Everything I need to know I learned in South Africa.

1. Subtlety is overrated. Why beat around the bush when it’s easier (and faster) to just tell people what you want/think/feel/need. Example number one: “You’re fat.” Example number two: “Give me 50 rand.”
2. Towels are underrated. Westerns may think towels are only needed when wet situations may occur (or when at the beach) but alas! They can be so much more. They can be used to carry your baby on your back, as a door mat, or even as a skirt if you don’t have one handy and would like to make a very cool (read: strange) fasion statement.
3. Life is simpler with no hair. At the local schools, children are required to keep their hair a certain length which is usually borderline bald. It cuts down on lice issues and creates a fun game for me where I try to decide if a child is a boy or a girl. It’s a girl! It’s a boy! Eish! I give up. Just tell me. Even adults follow this philosophy. Many a woman keeps her hair very short. Even those that let it grow out a little cover it with a hat and say their hair is “too natural” to be seen.
4. The “everyone poops” law of life doesn’t really apply to everyone. It started as a joke between my friend and me but recently since I’ve been on school break I’ve begun to think this is true: My host ma never goes to the toilet! The pit toilet is close to my room and the door is loud and can often be heard opening/shutting and I have never seen her go in or out. I would ask her directly (see item 1) but I feel our relationship is not quite good enough for me to ask, “Hey ma, do you poop?” quite yet. Although I do believe asking such questions will finally warrant those weird looks she already gives me sans strange questions.
5. Planning for the future is just plain silly. This statement is proven by the way South Africans build their houses, South African condom usage, food choices, and alcohol use. Today I will eat 2000 calories in one sitting of pure fat (washed down with three beers) and my tummy won’t be hungry anymore. Period. Who cares if I die from heart disease or liver failure in a couple of years leaving my family in poverty in a house that’s falling apart. The future is that: the future. I’ll worry about it when I get there.
6. When the temperature drops below 70 degrees put on all the clothes you own, wrap a towel or blanket around your waist and complain about how cold it is until the temperature rises again. Oh, wait…I already do this. Moving on…
7. You can live on pap and meat your whole life. What did you have for lunch? Pap and meat. What did you have for dinner? Pap and meat. What will you eat tomorrow? Pap and meat. I don’t know…seems a little dull to me even though it must make grocery shopping a snap.
8. If the person is younger and smaller than you they’re probably not worth paying attention to. Actually, they would be completely useless if there wasn’t that nifty little government childcare check that comes in the mail every month and the fact that after a certain age, they become your very own personal servant! Woo.
9. Thank yous and byes are frivolous statements that have no place in everyday conversation. Well now that I think about it, so are “pleases” and “excuse mes”…and toothbrushes…and hair combs…and savings accounts…and most vegetables.
10. You may have no job, live with your mother (at 30), have five illegitimate kids with five different “wives,” no teeth and no job, but you’re still hot stuff and you should ask every girl out because damn it, she wants you. Um, where do I begin?
    

Currently listening to: Where’d you go? by Fort Minor

Currently reading: You are not a stranger here by Adam Haslett

It's not messy, it's lived in.

I recently received pictures from my brother showing off his apartment in Alaska. He's in the military and judging by his digs, working for the government has been pretty good to him. I like to think that I kinda work for the government too. In the oath we took when I officially became a volunteer, I remember there being something about "protecting the U.S. from enemies foreign and domestic" or something like that. And have you seen the silly disclaimer I'm required to have at the bottom of my blog? Yeah, that's for the MAN (as my brother so appropriately refers to the government).
So following my dear brother's example, I have taken some photos around my African Box (aka my room) to show you how I live it up here in my Itty-bitty Village in rural South Africa.



This is the outside view of my room. It's behind the main house and attached to the car port. I have two windows and a red door frame. Behind it, you can vaguely see my tin pit toilet. Yay.



This is the view from the door. Um, this one picture shows about 80% of my room. Ha. And you wondered why I called it a box... Oh, I thought about cleaning but....eh, cleaning is overrated.



This is the "bedroom" part of my room. My bed is always unmade. It's a religious thing. Anyway, the green thing above my bed is my mosquito net in "winter mode" since the skeeters don't come out in winter. You can't really see it, but the black bucket between my wardrobe and my bed is my bathing bucket where much deep pondering is done. Sorta. Behind it is my chamber pot for....well, emergencies.


Five steps from my "bedroom" is my "kitchen." Some call it efficient. Here is my fridge that regularly tries to kill me. The black cord behind it is my electricity. My hot plate/oven is where I cook my food. It has one temperature: hot. So when a recipe tells me to "turn down the heat" I just laugh and blow on it a little. Whatev. It's Africa. My oven smokes when I try to bake in it, but oh well. It usually comes out tasty anyway. The black bucket by my fridge is where I wash dishes and the red bucket underneath it is where I keep my daily water that I pull from the tap in the backyard in the morning.



Between my "bedroom" and "kitchen" is my "office." I used to have a TV on the little black table but my fridge killed it so now it's just where I put my junk. My office also doubles as a dining room.



This is the view from the window towards my door. My hamper doubles as a rack for the bucket that I use to wash my face/hands. I post recipes on the back of my door for inspiration. I can't/don't attempt to cook them here because they're mostly from UK/US magazines and the ingredients can't be found here or afforded on my budget. One day I will cook them and they will be delicious. One day...

So, what do you think?

So you want an adventure? Take a taxi.

I’ve traveled a lot. I’ve been in Europe, Australia, Central America, Asia. I’ve noticed that no matter where I go, one of the most interesting parts of discovering a new country is the means of transportation one takes to get around. In Europe, I’m a fan of the train. I love trains. I fell in love with the rail line when I first visited Italy and took a train with my brother on Thanksgiving Day to Florence from Rome. It was that trip that we sat on these awful little seats reserved for overflow. I remember a really hot Italian guy sat across from me and even from where I was sitting, I could smell how delicious he smelled. I was so enamored with him that even after his luggage that he had poorly stored in the compartment above my head fell onto me and gave me a headache that would bother me for the next two awful, cold, rainy days, I would still only remember his smile and the sexy “sorry” he uttered to me. Wait! Quick pause to remember. Ahhh…

Since then, I’ve traveled by different means and often there is not a hot Italian guy around to make the trip all better. Flights have been missed or delayed, trains have been canceled (Word to the wise: When in Europe, learn “train strike” in the local language. It will come in useful), and buses have been…well, as buses usually are: late or non-existent. Still, public transportation is a marvel to me and I use it whenever I can, even when I’m traveling in the States.

South Africa, maybe just because I’ve spent a considerable amount of time here, is its own story. In May I visited a backpacker (aka hostel) and was reading through the info pack provided in the room and under “Transportation” it said that under no circumstances should public taxis be used as transportation. I think I remember the words: Extremely Dangerous. In bold.

I pondered this. Yes, I can see how this title might be warranted. I remember this one time I was on a taxi and did the unthinkable thing of looking over at the driver’s seat. The first thing I noticed was that there was no stick thingy on the speedometer. Well, ok, my Dad used to have a car that didn’t have a stick thingy on his speedometer. Not a huge deal. You just go about the same speed as everyone else and you’ll be fine, right? Then I noticed that there was a considerable break in the dashboard like someone had hit it with a baseball bat and the area around it was really dirty. The driver had to kind of tilt his head out the window to see the road.

After I studied him for a second, I noticed that there were no mirrors. No rearview mirror, no side mirrors. Well, I guess those aren’t really necessary. Lastly, I saw that he was balancing a beer between his thighs. Hm, ok. Now that’s probably not cool. I know the U.S. has a lot of stupid road rules, but not driving while drinking probably isn’t one of them.

Actually, it was kinda funny the way he was doing it. He would look out the front window then do a squinty thing with his eyes, then stick his head out the window. I guess to verify if he really saw whatever he thinks he saw through the window. When he would determine what it was, he would take a swig of beer and then repeat. Come’on…that’s funny!

I decided after that ride not to look anymore. Ignorance is bliss, right?

In training our really fun safety and security officer told us to be wary of public taxis. He couldn’t tell us not to take them. In the rural areas, taxis are the only way to get around. He gave us a nifty way of checking to see if a taxi was worthy. First, check the tires. If the tires have no tread, it’s no good. Second, check to make sure the door closes properly; you wouldn’t want to fly out while a taking a curve at a high rate of speed, now would you? And lastly, check to see if the driver is drunk. Ah, thought me in training a month before I would ever get on a taxi, swell advice dear Gert!

However, since getting on more than my share of taxis since then, I realize the unfeasibility of these rules. First, all tires have no tread. It’s a fact. If you find a taxi with one tire with good tread it’s probably because the last one just blew out on the last run. I’ve been on taxis that have had tires blow out. Actually, twice. It’s a process every one is familiar with. One minute you’re driving along at roller coaster speeds (Weeee!) then all of a sudden you hear a pop and see rubber flying. The whole taxi gathers their things and makes their way off the taxi. The men ponder… wait, ponder is too strong a word, stare is more accurate… at the tire as if wondering if it’s really necessary to change the tire. When they realize that it is necessary, one of the men gets to work at getting the spare tire out and the others concentrate on lifting the bus, which looks very much like a VW bus but with more windows and slightly bigger. After about thirty minutes (smoke breaks included) the taxi is about as good as its going to get and everyone re-boards and bam. Back to business!

Secondly, the door thing is just simply a silly thing to worry about. If the door doesn’t close all the way (which it often doesn’t) you just sit closer to the opposite window and find something to hold on to. Ta-da! No worries.

One might be annoyed at the inconvenience of being driven around in unsafe vehicles. I get it. But instead of being scared or annoyed by taxi drivers (and taxis in general), I’ve decided to spend much time trying to understand them and therefore ride them whenever possible. Who needs safety when you can have adventure?

A typical taxi experience goes like this:

If I want to catch a taxi on the tar road a couple of yards from my house to visit my friends a few villages over, I stand on the side of the road in the direction I want to go and when I see an approaching taxi, I point downwards which is the signal for local. If I want to go to the closest city, in my case, Pretoria, I can either point straight up (I’m number one!) or put my fist up in the air (Power to the people!). I’ve seen people just point in the direction that they want to go (That way, please), which is really funny to see and I think is only used in the cities. Sometimes the drivers mock the signal in which they’re going so it looks especially funny because they usually stick their head out the window whilst they do it. So a taxi going to city might look to a foreigner like a political statement but really isn’t. There are also motions for train station (chuga-chuga with your arm) and bus station but I really don’t use those.

Anyway, a taxi is hailed, I quickly monitor the situation. First, sitting in the front passenger seat is probably not the best option if you’re alone and if you’re a girl unless you know the driver and have already turned his proposal down. Second, if the front row is taken, it’s best to take the second or third, but never the back. The back is bumpy and is most likely to contain the village drunks ready and willing to wake up from their alcohol coma as soon as they smell a foreigner. Speaking of smell, that’s another reason to stay away from the back seat as well. Drunks smell.

Quickly, I make a decision, get into the seat that’s best in the whole five seconds I had to ponder the situation, and off the taxi goes, usually before I can completely slide the door closed. The first thing I say is hello to the taxi. The person closest to me will usually respond and everyone else will stare as I get settled. There isn’t much room so usually I’ll see women piled under grocery bags, tires, baskets, chickens, etc. Believe me, after a while, you stop getting surprised at what people want to bring onto taxis. I’ve seen it all.

Once I get settled, I pull out my money to pay the driver. There is no meter, no price listings. You just have to know. I’ve memorized how much it costs to get around my area of Mpumalanga/Limpopo. It’s knowledge you slowly acquire for survival. So, after my money is arranged, I tap the woman in front of me, say, “One, Pankop (my village) to Mmametlhake (my friend’s village)” and shove my money at her. This may seem rude to some, but it’s routine. Sometimes because of my accent, she’ll verify what I’ve said and I say yes then she passes the money and message on to the driver who collects the money, counts out change and slowly, the change gets passed back to me. At first I was wary of this. How can you trust that 19 strangers aren’t going to pocket your money? Well, because taxi drivers are kinda like the mafia and you don’t piss off the mafia. You just pass the money and mind your own business.

So now that I’ve gotten a taxi and have paid my fare, I wait. About every five seconds the taxi stops to either pick someone up or let some one off. This is usually a long process. If you got on at a Taxi Rank (which is like a makeshift bus terminal where a lot of taxis gather to take people to different places) chances are you’re already at capacity people wise and over capacity with goods. However, because the taxi driver wants to make a good profit from the trip, he will usually stop a time or two to add one or two more. Now this is where things get really interesting. Little kids usually know to climb onto their mother’s laps but once that is done, there is just much squeezing to be done. Squeezing becomes nearly impossible when you already have 20, um, hefty African women on the taxi. But somehow people can make it possible to add two more. Often you’re handed a random baby or a package to hold while the person gets on or off. It’s an amazing feat that usually ends up with someone’s butt pressed up against the window. I’ve been in a taxi that had a capacity limit posted on the door of 15 and we had 22. Drivers love this. It’s probably a drinking story for later, “Hey man, I fit 22 in my taxi today, how many did you do?”

The waiting continues as the taxi trudges along. A five-mile ride might turn into thirty minutes if you get a taxi driver that’s a little more drunk than most and who stops to talk to every passing taxi on the way. It happens. A lot of the time, taxi drivers will convene in the middle of nowhere and after a moment of talking, will come back to the taxi and tell everyone to move into a different taxi. Once I took a taxi into my shopping town and was the only one on the taxi with the taxi driver and his friend. On the way he kept asking me where I was going and I kept telling him. In the course of the ride that should have taken 30 minutes, he stops to get a newspaper, talk to someone on the street, and get his mail from a village that wasn’t even on the way. Then, he tried to take me to a village that I’d never been to in order to get another taxi to take me to my shopping town. After much arguing he took me the whole way but not before picking up some drunks on the way. Finally we got into my shopping village an hour later, but then just as we were taking the last stop before the taxi rank, the taxi broke down and the guys all had to jump out and push it the last couple of yards. Karma’s a bitch.

When I finally get to my stop, I shout “SHORT LEFT!” and since nobody can understand my silly “accent” or the taxi drivers just think its funny to ignore the non-black girl in the taxi, everybody in the taxi usually has to say stuff to the driver in order for him to stop long enough for me to get off.

I once met this taxi driver named Peter who I admired who took me, 50 children, and three other adults to a youth conference. When we first got picked up, one of the adults started yelling at him for being late and because this is Africa and there’s no such thing as “the customer is always right,” he yelled back at her. When we finally boarded all the children and adults into three taxis, we set off to a near-by gas station to refill before the trip. The kids immediately began shaking the taxi by jumping up and down and screaming/singing at the top of their lungs. When we got to the gas station, I thought he’d say something to the children to stop shaking the taxi, but instead he just opened the gas tank and let the attendant fill the tank. The whole way there, even though the screaming/singing/shaking continued, he didn’t say anything. Just kept going. After the conference just as the sun went down, we were on our way back when he turned and suddenly there was a girl in a car going the wrong way on his side of the road. She didn’t swerve out of the way but just stopped. We nearly hit her and I said to him, “Crazy drivers. What was she thinking?” and he just shrugged and said he’s seen worse. And that was it. No near panic attack or anything.

And that made me think of all the things that these taxi drivers put up with. The road conditions always suck since the South African road authority think that putting a sign that says “Bumps Ahead” is better than actually fixing pot holes and since goats and cows run amuck there are always random stops and swerves to move around cows in the road.

It would probably drive me to drinking and driving too. Ha. Maybe.

I hope Peace Corps pays for therapy.

As I was sitting in my bucket today, bathing, I couldn’t help but reflect on these last five months in Africa.

On close inspection of my body, I see that I’ve remained pretty intact. Though some of my friends have acquired new and strange Africa-induced disorders and complexes, I’ve remained, though a little more hairy than my real American self, pretty much the same. No significant weight loss or weight gain despite my co-workers telling me every week that I’m either getting fat (which South Africans say with no sugar coating, simply a “You’re getting fat!” is deemed appropriate here, something I thoroughly hate) or losing weight and should wear tighter skirts. It makes no sense to me; one comment or the other is never consistent enough to create a real complex, luckily. Although, I will admit, when my co-workers at school tell me I’ve gained weight, I do say, “I was just thinking the same about you.” Smile.

It’s the worst I can do, and God forgive me, I do feel guilty because as a Western woman, I think that being told your fat is good cause to find the nearest cliff and hurl yourself off it, and would never encourage such behavior but my, these strong African women! Geez. Even when I come back with a comment that my high school teachers would deem “full of attitude” I only get a laugh and a, “Oh Dineo…” and then the woman that I’ve just told that to continues to stuff her mouth with white bread, pap or another equally as bad-for-you food item that is so popular around here. I, on the other hand, usually lose my appetite for at least an hour before I completely rebound and remember that my jeans still fit the same.

Now, as for the state of my mental health, that’s a different discussion. Depending on whom you ask, some might have deemed me a little “different” before embarking on my Peace Corps adventure, but now, there may be more that may deem me so. Sometimes I wonder why my friends are always saying, “You’re crazy.” I thought they were just playing around, but when a lot of people from different circles begin to tell you that, you have to begin to wonder the truth behind it. It’s a strange phenomenon. Perhaps trying to help others makes one crazy? Hmm, I wonder if there’s been any research in the field…

Whilst in training, I was given this graph to plot my overall feeling for the week. It ranges from 0 (completely crappy, suicide watch necessary) to 10 (orgasmic week of smiles and rainbows). I pretty much ignored charting my feelings during training. I figured that consistent 2’s or 3’s would make me doubt my commitment to this project, even though I know that I’m just a really bad trainer. And culture shock. When in doubt, blame culture shock. Works every time.

But recently when looking through all the crap (I mean, resources) I was given during training, I found the chart and ceremoniously posted it on my fridge for future pondering. I had graphed the first few weeks at site between a 4-6 on the scale. Wow, I’m thinking to myself now, how optimistic I once was! I’m proud of myself and now want to keep the chart as-is to remind myself that at one point things weren’t so ­­­­_____ (well let’s just keep that blank for sake of the Peace Corps watchdogs).

So now, as I sit in my bucket, I ponder my life in Africa. I’ve met people that I’ve liked and have met people that I’ve disliked. I’ve done things that have been enjoyable and things that have been not so enjoyable. Such as life, right? I’ve discovered that life in the Peace Corps is, in a lot of ways, indescribable to outsiders (sorry to classify you as such, but stick with me here). There are many words that I can use to describe The Peace Corps Experience, but those would be my words and not the words of the whole and besides, nobody pre-Africa would have classified me necessarily as an optimist. So you should probably take my comments in stride.

However, judging The Experience on what I consider a “normal” scale would be unfair. There are so many new and different factors that you have to consider, the infamous culture shock being one of them. I can’t rate my life here on the same scale as I could have this time last year. I can’t say to myself, “Self, this time last year you (I) would rate satisfaction at a 7.85 but this year I can only rate it at a 3.” I can’t (shouldn’t) think my life is in shambles and that I’m on a downward spiral leading to a deep and dark depression, but think, “Well, self, last year you were in America surrounded by a culture you understood, making real money that your friends didn’t laugh at, and had a dog, apartment (with a shower!) and boyfriend (read: independence).” And this year? Well, this is the year where I literally run away from strangers proposing marriage to me, consider TB/parasites to be a real threat, often have no idea what anybody is talking about because they talk in some weird alien language that I just barely realized even existed let alone began learning, oh! And, have no dog or boyfriend within 10,000 miles. So yeah, things shouldn’t be compared.

To combat my downward spiral inevitably leading to depression, lots of alcohol and woeful emails to friends and family about the suckiness of my current African life (which may or may not have already commenced), I’ve begun to try to think of my life on a new “Peace Corps-rrific” scale where every week is relative to the week preceding it. Instead of thinking, “Last year I was happier,” I simply think, “Hey, this week was better than last week!” And alas, I feel a bit more ready to move on to the next week. I guess this could eventually lead to issues if I have a series of bad weeks, but I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.

Also, I’ve begun thinking about things that I’ve gained….hmm, ok, maybe I shouldn’t think about that.

I’ve decided what is not good for my African self. Alcohol for one, I found out on the plane leaving New York, makes me depressed and therefore should try to be avoided. Check. That’s an easy one since alcohol consumption is basically not recommended in the village. Two, Facebook should be limit to a certain time frame and images should always be off. I don’t know when all my friends decided to start getting engaged and married, but I hate that it happened when I’m in Africa. Seriously, ya’ll, couldn’t you have waited a year or two? Now that I know that these “happy” (ok, so I’m a little bitter, whatev) moments won’t cease till I’m about 40, I guess I have to learn to deal with it. Or at least find a better way to fight the urge to de-friend someone simply because they put up engagement photos or updated their relationship status. Right? It’s a work in progress.

And finally, three, Peace Corps propaganda (yes, it’s propaganda) should be avoided. I’ve realized that though at one point seeing those nifty posters in airport terminals or commercials on TV telling you that “Life is Calling” were once inspiring and motivated me to continue my application process, they now anger me and force me to spew a series of not-so-nice words that my grandmother probably would not be pleased to hear. I wonder if army soldiers feel the same way about those heartfelt “Army of One” (or whatever the tagline for that is now) commercials. I know the government does a lot more brainwashing (I mean, training) of soldiers than we get, so maybe they’re numb. But, alas, I am not. And now have realized these posters, news stores, and websites should be avoided.

I have to be grateful about some things too. My boyfriend has stuck with me (he’s obviously equally as crazy) and my parents and friends have been a constant support for me on my good and bad days. They try to understand my new African life and my ever-changing emotions.

My life has slowed down so much since I’ve been in my itty-bitty village. I actually have time to read books (I average about one a week) and learn to cook. Since I have no real social life in the village, I end up spending a lot of time thinking, which may or may not be a good thing, but it’s gotten me to ponder some more serious things about life like love and religion.

So that’s where I stand now. The one thing I have realized is true that I read previously in Peace Corps literature is that this is a hard job. It’s not always fun and not always as rewarding as the propaganda says it should be, but at the very least, I’ll know a little more about what I can and cannot handle.

I guess we’ll just have to find out together how my Peace Corps story ends…

Current Book: The Shopenhauer Cure; Irvin D. Yalom

Current Song: Taller, Stronger, Better; Guy Sebastian

The day the numbers stopped being just numbers

Today someone really close to me was diagnosed with HIV.

It was a day like any other off day. I’d spent the day seeking solace from the weather in my room and was nursing a cup of tea and thinking of resigning to my bed when I hear a knock on my door. On the other side was the person that I will call Spencer. “Give me a hug, Dineo,” Spencer says as she walks into my room. I give her a hug and we sit down on my bed. This happens at least every other night, so when she begins speaking, I have no idea what she’s about to say.

“I was in Pretoria today,” Spencer begins. She tells me of taking tests in order to join the military. She says she had to take an aptitude test, a urine test, and many other tests. She says it in her normal Spencer way and I laugh along with her at all the right spots. And then she says something else:

Spencer: And I had to take an HIV test…

Me: Oh, really? I guess that’s logical considering every other test they made you take.

Spencer: Yeah, the last time I was tested was in September and I’ve been with the same guy since then so I thought it was a mistake when they told me I was positive.

Me: …..

What can I say? She didn’t say it in alarm. She even laughed a little while she said it. I was confused. I waited for a punch line for a moment but none came. She went on after a moment when I couldn’t think anything to say. Surely, it was a mistake and it was cleared up, given the way she announced it. So I continued to wait for the mistake that would unfold, everyone would laugh, Spencer would be relieved, then she would come home to Pankop and tell me this story of how she was HIV positive for a few minutes.

But when she continued, that was not the story she told.

Instead, she told me that the nurse who had taken the test sat her down and asked her about her love life. She said that she had only been with two men and that she used protection. She said the nurse gave her some papers and advised her to have a lab test to be certain. Spencer was confused and in a state of denial when she walked out of the nurses office.

A girl about her age, who had been before her in the line waiting for the nurse, had told her of her promiscuous ways. She said she had slept with many men and never had used protection. “Ah, I don’t really care. I make the men I’m with withdraw (the African term for pulling out) so I won’t get infected,” she had told Spencer less than fifteen minutes before. When she left the office before Spencer went in, she bragged about being negative.

And now Spencer sat beside her, a minute after being told that she’s positive, and endured more sex stories from this girl. “I couldn’t take it, Dineo!” she tells me now. She says the girl asked for her results and Spencer told her. A brave move, I think. The girl stayed quiet for a moment, Spencer tells me, but then she made up her mind that Spencer was lying and told Spencer that she should be on Generations. “You’re such an actor!” the girl proclaimed and though Spencer says she tried repeatedly to tell her the truth, Spencer failed to get through to her.

I try to ask her what the nurse said to her; I asked her how she feels now, what she did when she left the office. I didn’t want to pry, but I was confused and concerned at how unemotional she seemed by everything. But she told me she cried. She told me she ended up yelling at the sex-driven girl and when she was hit on later at the taxi rank by a stranger on her way home, she had gone off on him, “I’m positive! Do you still think I’m beautiful?” She says she felt like it was written all over her, like a bright neon arrow was following her around atop her head stating her status, “HIV Positive. Stay Away.”

I begin to find my words when I realize the truth myself. I tell her I’m sorry. I say that she’s young and that there are so many things to help her cope with this. I tell her that she can still do all the things she wanted to do in life, before she knew. She can live still.

I’m saying all this, yet, I’m scared for her. She’s 19 and the closest South African to me, literally and figuratively. She hasn’t even lived yet. She hasn’t been to college; she hasn’t traveled outside the immediate area. And she’s still so pretty and full of life. I’m scared by the facts that I know all too well. I don’t want to scare her. I think back to the conversation we had on Sunday when we were talking about marriage and the future. She wants kids, she wants to get married. And, she’s been telling me since March, when I met her, that she wants to study in America.

“I can’t go to America anymore,” she says as her eyes well up with tears.

I know why she says this and though I try to ignore the image in my head of that immigration form that you have to fill out when you enter the country with its seemingly innocent question, “Do you have an illness of significant public health concern?” I remember the Soul City (a night time drama dealing with HIV) episode where a high school senior gets diagnosed with HIV and is therefore denied a student visa into the U.S. I know that things are changing in America, and that now HIV-positive people are able to get a 30-day visitor visa, but student visas? Maybe that would be stretching it. Even now, all the information I see online says that student visas aren’t granted to those living with HIV.

(Get more information about different countries’ HIV restrictions here: http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/view/104722)

Despite everything, she amazes me. I wonder how she got so much courage so quickly. I know that I would be a ball in my bed if I were told such news. I wouldn’t see the light of day for a week and would not speak to anyone until I have mourned and would definitely not be brave enough to tell the sex-driven ignorant stranger next to me the truth. I would probably kick her instead. Of course, this is coming from me, a person who can make something trivial seem tragic.

But not Spencer. It’s been less than 6 hours since she found out and she’s already told her friends, her boyfriend (who still won’t admit to cheating), her mother, and me. She worries about what her sister who will say. “She’ll yell at me,” Spencer says. “All she’ll talk to me about is sex. She’ll want to know why I’ve been sleeping around.” She says her boyfriend doesn’t want to get tested. She thinks he already knows and just never told her.

Undeterred by her crap-ass boyfriend, and even more amazingly, she tells me she wants to continue talking about it to people. She says she wants to help me develop my life skills program I’m presenting to the local schools and speak to the students about HIV. She wants to show them that it happens to people like them. She says she never listened to the people that talked to her when she was still in school. She says the severity of the epidemic didn’t register to her coming from an old woman, an outsider, but she says, it might if she is able to go and show them that it happens to pretty, young, smart girls too. I agree. I can tell these teens all the facts, and though I’m a little bit of a celebrity in my Itty-Bitty Village, I’m not infected; I’m an outsider. But, maybe they’ll listen to her. I hope they listen to her. She may be the best tool in my tool box, if she’s ready and willing.

Despite everything, she’s still upbeat whilst talking to me. She looks in the mirror a couple of times during our talk and says, “I don’t look any different….” I know it’s still hitting her, slowly. Her CD4 count is high still and she’s healthy, but how long will that last?

Throughout it all, I stay optimistic and try to assure her that there’s so much more hope than there was ten years ago. Optimism is a new trend for the African me who has been a perpetual party pooper since landing in South Africa, but what other option is there? Before she leaves she tells me that from now on, she’ll count her years: One year with HIV, two years with HIV…and as I begin to lose my brief visit with optimism, she smiles and says, “Maybe they will find a cure.”

“I hope so,” I tell her. I hope so.

The problem with obedience

“Ubuntu” is a big word around here. Everyone is always complaining about how nobody abides by Ubuntu anymore and thus, South Africa is going down into the pits. I’m trying to think of the easiest way to explain Ubuntu, but I’ve come across many different definitions. At first I thought it was a pretty cool concept when I was first introduced to Ubuntu; I was told that it was about culture/tradition, unity, courtesy and respect, among other terms. I was like, hot damn. Now this is a cool word. In English we don’t have such a word that can bring all these terms into one concise concept: Ubuntu. I think the group that I trained with was all so excited with this term that we even put it on our group shirts. Ubuntu: I am because you are. Ahh, cue the sentimental music.

However, as I struggled through training and now at my site, I’m learning that this idealistic definition isn’t really what Ubuntu is about. It’s about obedience and at times, ignorance. I remember thinking when I first heard this “new” definition was at a Ndebele tribal meeting/church gathering thing that my training group was sent to in order to meet the Ndebele king. It was an outside gathering of about 150 people. The women and men sat divided and some women sat on mats. Some men had cane like sticks and women were supposed to cover their heads with scarves or hats. And, the men sat under the good tree.

After the “ceremony,” which turned out to be nothing more than a queue of people individually going up to the mic and saying how many people from their area were going to attend this big Ndebele celebration in the next couple of weeks, we were put into a circle and was told that we would get to ask the Ndebele prince (the king never showed up) questions. So, we asked. I don’t remember what question was, but the prince answered at one point that Ubuntu was about tradition, obedience and not asking any questions. He was worried about the children and teenagers not following along with the Ndebele traditions and instead falling prey to Western ways.

Alas, I thought, this explains a lot. It explains why the women never questioned the fact that they were not to sit on chairs for so many years and only given mats. It explains why women have no rights when it comes to her husband, or basically anything. Being a woman from America, if something doesn’t make sense to me, I ask why. In South Africa, a woman quietly accepts and moves on.

The examples are all over South Africa. One doesn’t have to look hard to see that this definition of Ubuntu stands firm. Perhaps some may say that I’m selling the concept short and perhaps this “don’t question, just accept” philosophy isn’t Ubuntu at all, but instead just tradition. Plain and simple.

It makes me wonder if this is the reason why HIV is rampant in South Africa. The principal at the middle school that I was prisoner to today told me that many women know that their husbands aren’t coming home at night to sleep with them and they say nothing to their husbands. If you ignore it, it’s not a problem right? I was shocked. If my husband didn’t come home one night and he wasn’t freakin’ Santa Claus, I would for sure ask that little (insert bad word here) where he was. When I say this, in a PG way, to her, she laughs at me and says, “Oh Dineo, you can’t tell an African man what to do. It’s different.” I’m like, wait. So this is why only 6% percent of relationships are faithful in South Africa (a statistic I read about in a national SA magazine)? Is this why over 20% of adults are projected to have HIV? Freakin’ Ubuntu? Because a woman isn’t supposed to ask questions? Because it’s always been that way? Because a woman doesn’t know what she’d do without her husband? Because her father cheated on her mother and therefore it’s acceptable for her husband to cheat on her?

Excuse me, but fuck that.

I try really hard to remember that the people I meet here have not had the kind of education that I was lucky to have and have lived in a very different environment than I. I get it. I’m lucky. God bless America. But what am I supposed to do in these situations? Accept that this is just how it is and allow South Africa to continue? Until what? When is it going to be time to let “tradition” go and just accept that things are going to have to change?

I try to explain to her the theory of how promiscuity, especially in South Africa, has led to the spread of HIV. I say it in simple terms so she can understand and go on to brainstorm with her ideas why teenagers are still spreading the disease despite all the “good” information out there. She says the kids are so naughty. They have too much “attitude” and it’s hard to teach them. She motions to the noise in one of the classrooms and says, “See? They won’t just listen. They always have questions and are always talking to you about something. I just want them to be quiet and let me teach them.” Yes, the principal said this to me. So, I say, “So? Shouldn’t they have questions? Shouldn’t you want them to throw ideas off of you so you can help them process things better?” And she says she just can’t handle the new methods that the province is trying to make them use to teach the students. So then she tells me about the “road system” of teaching. It goes something like this:

To start a vegetable garden you need to first put the seeds in the ground. Wait for it to rain or water them. Then pick the vegetables.

So she explains this to me and though I don’t know (or because I don’t know) a lot about gardening I wonder how useful this information will be to me if I were to start a garden of my own. How do you know if the vegetables are ready? What about bugs? What time of the year do you plant different vegetables? Surely, if taught this way, students will have questions. But, in this method of teaching, there aren’t questions. It is what it is. I will tell you this, and you will take it and be happy that I have taught it to you because I am your teacher and you will respect me. Ok? And this is where all the students will say, in unison, “Yesssss, Ma’am.”

But that’s the way it works. I will tell you the way and you will follow it and that’ll be the way you get there. Like a road. Hence the name, “road system.” She says it’s the best way to teach, the only way she ever taught whilst a teacher. Oh, I pity her students.

So she takes me around to all the classes to introduce me to the students. Before we walk into a classroom, she tells me that we’re about to enter a classroom with the “naughtiest” children. When we walk in, all the students stand and greet her, “Helllllo, Missssss. How are you?” And she says, “Good, how are you?” And they say, “I’m good. How are you?” Which makes no sense, but I laugh and she reprimands them for not addressing me directly. So they do it again, “Hellloooo Missss Mashaba (my African last name) How are you?” And on it goes. I figure with them saying, “How are you” at the end, I could turn this into a fun game (for my own amusement because they obviously don’t quite understand), but decide to let it drop with a slight giggle.

After they sit, she tells me that these are the ninth graders and that there are the naughtiest class at the school. I say, “Wow, the naughtiest? That’s quite an honor. Did you guys get a plaque?” And they stare at me. Tough crowd. She says something about them not being ready for high school because they don’t know enough. The kids continue to stare at her with no word. We leave and continue to the next classes and it’s all the same. Have you ever seen that Pink Floyd music video for Another Brick in the Wall? The one where all the kids are put through a little machine and all come out the same on the other side of the conveyor belt. Alas, this is the perfect example of South Africa.

All in all you’re just another brick in the wall.
All in all you’re just another brick in the wall.

And that’s all it is. You’re an obedient child worthy of teaching, or you’re a naughty child. It’s not easier to be categorized either way. If you’re deemed good (aka obedient) you become a servant to the teachers. Today a teacher I was sitting with needed a cup to make some tea. She yells for a student to come from across the yard to get her a cup that was sitting on a table across the room from her. A total distance there and back of maybe 6 yards.

It’s almost disgusting how these children are used. I would wonder why they don’t say “No, fat (insert bad word here). Get it yourself.” But then I remember Ubuntu-taught obedience and it makes sense. It’s the cruelest caste system I’ve ever experienced. So I don’t wonder why the kids at my special school always beat up on the blind kid. If the men control the women and the women control the children and the children control the special kids then the special kids control the….blind kid? And perhaps if the blind kid could, he would be kicking the chickens around.

Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just another brick in the wall.
All in all you're just another brick in the wall.

"Wrong, Do it again!"
"If you don't eat yer meat, you can't have any pudding. How can you
have any pudding if you don't eat yer meat?"
"You! Yes, you behind the bike sheds, stand still laddy!"

The Real African Zoo

So it’s been a nearly two months at my site and I’m getting pretty used to things and, likewise, things (and people) are getting used to me. In a lot of ways, I’m grateful. I was way over the way people stare at me around the village at the shop and luckily, it seems like most guys have already asked to marry me so I’m getting less proposals, thankfully.

The one downside to this is at my school where I spend about two or three days a week. The educators have come to trust me (or find me as a relief educator) and often leave me alone with the kids while they do “important school-related things” (code phrase for sitting around drinking tea that they were too lazy to get for themselves so they had a student fetch for them). Now, at first this was ok. I could watch the kiddies as they ate their breakfast/lunch. I could even start them off in their prayer before they ate. I was pretty proud of myself, considering the kids don’t speak English and I barely speak Swana. However, now as the days progress, and as I’m assigned to spend full days alone with them, I feel more like I’ve been placed in a cage with what feels like 10 different kind of animals. Let me set the scene:

I walk into the junior class at 9 a.m. (where I’ve been placed on a daily occasion because the school can’t afford a teacher’s assistant) where ten special children who are seemingly so cute and adorable are seated around the two tables and lock the burglar door behind me which has a latch that is so high I can barely reach it. And yes, this locking of the door is essential; if the door is not closed and locked then surely my ten students will quickly dwindle down to two, believe me. I’ve learned the hard way. I walk over to the teacher’s table and take a seat. If it’s mealtime, which it always seems to be, I make sure everyone has a plate of the stuff that smells and looks very much like baby puke, the kids cross their arms tightly around them and tightly shut their eyes, and I initiate grace, “God bless…” and the kids carry on in an English prayer I am sure none of them really know the meaning to. (This I still don’t understand, it’s kinda like the belief is that God only speaks English because there is always English prayer being uttered from a non-English speaker who says the words but has no idea what he’s saying. Is it still a prayer if you have no idea what you’re saying? Hm, well, I guess if God understands…)

Immediately after grace, the kids start shoving the baby puke, aka “food,” into their mouths. Sometimes some of the kids just stare at their food and move their spoon around it and make little puke piles in their bowls, and I have to get the spoon and feed them a spoonful “airplane style,” and then they figure out that this baby puke is actually fairly safe to eat and then they continue on their own. However, there is this one child, Paul, who cannot eat by himself. The other educators say he is deaf, dumb and blind, but everyone still screams at him and sometimes he’ll laugh for no reason, which I think is pretty cool. But, anyway, I find him usually trying to eat his shoe somewhere in the classroom, stand him up and lead him to a chair that I place in front of mine and begin spoon feeding him myself. It’s a really easy thing to do because he opens his mouth to indicate that he’s ready for a spoonful, swallows, then opens his mouth again. Sometimes he’ll laugh and there will be baby puke down his shirt so to prevent this turning into a mess, I usually wrap him in a towel so the mess won’t be so tragic.

As I’m feeding Paul, I try to make sure the kids don’t start an impromptu food fight, which has happened before. Usually the two unofficial “class leaders” will finish first and begin kind of taking away the other kid’s plates before they’re completely finished. Or, they’ll yell at the other kids to hurry up, “O feditse? O feditse?” (You finished, you finished?) And then before they have a chance to answer yes or no, they’ll take the plate, schlop whatever is left into one bowl and pile the rest together. I would say something about this system, but I see it a lot and it’s not anything new or unexpected. As my mum would say, “tootie fruity” (mum language for oh well).

Finally I finish with Paul, clean him up a little, give him a wee bit of water from the community cup and give his plate to the class leaders who rush the plates back to the kitchen to be washed and ready for lunch. The rest of the kids take this time to go to the bathrooms while Paul takes a seat on the floor right by the door and returns to playing with his toes/clapping/laughing/chewing on his shoe. (Yes, I know that chewing on one’s shoe is not necessarily good for your health, so I do make an effort to take away his shoes as soon as he takes them off in the morning but he always ends up chewing on something. So the difference is when he chews on his shoe in front of other educators he doesn’t get screamed and swatted at with a belt like he does when he starts gnawing away at a chair or table.)

As the kids arrive back from the restrooms (my super fancy word for brick surrounding a hole in the ground, literally), they wash their hands in the water bucket filled with oodles of laundry detergent (soap is soap right?) and towel off and sit down back in their seats. Then they stare at me for a little while as I consider my options. Option A, give them the leggos and let them build things for a couple of hours but risk a leggo throwing war or option B, which is give half the kids the puzzle blocks and the other half their beadwork. With option B I know that at least half the kids will stay occupied so I go with that one and hope for the best. (I know some of you are thinking that I should have more options than this. Hm, have you ever been stabbed with a crayon? Yeah, it looks blunt and painless, but that mo’ fo’ hurts, man! And I don’t speak enough Swana to actually do anything besides coloring or the above mentioned options with them.)

I pull out the bowls of beads and the puzzle blocks. I put the puzzle blocks on the rug and half the class heads that way. I prepare some string for the other kids and let them get to work making strands of beads. It’s now nearly 10 a.m.

I relax for exactly five minutes before I see one of the kids has taken off his belt and is threatening to hit another kid with it. Ugh, I take it away from him. Then another kid starts screaming for no reason. He just likes to scream. One kid is pelting him with the puzzle pieces and that just makes him scream louder. I stop the throwing of the puzzles and try to get Mr. Screamer interested in the puzzle games. It works for a second but then I look over and I see the same child that had the belt now has a feather duster and is swatting Paul on the head. I rush over and take it away from him, I look him in the eye and tell him, “No,” in English, which I know he understands all too well. He smiles and tries to look innocent.

The kid who was previously screaming is now saying “No,” repeatedly and is flashing the middle finger at everyone. I’m not sure if this has the same meaning in South Africa as it does in America, but still, I tell him to stop. He stops, but then starts saying, “Mme, mme,” which is Swana for “ma’am” and is pronounced like “ma,” and tapping me on the shoulder over and over again. To play with him a little, I tap him repeatedly on the shoulder and say, “eng, eng, eng?” (what, what, what?) and he thinks this is funny, which I appreciate for a moment until he begins to think this is a fun game to play and I start to get annoyed. This goes on for a couple of minutes until another child shows me his shoe and a shoelace and says something that I think means that he wants me to re-lace his shoe. I take his shoe and begin to re-lace, then the kid who was screaming, then tapping me on the shoulder (his name is Terrance) starts screaming again. I look up and realize that the kid who had the belt and the feather duster has now found the scissors. I get up to take them away but he runs too. The classroom is small but has obstacles so it takes me a minute to catch him and take them away from him. In the meantime, Terrance and another child have begun imitating wrestling moves which pretty much means that Terrance is sitting on this kid’s head. I pull Terrance off and tell him to stop it. He mocks me like a parrot and continues tapping me on the shoulder and hopping.

The other kids who have been doing their beadwork during this time have stayed pretty much to themselves. One kid stares at me, smiles and occasionally laughs the whole class. He gets a kick out me trying my non-violent approach to discipline.

Then the kid who has had the belt, the feather duster, and the scissors now has another belt that the educator who is normally in this classroom has to keep the kids in check. I usually keep it on a higher shelf because I don’t believe violence is the way to keeping kids in line, and unfortunately, the kids know this and use my morality against me by being really bad around me when they know there is no one that is going to try to hit them. He’s swatting Paul while Paul claps his hands with his pants around his ankles. I have no idea how this kid’s pants came down, but I take away the belt and pull up Paul’s pants and look at my watch. It’s almost 10:45 I consider holding the belt for the next thirty minutes till lunch time but then I’ll be giving them the impression that I might hit them which theoretically means, they win. Junior class-1, Ausi (Sister) Dineo-0. I will not go down like that. So I put the belt where I hid the other belt, the scissors, and the feather duster. Ha. Take that!

I sit back down for a minute and take a quick count of the children. 5, 6, 7, 8…Oh crap. I look at the door and alas, it is unlocked and ajar. They have escaped. I instantly know who is missing. The only child who is tall enough to reach the lock, and this other kid Vero, who doesn’t talk apparently, the educators say, because he has epilepsy (yeah, I know, doesn’t correlate for me either). I look out into the yard and sure enough, I see the tall kid with two rolls of toilet paper walking around the yard. Grr, he took my toilet paper too. I open the door and yell for him to come back. I look around for Vero but no sign of him, he usually wanders to the kitchen because he’s always hungry. He’ll be fine there. I yell out once more and then let him be. If he needs sun, who am I to deny him? The school yard gate is locked anyway.

I close the door again and the wrestling has resumed. A kid, Thabiso, who until this point has been sitting in his chair acting very calm (which is new for him) has decided to join in. Two boys are sitting on a kid with quadriplegia. Ah! I rush over and pull them off of him. He’s laughing but I’m getting a headache. I tell the boys to stop fighting. I don’t know if they really understand but I figure that even if I could say it in Swana, I would not be able to get through to them. Eh, I try to distance them from each other as much as possible, but I know that as soon as I turn my back, they’ll be on top of each other again.

The door stars banging. I look over and through the bars I see the tall kid and he’s pulling Vero by the arm and screaming, “Gogo! Gogo!” (Grandmother! Grandmother!) I go over to let him in and somehow he’s lost the two toilet paper rolls and is covered in grass. I don’t think about the possibilities. He comes in, sits Vero on top of the table and then hands me the community cup. I refuse it, and he lets go of it and the water falls all over my skirt. Great, now I’m cold. It’s 11 a.m.

He runs back outside and I close the door. Oh well. Maybe he’ll find another educator and bug them for a couple of minutes. Again, screaming. I look back towards the rug and Paul is being kicked by the child who had the belt/feather duster/scissors/other belt in the face. I pull him away, look him in the eye again and tell him to stop. He has to stop now, right? I try to find my Zen as he smiles at me, and promptly continues to kick Paul. I will not hit this child. I will not hit this child. I will not hit this child. Every child is beautiful. I will not hit this child…..

hold him further back and try simultaneously to move Paul away from the kicking range of this kid. As soon as I let go of his shoulders, he moves back over and kicks him in the crotch, and I notice again that Paul’s pants are down. What the f...?

I decide this child needs a time out. Time out is a constructive disciplinary action, right? I look around the room and since it’s basically a 15 foot by 15 foot square, I decide that the only place that a time out will probably be halfway effective is if he is on the outside. So I lead him to the door, unlock it, and put him on the other side of it. Now, you think about what you did…

He looks pathetically through the bars as I simultaneously watch him and the rest of the kids. It’s calmer. An eerie calm. I know it won’t last, but I enjoy it anyway. 11:15 a.m, lunch time. Finally.

Two of the kids who have been doing the beadwork bring their strand for me to tie. I turn my focus away from my feisty boys and try to quickly tie the strands. When I look back up, five minutes later, I realize that my kid who was supposed to be in time out has disappeared and Paul still has his pants down. Oh, oops. I pull back up Paul’s pants, tighten his belt, and go over to look for my missing kiddie on the outside. I stick my head out the door and there is no sight of him or lunch. Damn.

Another ten minutes pass.

I hear the latch of the door trying to unlock and I look over to see that the principal is returning my escapees (Oh, you shouldn’t have…really). I tell her about my plight with my wannabe wrestlers and she asks me for the belt. I consider briefly whether I should tell her where it is and encourage her violent disciplining, but she finds another stick-like thing for pointing and goes to the boys and starts speaking rapid fire Swana, telling them to settle down and go to sleep, “Robala! Robala!” (Sleep! Sleep!) Ha, I think in my head, good luck with that. I’m tried the “nap time game” and it does not work with these kids. Too smart for that trick Lehoa (white person), they think, as they look at me demonstrating the sleeping position.

She stays for ten minutes and I sit down while they’re calm. Ah, I can think again! Fabulous. Then her phone rings and she leaves. Ugh. Lunch, where are you? Please come. Lunch, lunch…

Finally, at noon, lunch comes, not a minute too soon. The kids wash their hands, dry off, I try to beg Terrance to just sit and eat but he decides to play Duck Duck Goose by himself with everybody’s head while they eat and nobody really seems to mind, so I set my mind on feeding Paul.

Now, Paul’s fed, the kids are finished eating and I send them out to play. “Tsamaya!” (Go!) And they do. The room is a mess and I’m still wet from the water and smell like the kids do (read: not good). But, hey, I survived.

One day down, about 402 school days to go. And people wonder why I’m so pessimistic about survival...