What formiddable disease ails the developing world most, bringing unequaled suffering and death to the world's most vulnerable?

Half a millenia ago the plague ravaged continents, striking fear among masses. Half a century ago influenza spread throughout the land, leaving scores of dead in its wake.

Today in our world of global information, we hear reports of a novel virus called Swine flu killing a few thousand, and the world's governments and multi-national agencies immediately mobilize a near-worldwide response to prevent a pandemic. Multi-billion dollar funds have been created to combat infectious diseases worldwide. The President's Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief. Roll-Back Malaria. Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria.

Hundreds of billions of dollars are invested by the world's wealthiest for these diseases, yet not one of them that takes the lives of the most vulnerable.

The condition that claims the most lives among women and children is one that I experienced; one that I survived. I've had many deadly diseases in my life - menengitis, pneumonia, influenza, dysentery and cancer among others, and I'm sure I'll have more. But the one condition that I survived, the one condition that is not infectious and does not spread like the plague, but silently takes the lives of half a million women and 8 million children worldwide each year is childbirth.

When I delivered my child, I had the good fortune to live in a developed country, and was able to receive the medical care needed to be a healthy mother and give birth to a healthy baby. For half a million women and 8 million children each year this is not so. I can't help but wonder why. For decades I've chalked up my good fortune to geography. I know it's not that simple, but sometimes I wonder.

Globally we have the knowledge and resources to help the world's mothers and children survive the most precious yet most precarious thing - giving life. But it's not happening. Still in Asia and Africa they fight for each breath, but for far too many it's futile. In some countries the death of mothers and babies is so woven into the fabric of life that it's planned for. Men take more wives knowing one or two may die bearing them chilren, and couples have six or seven children knowing one or two may die during birth.

One of my most memorable experiences during my travels came at a hospital in Bangladesh. A mother brought a stunted, wasted, lethargic baby girl to our doctor. Her skin barely clung to her bones and her eyes were glazed over, a shell of a baby girl. It was obvious she could not take breaths much longer without immediate medical care. The doctors asked the mother to admit the baby into the hospital but she refused. She did not give a reason. When I asked my co-workers why a mother would refuse, I was told perhaps she did not have her husband's permission, or perhaps she had too many other children at home to care for. Whatever the reason was, it left me profoundly sad. Yet this was the catalyst that drove me towards planning for thriving life, not inevitable death.

I have a healthy, happy child who has given me nothing but joy in my life. I spend my days working towards the same outcome for every mother, and hope that in my lifetime, childbirth becomes a safe and happy experience for all the world's women and children.

Click below to read the profile of my education and international health career published by the University at Buffalo's School of Public Health and Health Professions. It's on pages 6 and 7.

http://sphhp.buffalo.edu/assets/newsletters/impact_2009-06.pdf

. . . do as Bengalis do.

When I visit a new place, I love to immerse myself in the culture and really get a feel for life in another land. So when in Bangladesh, I . . .

Eat rice and chicken with my fingers. Mostly I struggle to shovel rice from my fingers into my mouth. I’m told that mixing rice and saucy chicken (or other meat or fish) between one’s fingers gives it better texture. Perhaps it does, but I am too busy trying to get it into my mouth to notice.

Get henna-painted. My hand and arm have been painted in a very intricate design drawn free-hand by my friend Dilruba. It took her two hours, the second hour completed by the dimness of a flashlight because the village lost power. Very impressive! In Bangladesh, on the first day of a woman’s wedding, which can last for four days, some women paint both hands and arms up to their shoulders, and even their feet and legs. While it dries, one must sit still for hours for the paint to reach a deep burnt reddish-orange.

Wear a tip. (Yes, Nicole, I’ve done it.) My friends here wear tips, or colored dots on their forehead for decoration. On four different days, one of my friends has placed a tip on my forehead.

On two of those days, I sweat so much, my tip fell off and was nowhere to be found. So I bought 14 more just in case.

Ride the local bus. What an experience! I’ve posted about the mindboggling traffic here earlier, and buses are usually the largest thing on the roads so they just go - they stop and move for nothing. On narrowing village roads, two buses sometimes pass each other with barely inches between them. This is not an exaggeration. The bus was like a four-hour amusement park ride with bumps and swerves, crammed with people rushing to get a seat. But everyone was very kind to me, and my friends Naz and Rajat made sure I didn’t get lost in the crowd.

Sail one of Bangladesh’s many rivers. The boats are made of wood, and creaky from years of use and make-do repairs. Like any boat ride, ours was pleasant and peaceful with water sparkling under a sun-setting sky, but sailing in Bangladesh has a special feel to it. River life is a means of survival for so many – a lifeline for the masses to get to towns and cities for work, for everyday goods to come and go, even for fish to sustain a family. Bangladesh’s rivers are facing unprecedented pollution and encroachment that can threaten this way of life, but sailing today was one of the best experiences I have had with my new friends in this beautiful country.

And finally, take tea for breakfast and dinner. The tea is delicious! Even on very hot days, hot Bangladeshi cha tastes great.

Since I've been in Bangladesh, I've visited about a dozen rural settlements and observed our team delivering a handwashing-with-soap intervention to help reduce the risk of disease.

Our team has 25 very hard-working and dedicated people, some of whom have been working to improve the health of caregivers and children, and disadvantaged populations here in Bangladesh for decades. They have worked through cyclones, braved rainstorms, persisted under a scorching sun and 100 degree heat, sloshed through mud and flooded roads, and even survived and pressed on after a boat capsized, dumping doctors into the river along with vaccines they were carrying for babies. It is people such as these that I am now working with who are on the front lines, improving health and saving lives in one of the world's developing nations. I am in awe of them, and feel very privileged to work with them even if only for a short time.

Here are some photos of the team in action.

Training in the office

Our Field Research Officers translating our documents into Bangla

Our fearless team leader who is always smiling

Field Assistants who are so helpful with every part of the project - we'd be lost without them!

Dr. Manoshi testing for flu

Delivering our handwashing and influenza education

Mud everywhere

Time for a fruit break - thal

Two of our veteran field team members

Setting up a handwashing station with soap, water and a water drum

Reviewing field activities

Intervention specialists role modeling handwashing with soap Scrub between those fingers! The goal - Community members demonstrating handwashing with soap

Time for lunch

And there's always time for ice cream

Back to the field

How many kids can fit in one picture? A lot. I'm in there somewhere.

While we worked, kids were hard at work making a fishing net

Field Research Assistants understanding handwashing in rural communities and checking for flu symptoms

Measuring a home to place an Air Quality Monitor

And when the work is done, it's time to share a meal and have some fun

Rickshaws are three-wheeled bicycle taxis powered by unbelievably strong men no larger than myself who peddle non-stop in almost unbearable heat to get you where you need to go.

They are beautifully painted and decorated - the more elaborate the decorations, the prouder the rickshaw wallah (driver) is. In Bangladesh, rickshaws are considered art.

Taking rickshaws in Dhaka, the capital city, is an interesting experience. Dhaka has traffic much like New York City, but without the conformity of street lights or driving lanes. Dhaka streets are quite literally a free-for-all for anything on wheels or feet.

Rickshaws take the busy city streets just like every other car, bus, and truck. Imagine dozens of bicycle rickshaws swerving between hundreds of cars and buses in a lane-less frenzy, honking their horns and fighting for every free inch of road. Rickshaws use bicycle bells to let other vehicles know they are coming, and rickshaws stop for nothing, finding corners to swerve into if a car does not yield to them. It’s a bit unnerving, but well worth the adventure.

A few weeks ago I got lost walking to a restaurant so I hailed a rickshaw wallah and asked him if he knew the place. He indicated he did. I asked how much for the ride and he replied 50 taka. I said 20 taka. He shook his head and said “acha” which means okay, and I hopped on.

I knew I had been close to the restaurant when I got lost, but this wallah rode for a very long time. We crossed a river twice, and rode through shantytown shacks, along the river bank, down back alleys, and dirt roads too narrow for cars teeming with men. Thirty minutes later he stopped and pointed me down a busy road. I knew the restaurant was no where in sight, and accepted that this wallah did not know my destination. It was time to find other means. I tried to pay him 20 taka I thought we agreed on, but he refused it, shouting “50 taka”. A crowd of men began to gather, so I paid him his price and walked in the direction he indicated. After twenty minutes of walking with no restaurant or shop in sight, I came across soldiers with rifles standing at the road and asked for help finding my way. One soldier spoke English, told me I was very far from my destination, and pointed me to another rickshaw wallah who agreed to take me where I wanted to go for 100 taka!

So my 20 taka rickshaw ride cost me 150 taka and some anxiety. But I consider it a bargain for the unexpected tour of parts of Dhaka I would not have otherwise seen, and the lesson in rickshaw negotiations.

When I shared my story with co-workers the next day, they told me to look for rickshaw wallahs wearing pants (as opposed to a sarong) because a pant-wearing wallah is more likely to know English. Great advice! And I've since learned that "acha" is a reluctant "okay" and likely to lead to disagreements at the end of the trip. So now it's only pant-wearing wallahs that say "ji" (or "yes") for me.

It’s all part of the fun experiencing a new culture.

I've been in Bangladesh for about 5 weeks now and have been very busy working with our team on a handwashing intervention that will hopefully prevent or reduce influenza transmission. It has been interesting and exciting going into rural areas meeting people. There are so many stories to share of their hospitality, curiosity, and culture - I am still trying to take it all in. Bangladeshi people are warm and welcoming, and very forgiving of a foreigner unable to speak Bengali. I try, but am laughed at most of the time. It's a great way to connect with people.

And it’s hot. Very hot. I love the heat, but some days I think I’m going to melt. It gets as hot as 107 degrees. Most days it’s around 98 degrees though (yes, there really is a difference!)

Since I've been here, I’ve ridden in a bicycle rickshaw, ate traditional Bangladeshi food – samosas, egg korma, and tons of rice and chicken, and haggled over the price of everything from a plastic fork to a sari (long gown worn by women) at the market.

I learned Bengali numbers really quickly since it’s bluntly stated that I, a tourist and often the only one in the crowd, will be charged at least twice the going rate for pretty much anything without a price sticker on it. And when lunch here costs 80 cents and a bottle of Coke 30 cents, I really can't complain. In fact, often even the "tourist rate" is so low that I am unprepared to offer anything less.

Bangladesh is really a beautiful place, and the people are some of the most hard-working people I have ever met. Needless to say, I am loving my time here.

For now, here are some of my favorite photos. More stories will come soon.

There is a saying Westerners living in Africa use often. I heard it repeated in Uganda and in South Africa over and over again, and I recall vividly using it regularly myself.

'This is Africa.'

This saying is used to diminish anger, frustration and discomfort when living life in a foreign land just doesn't go your way. The pre-arranged taxi comes 2 hours late to fetch you, or it doesn't come at all. The sun-beaten sky suddenly opens up with a torrential downpour half way through an hour-long walk. The village water pumps are mysteriously shut off for weeks at a time. The dirt from the walking path coats your feet and clothes the minute you step outside. The water to drink is brown, and the water to clean is shared with thirsty goats. Mosquitoes swarm in a relentless attack until a person looks like a pin-cushion. Cockroaches nibble from a loaf of just-baked bread. And the only health clinic in the village is inexplicably padlocked shut for weeks without anyone blinking an eye.

'This is Africa.'

We repeat this with a sigh or a smirk or a laugh, reminding ourselves that we are in another place, a different land, a new way of life. Miraculously, our frustration wanes, our anger dissipates, and our discomfort becomes tolerable.

But Africa is a place of stunning beauty, and the legendary kindness of her people is real and unmatched. The scant resources one may have are given to any stranger that happens to wander by, so all that is had is shared.

I am no longer in Africa but the memories of my life there have been flooding back. My memories are of the colors of the land and the resourcefulness of the people, the stark contrasts of abundance and need, the way villagers till the earth until it provides, and the make-shift thriving street markets that build a community where none existed before.

We've all heard the saying "it takes a village", and no place reflects this more so than Africa. It does take a village, and the village - it gives. It gives its people, its sustenance, the fruits of its labor, a sense of community and belonging like I've experienced in no other land.

Each new day that rises is cause for celebration, a reason to sing and dance, to walk for hours greeting everyone in sight, to savor the heat of the beating sun until it is interrupted by refreshing torrents that fall from the sky and spring crops to life. I recall the smiles of everyone, no matter their hardships; and the carefree play of the children idling away an hourless day. This is Africa.

I remember with admiration the duty of elders to care for young not their own, and impart their traditions to the next generation, carrying on the customs of an entire people, and preserving a way of life almost unknown in Western lands. This is Africa.Beauty and kindness, resourcefulness and life. Africa is a land where the frustrations and angers and discomforts of a Western guest are welcome parts of a thriving life by locals. In Africa I experienced the joy of a life lived in all its simplicity, all its purity, all its festivity. I lived in a village with a family where no one worked and no income came, yet I never went hungry. Water, even if not plentiful, was always provided by the village pump, the rains, or a neighbor, so I never went thirsty. My days were filled with stories and smiles and life-lessons from the old and young alike while sweet-smelling fruit trees hovered above, waving their spoils my way. My nights were so still, a quiet like I've never known before where the constellations of the Southern sky watched over me until roosters broke the peaceful silence. And then I'd wake up to experience it all over again.

A place where the simple pleasure of being alive consumed one's day.

This is the Africa I knew, the one that's under my skin, that beats in my heart and tugs at my soul. This is Africa - the Africa I will return to one day.

The biggest outdoor market in South Africa is in a suburb called Bruma.

The market is where you can find amazing and unique hand-crafted ebony bowls and tribal masks, hand-woven tapestries, beaded jewelry and handbags, soapstone animal figurines, hand-painted plates, statues, dolls of native Africans in traditional dress, and everything else African-esque.

These are all crafted by the hand of an entrepreneurial man or woman making the most of free enterprise to support a family.

I can not even begin to imagine the amount of time and skill it takes a person to carve or paint or weave one of these treasures, let alone an entire stall-full. And the price we pay for these remarkable finds is a pittance compared to the time and toil put into each.

Here are some finds from my shopping excursion, and some images of the market to give you a feel for its vitality.

The college in my township asked me and another volunteer, Kristen, to put on a sexual health fair for their 350 students. It was a lot of work, but the community came together and really supported and participated in the event. Here are some of the highlights from it.

The venue

The program

Students waiting in line to enter the exhibition area

Activity on the exhibition floor

Condom demonstrations

Exhibitors: TAC and Red Cross

A line of educators and students waiting for their HIV test

Students at the exhibit

The Master of Ceremonies and guest speaker taking a much needed break

Kristen, Welly (the Learner Support Manager at the college) and me, and students closing the exhibit

When I leave my home each morning I usually have a plan for how I will spend my day, but in reality I never know how it will unfold.

Today, like any other, I left my home and boarded a taxi for town. Before I go further, I must describe a bit about public taxis.

Public taxis are mini vans with bench and fold-down seats. They are always filled with 16 to 22 passengers, depending on their size. That’s 16 to 22 adults; children do not count because they ride on the laps of, well, everyone. And by children, I mean anyone under the age of 12. They cram 4 people into a 3-person row in the back, and any open air space is generally filled with suitcases and shopping bags and babies. People sit shoulder to shoulder, and at times, on the laps of their neighbor to the right and left. There is so little room to move that it is a challenge to reach into a pocket for money to pay the fare. And taxis smell – of beer, fried foods, and too many people in unrelenting heat. Needless to say, South African taxis take discomfort to new heights.

So this morning on my taxi ride, each passenger passed up the fare for the ride into town. The money goes to the passenger seated next to the driver. He becomes the de facto fare-collector and change-provider and is responsible for paying the driver the full load’s fare. Riders throw folded bills and fistfuls of change in unison to this person, shouting two-one, three, four, and he is supposed to remember the count for each bill and handful of change. This is a seat I try to avoid at all costs because when the change is wrong, the taxi erupts.

Well, this morning the taxi erupted. It was not the first time my taxi erupted, but it was definitely the loudest. We were almost in town when the driver turned to the passengers and stated the fare was not enough. All the passengers began trying to explain the fare they paid to assuage the situation. The driver, unhappy with what he was hearing, pulled over to the side of the road and slammed on his brakes. We all flew forward. He shouted at us all, and every passenger other than me began shouting back. The man behind me threw up his arm in a disciplinary motion with his finger pointing, and each time he tried to emphasize his point, his arm banged down on my shoulder. Imagine 15 other passengers doing this. In Sepedi. I sat silent.

The driver began driving. A few minutes later he slammed on his brakes again, thrusting us forward again, and pulled to the side of the road. The same scene unfolded. We sat there for ten minutes while everyone shouted at the driver, he shouting back. He pounded his steering wheel repeatedly which caused dust to fly in the air each time. After a while, the driver began driving again, still shouting back at us, the passengers still shouting up at him. I got off at the very next stop amid continued yelling, but I made it to town.

This afternoon on my way back from town, I walked to the taxi rank to go home. When I reached my taxi, a young man turned to me and said “hey baby.” This happens often and I ignore it. Usually it goes away. He said it again, “baby, don’t you want to talk to me?” When a man speaks to a woman he expects that she will acknowledge him. It is an entitlement men feel they are due here, but that’s a long sad story for another time. I finally replied “baby is not my name.” He asked my name and I told him “Mokgaetsi,” to which he roared in laughter. This also usually happens. He walked away, shouting something to me in Sepedi which I did not understand, and I happily boarded the taxi when it came.

Unfortunately, the man returned and boarded my taxi. I ignored him, or at least I tried. He took the seat behind me and we waited for the taxi to fill. Taxis do not leave until they are full, so we waited fifteen minutes for other riders to board. He tried to talk to me, professing his love, offering marriage proposals, and I continued to ignore him. He and his friends, one of which was seated next to me, pulled out cans of beer and began drinking. Also common, and usually simply annoying, but not this time. This man kept trying to talk to me, then began grabbing my arm and shoulder over and over again.

The taxi filled up, but he didn’t stop. Before the driver pulled away, I told him I was getting off and would take the next taxi. Of course I sat next to the window opposite the door, and the men refused to move to let me out, jeering at me and begging me to stay. So I had to climb over them to get off the taxi. This meant that now they were a rider short, but it only took a few minutes for another rider to board, the whole time the man shouting at me out the open door. As it pulled away, the man opened the window and shouted more professions to me. Had there been an old man or old woman on board, these young men would have been scolded, and probably would have fallen silent. The elderly are revered here, and very protective of American visitors. But there were no old men or old women, only young men and ladies with babies.

Today was just not a good day for taxis.

Today I saw a neighbor walking down the road that I had not seen in many months. We walked towards each other with long, drawn-out greetings, and he asked me when I was going to America. I told him next week. He asked me what I would bring back for him. I told him I had no money to bring anything back.

A while later, I stepped onto that same dirt road to walk to the store for a Coke. Three footsteps from my door another neighbor, sweeping the dirt in the front yard, asked me for the sugar from my cupboard. I told her I had no more sugar since I had given her my last cupful weeks ago.

On my short walk down the path from the store to my home, with Coke in hand, another neighbor walked with me. She asked me to take her to my home. I told her she could surely come with me to my home here in Mahwelereng, knowing full well she meant my home in America. She then asked me for the bottle of Coke I had just purchased.

Hours later, an older woman I did not know stopped me as I walked down the road from the taxi rank. She told me I must give her my shirt, the one I was wearing. I told her but then I would not have a shirt to wear.

I have been asked for the shirt off my back, the skirt off my hips, the water from my filter, food, candy, money, groceries I had just purchased, a ticket to the U.S., a computer, a digital camera, a salary, it goes on and on.

Some days I wonder, “does everyone here think Americans are so wealthy?” I know the answer. I can buy packets of sugar and a can of Coke, and get more when they’re gone. I can don pretty skirts and clean shirts, and replace them after years of wear. I have the luxury of drinking water that will not infect me with cholera or give me dysentery.

Late one afternoon a few weeks ago, I saw a beautiful hand-carved wooden bowl at a market and asked the seller how much it cost. He told me 150 rand. I told him that was too much. He told me he had not sold anything that day, so he would take whatever I would pay. I told him I planned to spend 50 rand. He told me he would take it. I envisioned my purchase being the difference between his family eating that day or not, so to ease my conscience, I gave him 70 rand. This man may have sold me a tale, but that doesn’t change the fact that I bought a clear conscience for about $2, and I then left the seller, walked across the road to a restaurant, and spent 50 rand on lunch.

We Americans came to South Africa with our ipods and our laptops and our steri-pens and our degrees, to a place where people walk barefoot in torn shirts pushing wheelbarrows of water cans half a mile. We came from a place where we watered our lawns with sprinklers to keep them lush, to a place where old feeble women hunch over for hours sweeping the dirt in their yard to make it look nice.

Early on in my time here, a black South African social worker posed a question to me that I could not answer. He asked me this. “If Americans are so rich, why can they only afford to have two or three children, while South Africans can afford to have six or seven?”

I was perplexed. I had an answer but I did not know how to share it. Americans strive to give their children a good education at a decent school and maybe a chance to go to college, to live in a nice home in a safe neighborhood, and have bikes to ride and take walks at night and eat dinner at restaurants. The black South African families I have met are happy if they can afford the required school uniform for a few of their kids, to have a tin roof above their cement or mud-dung walls, to fetch parasite-free water from a covered well, and feed their children meat with their daily meal of porridge. But I could not think how to explain this to the social worker in a way that would make sense. I can’t make sense of it. I can no better truly understand why a tin roof and safe water are plenty for children in rural South Africa, than he can why college and trips to Disney are the standard for children in America.

A South African man once told me that his son flew to America a while back to see for himself this land of opportunity, the place where streets are paved in gold. The son flew into New York City and could not believe what his eyes were seeing. I anticipated his son was in awe because of the bright lights and the tall buildings framing busy streets, the expensive cars and the glamorous people careening down crowded roads. His son, this father told me, just stood and stared in disbelief at the hustle and bustle of one of the wealthiest cities in America. He was shocked and dismayed to see that the streets were not literally paved in gold. But . . . they were paved.

One day a few months ago, another volunteer and I visited the high school across from my home. We walked up to the always-locked gate during classes where students were buzzing around the yard. When they saw us they swarmed to the gate, and more teens kept coming while some searched for the key to let us in. Finally they found the key and unlocked the gate, and we hesitantly walked through as students focused all of their excited attention on us. We moved as one mob towards the Principal’s office with us in the center. Not a single adult was in sight, and we were now locked in. It was a very Lord of the Flies moment and I wondered if I’d visit again.

I did visit again, and I met some very dedicated teachers and eager students.

One of these dedicated teachers leads a group of students who work on projects to improve their school, better the lives of other students, and discuss challenges facing youth today. This is an amazing group of 30 promising young adults who are surrounded by poverty, unemployment and HIV. They are faced with 42% high school drop-out rates, unemployment between 30 and 70%, and HIV prevalence of 22%.

They call themselves the Promise Sunshine Group.

A few months ago I asked the Promise Sunshine Group how I could help them. They knew I had come from America. They have seen me take pictures with my digital camera, buy bottles of Coke at the corner store often, and walk home with bags of things from town several days a week. These are things most here can not afford to do. So when I asked how I could support them, I braced myself and expected to be deluged with costly requests.

Here is what they wanted:

- An adult to go to town with them to ask a company that donates signs if they would build a sign that says “Rampola High School”

- Screws and a screwdriver to repair damaged desks and chairs strewn across the schoolyard so each student could have their own desk and chair

- Glass to repair broken windows to keep OVCs warm during winter classes

- To take their dramas about challenges facing youth to other schools

- Seeds and spades to plant a vegetable garden and provide nutrition for OVCs at their school

They did not want ‘things’; they simply wanted to show pride in their school, feel capable without resources, share their understanding of the challenges and responses of their generation, and accept responsibility to help those facing greater challenges than they.

I was humbly reminded that not everyone measures happiness or success materially. That meeting sparked an idea that the students could empower themselves to improve conditions at their school.

I’m here as an HIV/AIDS worker, and building a school sign and repairing desks and chairs doesn’t fall within a typical HIV prevention protocol. But these are the things that will empower the students and fill them with pride. These are the things that will keep them pushing towards a life out of poverty, unemployment and HIV. These are the things that will attract other students to want to be part of it, giving them another way to spend afternoons and weekends. For some students, it might keep them out of their homes longer, homes that may not be the safest place for them to be. And maybe these things will keep a student or two coming to school to learn that otherwise would not have come.

So these projects have now become my secondary projects. I’ve met with the students several times. They wrote letters to local businesses asking for glass to repair the windows. They asked for screws to repair desks and chairs. They asked for material for a school sign. And they asked for a plot of land to plant a vegetable garden. These seem like such simple things, but they mean so much.

Two weeks ago I went to town with some students to give their letters to businesses. When I left them, they were off to another hardware store and I was off to a 2-week training. As I was walking home from my training the other day, the students greeted me with news. They received screws, screwdrivers and glass from a hardware store; a business committed to make a sign; and they were given a piece of land by the school for their garden.

The past few weeks the students were on school break, but the Promise Sunshine Group came to school. They repaired desks and chairs, created a logo for their sign, cleared the land for their garden and began collecting gardening tools from the community. They have not yet figured out how they are going to get seeds, but I’m confident they will.

So much is getting done, yet I am doing none of it. With the Promise Sunshine Group, all I did was show up. And now there is a cleared plot of land, repaired desks and chairs, a hardware shop crafting a school sign, and glass waiting to be cut. I like to do things, to be part of projects and contribute; but at this school I am doing nothing, and yet so much is getting done. Strangely for me, it’s a good feeling.

HIV and AIDS program planning has been going well. I met with the local AIDS council, political leaders, and representatives from NGOs, and we re-evaluated the municipality’s HIV/AIDS strategy document a few weeks ago. Since then, we have re-identified and prioritized goals and our work is getting underway. We began by identifying all of the NGOs, CBOs and FBOs in the municipality, and are now starting to identify all of their HIV services and programs. With this data, we will create a municipal HIV/AIDS landscape that identifies high transmission areas, and locations and ratios of HIV prevention, care, treatment, and support services to populations. This landscape will show us where we have service gaps, and we can then advocate with NGOs and government departments to fill those gaps. Further down the road, we can also use this data to develop an HIV/AIDS program and service referral system to provide to all agencies, clinics, schools, social workers, etc. that work in the municipality, ensuring that community members can access the services they need. I considered the Peace Corps for years before I applied, and whenever I imagined what my experience might be like, I envisioned living in a village working with women and children struggling with HIV, or working at a school with teens on prevention and behavior change programs, or at the very least working in a community with the people I was there to serve. And I was sure my 2 years in a developing country would be like a long camping trip without running water or access to processed foods.

I never quite expected to sit in an office participating in meetings with others who are in service roles, planning a municipal strategy, and gathering epidemiological data to present to stakeholders. But that is how I spend my days. Given my background, my role makes sense, but it’s still not what I ever imagined. And living in a township near a town means I have water piped into my home, a flush toilet, and easy access to almost anything I want from spinach, tomato and wheat pasta, to a double-layer chocolate cake with buttercream frosting. Peace Corps tells us not to have any expectations for our placement, but I did. And even though it is nothing like I ever imagined it would be, I love what I am doing. At first I thought I would miss having the opportunity to work directly with those affected in the community, but there is so much work to be done here. The high school across the street, the OVCs served by social workers down the road, the home for disabled children around the corner, and virtually every place I visit has a need and becomes that opportunity for me. So those are the places where I spend my free time, and I love that too.

Today in the world 27,397 children under age five died 10,959 people were infected with HIV 36,000,000 people are living with HIV 6,130 people died from HIV Today. And every day. And I can do something to help; to help one more child reach their 6th birthday, or prevent one more HIV infection. People often ask me why I’m here. I’ve asked myself that many times these past months. This is why.

Other people help in other ways. This is my way.

When I was in training, I learned about one of the Mayor’s special projects in my town. The Mayor goes out into the community and distributes blankets and food parcels to OVCs (orphaned and vulnerable children) during the winter. After experiencing some of the very cold nights during South Africa’s winter, and realizing that kwashiorkor is an unfortunate reality here, I have a greater appreciation for how beneficial the blankets and food parcels are, especially for the poorest of the poor – children who might get one meal a day (of only porridge) when their tiny bodies are fighting tuberculosis or an opportunistic infection. Today I had the good fortune to participate in the Mayor’s special project for OVCs in my township. It was a fun day, and reminded me of some of the events I participated in back home. These are the times I enjoy most because the children get a chance to forget about their problems for a bit. They get to feel special, and they’re all smiles! Here are some of the photos.The Mayor and Secretary with a child wrapped up in a blanket.

Children surrounded by the blankets and food parcels.

And here they are again, all smiles!

Here’s an update from the Provincial meeting, and the issue of abuse of women and children I blogged about in my last post. I did not get the issue of abuse of women and children added to a Provincial meeting agenda. The Provincial meeting I thought was taking place was an AIDS candlelight memorial for the Department of Agriculture. And the guest speaker I brought from a women’s empowerment group presented a message of encouragement to the audience to support people living with HIV. It was a very moving event, and I am happy to have participated in it. The HIV/AIDS council strategy meeting I am helping plan is moving forward. Stakeholders in the fight against HIV within the municipality are looking forward to it, and I am excited that people are talking and sharing their ideas about HIV/AIDS programs. And today was another good day. Not for any reason in particular; it was just good.

As one might imagine, I have had really good days and really bad days during my Peace Corps experience. A really bad day was the day I killed hundreds of cockroaches in my bedroom before I went to sleep one night, saw hundreds more crawling outside my mosquito net, and saw some INSIDE my mosquito net when I was in it! The cockroaches almost sent me home. The only good thing about that night was that it was during training, I had no phone, and it was too late at night to get a taxi (to anywhere – a store for bug spray, another volunteer’s house, the airport). The next day I rose to the challenge and eventually the cockroaches and I learned to live with each other. Today was a really good day, but it didn’t start out that way. I was in town this morning and walked into a shop for water. I received the typical set of questions from the cashier – where are you from, what are you doing here, where do you live . . . I get many different reactions to my responses – some elated, some confused. But today’s reaction ranks very high on the list of memorable ones. When I told her I lived in Mahwelereng, a township, she replied “and you’re not dead yet?” My day got better. After weeks of walking around with another Peace Corps volunteer introducing ourselves to every NGO we could find, asking to join their meetings and participate in their activities, and interviewing political leaders on their HIV/AIDS priorities, we may have knocked on enough doors and asked enough questions to help push the issue of HIV/AIDS up on the municipality’s agenda. Suddenly HIV/AIDS programs have become a high priority, and today my supervisor asked me to organize a meeting in two weeks with the local HIV/AIDS Council, political leaders, and managers of NGOs. At this meeting, we will re-assess an HIV/AIDS strategy the municipality created several years ago, reprioritize goals, and set our HIV/AIDS program agenda. If I do nothing else while I am here, I think helping to get people at high levels talking about HIV/AIDS programs, asking questions, and meeting to discuss approaches to the epidemic, was worth my being here. My day got even better. Somehow I managed to get a presentation on the abuse of women and children, which contributes to the transmission of HIV/AIDS, added to the agenda for a Provincial meeting tomorrow. (Provinces in South Africa are the equivalent of American states.) Plans can be very loose here, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this one works. And my Peace Corps friend got a condom demonstration added to the agenda. I know not all days will be great like this one, but days like today buffer cockroach days.

Yesterday I wanted to go for a nice, quiet, relaxing walk to the mountains. The sun was bright, the weather was warm, and the mountains were inviting. Unfortunately there is no such thing as a quiet, relaxing walk.

I am new, female, white, foreign, and American. Being any one of those things in my township invites attention, but being all of those things makes me somewhat of a spectacle. Every few feet people stare, follow me, and make comments. Sometimes the comments are “I just want to know you” or “Can I walk with you?” Other times they are less than polite.

And so my nice, quiet, relaxing walk did not turn out to be so. Instead, it was filled with random handshakes with strangers, khumbies honking at me expecting me to desperately need a ride, speed-walks away from forward men, and my voice repeating my name, where I live, where I work, what I am doing here, and where I’m from, like a tape recording.

When I put this in perspective, I know that I am the stranger in this community, and people simply want to know who is living among them. But I just wanted to shout out from the mountaintop “everyone please let me take a walk!” I thought about cutting it short, but I decided to keep going.

The mountains were peaceful and beautiful, and on my walk back, two young boys were playing near the road. They stared at me as I passed and I decided to walk up to them. I had a wonderful conversation with them in Sepedi that went something like:

Me: “Re a lotsha.” (Hello.)

Boys: “Re a lotsha.” (Hello.)

Me: “Le kae?” (How are you?)

Boys: “Re gona, le kae?” (I am fine, how are you?)

Me: “Re gona.” (I am fine.)

Boys: “O dula toropong?” (Do you live in town?)

Me: “Aowa, ke dula mo, in Mahwelereng.” (No, I live here in Mahwelereng.)

Boys: “Oh” (with big smiles on their faces)

Me: “Ke nna Mokgaetshi. Wena o mang?” (I am Mokgaetshi. What is your name?)

Thabelo: “Thabelo”.

Me: “Ke thabila go go tseba Thabelo.” (I am happy to know you Thabelo.)

“Wena o mang?”

Lefa: “Lefa.”

Me: “Ke thabila go go tseba Lefa.”

“Shalang gabotse.” (Stay well.)

Boys: “Sepelang gabotse.” (Go well.)

Their ever-widening smiles became infectious, and my walk became happy again. It’s the little things that make the challenges less important.

Last week I received a call from my host family in Leyden (my training village). A relative had died. And so this past weekend I returned to the village that I loved so much for a funeral. When I arrived, my host nephew greeted me at the taxi and walked me home to a family waiting for me with open arms. I changed from my pants to a skirt and donned a head scarf, proper attire for a village woman, and walked with my mother and aunts to the home of my host Uncle, the relative who died. There were HUNDREDS of people gathered at his home. Women were cooking in dozens of huge black three-legged kettles over an open fire preparing food for the next day. Young girls served tea and biscuits as men sat chatting, stoked the cooking fires, and cut wood to keep them burning. While funeral preparations were under way, I, being the American guest, was followed around by relatives assigned to watch over me. They carried a chair everywhere we went so I could sit properly, and summoned the tea and biscuit servers to me at every turn. (This “special treatment” I have experienced over and over again and is a bit uncomfortable.) After a while of sitting and watching the women work, I asked girls washing tea cups in a basin if I could help and fortunately, they agreed so I pitched in. In the dirt where we stood washing dishes, I saw matted feathers and realized this was the place where chickens had been slaughtered for the funeral. A relative told me many chickens and a cow had been slaughtered. My host sister took me to a tent where the cow hung on a wire and the smell of slaughtered animal hung in the air. (I couldn’t eat chicken or beef that night – the smell of freshly slaughtered animal may turn me into a vegetarian!) Everyone stayed at the house cooking and preparing food all night long; it is customary for the women not to sleep the night before, but I was driven to my mother’s home for the night. While others would stay up and cook all night, I would rest and return the next morning. (I must admit I was happy about this because I was tired from my long day of travel.) I was driven back to my Uncle’s home at 6:00 the next morning. Eulogies had already begun, and after they finished, I was escorted to a car that would follow the hearse to the village graveyard. An amalgamation of cars, bakkies (pick up trucks), and even a khumbie (taxi van) filled with more people than could fit, drove to the tar road and waited. I thought to myself “a procession of cars will follow the hearse – this is familiar.” It didn’t immediately dawn on me that 300 people would not fit into a handful of vehicles! We waited several minutes at the side of the road for the hearse. Unexpectedly, at least to me, hundreds of people singing, dancing and marching came charging out of the veld (grasslands). It was an unbelievable sight! Men formed the first few dozen rows, women and children followed, and the hearse was in the center of it all. Our car trailed while the foot procession marched and danced a mile to the graveyard. The coffin was driven to a burial plot where a hole had been dug by hand. A hundred men stood around the coffin as it was lowered into the earth, and my Uncle’s immediate family was seated behind the standing men. I was asked to sit in the first row of relatives with my Uncle’s grandchildren. After sermons, prayers, and songs by priests and family members, the men formed lines and took turns shoveling a mound of dirt into the hole – the dirt that had originally come from the burial plot. There was rhythm and unity to it. After a man effortlessly moved 4 or 5 shovelfuls of dirt, the next man in line would tap his shoulder, indicating it was time for him to step aside, and the shovel would be handed off. In no time 100 men moved 8 yards of dirt onto the coffin and the burial was complete. I sensed a bond between the man shoveling and my host Uncle. It was as if each man did his part to return my Uncle to the earth from which he came. After, everyone returned to my Uncle's home to eat. But before we could enter the courtyard, our faces and backs were splashed with water (not really a splash, more like having water whipped at your face) – it’s cold, startling, and it stings. We then washed our hands in a basin. All of this removes the ‘darkness’ we brought with us from the graveyard. The meal that had been prepared the night before was served by the Women’s Society. Each village has a group of women who help with the many funerals in their community. For this funeral, twenty women dressed in black skirts, and blue headscarves, neighbors I recalled from my days in Leyden, served and cleaned for the hundreds of guests honoring my Uncle. Next came chanting, singing and dancing. Men dressed in matching khaki pants and button-down jackets formed a circle and began chanting – an invitation to the ancestors to join them. After a time, they sang songs, stomped the ground, and jumped up and down, forcing a constant wave of dirt into the air. This went on for an hour. When I asked why they jumped, I was told “because they are happy”. Women dressed in matching khaki skirts, green sweaters and green berets formed a chorus line and sang songs of their own. Both the men and women (separately – they are always separated) marched around the village while they sang and danced. It was enchanting and mesmerizing. These traditions, part of the Zion Christian Church (ZCC) which combines Christianity with traditional rituals, are repeated at church several days a week. But for those who attended the funeral, church was not allowed for seven days – this keeps away the ‘darkness’ from sacred places. The chants and songs of this day would have to hold over churchgoers, but they chanted, sang and danced a week’s worth! The sun began to set, a man carved the hyde from the cow's hooves by the fire, and the women stayed to finish the cleaning. It was an amazing familial and cultural experience, and gave me a glimpse into the traditions of my host family, and the sense of community in a rural South African village. It takes a village to properly honor and respect the life and death of one of their own. These past few days in Leyden struck me as cohesive, rhythmic, harmonious, and beautiful – an event that seemed flawlessly scripted and carried out. It was for the funeral of a man that hundreds of men and women gathered for two days to cook, clean, prepare, serve, slaughter, shovel, chant, sing, dance, laugh, and carry on the traditions of life in a village. Everyone in the community had a place; everyone knew what theirs was. They joyfully and without sleep carried out the happenings of a funeral – women chopping and stirring and mixing tent-fuls of food, young girls serving tea and biscuits and washing dishes, hundreds of villagers marching with the coffin in song and dance, men giving back their deceased brother to the earth one shovelful at a time, the Women’s Society performing the minutiae of the day, chanters summoning the ancestors and jumping in their happiness, women proudly singing choruses that filled all with delight. I came to a funeral expecting tears and mourning, a somber event of loss that would leave me saddened. I was greeted with unity and harmony and happiness and life – the life of a village in the wake of a death.

It’s only been a few weeks since I arrived at my new home and agency. I am learning about HIV/AIDS programs offered by non-governmental organizations (NGOs) and community-based organizations (CBOs) working in the municipality, and meeting many dedicated people along the way. Everyone I talk with and every where I turn leads me to another opportunity to participate in some small way towards stemming the HIV epidemic in South Africa. But it’s a massive tide to turn. The statistics are staggering. South Africa has the largest HIV positive population in the world. Of the estimated 39 million people living with HIV worldwide, 5.4 million people live in South Africa. Over 1 million children are infected with or directly affected by HIV. An estimated 1.5 million children have been orphaned, 66% of them by HIV/AIDS. Child-headed households are common here. The prevalence of HIV among South African men age 30-39 is 22%; among pregnant women is 30%; and among women age 25-29 is 32%. (PEPFAR 2006) Six percent of all babies born are HIV positive by the age of one year. The life expectancy of children born with HIV, without antiretroviral treatment, is 2 years. (ASSA 2003; JCSMF) The stats are intimidating and highlight the enormous challenge. But I am one person among many working against this epidemic, and if all of us contribute in even a small way to live, or help just one person live, a little safer, a little healthier, a little happier life, I see possibility. Here is some of what I’ve seen from dedicated people working to combat HIV in South Africa, and some of my favorite activities in which I participated over the past few weeks: Began brainstorming on coordinating activities of HIV/AIDS NGOs and CBOs working in the municipality to identify best practices, reduce service duplication, and fill service gaps. Ideally, this could lead to marketing best-practices, and a referral system for HIV/AIDS services. This would be a major macro-level project, and one I hope to work on over the next 2 years. Conducted a door-to-door TB campaign where health department and community healthcare workers surveyed villagers on their knowledge about tuberculosis, educated them on transmission, treatment and TB’s relationship with HIV, and collected sputum samples from suspected cases for testing. Confirmed cases are called by the clinic, and referred to a home-based caregiver for treatment.Attended an education seminar where facts were presented to local NGOs, CBOs, and healthcare workers about the prevention of mother-to-child transmission (PMTCT) of HIV. There is misinformation among NGOs, and lack of a targeted effort to implement PMTCT. This seminar introduced the issue to the community, and the agencies attending agreed to begin addressing it. Met with an NGO based at a high school and discussed collaborative efforts to create a weekend camp for HIV/AIDS prevention workshops, provide or link the many OVCs at the school to services (for food, clothing, counseling, safety), and implement skill-building activities with students: publish a school newsletter, create a community garden (boosts students’ nutrition intake and generates income for required school uniforms), and organize ongoing sports activities. The NGO would like to design these programs to then replicate at other schools.

I moved out of my village to my permanent home, where I will be for the two years while I am in South Africa. I now live in a township called Mahwelereng, which is near the town of Mokopane, in Limpopo Province in the northern part of the country. This is my home. Well, it’s really a room in a home, but this is my room, and my hammock where I have rediscovered my passion for reading and writing. It is so peaceful laying on my hammock, looking at my humble abode, covered by the shade of treetops above me, with the blue sky in the distance and the sun peering over the top of it all. It is a great place to relax, rest, think. My room is spacious. I have a large bed, desk, chair, and wardrobe closet for my clothes. I have running water in the bathroom, a tub and flush toilet, and a full kitchen (without running water so we carry it into the kitchen from the tap outside). I plastered my walls with maps of the world, South Africa, and Limpopo Province; and pictures of my family. It makes me feel like I am at home away from home, and there is comfort in that. Life in the township is different from life in the village. There are many more people, and houses are closer together. Mahwelereng has many businesses like driving schools, car washes, a police station, food shops, daycare centers, a post office, several clinics and even a hospital. I no longer hear the cowbells or donkeys passing my window, and I no longer have to take curvy walks down the path to avoid cowpies or goat herds like I did in the village. Now I hear dogs barking, music blaring, people talking, bottles breaking in the street, cars and taxi vans (called khumbies) whizzing by on the tar road a few hundred feet from my home. But sometimes I still see the occasional donkey cart racing down the street, reminding me a bit of Leyden. And the children are the same. Always tons of small children playing in their yards, following me, shouting to me “good morning” at 5:00 in the evening, and “I am fine” when I have not asked them how they are. It’s the only English they know, and they like to practice it on me, which is okay because I like to practice my Sepedi on them. I work in the town of Mokopane, and getting into town from my township is fast and easy. Khumbies drive down the tar road honking their horns, looking for anyone coming down the dirt sidestreets waving a hand. Several mornings a week, I am the person waving my hand and sprinting towards the tar road for the khumbie. The ride into town is about 15 minutes, and then I have another 5 minute walk to my agency. I am slowly settling into work with my agency, and life in Mahwelereng, my South African paradise.

Hello all.

My new address is:

Kim Rook, PCV

Care of Layer/Schoenfelder

PO Box 1955

Mokopane 0600

South Africa

When we first arrived for training in our villages, we were greeted by throngs of women who had never met us, singing and dancing and throwing their arms around us like we were gifts given to them, or their long-lost children returning home. It was the most amazing welcome I’ve ever received. Two months later, as I left my village at the end of training, it was abundantly clear that they were gifts given to us. As I move on to a new home, I must first take time to look back at the wonderful days I spent with my family in Leyden.

These are some of the things I will miss . . .

- Walking with my host mother through her fields to pick dinner she had grown

- Seeing each ray of the sun shine down over the mountains

- Cooking over an open fire when the electricity was out

- At age 40, being watched by teenage girls because villagers did not want me to be alone

- Wedding invitations and funeral notices arriving by hand-written note, brought to the house by a young boy

- Teaching my host nephew the Star Spangled Banner and explaining what each word means in a mixture of Sepedi and English, and lots of hand motions (it forces one to really think about and appreciate the lyrics of our national anthem)

- Watching teenage girls play netball while younger girls looked on with little ones on their backs, waiting for the day they could play too

- Walking a mile to a friend’s house to ask if she had flour I could borrow

- Thunderous rain on our tin roof during a storm, so loud one could not hear a person shout

- Looking up at the night sky and seeing all the stars in it

- Sleeping under the protection of my mosquito net while creepy crawly creatures had a party on my bedroom floor and walls

- Seeing a rainstorm in the distance so defined that I could see the straight lines where it started and stopped

- Leaving home 15 minutes early so I could greet everyone along my path

- Doing EVERYTHING by hand, even watering the grass we were trying to grow

- Getting down to 8 litres of water a day for drinking, washing, brushing my teeth, washing dishes . . .

- Leaving the house and picking mangoes and pomegranates from our trees for my walk

- Making a cake from scratch without measuring cups, and it tasting really good!

- Taking deliberately curvy morning walks to avoid dozens of cowpies, wandering goat herds, and donkey carts racing down the path

- Awaking at night to a cacophony of cowbells past my window, ee-yors from donkeys, and roosters crowing from 2 until 6 am

- Craving pizza and ice cream, making a special trip to town with new friends to get it, and savoring every bit of it

- Hoping for rain so we’d have bathing water for the day, and my mother would not need to walk to get it

Yesterday I was officially sworn in as a a Peace Corps volunteer. Training is over and we all made it. I did well on my language evaluation, too. Even though I don't feel like I can converse in Pedi, I guess I can (a little).

I'll write about my new home soon.

Since I've been in South Africa, there have been many moments of feeling overwhelmed, awkward, uncomfortable. At times I feel like I am this large person with all my "Americanisms", just plopped down in a new and different environment, and expected to "fit" in to it. Other times I feel like I am this very small person completely enveloped by this place - the environment, the customs, the way of life surrounding and overwhelming me.

A few nights ago I was sitting in the courtyard of my home with my host mother. We were roasting corn by the open fire, looking up at all the stars in the southern sky. From my village, I think I could see all of them - there are no smog or buildings to obscure my view. My host nephew was singing and dancing around the fire and I could see nothing but cornstalks beyond him. It was a moment when I felt like I "fit". I wasn't too overwhelming with my American way of life, and I wasn't too overwhelmed by South Africa at that moment. It was a nice feeling.

South African children are amazing bundles of life. They exude happiness and curiousity, have had the benefit of growing up in a free and democratic South Africa, and are the carriers of tribal culture, custom and tradition.

Little ones as young as one year walk barefoot on washed out dirt roads, stones and brush as well as the sturdiest adult. It's like they've been walking since they came out of their mother's womb.

In America, mothers are afraid to let their children play outside their homes without supervision. Here in the village, four year olds walk a mile to preschool alone with a schoolbag half their size on their shoulders. They know they way, and they always make it there and back safely.

By age 8, girls take up caring for their younger siblings. An 8 year old girl can sling a crying 2 year old on her back with one hand. And the toddler knows just what to do to stay on, not fall off. There are no strollers, only the backs of mothers, grandmothers, and sisters to carry a child. Mothers and grandmothers keep a child put with a towel wrapped around their backs and tied around their chests. But not the young girls. They carry a child with nothing but the strength of their own small bodies and a sense of duty. I often see a girl of maybe 11 walking with a dozen other younger children. She's the unspoken designated leader, the de facto caregiver of the pack. It's all good practice because most girls aspire to be mothers of their own one day. Fertility is cherished.

By the age of 11 or 12, most can do things required to survive so much better than I can. They can start fires to cook, clean and prepare a fresh (very fresh) chicken, scrub clothing by hand so well they can get stains out of clothing that set for years (mine!). They can push wheelbarrows full of many-litre jugs of water half a mile home over the roughest terrain. They can plant and sow and reap harvests of corn to feed a community. I can do none of it.

For an American volunteer struggling to learn the language and trying to mesh American customs with a rural South African way of live, children are a bridge. They simply want to laugh and play with me, and don't care that I have a funny accent or that I screw up a simple "how is your day?" in Sepedi. They are always around, always there to make me feel less uncomfortable, or show me the way home when I get lost on the winding dirt roads. And when I'm in a courtyard full of neighbors speaking around me in Sepedi, I can always count on the children for a glance and a smile - for some form of connection among a field of incomprehension.

I am very thankful for South African children.

I came in to town again for some pizza! So here's a new update.

MY TYPICAL DAY IN THE PEDI CULTURE

No day is typical, but here's a snapshot of what some of my days are like. I wake up at 7 am and take my bucket bath, get dressed, make a lunch (usually peanut butter sandwiches), and walk 15 minutes to language class, which is at a house in my village. We have language training from 8 - 10 am.

In the Sepedi language, there is no distinction between sun and day. The same word is used for both (letsatsi, pronounced letchachi). And sky and weather is the same word (leratadimo). To me that says alot about this culture. Days are counted by the suns in the sky, and it's the sky that provides the day's environment (weather). I like that way of thinking.

I mentioned earlier that on my way to school, I stop and greet everyone - part of the culture. In this culture, people are more important than time, and relationships are more important than economic opportunity. The greetings show that. That's why everyone is late to pretty much everywhere here - Greeting people and asking about their families is more important than getting to work. I like that way of thinking, too. It's been a huge difference from my hectic, hurry-up attitude back in the states, and it feels nice to just relax and "be". South Africans call this a "polychronic" concept of time.

After language class, we get picked up by Peace Corps and taken to another village for other training (learning more about the culture, technical training on HIV/AIDS prevention and treatment in S Africa, etc.). We are in class until about 5 pm, then the Peace Corps vans take us home. When I walk in my village, the kids all clamor to be the ones who get to hold my hand on my walk home. Usually they fight with each other to hold my hand, I have more than one child holding each hand, they just stare up at me as we walk, and they rub my arm or touch by bookbag. There is no such thing as anonymity here for American volunteers.

At home, my gogo (grandmother I live with) is usually making dinner and I help her, then we eat. We always have at least 2 vegetables (I now eat carrots, beans, spinich, cabbage, squash, onions and tomatoes), and my gogo's favorite is chicken feet. (Yes, just like it sounds.) I have tried them but I don't like them. They're very fatty. I've even seen chicken head (just like it sounds) on a plate, but have not had that served to me yet).

Sometimes I take walks in my village, play with the kids, or watch the teenage girls play netball. Then I take my bucket bath and go to sleep around 9 pm.

WHERE I'LL LIVE AND WORK

Yesterday we were given our site assignments. I will be working for the Mogalakwena Municipality, and living in Mokopane (not sure yet if my home will be in the town of Mokopane, or in an outlying village). The municipality has 350,000 residents, 98% of which live rurally. Within the municipality, there is one town (Mokopane), and 163 villages. All have electricity, but the villages do not have running water. They all have wells and pumps installed by the municipality.

The municipality is responsible for coordinating all of the activities of the NGOs working in its region, and the mayor has special committees on HIV/AIDS, and on OVCs (orphaned and vulnerable children). I do not know where I'll be working in the municipality, but I am excited because I think I will have tons of opportunities with their reach into villages and rural communities, and NGOs working within them.

I do know that I will be working with Chiefs of some of the villages. The way the government is set up here, there are tribal authorities in each village, with a Chief as the head of the authority. They own the land in the village, and act as the first-line court for disputes between villagers. They also oversee customary law, which includes customary marriages (polygomous marriages are legal under traditional law). If a dispute between villagers can not be resolved by the Chief of the village, it then goes to a civil court in the municipality. If an NGO wants to start up in a village, they must get permission from the Chief first, and then they can register with the municipality. So tribal authorities are very important here and I look forward to working with them.

Hello all.

I am in Peace Corps training and living in a village called Leyden. I live with a grandmother who lives alone in a cement home with a tin roof. Our home has cornfields, pomegranite and mango trees, watermelon and spinich plants, and that's what we eat most of the time. The Peace Corps brings in extra food like chicken, eggs and cereal. I am eating very well here.

My home has electricity but no running water. We get our water to drink and wash from village wells, and we collect rain water. I take baths and wash my clothes in a bucket (the bucket bath). It's really hard and water goes everywhere in my room, but it gets the job done. And I have a pit latrine at my home past our cornfields.

My village is surrounded by mountains and trees. Donkeys, cows, chickens and goats roam freely, and donkey carts are often seen on the dirt paths of my village. The sunsets, sunrises and stars in the night sky are really beautiful here.

All of the people in my village are so friendly. Every morning when I walk to language class (I am learning Sepedi, also called Northern Sotho language), everyone on the path stops and we greet each other. The kids always want to hold my hands or grab my arms. In the evening I go to watch the teenage girls play netball (like basketball) and it's a lot of fun. Over the past 2 weeks there have been 4 funerals in my village. I am told they happen often, almost every weekend. I have not attended one yet, but I am sure I will at my permanent site. I will be moving to a permanent site after training in about 4 weeks (April 3). Then I'll know where I will be working for the next 2 years, and where I will be living. Even though I am moving, my living arrangements will likely be similar to what I have now.

We did get to go on a game drive where we saw leopards, giraffes, springbok, and a pygmy rhino. That was fun.

I will not have internet access again until some time in April so I'll let you all know where I'll be and what I'll be doing then. But so far it's been an amazing (granted, difficult at times) adventure. I go through days of loving it and days of wanting to be home but it has been a balance. Life here is more challenging than I thought it would be, but I am still here!

I forgot to share my new address in my last post. If anyone wishes to write me letters, please send them to this address:

Kim Rook

U.S. Peace Corps

PO Box 9536

Pretoria 0001

South Africa

I have been in Philadelphia since Sunday meeting all the other volunteers I will be serving with, and learning more about the Peace Corps. Orientation has been great. I feel much more prepared for my service in South Africa so it was very helpful in transitioning me from life back home to a "Peace Corps" frame of mind.

Today I leave from New York City for South Africa. I will probably not have internet service for the next few months but I'll post more when I can.

No more snow for me for a while. I'm happy about that!

Orientation – I leave in 13 days for the Peace Corps. My first stop is Philadelphia for orientation, and a quick visit with my brother, sister-in-law and nephews while I’m there. Here is the plan for orientation in Philadelphia:

Sunday, January 27th:

- Welcome, introductions, workshops on safety, anxieties & aspirations, etc.

Monday, January 28th:

- More workshops on culture, change, . . .

(For my friends from Azerty/United, these sound very DELTA-ish)

Tuesday, January 29th:

- Immunizations (more shots - ouch!)

- Bus to JFK for flights to Frankfurt (7 hrs), then Johannesburg (10 more hrs)

Places – I fly from JFK to Frankfurt, Germany where I have a 12-hour daytime layover. I’m looking forward to it because I’d like to see the sights in Frankfurt. After that, it’s on to Johannesburg, S Africa. I arrive in Johannesburg on Thursday, January 31st at 10:00am S African time (3:00am est).

Then it’s on to our training village for 2 months, rumored to be Mokopane (previously called Potgietersrus) in the northern part of the country (see the map for the northern region of SA). Mokopane is a city in the Limpopo district of South Africa bordering other African countries: Botswana, Mozambique and Zimbabwe. This region is supposed to be very rich in wildlife with forests, waterfalls, and Kruger National Park, the largest game reserve in South Africa - great for weekend excursions!

While I am in training, my days will be spent with other U.S. volunteers and Peace Corps staff. Training exposes us to our new language, safety and security, and South African life, practices & culture. During this time I will live with a South African host family where I will be able to practice my language skills, experience local customs, learn how to prepare local foods (hopefully), and learn how to integrate into a South African community. I'm bringing card games to play with my host family, and pictures of home, friends and family to share a little bit of my American life with them.

After training, there is a swearing-in ceremony where I officially become a Peace Corps volunteer, and then I get placed at a site for the next 2 years. Right now that seems like a lifetime away, when in reality, it's only a few months (and half a world) away. But I don't even want to think about what that will be like. There's too much to come in the next few days and weeks for me to experience and enjoy. And lots of time later to wonder beyond that.

Languages – S Africa has 11 official languages, of which English is one. But most people in villages speak another language. During training, we will be taught a language of the region in which we will live. The languages spoken in the northern region are Sepedi, Tsonga, Venda and Afrikaans so one of those may be my new language.

I've never found it easy to learn a new language. When I was in Russia, I attempted to ask a woman working at a museum "which way to the street to get a cab?", but ended up telling her to "go to the street and get me a cab". Of course, I was completely ignored. Let's hope I don't repeat that mistake again.

Enjoying home – Over the next few days I still have much to do, mainly I'm looking forward to spending more time with friends and family. And I have a few odds and ends to finish up (transfer my car to my son, get my immunization records, and hopefully file my taxes).

My son is coming home for a few days and I can't wait to see him! I know these days will fly by, but right now I’m really enjoying my time at home.

I’m not yet excited about this adventure. I expect that will change once I'm on my way.