What we took for granted

I remember my days in middle school and high school...granted, there were a lot of days in there that id rather forget...but there were a lot of days that were pretty normal too. I remember getting up for school at an hour i found to be unacceptable for someone of my age. (In those days 10:30 am was the earliest you'd see me on weekends!) I remember walking down the side walk to the elementary school where the buses picked us up...I remember always looking forward to those bus rides and people watching as we cruised pass the swarms of elementary school children flocking towards their hives in the center of each section of town. I remember backpacks full of heavy books. I remember the locker lottery and hunt that happened the beginning of each year, and the torment of gym class...especially physical fitness...being trapped inside that room full of mirrors and intimidating looking medieval torture devices. Even worse were the mile runs on the track and sprints they made us do! In those days i just went through the motions all those things, even the things i hated were just s normal part of life.

Looking back now, however, i realize that what i found unspectacular in those days--or even bothersome--were privileges of indescribable proportion. "Normal" for a student here in Bona-Bona looks quite different. "Normally" kindergarteners wake up at 4 am to walk  15-20 km along a gravel road in shoes of questionable condition to school,  where they may or may not get lessons. Who knows! The teacher may have been called away unexpectedly to a workshop. "Normally" middle school students arrive to school carrying those "heavy books" i mentioned in plastic grocery bags (if they are so fortunate to have books for their class) where they sit in crumbling, molding classrooms waiting for lessons to start...which may or may not, and they do, never start on time. "Normally" teens struggle through classes in which they barely understand the language of instruction and with no one to answer their questions or invest time and energy into explaining things fully. "Normally" if they make it through to 10 grade they begin to wonder mid year why they put in the effort because they KNOW their families cannot afford to pay for rent in the next town over so they can attend 11th and 12th grade and get a diploma. "Normally" the only sports they play are on a dry expanse of sand full of rocks and burrs...most of them without shoes since they have no sports shoes. Those "medieval torture devices in the gym they'd likely find even more intimidating that i did, for non have never seen them or even know of their existence. Even that road i used to cruise down on the bus ride to school without a second thought...most children in this village haven't seen a paved road. The closest one is 25km away...an impossible distance to span when there is no transport and only an endless expanse of sharp rocks and thorn bushes in between.

So many things i never even thought were worth acknowledging in my middle school days are things students here can only dream of. How can i then blame them when they raise their voice in protest, when the burn tires and buildings and disrupt school for weeks and months on end? How can i judge them for being angry and on the verge of desperation when their children are forced to drop out of school or precious saving for University re sucked up just so they can get a diploma? Especially when all it would take would be a few extra classrooms and teachers to allow them to finish school locally. How can i fault them for demanding a decent connection to civilization so that there is at least some opportunity for economic growth in the community. Protests have been raging these past few months and gotten continually more extreme. There have been many false promises from the municipality and few signs of genuine concern. Though after finally attracting some media attention in recent day the regional leaders were finally motivated enough to show their faces and give real answers. They say there will be changes and i hope there will be. Because the answers are pretty simple and "normal" in Bona-Bona just doesn't cut it.

Just another day in Africa (Part 2)

Somewhere between Morokwane and Vryburg my friend the Sangoma turns to me and says..."I will need your help when we arrive. I need to transfer some money." I tell her it’s no problem and i can help her. Little do i realize that what she actually means is that she needs to get money from the ATM and doesn’t remember how. Such is life when you live on the edge of the Kalahari. Withdrawing money is something most Americans can do in their sleep, but in a town where there is no bank and no ATM and not even a functioning post office (though, to their credit the building DOES exist and is properly signed...it just has more of a decorative function) It is easy to go months or even your whole life without ever seeing an ATM. My friends request brought home that reality with eye opening clarity. Needless to say, after arriving in town (and promptly dumping my collection of cans into the bin) i followed through on my promise to help the withdraw money. The was immediately followed up with the most delightful lunch of burgers and fries...which has become a rare treat indulged in no more than once a month, when we can afford to come to town. Our conversation was lively and as two intellectual, spiritually aware and deep-thinking individuals you can imagine we covered all the major topics...Christianity, consulting the ancestors, the fate of families in South Africa, poverty and the meaning of life...just to name a few. Of course the meal was followed up with the obligatory ice cream sundae. Ice cream is the rarest of rare treats! When you live in the desert and the supermarket is a 2 hour drive away in a stuffy minivan, keeping a stash at home isn't really an option. 

After lunch it was time to get down to business. That means doing our rounds of shopping as quickly as possible in order to make it back to the taxi in time. There’s only one taxi to Bona-Bona each day that leaves around 2:30pm...if you miss that you may still catch one to Morokwane, but will be left hitchhiking back down the gravel road to the village with all your groceries...NOT a good prospect when your frozen chicken is thawing by the second and the wait may be indefinite. So you learn to do everything with haste. I think my record shopping time was half an hour...and I’m proud to say i have never missed the taxi! (insert applause here) so i did my rounds, first to the drug store, than grocery store, than produce store...no small feat when you have to carry all of your shopping with you around town in the blazing heat. By the end of the trip i have 3 or 4 bags full of groceries. I try to keep it to three bags, because that is what i can carry comfortably. At the same time, however, i need to buy everything for the month all at once...needless to say difficult choices must be made. Gone are the days of dumping things into the trunk of the car and simply unloading at home. Shopping has become a game of strategy and strength...not just what and how much i buy matters, but also how i distribute things between the three bags... and the more i can manage to carry, the better the chances my supply will last till the end of the month! I never thought I’d have to think this hard about food shopping in my life! Ultimately the deed is done by 2:00 sharp. To come any later might mean finding the taxis already full. I struggle my way through the market place to the taxi rank with my heavy bags. It is a scene almost straight out of a movie. The place is buzzing with the chatter of vendors trying to sell their wares from tables lines up on both sides the path. There is a sea of black faces passing by in every direction...most of them glistening in the intense heat. Women are haggling over prices. Every few meters another vendor tried to offer me something, speaking hurried and jumbled Setswana i don’t stand a chance of understanding. At the taxi rank i must squeeze through the crowd of old ladies selling snacks and drinks from boxes balanced on their heads. Usually people leave their goods sitting on the curb next to the taxi and the drivers load everything on after everyone has boarded...a process which is very much like a game of Tetris with bags and boxes being shuffled and shoved and stuffed so that they fit somewhere between all of the bodies in the vehicle. It’s a process that invariably results in bruised apples and squashed bananas that turn black and slimy by the next day. So i have taken to loading my things myself before i get on. (My bananas still wind up black from the bumpy rides home, but at least half of them are still edible 3-4 days later, which is an improvement. I’m tempted to give up on buying bananas all together because they never all survive and one can only eat so many banana muffins before it becomes dangerous for the waistline.) After packing everything in i collapse into my seat on the taxi exhausted and just take in the sight. All the people walking about in the rank...mothers with children tied on their backs with towels, carrying multiple bags of groceries; The banter of the taxi drivers conversing loudly with one another across the lot as they wait on their passengers; the Kokos (grannies) with their baskets of goods popping their heads into the taxi every now and then shouting "Metsi tsididi e teng, grapes e teng, ice juice! Ice juice!" (I’ve got cold water, I’ve got grapes!) After sitting in a taxi full of passengers for about half an hour the drivers load in the goods (filling the aisles to the point that no one can move) collect the money and its off home. Of course we stop at the filling station on the main road leading out of town to tank up, which is always a peculiar ritual. Apparently rocking the vehicle side to side helps the gas "settle" in the tank so you can fit more in the tank. It’s hard to stifle a laugh as the attendants push with all their might and all the passengers bob back and forth to the rhythm...seemingly oblivious to the awkwardness of it all. I grin and try to make myself comfortable in my seat for the long drive back. I have the fortune of sitting right next to the window on the driver’s side this time, which means i won’t burn in the light of the setting sun as we make our north westerly journey back AND i can keep the window open to allow for circulation. South Africans seem to dislike the force of the wind and are in the horrid habit of keeping all the windows closed on such taxi rides, thereby transforming the bus into a mobile greenhouse...I’m am glad when i have the privilege of preventing such cruelty towards my fellow man! 

After sufficient shaking and filling we are under way. I lean on the window pane and promptly fall asleep...by the time i wake up we'll be well past Ganyesa with most of the trip behind us. In no time well be bumping down the gravel road again  and at the sun starts looking red orange in the sky we'll arrive home...on just another evening in Africa.

The Engagement of the Fight or Flight Response

For those of you who are following this….do not fear. The epic tale of my typical day in Africa shall continue after these messages. I take this moment to digress a bit, however, because of an interesting insight I gained just this morning. It has mostly to do with my own paradoxical psychology and the affect it has been having on my life and service up until now.  

Some months back, when I was still quite new in the village one of my students (who was then in the 7^th grade) came over to visit me. I had been showing him pictures from my photo album or my family and friends abroad. We had been looking over them with wide-eyed interest for some time when finally he looked up and said “Ms. Rethabile (my Tswana name) you have been travelling a lot haven’t you?! How many countries have you been too?” I told him yes, that id been to 7 countries in my life and that I hadn’t really lived anywhere for longer than 2 or 3 years since I left high school in 2001. At that he gasped and after a pausing a moment asked, “….Ms. Rethabile…what are you running from?”  I remember being quite taken aback by the very pointed question and I really had no idea how to answer him…was I running from something? Why is it I just can’t seem to stay put? I know many of my friends and family have been wondering the same thing and have sometimes asked me when I intended to “settle down.” But alas here I am at 28 living in rural Africa and much farther from “settling” anywhere than I ever was.  

It wasn’t until this morning that I came closer to a real answer to that question. Here I am, it is day before I have to report to school for my first term teaching. After days—and even weeks- -of fearful anticipation (as those of you have read my earlier entries well know) I opened my eyes this morning and WHAM! Seemingly out of nowhere I am gripped by a very strong motivation and eagerness to get started teaching, to buckle down and flesh out the practical aspects of my projects and start making the difference I came here to make. It seemed bizarre to me how suddenly it came to me.  In what seemed like an instant all my insecurity and apprehension regarding my work here seemed to evaporate. I credit it in part to divine intervention(for  indeed I’ve had a lot of demotivating things weighting on my mind of late that only a miracle of sorts could liberate me from.)  But aside from that I discovered there is something else, very deeply rooted in me at work. The best way to describe it is the engagement of the fight or flight response.  

It is commonly known that in the world of animals, most creatures have two basic responses to a threat or challenge in their environment: either they fight, or they flee.  I realize im not much different…for me however, I’m constantly doing both. Those who know me well know that I am prone, on the one hand, to be constantly in a state of doubt or fear concerning the rightness of my actions in various situations or my ability to perform, and on the other had am prone to do crazy things like earn a degree in a foreign country, studying in a foreign language, or go place simply because I know nothing about them, or move to rural Africa for two years.  Somehow it doesn’t add up. So, this morning as I was laying there analyzing my feelings as I was having them (in my typical fashion) I finally stumbled upon the answer to my student’s question…the answer to the question everyone’s been asking me. All this running is my fight & flight response to life. In order to overcome my anxieties and fears I must be pressed into a corner. I must be forced into such an intense state of fear that my fight response kicks in. Otherwise I won’t live; otherwise I won’t reach my full potential. The worst of all my fears is to life the life of mediocrity, fully within the comfort zone of what is normal and expected…which is often also a place of general ignorance and apathy towards the rest of what’s going on in the world…a horrifying place humans so easily slip into. And so I run, I run away from the threat of mediocrity and constant under achievement due to fear. I run to where I know I will be pressed and pushed beyond what I’m comfortable with…where the fighter in me comes out…that’s the place I like to be.

Just Another Day in Africa (Part 1)

This is the story one typically atypical day in my life in the desert. After 6 months here there are some things that have familiar to me in their unusualness that i scarcely take note of them. When i stop to reflect on the day’s events, however, i realize just how unusual it might seem to the average developed western worlder, from beginning to end.

It all starts at 7am, when i march out of the house in my sun hat and shades, armed with a black duffle bag stuffed with canvas totes, an insulated cooling bag, and innumerable cans and plastic bottles. I am headed for the taxi stand (a "taxi stand", by the way, that consists of a tree with two logs on either side for benches at the intersection of the two gravel roads.) It’s warm and bright with a southerly breeze at the moment, but by midday it would be upwards of 95 degrees. There’s only one taxi out of town each day, and one back in the afternoon. Should one be so unfortunate as to miss this taxi one's only remaining option would be to hitch hike to the next town over and catch a taxi from there. This would invariably mean standing for an indefinite number of hours in the ever intensifying sun and hoping someone with a truck (what they call bakkies) comes by. Should you be so lucky, you will have to sit on the back of the truck and drive for 25km along the gravel road, likely with a crowd of other hitchhikers (
usually including very creepy old men who feel no shame in staring), in a land where suspension is apparently not seen as a priority in car manufacturing. On this day, however, my fortunes are slightly better. I’m sure by now you are wondering what kind of quest would require such extreme methods of travel and such unusual provisions. The answer is frighteningly simple: grocery shopping. It general requires a two hour ride to the nearest large town. The bottles and cans i take with in hopes of doing my part to save the earth by disposing of them properly. In rural areas proper waste disposal is not really thought of and normal very questionable means would be used. But i, in an attempt to be the good citizen carry them to town. (You may now congratulate me on being conscientious.)

When i arrive at the taxi stop the usual crowd is there waiting for the taxis: 4 or 5 old "well rounded" ladies. A few young men and several mothers with children. I greet them and take my place under the tree to wait. Being that my Setswana hasn’t yet reached a functional level yet not must conversation ensues. Right on time (half an hour late) the taxi (which is actually a 14 seater mini bus) arrives and pulls to a stop in front of us. It’s obviously already full beyond its capacity with 20 of us waiting to board. At this point the average American would probably give up on getting anywhere that day, but no...not here, every stands around looking very unconcerned. In typical fashion the driver opens the door and umps out. He is already on the phone with another driver. He stands their talking animatedly on his phone while his taxi full of passengers continues rolling down the street for several meters before coming to a stop. The crowd watches them roll past, again quite unconcerned. As I’m standing there watching and feeling quite nervous (i after all am still an American with American sensibilities) i feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around to see the smiling face of Lorraine, our local Sangoma...or traditional healer (or witch doctor some would say) She is bright eyed, witty, often culturally in appropriate and absolutely delightful. She looks every bit the part: long thick dreadlocks pouring down from beneath her cap, pale-ish skin (being mixed race) and slightly crooked teeth. In many ways she reminds me of Tia Dalma from the Pirates of the Caribbean...minus the macabre aura. She speaks impeccable English and greets me excitedly. After several lonely post vacation days of adjustment to village life she is a welcome sight. As we begin to chat another overloaded van arrives, followed by two more. I use the term "van" loosely as 2 of the 3 vehicles are VW and Isuzu models clearly from the 70's with plastic bags for windows and bumpers scarcely being held on with duct tape. The third is equally as old (though at least its windows are intact) but the door is loose, rattles awfully while driving, and has been known to come off entirely on occasion. Once again the crowd waiting at the taxi stand seems utterly unconcerned about the taxis are full...they just wait. And then, something magical happens. All of the drivers step out of their vehicles and start asking people where they are headed. A massive reshuffling of passengers happens between the 4 vehicles. I and Lorraine get shoved into one taxi (our usual one to Vryburg which the door likes to fall off of.) Somehow when the dust clears everyone is in a taxi headed where they need to go. Every one is about busting at the seams. In our row behind the driver 5 people are seated on designed for 3: an old lady with hips twice as wide as mine (who desperately tries to "small herself up" as might be said in Jamaica by crossing her legs) me, Lorraine, another lady or substantial proportions and her daughter who is basically pressed up against the glass on the other side. I’m barely perched on the bench with one butt cheek... but no cause for alarm. Experience dictates that if you can hang on or hold your breath all the way the next town over some people are bound to get out. And yes...after about 5 minute you will regain sensation in your legs.

The uncomfortable proximity on the taxi ride doesn’t seem to faze anyone. Even i talk and laugh with my friend the Sangoma on the bumpy ride to the next town...all the while ignoring the numbness creeping into my right foot. I’m relieved when a few people get out though and savor being able to breathe the rest of the way to town.

.The Problem of "This" and "That"

So now it comes down to it. I’ve arrived at that pivotal moment which all of my training and observation, planning and preparation have been geared towards. Schools here are opening in about a week, at which time the rubber will have to meet the road. All the things that have until now only played out in my head must be willed into reality. I’ve been looking forward to this very moment for years (literally!) and now that i am confronted with it i feel but one thing: utter terror! Doubts are swirling about in my mind: Can i really do this? How is this supposed to work? What if they don’t like my ideas? What if my projects die a premature death?....and on and on. I don’t know how many of you understand how it feels to have the expectations of an entire village resting on your shoulders, whilst knowing for a fact that the scope of the issues they are facing is far beyond you capacity to solve. You see, in rural South Africa they have a huge problem of the relationship between "this" and "that." ...What do i mean you ask? I shall explain...but first to do so, i digress a little...

I first read about the issue of "this" and "that" in a book by Rob Bell. The book had mostly to do with male/female relationships, but i find the concept has a much broader application. The problem for humans beings he wrote is that "this" (that is...whatever issue or behavior we are dealing with over here) is always connected to "that" (i.e. some other issue or problem in another area.) Indeed, all of life is like that, but especially in South Africa. "This" one problem--for example, children’s underperformance in school--is invariably linked to "that" other problem, or problems--such as lack of proper parenting (or any parenting at all!), bad nutrition, abuse in the home  etc. As you can imagine that makes for a bewildering and often dishearteningly complicated challenge for one such as myself, who comes seeking to help and make some sort of positive impact on the lives of the children and families in these communities.

 I have come mainly to try improve standards of education; to help teachers teach better and students learn better. But how can i help example student A improve his grades at school if he has no one at home to help him with homework or encourage him, or if he isn’t getting enough food and therefore falling asleep in class? To help that one student with "this" (improving his grades) id realistically have to tackle all the "thats" as well (getting him proper food, building a network of social support.) Now multiply this one student’s dilemma by 600 students and you’ll understand why getting started working here is such a horrifyingly daunting task!

How can i try to pick 2 or 3 noodles out of a bowl of spaghetti without getting more that i can chew and buckling under the weight?...How can i be effective even in light of the problem of "this" and "that?"....

How i missed the Holidays (or December Vacation in South Africa)

It’s already the 7th of January 2012 already and in Germany the three kings should be making their rounds about now. As i sit here in the 95 degree heat i can’t help but wonder...what happened to the holidays? December went by in a blur. I know Christmas and New Year’s must have been in there somewhere, but got lost between the heat and the hectic days...It has been without a doubt one of the most unique and unusual Christmas seasons i have ever had.

My first memories of December’s activities begin with a taxis ride from the village to Vryburg in the rain. The one thing that proved most memorable about it was the following: Along the 25 km dirt road leading to the next town over there is a vast expanse i like to refer to as "the land of Mordor" being that there is little more than bleached sand, white rock and a host of hostile looking thorn bushes for at least a 7km stretch. Without tall trees the sun is merciless. They say people live in that wilderness but it’s hard to imagine how...it’s a dead man’s land. As we crept along the dirt road on that gloomiest of days however (swerving around the massive pools that had collected in the road after days of heavy rainfall) I was shocked when i looked up to find that Mordor had somehow magically been transformed into a meadow. The thorn bushes had leaves. Grass was sprouting up between the scattered rocks. Somehow after 3 days of rainfall life sprung out of nowhere...it’s the mystery of life on the edge of the Kalahari.

I must have slept for most of the drive to the capital because the next thing i remember is arriving later at the conference center to the most delectable buffet spread id seen since being in the US! After months of a modest diet that rarely included vegetables it was a luxury i almost felt guilty about indulging in: warm and cold veggies, your choice of beef chicken or fish and a diverse array of tantalizing desserts to follow it up...to top it off, as but brewed coffee as your heart desired! This surrealistic spread was offered for every meal! I though id died and gone to heaven. To and to the charm of it all the rooms themselves were luxurious, the facilities included a gym, sauna, hot tub and pool and various recreation facilities. It was non-other than sensual overstimulation after months of doing without and i wasn’t about to complain. The reunion was grand between us SA24s. The casual observer would have thought that we hadn’t seen each other in years. But that’s what moths of isolation do. One gains a new appreciation for social interaction

The real reason we were there however was not to lounge, and socialize but to get our heads crammed full of knowledge. For thirteen days we had lecture after lecture on everything from project planning to HIV/AIDS awareness from morning till evening. Even after so many hours however, need to socialize was so great most of us spent hours, chatting, swimming and otherwise entertaining ourselves into the wee hours. It made for a string of long days and short nights that had us all but collapsing of exhaustion by the end of the conference. I dare say most would deem it energy well spent.

There was no time to rest however. After training we dispersed to our long awaited vacations. My journey took me a few places. First stop was an overdue visit to my first host family in Makapanstad (via a barbeque in Hammanskral, which, despite the fact that i hadn’t calculated it into my travel time provided an enjoyable diversion!) There i spent the weekend along with a few other volunteers who were also visiting their families. The second stop (yet another rather spontaneously organized outing) took us to the nation’s administrative and social-revolutionary capitals. In true South African fashion getting to our destination proved a challenge and included being misdirected multiple times and dragging heavy luggage over gravel, train tracks, and crowded streets for longer that it pleased our arms and exhausted legs to do so. Ultimately, however, the hassle was worth it and we spent several glorious days drinking in the vibrance and beauty of some of the most significant sights in South African history. Just standing on some of the city streets one was overwhelmed with a feeling of the importance of the place. This is where freedom, democracy, and equality were fought and bled for. In these streets is where the most radical societal transformation of recent history unfolded. One can feel the weight of the legend. 

The last leg of the journey took us to the shores of the Indian Ocean at once of the most popular South African beaches and vacation spots: Durban. There we would reunite with many other Americans from our group of volunteers. As glorious as those days spent in the sand, sun, and surf would be one memory that remains most prominent in my mind is the drive between the capital and the coast. The scenes were breath taking...and even more so for me given that id spent the past several months in the sandy plains of the Kalahari with no hills and little greenery to speak of. As we headed due south east, lush foothills and plateaus spread out around us on both sides as far as the eye could see. Hills gave was to the sharp peaks hooded in clouds and deep valleys of Lesotho, which we passed to the east. Bold faces of exposed rock angled towards the sky jutted hundreds of meters out of the green plains. It was a sight like i had only seen one time before...in the Bavarian Alps...but had quite a different character...a very South African character if one may describe it as such. It was breath taking and i drank it all in until our road led is too far into the fog to allow much visibility.

Once we did reach the coast a time of winding down began. It was enthralling to be surrounded be the palms and paradise plants again...scenes which very my reminded me of my other home in Tampa. To hear the rhythmic crash of the waves, feel the strong breeze off the sea in my face and watch from the pier as foam gathered and disappeared on the surface of the waves gave me a sense of serenity.  These sensations were combined with the touch of the warm Indian Ocean rolling over my skin...the taste of pungent Indian spices and curries, the aroma of brewed coffee and lattes, the constant sound of the other Americans' voices as they chatted and laughed near to me. I lost track of time. One day blended into the next and i could care less what hour of the day it was...i forgot about time. Somewhere in there Christmas came and went. I recall singing a few carols with a few of the other Americans but that was the extent of our celebration. I was surrounded but so much beauty, but somehow it felt empty. Something was missing for me and after some time i started feeling tired in my heart. It got lonely in the middle of that crowd of people...i missed home, my family and all the things that makes Christmas festive for us...i missed that feeling of comfort and belonging i had even in Germany. But there was no way to rescue my Christmas this year and by the time New Year’s Eve rolled around i didn’t really feel like celebrating anymore. I had had my fill of all the wonder and diversion the coastal city could offer and i could think of but one thing: my home in the desert.

Alas here i am and actually feel more worn out that revived from my vacation. Here i am wishing i could do it over in a different way. Yet i am thankful for all the amazing experiences i was able to have and do dream of the other parts of Africa i will explore when vacation time comes around again. For now i set my mind and heart on the work that lies ahead of me here. There is so much i want to do it seems quite over whelming...but this shall have to wait for my next entry…