Limbo (Part2)

It had been the idea of the Peace Corps supervisor for the region of Northern Cape (NC). Why should I sit around at a guesthouse being bored out of my mind when I could try to make myself useful at the Pre-service Training (PST) of the upcoming generation of volunteers?  (At that point in time the plan was to find a new site for me in NC. It only made sense…i would be living in the same climate and language zone. Furthermore, the fact that 2 volunteers from that region had resigned their service meant that at least two sites were already prepared to host volunteers and were now left without. It was an easy solution…Unfortunately, something Peace Corps hadn’t counted on interfered in that plan…but more on that later.) So, much to my delight I was invited to go to the training site in Mpumalanga province to teach a few training sessions to the newbies. Mpumalanga is a different world from where I’m from in the Kalahari. It’s known for is lush greenery and rolling hills. Yet the pleasure of the land itself was only secondary to the excitement of getting the opportunity to meet the new volunteers. In a way it would be like meeting myself a year ago—and since I would basically be starting my Peace Corps experience from scratch in a new place, it was only appropriate for me to be at PST again as well…unusually serendipitous timing to become displaced I dare say!

The new volunteers (SA26) turned out to be quite a charming group. They were quite different from my own youthful and rambunctious group (the 24’s.) They had a larger percentage of volunteers 40 and above and at least half of the group are actually trained teachers. One got the sense that they were dedicated hard working people who took their Peace Corps calling serious. There weren’t as many fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants types, looking to make something of themselves by means of the Peace Corps experience, as was the case for our group. I got along with them quite well I found. Being able to teach adults in their native language was a welcome change from teaching elementary level Setswana speakers. It seemed almost too enjoyable to be considered work. Needless to say, I felt very useful for at least 10 days and made some new friends while I was at it. (Aside: Included among those new friends was a gentleman who spoke at least 4 languages fluently…including German (my favorite of course) and who happened to have done a study abroad at the University of Tuebingen, in Germany—at the same time I was there doing my master’s degree. What a strange bit of coincidence! To think…I must have passed him numerous times on the street, not knowing id be meeting him about 5 years later in South Africa of all places!...Small world.)

My unexpected temp job as a PST trainer came to an end sooner than I was ready for it to and was followed by some quality time in the First World hub of South Africa—Pretoria. I’m not sure how I spent my time during that two week hiatus in the capital, but the days seemed to fly by at an alarming rate. I had nothing to do, but was somehow plenty busy. Many of my fellow volunteers passed through during that time…those from my training group and several from other “older” groups…all for various committee meetings. There were also a few who were displaced like myself. Those two weeks may not have been productive in terms of my job as a PCV, but I did reap yet another harvest of new friends. One such friend was young woman close to my age of Trinidadian decent. I found, for the first time someone who understood me and could truly relate to me my particular version of the Peace Corps experience. Being a first generation American of Caribbean heritage gives one a particular slant on things that differs from that of the average mainstream, hardcore American volunteer. Sometimes in Peace Corps life, having that one person who “gets” you means the difference between coping well and being out on a LIMB (…it’s one of those great acronyms that specialists love to come up with. It stands Lonely, ­Isolated, Miserable, and Depressed…a common part of PC experience. So there you have it! I DID learn something new at my second PST!) 

While I was sitting in the capital, my supervisors were busy trying to find me a new place to live. The aforementioned plan to put me deeper in the Kalahari had a wrench tossed into it when the fires of Bona-Bona began to spread. The stretch of gravel road the villagers were raising hell about there stretches on for another 50 kilometers or so through NC and down towards Kuruman. The villages in which I could have potentially been placed are unfortunately also along that road and in South Africa, malcontent seems to be contagious. After the much publicized Bona-Bona incident, other villages began to protest as well, closing down their schools for indefinite amounts of time. As it was reported, they were refusing to reopen schools until they saw evidence that their demands (for the road to be paved) were being met. The original hope of my supervisors was that things would die down, reality would set in in the villages, and in a few weeks id be able to move to the area. But after an entire month of waiting, things had only gotten worse. It was time for plan B. Plan B, it turns out, would come one casual evening in Pretoria via a conversation with a fellow volunteer over a few glasses of wine. What began as a fleeting and perhaps in some way alcohol inspired thought, turns out to have been the intervening hand of God…but more on that later.

As fun as it may be to enjoy the sheer delight and utter luxury of a hot shower and buffet breakfast—especially when you’ve spent a year in the bush—life at a guesthouse gets old very quickly. One gets the sense that one is no longer living in the real world and participating in real life. After two weeks in Pretoria, I was ready to try do something useful again. The best thing I could think of: visit more volunteers at their sites and try help out in any way I could.  In South African schools there is no end things that need to be done. And even if only for a week, helping hands are always welcome. It was another unforeseen adventure. After a brief inquiry, I wound up doing a small tour of the Venda and Tsonga regions of northern Limpopo province. Both regions are known for the heat, humidity, red soil and the abundance of fruit trees. In particular, mangoes, avocados, oranges and bananas thrive there. A number of volunteers from my group are currently serving there and I visited 3 or 4 of them on my trek. As volunteers we have very limited spaces in which to live and as such I did my best not to over stay my welcome—which meant traveling to a new site every 5 to 7 days. This part of my adventure in limbo turned out to be the greatest. As I drove through the Venda country side I allowed the vivid images of landscape and daily life to wash over me. I had come here before on my last vacation, but now I was seeing it from a new perspective…now I was seeing more of the rural life. Across the undulating landscape, brightly painted thatched rondevalls, stood out against the rusty colored soil. Children could be seen playing in the school yards, the sound of their songs and chants dancing across the village. Along the main road, throngs of old women wrapped in the vibrant colors of traditional Tsonga and Venda dress could be seen carrying over-sized burdens of groceries on their heads or selling colorful assortments of fruits and veggies from wooden lean-tos. When walking through the villages I sometimes had the pleasure of joining young girls for a round of “skipping” (which is jumping rope.) or watching throngs of kids playing in the street or watching high school boys practicing soccer on bare fields in the evening light. I did some teaching, some drawing, and some sitting around observing in those days…days that turned into a few weeks. Before I knew it, another month had gone by without my notice. It was then, in mid-September, that the pivotal and long awaited moment finally came.

Limbo (Part 1)

My host mom Matebogo, my sister Joyce and I sat outside for some time after the fire discussing what had happened and the future of the school kids. Where would they learn now? Would they have to hold classes under trees? How would any of that work when all the books had been reduced to ashes? Would they still be able to write their exams at the end of the term? How would the principal react? ( The principal of the School was away at a funeral at the time and I was certain he had no idea what had happened. I had tried to call him, but, naturally, he was unreachable.) No one knew.

One thing I did know for sure. There was no way I would be allowed to continue working in Bona-Bona. I had already once been evacuated during the havoc that ensued after the first demonstration in October of last year. After receiving the news, my Peace Corps Supervisor had made it plain that I would be evacuated from the village the very next day, and shouldn’t count on returning. Some time before I had explained to my host mother that there was a chance that I might be moved to a new village if things escalated, but I hadn’t really expected them to. Now, with the security officer already on his way from the capital to pick me up, I could find neither the words nor the heart to tell Ma T that I was leaving—likely for good. I used the afternoon to hurriedly pack a bag with enough things to last me at least 2 weeks. After id finished I sat for a long while staring at that bag and trying to work out how id explain to my family what was about to happen.

 It wasn’t until the next morning that I worked up the courage to approach Ma T. In the best Setswana I could muster, I told her that I was going away and did not know when or if I would return. She nodded as I explained, a somber look on her face. I could tell she was not happy about the news. I think she knew it was not very likely that id return. That afternoon, when the white SUV arrived to take me away she helped me carry my things out to the car. I gave her a long embrace. I’ll probably be back in two week, if only to get the rest of my things, I thought to myself. Then I’ll say a decent goodbye. She stood watching from the gate as the car drove away. I waved back to her. It will be okay. This isn’t the last goodbye. We drove past the charred shell of the high school as we left the village. It seemed so surreal.

I was under the very naïve impression at the time that the process of being relocated would be brief—a few weeks at best—and I would have at least a few days’ time to dismantle my life in Bona-Bona. Little did I know that I was just at the beginning of what would become a rather long period of waiting in uncertainty; a two month state of limbo riddled with hopes, disappointments, spells of boredom, and unexpected adventures. I had served in Bona-Bona for just about the year and now would be crossing that all important threshold at the one year mark. It is usually the point at which volunteers begin to feel settled at their sites and their carefully nurtured projects start to bear some fruit. I had no idea that at my 1 year mark I’d be busy starting all over again. It is a most disconcerting thought—knowing that a years’ worth of effort would literally vanish in a puff of smoke and that two months of service were essentially lost. At the same, however, I can say that limbo has turned out to be an invaluable and unique experience that has made my service twice as interesting as it would have otherwise been. 

My journey began with a visit to another volunteer, who is working just 2 villages away from Bona-Bona. I found it quite remarkable that just a few kilometers away from the flat, white sanded veld of my village there was this place of red sand, green trees and sandstone cliffs. It was a much smaller village than mine. With its low brick houses interspersed with mud-walled, thatched shelters it had the quaint and romantic feel of what one would typically associate with Peace Corps service.  Aside from the pleasure of tasting life in a village other than mine, it was a real treat to see another volunteer in action. I had not known this particular volunteer very well prior to my visit, but found her to be a most gracious hostess and devoted teacher. She has been dedicating her service to personally instructing the students in grades 4-7 and the difference she has made in the learning environment and attitude of the learners is palpable. Having the opportunity to observe her teaching…and even struggling with learners at times somehow inspired and motivated me. Firstly, because it reminded me that I am not alone in any challenges I face, and secondly, because I can see what a difference it makes. When we are in the midst of or work and all the frustrations it’s easy to lose sight of that. I made myself useful there for 2 weeks teaching Social Studies classes and helping to grade papers. But then circumstances intervened and sent me off on my first unexpected adventure… assisting Peace Corp in training the new volunteers—who had arrived only 2 weeks before.

Look! Look!

When I had first visited Bona-Bona I had had to laugh. I wondered how it was that a place called “look look”(…or see-see, which are both “bona” in Setswana) could have so little to actually look at in it! As I stood outside my small brick house on that morning of mid-July, however, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It had only returned from vacationing during June break a few days earlier. I spent those few days lying low…to recoup from all the hard-core socializing id been doing for one, and to stay out of the path of what looked to the onset of another community demonstration. I wasn’t surprised. At the beginning of every term since I first arrived in the village there had been demonstrations. “Demonstration,” however, is a term that can only be used loosely here in South Africa. In reality, it is often the equivalent of a riot. Typical activities include the disruption and closing of schools, the burning of tires, automobiles, trash bins, and public buildings, and most importantly, the heartfelt stomping dances and singing of chants (that has earned the activity the affectionate nickname of “leg up” in certain regions of the country.) The people of my village were angry. Many had said they felt betrayed by the government, which at the time of transition to democracy had promised to deliver services and life altering improvements in infrastructure. Now, eighteen years later, they still had to travel 25 km to reach the nearest paved road (when would it finally be paved?), and struggled with constant water shortage--which, when it was available, was bad quality. Rumors had spread that the good water was being delivered to the outlying farms of the Afrikaners while the village was being bypassed. These were the initial complaints that had been voiced. As discontent grew however, new demands were added. They demanded that the local clinic be staffed so to be opened 24 hours a day. (After all, at the time of the first strike, three stabbings occurred and the victims had gone 24 hours without treatment.) Also, the fact that our secondary school only went to 10^th grade meant that most students became forced drop outs. Few could afford to rent property in the next village over in order to complete grades 11 and 12.

With each successive school term their anger had grown and the protests had become more agressive. Municipal leaders would come, make more promises and give more deadlines by which certain developments would be made. But these were never met.  I knew things were taking a turn for the worse. During the first strike, they had locked down the high school and refused to allow classes to be held for over a week. They began burning tires in the street.  By the second they had locked both schools down for two weeks as well as the clinic and threatened to burn things. By the third strike they actually burned a section of the Tribal Hall as well as the community center. In that last week of school vacation before term 3 they had begun protesting yet again. As I had entered the village on my way back from Limpopo I had seen the tell-tale black stains on the white gravel and knew they had been at it again.

I had sat at my desk preparing lessons for the up-coming school week and listening to the ruckus outside. All day long I could see the black plumes from burning tired stretching their dark fingers out over the crossing not far from my house and in the distance near the tribal hall. On that Wednesday morning, however, there was a strange sort of feeling in the air. I was sitting at my desk working when suddenly the strange scents of burning wood, paper and gasoline filled my room. At first I thought my host mother was burning the trash, but then I began to hear raised voices. I recognized the voice of neighbor across the way, shouting something in Setswana I couldn’t make out. I perked up and listened. Only a few seconds later there was a loud knock at my door. “Rethabile! Tla kwano! Bona!” (Rethabile come here!! Look!) It was my host mom yelling. I rushed outside. “Eng?!” (What is it?!) As soon as I stepped outside, I stopped dead in my tracks. A huge cloud of smoke and flame was billowing up from the horizon. It looked intimidating...and almost close enough to touch.  “Ke Tlotlang-Thuto!” my host mom exclaimed, gesturing wildly in the direction of the cloud. My heart nearly skipped a beat. Tlotlang- Thuto, the high school, was engulfed in flames. I stood and watched the blackness spread out over the village. I couldn’t help but think I’ve just watched the already uncertain future of several hundred village kids go up in smoke. Not only their futures but also everything I had spent the past year working towards. I stood watching for a good long while, taken aback. What would happen now? How would they be able to finish the year? Would I be able to keep living and working here? It had been the last straw. I heard via the village gossip network that they were calling this war against the government…for all their empty promises, all the corruption and wastage of money that went on while the people suffered…it made me want to cry. I couldn’t explain to them that they had achieved nothing other than to deprive their already underserved community and their own children of a few much needed resources. They didn’t seem to understand the gravity of what they’d done and the magnitude of the consequences they would reap. I called my Peace Corps supervisor to report the incident. Deep down I knew what this would mean. It was going to mean id be evacuated from Bona-Bona. I hoped beyond hope that is somehow would work out.