storage room. During the day, Porky is taken out and allowed to roam about the school yard. Shaka discovered this today and promptly decided to make Porky his new play-mate. The poor bird didn't have a chance. Shaka started running for him, jaws agape, and all Porky could do was hop, waddle and flap helplessly. What Porky lacks in physical advantage, however, he more than makes up for in brains. He waddle-flapped into a classroom, I quickly slammed the door, and poor Shaka was left all alone, with nothing but a mouth full of feathers.
The Moshaweng Menagerie is growing. I'm so tempted to add a few goldfish to the collection. That's educational, right?
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