1/19: 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 : )

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.

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.

Vacation to the Drakensburg Mountains

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

12/7: 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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

11/14-11/19: 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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.

10/30-10/31: 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I saw how excited the kids were today and I plan on doing art therapy on a weekly basis, I can’t wait!

10/13: 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

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.
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.
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.

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.
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.

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.

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).

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

10/28: Today I found out that my grandmother passed away the night before. I can’t find anything else worth mentioning.

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.

10/2-10/6: 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.