The Role Models take on the City of Gold

It was a time of many firsts. Leaving the familiar rural village limits for the first time in their lives, the Role Models set their sights on the biggest city in Southern Africa, unaware of what to expect on the other side.

The eve of our departure, the adventure had seemingly already begun. Thursday night, the Role Models and I closed the library at its normal 6:00 pm time. Thereafter, in caravan fashion, we proceeded to navigate through the darkened dirt village paths, guided by a silvery sliver of a moon to visit each Role Model’s home. Our first stop was Secret and Karabo’s kokwana’s (grandmother) home. While kokwana was bathing, The Role Models and I waited patiently outside. Illuminated by the light on the side of the house, children from the corners of the street saw us and surged in our direction. A group of smiling faces and wide eyes circled us. With a muffled cell phone spewing South African house music in the background, we started dancing, and before we knew it, a full-fledged dance contest commenced. After several rounds of daring moves, widespread laughter, and much applause, kokwana emerged from the side door in the shadows.

Silence fell amongst the crowd of children, and many dispersed into the darkness while I greeted kokwana. Culturally, children are not encouraged to speak while adults are engaged in conversation. Kokwana and I discussed the details of the upcoming journey to Jo’burg and questions were asked and answered. Kokwana gave her blessings and support for the trip, and bid us farewell moments later.

The Role Models and I marched proudly and lit the night sky with bright smiles as we continued to walk down the path into the darkness. We stumbled, tripped, and fell on the eroded streets and but soon arrived at Eric’s home. We sat on the floor with Eric’s kokwana and again restated the itinerary of our excursion to Jo’burg. I provided contact information and we helds hands in prayer, asking for a safe trip.

This sequence of visits continued at each Role Model’s home. We ate biscuits and scones and drank cold drink (soda). We remained long enough to be respectful, but did not overstay our welcome. Our final stop was Love’s home and after eating vuswa (maize meal) and nkaka (green, leafy vegetable with peanuts) I headed home after 11 o’clock to prepare my bag and bake cookies for the road.

Friday was filled with extreme excitement and eagerness. Several hours before boarding our train, the boys grudgingly attended their classes. When the final school siren sounded, the Role Models rushed to the library and waited out the final 3 hours before we closed up shop and headed for the train station in the next village. With bags in tow, we trekked the 2 kilometers to Ximhungwe/Ireagh train station. A rickety train came to screeching halt within minutes and amongst the clamor of a crowd celebrating a family member’s homecoming, we boarded. The Role Models scattered in every direction. They rushed towards open windows and immediately pushed them open to see the wave of activity from an elevated perspective. Looking down on the crowd, the boys waved and the whistle sounded. The clickety clack of the tracks commenced and we departed from our predictable, comfortable, rural habitat.

As we picked up speed, and raced down the tracks, the boys shoved their heads out of the small open windows to experience the World flying by outside. The wind rushed against their faces as they saw new territories. We drove past Kruger National Park, and spotted elephant, rhino, buffalo, and giraffe just meters from the tracks! We saw villages on mountain tops and hillsides and factories in the provincial capital, Nelspruit. The World showed a different side of itself to the Role Models they had never seen before!

At dusk we pulled into a station to continue the journey aboard an overnight train. While we waited on the platform, we played an animated game of charades. I scribbled scenes in my notebook and the two teams plucked them at random, giving way to hilarious sights that caused Eric to fall to his knees and clutch his sides aching from laugher! We recruited a 5 year old child looking on from a distance who inched his way closer to the uplifting group of teens, leaving his family behind. Little did we know, throughout the rest of the night, he would be drawn to our lingering trails of laughter and our deep bags of candy and sweets.

The second train was a new environment that the boys were eager to explore. The moment we pulled out of the station and the ground began to move beneath our feet, the Role Models raced through each compartment. They quickly discovered a small kitchen and several bathrooms. They read each and every sign strewn about the walls, doors, and windows. A crowd of police officers and train workers huddled around to learn why a white man was traveling with a group of black children. We would continue to draw attention throughout the weekend, as is typical when we leave the village together. The boys, led by Secret, returned a long list of questions to these “outsiders.” After learning about the staff quarters in the train, they requested a tour. We walked into the staff compartment of the train to see showers, bunk beds, and a common area. The boys were fascinated by the depths of this moving village on tracks!

Karabo said proudly, “I will stay awake all night, not to miss anything!” For most of the evening, in spite of the bitter cold seeping through the cracks of the train, his words rang true. Karabo managed to stare into the darkness with his face glued to the frosty windows. Every jolt on the tracks, stirred the others out of a restless sleep. In spite of just a few brief hours of sleep, the boys surged on adrenaline as the train pulled into Park Station, our final destination in the city center of Jo’burg.

We were greeted by friends Bee and Moira who patiently waited for our delayed train to arrive. In their hands were gift bags they assembled for the boys the night before, packed with goodies, snacks, and magazines. They wrapped us in nurturing bear hugs and quickly memorized the Role Models names. Within seconds, the anxiousness of a new place had subsided, as the boys felt welcomed and invited in such a foreign place. Two strangers quickly became friends, as they reached out with love and respect to each of the Role Models.

The boys spun around in circles soaking in the lively atmosphere and overwhelming stimuli that enveloped them. Neon signs, store fronts, and thousands of people created a dizzying atmosphere. We boarded out hosts’ cars, and caught our first glimpses of the towering city from ground perspective. Looking up at the skyscrapers, the Role Models arched their necks. The streets were littered with heaps of trash at every corner, remnant of the workers’ strike which started the week before. We zipped up and down side streets through the City Center. Wendy commented on all of the tsotsis (thugs/thiefs) he spotted amongst the crowds.

We pulled to a stop and got out in front of the tallest building in Southern Africa, Carlton Center. We entered the shops below and proceeded to the escalator. Wendy stopped dead in his tracks as he approached the platform and teetered over the edge, lightly touching his foot to the moving waves of steps. Paralyzed by indecision, he stood there as a queue of people formed behind him. I encouraged him to jump on the steps, but he remained frozen. A group of comical security guards managed to distract Wendy’s attention enough until he boarded the steps, freeing up the congestion of human traffic. Another first would come, when the Role Models reached the elevator and climbed inside. Secret quickly pushed the button and we began our rapid ascent. The looks on the boys’ faces morphed from smiles to squirming frowns, as their ears struggled to equalize during our push to the top. When the doors popped open, the boys ran to the wall of glass that wrapped around the fifty-fifth floor. Perched high in the sky, the Role Models gained a unique vantage point never before seen. As far as their eyes could see, they spotted an ocean torrent of peaks and rooftops. Until the horizon there were overflowing buildings in all directions. Love flapped his wings as if he were flying above the clouds. Our hosts gave a tour of the city, moving their fingers around on the glass pointing the sprawling sections of Jo’burg.

After a quick poll, a unanimous vote to eat breakfast sent us back into the elevator to descend from our cloud. The doors opened leaving us near the entrance of two distinct, golden arches. None of the Role Models had ever eaten at McDonald’s, so during a day of exploration, our friend Bee found it fitting to corrupt the taste buds of the boys. A round of happy meals came to the table. The toys were more popular than the food, and much to our surprise, some of the boys did not enjoy the meal. Karabo said, “it is not nice.”

Back in the cars, our sightseeing tour continued as we viewed the city improvements for the World Cup. The pinnacle of the advancements is Soccer City, the new stadium, near completion. The architect, eager to include aspects of distinct South Africa culture, designed the bowl shaped dome to appear like a bubbling pot of vuswa (mealie meal porridge), a staple part of South Africans’ diet.

Just further down the street, is the Apartheid Museum, our next stop. Our entire trip was established around the idea of entering the museum to learn more about South African history. Dazed by a lack of sleep, the Role Models staggered to the benches outside the ticket office and collapsed. The frenzied pace of the day’s events, left the boys gasping for breath. When we entered the exhibits, the boys became lost in endless panels of writing. The prospect of so much reading became an arduous task, and some of the Role Models shut down. They skimmed through the museum and searched for visual pictures, and artifacts. They jotted down notes on paper to remember key points of their visit.We enjoyed a savory meal provided by our friends Bee and Moira who sought to offer the boys an energy boost after several hours perusing the museum. Recharged and energized we walked on the outskirts of an amusement park and saw roller coasters plunging towards the ground at incredible speeds. The boys watched again and again as new groups of people raced down the same path chased by a shadow of screams. A distant rumbling and pulsing in the air was heard and the Role Models inspected the source. A helicopter nearby was landing and the boys rushed over to catch a glimpse. After snapping a few photos, we turned to meet with my South African cousin, Fortune and her husband, Shoni.

Piling into two cars we received a different perspective of Jo’burg as we ventured into the scenic suburb of Kempton Park. A product of the growing middle class and the future of the new South Africa, our guides and hosts Fortune and Shoni exude such complimentary, fun, and positive energy. In their tranquil, peaceful home, the boys felt at ease and began watching television and playing video games. In spite of the chilly autumn breeze, the Role Models asked to swim in a pool. A series of back flips, belly flops, and cannonballs broke the ice on their first swimming pool experience in their lives.

Fortune and Shoni’s fifteen month old son Gumi eagerly emerged from the bedroom to greet the newcomers. He was elated to be around the teenagers who entertained and played with him. Wendy charismatically stepped forward and gave Gumi his happy meal toy.

The night was full of excitement and games until the early morning hours. Despite sleeping less than a handful of hours the night before, the boys managed to survive on the excitement of videogames, frigid temperatures in the pool, and a new environment.

The morning began with a refreshing dip in the pool and a trip down the street to O.R. Tambo International Airport. The boys, Shoni, and I entered the grand hall of an elaborate, state of the art building, which will serve as the first patch of South African soil, international visitors will see upon their arrival in a few months for the World Cup. The grandiose structure is lined from top to bottom with polished granite a touch of elegance. The boys were awestruck at the organized chaos they witnessed as crowds of people flocked in every direction. After a quick tour, we headed to the top observation deck to watch planes arriving and departing from all over the World. Secret said, “I will call you at America one day when I am on one of those planes. I will say, ‘Nkateko, I’m in a plane. I am coming.’” Each of the Role Models shared the name of the country they would travel to if they were on one of those planes. All votes for America were unanimous.

We boarded a taxi, and waved goodbye to our hosts and to the city of Jo’burg as we departed from the rank. As we crossed the country, we stole a few last glimpses of the city skyline. We reflected on our weekend and compiled a top three list of our weekend activities. Secret then said, “this weekend has felt like 15 days!” Within a short period of time, a new World of endless possibilities was opened.

Stay tuned for the next adventure!

1/17/09

Seeking yet another adventure, fueled by a passionate desire to suck the marrow out of life, Nduks and I set out with a single backpack this afternoon, heading West. From his house we walked with the mountains at our backs, crossing the main road of Agincourt, and followed a foot path that snaked through the tall overgrowth of grasses. We picked up various bush fruits along the way, attempted to follow animal tracks, and searched for snakes to no avail. Not a moment of silence fell upon during our hike, as we were intensely engaged in conversation about school, life, culture, and history.

As we neared our destination, we heard the distant sound of running water. The further we advanced, the louder the roar became. At the apex of the rainy season, the river level is at its highest, as deep as five feet in some areas. Just two months ago, the river bed was dry and dusty with only patches of weeds growing through the cracked, hardened sand. Now, the river flourishes. Large granite rocks breach the surface, creating rapids and waterfall drop offs.

When the river was in frame, the conversation stopped. All thoughts ceased in my mind. Time began to stand still. Nduksi laughed as he plunged into the water to cross it. No words were necessary. The sound of his laughter spoke volumes. I ensued and the same emotion was conveyed by my high pitch giggling. With the bag on my head, the water quickly rose to my waist, and then the soft sand gave way under my feet, and I plunged deeper to my chest. We crossed and set up camp on the other bank, uttering only a few words, in admiration of the beauty that surrounded us.

Removing our clothing we raced to the water. Allowing the powerful current to take us, we drifted on our backs, looking up at the vast expanse of the clear, blue painted sky. The constant white noise of rushing water was accented by the rhythm of rustling reeds, and various pitches of insect chirping. As we floated further, I tried to fill my mind with a single thought. I was unable to contemplate about work or school or life back home. My efforts were futile. I could think of nothing else other than the world of beauty and serenity that surrounded us. Nduksi and I were reverted to our childhoods, splashing in the water, and calling to each other with wonder and amazement, “Oh come here, look at this!”

Our fascination turned quickly to fear when we approached the first combination of rapids that dropped off in a tier-like fashion. As we struggled to fight the current, we were forced further down the narrow opening between two large boulders. The mouth of the rapid sought to consume us. We strained our bodies and tensed our grips and were able to break the brute force imposed on us by the river. I extended my arm and reached for Nduksi. I pulled him to safety.

After a few moments, I boldly raised my arms in the air and re-entered the same mouth of the rapid, allowing the river to take me at its own will. At its mercy, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the rock bed beneath me was polished smooth after years of erosion during the wet season, and a fresh coat of algae provided a slippery surface. I cackled at the top of my lungs, as I descended down Nature’s slip and slide at an impressive speed. For several hours we descended down the slide, climbed the slippery rocks, and rushed down again, submerged in bliss. The river washed away our worries, and cleansed our minds with pure thoughts of joy and happiness.

By three o’clock, we were no longer alone on the river. Fishermen flocked to a spot nearby and cast their makeshift tree limb lures into the turbulent waters. Neighborhood children as naked as the day they were born sought to cool off from the days searing temperatures in the cold waters of the river. Cattle herded to the water’s edge for a refreshing drink.

Nduksi and I returned to our camp and collected firewood to roast our fresh corn that we brought along with us. Unfortunately, the matches that we brought along with us, were dampened in our initial trek across the river and wouldn’t ignite. We asked each of the newcomers for a spare match, and much to our surprise, the Primary school children splashing in the river, although without a stitch of clothing on their bodies, they had had a box of matches next to the pile of torn fabrics on the river’s edge, perched safely on a rock. With the tree branches smoldering, the ashes emanated enough heat to roast the corn. We peeled the husks and set up enough corn to share with our new friends. We feasted on the sweet mealie, and then returned to the river. As we allowed the river to take us further, the fishermen stayed behind, using the flames to cook their fresh catch and to lit up a joint of dagga (marijuana) in a rolled up piece of newspaper. Further down from our camp we were washed up to another set of rapids.

Overconfidently I blazed the trail to find that the initial smooth decline plummeted to a collection of smaller stones with jagged faces pointed in several different directions. Fighting the undertow, I was pulled sharply against a large stone. Tangled in the current, I was spun around suddenly, and my back slammed against a hidden boulder beneath the surface. I winced in pain, and quickly wiped my face to serve up a look of excitement to the boys above who were eagerly prepared to ensue. I pointed out a path that would allow them to avoid the hazardous current at the base of the drop. I stood by to offer support reaching out and rescuing each that approached.

Still without a care in the world, we splashed. We played. We ran on the river’s edge and did backflips into the water. We timed ourselves to see how long we could hold our breath under water. Nduksi set a record of one minute and eight seconds.

Looking up at the sky, we saw the sun quickly setting. Its descent brought with it a cascade of magnificent colors, airbrushed across the sky. We packed our belongings, bid our farewells, left behind our water supply and dried maquaqua, and made our 2 km trek home.

With the river at our backs, thoughts returned to my mind. I reflected on the day’s events and immediately my mind was cluttered with ideas and questions. I left the present moment and returned to my flooded mental state, remembering the past, and thinking about the future.

The five hours we spent on the river, offered a moment of silence from all the noise that I create in my life. During that time, I was liberated and freed from the distractions, complications, and fears that make up my reality. Nduks and I were enraptured in the moment, absorbed in the beauty of life.

1/5/09An anxious knot rested heavily in the bottom of my stomach, as I feared the transition that lied ahead. For months I have dwelled on adapting to South African culture and have been equally focused on my mission to impact change in the rural areas. My mind space occupied no other thoughts. With the prospect of vacation on the horizon in December, I was uncertain how I would cope with letting go of the culture that circulated through my blood night and day for months. Leaving the village was harder than I expected, and I looked back several times, taking mental photographs of waving neighbors, the dog from across the street, and the children fetching water in buckets on their heads as I hailed a taxi with my finger raised towards the sky.During the first few days of life away from the village I was numb. I was confused. I did not know where I was, what language to speak, or how to act. I second guessed a lot of my thoughts and habitual behaviors. I was actually readjusting to life with fellow Americans. Realizing what was happening; I couldn’t help but be amused. Humans are truly creatures of habit.

Within a few days, I was comforted by the familiarity of my traveling companions, and I dusted off the hidden layers of my personality, as we quickly returned to sarcastic jokes, intellectual conversations, philosophical analysis, and being spontaneous and free together, all of which have been absent from village life.

For five days, my traveling companions and I organized an informal summer camp for the learners of Kwa-Mhlanga, (Steve’s Peace Corps site) to challenge their minds and their creativity during a wasteland time of unproductivity and boredom in rural village life. Each morning we would engage the learners in “ice-breaker” and team building activities, following by work on our world map during the afternoon, and then sporting events weather permitting. We battled the cloudy skies and attempted to squeeze the available minutes to undertake this ambitious project in less than a week.

Torrential afternoon showers threatened our plans, but by the end of day five, a world map stretching more than four meters wide was boldly emblazoned on the wall facing the community streets. We tackled our elaborate plans in varying stages, beginning with our scale for the map. Transferring our hand eld Robinson Projection World Map to the enormous school wall, involved creating a scale of 5 cm squares. One box at a time, we sketched fragments of the world onto the freshly blue painted oceans. The world was slowly created from one grid line to the next. After two days of drawing, it was time to mix the paints, and bring life to the political map. Countries were vibrantly colored in with paint and continents were raised from the depths of the ocean. From a great distance, the bright blue and continental land formations could be seen. Geography will be eternally etched in the minds of the villagers of Kwa-Mhlanga, and the constant exposure will influence their understanding of the vast world in which they are apart of.December 21st marked the first day of travel, as we set sail for Mozambique. Aboard an overly crammed taxi of bags and bodies, I was glued to the glass window watching a world of activity flash by. Two words flickered in my mind, as we passed hundreds of kilometers of dense vegetation, rural villages, and coastline: Ndzi fikile (I have arrived). I was overcome with a strange sense of nostalgia and connectedness to a land I had never before seen, and its people whom I’d never before met. As though I was experiencing déjà vu, I was drawn to this culture like a flying insect to the flame of a candle. A part of me felt as if I was traveling back to discover my roots. While I’ve lived amongst a community surrounded by first generation Mozambican immigrants in South Africa, I have felt at home with the culture of the Shangaan tribe. While these immigrants have assimilated largely to South African culture, and have shed many layers of its own traditional heritage, they have also been impacted by the first world influences that the richest nation in Africa possesses. Therefore my village, along with several others scattered throughout the Bushbuckridge region of South Africa, boast a Shangaan population that is more Westernized, capitalistic, and modernized. But across the border, it seemed as though I had traveled back in time. A caravan of a dozen women dressed in colorful vibrant fabrics, and headscarves (dukus) balanced 25 liter water containers on their heads with their arms at their sides, carrying on conversations in depth and laughing, passed by in the flash of an instant. Villages are comprised of a collection of thatched palm frond huts and a few smoking fires for cooking. Towns consisted of small collections of cement buildings hand painted with rich, vibrant murals in a wide range of colors. The pure, organic roots of the culture that I have become a part of were just outside the window that my cheeks were pressed up against.

Mozambique oozes with the sultry heat of the tropics, the muted flair of Europe, and the cultural heart of Africa. This unique combination of culture and environment has produced a country rich in pride and humanity. A sense of genuiness is felt with each sincere greeting, warm handshake, or a calm and confident look directly in the eyes followed by an open smile. As we continued along the poorly paved roads, bouncing in the rickety transportation with its shot suspension system, I drifted in and out of a dream-like trance, being lulled to sleep by the beauty of thick, dense overgrown canopies of forests painted in palettes of green shades. Farmlands spotted the road sides on either end to the horizon.Nearly five hundred kilometers and six hours later, we shook the sleep from our tingly limbs and took our first steps in Inhabane. It is a coastal village amongst highly concentrated patches of endless palm trees. From a hundred meters away, the unforgiving Indian Ocean could be heard crashing into the shoreline, grinding down the beach. Looking up to find the sun, we could see only bits of blue in between sections of palm fronds.

Throughout Christmas we remained in paradise, soaking in the rays on the beach and engaging in conversations with transient travelers passing through. From volunteers to soccer players to Rastafarians to honest hard working citizens in between, we spent countless hours sharing our story and hearing the tales of others.By the 26th we had quenched our thirst of the coast and made our trek inland back toward South Africa. In one day we traveled for twenty hours, crossing three borders into our final destination of Swaziland, picking up a rental car along the way, and two additional traveling companions. A six hour nap fell short of quenching our thirst for rest, before we continued on a white water rafting adventure on the Great Usuthu River. Due to low seasonal rains in the region, the River was well below its usual level. The second half of the river was closed due to its shallow depth, so we set out for the first 8 km trail. As we drifted down the river, we were humbled by the sheer size of the mountains that enveloped us. Approaching a bend in the surging river, I was staggered to set my gaze upon a large family of ten nude bodies bathing in the running water and washing their clothes. Unaffected by our approaching flotilla of kayaks, they continued in their daily tasks openly. The further we ventured into the heart of the mountains the more we became in sync with the River. Paddle strokes synchronized, movements flowed, and together we became one.

Eager to press on, we continued our journey through Swaziland stopping off at picturesque backdrops and magnificent vistas that surrounded us at all angles. We traversed through downpours, trampled through pot holes, and even fixed a flat tire of our rental car on the side of the muddy road. By nightfall of the 28th, we had arrived in yet another destination in South Africa’s prized province, Kwazulu Natal (KZN). The touristic town of St. Lucia resting on the perimeter of pristine ecosystems including estuaries, coral reefs, swamps, and more became a familiar resting ground for the midpoint of our adventure. The first world influences lined the cobblestone paved streets, lit by street lamps, and beautifully decorated store front windows in the center of the vacation town. The following morning we entered the cautioned gates of a nature reserve park, warning us of danger, as we entered the habitat of many plain dwelling grazing animals including Wildebeests, Zebra, Water Buffalo and more. Added to the ecosystem were herds of hippopotami, crocodiles, and even leopards. A bit apprehensive, we entered with calculated, timid footsteps. Immediately we were welcomed by a group of grazing zebra off in the distance. We walked further to an estuary and saw hippo and packs of birds nearby. Not a gate, fence, or other construct separated us from the wild life that flourished all around us. As we returned to the entrance, we followed closely behind a large group of zebra and wildebeest, observing them at a comfortable distance of less than 50 footsteps. For nearly an hour we studied their every action, and they reciprocated each calculating stare back at us. Unbound and free, we walked through knee high weeds and soaked in the atmosphere of untamed Africa.December 30th presented another day of travel. We packed our bags into the boot of the rented hatchback and took to the roads headed for Durban on the coast. As we snaked down winding highways through open lands of green fields and farmlands, I thought about the distance we had covered and all that we had gone through in less than two weeks. Traveling is not just about the places one visits, the sites seen, or the activities experienced. The journey one undertakes encompasses the process. It involves everything else that happens along the way and in between the people one meets, the thoughts that cross one’s mind, the conversations one entertains, the realizations that become unveiled, and so much more are all part of the experience. This adventure had offered its share of experiences, funny stories, and has helped put not only my volunteer service, but also my life into perspective.The beautiful integration of cultures and the amalgamation of first and third world influences took me by storm upon meandering through the international city of Durban. For nearly six months I have lived in the separated, divided rural areas of South Africa. The contrast of Durban’s diversity provided a distinct encounter for me. I was stimulated by an influx of curry spice smells coming from select corners, coexisting Muslim, Hindu, and Christian religions, and colorful, beaded saris in storefront windows and worn by elegant women, and thriving markets everywhere. I was overcome by a feeling of safety and appreciation walking through a Rainbow Nation of acceptance.

New Year’s Day, I joined the flocks of black South Africans that congregated on the city’s shoreline to bathe in the ocean and wash away their sins from the previous year. Dozens at a time, we timed our entry into the assaulting waves, continuously crashing into the eroded shore. Successfully dodging the initial breaking waves, I trudged forward. Pummeled by the powerful waves, I was folded in half by twelve foot swells, and washed backwards, tumbling through the surf and entangled with a mass of bodies on the beach. Like a tail wagging dog, I returned again and again to the Indian Ocean for more cleansing. After two days of the deep rinse cycle, I felt cleansed of my sins.

The epic voyage home took two full days of travel aboard koombis, buses, and other modes of transport. During this restless time cramming amongst luggage and other fellow South Africans returning home from their vacation travels, I was forced to confront my lingering thoughts and fears that stomped around in my brain. I was uneasy about my return to the life I had known before this crazy, unexpected adventure began. How would the villagers receive me upon my arrival? Would my language skills return? I was filled with questions and uncertainty. It felt as though months had passed since I departed the village.

As I disembarked the last taxi, and stepped foot on village soil, I expected an arduous process of readjustment to the slow pace of rural life. I imagined a drawn out readjustment to the culture and an even longer time rekindling relationships with fellow villagers. Much to my dismay, I was pleasantly welcomed by an instantaneous split second adjustment, greeted by the familiarity of waving gogos, affectionate greetings, and the shrilling sound of a dear friend (the Primary school general worker) yodeling to signal my return.

Greeting my neighbors it seemed as though years had passed. The boys next door had grown what seemed like several centimeters since the last time I saw them. The garden behind them sprouted with stalks of corn, miroho (spinach), timanga (peanuts), and other vegetables that were mere sprouting shoots just three weeks earlier. Everything fell right back into place. As I opened the kitchen door to my abode, it felt like home. I was relieved to return to the inviting space of habit and routine.

Forgetting that I had used up my last supply of water and had thrown out all remaining food before I set out for my travels, I realized that I still had a great deal of labor ahead of me. Despite the exhaustion brought about from weeks of carrying a heavy backpack, living a transitory lifestyle, and enduring the roasting 40 degree Celsius temperature of the day, I was forced out of the house to fetch water and food. Life in the streets of the village was just as it was before I left. Passing each house I exchanged a few words of my travels, and stopped at the chicken dust stand to speak with my high school friend entrepreneurs and catch up on life during the holidays. By nightfall I rushed home with my rusty wheelbarrow spilling out splatters of water from the plastic barrels piled high talking with my teenage friends at either side. We took turns pushing the heavy load and wiping the sweat from our brows. The muggy temperatures saturated our clothing in salty sweat that made the folds of our elbows sticky. Upon loading the week’s worth of water into my kitchen, we stepped outside and noticed the sound of the wind howling through the passageway of the front door. Looking upwards towards the sky, I was taken aback by one of the most beautiful sunsets I had ever stood before. A broad purple curtain of clouds was wrapped around the orange embers of the firery flames of the sun as it descended behind the mountains igniting them into a vibrant blaze of colors. I bid farewell to my friends and grabbed my camera bag. With a wired Bully at my side with his tail and tongue both wagging incessantly, we sprinted towards the edge of the village and the beginning of the bush. Darting through side streets and running through backyards and gardens we arrived at the lip of the open fields of bush looking westward. To the south the threatening storm approached, and within minutes of gawking at the converging shades, a gale force wind threatened to rip me from my firmly planted feet on the ground. With hair blowing back, I snapped photo after photo of the most striking scene my eyes had ever seen. The rain drops pounced on my skin offering nourishing refreshment and washed away the deposits of salt caked on my skin. Claps of thunder roared through the sky and resounded under my feet.

It is good to be home.

12/7/08The song that played in the taxi on my way to church this morning set the tone for the day. As “Easy like Sunday Morning” by Lionel Richie blasted through the speakers, the muscles in my back loosened their tight grip. My shoulders dropped a few centimeters as I exhaled a deep breath. I felt the stored tension release from my mind. For the first time in more than a week, I had reached a state of mental clarity. I was free from the burden of constant, overflowing thought. The more intently I focused on my breathing, the sound of Lionel Richie’s voice, and the vibrant surroundings of blue and green passing by the window, the more I became easy like Sunday morning.

Last week lingered like a dark cloud overhead, following me wherever I traveled. I dragged on, consumed by darkness. I could not break the chain of negative thoughts that flooded my mind. I wanted to shut out the village that existed beyond the gates. I was not at peace with myself and feared that my contagious attitude was not worth catching. I was living in my head.As I got off the taxi at the next village, I could hear the next song beginning through the opened windows trailing into the distance. Walking to church, I surged with energy and a positive outlook, reflecting on the reality of my life in South Africa. Free from the “daily grind”, bills, and burdens of capitalistic city thought, my days are simple: I help people. End of sentence. My mission here is to help people. I move energy every day and seek only to accomplish that one single goal. Some days I succeed, while others I fail. I have two years to get the rhythm down, but when it’s simplified to the purpose, my outlook is lightened.

Today’s service continued to uplift my mounting mood. I entered to see a once out of sync, divided youth choir, which spent its time laughing at each other and ridiculing cracking voices, and now sang in harmony. For several weeks, they have sacrificed their free time to rehearse a new routine. The synchronized melody could be heard far off in the distance, as the corrugated tin roof on the small makeshift church vibrated at the pitch of the high notes. I was deeply moved by their display and unified energies.

I walked most the way back home, covering several kilometers in thirty plus degree temperatures in my “Sunday clothes.” I admired the astonishing view of the mountains in the backdrop, and the colorful head wraps (dukus), and vibrant pattern embellishments on the dresses of the women that passed. I felt so awake and alive, breathing in the fresh air, deep into my lungs. My eyes were wide open.

I opened the gate to my home, and was not greeted by a tail wagging Dyambu, as is his customary practice. He had fallen ill several days earlier after feasting on a rotting chicken corpse in a neighborhood’s yard. He suffered day and night, moaning, not eating, and sleeping throughout the sunshine and darkness. Insects uncharacteristically buzzed around him in swarms, congregating around his eyes and mouth. It was as if they sensed death was near. The flies flocked to get a front row seat until their time arrived.

As I rounded the corner, time stood still. Dyambu laid to rest, stiff as a board. His eye sockets were sunken and his mouth was ajar, with his dry, leathery tongue draped on the rough concrete beneath him. My heart grew heavy, and my attempts to revive him were futile. Rigamortis had already left its lasting mark.

Burying a friend is always difficult. It was hard to bid my farewell to a companion who filled my days with light heartedness. He had taught the village children a great deal about compassion and kindness. He became an ambassador for all animals in the village and represented their rights.

I dug a meter deep grave in the soft soil in the backyard near the corn field. I offered a few words, placed him gently in the hole, and covered it with Earth.I dried the sweat from my body with a towel, and the first wave of visitors for the day began to trickle in. Two teenage girls from Hlanganani Primary School came to sweep the yard. Proclaiming Sunday a day of rest, I refused their work, and we sat down outside to fresh fruit, juice, and created Christmas cards. Using markers, glitter, and assorted colored papers we setup a workshop that cranked out card after card! Soon our assembly line grew, as the three boys next door joined in and began drawing. Soon enough another group of toddlers joined the mix of children, followed by a group of first and second graders. Our factory grew to such a size that I could not accommodate everyone. We took our group to the streets and began a soccer match, Frisbee toss, and others just looked on at the spectacle, perched high above on a cement piling that I placed them up on (to be out of reach from Bully the dog).

All of this activity cleared my lingering thoughts, and restored my energy levels to their previous peak. I looked up at the sun, spread out my arms, and soaked in its rays. Running towards the ball with a child in my arms, I continued to play on…

A deep, bellowing yell from next door signaled the end of our match. The mother of the boys summoned them to sweep the street where we were playing before the sun set. Amazed by the beautiful backdrop of golden rays of sun filtering through the raising dust, I snapped a few photos before lending a helping hand to help keep our streets clean.

12/10/08Metaphorically speaking, climbing a mountain may be used in context to describe the process of conquering a challenging goal, or enduring a difficult situation. This metaphor is relevant, due to the extreme conditions one encounters in approaching a grandiose mountain in nature, and facing the natural elements, fueled by endurance to climb its rocks, hike its sides, blaze trails through its growth, and reach its peak. Once on top of the mountain, the vantage point affords mental clarity and a broad vision to see the “big picture.”

Today I climbed a mountain; literally and figuratively speaking.

For some time now, Mr. Ndubane and I have bonded together through a series of day excursions outside of the village. From frequent trips to Champayne (a village about 50 km away) to collect baby chicks for his business once a month, to running errands, and even Kruger National Park, our friendship has flourished. We speak openly and endlessly about any topic. We are carefree, act silly, laugh, tell jokes, and all in all enjoy life. Our time together is filled with fun and laughter.

During a recent trip to a neighboring village, we passed the mountains that reside behind Nduksi’s house. The sun was setting, and a cascade of overflowing hues of orange, yellow, and pink lit up the dusk sky. I commented on the beautiful landscape, and made a passing comment about my desire to hike the mountainside and take photos of the horizon. Nduksi surprisingly responded, “Really? That is my favorite special place to be.”

It turns out, a few years back Nduksi was desolate and out of work. He was slowly withering away and deteriorating. He set on a journey to his mountain, which lied just 2 km in the distance beyond his front yard (he is the last home built to the East of his village: Agincourt). He was determined to climb and gain a different perspective on his life. Upon creating his own way through the vastly undiscovered bush, he crawled through holes, knocked down branches, and pulled his way up steep inclines to finally reach the top. He found exactly what he was looking for in a small special hole, where he shared his concerns with the rocks that engulfed him, and prayed for hours. He fought the biting desire of hunger as he was fasting, and he maintained his focus on prayer until sunset, when he made his descent down the mountain. He told me, “There are some things that you can tell the rocks that you cannot tell a man. The rocks; they listen.” Within weeks, he became employed at Hlanganani Primary School, where he has ambitiously worked for the past three years.

Last week, I visited Mr. Ndubane to greet his family and see his newly added businesses. He is extremely driven, and is an motivated entrepreneur. We frequently speak about the people’s needs in the village, and his desire to acquire new trades and businesses to satisfy the community’s needs. He is a visionary leader and a self starter. In addition to selling chickens (he currently has 550 chickens which will be fully mature a week before Christmas), he will be selling wooden poles for building houses, and has arranged a well organized display in his front yard attract customers. While at his home, enjoying the company of his three daughters, we gazed into the sunset and had a similar conversation about the mountains, as we had many times earlier. We went for a walk into the distance to get a closer glimpse of the mountains. Given the time of the day, we decided we would leave our adventure for another day. We agreed upon Wednesday. The day was set and the rest was history. Fast forward to the present…

When Mr. Ndubane greeted me in the middle of the road, I was glistening with sweat, and my back was drenched where my heavy backpack rested. I had been walking the entire morning (making an early morning trip to and from the post office from my house, which is about 4.5 km total), then I walked from the Taxi rank in Nduksi’s village Agincourt to the halfway point to his house (another 2 km). I lost interest in the warm water in my Nalgene bottle, and my throat was parched. Already my legs were heavy, and the prospect of mountain climbing concerned me. I didn’t share these thoughts with my excited friend who was eager to embark on our journey and packed a few refreshments in flimsy plastic bags, while I entertained small talk with his family. Within a few brief moments we departed for our final destination. Unable to catch my breath, dry off my saturated shirt, or restore all moisture to my dehydrated mouth, we began to walk eastward, mountain bound.

From Nduksi’s house, the mountains looked near, perhaps only a few hundred meters off. However, once we started our trek along narrow walking paths (used for cattle herding into the bush for grazing during the day) through the valley (lowveld) I quickly realized how far 2 km would be before we reached the base of the mighty mountain. The first few hundred km raced by as we encountered one fruit bearing tree after another. First we stumbled across a maquaqua tree, which grows predominantly in the arid bush. This seasonal fruit sports a protective outer shell which can be cracked with a stone, or better yet, another maquaqua. Given that the season for this fruit ended a month ago, few were edible, as most had rotted. We set our sights on the tree’s top branches, and successfully knocked a yellowish green fruit from the above with an airborne stone. The flavorful meat found sparingly on each seed provided soothing refreshment to my thirst. My mouth foamed for more. We pressed on.

Only a few meters further and we came across a bush berry tree. We hastily plucked one after another of these sour grape shaped berries and popped them into our mouths, outer skin and all. I quickly learned that if you leave the berry in your mouth for more than a few moments, it quickly turns bitter. The art of eating this fruit involves biting, sucking, and spitting the pits outs within five seconds to fill your mouth with a sweet and sour flavor. Snatching a few for the road, we continued.

Nduksi shared stories of his cattle herding days, where he respectfully earned the distinguished head boy position in a group of several adolescent boys. His keen sense of direction, ability to detect poisonous plants, and edible fruits, vegetables, and roots, not to mention his fearlessness of snakes, were all ideal prerequisites for the job. He proudly led the cattle daily through the bush in search of water and open fields for grazing. He shared stories of times of drought, plants that he would eat, and his fond memories of spending countless hours roaming the bush. As we reached the base of the mountain, it finally dawned on me that the mountain was not groomed for visitors. In fact, few have even ventured up to this point, due to the large concentration of poisonous snakes in the bush where we stood, and in the thick brush and undergrowth that lied ahead of us, up the mountain. Nduksi personally had seen two black Mambas on the mountain before. As I looked up, I could see no path. The mountain was covered with an intensely matted carpet of shrubs, tangled vines, poisonous plants, gnarled trees, and any other imaginable growth. I was having second thoughts. Still, we pressed on.

Nduksi led the way, followed by his barefooted nephew Silence, and then myself. With my backpack filled with our foodstuff for our “picnic” (two tin cans of beans and spaghetti, mayonnaise, and bread) and my camera, I was feeling a bit off balance when I approached the initial 75 degree climb. Only a few meters up, and I realized how technical this climb would be. No bungee cords, harnesses, cables, or ropes would assist us on the climb. Our bodies would suffice as our only tools to conquer the mountain. The further we ascended, the more challenging our maneuvers became. The incline became steeper a quarter of the way up the mountain. I looked up and saw cliffs resting at 80 plus degree angles. Rocky sheaths emerged from the overgrown green foliage. Nduksi began scaling these smooth faced boulders in a catlike manner, hugging the rocks with arms and feet spread out to the sides. We followed.



The harsh, unforgiving nature of the mountain was revealed when we stumbled across the perfect remains of a cow that perished in the absence of water during the dry season. The entire skeleton was lined up in precise order meticulously cleaned of every single fiber of existence. The sight was sobering. We pressed on.

It was now well after midday and we had been welcomed by an intense heat during the hottest part of the day. The sun seared our skin. It was difficult to take breaths into your lungs in the stifling heat. My clothing was saturated with sweat, my bag was sodden, and my eyes burned.Maintaining a steady pace, we ascended higher at a brisk pace. We were more than three hours into our expedition. Nduks bent branches with his hands, pointed out thorny bushes, poisonous plants, thistles, and other hazardous undergrowth. I was consumed by a closterphobic feeling, as I was swallowed up by green shrubbery well beyond my hips on both sides. No matter what plants Nduks pointed to, at times it was hard to avoid, and I grabbed a handful of a poisonous plant that caused me to scream, holler, and curse loudly to the heavens. The burning, stinging sensations soon subsided and we pressed onwards.

By the midway point, I was exasperated. The view was simply stunning, but I could not appreciate its beauty as I had folded over, with my hands resting on my knees, and sweat pouring off my face onto a thick collection of plants below. Perched on a rock above, Nduks asked if we should take a break. In my mind, I begged for a break, only the lump in my throat, did not allow me to articulate the words aloud. We continued. After only 20 more meters, we stopped. I doubled over in pain, handing my backpack to Silence, who up to this point had lived up to his name. He hadn’t uttered more than a dozen words since we set out a few hours before. I buried my head in my hands. I gagged and dry heaved a few times. My mouth was filled with a spoiled flavor of the maquaqua which I had eaten at the base of the mountain. I gagged again. My belly ached. My vision blurred as I looked out onto the horizon and the few hundred meters we had already traveled. Nduksi instinctively poured a glass of water to rehydrate my body. The ice water revitalized my esophagus, providing life and moisture to my throat, and bringing me back to my senses. Color returned to my face. As the head boy, Nduks sensed it was time to make our way down. I obediently agreed, and we began our descent. Less than one hundred meters lied ahead, till we made it to the top. I contemplated the prospect of failure in my mind. I had not conquered the mountain, it in turn, was defeating me. After ten minutes we decided to setup camp. Silence began to prepare our food, opening the cans with a knife and mixing the ingredients his plastic carrying bag. Nduks and I ventured off to snap a few photographs of the lush landscapes in the distance. Sharing a few laughs and crazy poses, we returned. Hands reached in for pieces of bread which were just as quickly dunked into the spaghetti, bean, and mayonnaise mixture. Each mushy bite revived me. I felt energy surging through me. We sat in the bushy overgrowth in the shade. It was significantly cooler, and we were welcomed by a soothing breeze. The sweat on my brow finally evaporated. In between mouthfuls of food, and a new lease on the journey that the rejuvenating food provided, we discussed pressing onwards, and returning towards the peak. Unanimously we agreed to climb, providing that we leave our foodstuff and gear behind. We continued.

Backtracking was easy, because we recalled places to step, grip, hold, and clutch and areas to avoid. We finally made it to the point where I rested nearly forty-five minutes earlier. Looking up, I noticed that the climb above would be the most technically challenging activity of the afternoon. The steep incline rose at a steady 87 or 88 degree angle. I lost my footing on a lose rock, and nearly plummeted hundreds of meters below. Still we pressed on in single line format, scaling the rock faces and trampling on undergrowth as we trekked on.

Less than thirty minutes elapsed, (most of which we spent talking about the Mamba that Nduks stumbled across in the precise spot we had passed on the way), when Nduks interrupted himself and exclaimed, “We have arrived!” Initially I wasn’t impressed by the view. I surveyed the scenery, and had somehow expected more. When I turned my head back towards the mountain, I realized that Nduks was gone. He had ascended a few steps further. I followed. It was there, on the collection of boulders on the mountain peak that I was humbled by one of the most beautiful views of my life. I was leveled by the painted canvas of colors blended across the horizon. Deep shades of blue and green filled a collage of natural scenery. I was so grateful to be alive and witness such raw beauty. A few steps further and we reached Nduksi’s secret spot. A gash within two boulders provided a concave hollow area where he quickly crawled. Once inside, a look of serenity overcame Nduksi’s face. He was at ease in his praying place.

Locating a few flat boulders with a skyward face area the size of a king sized mattress, we laid down and looked upwards. My eyes scanned the panorama vista of mountains, valleys, bush, and distant villages. We soaked in the drafty, gentle wind rustling the leaves and creating a song that interrupted the peaceful silence. The hour that we lied motionless dozing in and out of daydreams stretched on for what seemed like days.

By five o’clock we began our downward decline, although I was feeling higher than ever. My energy mounted, as a rush of adrenaline filled my bloodstream and goose bumps fluttered across my skin. We had prevailed. At least for today, the challenges of the mountain were conquerable. Still, we will press on.

I’m not sure I word spreads as fast in the States as it does in the village, but the rumors are true. I have a dog! Well aware of my undeniable love of animals, my host uncle visited my house one sunny, South African afternoon with a small, scraggly puppy tucked under his arm. In South African custom, it is rude to turn down a gift, so I didn’t. With outstretched arms, I received the puppy and cradled him affectionately.

I named the puppy in as authentic a South African fashion as I know to date. I have given the puppy a name that symbolizes the day which he came into my life. Many children here are named “Faith” or “Life” or “Blessings” or “Happiness” or “Joy”, depending on the circumstances present in the parent’s life during the time of labor or birth. Every name has a story. The parents each tell these stories with pride about their children and what was happening in their lives at the time. So the day I met the puppy, the sun was bright and it was very hot. Therefore, I bestowed the name of Dyambu on the puppy, which means “sun” in the village’s native language, Xitsonga. Extending the story and the metaphor, the puppy is happy and vibrant and full of energy, just like the sun.

Holding him in my arms, I quickly noticed that his wispy, dry hair was infested with fleas and blood sucking ticks. I immediately got to work, plucking these pests off his skin and even recruited the help of a neighborhood fourth grader who helped me burn the ticks off with an extinguished, smoldering match.

Dyambu is full of life and energy. He spends his days roaming the backyard spread searching for anything that moves. His mischievous tendencies get him into heaps of trouble as he often puts himself in situations where he is obviously outmatched. He stalks his prey in a crouched position a then pounces clumsily and awkwardly. He attempted to take on 3 roosters this afternoon and was chased tirelessly and his tail was strummed and yanked. He is ungraceful, and habitually trips over his own paws, or veers in front of me as we walk side by side, tripping me.

Dyambu frequently visits with the puppy across the street, improperly named Bully who is nearly three times his size and twice as old. Bully eagerly smashes through my makeshift front gate each day to escape the horrors at his house and join Dyambu for an afternoon of companionship and mischief.

My relationship with both dogs has helped generate a new consciousness of thinking about animals in the village. My kind treatment and loving practices were immediately disregarded initially, but as I chip away at layers of habitualized violent behavior and ingrained inferior thoughts of animals, coupled with neglect, cruelty, and exploitation, I feel as though many children are more receptive and open to loving animals. I am seen everywhere in the village interacting with these dogs, carrying them in my arms and playing with them till no end. Bully frequently follows me far and wide.

Last week, I was greeted by Bully at my front gate. He insisted on following me to school, playing with me along the way. As we approached school entrance, the sinister bell sounded, releasing a wave of children our way. If only Bully and I had been just a bit faster, we could have avoided the tidal wave that was swelling around us. I braced myself and kneeled to the ground, clutching Bully in my arms to offer safety from the ensuing crowd. Ironically, the chaos that we expected did not materialize. Instead, a circle developed around us, as we stopped in the front of the school. More than 200 learners stood around us, gawking, and laughing, and cheering, as I got on the ground on all fours and played with Bully. Some gasped, while others made hissing sounds in disgust. When I rose and Bully leaped forwards towards the crowd, the children separated and dashed in all directions. Bully returned to me and mounted my leg, and the circle formed again around us. When I stood again, Bully started to run around the inner circle. The children parted like the Red Sea. Our friendly interaction turned into a game. Bully wagged his tail in excitement. He was enjoying the energy and the movement of the children. Some of the children were genuinely scared, and even a few began to cry. Two children picked up rocks and sticks to throw at the dog as they systematically do when they see an animal, but after they caught a glimpse of the stern look on my face, they dropped their weapons. Some of the more daring children moved forward for a closer look. The bravest of all even offered an outstretched hand to pet Bully on the top of the head. I stood back in amazement and even snapped a handful of photos. This is progress!

The end of October brought with it the beginning of the rain. The arid land, seared vegetation, parched livestock, and dessicated wells craved for water, and it has at long last arrived! Hot days scorch the earth, while evening winds whirl the day's dust into eddies, swaying the tree branches and creating a rain welcoming song. With each powerful gust, lights flicker, and the electricity threatens to slumber to avoid the approaching commotion.

The first pounding rain drops, welcome a cacophony of croaking frogs. A distant rumble of thunder is added to the composition, followed by the strobe light flashing, fireworks of lightning. The rain drops multiply and their sound intensifies, as thunder shakes the ground at my feet. The turbulent wind roars by the house. Branches are ripped from the trees. The rhythmic drumming of raindrops deepens. I'm lulled to sleep by the harmonious concord of the enchanting thunderstorm.

The formidable strength of the storm has cleared the land of tangled undergrowth and nourished all things green with revitalizing water. After every storm is a brand new day. The saturated ground sprouts with new growth as wild grasses and weeds breach the surface of the moist mud. Flowers salute the sun with opened petals. Birds sing their symphonies and welcome the vibrant sunshine, perched high in the trees. Insects of all shapes and sizes crawl on the water logged paths, as they have been washed from their homes and hiding places.

Rain has replenished reservoirs of water, and news quickly spreads as children dash and dart this way and that to gather empty buckets and pails in rusty wheelbarrows and race to the nearest pump. Many children miss school to end the drought at their homes.

Rains have saturated the soil, softening the nutrient rich Earth. Mothers and kokwanas take the fields to till the soil and prepare for a season of planting. Many gather at the street's edge, peeling burlap bags of raw peanuts and discarding the shells on the trodden paths.

The village is alive. Spring has stimulated a swarm of activity. Nature is creating its masterpiece and singing its song this spring.

10/3/08

Another dream has materialized in the past few days, and that dream is not my own. Michael Mathumbu, my host father has longed to build a church in the neighboring village for many years. He has hoped to bring religion to a village where self discipline is lacking in the absence of church. This dream has patiently awaited the appropriate time and resources when it could be manifested into a reality. That time has arrived, and a window of opportunity has availed itself.

I considered myself fortunate to partake in this experience to observe as an outsider, an organic project that is cultivated with patience and love in this rural, village setting. I hope to remain in close contact with this project throughout its varying developing stages. I strongly believe that I will learn a lot about how community resources are used and how people come together to see a project from its infancy stage to its visualized end result.

We began three days ago with nine men, an assortment of tools, and a budget of approximately 1,000 Rands (just over $100 USD) donated by Michael himself. The men ranged in age from 16 to the eldest 27 (myself), excluding Mr. Mathumbu of course. The church has united these boys throughout their childhood and teenage years despite differences in life choices, age, or other differences. Under the shelter of the church, they call one another brother.

The first day of labor entailed back breaking tasks including hole digging, rock breaking, ground leveling, bush clearing, wood sawing, foundation pole planning, and more. We broke ground shortly after 11 am, scurrying quickly with an array of tools strewn across our backs as we attempted to beat the sun as it rose in the sky. Bodies glistened with sweat in the arid 33 degree Celsius temperature.

We hacked with pick axes at a hardened termite hill to clear a path towards the entrance of our future place of worship. Each thundering blow sent waves of scampering termites in all directions. I bravely attempted to move one with my fingers when it suddenly grasped a pinch of skin with a vice grip clasp. I screamed and flailed my arms as if on fire and the boys around me fell to the floor with laughter. The scene offered a respite from the monotonous, toiling labor. We quickly returned to our grueling tasks at hand, digging eleven 1 meter holes for the supporting outer poles of our future structure. We worked tirelessly until four o’clock when we stopped for a series of self timed group photographs and huddled around the bakkie to enjoy a savory “meal” of three loaves of bread and three bottles of cold soda. Famished faces and dehydrated bodies moved in closer around the meal and arms reached in from every direction after a brief prayer. Less than two minutes elapsed when I turned to find three overturned bottles on the ground and the bread wrappers flapping carelessly in the wind, blowing with a gust of wind into the distance. Our bloated bodies returned to work sluggishly and lactic acid began to settled into our muscles we arose from our afternoon slumber on the bakkie. Pick axes continue to swing and clang on the ground and shovels moved in unison as hills were leveled and holes with filled with earth. By the sunset of the first day, the impressive foundation of the structure was raised, accented by an assortment of bright colors far off in the distance.

The following day we began our work late, due to logistical challenges and extra time spent attending to aching muscles and injuries from the day before. We were greeted by a stifling heat that sucked all moisture from the earth. Roasting radiation waves rose infinitely around us. By midday, the temperature had risen to 38 degrees Celsius or 100 degrees Fahrenheit! It was energy consuming to stand and blink my eyes, never the less engage in back breaking labor. I attempted to seek refuge under a tree with my counterparts, but I could not escape the heat in the shade, as vicious updrafts of hot, dry wind lashed up continuously. Sweat dripped off every orifice of my body, but was quickly evaporate by the intense radiation of the sun. The heat was sweltering and unbearable. It was hard to think and even more challenging to move. I was paralyzed. Each movement seemed like slow motion. Needless to say, after exhausting our bodies for five hours, we gather around the bakkie to enjoy another meal of four loaves of bread and four bottles of "cold drinkey". The lot of food disappeared faster than before, as handfuls of bread were shoved into mouths to free hands to grab more savagely. We worked well into the twilight hours spreading concrete with trowels, illuminated by the blinding headlamps of the bakkie. With raw skin, aching bodies, and skin covered in dust and debris, we piled into the truck and sped off into the darkness on the dusty road.

Appreciating the concrete slab and foundational poles on the third day was a powerful experience. I looked on in awe at the semblance of a structure that stood for so much. Just days before there laid n empty field with plentiful trash and rubbish. Today marks the beginning of a dream and a place of worship.

9/12/08

I am awestruck. The events of my life have fallen into place, in the exact, necessary order. Everything had to take its course to lead me down this path. I am elated to be in this inviting home, surrounded by genuine generosity and warm sincerity. In a contemplative trance, I meditate in this welcoming world that surrounds me, and I intuitively know that I am in this moment in the precise place with the exact people that I need to be with at this time. Surging feelings of warmth and gratitude flash through my veins, pulsating with adrenaline and euphoria. Everything that has preceded this moment was essential to plant seeds for the present instance to grow.

I am aware that this moment is a life changing moment that I will not soon forget. I am connected to my surroundings with heightened senses. While I continue to bask in this beautiful moment, please be forewarned, that these literary descriptions fall short of capturing the essence of synchronicity that is in place and the beauty of interconnectedness:

Life in this new place is effortless. Interacting with my host family is so natural. I am myself. I communicate freely. I do not censor my thoughts. I exist in the moment. Conversations flow gracefully. An abundance of flooding positive energy wells up when my host family and I are together. The moment I crossed the thresh hold, I knew that I was home.

Although life is privileged here, and the exposure to western thinking is vast, I strongly believe that I have crossed paths with the Mathumbu family for a significant reason. I have come into their home with meaningful purpose. A middle class family, featuring two parent educators, whose three children attend excellent schools, education and personal development are highly prized. This upward movement is heralded as the prized goals of the family. While the Mathumbu’s have successfully elevated themselves financially, they have remained connected with the roots of their community, embracing the church, and teaching at the schools that they attended as children in their home village of Croquetlawn in Bushbuckridge. The Mathumbu’s own a beautiful home that they built with combined educator’s salaries on government subsidized homeland, but moved out of the village to the nearest first world, Afrikaner dominated town to provide improved educational options to their children. This swank, charming town boasts a swagger and oozes flair as its cobble-stoned streets, manicured landscapes, are highlighted with panoramic vistas of the Drakensburg Mountains. It is named Hazyview and contains beautiful hotels, tourist attractions, game reserves, animal sanctuaries, and more. It is only 50 km away.

9/16/08

Alone at last for the past few hours, I have welcomed solitude with open arms and have rejoiced in comfort of privacy. I have thoroughly enjoyed the thought of recharging my batteries, and tending to some long overdue activities, such as writing. I gaze at my new surroundings with unfamiliar eyes. Everything seems so foreign.

My host family resides in a first world town more than 50 km from my current home (their second home on tribal homeland) on non paved, pot hole riddled, dirt roads, where I have lived for the past three days, experiencing all of the comforts and conveniences of privileged life. From steamy hot showers, to exposed, critical thinking skills, and English language, I have felt pampered and on vacation. Today, I have officially moved into their rural village home in Croquetlawn, bringing my meager belongings and groceries and spreading them out amongst this four bedroom, concrete-walled home.

The village is quaint and seemingly small relative to other neighboring villages whose transparent borders bleed into one another blurring the boundaries of one Nduna (chief) from another’s jurisdiction. Water is a scarce resource as only two boreholes offer a trickling stream of water on a good day and are operated by a hand crank. The nearest one to my home lies about 2km away. I will fetch water for washing dishes, bathing, and drinking every few weeks in buckets transported by my rusty wheelbarrow. The Nduna of the village uses a personal water supply to irrigate and farm his impressive 500 meter spread of lush farmland where all can be found including bananas, tomatoes, peppers, onions, and more. He supplies his community members with this fresh produce at a fraction of the cost at local roadside vendors.

I will be working with the only three schools in the village. Croquetlawn proudly possesses two primary schools (Hlanganani and Nembe) and one high school (Luka High). All schools are named after famous individuals whom brought education to the village many years ago. Hlanganani was the first built, beginning with one small school building in the early 1960’s. The other primary school, Nembe was built nearly ten years ago and is situated just on the edge of a deep valley, accented by a stunning backdrop of the Drakensburg Mountains. The mountains flaunt seemingly endless layers of gray shades of peaks. The vast expanse fills a panoramic view of vibrant colors, textures, shadows, and more. It is humbling to witness such breathtaking beauty. Luka, the only High School in the village, flaunts a whopping 740 learners in four grades, eight through twelve.

I have spent every day of the week thus far at Hlanganani Primary, where I feel the most comfortable. It sits on a hillside as well, immediately adjacent to the Christian Church that I attended on Sunday and intend to visit every Sunday from now on. My host father is an active member and pastor there, preaching powerful sermons. I am amazed at the harmonious, vibrating voices that surge in the small congregation hall that displays no evidence of a church besides a makeshift altar and a small hand painted cross on the wall outside. The chief and other community members preach sermons in native Tsonga, and all hymns and song are expressed in my new indigenous tongue; but understanding every words isn’t essential to feel the harmonious energies that flood the room and surge around me. Adrenaline poured throughout my body as I meditated amidst huddling bodies and flashed beaming smiles to all of the distracted children that sat around me. Falling short of interpreting the religion at face value and on a one dimensional level, I seek to use it as a vehicle to maintain the positive consciousness that I aim to preserve.

Currently, South African schools are nearing the end of the third quarter, and in rural schools this means that learning new material is a foreign idea. Educators take leave to the planning rooms of the schools (usually a classroom that was emptied for the adults, further cramming classroom sizes…i.e. my host mother teaches grade 3, and has 65 learners in her class…her room is approx. 20 feet by 15 feet)

I was extremely fortunate to witness my first rural school soccer match this afternoon. Hlanganani faced another Primary school, Ian McKenzie Primary, in a village nearly 30 km away just on the outskirts of a private game reserve. Although there were no signs of wild animals (swihari), the impoverished refugee camp produced an opposing team stacked with talented players! The soccer match was a catastrophic blowout! The other team accumulated an insurmountable 6 – 0 lead at half time. With each goal scoring strike, the crowd erupted in jubilation and stormed the field, releasing screaming chants and flailing arms! The McKenzie soccer team, adorned in vibrant red jerseys dictated the flow of the game. Directing well chiseled passes up field, they mounted several dominating attacks that ended in goals scored. The final result was 8 – 0. Immediately following the final whistle, the overconfident sea of nearly 500 fans from Ian McKenzie Primary and a neighboring high school encroached the small pickup truck (bakkie) where the Hlanganani players retreated to, in an effort to seek refuge. The crowd swelled and surrounded the group of eleven + boys in bright blue jerseys. Chanting, and jumping up and down in unison, the bullying crowd humiliated our visiting team. Several fights nearly exploded amongst the mass of entangled bodies. The coaches and supervisors stood by and did nothing! They did not move a finger! I was furious! I lost my cool and charged the arrogant coach from the other school who applauded the melee.

9/16/08

9/23/08

Eager to build upon the momentum established by yesterday’s ground breaking progress, I accepted an invitation from a kind-hearted colleague, Mr. Ndubane, “Nduksi” to join him on a road trip. We would venture nearly 100 km to a farming district to purchase chickens today. Unsure of what to expect, I jumped into his car and sped off down kilometer after kilometer of overflowing holes and bulging bumps on the dirt road, slamming the top of my head into the ceiling of the car. Along the way we stopped at streetside vendors who were hawking fruits and veggies just harvested from the backdrop of lush farm fields rich in vibrant green color. These vivid shades of green offer a harsh contrast to the blend of brown hues spread out across the village in which I live. Spring hasn’t reach the rural areas of Bushbuckridge, as the distant memories of rain have long been forgotten. The land at home is parched, bone dry, and thirsty. Here in this province, irrigated fields supplied graciously by nearby dammed waters boast bold colors of vivacious vegetables and fruits. We stopped for fresh roasted corn over smoldering coals(my new favorite snack!), fresh juice, and tomatoes. These mouth watering treats offered a moment of contentment from the scorching temperatures.

Back on the road we sped past villages one by one until we reached our destination. From nearly 100 meters away I could hear their shrilling voices, crying out in unison! Peep, peep, peep! Unsure of its direction I turned around 360 degrees but could not find the source. Peep, peep, peep! Following my chicken farming friend, we opened a door, behind which stood more than 20 boxes of 100 baby chicks, less than two weeks old. That’s 2,000 chicks twittering, tweeting, squeaking, and cheeping! My heart dropped. Chicks were piled like cheerleaders in a pyramid formation. Some stacked five high. The chicks holding up the pyramid collapsed with legs split apart and faces covered in feces. I knew at that moment that I would offer a lucky life to a handful of chicks. Observing this scene, I was destined to become a chicken farmer.

And so a chicken farmer was born. I purchased the necessary vitamins, medications, food, and even a heating lamp for to keep my new born chicks warm during cool, windy nights. Nduksi generously offered additional supplies such as bedding and other materials to get me started through my first few weeks of chicken farming.

We raced home to unpack the colossal clutch of more than four hundred chicks at Nduksi’s residence from the boot of his hatchback. Two home-made concrete coops are featured in his backyard where two groups of chickens are “farmed.” Every four weeks he purchases a new batch of newborn baby chicks and raises them for 35 days, feeding them special growth formula food, vitamins, and nutrients. By their 35th day anniversary, the fully matured chickens are sold for meat to neighbors and community members at 35 rands a head (probably not the best reference under the circumstances). As the only community chicken farmer, he maintains a sound monopoly, and very rarely does not sell out of his 400 chicken stock by the conclusion of the 35 day cycle.

I had intended to choose two chicks, however was encouraged to choose two more to offer support and comraderie to these social creatures. I enthusiastically watched and observed as three chicks instinctively decided on me as their mother, climbing on my shoe as I cowered in the middle of the coop. The last chick selected was motionless and seemingly limp as I picked it up last from its temporary shelter. Like mother hen, I quickly offered nurturing love and support.

10/15/08

Just two weeks ago, my baby chicks were velvety soft and downy. Now their tangled dander is interwoven with frayed feathers. Two weeks ago, they were innocent and naïve. Now they rummage through the yard, knock over their water, and poop on my doorstep.

Don’t be mistaken, I adore each adolescent chicken, and watch them with joy as they mature exponentially before my eyes. They eat from my hand, waddle behind me as I make my trip to the pit toilet, and eagerly await their feeding time in the morning. They come to my fingertips to receive gentle gizzard massages when I call them on command. This principle is proof of my theory that all animals in South Africa are not terrified of human beings. With a nurturing environment and positive conditioning, animals adapt positive social traits. My neighbors and visitors examine my interaction with the chicken with mixed emotions. Some are bewildered and shocked while others are repulsed at the prospect of a human caressing and kissing a chicken.

While I’ve received numerous requests (and countless threats) to sell my chickens for someone’s meal, I think I will continue to love these chickens and provide them with the best living setup compared to any other chicken I know. They are luckiest chickens in South Africa!

9/22/08

A dramatic shift has occurred, where others around me are open to my presence and eager to share with me who they are and what their passions are. Last week was a period of uncertainty and just simply the sight of me was enough for people to lose their train of thought and cast a double take. Now I am building relationships. I am unearthing layers of formalness and greetings. Now, my neighbors and colleagues are beginning to become real humans. We laugh. We embrace one another. We have fun together. I was eagerly awaiting the moment when this would happen. It is here!

I brought a freshly baked batch of twenty brownies to school which quickly evaporated amongst the ten educators bold enough to sample my cooking. I was immediately approached by a colleague, anxious to learn the recipe to share with her children. She impatiently invited herself over to myself afterschool and mentioned that she would also need assistance with an assignment from her University studies (nearly every single educator in South Africa is taking college courses or classes towards their certification and to become highly qualified).

By the time she arrived that afternoon, fresh coffee was “brewing” inside my French Press and soft jazz music was setting the atmosphere in the background (gotta love Thelonious Monk). Sweet lavender incense offered a calming fragrance to the ambiance. The energy was inviting and the scene was set! In entered, not one, but two educators from two of my schools. “My audience is growing,” I thought to myself.

After our greetings and small talk concluded, we began baking! Laughing, dancing, and joking we mixed the ingredients, formed, and baked 36 delicious, chewy, chocolaty cookies! It was a hit! This successful baking adventure spring boarded into a mini workshop on positive reinforcement ideas, behavior management strategies, and a slew of other teaching techniques in the classroom. I turned down the blaring jazz music and created a quick PowerPoint presentation to highlight specific points. The discussions that were generated left me spellbound. I was dazzled by the questions and concerns. “At this pace, anything is possible! We can move mountains,” I quietly imagined.

After a five hour session, the sun was beginning to set and my guests prepared their belongings to depart. As I walked them to the gate, a flash of goose bumps rushed across my skin. I was speechless at the events that just transpired.

More than a month has passed since my Peace Corps journey in South Africa has begun. As I have encountered a whirlwind of new experiences and have been exposed to an infinite assortment of new stimuli, I’m eager to paint pictures of this foreign world through words, to recap a month’s worth of events, by citing entries from my daily bedside journal:

7/12/08

On the path of becoming a Peace Corps Volunteer in South Africa, I have unearthed many truths and have surfaced numerous lessons that will continue to build on my growth and development. With the impending departure date for Washington D.C. nearing from a distance, my family, girlfriend, and I have savored every moment together, appreciating the value of time. We soaked in the warmth of every hug, absorbed the vibrations of every bellowing laugh, embraced every opportunity to be present with one another, and welcomed the falling tears of gratitude and love.

Learning to appreciate the value of time has empowered me to live in the present moment and be aware of what is most important in my life: my family. I have struggled to understand this paramount truth throughout my life, taking the integral family foundation in my life for granted. I have proudly served others, dedicating my energies selflessly for the betterment of society, putting my family and myself a distant second.

I am grateful to have encountered this realization throughout my process of becoming a P.C.V., enabling me to appreciate my life on an entirely new level.

7/15/08

Casting my gaze out of the darkened bus windows under a distant full moon and sparkling starry sky, I received my first glimpses of a new world with night eyes. Vast expanses of flat lands separate modest homes and endless fields. A crisp, refreshing aroma ubiquitously fills the air, with a hidden backdrop scent of smoldering wood. For two hours we drove on highway roads from Johannesburg airport to the Peace Corps training site in Mpumalanga province, which will be home for the next two months. I am eager to peer outside in a few hours and welcome this new world under a bright, colorful sky.

7/23/08

The overwhelming, intense pace of life that I have aligned with in only the second week of Pre-Service Training (P.S.T.) has made the past 8 days since my past journal entry seem like months.

Leaving the sheltered, brick walled, security enforced training compound for the first time, my eyes are wide and I’m glued to the bus window, peering out at the rich, vibrant colors that cover the blurry landscapes that stream past. The endless prairies are browning under the crisp, cloudless winter sky. Arid, dusty, nutmeg colored dirt roads send clouds of sediment airborne, as our vehicle races by. Turning off several discreet roads, we enter the distant, rural village where my host family’s homestead lies. The village is alive with activity, as families hang their colorful laundry out on lines and are tending to the livestock that vastly outnumbers the number of inhabitants. Goats, sheep, cows, and chickens abundantly graze on the dried vegetation. Pulling up to my host family’s humble home, I strain to spot another home for what seems like miles. The reality has set in. I am here. I have arrived in South Africa.

Meeting my host family for the first time was a genuinely gratifying experience, as I embraced each member with a warm hug and a gracious smile. The Sathegke’s invited me into their family with open arms. They have accepted me as a son and a brother. I was offered a new name in traditional fashion, being gifted with the name Neo by my host father (which is ‘Swana for “gift”). I adopted the family surname: Sathegke with pride, using it to introduce myself to other community members in our village, my new home. Within moments, I felt comfortable at home, finding my unique niche in the family. I quickly became a helper, a worker, and an entertainer. Lunging in front of my host parents, I snatched heavy buckets of water from their clutched hands, carried large piles of firewood, and more to ease their daily chores. I followed my father out to the fields to fetch the cattle and choral them onto the family’s backyard field for the night. And by sunset, I played soccer, Frisbee, taught English words, and colored with my host brothers Kotaso (4 years old) and Mpho (10 years old). Today’s events have left me inspired and speechless.

7/27/08

Each day the wind blows, bringing with it new emotions and perspectives. I am beginning to understand wholly, the concept of “one day at a time.” Each morning, I arise at dawn with an outlook for the day that is different from the one before. Today, I welcomed the sunrise with an eager outlook, anxious to experience the day’s events, in contrast to my somber reflections of last night. These ebbs and flows have caused my energy levels to soar and plummet as I integrate into a new culture and life in South Africa.

Today, I woke to a Sunday morning filled with a buzz of activity. My mother was stoking the outdoor fires to warm the family’s bath water and begin her daily chores, while my father was corralling the cattle from their overnight grazing in the bush. My sister was preparing breakfast in the kitchen and the boys were playing a game of marbles in the dusty front yard spread. All of this activity and it was only 7 am. As I wiped the sleep from my mouth and eyes, I quickly shifted into overdrive to bathe and assist with the meal preparation and begin a full scheduled Sunday.

At various moments throughout the day, I brought my camera out for the first time to creatively capture snapshots of a routine Sunday at the Sathegke house. The shutter clicked as the boys played, the cattle grazed, and the dogs looked on sleepily as everyone was abuzz. Snapping photographs of the landscapes that delicately wrap around this rural village, and observing these surroundings with heightened senses through the viewfinder of my camera, I am alert and awake. I enjoy exploring the details of village life, capturing textures, shadows, highlights, and infinite vivid colors with my camera. Each closing shutter snap, locks my observations of this new world into history.

8/5/08

I am electrified with lingering adrenaline from my experiences in a local, rural South African high school earlier today. I am saturated with exhilarating feelings of gratitude as I reflect on the day’s events. As part of an assignment for Peace Corps training, I was expected to shadow a teacher, observe a lesson, and model a lesson to gain first hand experience in a S.A. classroom before beginning my service as a volunteer.

At the sound of the metal, tinny bell, I entered the dull, disheveled classroom, as the previous teacher exited the room (at this particular school and many in S.A., educators circulate to each classroom, while the learners remain in their rooms all day, and in many cases, to each lunch as well) greeting me with “Dumelang.” The walls boasted a single poster that dangled from a corner. I glanced at the sea of eager faces before me and was bewildered by their wide open eyes and bright smiles. Uncertain how to respond, the room fell silent, and only whispering voices chattered in a soft rustle. As I opened up my bag and began to pull out colorful signs, posters, an agenda, objective, journal topic, and other bells and whistles, the distant voices rumbled with excitement. Laughs followed, joined by a few “oohs and ahhs.” I finished pasting my signs and materials just moments before the late bell shrilled and the remainder of learners filed in briskly.

Surveying the crowded audiences of 36 learners amongst an overcrowded arrangement of desks and tables, I scanned each pair of eyes without uttering a sound. Breaking the silence, I introduced the ground rules for the day, slipping humorous jokes and referring to myself as a silly “mulungu” (Tsonga for white person). The questioning crowd erupted into an uneasy laughter. Throughout the following hour I transitioned from one engaging activity to the next, as all 72 eyes and ears remained attuned to every syllable I uttered and any movement I made. The learners’ desire for nourishing instruction was obvious in their eagerness to volunteer answers, follow directions, and synergistically work with one another.

Experiencing such a warm reception and an openness to learn was one of the most compelling moments of my life. I am reminded of the addictive taste of facilitating a love of learning and guiding learners through instruction. Now that I have encountered the flavor of education in the South African classrooms, I yearn for more. I ambitiously seek more opportunities to savor the feelings of teaching that I experienced today.

8/8/08

The pace of Pre-Service Training (PST) has certainly picked up. With a decent amount of real estate behind me, I can reflect on the accomplishments of the past three weeks of training with confidence. My perception of time has been altered, as days seem to race by at impressive speed. My new family members have tirelessly supported me and have facilitated my personal and professional growth throughout the entire process. They have genuinely cared for me, meanwhile have looked out for my personal safety and well being. They have expressed their unconditional love and show their affection openly each day with deep hugs and embraces. I feel welcomed as a member of the family and enjoy daily rituals and routines together. I pluck large bundles of lemons (“surru” in ‘Swana) and oranges (“namune” in ‘Swana) when I return home from training each day with Kotaso and Mpho and proceed to set up an assembly line of cutting, squeezing, and preparing the citrus fruits for our daily servings of lemonade. Fireside chats follow and seal in the events of the day, and become jumping off points for discussion about the past, South Africa’s history, apartheid, family memories, and more. Dinner preparations and cleaning up offer more opportunities for social interactions as we sing and laugh and dance together around the smoldering remnants of the outside fire in a metal basin on the kitchen floor. I am honored to be included as a part of this family and to have such a defined role as a member of the Sathegke household.

With each day that passes, my surroundings become more and more familiar. The world outside my window is less foreign. I have automated greetings in two Bantu languages to engage in conversations with anyone who passes. I have a deeper historical, contextual understanding of my community and this country. The novelty of rural village life has worn off. I am comfortable and at ease in my new South African life. This new world seems to be a natural fit. I am at home. Have I found a new comfort zone?

8/14/08

I have grown accustomed to the rhythm of P.S.T. In fact, I find it soothing. The predictable patterns have offered the first taste of consistency in what seems like months. After two hour language sessions in our homes villages each morning, the Peace Corps trainees venture to the P.S.T. training site in a caravan of P.C. vehicles. By 10:30 am each morning, we reach the front gates of the brick walled teaching training college compound, greeted by a team of security guards.

After ten minutes of trading stories of the previous night, the trainees follow the brightly colored brick paved paths to the auditorium where the daily seminars will be held and the day’s events will take place.

Comfort levels have soared, as unique personalities have penetrated from the professional fabrics that covered positive deep rooted intentions within. Many gifts and talents have emerged. We have shared ideas, passions, dreams, solutions, advice, and support throughout our journey together. We have laughed for hours, shared inside jokes, and entertained ourselves endlessly.

Black markets have surfaced during workshop sessions at all hours, as trainees pool together local resources from their respective villages to trade with one another. Trainees bring fruits, vegetables, yogurts, candies and more stashed in their bags to “trade” for the day. Others bake cookies, cakes, “scones” and other oven creations that even I am not brave enough to try. My Nalgene lemonade and orangeade batches have become famous throughout the trainees, as I now squeeze on average, 25 lemons a night to satisfy the palettes of my fellow Americans and quench their thirst!

The Peace Corps has provided a sheltered setting for its S.A. 18 Trainees to become immersed three-dimensionally in this new world. Rallying infinite resources and wrangling “experts” and guest speakers from all over the country, we have received a hand selected, diverse, well rounded sampling of South African history, culture, and social exposure. We have been served with a platter of rich, abundant knowledge of this country and its past to wrap it all up in context. After devouring the uninterrupted flow of information that has been presented to us, I have digested nourishing analyses and have been energized by a deep, profound understanding of this country in theory and in philosophy.

I am amazed by how much I have learned in such a relatively short period of time. I am fascinated at how well planned and executed the Peace Corp’s cultural immersion process is. I am eager to utilize my level of cultural and historical understanding of South Africa, throughout my service and beyond.

8/18/08

Ubuntu – The Identity of South Africa

Literally translated, Ubuntu means, “I am because you are.” Loosely decoded, it means that humanity is connected by the essence of treating everyone as extended family. This Ubuntu identity that has linked villages and united families is a traditional concept that is blurred outside transparent abstract situations. While communal celebrations such as weddings and tombstone unveilings bring neighbors and community members together, jobs, exorbitant unemployment rates, and money separate individuals. Crime runs rampant and alcoholism blazes through towns and villages further separating people and distorting the ideology of Ubuntu.

When it is convenient, everyone comes together under the umbrella of Ubuntu. However, when money enters the equation, everyone scatters and it becomes “every man for himself.” This “independence” from one another is further compounded by the dependence of blacks on whites. Throughout history, South Africa has received external aid from foreigners, beginning in 1652 with the Dutch East India Trading Company that set up Capetown (“The Cape of Good Hope”) as a refilling station for the merchants and traders that rounded the southern tip of Africa en route to Asia. The schools that were set up and the assistance that was offered, left behind traces of dependence. In time, this support was exacerbated and blacks began to grow reliant. Fast forwarding into the present, an external locus of control has been cultured and indoctrinated in the foundational roots of society. Blacks in the rural areas expect to be saved. They look to others for answer and resources as if incapable of instituting change, utilizing readily available resources and discovering solutions for themselves. South Africa finds itself wobbling precariously on the edge as it seeks its own identity.

8/24/08

Tribal beliefs and myths

Three days ago, I awoke to a ghastly sight. Drinking my morning instant, chicory-blend cup of java, I proceeded to stroll about the cement slab behind my host family’s house and paced back and forth near the chicken coup with my eyes lazily scanning the horizon. Much to my horror, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a limp dead corpse of a three month old baby chick with a severed head and stiff legs pointed upwards towards the sky. From its liquefied head, poured a mass of fluids which the other six chicks eagerly fed on. Deeply disturbed by this image, I spent great lengths of energy to wipe it clean from my memory. However, the following day, a shocking horror re-visited the Sathegke household. With a cup of coffee in hand, I cautiously peered over the edge of the rusty ramshackle scrap metal coup and gasped in despair and nearly released a high pitch scream that was replaced by a hollow whimper due to the lump in my throat. In the far ends of the structure lay two lifeless carcasses. In one corner laid a baby chick with its belly sliced open carelessly, and its entrails sprawled about the dusty sand floor. In the opposite corner another chick was gruesomely mutilated with gashes and wounds about its remains.

Immediately, I hurriedly reported the crime scene to my host mom who began formulating the worst case scenarios in her mind. Her eyes widened intensely. She reached out for the top of my head with an outstretched hand, gently pushing my eyes downward towards the ground. Her eyes darted this way and that as she scanned the horizon for what seemed like incoming artillery fire. I assumed that the situation was over after nearly a minute of dead silence, and I proceeded to pack my belongings in my rucksack and continued down the narrow dirt path to begin my day.

Much to my surprise, these horrific events had spurred a series of incredulous thoughts and conspiracy theories upon returning home late in the evening. My host father was alarmed at the recent atrocities and urged me to not go outside after dark. Furthermore, he warned me that if I heard noises at night and dogs barking, I mustn’t look out the window, or I will be confronted by evils that are not of this world. He alluded to the fact that if I spot this evil creature that is tormenting the life stock, I will be damned to another realm. He pleaded that the village was not safe, and that this was only the beginning. At that, he repented. He gathered the remaining four chicks into a small pail, who released a series of shrieking peeps at varying pitches, as he tied the legs of the mother hen to a post and separated her from the string of high pitch noises.

Various denominations of religions are practiced in the tribal villages. Tribal medicine is actively rehearsed and carried out. Theories are often created to replace a lack of information and education. Incompatible information finds its way into the minds of the masses and heaps of homes. I may not be convinced about this evil being that is lurking out there, but my eyebrow is certainly raised. What caused this catastrophic slaughtering?

9/10/08

The Peace Corps staff met with today to discuss the lack of structure and support at the village during my site visit. It was collectively decided that I will be moved to a new village where I will be introduced to the community by active chiefs and principals unlike my experiences of two weeks ago. I’m mentally battling with my moral obligations to the community of the village who has prepared for my arrival. I am teeter-tottering over my intuitive feelings and I am attempting to untangle the ethical knots that have gnarled my rational thoughts. While I encountered many challenges during my site visit and I did not have the support of a supervisor, at least it was becoming familiar. Now I am faced with the great unknown again.

9/11/08

It is time for me to say goodbye yet again. Farewells are the most difficult elements of a journey. They are inevitable and often plentiful along the way. New destinations appear and then disappear while new characters are introduced and then part ways. As my biography continues to be written, I find it agonizing to say goodbye to a family that has welcome me unconditionally and supported me through my infant stage in South Africa. They have taught me to crawl and how to be independent. They have encouraged my individuality to shine through the assimilation of culture. They have nurtured me and offered affection and love. I will leave a piece of me behind in the village and bring something that I have learned from each of the Sathegke family members with me on my voyage. The memories that I have formed here will always remain my heart.

The following blurbs were extracted from my daily journal written during my site visit during week 6 of Peace Corps Training (P.S.T.) 8/24/08 – 9/1/08

8/24/08

During an informal ceremony of sorts, Peace Corps Trainees were called to the front of the training auditorium to learn of their permanent site assignments and “claim” their spot in South Africa by marking their future village homes with their individual head shots and names. Looking up at the blank wall map, I was filled with anxiety and anticipation. Where will I be stationed for the next two years of my life? Silence fell haphazardly among the crowd of bright eyed faces. I gleamed with pride and fluttered with goose bumps as my name was called second on the list. Finding my place in the country, in the upper N.E. of Mpumalanga Province, I was instantly reduced to a leveling feeling of gratitude and appreciation. My snapshot appeared just millimeters from Kruger National Park. When I was stateside, my dream was to reside near this historical, harmonious ecosystem, and now my aspirations have materialized!

8/29/08

Where do I begin? I am in Africa! I finally feel the effects of culture shock flooding my mind! I am overwhelmed by incessant streams of stimuli that inundate me by storm. I am submerged by pressure and abundant challenges crashing like waves all around me. I feel as though I am drowning. I am gasping for air!

The truth is, I am excited! I am besieged by stress, but I am eager to begin my service as a Volunteer. I finally sense the ubiquitous African energy that surrounds me as well as the substance of my future work with the Peace Corps. The opportunities to offer help and share energy with others in my village is plentiful. The local high school is in true need of an overhaul. Figuratively speaking, beyond cosmetic repairs and patchwork, the foundation needs to be bulldozed and rebuilt from the ground up. Incredible potential exists and needs to be fostered to continue its growth. I need to brainstorm approaches to develop this potential through inquisitive inquiry and the grass roots approach.

I feel nearly paralyzed by emotion and collapsed mental thoughts as I attempt to process the events of the past few days in the village. My mind is a blur. I attempt to bring order to my flailing thoughts, but the dizzying pace of my frenetic analysis sends me into an unsteady tailspin. Where do I begin?

8/28/08

A sudden burst of children’s screams followed by a discord of cheers and a sea of smiles, as 85 learners stood up in unison and rushed towards the tardy commercial bus speeding down the dusty, rural dirt road with marquee lights flashing Kruger National Park. For several months, the learners of this rural Primary School have anxiously awaited this moment through extensive planning, numerous meetings, and even an attempted robbery of the field trip funds.

Once loaded, the learners crammed their overly excited bodies, jolting energetically with excitement and anticipation of what the day ahead had in store. The chaperones took a quick inventory of the stock of learners and the bus driver swiftly departed attempting to make up for lost time. Rounding the corner, a rumble of chattering voices and unified songs emerged from the overly crowded waves of learners packed two to a seat.

The day raced by in a chaotic frenzy, as the bus driver zipped down the paved roads throughout the enormous national park, eluding animals on either side of it’s line of windows. The learners retained a steady pitch of clamor and clatter, piercing ear drums with chants and cheers. A mass of fingers pointing in the same direction, while the bus teetered and the shocks compensated as 85 learners climbed onto one side of the bus to gape out of the windows at the prized game that rested just meters away. Herds of water buffalo were abundant, as were clusters of baboons and groups of elephants. Antelope such as Springbok, Kudus, okapis thrived in inestimable quantities. The highlight of the day arose when a pride of lions was spotted feasting on the carnage of a recently mauled male kudu. The lions gorged on their meal, unaffected by the assembly of tourists and passersby that collected around the kill to catch a quick glance.

Summer has offered moments of clarity and a path of certainty to travel on. I march forward on stable ground with pounding footsteps. I advance towards the horizon with a clear mind and re-charged batteries.

The tranquil pace of summer and the lack of routine has allowed me to pause and reflect on the privileges of my life. I've spent much of the past few weeks packing up my apartment, donating endless amount of materials, electronics, clothes and more to friends and those in need. I've read through boxes of old letters, journals, and thumbed through hundreds of photographs, surfacing an infinite amount of memories from the past. Feelings of sadness have surged through my veins, while at othertimes, I've nearly short circuited with gratitude from all of the experiences that I've had in my life.

I am grateful to have such supportive loving parents, who have always empowered me to dream, and have given me the tools to accomplish my goals. I appreciate my girlfriend, who always keeps me going, and helps fuel my energies. I am indebted to my "brother" for patiently guiding me to the realization of my intrinsic gifts. I am thankful for my recent visit to Chicago and the quality time I spent with my sister, laughing, and creating new cherished memories. These are the moments that I treasure and embrace.

I open my arms to the sky and welcome all of the opportunities that I will have to impact change in the world. I cast my gaze into the horizon and seek out the journey and challenges that await me on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. South Africa, bring it on!

Today marks the beginning of summer for a school teacher. While I taste test the flavor of freedom, I find myself gorging on anything South African: movies, websites, articles, books, maps, etc. I'm devouring any piece of nourishing material that will feed my preparation for a foreign life that lies ahead of me.

My senses are heightened. I'm awakened to the precious value of time, and I am very conscious of not taking my present life for granted. I maximize each moment with family, friends, my girlfriend, pets, ex colleagues, and more. I treat every opportunity as if it is to be my last. I now understand the true meaning of carpe diem. It is a beautiful experience, to appreciate every moment as it happens.