So I just got back from my permanent site and….woah. It’s easy to complain about something that you had no say choosing and will be your life for two years. I know that other Peace Corps people will possibly understand, but to everyone else:
It’s like someone who barely knows you and you barely know, saying that you will spend the next two years in a place that doesn’t understand you, that you don’t quite understand yourself, that speaks a language you don’t understand, to live with a family that doesn’t understand you and that, likewise, you don’t understand, in conditions that you don’t understand, in a country that you don’t understand, and, doesn’t quite understand you…..AND work in an environment that doesn’t understand you, in an environment that you don’t understand.
So, get it?
Ha, yeah, well…welcome to life in the Peace Corps.
So, for those that are curious, I’ve been placed in a village called Pankop, an hour north of Pretoria. It’s in the northern edge of Mpumalanga near Limpopo, Don’t bother looking at a map for it. You won’t find it. I do hear that Google Earth has heard of it. Ha, maybe.
I’ve been placed with a special school that serves about 30 mentally and physically disabled children ranging from ages 5 to 25. It’s….interesting. The school is actually better than the other schools that I’ve been in the area. It has things on the wall, and enough money to feed every student two meals a day. The day begins with morning assembly at 8:45 where the kids sing about being special, “I’m special. I’m special….(something, something in Setswana I can’t understand).” Then breakfast follows, which lasts for more than an hour, then by an hour or two of lessons then break immediately followed by lunch. Then the van comes by and picks all the kids up and the day is done….at 1:30. Then the kitchen makes food for the staff, which takes about an hour, then everybody eats and gets tea. This happens Monday through Thursday. Fridays are a “sports” day, which consists of the kids walking aimlessly around the grounds instead of going to class, oh, and the day ends at noon instead of 1:30.
Throughout all of this, impromptu meetings are held to “introduce” me to “important” people. It usually goes something like, “Diiiinnneeeooooo!” (my supervisor calling me) then I come (quickly, musn’t keep her waiting) and I’m sat down in a chair, where rapid fire Sepedi/Setswana is spoken in a way that makes it hard for me to hear anything but “Dineo,” and “Peace Corps.” Then my supervisor tells me to greet whoever is there at the moment, I put my PCF on quickly, get up, greet, sit down, then more Sepedi/Setswana is spoken, then I’m asked to leave. Oh, I’m also usually asked what I eat, “O jele eng maabane phirimana?” (What did you eat last night?) and, reluctantly, I answer, “Ke jele bogobe le nama,” (I eat pap (gross porridge stuff that is tasteless and fattening) and meat) then whoever is around laughs at me, my supervisor laughs, and then I am asked to leave. This happens a couple of times a day, whenever the need to laugh strikes my supervisor.
Luckily, my supervisor was only around for one day, then left. I think she was really put off by my age and by the fact that I have no skills pertaining to beading, weaving, or sewing. Ok, sorry, but none of that is requirements for an American degree or for the Peace Corps. The first day I met her and her scary eyebrows, she asked me how old I was and when I told her she said I was very, very, very, very (very x 10) young. I think the fact that I’m short didn’t help my case (damn genes). Oh! She also yells at me frequently for not knowing Sepedi, despite the fact that I was “taught” Setswana….two completely different languages.
Oddly enough, side note, most Africans I meet are very disturbed by the fact that I wasn’t taught any African languages in school. I find this fact very interesting, mainly because these languages are not even spoken throughout South Africa, much less throughout the world. I think the only other countries where Setswana is spoken readily is Botswana, and even then, it’s pretty different. Yet, many people say they want to come teach African languages in America. Ha. Good luck with that, I say.
Anyway.
Most of the time I try to go with the flow and not let my supervisor get to me, but when I begin to think that this is how I’m going to have to live it gets really discouraging and depressing. Some times I think I can deal with it. I know that having her as a supervisor while I’m here, I’ll definitely get a lot of stories to share. Eventually, maybe, I’ll be able to figure out a way to deal with her and things will be better, but until then…
I think one of the two problems I face is being a complete and total outsider. I don’t know why I thought that integrating here would be like integrating into the Penn State community. Ha. I figured that Penn State is like 95% white and that I eventually adjusted to that and felt at home at one point. However, I don’t remember anyone ever clearly staring at me or feeling my skin or hair to see how it felt or moved. Well, that definitely happens here. Everywhere I went this last week I was stared at. I was stared at during a funeral for a community member, I was stared at while walking down the street, I was stared at while riding a taxi, going to the shop, everywhere. People didn’t even try to hide it! It was crazy. I didn’t have my sunglasses with me to feel a little more protected, but every time I looked up I saw at least 20 sets of eyes on me. Imagine painting your naked body neon green and walking around the streets of rural Kentucky holding a bag of cocaine and a bible….still, you will probably not get as much attention as I did this week. Believe me. It was so rough. I hated it. It’s so bad that when I walk with my host sister down the street, passing cars will slow down and stick his/her head out of the window doggie-style and stare as the car passes me. I’m like, damn…haven’t you ever seen a non black? Geez. It got the point that by Saturday I would cringe whenever I had to go out. I’m developing social anxiety disorder. Yay, a souvenir from my travels.
Oh, oh…I almost forgot the craziest part….I was called “lahola” which means white person. I’M NOT EVEN WHITE! Every time I heard it called, I would fight the urge to look around and say, “What? Where?” But then I realized they were talking to me! Hot damn. Crazy world. I was going to explain to my host sister and mother at one point that I’m not really white, but then I heard some of her friends making Mexican jokes, so I thought I’d just save the educational moment for another time. So, I’ll be white for awhile, whatev. I think the subject will come up when my other truly white Peace Corps friends come down to visit and they see how light a white person really gets. Then it’ll be like, “Dineo, do you have skin damage?” Haha. I’m excited for that conversation.
Anyway.
The other big issue is my name. Ok, so I know that in the spirit of cultural integration, it is customary to be given an African name, mine is Dineo. However, whenever I’ve told South Africans my real name, they always say it with no problem and even add a really cute rolled “r” at the beginning “Rrrrroze.” I love it. So, on my way to site, I decided that I would boycott my African name (sorry Dineo) and stick with Roze, just to feel more like myself. Well, that lasted about 2 hours. My supervisor figured out that everyone was given African names and demanded I tell her mine. I was scared of what new name she would create so I told her “Dineo.” So after that, I was reprimanded every time I introduced myself as Roze. Even my host family has forgotten that my real name is Roze. It’s quite sad. Add that to the fact that my new host mother thinks all my clothes aren’t appropriate, so she’s going to make me all-new African clothes. Roze has been sent back to America; I am now Dineo. Sad face.
It’s strange but I remember years ago when I was sitting at my initial interview for Peace Corps before I even graduated, I remember my recruiter telling me that Peace Corps will make you realize so much about yourself. I remember thinking that she’s crazy because I already know so much about myself, eish, was I wrong. It’s only been two months and already I know things about myself that I didn’t before.
So on Thursday, two years later, laying in my new bed thousands of miles from that office, hearing the pounding rain on the tin roof haphazardly nailed into the wood beams of my new room, feeling the rain begin to sprinkle into my new room from various points while the wind shakes the walls and the windows, I can’t help but think, what the hell was I thinking?
Luckily, I survived that night curled under my blankets by remembering that rain in this culture is actually a good omen. And, I am still here. Hanging by a thread.
The one thing that keeps me going is that older PCVs say things get better. They say eventually the stares will cease, a compromise will be struck with your host organization, enough language will be learned, and a somewhat normal life will be born.
It’s the only thought that keeps me going.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
An interesting school experience
(Editor's note: This post was created March 11, 2009)
So yesterday we visited a middle school near our host homes. My group went to a middle school that served grades 7-9.
It was an interesting experience, to say the least. In some aspects, it reminds me very much of standard public school education in Texas (Thanks, Bush!) But, in other ways, it’s way worse than Texas public school. Unbelievable, but true.
The teachers don’t have desks. There are no neatly typed and printed handouts for each student nor are there any room decorations. There are barely enough desk space and chairs for the students in the room and a box serves as the trash can. Some classrooms don’t even have teachers; which means that students either use that time to do their homework, or as an extra break. Sometimes a teacher will peek his/her head in to make sure they aren’t killing each other.
Some of the kids are still pretty smart. They are learning English and have a pretty good grasp of the language just after a few years of being taught. In the education system, the students aren’t taught to think critically about problems, but to memorize facts and solutions to problems. I sat in on a math class and they were talking about triangles. I could tell they’d gone over the material before, and they had memorized the types of triangles and the difference between the lengths of each side for each side. The teacher then goes through a different, new, subtopic: quadrilaterals. The teacher goes through each type of quadrilateral and demonstrates by using the door as an example:
Teacher: Our door is an example of a type of quadrilateral. It has 4 sides. (She points to each side) This is side one, this is side two, this is side three, and this is side four. (She moves over to the chalk board) This chalkboard is an example of a quadrilateral. It has four sides. (She points to each side.) This is side one, this is side two, this is side three, this is side four. (Then she picks up a book.) This book is an example of a quadrilateral. It has 4 sides. (She points to one of the sides.) This is…
Students: side one. This is side two. This is side three. This is side four.
This goes on for several more things. The students repeat more and more each time and soon the class is in perfect unison. The class repeats the different types of quadrilaterals several times and then they take a break copy down the homework into their notebooks (again, no paper handouts).
I learned from education PCVs that this is a pretty standard way of “teaching.” I call it the “repeat after me” way of learning. I understand how it works, but in a language that isn’t a student’s mother tongue, I wonder if they’re really learning or just memorizing the words the teacher wants to hear to be correct. Like a person learning the words to a song in a language they don’t know.
This theory was tested in the Life Orientation class. The class was talking about environmental pollutants. One potential pollutant named was buildings because buildings may have snakes and broken bottles. Hmm…..ok. The way the children responded and the teacher reacted to each of the student’s answers, you can tell they had gone through it before and were merely repeating an answer they’d already learned and not thinking critically of the problem.
The teacher also asked what the problem with living in a landfill area was. Obviously, most of these children had never experienced this problem because in the village trash is burned by each family and most kids have only lived in this village. Landfills are only found in more urban areas. Anyway, the “correct” answer was that landfills make your eyes burn and there are flies near landfills. Ok, so this is true, possibly, but the bigger problems or risks were never accessed or even proposed.
So school day was definitely eye opening. To say the least.
The one thing that I have been incredibly amazed at each time we visit schools is the amazing ability these kids have to sing. There is a morning assembly and the kids usually sing a couple of songs together and it always, undoubtedly, sounds amazing. Truly, if Oprah were keen to it, surely she would have done an episode about it a time or two.
Hmm, I wonder if the kids in her “special school” in Joburg sing as well. Maybe it’s too Americanized for that. I would hope they do.
Anyway, after we left the middle school, we got lunch and then I came into my room to take a nap. I had the weirdest dream about going to a job interview with my underwear outside my pants. To make matters worse, a girl that I was with (in the dream) saw and tried to help by suggesting I take off my underwear diaper style (which is the only way I can describe it) and put them on under my pants, like they’re supposed to be. I couldn’t figure it out so I just went ahead with the interview as is. Scary. What’s that all about? The dreams are getting weirder and weirder as I spend time in this country. I know that Malaria treatment is supposed to make your dreams crazy, but I’ve been off that stuff for almost a month and a half now. I just don’t get it.Anyway, one more day till site announcements. Woo (or boo), depending on how you see it. I just want to get it over with. I’m done with the anticipation. Let’s get the show on the road!
So yesterday we visited a middle school near our host homes. My group went to a middle school that served grades 7-9.
It was an interesting experience, to say the least. In some aspects, it reminds me very much of standard public school education in Texas (Thanks, Bush!) But, in other ways, it’s way worse than Texas public school. Unbelievable, but true.
The teachers don’t have desks. There are no neatly typed and printed handouts for each student nor are there any room decorations. There are barely enough desk space and chairs for the students in the room and a box serves as the trash can. Some classrooms don’t even have teachers; which means that students either use that time to do their homework, or as an extra break. Sometimes a teacher will peek his/her head in to make sure they aren’t killing each other.
Some of the kids are still pretty smart. They are learning English and have a pretty good grasp of the language just after a few years of being taught. In the education system, the students aren’t taught to think critically about problems, but to memorize facts and solutions to problems. I sat in on a math class and they were talking about triangles. I could tell they’d gone over the material before, and they had memorized the types of triangles and the difference between the lengths of each side for each side. The teacher then goes through a different, new, subtopic: quadrilaterals. The teacher goes through each type of quadrilateral and demonstrates by using the door as an example:
Teacher: Our door is an example of a type of quadrilateral. It has 4 sides. (She points to each side) This is side one, this is side two, this is side three, and this is side four. (She moves over to the chalk board) This chalkboard is an example of a quadrilateral. It has four sides. (She points to each side.) This is side one, this is side two, this is side three, this is side four. (Then she picks up a book.) This book is an example of a quadrilateral. It has 4 sides. (She points to one of the sides.) This is…
Students: side one. This is side two. This is side three. This is side four.
This goes on for several more things. The students repeat more and more each time and soon the class is in perfect unison. The class repeats the different types of quadrilaterals several times and then they take a break copy down the homework into their notebooks (again, no paper handouts).
I learned from education PCVs that this is a pretty standard way of “teaching.” I call it the “repeat after me” way of learning. I understand how it works, but in a language that isn’t a student’s mother tongue, I wonder if they’re really learning or just memorizing the words the teacher wants to hear to be correct. Like a person learning the words to a song in a language they don’t know.
This theory was tested in the Life Orientation class. The class was talking about environmental pollutants. One potential pollutant named was buildings because buildings may have snakes and broken bottles. Hmm…..ok. The way the children responded and the teacher reacted to each of the student’s answers, you can tell they had gone through it before and were merely repeating an answer they’d already learned and not thinking critically of the problem.
The teacher also asked what the problem with living in a landfill area was. Obviously, most of these children had never experienced this problem because in the village trash is burned by each family and most kids have only lived in this village. Landfills are only found in more urban areas. Anyway, the “correct” answer was that landfills make your eyes burn and there are flies near landfills. Ok, so this is true, possibly, but the bigger problems or risks were never accessed or even proposed.
So school day was definitely eye opening. To say the least.
The one thing that I have been incredibly amazed at each time we visit schools is the amazing ability these kids have to sing. There is a morning assembly and the kids usually sing a couple of songs together and it always, undoubtedly, sounds amazing. Truly, if Oprah were keen to it, surely she would have done an episode about it a time or two.
Hmm, I wonder if the kids in her “special school” in Joburg sing as well. Maybe it’s too Americanized for that. I would hope they do.
Anyway, after we left the middle school, we got lunch and then I came into my room to take a nap. I had the weirdest dream about going to a job interview with my underwear outside my pants. To make matters worse, a girl that I was with (in the dream) saw and tried to help by suggesting I take off my underwear diaper style (which is the only way I can describe it) and put them on under my pants, like they’re supposed to be. I couldn’t figure it out so I just went ahead with the interview as is. Scary. What’s that all about? The dreams are getting weirder and weirder as I spend time in this country. I know that Malaria treatment is supposed to make your dreams crazy, but I’ve been off that stuff for almost a month and a half now. I just don’t get it.Anyway, one more day till site announcements. Woo (or boo), depending on how you see it. I just want to get it over with. I’m done with the anticipation. Let’s get the show on the road!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Sites
(Editor's note: This blog was written over a two-day period, March 8 and March 9)
March 8, 2009
Today I found out that there is a definite possibility that I may hate my site. We had a meeting with the people that are choosing our sites and we found out that there is going to be a couple of volunteers placed in the same location that we are in now. It may not seem like that big of a deal, but we’ve spent the last month and a half just thinking that this was a temporary location, that we could leave here and go somewhere new. Ha, I think that a lot of us are born nomads, gypsies. But also, I don’t want to stay in this village. I’m getting more and more frustrated with my host family (namely my host father), and since this is a pretty small area, everyone knows everyone and pretty much everyone is related somehow to each other. So staying will pretty much guarantee that I’d have to maintain a relationship with them (him).
I’ve discovered that before training, I didn’t have very many expectations. I remember the first week we had interviews with upper management and I was asked what I expected in my site. I was taken aback. I had no fucking idea. During the whole Peace Corps process, I’d lost all sense of having a choice or an opinion in the matter of my life, so actually being asked was crazy. I quickly made up something. I don’t even remember really what it was. We also had a written questionnaire that we had to fill out, and I remember it listing examples of things our jobs could entail, and I remember saying that most of them were ok. Anything sounded better than being unemployed, which is what I would be if I were back in America.
But now, five weeks into training, I have expectations. I know more of what I want, mostly by learning about the things that I definitely don’t want. And, I definitely don’t want to stay here. And, I’m definitely not a small-town girl. Ha, who knew? Ok, I already knew that, but it’s definitely a sure thing now. I just love having tons of possibilities around me and knowing that I can have what I need when I want it. Oh, and I like living in places that are on a map or that Google recognizes as being valuable enough to warrant a search result. If Google turns up “no results” when a town named is entered, like Seabe or Marapyane is, then it’s not a place you will find me (on my own freewill. In Peace Corps, I have no say on anything). I trust Google to know the good places and if it’s not in the database, it’s not my kind of place.
Anyway…
So, doing the math…There are 11 of us that could possibly be put into the surrounding area. One site we know is going to a married couple. So, that leaves 9 of us to “compete” for 2 sites, which would mean that I have about a 20% chance of getting a site here. However, there are a few people that have expressed a sincere desire not to be placed here, so that leaves about…7 or 8, which makes my chances up to 35%. Plus, they said that one of the sites is with an organization that does home-based care for HIV patients as well as….a domestic violence shelter. So, I’m screwed.
Since I’m the only one that has direct domestic violence/shelter experience, and they go mainly by experience…I now have about (at least) a 50% chance of getting placed here. I only say 50% because there’s another girl that has expressed interest in working with victims of domestic violence. So, I feel like the spot will definitely go to one of us.
On the bright side, I do know this area and I have a good idea of what I’m in for if I stay here. Moving leaves a lot of variables. I could possibly be more optimistic if I knew that my site had such amenities as running water and electricity.
We know that a couple of people are going to more “urban areas” but my chances of getting placed in one of those areas, despite saying in my final interview that I wanted to be placed in an “urban area” are very (very, very) slim.
I’ve lost hope.
March 9, 2009
So I’ve slept on this new knowledge and thought about it all day. I’m coming to terms with being one of the unfortunate few that is not going anywhere (literally). I’ve began thinking of domestic violence as something that I am familiar with and wouldn’t be so bad.
I guess I even have contacts in the domestic violence world and could tap back into them if I really wanted to. I know I gave the agency I worked with a lot of crap, but I think what I may be going into is a lot (lot, lot) less developed and my knowledge would probably work. Hey, it’s a start, right?
I think, honestly, the electricity issue might be the hardest thing to deal with. I know I was said during my last interview that I didn’t want to have to fetch water, but stupidly, I assumed that we would all have electricity because all of the last group had electricity. Stupid, stupid.
Note to self: Assume nothing in the Peace Corps…anything is possible.
So, we’ll see. It’s become a little bit of a joke now, between the Setswana and Sepedi language groups. Mainly Setswana because we’re the ones at the biggest risk of being placed here. I’d be very surprised to see a Sepedi here. Most of us have decided to hate the Seswati and Zulu groups because they have gotten word that they’re sites are going to be awesome. They’re going to the mountains near Swaziland, where it’s said to be quite beautiful, and some may have the opportunity to work both in South Africa and Swaziland! We hate them.
The one downside to their placement is that it’s going to take quite a while for them to get to Pretoria (where the Peace Corps office is). Ha. Take that!
Ugh, I just want it to be Friday already. It’s so hard to know that they know and are being cruel by not letting us know. Honestly, site selection people listen up, I think it’s bullshit when they say that don’t know what site we’re going to be placed. I think that crap’s already been decided and they’re just waiting for the OK’s from all the right people. Most of it isn’t going to change. We’re all way too diverse in personality and skills to be that interchangeable. So, give up the charade and tell us already.
Woah, can you sense my hostility coming through? I feel it radiating.
Ok, really, I am frustrated by all this, but mostly it’s my host father and men in this country. (Ha, always blaming men for my troubles, ay?)
I don’t get it. I really wasn’t a feminist before coming into the Peace Corps, and the gender issue never even really came up or bothered me much until I got into this country. Now I always feel like it’s in the back of my head and I feel like the fact that I don’t have a penis is really going to get in the way of me doing well here.
It’s even portrayed in the way we’ve been trained. Sure, there are women that have come to talk to us, but usually they’re with a man and the man does most of the talking. When we have panels with community members, the men are always the dominate voices. Even with our Language and Cross-Cultural Facilitators (LCFs) we see how the men are dominate every discussion. Take for instance when a translator is needed between us and a community member, a male is asked to translate. Even if that LCF that is asked is my…unique (read: crazy and unreliable) LCF that leads my language group. But, he has a penis and therefore, he’s better than the women and deserves to stand up and give his own interpretation of what is being said while translating.
What pisses me off the most is that all the PCV’s (Peace Corps Volunteers) that come to facilitate workshops are mostly male volunteers! It makes no sense because there is notoriously more women in the Peace Corps and therefore more women in Peace Corps-South Africa. Get the problem, now?
Soo…I was pondering this issue while (another) male volunteer was regurgitating the same information that we’ve learned three times from three different male volunteers in previous weeks. The facts are that volunteers apply to present topics during training and are selected by the training staff (of which one, I think, is a full time employee, and you guessed right, a South African man). So the theory is that a South African man is selecting PCV’s who just happen (ironically) to be male. Is it because more males apply to present? My guess is no. From my count so far, we’ve only had 2 female PCVs come to present a topic to us. They had the shortest time slots and, I think, their time was also cut down by schedule changes. The few other female volunteers that came to training have been on committees and required to come. They don’t count.
When I was Australia, we used to call issues of this sort Penis Problems. Haha. P-Ps…Haha. It’s still kinda funny.
Anyway.
I should get off my high horse and deal with things the way they are, right? My new mantra for life is: It’s not bad, it’s different. It’s not bad, it’s different. It’s not bad, it’s different.
If I say it enough times, maybe I’ll start to believe it.
It’s not bad, it’s different.
Hmm, maybe it’ll take a few more times and see how it works.
Goodnight
March 8, 2009
Today I found out that there is a definite possibility that I may hate my site. We had a meeting with the people that are choosing our sites and we found out that there is going to be a couple of volunteers placed in the same location that we are in now. It may not seem like that big of a deal, but we’ve spent the last month and a half just thinking that this was a temporary location, that we could leave here and go somewhere new. Ha, I think that a lot of us are born nomads, gypsies. But also, I don’t want to stay in this village. I’m getting more and more frustrated with my host family (namely my host father), and since this is a pretty small area, everyone knows everyone and pretty much everyone is related somehow to each other. So staying will pretty much guarantee that I’d have to maintain a relationship with them (him).
I’ve discovered that before training, I didn’t have very many expectations. I remember the first week we had interviews with upper management and I was asked what I expected in my site. I was taken aback. I had no fucking idea. During the whole Peace Corps process, I’d lost all sense of having a choice or an opinion in the matter of my life, so actually being asked was crazy. I quickly made up something. I don’t even remember really what it was. We also had a written questionnaire that we had to fill out, and I remember it listing examples of things our jobs could entail, and I remember saying that most of them were ok. Anything sounded better than being unemployed, which is what I would be if I were back in America.
But now, five weeks into training, I have expectations. I know more of what I want, mostly by learning about the things that I definitely don’t want. And, I definitely don’t want to stay here. And, I’m definitely not a small-town girl. Ha, who knew? Ok, I already knew that, but it’s definitely a sure thing now. I just love having tons of possibilities around me and knowing that I can have what I need when I want it. Oh, and I like living in places that are on a map or that Google recognizes as being valuable enough to warrant a search result. If Google turns up “no results” when a town named is entered, like Seabe or Marapyane is, then it’s not a place you will find me (on my own freewill. In Peace Corps, I have no say on anything). I trust Google to know the good places and if it’s not in the database, it’s not my kind of place.
Anyway…
So, doing the math…There are 11 of us that could possibly be put into the surrounding area. One site we know is going to a married couple. So, that leaves 9 of us to “compete” for 2 sites, which would mean that I have about a 20% chance of getting a site here. However, there are a few people that have expressed a sincere desire not to be placed here, so that leaves about…7 or 8, which makes my chances up to 35%. Plus, they said that one of the sites is with an organization that does home-based care for HIV patients as well as….a domestic violence shelter. So, I’m screwed.
Since I’m the only one that has direct domestic violence/shelter experience, and they go mainly by experience…I now have about (at least) a 50% chance of getting placed here. I only say 50% because there’s another girl that has expressed interest in working with victims of domestic violence. So, I feel like the spot will definitely go to one of us.
On the bright side, I do know this area and I have a good idea of what I’m in for if I stay here. Moving leaves a lot of variables. I could possibly be more optimistic if I knew that my site had such amenities as running water and electricity.
We know that a couple of people are going to more “urban areas” but my chances of getting placed in one of those areas, despite saying in my final interview that I wanted to be placed in an “urban area” are very (very, very) slim.
I’ve lost hope.
March 9, 2009
So I’ve slept on this new knowledge and thought about it all day. I’m coming to terms with being one of the unfortunate few that is not going anywhere (literally). I’ve began thinking of domestic violence as something that I am familiar with and wouldn’t be so bad.
I guess I even have contacts in the domestic violence world and could tap back into them if I really wanted to. I know I gave the agency I worked with a lot of crap, but I think what I may be going into is a lot (lot, lot) less developed and my knowledge would probably work. Hey, it’s a start, right?
I think, honestly, the electricity issue might be the hardest thing to deal with. I know I was said during my last interview that I didn’t want to have to fetch water, but stupidly, I assumed that we would all have electricity because all of the last group had electricity. Stupid, stupid.
Note to self: Assume nothing in the Peace Corps…anything is possible.
So, we’ll see. It’s become a little bit of a joke now, between the Setswana and Sepedi language groups. Mainly Setswana because we’re the ones at the biggest risk of being placed here. I’d be very surprised to see a Sepedi here. Most of us have decided to hate the Seswati and Zulu groups because they have gotten word that they’re sites are going to be awesome. They’re going to the mountains near Swaziland, where it’s said to be quite beautiful, and some may have the opportunity to work both in South Africa and Swaziland! We hate them.
The one downside to their placement is that it’s going to take quite a while for them to get to Pretoria (where the Peace Corps office is). Ha. Take that!
Ugh, I just want it to be Friday already. It’s so hard to know that they know and are being cruel by not letting us know. Honestly, site selection people listen up, I think it’s bullshit when they say that don’t know what site we’re going to be placed. I think that crap’s already been decided and they’re just waiting for the OK’s from all the right people. Most of it isn’t going to change. We’re all way too diverse in personality and skills to be that interchangeable. So, give up the charade and tell us already.
Woah, can you sense my hostility coming through? I feel it radiating.
Ok, really, I am frustrated by all this, but mostly it’s my host father and men in this country. (Ha, always blaming men for my troubles, ay?)
I don’t get it. I really wasn’t a feminist before coming into the Peace Corps, and the gender issue never even really came up or bothered me much until I got into this country. Now I always feel like it’s in the back of my head and I feel like the fact that I don’t have a penis is really going to get in the way of me doing well here.
It’s even portrayed in the way we’ve been trained. Sure, there are women that have come to talk to us, but usually they’re with a man and the man does most of the talking. When we have panels with community members, the men are always the dominate voices. Even with our Language and Cross-Cultural Facilitators (LCFs) we see how the men are dominate every discussion. Take for instance when a translator is needed between us and a community member, a male is asked to translate. Even if that LCF that is asked is my…unique (read: crazy and unreliable) LCF that leads my language group. But, he has a penis and therefore, he’s better than the women and deserves to stand up and give his own interpretation of what is being said while translating.
What pisses me off the most is that all the PCV’s (Peace Corps Volunteers) that come to facilitate workshops are mostly male volunteers! It makes no sense because there is notoriously more women in the Peace Corps and therefore more women in Peace Corps-South Africa. Get the problem, now?
Soo…I was pondering this issue while (another) male volunteer was regurgitating the same information that we’ve learned three times from three different male volunteers in previous weeks. The facts are that volunteers apply to present topics during training and are selected by the training staff (of which one, I think, is a full time employee, and you guessed right, a South African man). So the theory is that a South African man is selecting PCV’s who just happen (ironically) to be male. Is it because more males apply to present? My guess is no. From my count so far, we’ve only had 2 female PCVs come to present a topic to us. They had the shortest time slots and, I think, their time was also cut down by schedule changes. The few other female volunteers that came to training have been on committees and required to come. They don’t count.
When I was Australia, we used to call issues of this sort Penis Problems. Haha. P-Ps…Haha. It’s still kinda funny.
Anyway.
I should get off my high horse and deal with things the way they are, right? My new mantra for life is: It’s not bad, it’s different. It’s not bad, it’s different. It’s not bad, it’s different.
If I say it enough times, maybe I’ll start to believe it.
It’s not bad, it’s different.
Hmm, maybe it’ll take a few more times and see how it works.
Goodnight
Ba losika la me
(Editor's note: This blog was written March 7, 2009)
Dearest Reader,
So I’m sitting here in my room and it’s about 9 p.m. and I’m exhausted. I’ve been in my room since I got back from school. I watched Charlie Bartlett.
It’s easy to focus on the movie and just forget that I’m in Africa. I feel like I’m just lying in my bed in America just watching a movie like I used to in my pre-Peace Corps world.
But then, my host mum will begin yelling my name, “Dineo! Dineo!” and I snap out of it. Just like that, and then I can feel myself becoming peeved as I pull myself out of bed, and put on my “Peace Corps face” (PCF) and open my door with a smile. Then my host mum usually begins yelling fast Setswana and I look at her (smiling) and giggle my little girl giggle and try to figure out what the fuck she’s talking about. It’s usually something about my day, how I slept (South Africans are always wondering where you’re going and how you’ve slept. It’s weird. I don’t get it.), or…my favorite, she says, “Dijo, dijo.” And at first I thought I could say, (with my PCF on) “Nnya, ke a leboga. Ke siame,” (No thanks, I’m good.) but what I’ve come to realize in the month that I’ve been here is that she’s not asking me if I want food, but rather that she is asking me (or telling me) to make food. And…this is the oddest part, she doesn’t want me to make for her, but she wants me to make for her husband…my very “traditional” (read: chauvinistic) host father.
Oh wait, quick break for a language lesson!
In Setswana, asking/requesting/need is all the same word: kopa.
Ke kopa metsi = I need/request/ask for water.
Now, back to my story…
Today, I was sneaky. I kinda pretended I didn’t know what she was saying and just kept saying, “ee, ee…sentle!” (Yes, yes…good!) Which would be the expected response if she had asked me how my day was. (Ha, I love being a foreigner sometimes.) She was probably drunk (ok, to be fair, she usually just smells like alcohol, I’ve never seen her drink, but I am 23 and have been around a drunk person or two in my time so…draw your own conclusion), so she didn’t notice the difference, gave me a hug (which usually is more like a dance) and then walked away. Victory! America-1, South Africa-0
I was settling into the movie, about thirty minutes later, when my host Dad began yelling my name, “Dineo, Dineo!” I put my best PCF on and open the door and there he is. He says, “Dineo, did you enjoy Joburg? Yes, sentle. Sentle.” Since he always answers his own questions (he too usually smells of alcohol), so I usually just smile, nod, give him the thumbs up sign (something I’ve definitely began using A LOT) and repeat “sentle, sentle” (good, good) like a demented robot till he walks away. Sometimes to make my smile more authentic, I count how many times he says “nice” in my head and it’s usually a lot so it makes me laugh.
But anyway, today he said “You make us some eggs. Yes, make us some eggs and bread.”
Now this is the tricky part. I could: A) make eggs for the people in the house which, at the time of said conversation, was me and my host mum and him, or B) make him eggs, or C) say, “Make it yourself, old man,” and return to my movie. (If a train leaves Baltimore going 70 mph, and a train leaves Los Angeles going 80 mph, how long will it be before they collide?) Hmm…
In a normal circumstance, I would do C, however, in South Africa, I do B. See, I’ve learned that whenever he says anything pluralized like “us” or “we,” or even “you,” he usually means “me.”
Example:
Are you going to eat? = Aren’t you making me something to eat?
Dish out food for everyone. = Make me a plate.
(or in this case) Make us some eggs = I’m hungry and I’m a man and I can’t be seen in the kitchen so you, American, make me dinner.
So, no longer able to keep my perfect PCF on, I drop the act, pause my movie, and go into the kitchen to make him his eggs. In an act of passive aggressiveness, I add a little too much salt and instead of giving him warm milk with his tea, I give him powdered creamer. Ha. Take that! And to answer your question, no…it’s not a language barrier. Believe me.
After I deliver his food (on a tray!), I go back to the kitchen to get an apple for myself and when I pass the dining area, he says, “Cucumber, Dineo. A little bit of cucumber, yes yes, nice” and so I go back, cut some cucumber, deliver it (Anything else, dear father?) and retreat to my room. Where I’ve stayed for the last hour.
Now, I could stand up against him and say, dare I say, “No,” or “Nnya”, but after my host sister from Joburg came down a couple of weekends ago and told me she learned to cook because her father (my dear host father) used to beat her when she didn’t cook him dinner after she came home from school. Ohh, says little me, that’s…interesting. The rebel in me says I should say no just to see what happens (curiosity killed the cat), but in the interest of staying on the good side (or, more precisely, the invisible side) of my Country Director, I’ll just deal with it. 2 more weeks. 2 more weeks.
Speaking of my country director, I should now pause and say, “Ke rata South Africa!” (I love South Africa!)
Sometimes I write and forget that I’m being monitored. Damn Patriot Act. So, if you see me on the streets of America in a couple of month’s time, you know why.
Honestly though, writing is definitely my avenue that helps me work through all this stuff. And, though I’ve been known to be against censorship (cough-still against censorship-cough), I can understand how my little itty-bitty blog can impact a potential Peace Corps applicant/trainee/invitee/whatever from being excited for South Africa or for the Peace Corps. Ok , I get it. I don’t want to discourage anyone. (Ke rata South Africa!) But, I do want to tell the truth about my experience here.
So, I’ll end this and go to bed on a quote from a fellow trainee that I was advised to include on my blog after a “negative” post: “Despite all this, I’m still here!”
Poetic, I know. True just the same. I’m sticking around for another day.
Goodnight
Dearest Reader,
So I’m sitting here in my room and it’s about 9 p.m. and I’m exhausted. I’ve been in my room since I got back from school. I watched Charlie Bartlett.
It’s easy to focus on the movie and just forget that I’m in Africa. I feel like I’m just lying in my bed in America just watching a movie like I used to in my pre-Peace Corps world.
But then, my host mum will begin yelling my name, “Dineo! Dineo!” and I snap out of it. Just like that, and then I can feel myself becoming peeved as I pull myself out of bed, and put on my “Peace Corps face” (PCF) and open my door with a smile. Then my host mum usually begins yelling fast Setswana and I look at her (smiling) and giggle my little girl giggle and try to figure out what the fuck she’s talking about. It’s usually something about my day, how I slept (South Africans are always wondering where you’re going and how you’ve slept. It’s weird. I don’t get it.), or…my favorite, she says, “Dijo, dijo.” And at first I thought I could say, (with my PCF on) “Nnya, ke a leboga. Ke siame,” (No thanks, I’m good.) but what I’ve come to realize in the month that I’ve been here is that she’s not asking me if I want food, but rather that she is asking me (or telling me) to make food. And…this is the oddest part, she doesn’t want me to make for her, but she wants me to make for her husband…my very “traditional” (read: chauvinistic) host father.
Oh wait, quick break for a language lesson!
In Setswana, asking/requesting/need is all the same word: kopa.
Ke kopa metsi = I need/request/ask for water.
Now, back to my story…
Today, I was sneaky. I kinda pretended I didn’t know what she was saying and just kept saying, “ee, ee…sentle!” (Yes, yes…good!) Which would be the expected response if she had asked me how my day was. (Ha, I love being a foreigner sometimes.) She was probably drunk (ok, to be fair, she usually just smells like alcohol, I’ve never seen her drink, but I am 23 and have been around a drunk person or two in my time so…draw your own conclusion), so she didn’t notice the difference, gave me a hug (which usually is more like a dance) and then walked away. Victory! America-1, South Africa-0
I was settling into the movie, about thirty minutes later, when my host Dad began yelling my name, “Dineo, Dineo!” I put my best PCF on and open the door and there he is. He says, “Dineo, did you enjoy Joburg? Yes, sentle. Sentle.” Since he always answers his own questions (he too usually smells of alcohol), so I usually just smile, nod, give him the thumbs up sign (something I’ve definitely began using A LOT) and repeat “sentle, sentle” (good, good) like a demented robot till he walks away. Sometimes to make my smile more authentic, I count how many times he says “nice” in my head and it’s usually a lot so it makes me laugh.
But anyway, today he said “You make us some eggs. Yes, make us some eggs and bread.”
Now this is the tricky part. I could: A) make eggs for the people in the house which, at the time of said conversation, was me and my host mum and him, or B) make him eggs, or C) say, “Make it yourself, old man,” and return to my movie. (If a train leaves Baltimore going 70 mph, and a train leaves Los Angeles going 80 mph, how long will it be before they collide?) Hmm…
In a normal circumstance, I would do C, however, in South Africa, I do B. See, I’ve learned that whenever he says anything pluralized like “us” or “we,” or even “you,” he usually means “me.”
Example:
Are you going to eat? = Aren’t you making me something to eat?
Dish out food for everyone. = Make me a plate.
(or in this case) Make us some eggs = I’m hungry and I’m a man and I can’t be seen in the kitchen so you, American, make me dinner.
So, no longer able to keep my perfect PCF on, I drop the act, pause my movie, and go into the kitchen to make him his eggs. In an act of passive aggressiveness, I add a little too much salt and instead of giving him warm milk with his tea, I give him powdered creamer. Ha. Take that! And to answer your question, no…it’s not a language barrier. Believe me.
After I deliver his food (on a tray!), I go back to the kitchen to get an apple for myself and when I pass the dining area, he says, “Cucumber, Dineo. A little bit of cucumber, yes yes, nice” and so I go back, cut some cucumber, deliver it (Anything else, dear father?) and retreat to my room. Where I’ve stayed for the last hour.
Now, I could stand up against him and say, dare I say, “No,” or “Nnya”, but after my host sister from Joburg came down a couple of weekends ago and told me she learned to cook because her father (my dear host father) used to beat her when she didn’t cook him dinner after she came home from school. Ohh, says little me, that’s…interesting. The rebel in me says I should say no just to see what happens (curiosity killed the cat), but in the interest of staying on the good side (or, more precisely, the invisible side) of my Country Director, I’ll just deal with it. 2 more weeks. 2 more weeks.
Speaking of my country director, I should now pause and say, “Ke rata South Africa!” (I love South Africa!)
Sometimes I write and forget that I’m being monitored. Damn Patriot Act. So, if you see me on the streets of America in a couple of month’s time, you know why.
Honestly though, writing is definitely my avenue that helps me work through all this stuff. And, though I’ve been known to be against censorship (cough-still against censorship-cough), I can understand how my little itty-bitty blog can impact a potential Peace Corps applicant/trainee/invitee/whatever from being excited for South Africa or for the Peace Corps. Ok , I get it. I don’t want to discourage anyone. (Ke rata South Africa!) But, I do want to tell the truth about my experience here.
So, I’ll end this and go to bed on a quote from a fellow trainee that I was advised to include on my blog after a “negative” post: “Despite all this, I’m still here!”
Poetic, I know. True just the same. I’m sticking around for another day.
Goodnight
Monday, March 9, 2009
Ga ke rate censorship (I don't like censorship)
(Editor's Note: These posts for the next month might be posted after they are written due to unreliable internet connection. This post is from March 1, 2009)
Hey ya’ll,
So it’s closing in on a month since I’ve been gone. Woo. One month down, 25 to go. Haha. It’s very different and very much exactly what I expected it to be. Does that make any sense?
I know we should be grateful to be able to get to the phones every couple of days and have some access to computers, but still, I feel really disconnected to the outside world. I even feel disconnected to the rest of South Africa outside of our little bubble of Seabe (the village I live in, which means “contributed to someone’s death”) and Marapyane (which is where the college that we have training at is). My family, surprisingly, has a TV and although the news plays every couple of hours and I watch it in Setswana and in English, I still only seem to get a very tiny bit of what’s going on around the country and the world.
I have gotten into a “soapie” called Generations that is on every night. It’s really trashy just like all American soaps. It’s my bonding time with my host sister-in-law. She’s pretty funny and tries to get me to understand all the background to the characters. There’s a chick on it that has the same name as my South African name, “Dineo,” which means gift in Setswana. It’s funny cause Dineo is really dumb, and, of course, married to an old guy who just had a stroke so now she’s sleeping with his son (who’s 30.) But at least she’s pretty. Haha.
Besides trashy SA television, I’ve learned so much about the South African culture. Like I’ve expressed to my Mum and Dad, I’ve learned the hard way about the importance of gender roles in SA when my host father told me to cook him dinner when my host sister was away one weekend. Of course those weren’t his direct words….I think what happened was my host mum called me: “DIIIINNNEEEOOO…..DIIIJJJOOOO!” Then when I came out of my room (5 inches away from where she was yelling) she kept saying, “Dijo, dijo…” and making the eating motion with her hands. Luckily, I pay attention in class and told her I wasn’t hungry, but that didn’t fly so I made food for everyone anyway. After that I’ve been “forced” to cook random things (usually beans and eggs cause that’s all we ever have in the house) a couple of times whenever my host sister-in-law is away.
It’s hard for me to see the clear and definite division between male and female roles because I’m very much not a traditional type of girl. Some of it is my inner rebel telling me that I don’t want to have to do something just because I’m a girl and the other part of me thinks that there should be a choice, which, most of the time, I don’t think there is.
I try very hard to be more obedient and to pick my battles wisely. I know that my family is awesome for letting me stay with them for two months and most of the time they just let me do my own thing so I just take it in stride.
So…speaking of picking my battles…
Good ol’ Uncle Sam is now feeding me and since I technically “work” for him now, there are new rules to my life…and to this blog. Boo. Yes, the Peace Corps is making me CENSOR my blog. Tragic, I know. It’s possible that I could have known this way before I came and been possibly smarter about some choices I made, but...I was much to busy to read the handbook so I just found out at staging. So what does all this mean?
I have to take the Peace Corps logo off my page.
I have to give the url to my country director and my blog is going to be “monitored” for unsatisfactory material.
I have to put a disclaimer at the bottom of my page saying, “The contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps.” (Hahaha, well….duh.)
I have to be “culturally sensitive” with any content published on my site: “Volunteer-posted material should not embarrass or reflect poorly on the Peace Corps or on the countries where volunteers serve.” So…no bad talking about Kenya or Romania, but apparently, I can trash talk Cuba and Mexico all I want. Interesting.
So what all this means to you, dear reader, is that if you know me, and you read something that sounds unlike me, it’s probably based on these policies that I am now forced to comply with. And I would say that I could tell you in an email how I really feel about something, but apparently, the Patriot Act says that the government, and subsequently the Peace Corps, can monitor those as well. So I’ll just send you a pigeon. Monitor that, America! Ha.
Anyway….on a more serious note…I’m trying my hardest to adjust and it’s definitely a choice everyday to go straight into my room when I get home in the evenings or to socialize with my host family and with the neighbors. I have gotten used to spending the last hour or so of sunlight after I get home just drinking some tea, reading a book, eating a guava I picked from the backyard, and watching the sunset from my host family’s porch. It’s very beautiful and calming.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to some things, but I know that I can definitely learn from the simpleness of the culture around here. It’s slower, calmer, and more genuine in some ways and I definitely think Americans can learn a little about that from South Africa.
Sala Sentle.
Hey ya’ll,
So it’s closing in on a month since I’ve been gone. Woo. One month down, 25 to go. Haha. It’s very different and very much exactly what I expected it to be. Does that make any sense?
I know we should be grateful to be able to get to the phones every couple of days and have some access to computers, but still, I feel really disconnected to the outside world. I even feel disconnected to the rest of South Africa outside of our little bubble of Seabe (the village I live in, which means “contributed to someone’s death”) and Marapyane (which is where the college that we have training at is). My family, surprisingly, has a TV and although the news plays every couple of hours and I watch it in Setswana and in English, I still only seem to get a very tiny bit of what’s going on around the country and the world.
I have gotten into a “soapie” called Generations that is on every night. It’s really trashy just like all American soaps. It’s my bonding time with my host sister-in-law. She’s pretty funny and tries to get me to understand all the background to the characters. There’s a chick on it that has the same name as my South African name, “Dineo,” which means gift in Setswana. It’s funny cause Dineo is really dumb, and, of course, married to an old guy who just had a stroke so now she’s sleeping with his son (who’s 30.) But at least she’s pretty. Haha.
Besides trashy SA television, I’ve learned so much about the South African culture. Like I’ve expressed to my Mum and Dad, I’ve learned the hard way about the importance of gender roles in SA when my host father told me to cook him dinner when my host sister was away one weekend. Of course those weren’t his direct words….I think what happened was my host mum called me: “DIIIINNNEEEOOO…..DIIIJJJOOOO!” Then when I came out of my room (5 inches away from where she was yelling) she kept saying, “Dijo, dijo…” and making the eating motion with her hands. Luckily, I pay attention in class and told her I wasn’t hungry, but that didn’t fly so I made food for everyone anyway. After that I’ve been “forced” to cook random things (usually beans and eggs cause that’s all we ever have in the house) a couple of times whenever my host sister-in-law is away.
It’s hard for me to see the clear and definite division between male and female roles because I’m very much not a traditional type of girl. Some of it is my inner rebel telling me that I don’t want to have to do something just because I’m a girl and the other part of me thinks that there should be a choice, which, most of the time, I don’t think there is.
I try very hard to be more obedient and to pick my battles wisely. I know that my family is awesome for letting me stay with them for two months and most of the time they just let me do my own thing so I just take it in stride.
So…speaking of picking my battles…
Good ol’ Uncle Sam is now feeding me and since I technically “work” for him now, there are new rules to my life…and to this blog. Boo. Yes, the Peace Corps is making me CENSOR my blog. Tragic, I know. It’s possible that I could have known this way before I came and been possibly smarter about some choices I made, but...I was much to busy to read the handbook so I just found out at staging. So what does all this mean?
I have to take the Peace Corps logo off my page.
I have to give the url to my country director and my blog is going to be “monitored” for unsatisfactory material.
I have to put a disclaimer at the bottom of my page saying, “The contents of this website are mine personally and do not reflect any position of the U.S. government or the Peace Corps.” (Hahaha, well….duh.)
I have to be “culturally sensitive” with any content published on my site: “Volunteer-posted material should not embarrass or reflect poorly on the Peace Corps or on the countries where volunteers serve.” So…no bad talking about Kenya or Romania, but apparently, I can trash talk Cuba and Mexico all I want. Interesting.
So what all this means to you, dear reader, is that if you know me, and you read something that sounds unlike me, it’s probably based on these policies that I am now forced to comply with. And I would say that I could tell you in an email how I really feel about something, but apparently, the Patriot Act says that the government, and subsequently the Peace Corps, can monitor those as well. So I’ll just send you a pigeon. Monitor that, America! Ha.
Anyway….on a more serious note…I’m trying my hardest to adjust and it’s definitely a choice everyday to go straight into my room when I get home in the evenings or to socialize with my host family and with the neighbors. I have gotten used to spending the last hour or so of sunlight after I get home just drinking some tea, reading a book, eating a guava I picked from the backyard, and watching the sunset from my host family’s porch. It’s very beautiful and calming.
I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to some things, but I know that I can definitely learn from the simpleness of the culture around here. It’s slower, calmer, and more genuine in some ways and I definitely think Americans can learn a little about that from South Africa.
Sala Sentle.
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