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
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