tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44899240861466106032024-03-08T03:22:01.129-08:00my call to serveone person's two year journey as an hiv/aids outreach worker in south africa with the peace corpsAlenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-19958685481479419212012-01-19T02:06:00.001-08:002012-01-19T02:27:17.805-08:00Nov. 30: I had 100% attendance at my first peer education meeting and everyone completed all of their surveys targeting out-of-school youth! Woo hoo!<br />
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Dec. 4-8: Today marks my last Peace Corps conference and is a time to reflect on our past two years and start to process everything we’ve seen and done. It was so validating to set aside four days to pat each other on the back for surviving and (sometimes) thriving. I honestly came away so invigorated I wanted to extend my service! Don’t worry it was short lived haha.<br />
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Dec. 11-18: My friend Ashley just finished her Peace Corps service in Madagascar and came to visit me for a little while in SA. We spent some time marveling at all the commercialism in the capitol then came back to my village where I had a World AIDS Day Girls Fun Day event a few days later. We did some of the most successful sessions from my peer education training not to mention tons of crafts and topped it off with a movie. It was a big hit.<br />
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Dec. 22-29: We then joined Leah and headed out to Mozambique. We started our journey at 4:30am when we woke up after only a handful of hours asleep the night before and quickly got ready to catch the bus. Well my host mom told me the bus leaves at 5:30 but we saw it zoom down the dirt road at 5:00 and I was ready to throw in the towel when my host sister screamed to run. I left my friends in the dust as I had packed light and screamed for the bus to stop. Running half a mile was half a mile longer than I’ve run in a long time so between gasps I pleaded with the bus driver to wait for my friends and pointed to where they were on the path. He refused but I insisted saying that first I needed to pay, right? He agreed and I made a big show out of not knowing the price, not finding money, batting my eyelashes, whatever I could so that he would wait for the slow pokes. The next bus came in three hours which would really mess up our travel plans so my charm had to work. Luckily, it did and we made it to Vryheid, the next white town over which in Afrikaans means freedom (from black people). We arrived at 6:00am in a bus packed with black people and set out to find some breakfast before the car rental place opened. Once satiated, we went to Europcar where we had to wait an hour as they lost our reservation. Once in the rental car, the air conditioning broke as soon as we hit the highway but fortunately I brought Christmas cds to lighten the mood. (Not that any of us were accustomed to air conditioning in the first place). When we got to Nelspruit, about five hours away, the Europcar we booked to return our car to was out of business. We then drove two hours out of our way to the airport location but eventually we made it onto a bush taxi to Maputo, the capitol of Mozambique. <br />
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Though slow moving it was smooth sailing until we reached the border where we drove through what looked like a refugee camp. This seemingly endless array of tents and women and children in dirty rags is where we sat for six hours while waiting to cross the border. It wasn’t the heat that got me as I soaked through my clothes 16 hours ago but the hoards of young boys that would open the door and windows and thrust things at you, beg you, grab you, plead with you to buy something. Empathy turned into irritation and worse as I grew more and more exhausted, flabbergasted that a passport stamp could take so long to administer. It was quickly apparent that in addition to the official stamp the bush taxis were shuffled into many other stopping points where the police made no attempt to hide the bribes they asked for and always received, their pockets bulging with money of many currencies. Once in Maputo we were determined to make it to our destination, Quissico, though it was already almost midnight. I had misunderstood the owner while en route to Maputo and we waited in vain for her arrival for several minutes before I thought to confirm our carpool. She snickered at my naïveté. Panicked, I called around to the local hostels and found one with three available beds and we headed out at dawn for our trip to Quissico.<br />
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I don’t quite know what we would have done if our private taxi driver we hired to take us from the hostel to the bus station didn’t walk us up to the appropriate bus. Not only do none of us speak Portuguese but it was a mob scene unlike anything I or my two friends had ever experienced. Kids were getting pulled under, people were getting more and more aggressive as the seats started filling up, the men taking full advantage of the onslaught of desperate women. I don’t know how many times I felt someone reach their hand into my purse whose zipper broke a few minutes before but luckily I learned long ago not to keep anything of value easily accessible. Somehow we made it on the bus without any blood and all with legitimate seats. This was all to the taxi driver’s credit who begged for twenty minutes on our behalf. The bus driver literally had to pull us onboard as people were trying to drag us back off. Once moving, the six hour long journey was uneventful.<br />
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When we arrived we waited another three hours for the owners to take us the 10 km to the lodge. Auspiciously, we all had two years of experience in painful and entertaining transport fiascos so though frustrating and comical, didn’t ruin our trip. An ongoing frustrating and comical aspect of the trip was the owners of the lodge we stayed at. Wow. The man’s about my age, very tan, perpetually dirty, never wearing a shirt or shoes, always high and oftentimes drunk. Because of the copious amounts of pot he smoked fairly openly he was always running, literally running, from task to task but never managing to get anything done. I’m sure the fact that he got any task completed at all was considered a victory in his book. His girlfriend, on the other hand, was at least ten years his senior, had an adopted three year old child and was so by the book it was a detriment to their business and sometimes beyond logic. It became evident early on in our stay at this small lodge that we were watching the demise of their relationship in real time.<br />
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The lodge itself was beautiful. It was in the middle of a rural village, on a lagoon that felt like swimming in a large bath tub in a setting fitting the epitome of the clichéd postcard. It was an eco-lodge which meant no electricity but there were lanterns everywhere which made it very picturesque. The open floor plan of minimalist earth tones and African art reminded me of how I want my own home to be decorated one day. <br />
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After an awfully stressful week leading up to this trip, I was more than happy to vegetate on the lagoon, reading profuse amounts of mindless magazines and gossiping about the owners with my girlfriends. Also, since the lodge was so small we became fast friends with the other patrons, all of whom made interesting company. Because we were hours away from any tourist attraction, restaurant or grocery store, Christmas was a low-key affair but wonderful nonetheless. <br />
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But after a week’s worth of beach R&R it was time to head back to my South African reality. After a fortuitous meeting with a good PCV friend, Farah, Ashley and I decided to head down to Durban, the third largest South African city, for <br />
New Years. There we ate amazing food and danced the night away before I headed back to my village. <br />
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1/1-1/19: Towards the end of my vacation, I started to long for village life and was more than happy to get back to the slow pace of life. I missed my ungrounded hot plate, my pee bucket, the mangy dogs, not to mention my wonderful host family and projects. Everything except perhaps the flies which I’m sure have it in for me. I feel like Pig Pen in the Charlie Brown cartoon. And there is absolutely no evolutionary need for them to constantly be dive-bombing my face! They’re full of spite those flies!<br />
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Well other than the flies taking what’s left of my sanity, the past few weeks have been pretty uneventful. My org has only opened its doors a few times as nobody’s gotten paid in a long time and they’re fed up with going to work without any real hope of a paycheck. I don’t blame them. I’ve been working on paperwork tied to the grants I was awarded and job hunting. It’s been keeping me pretty busy.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-70262222803962762202012-01-13T08:18:00.000-08:002012-01-13T08:18:18.000-08:00Nov. 15-17: Today signaled the beginning of my much anticipated peer education training. I spent all day yesterday (and most of the night) in last minute preparations most of which were unnecessary as I’ve been preparing for weeks. But it was just as well as I wouldn’t be able to sleep at a reasonable hour anyway. Not only do I love facilitating trainings but I really believe in this program.
The three day training went even better than expected. Everyone who committed to come did and all were early (a point I emphasized to show respect towards yours truly). I handed out two playing cards a day to each participant who in turn returned one each time they participated in a session. It was a great way to get everyone involved.
One of the most memorable sessions for me was one where I asked them to get into pairs. I then gave each pair three index cards that said no risk, low risk and high risk respectively. I followed that by reading a statement or action and they had to decide the risk of HIV transmission. Because they would turn in their index cards face down I was able to get everyone’s genuine opinion rather than one dominant person confident in their HIV knowledge answering every question. There was not one statement I read that all the pairs answered correctly. It was really quite shocking and sparked many healthy debates. Whether or not you can transmit HIV by means of a toilet seat or kissing were some of the most highly contested.
It was so empowering to see the wheels of change in progress and to know I was a part of starting those wheels to turn. I really tried to stress to the participants that they can be in the driver’s seat of their own lives. What so often happens here is a mindset of hopelessness and self-defeat that winds up being a self-fulfilling prophesy. But if you feel like you have the power to make choices about your own life and you take back some small sense of power and control over your future you are more likely to lead a healthy life. To put it even simpler, if you believe you have choices than you’re more likely to make healthy ones.
With a culture of fear, silence and stigma surrounding AIDS I needed them to really hear me. I said over and over again, “I am empowering you with facts so that you can pass them along to your friends and family and save their lives. Your former president said many things that counter what I’ve told you and now I’m sure you don’t know who to believe. I’m begging you to choose me. If taking traditional medicine or bathing after sex prevented HIV everyone in the world would be doing it! Everyone.” I could see people start to nod their heads. They were getting it. I’m addicted to that feeling, the feeling of understanding, it’s a high better than any drug.
Nov. 20-28: I spent a week in Cape Town of which I spent the majority trying to find a way to stay longer in Cape Town. I absolutely fell in love with that city. Leah and I rented a car and started in Hermanus which is a sleepy coastal town known for whale watching. Hermanus, like Stellenbosch our next stop, looks like you just walked off a movie set it’s so quaint and charming. We found this great local bar our first night with awesome live music and then met up with friends we made the night before to tour a facility whose goal is to curb poaching. Sadly, the Chinese and Japanese are willing to pay South Africans ten times what they would make as day laborers so there is no shortage of interested applicants. We then kayaked with whales and headed over to Stellenbosch where we went on an all day wine tour. We made friends with a wonderful British couple whose contact information I accidentally threw away as they wrote it on my take-away box. We were sad to leave picturesque Stellenbosch but I was determined to go to Seal Island which, you guessed it, is an island full of seals. It was really quite magical. We then took Chapman’s Peak Drive, a beautiful coastal highway, down to the Cape of Good Hope where we woke up early on Thanksgiving morning and hiked around. We somehow beat the crowds and had the trails to ourselves at the southern most point in Africa. Next, we drove to Simon’s Town to see the penguin colony and then it was off to Cape Town proper for a lavish meal and a sunset sailboat cruise. We worked off our un-traditional Thanksgiving feast the next day by hiking Table Mountain and picnicking at the top. We then treated ourselves to a day of gluttonous shopping and more amazing food and live music before our final day which we spent at Robben Island where they kept political prisoners from the apartheid era including Nelson Mandela. Both of our tour guides were former inmates who explained their life in this work camp/prison in a way that is impossible to forget.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-60676277139171646512011-12-09T07:51:00.001-08:002011-12-09T07:51:05.253-08:0010/17-28: I translated for One Sight these past two weeks which is the philanthropic arm of Lens Optica which owns Lens Crafters, Pearle Vision and Sunglass Hut. It sends eye doctors to developing countries to run eye health exams and give away glasses. They also found a South African doctor that would do any surgeries they found needed to be done for free. We saw a thousand people a day.
I was translating in the eye health room and we saw patient after patient with horrible stories of untreated infections, corneal damage from five decades worth of work outside, many, many burns and glazed over blue, rheumy eyes from untreated cataracts. Sadly, many of those patients were beyond treatment but it was so wonderful to see so many people who before were unable to read the big ‘E’ on the eye charts now seeing 20/20.
I’ve been feeling a bit burnt out lately and it was exactly what I needed to have that instant gratification and to feel truly needed every minute of the day. Amazing.
11/8: Today in girls club we talked about a woman’s body: menstruation, puberty, that kind of thing. The girls seemed really engaged though they wouldn’t dare ask questions let alone make eye contact with me. I know they were listening though. We then made necklaces and they were a huge hit.
11/9: I was shocked to see so many women I didn’t recognize at my org today seeing as though I’m usually sitting with just two or three other women. When I asked around I discovered that all 21 of these women were here for the support group for women living with AIDS. Now to back up, last year around this time I taught a series of workshops to the caregivers the last of which was an all-day session on how to form a support group. It was the last workshop in the series and I didn’t think too much of the seemingly apathetic stares I was receiving. I tried in vain to encourage interest in forming a support group especially because they were lying about having four functional support groups on their monthly reports. Nobody cared about all the untruths as most if not all of their reports are fabricated and everyone dismissed the idea of a support group claiming it would be impossible to find interested people as the stigma here is so high. But against all odds, they had been coordinating a group slowly but surely all this time and today was their first meeting. They’re even planning on coming back tomorrow to start a community garden!
It is part of life here in Africa that your emotions are always on a rollercoaster ride. After the realization that some of my words might have actually resonated with someone I went back home with a bounce in my step to shoot the breeze with Thobi on my front stoop. As the hours passed with UNO and cloud watching, she went into the hut where her brother and cousin were hanging out. Her cousin ran her out and took off his belt and beat her bloody. With no explanation. I was screaming at him to stop which he eventually did and I used all of my White power in the hierarchy to make sure he didn’t come around for a while. My exact words were: “Does this make you feel powerful?! Beating up little girls until they’re crying hysterically in a pool of blood?! Do you feel like a man?! You need to leave and don’t come back for a very long time. I will never forget you did this.” Before that horrible incident, Thobi and I were listening to Beyonce’s new album, her favorite artist, and she was still sobbing when the last track played a girls empowerment anthem. She didn’t want to talk about what happened insisting she was fine probably assuming they’d just blend in with all her previous scars from men taking out their anger at the world on someone less powerful. As the CD played several versions of the last song the lyrics stayed the same, “Who will run the world? Girls. Girls.” I closed my door and cried.
11/10: I came early for girls club and I tried to talk to one of the teachers about a possible World AIDS Day event at his school. Though interested in the concept, he said he just found out that his brother and best friend just died ‘after being sick’ which is often code for living with AIDS. He must have been looking for a listening ear because he went on to say that both of his parents and now all four of his brothers have passed away. He was an orphan at 30. More difficult than that he says was this brother was the only one who called him, his best friend, not to mention his only friend. “I am so alone. Lost, I feel a bit lost.” He said he’s going to go home to raise his brother’s kids with his kids. “Why does everyone keep having kids when so many people are dying? Everyone’s dead. I have no one. What’s the point? My brother, my brother…is dead….and I’ll never talk to him again. Everyone is dying in this place. Everyone. My whole family is dead Lindelwa!!” “I don’t know what to say,” I said, “but maybe his kids will give you hope for a better tomorrow.” Silently I was wondering if that were true.
After talking about alcohol abuse today in girls club, instead of doing the craft one of the girls made me a card that said, “You are the woman I admire.” My heart melted.
11/11: It has been two weeks since we’ve served food with our daily hot meal program. The staff explained that the company selling cooking gas was on strike. This seemed more than plausible as there was always someone on strike. But when I vented to my PCV friends in the area they had never heard about it. I then asked around and people just looked at me quizzically. After several days worth of investigation, I bluffed my way through a tense discussion with Tshengie. But it wasn’t enough. Time for drastic measures. I read her and the Management Committee the Riot Act, eliciting graphic if not a bit exaggerated images of our food program’s saddest clients and how their greed is leaving these children with empty stomachs. But in the end it wasn’t their guilt or empathy that broke them down but the fact that I rocked the boat and they wanted to steady it again. They knew I meant business. There was a tank full of cooking gas the very next day.
11/12: Today I put up the four foot tall Christmas tree complete with lights and garland that I got in the mail from my family in March. I love everything Christmas and I don’t care that its weeks before Thanksgiving, I’ve already listened to Mariah Carey’s Christmas album three times through. Thobi peeked her head in looking for some sweets but when she saw this bizarre thing in my room she was a bit unconcern. She knew it was a Christmas tree but had never seen one up close and didn’t know what to make of it. She gathered the half dozen kids milling about our compound and I turned the lights on. Everyone screamed then started jumping up and down and hugging each other. Thobi said she’d never seen something so beautiful. I told her she could touch it but she was scared. She hadn’t stopped smiling. After everyone took their spots under the tree to stare in a more comfortable position with their necks craned and their eyes like saucers Thobi got up the courage to ask as casually as she could if I was planning on bringing the tree back with me to America. I said no. Everyone started hugging again. A little girl I’d never met was crying. The Christmas season never ceases to amaze me.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-65518136629176720142011-10-10T01:59:00.000-07:002011-10-10T02:03:13.905-07:009/12: I went to an event that I thought was an awareness campaign and was encouraged to dress in traditional dress only to find out it was a micro-credit group’s monthly meeting. Duped again.<br /><br />9/14: Today in GLOW club was Part 2 Honoring Your Body: Exercise. After my lesson we played some goofy relay race games and then I taught them this fun game I thought my youth group leader made up called Spud. The girls let me finish the instructions before they said they play this game all the time. Small world. <br /><br />9/15: Today was a soul-crushing day for after spending an embarrassingly large amount of time planning this peer educator training I talked about on 9/9 only five people came to my informational meeting. I went so far as to submit an extremely long proposal to a group back home interested in funding this project so this basically can’t fail. To make matters worse, I gave this long, drawn-out, impassioned, soapbox worthy speech last week to the Caregivers who were delegated with bringing 1-3 charismatic youth today. Apparently, this rallying cry was met with complete and utter apathy. I usually can get at least a dozen people to show up if not just to humor me then out of pity but today was quite the exception. Will drown my sorrows in copious amounts of chocolate.<br /><br />9/17: Thobi, my 11 year old host sister has been talking about her school trip to Durban, the provincial capital, for months. She had a rough week because when she went to Vryheid, the nearest White town, a few days ago, a young White girl about her age who was walking with her mother pointed to her and said, “Look Mom, that girl looks like a monkey.” Not only does Thobi not look like a monkey but is, in fact, in the running to win her elementary school’s beauty pageant this year (yes, the local elementary schools have beauty pageants).<br /><br /> It was her first time to experience a city and she got her hair braided and bought ‘new’ shoes off the side of the street for the occasion. When she came back today I asked her to tell me all about it. She talked about her first time in an aquarium, how there were fish that looked like snakes and bubbles and rainbows. I remember her whispering to me when I saw her off on Thursday morning that her mom gave her some pocket money so I asked what she spent it on. She started crying and said that she was mugged and the wallet her mom lent her was stolen. Now that criminal must either have no soul or just be that desperate to rob a village girl on a school trip by knife point. May his karma forever be affected.<br /><br />9/20-22: I went to a fellow PCV’s site for a few days to observe her vision screening program. She’s trained people in her community to perform a basic vision test and she’s in the middle of facilitating these vision drives for 35 schools in her area. She will then refer the children with poor vision to a group of Western doctors who will come next month. Now her organization has far more resources than mine with three illiterate grannies but I still feel confident that I could replicate the basic screening she does and refer the necessary children to the local optometrist who’s agreed to see them for free. I’m excited!<br /><br />9/25: Thobi, my 11 year old host sister, and I were playing cards when she asked me:<br />Thobi: Why do white people hate black people? <br />Me: Why do you think they do?<br />Thobi: I really don’t know.<br />Me: Well, I don’t think all white people hate black people. What about me, do you think I hate black people?<br />Thobi: Yes.<br />Me: Really, why do you think that, honey?<br />Thobi: Because you’re white.<br />Me: Well, do you think I hate you, you’re black?<br />Thobi: No. (Laughs).<br />Me: We don’t hate each other because we’re not looking on the outside; we’re looking on the inside.<br />Thobi: I’m glad that you don’t hate black people.<br />Me: I am too. Then we couldn’t be friends which would be sad.<br /><br />9/27: So many people came to the second attempt at an informational meeting for my peer educational training that we ran out of chairs! And I gave my impassioned speech about an HIV free generation and people were engaged and excited. Yes!<br /><br />9/29: I was asked to teach 9th grade math which is comical in and of itself seeing as though I can barely remember how to do long division, but it got even better when I talked to the math teacher and he suggested I teach during the afternoons which are designated as 'free study time,' when I inquired about a textbook and syllabus he said he doesn't use a textbook, just his brain, and the 'syllabus' is the rubric for the government's quarterly standardized test. Oh and he doesn't bother teaching anything that's worth less than 30% on the standardized test...that leaves five concepts. So when I gave them a pre-test on those five concepts they've apparently been learning since January I was mildly surprised that the average was about a 20%.<br /><br />10/3: I was genuinely shocked when one of the teachers suggested they come in during their school break this week to study math and even more shocked when they agreed. So today I went there in the rain thinking optimistically that maybe 3 people would show. All but five students came and walked an average of an hour each way in the rain to come. Oh and they asked if I'd please come back tomorrow. Seriously. <br /><br />10/4: My host siblings and I literally danced around my room for two hours Stepmom style, Kodak would be proud.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-79986194819789052882011-09-13T09:42:00.000-07:002011-09-13T09:44:11.465-07:009/1: Today I had my best GLOW club meeting yet. When I was home I heard Beyonce’s latest single, “Run the World (Girls)” and regardless of your affinity for the Top 40 (or lack thereof) I think you’d appreciate her attempt at a girl’s anthem. The girls in my village worship her and for her to say lyrics like, “Who runs the world? Girls,” was incredibly empowering. I played it for them today and one of the girls said, “I always think girls are just good for cooking and cleaning but Beyonce just said that girls can run the world. Maybe they can.” We talked about what the women in our lives taught us about school, careers, our appearance, marriage and children. We then made collages out of old magazines I got in care packages and the girls chose pictures of women and girls they admired and then presented them. Many of the girls wrote, “Girls run the world” in crayon on their papers. It was one of those days where I could just see the pieces of the puzzle clicking together in many of the girls’ heads. Awesome. It was just awesome. It also didn't hurt that I was able to download the latest Beyonce and Rihanna albums while I was at home which we blasted while crafting. : )<br /><br />9/2: So I’m currently cooped up in my hut because gale force winds have turned my village into a dust bowl. Unfortunately, I learned just how severe the winds were the hard way. So I was attempting to hang dry my wash and not only was I getting whipped by wet clothes (and quickly soaked) but soon enough I would have to chase after the newly dirty item after it got torn from the line…again. There was really no going back for if I let my wet clothes sit in a bucket overnight (or until the wind died down, who knows how long that could take?) they could get moldy. So I trekked ahead. It was pretty humorous actually. Gotta love Africa.<br /><br />9/5: My family donated backpacks and school supplies to all 22 of the girls I took to Camp GLOW so I had a blast playing Santa this week. I told the girls that these bright pink backpacks were symbols that they were strong, beautiful, intelligent young women, passionate about bringing change to their community. So that when they wear these backpacks not only are they representing all the GLOW girls but they’re telling the world that they’re a leader and a change maker. It could be in my head but I could swear when they walked out of that room with their backpacks on they walked a little taller.<br /><br />9/8: So I prepared all day for a rockin’ girls club lesson on nutrition that was equal parts fun and stimulating when I went to the storage area that houses our art supplies donated to us by a Dutch youth group. And the cupboards were bare. I was fuming. Not only do I regularly use those supplies for art lessons with the orphans on our feeding scheme but they were a part of the lesson I had planned for right then. Thankfully I had a few packages of crayons that were donated by my family but I wanted to give those packages away as gifs. Sadly, none of my co-workers could look me in the eye or give me a straight answer about yet another incident of theft at our organization. Trust me, I understand that they probably just wanted to give a little joy to their own children who most likely have never had art supplies but there has to be a line somewhere.<br /><br />I am happy to report that my girls club, as always, was a cure to my frustration. We had a great discussion about the challenges to eating a healthy diet (fruit and vegetables are expensive, they aren’t commonplace in Zulu diets so are deemed strange and there are very limited options in the market or store). We also reviewed the concept of a food pyramid which I was shocked had changed shape since I last checked and the idea of putting good food into your body to give it vitamins and energy not just to feel full.<br /><br />9/9: I am so excited about this new training I’m planning on doing for out-of-school youth. I hope to give them a three day training on HIV/AIDS so that they could become peer educators in our community. Once trained, they’ll be asked to go on a pre-determined amount of home visits. During the home visit they’ll first give another youth a pre-test. Once completed, the educator will then talk to the youth about AIDS and review any answers that were incorrect. Then the youth will take the post-test. Not only do I feel this is a measurable, tangible way to educate my community about specific points concerning AIDS but I also think it’ll be incredibly empowering for the peer educators who currently sit at home all day but I know many of them see the ravages of AIDS and want to make a change. <br /><br />I’ve discussed this idea with a fellow PCV who did this training in the past, informed the local municipality (as a formality) and have had several meetings with Tshengie to discuss logistics. Today Tshengie and I introduced the idea to the caregivers who will be asked to bring 1-3 candidates to our informational meeting next week. <br /><br />I mentioned in passing that refreshments will be served during the training and Tshengie balked. She deferred to the Management Committee which is ironic because a typical meeting ends in a screaming match with no decision ever being made. The one male in the group, Mpostol, decided that the trainees couldn’t eat off the feeding scheme as per usual, but would need to bring lunch boxes. Of course the room was full of women; none of whom dared to challenge him. This, in effect, rendered the training DOA. Sounds dramatic, but trust me, after a year and a half here I know what incentives are necessary to entice people to come to a training and they are: printing an attendance certificate at the end and food. Take one or the other away and you’ll be lucky if three people show. <br /> <br />They said we wouldn’t have enough food for 20 adults when there are 20-25 adults that come for weekly reporting and eat off the feeding scheme twice a week. Every week. I let go a long time ago about trying to help people who don’t want to change but it’s one thing to not do anything to support my work but it’s quite another to sabotage it.<br /><br />9/10: My host mom called me this morning and asked me to come to the neighbors (my host cousins). When I walked into their compound I realized immediately that there was a ceremony going on and there wasn’t some lazy Saturday morning chit chat or card playing like I’d assumed. Now even though being a slave for a day is exhausting I love ceremonies and would normally be thrilled to stumble upon one but today I was wearing capris and was immediately self-conscious as to how grossly taboo my pants were. I felt that I would have made an even bigger scene if I went home and changed so I decided to play it cool. Well the father of the house later pulled me aside and said, “I know you’re from a different culture but you’re in my culture now and I don’t ever want to see you at a ceremony at my compound in pants again, disrespecting my culture.” I was appropriately shamed. With that incident aside, the ceremony helped remind me why I’m here in the first place after a rough couple of days. I felt a part of the family, I had a place with the young women and connected with the culture even with my fashion faux pas. In short, it was exactly what I needed.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-28250701327960561752011-09-11T09:10:00.001-07:002011-09-11T09:13:04.024-07:008/3-4: Today I started my trek back to the land of milk and honey. It is really a testament to my overall absentmindedness that it took me as long as it did to realize my culture shock started at the airport. Let me back up. So I had already been travelling for ten hours when I got to the airport. In my overwhelmed daze I circled the terminals not once or twice but three times. And let me tell you it’s not a small circle. It involves multiple elevators and a seemingly endless stretch of ramps. I was so distracted by being plunged back into a sea of white faces and neon lights that I literally couldn’t concentrate. I’m known to not be too directionally savvy so if my problems ended there it wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary. But they didn’t. Shockingly nobody in my village owns a scale so it was only at the check in desk (in my second time through the line around the corner) that I realized my bag was overweight. I walked into the airport already soaked in sweat from being crammed into someone’s armpit for a full day but I was now a walking circus act. I literally saw people pointing. I ended up carrying on a down coat, large grass mat, and two bulging bags filled with books that got booted from my checked bag. How they let me on the plane is anyone’s guess. I somehow made it to London carrying my body weight in books and went through immigration twice when I never really had to go in the first place. I then cried to the baggage guy that I couldn’t find my bag and he politely steered me to the right baggage pick up area. I needed to re-check my bags in London because I failed to tell the check-in lady in SA my final destination. It was a genuine miracle I made it back here relatively in one piece (I looked like a homeless person) and with all 27 of my bags.<br /><br />8/4-24: Being home was amazing. I blocked out all thoughts of SA which allowed me to enjoy my time guilt-free though only prolonging the inevitable culture shock later. I saw almost everyone I wanted to see and gained at least my goal of five pounds in greasy food. It was perfect.<br /><br />8/25: So I purposefully scheduled a 12 hour layover in London so I could enjoy a day there. It was only when I got off the tube carrying my carry-on luggage that I realized it was pouring down rain. So I made it my first order of business to buy a glamorous plastic poncho. Bizarrely enough it took me three people before I found someone who spoke English. This involved a lot of circling because not many people were on the streets due to the monsoon. Once I was thoroughly soaked to the bone I found what I was looking for. Though cold and wet I was determined to sight see. I asked several more people where Kensington Palace was only to find they too didn’t understand me. Doesn’t anyone in London speak English anymore?! I finally asked a tourist with a map and he pointed me in what turned out to be the wrong direction. I found that out after about 20 minutes when I realized I was surrounded by houses. Thoroughly shivering, I had already tried to wait out the rain in a coffee shop and there were no signs it was letting up. I finally resigned myself to failure and went back to the airport where I wrung out my skirt and hair and slept for several hours.<br /><br />8/26-30: By some miracle I was able to find an airport shuttle from Jo-burg to Mbabane, the capitol of Swaziland, so I took that when I went to the Umhlanga Reeds Festival. This is an annual event where 60,000 half-naked virgins parade in front of the King in traditional dress carrying 10 foot high bundles of reeds in the hopes he will pick them as his next bride. (He currently has 13). It was really quite beautiful. <br /><br />There were four very different types of dress worn signifying the four regions or tribes of Swaziland. Dress varied from poufs of brightly colored yarn worn around the waist and shoulders to the more demure cloth tied across the shoulder in a toga-esque style. The elderly women perform ‘checks’ on the girls before they’re able to participate in the two week ceremony to confirm they are indeed a virgin. (These ‘checks’ are also done periodically in my village by the female elders). If they pass, their virginity could be held in question once again if one of the reeds they’re holding breaks or falls. <br /><br />The members of the royal family are identified by the red feathers in their hair. The closer your relation to the king the more feathers you have. So there were several girls with a full ring around their face which means they are daughters of the King with his first born pinning two full rings of feathers in her hair. If the King is more of a distant cousin you might have only one or two feathers.<br />The first day the girls are divided into groups of about 50 and are singing while carrying their reeds. After several hours all 60,000 girls have made it into the clearing where they will give the Queen Mother their bundle of reeds. The reeds are saved until December when the male teenaged virgins have a ceremony of their own of equal if not greater size where they use the reeds to repair the King’s large compound.<br /><br />The next day the girls are all gathered in the arena where they are singing and dancing all day. There was even a Zulu group there from South Africa who danced individually. The Zulu dancing with large drums and tons of high kicks was a huge crowd pleaser and made me incredibly proud to be considered one of them.<br />All in all it was the perfect way to transition back to life in Africa.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-87221947006481692442011-08-02T10:33:00.000-07:002011-08-02T10:41:08.843-07:007/16-17: Today I noticed several old women I hadn’t seen before deep cleaning our compound. This could mean only one thing, we’re preparing for a ceremony. I was so excited. Though I’ve been to countless ceremonies this would be the first at my home. So I was shocked when I asked around and nobody could give me a straight answer as to why we’re having a ceremony. You’re spending thousands of rand and dozens of hours sweeping the dirt around our huts and dusting our glass dog collection and you don’t even know why?! <br /><br />Well I finally discovered the reason for all the hub bub was my host mom and sister both dreamt that our family would come into money. Zulus believe that dreams are a way for their ancestors to communicate with them. To insure this would come true we performed a ceremony and sacrificed a goat. The goat’s blood, along with a ceramic vase filled with sorghum beer, a grass mat, a loaf of bread and some traditional medicine were left at what could be described as an alter. <br /> <br />Sunday is the day during a ceremony I call Slave Day. Since it was a small ceremony the only young women were my host sister GuGu, my host cousin Sindi and myself. We proceeded to be at the beck and call to everyone who entered our compound until well into the night. Fortunately for me, we ran out of goat meat and since the women eat last I was served only a small portion of goat intestines and was spared the far worse pancreas, bladder and boiled skin. <br /><br />After we ate, my host siblings all showed me their izinpandlas which are bracelets of goat skin signifying your family has just performed a ceremony. I wanted one too and something changed when everyone in my family went together to cut a slice of skin from the goat to show we honored our ancestors. It was really special. We’re all connected now.<br /><br />Well my luck ran out about mid-afternoon when both Sindi and GuGu left leaving me to tend to a few dozen drunken men and elderly women all by my lonesome. Just as I was falling asleep standing up they came sauntering back in wondering why I looked like death. They were unimpressed. “Oh you’re tired,” they scoffed. “Please, we do this every day.” <br /><br />7/18: I had another great day when I finished the world map I’ve been working on with the middle school. We then had an assembly where I talked about being a global citizen and how a lot more unites us than divides us. They were really proud.<br /><br />7/19: After asking Tshengie a month ago if she knew of anyone to teach my girls clubs beadwork she finally came up with someone. This woman had recently taught a group for free and when I asked if she would do the same for us she snickered. When I then asked how much it would cost she responded, “It depends if you’re asking or requesting.” I had woken up on the wrong side of the bed and was in no mood for games. “Whichever is cheaper,” I snapped. “Asking,” she said matter-of-factly. Instead of naming a price she fell into this sudden shyness and it took quite a while to agree to an absurd price.<br /><br />Though I had a bad feeling about her I had some money allotted in my PEPFAR grant for girls clubs so I agreed. Well let’s just say nobody will be drawing comparisons between her and Mary Poppins anytime soon. It was quickly apparent that the beadwork was too difficult for the girls. Now would it have been possible if she was a bit more patient and whole lot less critical? Yes. But sadly she wasn’t. She was easily frustrated and when the girls would ask for help she would patronize them for wasting her time. I had music going and definitely made light of the situation but I really didn’t want this woman to drive these girls away. So I asked a few of them after club how they thought it went. They didn’t have anything negative to say. But I asked if they thought perhaps the teacher was a bit strict. They agreed but they said she’s just like all of their other teachers. Now it’s sad that none of their teachers can be bothered to help them, are highly critical of their work and treat them badly but at least I know their first beadwork experience wasn’t a total wash. <br /><br />7/21: Learning from Tuesday’s mistake I politely declined beadwork lady’s second slated appearance with my other girls club and went into town to buy some yarn. Instead I taught them how to make friendship bracelets. It was a huge success. Great relaxed atmosphere, fun music and company. Two thumbs up.<br /><br />7/23-24: This weekend I helped organize a 30th birthday extravaganza for my closest Peace Corps friend. Such fun.<br /><br />7/25-29: This week I’ve been teaching a financial literacy course back to back first to the caregivers at my organization and then to grade 12 students at the local high school. The booklets were donated by Operation HOPE, an American NGO, and they supplied me with lesson plans so all I had to do was facilitate which is the fun part. It was such a success. We had great discussions on how easy it is for desperate people to turn to loan sharks and how impossible it seems to get out of debt. We talked about budgeting your money and starting your own small business. About checking accounts and savings accounts. About how if you have money you have options. It was very empowering.<br /><br />7/29: Today I facilitated a training on permaculture gardening techniques. I went to a training last year to learn this method and I used the facilitator’s tagline: Feeding the world: one family a time; Saving the world: one garden at a time. The idea is to teach the importance of kitchen gardens to improve the nutrition of families and to increase yield by using practices similar to bio-intensive gardening. Demonstrating how to garden was my first time actually gardening. It wasn’t an exactly ideal situation but it somehow worked out pretty well.<br /><br />8/1: The chickens ate every single one of our seedlings. Sigh.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-34633645053825763542011-07-12T09:46:00.000-07:002011-07-12T09:48:24.434-07:007/3: So I’ve been trying to build a well in a remote section o<br /><br />f Nondweni and today I met with Tshengie and the equivalent of the area mayor to discuss logistics. There’s this great American NGO that funds small water and sanitation projects organized by Peace Corps Volunteers but I didn’t realize how expensive it would be. There’s only one well for several hundred families which means the majority of people in that area have to walk quite far to fetch water and when I went to haul water with Tshengie, who lives in the area, and the well water was literally brown. She said that more people are using the river for water even though it was a source of an outbreak of cholera a few years ago because the well water is now so dirty and in my opinion, undrinkable. <br /><br />7/4: Today I stumbled upon my seven year old host brother, Mpho, crying on the path that leads to our house. Here is our translated conversation:<br /><br />Me: Mpho, what’s wrong?<br />Mpho: I’m SO cold!<br />Me: It’s really cold outside. Why don’t we run? We’re almost home and running will make us warmer and we’ll get home faster.<br />Mpho: I’m too cold to run.<br />Me: Okay honey; well are you too cold to picture the tea I’m going to make you when we reach our house?<br />Mpho: Tea? (He’s looking up with his puppy-dog eyes and he now has snot running all down his tattered shirt).<br />Me: Yes, and I have milk AND sugar to put in it.<br />Mpho: You have milk?!<br />Me: Yes and you can have as much as you want.<br /><br />After I wrapped him in my fleece blanket and tucked us both under the covers with tea I turned on “Finding Nemo” on my computer which he watched in a foreign language with rapt attention. <br /><br />7/7: Today I went to the large market that we have in our village once a month. There’s women selling fruit or vegetables from their garden, tables full of raw meat freshly slaughtered, colorful dresses nicely sewn or even piles of popcorn or suckers for the kids. Basically there’s something for everyone. I went to buy a grass mat but when I took Thobi on my search with me she was very flustered. She said that her aunt sells grass mats and to buy one from her. So after making the hour journey to the market I came up empty handed. But when the neighborhood kids started trickling back from the market this afternoon they begged to watch ‘fish fish’ or Finding Nemo that I watched with Mpho a few days before. So I literally had kids stacked on top of each other on my bed as we had an afternoon popcorn and a movie event.<br /> <br />7/9: My family is burning broken furniture they’ve scavenged from the piles of trash in our immediate vicinity to keep warm. I’m now more convinced than ever that I’m going to die here (just kidding of course).<br /><br />7/10: I went to Tshengie’s for a cleansing ceremony. Her father had two wives, one of whom died last year (not Tshengie’s blood mother). When a spouse dies the surviving spouse wears black every day for a year. Women wear a black skirt, shirt, cape and head scarf and men pin a square of black cloth to their arm. The burning of these clothes after the year of mourning is signified by a cleansing ceremony. This is also the time when the deceased’s spirit leaves the compound where it’s been lingering the past year and goes up to the ancestors. A goat was sacrificed in her honor and I ate so much food I literally thought I would cry if someone fed me one more bite. At this ceremony, as in all Zulu ceremonies, people are segregated by gender and age and are always found in the same location. Young men are always outside drinking copious amounts of alcohol and cooking the sacrifice. The male elders can be found in the ancestral hut. Young women are in the kitchen and once they’ve served the men and female elders will sit on the kitchen floor and eat. The female elders are located in the same house on the compound as the kitchen but in a separate room. Though I helped the young women prepare the food I was soon shooed away to sit with the grannies. Cooking for white families is so engrained in the Black South African psyche that it was just rather flustering to have me around. So I was banished to the land of hunchbacks and wooden canes but little did I know how entertaining it would be. The women, all so haggard you couldn’t count their wrinkles, were really having a blast getting drunk off sorghum beer and traditional dancing, yes dancing! Now traditional Zulu dancing is basically a series of high kicks and though these women couldn’t quite be compared to the Rockettes, they were singing and stomping and having a grand ole time. When everyone was good and ready we filled the room that had been occupied all day by myself and the old ladies. Then Tshengie’s dad said a prayer to the ancestors saying it was time for his wife’s spirit to join them and then glasses of soda and sorghum beer were passed around. Everyone took a sip of every glass regardless of what it was. Then we went outside and a cow was chosen for another sacrifice. The ceremony ended with the male elders dancing in celebration.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-79167624200843491002011-07-03T11:22:00.000-07:002011-07-03T11:24:50.347-07:006/13: So tonight I was called into one of my host family’s huts. We all were wrapped in blankets, huddled around the fire in the center of the hut when my host mom walked in with a cake. It was my host brother, Mpho’s, seventh birthday and he was jumping all around with the biggest smile I had ever seen. She then cut a small piece for all ten members of the family with Mpho’s as the largest. We then each shared a liter of Fanta. It was so wonderful to see everyone so happy.<br /><br />6/14: Today I saw my go go and Zindle at the post office in town. I was a bit weary to talk to her seeing as though she was so unpredictable in the months leading up to my host family switch but I had already stood in line for an hour and couldn’t, on principle, bring myself to leave. Luckily, she was in a good mood and I held Zindle in my arms for the next hour as I jockeyed for a position with the next available teller. I went to visit them the following week and she said that Zindle cried the whole taxi ride back to the village saying she missed her mom. That just broke my heart. Leaving Zindle six months ago in such a dire situation I know will pale in comparison to my feelings when I leave all the children I’ve grown to love here.<br /> <br />6/11, 6/18: So I recently had three failed projects in a week’s time which has led me to question my utility here and the community’s interest in my work. Are they just humoring me? Do they really care? But after some serious soul searching I can no longer consider these events fruitless. <br /><br />The first was a Camp GLOW sharing and thank you event. Because I’m crafty and have quite a bit of time on my hands, I spent a lot of it making this event really special. All sorts of fun things were created out of construction paper to make the classroom we would use as nice as possible. The GLOW girls and I invited their families and the people in the community that helped make Camp GLOW possible. The goal was to share with the village what the girls learned and to thank everyone who helped us. Well three people showed up one of whom was Tshengie, my supervisor, who I invited as a friend and who we didn’t need to thank. But the girls were all there so I passed out the programs and we had the entire event like we weren’t sitting in a room full of empty seats. <br /><br />Since poetry was such a hit at camp, I asked the girls to bring poems about camp or what they learned at camp to the event if they were interested. About a third of the girls came prepared with poetry. One girl wrote this poem about me and could barely get through it she was crying so hard:<br /><br />"My friend"<br />When she sees me<br />Her cheeks visit her ears<br />She smiles and greets me<br />With love.<br /><br />She is always smiling.<br />She’s not easily influenced.<br />She thinks and loves<br />That’s my friend.<br /><br />My friend<br />Lindelwa,<br />I treasure your friendship in my heart.<br /><br />My second event that can now be seen as a positive after my new found attitude adjustment is Zamimpilo’s first Board of Directors meeting.<br /><br />Now Tshengie and I have been talking about acquiring a Board of Directors for almost nine months now but I had dropped the issue months before when interest had seriously waned. Well, after the Treasurer of our org went to a training she came back and announced the necessity of a Board so the idea was reignited (or frankly lit for the first time). So we had three Management Committee meetings where we discussed the roles and responsibilities of a Board. Fortunately for me I have some spotty Internet access and was able to Google the topic of this series of impromptu workshops which was invaluable so I could have some semblance of credibility. <br />The consensus was to provide a written application to people we thought would do well as Board members. Fast forward several months and we didn’t receive any applications. Back to the drawing board with another workshop on the purpose of a Board. (After inquiring about the lack of applications, I found people were still confused about why we would need two Management Committees). After another month or so went by I suggested changing tactics. I proposed we invite potential Board members to an informational meeting. Everyone was then assigned a person to go scourging through the hills to find and ask to come to Zamimpilo in two weeks time. Only half the people asked showed up (four elderly and illiterate women) and when Tshengie reached the item on the agenda of the Board’s role at Zamimpilo she didn’t know what to say. Nothing. Not one sentence. We had spent hours and hours talking about this. I have spent twice as much time with her on this topic than anyone else and still nothing? Luckily for me, I had a cheat sheet that I was able to pass her but was still incredibly discouraged. I’m happy that this project is off the ground and our next meeting date is set and I hope to bring in someone from an NGO in town that another PCV works at who could potentially explain this better. But hey, we’re better off now with a table full of go gos then we were before.<br /><br />Lastly, though one of my girls clubs is thriving the other is well…not. After discussing a meeting time, day and place the girls all agreed on Saturdays. Well this past Saturday two girls came one of whom I know walked two hours to get there. The Saturday club has always struggled with attendance but each time there’s been enough to have a good discussion. The two girls, my counterpart Zanele and I decided to overrule the group (who didn’t show up) and moved the club to Tuesdays after school. I’ll keep you posted on how that decision fared.<br /><br />6/30: So I swear whenever I’m having a down day the alarm bells must sound in all of Nondweni because it doesn’t take long before I’m reminded why I love it here. Today I was immersed in the last Salander book and wasn’t too thrilled when three of my host siblings barged in looking at me expectantly for entertainment. After much persistence, I agreed to give them a computer lesson. (And yes, they were begging for lessons). It started when my host sister Thobile (nicknamed Thobi, pronounced ‘Toby’) asked if I wrote letters to my sisters in America on my computer. I said, “As a matter of fact I do,” and she asked if she could write them one as well. She wanted it to be perfect and we both worked on it for over an hour. She typed it and everything (her first time ever using a computer) and of course I helped her with the spelling and grammar. <br /><br />TO: Rachel Katherine Emily<br />From: Thobile Mtshali<br /><br />Hi everyone<br />I want to ask you some question<br />About USA<br />Do you sit well without your sister?<br />You eat well without your sister?<br />Do you sleep well without your sister?<br />You go well without your sister?<br />Do you sit in a table all of you without your sister? HOW<br />ABOUT LINDELWA MTSHALI<br />She is a nice girl<br />She is lovely person<br />It is so nice to play with her<br />WE love her all of us in SOUTH AFRICA<br /> She is so kind<br />ABOUT THOBILE MTSHALI<br />I am doing grade 6<br />If I grow up I want to be a doctor at usa<br />I want to be famous like LINDELWA<br />One day I want to see at USA IF it nice<br />I want to be a government of SA<br /> <br />She planned it so well that (in case you didn't notice) she wrote five questions, then wrote five things about me (Lindelwa) then five things about herself. Isn't she just the cutest thing?! She's one of the smartest kids in her class, I'm so proud of her. As you can see, NOBODY here including Thobi can comprehend living away from your family haha. It broke my heart when she said 'if I grow up' such a testament to life's uncertainties here.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-82785429692887266102011-06-09T10:01:00.000-07:002011-06-09T10:04:02.716-07:006/1: So when I asked my host brother why our newly acquired puppy is chained to a post which is of particular importance to me because since his banishment to the corner of the compound he has not stopped barking, he replied that he keeps eating our chickens. Ah yes. That would be frustrating. Ever thought about feeding it then?!<br /><br />This is now my third girls club meeting in as many weeks. I have yet to formally ask the principal’s permission to have these afterschool meetings because she is always too busy to see me. Oh and by after school I mean during school but since the afternoons typically consist of recess I thought it proactive to do something constructive with the girls’ time rather than wait until the time they usually use to do chores and cooking. Nobody has even noticed they were gone…from netball. Well I felt guilty for not following protocol so today when I was told the principal was busy I responded that I would wait until she was free. This seemed a bit disconcerting to the minion in charge of shooing away such nuisances. I stood my ground and forty-five minutes later I asked the principal for her blessing on our girls club. She did not approve. “You want to meet for one in a half to two hours on Wednesday s? No. You will meet for thirty minutes on Thursday s.” “But the girls voted on Wednesday s MaNdlovu and with all due respect I don’t think thirty minutes will be enough time,” I pleaded. Perhaps it was naïve of me to assume my request would be met with apathy or indifference. “Fine,” she said in what I imagine she was thinking was quite conciliatory. “You will come back tomorrow and tell the girls you will now be meeting on Thursday s. Then you will have a meeting with their parents on Friday to discuss how long the club meetings should be.” “So the lesson I have prepared for today on decision making?” I asked hopefully. “Wednesdays are not a good day.” End of meeting. <br /><br />6/2: So I was attempting to hold my ground waiting for the next bush taxi and was getting elbowed and pushed from all sides. As I saw it approaching, I turned around as someone was calling me. I knew this slight hesitation meant I lost my place and would have to wait for the next one. As I searched the crowd for someone I recognized I saw a woman waving her hand. I didn’t remember ever meeting her. I wasn’t fazed. Random strangers running up to me like long lost friends is an almost daily occurrence. So I played along as we small talked but as I saw another taxi coming I gathered all my bags and got my elbows out. I was getting a seat this time. The woman I was talking with ran up to me just as I sat down to show me a wrinkled photo of me and two of her children at a ceremony I went to nine months ago. She said she carries it around with her wherever she goes. You honestly will never know how your words or actions will affect others. “This is what we are about. We plant the seeds that one day will grow. We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise. We cannot do everything and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it very well. We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.” Oscar Romero<br /><br />6/3: My host sister was taken away by an ambulance a few days ago in the middle of the night and nobody could tell me why. Apparently, cross-cultural immersion coupled with vain attempts at development work warrant me dead to the world once the sun goes down because I totally missed the emergency. I finally discovered, after quite a bit of prodding, that my host sister fainted because she was cold and hungry (it gets freezing cold at night here).<br /><br />She holds a special place in my heart mainly because the rest of the family pretends she doesn’t exist. She recently told them that she’s HIV positive and has been ostracized ever since. She rarely leaves her room (which is not in the main house but in a separate one attached to mine) and is often gone, sleeping over at one of her many ‘boyfriend’s’ houses.<br /><br />Part of the reason why the AIDS rate here is so high is because since the unemployment rate is so high people, especially women, turn to other under-the-table means of earning money. Transactional sex, or having sex in exchange for food, clothing, cell phone minutes, a ride into town or money is a socially acceptable end justifying the means. My host sister does just that. Instead of being lauded for her sacrifice for the family and the likely way she contracted the virus she is admonished for her sin-filled HIV status. But everyone looks away as she leaves at night to another man’s bed. <br /><br />None of this is ever spoken, it’s shown with turned backs and deafening silence. And my constant rousing from dogs barking as she leaves at night and an ear-splitting concoction of the TV and gospel music at dawn where I’ll find her sitting on the cement floor trying to drown out the demons the next morning. <br /><br />6/4: So on Saturdays I meet with my other girls club. The girls really took the drama topics on decision making and ran with them. It was so great to see them having fun (and learning!) After every Saturday meeting I have a few girls over for an afternoon movie with popcorn. Aaahh the joy of fellowship : ) <br /><br />6/9: So after a three day long struggle to get permission for the girls to come to the Section 5 girls club, I was worried it might be in vain BUT I’m pretty sure every single girl in grades 8-9 showed up. It was definitely standing room only and the dramas brought the house down.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-56382982347514521372011-05-30T11:41:00.000-07:002011-05-30T11:45:01.420-07:005/28: The image I cannot escape of my all day taxi ride the day before is of a man about my age clearly dying of AIDS. He was too weak to get into the taxi himself and when I pulled him through the doorway, I guided his frail body with ease, his body now merely flesh covered bones. All of his layers of clothing couldn’t hide his ashen pallor or soft gasps at bumps in the road. He mumbled unintelligibly several times to stop on the side of the road to use the toilet before someone could understand him. By that time it was too late. He hung his head in humiliation the rest of the day, only lifting it when another male twenty-something, a young, attractive, charismatic guy who had spent the better part of the trip swapping stories about girls with his new friends in the back seat, reached over and wiped his nose and mouth. He was drooling. The young man left the used tissue in the other’s lap for future use. Nothing was said, no eye contact made. For the fun loving guy knows that that could have been him sitting there and might easily be him. That among his friends he’s subtlely wiped more drool and turned the other way more times when his friends have soiled themselves than he would care to remember or admit. For doing so would acknowledge that more of his friends are dead than alive. That this slow and silent killer, which is discussed solely with memorized figures and regurgitated facts, has decimated an entire generation. The overwhelming fear of this disease’s anonymity and brevity has created a culture of silence. So the young man said nothing when he wiped a stranger’s face. And nobody acknowledged the smell of urine or his whimpers or his shame. It was like he was invisible, like nothing was happening at all.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-63711201487968769612011-05-08T10:12:00.000-07:002011-05-08T10:15:51.969-07:003/26 continued: So I seemed to have forgotten a rather large chunk of March 26 that fortunately I wasn’t a big part of. We so graciously offered the taxi drivers dinner and a place to stay last night seeing as though we arrived at night but also knowing full well that they pull all-nighters regularly on crazy cross-country trips with Zulu patrons. We awoke this morning to them refusing to leave and demanding to stay all five days claiming it’s too far to go and come back. We reference the contract they have in their possession that states they will do just that. They again claim ignorance to their previous awareness of the location of the camp and say they would do what was previously agreed upon if the venue was at ‘Drakensburg’ which again is a mountain range spanning two provinces in SA and two countries but they seem to believe is a town not too far away from Nondweni. The idea of us funding their mountain holiday is ridiculous especially after how inappropriate and upsetting their behavior was the day before. They weren’t budging. On the contrary, they threatened us by saying if we force them to leave now not only will they not come back to pick up the girls but they will ensure that no one else does. The situation escalated and we requested that the Camp Director get involved to mediate. A comprise was eventually agreed upon that involved the taxi drivers staying for the duration of the camp but were not allowed to be fraternizing with the girls or even to be seen in close proximity. This was just the beginning of our awareness of the power of the Taxi Association.<br /><br />3/27: I circled around doing the wake-up call which involved greeting the already bright eyed and bushy-tailed campers. I walked into several cabins where all six campers were moisturizing, dressing or just chatting in the nude. I love their overall comfort level with their bodies; I wish American teens would feel the same.<br />Today we gathered in the clearing to do yoga. The girls took it very seriously, never laughing at the strange or sometimes awkward positions. One of the GLOW girls visited me several weeks later and when I asked her about her day she said she starts each day now with yoga.<br /><br />After breakfast, we went into the forest for the high ropes course. The campers started by climbing up and down a 12 foot high net. They scaled it three or four at a time and though there were some tears everyone was cheering on the other girls no matter if they took 30 seconds or 15 minutes. We then walked up to a tire chained about three feet into the air. Each girl fell into the arms of several others and was guided, lying down, through the tire to the girls on the other side. <br />Those two activities paled in comparison to the main event. For this you started on a six inch ledge about four feet off the ground. You then attempted to time your jump nicely on the first swing so that your foot could catch the next swing without A: doing the splits or B: awkwardly swinging half heartedly back to the starting ledge. After four swings there was another ledge which allowed you to get your bearings before reaching the next vantage point by way of a sequence of tires. Since they weren’t bolted down the tires swung just as badly as the swings did but were more cumbersome. The consensus by the next ledge is undoubtedly to use the top of the tires as opposed to the hole in the middle. Trust me, seeing as though they are all hanging at quite different lengths trying to get to the hole is near impossible at times. And yes, out of stubbornness I stuck out my hole strategy till the next ledge. Next, you have a high balance beam to maneuver with the help of a rope arm rail for the faint of heart. The following ledge involves a rather large gap that is to be circumvented by way of a Tarzan-style rope leap and it’s then hoped that you would latch onto the vertical netting which by the way is quite difficult to manage though somehow everyone did. You then cross the netting parallel with the ground until you reach the final post. The girls loved it and as a spotter I saw quite a few going three or four times. <br /><br />The last event was one that I demonstrated with Angie. There were two thick cables about three feet off the ground attached to three tree trunks. At one end the two cables were touching each other but gradually separated until they were perhaps five feet apart. I stood on one cable and Angie was on the other and to keep balanced we held each other’s arms first at the shoulders then slowly at the fingertips. Now we’re both shaking like leaves and fortunately for me I have several Nondweni girls behind me basically propping me up and the entire crowd of spectators behind me in case one of them flinches. Angie, on the other hand, has one tiny girl spotting her. I communicate my alarm at her lack of support through clenched teeth while teetering on this cable as 100 girls watched. As the Camp Director tries to soothe Angie’s fears she falls and has a gash from her knee to her ankle. At that point another scrawny girl runs to Angie’s side when we decide we want to give it another go. Three quarters of the way there and I’m essentially at like a 30 degree angle with my ‘spotters’ being the sole reason I don’t smack on my face. After some muttered begging from yours truly the Camp Director agrees to let us stop. Embarrassingly enough, three sets of campers go after us and had a far easier go of it. <br /><br />Due to a miscommunication, we had a picnic lunch and many of the girls carried their sacks as close to the river as possible. One camper told me later that eating outdoors with her friends was one of her favorite parts of camp.<br />After lunch I facilitated a session on goal setting and achieving. I asked the girls to define short and long term goals and give examples of each on flip chart paper in small groups. After a few groups shared, I passed out a handout that had a chart with a space for a short term goal on one side and a long term goal on the other. After writing down a specific short and long term goal they had to outline the steps they were going to take to achieve them. The benefits of achieving the goal were discussed along with the stumbling blocks. At the bottom of the chart was a completion date and a lyric from ‘Bridge over Troubled Water’ that says, “Your time has come to shine. All your dreams are on their way.”<br /><br />One girl’s short term goal was to purchase a backpack. Her plan of action involved setting aside R1 ($0.14) each week out of her school snack money until December. Another girl’s short term goal entailed selling small snack bags and fruit to help support her family. She was worried about her starting capital but she figured she could start small.<br /><br />Many girls had aspirations to be doctors and though they detailed the steps they would take to get there they also realized there would be quite a few stumbling blocks along the way. Several girls talked about how time-consuming chores like hauling water, cooking and washing clothes were and how those activities severely cut into their study time. Even so, I saw the girls’ faces light up when they read the completion date of their goals aloud. <br /><br />After my session the campers tie-dyed t-shirts. We were fortunate enough to get thick organic cotton shirts at a heavily discounted price and high quality dye so that the shirts turned out great. <br /><br />We had no idea of the time it would take for 100 girls to tie-dye shirts and let me tell you it’s longer than you’d think. Three PCVs took ten campers at a time outside to the various rubber banding and tie-dyeing stations while Angie and I entertained the masses. We started by asking them to decorate the outside of their notebooks. Though we had music playing and a very casual atmosphere attention eventually diminished which is when we asked them to decorate the back cover of their journals with a poem. This was a huge hit. Camper after camper volunteered to read theirs aloud and I can’t articulate how powerful they were. Phrases like, ‘I gave you my body/I gave you my heart/I gave you my time/you gave me HIV,’ or ‘I am a woman /I am strong/ I am independent/ I am a woman,’ are just a snippet of that impromptu sharing session.<br /><br />Next was a session on relationships and sexuality. We asked each girl to write down a question they had concerning sex the day before and Trudell answered them during her session. Questions varied from what is sex, when is a good age to have sex, what if I’m gay to what should I do if I was raped, or what should I do if my teacher is touching me? She led a powerful session on taking a stand and owning your body. Every girl was taking furious notes.<br /><br />After dinner we had a talent show which was a camp highlight for many including myself. Trudell’s counterpart GuGu was the mc for the night and with her million watt smile coupled with her natural confidence in front of a big crowd you would have thought she was Ryan Seacrest mc-ing for American Idol. And plenty of these girls would have blown the other American Idol contestants out of the water. Not only was there traditional singing and dancing but dramas, dialogues, gospel singing and poems as well. Poems with phrases said with such strength and power they brought the house down. Here are just two examples: You hit me harder and harder/Kick me when I’m down/You want me to cry/I refuse/You won’t break me, or Martin Luther King had a dream and/SO. DO. I. At this last stanza all 100 girls were on their feet, screaming and banging on the tables. Actually there were so many acts that brought the audience to its knees that one of the tables broke after so much banging. I can’t adequately explain the energy of that night but to say that every singer sang as loud and as passionately as she could, every dancer kicked as high and with as much enthusiasm, every word was full of meaning, courage and intensity. Frankly, I was blown away. I was utterly humbled knowing I was in the presence of greatness. <br /><br />3/28: The talent show went well into the night so because of that we cancelled this morning’s Aerobics session in lieu of a little extra sleep. Little did we know how necessary it would be to fill up our energy coffers.<br /><br />After breakfast, we set off for a hike in the mountains to see Bushmen paintings. It quickly turned into a death march. Our hike commenced up this steep mountainside that seemed never ending. Girls were stopping for breaks every twenty feet and it wasn’t long before morale waned. I was located in the upper-middle section of the pack so I had the unfortunate vantage point of seeing that the leaders of this operation were a handful of overzealous GLOW girls, not Greg, the facilitator of this session. Not only were there not enough adults but the few that participated had no communication between them. So I wasn’t aware that one PCV climbed down the mountain with a camper who was having an asthma attack until hours into the hike. Once the group I was walking with reached the top of the first mountain (out of 6!) I organized a cheerleading squad to encourage the remaining sixty. We waited for about half the group to catch up then we continued. When we reached our second peak Greg gave us some history on the Bushmen people. Unfortunately we were still missing about a quarter of our girls. (There were adults with them). Since we didn’t wait until the group was together there was no way to tell that nobody was hurt or got lost. Also, we were led by the group of five campers to an incorrect point because Greg was not leading us. At this juncture, the girls were exhausted and hungry and all were apparently convinced we were getting a ride back down once we made it to our elusive destination. When I burst their bubble they refused to go any further. A group of 40 or so GLOW girls stayed at the point they were led to by the other campers. No amount of cheering and enthusiasm on my part could get them to budge. Well, it turns out it was just as well because due to the rains we couldn’t access the Bushmen paintings after all. Greg claimed he knew of another location of Bushmen paintings nearby but after all this hemming and hawing the stragglers caught up and we were now with the 30 or so girls furthest away from camp. Once the girls saw us move west they all headed off. I was with five GLOW girls and I didn’t see anyone in front of me or behind me for an hour and had no idea if I was going in the right direction. I was in charge of these girls’ welfare and didn’t have something as simple as a map or compass to direct us. Greg was near the back. I think. I didn’t see him again till we got back to camp. One of the girls asked me, “Are we climbing a mountain or a Drakensburg?” “It’s a Drakensburg,” I responded. “Cool.”<br /><br />What was supposed to be a fun morning hike where they learned about their ancestry ended up as a six hour hike to nowhere. The girls were pissed and rightfully so. We were able to frame it as an analogy for life with some success. We scrapped the scheduled scavenger hunt for more swimming which greatly boosted their spirits. Swimming attire meant stripping down to your underpants (who owns a swimming suit?!) but many of the girls in life jackets just wore panties using the life vest as the cover up for their upper body. It was much warmer so many girls jumped in. We also got a bunch of balls out so there were games of keep away and catch all over the place. <br /><br />When we reeled it back in, the smiles had returned and it was time for Leah’s session on career development. When we read through the applications for Camp GLOW it quickly became clear that there are only a handful of careers these young women aspire to be: social workers, doctors, nurses, teachers and policemen. 95% of applicants listed one of these as their career ambitions with the high majority of those with the goal to be a doctor. That is all well and good but it’s also important to be aware of other career options. You don’t need to choose from five options, in reality there are thousands of careers open to you. Leah also discussed this and scholarships and other schooling opportunities. <br /><br />Next was a session on values and human rights facilitated by my counterpart Lindiwe. She said something that has stuck with me almost a month later. She said, “If you want to go fast go alone. If you want to go far go together.” <br />After dinner we had an awards ceremony. We first gave a word of thanks to the counterparts and junior counselors and all of them received a nice necklace. Then each PCV and Counterpart called the girls from their village and everyone got a certificate for the hard work they did this week. <br /><br />After that was the ‘I can’t’ funeral. Katie started by giving her mother’s rags to riches story about how so many people told her she would never go far in life and now she’s a successful businesswoman and mother in Seattle. She wove a beautiful and inspiring story about perseverance and hope. She looked each girl in the eye when she said, “If and when you make mistakes pick yourself back up. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you will fail. You cannot fail. Failure is not trying and I know you all will try and try and try. Don’t ever let anyone blow out the fire that is inside of you. People will see that you are special. You are all intelligent, driven, passionate women. Your charisma is seeping out of you. People will be jealous of you and try to take that spirit away. Don’t let them. Your spirit is all you have. <br /><br />Who has ever been told you can’t do something? (Everyone raised their hands). Who has ever believed it? (Everyone raised their hands again). Make a decision to end that cycle tonight. I want everyone to write a list of things people have told you you cannot do. We will then go out into the bonfire and burn it. (There were many girls that had such long lists they covered both sides of their papers). When we were finished we gathered outside and each girl threw her paper into the fire and said, “Yes, I can.” <br /><br />All 100 women then lined the walls of the meeting hall with a candle. Katie started with hers lit. She said, “There is a fire inside each of us. Commit today to never letting anyone snuff it out.” Then one by one each girl said a statement that started with “I will….” and lit her candle from the flame already burning from the girl standing beside her. There were statements like, “I will be a doctor,” “I will be a strong woman,” “I will be an electrician.” Then Katie finished by saying that the room is glowing with GLOW girls. Keep your light shining.”<br /><br />It was another late night but we played the movie “Freedom Writers” for the campers that were interested. It’s a true story about a group of inner-city students who are taken under the wing of an inspiring teacher and are able to channel their difficult experiences by journaling. I was sitting next to one of my junior counselors that seemed a bit disengaged at times during camp. I glanced at her during the movie and noticed she was crying. When I asked her what was wrong she said she was just so moved by the students’ stories. <br /><br />3/29: We had yoga and breakfast and announcements. Everyone was sad that this magical time together was coming to an end. Greg asked one of the girls if she was excited to go back home. She said she wasn’t. When he asked why not she said that she has so many chores, so many responsibilities. She has to cook for the family, clean, haul water, wash clothes. It’s never ending she says. Here she is free. She loves to feel free. Like a bird. Rather than minimizing her challenges he said he hopes she can come again. As I overheard that exchange, I was thinking the same thing. How can I recreate this?Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-14274388601356246142011-05-04T09:37:00.000-07:002011-05-04T10:03:18.885-07:00Here you will find my thoughts on days 1 and 2 of Camp GLOW! (Girls Leading Our World) Days 3-5 will come shortly.<br /><br />Seven months of planning, organizing and fundraising all came down to these five days. It goes without saying that I barely slept in the anticipation. Many PCVs asked me during these seven months if I had any advice for someone interested in taking on a similar challenge and the first thing out of my mouth would invariably be, “do it alone.” Working with three other born leaders led to a constant feeling of too many cooks in the kitchen. Long debates ensued at planning meetings over issues that would be so easily decided if every choice was to be made my way! I would hold firmly to this piece of advice up until the day we were to leave but halfway through camp it was quite apparent that I could have never done this alone. Not even close. In fact, it was better than I had ever imagined it to be.<br /><br />3/25: Adrenaline and caffeinated tea were pumping through my veins as I waited along the path at sunrise for our ride into town. Our driver’s internal clock was running on African time and when I called him to inquire about his tardiness he had no idea of the time (who owns a watch anyway?) but assured me he had only to drink a bit more tea before he headed off. That sounded perfectly reasonable to me, you can’t properly start your day without a good cup of tea to get your thoughts in order. In all honesty I had no need for tea. I was so excited I was jogging in place. Seriously. He finally made it and we squished ten girls and their blankets and luggage into the back of his pickup. <br /><br />When he dropped us off in town I realized not everyone was sharing in my enthusiasm. Due to a complicated claim to territory, the bush taxis we took to the camp couldn’t come to two out of the four villages, my village being one of the ones off limits. Since I had asked two friends to take us into town I hadn’t yet been exposed to the taxi drivers and their scheming sliminess.<br /><br />Said taxi drivers took no interest in waiting for late comers or had any empathy towards a PCV’s sick grandmother. When all 100 girls were packed in the bush taxis, doors closed, ready to go, the taxi drivers decided that the payment that was previously agreed upon wasn’t, in fact, sufficient. They claimed that the original amount was for the destination ‘Drakensburg’ (a mountain range spanning two provinces in SA and two countries) and not Underberg a town in the southern portion of the mountains. If they had known this they would have asked for more money which is why they’re doing so now. There are many reasons why their logic didn’t add up principally being they had our agreement in writing in their taxis that states the destination being the town of Underberg. But they wouldn’t budge. They refused to drive us any further without a considerable amount more. It took two hours of tense negotiations before we agreed to concede. <br /><br />While we were humoring their little stunt, the girls started to get restless. The bathrooms (a gross, fly infested room with standing sewage not fit for humans) were closed so a few of the girls went in the grass. A security guard seized the opportunity of squeezing some extra cash out of the malungus and demanded the White women pay a fine in retribution for the girls’ folly. Now negotiations were being discussed on two fronts with us backed into a corner with no way out but through the money pit. When we finally left, our bridge with the taxi drivers was all but burned and the week had just begun. <br /><br />As I felt the caffeine waning in my system I pumped in some more so my energy and excitement remained at super-human levels. The first tense hours with the drivers didn’t seem to faze me. Nothing could get me down at this point, I had waited too long and worked too hard for this week to be ruined by some money-hungry scum bags. <br />We drove all day with house music playing at ear-piercing levels and the girls dancing the whole way. Nobody was quite sure how long the drive would be and the animation started to fade after lunch. We stopped at a small shop on the side of the road where the girls were again asked to think creatively about bushes as bathrooms. It was then that one of the girls came up to Angie and said, “This is the best day of my life.” We were up before dawn, had been driving for hours on end getting an earful from our chauvinistic drivers while enduring permanent hearing loss due to the absurdly loud bass. The best day of your life?! Just you wait girlfriend, we’re about to rock your world.<br /><br />It starts to rain as patience grows thin and we begin driving in circles. The taxi drivers need to again be talked into continuing with much ego-stroking and carrying on. It’s getting dark and though we know we’re close we’re unable to reach the camp director with directions for the last few miles. Angie convinces everyone that perhaps there are two entrances to the road we’re looking for and we finally find the camp.<br /><br />Though tensions were high with some of the PCVs, the overall atmosphere was a joyous one as we had arrived at our destination safely (albeit at dark). All the girls were given a name tag that was to be worn throughout the duration of camp that signaled their cabin and village. We chose 12 girls from grade 11 to join the others in grades 8-10 as junior counselors. They were each in charge of a cabin and were thrilled with the extra responsibility. I fielded many questions about how many girls were to sleep per bed. When I responded by saying that every girl gets her own bed there were many cheers. <br /><br />When everyone was settled we came back to the dining hall where a BBQ was in full swing and music was playing from the loud speakers. When everyone was finished, Greg, the camp director, though of British ancestry, explained in fluent Zulu how to roast a marshmallow. This was met by lots of giggling but many asked for a gooey second.<br /><br />We then walked to a ten foot high campfire where I sat as several girls braided my hair and 100 voices sang songs that have been sung for hundreds of years. Many took turns kicking their legs to their ears to the beat of the music. Indigenous games were also played around the campfire that were reminiscent of tag with a fun song attached and stories were told of which most girls seemed to know all the words to. My heart was so full at that moment; little did I know I wouldn’t come down from that high until days after the camp was over.<br /><br />It was lights out for the girls but the day’s debrief and the next day’s planning went well into the night for the planning committee.<br /><br />3/26: Learning from the disorganization of the day before we decided to implement a ‘Decision Maker’ or one go-to person who would make all final decisions for the day. This resulted in a much more streamlined approach where everyone was able to take a day to lead and was able to support the leader during the other four.<br />As someone with seemingly endless stores of energy I elected to do the daily wake up call. Every single girl was awake, had showered and was dressed when I came around to their cabin at 6:30. When I circled back around I reminded them about Aerobics which were starting soon led by yours truly. <br /><br />Since it had been dark when we arrived, it wasn’t until this morning that I was able to take in the full grandeur of our location. Our venue was in a small clearing surrounded by the mountains with a large rushing river running through the camp. The cabins, with log cabin facades, were fairly centrally located with the dining hall being the focal point. <br /><br />We gathered in the large grassy area separating the dining hall from the river for Aerobics and blasted Rhianna while we got our blood flowing. I spent an absurdly large period of time choreographing a fun routine in the days leading up to the camp and it seemed to be on par with their ability which can be chalked up to luck more than anything else. <br /><br />After breakfast, Angie facilitated a session on Women’s Health: Nutrition and Body Image and talked a lot about beauty being something inside of each woman and related women’s health to your mind, body and your environment.<br /><br />Next up was Nozipo’s (Leah’s counterpart) session on Stress and Relaxation. She started with a great energizer and a series of songs. After she defined the terms she would be discussing she led all 100 girls in a relaxation exercise. One of the Nondweni girls ran out of the room crying in the middle of the session. When I went to see what was wrong she said that during the stress-relieving activity she was asked to close her eyes and focus on a calming place. She thought of her home but was immediately reminded of the sexual abuse she regularly endures from her stepdad. She went on to say that she told her mom about it and that she doesn’t believe her. She also hoped that this week would be a time she could escape from her problems and was so sad that she was reminded of her struggles. I hope that I was able to provide some source of comfort and tried not to think about dropping her off at that house in a few days time.<br /><br />After lunch, Greg, the Camp Director, led the GLOW Olympics. Each village competed against each other in a series of events, the first of which was a low ropes course. Here, a participant from each team dove under a set of tires, jumped over and dropped under five wooden hurdles, leapt across a mud pit Tarzan-style with the help of a rope, scaled an 8 foot high wall with the help of her teammates, climbed up and down an 8 foot high net, clambered along a balance beam, scrambled up and down a teeter totter, Army crawled under a large net and lastly, hopped from wooden stump to wooden stump till you reached the finish line. The last participants were the leaders and I’m proud to admit that though I finished covered in mud and sweat with no shortage of cuts and bruises and frankly, barely breathing, I was victorious!! I had five Nondweni girls on either side of me the entire time helping me and who basically threw me over the 8 foot wall. The other ten Nondweni girls were blue in the face from cheering and jumping up and down, many of whom had scratchy voices by the end of the afternoon, myself included. Not only did I win the leaders’ race but the Nondweni girls won the event! I can’t remember ever screaming so loud, chanting our impromptu Nondweni song with all my girls huddled around me.<br /><br />The next event was a sequence of relay races. Each team lined up in a row with two representatives from each village facing their team. Four balls were given to each team and each girl had a chance to throw one into the crate on the side with the two girls facing them. Each basket counted as a point and Nondweni continued their domination by winning once again. The two girls raised the stakes by holding the crate above their heads. This obstacle was no match for Nondweni and we won three in a row. The last relay race event of a similar nature was won by another village under highly contested circumstances. : ) All the girls were on their feet yelling and cheering the entire time. The Camp Director was so impressed by their enthusiasm and sportsmanship that he awarded monetary prizes to each team. Since we had won the Olympics we earned the biggest prize. When this was announced and the initial screams had died down, my team started a traditional song to show their excitement. The other villages joined in singing other traditional songs and we all were competing as to who would be the loudest. Then many villages, including mine, started dancing to the songs they were singing at full volume. Nobody was letting up and it was quite awhile before any of the leaders had the heart to end the team spirit. <br /><br />GLOW Olympics, in all its glory, ran way over its allotted time slot so the following session was all but eliminated and was replaced by a session that we missed yesterday due to our tardiness. Trudell framed the bridge model perfectly along the backdrop of life skills and the choices you make in life. The leaders then shared tips about self-esteem and the girls participated by talking about when they feel confident. Here are some examples: “I tell myself I’m beautiful and I don’t listen to other people,” “If anyone throws a stone at you use it as a stepping stone,” “Believe in yourself.”<br /><br />The girls were anxious to get out of their mud soaked clothes but were asked to hurry back from the showers to collect their prizes from the snack shop. I should have known that chips and pop would elicit a complete free-for-all with girls climbing on top of each other to get their choice drink and chip flavors.<br />We scheduled a 45 minute long break where the river was open to swimming with the acquisition of a life vest. Now swimming is a generous term for the reality of the situation was that the girls were wading in six inches of water…with life jackets on just in case. I did not encounter one young woman who had swam before and they were grinning from ear to ear. It was late in the afternoon and since the sun had gone down it was quite cold for a dip in the chilly water. Their shivering, goose-bumped skin didn’t stop the rampant denials from the few dozen girls in the water that they were cold. It was like pulling teeth trying to get them out for dinner.<br /><br />When everyone had washed up after the meal, we sat down for a relaxing workshop on how to journal and journal decorating. They were taught how to draw self-portraits and drew theirs on the front cover of their new journal. Many of them drew theirs several times, erasing it time and again so that it was perfect. Quite a few decorated the background as well and one of them wrote her name and ‘A GLOW girl’ underneath as a sort of tagline. It was nice to have some free time to listen to good music and write creatively. The idea of writing has a stress reliever, a joy or a comfort was a new concept and many girls connected with this new outlet instantly.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-12914104354928248342011-04-24T11:03:00.001-07:002011-04-24T11:08:23.492-07:00So I realize I’m quite behind on my blog posts so instead of posting a novel all at once I’m going to do it in sections. Here are my thoughts on my life for the third week in March. Stay tuned for stories about Camp GLOW.<br /><br />3/14: Today I was at the NGO working on a grant proposal when I heard someone crying. This is something that is so rarely done in public that I didn’t know how to react. One of my co-workers asked Tshengie to talk to MaMabanga. She came back less than a minute later. I asked if MaMabanga was alright and if there was anything I could do, still flustered at this sudden breach of emotional armor. She said that she just got a phone call that her sister had died of AIDS. She hid in the storage closet, crying for perhaps thirty seconds, then came out and continued mopping the floor as if nothing ever happened. I was stunned. I asked Tshengie why she didn’t go home to mourn with her family and she said she’s fine now. I asked MaMabanga and she just shook her head. <br /><br />When someone dies in the Zulu culture they do this beautiful thing of singing the dying loved one into the next life. I will frequently hear drums and song through the night and I’ll know that someone is passing. The next morning the women and young girls will go to the hut reserved for ceremonies and mourn. I was invited into the mourning hut when my neighbor died of TB. There you will find the tears, the questions, the anger, the grief. But nowhere else. The days between the death and the next Saturday are the ones allotted for the mourning hut. You have only a handful of days to grieve so that finite amount of time is full of an anguish like that of which I’ve never experienced. The haunting songs of grief are muffled by the constant, unabashed wailing of the community of women. A wailing that is so raw that their voices would often break from overuse. <br /><br />I think there’s something very powerful about mourning in a community of women. Grief in the American culture is something that is private and personal but here nothing is private. Nobody is ever alone. I take comfort in knowing that MaMabanga will have that time when she gets home.<br /><br />3/15: Today I was painting the world map with the kids when one of them asked me where Japan was. He said that he heard that the ground was moving there and that many people died. Many of the kids hadn’t heard that yet and we stopped and talked about what happened and I assured them that it wouldn’t happen here. <br /><br />3/16: As I was walking down the street a guy about my age jogged up to catch up with me. I groaned as I braced myself for half a mile of sexual harassment. I was shocked when he seemed genuinely interested in my field of work. He said that it’s so difficult to not get AIDS because everyone has it. He went on to say that if one person in your family has it then you’re pretty much doomed. “Why is that,” I asked. He said that he shares a bed with several of his siblings along with kitchen utensils and clothes. I told him that you cannot contract HIV from sharing those things. He told me that his teachers told him otherwise. I responded by saying that there’s a lot of misinformation and it’s easy to get confused but that he could trust me. He said that he wasn’t worried about getting HIV anyway because he was circumcised. I told him that that does reduce your risk but it doesn’t eliminate it. He went on to say that he was sure I was trying to mix him up. The nurse who performed the circumcision told him he has nothing to worry about now. I insisted that I wasn’t trying to play games with him. That what I was saying was true. I talked to him along the path for maybe twenty minutes and I feel certain I planted a seed of doubt in the myths he held as fact before.<br /><br />3/20: We finally got our PEPFAR grant with only six days to spare, hooray! One of the PCVs found a store that we could purchase many of our supplies at, it can only be described as CostCo on crack. It is owned by Chinese immigrants one of which stands on top of a mound of junk at the head of every aisle, oftentimes with his shirt off and always with one arm balancing himself on the ceiling. It’s stiflingly hot and has such a negative air about it I wanted to leave as soon as I entered. <br />The bins of Chinese imports are of such a low caliber that you can see through the plastic. Half the items are already broken. There are stacks of things that scream illegal, repressive child labor. It was a perfect first stop for us ladies on a budget.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-29262899280802695352011-04-24T11:03:00.000-07:002011-04-24T11:08:03.176-07:00So I realize I’m quite behind on my blog posts so instead of posting a novel all at once I’m going to do it in sections. Here are my thoughts on my life for the third week in March. Stay tuned for stories about Camp GLOW.<br /><br />3/14: Today I was at the NGO working on a grant proposal when I heard someone crying. This is something that is so rarely done in public that I didn’t know how to react. One of my co-workers asked Tshengie to talk to MaMabanga. She came back less than a minute later. I asked if MaMabanga was alright and if there was anything I could do, still flustered at this sudden breach of emotional armor. She said that she just got a phone call that her sister had died of AIDS. She hid in the storage closet, crying for perhaps thirty seconds, then came out and continued mopping the floor as if nothing ever happened. I was stunned. I asked Tshengie why she didn’t go home to mourn with her family and she said she’s fine now. I asked MaMabanga and she just shook her head. <br /><br />When someone dies in the Zulu culture they do this beautiful thing of singing the dying loved one into the next life. I will frequently hear drums and song through the night and I’ll know that someone is passing. The next morning the women and young girls will go to the hut reserved for ceremonies and mourn. I was invited into the mourning hut when my neighbor died of TB. There you will find the tears, the questions, the anger, the grief. But nowhere else. The days between the death and the next Saturday are the ones allotted for the mourning hut. You have only a handful of days to grieve so that finite amount of time is full of an anguish like that of which I’ve never experienced. The haunting songs of grief are muffled by the constant, unabashed wailing of the community of women. A wailing that is so raw that their voices would often break from overuse. <br /><br />I think there’s something very powerful about mourning in a community of women. Grief in the American culture is something that is private and personal but here nothing is private. Nobody is ever alone. I take comfort in knowing that MaMabanga will have that time when she gets home.<br /><br />3/15: Today I was painting the world map with the kids when one of them asked me where Japan was. He said that he heard that the ground was moving there and that many people died. Many of the kids hadn’t heard that yet and we stopped and talked about what happened and I assured them that it wouldn’t happen here. <br /><br />3/16: As I was walking down the street a guy about my age jogged up to catch up with me. I groaned as I braced myself for half a mile of sexual harassment. I was shocked when he seemed genuinely interested in my field of work. He said that it’s so difficult to not get AIDS because everyone has it. He went on to say that if one person in your family has it then you’re pretty much doomed. “Why is that,” I asked. He said that he shares a bed with several of his siblings along with kitchen utensils and clothes. I told him that you cannot contract HIV from sharing those things. He told me that his teachers told him otherwise. I responded by saying that there’s a lot of misinformation and it’s easy to get confused but that he could trust me. He said that he wasn’t worried about getting HIV anyway because he was circumcised. I told him that that does reduce your risk but it doesn’t eliminate it. He went on to say that he was sure I was trying to mix him up. The nurse who performed the circumcision told him he has nothing to worry about now. I insisted that I wasn’t trying to play games with him. That what I was saying was true. I talked to him along the path for maybe twenty minutes and I feel certain I planted a seed of doubt in the myths he held as fact before.<br /><br />3/20: We finally got our PEPFAR grant with only six days to spare, hooray! One of the PCVs found a store that we could purchase many of our supplies at, it can only be described as CostCo on crack. It is owned by Chinese immigrants one of which stands on top of a mound of junk at the head of every aisle, oftentimes with his shirt off and always with one arm balancing himself on the ceiling. It’s stiflingly hot and has such a negative air about it I wanted to leave as soon as I entered. <br />The bins of Chinese imports are of such a low caliber that you can see through the plastic. Half the items are already broken. There are stacks of things that scream illegal, repressive child labor. It was a perfect first stop for us ladies on a budget.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-12974496253371938112011-03-21T08:20:00.000-07:002011-03-21T08:22:27.967-07:003/6: I had an interesting series of altercations with a herd of cows today. I was the only one at the compound this afternoon so it fell to me to get the cows out. I’m not exactly sure why my host family doesn’t like the cows in our area but they do seem to enjoy eating the thatched roofing and tend to have a blanket disregard to the location of their bowels so I’m guessing those two factors might make the list. Anyway, my young host brothers have no apparent trouble getting them to leave. I tried to make the same noises the kids do then proceeded to use a broom as a threatening device. Nothing. I scrapped the bad cop routine and tried some good ole fashioned sweet talk. They didn’t even budge. It took several more tries over an entire afternoon to get them out. I’m sure they found my whole charade quite entertaining. (As did the neighbors I can imagine). <br /><br />3/8-9: In planning the Camp GLOW parent meetings my counterpart tried to calm my nerves when I showed my concern in having a parent meeting in the middle of the day on a weekday. “Oh don’t worry, Lindelwa, they’ll just send a representative.” Perfect. So I was bracing for the meetings to be a circus. To be honest I was a bit disappointed at how smooth they went. Maybe I’ve adapted too much so that I don’t have as many cultural snafus. I didn’t anticipate the literacy rate being as low as it was but that was easily fixed by my counterpart and I shouting over each other as the parents/representatives dictated their pertinent information and signed with an X.<br /><br />Also worth mentioning is Tshengie’s very creative excuse for not helping me with our grant proposal: her elbows hurt. Uh-huh. <br /> <br />3/11-13: I met a girl on a bush taxi a few months ago who invited me to be in her sister’s wedding. Not kidding. She then called me about three dozen times to remind me of the date that she watched me put in my phone on the bush taxi. So Friday morning I was at her house, overnight bag in hand, for the big day. I was put immediately to work and spent the next six hours chopping and peeling various vegetables with the bridesmaids that seemed to appear in shifts. <br /><br />I was then escorted to a bedroom that I would later spend the majority of my three days. It housed a double bed and we later pulled a second thin double sized mattress from under the first bed. These two mattresses touched all four walls. On average there were about fifteen girls in this room at one time. I seemed to always be one of them. I watched the bridal party get ready and not wanting me to feel left out my hair was slathered with just as much relaxer and baby oil as the next girl. Unfortunately the end result was far less attractive. Think slick backed grease with a ring of frizz. Thankfully they didn’t dress me as so often happens when I go to these events. I almost wish they did. I felt quite out of place in my flowy skirt and Chacos next to the plastic heels and Forever 21-esque ensembles of the bridal party, all of whom are currently at university in Durban and very urbanized. I think they felt much better about ‘my look’ after the slicked back frizz coif was complete though they clearly disapproved of my far inferior clothing selection. <br /><br />I had prepared to stay over for the night with Friday being the day of cooking and preparation and Saturday being the big event. Au contraire, the first of three ceremonies was Friday night hence the primping during what I thought was the prep day. I’m used to not knowing what’s going on but this weekend took the cake in the confusion department. After a day of eating nothing but biscuits and soda the first of three ceremonies began. The ‘warm-up wedding’ was more of a Southern revival with a few people in matching outfits. The groom was hanging out in his pick-up truck throughout the duration of his wedding and was dressed in jeans. The sound system was set at such a high volume that I was in physical pain from the very first Hallelujah. Four hours of fire and brimstone screaming, oftentimes with three or four people speaking in tongues into mics over the intended speaker, and it was time to eat. I was beyond lightheaded when we finally sat down to eat our first proper meal of the day at around 8:00pm. Unlike anything else that day, we were in a mad scramble. So I followed suit and ate as quickly as I could then cleaned the tent of the remains of the warm-up wedding I asked my friend Zama where we were going and she said we were going to Escourt, “not right now but now.” So African. We left six hours later at 4:30am. In the meantime I piled onto one of the two mattresses and ate more biscuits and drank more sugary pop. Thankfully, we slept from 11-1:00am. <br /><br />It was so interesting to live with over thirty people in a three room house. Throw modesty and privacy out the window. This weekend is what guys envision girls’ sleepovers to be like; girls forever in various stages of undress. The wedding was in town and so we had running water. Girls bathed two at a time. We slept (for two hours) four to a bed dressed in just our underpants. (For some reason I was given the grandmother’s nightgown). Girls would come in and out unfazed by the nakedness. Out of the three full days I spent there I might have spent five minutes with a male. <br /><br />After we primped and ate more biscuits and pop we loaded up into taxis in the middle of the night. I knew enough to not expect an environment conducive to sleeping in transit but what I got was another thing entirely. We ushered in the sunrise with traditional Zulu songs driving through the hills of SA. It took about four hours to get there but was one of those moments that confirm that you’re in the right place at the right time doing the right thing.<br /><br />The second wedding venue was beautiful, think 80s wedding. The groomsmen dressed in too-big, gold pin-striped tan polyester suits. There were white lights under the white cloth that covered the walls and gold cloth was swagged everywhere. <br />This is not your average Zulu wedding. It’s what Zulus call a ‘white wedding’ and is what the ‘born-again Christians’ prefer as they no longer believe in Zulu traditions like ancestors which tie into traditional Zulu weddings. The groom’s family, on the other hand, still pays lobola (bride price). Another interesting fun fact I learned about born-again Christians is that they typically prefer arranged marriages. This wedding was just that with the bride being 19 years old and the groom 35. <br /><br />But back to the festivities. So I quickly discovered I was the unofficial photographer which was both stressful and demanding. But the ceremony seemed to go off without a hitch. It was six hours long with many people giving long-winded speeches and our first meal again was at dinnertime. It was really warm in the hall and the maid of honor and best man kept running up to the honored couple to dab at their sweaty faces. It was also pretty humorous to see that there was no need to put on airs. Nobody feigned interest when they were getting bored and at the end there were quite a few heads on the table openly sleeping.<br /><br />After the food was eaten the bridal party and other VIPS were carted off to the third ceremony. It was dark, cold and rainy when we arrived at the groom’s family’s home in a village outside Escourt. The family’s compound was built almost on the edge of a cliff. I was thanking the Nigerien cell phone gods that my phone had a built in flashlight. The entire bridal party changed into traditional clothes. Then the bride’s family gave the groom’s extended family blankets and grass mats amongst other things. We then crossed a swamp to another tent where there was more food. I licked mine clean. <br /><br />We got home in the middle of the night and all the girls piled into the same room with the same minimal clothing. (I was given the grandmother’s robe). The next day we bathed and ate more biscuits and pop. I was so used to this routine that I didn’t want to leave. But I haven’t quite gone native and when I got home I relished in my aloneness for the rest of the evening. I caught up on the news from BBC World Service, swept out a fresh batch of critters and finished a good book.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-50584287099123679402011-03-05T23:05:00.001-08:002011-03-05T23:07:39.034-08:002/5-9: A few days before Peace Corps’s 50th anniversary event at the Consul General’s house in Durban the Country Director called to ask me if I would speak at the event representing the PCVs in the health sector. So I spent the majority of the few days before the event on the deck of the hostel overlooking the Indian Ocean trying to think of something profound, noteworthy or as the hours waned on just mildly interesting to say. I started to panic when I discovered that the PCV speaking on behalf of the education volunteers was given completely different guidelines. I then spent an embarrassing amount of time in an internal debate over whose guidelines I would follow. I then expanded my debate outward and started taking a poll of my fellow PCVs. Of course being surrounded by friends I rarely see was also a distraction, as was the fact that it was Super Bowl weekend and despite having no idea who was playing beforehand, I watched the game from 1:30-5:00 Sunday night/Monday morning. Somehow I found a few spare minutes to jot some things down.<br /> <br />The Consul General’s house was beautiful. Not only did it have a pool and tennis court but was complete with monkeys roaming the property. And don’t get me started on the food! I forgot food could be so varied and flavorful. It was wonderful. Next time I go to an Embassy related event I’m bringing a Tupperware.<br /><br />2/19-26: After a week of stress and running around in my village I was back on the road to facilitate sessions at Pre-Service Training. I realized I had truly embraced this culture when, not knowing how long my first session was suppose to be and not wearing a watch caused me to be 45 minutes late for my next session. I was confused when the trainees, who’ve been in this country a few weeks, were so flustered and irritated until I remembered I had reacted the same way only a year before. Things like finding out two of my sessions were given to other facilitators the day I was scheduled to present them didn’t even faze me despite the fact that I spent hours preparing them. The fact that it was impossible to get a hold of anyone concerning transport and other logistics now seems so ordinary it’s hardly worth mentioning. <br /><br />2/27-3/5: It’s hard to not be discouraged when you walk into my org. Our funding is getting cut at the end of the month so all efforts to pretend to work or care went out the window in January. Now on a typical day you will find the two go gos who cook the daily hot meal for the kids, myself and one wild card. Sometimes it’s Mpostol who, when present physically, is usually slumped over a chair somewhere sleeping off the past night’s escapades. Sometimes it’s one of a handful of women who join the two go gos in gossiping about the eminent demise of Zamimpilo while watching soap operas on TV. But I look forward to the days when the wild card is Tshengie who gets upset when I do any aspect of a project without her. “But we’re partners Lindelwa?!” <br /><br />Lately I’ve been circling the village going from school to school trying to organize Camp GLOW. It has been so draining to have kids constantly yelling ‘umalungu’ while pointing and laughing, guys who won’t leave me alone and women in taxis talking about me in front of me. I think the fact that I’m burning the candle at both ends work wise makes these issues which have been present since the beginning that much more frustrating. But honestly, I thought the novelty of my nationality and skin color would have worn off a long time ago as would the feeling of being in a zoo with all the world watching my every move.<br /><br />When I noticed the deafening gospel music at my host family’s house was even getting on my nerves I knew I needed to give myself a time out. There’s only so much Daria-esque behavior one person can get away with. I was lavishing in my hermit-dom when two of my host siblings knocked on my door. I dragged myself out of my room and saw all eight members of my host family camped directly under my window. I figured they were performing a ceremony to the ancestors to rid me/my home of all the evil spirits that have been inside me as of late. Thankfully I quickly noted the stack of freshly harvested corn and realized the fire was solely for cooking purposes. So with two host siblings on my lap I helped cook corn under a blanket of stars seemingly at x100 magnification. I had tears in my eyes as I listened to Zulu music while tickling my two year old host sister thinking they’re going to have to drag me out of here next year.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-7463201376967484892011-02-04T04:35:00.000-08:002011-02-04T04:37:27.515-08:001/19: So I spent the morning playing with Zihle, my favorite little girl on our meal program. I’m guessing she has mild Cerebral Palsy but a little drool doesn’t freak me out. Everyone has their cross to bear, hers is just a bit more visible. The Dutch church built us a brand-new playground a few weeks ago so we played on that for hours. She would even insist on pushing me on the swing when I was finished pushing her or to help me up the ladder if she got to the top first. I love that girl. Later, when she went back home I was working on my computer and didn’t realize that everyone was asleep at my org but me. <br /><br />1/20: I went to Dundee which is four and a half hours away round trip to go to the doctor. This appointment, which was made by the Peace Corps doctor, was made for the doctor’s New Castle office. Seeing as though New Castle was another hour and a half away I wouldn’t be able to make my appointment. I turned around and went home.<br /><br />1/21: Today Tshengie and I were little NGO rock stars. We made a business plan chart coordinating our objectives to our activities, output indicators, outcomes and outcome indicators. I was so proud of her for sticking with it for six hours straight when nobody else was doing any work. She didn’t even budge when a crowd circled around the TV for The Bold and the Beautiful and seemed convinced when I explained that underlining, italicizing and bolding everything doesn’t look ‘fancy’ it can actually be a bit hard to read.<br /><br />1/22-3: I’m so glad I was talked into going to the Battle of Isandlwana re-enactment today. It was an event that commemorated the Zulu victory over the British and is why my area of the country is known as the Battlefields. Shockingly I couldn’t find anyone who had even a ball park estimate of the start time and I ended up missing the actual re-enactment. As a positive, I walked in just as President Zuma, the president of South Africa, was giving his speech…in English. His first language is Zulu so I found it strange that I was one of maybe three people in a crowd of thousands that could understand him. Next up on the docket was the President of Uganda who had a much clearer accent and seemed a bit happier to be there. Then came several famous musical acts that the crowd went crazy for. I didn’t even care that I missed the main event; I could have reached out and touched the President of South Africa, too bad he didn’t bring his harem of wives.<br /><br />1/24: After taking several days to wallow about my Camp GLOW mistake I hit the pavement (dirt path) today to try to right my wrong. I walked for five hours to visit each of the schools to ask if it was possible for the kids to miss three days of school. (I moved the camp back a few days so that it would be over a weekend which would eliminate two potential school days). All of them said yes! I don’t know what I would have done if they said no, I came home to my most recent cake covered in ants, so I would have nothing to drown more sorrows in.<br /><br />1/25: Today one of my co-workers sent his friend to fix my electricity that has caused me nothing but problems for a month now. Just this morning it shocked me so hard I could feel the electricity pulsing through my hand. It actually scared me more than it hurt and I asked myself maybe a dozen times, “Am I okay? Am I okay? Am I okay?” Once I realized I was I automatically switched to reassure myself, “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay.” Thankfully the expert was summoned and not a moment too soon. I have my fingers crossed that all is well in my electric world….well the fingers I have left anyway : )<br /><br />2/3: Today I started a project to paint a world map mural on one of the outside walls of the school. I had several meetings with the principal ahead of time and this week has consisted of me acquiring all the necessary supplies (like ten hours round trip in a bush taxi to get a projector from another Volunteer). The teachers selected twenty students that have shown an interest in art to help me. I explained the project and that this mural has been painted at other Peace Corps sites around the world. I attempted to get them excited about the idea of creating a learning tool that could potentially be used for decades to come. We then gathered at the future site of our mural and just when I was ready to organize the troops to start measuring, one of the teachers just has at it. I try to politely explain that this is a fun activity for the kids, is there a way you can incorporate some children into your ad-hoc measuring technique, I plead. He then orders some boys to hold the broken desk he’s using as a step ladder. The twenty students and myself watch for the next hour while the teacher outlines the border to our mural. I’ve been so African-ized that this snag has only barely fazed me but while he’s doing this he gets several calls from home and leaves after he’s done tracing. When I recruit as many able-bodied art lovers as possible to check his guesstimates we realize it’s a bit slanted. There are boys stacked upon boys stacked upon one broken, wobbly desk to try to rectify the situation. It was made much, much worse. It’s now getting a bit late in the afternoon so I make the executive decision to just move on. We put duct tape, I knew there was a reason why I brought that stuff, over the chalk outline. Next we start washing the wall before we put on our primer. This was another mistake. The outside wall was covered in dust and as soon as we started washing a nice brown clay started caking the walls. Again, it looked much worse. Also of note, after all the buckets of water were splashed against the wall the bottom duct tape line fell off and we didn’t have any more duct tape. Another executive decision was made, let’s just keep moving forward. So I grossly underestimated what 2 m X 4 m looked like so I purchased a bazillion small brushes which made the primer coat look extra special particularly the jagged bottom line. Will keep you posted on this masterpiece in the making.<br /><br />2/4: The white splattered mess of a primer attempt will have to stay up there until next week because today is sports day so the kids aren’t at school. So just myself and the security guy showed up to work today and it grew more awkward when more and more people kept piling in expecting a food parcel and no one from Isibindi was to be found. They finally came in halfway through the day, all demanding food. Since it was now four men and me at the organization they found it mildly annoying that I wasn’t already cooking for them as soon as they walked in the door, or better yet, before they arrived. When I tried to explain that I’m writing yet another lesson plan for a workshop they will benefit from they got even angrier. “We’re hungry, just starting cooking, okay?” (Translation: don’t talk back to me). They then sent the youngest man who’s around my age to try to reason with me. I walked into the kitchen to find that the women who usually cook the hot meal for the children must have risen before dawn to have it prepared early enough for them to then go get their monthly child support grants from the government. I said that the food is already prepared, so I don’t understand what all the whining is about. Apparently, the issue was twofold, 1. the meat did not look nice and 2. they needed the food to be served to them on trays like every other day. Trying to formulate a somewhat culturally appropriate response I told them that I appreciate them clarifying their needs but unfortunately I was very busy and pointed them in the direction of the serving utensils. They didn’t quite know what to make of this and did not, in fact, serve themselves. They waited almost an hour for a female staff member to come who immediately started serving them their lunch. I don’t know how long they would have waited or if they would have left hungry but they all seemed rather flustered. It was really quite comical.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-17247521014768583842011-01-19T01:53:00.000-08:002011-01-19T01:59:54.126-08:00Vacation to the Drakensburg Mountains<br /><br />Leah and I’s epic adventure started before we even reached our destination. After eight hours crammed in a small corner of a bush taxi we were more than excited to see our first stop on the horizon. I started to panic that the taxi might not be so accommodating as to drop us off where our bus was going to pick us up. This posed quite the conundrum. Not only was this city quite large but neither of us had been there before and we would be walking targets with all our backpacking gear. I quickly called the bus company who transferred me to the bus driver who I begged to talk to the taxi driver to coordinate a meeting point for the ignorant Americans. So as the taxi driver is swerving down the highway he seemed to have made a plan with the bus driver. I assume all is well but I couldn’t hear a word of the conversation due to the speaker blasting smooth jazz for the over 40s being inches from my ear. I ease back in my seat, or rather the lap of the sweaty, morbidly obese elderly woman I’ve been sitting on all day, in the comfort that I now have multiple people coordinating their routes on my behalf. About ten minutes later the taxi stops on the side of the highway. Since there isn’t a shoulder, he was still half in the lane where cars had to veer around him. He then told Leah and I to get out. I politely remind him that he had just made a plan with the bus driver in reference to our transport debacle. Dropping off two malungus on the side of the highway is the plan?! I assured myself that the bus must be coming any minute. Two minutes into our wait for the elusive bus rain starts to come down in sheets. We’re both soaked in ten seconds flat and I realized, too late, that when it was still dry I had put my backpack into what was now a rather large stream. We’re still waiting. I clearly had a little too much faith in the plan. I finally call the bus driver who’s fuming that the taxi driver dropped us off on the side of the highway. He goes on a ten minute tirade. I pleasantly explain that, though I appreciate his empathy to our situation, the best thing he could do to help us was to get off his soap box and to pick up the two drowned rats with purple lips. At last, we met up with the bus after walking down the exit ramp and huddling under a bridge. Car after car would slow to an idle to gawk at the scene we had become while quickly locking their doors and rolling up their windows. We were taken out of our misery not a moment too soon.<br /><br />We eventually made it to our destination in the Southern Drakensburg. On our first day we decided to go on what was slated to be a four hour day hike. On the now infamous bus we met a delightful Irish/Scottish woman working in Hong Kong and we invited her along. There were blue skies on a crisp morning, all signs pointed to a rejuvenating jaunt in the mountains. It was quite an enjoyable morning, the hike wasn’t challenging, the views were picturesque and we chit-chatted the whole way. We stopped to swim in a beautiful natural spring where we met a couple of Lesotho Peace Corps Volunteers. We had forded the river a few times after that but the current was strong. Since there was a contingency plan in our directions for when the river was high we decided to take it. (We were warned by the owner of the hostel we stayed at that it would probably be necessary to take the alternative route so we didn’t hesitate). The directions vaguely described ‘scrambling up fifty meters at the waterfall where you’ll find a fence that you can follow back to the path.’ We ended up rock-climbing without the reassurance of a belier for almost an hour and a half…and still no fence. Sue started to panic at this point and exhausted a lot of energy in a series of extensive lateral movements that led her back to where she started. Leah had lost her water bottle downstream when we were back at the spring so we were now sharing my tiny water bottle that had about two inches of water left. We continued to climb higher under the assumption that there had to be a fence somewhere. The thing we didn’t quite think through in our one-track-fence mind was that if we didn’t find it we would have to climb all the way back down. We stopped to re-evaluate the existence of the fence countless times but the farther we got the more committed we were. At this point we were six hours into what we anticipated would be a four hour hike. Sue’s freaking out. We’re sun burnt, exhausted and dehydrated and though we can see where we need to go we had no way of getting there. We called the owner of the hostel we were staying at who said he hoped we weren’t on top of the exact cliff we were on top of. He had no suggestions. Sue took that opportunity to tell us that she would share her full two liter bottle of water with us but she’s worried about germs. Minutes later she poured some over her head. We continued to blindly try to find the trail for a while longer when we collectively decided that we needed to get down from the mountain. We abandoned all hope of finding the trail. Leah gave a convincing argument to slide on our butts down a not-as-steep part of the mountain. Sue was not assured by the descent grade which was still quite steep. I didn’t feel that I had enough hiking experience to make an informed decision either way. We debated for quite some time. After it got good and tense we went for it. I was on the brink of tears. We all made it out alive. I even sang a wonderful acapella rendition of Destiny’s Child’s “Survivor” complete with moves from their music video where they’re crawling out of the ocean in their tattered Army fatigue bikinis. After I finished rolling around in the grass we continued onward and upward. We saw a bush taxi in the distance and we ran like wild women flailing our arms, begging for them to stop. I’m sure we were quite a sight. We got back to the hostel eight hours after we first head out, not too worse for wear and with plenty of stories to tell.<br /><br />I woke up the next day with muscles I didn’t even know I had sore beyond comprehension. We decided to vegetate for most of the day, only venturing out to hike a trail I’m convinced was designed for toddlers. Even so, I attempted to persuade Leah of the necessity of leaving a trail of popcorn like in Hansel and Gretel but with signposts every 20 meters she thought it was a little overkill. The hostel was chock full of fascinating people so the fact that we were avoiding the scary mountains like the plague didn’t dampen our experience. We had an absolutely delightful Christmas Eve dinner that night complete with crowns and crackers like in the British movies. As an aside, I got a ring in my cracker both on Christmas Eve and Christmas which I’m pretty sure means I’m going to get engaged this year. After our meal I started a game of charades in which I was, by far, the most active participant. Lucky of me, there was a charismatic Alaskan who helped carry the momentum. Soon our little model UN of international travelers were all in on the excitement. It was a great way to end the night.<br /><br />We were driven up the Sani Pass to Lesotho on Christmas by the owner of the chalet we were going to stay at. It was fitting seeing as though he looked like Santa Claus though perhaps after the popular figurehead had endured a round or two of rehab (which we found out later this pseudo-Santa indeed had). He had rosy cheeks, a pot belly and was quite jolly though was pretty rough around the edges. The actual Sani Pass road would not fit any road definition I’ve ever heard rather it was more of a collection of boulders that ended in a destination. Oh and this road was on the side of the cliff. And it was raining. If you get to the South African border post and aren’t driving a 4WD they turn you away, it’s too dangerous. Needless to say I was a little weary but this is Africa after all and somehow entire countries seem to function solely on roads exactly as this one so I knew we’d be okay. As we crawled up to Lesotho Santa told us his life story. Though unsolicited, it was fascinating. This was actually the highlight of our entire trip for Leah this guy was such a character. <br /><br />When we get there our destination looked like how I would picture the last place on Earth. It’s mountainous, rocky, cold and desolate. The villagers are swathed in blankets and I could see young shepherd boys herding the sheep in for the night in the distance on horseback. There isn’t a clinic, school or shop as far as the eye can see. Huts are made of the boulders which seem to be the only thing in great supply and electricity is still something for city folk. When we got to the chalet it was immersed in a cloud. We could see only white out of the picture windows when we ate Christmas dinner by candlelight.<br /><br />The next day one of the shepherds took us pony trekking through the mountains. He’s 22 and in fifth grade with the ambition of being an engineer. He said the closest school is a full day’s walk away so he sleeps there. Though it’s difficult to manage his responsibility of his herd with his studies he hopes to go to college one day.<br /><br />We had a chance meeting with a PCV couple the next day who drove us to Bergville, our next destination in the Northern Drakensburg. They even rented a real car, so we were riding in style. We took complete advantage of our luxury and made a pit stop along the way to see Cathedral Peak. We grabbed a drink at a beautiful resort but I immediately felt uncomfortable in what felt exactly like a flashback to the old South. We were in a tropical paradise surrounded by poverty with all patrons White and all staff Black.<br /><br />We then went on a multiple day hiking trip with a few more friends. A guide took us to the most beautiful sliver of untouched land I’ve ever seen. Our last night we slept in a cave, on the side of a cliff, next to a waterfall. Baboons were racing up and down the lush mountains. On an especially hot day, I bathed in the river on our lunch break and it felt like I was the only person in paradise.<br /><br />01/05: So even after I got rid of the papers and crossword puzzle books ruined by the flood the daily rains created, my room still has a damp, mildew-y smell to it. I thought I was going to lose my mind as the flies went on a relentless spree of facial dive bombs. Do they not sleep? Have they coordinated shifts so that I will get no reprieve? How can they be unfazed by poison? It’s like they become more determined the more powder I throw at them.<br /><br />1/6: Today we found out that the application Tshengie wrote two years ago to the US Embassy Small Grants Program was being followed up upon. There was plenty of hand waving and God praising. <br /><br />1/7: So I had a wonderful afternoon with my host sister. I was shocked when she told me without really telling me that she was HIV positive. She had found out last month and hasn’t told anyone. She doesn’t plan on telling anyone even though she has multiple boyfriends. How will she get her new clothes or have minutes on her phone? We talked for several hours about what’s really happening in her body right now and how she can help slow the disease. She’s still not convinced it’s not a death sentence but hopefully I at least persuaded her of her HIV education class’s inaccuracy in blaming the American government for bringing AIDS to Africa in an effort to kill all the black people. <br /><br />1/8: Today Nomkosi visited me. Her younger sister, Ayanda is on our daily meal program. Nomkosi is 23 and is the oldest of six orphans. She wasn’t asking me for money but help with her ID documents so she can get a grant from the government. They’re currently surviving on $100/month. She’s friends with my host sister who gave her out-grown school uniforms so her siblings can go to school next week. She knows grant process but she was convinced that if I got involved I could put her on some I-know-a-White-person fast track. I sometimes wish people didn’t come to me to solve their problems.<br /><br /> 1/9: Today I was put on speaker phone at the church I grew up in so I could lead an Adult Education class on my experience thus far in South Africa. It was so wonderful and cathartic to take time to reflect on what I’ve done and what I want to do next year. It was such a great boost to feel people back home supporting me. I was on cloud 9 all day.<br /><br />1/10: Today I wrote the constitution and policy and procedure manual for my organization in a vain attempt to guise our project as one that is halfway functioning for when the Embassy funders come next week.<br /><br />1/11: I left work early to let my eleven year old host brother wire my new room with electricity. I kept stalling, convinced someone a bit more competent was going to come along any minute, nobody came. Since we didn’t have electric tape I now have a maze of duct taped wires going every which way hanging from posts and taped to walls. After about three hours of shamelessly using Lindo as my human shield, neither of us got electrocuted but my electricity is still not working. I’m convinced I’m in far worse shape than where I began because of the amount of wires he cut at random and haphazardly taped back together. <br /> <br />1/12: Today was the big day when the Small Grants funder came from the US Embassy. She broke the news that the US Embassy was no longer funding stipends so it was a day full of mourning. The fact that they fund quite a few other things was really beside the point. That list was full of programs needing to be implemented or to put it simply, work needing to be done. <br /><br />1/13-1/15: I travelled twenty hours round trip to go to a meeting for the library committee at the Peace Corps head office that our staff liaison didn’t show up for. All three items on the agenda needed his input to move forward. All three were tabled till our next meeting. On a positive note, I started planning my trip to Mt. Kilimanjaro. <br /><br />1/16: Today I was made aware that I booked the wrong week for 100 girls to go to Camp GLOW. The correct week is now booked. No amount of care package goodies could give me any solace.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-1090463173914883832010-12-21T13:41:00.000-08:002010-12-21T13:46:46.609-08:0012/7: So my flimsy door hasn’t taken too well to the rainy season. Several months ago, after a particularly heavy rain, the wood expanded so much that after I yanked it open the wood split half way up the side. Ever since then the life of the door to my hut has been a bit touch and go. Today it took a turn for the worse when what seemed to be monsoon rains threatened to seep its soon to be moldy fangs into my few prized possessions. I covered my floor with buckets and pots to keep the streams of water from my thatched roof at bay and had a complicated series of rags set up to concentrate the encroaching water from under my door to a designated area. All of this maneuvering amounted to a moderate amount of success but unfortunately when I woke up the next morning I couldn’t open my door. I eventually resorted to a sort of good cop, bad cop scenario where I would attempt to wiggle the door loose gently then pull it as hard as I could. Nothing worked. I was sitting in the pool of water, which my rags so effectively created, soaked in sweat, no closer to ever getting out of my hut. The bottom half of my door hasn’t been flush with the door jamb for quite some time so I was able to squeeze my fingers in the gap and throw my body weight backwards in one last ditch effort to not be held captive in my hut like some modern day Rapunzel. The door flung open as I took several huge leaps backward from the momentum and with it came the door handle. My Peace Corps supervisor should be coming to approve my new housing on Monday and after that burglar bars need to be put on the window and door of my new room. So realistically I need to deal with this surly door for just a few more weeks, that’s nothing in African time. I’ve since duct taped the latch closed and I slip my PC Emergency card through the door jamb at night so that I don’t get stuck inside again. As I write this a few days later, the door issue continues to be a daily comical endeavor.<br />12/9: Today I went to a belated World AIDS Day event. Before it started a teacher sought out advice from Tshengie and me concerning a young girl on our hot meal program. She’s worried about Zihle, who happens to be my very favorite child on our feeding scheme, and yes I play favorites. She’s around 8 years old and has a developmental delay along with what I have guessed is mild cerebral palsy, not to mention one of the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen. She has seven siblings who have all been orphaned by AIDS. They currently live with her grandmother who neither feeds them nor bathes them properly. The teacher explained that Zihle fainted Monday at school and was taken to the clinic. The nurse asked when she had last eaten and she said on Friday afternoon on our meal program. The teacher was concerned as to what Zihle and her siblings would do when Zamimpilo closes for four weeks during the holidays. One of her sisters saw me at the event and her teacher had to peel her off of me when I was summoned to the head table. These kids are so starved for attention (among other things) and it just breaks my heart to imagine them suffering. It’s humiliating enough to go to school dirty, without shoes and a functional zipper on your dress which is three sizes too small let alone to do that hungry and without parents. These are some of the most resilient children I’ve ever met, if anyone deserves a break it’s them.<br /><br />12/10: Today I went to a fellow PCV’s pledge drive event for her org. I thought the idea of enlisting local businesses to help sustain her NGO was a fantastic idea. Unfortunately, the local businessmen didn’t seem to agree and it wasn’t well attended. On the positive side, that left me and the few other attendees with an absurd amount of food. I sat amongst dozens of empty chairs shoveling food into my mouth for the better part of the afternoon. It was wonderful. <br /> <br />Another highlight was talking to two of my co-workers who had just come back from a conference in Cape Town. Naturally, a fancy training such as this was organized by the holier-than-thou Isibindi, nothing that the lowly staff of peon Zamimpilo would be invited to. The week before I was approached by Siyah, one of the staff members elected to go to the conference. He requested I walk him through every single step of riding on an airplane, including exactly what one looks like. I was so excited to hear how the plane ride went, along with the training. They were both so excited, no detail was spared. <br /><br />12/11: I had a relaxing day with my shadow who seemed to have been slipped some sort of stimulant because she was quite literally throwing her body against walls. It was quite bizarre. Eventually she wore herself out by running around in circles and when I turned around, concerned at the sudden lack of commotion, I saw her curled up in a little ball on the floor, asleep.<br /><br />12/12: So today I was tricked into going to church…again. This is the second time a local pastor has used the vague ‘community event’ ploy to hook me into going to what is, in reality, a church service with people fainting, speaking in tongues and performing exorcisms. It lasts four hours on average. He wasn’t entirely wrong when he claimed that this was a Christmas event because he did hand out a few food parcels…one of which he awkwardly gave to me in addition to a gigantic bag of cookies. So I stood there with the haggard old women and children in rags to smile for the camera. I was also asked to give a speech. It was written in the program as, ‘speeches of VIPs.’ I am never going to some community event mumbo jumbo again. <br /><br />12/13: Today my Peace Corps supervisor flew from the capitol to approve my new housing. Even though his flight was delayed several hours it was a veritable Alena, Tshengie, Matseke love fest; all of us mutually enjoying our jobs and each other’s company. If I was a fly on the wall I probably would have vomited by the sheer cheesiness factor but as a participant I embraced it. <br /> <br />12/14: So I was up before dawn to scrub my new room. Today was also the teddy bear distribution event so I couldn’t stay long. It was comical to have two pressing events in one day when there are weeks that go by without something so burning, let alone two items on the agenda. My new host family didn’t seem to share my sense of urgency and after the first round of tea was finished and the popular soap opera watched, I put my foot down when the young girl was sent to get fried dough from a neighbor for the second round of tea. Sadly this was taken with much disappointment but I had a wheelbarrow calling my name. I carried one of large boxes filled with teddy bears on my head until Sindi took one look at me and basically told me to hand it over to the pro. I gladly traded her for the wheelbarrow full of boxes. <br />Even though our MC, Mpostol, was belligerently drunk, I still consider our event a huge success. The kids just loved getting the bears. I never saw one without its rightful owner and many were fed lunch and had lively conversations with their fellow bear friends. There was lots of cuddling. It was wonderful to give 150 children what will probably be their only Christmas gift. <br /><br />The chaos, though suppressed for the duration of the event, came to a head soon after. My go go gave Tshengie a non-negotiable ultimatum which involved me leaving the following day. This made the laundry list of necessities needing to be fixed/purchased, which is what the approval of my housing is hinged upon, quite literally impossible to accomplish. In addition to trying to have a civil discussion with Tshengie concerning this matter, I had hoards of caregivers bombarding me with guilt-riddled pleas for the extra teddy bears. “This will be my child’s only Christmas gift, please!” “I have a list of orphans who are suffering, they have nothing.” Woman after woman came into the tiny office until I was swimming in begging co-workers. I could barely come up for air before Tshengie attempted to recruit me to fight some of her fires with her. I told her that I wasn’t doing too well on my own over here. In reality I was drowning. I had 14 teddy bears and grown women were stuffing them in their blouses and refusing to fork them over. I was on the brink of tears in the corner of a tiny office being suffocated by prayers for leniency having to play the bad guy. After I put my foot down, I left the room and was immediately surrounded by smiling children holding their bears. As I walked outside I was flooded with happiness, the children’s joy was seeping out of their pores. And yes, though sometimes my job is difficult, today was a good day.<br /><br />12/15: Today was moving day. I went over to my go go’s house early in the morning to give her my thank you gifts for hosting me for almost a year. She’s been so unpredictable I didn’t know how she would react but I didn’t expect disbelief. Once reality sunk in she moved from denial to full on hysterics. She was begging me to stay in between heaving sobs. I reminded her that this was, in fact, her idea and that just a few days ago she marched over to Zamimpilo to insist I leave this very day. I assured her that I would visit and how much I enjoyed spending time with her and Zindle. I was so overwhelmed that my body seemed to shut down so at that moment I felt nothing. I was numb to Zindle’s look of panic and of my go go’s repeated apologies and pleas. I piled my things into my new room which boasts a missing window pane, door handle and functional electricity, amongst other things. My numbness continues. <br /><br />I was given no time to process, instead I jumped head first into bonding with my new host family. I absolutely adore the four children I live with: Mpo (6), Thobile (9), Pendu (11) and Lindo (13) and was later grateful for the distraction. They’re clearly starved for attention and I would pretend to not notice when they non-chalantly grazed my white skin or foreign ponytail. Mpo was the least sneaky. He would frequently walk up to me and start rubbing the skin between my thumb and fore-finger in the same soothing way I sub-consciously rubbed the back of my grandmother’s ears when I was his age. <br /><br />12/16: After an exhausting few days, I was more than a bit wary of going to ceremony of which I knew absolutely nothing including how many days it could last. After I made sure it was less than 24 hours, I agreed. And I’m so glad I did. It was a coming of age ceremony. I’ve been to a similar ceremony for a young woman in the Ndebele tribe and also for one who was also a sangoma (witch doctor) which meant that the rituals were a bit different. This was a traditional Zulu ceremony for a young woman who was ready for adulthood. The songs and dance were beautiful and everyone was so happy. I filled my memory card with colorful pictures of women in beaded skirts and men with staffs and animal skin headdresses. It was quite the party. <br /><br />12/17: So in a series of unfortunate events, it took me three times longer to reach Angie’s village than the usual two hours, due mainly to the fact that I forgot my bank card at home and had to turn back though before that fateful event, I had yet another traumatic experience at the post office that also put me behind schedule. I stumbled upon a fellow PCV that led me in the wrong direction and after lugging around three heavy bags for six hours I couldn’t even fathom walking uphill for another hour at dusk. I begged one of my friends to meet me halfway as I was passed left and right by toddlers carrying buckets of water on their heads. Once there, I drank two liters of water and made a beeline for the dinner everyone had been patiently waiting to start. After inhaling far more than my share, I was courteously asked to take a breather so everyone else could eat. It was also suggested that next time I don’t eat straight out of the pan. I would like to say that I then graciously stepped aside so the rest of the meal could be prepared but instead I regressed to a sort of caveman like mumbling before shoveling the majority of that remaining side dish into my mouth. Somehow I was forgiven and the rest of the night was filled with Christmas music and good wine. <br /><br />12/18: Luck was on my side as I seemed to step into every single taxi just as it was ready to pull away. The effortless journey to visit my fellow PCV friends was met with an even more relaxing day in their company.<br /><br />12/19: I hitched a ride with an Afrikaner man almost all the way home. It was so strange to be in a real car again that two hours into the journey my travel companion politely suggested I roll my window up after my voice cracked from yelling over the wind. Despite my attempts at getting back quicker, I missed the entirety of my co-worker’s sister’s funeral. The ceremony was finished but I was just in time for the food and clean up. No one seemed to mind I was late. It’s African time after all. The cause of death insisted upon by the family is cancer. Unfortunately, her sister was treated at the local ‘hospital’ an hour away that boasts five doctors of which nobody can remember ever seeing. It is unlikely that a nurse in this rural area could diagnose a disease as complex as cancer without any of the modern testing tools at their disposal. I’m very close to my co-worker, Sonto, she even announces to random strangers that she’s my best friend and it broke my heart to see her so devastated. I saw her take her sister to the local hospital several times and once helped to carry her out of the bush taxi we all happened to be on together. She had lost about 75 pounds. She was also a witch doctor. I wonder how many healthy years she would have had with her children if she would have taken ARVs instead of muthi.<br /><br />12/20: Today, after a day of chaotic food parcel distribution, I was escorted back home by a slew of young girls I recognized from our hot meal program. They silently watched me open the door of my new home and get settled. Mutually excited to have some company, the six of us enjoyed a solid hour of South African card games before we moved on to jump rope. The game was that the first person jumping rope would pick a category then each girl would say 3 local schools for example then jump out in time for the next girl to jump in. I was shocked how quickly I was able to dust the cobwebs off my skipping skills. Though jumping out was my amusing Achilles’ heel this game entertained us for another solid hour. Then, out of nowhere, they bombarded me with pleas to teach them English. I assured them that there was no need to grovel, I love to teach. So I asked them a series of open ended questions while they all sat on my bed with their hands waving wildly in the air. It was then requested that they practice their writing skills. Someone found a pencil I had left on the ground and they were prepared to share the one writing utensil with old magazine print as paper. I gave them each proper pens and lined paper and I pretended to ignore their squeals of delight. I asked them if they could go anywhere on holiday where would they want to go and why. One girl wrote, “I want to holiday visit at America because I want to see white person and I want to see money and I want to learn to be a doctor.” <br /><br />12/21: Today I went on a staff appreciation event to a nearby town to have a BBQ. The funding, of course, was from Isibindi. I never quite understood why we needed to travel an hour and a half to reach a location to have a BBQ and I found it humorous that we spent the entire morning waiting while a select few ran errands in town. The afternoon was relaxing and enjoyable but I started to get concerned when the day was winding down and people started hitchhiking back. When only half our group was left I started to panic. We had a mound of stuff and I had visions of me trying to hitch a ride with a BBQ pit, multiple pots and a pop-up tent. The taxi finally came but I arrived home after dark and since all activity ceases after the sun goes down my new host family thought I might have died. Mental note: get new host family’s phone numbers.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-89139396042142162732010-12-06T08:57:00.000-08:002010-12-06T09:02:04.197-08:0011/14-11/19: This week I was in Durban, a beach town, for Life Skills Training. Since this isn’t my first rodeo, I came prepared with transport money for my counterpart who, as expected, hadn’t the foggiest idea these bush taxi things cost money to ride in. Once there, my counterpart immediately met up with her brother and sister who proceeded to sleep in her hotel room and eat from the buffet. <br /> <br />I quickly discovered that the translation was going to be sporadic at best. I immediately searched out my Peace Corps supervisor and explained that my counterpart can’t speak English. He said that I should have brought someone that spoke English. I responded by saying that I live in such a rural post that the only one that would understand a workshop in English would be my supervisor who has already received training by Peace Corps.<br /><br />Unfortunately, I could hear the rumblings of an ‘I told you so’ already brewing in Nondweni. For the days leading up to the workshop, everyone seemed to be vying for the much coveted slot as my partner in crime in girls’ empowerment. Campaigns were staged; elections were held. It can’t be said that the vote cast too much light on the debacle because apparently everyone just voted for themselves…and literally everyone ran. All of this was in my absence. Of course the goal was not to build up their skills so they can strengthen the female leaders of tomorrow. No, it was made clear early on that this particular hotel was famous for its luxurious buffets. There were also rumors of a pool but that could not be confirmed nor denied. Women who aren’t literate in their home language made convincing arguments as to why this spot should be theirs. I got roped into the chaos in the final stage which involved carefully calculated smear campaigns and puppy-eyed guilt trips. I told them that as entertaining as this charade has been, I told Peace Corps that I was bringing Sindi two months ago, so that ship sailed weeks ago.<br /><br />Back to Life Skills Training, I had high expectations coming off of permagarden training which had a contracted expert to facilitate. Sadly, LST seemed to be thrown together by two fellow PCVs, with none of the content being innovative or original. Luckily, I quickly readjusted my expectations (what’s a PCV if they’re not flexible, right?) and fully enjoyed myself after taking LST for what it was, a free vacation with friends I haven’t seen in a while.<br /><br />Unfortunately, my vacation was marred by the knowledge that Madagascar, my destination after LST, was in a state of chaos after an attempted coup. Okay, chaos is very relative especially in the developing world and I thought since the State Department hadn’t given Madagascar a travel advisory let alone a travel warning, I should still be allowed to go. A week filled with emails and phone calls ensued with the issue reaching PC Headquarters in DC. The final decision was I could go, sure, but if I did I would be administratively separated or in other words dishonorably discharged.<br /><br />So I took a few days to wallow in the fact that the plane ticket I bought six months before and the countdown I had going for weeks was not going to happen. Instead, I was slated to go to a weeklong training to plan the next training which included working on Thanksgiving Day.<br /><br />Also of note, I made sure to add my highly-contagious ringworm to the guest list at my pity party. At this point, I’d had it for about a month with ‘satellites’ starting to pop up right and left. (As I write this three weeks later, there’s no change. I’m convinced I’ll have to be quarantined by US Border Patrol with the rabid dogs and spoiled fruit for an indefinite period of time for any number of diseases I have/will have).<br /><br />11/20-11/28: This week, in place of a relaxing beach/jungle vacation, was devoted to planning the training for the in-coming group of PCVs. The language facilitators were also invited and the first three days were entirely focused on their roles and responsibilities. You might be surprised that that could possibly take 24 hours but I’ll give you one of many examples as to how that was made possible. A line was read about how the language facilitators cannot date trainees. A discussion ensued that lasted an hour and a half. Hypothetical scenarios were entertained. Role plays were re-enacted. Every possible angle was considered then questions started to repeat themselves. These answers to the same questions led to follow up questions which had also already been answered until I felt like I was in the twilight zone.<br /><br />I was looking forward to Thursday and Friday when my presence was actually needed. So early on Thanksgiving morning we started training by brainstorming possible language topics to be covered at the next training. I raise my hand, “Is it possible to use previous trainings’ topics as a guide. If a topic slips our minds now, it would be difficult to squeeze in later.” This idea seemed to come as quite a surprise to the trainer. “Let’s just do it this way.” And that’s how we planned the entire eight and a half week training, by suggesting ideas for sessions off the tops of our heads. After some begging we were able to see the previous year’s schedule. There were about a dozen crucial lessons that were not on the already packed schedule. I was interested to discover that if you take out the time it takes to herd 40 people around, transport delays and guest speaker tardiness, training days are already pre-planned to run late. So if those issues are added in, what trainees assume are eight hour days, are pre-planned to be ten, but which end up being twelve. This formula is why Pre-Service Training frequently drives people to gouge their own eyes out.<br /><br />The handful of PCVs involved in training were released early on this national holiday. A few of us were able to go to the Ambassador’s house for Thanksgiving dinner. Packing for a vacation in the jungle, I didn’t necessarily come prepared with appropriate attire. Luckily, a fellow PCV brought two dresses so I was able to borrow her back up. The Ambassador’s compound is surrounded by twenty foot concrete walls which are topped with electric fencing. It’s a fortress. It’s so large that there are signs directing you to the various guest homes and activities inside. <br /><br />We were, somewhat awkwardly, an hour early but the Ambassador graciously entertained us before the other guests arrived. He seemed very approachable and genuinely interested in our work. Next to arrive were nine Marines who guard the Embassy. I played croquet with some of them on one of the front lawns as bocce ball was going on on the lawn beside us. I’m very proud to announce that Kristen and I, as Team Peace Corps, placed in second amongst some very competitive, ruthless Marines who would knock your ball to Timbuktu without a second thought. Other Embassy staff and their families were there along with the Ambassador’s personal family and family friends from the States. <br /><br />The President’s seal was on everything from the napkins to the glassware. The food was amazing. The best part came later when everyone offered their thanks. This was done casually, not one-by-one around the table, but everyone went none the less. It quickly became emotional as each toast was lifted in honor of someone in such an honest, heartfelt way. Maybe it was because everyone present was away from their country and family on a day in tribute to both but it was incredibly moving to see time and again people humbling themselves to share their thanks with a roomful of strangers.<br /><br />11/29-11/6: When I got out of the taxi after being gone for two weeks I saw this little dot running full speed ahead from maybe a mile away. As the dot came closer I realized it had both arms spread wide. When it was closer still I recognized it to be Zindle and it looked like she was ready to pass out by the time she reached me. She was so happy she latched on to me, hanging from one of my many bags and wouldn’t let go. When I finally peeled her off me she insisted on dragging one of my bags through the dirt down the path 50 feet or so to our house. <br />I received the same Prodigal Son reaction at my organization the next day. Every woman sized me up, with debates ensuing on whether I got a bit bigger while I was away, they hoped I did. <br /><br />Wednesday was World AIDS Day and I tried in vain to plan an event with the children on the feeding scheme. Instead, I was summoned to a community affair where the head table was flanked by banners advertising the South African Police Service’s dog service and negotiation techniques. It was a bit bizarre to say the least but the dancing was amazing. There was a group of about 30 teenage boys and a few girls who were dressed in animal skins and danced to a beat made by eight huge bass drums which were also made out of the skins. The boys lifted their arms as high as possible to hit the drums with such a unison force that it was some of the loudest music I’ve ever heard. Everyone was on their feet screaming in excitement. I could barely contain myself enough to take pictures, especially since I had a few children hanging on me to get a better look. Try to picture the loudest drums you’ve ever heard, paired with half naked dancers stomping to the beat and three hundred people egging them on. It was one of the most beautiful moments I’ve experienced thus far.<br /><br />The rest of the week involved minor episodes including me almost getting mauled by a dog and trying to referee the latest whodunit in respect to the most recent case of missing food. There were more attempts to try to teach this wonderful AIDS stigma lesson I worked hard on and a potential puppet show to follow, none of which got a very warm reception by the staff. I also learned that the kids get out of school a lot earlier than they’re suppose to so I decided to save my World AIDS Day activities for January when more of them will come. Another fun fact I discovered is that my organization closes down for an entire month (12/15-1/15) in honor of Christ’s birth. Lucky for my org, I’m going to be as busy as a bee, as Tshengie says, with a whole slew of enriching activities to plan and funding to pull from thin air.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-73866818479988525872010-11-06T03:44:00.000-07:002010-11-06T03:48:36.052-07:0010/30-10/31: I was so excited to go to my first Zulu wedding today. I arrived at the house of the friend who invited me and she was nowhere to be found. There are about fifty people living on her family compound which was a bit intimidating to navigate but luckily I quickly found the woman who befriended me during the witch doctor’s coming of age ceremony which was at this woman’s house as well. She was thrilled to see me again and immediately began brainstorming potential ensembles and hair dos for the big event. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to do a full wash so instead she put shampoo on my dry hair as a make shift styling product. She took a large chunk of hair out to hang in the front then slicked it back in a tight greasy ponytail. Next, she colored my eyebrows black and put brown face powder on me as a finishing touch. She then dressed me and sent me on my way. Ma Mcineka appeared out of nowhere just as soon as I was finished with my beauty treatments and we walked over to the wedding together. <br /><br />My friend, again, left me to my own devices almost as soon as we got there. I attempted to make friends right away out of necessity and boredom more than anything else. Sadly, after the novelty of me being a foreigner wore off (which it did rather quickly when they found out I’m not friends with Beyonce or Rhianna) so did their interest in me. After several more circles of the compound I realized that they didn’t necessarily lose interest in me, they just don’t seem to be a very talkative bunch. Each hut I entered, I discovered a small group of people the same age and gender all of whom were sitting together mostly in silence. I grew less panicked that they were ambivalent about my legitimacy in being there and joined them in their silence. I realized after multiple hours of this that we were waiting for the bridal party. The wedding was slated to begin mid-morning and the bridal party was in the adjacent province. <br /><br />As it started to get late I asked if they were even going to have the wedding today at all. Apparently I had missed the memo that the wedding was now planned for the following day. Everyone, meaning about a hundred people, are now sleeping over for tomorrow’s big event. I was a bit confused because everyone seemed to have brought an overnight bag so I’m still not quite sure what the original plan was. Regardless, I had felt I had invested so much time in witnessing this wedding that I was going to sleep there as well, out of principle. Since there was nothing else to do, I had eaten myself into a food coma had was ready for bed at 6:00. Regrettably I was the only one with such a plan. Weddings are code for men of all ages to get belligerently drunk and for women to be attentive to their beck and call. This might not sway too far from their daily lives except for the excess of alcohol consumed. As you graciously hand out the requested biscuits you are peeling men off you. By early the next day I had stopped replying to any man’s attempt at communication with me, friendly or otherwise. <br /><br />Halfway through the night nobody has yet gone to bed. I’ve been assigned to sleep in a double bed with my friend and her two children. At midnight there were still fifteen drunk people in our shack. At some point they left and I gratefully snuggled up in my corner of the bed. Ma Mcineka’s husband came in soon afterwards and was not prepared to see a malungu in his bed. I feigned sleep hoping I wouldn’t get booted out of one of the few beds to a straw mat on the floor in some strange room. Luckily, he eventually left to sleep with his friends and after a few hours of sleep I woke up before dawn to what turned out to be twelve hours of hard labor. I helped the women prepare for the wedding, cooking, cleaning, arranging while I avoided the men like the plague. The actual ceremony was really interesting and involved a lot of rituals. First, the bride and her family walked over to the bridal tent while singing songs and carrying the bridal chest. The chest is suppose to signify all her possessions which she is now bringing to her new family. During this time the bride is covered completely by a blanket. There is singing from the groom’s family then from everyone. It’s really lively and circles start forming around people stomping loudly to the music. Just like in the States, the actual ceremony is quite short. After that, the groom and one of his friends (a brother maybe?) dressed up in animal skins and danced some more. Then everyone in the large bridal party is given a blanket, pillow and straw mat which they individually take out of the packaging and curl up in. Then the eating begins. <br /><br />I finally was able to sneak away after an hour of goodbyes. It was a wonderful day but I was so exhausted and ready to sleep in my own bed. I started walking home with a group of girls ready to take the next bush taxi back home. After an hour and a half of walking up hill against the wind I was wondering if a taxi would ever come. This wedding was in the adjacent village and is a little less than an hour away by taxi. We were still so, so far when one finally came. I was so relieved but felt guilty leaving the girls to walk several more hours in the cold by themselves. <br /><br />When I got home I was planning on tweaking the grant for my girls’ empowerment sleep away camp and calling it a night. I was getting sick from the slave labor on no sleep and was so disappointed that the ‘fine-tuning’ took five hours. With a trash bin full of used tissues and eyes pried open with toothpicks I turned it in. <br />It feels so great to have written a $20,000 grant in such pain-staking detail for 88 young women in grades 8-10 and 12 adults. I’m so proud of our programming and what a camp like this can do to change a young woman’s feelings about what she deserves out of life. I also know that what I called slave labor is what women here do every day. I hope to teach these 88 girls that there are other options.<br /><br />11/1: I woke up still recovering from the flu bug I got from being worn down when I remembered I was scheduled to go on home visits in a far corner of my village. But when I ambled over to the taxi rank I was informed that the taxi going to this section of my village was not going there today, ‘try again tomorrow’ they said. I honestly wasn’t too disappointed but when I turned to leave a woman called me back. I’ve seen her there before, she’s always darting around the taxis serving them food and drinks. She summoned me back to ask if there were any openings at my organization. Sadly, there isn’t, and even the staff on the payroll haven’t been paid in months. She was clearly disappointed. I asked her why she asked because it looked to me as though she’s one of the lucky few that already has a job in this village. We ended up talking for almost an hour and she confided in me all of the sacrifices she makes in working with a dozen young men. Not only is her job description basically to be at their beck and call but they feel entitled to much more than the occasional cup of tea. I told her that what she was telling me was against the law and if she went to the police they would go to jail. She said she knew but that in addition to them perhaps spending a night or two in jail (and a pat on the back from their buddies) she would lose her job and she’s the sole breadwinner in her large family. She said that life here isn’t fair, she goes to church every Sunday, she’s always praying, she’s such a good Christian she says, I should trust her on that, she’s done everything right and for what? This was not a rhetorical question; she was looking for answers. I told her that the price she’s paying to provide for her family is more than unfair and that I wish I had the answers as to why a good Christian who was one of a very small number to pass their high school exams, has drawn such a lot in life. Just then the men started snapping and calling after her and I turned and walked away.<br /><br />11/2: I felt this renewed sense of purpose today as I was reflecting on my service thus far. I know this is where I should be and there’s so much to do. I don’t want to be too cheesy but I’ve noticed that I’ve written a lot about my struggles and cultural mishaps but there’s a lot of joy here too.<br /><br />11/3: Today I helped forty orphans and vulnerable children paint for the first time. A few art supplies were donated by the Dutch church who built our building. It was so wonderful. They didn’t know what to do with the paint at first but after a quick tutorial it was all smiles. There were far too many kids for one table worth of paint but the kids painting didn’t want to leave. I started to run out of paper and had to limit the children to two paintings each. The paintings were for a World AIDS Day art competition that is being organized by a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer. I will exchange the art created today with another PCV who will display it at her organization. Then all submissions will be sent to the organizer who will pick winners and prizes will be divvied up. <br /><br />Tshengie came in to observe the event about halfway through. She looked sort of confused and a little annoyed when she asked what the point of this was. Of course I’ve discussed this event with her several times (along with its aims and objectives) but these meetings must have slipped her mind. I told her that the idea is for the children to relax, have fun and express themselves artistically. That statement was returned with a blank stare. I wasn’t hurt. I understand that children’s role in this culture is to help adults and this help usually involves chores like cooking and cleaning. The thought of doing something not out of utility is not a luxury people have here. <br /><br />I saw how excited the kids were today and I plan on doing art therapy on a weekly basis, I can’t wait!Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-44623790273843219982010-10-29T05:44:00.001-07:002010-10-29T05:52:28.918-07:0010/13: Because of my overwhelming schedule I was considering cutting out my weekly training workshops due to lack of attendance. Just as I started talking myself out of feeling guilty about this being my final workshop, every single caregiver shows up. About half of the in-home hospice workers who attended walked an hour or more both ways…in the rain…up and down hills to get there. All my suppressed guilt resurfaced in an instant when I saw how enthralled the packed house was in the lesson and how diligent their note taking was. Today’s lesson covered opportunistic infections. The main topic was TB, of which South Africa has the highest prevalence, and even more importantly the DOTS program. This internationally recognized program focuses on trained community health workers going to clients’ homes who suffer from TB and observing them taking their meds every day. There are myriad reasons why people here die from this disease, which is both entirely preventable and curable, but one of the most common is lack of drug adherence. If you take your medication appropriately you will be asymptomatic for the last four of the six month duration TB drugs are prescribed. This means many people stop taking their medication early because they think they’re cured. So here’s the exciting part: the DOTS program can save people’s lives. If someone cares enough to go to a client’s house every day for six months to watch them take their medication, even if they think witch craft will cure them faster, so that they won’t forget and they won’t quit early, that is one life saved. And there are a lot of people here infected with TB, just think of the possibilities. <br /><br />Also worthy of mentioning is the topic of dehydration and diarrhea. Ready for the clincher: I facilitated a discussion on oral rehydration salts, which includes clean, boiled water, salt and sugar. This miracle concoction will help people who are severely dehydrated recover far quicker than mere water could.<br /><br />I was so excited that everyone was present to hear about wound cleaning and hand washing, about when to refer clients to the doctor and when they should just rest at home. I actually could barely stand it and would just burst out, “this could save people’s lives!!” more times than I’d like to admit. Even after a crash course in public health, or perhaps because of, everyone seemed hungry for more. No rest for the weary.<br /><br />10/14: So I arrived at my organization today to see the entire structure under four inches of water. All of my co-workers were in bare feet with their skirts hiked up, whisking away the water with straw brooms. I whisked with them with my long underwear rolled up and my skirt tied in a knot at the knees for four hours before the damage was under control. The most frustrating part wasn’t that the morning was lost to physical labor but why it was lost in the first place. As I mentioned earlier, our new building was built by a high school Dutch youth group. I’m not sure if they’re unaware of the necessity of a level foundation over there in that law-less nation but here in the middle of the bush everyone seems pretty well versed in the logistics of the rainy season and the cause and effect relationship rain has on the lack of a drainage system. <br /><br />Another stressor has been all of the recent complications that have come out of my attempt at funding the girls’ empowerment sleep away camp. Two out of the four members of the planning team are on vacation and unable to be contacted. They assumed that since the grant application was written and the activities loosely planned that it was perfectly reasonable to visit their boyfriend and daughters, respectively. On the contrary, I’m trying to dodge the rain seeping into my hut as I struggle to pull out a miracle in respect to a low cost venue and transport. It’s now looking pretty grim.<br /><br />10/15: The mother bear project has also turned into a bit of a logistical nightmare. Due to our endless lack of funding, we can’t have an event to celebrate this donation. The easiest and most sensible way to donate 150 teddy bears would be to gather all the children in one place and announce their names through someone’s karaoke machine. Unfortunately, that ostensibly flawless idea runs into the immediate roadblock of the need for food to feed all these children after they receive their bear. As I’ve learned long ago, food is a nonnegotiable. With that said, I turned to the less-than-desirable idea to hand deliver each bear to everyone in the greater-Nondweni area. I, o f course, would need to be witness to each encounter to take the photos as required by the funder and to not play favorites. So I made a make-shift schedule that basically sold my soul for the next three weeks and I’m really excited about it. No, seriously I am.<br /><br />10/16: A neighbor of a family in a surrounding village asked for help from Zamimpilo a few weeks ago. A few members of my org went and reported back the dire conditions that this child-headed household was living in. Overwhelmed, they passed the buck to the superhero team of Isibindi rock stars who flew in to save the day with their shiny umbrellas and nice new coats, who has coats?! They described such a bleak situation only a malungu could help. So I came prepared with the only triage tools at my disposal: teddy bears, shoes worn as part of the school uniform, shoes donated from my church back home and a few packs of peanut m&ms that I regretfully sacrificed from one of my care packages. <br /><br />I can’t say I wasn’t warned about the gravity of the situation, we even had a summit meeting on the issue with the Isibindi task force days before the big day. Maybe because I’ve been immersed in abject poverty for almost a year now that I thought I’d seen the worst or perhaps that I live through some of the worst every day. As soon as I think I’ve found the worst of the worst, the bottom drops out and you come to redefine the definition of cruel and unusual punishment and the desperate acts people succumb to when there’s no one to turn to, nowhere to go, no hope in sight.<br />Not only were these children, and children they were, living in filth, on one dirty mattress, smelly with ratty hair, but the oldest, Fezeka, had no more life in her. She was so ashamed of her situation that she covered her face for the entirety of my four hours with her. I saw a young woman who had sacrificed far more than anybody should ever have to surrender, her pride, her body, her soul, in a feeble attempt at survival for herself and her brothers.<br /><br />Looking at these children shivering in their tattered clothes, no shoes, under the roof strewn with gaping holes, I tried to sweep up some of the physical evidence of poverty. I straightened up their shack, swept their floor, smoothed the blankets into crisp lines, threw out the bath water. I gave Fezeka the shoes, teddy bears and candy. This time I was the one covering my face in shame for clearly this was a situation that called for more than a few packets of m&ms. All life had so plainly been sucked out of her long ago that she barely acknowledged this paltry offering.<br />The government gives grants to child-headed households but like so often happens with the cards stacked against you at birth, this grant seems forever out of this family’s reach. Because Fezeka was born at home and doesn’t have a birth certificate or state ID and since both her parents are dead (they also didn’t have IDs) it is nearly impossible for her to receive one at this point. No ID no grant. Fortunately, there’s a light at the end of this bleak, bleak tunnel. Once hoards of hoops are jumped threw and lots of bureaucratic red tape cut, it is possible, in theory, for the 15 year old, who has an ID, to receive the grant…maybe in one or two years if everything goes according to plan. Let the mounds of paperwork begin.<br />10/17: Today I woke up to a slew of dead chicks on my compound. The corpses were watched over all morning by their siblings who were clearly devastated. I even tried to shoo them away from the limbs and squished heads but it was like a bad car accident. I could almost see them shamefully sneaking peeks of the destruction on their tip toes, making sure no one was looking as they scurried over to the scene of the crime. Thankfully my go go took care of the burial process because if I stared at the damage much longer I was sure I was going to throw up.<br /><br />10/18: So today was my first of three weeks’ worth of home visits. I was forewarned that this trek would involve fording no less than three rivers, the prospect of which was exciting to me if for no other reason other than to reenact the Oregon Trail computer game. It took two bush taxis an hour and a half to reach our meeting point. It was then that I realized if I wanted to walk back I probably should turn back now. The home visits were a bit of a bust. There seemed to be a miscommunication with the in-home hospice worker I was accompanying. There was no real plan on the teddy bear delivery, we sort of just roamed around from house to house looking for small children, most of whom were in school. She lived so far away I could only catch taxis at specific times of day, so I had to start well before children are let off school. It worked out that children received a little token they’ll cherish for years to come but I’m not convinced they were given to the ones most in need or that this system in the best use of my time. Can’t win’em all. <br />10/19: Today I was stopped by Musa, the community social worker, on my way to work. He said that I needed to leave my go go’s house as soon as possible. I said that I knew the situation. I knew that I was living in the ancestral home which is typically reserved for ceremonies and the fact that I’m disturbing the spirits of generations of Hadebes is upsetting my go go. A witch doctor blamed the aforementioned statement on why my go go’s son hasn’t gotten a job. In my defense as supposed spirit meddler and bad luck bringer, she knew I was moving into the ancestral home when I came. She knew she would have to do her ceremonies and sacrifices elsewhere if she wanted to host me. She agreed to the terms. The real reason, of course, is that she wants money, a lot of money. I’ve talked so much about this that there’s no need to be redundant, just know that she thought she won the lottery by hosting me. Boy was I a disappointment. <br /><br />But Musa seemed insistent that I understood the urgency of the situation. I immediately relayed the message to Tshengie who somehow already knew. I swear that woman knows what I’m going to do before I do it. Anyway, after much flip flopping it seems that my go go has made her decision. The traumatic part is that she pulled an unrelated party into the mess and this person felt the need to pick sides and apparently he’s not in my corner. I also found out today that she’s been soliciting votes for a popularity contest in which the competitors are myself and her. She’s been playing dirty and in an effort to pull out the big guns she spread a rumor that I promised her rent money and now I’m refusing to pay up. I’m now getting creamed in the polls.<br /><br />In all seriousness, Musa promised her that I would be out of my house tomorrow. This decision was made without my consent or informing my organization who is responsible for my housing. Since it’s Wednesday, I was in a workshop all day teaching the in-home hospice workers about STIs and condoms and had no idea what was happening outside my make-shift classroom. I was called into the reception area while I was in the middle of showing them worst-case-scenario STI pictures to scare them straight about the importance of condoms (and no I have no shame about doing such a thing, with a 40% HIV infection rate I’d run around naked if it meant people would actually wear the one thing that could save their life). Anyway, I quickly realized that I walked in on a meeting where everyone was talking about me as if I wasn’t there. They had decided that I would, in fact, move out tomorrow morning and that I would move in with Sindi, the chairperson who has stolen all our money, and who lives in the township. Again, just as was the case with Sonto, this housing arrangement breaks all three of the Peace Corps rules: 1: you can’t live with a co-worker 2: you can’t live in the bedroom of the family’s home 3: you can’t live in the township (government housing or shacks that were built one right on top of the next during apartheid when they forced all the Black people to move off the fertile farmland and onto the rocky hillside). <br /> <br />I explained as best I could to Tshengie that even though I have the vocabulary of a first grader, I am not a child, and it’s upsetting to me that my co-workers made such an important decision without even consulting me. It’s disappointing to see them seemingly not respect me as a fellow woman but rather has an outside entity an ‘it’ that is as fragile as a flower and has a brain the size of a pea.<br />Seeing this was not working I tried a different approach. I rationalized, to a different perhaps more empathetic audience, (okay the guy has begged to pay my bride price since I got here, don’t judge me I was desperate!) that Peace Corps needs to approve my housing before I move and this rule is for my safety, all of which is true. So I shamelessly pulled the damsel in distress card which bought me some more time in my current house to figure things out. <br /><br />10/20: Though my go go’s disappointment in her lack of cash return on our housing deal has been a long time coming, I have to say what happened today blew me away. Tshengie and Mpostol came to talk to my go go today after work. They had a long talk in which my go go rattled off a laundry list of complaints about her foreign house guest. Though there are too many to mention here some of the most hurtful involved attacking my character. She not only told my supervisors that I neglect her grandchild but that I do so perpetually drunk and because I’m constantly sleeping around with random men in the community. She gave an exhaustive list of men I had allegedly had sex with and I was shocked at how specific her evidence was. In addition to naming names, she cited examples such as the time a few weeks ago when I came out of the pit latrine and screamed when a wild dog was bounding after me. This demonstrated, in her mind, that I was having a good time with a man in my hut. I honestly was in shock when she went on to explain to my supervisors that I also travel to the surrounding villages and nearby towns to sleep with strangers. She continued to create lies surrounding my alcohol problem and my never-ending issue of leaving Zindle and her friends to fend for themselves. After going on for over an hour, she ended by saying that even though this woman is clearly a hopeless case; I’ve somehow found it in my heart to continue to house her. It was all I could do to hold off the tears until I closed the door.<br /><br />10/21: I became physically sick when I found out that these lies have been spread like a virus far past our barbed wire fence. I asked some of the Caregivers at my org and they all said that those rumors are old news. When I asked for a status update from my friends who promised to do some preliminary housing searches for me they all said that they couldn’t find anyone who was interested in hosting someone with such a glaring scarlet letter.<br /><br />I am completely devastated that someone I considered a part of my family would betray me so catastrophically. There is nothing I’ve worked harder to do than to earn people’s trust as a white person in post-apartheid South Africa. With my reputation ruined, I fear that people will start looking right through me, as if they don’t see me, my newfound stigma like some contagious disease they don’t want to catch. I can already feel everyone’s eyes on me, looking for clues to see if it’s really true.<br /><br />What is more heartbreaking is that my go go stands to gain nothing from this smear campaign other than the knowledge or satisfaction of knowing she, alone, destroyed me. It’s so cruel and hurtful, so vindictive that even though I know there’s nothing I continue to search for clues as to why I deserve such a punishment.<br /> I could pack up and go, move to another village, it’s within Peace Corps policy but I’ve done nothing wrong. I have faith that the truth will prevail, that people will eventually come around. I’m also not fighting this battle alone; every single person at my organization is in my corner 100%. In a lot of ways I’ve never felt so loved. Because I didn’t come here to win a popularity contest, I plan on staying, make them wonder why I’m still smiling. My conscience is clear. I have no time to waste on petty gossip; my actions will tell the story. In the meantime, I have work to do.<br /><br />10/22: My go go explained to me that she went to see a witch today who proceeded to tell her that a jealous person in the community has cast a spell on her. This jealous person wants the foreigner to stay with them so the spell was cast so that I would move out of my go go’s house and into hers. Since I adore my home-stay family the only way for this to happen was for my go go to drive me away. Now that she’s aware of the curse, the witch absolved the hex and my go go now would like me to stay. I honestly don’t know what to think but she did bake me jeqe (bread) and braided my hair as apparent atonement for her sins.<br /><br />10/23: Today I went to New Castle which is a few towns over to see one of my good friends. Even though my attempt at soliciting donations for Camp GLOW was a bit of a bust, it was so wonderful to be around such positive people. <br /><br />10/24: Zindle does this thing where she hides in the same corner of my hut, usually when I’m in the pit latrine, then pops out ready to scare me. What’s so funny about this is that my sisters and I used to always hide in the same spot for my Grandmother when we were little; I guess some things about childhood are universal. Today she was hiding in her usual spot but she didn’t jump out when I came in, instead she sat there curled up in a little ball crying. My go go is not always as affectionate a caregiver as can be but in her defense she didn’t sign up for a second round of parenting. Regardless, I rock Zindle in my arms until she calms down then lay her down so that I can make her some hot tea. When I turn around to suggest watching an episode of Glee (we both have seen one episode and immediately fell in love) she was already asleep. I hope nobody asks me to take this child back with me to the States because it’ll be awfully hard for me to turn them down. <br /> <br />10/25: So today I fell in love with Tshengie all over again. Not only do I love how she talks about herself in the third person, how she’s always describing herself as ‘nice and cool’ but she’s so passionate about the work we do. She might have the attention span of a small dog, distracted by the slightest disruption but she’s really just pulled in too many directions and doesn’t know how to delegate. She uses her personal money to go to trainings and lends out even more money to her co-workers who are struggling. I really hope she’s proud of me. <br /><br />10/26: I had so much nervous energy from too many cups of tea that I left work early so I could go run around the block a few times. I’m so excited that Camp GLOW is coming together I can barely stand it. And it’s perfect timing because our grant is due next week. <br /><br />10/27: Today was the last of the series of workshops I wrote the curriculum for and co-facilitated. The topic for the day was how to form a support group. Even though it got a lukewarm reception at best perhaps just one trainee was inspired to start her own group. I’ll probably never know because of the silence and denial that is so ingrained in this culture concerning the AIDS epidemic but I’d like to think one of those lovely ladies might have felt empowered to mobilize a group of people going through a similar life change.<br /><br />10/28: Today I found out that my grandmother passed away the night before. I can’t find anything else worth mentioning.<br /><br />10/29: I love the rituals of death and dying. I take comfort in the predictability and constancy of families from near and far congregating together to devote a few days to honoring someone’s legacy. I love that the clothing you wear can be an outward display of your loss. I love how after everyone has stuffed themselves to the gills with a plethora of casserole dishes the story-telling inevitably begins. This is my favorite part. I love filling in the gaps of someone’s life story. I love learning about their quirks, their skeletons, their life before I was born. But I will miss this ceremony: the stories, the clothes, the family. I tried to have my own private service but I found myself yearning for the people that knew her best. I’m so homesick and sad that I will miss the public celebration of her life. I have typed and erased a dozen sentences to put a positive spin on the sadness and loneliness of being away during a loss. There isn’t any.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-55618680324817851532010-10-12T09:54:00.000-07:002010-10-12T09:55:23.556-07:0010/2-10/6: So I have spent the better part of ten months explaining the fact that even though my skin is white in color, I only receive a small stipend and am in effect a volunteer. All progress on this tidbit of cultural exchange was lost after I took a member of my organization to a Peace Corps training this week. Since PEPFAR has far more money than they know what to do with, PC decided to hold our training at a hotel and conference center akin to that of the Four Seasons. Not only were amenities such as a pool, sauna, beach volleyball and kayaking down the adjacent river some of the many that were offered, they also provided three palatial feasts a day that involved multiple rooms and presented some of the best food I’ve ever had. And if the slightest inkling of hunger happened to creep up on you between the banquets, delicate works of art covered in sugar and fresh fruit were displayed with morning and afternoon tea. Although this decadence was a welcome reprieve from my diet of rice and boiled chicken and my bucket baths where after much internal coercion I jump in shaking like a leaf, I can’t help but think how contrary to the goals of Peace Corps such a lavish training is. It’s also upsetting to realize the likelihood my counterpart believes in my hypocrisy. After insisting for almost a year that I don’t have piles of money I can just FedEx here to solve the world’s problems, rather I have something much better to give, my skills!, I’m now afraid all that work has been lost. What message does it send to rural villagers travelling halfway across the country to see such in-your-face wealth and to know they will soon be back working for $1-$2 a day? Perhaps it’s an opportunity they might never again experience, something they will always treasure, rather than something to be resented. I hope it’s the former.<br /><br />Regardless of the necessity of such extravagant amenities, the actual training was absolutely wonderful and I would honestly do it again next week if I could. An American staff member of Peace Corps Tanzania came to educate about half of my training class on a new small-scale farming technique proven to increase your yields as much as tenfold. <br /><br />Nobody likes a handout. Men feel a certain pride in caring for their families, going back to the days of the hunter/gathers. If this role is taken away from them by means of government grants which instead of providing support based on income status, gives money for the amount of children you have. So in a rural village that has a 90% unemployment rate the only way of income is through childbirth. I have never seen a clearer example of a government rewarding bad behavior. So the men who were once occupied all day in the work force now have plenty of time to make bad choices that include but aren’t limited to drinking obscene amounts of alcohol and committing gender-based crime.<br /><br />I believe in bringing back the honor of the breadwinner; empowering the people of my community to take control of their own lives. I think part of the answer lies in improving their small-scale farming. Though this new technique of double digging for better root growth, re-routing water for drought and flood prevention and crop formation isn’t a miracle cure, it is, though, a start in food security. And with 70% of families in South Africa being food insecure throughout the year, these are skills I could teach that could literally change people’s lives. One of my co-workers told me of a community garden that was started by elderly women in the area. I think that’s the perfect place to start. <br /><br />10/11: Today I found out that my go go is no longer interested in housing me during a staff meeting in Zulu. This topic was brought up as an issue needing to be addressed as if I was not in the room. As if I hadn’t spent every day of the past eight months with people I considered my second family. The problem was seemingly resolved after a two minute discussion which ended in all three of the Peace Corps housing rules being broken: PCVs cannot stay in the same house as the family, in a township and/or with a co-worker. When this was mentioned, several members of the organization walked out on the meeting in disgust at my demands.<br /><br />Even though I was well aware of the various issues my go go had with me staying on her compound, mainly that I wasn’t paying rent and that I was staying in the hut where she typically performed her ceremonies, I never actually thought I’d have to move. I’m so heartbroken. I know in my heart of hearts that I couldn’t have possibly given her or Zindle more of my time or energy and I also know that that’s not what she was looking for. I thought our bond was stronger than the lust for money and her intentions purer but after a lifetime of poverty the draw of wealth is infectious. In the end, her disappointment in my lack of delivery was palpable and I can’t help but think I’ve failed her.<br /><br />In my most busy month to date, I now have to add ‘convince new host family to house me for free for a year and a half’ to my list of things to do. Wish me luck.Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4489924086146610603.post-61956551180717297822010-10-01T10:38:00.000-07:002010-10-01T10:43:36.911-07:009/21: Busi asked me how many new Zulu words I learned last week in her absence as she prepared for a funeral and I answered honestly, 15. “15?! You are lazy! Why are you so lazy?! You must study more!” I almost started crying as I tried to justify my priorities in immersing myself in the workshops for the caregivers. She was unimpressed. “You must try harder.” I continued in vain to try to articulate that, in fact, this organization and this community is all I ever think about, then I go to bed and dream about it but she had already walked away.<br /><br />9/22: I had my second real contact with an Afrikaaner today and it was hilarious. She came to our new building which was funded by a Dutch church because the other half of our new building is a church as well. She would talk in English and the caregivers would just stare blankly back at her nodding and repeating, "Yes, yes." She then would insert a slow and condescending 'yebo' (yes) every once in a while for cultural integration purposes. I think I laughed for an hour straight watching everyone take turns imitating her afterwards. I then made sure to remind everyone that contrary to appearances, I’m not actually a White person and do not wish to be associated with that mess of a White lady but in fact am Zulu like them. Everyone agreed. <br /><br />So I was about to slide into bed at my usual 9:00pm deadline when I completely forgot to document the true joy that happened today: my HIV/AIDS and ARVs workshop!! Not only did several more ladies come but Mpostol was just as dynamic of a facilitator as ever. He, once again, was a no-show for our train the trainer day yesterday but I also realized recently that he’s not really on strike in solidarity with the public sector but the Chairperson at my organization stole his monthly stipend…on accident if you can believe it and he can’t afford the bush taxi commute with no money coming in. The theft is a whole other story but the Cliff notes version is that she meant to steal the money for the food parcels we give out monthly to starving families but she didn’t realize that since the public sector was on strike we didn’t get that money and only Mpostol’s stipend was in the bank account, which for some reason is given in six month lump sums. At any rate, he made it today and early enough for me to go over everything I wanted to articulate to him yesterday. Everyone was participating and taking diligent notes…and learning!!! I was a part of the learning process; it was wonderful. My cheeks hurt I was smiling so much in the corner of the room. It was also reassuring to know that since the high majority of these women are HIV positive themselves, they can now better understand what’s happening and what will happen with their bodies in a very non-threatening environment. <br /><br />9/23: After walking for over an hour uphill to the ‘local’ junior high I realized that the bag of eggs I purchased from a lady three days ago was still in my bag. How did this dawn on me well into my epic journey, you might ask. Well, one of them broke and quickly covered the entire bottom of my bag and started dripping down my leg as I continued to trek up the dirt path. See, I still had a half hour to go and another school to visit after that so I had no time to do a quick bag switcheroo let alone a head to toe Salmonella sanitation. I talked to the principals of both the junior high and high school about Camp GLOW and they were both really excited about it, which of course made me excited as well. Though I have to admit it was difficult to keep a straight face when talking to the principal of the high school, which of course was located on seemingly the opposite side of the earth from the junior high. <br /><br />Heritage Day is tomorrow and it’s a public holiday where everyone dresses in traditional clothing and celebrates their culture. Well, since schools are closed tomorrow the high school celebrated today. The principal wore a sleeveless skin tight leopard print shirt, huge bedazzled earrings that rested on his shoulders, a rainbow scarf draped gracefully around his neck and pants with colorful patches of fringe going every which way. Next to me was a student wearing a lacy, transparent bra and lots of beads, including a beaded square that was conveniently placed below her waist, and nothing else. This wouldn’t have fazed me in the slightest if it wasn’t for the formality of the school setting. It was quite the contradiction though we proceeded to talk about the importance of girls’ empowerment for almost an hour. Other young girls in nothing but beads and lacy bras also came in and out to give their two cents, definitely a successful meeting.<br /><br />Post script: Yes, I’m well aware of how thoroughly I’ve documented my absent-mindedness and yes, I’m also looking into investing in a more competent shadow than Zindle, to make sure that when, not if, I forget my own name, they’ll be there to remind me.<br /><br />9/24: So as mentioned earlier, today is Heritage Day. As the reliable friend that it is, my radio explained to me in detail all the wonderful activities to be had during this special holiday in Durban the lovely beach town and provincial capital. I was convinced. As if I needed another reason to go other than my radio told me to, one of my fellow Peace Corps friends was celebrating his 31st birthday there and invited everyone to join in on the festivities. Angie and I decided to be travel buddies and planned to meet in our shopping town so we could catch the same bush taxi to Durban. Well I got there rather early, due to my false sense of security and wayward decision making facilitating my hitch hiking with random strangers. In my defense, they were clean cut and spoke impeccable English. (Criminals never have good fashion sense let alone are fluent in other languages). Anyway, I held down the fort for us, clearly blocking two spaces in the taxi while I read, “Prodigal Summer” by: Barbara Kingsolver, which is an amazing book by the way. Two hours later, Angie was still MIA and the taxi was almost full. I started obsessively calling her but I couldn’t communicate because I somehow put a hands-free setting on my phone that I was unable to alter. Thus began my shameless stall tactics. First was a mosey to the ATM, followed by a bathroom stop at the swamp of stagnant sewage that is designated for defecation. The taxi driver was not amused and waved me over from 100 yards away. I hurriedly explained my dilemma, far from sympathetic, he quickly had two more passengers filling our spots. I then repeated my routine in the next taxi, marking my territory and Angie’s as I watched the first taxi leave. I tried not to think about how long this new taxi would take to fill up in mid-morning but it eventually did and Angie eventually came. This is Africa after all, everything eventually works out, just maybe a little later than expected. Because of the plague that is large-group indecision, we never got around to the Heritage Day activities but we did go to a delightful Italian restaurant at 8:30pm (my bedtime!) This was followed by an absolutely packed, posh night club where I felt a bit out of place with my ratty hair, head scarf and ankle-length skirt. I tried to act normal, which is not so easy with hairy arm pits and forgotten social skills. The flashing lights made me dizzy and I wished I never agreed to be reminded of how the other half lives.<br /><br />9/25: My friends and I stayed at a hostel in the high-end district of Durban and chanced upon a charming market with amazing little booths, many of which sold food that looked like art. It was dreary and rainy all day though I kept my bathing suit on just in case. (This subtle hint to the gods went unnoticed). As soon as it became clear that the weather wasn’t going to get better and the market was closing up shop we continued our shopping extravaganza at a different location. Though I didn’t do many of the things I set out to do this weekend in Durban (celebrate Heritage Day, vegetate on the beach) I did get one thing crossed off: have gigantic, gluttonous meal in honor of fellow PCV’s birth. With that said, I’m leaving Durban quite satisfied. <br /><br />9/26: I left Durban’s sunny, cloudless sky to spend the day baking in a cramped bush taxi with no air circulation. The funny part is there are windows on these bush taxis but as soon as the engine’s turned on, you can hear the click, click, click of them all closing at once. I’m at a loss to the rationale behind this unnecessary suffering but at about hour five I begged someone to open a window just a crack as we wound up and down hills at lightning speed. I eventually stumbled out of the taxi in a mess of heat exhaustion and dehydration and quite literally peeled off my clothes, rang out the sweat, and went to bed. <br /><br />9/27: Today I woke up with a head cold not helped by the plunge in temperature. I put on my standard three layers on top and bottom to work at my unheated, un-insulated wind tunnel of an organization. It took me quite awhile to question why I dragged my half-dead body to work on a freezing Monday only to vegetate with a mound of tissues and a pounding headache. Was I saving up my sick days to go to an afternoon Cubs game? The light bulb went on so I left so as to not further infect a population with an already weak immune system, not to mention my general sanity. Also of note, I made a genuine search for possible Nyquil purchase anywhere in the province of Kwa-Zulu Natal to be shipped to the hut sending distress calls via smoke signal. I would currently give both pinky toes for one dose of that wonderful drug. What function do pinky toes present anyway; what asset or assistance do they provide? It seems like more than a fair trade for anyone interested in a few extra toes. Will keep you posted on my findings.<br /><br />9/28: I had one of the most delightful conversations with my sister today, I just couldn’t stop smiling for hours after, it was quite awkward really.<br />9/29: I’ve talked to several people recently who don’t seem to have the foggiest idea what I’m doing over here in the boondocks. Buzz words like ‘capacity building’ and ‘investing in human capitol’ don’t clarify things? Assuming that’s clear as mud I’ll go ahead and elaborate. So today was my third workshop in a seemingly endless series of workshops to train the in-home hospice care workers at my organization. I developed the curriculum and have attempted to train the know-it-all facilitator to well, facilitate them. Today’s topic was psycho-social support: asking open-ended questions, reflecting feelings, paraphrasing and how to overcome the awkwardness of talking to a terminally-ill client complete with role plays. Also on the docket in this two-fur was memory boxes. I heard about this wonderful idea through our partner organization, Isibindi, but since these two organizations, though housed in the same facility, don’t speak, I added that in. Memory boxes are usually used as a tool for dying parents to continue their legacy to their children. Typical items include letters to their children, photos and important documents that the soon-to-be orphans will not misplace like a birth/death certificate. Unfortunately, the attendance to my lovely workshops has been abhorrent, which is ironic seeing as though all the Caregivers begged me for this. But I continue on, dragging the facilitator in the room by the elbow while explaining, “We could teach someone, something that could completely change their life. What if someone sat here today and took her newfound active listening skills to a client who has no one? Who’s ostracized because of her status and the one person not scared to catch HIV from her is one of these amazing women huddled in the corner scared to go near the over-enthusiastic white girl who’s had three cups of tea before 10:00? It’s possible, right?” Right?<br /><br />9/30: So today I went into town and I had four large packages waiting for me at the infamous Post Office. One was from my family but the remaining three were filled to the gills with hand-knit teddy bears from the Mother Bear Project. After I eventually got them all to the taxi rank I was using one of them as a seat as someone approached me. This woman, Thembe, came to Zamimpilo half a dozen times asking me for help with a project she was doing for a one year training program to be a nurse or social worker’s assistant. I saw her at the rank and her hands were shaking. I asked her what was wrong and she said that her mother just died that morning. She said that she’s the oldest and that she has so many siblings and they’re all orphans now. It seemed as though things just started to sink in as she sat on one of my make-shift chairs. She didn’t know how they were going to make it. I was shocked to see her crying in public. This went so much against the Zulu culture it almost made me feel uncomfortable, a pseudo-Zulu. I felt so sad for her then. Here she was, one of the few women who make it into one of these programs and was on her way to bigger and better things when the matriarch of her family dies and by cultural obligation she needs to take over. She was so close. Rarely can people even taste the freedom she must have tasted in knowing she might soon get out of poverty. I tried to lift her spirits but she was devastated both for the loss of her mother and for the life she could have lived. <br /><br />When I got home I was so excited to present my first teddy bear to Zindle, I thought it was only fair, she is an AIDS orphan after all. I could tell she was excited but she didn’t show the amount of emotion I expected. I was a bit disappointed to be honest, it was somewhat anti-climactic. Then I watched for the rest of the afternoon as she dragged that teddy bear everywhere and when she wanted both her hands free she tied it to her back as the women here do with their children. I even caught her nodding her head saying, “Uh-huh, yebo (yes)” on my front stoop while she was having a conversation with her new found friend.<br /><br />10/1: If I realized I would be hit from all sides with one frustrating thing after another I would have stayed in bed. The list is too long and depressing to mention. Many items on the list stem from the life-long persecution of Black South Africans and subsequent inability to live comfortable lives. This leads many to beg, borrow and steal. Because they grew up with white men and women constantly putting them down, they are very critical of me, perhaps as a sort of sub-conscious revenge. I accept this as a form of collateral damage of their suffering. I trust that I’m doing the best I can and I have faith that they will see that one day too. I think it’s just hard for them to fathom a malungu that doesn’t own a Porshe, they all do in the movies after all. And they assume that I could (and should) channel some of my billions to their need for a car, new house, shoes, cute t-shirt, stipends for the in-home hospice workers etc, etc. Many, most especially my home-stay family, are growing impatient with my ‘façade’ as a Volunteer and are ready to be bankrolled into the next millennia. Little do they know they’ll be waiting awhile; I’m counting my pennies just as much as they are haha.<br /><br />I have to say that even on days like today where I feel so worn down, there are so many things that I love about this place that I never want to leave. I would just maybe request the ant colony to stop blanketing all my belongings and perhaps the alleviation of the petty theft going on at my org and the apathy towards all projects I implement. Okay, okay it’s not perfect but I still love it. : )<br /><br />“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos into order, confusion into clarity. It turns problems into gifts, failures into success, the unexpected into perfect timing, and mistakes into important events. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow.”Alenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09741361484474853503noreply@blogger.com1