Just Dance! (It’ll be ok)

In the US it is often said that life has a certain flow to it. It moves at a certain pace--the “rhythm of life,” as it is called. The sun sets and rises—at which time many of us also rise—go through the motions of our often monotonous days. We drag ourselves out of bed and into the shower to wash off the dirt and the residue of weariness and frustration from the day before. We button up crisply pressed shirts and tuck them neatly into the uncomfortable pants we wear…along with all the anxieties and fears that greet us at the breakfast table so no one will see them. Thus made presentable, we march out to our places of work with our strongest mask on and best foot forward. We go through the day in a blur with the clock ticking out the pace of our march like a drum…a pace often too fast for our legs to keep up. By the time we get home the best we can do is collapse into the sofa and shut down for a while. We shuffle from sofa to bed---hopefully to sleep—and everything thing repeats itself the next day. Whether it be our 9-5 job, the demands of family life, or the combination thereof. In the end, this one truth prevails: Even though we may have all we ever wanted or be doing a job we love the tempo of our daily lives can often be overwhelming. Our hearts and legs can’t seem to keep time and become “burned out.” Most Americans I know cry out about that asymmetry. They complain. They shed tears. Some fly into a rage or dig in their heels, grit their teeth, and force their legs to march to the beat. 

Here in South Africa life has its own rhythm as well. In the place of crisp button up shirts, however, there are worn shoes two sizes too small—like the old ways of doing things that make progress painful, and the restricting circumstances that keep so many from reaching their full potential. Instead of a ticking clock compelling people to rush, there is a lethargic clock that causes the unbearable hours people spend in the company of hopelessness to stretch on indefinitely. And instead of waking up to the monotony of a repetitious schedule, people are greeted with uncertainty. Uncertainty of whether or not they’ll have dinner that day; whether their child’s father will finally give them money for the rent; whether their mothers will still be alive when they come home from school (without exaggerating!) Yet somehow, in the face of all this South Africans seem incredibly resilient. Every weekend there are one or two funerals in my village. At school 1 learner has lost their parent every week for the past month—often leaving them alone with their elderly grandparents or just plain alone! People struggle to find meals each day and many children come to school simply because they can at least get something to eat there. Yet, I have never seen one them crying.  Or heard them saying life is unfair. I have wondered how it is that they manage to cope when the rhythm or their lives seems so much harsher than what we’ve known in the US. My simple theory is this: the reaction of most South Africans to the crazy rhythm of their lives is not to march or run as we Americans tend to do, but to dance.

No matter what the issue, or what the occasion, the universal response of South Africans to life’s ups, downs, twists and turns, is simply to dance. You will see them dancing at celebrations and at weddings—in fact you can’t have a wedding without dancing. The entire bridal party and all of the family and guests, both young and old, dance throughout the entire two day affair. They stop only indulge themselves with healthy portions of the traditional menu for all Tswana events: stewed goat and beef, maize meal porridge, pumpkin and cabbage. At funerals they also dance. The whole community comes together and they dance and dance. They sing hymns with all their passion and strength in 4 or 5 voice harmonies. I have found it to be one of the most intense cultural experiences I have had since I’ve been here. The whole procession of guests dance and sing all the way from the home of the deceased to the graveyard where the casket is lowered into the earth. It is a mysterious and powerful kind of song and dance that gives me goose bumps every time I witness it, without fail. At meetings and workshops you will find a similar scene. Even at strikes and political protests you will see the people of South Africa dancing, singing, and chanting their slogans. From the youngest to the oldest the response is the same. At the elementary school some students come to school wearing hand-me-down uniforms so holey and stained they aren’t fit to be seen and some of them have walked up to 15km on foot to get there, but if you even mention the word “dance” to them they will burst into motion pulling moves that would cause many American jaws to drop in amazement)…all in perfect time to an internal rhythm (which they seem to share, as their movements seem to correspond to one another's—even without any music to guide them.) 

It seems as if every extreme emotion people experience here in South Africa—whether joy, grief, or fear—all is channeled from the heart into the legs. So instead of crying; instead of wailing and gushing to friends and family about all their deep hurts; they just DANCE. It is a coping mechanism I’ve been learning to emulate. Sometimes my work here is frustrating. Sometimes I feel I’m getting nowhere. Sometimes people do things that are hurtful and disappoint me. Sometimes I feel quite alone. But before I cry or scream or throw in the towel, I will remember what my friends here have taught me and JUST DANCE!

Up, Down, and All Around

When we SA24’s (that is, South African volunteer group 24) were all still in training back in September of last year, they told us about something they call the “volunteer cycle.” I remember they had shown us a graph resembling a roller coaster. It showed what amounted to be the typical pattern of mood swings volunteers go through over the span of their Peace Corps experience.  I did not give much credence to it then, but now that I am almost a year into my service it’s taken on a new significance.

Every roller coaster starts with the climb to the top. Everyone knows that we humans tend to be romantic about things at the beginning. There was that long build-up of pre-service training and then observation and preparation at sight in which we conjure up all kinds of dreams and visions in those idealistic little Peace Corps heads of ours. This 6 month long process then culminates in a spectacular peak we in the organization know as in-service training. By the time that is done, however, we are beginning to see the near vertical drop called ‘pedal to the metal’ (or ‘reality’) that is on the other side of all that build up. That’s when the long fall back to earth starts. 

In term 1 (Jan-March) of this year I was still teetering on the summit. I was off to a great start. I launched the English Club, taught grade 10 English, presented the library project to an enthusiastic throng of teachers and PTA members, and started teaching in grades 1-4 once a week. My creativity was mobilized; I was energized; I had a vision that stretched on for countless miles into the future… Until, without warning, the bottom fell out. The decent began at the beginning of term 2, at which point I suddenly realized I am not super woman and had been spreading myself way too thin. I had to cut back on the amount of days I was teaching to make room for preparation for my other projects. That in turn upset my groove so to say. It took some trial and error to find a new balance. Even that process of finding the balance itself was interrupted by my unplanned trip to the US. That brought on first reverse culture shock…and then reverse-reverse-culture shock upon reentry. 

Being in the US was a strange sort of experience for me. It seemed like people were going too fast. Everywhere was over-developed and much too crowded and noisy. All thins environmental stress was overlaid with the stress of my grandfather’s illness and near death. All wrapped up in that, however was the relief at being able to see my family again. In essence it was emotional overload. As a result my last day or 2 in the US was spent mostly sleeping. When I got back to SA it was vacation time. I had the fortune of being able to participate in the Longtom Marathon (albeit doing more walking than running)—a fundraising event in the scenic Mpumalanga. After living in the Kalahari for 9 months it felt like being on a different planet! The days after the marathon were filled with hiking rafting and horseback riding…not a bad deal. (Aside: this has made me into and official outdoor adventure enthusiast!) Being surrounded by Americans in those first days back took the edge off of the reentry, but once I made it back to site things sort of crashed. That long fall back to earth combine with new drag put my heart in my throat. I Suddenly found myself running against many brick walls: Teachers resisting my efforts to observe their classes or give assistance (it seems the very behaviors and teaching practices of mine I hope to inspire them with have lead them to dread my presence in their classroom…something about being showed up.); finding myself on the wrong side of what is akin to a mutiny against the principal of one of my schools; lack of dedication on the part of those who vowed to support me and even being undermined by them in some ways; having my efforts to achieve anything at all in the other school crippled by the principals apparent on going apathy towards the affairs in his institution. Suddenly, my realm of possible influence has shrunk drastically. The realities of general unwillingness to change on the part of some and a system that is both ridged and dysfunctional abruptly halted my roll. It’s an ugly fall, that one: finding out you can’t do as much as you thought, and that even what you thought you were achieving is not what it seems…a sobering realization. It’s all part of what they call the ‘year mark depression.’ Apparently it’s very common. 

And so I spent a few weeks plummeting from that great height I’d been at. Now, however, it seems things have leveled off. I’ve hit the curve of the roaster. I feel the pressure but am gaining momentum as I readjust my focus and my plans in light of the circumstances. 

As things stand, I have revitalized the English Club, which had lost a bit of momentum end of last term, and attendance is back up to original levels. I have established a new personal schedule that divides my time more equally between the two schools…much to the appreciation of the elementary school teachers. Thanks to an extra push by the middle school principal and the efforts of a fellow PCV, things are moving forward with the library project and I have even started two new projects: an English Refresher Course for educators and the Bridge Project, a course aimed at helping qualified individuals overcome the obstacles in finding jobs. With some effort and a bit of divine intervention these will both bear fruit and before long the year mark depression with fully pass and lead to a few satisfying results.

The comedy of disasters: delays, dysfunction, and days without showers (Part 3)

It was 9:00am on St. Patrick’s when I finally arrived at Tampa International airport. I’d been wearing the same clothes for 3 days. No matter how many showers at luxury hotels you take, you can’t help but feel dirty again when you put on the exact same outfit…the same one you traveled in and slept in 2 nights in a row while your checked baggage was being held hostage at the airport. I’d spent a few hours of the very short night before at yet another hotel in Atlanta. Our flight out of Lagos hadn’t left until 4pm in the afternoon—meaning we didn’t arrive in Atlanta until well after midnight. Customs graciously stayed open an extra few hours to accommodate us. Otherwise, we would have had to wait on the plane until it reopened at 5am. I didn’t actually get to the hotel Delta had booked for me until 2 am and my flight to Tampa was leaving at 7:00am—which amounted to 3 hours of sleep. 

I was a zombie. Everything seemed to be moving in a surreal kind of slow motion and my mind was having a tough time catching up with the fact that I, indeed had arrived on US soil. As I sat waiting for my sister to pick me up, my mind drifted back over the events of the past few days and my detour to Lagos. I can’t deny it was quite an interesting experience and, in retrospect, I cannot say that I regret having had the experience.  Lagos itself is an intriguing place. The hotel I had been placed at was across town from the beach in the tourist section and the hour long bus ride took us through the heart of the city and offered a good sampling of its diverse and paradoxical elements. It is a coastal metropolis crammed with an awkward mixture of poverty and affluence, modern architecture and the crumbling facades of outdated structures. It bustled with life. Informal settlements blooming between more developed sections of the city, like weeds in fractured pavement. On the waters of a small inlet I saw what I can only describe as the Venice of shanty towns: a forest of zinc shacks built on stilts in the shallow water. Not unlike Venice, its inhabitants navigated its “streets” in gondolas. Further out towards the ocean I could see the fishing grounds—obviously the main livelihood of shanty town dwellers. Shattered about were innumerable fish traps fashioned of long curving rows of narrow roughly hewn wooden posts placed inches apart. As we passed I could see men on their canoes hauling in their catch. It seemed like such a different world—even from South Africa. It looked and felt different from anything I’ve experienced...desperation and hope juxtaposed. People seemed to be living among the ruins of what was once another life. 

All the Nigerian people I had met had seemed so positive…resilient. Even when spoke about the difficulties of life in their country they seemed to have a quite sort of peace. The negativity one might expect seemed absent. This was a stark contrast to South Africa, where, despite their relative affluence, people are often apt to complain about their circumstances.  Nigerians, despite their reputation for fraud and thievery (which they themselves confirm) turned out to be very friendly and generous people. My two day airport fiasco won me about 10 new friends. One of them --who I shall call Annie—was a gorgeous lady of about my age. She was slender in frame with wide expressive eyes and perfectly bowed lips that tease upwards in the corners in a pleasant way…as if she were constantly thinking of something amusing. She worked for the Nigerian version of TSA, and after seeing me pass through the security check at least 4 times on the first night I was there, began to wonder what misfortune in my travel arrangements had led to the frantic back and forth. She stopped me and asked me. When I told her she laughed. She said there was no way I would be getting out of Nigeria that night and I might as well accept that id be sleeping in the airport. That didn’t improve my mood. Yet somehow her calm about it all took off a bit of the edge. The next thing she asked me if I had any money or any food. I hadn’t thought about it up to that point but when she mentioned it my stomach growled on cue. To my surprise she wasted no time in taking me to the cafeteria and buying me some food. Then she gave me the change to buy something later as well! I was quite taken aback! That she would show me such kindness seemed uncanny. We talked for a while as I ate but then duty called and she had to return to her post. My heart sank a little after she disappeared around the corner. Her company had kept me from worrying too much or feeling sorry for myself. With her departure, however, the weight sank back down on my shoulders. 

In fact, I was busy feeling quite sorry for myself when a round, smiling, gap-toothed face filled my view. It was another member of airport security, Immanuel I shall call him. He was a man of about 50, cheerful and upbeat…more so than one would expect past midnight. He promptly introduced himself and ask where I was from and how id gotten stuck in the airport. As is the typically the case for me when I’m in a sulky mood, I did not mind repeating the tale for him. He declared it to be quite awful and with a smile said I shouldn’t worry and that I could get another flight the next day at 10pm. (That felt like a punch in the gut….What would I do all day in the airport?!) However, his positive spirit lifted me out of the slump. Before long we were involved in an engaging conversation about the politics and conflicts in Nigeria and about the relations between the various religious groups. It was intellectually stimulating and diverting all at once. It was 2 am when our conversation finally ended and I decided to try to get some sleep. He vowed that he would be sure to come and keep me company on his shift the next evening. Talking to him gave me enough peace of mind to sleep like a rock until 6 am…not a bad deal.

Then there was Ken the French Canadian….a kind, but slightly awkward sort of fellow (which I suppose is part of being French Canadian.) He was in his late forties, of above average height, had a healthy build, and a hairline quickly making for the hills. I met him in the immigration office where I went to pick up my documents in the morning. He had a layover of several hours himself and so we decided to spend the morning together. We got to chatting as we sat in the office and after about 10 minute he invited me to eat breakfast with him in the airport restaurant. As we sat at the bar over-looking the tarmac crunching on toast and eggs, we talked about all the great mysteries of the world: life, love, family and God’s will. (The discussion was made twice as entertaining given the “French slur” in his speech!) As one can imagine it ended up being quite a long talk! Before we knew it 5 hours had gone by—quite a welcome eventuality given the circumstances. Needless to say the morning was passed in good company and before he left to board his plane he vowed to visit me in South Africa and insisted I must visit him in Canada as well…and I just might take him up on that offer.

Around 4 pm the Delta ticket office finally opened. Id been eagerly waiting the whole day and, accompanied by another of my new friends amongst the airport security, I hurried upstairs to rebook my flight. Before I even reached the office door I heard an oh-so-familiar twang echoing down the hall. If that didn’t give him away, the boots definitely did….In fact they were the first thing I noticed when I saw him. Big brown leather boots under cuffs of dark denim. Yes sir-ee! The was a Texan in the house. It was Sam. He was tall, maybe 6’3’’, lanky of build, looked to be about forty, and reminded me very much of another Texan I know. He was leaning over the counter speaking in a rather animated way with the clerk—in that way which, for a Texan, still constitutes a civil tone but for others may seem like yelling given the degree of passion. Like the rest of us, he was frustrated at their incompetence. I had to smile when I saw him. I’d never been gladder to see another American. I greeted him and remarked on how chaotic things can be when in Africa. He agreed heartily and we got to chatting while we waited for the clerk to sort things out. What was a Texan doing in Nigeria? I wanted to know. He answered that he was on business…something about drilling oil as I recall. He asked me how I had landed there and when I told him he shook his head and laughed heartily. In the meantime the clerk had printed his new boarding pass and another opened up for me. Of course fixing my issue also became a trying ordeal for them. As a stood there mustering all the patience left in me Sam suggested we assuage our grievances with an old friend of his: a good scotch. They had been friends for a long time I can tell because he loudly declared he was going to get one for us to share! Yes he was quite the character.  I had such fun the next evening watching him being large and in charge (which seems to be a typically Texan thing) an demand answers from the airport staff on behalf of the whole group about how they were going to handle the fiasco of the cancelled flight, lodging, and visa issues. A welcome bit of flavor to the evening’s events. Long live Texas I thought.

That second evening in Lagos I had the fortune of meeting yet another interesting fellow. Will…a Nigerian living in the US and running a business producing and installing environmentally friendly water processors. He must have been about 50, stout, and stocky in build. He carried himself with the air of one who has won one over on the world. On could see from a mile that the man had overcome some serious odds and arrived at a place of contentment in life. For one reason or another he decided to make my well-being that evening his personal responsibility. In the chaos that ensued after the flight was cancelled, he made sure to find out what hotel I was going to, made sure I got on the right bus, made sure I was informed about the next day’s plans. I didn’t mind a bit. He was very much a go getter type and interestingly enough quickly became friends with Sam the scotch lover. As it was, I welcomed his attentiveness, I had other things to worry my mind and having a kind gentleman deal with the chaos for me was more than I could have asked for. 

So as a sat in Tampa in the wake of that storm I felt deep relief and, strangely enough, I also felt that I had been fortunate in my misfortune. This is the kind of story one could never make-up. A kind of adventure no one would believe. When I looked up I saw my sister pulling up to the curb in her car. I smiled broadly. Murphy may have won a few battles, but in the end it is I who won the war. Take that Murphy! I thought, and loaded my suitcase into the trunk.

The comedy of disasters: delays, dysfunction, and days without showers (Part 2)

I frowned into my coffee at 7 am. Somehow, the thought that my next cup would probably be at Starbucks in the US offered little comfort in the light of all that was going on. I’d been dreaming of Starbucks and walks along Brandon Parkway (near my parents place in Tampa) for weeks, but now that it had become—most unexpectedly—a   very realistic prospect, it had lost its appeal. How could this be happening? Would he even be alive when I arrived? It all seemed so unreal. 

Within the next 30 minutes a Peace Corps car picked me up and chauffeured me to the office where I took care of some last minute formalities before heading to the airport. I couldn’t wait to get on the plane and have numerous ours to in which to be alone with my thoughts. Id had enough of the travel drama. I didn’t really have the emotional bandwidth to process so much at once.

I checked in without much hassle and headed to the gate. When I had boarded the plane and settled into my seat, however, I realized something: who was there to meet me? None other than MURPHY! I it was 40 minutes after our departure time when the announcement came. Murphy had struck again—this time in the form of mechanical malfunction in one of the wings of the plane. They spent close to 2 ½ hours fumbling around trying to identify exactly what the problem was. The contemplated switching planes but 30 minutes later scrapped that idea after having finally discovered the source of the issue by this time I am sure had formed a sizable bald spot in the area in which I’d been pulling out my hair. As we finally took of I said a quick prayer. Life in Africa has taught me that dysfunction of any and every kind—especially when it comes to vehicles—is so common it approaches the realm mathematical certainty. I was nervous about whether or not id make my connecting flight in Lagos, but more terrifying was the prospect of our plane crashing somewhere in the Congo. The way this trip was turning out up to that point made it seem like a very real possibility!

But to my relief our wheels touched down in Lagos some 7 hours later and I hustled off the plane as fast as I could…meaning I waited for what seemed like five hours waiting for the 1,000 people in front of me to inch there ways out of the rows and haul down their suitcases from over-head bins. I have never been able to figure out why it is that when it’s time to disembark people always seem to grow 10 left thumbs and move at half their normal speed. It always provokes in me a type of fury akin to the rage some people develop while in their vehicles on the highway. They always seem like normal human beings until they are behind the wheel. At any rate, I hustled inch by inch out of the plane and down to customs. After fuming in line for perhaps 20 minutes a customs officer approached and asked if there were any transit passengers. I immediately piped up. We were waaaay late but there was still a chance a faint and fading chance that I might make the connection. The officer took my passport glanced at it and asked me where I was going and what time the flight was supposed to be. Lucky for me, I’m a child of the E-Ticket age and hadn’t printed my itinerary—thus I could tell him neither exactly.  He scowled at me and handed my document off to a lady officer who was as intimidating looking as anything off of your typical Nigerian war film: She was thick; she was dark; she was 5 foot 3 inches of condensed bad-ass in her brown uniform and half-cocked beret. .. I wouldn’t have wanted to run into her in a dark alley! I confess thoughts of crumbling prison cells, torture, robbery,  and extortion did briefly enter my mind when she took my passport, but I had no choice but to follow. With my suitcase in tow we hustled through the labyrinth of construction going on in the terminal, out to the parking lot and into the next terminal. She was shouting and all but bucking people out of the way as we ran through the passage. We sped through security, drawing bewildered glances and arrived sweating and panting at the gate. The attendant seated there looked up at us, eyes still bearing the glaze of boredom and casually told us id long missed my flight.

My already sagging heart sank a few more inches. We asked if there was another flight that night I could take…the attendant smirked and said no…there’s only one flight per day that goes to the US from Lagos. Only one?! I wanted to cry. I didn’t want to believe it. 1 per day…meaning id have to wait until 10pm the next day for the next flight. I harassed various employees to find out if there was an indirect way to get there still available. By the 10 time I asked they were quite fed up and told me to accept that I wouldn’t be able to leave Lagos that night. So there I was stuck in Lagos… no money, no visa, no connections. I’d be sleeping in the airport. The only upside was that the ruckus Id caused made me a celebrity amongst the airport security guards and my pathetic plight managed to win me some friends.  (There is much to be said about those fine folk, as well as the other colorful characters I met along the way, but they shall have to be the subject for a later blog post.) Needless to say they kept me from starving and provided entertaining company in to the wee hours. At about 2am I finally stretched out on some benches pulled together and laid down feeling quite sorry for myself. Within 30 minutes I was out like a light.

It was 5:30 Thursday morning. I should no longer sleep so I got up and went to the restroom to freshen up. (Aside: I found it both bizarre and intriguing that each toilet stall came equipped with shower head and the bathroom also had a foot washing station…apparently hygiene in the lower half of the body is of utmost importance in Nigeria) I had a long day ahead. Thanks to Ken the French Canadian, Sam the scotch loving Texan, and Will the water processor builder, the hours passed quickly. Before I knew it I had in my hand a crisp, freshly printed ticket to the US. Never was I ever more glad to see that mundane strip of paper, I couldn’t get on board fast enough. As it turns out, however, it only looked like a ticket to the US when in actual fact it was a free pass for something else entirely…

The last thing I had wanted to hear was that tell-tale “Ladies and gentleman…” speech from the captain—yet AGAIN. It turned out they had over fuelled the plane and we too heavy to take off. Conveniently enough there was no defueling equipment available (“At an international airport?” You ask? Yep…but this is Africa, and when you think about it, it fits right in with a Taxi driver not having a jack.) I couldn’t believe it was really happening. Plan A was to take off all of  the luggage. That turned into plan B, which was to take off all the luggage and 40 passengers. If you ask me, they should have kicked the 40 fattest people off the plane and given them $600 voucher and an evening in a fancy hotel for their trouble. Another option would have been letting everyone disembark and taken to plane for an hour long joy ride around Nigerian airspace to burn off some fuel. Of course, no one asked me. One has to wonder why don’t they ever do what is practical and an obvious solution. But no… plan C was cancel the entire flight and put us all in a hotel. In the end I suppose it wasn’t a bad deal since my ticket turned into a free pass for a stay at a luxury hotel on the beach in Lagos. Given, under other circumstances such a thing could be considered a dream vacation (and I definitely couldn’t complain about the accommodations—in fact I quite enjoyed them…especially the breakfast spread!)….but this was THESE circumstances and all the palm trees and sunshine in the world couldn’t compensate for my desire to just get back to the US already.