I ran the 89 kilometre Comrades Marathon in 10 hours and 32 minutes. This year, 12,952 people entered the race. 10,077 finished before the 12 hour cut off time. My overall position was 5509. In case you are interested, here is the breakdown:   Gun Time: 05:30:14 Overall Pos:  5509 Finish Time:  10:32:06 Gender Pos:  4834 Net Time: 10:32:06 Category Pos:  676  

Split Race Time Time of Day Overall Pos Category Pos Gender Pos Dist. Done Speed Camperdown (62kms to go) 03:11:46 08:42:00 8810 919 7527 26.77 7.16 Drummond (halfway) 05:22:08 10:52:22 8335 882 7156 44.97 7.16 Winston Park (31kms to go) 07:00:21 12:30:35 7513 838 6501 58.27 7.21 Cowies Hill (18kms to go) 08:33:42 14:03:56 7189 818 6205 70.97 7.24 Mayville (7kms to go) 09:47:54 15:18:08 6061 737 5297 82.17 7.15 Finish 10:32:05 16:02:19 5509 676 4834 89.17 7.09 On the day of Comrades, I woke up at 12:30 am to catch the bus that would take me and my fellow Tzaneen Marathon Clubbers from Durban to Pietermaritzburg—the reverse of the race we would all be undertaking shortly on foot. By half past four in the morning, almost all of the other runners were nervously milling around the start line. People occasionally would share with me a funny aside—in Afrikaans. Being nervous and in no mood explain myself, I would laugh and nod my head despite my utter incomprehension. Half an hour, or so, before the race, I found my way to the G section of the starting positions; “G” as in “A, B, C, D, E, F, G”. Runners presumed by race officials to be faster than me found themselves in sections A through F, while anyone deemed slower than me landed in the final section, H. Due to the roughly 10,000 people in front of me at the time of the starting gun, it took 5 minutes to actually cross the start line and begin a slow trot. The first thing that I had to wrap my mind around as the sun crept up over the horizon was the massive scale of the flow of humanity that I found myself in. Ahead of me and behind me (though mostly ahead of me) stretched thousands of people, all of whom had the same crazy goal of finishing a 55 mile race. The greatest virtue of this, at least from my point of view, was the glorious distraction if provided. There was always someone to speak with and if speaking wasn’t a priority, the enthusiasm of the spectators was enough. Spectators were present in high numbers all along the route, which is a testament to the importance that Comrades Marathon holds for South Africans. So think Big. Also, think Party, because that’s what often surrounded the race route. The alluring smell of Botswana beef and boerewors on the grill, various tunes blaring from speakers, and the cheers and singing of the party goers/spectators followed us all the way into Durban. When I reached the halfway point of the race I heard over the loudspeakers that Stephen Muzhingi of Zimbabwe had just won the race, beating out the Russian born favorite, Leonid Shvetsov. Muzhingi ran the race in 5 hours and 23 minutes. When I crossed the half-way point I was in what is known as a bus. Not the kind with wheels, but rather the kind that is lead by a seasoned marathoner who knows how to keep a specific pace. The guy leading the bus had a long flag pole attached to his back with a flag on top of the pole that said “Sub 11 hour”. He had designated certain times for us to walk, so that we could preserve our leg strength. When we were about to start walking for a few minutes, he would have us all count backwards so that we could stop in unison and avoid a pile up. He also shouted soothing words of encouragement to us as we ran. When we started running again after a walk break, he would yell, “Everyone easy, easy now, slowly, slowly, 1, 2, 3, shuffle!” and off we would go. Slow and easy and shuffle are reassuring words to hear when you are running an ultra-marathon. I found the bus immeasurably helpful. It was at about the halfway point when I started to lose a little steam and the bus helped to pull me along. Eating was also essential. I hadn’t eaten much for the first half of the race. During the second half I was seized with righteous hunger and took two handfuls of whatever food was available at each water point for the rest of the race. Candy bars, baked potatoes, PowerAde, cookies, oranges and gummy bears fueled me. People along the route (being South Africans) offered their own foods as well, like grilled meat and beer. I declined on the latter but readily ate the former when it was offered. With a mere half-marathon to go, a little before Cowies hill, I bid adieu to the bus and took off at my own pace. After enduring the torture that was the second half of the Long Tom Marathon, I had vowed to start Comrades at a reasonable pace. Having done this, I felt the exhilaration of a second wind once the prospect of crossing the finish line felt real. For the last 20 or so kilometers, I felt great and spent my time passing people. Crossing the finish line in Durban’s Kingsmead Stadium felt amazing. An intense feeling of relief was manifest on the faces of the runners sitting and lying on the ground. At least the conscious ones felt relief; there was a steady stream of people getting carried away on stretchers out of the stadium. The guys from the Tzaneen Marathon Club that I came to Durban with were at the stadium to greet me after the race, as were three fellow Peace Corps volunteers who had come to see me. 15 minutes after crossing the finish line I noticed that my legs were incredibly sore, though perhaps it is not so incredible that my legs were sore after running the equivalent of two normal marathons back to back. All 10, 000 of us had the same funny looking walk for days after. In the backpacker that I stayed in Durban directly after the race, my fellow Comrades were immediately identified by their painful hobbling down stairs and their contorted face when sitting down. So, I am glad that it is over and I can hardly wait until I do it again. Worrying about my ability to finish the race is over and I can now focus more on other things. I am currently charged with creating a documentary about one of Tsogang’s water projects. This is something I’ve never done before but am eager to start on. The real trick will be showing Oros how to work the camera and use the video editing software. Once I learn how. I am also heading to Cape Town next week with Rachel. It will be my first time in Cape Town and her first time more than 300 miles from home. Everyone says that going to Cape Town is like going to a different country since it is so different from the rest of South Africa. I will report back on that and anything else of note. Thanks for reading.

Last week I was awoken from a turbulent dream to find myself in need of a bathroom. I was staying with the Chauke family, so going to the bathroom meant getting dressed and taking a stroll through the darkness and the corn field to the pit toilet. Stumbling out through the corn stalks, I noticed the faint sound of singing as it emanated from some unknown yard the village. As I walked backed to the house, the singing gradually became more distinct. Once back in bed, the singing flowed unimpeded through my window along with the moonlight. I could not sleep. After a few wasted minutes of trying, with great effort, to keep my eyes shut, they popped open and I quickly re-dressed. I had resolved to find where and who and why there was singing happening at this hour. Once outside, I looked at the sky and tried to gauge the time. The sky seemed to glow promisingly, so I assumed that it must be early morning, perhaps five. With quick steps I walked towards the music, avoiding donkey poop – which is large and dark and sometimes hard to see – and generally tried to warm myself up. 10 minutes later I was peering at a group of about 30 people standing in a circle, in close proximity to a healthy looking fire. They were singing and clapping their hands in a way that was absolutely memorizing to me. An individual singer, without accompaniment, might sound a little off-key or even unambiguously dissonant. But when the whole group was singing, the harmonies sounded perfect. Really, it’s almost good enough to entice a person out of his bed in the middle of the night. Upon finding the source of the music, I was presented with a dilemma. In physics, they call it the observer effect: sometimes, the very act of observing something alters how it would have acted in the first place. In certain social settings, my presence brings about a response that is potentially distracting. Perhaps this is something private, and my presence will not be appreciated? If, as can be reasonably assumed, this is a gathering of religious significance, will I be desecrating something or the other by participating?  I had come too far, however, to creepily observe the group from afar. Besides, I’ve lived in South Africa long enough at this point to feel comfortable participating in such events. After the requisite explanations, my presence is almost always tolerated, sometimes even celebrated. So, I strode out of the shadows and into the yard with the singing. Heads turned and I waved and gave a perfunctory “Avuxeni” to the group. Since they were all singing, there was no response. I sat down next to an old man and suddenly noticed that everyone present, myself excluded, was wearing a Zionic Christian Church pin on their shirt. Since they are ZCC members, there is a special way to greet them. “Khotsong”, I said to the old man. “Ayete”, he responded, looking at me with sudden interest. “Le Kae?” I asked. “Ra gona”, he replied, extending the “o” sound until it trailed off. He did not inquire as to how I was. We were silent for a few moments until he asked me my name and where I’m from since I am clearly not from here. There was more silence between us after that. Then he asked me “In kari muni?” I took out my phone to see the time and was surprised to find that it was 2:30 in the morning. Do these guys do this every Sunday? In between songs, the old man speaks some rapid Shangaan to the group. I don’t catch everything, but I do catch “white guy”, “America”, and “Obama”. To my relief, no one takes interest and the singing resumes. After a while longer, a guy in a Che Guevara T-shirt takes me by the hand into the circle. I find myself clapping along with the group, though not singing because I don’t know any of the words. Every couple of minutes, the guy in the Che Guevara shirt falls down to the ground, holds his position for a moment, and then rapidly ascends back to his feet. Despite the chilly morning, he is sweating. Minutes fly by and the thrill of being in such close proximity to the music it making me glad I got out of bed, despite my initial misgivings. Fatigue inevitably sets in and I eventually bid the group goodbye and headed back home to catch a little sleep before sunrise. ~             ~             ~ I have been running quite a bit lately, though I am concerned that it hasn’t been enough. I completed the 56 kilometre Long Tom Marathon at the very end of March, my birthday in fact, in six and half hours. That time qualified me to run the Comrades Marathon, which is somewhat longer at 89 kilometres (roughly 55 miles) and much, much better attended with fifteen to twenty thousand participants. Having, literally, just crossed the Long Tom finish line, a few of the many Peace Corps volunteers who had cheered for me as I completed the race asked me if I now intended to run the Comrades. I was in a weakened mental state when they asked me. The first 2 hours of Long Tom felt great; too good, in fact. I whizzed through the first part on track to complete the course in 5 hours flat. I was confused too, since there had been much talk about hills and how difficult they would be to traverse. Why aren’t I hurting yet? Am I that good? Reality set in during a conversation with a fellow runner, perhaps 20 kilometres in. He pointed to landforms in the hazy distance that looked suspiciously like mountains to me. He informed me that we will be crossing them before the end of the race. “That’s going to be the hard bit”, he reflected casually before surging ahead. Sure enough, once the hills began, my pace slowed down rather significantly. Suddenly my goal of “not ever walking” fell by the wayside. The new goal was simple: finish. At whatever cost. The hardest part of the marathon was not the mountains, however. The final 5 kilometres of the race were a slog for me. At that point my body felt ravaged. There was chaffing in some obvious places and some less obvious places. There was an intense sunburn enveloping my legs and neck. I was famished. All of this and I was feeling pain in every muscle I could think of. During my physical decline, I managed to chat with a number of people. One woman, the woman I guess I can blame my decision to run Comrades on, told me that she thought Long Tom was harder than Comrades due the hills. With those words still fresh in my mind, I hastily decided to run Comrades on the reasoning that it can’t be that much worse than what I had just done. My fellow volunteers forced the point by pledging emotional and even monetary support for my venture. The emotional support has been great and a few volunteers are even coming to Durban to celebrate with me or commiserate, depending on whether I finish. The monetary support was great too, since getting to and from Durban, arranging accommodation and the various race-fees add up. The Comrades Marathon, www.comrades.com, is the most popular ultra-marathon in the world. It is also a sporting event of some significance in South Africa. They even show it on TV! The race is from Pietermaritzburg to Durban in Kwa-Zulu Natal province and it promises to test my physical limits. This will be my second ultra-marathon and the longest distance I have ever run over the course of a single day. It is on this Sunday (May 24th, 2009).That is what my mind has been consumed with lately. After the Marathon (AM), I will have to collect myself and begin to look at my remaining PC service wholistically. After Comrades I will have scarcely 11 months left until my South African visa expires.

I related my experiences at an Ethiopian birthday party for the Peace Corps South Africa diversity blog, which is moderated by the Peace Corps South Africa Diversity committee. Here is the link: http://meltingpotintherainbownation.blogspot.com/ If the entry seems a little too polished to be mine, you can thank Jade for her gracious editing. I am also posting some photos I have accumulated over the last couple of months. These include shots from a visit to Mabula to see the Chaukes, Christmas with my boss and some other PCVs, and various random shots from around Tzaneen. The album is called “Signs etc.” The website for the race I am running on Saturday of this week is here: http://www.longtominfo.co.za/. A couple weeks ago, my boss taught me how to swim, which is a skill that has eluded me all my life. I can now doggy-paddle for short periods of time before sinking, which is fantastic. Thanks for checking in. There will be more soon. Oli

I am on a taxi that will take me from Nkowankowa to Tzaneen, a roughly 30 minute journey. This taxi is the old model that seats 15 people. The South African government is trying to phase out these older,  taxis as part of their 2010 World Cup preparations. The driver had been going slowly until he filled the taxi to its limit. Now that we are full and on an open stretch of road, the taxi’s already over-taxed engine is being coaxed into ever greater speeds. Taxi drivers are notorious for driving fast, and it’s because they have to drive fast if they want to turn a profit. Even with that understanding in mind, every so often I find myself at the mercy of a driver bent on putting the fear of God into his passengers for no discernable, logical reason. It is exactly this situation that I find myself in now. As the whine of the engine grows louder, and the blurred landscape accelerates, I make a furtive glance at the speedometer. It reads zero, as do all of the various meters and gauges located behind the steering wheel. On one level, this ought to put me at ease. If the speedometer reads zero, that means I am not plummeting down a hill while the driver dodges oncoming traffic and farm animals. The reason he is dodging oncoming traffic is because R36 is a two lane road which frequently becomes an unofficial four lane. The farm animals are from the villages that line the road. As we crest a hill and begin our final descent into Tzaneen, I have decided to close my eyes. I am closing my eyes because I don’t want the driver to see the look of horror on my face at everything he does. While I have blocked out visual stimuli, there is nothing I can do to avoid the toe-curling G-forces that move me this way and that. The taxi suddenly slows down; jolting all the passengers forward in their seats. My eyes snap open and I see the tail end of another taxi, mere inches away from our front bumper. He is passing all other vehicles, just like us, but at not quite as high a speed as our driver would like. The rest of the trip was spent hurtling up and down massive hills, horrifyingly close to the taxi ahead of us, which refused to let my driver pass. When we finally pulled up to the petrol station in Tzaneen where we are dropped off, the drivers glared at one another and exchanged a few terse words. Clearly, there is some back story to all this that I will never know. Question: What do Kentucky Fried Chicken, Curves, The Roman Catholic Church and the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints all have in common? Answer: They are all institutions which have a presence both in Tzaneen, South Africa and Des Moines, Iowa, USA. The KFC is very popular here in Tzaneen; the only complaint that I’ve heard is that they don’t sell any pap. I have eaten at KFC infinitely more than I thought I would have before I came, which is to say I’ve eaten their twice.  When I was conducting a survey for the Dept. of Water Affairs, people in the Lenyenye township often thought I was with “that church” since that was the last context in which a white person visited their home. “That church” turned out to be direct Des Moines connection #4, the Mormons. I tried to get in to one of their newly built churches in Lenyenye, but found it to be all locked up. I found another Mormon church in Tzaneen proper, but it was also gated and locked. I’ll try back later in my never-ending search for other Americans. I have finished the project I was working on for the Dept. of Water Affairs. In the end, about 15% of the households we surveyed had leaks. Since South Africa is considered an “arid” country, water is an increasingly hot commodity. As with most infrastructures in South Africa, it was built to keep only the white population living at first world standards. Once Apartheid ended, millions of new people flooded a system built to accommodate only a fraction of the total population. This is true of roads and electricity, both of which are under increasing strain as new users are added. This is also becoming true with water as well. As water use increases and running water is gradually spreading to areas that previously had none, South Africa is heading towards a water deficit in the near (roughly 10 years) future. Therefore, water leaks ought to be a high priority issue for the government to tackle, lest South Africa’s water table disappears down the drain. Or at least that’s the point I tried to make in my report to DWAF. So with that project done, I am to be turning my attention towards two new water reticulation projects Tsogang is currently working on. I’m not exactly sure where I’ll fit in, but I’m sure to find out eventually. I’m also working on a large stack of training manuals that have fallen into disrepair. This is rather dry work to do, but I understand its necessity, so I am able to keep motivated. I’ve spent the majority of my mornings training for the Long Tom Marathon, which is a 56 kilometre race which I will be running on the 28th of March. Running provides me a golden opportunity to explore Tzaneen and, inadvertently, meet people. One morning I found myself utterly lost at a T-intersection surrounded on all sides by banana trees. I found a guy standing by the side of the road hitch-hiking and asked him which way I need to take to get back to Tzaneen. His response was “Are you running?” I said yes and told me he’d just run back to Tzaneen with me. He was dressed in dress shoes, a nice pair of jeans and thick woollen sweater. Despite his attire I quickly realized that he wanted to run much faster than I did. After about 20 minutes I am dyeing. I look at him in wonderment. He is not sweating, or showing any visible signs of fatigue. “Gee,” I say between ever deeper breaths, “You sure do run fast.” He beams at me and explains, simply, “I am a Makgoba.” The Makgoba clan is a well known one in these parts, chiefly for families’ most famous member: King Makgoba. In the mid 1890s, white settlers began to push into the Tzaneen area in ever greater numbers. King Makgoba defended his land and people from the invaders in what became known as the Makgobaskloof Wars, but was eventually killed and beheaded by Swazi mercenaries at the behest of the Boer commander General Joubert. Makgoba’s subjects were forced to leave their land or stay on as paying “tenants”. So, it is this defiant, warrior spirit that propelled my running partner into town, dragging me behind him. It turns out he was late for class and decided to make a run for it instead of waiting for a ride. If I hadn’t been so tired I would have asked him about the recent land claims made by the Makgoba clan. The Land Claims process is meant to address past injustices, like the Makgobaskloof War where the Mahgobas were thrown off of their ancestral land. While on the face of it, this seems like a good policy, there has been some grumbling. Part of the Makgoba land claims includes a tea farm which is a major employer in the area. I’ve spoken with a few different people who are concerned that once the land passes from its current owner to the Makgobas, and all of the farm equipment is sold, the jobs will disappear. The right path forward is unclear to me.

I am often mistaken for a missionary. This was the case yet again as Oros and I made our way, house by house, through the Lenyenye Township outside of Tzaneen. While Tzaneen is predominately home to Shangaan speaking people, Lenyenye is mostly Sepedi. This is a legacy of the Apartheid policy of keeping ethnic tensions high amongst black groups so as to channel anger and resentment away from white rule. Thanks to a certain church that has set up shop in the area, my presence made many homeowners rather suspicious. Apparently this church has been sending out white missionaries door to door for months now. After greetings, many homeowners asked Oros, in Sepedi, why our church was bothering them again.   After explaining ourselves, we are finally able to get to the meat of our survey, which is very short. We ask how many taps the household has and then we see if any of them leak. And that’s it. People are often disappointed. After perhaps 5 or 10 minutes of introductions and explanations, the survey itself takes maybe 30 seconds.   We’ve found some interesting things along the way. One woman had her tap running constantly, at full blast, for months. She couldn’t turn it off because of damage to a thin rubber washer in the faucet that had broken. I wondered why she didn’t bother to try to fix it, at least for the sake of saving money if not water conservation. The problem is that she already owes 10,000 Rand to the municipality for her water bill. 10, 000 rand is an insurmountable bill, one that she will never, ever, pay off. She pays 50 rand a month when she can; often skipping a month if the money is thin. She hasn’t got any incentive to save water because there is no relationship between the amount of water she uses and the amount of money she has to pay at the end of the month. This is something we saw over and over again. The poorest families often owe massive amounts of money to the municipality for their water.   As we conducted our survey through Lenyenye I noticed a long train of elderly women, referred to as kokos(with the ‘k’ sounding like a ‘g’), in bright yellow vests running through the streets. I was told that this was a charity event for children. After the koko run was over, we heard loud horns and drums coming from a few blocks away. We followed the sound until it lead us to a large community centre. Inside we found a stage and an audience, with kokos dancing and the music alternating between live horn music and incredibly loud, thumping techno music. Oros and I sat down near the back, hoping to observe the event in an unobtrusive way. Immediately we were approached by one of the officials for the event. After asking us who we were, she insisted that we sit on stage at the VIP table. We tried to get out of it, but quickly realized that to refuse would be impolite.   South African community events have a few necessary components. There must be food. If you want anyone to come, you must cook up some porridge, beef stew, cabbage and other traditional food. There must also be very loud music. The music is almost always techno or house music—the sort of music my mom couldn’t stomach for two minutes is joyously accepted by 80 year old kokos in South Africa. There must also be a VIP table. This is a table which faces the audience and is reserved for ward counsellors, chiefs, representatives from government ministries and other notables. Since Oros and I had literally wandered in off the street, we wanted nothing to do with the VIP table. We didn’t even know what exactly the event was for.   As I nervously approach the stage, the music suddenly turned off and all eyes were on Oros and me. We took our seats at the table and wrote our name, place of birth, and company on sheet of paper so that the MC can introduce us to the audience. I looked at the program and noted that the event was running about two hours late, which is actually pretty good for this sort of thing. Once Oros and I arrived, however, the show began.   The MC asked me my name and, as expected, couldn’t figure out how to pronounce it, “Al… Alfred?” he asked. The trouble people have here understanding my name confused me when I first got to South Africa. There are a couple notable Africans who are named Oliver that almost everyone knows. There is Oliver Mtukudzi, a well known Zimbabwean musician and there is Oliver Tambo, a former president of the ANC during the struggle against Apartheid. The problem lies in my pronunciation. I pronounce Oliver as “Ah-lih-ver” while the African pronunciation is more like “Oh-lee-vah”. They may as well be different names.   When the MC realized I am an American, his face lit up. Once the MC introduced me as such, the crowd was appreciative as well, actually giving me a standing ovation. After that, my duties as a VIP were essentially complete. For the next three hours I watched various groups of children dance, hula-hoop, and sing their way through the program. It was delightful. Even though I should be used to it by now, I was still surprised to see that almost every kid in the room had impressive dancing ability. Prior to each dancing competition, all the children in the room surged towards the MC to volunteer to compete. As the program continued I found myself glancing more and more at the women preparing the food that I was increasingly hungry for. At the end, the VIPs were showed to a back room with a private buffet and a table while everyone else stood in a long line to get their food.   Moments such as this present a problem for me. My instincts are egalitarian, and I feel funny coming from a place as wealthy as America so that the Lenyenye Community Center can pay to feed me better than I feed myself or the majority of their community. These sorts of dilemmas are strictly academic however. While I may feel funny walking out of the community hall with a full stomach as hundreds of children wait in line for food, to not accept the generosity offered to me would be self-serving and impolite. I can’t count the number of times people have flown out of their chairs so that I can have a place to sit, and I can’t count the number of mangos, papayas and bananas my friend Patrick has brought me over the course of my stay here. People are so generous here that I have trouble keeping up.   I’m visiting my host family, the Chaukes, this weekend. It is Dodo’s and Mamaza’s birthday (they are twins) and I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Beyond that I am now training for a 50 kilometer race in March. This is a daunting prospect, especially while training under the harsh African sun. 

I have added new photos, by the way.

This is a link to an article from the BBC that outlines some of the problems that foreign aid can cause or exacerbate: 

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7740652.stm

Aid well spent is aid that makes itself unnecessary. Peace Corps South Africa has talked to its PCVs about sustainability repeatedly. Speaking of Peace Corps, here is another article that I read recently that gave me food for thought:  

http://www.foreignpolicy.com/story/cms.php?story_id=4295&page=2

I think that some of the criticisms in this article are overly strident for the sake of being provocative; not to mention the annoying straw man argument technique employed throughout. Still, there is much in this article that Peace Corps ought to address back in Washington D.C.

Development is a riddle with few easy answers and a myriad of trade-offs to consider. America has its own development problems: from crumbling infastructure (collapsing bridges, energy woes) to a classist, under-funded educational system. If we can't develop our own country properly, how are we supposed to design programs that will develop other countries?

Recently, a 30-foot section of wall behind my apartment complex collapsed. The sky had been growing progressively darker, and the wind was picking up, so I initially mistook the loud booming sound for thunder. Upon opening my door, I was confronted with billowing dust and a large semi-circle of debris emanating from a massive gap in the wall. Through the gap, I noticed a half dozen bewildered men who had previously been leaning stacks of heavy ceiling tiles against the other side of the wall. This had clearly been a mistake.

As my fellow apartment dwellers gathered to observe the spectacle, I wondered if this hull breach would compromise my safety. The complex is completely surrounded by a wall, and has only two entry points, one of which is a locked gate only for pedestrians and the other has a guard at night. The wall is topped with electric fencing all around. People are very serious about security here in South Africa. Interestingly, the owner of the lot behind my apartment perceived a greater threat from us than we did from him. For the next week, a guard sat by the whole-in-the-wall all night to protect the property from my neighbours and me.

The rainy season is finally in full swing. This means that every couple of days we have a torrential downpour on a scale rarely seen in my original Iowa stomping grounds. The rain is making Tzaneen greener and has brought out massive insects that never fail to entice me down on my haunches for a closer look. This behaviour alternately amuses or embarrasses whoever is walking around with me.

I have recently visited with a fellow Iowan named Bridget. Not only is she an Iowan, but she grew up in the same town and went to the same high school as me. I didn’t know her back in the States, but we were introduced through a mutual friend. She’s been living in South Africa a little longer than I have and works for an organization that trains women in journalism. I took her to meet Patrick, my entomologist friend who works at the Malaria Institute, and she took some photos which I have placed in an album called “Patrick at the Malaria Institute”. I visited her and her fellow volunteers as well. They are living in a currently defunct game park. The park is defunct in that it doesn’t currently admit visitors for a fee, but it is not lacking in animal life; giraffes, warthogs, springboks and a host of other animals roam the grounds. I could live here for 50 years and never get used to giraffes blocking the road, or baboons doing anything at all.

Speaking of animal life, there is a large elephant in the room and his name is Obama. The mood in Tzaneen after the US presidential election was generally positive. The Daily Sun, the most popular newspaper in South Africa, ran a cover story asking “Where is our Obama?” On the morning of November 5th I was awoken by a call from one of my co-workers at Tsogang congratulating me on Obama’s victory. Since the election, when I say I am from America, whoever I am speaking with often grins and says “Obama”. When I found out the next morning, I wasn’t jubilant. Honestly, I was mostly just relieved. Phew.

Because I am petty, I made a point of visiting a butchery where I had previously engaged in a brief discussion with a clerk on the merits of an Obama presidency. He contended that Obama would let “the Muslims take over” the United States. My mind briefly considered the Muslim take-over of Spain in 711 and the glorious age of tolerance and learning that followed. However, instead of bringing Mediaeval Spain into it, I just smiled and agreed to disagree. I didn’t mention the election on my second visit, but the grin on my face said enough. I bought a Kudu steak. Isn’t that cool? Try buying Kudu in Iowa.

Last week I was treating myself to a nice meal at a restaurant. The restaurant was crowded so I ended up sharing a table with a family of 5. My food came first, and everyone at my table looked perplexed. “What is that?” one of them asked. I had ordered the vegetarian stir-fry, which is about as un-South African as food can get. Their food came next and it was pap, chicken & chakalaka. After they had dug in, I asked how it was.

“Very good. Do you like pap?” the woman next to me asked.

“Sure,” I say with a shrug and a smile, “Ni rhandza vuswa”, which means “I love pap” in Xitsonga. This is not technically true. I will eat it, occasionally I even have a craving for it, but love is certainly too strong. However, one must be careful what one says about pap in South Africa. People may take it personally. Besides, my limited Xitsonga doesn’t allow for much nuance.  

The woman’s face lit up at this. To my surprise, she immediately took her knife and cut off a whopping portion of pap and deposited it on my plate. She then began tearing off a piece of her chicken for me as well, but I insisted that pap was more than enough. I thanked her profusely and was sure to make lots of “mmm” sounds as I ate with my fingers. Surprised as I was at this sudden generosity, it certainly fits the pattern. I have been lavished with kindness and generosity since I first came to South Africa.  

There are a couple projects that I am currently working on. One is a survey commissioned by the Department of Water Affairs and Forestry (DWAF). The survey’s purpose is to identify leaks in the municipal water system and to collect general information on water use habits. While the survey’s purpose may sound a little mundane, I’m thrilled because it means I will be going door to door chatting with people. I will be accompanied by a Sepedi man name Oros who will act as a translator and social lubricator. Excited as I am, I am also bracing myself for the inescapable discussion about America with every single householder. While this won’t make it into my final report to DWAF, I will make note every time someone mentions Obama to me over the course of the survey.

The other project is my chess club. I had been kicking around the idea for a while and asking myself where I would get money, how I would recruit players, and finally who I would get to help me do it. The last question was answered first. A friend of mine from the complex, named Sammy, offered to help me coach over a chess game one evening. He knows a few other 20-something men living in the complex who also know how to play chess and can help too.

As for members, I have nearly 20 children at the apartment complex alone who desperately want in. I have taken to sneaking through the complex after work just to avoid the repeated pleas for more chess. I only have one board, so when I do play chess with the kids they always bicker over who will be first. So, with everything in place, all my chess club needed was more boards. The final piece of the puzzle came from the caretaker of the complex. He had previously mentioned to me how he wished there were some way to keep the kids occupied and out of mischief after school. They are, uh, a rambunctious bunch of youngsters—always breaking bottles, scaling the building, defecating in the parking and generally causing havoc. I explained that on Wednesdays & Fridays he can now rest assure that the only violence committed by the children will take place on the chess board.  

So, I am keeping reasonably busy. At the end of the month I will be attending more Peace Corps training. After this training, my NGO will be shutting down for a month over Christmas/ New Years. I intend to hike extensively. This will be my first December without snow. Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” has been floating through my head lately both out of a yearning for snow and in response to the Christmas decorations that began appearing in the Tzaneen malls over a month ago. The survey begins next week, and I will keep you posted.

Thanks for reading.

My new flat is great. The apartment complex reflects the diversity of Tzaneen. While a majority of tenants are Shangaans or Sepedis, there are significant numbers of Afrikaners, Indians, Somalis and Pakistanis as well. The parking lot is always swarming with children engaged in various forms of play. It is extremely gratifying to see that children from all of the various ethnic groups play together with no regard for skin colour, religion or nationality.

Speaking of nationalities, I suppose I should add one more to the list: American. There are two Americans living in my apartment complex, and one of them isn’t me. One day as I was going out to do some grocery shopping I bumped into a couple of Somali guys, both of whom, I later found out, are named Mohammed. We got to chatting and one of the Mohammeds detected my American accent. After I confirmed my nationality, he got excited, “You have to meet my son! He’s an American too!” As it turns out, the family had been living in Arizona up until a couple of months ago and their son was born there. After eyeing me suspiciously for a few moments, the young man walked over to where his father and I were standing. My fellow American is just over one year old and apparently a bit of a handful. As we walked, Mohammed had to chase after his son three times. On one occasion he ran up to a group of older children, took their ball, and made a dash for it.  

So, abandoning my shopping plans, I found myself walking back through the complex to meet the family. I had seen them walking around the complex before, but had never suspected the connection. It was weird realizing that they had been in America more recently than I. They are still getting used to South Africa. “What do you think of South Africa?” the mom ventured. I said that I was having a fine time indeed, and yourself? “I miss Arizona” she responded immediately. She said this with such pathos that I wanted to leap off of the floor and hug her right there. I confided that I, too, miss America on occasion.

Obama came up in conversation. They love Obama. I promised to bring over my absentee ballot for a look-see when it arrives. We also talked about their mosque. I posted a picture of the Tzaneen mosque in a previous photo album because I think it is the most impressive and attractive building in town. I have been continually surprised that so few people in Tzaneen seem to know about it. My new Somali friends are very proud of it since it was built entirely with money donated by the Muslim community here in Tzaneen. I met another Somali man who had lived in Los Angeles for 20 years before coming here to Tzaneen a few months ago. Two decades as a cognizant adult living in America trumps whatever I’ve got; this guy is simultaneously more American than I am and more Somali than I could ever hope to be. Another Somali gentleman that I met was also a recent arrival in South Africa, but had come directly from Somalia. In four months he has learned practical English, Sepedi, and Shangaan. During my 8 months in country, I have made scant inroads on a single language. Eventually we got to watching Bollywood movies after it was explained that Somalis have a special affinity for Indian culture.

The aforementioned hordes of children running around the apartment complex have shown themselves to be apt chess pupils. I brought my board outside one day at one kid’s request and was immediately surrounded by a dozen or so children. What was to be a low-key chess lesson turned into a chess marathon that was cut short only by the failing daylight. Since then, I have brought the board out a few more times, always with the same overwhelming response. All of this got me seriously thinking about creating some sort of chess club. The exact shape of this club is not yet known to me, but it feels inevitable that it will happen.

After moving and settling in to my new place, I realized that I hadn’t seen my host family, the Chaukes, for a long time. During a bout of Peace Corps training a few months ago, we were given three hours to say hello to our families again. This amount of time was appreciated, but hopelessly inadequate. My host mom Lina told me that I needed to come back for a week long visit. In those three hours, however, all of the love they had shown me during my stay with them was re-affirmed. I vowed to return for a longer stay at a later date.

So, a couple of weeks ago I hopped on a Kombi that took me from Tzaneen to Polokwane, followed by another kombi that took me to Mokapane, and then my final kombi ride which took me to Mabula village. Even though I spent only two months living with the Chaukes, compared to my nearly six months in Tzaneen, going back felt just like driving home from college. I was going back to my roots, spending time with the people who taught me how to behave properly. As you drive from Tzaneen to Polokwane the landscape changes from lush mountains covered with banana plantations and immense pine forests in neat grid patterns to a dry, orange coloured scrubland with the occasional mountain jutting up from the otherwise flat earth. I somehow found myself in the very back of each kombi, which meant I was sharing a bench seat with 3 other fully grown individuals -- a tight squeeze.

My weekend with the Chaukes was great. I heard all about the Matriculation process that my brother Dodo was is going through. Matriculation happens during the final year of high school and involves a slew of government administered tests over various subjects. These tests scores determine whether you graduate high school as well as your eligibility for university. This is obviously a stressful time. Dodo even had to miss a soccer game that Mabula’s team played against a neighbouring village so he could study for his Physics exam. Since I no longer have to worry about physics (if only I’d studied half as much as I’d worried…) I went to the game.

My younger brother Comutcho, a family friend named Buti, and I hitched a ride to the game with the team. The team and various hangers-on were all jammed into the back of a pick-up truck, which they call a “backie” in these parts. Once the truck got moving, singing and horn-playing began in earnest. This jubilance was cut short when the engine died. We rolled over to the side of the road and lifted the hood. Somehow, after a few minutes of tinkering, the engine was brought back to life and we were off. The singing resumed. This portion of our journey last another couple of minutes before the next breakdown. After breakdown number five, the team had to hop out of the backie and make a run for the field so as to avoid the fine for being late. They got there just in time. The game was played on a field surrounded on all sides by a tarp, to encourage the payment of a five rand entrance fee. The field itself was mostly dust and sand, with a smattering of grass. Consequently wherever the ball went, a small cloud of dust followed, often obscuring both ball and player. We scored in the first 10 minutes of play. The remaining 80 minutes kicked up additional dust, but resulted in no additional points. I will always find this particular aspect of soccer bizarre, but at least we won.

In Mabula itself, I made the rounds; visiting various family and quasi-family members. These meetings consisted of a short English portion and a much longer Shangaan portion where I mostly listened. I have long since made peace with the fact that I have no idea what people are saying most of the time. I have learned to listen to the tone of voice, watch facial expression, and generally enjoy the way people talk at least as much as I enjoy listening to what people are actually staying.

Rachel’s 24th birthday is coming up next week, and I have offered to cook her some traditional American food: tacos. She had never heard of such a food before, which I found astonishing despite the good sense that it makes. In fact, “American” has been the theme of all the meals I’ve cooked for her thus far: pizza, spaghetti & meatballs, hamburgers… Tacos are the most exotic to date, so I am considering making some pap just in case she doesn’t like Mexican food. She cooks for me too, the most recent meal being classic South African food: pap, atchar, chakalaka, chicken. This is eaten with the fingers, of course. While I am spilling food all over myself, trying to eat the least finger-friendly finger-food I’ve ever encountered, she deftly roles the pap into a ball and adds to it a pinch of veggies or chicken. I think eating with your fingers is harder than eating with chopsticks.

Thanks for reading.

Up until now I have made sure not to mention Des or Mimi, the elderly Afrikaner couple that I currently rent my flat from, much in my blog. While they have fascinating views about the world that would make for an interesting read, I find many of these views extremely offensive. If I go on about how kind they are to me, while leaving out the omnipresent paranoid racism, I am lying by omission. If I focus too much on their bigotry, I fail to give them credit for all the kindness I have received. To create a balanced view of Des & Mimi is difficult. Thus far I have avoided it. Now that they are kicking me out, I suppose it’s time to have a go.

One of the first things Des told me about himself was that he is not racist. Without the slightest sense of irony, Des then went on to explain how “they” are going to ruin South Africa with “their” corruption, evil, etc. “They” is code for black people, or roughly 80% of the country. He then provided me a number of colourful anecdotes highlighting crimes where black people maim or kill white people. He wrapped up our first meeting with a few bible verses that he felt supported his dire predictions for South Africa’s political and economic development. All of this plus Mimi washed (and pressed) all of my dirty clothes, made me dinner, and gave me a box of milk bones to feed the dogs.

I went over to their house, a 10 second walk across our shared courtyard, on many occasions. A few times we watched rugby; they shared many a meal with me as well. My time in their home was an unsettling combination of typical South African generosity with a healthy dose of jaw-dropping, racially themed diatribes. What do you say to a person when they have just said “Blacks are lazy”, especially when your mouth is full of eggs, bacon, toast, and hash browns? I never thought of anything especially profound to say. Sometimes I would attempt to subtly question their assumptions, but generally I confined my comments on such issues to “hmmm” or “ah”.

Even while there was no immediate problem, I knew that my living there was a ticking bomb. Though initially there was no outright ban on black guests to my flat, it was a safe bet what their preference on the matter would be. Part of the problem is my naiveté. While each meeting with Des & Mimi yielded nuggets of wisdom such as, “They’ll say hello to your face, then stab you in the back”, I still found it hard to believe that they would be so bold as to flatly deny me the right to invite black people to my flat. Even knowing South Africa’s history and a daily provision of clues were not enough to get it through my thick American skull.

The first time Des ran into me and one of my black guests, his displeasure was written clearly upon his face. He stopped dead in his tracks, made sure she wasn’t an American (which would have been OK), and then rushed inside. When he had met previous guests, that is to say other white people, he was cordial to a fault; chatting for 10 or 15 minutes, relaying recent news from America, and on one occasion even offering some snacks. The next day after he caught me with my black guest, he told me that I couldn’t bring strangers over to the house. Strangers are dangerous, he informed me. I wouldn’t know, since I’m a foreigner. Even though I knew that strangers were a feeble cover for his issues with black people, I took him at his word. I still hoped that there was some middle ground that we could find.

I haven’t had many people to my place since moving in over 4 months ago- a handful of locals, some of the closer Peace Corps volunteers, my boss and his wife. Since Des & Mimi generally gave me space, I was able to have visitors without them knowing. However, once I met Rachel this was impossible to sustain. Since we started dating, she’s been over quite a bit. Since she is black, this was a problem for Des & Mimi.

Des spotted us one night as we were entering my flat. As soon as she’d slipped inside, Des told me that we needed to talk. The talk was, in a word, ugly. If someone has a phobia, perhaps of heights or snakes, confronting them with that phobia is a sure way to get them to freak out. I am afraid of failure and large bodies of water. Des is absolutely petrified of black people.

When they called me into their living room, it was Des who did the talking, while Mimi opted for a silent reproach of my misdeeds. He attacked a number of my lifestyle choices, though the decision to bring black people to my house seems to have ticked him off the most. Why? Simple- it is not because they are black per se, but rather it is because of the inherent security risk that their presence entails. Or something like that. Frankly, it was a bit hard to follow. It was like talking to King Rainbow, but without the fun. Apparently, on one night that I had “hidden” Rachel’s presence from him, he spotted a person lurking about the backyard. This person was not “spotted” in the sense that Des “saw” him. Rather, the dogs spotted this mysterious personage while Des leapt to the rescue to fetch his flashlight. This person, who it may be assumed was black, was looking for either me or Rachel. From this conclusion, Des could not be swayed.

Beyond that, word will get around. Neighbours are asking questions. Rachel will tell her siblings, cousins, & friends about the wonders contained on Des & Mimi’s property. In time, there will be nightly home invasions of people looking to get a piece. Therefore, black guests can simply not be allowed. “Do you really expect me to compromise my family’s safety?” Des asked me incredulously. Getting Des to flatly tell me I couldn’t have black guests was surprisingly hard, but eventually I got him to say it explicitly. He kept dancing around the point by blaming crime rates and the general attributes of roughly 35 million black South Africans.

With comic timing, Des then went on to reiterate that he is not a racist. Des then informed me, yet again, how during last Christmas they had bought a sack of corn meal and a dozen frozen chickens for “some of the blacks that work at Kruger National Park”. He mentioned another oft repeated story where he spent some money on a charity for black orphaned children. He declared that he does more for black people than I could ever hope to do.

Fine. I’m not getting into any competitions over who helps black people more. My focus is on not being too bitter about the whole thing. Rachel, for her part, felt partly responsible for the whole mess. I tried to assuage that fear. It seems clear to me that this is Des & Mimi’s problem, not hers. I try to keep in mind that Des & Mimi come by their racism honestly. Every authority figure in their life and every social cue that they have experienced during their 70 odd years in South Africa has nurtured it. Not only did their parents, teachers, preachers and politicians promote it, but Apartheid itself was designed to keep whites ignorant about the lives of the black population. When Des says, “The blacks were better off under Apartheid than they are now”, he is speaking from a place of surprising ignorance.

I am moving into my new flat next week. It is in a vast, newly constructed apartment complex on the edge of Tzaneen’s central business district. The guy renting out flats for the apartment told me the complex is maybe 80% black, 10% whites, and 10% Indian. “That sounds like what you should expect in South Africa!” I responded brightly. The NGO that I work for, Tsogang, has been unwaveringly supportive of me from the beginning. This is essential, since they are the ones footing the bill for my room.

Despite Des & Mimi, I am happy. South Africa is still treating me well. I am meeting people. I met some Afrikaner gentlemen who sympathised with my housing woes and invited me to hit the town with them at my soonest convenience. They like talking to me especially because of my wacky American accent. I met an Afrikaner currently living in Ireland (home visiting his parents) as I was running. Specifically, he was running faster than me up a hill. He was about to overtake me, until I surged. He knew enough about Iowa to declare it “the middle of nowhere”. Not during caucus season, I thought to myself a little defensively. I even met a fellow American volunteer. He is from Guyana. I knew he was not from South Africa when he effortlessly threw me a perfect pass with my Frisbee.

Then, of course, there is Rachel. It is a shame that the first time I mention her in the blog has to be in conjunction with such an unfortunate incident. She is a 24 year old Shangaan woman who works at the local grocery store. Next year she is planning on completing her degree in Human Resource Management; then on to better employment. She shares my passion for long walks as well as a good book. She’s cool.

I am looking forward to having guests at my new place without the fear of being scrutinized. I’m also looking forward to meeting my new neighbours. It may not surprise you to know that I have mixed feelings about Des & Mimi. While leaving them was the easiest decision I’ve made in a long while, I will miss certain aspects of our relationship. After all of Des’s posturing and ultimatum giving, Mimi stepped in. “We’ve treated you like our son”, she said simply, looking me dead in the eyes. This much I think is true. After that, they reinstated their offer to take me on a day trip to Kruger National Park since I house sat for them while they were on vacation. I said sure.

So we went together. Mimi made sandwiches. Des bought me ice cream. It was pleasant. We haven’t really spoken since then. Clearly, we have a complicated relationship. I am learning that South Africa is a complicated place.

Greetings,

Last Friday I was on my morning run when a car pulled up beside me and rolled down its window. I assumed this was yet another person who spotted me and figured I could give them directions to someplace. Instead he said to me “You look like you’re in a hurry, can I give you a lift somewhere?” A little flustered and out of breath, I began to explain that I was on a run before I caught myself. He giggled as he drove away.

Just after my last blog entry I headed off to the In-Service Training put on by Peace Corps South Africa. It was great catching up with my fellow South Africa 17ers (we are the 17th Peace Corps group to come to South Africa). The experiences varied wildly—some people are living in a deep rural setting while others are living a much more urban lifestyle. Some are already knee deep in a project, while others have yet to sketch one out. Another upshot of the IST was the chess. For some reason, SA 17 is awash with chess playing talent. IST also provided some useful perspective on how to plan and monitor a development project. One of the key aspects of successful aid work is giving ownership of the project to the community it serves. If a volunteer does a whole series of useful, innovative things but fails to garner sufficient community involvement, the sustainability of her (or his) work is nil.

One thing I failed to mention in my last entry is that I am no longer the sole PCV working at Tsogang. Joey is an SA 16, which is to say he has been here six months longer than I have. He was transferred from his initial NGO to Tsogang due, in part, to a special interest in water systems. He can do magic tricks, including one where puffy red balls multiply and disappear before your eyes.

Speaking of wizardry, I have recently made the acquaintance of a sangoma who goes by the name of King Rainbow. A sangoma is a traditional healer—a sort of doctor, pharmacist, priest, and life-counsellor (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sangoma). In the last photo album I posted, I included a picture of a handout provided by another traditional healer that listed a whole slew of maladies that he promised to cure. These sorts of claims are common among sangomas.

King Rainbow is less common in that he claims to be the oldest man alive. He also tells me that he turns into a snake at night.

But I am getting ahead of myself. One day, when walking home from work, I spotted a sign on the side of the road that read:

“Father of Kings and Sangomas… I will fix everything after you’ve given my world back, I’m born to broke the world if you don’t listen to Rainbow,”

Intrigued, I headed down a path leading to the river to find a small collection of cardboard buildings. I spotted the King immediately. Once Rainbow and I were introduced, he said a great many things. He talked a lot about ancestors, and the relationship one must have with them. Some of his more arresting metaphors pertained to communication with your ancestors so they can “drive you like a car” or “put you on like clothing and walk around in you”.

Sitting in his self-built house, I noticed a large collection of powders, herbs, and roots. I also noticed a stuffed cat, a wooden head covered with human hair and a worrying collection of water bottles containing an array of murky liquids.

When I was down by the river talking to Rainbow, I noticed that a steady stream of people came down to speak with one of his two wives. Some of them took their shoes off and disappeared into the river for a time, while others left as soon as they arrived. I never did ask what they were up to since King Rainbow was giving me a crash course in his particular cosmology. It is an odd mishmash of Abrahamic creation stories, Sotho creation stories, as well as a healthy dose of Rainbow’s own unique perspective. It was also a bit hard to follow. Rainbow told me that my ancestors were writing through my hand as I took notes.

Judging from my notes, my ancestors were a bit confused too; something about snake(s) turning into human body parts and God (Rainbow) creating parallel versions of humanity. He also told me how he plans to find a new body once his current one is worn out.

In less exciting news, I got a haircut. My hair was cut by a Ghanaian barber that I have befriended. He shaved it all off, in a style known through these parts as a “chis kop”. After he shaved my head, he took what looked like a horse-brush and vigorously rubbed mentholated spirits into my scalp. When I mentioned to him that my head felt like it was on fire, he smiled and informed me that it was “hygienic”. I opted for this style partly because it is the predominate hair choice of South African men. Also, I remembered Yul Brynner (The King and I, The Ten Commandments, Westworld) speaking convincingly about how great being bald is. So far I’m fine with it, though it does mean that I need a stocking cap to stay warm at night. Remember, it’s winter down here.

Since my barber friend is a fellow ex-patriot, we like to discuss South Africa from the perspective of an outsider. Once I asked him what the biggest difference between South Africa and Ghana is. Without hesitation he told me that women in Ghana “know their place” and don’t “talk too much”. From my perspective, this is a ringing endorsement for South Africa. It is worth noting that the South African constitution is perhaps the most progressive in the world. Check it out: http://www.info.gov.za/documents/constitution/index.htm

Tsogang recently had its Annual General Meeting. This involved a presentation to various government officials and board members. During the lunch following the presentation, a giraffe ambled up to the window of the dining hall and helped herself to some leaves growing on a nearby tree. It was a wonderful “you are in Africa” moment. After the lunch we took many of the government officials on a tour of some of our projects which included a community garden, a diesel motor water pump, and an attractively built reservoir. Afterwards I fulfilled Peace Corp’s second goal (“Helping promote a better understanding of Americans…”) by explaining some key differences between South African English and American English. In America “that side” becomes “over there”, “now now” becomes simply “now”, and in America “I’m coming” actually means that you are currently on your way to a place, as opposed to merely planning on coming. I also learned that "how" often means something like "really?" or "I see.", as opposed to a question. That explains a lot.

I’ve included some new pictures along with this entry. You will see them on the right hand side of the blog under the creative heading “Sangoma, Haircut”.

Thanks for reading, I shall write again soon.

oli

I have added some pictures, by-the-way.

This morning I was late for work. Since I was late, I rushed past people that I would normally have stopped to chat with. This is very un-African of me.

As I rushed past a furniture store, where I had previously made the acquaintance of one of the sales people, I heard a whistle directed at me. This is a common way to grab someone’s attention here in South Africa; you can’t walk around downtown Tzaneen without hearing a good deal of whistling. “Why didn’t you come in and say hello?” he scolds me.

“I’m really late for work, so I’ve been rushing since I left my flat” I explain, trying to sound as hurried as possible. He laughs as he takes my hand and leads me into the store. He explains we need to talk business. When we get to his desk, he starts to describe his vision for a new company. He shows me his business plan and then asks if I can help him make it better. I’m thinking “I’m a history major…”, but I say yes anyway. After a good 20 minutes I finally get back on the street, and headed to work. I hope I can help him out somehow. He and I have spoken many times before. He is an outspoken opponent of America’s current foreign policy. When he found out where I was from, he was thrilled that he could finally give a piece of his mind to an actual American. He has a satellite at his home and watches CNN, so he is supplied with a constant stream of news to keep him busy. “Be careful with that CNN” I warn, “It's American propaganda…” He is not alone in his desire to say a thing or two about America.

The people I meet almost always have something they want to ask or say about my homeland. The most common thing people say is that they want to visit; the second most common topic of choice is probably the presidential election, i.e. Barrack Obama. One question I got a couple times after Hillary finally dropped out of the race was “Is he the President yet?” In fact, I have been asked to explain US Presidential politics on more than one occasion. Even when people have negative things to say about the US, they almost always tell me they want to visit.

I got a call a few weeks ago from a man named Patrick. I honestly couldn’t remember where I had met him, but he was very keen on meeting up with me. I figured that if I gave him my number, he couldn’t have seemed to threatening to me at the time, so I say yes. We arranged a meeting spot at the crossroads of two major highways. I had no idea what he wanted to do. It turns out he is a scientist who has worked at the Malaria Institute for the past 30 years. So, we take a walk to the Institute.

The Malaria institute, I am told, is responsible for ridding my particular area of malaria carrying mosquitoes years ago. I am afforded VIP status and am treated to a full tour of the labs and grounds. There are dozens of containers, in which mosquitoes at various stages of life are kept. There is also a shed that houses hundreds of guinea pigs. These hapless creatures are drugged and then placed in the aforementioned containers when the scientists want the mosquitoes to lay eggs. Apparently blood is necessary for egg production; otherwise the mosquitoes seem happy enough with sugar water. Another fun fact is that mosquitoes have an average lifespan of 14 to 28 days. On parting Patrick gave me the largest banana I have ever seen, one that he had harvested from one of his own banana trees.

So, I’m meeting people, which is nice. Work is good too. I’ve finally gotten a new version of Tsogang’s website up (www.tsogang.org). It’s the first website I’ve ever published, so I’m still trying to figure it all out. Once I understand well enough, I will show my co-workers how to edit and publish a website as well. I think that’s what Peace Corps means when they talk about “capacity building”. I am also working on creating a database for all of the projects that Tsogang has worked on since 1996. Since the current filing system is a bit arcane, this is quite the task. Once I get this database finished, it will be a useful tool for Tsogang long after I leave. This is a pleasant thought.

Since I am approaching my third month in Tzaneen (and my fifth month in South Africa) I will be going to what Peace Corps calls in-service training for the next two weeks. This is supposed to consist of additional relevant training for work. It also provides an opportunity to catch up with fellow volunteers. All 30 of the volunteers in my group have been placed in different NGOs, over three different provinces. Our experiences will be diverse, and probably instructive. Another plus is that we are given three (free) squares a day for the whole training period. That, in itself, is probably enough to keep me happy.

Thanks for reading.

Eta hola, I have spent the last week chatting mostly with mango farmers. It seems that every farm I went to, whether they dealt with chickens or corn or bananas, also had mangos. I was accompanying a man named Zunaid as he conducted a survey on behalf of a government agency charged with helping black emerging farmers. The survey’s purpose was to assess the needs of black emerging farmers so that some sort of program can be set up to serve those needs. It was an interesting experience. I know Zunaid through Peace Corps. During my first weeks in South Africa, Peace Corps set up what they called a ‘Diversity Panel’ which was composed of representatives from South Africa’s major racial groups. There was a black person, a coloured person (the accepted S.A. term for a person of mixed race. I still feel a little funny calling someone that…), an Afrikaner, and an Indian. Zunaid was the Indian on the panel and had an interesting story to tell. He had been very active in the struggle against Apartheid; even getting himself jailed for what he was told was “an indefinite period of time”. He eventually went into exile to Botswana, along with many other resistance fighters within the ANC. It was interesting to hear his perspectives on race relations as well. So, when I ran into him at one of Tzaneen’s malls and was offered the chance to tag along as he interviewed farmers, I happily said yes. As with so many aspects of South African life, the legacy of Apartheid figures in prominently. Under Apartheid, whites owned almost all of the land. So, once Apartheid began to be dismantled in 1994, the question of how to right this historical wrong had to be addressed. The solution that South Africans found was a land claims process whereby black South Africans can apply for land currently in white control. This stands in stark contrast to the way Zimbabwe went about solving the same problem. Zimbabwe and South Africa had similar land arrangements when under white control. At that time, Zimbabwe was known as Rhodesia. However, while South Africa was able to achieve democracy with a relatively small amount of violence, Zimbabwe had a bloody civil war and fell under a harsh dictatorship. Zimbabwe’s leader, Mugabe, opted for a far more radical approach to land redistribution than his southern neighbor. White farmers were simply kicked off of their farms with no pretension of making it a gradual process, as has been the case in South Africa. Whatever method is used, there is an inherent problem. The outgoing white farmers have the expertise, the equipment, and the experience-- even if the incoming black farmers are finally getting the land. This is roughly where Zunaid and I come in. The government is looking for effective ways to assist these relatively new farmers. Zunaid’s survey was created as one way to figure out what exactly black emerging farmers need. We had with us a local fruit merchant by the name of Steven. He knows most of the black farmers in the area and provided us the ‘in’ we needed to conduct the survey. Overwhelmingly, the farmers we spoke with are short on cash. Without money, or access to it, you can’t invest in your farm. Water and electricity were two concerns that we found across the board as well. One thing that surprised me was the almost total reliance on word-of-mouth for their advertising. While white farmers in South Africa are exporting crops to Europe and America, many black farmers are struggling to sell crops in their immediate areas. Even though most farmers described themselves as struggling, they still said they’d rather be a farmer than anything else. When asked why they had chosen farming as a trade, most farmers cited the prospect of creating jobs for their community. Even though I was essentially just an observer, my presence was keenly felt. At one farm, Zunaid went through his spiel about all the reasons for his visit with a farmer’s wife. When she called her husband to tell him they had a visitor, all she told him over the phone was “There is an American here who can speak Shangan!” At another farm an elderly woman offered me the last remaining chair, the one she had just been sitting on. Of course the prospect of making an elderly woman sit on the ground so I could sit in a chair was just short of horrifying for me. She explained that in the bible we are told to give our chair to guests. So, I guiltily sat down in the chair knowing I had little choice. So now I am better acquainted with the rural area around Tzaneen. I am also feeling more at home in Tzaneen proper. I am finally to the point where I am being greeted by those that know me. Sometimes a person who I don’t recognize will approach me with a handshake and a greeting. Either I’ve greeted them before or they’ve heard about me. I have a whole bunch of people that I regularly see as I walk to work that now say hello to me of their own accord. One guy, who is the security guard at a local grocery store (there are lots of security guards here), even calls me “but” which is short for butti or brother. Isn’t that nice? Once I introduce myself, people are often very keen to get my number. Sometimes they even call me at some later point. My marital status is a very common point of discussion. After finding out that I'm not married, many people take it upon themselves to find me a mate. Steven, our guide to the farmers around Tzaneen, told me I need to marry a Shangan girl. “Even a Sotho girl would be OK” he conceded judiciously. He told me he'll ask around, so that the next time we hang out he will have found me a date. We shall see. It is interesting how my particular relationship with black South African culture is a point of pride for people that until moments before were complete strangers. Every time I eat pap, say “Avuxeni”, or mention that I used to live with a Shangan family, the face of the person I’m speaking with lights up. I suppose that’s part of the reason people always tell me I should get a Shangan wife—it would be one more way that I could indicate my admiration for their culture. Another trend I have noticed while I walk around Tzaneen is that people are constantly asking me for directions. Many times now, a car has seen me and pulled over to the side of the road just ahead of where I’m walking. Of course, I have no idea how to get anywhere in South Africa. I am a foreigner who isn’t allowed to drive. I think it’s funny that people zero in on the least qualified person in the whole city to give them directions. A few times, the person in the car pulling over was an Afrikaner. Each time the Afrikaner behind the wheel asked me incredulously (in Afrikaans) “What are you doing walking around here!? It’s dangerous.” After some explanation they would offer me a ride. “No Thanks” I say with a big smile, “I like the walk”. In Tzaneen there are an inordinate number of shops related to the death industry; caskets, tombstones, funerary decorations and the like. I can’t say for sure, but I’m fairly certain this is directly related to the ongoing AIDS pandemic. It is a tricky subject to bring up, but I have asked a handful of people why they thought there is so much commercial activity in Tzaneen that centred around death. Most hadn’t noticed the phenomena. I suppose it’s the sort of thing you get used to. Lately, when I’m not chatting up farmers or having my love life planned out for me, I am reading Noam Chomskey. Jason and Virginia, two fellow PCVs living in a nearby township, gifted me with an extensive cache of his books and interviews. Even though he can sometimes be a bit of a downer, I am addicted to reading him. I also find the time to play guitar and go on early morning runs to the dam. So, all is well for me here in South Africa. The xenophobic violence that is plaguing the area around Johannesburg has not been a problem here. One of the friends I have met in recent weeks, whose name is Gift, actually rooms with 5 Zimbabweans. You know there is a real problem when people are actually fleeing into Zimbabwe, as they have been recently. At any rate, thanks for reading and will make sure to blog sometime soon. A month is too long.

Hello. I’m walking to work. It’s about 8:30 in the morning. I’ve been saying hello to everyone I’ve walked past since I left the house. I’m getting the usual mix of bemusement, distrust, and laughter from passers by. One younger looking man stops after I say hello to him. He turns around, “Why are you on foot?” he asks suspiciously, “White people don’t walk around.” I explain that I don’t have a car and that I am walking to work. However, this information only adds to his confusion. Finally, I can see a light go on in his head. “Do you know Jim?” he asks. Jim is a previous Peace Corps Volunteer who worked in this area. I am his replacement. When I first arrived here, and saw my living situation, I was worried. I saw my shower and all the white people driving around in cars and I asked myself “How am I supposed to make any sort of impact here?” The answer to that question has found me. Since moving to Tzaneen I have observed the elusive nature of the Afrikaner. I am living in a predominantly white neighbourhood, yet in this neighbourhood I share the sidewalks exclusively with black South Africans. When I am running in the morning, I do see one elderly Afrikaner couple walking with their dogs on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But that’s it in terms of white foot-traffic. It is still hard for me to understand, especially considering how pretty the area is. So, the simple action of walking to work sends a message to everyone that sees me. What exactly that message is, I can not say for sure. Everyday, the vast majority of my people-contact consists of greetings. Greetings are of huge cultural significance here and seem to be more uniformly adhered to than greetings in the States. I will use the exact same phrases, in the same order, over and over again. Just like anywhere, the way you greet someone is a key way for you to define your relationship and communicate social status. In any given day, I have to know Xitsonga greetings, Sepedi greetings, Tsotsi (gangster) greetings, and Afrikaans as well. The Xitsonga and Afrikaans greetings change based on the time of day. The Sepedi greetings depend on the sex and age of the person you’re speaking with, and Tsotsi greetings are a special kind of slang used by boys from early teens to men in their 30s. Unless the person knows me, I have to be the one to say hello (or rather “Avuxeni”, “Tobella”, or “Eta”) People are usually shocked that I’m speaking with them at all, and often react in ways that I find surprising. People commonly look behind them, as if I am talking to some white guy lurking after them. They also often respond to my Tsonga greeting with the appropriate Afrikaans greeting, probably figuring that they had misheard me and that I was speaking Afrikaans in the first place. Another common reaction is the cold, hard stare. Finally, once they understand that I’m trying to speak their language, they are very warm and open. Sometimes they will just laugh, other times they will be curious enough to ask me questions. They usually ask me where I learned Shangan (known also as Xitsonga) or Sepedi. After I explain that I lived with a Shangan family for a couple of months, that I am from America, and that I’m working for an NGO they are generally fairly impressed with how bizarre I am. My favourite way to greet is the Tsotsi way. Tsotsi is the universal word for gangster in South Africa. First you look at who you are about to talk to. If it is a woman or an older man, you had better use a more formal greeting, unless you want to be insulting. You start out by saying “Eta” or “Eta hola”. The proper response to that is “Eta” or “Howzit?” Then finally you answer “Sharp” (pronounced ‘Shawp’). There are also a few handshakes that it is helpful to know, including one that involves precise thumb movement and a snap. After such an exchange, if I don’t have a chance to explain myself, the person will look at me quizzically as I walk off into the distance. Of course, all exchanges are not positive. I am often called boss. Calling a white person “boss” is a hold-over from the Apartheid era. I hate being called boss. Once I was even called master, which made my jaw drop. I am also asked for a job sometimes. This is awkward, but usually less so after I explain my situation. Sometimes I will ask them if they could find me a job instead, to which I am consistently greeted with laughter. I am also panhandled occasionally, usually for a few rand or some cigarettes. “I don’t smoke and I don’t have any money” I say with a shrug. Generally though, people are just curious about me. Everyday I am reminded how much I stand out. Recently in the supermarket, I was standing at the checkout about to pay for some groceries. I say “Avuxeni, minjani?” to the woman at the register and after looking at me she immediately starts laughing. I mean really laughing. Through gasps of breath she returns my greeting, “Hi kona, minjani?” I shrug my shoulders and say “Hi pfukile” (I’m fine) which only makes her laugh harder. I have my money out and my arm is just sort of hanging there. Other people are starting to look at us. She starts rapidly speaking Xitsonga into her radio. All I can make out is “white guy” and “Shangan”. A few moments later the manager walks up to me and, already smiling a great deal, greets me in Shangan. I go through the same script with him and now he’s laughing. I’m starting to feel more than a little self-conscious. I’m usually thrilled to get people laughing like this, but there is a fine line between telling a joke and being a joke. I try to pay for the groceries to no avail. A new store employee has been brought in and I am now going through the greetings yet again to renewed laughter. I try to pay the bagger but she shakes her head. Finally, I pay for my groceries and get my receipt. As I walk away from the register I shout “Salani Kahle” (stay well). I turn around to see an Afrikaner woman, who was apparently behind me in line the whole time. With her arms akimbo she is giving me an intense stare. More laughter follows me as I walk out of the store, and onto the street. I’ve been reading a great deal here. I’ve finally finished The Brother’s Karamazov. I wish I actually read it in high school, instead of pretending. You were right Jordan, it’s a great book. Since I got here I’ve also read a few murder mysteries I borrowed from my boss, two books by Alexandra Fuller, Country of My Skull by Antjie Krog, Lolita, The Common Reader by Virginia Wolf, and a novel set in 11th century Britain about the Norman invasion. I’m currently as far as the book of Ruth in the King James Bible, halfway through a book on African history, and working my way through a massive book on physics. My dad also sent me this great book called The 112 Greatest Chess Games of All Time. Since I don’t have a computer or TV at home, I have spent hours with that book and my chess board; re-living famous chess matches. So, I’ve been able to keep myself occupied in my off hours. While at work I’m putting the finishing touches on the company website, trying to understand was ESETA is, and generally orientating myself to the new job. That’s how it’s been for me lately. Thanks for reading.

Hello. I have finally added some photos. A link to the album is located at the top of the page. The photos encompass my time in Mabula as well as a little before when I was at Mokopane College. More albums are to follow. Now I’d like to give some general background information about life in South Africa. It will help make sense of future entries and will also answer some common questions I have received. Kombis are the most common means of transport for inter-city travel. Since many people live in the townships and work in the city, they are used often. Kombis are big white vans that seat 16 people and always seems to be one visible on the road at any time. If a kombi isn’t full you can flag one down for a ride, otherwise you will have to catch one at a rank. Ranks are generally hectic. People vying for seats in a kombi need to be aggressive unless they want to wait for the last kombi out of town. I’ve seen men my age shove frail-looking gogos (grandmothers) out of the way while jockeying for a seat, only to get shoved right back and have to wait for the next ride. Vendors wander around trying to sell Cokes, waters, ice-cream, produce, and anything else a person might want. Kombi drivers want a full vehicle for obvious reasons. Kombi drivers are also very time-conscious since the better turn-around they have the more rides they can fit in. More rides with more people equals more money. The time crunch also means that they drive like they are on fire. They weave in and out of traffic and generally disregard pedestrians, unless the pedestrian is flagging down the kombi for a ride. The price for a ride on a kombi varies depending on how far you want to go. The 45 minute kombi ride to Mokopane from Mabula cost R20. The longer drive from Polokwane to Mokopane cost R40. For a 20 minute drive to Nkowankowa from Tzaneen, the charge is a mere R7. Money is paid to the driver according to what row you sit in. Once the kombi starts moving, you pool the money together with everyone in your row and try to make change if possible. Then you pass the money up and indicate how many people are paying. The passenger who gets stuck up front has to deal with all the money coming up and make the appropriate change. The staple food in South Africa is a kind of corn-meal porridge commonly known by its Afrikaans name, pap. In Xitsonga, it is called vusvwa. Pap is generally eaten at every meal and in huge portions. It consists of corn meal and water and that’s it. It is usually cooked to the consistency of play-dough. When living with my host family, I grew a little tired of pap. When I finally decided I’d had enough, I made the radical decision to skip it altogether for a meal. As I ate my dinner with the rest of the family, my host mom went back to the kitchen and scooped out a massive chunk of pap and brought it to me. When I politely declined, it was absolutely shocking to everyone present. A meal isn’t a meal unless you’ve had pap. One guy in the village told me that if he didn’t have pap for a couple of days, he wouldn’t feel right. A very common meal here is pap and nyama (meat). The meat is usually chicken, but can also be beef. Chicken feet, chicken head, chicken gizzards, and chicken “miscellaneous” have all found their way onto my plate at sometime or another here in South Africa. Cows are also used to their fullest extent. Another common dish is known in Xitsonga as miroho. Miroho can be any cooked green, but my host mom used squash leaves. The greens are cooked and mashed until it is there is no trace of its former leaf-state present in the pot. Mango pieces soaked in a spicy-oily sauce known as atcha is common as well. Mopani worms are also eaten here. They are sold by street vendors and in tuck shops (small general stores in villages). When sold, they are dried. To cook you boil then fry. Walking around town is always interesting. Shops commonly have loud music blasting from speakers in their doorways. Street vendors are everywhere, selling produce, hats, sandals, and sunglasses. Banks and ATMs always seem to have insanely long lines. Since I’m from America, I always look the wrong way when crossing the street. When you get in a cars way here, you are in trouble. Pedestrian rights are a low priority. I have yet to see a car slow down when it approaches a pedestrian. Walking around after dark is not advisable. I have been told by many locals here in Tzaneen that I will be mugged at some point. And that’s if I follow the rules. Common sense precautions must be taken. Ipods are entirely out of the question. A cell phone is best kept unseen, especially if it’s a nice one. Obvious bulges in your pocket are a no-no. Generally try not to keep too much money on you at any one time. For many people, these things are obvious. For someone who has spent precious little time outside of Iowa, it is an adjustment. Women here use their bras as an auxiliary pocket. Women often can be seen with big, cellphone shaped bulges on their chest. I have seen surprising amounts of stuff taken out of bras in checkout lines at the grocery stores. Anyway, those are a few things I’ve noticed about life here in South Africa. Everyday is a learning day, which is amazing. Something as simple as walking to the store can be exciting or at least interesting. Since I try to greet people whenever I can, I am often roped into long discussions on subjects as varied as crime, professional wrestling, US foreign policy, religion, and fashion. So, life is good and I try to appreciate everyday. Thanks for reading and enjoy the pictures.

Hello. I want to talk a little more about Mabula before I move on to Tzaneen. In the last weeks I was in Mabula I was invited to play soccer with the local guys. I think it had been something like a decade since I’d played a full-fledged game of soccer. If anyone remembers (I’m sorry Dad) my previous level of soccer ability, you may question the wisdom of opening up myself to the general ridicule of my community. I wondered about this as well, but was happily surprised to find out that I have improved slightly since I was 12. Of course I was still light-years behind the rest of the guys in terms of skill. However, what I lacked in ability I made up for in earnestness and enthusiasm. My strategy was to charge whoever had the ball with as ferocious a look on my face as I could muster, and then pass the ball away from me as quickly as possible. This worked fairly well, though it worked the best with my host brother since for him I added an angry sounding roar to my charge. That was all very fun and my only regret is that I didn’t start playing soccer earlier in my stay at Mabula. Another interesting cultural experience for me was going to church with my family. My Family attends the “International Pentecost Holiness Church” which was founded by Frederick Modise in 1962. (An interesting and informative article on the church can be found here: http://artsweb.bham.ac.uk/aanderson/Publications/frederick_modise_and_the_interna.htm) Pictures of Modise adorned the walls of every room in my house in Mabula, including my own. In fact, the only wall decorations of any kind were those related to the church. Clearly it was very important to my host mom that I attend, so I did despite some misgivings. I arrived and, of course, stuck out like a sore thumb. Firstly, in this church, everyone is dressed in uniforms, except for non-members. Secondly, I was one of maybe 7 men in a room of perhaps 250 women. Finally, my ever-relevant epidermal distinction helped me make something of an entrance. Men and women enter through different doors, so as I approached the church I was taken away from my family and made to enter solo. I walked in and immediately all eyes were on me. I am taken to the “visitors section” at the front. There is not enough room for me, so they give me a chair right in the middle of the aisle. The preacher has stopped speaking. No one is hiding their interest as I sit down. After soaking in a long, uncomfortable silence, I decide to go for it. “Tobella”, I say with a fragile smile, inflecting my greeting almost more like a question. There is a murmur in the audience and the preacher looks surprised. “Tobella, le kai”, (How are you) the preacher responds. His tone indicates that this is a test. He is not convinced that I really know what I’m saying. “Ra gona”, (I’m fine) is my final response. The room erupts in applause and laughter. It is thunderous. If I had this sort of encouragement in Chinese class, maybe I’d be in China right now. It is important to note that Afrikaners do not generally take the time to learn the indigenous languages of black South Africans. I am greeted with surprise and disbelief when I speak even the slightest Sepedi or Xitsonga. For a white person to know the language of the area is a novelty, and an exciting one at that. My meager language skills are thus inflated; which is great. The rest of the time in the church was very interesting as well. Usually the services are held in Sepedi, but because of my presence there was an interpreter saying everything in English. The interpreter spoke directly to me throughout the 4 (!) hour service. I was often exhorted to put in my two cents worth, for the entire congregation to hear. “Where does your body hair grow?” I am suddenly asked. I have been a bit glassy eyed since the 2½ hour mark and have missed the context of the question. I am starting to sweat through my suit jacket. “Hmm…” I squint my eyes and look around the room. “Here?” I ask making a sweeping gesture over my entire body. The preacher laughs and shakes his head. “No. Your hair grows here.” The preacher is now pointing to his crotch. I am growing nervous. Is this a joke? Why is no one laughing? What is going on? I want to move on as quickly as possible. “Ok” I say weakly. “Now, point to where your body hair grows.” The preacher says sternly. “Don’t worry, you can point there. You’re a man” he reassures me. So, I point to my crotch and receive another, though lesser, applause. During the service I also learn that the ideal number of wives for a man is 7 and I am informed as to the miraculous healing powers of the church. This is not exactly what I’m used to in the States. The Church also had amazing gospel music, testimonials from people healed by the church, and food. Not to mention a very favourable man to woman ratio. Another marked difference between this and my life in the states is my emergence as a ladies’ man. I am told that I am beautiful. I am proposed to and propositioned. On my way to swearing in as a PCV, I was wearing a distractingly wrinkled suit. It had been in storage for two months and I can’t iron clothing for the life of me. A woman saw me and chided, “Your clothes are all wrinkled. You need a girl-friend to iron your clothes”. I smile. “I’m around” she adds. “What’s your room number?” If the conversation goes further, the situation makes itself clearer: “I want to go to America” or more subtlety “When are you going back to America?” It doesn’t matter to me if they want to go to America though, I’m still flattered. This has turned into a long post, so I will end it here. I’ll write again soon. Thanks for reading.

Hello everyone.

As I write this, I am sitting at my desk. It is my first day on the job at Tsogang. But I get ahead of myself…

Yesterday I was sworn in as a volunteer by the US Ambassador to South Africa. So, I am now officially a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV). Aside from the new acronym, my new status means I am no longer attending classes. I am actually beginning to work.

Work? I am working for a non-profit called Tsogang (http://www.tsogang.org/). We work mainly on water and sanitation projects. Since I am new, I am still trying to get a grasp on exactly what I will be doing. Tsogang is different from many of the other NGOs that my fellow PCVs are working for in that it is exceptionally well funded and well established. Another key difference is that my supervisor is not a native South African but a fellow expatriate. His name is Jon and he is from England, though he has been living in Southern Africa for over twenty years with his wife Mary. Mary is Irish.

So, my working situation promises to be very different from the typical Peace Corps experience, but very rewarding nonetheless. Instead of focusing on ways to “capacity build” within my organization, I will be learning how a sizable, seasoned NGO gets things done. I am thrilled.

Another aspect of my Peace Corps experience that is going to be a little different is my housing situation. Most volunteers end up living in a rural or peri-urban setting, surrounded by black South Africans. In other words, they live in a situation much like the one I experienced with my host family in Mabula. Village life is amazing and constantly rewarding. A simple walk around the neighbourhood inevitably yields conversations. As an American, and a white American at that, I stick out. I am known to all. I am a celebrity.

I am now living in an urban setting, in the city of Tzaneen (pronounced with a mostly silent t). Not only am I living in a city, but I am living amongst Afrikaners. That’s right: white people. Walking around my new neighbourhood is like suddenly being transported to the States—kind of. People no longer look at me. There is much less foot-traffic. There are some differences though. People drive on the left hand side of the road. Signs are in Afrikaans. Security is very tight—for me to enter my little house I have 3 fences to unlock. My windows have bars, and my door is also augmented with a gate that must be unlocked. The fences have razor wire on the top of them. So, I’m pretty safe.

The house I live in is owned by an Afrikaner couple who live on the same property in there own house. Their names are Des and Mimi. They are very nice to me. The first couple of days I lived in the house, they stopped by with food for me at various times and eventually made me a truly magnificent breakfast. Speaking of generosity, my supervisor (henceforth to be referred to as Jon) and his wife Mary are also prone to giving me food and generally making me feel welcome. So, I am well taken care of. My housing situation is quite comfortable and my working situation is exciting.

I already have a list of things to start working on for my job. Familiarizing myself with the office and the various duties of my co-workers, updating an AIDS workbook, and updating the Tsogang website are a sampling of what is on my immediate agenda. Tonight I will be visiting with some local Peace Corps Volunteers that live in a township about half an hour outside of Tzaneen. I’ve already unpacked my stuff and feel at home. I think I will try to make tacos this weekend.

So now I’m rambling… I was only able to make one blog post about my home stay, which is inadequate. My next post will reflect on village life in general and my host family in particular. My experience in Mabula deeply impacted me and deserves greater attention. While I am sad to leave the loving embrace of my host family, the Chaukes, I am also relieved to finally have some semblence of permanence. I now know where I will be, and what I will be doing in a years time.

Now that I have easy internet access, I can post and email with more frequency. I also have a new mailing address, which is on the right hand side of the page. I also have not one, but two cell phone numbers that I can be contacted at. I have instructions on how to call on the side of this page. In short, I am easy to get ahold of now. Which is cool.

Anyway, until my next post-- thanks for reading.

Wow. It feels like a very long time since I last posted. I suppose it has been.

Where to begin? I will start with the basics.

I live in a village called Mabula, which is in the vicinity of a city called Mokapane. Mokapane, in turn, is the province of Limpopo. Where I live, there is one paved road; all other streets are sand and dirt. I live with the Chauke family. The matriarch of my immediate family is Lina, our mom. I have two brothers and a sister as well that live in the house with me. The brother’s are 18 and 13, while the sister is 18. I love spending time with the family. We do all sorts of things together- homework, soccer, laundry, and a host of other things. I am very happy with my living arrangements.

My family speaks Xitsonga, also know as Tsonga or Shangan. I attempt to speak the language as well. 5 days a week (more or less) I take classes from a wonderful teacher by the name of Cordillia. I have three other people in my language group that learn Xitsonga with me, out of the whole South Africa Peace Corps group of 29 people. After Language in the morning, out group combines with the other language groups and we learn together about things that pertain to us all.

The area that I live in, while having a significant Shangan population, is predominantly Sepedi speaking. Because of this, we also have learned a little bit of Sepedi, otherwise known as Nothern Sotho, just to get by. Just knowing the greetings to these indigenous languages is a shocker for the local inhabitants. In fact, my very presence is surprising. I am often greeted with “Lachua”, which means “white person” as I walk down the street. In the US such a moniker would be rude. Here, race plays a more defining role in ones life; due in large part to the overwhelming legacy of Apartheid.

When I am greeted as such, I make of saying “e-e. Hi mina Tsakane, hawa Lachua.” in my broken Xitsonga. That phrase, by the way, means “No. My name is Tsakane, not ‘white guy’”. I think I forgot to mention that I am not known as Oliver in these parts. I was dubbed Tsakane, which means “be happy” within 20 minutes of my arrival in Mabula by my host mother.

Mabula itself is quite rural. Donkeys, cows, chickens, and goats roam the neighborhood in vast numbers. When out on a run, I have, all too often, found myself staring down a huge, one ton steer that blocks my path. Out of courtesy, I will generally find another way around. We have fairly regular electricity, except when it rains. Rain has been frequent lately. Water works most days as well. So, I am living the cushy life—I am very lucky.

In two weeks I will learn where my final site placement will be. On April 3rd I will be sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer and will begin my two year long job. Until then I am still training, which is infinitely frustrating. But its fine. I would write more—and I have so much to write—but my time is limited. At 30 rand for 50 minutes, I need to be brief.

Right now, I sit in an internet café in Mokopane. This is the first shot at internet that I’ve had for a very long time. It may the last I have for a while as well.

In closing: I think of home often. I am also very excited and happy with where I am and where I will soon be. All is well. My previous posts have the postal address where I can be reached. If you’d like a letter, I will need your address. So, write me and I will be thrilled and write you back. I hope all is well at home, I will write when I can.

This is my last night in Des Moines for roughly 27 months. My bags are packed.

A few hours ago my parents hosted a goodbye party for me, which was wonderful. I was so grateful to everyone who came. I was especially touched by all of my friends who drove the 100 or so miles from Iowa City to see me off. So, once again, thank you so much. I know that thoughts of my friends and family will be a source of strength and pride for me in the next two years.

Speaking of the next two years…

Tomorrow I will wake up at 3:45 in the morning. I will then take the 6:00 a.m. flight to Philadelphia from Des Moines International Airport, via Detroit. Philadelphia is the location of what the Peace Corps calls a staging event. The staging event will take place over two days and will introduce me to some of the basics of what it is to be in the Peace Corps. During the staging event I will also meet some of the other volunteers I will be training and working with. On the 29th of January, 2008 I will depart for Johannesburg, via Frankfurt, Germany.

Once in South Africa, we will take a two hour drive to a city called Mokopane, in the Limpopo Province. For the first ten days I will live in dorms somewhat like those in the U.S. After this initial period I will begin living with a South African family. I am especially looking forward to living with a family. My family stay will last until April 3, 2008 when I am officially sworn in as a Volunteer, rather than the previous status of trainee.

During my training period I will learn one of five languages: Sepedi, IsiZulu, IsiSwati, Xitsonga, or Afrikaans. I am not sure which one I will learn or exactly how they would even decide such a thing. I will be happy learning any of them. I will also learn more about the culture of South Africa and the nature of my eventual assignment.

What exactly I will be doing after April 3rd is something of a mystery to me. It is my understanding that my performance during the training period will have an impact on the assignment I am given. What I do know is that my task will last for two years and will involve HIV/AIDS prevention. I also know that I will be working with NGOs (Non-Governmental Organizations) that are dealing with HIV/AIDS in some form. It is very likely that I will move to some other part of South Africa after training.

My mailing address, at least until April, is:

Oliver Borzo

Peace Corps

PO Box 9536

Pretoria 0001

South Africa

Easier ways to get a hold of me include my email (oliverborzo@gmail.com), facebook, or the blog itself. My phone is now dead, my number lost to the wind.

So, that is the skinny. To say I am nervous or excited would be true but also a gross understatement. Mostly though, I think the overwhelming feeling I have is happiness. I am happy because I have incredible and supportive family and friends. I am also happy because Peace Corps is exactly what I want to be doing with my life right now. I feel blessed.

Thanks again for all of the support and encouragement I have been given over the last few months. It means more to me than I can properly express. And thanks for reading.

Tomorrow I receive a long awaited package from the Peace Corps.

For nearly five months the cogs of the Peace Corps application process have slowly turned, providing me precious little in the way of information or encouragement. Now, finally, I am able to get at least a vague idea as to what the next 2 years of my life will be like.

This is extremely gratifying.