Sea(ing) Turtles

I had been counting down the days to Thursday 5 December for a few weeks now. It was on that evening that I went on an adventure to witness the nesting turtles of the northern coast of KZN.

Besides the fact that it was a really exciting thing to do, I think the choice of the word "adventure" here really fits. I live almost right on the coast of the Indian Ocean (probably less than 15 km as the crow flies), but the journey to get to the beach took us 2 hours. It's been raining a lot in this area lately, which proved to be both a benefit and a threat to the vehicle that we traveled in. Driving on roads made of deep sand is kind of comparable to driving on snowy roads in the Hudson Valley, without the icy, slippery factor. The recent rains helped pack down that sand, making it more easily maneuverable and making it so we didn't get stuck in it and have to push the bakkie out; therefore, a benefit. However, with constant rains come puddles that look like craters or small lakes on roads that are "paved" with loose gravel and dirt. When combined with hills, this is where we had to worry about getting stuck. Fortunately we only reaped the benefits.

I had asked my Baba at least a month back if he could tell me anything about guided tours to see nesting turtles. Based on the research I'd been doing, I learned that nesting is from November- January/February, and that northern Elephant Coast in South Africa is one of (if not THE) best places to see the turtles. We got to talking and he told me that his brother (who knows what the actual relation is) works for Kosi Forest Lodge, a high-end lodge that leads these types of tours, and that he would ask him what he knew. "I've lived here my whole life and have never seen these turtles," Baba told me.

So when all was said and done, our turtle team was 7: Baba, Mama, Zwelethu, Mabonga, me, and Baba's friend and his wife. We drove to Bhanga Nek beach and met our guide at 7pm as it was starting to get dark. He introduced himself as Agrippa, and said he'd been giving tours for the past 6 years. Before we started walking, he told us a little about the turtles we may see: the loggerhead and the leatherback. The loggerhead is more commonly seen, while the enormous leatherback is more of a rarity. According to the beautifully painted info sign where we parked, the leatherback is "critically endangered," while the loggerhead is "endangered."

Also included in our pre-walk talk were instructions about lights. I came prepared with my stronger headlamp, only to be told that I couldn't really use it. The turtles do not like lights, and we were told we absolutely cannot use them unless told otherwise at a specific moment. The lights make the turtles feel vulnerable, so if they see them when just exiting the water or even after making it to the top of a dune to nest, they may very well retreat back into the water, disrupting the entire nesting cycle. As bummed as I was, I respected the rules. And also got some pretty cool shots later on.

We began our walk in total darkness. The beaches of north KZN/ Maputaland/ Elephant Coast are the most pristine, isolated, untouched beaches I have ever seen. There are no lodges, no boats, no trash, and when I've gone, along with my friends, we've been the only ones for as far as the eye can see. Coupled with the fact that it was cloudy and starless, this was one of the most eerie walks I'd ever been on. I could hear and see the white of crashing waves to one side, and the silhouetted tree line of the dunes on the other, and that was all. It was oddly liberating walking around in this darkness, after we've been warned countless times by Peace Corps about mambas, hippos, scorpions, etc.

We saw several sets of turtle tracks before we found the turtle that they belonged to. When we found her, the turtle was just beginning to dig her nest, so we sat and waited for almost 30 minutes to make sure we didn't disturb or frighten her. We sat and watched a passing cruise ship out at sea. I had almost fallen asleep when Agrippa told us it was okay to come up the dune to see our new friend. We were not allowed to stand near her head for fear of frightening her, so instead we watched her lay dozens of eggs. We stayed with her until she finished laying her eggs, covered up her nest, and made her way back down to the water. As the first waves washed up onto her shell, everyone said goodbye and wished her well. (The pictures attached to this post are in chronological order, from laying eggs to returning to the sea).

Baba asked me several times that evening if I was happy and enjoying myself, and each time I answered yes of course. But what made me happiest was how much everyone else was enjoying themselves. There are so many amazing things to do and see here and I feel like so many people who live in this area don't take advantage of it because they don't have the means, one way or another. So I'm glad that we shared this experience together and were all able to see something beautiful and spectacular taking place.

Things I did at 22

Today is the last day of my time as a 22-year-old. It's also the first time I've spent a whole year of my life away from home, let alone on another continent. I'm counting Bard as home because I could throw a stone from my house and it would land somewhere nearby campus. The longest I'd been away before was my semester in Manhattan doing BGIA in spring 2011. And now, I've spent 365 days, one full year of my life in Africa.

I've been thinking about the things I've done this past year as a 22-year-old and decided to compile a big-ole list to share some of my more memorable adventures.

This past year I:

- fell in love with 68 sixth graders
- experienced full-scale dehydration
- ate a cooked caterpillar
- did NOT succumb to tick bite fever like over 2/3 of my cluster has
- got a scarring sunburn
- tamed a dog
- read by candlelight
- had a malaria scare
- let my hair grow back to a recognizable length after shaving it all off last August
- laughed at myself and was laughed at more than ever before in my life
- picked up a guitar for the first time in years
- shared this country with my family
- drove on the "wrong" side of the car, on the "wrong" side of the road
- rode a train across the country
- told Will I loved him
- canoed the Zambezi River in Zimbabwe
- ran a 10k
- taught the incoming education PCVs how to lesson plan
- got the equivalent of poison ivy's cousin from eating a mango
- felt afraid of a thunderstorm
- walked into 5 countries
-spent a night in the same hotel as Obama in Cape Town just days after he left
- took control of a classroom
- attended an international soccer game and sang the South African national anthem with a stadium full of people, including President Jacob Zuma
- took on several new identities, including but not limited to "Miss Dinah," "Miss Thandi," "sisi," etc.
- read 21 books (and counting…)
- used my tile floor as a cooling source for my body
- planted a garden
- swam in the Indian Ocean
- hiked in the Drakensberg Mountains
- ate a jam made of a disgusting fruit called a monkey orange (just this afternoon, actually)
- became a member of the teacher family at school
- called this place that I live "home."

I probably did more stuff that I'm not remembering here, but these are things that stick out in my mind. Despite having tried, I just can't get myself to keep a daily journal, so I feel like this is a good activity to do every so often to keep tabs on what I've done and what I've seen. Check back this time next year for a similar list :)
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Third to First, and Back

I recently returned to site following 2 weeks of Peace Corps-related escapades. The first part of the journey was school hopping to see how libraries were organized and utilized in other volunteers' schools. The second half was Safety and Security training in Pretoria. The combination had me jumping back and forth between cramped taxis and charter buses, comfort and vulnerability, and the first and third worlds.

It's funny how all of that can happen in a matter of hours. The first leg of the trek was a hellish full-day travel debacle from my site to Will's. Five taxis later and twelve full hours after my alarm went off on Saturday morning, I stepped foot into his house to rest. As the crow flies (or probably as a road in a private car would lead you), Will's site is maybe 4 or 5 hours tops from mine. But instead, I spent a full day of my life wishing I could sleep (the first taxi had a sign in the front seat where I was sitting written in Zulu that explicitly forbid sleeping if you sat in the front), wishing the window wasn't broken so I could actually open it, and daydreaming about the day when I'd be able to decide my own travel destiny (and departure time). But in the next week that I spent in Will's village of Rorke's Drift and the surrounding villages of other volunteers in my cohort, I felt nothing but warmth and welcoming from everyone around me.

On the first day at Will's school, I was greeted by his principal and several teachers that I'd met at workshops back in December of last year, as if we were old friends who hadn't seen each other in ages (maybe kinda true?). On another day, I was greeted in Zulu by a woman attending a parent's meeting where she asked me my name and surname, where I lived, and then thanked me for chatting with her. My favorites were his learners. They greeted me as if I'd been there all along, waited until I walked past their desk to raise their hand and ask for their fractions to be checked, and energetically asked me questions for as long as time allowed. On my last morning, Bongamusa stopped me and said "Miss, travel well back to Libuyile Primary School." I don't know what about that statement struck me most, or why it still sticks in my mind. Maybe it's that he remembered the name of my school, probably the least interesting fact I shared with them on question day. Maybe it's because Will told me that he's not particularly good in Maths but I noticed him really trying the days I was there. I don't know. But the thing is, every single person made me feel like I belonged there, even though the journey would make it seem like I live half a world away.

Following the great Battlefields Library Tour of 2013, I made my usual stopover in Durban before pushing on to Pretoria the next day. Coming in from a different region than usual, I arrived in to a different taxi rank. A particularly sketchy one compared to what I'm used to coming from Manguzi. Durban is five hours from my shopping town on a good day; a day when you don't sit at the traffic circle waiting for other taxis to bring people to fill yours up, when you don't hit traffic, when you don't get a flat tire, etc. Five hours and you can go from the third world to the first. I got into the Market Street rank, which apparently is spread over four or five blocks. I arrived at around 4pm in the midst of Friday early evening traffic, speeding police cars, and a setting sun. I stood on the sidewalk clutching all of my bags as close to my body as possible. I was the only white person for blocks, a sitting duck. When the driver of the private taxi I called finally found me, he told me about how dangerous this rank was; about how drivers don't go there after 5pm. "It is violent here," he said to me as we sat at yet another red light. First world, here you go: "it is dangerous, it is violent."

After spending Saturday walking everywhere because I'm a poor volunteer, I began the next leg of the expedition: overnight bus from Durban to Pretoria. Because Pretoria is a world away in more ways than one, I usually travel there in the company of another volunteer for some big training that several of us have to go to. But this time, I was transiting on my own. As I walked from the bus station to the Gautrain station bound for Hatfield, I worried about the short distance I would have to walk to get to the backpackers. I often walk it with someone and have no problem, as it's maybe 10 minutes from the train station. I'd heard stories of guys waiting at the cul-de-sac and promptly mugging people on their way to the backpackers. As this internal anxiety played out in my head, I heard a familiar voice board the train behind me. Rakeesha and I happened to be on the same overnight bus and didn't know it until then, and I had a partner to brave the streets on our way to hot showers, flush toilets, and Pizza Night.

Days later a block or two from where we stayed, a fellow volunteer attending the same training as me was threatened by a knife-wielding man who has apparently mugged quite a few PCVs walking to and from the shopping center and restaurants, often times in broad daylight. "Sisi, I don't want to have to stab you, sisi," he said. Fortunately she talked herself out of it, but that's a potential fear on everyone's mind. It's on my mind every time I'm in Hatfield. I'm afraid that I'll be mugged or worse. I'm consistently vigilant and walk with purpose and displayed confidence, but I don't always feel that way.

Fast forward to Durban on the way back to site. B and I stayed in a suburb just outside the city with her host sister to get a ride back to site the following day (anything is favorable to a taxi). As it was explained to us, it would be a single taxi from the Workshop stop in the middle of the city to the entrance of the apartment complex. However, it wouldn't be a complete day unless we were taken advantage of and harassed. One taxi turned into five, where we kept getting charged one rand more every few minutes, and dropped of in a random location and told to walk after we were promised a ride to the requested location. And then there was the drunk man who used the side of my body as a back rest and touched my arm as he loudly declared how he "wants to date a white wo-man" in my ear. We finally made it, after slamming the taxi door (a big no-no in South African public transport culture) and hurrying across the street through traffic.

At the beginning of any trip away from site, the thought is always "it will be nice to get out of the village for a little while, take a shower, eat a pizza, wander around a real store, etc." But by the end of this odyssey, all I wanted was to go home. My home in my village with my stuff and my bucket and my mosquito net and my family.

Transitioning back into village life has proven to be a little tough in the past, but this time it had never felt easier. Between the smile and the great big hug from my old gogo, the greetings from kids that attend other schools in the village, the hugs and typical handshake welcomes from other teachers, my Grade 6 clapping when I came to say hello, learning that my best learner's Grade 2 brother named his Mother Bear after me, all of it made me feel like I've never felt before coming back. I felt like my absence had created a void, and my return had filled it. Not that that hasn't been the case before, but I really FELT it this time around. I don't know if I'm explaining myself well, but maybe it's not meant to be spelled out perfectly in words.

People fear for me here. The gawks and the looks of horror from the White South Africans rolling in with their Land Rovers, surfboards, bicycles, trailers, etc. never cease to amuse me; as if I was accidentally left in Thengani and have to fight my way back to civilization.

One day a man stopped me on the sidewalk to say hello. He was walking with his child, a sight I always stop to admire as it's like seeing a unicorn for me. He (a Black South African) asked me, "Aren't you afraid?" "Afraid of what?" I asked. "I live here, I work here, and people know me." I wouldn't phrase it any other way today.

Even though it's over a year into living here, I feel like this is a big moment. Having that comfort, that sense of belonging, is something that not all volunteers find. Oftentimes it's something you create and help to influence, but other factors (sometimes outside of your control) play into it too. Sure, there are things that I miss and would make my life easier if I had. But I'm happy where I am now, with what I have now. I'll take Third over First.
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Death and a Funeral

Two weeks ago, I went to my first Zulu funeral. It was a Saturday like any other. On this particular day, there were 3 funerals happening on the same road as the one we were at. My host father went to one, the Grade 9 teacher I work with went to one, a family friend went to one, I went to one, another volunteer went to one for a learner of his, etc. This is not at all uncommon. Funerals happen here with greater frequency than people going to church, and people spend a lot of time in church here.

I thought I went to my fair share of funerals growing up. I went to three in one year when I was ten years old. That was a tough year for my family. But then I think about what my life would have been like if I'd grown up here, in this part of the country where deaths as a result of car accidents and HIV/AIDS run rampant. Don't get me wrong, not all deaths are HIV-related, but the funeral I attended was a result of the virus.

In a country where more than half the commercials on television at night are trying to get you to sign up for life or funeral coverage, death is very real. The commercials have deals where you can insure up to eight family members by signing up for a monthly plan. It's sad, but the way it's presented makes it into more of a "when" than an "if," as far as coverage goes.

The funeral I went to was for my best volunteer friend's host sister. She was employed as a community health worker. She had two children around my age and one beautiful granddaughter. She found out she was HIV-positive just a few months ago, and passed away just under a month ago as the virus was discovered late and had morphed into AIDS. She made a traced-hand turkey with everyone else to celebrate our first Thanksgiving in South Africa. She had an eye for creativity, loved gardening, and liked wearing hats. She was 49 years young.

The funeral took place on a day with the bluest sky and not a cloud in sight. The wind was strong and the sun was hot. Funerals here (as with all major events) take place under the cover of large white or striped, colored tents. Attire is typically black, but colorful Zulu outfits can sometimes be spotted as well. The bulk of the ceremony consisted of one after the other of friends, family, and co-workers speaking about Sphiwe to the audience gathered.

While I didn't know her all that well, the hardest part for me was seeing her family cry. Her family has become like my second host family here, based on how often I'm at their home and how much we love each other. Seeing the usually smiling Gogo with a solemn and tear-stained face broke my heart. She looked older than I've ever seen her. Seeing her son (who is my age) fall apart, to be cradled by the man sitting next to him really put it into perspective. This is a culture that is defined by men being strong, by the image of the Zulu warrior. Being overcome by emotion like that is not a common occurrence, so that just showed what a big hit the family had taken. And finally, hearing the little girls wailing after they'd been laughing and playing with my hair the night before was just the icing on the cake.

I don't know how it works in the cities, but out here in the bush with our thatched and tin roofs and unpaved roads, cemeteries do not exist. Everyone has a section of their plot of land where the deceased is buried. Some even have tombstones, which is a celebration all its own after the fact, if at all. After the ceremony in the tent, we all walked to the place where the grave had been dug. I have never before seen a coffin lowered into a grave or the sealing off of the coffin from the rest of the grave. I have never before seen such a display of despair and rejoicing; a combination of crying and sadness with singing and celebration. I have never seen men old and young wait patiently for their turn at honoring the deceased by heaving a dozen or so shovels full of dirt into the grave.

At the end of it all, food was served to everyone present. In assembly line fashion, we went down the table filling plates with food for guests sitting under the tent. We asked if we could be of additional help by washing dishes, but there were already too many washers and not enough space. Instead of everyone leaving this job to those hosting, each pitched in to do their part.

This event turned my impression of a funeral upside down. The display of camaraderie was both heartwarming and heartbreaking. I feel glad to have shared a few moments with this wonderful woman. I feel sad and scared that if I had grown up here, half of my family could be gone by the time I reach middle school. I feel closer to my second family, and know that their love for each other will keep them strong when times are tough. Rest in Peace.

One Year Down

Today, 12 July, marks one year since we as SA26 set foot in South Africa. We're down to 28 volunteers from the 44 we began with, and those of us who have stuck around have all had our share of good and bad days since we arrived. Whenever I meet anyone, especially Americans or Europeans who ask what Peace Corps is and how I like it, I often describe it as a rollercoaster unlike anything I've felt before. I tell them that I have days when I'm on top of the world and days when I don't want to be here, but the encouraging days outweigh the ones where I just want to scream.

My family came to visit me this break. Seeing them at OR Tambo International Airport in Johannesburg was both strange and familiar: they looked very much the same as the picture in my head from a year ago, but seeing them in real time not through a crackly Skype webcam shot was the foreign part. Hugging them, I smelled home in their clothes; a smell I can now distinguish because I've been away for so long. Mom cried (which was to be expected), Dad hugged me really tight, and Derek and I instantly reverted to our fun and childlike interactions. I drove hundreds of kilometers in those twelve days and I jam-packed our schedule so they would see as much as possible in their short time here (to the point where everyone said they needed a vacation from this vacation when they got home.) We saw 5 of 9 provinces, four of the Big Five (everything except the leopard), far too many dangerous traffic practices, the Indian Ocean (in three different parts of KZN!), roads constructed of questionable materials (or barely "constructed" at all), "porcupines" (gotcha Dad), bush babies, a hidden gem in the form of a book warehouse in Joburg, host families met my biological family, and everyone was exhausted all the time. I hope the exhaustion was worth it, because I had a truly amazing time.

Trying to explain, show, and rationalize things for my family as I showed them a bit of what I live here made me look back on this past year; think about how things seemed for me when I was in their shoes, seeing everything for the first time. Going back to visit my first host family really brought me back. My Google Maps application on my Blackberry would have been fine if the roads it told me to turn on actually had names or street signs, which of course didn't more often than not. Regardless, I was still able to find my way to the "main road" of Kwa-Pahla on memories alone: the taxi rides to main hub, walking to Sanele's for language class, Jabula Market where we bought Simba chips and Dairy Milk bars almost every morning. Walking into the backyard I had flashbacks of trying to wash laundry on a cold and windy day where the cold water in my basins was warmer than the temperature of the air. I remembered where my habit of not breathing through my nose near toilets began. And I smiled when I thought of Nobonga sending me off every morning with a cheerful "sizobonana late!"

We spent a lot of hours in our rental car at the beginning of that trip, which was good because it gave me time to explain things: new terminology, habits (such as burning everything, peeing on the side of the road like it's no big thing, carrying sticks and coolers and grocery bags on your head), anecdotes good and bad, etc. The night we got to my site, I was really looking forward to cooking a meal that I would typically eat and introducing Mom, Dad, and Derek to the much talked-about "Generations," arguably South Africa's most popular soap opera. In true South African fashion, the electricity went out for no reason at all for hours, so instead we just ate cheese and crackers and talked by candlelight. But everything happens for a reason right? With my village in a blanket of darkness (undoubtedly the most electricity-less night we saw the entire trip) they were able to see the crystal clear night sky above us. On any given night, you can see the Milky Way and several shooting stars, so I was happy that they were able to experience this in the way that I do.

After we left my site, we did a bunch of things that I have never done before and saw places I had yet to see. We got chased by some monkeys, came face to face with endangered rhinos, kayaked with some hippos and crocs, swam with zebra- and clown-fish (and Derek and I got hit with a ray), drove on the most beautiful "highway" I've ever seen, toured some wineries with the Brennan/Maxfield clan, and never made it all the way to the top of Table Mountain. Saying goodbye at the airport in Cape Town was hard (as goodbyes always are), but this time there was a little less pain in my heart. This time it was more of a "see you in a little over a year" rather than "I'mgoingsofarawayforsolongandgodknowswhenI'llseeyouguysagain."

As part of my character (call it a flaw or not), I have a tendency to focus more on the negative than the positive aspects of things. I fixate on how things didn't go the way I'd envisioned, or how there was no monumental and all-encompassing change when I tried to teach something. The fact that my kids in Grade 6 are still not doing so hot on reading comprehension (in my mind) outweighs the fact that some of them have gone from failing to passing the more I test them. The fact that I still get called umlungu on the daily (in my mind) outweighs the fact that I have won over all of Grade 9 at my neighboring high school; that's right: all 180 of them. So I'm trying to change that.

Instead, the flashcards that I use at the beginning of class are helping some kids to realize that when I ask them a question about "where" an animal lives, they need to tell me a place. The classes that I help out with in Grade 9 English are allowing those kids to get to know me as Thandi, as a person; maybe it's not the entire school, but I can't reach every single person. Running for 7 minutes without stopping may not be as good as the 10 that I did yesterday, but it's better than any time I've done before.

In this year, I've come across things I wasn't expecting at all. I've never been able to laugh at myself the way I do now. I didn't think I'd be teaching new volunteers how to teach. I didn't think I'd find a boy that I love. I never imagined a day where I wanted to melt because it was so ungodly hot. I didn't think I'd shave my head. I didn't think I would own a smartphone. I never thought I'd be so loathsome of bass. I never thought I'd have a best friend here who is in pictures that I took at Invisible Children's "The Rescue" in Richmond on my computer (true story). And, I didn't expect quite the disparity that I see on a daily basis. But I'm here, I'm staying, and I've got one more year to show this place what I've got.

PS: check out pictures of this break soon on my facebook. I have to upload them one by one on my blackberry so it may take some time, but you won't be disappointed :)

Day of Babas

So yesterday was Father's Day.  I have my father (baba) to thank for lots of things, particularly for dealing with me during years of softball when I thought I knew everything, for my sometimes stubborn but always passionate approach to life, and for being there through thick and thin.  Growing up, especially in middle and high school, I had plenty of friends and acquaintances whose parents were divorced and who had a schedule of weekends or particular days that they would get to see each.  I was a minority in this regard, but in the best sense of the word.  I felt fortunate to wake up and go to sleep under the same roof as each of my parents day after day.

 

So now I really feel like a minority, still in the best way.  Father figures in South Africa are absent more often than not in the lives of their children.  As unfortunate as it is, it seems almost cultural to get pregnant at a young age (I pass many girls in the morning who drop off their children at day care or grade R and then proceed to walk to high school where they are still studying) and end up alone as a single mother, hopefully with the help of family members to raise and care for the child.  If the mother stays in the same home or village as the child, I feel like that is a rarity as well.  I can't tell you how many learners in my class do writing assignments and tell me about a mother in Joburg, or a father in Empangeni, or a sibling in Durban.  People go where work is available (when it is), and that often comes at the expense of keeping a family intact and together.

 

This blog post is not meant to be long, I just wanted to reflect on the fact that I feel lucky.  Not only to have both of my parents present, but to have a dad who I can talk to and who can help me grow as a person and supports me in every single endeavor I have ever undertaken, regardless of how much he agrees or disagrees with it.

I hope all the fathers out there had a nice day.  And Dougiss, I can't wait to see you in a week.  To laugh and talk about things that are "classic" and catching up on a year.  Love and miss you.

International Day of Families

My Peace Corps calendar tells me that today is International Day of Families. Of all the obscure holidays it makes sure to include, I think this one may be my new favorite.

As cliche as it may sound, I would (maybe) be a fraction of the person I am today if not for my family. My dad's side of the family is small but closer to where we live. It includes his two brothers and their families, one of which is my godfather. This side has provided me with laughs, love, and support since before I can remember. Being on another continent in the opposite hemisphere makes me realize how silly it is that we saw each other so infrequently while we were within driving distance. Let's change that when I get home.

What I wouldn't give for my Nana to still be alive today. I can only imagine the talks we would have, the afternoons we'd spend together, the catching up we would do. Papa still lives right down the street, but it's just not the same since we dyed Easter eggs in the backyard as kids and walked into the living room to see what wild animal she was nursing back to health. Thank you for your strength, kindness, and love.

My mom's side of the family is almost uncountable. As the ninth child with nieces and nephews her own age (or sometimes a little older) my mom's family gives me aunts, and uncles, and first, second (and maybe even third) cousins. They're more spread out than my dad's side, scattered all over Long Island, in New Jersey, Connecticut, etc. These same family members helped fund my first international trip when I was 16, arguably also helping to mold my interest in travel. Some asked my parents what they were thinking sometimes: "Doreen, you're going to let her go to Peru?" or "Dor, you're going to let her teach in a prison?" or "you're going to let her go to [South] Africa for Peace Corps?" I know your intentions were good. Thanks for looking out for me.

And the most important of all are my immediate family. Important isn't even a strong enough adjective but I'd have a long list if I had to include all the suitable ones. The things my parents have done, the sacrifices that have been made on my and my brother's behalf blow my mind. They are the epitome of the idea that a good parent gives their child everything they never had as kids. Despite the times I am stubborn and argue and think I know what's best when I often have no idea, I love you more than life itself. And I could thank you until the end of my life and it still wouldn't be enough.

And then there's Derek. Kid has my back no matter what. When we were younger, we had the typical spats and didn't talk for a day or so because each of us was always right and the other was wrong. But as we grew up, I went to college, he was close to finishing high school, we both really grew up in the figurative sense. We came to realize that we make a better team together, rather than on opposing sides. Part of me feels like I'm missing out on a big part of his life right now. But thank goodness for WhatsApp. Thanks for always being there when I need you, bub. Love you kakhulu.

Most people's list would stop there. But I've got a lot more to write about families. Because I've got almost half a dozen of them.

My next family is those friends from high school that I will never lose touch with. I'm looking at you, Oliver and Luke. You guys have been there since the beginning of our time and I love and value your friendship more than you may know. From our rides in the Subaru to our walk-and-talks at Mill Road, I hope we find ourselves doing those things for years to come. I hope we cross paths when I come home next year.

Chloe. I have never met anyone who can read my thoughts, or who is exactly like me in as many ways as you are. Or who is so wise and beautiful and caring. I'm keeping your section short and sweet because we all know I could spend the next 2 days writing it if I really put my mind to it. I admire you so much, d00d.

I think it makes chronological sense to talk about my host family in Peru next. Not just one summer, but two: the time that the Huanca-Ochoa home was mine too. It's nice to not see people for years and still be able to call them hermana, padre, etc. Next time I'm in Cusco, know that ustedes son mi primera parada :)

Rescue Rider family assembled in 2009, when a bunch of fools got on a bus with an undisclosed location and arrival back home. For the benefit of people who have no say in how their lives play out. That was the first time I met people whose minds worked like mine did; who said "finals? I can sacrifice those," or "my job? I'll get another one." Who became friends that I know I can rely on or drop in on or sleep on their futon. Who I can talk to about things. Lindsay Pankok, I'm talking about you. I hope we all meet again someday at some similarly planned event.

Fast forward to July 2012. After I spent the beginning of July 10th crying and wondering if I'd made the biggest mistake of my life as I left mom, dad, and Derek at Albany airport security check. I was transported to South Africa and felt a whole lot of stuff, some good and some bad. My first host family made me feel welcome, introduced me to Generations, and taught me some useful phrases like "pashasha" and "sizobonana late."

I don't know what I've done to deserve such wonderful host families, but they just keep coming. My present family at site is exactly that. Some volunteers end up feeling like tenants, not really having a relationship with the people whose compound they inhabit. But mine checks on me when I'm sick, continues the weeknight tradition of Generations viewings, helps me give the dog a bath, and teaches me how to drive stick shift. Keep up the yell singing and the soccer playing, obhuthi wami. I love you boys.

And finally (but certainly not least) is my Peace Corps family. No one in the world understands my daily joys and agonies better than those in this country doing/struggling through/conquering the same job I am. On my darkest days, I can always rely on a happy anecdote or a cute animal picture to pick me back up. And I hope that my actions and words try to reciprocate.

I never thought about how blessed I am when it comes to families until this day to celebrate them was staring me in the face. This country is really fucked up sometimes and there are days where I just want to call it quits. But one thing it really does right is family. The holiday is called International Day of Families for a reason. Why have I never heard of it before?

One of Peace Corps' goals is bringing back something from the culture you lived in and sharing it with those around you. While this holiday isn't specifically South African, it's one I came across here. And one that feels like it's celebrated on more days than one. Expect to hear about it when I return.

Meeting Halfway

I'm not usually one to write about weekends away, but this one is definitely worth it.

Will and I hadn't seen each other in three weeks, which of course felt like three months. We met up in Empangeni, about three hours or so from each of our sites; our halfway point. He had found a super affordable place for us to stay a little ways outside the city and we were picked up by one of the owners in the late afternoon.

We hopped into Shelley Bain's jeep knowing a little bit about the non-profit organization that the backpackers was associated with. We knew that the Izulu Orphan Project worked with orphans, widows, and those living with HIV/AIDS. But that was only the beginning.

Shelley picked us up and immediately started talking about the org. She told us about her son, Chadd, the mastermind behind the Project's inception. When he was younger "he would just take the jeep and drive around. He would see children walking on the side of the road and ask to take them to their homes. When he got there, he'd ask why they weren't in school." He found that their parent was sick and unable to work, so the children would be doing adult-type chores or duties.

The more he drove, the more he discovered. One day he found sponsors to build a clinic. Then he was building Creches (preschools). And then he was giving out extra food from bread factories and supermarkets. He married his wife Kate in the mid-2000s and their honeymoon was a 3-month drive through the African continent in the Land Rover.

Sitting in the backseat of the Jeep, all I wanted to do was meet this incredible man. I was about to ask if we would over the course of the weekend, but didn't want to interrupt the momentum of the story. A few minutes later, we learned that Chadd had been tragically killed in early December 2009.

On Saturday afternoon, Shelley took Will and I on a tour of some of the Project's present undertakings. We saw a newly constructed health clinic for HIV/AIDS testing and the building next to it that would soon be a small computer lab. We saw a Creche painted with zoo animals by volunteers and decorated with the handprints of its tiny learners. And we saw a structure inhabited by a woman and her son that used to be a chicken coop, after their house had collapsed. Shelley showed us the foundation that had been dug for a new home, one fit for humans. (The picture attached to this post is that chicken coop house.)

A little later in the afternoon, we met Jedd (7) and Kadde (4), Chadd and Kate's biological sons. (I use the word biological here because they also have two foster children, Mbali and Sandile). These boys had more energy than any kids I've met lately. I sat in the backseat with them as they put Kadde's shoes on the stuffed springbok toy, counted the number of seconds in nine minutes, and told us how they drive go-karts "like a champion." (The other picture is of the boys with the springbok.)

This whole weekend was pretty unfathomable. How something so tragic as a fatal motorbike accident could happen to someone whose heart is five times the size of a normal human's because it's so full of love. How these boys won't know their father. How Kate and Shelley and Peter carry on and continue to build up the community around them when they could ignore it and accept it like so many people in this country do.

It took me all weekend to walk up to the framed and enlarged front page of the Zululand Observer from December 10, 2009 to read about Chadd: his life, his mindset, his achievements. I feel gracious for having come into contact with such truly beautiful people. (Take a look at this post by Kate if you've got a minute: thehappywafrican.wordpress.com/2010/08/26/an-open-letter-from-kate-bain-at-izulu-orphan-projects/)

Will and I met halfway to learn about a man who went all the way. And I'm so glad we did.

The Power of Books

Trying to organize, arrange, and stock a library at my school has become my biggest project. It consumes my free periods during the day, my Google searching when the hours of school have come to an end, and my brainstorming in the evenings and on weekends. It's become important to me because I've tried to think back and imagine my school years without a library, without books, and without imagination. I can't. And I'm glad. Kids should have access to that kind of knowledge, adventure, excitement, and control. It pains me all the more that most kids in my village haven't and probably won't have this outlet in their childhood and adolescence. Hopefully my school will be different, though.

In the past week and a half, I've seen just how powerful books are, especially to those that have never had them before. Back track to last week, beginning with Monday March 4th. I've been fortunate to have received some books from friends and family back home. I have a total of twenty four books that I compiled into one of the USPS boxes that transported them to me across the ocean. There are about three or four chapter books that are too hard for my learners to read, a bunch of kids books, an I Spy book, and a "My First Encyclopedia." We have obligatory "reading for enjoyment" by the Department of Education, regardless of the fact that we don't even have enough textbooks for a single section of a grade. Anyway, I've told my two sections of Grade 6 that they will get the books twice a week: 6A gets them on Mondays and Wednesdays, and 6B gets them Tuesdays and Thursdays. 6A is better behaved and always more engaged than 6B. I don't know what accounts for the difference, but that's how it is.

Tuesday the 5th was 6B's first day with the books. I figured they'd spend more time talking and hitting each other than paying any attention to them, which is usually how things go when there is no class going on. However, I was pleasantly surprised. I put the box on a plastic chair in the front of the room and told them they were free to come and take whatever they wanted. They stormed the box and all the books were gone in a matter of seconds. There are more boys than girls in 6B and most of them are way far behind, so they usually just stare at me when I ask questions. All of these boys had gathered into a couple of desks in the back corner and were sharing the "My First Encyclopedia." I've never seen them so focused on anything before. The benches usually sit two learners, comfortably. The boys were sitting three, sometimes four to a bench. They shared this book amongst the dozen or so of them, flipping through and stopping to laugh at animals and point at maps. "Miss, this is a monkey or a baboon?" they ask. "Look, a lizard!" I sat down on a bench next to the boy who can barely utter his name in an English sentence. He was holding the I Spy book, trying to figure out what to do with it. I showed him the pictures on the left and how he was supposed to find those same pictures in the bigger, more cluttered picture on the right. He completed the first page after a few minutes. The smile on his face completed my day. He had conquered a page of this book. And while it isn't the conventional book, it's still a start right?

Fast forward to the beginning of this week. The ugly cement storeroom across the way from the office where I spend my time planning was calling my name. I'd piled up a couple hundred books outside the door that were entirely useless: workbooks in Afrikaans, books from the 90s that had been eaten by mice and served as homes for the largest cockroaches I've ever seen, etc. The groundskeeper Mr. Tembe asked me what we was to become of these books, as I was running out of space. I went to ask the principal and he said "those books that we cannot use, we must burn." I was slightly shocked to hear this, especially considering the Limpopo textbook scandal of the not so recent past: newly delivered textbooks in Limpopo province were found thrown in rivers and discarded, while schools had no books to use for classes. South Africans (especially schools) have a really difficult time parting with things, mostly for fear of whoever the higher-up is; in this case, "the Department." Not long after the principal came over, my counterpart walked in. Goodness Bongekile (better known as GB) is the one teacher at my school that I can always rely on. She rounded up six boys from Grades 6 and 7 and the floor of the storeroom was cleared in a matter of two days. As more learners started to come out of their classes, a mob had formed by the door to this cement eyesore. The boys were carting the books to the fire pit, but were intercepted by the mob. I've never gone anywhere near a store or shopping mall on Black Friday (nor do I ever plan to), but this is what I imagine it to look like. These books were being discarded because they are old, eaten and dirty, and written in a language that no one in this area speaks. But that didn't stop kids from fighting each other (sometimes literally) for these books. I watched little kids in Grade 3 or 4 holding Maths workbooks written in Afrikaans, Life Orientation books for Grade 6, Grade 1 textbooks with yellowed pages. The looks on their faces as they sat down under a tree and opened these books are ones I will never forget. I guarantee most of them couldn't read a word of what was on the page in front of them. But the fact that they had a book (one they could call their own) was more important.

A few wonderful girls in my cohort are putting together a Books for Africa project, whereby participating schools (after raising the money needed) will receive roughly 730 books for their library. The slogan for this project is "Today a Reader, Tomorrow a Leader." I'm a big fan.

Is this a plug for throwing some books in the mail for me to add to this project? Maybe. Is this an undertaking and a series of mental images that I will always remember? Probably. Is this concrete evidence that kids need to have books, and need to be able to read and laugh and write about them? Most definitely.

House & Home

There are tons of things about this country and this culture that drive me crazy. But there are also those that I really admire. The concepts of family and where you live are a couple of them.

This afternoon I struggled and scrambled to try and come up with a lesson plan for an informal remedial English class that I'm going to start having on Friday afternoons in the hour that is taken to sweep and scrub classrooms instead of teaching. I wanted the lesson to be useful, but not too hard or too easy. Do I start with basic phonics? Do we read a story? Do I jump right into sentences that begin with "I like…"? I finally settled on a Little Bear book, illustrated by Maurice Sendak. The English vocabulary of some of these kids is so low, that I ended up making a list of probably half the words in the section that we're going to read, with its Zulu translation. I got to the word house and was momentarily stuck. While house and home aren't all that different, people don't use "house" here. It's all about "home." Maybe that's to account for all the different structures that people live in (rondavals with thatched roofs, cinder block houses like mine, or those that are made of reeds and mud) or maybe it's more of a feeling thing. In the United States, we refer to where we live as a house. It's a structure that provides shelter. We use home to decorate our walls with little ornaments that say "home is where the heart is" and welcome mats to wipe our feet that say "welcome to our home," but generally, I think that's about it.

Going back to translation issues, the same thing comes up when discussing family members. Very few people use the words uncle, aunt, or cousin here. Family is extended beyond the nuclear. Your parents' siblings are your mom or dad, even if they didn't give birth to you. Your siblings' kids are your own kids. A teacher that I wait for a ride with in the morning introduced me to her "daughters" the other morning. In the past, she told me about her daughter who is my age, who is attending university. So who are these two school age girls? "They are my sister's children." Gotcha. The same goes for siblings. Kids don't talk about their cousins. You ask them how many brothers and sisters they have, and you get a double-digit response. Even greeting people on the street, in the taxi, or at the grocery store: everybody is everybody's bhuti (brother) or sisi (sister).

I arrived home from gallivanting around KZN at the beginning of January to find a new structure built next to my house. It was for my brothers, and now I had three of them living at home instead of the two that I had left on 30 November. I returned home to meet Siyanda, 21 years old, in Grade 11. In talking with my baba, I learned that Siyanda is one of baba's nephews. Both of Siyanda's parents passed away a few years back. What he did up until now, I'm not sure, but he lives here, has school fees paid for, and is the best with little kids. He knocks on my door every so often to check in, say hello, ask me how my day was. I watch Generations every night with the boys in their house and we chat about school and life. I said house when I should have said home.

I was talking with my brother Derek lately about our different views on money and its importance to us. "I want to have a nice house and a nice car when I'm older. Is that bad?" Derek asked. "I feel like money isn't a big deal to you. It doesn't hold as much importance." I told him that living on a ~$320 monthly budget does that to a person. "No, I'm not just talking about now; you were like that when you were home here too." Maybe I was. I think this journey is making that more apparent to me. I do want a house someday. But more than just a protective roof over my head, I want to have a home.

School Days and Soccer Games

This past Friday, I got approved leave from school to go to Durban a day before me and some other volunteers had tickets to see the AFCON quarter final game at Moses Mabhida Stadium. It was great because I've been dreading my classes for at least a week now. The game was exciting because we bought tickets before we knew who would be playing, and South Africa's national team, Bafana Bafana, was one of the competitors. Unfortunately, they lost to Mali in penalty kicks, after two overtimes and a serious edge-of-your-seat game. I sang the South African national anthem with a sold out stadium (built especially for the 2010 World Cup), sat in the seventeenth row (and near-ish to South African President Jacob Zuma), and was slightly deafened by the competing sounds of Mali fans' drums, South Africa fans' vuvuzelas, and the handheld siren that the guy behind me thought it would be a good idea to bring to the game. It was a lovely weekend, and really nice to meet up with volunteers from other regions to talk about life and school thus far.

So back to school. We've had months of training, been given all the worst case scenario stories, and planned until we can't plan anymore. Every day since Wednesday January 16th has been a challenge in one way or another. In a period of seven days (including the weekend) I cried two or three of those days after school. Everyone told us our learners would be below their grade level, but I never imagined they'd be this behind.

The being behind is only one of the issues. My style of teaching is different than anything they've ever seen or dreamed. On the first day when I replicated the "getting to know you" game we played in Atlanta (where you have to go around the room and fill in people's names next to things that they have or have done) and tell them to walk around and talk with other learners, they stared at me: half in confusion and half in terror. Being told to talk to each other during class is foreign. "Chalk and talk" is how things work here: a teacher writes notes on the board, and learners copy without question or explanation. When they're given exams, the questions are word-for-word copied from the notes. It's a memorization game, not one of reflection and application.

Speaking of games, here's the favourite one of this system: presentation over content. All of us in SA26 are subject to follow the new curriculum CAPS. Under CAPS, my grade 6s are required to complete ten formal assessment tasks in Term 1. Term 1 began on January 16th and ends on March 28th. Some of those tasks include "performs a poem or song with oral comprehension," "reflects on stories/text read independently," and "writes three paragraphs based on the theme of the story." There are a few problems with these tasks, which are just three of the ten they are expected to have completed come 28 March. One: why are we worried about performing a poem when we can't even read it? Two: kids don't read independently here. There are no books available at school (we don't have a library, but hopefully by the time my two years are up, we will) and I'm sure an overwhelming majority of these kids have never had a book they can call their own. Three: a lot of my kids can't formulate a logical sentence about their favourite colour. How in the world are they supposed to decipher the theme of a story and then write three paragraphs about it?

Being behind: I've started doing journals twice a week with my grade 6 classes. It has so far proved to be the only thing that has gone successfully in these past weeks because it is so individualized. However, it has showed me that a handful in each class cannot write me a correct sentence telling me what colour they like most, or what their mother's name is, or what they like to do at home. In the same vein, they cannot ask me my brother's name, what I like to eat, or how old I am. Don't get me wrong, I can decipher what they're trying to say, but I shouldn't have to at this point in their education. These questions are basic and should have been covered a long time ago. This education system is a disaster, and I'm here trying to pick up the pieces for the 66 kids that I see everyday for an hour.

I have been feeling so demoralized lately. I am putting all of my heart and efforts into planning classes that I feel are far too basic for grade 6: what is a noun? What is the past tense of go? Write a sentence using "like" in third person. All of these were followed by blank stares. I have been going to school since January 16th and just looking at my learners as they stare back at me. It really makes me question what the hell I am doing here in the first place.

I was talking to a fellow volunteer about this recently, how we're both (how we're all) really struggling. How we stare at our notebooks as we try to plan lessons that someone will be able to understand and grasp. How it's hard to get up and face the day when everything is sucking so much. And how we need little glimpses of that lightbulb going off in somebody's head to keep us chugging along; we need something, anything, positive to happen to restore a sense of hope and purpose to our job.

That moment happened for me today. Both of my classes went well, but it was when I was reading "The Enormous Crocodile" by Roald Dahl to them that I really felt it. (No one has ever read to these kids, so at first, they stared at me confused, and then began to chat.) For those that haven't read it (I'm only halfway through it myself), the story is about a crocodile who wanders through the jungle on his way to town so he can eat some "juicy, little children." He meets different animals along the way, and he tells his plan to each of them. They are all horrified, and tell him how horrid he is for doing such a thing. The book I have is beautifully illustrated, which has been maybe the biggest contributor to my learners' comprehension.

Today I walked up and down each row holding the book out to show how the Enormous Crocodile chomped on the tree that a monkey was sitting in, but the monkey was quick and jumped to another tree before he was eaten himself. Uproarious laughter. They reached out to touch the crocodile's sharp teeth on the smooth page. When the crocodile disguised himself as a small coconut tree to fool the children, one learner goes "the crocodile is so clever!" At the end of class, half of them gathered around the book to read it on their own and touch the pictures. One asked me if he could borrow the book. I had to say no because I need it to plan tomorrow, but the fact that he wanted to take a book home to read or look at or share with his family both makes me smile and breaks my heart. It makes me happy that (slowly but surely) I'm getting through to some of them. But it chokes me up to think that I'm the first person exposing them to listening to a children's storybook, that they don't have access to reading and books at school or at home, and that this is such an easy fix if begun soon enough in their years of schooling.

The positive was saved for the end this time. And I'm glad today happened, because otherwise it would have been entirely negative. A lot of my days make me feel helpless and useless, and I really struggle sometimes. But as much as it sucks, knowing that I'm not alone in my uphill battle makes it feel slightly better. And days like today totally invalidate all my other doubts about my presence and my impact. They're small and often sporadic, but days like today keep me going.

Also, at the end of my second class, two girls that sit at one of the back corner desks gave me cards they made. They both had the same message: good day miss thandi/hi miss diana I love you I like you you are everything in my heart you are so pretty, kindness you are so perfect, so patient you are the kind ness women you are the best teacher you are so beautiful I so happy miss diana good bye miss. Day made x2

*** This is a plug for books. If you can send me little, illustrated books by Roald Dahl, or anyone similar/similar reading level, please do. Throw them in a bubble mailer and mail it here. I received one last week with two hardcover books. The postage cost $11.26. Can you swing $12 postage and a few bucks more for a couple books? Please and ngiyabonga (thank you). ***

This is the New Year: Reflections & Resolutions

I'm finally back home at site after over a month of being away. I've slept in half a dozen different beds, on the ground, in caves, and under the stars, and it's nice to be back in my own, DoE rock-like bed. Since 30 November when I left for the beginning of In-Service Training, I think I've learned a lot. Obviously about the content that was presented to us from 30 November to 13 December at training, but also on a more personal level. I realize now how much I missed my South African family, and how much they missed me while I was gone. I hugged both of my host parents for real, not just out of being nice after having met them for the first time; my frail but strong gogo (grandmother) smiled and told me I looked muhle (beautiful); and my siblings wanted to know all about how my holidays were. I received phone calls from teachers that I had given my number to but never heard from in the past. I realize just how hard it is to transition back into regular American English after having spoke in "village voice" for so many months (enun-ciating ev-ery sin-gle word to make sure you are ful-ly under-stood). And I realize how much I missed Will after only having BBM to communicate from early September to early December.

In three short months, each of us has changed; some more drastically than others. At Pre-Service Training (PST), we were asked to make an Identity Map at one of our sessions highlighting how we identified ourselves at that point in time, only a few short weeks into our new adventure. We did the same exercise at IST, later comparing it with our first one. On my first map, I had "white" and "woman" in two different bubbles. This time around I had "WHITE WOMAN" in one bubble. Not to say that my race and gender weren't visible before, but now they both seem to be in my face at all times. Sexual harassment incidences in Peace Corps countries on the continent of Africa are highest in South Africa. I don't say that to freak anyone out (mom, dad, and family back home), I'm just telling it how it is. Unwanted attention, marriage proposals, and a proposed scenario of "friends with benefits" are all examples of sexual harassment, and have each happened to me so far at site.

On my first map, I had "daughter" and "sister" in a single bubble encompassing family ties. The updated map had "daughter," "sister," and "granddaughter" each in their own bubbles. Who I am as a daughter and a sister with my host family is slightly different; I have a relationship as a child to be protected with my host parents, and a relationship of joking, secret-sharing, and Generations-watching with my siblings. I haven't had a grandmother since I was ten years old, so it was really interesting to think of myself as a "granddaughter" once again.

The "college graduate" bubble didn't seem like such a big deal when I included it on my first map. In order to qualify for Peace Corps, you have to have a Bachelor's degree in something relevant. So I was no different than the next person. In my village and at my school, I feel like that bubble makes me stand out. Some teachers at my school have no degree whatsoever; others just took their exams and were receiving their results in mid-November. They come to me to ask what a word means, or if they are correctly constructing a sentence, or if I can explain an entire lesson to them so that they may later teach it to their class. In one region where our SA26 cohort is assigned, five incoming volunteers were told that they made up something like 1/6 of the college-educated inhabitants in the area.

On my first map, my central bubble read "Diana." My new middle bubble reads "Diana Pitcher / Thandi Mngomezulu," taking into account my American and South African names and families.

Having been gone for a month has allowed me to see other parts of this country and how they work: taxis that can and can't be relied upon in villages versus cities, the feeling of accomplishment after hiking up Masubasuba Pass from South Africa into Lesotho, and the genuine kindness and hospitality of complete strangers. Coming back has also given me time and experience to reflect on things I want to change: my biggest resolution for the New Year is to be more patient. Honestly, that is going to be a huge undertaking for me, as a person who likes to see things get done in a timely manner, and more so as an American. Life here is slow and more time is wasted waiting for a taxi to fill up or for someone to show up for a meeting than the time it would take to complete the task at hand. Learning patience here of all places will do nothing but benefit me in the long run. My other resolution has to do with fitness and exercise (and is realistic!). After five days of hiking, climbing, walking, falling, drinking lots of stream water with iodine tablets, and sleeping on the ground, I felt generally amazing (except for extreme sleep deprivation). I want that feeling to last, not for it to be a fleeting, once a year occurrence when my muscles are sore. I am going to start the Insanity fitness program all over again. I am also going to start running with my host dad in the mornings before school. I think this will help to get me into a routine of fitness, but also a general routine for school, sleep, etc. And finally, I want to be a good teacher. I have no formal training as an educator, and have only previously worked in small groups or individually. I want my students to succeed and feel confident about their work and about themselves. I'll let you know how we're doing a few months from now…