Ke nna Dineo.

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.