After just over a year back in a fast-paced modern city, I am realizing that I prefer a slow life. The ambling pace of a rural South African village was at times a bit too slow, but I settled well into that pace and found that there was always enough time in every day to accomplish all that I wanted to accomplish and more time to read and write, jog, and generally enjoy life with the people around me—plenty of time to watch countless pirated movies and TV shows, as well. As Johannesburg begins the race towards Christmas, I’ve found the last few weeks tremendously full. Balancing my ever-increasing task list at work, out with friends at night and on weekends, keeping up with emails home and scheduling Skype calls—all of these things contribute to the dark circles under my eyes which some days I am sure must be drawn on with permanent marker. And with anxiety my natural inclination, not worrying about tomorrow and living in today causes almost as much angst as the actual things worth worrying about. I’ve taken to wearing a hair band around my wrist and giving it a small snap when I find myself caught up in the “what ifs”—a trick I picked up in Kim Gaines Eckert’s, Stronger Than You Think. The point is not self-flagellation, but rather using it as a reminder to bring you back to the present and to remind yourself of what is in your control and what is not. The thing about slow is that I think at least for myself, God made me to live slow. He made me with natural inclinations to enjoy the beauty and the people around me. He made me for building—to build strategies and systems that empower others. And the thing about building is that it is a slow process that takes time if you want to ensure the integrity of the structure. But slowing down also allows me to fall more easily in step with the Lord’s tread. To pause where He pauses, and to notice what He notices. To hurry up when He hurries, and to stop and love the person He hurried to. To break where He breaks, and to rest where He rests. To be evermore in tune with Him and like the Son whom He loves. I find it hard to be in tune with God when I’m racing forward. Fast keeps me trapped in task lists and what ifs, and I miss a lot of the world around me. Especially living in a city built on gold and ever-pursuing gold, slow has to be intentional. Especially in a city with so much poverty, so much hurt, and so many people living on the edge, more slow is what is needed. I don’t know how to do it, but I want to be more intentional about living slowly. I think when I learn to live slowly, I will learn even more of what it means to live simply. And hopefully I will learn more of what it means to love radically.

It's not something a fundraiser would typically say, but I detest fundraising. Really I do.

When most people think about fundraisers, we tend to fall in the same category as car salesmen. We're out to make a sale. But instead of trying to sell you the most expensive car on the lot, we're out to guilt you into giving your hard earned money away to things like an endangered plant you've never heard of or another sad-faced child from Timbuktu.

And that makes a hard job for us too. I have to convince you why giving to our organization is important in the face of thousands of other NGOs worldwide who are asking you to do the same.

So remaining genuine and really believing that what I do is important, that's a challenge.

My first fundraising experiences involved raising funds to go on mission trips and raising support for internship programs. While most of my friends hated these experiences, I never found them much of a challenge. Writing those support letters and sending them out to "Dear Great Aunt Ruth," was easy. I never doubted those personal connections. I knew that those who love me would support me, and I knew that the "cause" I was going for was a good one.

But in my first real job, suddenly I was thrust into a new kind of fundraising position. Initially, I tried to leverage those personal connections, and it worked, sort of. But I was no longer raising support for me, I was raising funds for my organization. The pitch had to change, and for a lot of people that pitch wasn't good enough. It wasn't enough to earn their support. And that's when I started hating fundraising.

I hated asking people for money. I hated thinking that people were always thinking that I was a moment away from asking them for money. I hated feeling like if the funds weren't rolling in that I was a failure. I lacked the confidence in my organization, the confidence in myself and the confidence in God to really ever be a successful fundraiser. So I quit.

But now five years later, I am once again a fundraiser--a full time fundraiser who willingly signed up for the job. I've found that my resume and life experience of the past few years have made me a better fundraiser than I used to be. I know a lot more about marketing and building a strong vision into your fundraising. I know how to woo donors and to build a brand that people actually want to be a part of. But what's more is that I know that what I'm supporting is right at the heart of God, and I know that He daily gives me the wisdom and guidance to be the best fundraiser that I can be.

I definitely don't have it all figured out. Living in a different culture with a different donor climate, makes for a lot of learning curves. Living in a worldwide donor climate highly effected by the current global economic climate, makes for a much more difficult job. But I want to be a fundraiser because we all should be supporting abandoned and orphaned children who are waiting to be adopted. I want to be a fundraiser because I get to lift up and support an amazing team who makes sure that each child in our home gets everything they need. I want to be a fundraiser because every rand, every dollar, means another child rescued and another child adopted. I want to be a fundraiser because I'm finding God at the heart of it, even on its most challenging days.

So I'm going to put on my dress and dust off the heels and head out to our fundraising event tonight. Because when I'm fundraising for precious faces who I love dearly, being a fundraiser is more than rewarding--it's fun.

Not long ago, my boss and I were sitting in a meeting. Unfortunately, I can't remember who the meeting was with -- a donor, a potential donor, a journalist, or a corporate big wig -- but what I do remember is what he/she said: "For us in South Africa, AIDS is not a cause. It's the backdrop in which we live." That statement embodied a thought I had been trying to verbalize for a long time but had never found the words. But since coming to RSA, that is what has changed for me. AIDS went from being a cause to being the wallpaper -- cracked, peeling and faded. For South Africans and those of us blessed to live along side them, HIV and AIDS is the context in which we live. With somewhere between 5.4 and 5.9 million South Africans living with HIV (around 12% of the population), chances are that most of us know somebody or somebodies living with the disease. Chances are we have known or will know someone dying of AIDS. And even those of us who don't, AIDS affects our lives and changes them in a thousand indirect ways. The same is true of TB and poverty. Prior to coming to RSA, fighting extreme poverty, making sure that life-saving treatment was distributed evenly, ensuring access to drinking water, AIDS -- these were causes that I advocated for and gave of my time and my finances to ensure. Now, the change in context means loving on and being loved by beautiful children who happen to be HIV positive. It means occasionally being the one to distribute their antiretrovirals. It means knowing people and being friends with people who have less than a dollar a day to provide the basic necessities to keep their family afloat. It means having personal stories of watching people waste away to their death. I think that when Jesus quoted rabbinical law saying, “the poor you will always have with you” (Matthew 26:11, Deuteronomy 15:11), he meant poverty is the context – the backdrop surrounding our life. In the midst of the beautiful aroma filling the air, Jesus challenged the false generosity of the onlookers. Yes, the jar of perfume could have been sold and the money given to the poor, but that wasn’t the point. The woman anointing Jesus’s feet saw both His humanity and His lordship. Jesus recognized and honoured her for this. The disciples and the other onlookers saw “the cause” spilled across the floor, wasted. Jesus reminded them that it wasn’t about “the cause,” it was about Him. Distance makes “causes” easy. They make labels like “AIDS orphan” and “extreme poverty” easy. But when you are forced to deal with the humanity of the cause, labels become harder to choke down. Before, I could easily list the “causes” I supported, rattling off statistics and numbers to go along with each. Not that the causes in themselves where bad, but in the name of the cause, I often lost sight of the people the cause supported. I lost sight of their humanness. And perhaps I was caught up in the trend of supporting causes. But now, as I interact with and pray for the children at Oasis Haven, I hear them saying, I am not a cause. I am a child. I have a hope and a future bright with possibilities. I need a family to help me get there. I need you to love me and do all you can to make my adoption a reality. I need you to value me. Because I am not a cause, I am a child. That’s the challenge and the difference between supporting a cause and making it contextual in your own life – hearing “I am not a cause, I am…”

I guess I thought that there was a point in life, somewhere around now, that the self-discovery process was supposed to be over. A point where I truly had a strong understanding of who I am and who God created me to be.

Well, I do think I have a fairly good grasp on both of those things, but I continually find that, yes, we are all a little bit like infinite onions with more layers to be peeled back. That they--whoever they are--were right when they said that self-discovery is a life-long process.

And I find that for myself, there is nothing better for that self-discovery process than taking yourself out of your element and putting yourself in an entirely foreign element. You can truly come to know and see yourself for who you are, how you react, how you grow when you surround yourself with what is foreign. And don't be fooled just when things are starting to seem familiar, you often discover that you're about to have a new cultural experience leading to deeper self-discovery.

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A few of my favorite things in South Africa:

Umbrellas are an every weather accessory and practicality for both sunny and rainy weather.Having the societal permission to use the word "keen" as often as I like.Nature always surprises you with its suddenness and its beauty.Cricket even if we didn't do as well as hoped in the World Cup.Greeting a person and asking how they are, always produces a genuine connection with the humanity of the other person.Music comes in literally all forms and all languages and begs to be appreciated as such.Most aren't afraid of bringing faith into any and all contexts.Color is everywhere--in the foliage, the architecture, the design, the clothes, the art--everywhere.

I turned 29 last weekend, thus entering into my thirtieth year of life. I would like to do something different with this year, since--after all-- it is a landmark year.

I've been journeying through Oswald Chamber's My Utmost for His Highest. The 21 March entry looks at Paul's declaration, "I have been crucified with Christ..." (Galatians 2:20). Chambers observes,

Paul said, "I have been crucified with Christ..." He did not say, "I have made a determination to imitate Jesus Christ," or, "I will really make an effort to follow Him"--but--"I have been identified with Him in His death." Once I reach this moral decision and act on it, all that Christ accomplished for me on the Cross is accomplished in me. My unrestrained commitment of myself to God gives the Holy Spirit the opportunity to grant to me the holiness of Jesus Christ.Perhaps that is the something different I want for this year--I want to identify with Christ.

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Not long ago, I was hanging out with one of the Oasis Haven house moms and her kids. They were playing superheroes. Khanya came running into the lounge to tell us what her superhero power was going to be:

"I turn people into fat ladies!"

Love it.

This is what family does for a child; it gives them a safe place to play and imagine.

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Last weekend was also our staff retreat.

We went to a beautiful farm not far from Johannesburg owned by one of Oasis Haven's partners. We were greatly blessed by his generosity in allowing us to use the place for free.

Nestled at the foot of the mountains, it was the ideal place for refreshment and renewal--and the perfect place for a few swimming lessons...

It was such a treat to watch this amazing group of women enjoy their first experience with swimming. I've never in my life seen women enjoy themselves so much.

Autumn is making its approach in Johannesburg. I love being in places where you can feel the seasons changing around you. Today is a fine rainy Saturday--just what a Saturday at the beginning of fall ought to be if at all possible.

So often the weather here reminds me of Portland. I enjoy feeling connected to that place even though it is so very far away.

_________________________

A friend and I have been watching the BBC renditions of the Jane Austen classics of late.

It still amazes me just how well Miss Austen understood women. So well in fact that my South African friend, who grew up in a culture entirely different than my own and entirely different than Miss Austen's, can connect with her heroines in the same intimate and profound way that I find myself connecting with them.

I find that it speaks to the truth that deep in the heart of all women lie the same desires--the desire to be cherished and adored, the desire to be known and respected, the desire to be loved and to belong.

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For those of you in the States, you might not know that the Cricket World Cup is currently taking place. Through the help of several teachers, I've come to have a general understanding of the game and find that I enjoy it quite a bit.

Following South Africa's hosting of the World Cup of Soccer and now enjoying watching the Cricket World Cup in India, I think it is a great pity that the US does not participate in more international competition and pays so little attention when we do.

The general goodwill that countries share with each other throughout these international games inspires a lot of hope for the state of the world, especially in light of the recent tragedy in Japan and the ongoing clashes in Libya. It's a pity that tragedy more often rallies the world under one banner.

I imagine that ESPN is not covering the cricket--at least not with much in depth coverage--but if you get the chance to watch a bit of a match do. Cricket is not as complicated as everyone believes. And while at it, say a cheer for the Proteas, South Africa's national team.

I wish it didn't, but the Lenten season always sneaks up on me.

The prayer and contemplation that I would like to put in prior to the season typically manifests itself as an "O crap. It's Ash Wednesday" and a cursory review of things that are filling up where the Spirit should be.

In high school, it was typical to give up chocolate or caffeine. One year at university, I gave up email and instant messaging (this was before both were a common necessity for classwork). I've practiced fasting and turned the TV off. Given up secular music and committed to purchasing only necessities. And admittedly, my eyes where often not fixed on the goal during those seasons, but rather my on own personal appearance of holiness.

And of course, Lent is supposed to be about Jesus...

It is a time of reflection and refreshment through sacrifice. It is a time to remember the wondrous life of Christ, His death on the cross and His resurrection to new life.

Lent is a time when Jesus asks us to the garden to pray, saying, Pray that you will not fall into temptation and again, Why are you sleeping? Get up and pray (Luke 22:40,46).

If you don't typically commemorate Lent, I would recommend it to you. Take something away for a season or add in a new habit. Care for the orphan and the widow. Love your neighbors and seek first the kingdom. Render to Caesar what is Caesar's and to God what is God's. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing your eyes on Jesus the author and perfecter of your faith. For the joy set before him, he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart (Hebrews 12:1-3).

A friend and I have been slowly working our way through Elizabeth George's A Woman Who Reflect's the Heart of Jesus: 30 Days to Christlike Character. For us, A Year to Christlike Character will probably turn out to be a more appropriate subtitle, but nonetheless, we are on the road.

This week we discussed having Christlike confidence.

Confidence is a valued attribute for most Americans. We are taught at an early age that confidence is a quality to be desired and that we advance in the world when we show confidence. We call it by many names--positive self-esteem or self-image, a go-get-it-ness, a pull yourself up by your bootstraps mentality. We're known for exuding confidence.

But Christlike confidence isn't about confidence in oneself--it's about being confident in who He is, Who you belong too and who He created you to be. It's about knowing that the image of God is impressed upon your DNA--that He created your DNA. It also means showing a humility in your own abilities and recognizing that it is His abilities that matter.

Christlike confidence is contrary to the world's notion of confidence. Its about humility and meekness, gentleness and trust. Quite honestly, it's a lot less to do with me and a lot more to do with Him.

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A moment ago, a bird flew in through the open window and found himself with the profound dilemma of being in an enclosed space and too frightened to find its way out again. Searching for a solution, he flew to a window, where he fiercely pecked away at the glass trying to escape. The chosen point of exit was the middle pane of a three paned window. Both panes to the left and the right stood open with no barrier to escape.

Frightened and furious, he continued to peck away at the middle pane for a few minutes before I took a magazine and gently guided him to the better escape portal.

I imagine that I am probably often caught in the same circumstances. Too frustrated, too angry, too caught-up in my own actions to see the open window just next to me.

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Here's some things that I have been enjoying a lot lately:

Getting back into the habit or running. Bittersweet by Shauna Niequist My Amazon Kindle Hummus and the many varieties thereof The life and vivacity of Joburg Skype and its window home Writing again Breaking in my new pair of flip-flops Rediscovering my iPod Quiet interrupted by laughter

Small things that bring me small joys.

When you've been away for a long time, it is very difficult to know how to start again.

You think:

I should really update my blog...but does anyone ever read it anyway...

What would I write? How can I sum everything up?

I'm probably too tired to put a coherent thought together anyway...

And eventually you find that you've talked yourself out of it. So the blog lies dormant and months pass, and occasionally someone might mention that you haven't blogged in a while. You think, Yeah I should do that, but you don't.

____________________

Over the past month or so, Don Miller has been writing a serious of posts on "the creator" and the process of creation. They're thoughts that I genuinely hope he will compile into a book, and I would recommend taking the time to search through his blog and read some if not all.

Whether we are an artist, writer, sculptor, teacher, banker or other--we are all creators. We all creating something on a daily basis, and we are all working to improve that created thing. It's in our God-nature. God the Creator put His Creator image on us.

I'm always in the process of creating. My fingers moving across the keys, I'm putting words together to make a created thing. On a daily basis, I'm putting bits and pieces and relationships together to create a stable and sustainable environment for "the fatherless" and "the least of these."

I think it's the act of creation that keeps us moving forward. And when you are in the process of creating for the sake of redeeming, that forward movement comes with great reward.

____________________

A friend loaned me Shauna Niequist's latest book, Bittersweet. Upon the loaning, she told me it would be like a good friend. And she has been right.

A favorite passage:

I don't believe that God's up in heaven making things go terribly wrong in our lives so that we learn better manners and better coping skills. But I do believe in something like composting for the soul: that if you can find life out of death, if you can use the smashed up garbage to bring about something new and good, however tiny, that's one of the most beautiful things there is.I like that, composting for the soul. I've tried my hand at gardening many times. I like the idea of being a gardener, a farmer. It's a romantic notion for me. But inevitably I grow tired or find I don't have the time to dedicate to it, and I give up on the idea

I remember helping my parents weed the garden and the flower bed when I was small. I would yank at maybe five weeds, before I would become tired and bored and decide gardening was a generally miserable task. I think its the many romantic metaphors associated with gardening more than the actual act that stirs at my soul.

I like the idea of death and rebirth. A seed has to die before something new can grow. Waste and death go into compost to create rich, healthy soil and ultimately rich, healthy plants.

Death and rebirth. God is always taking the bad and redeeming it for His good.

Composting for the soul.

World AIDS Day is December 1st.

In South Africa, it is a day typically marked by testing sites and marathons and scattered red ribbons. In the US, Facebook campaigns and AIDS Walks and more scattered ribbons.

But what if this year it could be something different?

What if this year we all did something to take ownership of a global pandemic and to take action towards a solution?

What if this year we said it is not acceptable that 5.7 million South Africans are HIV+ resulting in approximately 2 million AIDS orphans?

What if this year we said it is not acceptable that almost 20% of South Africa's children have lost one or both parents resulting in an orphan generation of 4 million children?

What if this year World AIDS Day was a first step to a new future?

At Oasis Haven, we want to take that first step through Coming to the Table.

Coming to the Table is a simple idea that involves you inviting your friends, family, and colleagues to join you for a meal in your home, office, church or place of gathering. During that meal, through the aid of Oasis Haven's host kit, spend some time discussing HIV/AIDS and the orphan crisis. Then at the end of the meal, take a first step towards ownership and action by donating what you would have spent dining out to Oasis Haven. The funds raised through this event will go towards the care of our children, towards growth to provide for more children, and towards placement of all our kids in Forever Family.

A simple idea with a big result.

I'm asking you as a reader to get involved. If you are in the US, send a quick email to erika@oasishaven.org. If you are in South Africa or any where else in the world, send an email to me at amanda@oasishaven.org.

Thanks for stepping up.

When it comes to sitting down and writing out what I've spent the last month and a half doing and working on, I struggle. I know that many of you would like to know more about Oasis Haven and more about what my daily life looks like since I left Peace Corps, but every time I try to put it into words, words fail me.

Or perhaps it's that I have too many words, and I don't know how to put them down in a succinct, blog appropriate format?

What I would prefer is to sit down with each of my readers over a cup of coffee and share with you the fullness of my heart... Share with you about the almost 4 million orphans in South Africa--approximately 20% of South Africa's children. Share with you about our family home model and how we try our best to honor and protect our children through that model. Share with you our passion about adoption and the joy of seeing a child brought into their forever family.

But with friends and family spread out all over the world, the price tag for those cups of coffee is a bit out of my price range.

For this moment, I think that the best I can do is to ask you to jump over to our website, sign-up for our newsletter so you can find out about ways to get involved, and then let this picture say everything else.

My world got rocked in the past week when I started experiencing panic attacks as I moved into the Jo’burg environment. Everything was large and unfamiliar, overwhelming to my already over-tired and stressed mind and body. Large waves of emotion and uncertainty washed over me as I tried to figure out how to be back in a place of vast availability and choice. I missed the simplicity and the smallness of Mmametlhake. I missed the friends and family I have there, and felt small and insignificant in a sprawling city where I knew almost no one. _______________________ I was chatting online with a friend last night about how we all have a need to be irreplaceable to someone. God put in us a desire to be fully known—to matter to someone. We crave significance. We crave the knowledge that we are significant. But yet so many of us run from real relationship or choose the facsimile of relationship. It’s the catch-22 that so many of us find ourselves in—the desire to be significant to someone but the fear of real relationships and the hurt they can cause. I’ve been hurt by people. I’ve been hurt by relationships. We all have at some point in time or another. But I’m tired of that hurt being what defines my relationships past, present and future. I’m tired of running and hiding and fearing. I desire to be fully known. I want the dark and ugly things inside me to be exposed to the light. I want to know and  believe that I am irreplaceable to someone. _______________________ The panic attacks have eased off in the last few days as I’ve begun to find my footing here. There are still things that I find overwhelming, but I am learning to compartmentalize those things and set them aside to deal with when I feel stronger and more mentally at ease. I am also beginning to believe in my own significance again as I meet new people and remember the worth and value God has placed on me. The readjustment phase is just beginning, and it will be sometime before I truly know how to live in this type of environment again. For now, it’s a day-to-day process of awakening to the promise I have in the Lord to be fully known and dying to myself so that I can share the fullness of that promise with others. It’s a process of faith, hope and love.

Yesterday, I arrived at the Peace Corps office to begin the process known as "early termination." Which basically means that I am terminating my Peace Corps contract prior to the expected "close of service" date in April of next year.

Why?

Because I have accepted a new volunteer position with an NGO in Johannesburg and will start with them full time on September 1st.

I will be working for Oasis Haven of Love Foundation—a NGO in Johannesburg working to meet the challenge of the orphan crisis in Africa by rethinking the orphanage system and the adoption system. I'm volunteering as their fundraising coordinator, a position that will hopefully move into a full-time salaried position.

As I’ve gotten to know Oasis Haven over the last few months and as we have prayed about me coming on board with them, I have grown evermore excited about the ways that Oasis Haven is trying to follow our Biblical mandate to care for the orphan. It is exciting to hear about how God has called them, shaped them and reshaped them.

As fundraising coordinator, I will be developing a fundraising model based on their just completed revisioning and strategic planning process. I’ll also be in charge of event planning and coordinating their American and South African fundraising efforts.

It’s a perfectly nerdy job for a perfect nerd.

But beyond being the perfect job for the perfect nerd, I fully believe that God has brought it all together, putting all the pieces in place and asked me to come and be a part of what He’s doing at Oasis Haven.

I sent an email to them a few months back when I saw the post on idealist.com. Things in Mmametlhake and with Peace Corps were not as stable as they are now, and I decided to put out a few feelers. I got an email back from them at the first of June about a month after things had stabilized.

Since then we have all been conversing and praying about what God was doing. I approached my supervisor and counterpart at the care centre in Mmametlhake about it, both essentially said, “Go, we don’t want to hold you back from where God is calling you.”

It’s very bittersweet to leave Mmametlhake, and we all cried on Tuesday as we said goodbye. Even though we are making plans for me to continue my involvement at the centre from afar, I have greatly enjoyed my time working with them and will miss them dearly. I will miss the easy, quiet pace of Mmametlhake, and I will miss all the good friends I have made here.

Please be praying as I make this transition.

Pray as I begin in Jo’burg that God would give me wisdom to understand fully the path that He has led Oasis Haven on and how to create a fundraising model that would honor the work He has done and is doing. Pray also for wisdom on how to continue my involvement with the centre and with Mmametlhake. Pray that I would quickly find community in Jo'burg, especially community with women, something I’m starved for at the moment.

In many ways it seems that the transition process has taken forever, and in other ways it feels that it has not been long enough at all. I'm excited and looking forward to this new leg of the journey. Thank you for your prayers and joining me on it.

A few months ago, I had the privilege to participate in my host mother’s 50th birthday party—well it was at my house, so… During the course of the day, I made a new friend in a ten-year-old boy and subsequently his mom. I was sitting chatting with his mom and he was chatting with one of my little cousins. He turned to ask me something calling me “lekgoa” (white person). Generally, when children refer to me as “lekgoa,” I reply, “Ga ke nna lekgoa. Ke nna Amanda.”—which loosely translates to, “My name is not white person. My name is Amanda.” Usually that satisfies the child and they are content to call me Amanda from then on. But this little boy was not having it. He turned to my little cousin and said, “O lekgoa” (She’s a white person). His mom entered the conversation, saying in Setswana, “No, she’s not a white person, she’s Matswana” or that I was part of the Batswana tribe. Again, her son was not having it. To his eyes, and he was right, I was a lekgoa. No getting around it. The subject eventually dropped, but I could still see the wheels spinning in my little cousin’s head. Eventually she spoke up again. She asked the little boy if he knew Rachel, a little girl in our village who is albino. He said he did, and she responded, “Sissy Amanda is like that. She looks like a lekgoa, but really she’s Batswana.” I was so proud of her at this moment. She knew that somehow I was a part of her, the same as her, she just needed a little time to work it out. I’m not Batswana, but at that moment I was really proud to be called Batswana. South Africa is definitely still healing from the hurts of it’s past. There is still a long journey ahead, but if this is the future. If girls and boys like my little cousin are the future of South Africa—girls and boys willing to look past skin color at what is in the heart of another person—South Africa has a great future ahead of them.

The World Cup came. I think many thought that it would never arrive. And then it was here and for a month all eyes were on South Africa. And it went well. It was an honor and a privilege to be part of the World Cup, to see the games (I had the opportunity to go to the Denmark vs. Cameroon game in Pretoria) and to feel the “fiva.” But the greatest honor was getting to see the faces of 256 fifth and sixth graders who joined us for the Mmametlhake World Cup Day Camp. For four weeks we worked with the students from the four primary schools in our village, teaching them valuable life skills through drama, games and crafts. Throughout, it was my joy to direct the 26 high school students who served as camp counselors during those four weeks. They were an amazing group of students that simply made my job easy every day. From our staff to our students to their parents and teachers, everyone saw Mmametlhake come alive. It was more than the World Cup Fiva—it was the confidence, the self-esteem and the dreams being built up in our students. It was a simply beautiful thing to see. You can see the photos here on Picasa. Thanks to all who supported us throughout. Oh and to all you country folk out there, you really missed out seeing our kids dance the Cottoneye Joe. Enjoy!

Two weeks ago, I put my parents on a plane and sent them back to the States. I did fairly well with that goodbye until I told my mom to hug my sister, brother-in-law and nephew for me. That’s when the tears started flowing. Not including air travel, my parents were in South Africa for about nine days. And it was a great nine days. When they arrived at the airport, we all broke down into tears at the sight of each other. Sixteen months. It was the longest by far that we had ever been apart. Thus, the scene we made was fairly predictable. But there was only nine days. The first six was a whirlwind tour through the Western side of South Africa—The Drakensburgs followed by Durban followed by St. Lucia and Imfolozi Game Park. Then we came back through Pretoria and on for the last few days in Mmametlhake. Those first few days were great, but I’ll let the pictures do the talking for those days. The most special to me, and I think to all of us, were the days that we spent with my community. There are many stories that I could share with you of those few days but here’s some of the highlights: My host brother receiving his t-shirt from the States—he’s worn it at least three times a week since they left. Pastor Bethuel greeting them, sharing tea and sharing stories about how my organization came to be. Local children running wild with excitement at the site of the camera. My host mother preparing lunch for my parents and inviting the neighbors and the immediate family to join us. Visiting the chief at his house. Having my parents see, touch, experience the people and places that have become such an important part of my life. I don’t think that Mmametlhake will ever forget the day my parents came to visit. They are now asked after regularly, everyone wanting to know they are well and thanking me for bringing them. It was an honor to them to have Mom and Dad come, and it was an honor to me to have them here. I greatly look forward to visiting over the Christmas holiday. Getting to hug those of my family who couldn’t come and to hold my sister’s second child for the first time. It was a sweet, sweet time.

The last two months have been more than a bit crazy for me with lots going on. And as usual, when life gets hectic, blogging is the first thing to go. So here’s the snapshot overview of the last two months. Enjoy! In March, I started working with my organization to develop a four week day camp program to take place this winter (summer for those of you in the northern hemisphere) during the 2010 World Cup. This has been the project that has consumed majority of my time. We should be hearing soon about a grant that we applied for through Peace Corps. I’m sure you will be getting lots of blog updates about this project, so I’ll leave the details for a later post. March 25th, I turned 28. It’s not an incredibly important birthday year per say. But I will say that 28 officially feels like I should be or am an adult. Good friend Anne baked me a cake the weekend before when I visited her place, and my host family bought me a cake day of. (Got to say Americans do cake better than South Africans—sorry, but its true.) Also received lots and lots of calls and emails. Fantastic goodness. On the weekend of March 27th, a good number of PCVs came together to run the Longtom Ultra Marathon and show support for the KLM Foundation. I ran the 21k (half marathon) in 2hrs 32min. The course was mostly downhill except for a few excruciatingly painful and steep hills. Props to my buddies who ran the ultra marathon (56k), first going up the mountain and then coming back down. As the weekend closed, a few of us also decided to take in a Freshly Ground concert. Freshly Ground is a favorite find in SA, a fantastic Afro Pop group with a host of incredibly talented musicians. To all of my music aficionado friends out there, I really recommend that you check them out. I already know that you’ll love them. April 2nd, SA19 (my intake group) celebrated one year of service. 14 months in country, 12 months at site, 12 more to go. A few days later, we came together in Pretoria for Mid-Service Training and mid-service medical checks. We celebrated with our usual wild rumpus through Hatfield Square, the local college spot. Mid-service med check also meant for me a visit to a specialist to have my left knee checked out. It has been hurting off and on for several months, but training and the subsequent brutal nature of Longtom led to constant pain. Diagnosis: My ITB (the band that connects your knee and your hip) is too short, causing it to rub against the knee joint whenever I bend my knee. Treatment: I’ve started taking the 2 1/2hr taxi ride to and back from Pretoria twice a week for physical therapy, trying to lengthen the ITB. I’ll be doing this for probably around two months (I’ve been going for three weeks at this point), and then the doctor will re-evaluate. If physical therapy is not effective, I will likely have to have surgery. At the first of April, I started facilitating the training that I’ve been developing for the home-based care workers at our organization. I was very pleased with the participation level and the feedback I received from the care workers following the first session. We’ll have two sessions a month for the next few months. Between developing and implementing the training, developing and preparing for the day camp, going back and forth to Pretoria and keeping up the friendships I’ve developed here, life is suddenly very full. But I’m thoroughly enjoying it. Things to look forward to in May: continued work on the afore mentioned things, my host mom’s 50th birthday party (big plans are in the works) and my parents’ visit at the end of the month. Its been almost fifteen months since the last time we saw each other, so their visit promises to be the highlight of May. I hope that March and April were fantastic months for all of you. No promises, but hopefully May will see more blog posts coming your way. Cheers!

Its always been true. I hate asking people for money. I hate fundraising. Weren't we taught that it's better to give than to receive? And it is, isn't it?

So when I found out that the Longtom Marathon that Peace Corps South Africa volunteers participate in every year meant raising a minimum of $100, I was skeptical. I didn't know this KLM Foundation except through what other volunteers had told me. And while the idea of running my first half-marathon was appealing, I wasn't sure if I wanted to put myself through the agony of fundraising for said organization.

But I believe in education and I believe in giving children the opportunity to reach their full potential. That is what KLM is about. I know what the benefits of a good education are. I experience it every time I meet an extremely intelligent adult who is jobless because they lack the educational qualifications. Or see malnourished bellies and threadbare clothing.Or find myself caught in the hopelessness that can be at times all too encompassing.

So the marathon on March 27th is more about a chance for a quality education and a chance for a child to rise above and less about the miles logged. So I'm asking you to consider donating what you can $5, $20, $50 or more to the KLM foundation to sponsor my run and the education of a promising child.

Please go to the KLM website right now to make a donation. Just click on the 'donate' photo and make sure to put my name in the white box where it asks for the Longtom runner you want to sponsor.

The online donation is preferable, but if you need to mail in a check, please make it payable to "Kgwale Le Mollo (US)" and send it to:

KLM Foundation (US)

c/o Bowen Hsu

461 So. Bonita Avenue

Pasadena, CA 91107

Please make sure to include a note that your donation is on my behalf.

I'll be running a 10K in Pretoria this weekend that I'm looking forward to it as a nice warm-up before Longtom. I'll hopefully be able to post pictures of the race and blog about the event soon. Thanks for your support.

With the new year came a shift in organizations for me. I've spent the past month and a half working with the Mmametlhake Family Care Centre. The shift was finalized this week when Peace Corps came to have a final meeting with Tirisano Victim Empowerment Centre (my old organization) and officially close that placement.

The Mmametlhake Family Care Centre is a strong and stable organization that I had worked with on occasion throughout the first nine months in the village. They currently run a home-based care in Mmametlhake and the surrounding villages and put on HIV/AIDS prevention campaigns at area schools. In Mmametlhake, they provide much needed computer services, have a small library and often have food and clothing donations available. Established in 2002 by a local pastor who saw a need to care for those living with and affected by HIV/AIDS, the aim of Family Care is to provide for people living with and affected by HIV/AIDS in whatever way they can by whatever means they can.

My first project that I am working on is developing a training program and training manual for the home-based care workers. Many of the workers have already been trained through the government, but Family Care would like to have something that is more tailored to the centre. It's a big endeavor and has me back doing what I love--program development. I’m already having fun doing research and just generally being a nerd.

Although it has been hard to leave Tirisano and to feel as though I am disappointing my coworkers there, I am happy about the transition and feel that it is the best move for me. I am now getting the opportunity to work directly with HIV/AIDS work, which is a major reason that I accepted this assignment in the first place. Hopefully, I will still on occasion be able to assist Tirisano, and I intend on maintaining the relationships that I formed there.

The American funders of my new organization have an in-process website at handinhandinafrica.org. You can go there to find out a little bit more about Family Care. The section on Family Care is on the "Projects" page and is still being updated. You can also find several articles about the centre if you do a Google search.

On this day a year ago, myself and 25 other individuals from all over the United States met for the first time in Philadelphia to travel to South Africa as the nineteenth group of Peace Corps volunteers to serve in South Africa. After orientation activities, shots galore, a blizzardy bus ride to JFK and a seventeen hour plane ride, we begin our South African journey two days later in Marapyane, South Africa.

To commemorate the day, I thought it appropriate to update old top ten lists and add a few new ones. Enjoy!

(Note: All lists are in no particular order.)

Top 10 sites I’ve seen in South Africa:

Blyde River CanyonIndian OceanMy host brother dancing to Motown in our yard.Seaview Lion Park (nothing beats playing with lion cubs).A baby zebra on the road a few feet in front of me.Lions outside my tent when I woke up at the lion park.The sunsets in my village.A giant sea turtle on the beach.A herd of elephant in Krueger Park.The look on my coworkers’ faces the first time I made brownies.

Top 10 items received in a care package:

Photos of people I love.Duct tape—of course it still makes the list. I’m about to be on my third roll.Sara Groves’ new album.Fall leaves from both Portland and Lubbock.Coffee from Jim and Patty’s in Portland.Drawings from my nephew.Individual-sized drink mixes. They’ve helped a lot in the heat when I get sick of drinking water.All the episodes of The Office that I’ve missed up until the package was sent.My new laptop—actually that was delivered by hand from my friend Anne, but still.And I’m still loving all the TLC granola bars.

Top 10 items that I just couldn’t do without:

Photos, letters, phone calls, emails, etc. from home.Books—discovered during my computer’s long absence that these were absolutely invaluable.Toilet paper—I probably could if I absolutely had to, but I don’t want to go there.Duct tape—oh the endless uses.Cell phone—pretty much the only way to stay connected to anything around here.My Nalgene—hydration is too important in the heat.Buckets for all sorts of things.A table-top oven—even if the one I have is on the slow march, baking has become therapy for me.My Bible.My running shoes. The rainy season is slowing, and I’m finally able to get back out there. I had no idea how much I had missed it.

Top 10 things I never knew I could do or probably never would have tried without coming to South Africa:

Cook a host of foods from scratch—tortillas, wheat bread, pasta sauce, brownies, to name a few.Learn to speak Setswana—I still have a long way to go, but I feel that I continue to improve.Jumping out of a plane.Be a good long distance communicator—probably still growing in this area too :)Live without a computer for almost six months.Live without a music source for a month of that time.Learn to sit in stillness for lengths of time without going crazy.Go without regular transportation.Go to bed at 9pm and rise at 5am or half past.Live in another country very different from my own for a year.

One week from tomorrow on February 2nd, I will have been in South Africa for exactly one year. It's hard to believe that it's already been a year, and still I am learning so much and gaining so much from this experience. And plenty of new experiences are yet to come.

One of these is the Longtom Marathon--actually a half- and an ultra-marathon. Though I'd love to tell you that my running has improved so dramatically that I'll be running the ultra, I'm going with the much more attainable half, 21.2km. The marathon takes place on March 27 in Sabie, Mpumalanga Province, not too far from Kruger Park. It starts at the top of the Longtom Pass and goes downhill most of the way into Lydenburg. You may remember seeing pictures from my trip to Blyde River Canyon. Longtom Pass is in the same region as the canyon. Longtom is a major annual event for Peace Corps volunteers. It will be a lot of fun for all of us to get together in one a place. Its rare that so many of us, somewhere around 70, are able to get together.

In addition to having a good time though, the main reason for taking part is to support the KLM foundation. The organization was founded by two PCVs (Peace Corps volunteers) who served here in South Africa a few years ago. They decided to use the Longtom Marathon as a fundraiser to provide the financial means for a worthy, needy child to attend an excellent independent high school in Mpumalanga called Uplands College. It's a great opportunity to bring great educational opportunity to a child who will become a leader in the future of this country. The children they choose for this opportunity are very carefully selected through a four-tier application process. In the seven years that KLM has been fundraising through Longtom, seven children have been chosen and are all excelling. You can read more about the work of the KLM foundation at www.klm-foundation.org.

But why share all this with you? I am asking for your support. Please give what you can; any amount is appreciated. Even if you can only give $5, it is much needed. Of course, larger donations are welcome too :) And your donation is tax-deductible. So please go to the KLM website to make a donation, just click on the 'donate' photo. Make sure to put my name in the white box where it asks for the Longtom runner you want to sponsor.

The online donation is preferable, but if you need to mail in a check, please make it payable to "Kgwale Le Mollo (US)" and send it to:

KLM Foundation (US)

c/o Bowen Hsu

461 So. Bonita Avenue

Pasadena, CA 91107

Please make sure to include a note that your donation is on my behalf.

Thank you for your support, and especially for supporting the child who is chosen next year to attend Uplands College. I'll be sure to put up a post after the race, and let you know how everything went.

Pictures from the trip have now been uploaded to Picasa. From now on I'll be updating to Picasa rather than Flickr. But I'll continue to let you know when I've uploaded new photos. You can see the new photos here.

Over the Christmas and New Year's Holiday, I went on a backpacking trip along the Shipwreck Coast with three other Peace Corps volunteers. It was a fantastic trip, and I was thrilled at the opportunity to see and experience so much more of this beautiful country.

We took a six day hike along the coast and finished up the week in the Port Elizabeth area. The Shipwreck Coast is a beautiful stretch of land along the Indian Ocean that is mostly uninhabited. We went days without seeing another person. We hiked along white sandy beaches with the Indian Ocean to one side and huge sand dunes to the other. Seashells, coral and seaglass where abundant. Absolutely one of the most pristine and beautiful stretches of coastline that I have ever been on.

We had the privelege of being the second group ever to set off on the new trail--really decently priced for permants, etc. and most of the proceeds were going to an NGO set up by our trail supervisor. (I highly recommend this trail for PCVs, anyone reading this, email me and I can get you Dave's information.) Day one was mostly along the coast. We hiked barefoot through the sand and stopped often for playtime in the sand and the water. It was my first experience with the Indian Ocean which I had always heard was supposed to be warm--apparently not when its mixed with arctic waters. Highlight of the day was coming across a giant sea turtle and getting to get up close and personal.

Day two was split between hiking on the beach and then hiking into the bush to a gigantic treehouse, our lodging for the night. It was nice change for my calves that were aching from walking in the sand with my pack weighing me down. And the treehouse was fantastic. I was a little sad in the morning when it was time to go. (That was also the dead dolphin day. His carcass had washed up onto the beach. Not my favorite part of our travels. I much preferred the petrified leopard shark carcass we found the day before.)

On day three we hiked back out of the bush into open pasture land. Cows a plenty, but nice, fat, healthy cows unlike the village cows I've grown accustomed too. The pastures were beautiful and the elevation high enough that in many spots we had a nice view of the coast. Our aim was a Cold War Era, American funded, Soviet Spy Station, operational during Apartheid which would be our night's lodgings. Yes, we all fully appreciated the great irony of Peace Corps volunteers staying there. Before evening set in, the three girls in our party hiked down to the beach for some playtime on what turned out to be one of the most beautiful beaches we were on for the length of the hike.

Day four started with a short hike through beach bush to the mouth of the Kleinemonde West River where our trail supervisor Dave met us with the canoes. We canoed 10km into the Nyala Valley Game Reserve where we took a short hike to the Lilypad Hut, a beautiful bamboo, open-air camp ground set up by the game reserve. On our short hike we came across a baby zebra and had a great photo-op. Since the reserve was non-predator, we were free to walk around. It was an awesome experience to walk freely through the reserve and come across herd after herd of various types of animals--wildebeest, giraffes, nyala, etc.

The next day we hiked back out and canoed upriver against fierce winds. It was definitely not the easy canoe of the day before, but I'll say for myself that I enjoyed the challenge. After the canoe, we hiked along the coast through some beautiful rocky beaches before turning inland. We had already hiked up several sand dunes in previous days (not an easy feat in normal circumstances but especially not with a pack), but the dunes on day five were especially steep. Hiking more often meant crawling up them. But our reward was a beautiful hike through more pasture to the Stone Cottage. The cottage was built in 1854 and had recently been renovated to include a clawfoot tub, shower, stove, all the modern conveniences. Not only was it luxurious for hikers, it was luxurious for Peace Corps volunteers used to village accomodations. From the window, we could look out onto the pastures and watch springbok and impala herds. The whole experience felt like something out of Jane Austen, and I definitely wanted to live there forever.

The last day we hiked back out to the coast past the Fish River Lighthouse to the mouth of the Fish River where the trail ended. After seeing no more than probably ten people for the past five days, we suddenly came upon a crowded beach of swimmers. Our first stop off the trail with our grubby, sand-coated selves was a local pizzeria in Port Alfred. Ah, pizza and beer, nothing better for a first meal off the trail.

The last half of our day was spent driving to Away with the Fairies Backpacker in Hogsback, the supposed inspiration for JRR Tolkein's Hobbit and his boyhood home. We didn't have much time there and were all wiped out, so we missed the amazing hiking in the area. I'm looking forward to going back when my parents come to visit.

Our final day before heading back to site was spent at the Seaview Lion Park just outside of Port Elizabeth. Its a great little gamepark, but the best part was getting to play with lion cubs and then camping in the middle of the lion enclosure. It was an awesome thing to wake up, open the tent flap and have four adolescent male lions staring at me from about 30 feet away--thankfully with a lot of fencing in between us.

I'll hopefully get a lot of pictures posted soon. It was a really amazing trip and a great way to spend the holiday so far from home. Hope every one is having a great start to the new year!

I've finally posted photos from my trip to Blyde River and a few from the village. You can check them out here.

A friend just sent me a one line email with the question "What is your favorite thing about South Africa?"

I wish that the answer came as easily as the question. I wish there was just one thing that I could pin point and say, "that's my favorite thing about this place." But its not that simple, especially when you are talking about a place as complex as South Africa.

However, since I'm sure that Oprah's doing it and its the time of the year to pull The Sound of Music off the shelf and because its Christmas time, here's a few of my favorite things as best as I can represent them:

My Favorite Store: Fruit and Veg City. The freshest fruit and veggies I think I've ever seen in my life, and they always have great deals. I'm lucky to have one in my shopping town.

My Favorite Pizza Place: Bravo Pizza. Americans need pizza or at least we need something that makes us feel a little connected to home. Its a small place in Pretoria with outdoor seating, a brick oven and the thinnest crust I've ever found. Amazing and oh so good. And the people who run it are great.

My Favorite South African Food: A toss up between Sepatlo and Samp. Sepatlo, a South African sandwich that's ridiculously bad for you but ridiculously good. Samp, similar to hominy but not quite the same. Hard to describe.

My Favorite South African Beer: Yeah, haven't found that yet. Not a place especially known for their beer.

My Favorite Spot in the Village: The road behind the village that I run on in the mornings. Not much traffic, foot or auto. A nice quite place to run where I can enjoy the solitude and can watch the sunrise.

My Favorite Village Animal: The donkey. Hands down saddest and yet funniest creature in the world.

My Favorite South African Saying: It varies between "Eish", "Sharp", and "Owwa". Eish is kind of like saying "oh, my goodness." Sharp like saying "its good", "i'm good", "got it", or basically anything you want it to mean at the time. Owwa like saying "I can't believe you just said that" or "no, that's not at all what I was trying to say".

My Favorite South African Adventure: Skydiving or getting up close and personal with an elephant herd.

My Favorite Time of Day in South Africa: Sunset. Beautiful.

My Favorite Part of My Life in South Africa: The simplicity of life in the village. I have few possessions and with a few notable exceptions (like my computer) most of them are not worth very much. Life is slower and calmer. I read. I write. I watch movies. I sit for hours chatting with my host mom and neighbors. I bake my own bread and make my own pasta sauce. Everything in my life with the exception of the grocery store and the ATM is a fifteen minute walk or less. I realize more and more how little in life I actually need, and its a nice realization.

My Favorite Thing about South Africa: It is a country that desperately wants to heal from its past. I think that overwhelmingly people want to put Apartheid and its results behind them, but how to do that is a confusing and very complex thing. Often what is tried is not effective or doesn't have the intended effect. But almost everyone I talk to, they want to move forward. And I think that's simply amazing.

“Africa is not that Sexy,” read the article headline in the latest Relevant Magazine issue newly arrived in far off Mmametlhake, South Africa. Yes, it’s true. Africa is not that sexy.

The African cause. No matter how many dollars are poured into aid and development. No matter how many celebrities stand up in support of their favorite charity. No matter how many politicians visit the remotest parts. Africa is not that sexy.

I thought it was when I moved here. The sex appeal and the romanticism of living in the African village. The simplicity of it. Working with your hands. Teaching and serving. Making a difference and making life long friends.

But simply put, it’s just not that sexy.

The pit latrine. The insects the size of my fist. The passive aggressiveness so prevalent in South African culture. The corruption and nepotism that runs rampant and seemingly unchecked. The stereotypes one African culture has about another, leading to xenophobia and racism. The unemployment rates. The widespread alcoholism. The violence. The crime. The poverty. The hungry. The sick. The dying. None of it sexy.

But when was it supposed to be sexy. When was giving a cup of water or a loaf or bread ever supposed to be sexy? When was caring for the widow or the orphan ever supposed to be sexy? When was loving others as yourself ever supposed to be sexy? Was acting out the gospel message ever supposed to be sexy?

I don’t think that it was. People didn’t believe in Jesus because of his sex appeal. They believed because of the simple complexity of grace and the fullness of love. And the people he lived among and served weren’t sexy. But they carried in them a need for the love of God and his mercy.

No, when you look at it, Africa has no real sex appeal. At least what I have seen of it. But it has a lot of people who have a lot to give and a lot to receive.

Life is not easy here. Simpler maybe, but not easy. It’s not romantic. It’s not ideal or even that fun a lot of the time. But it’s a place where Jesus is. It’s a place where God is moving and working. And where God’s people move and work. It may not be sexy. But I do believe that it holds the quiet beauty of a place being shaped and formed by the hands of God.

I just wrote the following article for our monthly (or sometimes monthly) Peace Corps South Africa newsletter and thought some of you out there might be interested in the read:

I was talking with another volunteer the other night about life in the village without a computer. Her laptop recently had a bad run in with an electrical storm and she’s now learning to live without until she can get it fixed.

My own computer’s power adapter went out back in July. At the time, I was able to easily get a replacement, but unfortunately the box store that sold it to me sold me the wrong adapter. It was just an amp off from what it needed to be, and that one little amp fried my ac/dc connection and the screen. Four months later, and I just heard the good news that my computer is on the way back from HP.

I greatly admire those volunteers who decided not to bring a computer with them, but I was not hardcore enough to be among that crowd. I need my fix—Gmail, Facebook, The Office and movies galore. In the first few months at site, I developed a reliance on it for brain-numbing entertainment and a taste of America.

Without my computer, I was at a loss. Within a month, I had read ten books and worked my way through two books of crosswords. Bedtime went from 11pm to 9pm. I cooked, baked, exercised, wrote letters, journaled and eventually found that I was sitting for long periods of time doing absolutely nothing.

After that first month, I began to adjust and being computerless did not bother me quite as much. I grew accustomed to the new forms of entertainment and discovered a sort of nostalgic enjoyment for pre-technology life. I discovered life at a slower and more enjoyable pace. I discovered the joy of simpler pleasures and rediscovered old hobbies.

Now that I have a computer again (I have a loner from a friend for a few weeks), I am certainly enjoying and reacquainting myself with the technological wonder that is the computer, but it’s nice to know that I can live without it. That I don’t really need the fix. It’s not the most profound of self-discoveries that I will experience during my Peace Corps experience, but it is a step towards deeper self-awareness none the less. And I certainly didn’t know that all that time without a computer would bring me to a better understanding of myself. The experience brought home to me that our time in Peace Corps is on one level about coming to a better understanding of ourselves and what we am capable of—whether its life without a computer, a toilet, running water or Chipotle. I think we are unimaginably capable of pushing ourselves beyond the limit we previously knew. With a world of limitless possibilities, new depths are always possible.

It was early, the sun had yet to find the horizon and the moon was growing dull in the early morning haze. 5:00am.

I wanted to stay in the warmth of my bed—deep in the embracing comfort—but this was not the day for snoozing.

I pulled the covers away and fumbled quickly for extra layers of clothing. The nights were slowly becoming warmer, but it was still very cold outside of my toasty bed.

The light. The kettle. The mug. And the can of instant coffee.

I moved back to the dresser. A long black skirt. A long sleeved brown shirt. The best funeral garb I had. Out of the drawer came a thin, black scarf. Hair up in a bun and the scarf wrapped neatly around. Shoes—brown slides. Not the best outfit I had ever put together, but it would do. Everyone would be happy to see my head covered, my arms covered, and the skirt. No one would care about the style or lack there of in the ensemble.

I sat to wait. I heard Rakgadi return. The sun had risen but was veiled behind a thin layer of clouds.

6:00am passed and 7:00am approached. Maybe Rakgadi had changed her mind about taking me along. Maybe it was all too much for her and she wasn’t up to being my chaperone today.

No—the familiar “sissy” soon came. I opened the door and came out of the house. There was a look of approval from Rakgadi, and I know a look of envy from me as I noticed Papis’s jeans.

We walked to the gate, left our yard, and walked the path to Rakgadi’s sister’s house. All the while the singing of the night before continued and amplified as we neared the tent prepared for the funeral guests.

The funeral service lasted well over an hour. It was too sad for words, and many of the words spoken I did not understand. As it drew to a close, the guests began to make room in the yard for the make-shift hearse. Majority of the guests would follow to the nearby cemetery. I stayed behind with Rakgadi to help with the final preparations of the meal the guests would soon return to.

Rakgadi was unsteady and unsure of herself. She walked slowly into the house and sat down on the sofa. No words. No tears. Just a blankness. I held her hand, rubbed her back and sat in silence with her.

Ten minutes passed and she forced herself to return. To remind herself of the task. She moved slowly to the back of the house where the preparations were going on—still in a daze.

“Aus Natai” from one direction. “Aus Natai” from another. All were asking her questions—they needed her guidance. She looked towards her name each time it was spoken, but past the person speaking. Several minutes passed before she became herself—giving answers, directions, and finding the many tasks that her hands needed. I followed dutifully along, helping where I could.

By the time we arrived home that day, the exhaustion was well worn on Rakgadi’s face, and my own tiredness was beginning to take its toll. Rakgadi gave a simple thank you for my help. It was more than what was needed. We both knew it. We both felt it. Our relationship had changed that day.

“Family” was no longer a word thrown about, but it was what we were. Since, our meals together have become more frequent. Our talks together more intimate. The way we move about each other in our day to day more familiar. And our mutual love for one another deeper.

I have always known that tragedy has a way of bringing people together, but over the passing of these days, I saw it played out in my relationship with Rakgadi. And although we still have many days when culture and language just don’t translate, we have a deeper understanding of each other that pulls us through those moments. Ours is a relationship that I could not nor would want to do without in my South African journey.

10kg bags of carrots and potatoes and onions were stacked around and under tables in the small room. A group of women crammed in around the tables littered with fresh vegetable peelings. I greeted the women, took the rather dull knife that was handed to me and found a place around the table. Potato in one hand and knife in the other, I began to scrape the skin from one vegetable after another.

The short walk with Rakgadi to her sister’s house had seemed endless. We had little to say to each other—her grief weighing heavy upon her, my nerves jostled at the thought of the coming cultural interaction. I had helped prepare meals at weddings and other village celebrations, but never a funeral. No, I shouldn’t have offered to come and help. I should make an excuse and leave soon. I am the foreigner. I am the legoa (white person). What can I give? No, this is not about my comfort level. This is about supporting Rakgadi and the community. This is not about me. This is not about me.

As we peeled and diced and chopped, the women talked freely. But there was a blanket of sadness that hung about the room. This was not the lively and jovial talk that I was growing accustom to.

I went about my work quietly, occasionally smiling to myself at the small bits of conversation that I caught. My hands grew tired as I struggled with the dull knife. Potato after potato, carrot after carrot and the hard rinds of the pumpkins. After the bags of potatoes and carrots, bags of onions appeared on the tables. One onion, eyes began to sting. Two onions, eyes were watering. Three onions, large tears were brimming, making it difficult to see. Four onions, the tears were spilling over and we began to laugh in spite of ourselves.

The laughter and the tears were freeing to all the women at the table. Some how they brought us closer together. The laughter and the tears. Laughter and tears over the potency of onions, but laughter and tears over something much deeper, as well. It is the unspoken thing around the table. It is what we cannot say or admit to. It is the horrific and the painful—layers as potent as the layers of the onions.

In that moment, we found a common bond—a bond around the laughter and the tears. That bond would carry us through the onions and the rest of the pumpkins to the finality of tea and biscuits as the sun set over the day.

Rakgadi would soon walk me home and gather blankets to bring back. She and her sisters would spend the night—cooking all through so that when morning came, all would be ready for the funeral guests.

As the sun set that night, I heard the song begin. The song of mourning and lamenting that would drift through the night air until the first rays of sun returned. I listened to the song as I laid in my bed, remembering in its slow rhythm the laughter and the tears. The laughter, the tears, the song—they all merged and melted into dream as I lay in my bed. Dream and hope for something better the next day.

My good friend Roze has graciously loaned me her computer for a week, so I'm going to take full advantage and post several blogs entries that I have written over the last few months. Below is the first post in a three part series...

________________________________

Tragedy Part 1

15 August 2009

It was a day as any other day. My host mother came home from school. I heard her open her door, and I waited and listened to the sounds of her settling in after the day's work before going to greet her.

I continued reading my book, half-listening to the sounds when I heard a new sound. It was the faint sound of uncontrollable sobbing. I have heard this sounds before since coming to the village, but it was usually at night and now seemed out of place in the daylight hours. I know that there is much hidden sadness in this place, but I question how I can help this mourner in this moment. Can I help them? Should I? And the final, incessant and irritating question--What is culturally appropriate?

Before I can make a decision, I hear the familiar sounds that signal my host mother's readiness for our daily greeting.

I put down my book. The wailing has stopped. I stand and walk to the door. I can hear my host mother making moves to the same door.

"Dumela Rakgadi" (Greetings aunt)

"Aghe, Le kae sissy?" (Hello, how are you sissy?)

"Ke teng. O kae?" (I'm fine. How are you?)...but as I ask, I can see. Rakgadi's eyes are swollen with tears. She is the wailing woman. She falters and asks me how my flu is before I can ask her what is wrong. I tell her I am better but don't have the words to speak further. Tears in this strong woman's eyes are not something I have seen.

She finds the words that I do not have.

"It is very bad," she says as she swallows back more tears. "Do you remember that girl who came to ask you about the computer?" I remembered her. She had come to ask Rakgadi--her rakgadi and my rakgadi--about places to use the Internet. Rakgadi asked what she needed the Internet for--"to search for scholarships." I told her of an Internet Cafe I knew of in a village not far from here--a R10 taxi ride. She was shy and quiet in front of the American and thanked me before leaving. After she left, Rakgadi remarked, "she's very clever, that girl."

Yes. I remembered her. Seventeen years old. Just completed metric--the equivalent to senior year in schools in the States. I remembered her.

"That girl has been killed."

"What?" I stammered. "That's awful."

I was again at a lost for words, but I didn't need them as Rakgadi continued, "Did you see the police come past last night? I saw them and told Papis I had a pain. I knew, I knew then. They found her body in the bush. Killed by her boyfriend's friend."

It was still too awful for words. I wanted to reach out and hold Rakgadi. I wanted to hug her and let her cry. I wanted to offer some comfort, but all I could offer was my shock and stunned silence.

I asked if Papis, my host brother, knew. She said it was he who had called her. She was leaving to go to the family--to sit with them, to mourn with them, and as one of the elders in the family to begin making arrangements for the funeral.

The story would later be told to me. That this friend of the girl's boyfriend had called her late at night and told her that her boyfriend was cheating on her. He lured her out of the safety of her home under the guise of taking her to see the boyfriend's infidelity. Once he had lured her out he raped and killed her, leaving her body in the bush.

This clever girl. This young, clever girl who had found, applied for and won a scholarship to the University of Pretoria. This girl with the bright future--the chance to pull herself out of poverty and her family along with her. This girl stolen and now mourned by a grief-stricken community. Yes, I remembered this girl...

As Rakgadi prepared to leave, I told her to let me know if I could do anything to help. It is what we say in our culture. An offer, to show our condolences and our sorrow. But it lost its meaning as it crossed from my lips to her ears. I saw the question in her face. "Anything," I said, "I want to be of use. I want to help. You, you are my family now. This is my family." With these last words, I saw understanding pass into her eyes.

Family. This was her family. I was asking in this moment of grief to be a part of the family and offering to give what I had.We both found a shared understanding in this word. and in the coming days it would come to have a deeper meaning for our relationship. Family. It would come to be the word that would carry us through.

Let me start out by providing you all with some sage advice. If you are going to Africa or some other remote place in the world, I highly recommend doing a full overhaul and check-up on your laptop before you go. It’s been almost three months since I took my laptop to Pretoria to be fixed and it is likely to be at least one more month before I get it back. The first place I took it to was unable to fix it, and although the second place can fix it, they have to wait on the parts. So in the mean time, I’m dependent on my internet phone and infrequent access to rather pricey internet cafes. Thus my long absence here. But I wanted to give you an update and let you know that I am still alive.

So alive that last Friday, I participated in the Mmametlhake South African Police Service (SAPS) 5K Fun Run. For those of you who are fans of “The Office,” yes, there were many similarities to that remarkable episode, but with a South African flare.

The race was scheduled to start at 7am that morning. Graciously a few other volunteers who stay in villages near me came to run. (Thanks again, Laura, for sticking it out.) Being Americans, we arrived at SAPS at seven. Several of the officers and the superintendent seemed to be in a pre-race meeting, so we hung back until Constable Ngobini—one of the officers who works closely with my organization and a friend—came over to tell us that they were running late and would be starting soon. This was expected and as we seemed to be the only participants, we sat down to wait it out.

Eight o’clock passed and a few other participants began to arrive. By 8:30 there were about fifteen of us, and there was no putting it off anymore. The plan was to start by our in-progress domestic violence shelter (still roofless) and run back to the SAPS offices. Six of us climbed into the back of an ambulance, a few more into a squad car and the remaining into a taxi. The ambulance drove to the shelter, and…we waited. For some reason the other vehicles did not arrive for another fifteen minutes.

Finally, we all arrived at the starting point, and Laura and I were ready to go. (Anne and David, neither one feeling well, had by this point gone back to my place to cook us cinnamon rolls as an after race treat.) Before starting one of the officers organized us into lines of four. Strange, but I thought, “Okay that’s logical. There’s only a few of us running on a tar road. It’s a safety thing.” Oh, no. Not a safety thing. The officer began leading us in stretches and a, well, 1980’s aerobic style warm-up. Laura and I, deciding that we had already done plenty of warming up, stepped to the side to, umm, observe.

After a grueling warm-up the lead car set off and we finally started the run. Besides my self and Laura, there were two other guys who were actually runners, and I should point out much better runners than myself. The rest of the group was a hodge-podge of employees from the various government offices in our village most of whom admitted to the fact that they had not run in years. Laura and I did fairly well coming in a respectable forth and fifth overall and first and second among the women. When I checked my watch to see our time, we had run it in a remarkable 25 minutes. I know I’m improving and getting back to my pre-Colorado departure pace and I know we were running a little faster than normal pace, but 5K in 25 minutes? That couldn’t have possibly been a full 5K. I’m running between a six and seven minute kilometer on a regular basis, which means we should have been running for five to ten more minutes. When we checked it on Google Earth later, we discovered that our 5K fun run was probably just over 3K. Oh, well, “E” for effort.

Overall it was an enjoyable time, and I’m all about promoting exercise and healthy habits in the village. I’m also looking forward to the opportunities that will come out of it. I’ve been asked to help plan the next run which I am hoping we can turn into a big community event for World AIDs Day on December 1st. I also have a new running buddy out of it, Constable Connie, one of the officers who helped plan the run. If interest continues to spread from here, there might also be an opportunity for creating a running club. But that’s all to come…

So six and a half months into my service—more than a quarter of the way through for those who are keeping track—I am still finding my groove in my community and contributing where I can. It’s never easy but never unbearably hard either. I’m looking forward to the return of my computer and posting the many blog posts I’ve been saving. Until then…

So this will likely be my last blog post for a while. Why? Because my laptop is feeling a little ill and had to go visit the doctor. Hopefully it's not too serious and the doctor bill won't be too steep. That also means I will be a bit slow responding to emails, etc. (Currently at an internet cafe in town. And since I don't get to town all that often...)

The past two weeks, I have spent readjusting to life in the village. Readjusting after almost a month living in Pretoria. At the end of June, I started having strange and very painful cramping and stabbing pain throughout my abdomen. Peace Corps brought me to Pretoria to do some tests and try to determine what was wrong.

I lived the posh life in Pretoria at the Rose Guest Lodge--a nice bed and breakfast that Peace Corps uses to house med-evacs from other African countries and South African volunteers who are having a time of it medically. It was definitely high living--in some ways higher than in the states: breakfast made-to-order every morning, terry cloth bathrobes, hot shower complete with water pressure, real coffee. It was a good life at the rose.

I spent my days going between medical appointments, wandering around one of the three malls near the Rose, waiting for test results, deciding which movie theather to go to and which movie to see, deciding what test to try next and choosing between restraunts, ordering-in or cooking with the other volunteers staying at the Rose. It was an entire world away from the four months I had spent in the village.

After a litany of blood, urine and stool tests, an ultrasound, an x-ray, a CT scan and finally a colonoscopy and gastroscopy--all of which came back normal--we decided to try an anti-parasite treatment even though there had been no evidence of parasites in my urine or stool. Two weeks after the start of the ten day treatment, I seem to be fine. Apparently those little tiny creatures are really good at hide-and-seek.

The month in Pretoria was physically, emotionally and mentally exhausting. While it was nice to have all of the modern conveniences surrounding me, this was not the life that I came to Africa for. I was tired, and many times seriously considered whether it was worth it or not to continue with Peace Corps. Each time a test result came back normal, I was happy to know that the signs pointed to nothing seriously wrong with me but was still in a lot of pain and disappointed that we were no closer to finding the answer. I wanted to be back in my village--building relationships, settling into the routine of village life, learning the culture and language and assisting my organization. But having so much time on my hands also made me resent many of the things that I had come into contact with in the village. So while I wanted to get back to the village, there was a part of me that also wanted to have nothing to do with the village. I wanted friends and family and resented that they were not there to comfort me through the barrage of medical exams and tests.

It was a strange experience that I really had no one who I could fully express all the things I was feeling to. There were just certain thoughts and emotions that didn't translate without a good understanding of the context. And the Peace Corps rumor-mill is a vicious thing. I wanted to keep myself out of it as much as possible, so I tried to limit the number of volunteers who knew that I was in Pretoria. (Thinking back on it, I'm sure everyone knew, but I like to think that I kept it pretty quiet.)

My month in Pretoria is a feat I hope not to replicate during the rest of my service. It's a nice place to visit for a few days, but a month is too much. The "Pretoria Effect," as many volunteers refer to it, can be a very damaging thing to one's psyche. I am very happy to be back in the village now and as much as possible am trying to pick up where I left off. In some senses, I am starting over and rebuilding, but I know every night when my host brother comes over to say goodnight and everyday when the women at my organization ask how I am feeling and when I recieve a big hug and a "I was praying for you"--I know at those moments that people do care and are truly glad that I'm here. That foundation is still there, just some cracks that need to be filled in before we can start building again.

It’s time for a home warming party. Welcome to my family compound. The incomplete house in the center is the future home of my host family. I live in the small sand-brick house on the far right.   This is my house. Just the perfect size with two small rooms. The first room I have set up as a kitchen area. The small electric stove is a loner from my organization. The large yellow bucket in the corner is where I store my water, and the blue bucket serves as the kitchen sink. I’ve been keeping myself busy with lots of little projects like the suspension systems for my pots, mugs and plates. The second room is set up as the bedroom, office, living room and bathroom. The bedroom: The office: The bathroom: (The make-shift shower is a great improvement over bucket-bathing.) Outside are the washer and dryer:   And let’s not forget the toilet:   You can see a few more pictures over on my Flickr page.

Last week I spent my first few days in Pretoria. It was a strange experience to be in a modern city after four months of village life. Towering buildings, lights, sounds, people everywhere and seemingly limitless choices--where to eat, what to eat, what store to shop at, what taxi service to use...

Pretoria has nothing that would distinguish it from most other modern cities with the exception of the high walls, razor wire and electric fencing that surround every home and many businesses. Unfortunately this level of security is necessary due to the high level of crime in the city. Walking in pairs during the day is highly recommended, and at night don't walk anywhere without a group of at least five--even in the nicer areas.

I stayed at one of the local backpackers that caters to Peace Corps volunteers. I found it to be a nice little haven in the midst of the busy city around me. In addition to the few volunteers, there was also a group of students from the UK, a traveling musician from Spain, a couple form Australia and another American who was in Pretoria doing free-lance writing for ESPN (the FIFA Confederation Cup began last week). Each had equally fascinating stories for how they ended up in South Africa, and I enjoyed conversing with the diverse group of travelers.

On Friday evening, our new free-lance journalist friend invited us to go with him to the Italy national team practice. When we arrived, the practice turned out to be a scrimmage against a team of South African All-Stars. So we found ourselves in the press box with free buffet and open bar watching the reigning World Cup Champions soundly thrash the competition. Two nights before I was in my village listening to the drumming of the rain on the tin roof and praying for the electricity to come back on. The juxtaposition was almost too much for me.

After a few interviews with the players, we jumped back into the rental car and headed back to the other side of Pretoria. Here I was in the city that my host brother commutes to on a daily basis for school. The city where probably about 90% of the employed in my village commute to work--what can be a three to four hour taxi ride despite its proximity to our village. And here I was living the high life. It was a lesson in opportunity--a lesson that I'm still trying to choke down. How do you move gracefully and easily from a "developing world" setting to a "developed world" setting? And how do you fit comfortably into either when you live above the standard of the first and below the standard of the second? I'm afraid there is no answer to these questions.

Top 10 items that I packed in my suitcase:

Photos from home Duct tape (I have not found it here, and it really is the most useful item I brought. Yes, it really does rank higher than my laptop.)

Laptop Books/movies (lots of downtime) Reusable grocery bags (I use them on a daily basis)

French press (unfortunately broken but has since been replaced) Sewing kit (I've hemmed curtains and sewed all sorts of useful items for my house)

iPod (Is it possible to live without music?)

Running shoes Sleeping bag Top 10 items I have purchased for settling into my new home:

Cell phone (Not sure it really fits the list, but that means calls from the States and Internet access) Solar shower (I don't know how I lived four months without it)

French press (Well, I consider good coffee an essential) Water barrel (Keeps me from having to haul water from the tap every day) Buckets (Handy for hauling water when I need to refill the bucket) Rope (Hanging things from the rafters saves storage space) Wall hooks (Another space saver) Electric kettle (boils water super-fast) Tupperware (The obvious food storage use but also came in handy before I purchased dishes)

Refrigerator (Well, I like food to stay fresh.) Top 10 items I've received in a care package (and lots of thanks to everyone who has sent one):

Pictures from home Thomas the Train Valentine's Day Cards from my nephew Starbucks coffee TLC granola bars A copy of TIME Stickers (I've mostly given them away to kids, but they still make me really happy to see them in the package.) Lotion from Bath and Body Works Duct tape (It hasn't arrived yet, but I was told it was coming. I've already used the roll that I brought with me.) Clothes that wouldn't fit in the suitcase and still have it meet the 80lbs. limit Relevant Magazine (Coming directly from Relevant--way to go to them for sending it to my the post office in my little village.) Top 10 items that I just couldn't do without:

Pictures from home Peanut butter (readily available and regularly purchased) Cell phone Books Britae filter (Peace Corps gave it to us. The water from our tap is really sandy. I've never seen a filter get so nasty so quickly.) Toilet paper (It almost makes going to the pit latrine seem normal.) Pee Bucket (Because my pit latrine is at least a hundred yards from the house, and I just don't want to traverse that at night.) Duct tape Buckets The big, fuzzy blanket from Peace Corps (It keeps me warm at night when the temperature gets down to 40°F and the tin roof and concrete walls let in the cold.)

Legoa (Le-ho-a) is a word that I have become all too familiar with. In

Setswana it means "white person." It doesn't necessarily have a negative

connotation, but in certain circumstances and uses it is not exactly a

compliment.Most often I hear it from children as they eagerly wave and yell for my

attention, "Legoa! Legoa!" This encounter is usually followed by an

explanation in Setswana that my name is not Legoa but Amanda or Makau

(my Setswana name). Now when I pass by the primary school on my way to

and from work, I hear shouts of "Amanda! Amanda!" along with the eager

waves.This encounter was magnified last week when we went to visit two of the

local primary schools and one of the middle schools as a part of Child

Protection Week. Upon my arrival at the first primary school, all of the

children crowded around the doorways shouting legoa and giggling to see

a white person at their school. Later during the presentation led by

members of the police force and one of our own volunteers at the victim

empowerment center, I was introduced properly.Schools in the villages do not have auditoriums, gymnasiums or

cafeterias for assemblies. Most consist of three to five buildings

surrounding a large courtyard area. Each building usually houses three

to four small classrooms. For assemblies, the students carry out chairs

into the courtyard and arrange them in rows. At the middle school, the

students where required to stand in rows. Rainy days, hot days and cold

days make assemblies rather miserable.The middle school we visited is the same school where my host mother

teaches. The entire faculty consists of eleven people including the

principal, and there are over 300 students. Class sizes range from 40-60

kids crammed into a classroom, sharing desks and/or chairs. Not exactly

a conducive work environment, but both teachers and students work with

what is available.Although somewhat thrown together at the last minute, our presentations

went rather well. We had the opportunity to share valuable information

with students on how to protect themselves and how to report abuse and

crime. I was really glad that I had the opportunity to tag along and

that I got to know a few of the officers at the police station a little

better. It was a really great experience, and I'm glad to be Makau in

the minds of so many more children.

I spent the last three weeks trying to fend off an annoying and persistent cough. This means staying in pretty close communication with our Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO) and traveling back and forth to my shopping town to get medication from the pharmacy.

There is a pharmacy at the hospital in my village, but my host mother assures me that it is better to use the pharmacy in our shopping town. The hospital means long lines and waiting for hours. From what I understand there is also a chance that the hospital pharmacy may not even have the medication that you need, especially if it is not a commonly prescribed medication.

It's slightly annoying to have to travel by taxi to my shopping town, especially when I don't feel well--but the convenience of getting a prescription in five minutes or less at the pharmacy and being able to send that little receipt off to Peace Corps for a reimbursement makes it worth it. And its a convenience that I am highly aware is not available to most people in my village. Yes, they too could travel to the pharmacy in the shopping town, but that's a R58 taxi ride round trip plus the cost of the medication. It's expensive and a luxury that most people around me simply cannot afford.

The last few days of training, our PCMO gave me a PPD test (TB skin test), it thankfully came back negative. I had asked for the test because of a high suspicion that at least one member of my training host family (possibly all three) have active tuberculosis--a strong possibility when 95% of the South African population has latent TB.

The day I was given the test, I walked out of the exam room and started crying. I cried not because I was afraid of having contracted TB, but because of how easy it was for me to get tested and how easy it would be for me to get treatment if the test showed positive. I knew that it was not easy for my host family to get that kind of care or to be able to afford the treatment necessary. In that moment, my life of privilege was blatantly contrasted with the new world I found myself in. And now I see that contrast in a thousand ways almost on a daily basis. It is a contrast that I sometimes have a hard time coping with--feeling guilty, angry, remorseful, frustrated, and a host of other emotions.

Those emotions can eat away at you--eroding hope and crippling your ability to serve the community and empower them to build up needed resources. It is a trial that I think many volunteers face.

For me, there is only to lay those emotions at the feet of Jesus and ask for hope and love in their stead.

The US Embassy in South Africa put up a nice article about our group of volunteers on their website. You can check it out here.

On Tuesday of this week, Stellah, Sophy and I met at my house to finish painting the interior walls.

This was our second attempt.

The first time we tried to paint the house we ran out of paint after the first coat in the first room (it's a two-room house). Really this was probably my fault. When they asked me if I thought "five" would be enough, I naturally thought that of course, five gallons would be more than enough to paint two coats in two small rooms. Unfortunately South Africa runs completely off of the metric system. So "five" meant liters and not gallons, and five liters was enough for one coat in one room on a concrete wall.

For the second go around, they bought a ten liter bucket. I new it wouldn't be enough to fully finish the job, but I was more concerned with the other more serious problem. This was a different kind of paint! Not only a different shade--this was water-based and in our previous attempt we had used oil-based. My mind wandered back to basic science in elementary school--oil and water do not mix. I already knew, but now I was positive that this was my coworkers' first experience with painting a house. And really, what could I do? The paint had already been purchased, and I knew that it had cost the center a lot of money that they didn't have to spend. So we started painting the second room...

During my previous experience of painting with Stellah and Sophy, I found myself several times teaching basic painting skills like: paint in the same direction to keep the paint from looking streaked or blotchy when it dries, don't put too much paint on your brush or in the paint trays, finish painting the section you are on before moving to the next. I frequently found myself feeling like Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid--"paint the wall, Stellah-son and Sophy-son." But I don't think I was displaying the Miyagi patience. Several times I felt my frustration rising as I showed them again and again the importance of painting in vertical strokes--not circular motions or a few vertical strokes followed by a few horizontal and diagonal strokes.

At one point on Tuesday, I asked Sophy if she was tired, "A o lapile?" Sophy said "no" that she liked the work. I was surprised at her response. I knew how tired and frustrated I was. I really just wanted the project to be done. But as Sophy's response sunk in, my heart softened and my frustration began to subside. I suddenly realized how empowering this simple activity was for these two women. Two single mothers in their late twenties for the first time in their lives doing a job that is traditionally thought of as a man's job. My friends got to live for a few hours outside of the cultural norm and experience something challenging and new. And I became so excited and happy for them.

At the end, we completed two coats in the second room--which looks pretty good--and one and a half coats in the first room--we'll call it art-deco. It was an experience that I hope I will not forget soon, and I'm hopeful that Sophy and Stellah will not soon forget it either.

I got to spend the day at a nature preserve near my site last week to help with a Peace Corps training. It was amazingly beautiful! To check out more pictures from the day, visit my Flickr page.

Last weekend I attended several local celebrations in the village--a funeral, a tombstone unveiling and two weddings. Each of these events are very important in Tswana culture. (The area I live in is predominately Tswana. While there are some similarities between the various tribes in South Africa, they definitely all have their own distinct culture and origins.)

When I say that I attended the funeral and the tombstone unveiling, it was more that we stopped by to pay our respects and give well wishes to the family. But before we left both homes, we were offered a plate of food. The sharing of meals and food is very important. Very rarely do I visit someone's home without being given something to eat. The offering of food is more than just a welcoming gesture, but a chance for the person you are visiting to share a portion of what they have with you. It goes back to the idea of Ubuntu that I discussed in an early post--I am because you are also means I have and so I give.

After we paid our respects, we moved onto the home of the bride's family to help prepare the food for the wedding celebration. Thankfully it is the duty of the men to slaughter the cow and prepare it. My contribution was peeling and grating a ten pound back of carrots. At almost every celebration, a cow is slaughtered. Cows are a sign of wealth in the Tswana culture. Slaughtering a cow is a way for the family to share their joy or share their sorrow with their friends and neighbors.

After we had finished preparing the food, we took a portion of it to the house of the groom as an offering to the groom's family and the couple themselves. The mothers loaned me a traditional skirt that all of the female members of the brides family wore for the wedding. Everyone got a big kick out of the American in the traditional garb. We sang and danced all the way to the groom's home and then took part in more traditional songs and dances that the bride's family does to announce the arrival of the bride and their blessing. After which we sat and watched the proceedings and waited for the groom's family to give us the head of the cow they had slaughtered. The cow's head would come back with us to the bride's house.

We left the bride with the family of the groom, and the bride's family returned home to continue the celebration. The family of the groom and the bride only celebrate together for a brief amount of time.

Upon our arrival back at the bride's home, we dished up more food--I had eaten six times that day by this point--and continued the celebration.

The wedding on Saturday was a similar format but a much bigger wedding. The couple on Saturday had actually been married for about ten years but had never thrown a celebration for their friends and family. Sunday's wedding was a young couple who actually went through the full traditional wedding on that day. It was a much bigger celebration complete with a traditional dance group and lots of alcohol. At each celebration I have attended, I've noticed that there is always a circle of old men who by the end of the celebration are very, very drunk. It is custom here for men especially to drink a lot more than most of us would drink in the US. Alcoholism is definitely a huge problem that is enforced by so many factors like the high unemployment rate.

By the end of the weekend, I was very, very tired and didn't want to eat again for days. But I am glad that I had the opportunity to share in such a way with my community, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

Today is Freedom Day in South Africa. It marks the day in 1994 of the first post-Apartheid elections, allowing all citizens to vote for the first time in South Africa's history. Nelson Mandela would become the country's first black president and a time of justice and healing would begin for a country that had been torn apart by so much bigotry, racism and hatred.

Many images that I have seen over the past few months come to mind as I reflect on this day and what it means to the people around me. Most specifically images from the Apartheid Museum in Jo'Burg dance across my thoughts. Our training group was the first to have the opportunity to visit the museum, and it was definitely one of the highlights for me. If anything I wish we could have had more time to spend there.

I was twelve-years-old when Nelson Mandela cast his first vote in a South African election, when he led his country out of Apartheid. I don't remember knowing anything about it at the time. It would be a few years later that I would read Alan Patton's Cry, The Beloved Country for the first time, but it was without context and understanding. And although my general knowledge of what Apartheid was has grown since that time, it was not until the past few months that I have truly come to any real understanding of the word and what it was and still is for South Africa.

On Wednesday of last week, South Africa held parliamentary elections again. The majority went to the ANC (African National Congress), the party of Nelson Mandela and the party that has been in power since the elections of 1994.

I am no expert in South African politics, and as a guest in this country will voice no political opinion. What I will say is that the right to vote is the most extraordinary of rights that we as humans have created and recognized. The right for your voice to be heard is a part of human dignity that should never be denied. And the ability of a government to recognize and hear the voices of its citizens is the essence of a stable and high-functioning government.

It is my hope for South Africa that the voices of the disenfranchised, the poor, the suffering, the abused and the sick will be heard. And not only that they will be heard, but that they will be listened to and responded to. It is my hope that South Africa will continue to press on towards healing and a future for all of its citizens.

Blessed are the poor in spirit,

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn,

for they will be comforted.

Blessed are the meek,

for they will inherit the earth.

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst

for righteousness,

for they will be filled.

Blessed are the merciful,

for they will be shown mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart,

for they will see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers,

for they will be called children of God.

Blessed are those who are persecuted

because of righteousness,

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Matthew 5:3-10

On Thursday of this week, I went to meet with the village chief or kgosi in Setswana. Kgosi literally translates to king. It was a very different experience from meeting the chief in our training village and meeting the Ndebele Prince--more informal and personal.

Myself and two of my co-workers arrived at the tribal office around 10am Thursday morning and waited our turn to present ourselves to the chief and the village elders. When our turn came, we offered the formal greetings and Maureen, my supervisor, introduced me as the new Peace Corps volunteer. The chief himself was already well-informed of my presence in the village since Peace Corps had worked directly with him to build the site.

The chief is a much younger man than the village dignitaries I had previously met. Best guess is that he is in his mid to late forties. He became chief a few years ago when his father passed away. Most often the office of chief is passed from father to eldest son. Occasionally it will pass to the chief's eldest brother or nephew if the chief himself has no son. On rare occasions when the chief has no son, brother or nephew, the village elders will debate and select a new chief from amongst themselves. As of yet, I have not come across any cases in which the title has passed to a woman.

It is customary when meeting a chief to offer a gift. I brought the South Africa PEPFAR (President's Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief) calendar Peace Corps gave us when we arrived. It was free for me and is a small representation of what we as CHOP (Community HIV/AIDS Outreach Program) volunteers are here to assist with.

Before leaving the meeting the chief's spokesman expressed that the chief would like to give me a new Setswana name, Mmakau (Ma-k-ow-oo). The best English translation for the word is "mother of cow," but there is not really an English translation that expresses the meaning of the word. The name itself has a long history in this area--a history that I'm still researching. But because of the importance of the name to the village, it is a great honor to be given the name.

With the chief's blessing and good wishes, I have officially become a member of the community. I will now be able to come to the chief with any needs or grievances, and I fully believe that he will be a partner and an asset in my work with the community.

I consistently feel the welcoming embrace of my new home and couldn't be happier here. I look forward to building more relationships with the people here and being a part of their lives.

Every other week the five of us in our cluster travel to Bella Bella

(Warmbad) to shop for groceries and whatever else we might need. In my

village, we have a few small stores that sell the essentials--bread,

milk, etc. There are also a few fruit stands that sell your basic fruits

and vegetables like apples, bananas, onions and potatoes. But for a

wider selection and a cheaper selection it is better to go into town.Bella Bella was the closest shopping town to us during training and is

thus the town we are most familiar with. However, I am near several

shopping towns at my new site and am planning to work my way around to

each before picking my favorite.Getting to Bella Bella is always an adventure. For me the trip requires

two taxis. When you hear the word "taxi", drop all of your preconceived

notions of what a taxi is and isn't. In South Africa taxis are the

equivalent to a 15 passenger van--taxis for hire are only available in

the cities. Most taxis are in various states of repair. I've been in

taxis with leaky roofs and doors, taxis with holes in the floor, and

taxis that you could swear were held together by duct tape and a prayer

(except that duct tape is not available in SA and the alternative is not

nearly as strong or versatile). I've also ridden in new taxis that are

very nice and comfortable, but those taxis are harder to come by.When you take a local taxi in town or the villages nearby, chances are

the taxi will not be full for the entire journey and you will have the

luxury of elbow room. This is usually the case with my first taxi to the

village where my closest volunteer lives. I typically meet her at the

taxi rank there. My village does not have a taxi rank so catching a taxi

means you flag it down as it passes.Once at the taxi rank we must wait for a full to nearly full taxi before

we begin the 45 minute trek to Bella Bella. Long distance taxis will not

leave without a full taxi in order to make the most profit per day. This

can mean waiting for over an hour or more for the taxi to leave. If the

taxi is not full or if people on the taxi want to get off before the

intended destination, the driver will take the back road to Bella Bella.

This means that we forgo the highway in the hopes of picking up more

passengers along the way. This also means a dirt road for half of the

journey. As the taxis become full of people and packages, they become

hot and cramped very quickly. And as we have often found, fifteen

passengers is more a suggestion than a guideline. I've been on a couple

of taxis now with more than twenty passengers. And the driver, well,

let's just say I think a few of them should have their licenses revoked.Bella Bella itself is a resort town with a large resort and game

preserve. It was originally an Afrikaner town and has a high Afrikaner

population. The towns original name is Warmbad so named for the natural

warm baths there. Three grocery stores and several smaller shops make up

the main streets.When we go, we make a day of it--shopping for non-perishables when we

first arrive, breaking for lunch, and shopping for the perishables after

lunch. The key to shopping is to make sure that you don't buy more than

you can carry or more than will fit on a taxi with fourteen other

passengers. Planning ahead is key.It is also important to head to the taxi rank by at least 3PM. You may

be waiting a long time for a taxi and you don't want to arrive home

after dark since you have to walk from the road to your house--a ten

minute walk for me. The nice part about coming back to the village is

that it is only one taxi ride for me. It is not necessary to go back to

the taxi rank in my friend's village as I can get dropped off in my

village when we pass through.It is a full day that can be very long and very tiring, but it is always

good to meet up with the other volunteers, enjoy a nice lunch, and buy

things like oatmeal and peanut butter. (Not sure if I would have

survived this long without peanut butter. It is a staple of Peace Corps

life.)The key to shopping days--patience. It is the key to a lot of things

here. Patience. Practice patience always.

My new host family attends the African Catholic Church. I’ll be honest that on coming to South Africa I had no idea that there was an African wing of the Catholic Church. I assumed that all Catholic churches in South African were Roman Catholic. There is a Roman Catholic Church in our community, but as of yet I have not met anyone who attends services there. I had the opportunity to join my host family for the service on Palm Sunday—a four hour service that was much too much for my American sensibilities of time. The entire service was in Setswana including the Book of Common Prayer. Although I am growing more familiar with the language, I found that I didn’t understand majority of the service as the phrases “I ask for”, “I want to buy”, “I come from” and “I am a volunteer with the Peace Corps” were not used. I did pick up on “Modimo” (God), “Godimo” (sky/heaven), “Morena” (Christ) and “Jesu” (Jesus) Despite the language barrier, I found that there was much that was similar to experiences I have had in Catholic churches before and also found elements of a few other familiar denominations sprinkled in here or there. I knew many of the hymns, some prayers were familiar, and the knowledge of the Spirit’s presence was a constant. It is the tradition of the African Catholic Church to wear black and white. The women must wear a skirt and cover their heads while the men must wear a jacket. Unfortunately I did not bring a black or white skirt with me and all of my head scarves are multicolored. So I looked slightly out of place with my black and cream flowered skirt and my red and black checked head scarf—not only was I not in black and white but my wardrobe obviously did not match either. My host-brother is an altar boy and my host-mother sings in the choir so our family went early for the Palm Sunday procession from the priest’s home to the church. After a prayer, the altar boys led the way with the crucifix and the incense leading the way followed by the priests and the rest of the assembly. My host-mother lent me a prayer book and I managed to fumble my way through the hymns while trying not to take a tumble as we traversed the dirt roads to the church. Here I was left to my self for moments as my host-brother continued on to the altar and my host-mother made her way to the choir loft (not really a loft but a set of chairs set apart from the rest of the assembly). My host-mother’s older sister took charge of me and led me to sit with her. I soon discovered that I was sitting with the gogos (Setswana for grandmother). Next to our section were the older mothers (40s and 50s). In the section next to the mothers were the young women. And the men sat in the section farthest from us. If anyone hadn’t noticed yet that there was a white American oddly dressed in the assembly, they noticed now. The sanctuary itself was a large room with the altar one step above the main floor. In the wall just behind the altar the builder had omitted bricks to form a cross (the most beautiful part of the sanctuary to me). Before the altar, wooden folding chairs divided the room into the four sections (gogos, older mothers, young women and men). There was also a section up at the front for the children and the previously mentioned separate section for the choir (entirely made up of women). The seats only filled half of the room. The back half was empty. I was told that on Good Friday they had to rent extra chairs because so many people attended the service. The roof of the sanctuary was made of corrugated tin, as most roofs in this part of the country are. A few highlights from the service itself: The signing was amazing. All acapella. Every man woman and child singing with full voice, abandoning themselves to the song. Whether they could carry a tune or not, they gave it their full heart. It was a beautiful sound that carried surprisingly well in the dismal acoustics of the place. Village life is full of song. You can almost always hear singing off in the distance from a church service, a funeral, a wedding, someone’s stereo—always music. Many of the people I know in my daily life often unconsciously drift into song as they work. It is as if there is a natural rhythm to the place that undulates just beneath the surface. The church broke bread together in Holy Communion administered by the priest. I was prepared not to participate since I am not confirmed in the Catholic Church. But my host-mother and others insisted that I take part since I am a Christian. There was a five rand fee to participate in communion—with current exchange rates, that’s about 50 cents. I was initially surprised by the fee but soon realized that the money would cover the expense of the communion preparations. I went forward, paid the fee, received the priest’s blessing and received the body and blood of Christ. (The body a typical wafer used at most Catholic churches and the blood a very cheap wine that tasted like rubbing alcohol mixed with a few grapes.) Towards the end of the service, my host-mother was asked to introduce me to the congregation. This meant that I had to go forward and greet everyone in Setswana. I managed a few sentences of greeting and thanks and received the approval of the congregation. Although slightly embarrassed, I was glad to be introduced. That’s fifty more people in the community who know me and are aware of my presence. Each meeting goes a long way towards integrating me into the community. A daily process for the coming two years. There are many different churches in the village, and I plan to visit as many as I can. I want to get a broad understanding of what fellowship looks like here. Church and religion are very important to village life. I hope that I will gain a deeper understanding of its importance within this new culture and find ways to adopt it into my life here.

One week ago today, we swore in 25 new Peace Corps Volunteers in South Africa. It was a simple ceremony for such a momentous occasion in all of our lives. However, looking back on it, a simple ceremony seems most appropriate to celebrate an entrance into a time of service and simple living.

Following the ceremony and lunch, we split ways to go to our permanent sites. I am in a village just south of our training village and about 45 minutes to an hour north of Pretoria. I am working with the district Victim Empowerment Program (VEP). (More about my service organization here.) My new homestay is wonderful. I have a cozy, two-room house. The bedroom is 12’x12’ and the front room is 12’x9’. The front room is where I do all of my cooking, and for now, I hangout in the bedroom as it’s the larger of the two rooms. I have electricity but no running water. My host-mother recently had an electric pump put in for the underground well and is working on getting a JOJO installed. A JOJO is a huge barrel that stores water. Once we have it up and running, the water that comes through the pump should be a lot cleaner. The water is safe for drinking but sandy. I’m very grateful for the Brita filter that Peace Corps gave us.

I’ve down-graded in pit latrine quality, but overall it’s not as bad as it could be. The pit latrine is about 100 meters away from my house, so no holding it in. When you got to go, you better go. The walls are entirely made of corrugated tin (as are my roof and most other roofs in this area), and I’m just a little too tall to be able to stand up completely in it. I had become rather used to the government built latrines in our training village. The pits were deeper which meant for less smell and less bugs. Yet in comparison, I know I have still got it pretty good.

My host-mother, Mma Kgafela, is a Setswana and Life Orientation (LO) teacher at the local middle school. She is intent upon helping me learn Setswana which I am very appreciative of. Life Orientation is a cross between health and life skills. I have to say that she is a truly unique and amazing woman. I have enjoyed our conversations very much. She is intent upon introducing me to the community and the community to me. Sunday she took me to the African Catholic Church that she attends and introduced me as her guest there. My experience there is another posting to come later on.

I thoroughly enjoy my host-brother Paposi. Papi is actually the son of Mma Kgafela’s younger sister who died when Papi was eight; he is now twenty. Papi is studying plumbing at a trade school in Pretoria, but also has plans for entering the priesthood. He has been an altar boy at the church for the past five years. He loves gospel music and loves to laugh. I imagine that I will have many stories to tell about Papi over the next few years. I feel very blessed to be in this new homestay. I have lived in so many places over the past several years that my definition of “home” has been stretched many times over. I think home is a state of acceptance and belonging. It is a place of comfort and of safety. And I think that right now I can easily say that this—this is home.

Today, I went with my host-mother Elise to Hammenskraal to by supplies for the spaza shop she runs from her home. Elise has a 1980 something (maybe early ‘90s) Nissan “buggy” (in SA pick-up trucks are typically referred to as vans, buggies or bakis, never trucks). The passenger seatbelt was broken and the dash meters did not work. No defrost to deal with the early morning mist. And Elise’s friend riding in the bed of the truck.

We thankfully made it to Hammenskraal in one piece. Our first stop was the chicken market—a tiny cement building located behind a petrol (gas) station and slightly hidden from the main street. Our aim was to buy chicken feet, livers and heads. Despite the already ridiculous scene of the vegetarian surrounded by five liter bags full of chicken heads and buckets of chicken feet, the whole scene officially became ridiculously awkward when the only other white person—a six-foot something Afrikaner—came over to speak to me.

Previous to this moment, I had been doing my best to have conversation in broken Setswana and English while Elise waited in the queue. I found myself as the novelty of the chicken market—the white American woman speaking Setswana. (This was not the first time nor do I imagine will it be the last time that I find myself such a novelty.) The Afrikaner—he never told me his name—came up and began speaking Afrikaans to me just as Elise returned from the queue. I was taken aback as I had not noticed him until then. I told him that I did not speak Afrikaans, and upon hearing my accent he asked where I was from. I told him I was from the US and gave him the brief overview of Peace Corps. (We are now all fairly good at rattling this off in both English and our target language.) Elise was obviously uncomfortable (as was I) with the Afrikaners’ presence and remembered that she forgot to order the livers. She went back to the queue and I was left with the Afrikaner.

Awkward conversation continued in which I learned that he was a member of the Zionist Church—a predominately black church in SA that has mixed cultural, ancestral practices with Christianity. (From what I have gathered, the Zionist Church is one of the largest denominations in SA.) According to my new Afrikaner friend being a Zionist meant that everything was okay between him and the black people of SA. However, watching his interaction with others in the tiny market said that this was clearly not the case. His attempt at joking banter in Afrikaans with others in the market was obviously not well received.Finally he returned to his lorry (delivery truck)—which the point when I came to understand why he was in the market in the first place—but before we could leave, he returned. Apparently he had been on the phone with his boss—also a Zionist—and had been working some sort of deal for Elise to get a discount on chicken, um, products if she left her phone number so that I could be contacted later on. My new friend wanted to take me in his lorry to I’m not really sure where to meet the head of the Zionist Church.

Elise and I decided it was best to leave without leaving a phone number for the unnamed Afrikaner. I didn’t think Peace Corps would appreciate me road-tripping in the lorry of an unnamed man. I didn’t like the idea very much either.

At this point in our stay in South Africa, we have had very little interaction with Afrikaners. This was only the third Afrikaner that I have had any sort of extended conversation with. However we are often spoken to in Afrikaans by black South Africans who assume that we are Afrikaners. During these times, I struggle with a deep desire not to be associated with the Afrikaaners. I want it known that I am an American and was not part of what happened here. The sins of Apartheid are not my sins.

It is difficult not to sit in judgment upon the Afrikaners and the South African English who allowed racism and prejudice to drive a huge chasm through the heart of this country—a rift that has not healed and will likely not heal for many generations. It is difficult to find any sort of love for them when I see the great poverty that still exists in the rural areas largely due to Apartheid. It is difficult to not say “them” and “those people,” remembering that my forefathers also set up awful systems of trade and politics that counted other people as less than human and certainly less than white. It is hard to come from a place where a nation gathered the courage to elect a black man as president. It is hard knowing that for much of my generation the color of that man’s skin had nothing to do with why we did or did not vote for him. It is hard not to think of myself as the better person, and it is hard to be a vessel of peace.

I believe this is an issue that I will struggle with through the length of my service in SA. But it is important that I find my place within all of the “tribes” of South Africa—white and black—because healing the rifts of racism is part of our culture that desperately needs to be shared with SA. As many paces as we in the States have still to take to fully heal the rifts, SA has that many more. I come to believe more each day that I am here to be a vessel of peace and healing, though I have no idea what that ends up looking like at the end of the day. I am hopeful that God will clearly define that role as I seek His direction for my service here. It is much more than stepping out on principle; it’s stepping out of faith.

This last week we went on site visits to meet with the organizations we will serve over the course of the next two years. We also had the opportunities to meet with our home-stay families and see the housing that is being prepared for our arrival at the first of April.

The five days of site visit were some of the hardest I have had since my arrival in South Africa.Let me first say that my organization is great. I am working with a victim support center that specializes in working with domestic violence and rape victims—two huge issues in South Africa. Most domestic violence here goes unreported as women often are not aware of their rights or are afraid of stepping outside the bounds of culture and tradition. And in South Africa the incidence of rape is the highest in the world. (I should note here that the incidence of rape amongst Peace Corps volunteers in South Africa is very low.)

The support center is staffed by some amazingly strong and fiery women who are very passionate about preventing abuse and helping to protect victims in our community. Almost all are volunteers who receive a small monthly stipend. A large percentage of NGOs (nongovernmental organizations) in SA do not have the funds to pay staff and rely heavily on government stipends. This creates a lot instability and turnover for many organizations, but finding reliable funding and donors outside of government grants can be very difficult here.The center is currently in the process of completing a shelter that will be used as temporary housing and a safe house for victims of abuse. The shelter was intended to be completed in January, however, life can move a lot slower here and deadlines and contracts can become very flexible. I know my co-workers are very frustrated that the shelter is not yet complete, but they have little ability to speed the process.

On my visit I heard rumblings that once the shelter is complete the Department of Social Services plans to take over the center making it a government run organization. This is a great plan for the center as it will steady their funding stream, apply needed structure to the organization and provide steady pay for the staff. However, I am slightly concerned about what my position will be with the organization at that point. I feel that my role with the organization as it stands is to assist in developing the organizational structure and policy and to assist in building a reliable network between organizations in the community that work to assist victims of violence. However, when Social Services steps in, they will fill that role, leaving me and my skill set not being fully utilized for the rest of my Peace Corps service. I’ve expressed this concern to Peace Corps, and they seem willing to work with me, the support center, and my community to make sure that everyone is getting the most out of my placement.

My current home-stay is an entirely other matter. Actually I do not have a home-stay as Peace Corps is in the process of finding me a new home. To make a long story short, the home originally found for me was very shady. Peace Corps SA requires that PCVs stay in stand-alone houses separate from the host-family home. During site visit, I found that my house was not yet ready for me, and I was offered my host-parents’ room to stay-in for the few days of my visit. Soon after I arrived, I discovered that my host-father (mid-thirties) spoke little English and was drunk—a condition that persisted for most of my visit. I also discovered that my host-mother (also in her thirties) runs a “spaza” shop out of her home and rents the empty rooms in the main house. Unlike the “tuck shop” on the property where I have been staying during training, the spaza shop seems to serve a lot of seedy characters.

There are many stories to tell about my no-longer host-family. Fights between my host-mother and father (not actually married to each other). My drunken host-father accosting me about teaching him English. His drunken friends hanging out around the house. My host-mother demanding a ridiculously huge amount for electricity every month (electricity in SA is very cheap due to government subsidies). And to top it off, finding out upon my return that my host-mother lied to Peace Corps saying that she was the only person living on the property and hiding the spaza. It became clear after the last bit of information that my host-mother is an opportunistic woman and planned to make financial gains from having an American living with her.

Peace Corps will be working over the coming week to find me a new living arrangement. In the mean time, we move ever closer to swearing-in on April 2nd. I am looking forward to officially being a Peace Corps Volunteer and leaving the hectic schedule of training behind. By that time I should also have more frequent internet access and be able to post blogs as I write them. But until then...

Well, we didn’t actually meet the king, but we met his son the prince and the rest of the royal family. The king had to leave for a meeting before we arrived. This has been a common theme in our training as many things don’t exactly happen the way they were planned and we learn to live in flex time. In very general terms, time flexes and flows a little more here than it generally does in the U.S.

The Ndebele people are one of the many tribes in South Africa. Generally they are thought of as being artisans demonstrated to us by the rich beauty of their beadwork and their beautifully painted houses. The Ndebele originally lived in an area north of Pretoria, but were moved from their ancestral grounds during Apartheid. Much like the move of Native Americans to the reservations, tribes were moved to villages and townships outside of the areas where whites wanted to settle.

There are many traditional formalities observed when meeting a chief or a king. For women it means wearing a dress or a skirt and covering your head and possibly shoulders depending on the tradition of the specific tribe. The day we went it was ridiculously hot, but despite the oppressive heat, many of the Ndebele women wore thick flannel blankets displaying the Ndebele colors around their shoulders. The women and the men sat separately during the meeting. For our group is was the first time that we had seen the subservient female tradition prevalent in most South African tribal cultures so obviously displayed. Many of us had caught queues from various interactions, but it was the first time that it had been so prominent before us. At the end of the meeting the men sang and danced together, and then the women sang and danced together. During the meal that followed, the men and the women mingled, but the hierarchy was imprinted in our mind. It became a major topic during our question and answer session with the prince and a few of the elders.

For most of us growing up in a post-women’s lib America, the cultural inequality between the sexes is a source of much discomfort both for the women and the men in our group. Among the women, several of us are struggling to find our footing and to find the balance of sharing our belief in gender inequality while showing a respect for the culture. The amount of subservience varies from tribe to tribe, village to village, etc. This can at times make it even more of a struggle to find the balance of how to be culturally appropriate in the village we live in but then travel to another village and be culturally appropriate in that setting. For women this also means more unwanted attention.

Despite the aforementioned, there is much beauty in the Ndebele culture. So many traditions with so much meaning and purpose. The prince was incredibly welcoming and gracious to us. We are always welcomed with so much love and openness, and we are honored over and over again by community after community and group after group. The spirit of “Ubuntu” which literally translates to “I am because you are” is pervasive wherever we go. And it is a sentiment that echoes throughout the cultural traditions and every community we have come in contact with.

Beetles, spiders, grasshoppers and unfortunately cockroaches come in all shapes and sizes here. I’ve seen grasshoppers the length of my hand, beetles the size of my big toe and spiders almost as flat as a sheet of paper. And I am fascinated by all of them. The extra big cockroaches and I do not live in peace. But luckily there is a can of Doom (the Raid of SA) in each and every room. Unfortunately this means the kitchen too. Often Doom is stored in cupboards right next to the food. One of my peers was so unfortunate as to sit down to her morning bowl of oatmeal and find that it was laced with bug spray.

We’ve seen a vast number of interesting new bug bites and rashes. Mosquitoes have been a constant pest and have proved to be my greatest annoyance out of the insect kingdom. We are not in a malaria area, however, so thankfully mosquito bites cause no more annoyance than they would in the states. This also means that I don’t have to take malaria medication major side effects of which are nightmares or intensely real dreams and increased sensitivity to the sun.

I will say that I am fortunate to be in a house that is kept very clean and in which we close up the house early in the evening so we don’t receive unwanted visitors. (This also means that it takes the house a long time to cool off on hot days.) Others have not been so fortunate. Another one of my peers stays in a house with insulation—a nice exchange to the heat from the tin roofs, but with consequences of its own. The insulation is exposed allowing for all sorts of insects to roam about it freely and thus fall below especially at night when the lights go out. My peer spent the first three weeks of home-stay being eaten alive at night—problem finally solved when we received our bed nets.

Life in our village also means farm animals and lots of them. There is the chorus of roosters that crow at midnight and then again at three and then again at five and then periodically throughout the day. There are the hens with their chicks that run freely from yard to yard, but are smart enough to know who to come home to when they are hungry. There are the dogs who are the family pets, and then there are the dogs that are the family scourges. Our dog is a “notty” dog because he attacks the chickens. This means he stay chained to one of the trees in the backyard and is generally treated very poorly.

My favorites of the farm animals are the cows and the donkeys. Cows here are a sign of wealth. Every morning one of the herders drives a group of about ten cattle (including calves) up the road past our house, and every evening he drives them pack. I especially enjoy this herd because of their cow bells. I enjoy the clank-clank as they pass by. But cows do not just roam the dirt road by my house, they can also be found on the main roads connecting the villages. We frequently have to slow to a stop because of cattle in the road. Amusingly there are many “cattle crossing” signs about, but I have not once seen cattle cross at the crossing. They tend to cross everywhere but there.

On stressful/bad days, the donkeys can make everything better. I truly think they are the silliest animals on earth. They don’t actually do much but graze, stand, and roll around in the sand, but all those actions just seem comical. They’re cute but ugly all at the same time, and really their rolls in the sands are quite hysterical to watch. I think in personality our donkeys are somewhere between Eeyore and Donkey from Shrek, but they bring me joy just the same.

I can’t wait to have enough bandwidth to post pictures of all these creatures for you to see. There not quite the fauna I was expecting to find in Africa, but I enjoy them all the same.