The big question

Should you sacrifice work for love? Career Builder via CNN.com article.

I found this article on CNN from Careerbuilder.com. I immediately thought this might pertain to me, given my long (long long) distance relationship that I currently find myself in. I replaced “work” with “Peace Corps service” and it spoke to me.

Sorta.

The article talks about choosing love over career and vise versa. Can a person live with only one? The wizards at Careerbuilder (who were probably not taking into account those of us around the world that take long-distance relationships to the max and live in different countries in different continents) have decided that though a successful career is great in its own way, it doesn’t necessarily take the place of a fulfilling, romantic relationship. Ah, Careerbuilder via CNN, you are so wise. Now, where the hell were you nine months ago when the long-distance part of a long-distance relationship didn’t really hit me?

My time in South Africa has been…turbulent/interesting/different/pure suckiness (can you guess which one?) and being in a long-distance relationship has been one factor that has made it such. Sure, I can be grateful that I’m not stuck wondering if my future love of my life is one of these drunk dudes with missing teeth and questionable hygiene who tell me they love me and call me “lahoa” (white person) or “baby.” Unenthusiastic yay. Would they have ever had a chance anyway?

But I can wonder if leaving something that might still be something worthwhile way back when things were just starting to get….worthwhile….was really the right decision for me. I know I accepted my invitation and got on that plane to South Africa knowing that it wasn’t going to be easy, but somewhere in the back of my head I told myself that it’d be worth it somehow. And has it been? Ah, good question.

The day we got together, I had already applied to Peace Corps and had already made the decision that I’d go whether the Peace Corps called and said they had a placement for me in a month or a year. I was going to do it. I’m, uh, determined (or stupidly stubborn) that way. I think I told myself that it wouldn’t be that big of a deal to go. Hey, I told myself, we were friends before; we’ll just be friends again while I’m in Africa and if things are supposed to work out, they will. Ha. Look at me, Mum, I’m optimistic!

Yeah, that lasted about one month until my boyfriend told me he didn’t want to break up when I left. Now, things were going to get complicated. Nearly a year later, when I finally did get my invitation, accepted and moved all the way to South Africa, we were still together and we were doing well.

Then things got really complicated. The “great cell phone reception” that I’d heard about turned out only to work in the one spot in my room that the spiders, dirt, and other ghastly things called home. Our conversations consisted a lot of “Can you hear me? Babe! Can you hear me?” with me doing the “trying to get reception dance” around my room moving my ear this way and that, shifting a little in my bed, standing on my desk, etc. When we’d finally get tired of trying to understand what “Ghreia hreai giera” meant, we said bye and hung up with more questions to ponder. Did he say he wanted to break up? I’d think the next day while I was sitting at work. Through every form of technology we would clear up what was misconstrued on the phone, or what that instant message “really meant” and then somehow find some time to get a quick update on the current happenings of our lives.

It was exhausting. Oh, and did I mention the 7-hour time difference? Or the fact that he works 50-hour workweeks and I can barely manage to squeeze 8-10 hours of being at work a WEEK before I want to find a very high cliff and hurl myself off it?

So then when I went home, my father asked me over lunch one day why he never hears us talking to each other. “It seems like you guys don’t connect,” I remember him saying. As furious as I was with that comment (“We do so connect! Take it back!” screamed my 12-year-old self), I realized that it was true. We worked so hard over the previous eight months trying to communicate that all we really needed to do to be happy with each other now was hold each other’s hands. It was that easy, no dance required.

But was that productive? At a time in my life when I want to start figuring things out, I’m not figuring anything out. I’ve already made my decision about my Peace Corps experience a while back and now I am just biding my time till it’s over. How could I rationalize keeping the rest of my life at a standstill for it anymore? The article brought up a good thing for me to ponder:

"On a scale of one to 10, how much will this particular job matter in 10 years?" and "On a scale of one to 10, how much will this relationship matter to me in 10 years?"

Even though I do hope that something positive career wise can come from my time with Peace Corps, I’d like to hope that in the long-run it isn’t my defining factor. But my relationship? Now that’s a different story.

As in-tune to my current situation as this article felt to me, its tips from the “experts” (there are people who are experts on this?) to keep the flame going were completely ridiculous and irrelevant. Have a coffee break with your partner? Ha, yeah right. We couldn’t even have a virtual coffee break because our times for coffee are nearly completely opposite. However, this is how something like that would go:

Me: Love, you get on Skype at noon and I’ll get on at 7 p.m. You drink coffee, and I’ll drink coffee, decaf of course, and we’ll talk about drinking coffee if the reception hangs on long enough and if a spider doesn’t bite me or my fridge doesn’t shock me for coming too close, or if I don’t accidentally pour coffee on my computer.

Him: Babe, are you still there? Can you hear me?

Me: AHHHHH….damn fridge

Gee. How romantic. With this good advice, you could almost be Cosmopolitan. Or Oprah.

Or how about having a “work-free zone”? Ha! Be in the Peace Corps when people are calling you “lahoa” from your front porch and then tell me about “work-free zones.” Your work-free zone I call a $1,000 plane ticket home for two weeks…annually because saving the world does not pay well. Is that what you had in mind, Careerbuilder?

Ok, so they weren’t writing for Peace Corps volunteers, I get it. But it does make me think about things. Leaving again to come back to South Africa, back to this, back to the dance and to “Can you hear me,” back to a place where I possibly have already gotten everything out of it that I could now seems counterproductive.

So…maybe it’s time for a new plan.

The buck stops here, Part 2

As I sat down in The Principal’s office…

(Sidebar: I refer to her as “The Principal,” capitalized, because that’s how everyone refers to her. It’s like how you would refer to God. Or Madonna.)

…I tried to summon up the courage to tell her everything I had told Selena a couple of days before. It is true that her silly new hairstyle helped matters. So after a few moments of pausing and stalling, I finally opened up and told her everything.

Well, almost everything. (She’s really scary.)

After I finished I took a breath and waited for her response.

“So, Dineo” she began, “you want the school to re-decorate?”

Sigh.

I guess that is a logical summary of my ten-minute rant of my 4-month experience at the school. Sure. Whatever. I want to redecorate. I came all the way to freakin’ South Africa with a very expensive college degree to redecorate your school. Gee, don’t you feel special?

As I tried to re-explain the issues I felt were plaguing the school, I tried to emphasize that the suggestions I had for the school wouldn’t come overnight and they wouldn’t/couldn’t be done by only me. I could be an outside perspective and maybe bring some knowledge to the table, but the real work would be in the hands of management.

We talked for what seemed like forever and as time went by, I became less nervous (aka scared shitless of her) and she finally began treating me like an equal not as a child. We came up with a plan for the next couple of weeks before I would go to visit the U.S. and she would go on leave for the rest of the year.

And then, right before I thought we were done and everything was out in the open, she said two things:

1. “Dineo, I don’t know why you felt you couldn’t tell me this before now.” (In which my response was an innocent shrug when I was really thinking: Heeellllloooo, you’re SCARY!)

And…

2. “It’s all the educators’ fault.”

With the second one, I knew I really had my work cut out for me. The staff was going to blame the principal for the lack of progress and the principal was going to blame the staff.

Ay, my brain hurts.

So I knew what I was going to have to do. I was going to have to go back to middle school.

I listened to the principal complain about the educators. I listened to the educators complain about the principal. To everyone, I was a giant walking ear and cheerleader. I didn’t entice any fights but I encouraged everyone to do the job that they’ve been hired to do. I wasn’t taking sides in the great duel. I realized that as corny and Miss America pageant-y it sounds, I really just wanted the kids to actually start benefiting from their days at school.

During all this, I tried to find a way to cope through the things that weren’t really site related. Sure, this assignment wouldn’t have been in my top 20 of placements. I have genuine issues with a lot of things relating to my Peace Corps experience beginning way before I ever stepped foot on South African soil and I needed to work that out separately from the school. I could try to make the best of a shitty situation and just do it.

So I took a couple of weeks off. From everything…now I’m back.

I’m not necessarily happier. The issues didn’t magically disappear nor did I get an “Aha” moment and realize that I’m just a whiny little girl that likes to be unhappy and cynical.

(Although…being unhappy and cynical does make for a more pleasurable writing experience. I’m just not the rainbows and smiles kind of writer…sorry.)

But I found a way to cope and make myself ok with my situation. I made a plan for the future that makes these days easier to deal with and took my emotions out of the things that my emotions didn’t need to be involved in, which was a lot of things I realize now.

Since that emotional Monday way back in August, I can say that things have started to change, slowly. I’ve learned through my travels that there are some cultures that are more resistant to change than others and South Africans are probably more resistant than most. But, I’m working with what I’ve got and I am starting to see little changes.

Just a dent, but it’s working…for now.

The buck stops here, Part 1

A couple of weeks ago, I almost quit Peace Corps. I had my phone in my bra (the one truly African thing I’ve picked up) and I was just planning on what exactly to say to staff when I called. I thought about who I should call. Would I call my program supervisor? Would I call the director? Wow, I thought, this is the kind of stuff that I should have been trained on. I was baffled.

I even went as far as visualizing how I would pack my belongings into my two bags. I thought about the things that I would leave behind. I thought about what I would say to my fellow volunteer friends. I tried to pick the best way to tell them. Text? Phone call? Should I whip up a few tears? Maybe a group email when I’m already gone. Poetic.

As I pondered this I analyzed my situation. I was in school. I was surrounded by eleven children that only understood me when I said one of three phrases: No, Stop, and Tsamaya (Go). It was barely 10 a.m. and already I’d almost cried twice. I had to entice myself to get out of bed by dreaming about adding cocoa to my morning instant coffee (not necessarily my first choice of coffee additive but, hey, you use what you have).

After breakfast I got spit on, wiped Paul’s nose every five minutes, got kung-fu kicked in the shin by the new kid that magically has just shown up in class, and got burned a little on the hand by a feisty child who has learned how to operate a lighter. Oh, and I counted to five about 50 million times for the kid who is really excited about learning how to count to five.

That’s when I decided to quit Peace Corps.

I…can’t…do…this…anymore. Ah, Oscar worthy.

Just when I was about to do it, take the chance and just do it, I get beckoned for a meeting with the principal.

It’s time.

On the way to the principal’s office, the educator, Selena, tells me that I have probably gained a few kilos (Ok, so I’ve been adding cocoa to a lot these days) and criticizes the way I chew my gum.

It’s 10:10 a.m. and I’ve almost cried three times. A new personal record.

I sit down and the principal asks me for The Report. I gulp and stall for time by pretending to think of the right thing to say but instead just try not to laugh at her silly new wig-like thing and purple mini-hat. Ah, well at least I don’t want to cry anymore. Progress.

So I tell her all about my magical trip to The Other Side, a.k.a. Vryheid, KwaZulu-Natal. I went there last week with the intention of finding my purpose but what I got instead was a look into what my Peace Corps experience could have been like. Showers, diversity, little orphans that get excited by just being picked up and danced with a little, and…best of all…pizza.

Like I said, magical.

I was truly in awe of Christi and everything that her Peace Corps experience has brought her. True, it hasn’t been easy for her. She deals with race issues everyday due to the diversity of races that still haven’t quite figured out how to co-exist with each other peacefully. But the opportunities that are available in her area are much more vast than anything my itty-bitty village has to offer.

But her school. Her school has resources. It’s full of color and materials to help the children. It doesn’t look like it’s on the brink of completely falling apart. The educators at least seem like they’re there for the benefit of the children, not just to receive a paycheck and drink free tea and eat free food. The children even looked happy. Sure, they have similar disabilities that the children at my school have, but they looked like children that were cared for at school and not treated like servants. In the two days that I was at the school, I didn’t see one child fetch tea for an educator.

It was so hard to watch and although I felt so completely and totally happy whilst there, the looming knowledge that I would eventually have to leave felt like a dark cloud looming over my head. I divulged everything to Christi in one long uninterrupted conversation where I talked about my four months at site and Christi listened. She understood me. A year and a half ago, she’d been dumped into the same situation as me and had no idea what to do. Peace Corps was no help. At the time, she was the only volunteer in South Africa to be put in a special school. Just like me, she was “trained” (if that’s what you can call those first two months in-country) on HIV/AIDS and non-government organizations and then got none of that in her actual assignment.

Christi’s advice? Get out. Get out now.

As I pondered her advice, I considered how I would feel moving to a new place, maybe a place like Vryheid. I could picture myself walking around downtown in the spring, getting pizza at Debonairs, actually buying the groceries that I wanted, not just the ones that I thought would last me two weeks till my next shopping trip or I could carry home on the taxi, and not feel like I have to keep my head down so I can pretend that nobody is staring at me as I walk down the road. Perhaps I pondered this too long, because before long, I almost started believing that this could be a reality for me.

But, alas, it is not to be.

Before I knew it, I was climbing back into the Van of Death (aka my school’s van driven by Selena who absolutely should not be allowed to have a driver’s license) and was heading back to Pankop.

As we got closer and closer to Pankop, I could feel the happy feelings from the week in KZN being left behind and the black cloud grow larger and larger until it completely consumed any optimism I had once felt. Near that point, I thought of my options:

1. Deal with it.

2. Go home.

So I had nothing to lose. I turned to Selena and word vomited everything that I’d been feeling in the last few months. I told her I wasn’t/didn’t want to be/couldn’t be a “educator assistant” (aka babysitter) and I honestly had no idea why Peace Corps placed me with Mantjedi (the school). I told her that despite all that, I had some ideas for the school and that it was fine if the school didn’t want to change, but that I wouldn’t sit around anymore. I couldn’t.

When I was done, I turned away and we sat in silence for awhile.

After a couple of minutes, Selena told me that I had to tell everything I just said to The Principal (my scary supervisor) on Monday. She said that The Principal was the one that was holding back the school. She said it several times:

It was the principal’s fault.

It was the principal’s fault.

It was the principal’s fault.

I figured that this was my bolder. Save the principal, save the school. I could do it. I’ve fought scarier people than her before and have come out triumphant. I could do it.

So here I am. On the verge of tears on a Monday morning being told I’m fat and chew my gum wrong.

What the hell was I thinking? I shoulda ET’d when I had the chance.

Hello Paul.

Meet Paul. Paul is one of the students I work with at the special school I’ve been at for the last four months.

Hmmm, now that I think about it, maybe “work with” is a vast overstatement…

But, Paul is different. When I first encountered Paul, he was laying on the floor trying to eat his shoe. The educator in the classroom was ignoring him and so were the other students. I watched him for quite awhile. He intrigued me. He didn’t do much all day (like most of the kids at my school) but he never seemed unhappy. Usually he would be led into the classroom by one of the older children, placed in a chair and he would begin chewing on the desk or a nearby chair, eventually making his way to lying on the floor, his shoe in his mouth. I was told that he was “blind, deaf, mute and stupid,” by one of the educators.

Since most of the children lack real diagnoses on the state of their mental capacity, most of the kids are “stupid,” “mad,” “not normal,” or just plain “crazy” in the esteemed opinion of my supervisor, The Principal.

Paul, however, is different. Because he is “blind, deaf, mute and stupid” according to The Principal and therefore not able to act as a servant to the educators, he is completely ignored most of the time. Don’t get me wrong, Paul is a little bit of a hard situation. He isn’t potty-trained so he has to use diapers; he doesn’t eat by himself so the educator (or I) has to feed him his two daily meals. He can’t get anywhere without being led very slowly by the shoulders.

In the four months that I’ve been observing the on-goings of my school, I’ve noticed that most of the children are probably far behind their true abilities. But what would I know, right? I have a journalism degree. I’ve never been around special-needs kids very much before I got to South Africa. Heck, who am I kidding, most of the time…

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE HELL I’M DOING!

Being that what it may, I know that these kids could be far ahead of where they are now if the educators would actually put away their tea cups, get some special education training, and actually try. It’s a far-fetched idea, I know. Silly me, but I’m a dreamer…

I’ve decided to experiment with this theory and work with Paul, the Most Lost Cause of All the Lost Causes. My experiment was simple. I know that I’ve been told he’s mute and deaf, but the fact that he laughs sporadically and moves away from the educator or The Principal as she yells at him makes me think that perhaps he can hear and use his vocal cords just fine. Brilliant.

So I pulled him off the floor, dusted him off, took his shoe out of his mouth, sat him down next to me and just talked to him while I fed him his porridge. I didn’t do the baby voice; I didn’t over-simplify things; I didn’t try to speak in Setswana; I just talked to him. I know, it’s silly. He doesn’t speak English! But, the more I thought about it, he doesn’t really speak Setswana either, in fact, he doesn’t really speak anything. So what’s the harm?

After a couple of meals “together,” I started noticing that whenever something would fall on his shirt I would say, “Oops!” or “Oh-oh, Paul!” and he would laugh! As if on cue! He thought it was funny. Wait…he thought I was funny.

Victory!

Ok, small victory…but it kept me motivated.

So last week after I finished feeding him his breakfast, I said, “Yay, Paul!” And he copied me by saying, “Yaaaaaaaayyyyy” and then promptly burst out in an evil laugh, “Brahha-ha-ha-ha!” Which in return, made me burst out in my evil laugh, “Brahha-ha-ha-ha!” Which we both found funny, so we burst out in a real laughing fit.

And that’s how Paul and I became friends.

Eventually he started answering my “Helllloooo, Paul” with a “Helllloooooo.” Followed by a round of evil laughing. For our own amusement, of course.

So when the week ended, I was on cloud nine. Finally, something I could do since I’ve been placed in an environment that has made me feel completely and utterly useless and incompetent.

Then Monday comes and at morning assembly, I see that the educator that usually works in the classroom I work in is out. Immediately I want to fake sick and go home. Although I know I can’t (shouldn’t) handle the classroom alone, and The Principal knows I can’t (shouldn’t) be left alone, I’m always left alone. So, begrudgingly, I head to the classroom and try to show no fear to the 11 students waiting to torture me for the next three hours.

Two hours later, after I feed Paul, laugh half-heartedly at our evil laughs, get spit on and kicked by a student, and stop another kid from setting a table on fire, I realize that I’m not fit to do this.

I’m not a teacher. I’m not a teacher’s assistant. I’m just a girl from Texas who thought she could take some pictures with some cute African kids and maybe help with HIV/AIDS education.

What am I doing here?

I’m trying my hardest to keep the kids from doing inappropriate things with each other while realizing that though I’ve only read about behavior like this in books and news stories that don’t end well; I know that this shouldn’t be happening. I watch the kids try to smack each other with sticks, books, and feather dusters and realize that kids of this age shouldn’t think that violence is the way to communicate.

The worst part is that even though I know that this isn’t how children who have never been abused or borderline neglected should act; I can’t say anything to any of the educators. I can’t talk about it to Peace Corps. I can’t explain it to anybody and expect anything to change.

The hardest part for me, the girl from Texas, to understand is that I will never really be able to change it. I once heard from a Peace Corps staff member that I’m not here to change culture. Is this culture?

I remember listening to my South African language instructor explain that child rights laws are made so that young girls can marry whoever they want and children can get their parents arrested for no reason. I distinctly remember hearing that “the only way to teach an African child is to beat them.”

And, unfortunately, a beatee becomes a beater. I see the cycle everyday as I see the educators and The Principal smack the kids and then the kids smack each other.

I see Terrance, the feisty kid who screams a lot, try to get on top of other little boys and pull down their pants.

I know what a lot of people are thinking as they read this. They’re surprised, they’re saddened, they’re mad at me for not doing something to stop it.

What I can say is that I can hide the feather dusters, the sticks, the books. I can pull Terrance away from the other little boys and give him the sternest “no” I can muster. I can try to explain in a “culturally sensitive” way that the kids are inappropriate with each other, but all that will lead to is The Principal coming in, hitting Terrance till he pretends to be asleep and she’ll laugh at me for not being able to handle the kids alone as her and her scary eyebrows walk out of the classroom.

And what happens when I leave? What happens on the weekends? What happens when I can’t be here to keep my mouth shut so the kids won’t be beaten or abused, even if it costs me a few headaches and a couple of kicks from one of the feistier kids?

And Paul…

I can talk to Paul and laugh with Paul and maybe even teach him how to drink from a sippy cup and eat with his hands now, but will anybody continue helping him when I leave? Will anybody talk to him? Will anybody do the evil laugh with him until he genuinely laughs?

All signs point to no.

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!"