"I'm coming home, tell the world I'm coming home..."

Today marks one week since my earlier-than-anticipated homecoming to the States, after having left home over two years ago for Peace Corps.  As you might imagine, it’s quite an experience re-integrating into my home culture and observing how people and things operate, while still trying to retain some of what I learned in rural South Africa since 2012.

The purpose of this post is to sort of walk you through my thought process these past seven days and give you an idea of how I’m sorting through some of the most striking observations.

In no particular order, I’ll start with size.  And how big things seem to be are.  I'm not just talking cars, which was one of the first things I noticed; maybe re-noticed, because they've always been big here.  (Do you need a Hummer driving down the Hutchinson Parkway?  Probably not.)  But it's everything from shopping carts in stores, to the proportions of people's bodies (lots of whom are cruising down aisles on scooters with baskets in the front so they can do their grocery shopping from a seated position), to the rush that people seem to be in to get through a robot (traffic light in American speak) that they would otherwise wait a minute or two at before they're allowed to carry on their way.

I learned a new sense of patience during my PC service.  Not to say that I was especially impatient before, but if you can't get used to sitting in a hot Quantum taxi at the Teacher's Center rank in Durban for 3 hours waiting for a handful of passengers to arrive and decide they want to go to the same place you do (and you can only go when the taxi is full), then making it through two years would be a serious struggle.  I've been doing pretty alright so far, and hope to keep it going strong.

Like most Americans, my family has a television.  Actually we have two, but the second one isn't used all that much.  I have never consciously spent so much time away from the TV as I have since last Friday, honestly because I'm intimidated by it.  I watched the first season of The Newsroom while in South Africa and really loved it, so I'm working on watching Season Two with my parents.  In the few moments it takes to scroll down the list of Tivo'ed programs to get to the episodes I wanted, there was a commercial on the real time channel playing in the background talking about how you can set your device to record shows it thinks you would like in addition to what it's already scheduled to record for you.  As if however many countless shows we as Americans watch and then re-watch and fast forward through commercials of to get to the next episode isn't quite enough.  A machine can tell you more things to watch that you might like.  Please.  Go read a book.

In the usual trips to the store or to buy Dad's newspapers, I'll run into someone that I know or that knows the family.  They greet me, ask about Peace Corps, I tell them I was in South Africa, and then either a blank stare comes over their face or they make a very generalized comment about Africa as a whole.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying this was the case with everyone that I talked with, but at least 50% didn't really seem to have a clue about where geographically I spent my past two years.  As a culture, we have what seems like very little concept of a lot of the rest of the world.  I'm really not trying to make a blanket statement here, this is just from personal experience.  Maybe it's because I really like/ am pretty decent at geography and love maps.  I was just a little taken aback.

I returned home to pretty much a disaster of a room, which only got worse as I unpacked each of my bags.  My closet is full.  My dresser drawers are full.  And I have two laundry baskets of clothes that don't yet have a spot to call home.  I'm stuck asking myself how I have accumulated so much stuff.  Why do I need dozens of sweaters or long-sleeved shirts or half a dozen hoodies?  My personal goal for the next couple of weeks is to go through and donate at least half, if not three quarters, of the clothes that I own.  Not only am I trying to seriously down-size my life and belongings, but I've seen first-hand how much more people could use this stuff than me.

Not everything I've observed is bad.  While this reflection may come across as overwhelmingly negative, it's actually quite the opposite to me.  I've never felt so grateful in my life.  I've lived on quite a bit less financially, done a lot more things by hand, and spent more quality face-to-face time with other people as a result of lack of electricity or simply lack of decent services (here's lookin' at you, Vodacom).  I'm quite happy to be leaving some of those things behind, like washing all of my clothes by hand on a miserably hot Manguzi afternoon, or waiting by my phone waiting for an SMS telling me that we got paid so I don't have to eat popcorn for dinner again.  But all of those things have made me that much more thankful for the objects that are so often taken for granted here.

I have been waiting to use and thank my washing machine for being a machine so I don't have to clean my clothes.  I was truly kind of confused at how fast the wifi worked (and works), and surprised to once again see what a GIF looks like when it actually has enough internet to load.  More than anything, it's probably been best to talk to my family whenever I want: sitting with Mom in the backyard watching the butterflies and admiring her veggie gardens, calling Derek and talking to him on the phone for 20 minutes without worrying about an international call charge, having Dad drive me to a job interview and wait for me the whole time because I don't have a car of my own yet.  I've missed them more than words can properly express.

And speaking of home, I live in a seriously beautiful place.  It always hits me most when I'm away from the area, so it's coming on especially strong this week.  The sights, the smells, the sounds, everything.  The ice cream truck driving down the street as kids run down the driveway to meet him, the mountains looming over most roads that you travel anywhere in Red Hook; the smell of freshly cut grass, the street after it rains, and the earthy scent of digging for some veggies in the backyard; the sound of the geese overhead (or "honkers" as they've been called as far back as I can remember), the crickets and tree frogs that come out to chatter after the sun goes down.  All in all, I may not end up staying and settling here in the future, but right now it feels damn good to be home.

The Week of Lasts

Needless to say, an excessive amount of time has passed since I last posted on this blog. That's not to say that nothing has happened, I just didn't feel like it was worth writing about. The first few months of school I felt discouraged and useless, waiting and waiting and waiting for the completion of a store room that we had hired a person to build. He stopped showing up for months at a time and I watched the days tick by as my Close of Service date approached and my library project stood still in time.

However, it's lucky that I have a few friends who work quite well with their hands and came to school with me over school holiday and built the roof and its frame out of the goodness of their hearts. The following Monday my manager friend from the hardware store sent two of her best builders to complete the final steps of door and window frames, and the store room was a usable space.

The library soon started coming together: shelves were scrubbed, books were stocked, Library Helpers from Grades 5, 6, and 7 were selected. It was kind of a whirlwind; a wonderful, victorious whirlwind of something that I care so much about actually taking shape.

Tuesday

And now it's July 29th. My last week of school. The hardest week of my service, and arguably of my life so far. I've never spent a period of time this long away from home, or been so deeply accepted into a different family and school and culture. I have become an honorary Mngomezulu daughter, a Libuyile Primary School educator, a witness and participant to Zulu celebrations, a part of life in Thengani village and not just another white person passing through on their way to the most beautiful beaches I've ever seen.

I get greeted everyday by forty screaming kindergarteners who want to show off their tiny knowledge of English and throw up their arms when they yell "and. How. Are. Youuuuuuu?" I have Grade 7s coming to me almost everyday asking "Miss, please borrow me your library books." And then I get shy smiles and little waves from everyone in between. Teachers say hello in the morning by calling me Thandi, or umngane wami (my friend), or sisi (sister). And this whole week just makes my heart hurt.

I'm on the verge of tears half a dozen times a day. When the high school English teacher that I worked with last year that this Friday is my last day at school, and she looks at me with tears in her own eyes and says "Thandi, I blame myself. For not spending more time with you. Because I love you." Cue waterworks. When a learner who has struggled for the past two years writes me a goodbye letter saying things like "today I know a English because of you Miss Diana." Again, tears.

The other day when I was washing my hair upside down under the tap in the yard (it's grown so long since I shaved it two years ago that I have to hold it above the ground so it doesn't sit in a mud puddle while I'm rinsing it) I thought, "this is my last Monday doing this." Same thing when I filled and hauled my 15-liter bucket of water to my stoop. And I'll say it again when I'm washing my clothes by hand and trying not to get a sunburn while doing it. I won't miss any of these particular things, but they've become so much a part of my routine, it will feel weird when I don't have to do them anymore.

I have never wanted to hide away and wait for a period of time to pass until now; I partially wish I could just wear a mask or go stay with a friend, because I feel sick to my stomach most of the time. It's the looks on people's faces and the words that come from the bottom of their hearts that rock me to my core. Sometimes I ask myself why I put myself through this if the end is so difficult to cope with. If you're crying or almost crying while reading this, you've got a fraction of an idea of how I feel. But when all is said and done, this reaction on my part and from everyone I love and care about around me shows that I must have been doing something right these past two years.

Thursday

Today was the first day that I didn't tear up at school. (Most of this blog post was written earlier in the week when I was kind of a walking disaster.) Not even when this happened: A Grade 7 boy who I only met this year was asking me about going home and if I'd come back to visit. I said yes because there are so many people here that I love. He looked back at me and said, "well we love you too, Miss." Or this: Grade R gathered around me and sang a song about how they will never be left with nothing as long as they have their education. Or this: the Grade R teacher told me that she wished the sun wouldn't rise on Friday so I wouldn't have to have my last day at school.

Friday

And the dreaded day finally arrived. I did pretty well for the first part: no crying, and pretty regular conversation and tasks. After break the whole staff was brought into the office while I was brought into the room next door to be dressed in my new Zulu attire. The tears didn't begin until I re-entered the room and was greeted by applause. My counterpart GB spoke on behalf of the teachers, citing "the tangible as well as the unseen evidence" of my work at school; namely the library as tangible and the grade that I worked with as stronger English students than the one from the year before. She said that I reminded her of herself, in that I'm a fighter and will do what needs to be done until I succeed. This is why she was the most wonderful counterpart.

I walked outside into a mob of learners with dropped jaws at what I was wearing, but with appreciation in their eyes. Various grades had prepared dances and songs and speeches for my final day, and we spent the rest of the afternoon. I lost it when a group of Grade 4s read a speech about how I'd helped them learn English and how to use library books, and was asked to address the school immediately after. I explained that I was crying because I was happy, and that it was difficult to leave so many people that I love. I ended with saying that when I return someday, I hope they will greet me and tell me how they're doing.

This culture is not one that cries very often, which often makes me feel like kind of a fool because I am an emotional person. When hugging teacher friends and special learners at the end of the day, my crying lead to some of my learners crying, which I'd never seen or imagined I'd witness. They wiped their eyes and stared into space as we wished each other well for the last time face to face. One of my favorite boys, Siyabonga, said "please don't cry Miss, everything will be alright."

And it will all be alright. This wound needs a little bit of time to heal up. But it will. Earlier in this post I talked about asking myself why I was punishing myself by going through this pretty miserable week. But if this week and all its pain are to be a representation of what I've done these two years, I think it was worth it.

Day 7: We'll Be Coming Down the Mountain When We Come

Today's stats: Mweka Camp (3080 m) – Mweka Gate (1630 m)

We awoke to sun coming through trees with leaves. And so much oxygen.

It was a leisurely day, full of trees with vines and moss and singing birds and higher spirits. It was a slow (but kind of hurried) descent through the rainforest back to civilization. There isn't much to say about this day, except that we were slowly beginning to feel like ourselves again.

On the way down we found two troops of colobus monkeys up in the treetops. I walked with Nico for part of the way and asked him his favorite part of the trek. He said he liked the last day, because he was on his way back to his family and a hot shower. I laughed and agreed.

When we started to see locals gathering wood from the forest on either side of the trail, my heart jumped because I knew we were close. When we made it to the parking lot and were reunited with our porters, I immediately switched into my Chacos to expose my poor blistered heels to some air. We met our UW friends at the sign in book and chatted with them for the last time before they got ready to fly home. They wished us luck with the rest of service.

We drove back to the hotel, and I took the most glorious shower of my life.

Day 6: On the Roof/ Summit Day (Get Up and Get Down)

Today's stats: Barafu Hut (4640 m) – Uhuru Peak (5895 m) – Mweka Hut (3080 m)

Today's account begins promptly at midnight. It actually technically begins when we woke up a little after 11 p.m, but we'll say midnight when we set off. I felt strangely awake for having had such a short time to rest and then wake up and get up in the cold darkness. I slept in most of what I had planned to wear for the summit because I didn't know if I'd be able to bring myself to get re-dressed when it was that cold. We went to the mess tent for tea and a small snack (I had to have something in my stomach to take my Diamox). The guides stressed that we eat and drink water as often as we possibly could because the higher we ascended, the less we would want to and it was crucial.

We packed up and started walking over a pretty level rock face on our way out of camp. We were put in order by the guides of where to walk: Jeff was in front, I was next, followed by Alicia, Will, Matt, and Nico at the back. The moon was bright, almost full, so we almost didn't need our headlamps. But I'm glad I had mine so that I could follow in Jeff's footsteps perfectly. I figured that if I kept up with his pace and footing, I'd be successful and not have any issues. If only this were the case.

The moon lighting up the fresh snow was amazing. I wanted to capture a picture of it, but it was difficult for several reasons. First off, I had my camera wrapped in spare clothes so it didn't freeze, and both the batteries were inside my sports bra to keep them warm and from malfunctioning. Second, we were told that if we take breaks, they must be quick ones because it was too cold and our toes might start to freeze if we stood in place for too long. And finally, without a tripod, the shutter speed was really slow and the pictures came out quite blurry. (One picture is attached to this post, and honestly, it does a pretty good job of capturing my general feeling through most of today).

We took a couple of water breaks within a few hours of leaving, and it's a good thing that Matt and Alicia packed a little more water than they needed: the hoses on the Camelbaks that Will and I were using froze, so we were water-less. The guides typically told us not to bring more water than we needed (3 liters for each daytime hike) because it would be unnecessary extra weight, but this time it was a good call. As we climbed, we saw little lights making zig-zag lines across the rising ground in front of us: other climbers that had set out earlier. I heard our UW friends singing a song back and forth about tacos. Feeling the presence of other people braving the same thing as us made me feel a little bit better.

The higher we go, the more my head begins to pound. My vision is actually beginning to pulse. I wished my handwarmer weren't stuck right in my palm: it's my fingertips that were cold and needed its warmth. We climbed some more and then took a short sitting break. It wasn't one that the guides suggested, it happened because I dropped myself down onto a rock. They said we should try to eat something. I pulled a Clif Bar from the side mesh pocket of my pack and almost broke my tooth: it was frozen solid, so I ate it like a hungry animal would, through the side of my mouth with my molars. We started walking again and I hurt all over. At one point, I actually would have rather curled up in the snow and got hypothermia than continue.

The snow kept crunching under my feet interspersed with the loose rocks that almost made me slip more times than I can count. I seriously started questioning what we were thinking when we decided to spend our hard-earned money and precious Peace Corps leave days on this ridiculous trip. People die making this trek. Should we have done more research? Did we train enough?

It was starting to get light behind us. Our first milestone was reaching Stella Point at 5739 meters above sea level. The light at our back was orange and pink. This will go on my list of most amazing places I've seen the sun rise; also on the list are on the summer solstice at Machu Picchu, as well as from the top of a church in Oaxaca State, Mexico. Jeff and Nico gave us high fives, and people coming back from the summit told us congratulations and that we were so close. But God did it feel like they were telling us a really cruel lie.

The distance from Stella Point to Uhuru Peak was only about 100 meters, but it felt like a marathon. Each step was harder than the one before it. I felt like all the people that we passed and said, "you're almost there!" were lying. We could see the sign at the summit, but it never seemed to be getting any closer. Finally we made it. Snapped some pictures and got the hell out. The guides told us that the plan was to get up there, take our pictures, and get back down as soon as possible. Which was good for me because I was actually deteriorating this time.

Jeff and Nico said that 5200 meters and below was the safe zone, and that between there and the summit was a zone where altitude sickness can have fatal effects. My head was pounding, I felt sick, and I was beginning to hallucinate, seeing pink tinged snow along the packed-down path. For awhile I thought maybe the snow actually was discolored, that some energy drink spillage was the cause. But seeing both sides of the edge of the path all the way down in this hue made me begin to think that my brain was seriously struggling.

This time arm in arm with Jeff, with one hiking pole in his hand and one in mine, we raced down through the altitude sickness zone. A few times I felt like I was going to fall. Jeff clasped my arm tighter. We ran and ran and even when I said I needed a rest Jeff said no; we had to hurry to get to the safe zone. We kept racing and were met by several of our porters, who were alerted and came to aid in my evacuation. We made it back to base camp and I just cried. I cried in front of all the porters, our whole team. Feeling so helpless and out of control of my own body scared me in a way that I have seldom felt before. Will and I went to our tent and he consoled me until I fell asleep for a little while.

The whole summit took about 8 hours total. After not having had much to eat or drink, we were able to eat a little bit of lunch, but only a little. The guys said to us "you are not eating!" and we could only respond with the excuse of the altitude. After packing up camp again, we began what would turn out to be a 5ish hour hike down to Mweka Camp at 3080 meters. We walked quietly for most of the time, through the desolate landscape of the day before. We passed some metal rickshaws used to seriously evacuate people down to the bottom of the mountain. I was thankful that I wasn't so paralyzed that I needed one of those.

We went down and down and down. My glutes hurt so bad that I made Will wait up for me so I could use his shoulder as support for me to take a step down. He said he reminded me of his grandmother. Trust me, I felt like I had arthritis.

At the gate, there was a poster with all the different species we may come across over the course of our trek. I thought the shrews were the funniest looking, and therefore hoped to see one. Jeff and Nico told us that they were very rare to see and that I shouldn't count on seeing one. On our way down, I saw a baby shrew. It was adorable and looked so fuzzy. It made me smile for the first time all day. Thank you, baby shrew.

The other best part of the day was when we reached our camp. I lowered myself down onto my sleeping mat with my muddy boots outside the door. We ate dinner and went to bed as soon as possible. It's been a day for the books.

Day 5: On the Moon/ To the Bottom of the Beast

Today's stats: Karanga Valley (3800 m) – Barafu Hut (4640 m)

When we woke up we could see the Peak. By the time we had breakfast and saddled up for the day, we were once again shrouded in clouds and fog. After walking only a minute or so upwards, the tents that were left at camp were gone from view. We were once again walking through a grey, fuzzy-seeming landscape because nothing is in focus because of all the fog.

The present environment is referred to as an alpine desert, so kind of like what I'd picture the surface of the moon to look like. It's just rocks wherever you look: jagged ones, round ones, big ones, small ones. Rocks. And then it just started to snow. For hours.

This day was nothing exciting and we saw nothing beautiful or intriguing. By the time we made it to the office at base camp to sign in, all of our porters were on the porch taking shelter from the cold snow/ sleet. We had to wait to be told where we could set up camp, so we spent that time sharing trail mix with our team.

When we had a tent pitched, we dove inside only to find that it wasn't all that much warmer and our sleeping mats were quite wet. We were also covered in layers of wet clothing, so I took the extra shoelaces that Will's mom sent and made two clotheslines in our already small living space inside the tent. Will thought they were annoying, but I know that he was happy to have slightly drier glove liners and socks when we had to leave the tent to venture to the "toilet" or the mess tent.

Upon first entering the tent, we heard the light pitter patter of frozen water hitting the roof. After a little while we heard nothing and thought it might be safe to step outside. We slowly opened the tent door and were greeted by blinding white; the sleet had stopped and now it was just snowing. Hard.

I found a Sudoku book in my Books for Africa shipment and took it along on the trip, which turned out to be a really good idea considering all the down time we had. We waited out the snow by doing yet another puzzle, a medium level one where we passed the book back and forth at each turn.

As we were at the summit base camp, we had a special afternoon lunchtime briefing on the protocol for our summit. We would eat an early dinner, go to sleep around 5 p.m, wake up a little after 11 p.m, eat a snack and have tea, and then begin climbing at midnight. As we saw each day that we tried to look at the summit, it was always covered in clouds. If we wanted to see it clearly, we would have to walk through the night and get there early. My account of Day 5 ends here.

Day 4: Get Ready for "Breakfast"

Today's stats: Barranco Hut (3900 m) – Karanga Valley (3800 m)

First off, don't be fooled by today's stats. We didn't just descend 100 meters. There was quite a bit of up and down today, up to a maximum of 4200 meters at one point. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

This morning we experienced two new things: first, we awoke to a layer of frost on the outside of our tent flaps. (You think this is cold? You haven't seen anything yet.) And secondly, we were reminded of what a sunny morning looks like. After a full night's sleep, I feel kind of like a new person. We all make our way to the mess tent, with its door open and facing Barranco Wall across the valley where we saw the rainbow the afternoon before. Jeff walks in and says "oh good, you're all ready for 'Breakfast.'"

We watch the brightly colored dots moving horizontally along the wall across the valley. Some of them are hikers who have got an early start, and some of them are porters. After eating breakfast, Jeff tells us that we'll be doing the same as those dots that we're eyeing in disbelief. Barranco Wall, so-called Breakfast because it's what we tackle right after our meal, is the big undertaking for today. It's all about three-point climbing and going extremely pole-pole in the process.

Right before leaving camp I take my first Diamox of the day: it has to be taken immediately prior to some sort of physical activity. We set out toward the Wall, crossing a few streams before beginning our climbing for the day. It's on this day that we were really given an opportunity to admire and be gracious for our porters. Before beginning, we were told that today would be the most difficult part thus far on the trek. We'd have to go slowly and pay attention and be careful. We had to have three points of contact with the wall at all times. The porters made it look like a walk in the park. While we held on for dear life with each step horizontally up, they carried our bags and gas cans for cooking and tents and woven bags on their heads without a second thought. They used no hands and had impeccable balance with each step forward, often taking a steeper and more challenging path up than those of us with a light daypack firmly secured around each arm.

When we reached the top of the Wall, we looked down and saw Moshi where we began this adventure, which both looked and seemed so far away and long ago. As we climbed, I thought about how happy I was with the Columbia snow boots my mom sent from the boot closet at home. At first I thought they would be too bulky, but besides the blisters they gave me that at this point were just red and raw skin, they were holding up pretty great. I had spoke (or thought) too soon though, because when I took a seat on a rock for a water and Clif Bar break, I looked down and saw that my left boot had a huge tear right along the seam. On a particularly jagged section of the wall, I'd heard a noise at my feet but just figured it was the bottom rubbing against something wet. Our UW friends were at the same point, and invited me to join their boot repair club once we reached the next camp. The guys said they had some super glue and had done the same type of maintenance the evening before on their own boots. Matt, being the fixer of any and all things, performed emergency surgery right then and there, using silk medical tape to hold the boot wound shut until we reached camp.

We continued on and saw the same colored dots from earlier that morning, meaning that camp wasn't all that far away. Except for the part where we first had to tackle the steep and muddy descent, cross a river, and then do the same steep climb back uphill with some rock climbing thrown in. No big deal.

Somehow nobody slipped and fell going down and (still with the sorest glutes ever, speaking for myself) we trudged up to the top and found our campsite already assembled. After this afternoon's so-called Diamox Hike (got to do physical activity after taking it for it to kick in), Matt performed some more surgery, this time wrapping tape around several times and then under to hold it securely in place. As with Nemo's "lucky fin" that was small but nonetheless powerful, so became my "lucky boot," damaged but in it for the long run.

Today was the first day that I washed my hair since the night before we began the trek. Will's mom sent over lots of goodies, in the form of granola bars, body wipes for when there is no shower, and for me, a moistened shower cap with instructions on how long to keep it on your head and lather to "clean" your hair. When I was finished, I kind of wished I had just left my hair as it was. I had it pulled back and in a bandana every day, and it's not like I was sweating because it was too cold. It smelled kind of nice(r), but just ended up feeling sticky-ish. But it's the thought that counts. Thank you, Ingrid!

We all felt a little off after the Diamox Hike and after dinner, called it a night in preparation for the next day's journey to base camp.

Day 3: Frozen Hell, Lava Tower, and Diamox

Today's stats: Shira Camp (3840 m) – Lava Tower (4600 m) – Barranco Hut (3900 m)

Last night I had a dream that I was at some open-mic type place singing along to my favorite song by Katie Herzig called Charlie Chaplin. (www.youtube.com/watch?v=vP5lbEe5TAE&desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DvP5lbEe5TAE) Briana was there too, playing guitar. Then I woke up. That was the best part of the day.

The stats posted above show us climbing and then descending again. You may wonder why not just stay at that higher elevation and then continue on up? Today we were introduced to the practice of "climb high, sleep low." The idea is to introduce your body to what it feels like to be at a higher altitude so it can begin to adjust, but then sleep lower because the higher the altitude, the less sleep you get because there is less air.

So we start out walking and the pressure in my head is back. I took some painkillers to hopefully help it subside and pushed on. Today is miserable in more ways than one. Not only do I feel like inside my head is expanding with no place to go, but what we're walking through is just so unwelcoming. First off, it's pouring and super cold. And then to top it all off, the landscape we're walking through is this lonely, desolate, desert wasteland. It's empty, freezing, uninviting.

The closer we got to Lava Tower the more I hoped sitting down and having something to eat would help me get better. We made it up there and I went over to some sheltered rocks to squat and pee. After standing back up all the blood rushed to my head. I walked past all the little four-striped mice scavenging for food scraps, back to our group. When I made it there, I sat down (more fell down into a seated position), put my head in my hands, and cried. I felt like my head was going to explode, and like I was going to throw up even though there was almost no food in my system, and my layers were soaked through and it was cold. Will's aunt Alicia later told me that my lips were blue and the color had totally drained from my face.

With my condition deteriorating, Nico and Jeff said that I needed to eat something so I could start taking Diamox. The Peace Corps Med Unit provided us with this to help against the symptoms of altitude sickness. The guides suggested that as long as we hadn't started taking it at the beginning of the hike, to hold off until we absolutely needed it. I had reached that point. The smell of the banana made me sick, so I opted for some biscuit packed in our lunchbox for the day. Matt helped me out of my wet jacket and bundled me up in a new dry layer from my daypack. He put a hat on my head to keep it dry because the new layer had no hood. Nico took my pack and helped me to my feet. I've never felt so helpless in my life.

Arm in arm with Nico, we rushed down a steep decline made up of loose rocks of all sizes. During some season it must be an active mountain stream, because we walked over trickling rivers all the way down. Altitude sickness for me had the following symptoms: I had no sense of balance, my head was pounding (literally), and I felt super lethargic and sick; making our descent was really frightening.

I felt slightly better the more we walked. We were just about to Barranco Hut when it started pouring again. We stood on the stairs to the office waiting to sign in, as we did upon arriving at each new camp. I looked out at a less bleak landscape than this morning and rested my head against the railing. I told Will that I didn't know if I could continue if this is how I was going to feel. We made our way to our already assembled tent and I crawled in, curled up, and tried to rest.

When the rain stopped, most hikers started to come out of their tents to look around at the nicest campsite we'd stayed at so far. A big beautiful rainbow had formed in the sky right next to us. Maybe this was the hopeful sign that I needed.

At dinner that night, our chef Walter made us a cake for dessert. Keep in mind, they're cooking over a gas burner. He told us it took him about 20 minutes to make. It was a thoughtful end to a dispiriting day.

Day 2: Into the Clouds

Today's stats: Machame Hut (3015 m) – Shira Camp (3840 m)

At last night's dinner briefing, we were told that breakfast would begin at 730 a.m and we would leave camp at 8. There was no need for an alarm, because we were awake before 6 anyway. Between sleeping in a tent and being on a Peace Corps sleep schedule that has us up with the sun, we were ready before breakfast.

Leaving camp and beginning our ascent took us into our second ecosystem: the Heatherland. This leg of the journey took us through areas of mossy trees, scrambling up rocks, and crossing seasonal rivers. Jeff and Nico told us that today's trek would include some 3-point climbing, and when we reached that point in the day I thought about the Wild Thornberrys Playstation game I played as a kid. Specifically, one level where you're Eliza or Darwin and on a rock face and have to maneuver back and forth to not get hit with whatever is being thrown down from the top of the cliff. This was much more exciting than Playstation.

We turned around at some points to check our progress but couldn't see how high we'd gone because the clouds were rising out of the rainforest. The visibility close was fine, but distance and height weren't clear. Again, it was rainy and rocks were slippery. We took our time with the ascent. Pole-pole.

We spent some time talking to Jeff on our slow walk up. He told us that sometimes he tries listening to rap to work on his English. But that most of the time he doesn't understand anything American rappers are saying. Will's dad Matt assured him that we're in the same boat half of the time.

Amidst doing some Peace Corps Goal 3 (sharing American culture) we learned a couple more Swahili words. Asante (ah-san-tay) means thank you, and karibu (kah-ree-boo) means welcome or you're welcome. Habari gani means how are you? Nzuri means I'm fine. And adding "sana" to the end of something means a lot or very much, ie Nzuri sana means I'm great, or doing very well. I like learning these new words and putting them into use while on the trail. I really dislike traveling and not knowing any of the local language. Also, I think the guides and porters appreciated the effort on our part. And some of the Lion King is in Swahili, so that'll be fun to go back and watch sometime and put my newfound knowledge to use.

By the end of the day when we reached Shira Camp, I had a building pressure in my head that I couldn't seem to shake. I don't get headaches all that often, so it wasn't the best sign. Additionally, I can't find a simile to describe how sore my glutes are. They've actually never been in quite so much pain before. Falling apart on day 2.

We met some grad students from the University of Washington and chatted with them about Peace Corps. They were really interested in what we do, where we live, what we struggle with. 2 of them were actually on the same flight as us coming in. We talked on the plane too and found that we'd all be on the same Route for the same number of days, so hopefully we'll run into them again along the way.

I neglected to write down what we had for dinner each night, but rest assured that it was delicious and took time and talent to make. We went to bed full, sore, and ready to recharge for whatever the next day had in store for us.

Day 1: "Jambo" and "Pole-Pole"

Today's stats: Machame Gate (1820 m) – Machame Hut (3015 m)

Today is December 13th.

A little bit of backtracking: After several days of combined travel between taxi, train, airplane, and shuttle, we made it to Moshi, Tanzania. We flew from Joburg to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and were anticipating an unfortunate and uncomfortable 13-hour overnight layover in the airport there. But we were pleasantly surprised when we were checking in at OR Tambo and the attendant said "wait, let me get you your hotel vouchers." Will and I looked at each other in confused awe. So step 1: Ethiopian Airlines is awesome. They put us up in a hotel room bigger than any I've ever stayed in before. The next morning we flew to Kilimanjaro Intl. Airport and were driven to Kindoroko Hotel in Moshi.

Back to the 13th. This morning we woke up and had breakfast on the roof, hoping to see the peak of our upcoming undertaking. Per usual, it was shrouded in clouds. We met our guides downstairs, loaded up the van, and made our way to Machame Gate. We drove through banana and coffee plantations up to the gate where we signed in and waited for our porters to unload all of the materials we'd need for the next 6 days. We began our trek around 11 a.m through the first ecosystem we'd encounter: rainforest.

As promised by its name and the regular weather patterns of the area, it began raining less than an hour after our departure. We suited up with rain gear and continued our uphill journey. The hike took us along a loose gravel path at the beginning, followed by a trail shared with thick and untamed tree roots for the rest of the time. We walked through some of the greenest foliage I've seen in quite awhile, with moss hanging from trees and birds calling to one another over the sound of the rain pouring down. My heels began to blister almost immediately, and a picture (one of several) of my wounded feet right from the start accompanies this post.

Today we learned our first Swahili word: "jambo" (jahm-bo) which means hello. I was immediately brought back to a pen pal letter written by one of my mom's students to my classes. The first line said "Jumbo! (Hello in African language)." All of the guides from the various companies seem to be good friends, so we heard and used it a lot.

Our two wonderful guides Jeff and Nico conditioned us to the phrase "pole-pole" (pronounced po-lay po-lay), meaning "slowly slowly." Being physically fit is not the biggest concern when making this trek: it's the altitude that could end up being the difference between summiting and not. We had to be reprimanded at least three times to go "pole pole" or else we'd be making it harder for ourselves to acclimatize later on when it really counts.

So we started to learn how to take our time. It's not like we were in a rush to get anywhere; we were only headed to our campsite for the night. By the time we did reach camp it was around 4 in the afternoon. Our tents were already assembled and our porter bags (containing things we wouldn't need during the day while hiking) were waiting for us. We settled in and had dinner a little while later. Our meal was unlike anything I'd expected: there was soup from scratch and more food than the four of us could finish and hot chocolate. Day 1: complete.

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.