Omar In Africa

Goodbye

2008-03-12T08:27:00.001+02:00

Well, this is the end. Today I fly out of Entebbe Airport, and after a few nights in London eating meat pies with Eric and Tom, I will be home in New York early next week. It's been just about 31 months since I left home and came to Africa with the Peace Corps.

31 months is quite a long time. The world has changed; to give you some idea, when I arrived in South Africa, Hurricane Katrina hadn't even hit and New Orleans was just another city. It was the summer of 2005, and I was twenty-four years old. Now, at twenty-seven, I'm returning home to the spring of 2008. I will be returning to a different place than the country I left, and I will also be returning a different man than the person who left.

There's no way that I can summarize my experiences in South Africa and beyond into a few closing paragraphs. Even the entirety of this blog is just a rough outline of what has happened these past 2 1/2 years. I'm curious to see what happens when I get home. How will I adjust? In some ways, returning home will be the most daunting thing I've had to do since I left. It will definitely require the most drastic readjustment. I've heard stories from other long-term travelers and volunteers who have returned home after long, life-changing periods away. And after a few brief questions from friends and family (like, "What was it like?" or "What did you do?" ---- I don't even know how I would begin to answer questions like that), the curiosity disappears and everyone returns to talking about their own lives and what's been going on in their world. And the travelers, having returned home, realize that they have changed and home has changed and there's this vast chasm separating the two. And they have nothing to talk about, nobody who can relate. Will that be me? I have no idea.

My experiences have profoundly changed me. And while I'd love to include some insightful quote from one of the many books I've read in Africa, what keeps running through my head are some verses from the song "Wanderlust" by Bjork---a song about leaving home and setting off for the great unknown:

"Did I imagine it would be like this?
Was it something like this I wished for?
Or will I want more?"

To answer her questions: No, No, and Yes. I'm not sure exactly what I expected when I left New York and flew to Johannesburg in August 2005. I'm also not sure exactly what I expected, two years later, when I left Pretoria and started my long overland trip to Kampala. I know for a fact I didn't imagine things would turn out the way they did. But I'm happy that they did. Our experiences make us who we are, and if I could do it all over again, I wouldn't change a thing.

And so, I'm leaving Africa, but I know in my heart that it will only be temporary---I will be back, one day, hopefully sooner rather than later. The places I've been and the people I've met have had too much of an impact to just leave it all behind and return to the life I knew.

Since I am leaving Africa, that means that this blog must come to an end. It's called "Omar In Africa", not "Omar's Life". So, to those of you who have been reading along and following me on my travels, and especially to those who have been following this blog since I started it in 2005, thank you.

Bye.

Travel Update #9: Fort Portal, Uganda to Kampala, Uganda

2008-03-11T13:06:00.000+02:00

I'm happy to say that my trip is ending on a good note---my time in Uganda has been drastically different from my time in Rwanda, and I am thankful for that. Languidity has been replaced by activity. Since my last post just over one week ago, I have been busy pretty much non-stop.

On Sunday Brian and I were up before dawn and sitting on a bus to Kampala in the dark. We didn't leave for quite some time, though, and by noon we were in the big, bustling city of Kampala. We didn't see much because after getting off of our bus, we immediately got on a bus to Masindi via Hoima. Twelve hours after leaving our guesthouse in Fort Portal, we arrived in Masindi, a tiny insignificant town in the north of the country. Masindi's only real draw is that it is the closest town to Murchison Falls, a destination I'd been looking forward to visiting for quite some time.

We arranged a lift into the park that evening, and early the next morning (as usual, we were up before dawn) we left for the park. Our first stop was the Kaniyo Pabidi Forest, inside the Murchsion Falls Conservation Park boundaries. Pabidi is a very large, beautiful rainforest, and is also the cheapest place in Uganda to track chimpanzees. That was the real reason for our stop in the forest---chimps. Brian and I decided that instead of doing a brief chimpanzee tracking walk, we would spend the entire day doing what is known as "chimpanzee habituation"---that is, spending the entire day in the presence of the chimpanzees to habituate them to human contact. While this was also offered at the more famous Kibale NP, which we had biked through just a few days earlier, doing it at Kibale would have been more than twice as expensive as at Pabidi.

We arrived at the park visitor center, and within a few minutes we were off with two guides and one chimpanzee researcher. After only a few minutes of walking through the forest, we began to hear the unmistakable pant-hoot calls of chimpanzees, far up in the trees. Moments later, we were under a canopy of trees as a small group of 4 chimpanzees sat far above us, eating figs from tree branches. After a few moments of this, the chimps, in a flurry of hoots, moved on. After a few moments, we started following.

We were walking along the trail through the forest, looking around us at the beauty of our surroundings, a guide in the lead and me directly behind him, when he stopped dead in his tracks and put his arm out to stop me from going forward.

"Python!" he whispered.

I looked at the ground and there, on our trail, only a few meters in front of us, was the biggest snake I had ever seen. The giant python, which the guides estimated as being around 4 meters long (about 12-13 feet), was lying there in the grass, slithering along, its beady eyes looking around, its forked tongue flicking back and forth. We stayed there looking at this beast of a snake for about 20 minutes, taking pictures. It was fascinating; once the snake had heard us coming, it had stopped and was lying still in the grass, directly in our pathway. We couldn't continue that way to follow the chimps, so eventually (after a brief scare where the python suddenly coiled up, facing us, seemingly about to strike--at which point we all turned and ran away from it until we were out of strike range) we turned around and took a different path through the forest.

It was about an hour of walking through the maze-like paths in the forest, up and down hills, across wooden branches that served as "bridges". Eventually, though, we entered into another clearing, with some huge fig trees rising far above us. Up in the trees, we observed anywhere from between 15 to 20 chimpanzees, including some infants (I never was able to get a fixed count).

We set up shop; we put down our bags and sat down to observe. Unlike the mountain gorilla-trek, we were not interacting with the chimpanzees. We weren't anywhere near close enough to interact with them; we were on the ground, and they were in the trees. We also weren't close enough to take any quality pictures---perhaps with a camera with an extremely strong zoom, I could have gotten some quality pictures of chimps. And although that might sound very uninspiring, compared with the breathtaking experience of gorilla-tracking, it was wonderful. Sitting on the forest floor, or lying in a pile of leaves looking up into the trees, for hours, watching the interactions between these chimps, was a perfect way to spend a day. Their eating, their playing, their grooming and conflicts and their frequent hooting and shouting frenzies, their swinging from tree-to-tree, we just sat there watching it all. We watched these interactions until 4pm---8 hours after we had set out in the morning. Then, finally, we started the walk back through the forest to the visitor center. It took almost an hour, and thankfully we did not see any pythons on that return walk.

Our driver had been waiting for us, and from the visitor center we continued to the Red Chilli Restcamp, in the middle of Murchison Falls NP. He dropped us off there, and we walked past the marabou storks standing in the grass, watching us, and the warthogs grazing a few feet away, to our banda for the night. We had planned on taking a boat launch up the Nile River the following morning, and then hiking up to the falls, and then taking the afternoon boat back. Then, however, we discovered that there would be no boat launch in the morning; only in the afternoon. We spent some time discussing options and figuring out what to do----some late-night planning that is common when arranging things on your own.

Eventually we figured out and arranged a plan, and at 8am the next morning (thankfully, we did not have to wake up before dawn) a driver picked us up from the restcamp and drove us along a dirt road to the top of the falls. To give you a brief description of Murchison Falls: they are a 43-meter tall waterfall, where practically the entire Victoria Nile River, flowing from its source in Lake Victoria, is driven through a narrowing passage until it reaches only 6-meters wide; at that point, it plummets down. Because the water is narrowed so much (the Nile is a very wide river, and pushing all of that water into so narrow a space gives it a lot of surging energy), the Murchison Falls are the most powerful surge of water to be found anywhere in the world. The roar of the waterfall is extremely loud, and its spray rises up violently. It's an incredible sight, even moreso because it is not heavily touristed; when we went, it was just Brian and I, with no one else around, looking at the most powerful surge of water in the world.

We stayed there for a while, walking around, and then taking a hiking trail to some amazing viewpoints. After a few hours, when we had seen everything there was to see, and had stared transfixed at the roaring water until our hearts' content, we left. We drove back to the restcamp and, after a small lunch, boarded a boat along with other travelers and did the afternoon boat trip up the Nile to the falls. The 3-hour trip was notable not so much for the view of the falls that it afforded us (nowhere near as awesome as the view from the top), but for the huge amount of wildlife that we saw on the riverbank as we floated along. We passed more hippos than I had ever seen before, numerous crocodiles in the water and sunning themselves on the shore, waterbucks, elephants, and some very rare birds. I had thought the sunset cruise I'd taken on the Zambezi in December was rewarding, but that paled in comparison with the amount of wildlife I saw on the Nile.

After the conclusion of the boat trip, our driver was waiting for us, and we hopped back into the car. It was a long trip out of the park, and it was starting to get dark. We were driving fairly quickly, scaring baboons off of the road and sending colobus monkeys scurrying through the trees. Then our tire went flat, and our driver told us that we didn't have a spare. Thankfully another car was a few minutes behind us, and after some haggling between our driver and the passengers in the other car, Brian and I were squished into the other car along with our bags and the car's passengers, and we set off, leaving our driver behind.

An hour later, we were back in Masindi, and the following morning (having woken up in the pre-dawn darkness as usual), we took the Post Bus (the bus that takes mail from post office to post office) back to Kampala. Instead of going via Hoima, the way we had come a few days earlier, we took the direct road from Masindi to Kampala. I thought that maybe this would be a good-quality road, but I was gravely mistaken. I have been on all sorts of roads throughout Southern and Eastern Africa, and I have to say that the road from Masindi to Kampala may, in fact, be the worst (tar) road that I had ever been on---the only road that comes close to it is the highway from Maputo in Mozambique, in the area around Xai-Xai. First we swerved around large potholes, then had to wait for some construction vehicles, and then we entered a stretch of speedbumps---I have never seen so many speedbumps on a road. It seemed like we were going over a speedbump every 5 seconds or so for many minutes on end. It took us 30 minutes to proceed 10 kilometers at many points. Everyone in the bus was being bounced around by the bumps; I was actually airborne often, my rear jumping off of the seat and then slamming back down again. Perhaps if the seat had been comfortable it wouldn't have been a problem, but I arrived in Kampala with a very sore behind.

Again, we didn't stay in Kampala---Brian and I put on our bags and then walked from the post office to the "Old Taxi Park", which is possibly the biggest, craziest, most chaotic taxi park I have ever seen. It was ordered chaos in which I could not see the order. More than once, Brian and I would be walking through a narrow space between two matatus and would find that they merge into one lane, blocking any walkway. So we would have to turn around and retrace our steps. Ordinarily that would be fine, but with large bags, it was an ordeal. After a while of wandering around the maze of the taxi park and getting lost a few times, we found an omnibus (coaster) going to Jinja. We got on the bus, and soon the bus started moving---but it took quite some time for us to navigate the lanes through the taxi park, with people jumping out of our way and numerous other taxis coming precariously close to hitting us.

Eventually we left the city and were driving along the highway to Jinja. I was surprised to find that this heavily-trafficked route, connecting two very large towns, and the only way to get from Kampala to Nairobi, was only one lane in each direction. This is mind-boggling, especially considering that it is the main shipping lane for all goods coming from overseas to anywhere in Uganda or Rwanda (or even the eastern DRC). Imagine if the I-95 between New York and DC was only one lane, or if the 405 in Los Angeles was only one lane, and you have some idea of what this road was like. There were some hair-raising moments, when our coaster would try to pass a slow-moving vehicle and would have to quickly squeeze back into the lane seconds before

an oncoming car would pass us. Sitting on the coaster, I wondered how many accidents happen on that road, and I realized that I didn't want to know.

We eventually arrived in Jinja, and got into a car heading up to Bujugali Falls, our final destination for the day. The Explorers Campsite, where Brian and I stayed that night and the following night, was the first "backpackers" that we had stayed at since December, and it was nice to be around other travelers again. We were all there for one reason: white-water rafting. That's the reason why so many people travel to Bujugali Falls---to raft the source of the Nile. In the morning we set off for our full-day of rafting. I vividly remembered the insanity of the Zambezi when we rafted it, and I was prepared for the another crazy, adrenaline-filled day.

The first thing I noticed when we got into the water was the warmth of the river---the Nile is refreshingly nice to swim in, like a nice cool bath. The second was the scenery: while the Zambezi flows through the narrow, imposing Victoria Falls Gorge, the Nile is surrounded on all sides by green grass and bird-filled trees. Villagers washed their clothes in the water at the banks of the river as we floated by. On our raft, in addition to Brian and myself, were three Brits and two other Americans, Marcus and Jeff. Our guide, Paolo, is one of the best rafters in all of Uganda, and is a member of the Ugandan National Team---that was very reassuring.

We did a full day of rafting, and I really enjoyed it. Whereas the Zambezi was densely packed with 23 rapids, the Nile only has 12---this gave us more calm stretches inbetween rapids to relax or to float down the river. Quite a few of the rapids were Grade 5, and some of the other rafters were a bit apprehensive as we approached them, but Brian and I weren't. The Nile is not nearly as intense or as challenging as the Zambezi, and the steering is much less technical. Unlike the Zambezi, I never once felt in physical danger on the Nile. Perhaps that was a sense of over-confidence. We flipped our raft 3 times, as opposed to only once on the Zambezi. And although the rafting was not nearly as challenging (considering that the Nile is considered an intense, top-notch rafting destination, it's easy to see why the Zambezi is considered the biggest, most challenging rafting in the world), I have to say that I enjoyed my day on the Nile more than my day on the Zambezi.

The following morning, Marcus, Jeff, Brian, and I left Bujugali Falls and went to Kampala. This time, for once, we didn't continue onwards from Kampala, but stayed. I have been in Kampala since Friday---my final destination on this African journey. On Friday night, I went out to a local nightclub with Marcus and Jeff---we were thankfully the only muzungus in the entire place, and we spent the night dancing with the locals to Ugandan music and the occasional Western Hit---we were happy to hear TWO songs by Rihanna, and surprisingly not even one by Akon (the first time that's ever happened to me in Africa).

Marcus and Jeff left the following morning, but Brian and I stayed, and since then we've spent the days walking around, soaking up the city, eating delicious food and enjoying the atmosphere. I think that Kampala is my favorite African city among those that I've visited on these travels---it's huge and crazy and lively. The people are incredibly friendly. The matatus are comfortable---they only allow 3 people per row here!

The city is well-situated, set on hills and valleys, almost like Kigali but much much bigger and livelier. At the bottom of the main hill in the city center are the bus park and the taxi parks, and the huge markets (like the Owino Market which we visited----more like a market city than anything else)---a chaotic African city. But walking up the hill, past Kampala Road, the city changes and there are wide avenues, huge gated houses, and parks. It's all very clean and modern. There's even a shopping mall with a movie theater in Kampala (where Brian and I saw the movie "Cloverfield"). Kampala, in short, is almost like South Africa, but without the constant threat of danger.

Yesterday, Brian and I took a half-day trip to the Equator. Uganda is one of only 10 countries in the world that the equator passes through, and it's a 2-hour drive from the city center. We took matatus there and back. At the equator are two circular monuments marking the boundary between North and South, some overpriced craft shops, and some bowls of water where an employee demonstrates the Coreolis Effect (which, having seen the demonstration, seems actually true).

On the matatu heading back to Kampala, I realized that I was on my last long-distance matatu trip in Africa. Part of me was glad that I wouldn't have to worry about squeezing into tight seats for a while, it also hit me that my time in Africa was coming to an end, andl I wished that I could find some way to prolong my journey. At least the matatu trip wasn't boring, though. I was sitting in the back row, in the middle. A few minutes after I got on the matatu, we stopped to pick up some more passengers. One guy had a large sack, which the driver and conductor squeezed into the back, directly behind me. I immediately realized that the sack was full of fish, due to the unmistakable smell. Soon, we left, and immediately the matatu was filled with the intense, pungent odor of fish, like a fish-shop when the power goes out. It was very unpleasant, especially considering that the fish were directly behind my head.

After a few minutes of enduring this, the matatu pulled over. There was nobody on the side of the road, so I wondered why we had stopped. Immediately, the conductor slid open the door and jumped out. He ran into a field of bushes, grabbed handfuls of plants, and stuffed them into the back of the matatu, around the bag of fish. He was trying to mask the smell, and soon enough the matatu was filled with the aroma of the plants. For the rest of the trip back to Kampala, the matatu smelled like a lovely, fragrant garden.....full of rotting fish.

Brian left this morning. We have been traveling together for months, since Mozambique, but here is where our paths diverge. I'm heading to London and New York; he's heading to Istanbul. Today is my last full day in Africa; tomorrow I fly out of Entebbe Airport. I'm going to really enjoy the day, and to savor it. I will truly miss Africa----of course I will miss those unforgettable moments like lying on the forest floor surrounded by the hooting calls of chimpanzees, or of floating down the Nile River, but I will also miss the rotting-fish-garden matatu trips. I'll miss it all.

Travel Update #8: Cyangugu, Rwanda to Fort Portal, Uganda

2008-03-01T15:27:00.009+02:00

My travels are continuing forward to their grandiose climax (or so I'd like to think) -- Uganda is my final African stop on my travels for the time being, and my time in Uganda is getting short. How did it come to this?

When I last wrote, I was in Rwanda, enjoying a wonderfully lush country. I had planned on visiting the Nyungwe National Park after I wrote; well, the next day, I did visit the park, and it provided Brian and I with yet another instance when our Lonely Planet guidebooks let us down in Rwanda. Thinking that LP knows it stuff, we went to Nyungwe with $20 for the entrance fee, as we had read in the guidebook, and were supremely disappointed when we arrived at the ORTPN office in the park and were told that it would cost us $50, not $20. Well, neither of us had $50 with us--we'd only brought enough money for the day. And so we were turned around and spent the next 90 minutes waiting on the side of the road for a ride back to Cyangugu.

That's not to say that our trip to Nyungwe was a waste, though. On the contrary, our early morning ride there was one of the most beautiful rides I've been on in Africa, leaving the terraced hillsides of the Cyangugu area and continuing on, up hills and around curves, through dense jungle, with imposingly large forested hills rising up around us. It was early, and all of the valleys and the spaces between the hills were covered with mist, rising up and giving everything an ethereal air. That drive alone was worth the hassle of the journey. Unfortunately the Onatracom bus that I was on was moving continuously; if it had stopped anywhere, I would have been able to take a fantastic photo.

The following day, Brian and I left at the crack of dawn and spent the next 6 hours on an incredibly crowded bus along a fantastic (and fantastically bumpy) dirt road from Kamembe to Kibuye. It had rained earlier, so the going was tough. Luckily Brian and I both had seats, unlike many others who were crammed into the aisle like New Yorkers on a rush-hour subway. Eventually we got to Kibuye, a small town with absolutely nothing to do. We were there for a few days, relaxing and napping and walking around and swimming in the cold waters of Lake Kivu. Even though the weather wasn't great while we were there, the scenery was still lovely. We also met a wonderful Canadian couple and spent hours chatting with them about everything from riots in Kenya to shopping malls in Dubai to poverty in Saskatchewan. Just talking to other backpackers was a welcome change---Rwanda is not a heavily touristed country, and Brian and I had not met any other backpackers for weeks. (and have barely met any since then, although that will soon change)

From Kibuye, it was another overcrowded bus to Gisenyi (on this one, I had the opportunity to sit in a window-seat where there was no window---just a lot of cold air blowing in my face). Gisenyi is on the northern shore of Lake Kivu, sharing a border with the Congolese town of Goma. Goma has a very interesting recent history, which I'm not going to go into now. I went to the Rwanda-Congo border post, but although Brian and I considered crossing into Goma to check it out, we decided against it.

It was in Gisenyi that it really hit us---we had set aside far too much time for Rwanda. Granted, we were waiting around because we had booked a trip to see the mountain gorillas on the 21st, and earlier dates had been booked. But, spending over 3 weeks backpacking around Rwanda can get really boring. For anyone who wants to visit Rwanda, I would recommend 2 weeks at most.

We spent 6 nights in Gisenyi. There was copious amounts of internet usage. There was the unfortunate night spent in a "dorm" consisting of Brian, myself, and 24 drunk Rwandese men. Needless to say, when the men started chatting at 4am and listening to music, the two "muzungus" were not amused. On a better note, we ate some of the best cheap African food I've had in all of my travels. I went to the beach and swam in Lake Kivu a few times---for as long as I could put up with the stares from locals and the blatant calls of "muzungu!" I also visited another wonderful market, but alas, I could not find any more "CU On The Ramps" t-shirts. At one point I was wandering aimlessly by myself through the market when two small children, probably around 3 or 4 years old, ran up to me and bear-hugged my legs. I smiled, but when I tried to walk, they clutched onto my pant-legs, following me. I was basically dragging these kids around the market, as they looked up at me smiling with goofy grins and women in the market laughed. It was all very amusing. In Gisenyi I also had the good fortune to spend time with locals--people around my age, with a working grasp of English (not always so common in a Francophone country). Spending hours with them, hanging out in their homes, eating meals with them---that's what I will remember about Gisenyi. Some have suffered and seen things I can't imagine. It hit me, looking through family photos and having people point out their murdered family members. And one guy in particular had both of his hands chopped off during the genocide but still managed to surf the internet with his stumps.

After Gisenyi, it was finally time for Brian and I to head up to Ruhengeri--our final stop in Rwanda. Ruhgengeri itself is an insignificant town, but when we were there, our eyes were drawn to the horizon, to the imposing Virunga volcanoes rising around us. We were only there for 2 nights; after our first night we woke up before dawn and were waiting outside of our guesthouse at 6am for our ride to take us to the Parc National Des Volcans. We drove out of town and soon were at the park, with the towering peaks of the volcanoes rising high in the background. This was where mountain gorillas had first been "discovered" and classified, and where Dian Fossey had worked until her murder.

We checked in and were assigned to our tracking group---Brian, myself, and 6 other tourists, along with our two guides and an armed soldier (for the protection of us? or for the gorillas?) set off to find the Hirwa group at the base of Sabinyo Volcano. Sabinyo, with its craggy peaks, lies at the junction of 3 countries: Rwanda, Uganda, and the Democratic Republic of Congo. We started off, and after about 30 minutes walking through pyrethrum fields, we soon entered into the forest. It was an easy hike through tall bamboo, and after 20 minutes or so we found them: the Hirwa group of mountain gorillas--1 silverback male, 5 females, and 6 children. We were able to get to within a few meters of these majestic creatures, and we spent an hour with them. It was absolutely incredible, and although it cost $500 (about as much as I had spent during the entire previous 3 weeks in Rwanda), it was money well spent. It was one of the best experiences I've had during my travels (possibly the best) and will rank among the best experiences of my life. When our hour with the gorillas was up, it was difficult to leave. I spent the rest of that day, my last day in Rwanda, in an elated mood. We had truly ended Rwanda on a high note.

The next morning, Brian and I crossed the border into Uganda. We went from Ruhengeri to Cyanika, across the border, and then from Cyanika to Kisoro. Kisoro is a crappy little town, from what I saw of it, and after 2 hours spent waiting in a matatu (minibus) for it to leave, we were off to Kabale. The 3 hour ride from Kisoro to Kabale was crowded, and amusing in parts (like when the matatu broke down on a remote road and was miraculously fixed), and absolutely breathtaking in other parts. There was one point on the journey, when we were high up on a mountain-pass, looking down across lush, hilly, terraced fields rising and falling to the base of the Virungas in the distance, and then we rounded a turn and were treated to another panorama, with Lake Bunyoni and its clear blue water nestled inbetween green hills.

Eventually we arrived in Kabale and continued on to our final destination of the day, Lake Bunyoni. For our two nights in Bunyoni, Brian and I camped. Bunyoni and the areas around it are among the highest points in Uganda, and up in those highlands, alone in my tent, I shivered through the night. For the two nights we spent in Bunyoni, I was thankful that I'd brought thermal underwear and a fleece on my travels.

On the one full day that we spent in Bunyoni, Brian and I hiked to the top of the tall hills that surround the lake. From that high viewpoint, we were able to look out at the lake. Bunyoni is a breathtakingly beautiful lake, studded with wooded green islands. After soaking up the view for a while, we descended back down to the lake, and rented a canoe. We spent the next hour or so doing what is locally known as the "muzungu corkscrew"--where we would both start paddling and would end up going in circles. We spent a long time trying to get our canoe to go straight, to no avail. Eventually we realized that we could only go straight if one person was paddling, and from then on we were able to maneuver our canoe around.

The next morning we left Bunyoni; Brian went to Kabale and I continued on by myself in a crowded matatu to the small town of Ntungamo; from there, I squeezed into a "shared-taxi"--basically a private car that ferries people around, cramming as many in as possible. With 4 in the front and 4 in the back, we set off for the town of Rukungiri, where I was headed to meet a Peace Corps Uganda volunteer named Megan, who I'd been put in contact with. I was really excited to be at a PCV site in another African country, to compare our Peace Corps experiences, and to see what local Ugandan life is really like.

Whereas I was an "education" volunteer living in a village, Megan is a PEPFAR volunteer living in the town of Rukungiri. She is a "new" volunteer, having just sworn into service in October, the same week that I COS'd (ended my service) and left South Africa. I spent three nights at Megan's house in Rukungiri, living the Peace Corps life again and loving it. We purchased fresh produce at the local market and cooked (my first time cooking in a long time!). I did dishes, I bathed in a bucket. All very familiar. We walked to and from Megan's office in town, greeting people in the local language, Runyankori. Or, at least, she greeted and chatted in Runyankori while I smiled. (I was also amused to hear Megan speaking in her "African voice"---any Peace Corps volunteer in Africa would know what I'm talking about---the Ugandan equivalent to saying lots of "Is it?" and "Eish!!")

I spent two full working days with Megan at work; as much as I'd love to say that I was a witness to majestic heroic acts of service and community development, I can't. That wouldn't be Peace Corps. Peace Corps is lots of waiting, and making small progress in slow steps. Things change bit by bit; that's why they give us 2 years. I read a lot when I was with Megan at work; so did she. On the first day, we were at her office in Rukungiri; on the second, we went out into "the field" on a project that she is working with--training people in local villages about starting and running small businesses----growing coffee, or raising goats, for example. The villages we visited around Rukungiri are beautiful, hilly and green, surrounded by banana trees. Megan was supposed to speak to the aspiring entrepreneurs and teach them about leadership, but due to miscommunications (as always in Peace Corps), nobody brought her materials or gave her any time to speak. Megan is highly motivated, however, and she has a lot of great ideas about projects that she's planning; we spent a long time talking about them and I gave whatever small advice I could from my own personal experiences in South Africa (which aren't always applicable in an entirely different country, a different culture, a different experience---but maybe). I'm sure she's going to do great this next year-and-a-half.

It was wonderful and refreshing, spending three nights in Rukungiri; but soon it was time for me to leave, and on Wednesday, in the pre-dawn darkness, I let myself out of her house and walked to the bus station at 6:15am (sunrise is around 7am in Uganda). I got on a bus to Mbarara, and finally after waiting, we left at almost 8am. I arrived in Mbarara at 10 and switched to a matatu; after 2 1/2 more hours of waiting, we were off to Kasese, with the driver speeding and the engine smoking. Southern Uganda is lush and green, there are banana trees everywhere, and rolling hills---just wonderful and lovely and beautiful. But as we neared Kasese, all that went away, and we were driving through flat, dusty, brown savannah. After Rwanda and southern Uganda, being back in a savannah seemed like the height of desolation and infertility. We whizzed by a sign marking the Equator; I had started my travels south of the Tropic of Capricorn, and had now made it all the way into the Northern Hemisphere.

A few minutes later we pulled into Kasese--one of the crappier little towns I've encountered on my travels. It was about 3pm by this time, and I had to wait at the taxi rank in another matatu until 4:30, when we finally left for Fort Portal. Soon enough, after about 40 minutes or so, the land lost its barrenness and flatness, and became green again. With the Rwenzori Mountains to our left and green hills around us, I was happy again. The scenery was soon just as it had been in Rukungiri and other parts of southern Uganda. I arrived in Fort Portal, my final destination, at 6pm, almost 12 hours after I left Megan's house.

Brian was here, waiting for me. The next morning we booked some activities for our remaining time in Uganda (he's leaving Uganda on the same day as me, and flying to Istanbul to start the 2nd leg of his long journey), and then we left Fort Portal, on a shared-taxi to the crater lakes south of town. This is a lovely, green, hilly area, and we stayed at a place called the Lake Nkuruba Community Nature Reserve & Camp Site---a community-run place where proceeds go towards a local orphanage. It's extremely basic----latrines, an outdoor bucket-shower, no running water, and absolutely NO electricity. But the staff---community members----are extremely friendly and helpful, and I really enjoyed my time there.

On our first day at Nkuruba, we went for a short hike, walked to a neighboring village and walked around a busy market, ate at a local restaurant and chatted with some highly talkative individuals. It was all great. We also went swimming in the lake, which is surrounded by thick, steep forest. As we swam in the lake, monkeys could be heard and seen jumping through trees or coming down to the water to drink. The lake is thankfully bilharzia-free (according to staff), but it is FULL of tiny fish, each only slightly larger than a grain of rice, and when I would stand or sit in the water, they would swarm. Thousands of them surrounded every exposed inch of my body and started nibbling, eating dead skin that I couldn't see. They were cleaner fish---like the ones I'd seen nibbling at a manta ray's gills while diving off of Tofo. Having these swarms of fish nibbling on me was one of the strangest physical sensations I've ever had---not pleasant, but not unpleasant either. Just very, very strange.

The next morning, Brian and I were up early and rented "mountain-bikes" for the day. I put the word in quotes because the bikes we got had no gears, terrible brakes, and hard seats. Basically, they were terrible bikes, but we set off with them anyway. We wanted to bike to the famous Kibale Forest National Park. The journey there was through small dirt trails, up and down hills---we'd have to walk the bikes up the hills and ride down clutching the brakes as hard as we could. My hands still hurt from holding onto the brakes so hard.

Kibale is one of Uganda's most famous parks; it is estimated to have the highest density of primates in the world, including many chimpanzees. To get into the park and go walking costs money, but there is a dirt road that goes through the park that it is free to drive through or bike through. That's the road we took. Walking up and riding down hills, stopping to see monkeys jumping through trees, and enjoying the wonderful scenery of the huge, imposing forest. From Nkuruba, we'd ridden and walked for 17 kilometers to the main park tourist office, and then took that same route back. 34 kilometers on crappy bikes, having to walk with the bikes up steep hills, was exhausting work. I'd say that we rode about 35% of the time and walked the other 65%---that's a lot of kilometers to walk uphill on dirt roads, dragging a bicycle. Add in the hot equatorial sun and some downpours, and it was quite the workout. But it was a beautiful trip through the forest, and it was free!

Today we had planned to go on a walk around the campsite and neighboring areas, but we were sore from our ordeal yesterday, and it was raining, so we decided to return to Fort Portal and take care of some errands (like writing a blog entry). Tomorrow we have a long day of travel ahead of us, to Masindi in the North-west part of the country. We have a lot planned for the next week or so---a stark contrast to all of the lounging in Arusha and Rwanda. Knowing that my time is limited makes me appreciate it that much more.

Travel Update #7: Arusha, Tanzania to Cyangugu, Rwanda

2008-02-09T12:57:00.000+02:00

After having spent far too much time in Arusha (and in Tanzania in general), Brian and I left on a long, long trip overland through Tanzania to Kigali, Rwanda. The commonly accepted way to do this is to take a bus from Arusha to Kampala, Uganda, via Nairobi, Kenya, and then to take a bus from Kampala to Kigali. Due to continued unrest in Kenya, and especially in towns along the road to Uganda, we decided that we would take the "road less traveled" and do a southern loop in Tanzania.

With only a very basic idea of how we were going to get to our destination, Brian and I left Arusha pre-dawn on Monday, January 28, on a bus bound for Mwanza, on the shores of Lake Victoria. This involves a long loop around (not through) the Ngorongoro and Serengeti National Parks, through the small towns of Singida and Shinyanga. After over 13 hours on the bus, through some wonderful scenery (and some very un-wonderful scenery), we finally arrived in Mwanza at dusk. Mwanza is a thoroughly unremarkable town, but we were able to run some errands. We spent one day in Mwanza, and then were off on another pre-dawn bus ride, this time to the small town of Benako, near the Tanzania-Rwanda border. After 9 hours of ear-shattering Swahili music, we arrived in Benako, and took a taxi to the border post at Rusumu Falls.

As we neared the border, I noticed that the landscape was gradually becoming greener and hillier; the flat, endless plains of Tanzania were behind us and we were surrounded by verdant hills. After getting our Tanzania exit stamps, we walked down the hill and across the bridge that separates Tanzania from Rwanda. It was a surprise when, crossing the bridge, we found ourselves looking at a large, powerful, surging waterfall. Aside from the Victoria Falls border post, it was the most scenic border I'd ever crossed.

One thing I noticed at the border was that the waterfall was not clear or blue, but a deep, rich brown. It looked almost like a waterfall of chocolate-milk. At the time I was wondering why that was the case, but then I remembered that Rwanda is one of the most over-grazed countries in the world; it is so densely populated, and practically every square inch of land is cultivated. This has led to serious erosion, and that erosion was going into the rivers and turning the water brown. (Jared Diamond, in his book "Collapse", even suggests that environmental issues were one factor to contribute to Rwanda's genocide)

We hopped on a minibus, and immediately, I could tell that I was in a beautiful, hilly, lush country. Everything was green, every view was like a panorama postcard. (Also, for the first time, I was in an African country that used an American road system, with the driver in the left front seat, driving on the right-hand side of the road. That took some getting used to, especially when crossing the street in Kigali.) Soon the sun went down, and I noticed an extreme lack of lights of any sort on the road; we were in darkness, sans-electricity. That made it all the more surprising when we turned one corner and the sprawling city of Kigali was before us, lit up like a beacon in the dark, extending as far as we could see.

We were dropped off in the center of town, and got into a taxi to take us to our guesthouse. After a lot of confusion and uncertain communication, our taxi driver eventually got us to our destination, a crappy little guesthouse right in the center of town. (Rwanda is a French-speaking country, and neither Brian nor I speak any French)

The next morning, we walked around Kigali, and the first thing I noticed was how hilly it was. Kigali is a city built on hills; this gives it a beautiful, scenic look, but also makes it tiring to walk around for long distances (as is the habit when on a budget) and especially when I'd go on my morning runs. The second thing I noticed about Kigali was how modern it is; I was expecting to find a city bearing the scars of the horrors that happened there, a city that was slowly catching up, like Maputo. Instead, I found a modern city, with break-neck construction everywhere, with excellent roads, streets full of cars, minubuses, and the ubiquitous green motorcycle-taxis that everyone seems to always be taking, sidewalks filled with well-dressed, good-looking people (Kigali has some of the most beautiful women I'd seen in my travels through Africa, but unfortunately due to the language barrier I wasn't able to communicate with any of them), with internet cafes around every corner, and with plenty of new buildings. One could arrive in Kigali and walk around its streets having no idea that 14 years ago those very same streets were filled with decomposing bodies. The city even has a modern shopping mall with a fancy European-style coffee house, full of NGO workers and well-to-do Kigali-ites (Kigali-ans?) on their laptops, taking advantage of a wi-fi internet connection.

We spent 6 nights in Kigali, but it never got boring or old. On the contrary, I loved being in Kigali, walking around, soaking it all in. Brian and I booked ourselves into a gorilla-trekking safari on February 21 (I can't wait), we ate some fantastic food and some very cheap food (and, occasionally, some fantastic cheap food). We enjoyed some of Kigali's nightlife. We went to the Hotel des Mille Collines, the one-and-only Hotel Rwanda. This was the place where Paul Rusesabagina protected hundreds of people during the genocide, made famous in the 2004 film. The actual Mille Collines looks nothing like the hotel used in the movie, and in fact resembles a Holiday Inn more than anything. It is a nice place, though.

The most memorable part of Kigali for me, in addition to the surprise at being in a modern city
, was a visit to the Kigali Memorial Centre. I'd been to the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC, and to the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg. Neither one holds a candle to the Kigali Memorial Centre, though. To get there, Brian and I each hopped on the back of a motorcycle taxi and held on tight as the driver swerved through city traffic, up and down hills, and took us to the outskirts of the city. The memorial lies on a large plot of land, most of which is taken up by gardens and spaces to walk and think. Over 250,000 people are buried there at the memorial, their bodies having been exhumed from mass graves around Kigali and other parts of the country. Knowing that the place is a giant mass graveyard adds a dimension of gravity that other museums and memorials cannot match. Inside the main memorial building, there are three exhibits: the first, and largest, is a detailed account of the Rwandan genocide of 1994, starting with its roots in colonial times, and ending with the current situation in Rwanda. The second exhibit discusses genocides of the 20th century, from the slaughter of Armenians by Turkey, to the Holocaust, to Cambodia and the Balkans. The third exhibit is a memorial to the children who were killed during the genocide. I was so moved by the memorial that I went back two days after visiting, with pen and paper, to record some quotes, which I will include below.

In the main exhibit, the horror or the genocide is steadily, unflinchingly portrayed. Never done for pure shock value, the exhibit is instead extremely sad and depressing. Atrocities are recounted in clear, vivid prose, chosen for maximum effect. Here is one example:

"Women were beaten, raped, humiliated, abused and ultimately murdered, often in sight of their own families. Children watched as their parents were tortured, beaten and killed in front of their eyes, before their small bodies were sliced, smashed, abused, pulverised and discarded. ... Victims had their tendons cut so they could not run away; they were tied and beaten. They were made to wait helplessly to be clubbed, raped or cut by machete."

The exhibit then goes on to discuss the international community's failure to prevent genocide in Rwanda, with its anger barely concealed.

"On 21 April, the UN Security Council passed a Resolution stating that it was 'appalled at the ensuing large scale of violence in Rwanda', which had resulted in the deaths of thousands of innocent civilians, including women and children. The same meeting voted to reduce the UNAMIR force to 270 volunteer Ghanaian personnel and to limit its mandate. ... Diplomatic staff and foreign workers left the country. Many left their colleagues, employees and friends to the mercy of the killers. Dignitaries of the Habyarimana regime, authors of the genocide, were evacuated. The number of foreign troops in the evacuation would have been sufficient to stop the genocide."

After leaving this portion of the exhibit, the next room is full of pictures of genocide victims, provided by their families. Walking around this room, looking at all of the happy, smiling people, couples, and families is truly sobering, as a video plays of survivors talking about their family members who were killed during the genocide, remembering their last moments together. Immediately following this room is a startling, darkened, haunting room full of skulls and bones collected from mass graves around Kigali. Many of the skulls bear obvious machete wounds.

After this, we walked into the main section of the first exhibit, with large quotes written along the walls. One is extremely poignant: "When they said 'never again' after the Holocaust, was it meant for some people and not for others?" --Apollon Kabahizi

While this was all sobering and informative, the moment the memorial truly hit home for me was in the exhibit of Rwanda's lost children. Walking into the first room, a plaque reads, "In memory of our beautiful and beloved children who should have been our future..." and there are large, wall-sized pictures of happy, smiling children. It is a simple memorial, never over-done. Each picture is accompanied by the name of the child and a simple plaque with some information about them. After a while, this became too much to bear; I can still remember the moment when I started crying. I was looking at a picture of a happy little girl in a dress, with the plaque bearing the following description:

Ariane Umutoni
Age: 4
Favourite food: Cake
Favourite drink: Milk
Enjoyed: Singing and dancing
Behaviour: A neat little girl
Cause of death: Stabbed in her eyes and head

That is only one example of the numerous displays in the childrens' exhibit. At the end, there are pictures, submittied by their families, of many hundreds of children, all of them no longer with us. This is the end of the memorial; after this, we walked out into the sunny daylight, into the gardens, surrounded by the graves of the dead. It was an extremely sobering experience; Brian and I were both quiet for hours following our departure.

After so many days in Kigali, we knew it was time to leave, and on Tuesday morning we took a minibus to Butare, the main town in southern Rwanda. One thing I have noticed in Rwanda much more than other African countries is the number of amputees and other disfigured people walking around. It's pretty obvious, actually. While they aren't everywhere, and it is very easy to spend time without running into them, they are very easy to find. Missing legs, missing hands. Waiting for our minibus to leave Kigali, sitting inside, I was approached by at least 3 or 4 people with missing arms, holding their stumps up to the window, asking for money. I was caught off-guard that first time, but it has happened over and over again in Rwanda, and I can feel myself desensitizing to it. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing.

The ride to Butare was spectacular, as all of the rides I have been on in Rwanda have been---it is truly a stunningly beautiful country. Butare is actually very close to the Burundi border. Butare is an unremarkable town, and we were only there for two nights. On our first day there, immediately after arriving, Brian and I took motorcycle-taxis to the National Museum, which is the exact opposite of the Kigali Memorial Centre---a simple, uncontroversial description of the landscape and traditional life of Rwanda. There is no mention of genocide or conflict in the museum.

The following day, on a day-trip, we took a minibus to the town of Gikongoro, 28km west of Butare. On the way there, through green cultivated hills, we passed groups of prisoners in their standard-issue pink outfits, hundreds of men working the fields and rice paddies, with a few armed prison guards keeping an eye on them. These men are the genocidaires, the men who did most of the murdering during the genocide. While the architects of the genocide are being tried in Arusha, the rank-and-file members are serving their time, doing manual labor. I wondered if any of these men were the ones who killed little Ariane Umutoni by stabbing her in the eyes and head.

Once we had arrived in Gikongoro, we hopped on the back of motorcycle-taxis and were off, swerving around cars and people, and soon we were off of the paved road and were on a dirt road, going down a steady hill, toward the Murambi Genocide Memorial. Rwanda is full of memorials; it seems that every town has one to take advantage of "genocide tourism". I did not want to do this, and as such, the Kigali Memorial Centre and the Murambi Memorial (both of which I had heard about long before arriving in Rwanda) were the only two that I visited; I did not and will not visit any others.

Upon arriving at the memorial, a former technical college, we were greeted by an elderly man named Emmanuel. With limited English, he told us that during the genocide, 50,000 people had fled here for protection from the Interhamwe militias. But they were not safe; soon the Interhamwe came and over the course of 2 days, they killed everyone. Out of 50,000 people, only 4 survived. Emmanuel is one of these lucky four; he has the bullet-hole in his head to prove it. He said that his entire family had been killed at Murambi.

We walked around the grounds of the technical college, which is set, like much of the country, on top of a hill, looking out at beautiful panoramas of green cultivated hills and mountains. An elderly woman walked up to us with a ring of keys; she gave them to Emmanuel and he walked us towards a classroom block. As we neared the block, I noticed a smell unlike any I'd smelled before. It was a thick stench, one that fills the nostrils. Emmanuel unlocked the first door and opened it, and Brian and I stood there, looking at a room full of corpses. These corpses had been preserved with lime to look exactly as they had looked when the killers struck fourteen years ago, their bodies contorted in agony (due to rigor-mortis, their bodies were forever contorted as they had been at the moment of their death), their flesh shrivelled. Many of them had mouths open in a neverending silent scream, their hands raised to protect their faces and bodies; machete wounds were still visible on many of their heads, their skulls cracked.

We walked from room to room; each room Emmanuel opened was full of more bodies, the smell of death everywhere. I had to keep my hand over my mouth and nose, covering it, because of the horror of what I was seeing and also because I didn't want to get nauseous. We walked through room after room of adults, children, and small toddlers, their bodies lying there as a testament to the horror of the past. While the Murambi Memorial was not as sad as the Kigali Memorial Centre, it was much more horrific. The images of those bodies in those darkened rooms will stay with me forever.

We walked the 3km back to Gikongoro and took a minibus back to Butare. The next day, on Thursday, we left Butare and took another minibus to the town of Cyangugu, where I am currently. As usual, the ride was spectacular, especially when we drove through the Nyungwe National Park, once we were closer to Cyangugu. Cyangugu is the main town near the Nyungwe park, where Brian and I are going tomorrow. In a beautiful location, on the southern tip of Lake Kivu, Cyangugu is also a border town; it is the border between Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Eventually the minibus arrived in the town of Kamembe, which is the main town near Cyangugu. Brian and I got off of the minibus, and were immediately surrounded by people asking us where we were going and offering us inflated "muzungu" prices to take us to our destination. We were especially confused because when we said we were going to Cyangugu, we were told that we were in Cyangugu. When we said we were going to town, they said "You are in town." Or, that's what I assumed, because they were mostly speaking French and I could only follow a little.

Eventually, tiring of the uncertainty, we just decided to take motorcycle-taxis to our guesthouse. This was a challenge, because we had our big bags with us...how would we manage on the back of a motorcycle? The solution (there is always a solution) was that the driver put my large beast of a bag in the front section of the motorcycle, between his legs, and used his legs to keep it in place. It wasn't totally balanced, though, so we drove slowly, re-adjusting along the way. Eventually we arrived at our guesthouse, and I was surprised at just how close we were to the border. The Rwanda-DRC border was literally a stone's throw from our guesthouse; we were looking out at the Congo.

We have been here in Cyangugu/Kamembe since Thursday, relaxing and enjoying the town. There is a wonderful local market where I've seen piles and piles of used clothes donated from America and Europe. I figure that some of my clothes were also in those piles, and was surprised while looking through one pile to find a "C.U. On The Ramps" Lerner Hall t-shirt, a free shirt that had been given to our freshman class at Columbia University back in 1999. I wondered if this was my old shirt that I had donated and was now holding thousands of miles away.

I had totally forgotten that I'd ever owned a "C.U. On The Ramps" shirt, but it seemed fitting; being in Rwanda, I've seen that the past is still alive in the memories of its people and in those amputees I've seen everywhere. You can forget the past, but it will find you....sometimes, even on the other side of the world.

A brief note on pictures

2008-02-04T11:14:00.000+02:00

Well, I am currently in beautiful Kigali, Rwanda. For the past four days I have been trying to upload some of my pictures onto this blog, to no avail. After more than five unsuccessful attempts, I have decided not to post any more pictures on this blog until I get to another major city with a fast internet connection (i.e. Kampala, Uganda).

I will be writing another blog post soon, though. Being in Rwanda has given me a lot to say.

Travel Update #6: Zanzibar, Tanzania to Arusha, Tanzania

2008-01-27T10:12:00.000+02:00

Although it has only been 5 weeks since my last update, and I am still in the same country I had been then, I cannot remember a time when I had more to write....or less desire to write it. But here goes.

After my last update, I left the maze-like Stone Town and headed back up to Kendwa Beach in Zanzibar; the only reason I'd gone back to Stone Town in the first place was to see Eric and Tom off, and soon enough I was back on the beach staring out at turquoise seas. I stayed in Kendwa until New Year's; it was a long time spent doing absolutely not much at all. But doing nothing never got boring; there was always a lively mix of old and new friends around. Brian, who I had traveled with in Mozambique and Malawi, was there. Mayerlin, a friend from Peace Corps South Africa, was there. Eric McDermott, another Peace Corps friend, soon showed up. I met wonderful new people, notably two volunteers working around Arusha, Lisa and Shannon.

One of the only active things I did during my time in Kendwa was a day-long scuba diving trip with Brian and Eric. We left early in the morning on a small wooden motorboat, on a 2-hour journey around the northern tip of Zanzibar, to the Mnemba Atoll, site of a gorgeous coral reef teeming with tropical fish. We did two dives, which were beautiful even though choppy conditions led to poor visibility. The trip back to Kendwa, in the afternoon, was a bit of an adventure though; the seas were surging, a rarity for the usually-calm waters around Zanzibar. Our small boat was getting tossed, rocking back and forth, all of us inside getting drenched with water with each sway. The boat literally would be at a 45-degree angle and then rock back to an extent where I thought we might capsize. Luckily we didn't, and when we finally got back to land it felt like heaven.

On New Year's Eve, a group of about 20 of us hired out a dhow to take us on a sunset cruise; the sun set on the most amazing year of my life over the calm waters of the Indian Ocean, as we sat in the dhow, swaying in the breeze. I said goodbye to 2007, and the next day, on January 1, 2008, I finally left Zanzibar, having spent over two weeks there. I took the ferry back to Dar Es Salaam, and was a man with a purpose during my two nights there. My camera was broken, and I was determined to find a new one in Dar. I went to numerous shops all over downtown Dar Es Salaam, looking for any affordable, good-quality digital camera I could find. Unless I wanted a camera with 3 megapixels and no zoom, the only cameras I found cost over $500 USD. This was unacceptable to me, and so I spent one hectic day on a wild-goose-chase around the outskirts of Dar, trying to find a camera. After wandering around on the Msasani Peninsula (and inadvertently finding Dr. Pepper---only the second place I've seen it during my entire time in Africa), I heard someone mention a rumor of a Game store about 10 km outside of Dar in the other direction. I'd been to Game numerous times in South Africa and knew that their prices were reasonable; I set out to find this store. After spending 30 minutes waiting for a daladala (local, shared transport) on a random road somewhere, and seeing no daladalas go by, I decided to hail a taxi (a rare splurge). Eventually I made it to the Mlimani City mall--the only indoor shopping mall I've found in Africa outside of South Africa. I was able to buy a new Sony digital camera at Game, and the mall even had a movie theater, where I was fortunate enough to watch the Will Smith movie "I Am Legend."

That evening, Lisa and Shannon arrived in Dar, and early the next morning the three of us left Dar on a bus to Moshi/Arusha. About 45 minutes outside of Dar, our bus inexplicably broke down, and we were stranded on the side of the road for over 2 1/2 hours. We were on the 7am bus; it was disheartening to watch the 7:30 bus, the 8am bus, all the way to the 9:30 bus, pass us by on the road. But eventually, as is always the case in Africa, we were on our way. And eventually, I made it to Moshi, my final destination. Lisa and Shannon continued on to Arusha, and we made plans to meet once I came down from the mountain.

After two nights in Moshi, relaxing and preparing myself mentally for the climb up Kilimanjaro, I took a daladala to the town of Marangu, and then walked quite a distance along a dusty road to the Kilimanjaro Mountain Resort, where I met the rest of my climbing group. I had booked my climb before leaving South Africa, with a company called the Africa Walking Company, and they booked us into the very fancy mountain resort for the night before the beginning of the climb. It was by far the nicest place I've stayed at during my travels; I had a huge room all to myself, with a king-sized bed, a flat-screen television, a private balcony, and a huge bathroom with a bathtub and a shower.

Unfortunately I couldn't really enjoy the room all that much because that night I became ill; it must have been something I ate, because I was back-and-forth between my bed and the toilet all night, and the following morning I didn't feel too much better. But with all of the excitement and anticipation of heading out for the mountain, I didn't pay too much attention to how I was feeling and was soon on my way with the rest of my climbing group for "Kili."

Unlike the backpackers, volunteers, and other long-term travelers and ex-pats I've met and spent time with during the past 2 1/2 years, the other 11 people in my Kilimanjaro climbing group had come to Tanzania (in many cases, all the way to Africa from other continents) just to climb the mountain, or to climb the mountain and go on a safari. Many were on 2-week vacations from work. Some were extremely naive about Africa. (One man asked me if they spoke Swahili in South Africa and expressed surprise that poverty-stricken Tanzanian villagers wore clean clothes) But they were a wonderful group of people and I'm happy to have spent a week with them. I thought back to my life before Peace Corps, to my own 2-week vacations, and realized again how lucky I am to have had the experiences I've had in Africa. They would not have been possible on any number of 2-week vacations put together. We were a diverse group of people climbing the mountain, though; I was the youngest, and the oldest was a 79-year old man from Wisconsin. Our group included Americans, English, Welsh, Irish, and two black South Africans, Vusi and Lebo. It was so refreshing to me to see and be around black South Africans, outside of South Africa. Before them, the only South Africans I had run into on my travels had been white.

We set off for the mountain, and drove for almost 3 hours to the Rongai Gate, where our path up the mountain, the Rongai Route, begins. By the time we arrived there, it was mid-day and I could start to feel my body protesting again. I ignored it, and we soon set off on the uphill trail. 10 minutes into the hike, I could feel that something was definitely wrong. Tim, an American in the group, volunteered to carry my day-pack for a while to help me. But it didn't help much; soon afterwards I was vomiting everything I'd eaten that day. Could I even continue up this mountain? I thought. I contemplated turning around, but Tim encouraged me to continue on, and other group members supplied me with oral rehydration fluid. Soon enough, though, I was on my hands and knees, regurgitating all of the rehydration fluid.

That first day, a 4 hour walk on a steady, not-very-steep uphill, was meant to be the "easy day", meant to prepare us for the more grueling days ahead. For me, the first day was complete agony. I was the last member of the group to make it into camp that evening, and immediately collapsed into my tent. I decided that if I didn't feel significantly better the following morning, I would not continue with the climb. After taking the anti-sickness medicine Maxalon, combined with a good night's sleep and the encouragement of my fellow group members, I woke up the following morning feeling tremendously better and ready to continue up the mountain. I still wasn't at 100%, and I didn't feel completely better until I got back to Marangu after the climb, but I trekked on.

The climb up the mountain was long, and tough, and scenic. Almost the entire time, we either had the iconic peak of Kibo ahead of us, or the jagged Mawenzi (unlike some other routes, like the Marangu route, where Kibo only shows itself after a few days). After that first night, the effects of the mountain began to kick in--diminished appetite, lack of sleep. I think that because I didn't acclimatize properly on the first day, that affected me for the entire climb.

Eventually "summit day" arrived. We were awoken at 11:30pm, in the middle of the night, at Kibo Camp, 4700 meters above sea level. By 12:30 we were on our way, in sub-zero temperatures, bundled up in our thick pants and thick jackets, in the pitch-black darkness with only our headlamps to guide us, going "pole-pole" (slowly) all the way. It was incredibly tough; the effects of my sickness, that I hadn't recovered from, in addition to the lack of sleep over the previous nights, combined with the altitude, made it extremely slow going and difficult for me. At the "Jamaica Rocks" below Gilman's Point, I physically collapsed but was able to get myself up and over the rocks and onto Gilman's Point, at 5680 meters above sea level. I had made it to the top of the crater; far enough to earn a certificate. I looked out into the crater (the top of Kilimanjaro is not flat; its a volcano and the crater goes down a few hundred meters), seeing snow around me and glaciers in the distance. It was late; it was past 8:30am when I made it to Gilman's Point, and I should have been there by 6. After a rest, where I ate some energy bars and gathered myself, I was ready to continue on the final 2 hours to Uhuru Peak, at 5896 meters above sea level. One of our guides, Hans, agreed to take me, but soon enough we both realized that we didn't have enough time to make it to Uhuru, and make it back to Gilman's, and then make it all the way down to Kibo Camp in time. Although I wanted to continue to Uhuru Peak, I realized that we wouldn't be able to make it, so we turned around at Stella Point, at 5744 meters above sea level. We went back to Gilman's, scree-d down the 900 meters to Kibo Camp, ate, rested for a bit, and then continued on another 3-hour walk to our final camp for the night, Horombo Huts, at 3700 meters.

January 10, Summit Day, was my 27th birthday. Before the climb, I'd had a romantic image of myself on the top of the mountain, watching the sun come up on my 27th year. The reality of the situation was that my birthday was spent in pain mostly, 16 1/2 hours trudging up and down a mountain, 1000 meters up, 2000 meters down. I began the day walking in the darkness with a headlamp; we didn't make it to Horombo Huts until 8pm, walking in the darkness (again) with our headlamps. It was a supremely exhausting day, and I'm happy that I was able to overcome my sickness and make it to Stella Point. That night I slept like a baby.

The next day we said goodbye to our guides and our porters (the porters who go up and down Kilimanjaro are incredible---carrying 15 kg on their heads, running past us going up and down the mountain every day), and descended the final 1800 meters to the Marangu Gate. At that point all I could think about was getting back to the hotel and taking a hot shower; when that finally happened, it was the most refreshing shower of my life. I'd been so dirty that the water that ran off of me was black.

The next morning I said goodbye to the rest of my group and was lucky enough to get a free lift back to Moshi. I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived to find Brian there. It's been nice to have company; we have been traveling together since then. After one night in Moshi, we took a daladala to Arusha and met up with Lisa and Shannon.

We are still in Arusha, two weeks later. It's funny how time passes; Arusha is a thoroughly unremarkable town but I've come to tolerate and appreciate it. It's full of street touts trying to scam you, but after a while you learn how to ignore them. On our first full day in Arusha, Brian and I walked around to some of the numerous safari operators with offices in Arusha, getting quotations on safaris and comparing prices. We found a good, reasonably priced 5-day, 4-night safari with a company called Shidolya Tours that Mayerlin had recommended, and booked the safari with them.

The next day, on Tuesday, Brian and I visited the UNICTR (United Nations International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda), which is situated in Arusha. The court is in session, holding proceedings against many of the architects of the Rwanda Genocide, every Monday - Thursday. That day, Brian and I sat in on the Nsengimana case--the accused is a Hutu Priest who assisted in the massacres of many of the Tutsis in his parish. I've been in court before, as a juror, so the technicalities of legal proceedings are not entirely new to me. What makes the tribunal stand out is that, inbetween technical proceedings about evidence being submitted for the record and lines of questioning, the subject matter being discussed was just so intense. A witness described walking into a technical college and finding the bodies of men, women, and children, their skulls smashed and broken with clubs. When we got back from safari, I went to the tribunal again and spent hours listening to the Ndilindiliyimana case (a very high-profile military case)---startling testimony about assassinations and military action. One affable, elderly witness described how he, a Tutsi hotel owner in a small town, had been warned that he would die at 9pm one day; at 7pm a military convoy arrived seeking cfood and lodging. At 9pm the Interhamwe Militia arrived with machetes but, seeing the military vehicles present, turned around and spared this man's life, along with the lives of other Tutsis hiding at the hotel. He went on to mention that they all survived, and some of them ended up at the Hotel des Milles Collines in Kigali (the Hotel Rwanda, famous from the film). Sitting in on the tribunal was intense stuff, but I'm happy to see that justice is slowly being done.

On Wednesday, Brian and I left for safari. It was a beautiful trip, and we were able to see a large number of animals. We saw a rare leopard; we also saw many elephants up close, including a rare tusker elephant, prides of lions (including playing cubs), hippos both in and out of the water, huge herds of zebras, wildebest, buffalo, hyenas, and other common animals like gazelles. We also managed to see a pride of lions eating a buffalo, which was very cool. Five days was a perfect length for a safari; we saw what we wanted to see but by the end we were ready to get back to Arusha. We spent one night at Lake Manyara, two nights in the Serengeti, and one night at the rim of the Ngorongoro Crater. Serengeti and Ngorongoro were both, in particular, beautiful places. Serengeti National Park is HUGE; we drove for hours and hours and never visited the same place twice. Because the park is so large, its animals are spread out; we drove for hours without seeing a single animal at some points. Ngorongoro, by contrast, is relatively small, with a huge density of herbivorous animals---namely, wildebeest, zebra, and buffalo. Because of that, we could not drive for more than a few minutes without seeing animals. In terms of scenery, Ngorongoro is an absolutely stunning place, green and lush plains teeming with animals, lakes filled with flamingos, and forests. The drive up to the rim from the crater, along the steep crater wall, was beautiful and a bit nerve-wracking. All in all, our safari was a very worthwhile experience, and I'm happy that I was able to do it. It's a shame, though, that so many people come to Africa only for safari; for me, that isn't really Africa---it's only one very small part of it. For me, it was a side-note to a much larger, better story.

After we returned to Arusha, to hot showers and Japanese food (yes, Japanese food), we explored more of the city. Brian and I, along with Dan, another traveler we met in Zanzibar, found a movietheater on the outskirts of Arusha and saw the movie "American Gangster." But after three more nights, it was time to leave Arusha again---Brian and I went with Shannon, whom we had met in Zanzibar, to the village where she works as a volunteer.

Shannon is a volunteer, not with any official organization like the Peace Corps, but out of her own determination and her own funds. She lives in a Maasai Village about an hour north of Arusha on the road to Nairobi, at the base of Mount Meru (the 2nd highest in Tanzania and one of the highest in Africa). We took crowded daladalas to her village, walked through fields and greeted people as we passed, walked past kids playing around rondavels (in Tanzania they call them "bomas"), and arrived at the house where Shannon lives with a local family. It was all very reminiscent of my experience in Peace Corps. Shannon works as a teacher at a primary school in the village; I had the wonderful opportunity to visit the school, to observe some classes, and to see the similarities and differences between rural schools in Tanzania and rural schools in South Africa. (verdict: there aren't that many differences, which should say more about the low quality of South African schools as opposed to the high quality of Tanzanian schools) I did manage to sit in, and sing along with, a 170-student kindergarten class....170 students and one teacher in one extremely crowded room.

We also went for a wonderful walk through Shannon's village, Ilkurot. Maasai men and boys were walking through the plains, shepherding large groups of cattle. Women carried buckets on their heads up and down-hill from the village water tap. One group of about 15 women, when we walked by the boma where they were congregating, were so excited to see us that they started dancing; soon enough, us three "wazungu" were in the middle of the group, doing the traditional Maasai dance along with the village women. After so long traveling, it was wonderful to be back in the Africa I know--not the beach-front destination or the adventure spot or the tourist trap, but the simple rural community. And even though I was thousands of miles away from Tshamahansi and from South Africa, I felt at home.

On Thursday, we returned from Ilkurot back to Arusha; thankfully, our time in Arusha is almost over. We had planned on taking a bus to Mwanza today, but because none are running on Sunday, we will be leaving at 5am tomorrow for the long journey. After a night or two in Mwanza, we will continue on to Kigali, Rwanda. It will be wonderful to be away from "touristy" Tanzania and into a place that has captured my imagination (both positively and negatively) for the past 14 years.

More than anything, I will be happy to leave Tanzania. Much has happened to me here, and I have had some wonderful experiences (Kilimanjaro, safari, Ilkurot) that I will remember for the rest of my life, but there's only so much that one can put in a blog. Real life is never as neat as the narrative; beneath the exotic-ness of travel, life does go on just as it does elsewhere. Life didn't stop when I arrived in Tanzania; my life on leaving Tanzania is drastically different from my life on entering Tanzania.

I'm looking forward to moving on; Rwanda is calling.

Travel Update #5: Lusaka, Zambia to Zanzibar, Tanzania

2007-12-22T10:39:00.000+02:00

When I wrote my last travel update, I was in the midst of spending a few days in the unspectacular city of Lusaka, Zambia. It's a fairly large city, and I was able to accomplish some errands (like blog posting) while there. It's a city that reminded me more of South Africa than anywhere else I've encountered on my travels--like a South African outpost in the bush. With its Ster Kinekor theatres, its Game store, its Shoprite and Spar supermarkets, its Pep stores, it was all very South African and a bit surreal.

While in Lusaka, I ran into Brian again. This would be a common thing--I spent time with Brian in Lusaka, and again in Livingstone, and most recently we ran into each other here on Zanzibar.

On Monday night, 3 December, Erica arrived in Lusaka; the next morning we were off for Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe. We took a bus from Lusaka to Livingstone, Zambia; a minibus from Livingstone to the border; then we walked across the Victoria Falls Bridge to Zimbabwe. I'd read so much about Zimbabwe this past year, the horror stories, the second-hand (and first-hand accounts) I'd heard from people, that stepping onto Zimbabwean soil made me a bit apprehensive.

The apprehension soon vanished, though. When we exited the Zimbabwean border post (where a very friendly immigration officer speedily processed visas for us), the cloudy day turned into a torrential downpour. We had planned on walking the 2km into Victoria Falls town, but the rain changed our plans; we quickly hopped into a private taxi, which promptly broke down in the rain. The driver spent the next 20 minutes working tirelessly, getting himself soaked from head to toe, to get the car working, and got us to our destination, dry.

During the three days I spent in Zimbabwe, I saw determined human beings faced with terrible circumstances. With such terrible inflation (the current unofficial exchange rate, at least when I was there, was US $1 to Z$ 1,600,000), people are doing all they can to survive. Shops are either empty of goods or stocked with certain products to give a deceptive appearance. In a large supermarket in Victoria Falls Town, entire shelves were taken up by mayonnaise or soya mince, only one row deep on the shelf. The illusion of plenty.

Zimbabweans are extremely resolute and hard-working; it is easy to see the effects of poverty and economic collapse everywhere, but their responses to it are surprising. I had expected to be surrounded by pitiful beggars; instead, everyone was trying to sell me something or offer a service. They didn't even need money, necessarily---an old tee-shirt for trading, or an old pair of trousers, or a used pair of shoes---anything that they could trade. I saw young men offering intricate carvings and asking for only a simple tee-shirt in exchange. People volunteered to carry your bags, to arrange tours for you---anything for a little bit of American money or some sort of good that could be bartered. Zimbabwean money is basically useless, and a sort of barter system has taken root. Everyone wanted to exchange something for something else. Only the very elderly or the disabled begged for money or goods. I cannot overstate how impressed I was with Zimbabwean peoples' resoluteness, their determination, their willingness to work, their friendliness, and so on. I wish I could have bought stacks of local carvings or crafts, and help them out, but I had no space in my bag for anything and had to refuse. There was really nothing that I could do.

The main reason I was in Zimbabwe was not to view the effects of economic collapse, it was to view the magnificent Victoria Falls, one of the seven natural wonders of the world, and the largest waterfalls in the world. They put Niagara Falls to shame. Walking around Victoria Falls Park in Zimbabwe, on a cloudy, rainy day, the sheer beauty and scope of the falls was apparent.

Tom, one of my good friends and a fellow South Africa RPCV, had flown to Victoria Falls to join me for a portion of my travels. Erica and I met him one evening, and we went out to dinner at a large, touristy restaurant called The Boma. It was a tacky place, trying to sell the "traditional African experience" with tribal dancing, interactive drumming, and other African stereotypes. The pampered tourists loved it. Erica, Tom, and myself went for the food, however, and were not disappointed. The Boma is an oddity in Zimbabwe---a place where the meat is plentiful and varied (we ate crocodile, ostrich, buffalo, eland, kudu, and impala, along with beef and chicken), and the food is abundant. I wondered what the ordinary Zimbabweans fruitlessly trying to sell their Nyaminyami pendants on the side of the road in town would have thought of The Boma. They probably would have been as surprised as anyone to see The Boma's depiction of "traditional life."

Eric, another of my PC-SA friends, arrived in Victoria Falls soon afterwards; he and Tom explored Victoria Falls while Erica and I crossed back over the bridge and back into Zambia. We spent the next few nights in Livingstone, Zambia, randomly running into two other South Africa RPCVs, Adam and Andrea. Livingstone, only a few kilometers away from Zimbabwe, has an entirely different vibe. While Victoria Falls Town was designed for tourists, and seems desolate without them, Livingstone is an actual African town, chaotic and bustling.

From the Zambian side, we visited the falls again (known in Zambia as Mosi oa-Tunya, "the smoke that thunders"). One one adrenaline-filled day, we went white-water rafting on the Zambezi, the biggest, most dangerous commerically raftable river in the world. Of the 23 rapids we plowed through that day in our 6-person raft, 4 were Class-5 Rapids (the most dangerous), and many more were Class-4. It was my first time rafting, but it was an adventure. In a similar vein to my bungee jump off of the Bloukrans bridge one year earlier, I started with the best. The world's highest bungee for my first jump; the world's biggest white-water rafting on my first trip in a raft.

The entire day was intense, from the walk down the slippery gorge, to the first rapids, and then to the more intense ones later. Knowing that people often die on these rapids (someone had drowned only a few weeks or months earlier) only made the experience that much more intense. Our raft did flip, on the craziest rapid of the day, rapid #8 ("The Muncher"). As I was tossed underwater, I quickly grabbed the rope that rings around the raft, and was able to hold on as we went hurtling downriver, still in the middle of the rapids. I came up for air under the raft, but was soon able to get out and was helped up onto the overturned raft, which we rode for the rest of that rapid. When the waters were calm again, we flipped the raft right-side-up, and paddled on to the next rapid. All in all, white-water rafting on the Zambezi was an exhilarating experience.

On another day, we took a trip out to Livingstone Island, an island in the middle of the Zambezi directly above the falls. To do this, we had to arrange a guide; he took Erica and I out along slippery rocks, wading through ankle-deep water, across the Zambezi, a few meters away from where the water we were in went plummeting down the falls. Eventually we reached the island; from there, we were able to jump into the river and swim to a spot just at the top of the falls. At this point, some rocks were protecting us from falling over; the guide held me by the ankles as I stretched out over the side, looking at the water rushing off of me and falling down the falls. One slip from the guide, and I would have fallen down the falls and died. Again, more adrenaline--it was quite the experience!

Soon enough it was time to leave Livingstone; after a night in Lusaka, Erica flew back to Jo'burg and Eric, Tom and I took a bus from Lusaka to the small Zambian town of Kapiri Mposhi. At Kapiri, we boarded the cross-border Tazara train, which would take us all the way to Dar Es Salaam, Tanzania. The trip was supposed to take 40 hours, but ended up taking over 46. Thankfully there were only four of us in our 2nd class sleeper compartment (as opposed to the 6 supposed to fit in each 2nd class compartment) --- the three of us, and a friendly Ugandan named Livingstone.

The train ride was long, and at some point during the trip all 3 of us became ill, but it was a fairly comfortable ride, and was far more comfortable than any of our other options. And on our last day on the train, a few hours before we arrived in Dar, we went through the Selous Nature Reserve, and were able to see elephants, wildebeest, buffalo, giraffes, and large numbers of impala from our seats on the train.

Once the train came to a final stop in Dar, we were able to disembark and make our way through crowds of people and touts towards a taxi driver who took us to our guesthouse. We weren't in Dar for long, though--we left the next morning on the ferry to Zanzibar--but in that limited time, I could see that Dar is a large, vibrant city (bigger than any other city I've been to during these travels), and I'm looking forward to spending a few days there when I leave Zanzibar on January 1.

Zanzibar....the name itself just brings all sorts of thoughts to mind. The Afro-Arab island paradise in the Indian Ocean. It's a wonderful place, and though it falls a bit short of being "paradise" it is still a wonderful place to spend some time. Eric, Tom, and I spent our first few days and nights wandering the labyrinthine streets and back-alleys of Stone Town, getting lost and then finding our way again. Everywhere I looked, I would find a curio shop, or a Mosque, or a beautiful building with an intricately carved door.

After spending time in Stone Town, we journed North to Kendwa Beach, a pure, pristine beach with soft white sand and turquoise water. I've never seen water anywhere the color of the water I've seen in Zanzibar. Kendwa Beach is the most beautiful beach I've seen on this trip, and possibly the most beautiful I've ever seen. By chance, we also happened to run into some more SA RPCVs on Kendwa--very random.

While we were in Kendwa, I celebrated the Muslim holiday of Eid-ul-Adha (or, as it's known here, Eid-ul-Hajj). I walked from Kendwa up to the tarred road, then took a daladala (shared transport) to Nungwi village, where I did my Eid prayer with the locals. Then I went back to Kendwa, where the receptionist wished me an Eid Mubarak and gave me a delicious plate of homemade Zanzibari biryani.

On Friday, we left Kendwa and returned to Stone Town; on Saturday, Eric and Tom left on the ferry to return to South Africa and England, respectively. I've spent the past two days wandering the streets of Stone Town by myself, getting lost physically and mentally, and then finding my way again. I've been dealing with a personal issue, and walking through these streets has helped me to be alone with my thoughts and to deal with them. Tomorrow I head back up to Kendwa....back to that perfect white sand.

(On a related note, my camera has recently malfunctioned. I'm only able to post pictures that I was able to extract from before it stopped working....perhaps I will be able to post my Zanzibar pictures in the future)

One section of Victoria Falls, as seen from Zimbabwe

This is the amount of water rushing through the falls in LOW season.

Me at the Zimbabwean side of the falls

The view from Livingstone Island, Zambia

Erica and I on Livingstone Island

Rafting the Zambezi

Raft-flipping on the Zambezi

Pictures: Entries 2 - 4

2007-12-01T13:53:00.001+02:00

Praia Do Tofo (Tofo Beach)

Tofo

Bamboozi Backpackers, Tofo

Beach party, Vilankulos

Brian taking a picture on the sand dune, Bazaruto Island

On the sand dune

Still on the sand dune

Blantyre, Malawi

Cape Maclear, Malawi

The view of Cape Maclear from the top of the mountain

On the MV Ilala--the Malawian flag fluttering in the breeze

The dinky little wooden motorboats we used to get on and off of the Ilala

Pre-wedding party, Likoma Island

Cathedral, Likoma Island

Local kids in front of Mango Drift Backpackers Lodge, Likoma Island

The view of the Mozambican coast from Likoma

The sun deck at Wakwenda Retreat, Chizumulu Island

Chizumulu Island

Mayoka Village Backpackers Lodge, Nkhata Bay

Cliff jumping, Nkhata Bay

The Wazungu!!!
In Nkhata Bay, top row: Anthony, Andy, Danny, me, Beej, Dave, James.
Bottom row: Andrew, Darryl, Tim.

World AIDS Day March in Lusaka, Zambia

Two Updates

2007-12-01T12:35:00.000+02:00

Due to unforeseen circumstances, I was unable to post my 3rd travel update when I had planned on it (it had already been written but I'd underestimated the lack of internet access in Malawi); so here are Travel Updates 3 and 4.

Travel Update #3:
Vilankulos, Mozambique to Cape Maclear, Malawi November 16, 2007

Due to slow and sporadic internet access, my posting has been extremely lacking recently. Let me pick up where I last left off:

Vilankulos was pretty, but on the whole, I was unimpressed. I did manage to see a Mozambican beach party near the backpackers lodge I was staying at, complete with loud music, vendors selling fried dough, and beach-soccer, but that was one of Vilankulos's few charms. (I was also chased by a pack of at least 20 vicious, snarling dogs while out for a morning run, cementing my less-than-enthusiasm for the place)

The offshore islands of the Bazaruto Archipelago, however, are a different story--breathtaking in their beauty. The water around the islands is very shallow, crystal-clear, and turquoise-colored. On the main island, Bazaruto, there is a massive sand dune (not massive by Namibian standards, I'm sure, but still massive), and the view from the top was enough to rival anything I'd seen before. I also went snorkeling and diving at the famous Two Mile Reef, just next to the island.

In Tofo, I had met a 32-year-old Californian named Brian who had similar travel plans as myself (for November, at least), and so we have been traveling together since then. Getting from Vilankulos to points north in the trip presented Brian and I with early mornings and long, arduous rides on buses and minibuses--not an appealing thought. For the first stage of our journey, Brian and I were able to get a lift from Vilankulos to Inchope with a serene, zen-like Frenchman. During that trip, over deeply potholed roads, I saw something very interesting: children would line the sides of the roads, filling the potholes with sand to make the ride easier for passing cars; in return, bus and chapa drivers (and Patrice, our Gandhi-like traveling companion) would drop some coins out of their windows as a small payment. It showed ingenuity on the part of these children, who saw a need and solved it--where the government would not fix the road, the children stepped in to provide their services, and noteworthy example of the principle of supply and demand in action, and an interesting sight for someone interested in development economics.

After our lift to Inchope, Brian and I took a very crowded chapa from Inchope to Chimoio. I was seated next to a very friendly Zimbabwean woman on her way home to Harare--she would not stop telling me about how "amazing" Zimbabwe is--constantly comparing Zimbabwe to Mozambique and saying how much better Zimbabwe is. When I disagreed and brought up the current economic and political situation, she quickly replied with a predictable pre-programmed answer. She blamed the businesses and local shops for the lack of necesities--perhaps she expects them to sell goods at a loss? She pointed to her own hefty stature as proof that the people of Zimbabwean are not starving ("Am I the skinniest person on this chapa? No!")

Eventually we arrived in Chimoio, a run-down little Mozambican town, devoid of any charm, and near the Zimbabwean border. As is always the case in Mozambique, we had to wake up extremely early for the pre-dawn transport the next morning; by 3:30 we had left the backpackers lodge and by 4am, in the dark, our bus was on the road, heading for the hot, dusty town of Tete. That 6-hour busride was amusing, crowded with Mozambicans, some of whom had been up all night drinking and were acting belligerent. At one point, a fight almost broke out between two guys on the bus; they were yelling at each other in Portugese, each rolling up his shirt-sleeves and flexing his biceps, like some perverse kind of manliness contest in lieu of a physical altercation.

From Tete, our next destination was Zobue, the Malawian border on the way to Blantyre. For this we squeezed into a chapa and, soon after leaving, crossed the Zambezi River. It had been a lovely day, but we arrived at Zobue in the midst of a torrential downpour. After passing through the Mozambican border post and receiving our exit stamps, we expected to have to walk a few hundred feet to the Malawian border post, but were dismayed to find that the post was at least 5km away--walking that distance in the pouring rain, with our heavy packs, did not seem like a good prospect. Thankfully, we were able to get a lift to the border after having walked a few hundred meters and getting soaked.

Wet and soggy, we entered Malawi, the "warm heart of Africa." Malawi is a place of ridiculously slow transport, and it was evening by the time we reached Blantyre, our destination. Blantyre is a lovely little city, set in a valley surrounded by beautiful hills. It's also a city filled with internet cafes--even though the internet there is much too slow to do much more than basic email. That first night in Blantyre, an earthquake struck at around 2am. It was such a small earthquake, however, that I slept through it and only found out about it the next morning when Brian mentioned it.

After 3 nights in Blantyre, we were off for Lake Malawi. As usual, transport was slow and crowded--our 224-kilometer trip from Blantyre to Monkey Bay ended up taking us about 9 hours. We had hoped to get to Cape Maclear that afternoon, but it was getting late when we reached Monkey Bay, and we would have arrived in Cape Maclear after dark. We decided to stay in Monkey Bay, and 3 seemingly-helpful young men offered to direct us to the backpackers lodge there. And so we walked with them, as it neared dusk. They took us on a dirt road out of town, and soon enough, we were in the middle of the bus, with nobody else around. At this point, with the sun about to set and me having no idea where I was, my South African-instilled paranoia kicked in--it would be really easy for these guys to just rob us right here, I thought. This being Malawi, and not South Africa, we did reach our destination soon enough--the 3 guys really were just honest and helpful locals who weren't out to rob naive travelers.

The next morning, Brian and I arrived in Cape Maclear, a beautiful little spot on Lake Malawi. I had expected a tourist trap and was happy to find that Cape Maclear is much more relaxed than I'd expected. We stayed at a place called Gaia House--a lovely, very chill, little backpackers lodge with thatch-roof lapas and hammocks, shaded by large eucalyptus trees, right on the water. I set up my tent on the beach, only a few feet from the water. With my tent opening facing the water, I could easily wake up, unzip my tent, and literally roll out of bed into the lake if I wanted to.

What is known as "Cape Maclear" is actually a quaint Malawian fishing village named Chembe, where women wash dishes and clothes in the lake and children play and swim in the water. During the 1990s, Chembe was THE spot for backpackers on Lake Malawi, and that influx has led to a sad dependency within the village. You can't walk 5 minutes on the beach without local guys offering boat trips, necklaces, carvings, meals, or other services. With relatively few "tourists" visiting Chembe these days, the groups of "beach boys" are desperate for money.

Walking along the beach, among the local women washing clothes, Brian and I met a local high-school boy named Geoph. After walking and talking with us for a while, he invited us to his home for lunch the following day. We accepted, and the next day we went to Geoph's house. The experience was very similar to many experiences I had in South Africa, but I'm sure it was a new thing for Brian. We sat on the stoop in the shade, as curious little children crowded around us, chickens ran around in the yard, and the women and girls cooked or cleaned. We were served nsima (the Malawian word for pap). Geoph also taught me a little Chichewa, the predominant language spoken in Malawi. Being a Bantu language, I was able to see its similarities with Shangaan, SePedi, and other Bantu languages and to pick up on some Chichewa grammar immediately.

My time in Chembe has been great and relaxing; swimming in the clear blue waters of Lake Malawi, lounging in the hammock reading, running in the early morning. I dived at the aptly-named "Aquarium" and climbed the local mountain. While running one morning, I had a small scare when two baboons suddenly appeared on the path only a few meters in front of me. I slowed down, the baboons moved on, and soon enough I was able to continue on my way. And that's the way it goes; even the most mundane experiences, like a minibus ride or a morning run can lead to new adventures. I'm happy that I have chosen to explore the countries of Southern Africa and have these adventures.

Travel Update #4: Cape Maclear, Malawi to Lusaka, Zambia December 1, 2007

Perhaps I was too used to South Africa, or perhaps I had just forgotten, but the sheer remoteness of many of Malawi's destinations caught me by surprise. Without any internet access, without any access to banks or ATMs (or extra money), and sometimes without cellphone reception, I had to stop myself for wishing for "creature comforts"--I didn't come on this journey so that I could have easy internet access.

On Friday, 17 November, Brian and I left Cape Maclear to continue our journey on Lake Malawi. We were up before dawn, packing up our tents, and were in the back of a matola (flatbed truck) by 5:10am--but, being Malawi, we didn't make it the 22km from Chembe to Monkey Bay until nearly 8am (almost 3 hours later). After changing some US dollars for Malawian kwacha on the black-market, we got on the Ilala Ferry at Monkey Bay.

The MV Ilala is a staple on Lake Malawi--it's been running up and down Lake Malawi every week for over 50 years. To get to some of the destinations we were heading to--namely, Likoma and Chizumulu Islands--it is the only option, aside from chartering a speedboat or a plane. The ferry's First-Class Deck, which most backpackers and other travelers use, is a comfortable wooden deck with a pleasant breeze, chairs, and ample space to lie down and sleep under the stars. Our trip from Monkey Bay to Likoma Island, in the middle of the lake, took 29 hours--the ferry didn't anchor at Likoma until almost 9pm Saturday. The trip was enjoyable--the food on the ferry was reasonably priced, the weather was wonderful, and I was able to meet other travelers, including Sharif, a dreadlocked Malawian who referred to himself as a "Lasta" (Malawians tend to mix their "L"s and their "R"s).

Getting on and off the ferry was quite the experience. As I've mentioned, it's the only way to get to the islands, and as such it is the islands' lifeblood--their only connection to the outside world, the only way to get goods to and from the island. We saw everything from fresh tomatoes to cars getting loaded on and off of the ferry. The ferry anchored in the bay offshore and lowered small wooden motorboats into the water; these were used to ferry passengers and goods to and from shore. The amount of goods being transported on these small motorboats, the apparent chaos, was very interesting to see. It was like the loading and unloading of combis in South Africa, but scaled up and exponentially more chaotic. I saw shirtless Malawian men walking through the crowds, carrying large bags of maize meal and raw fish that they were cutting into fillets, shouting at each other in Chichewa. I even saw a Malawian man carrying a baby on his back (a very rare sight of gender-role reversal in Africa).

Eventually Brian, I, and other backpackers who were going to Likoma were able to push our way through the crowds and the yelling Malawians (who were now loading and unloading crates of soft drinks and beer) and lower ourselves and our heavy backpacks into the boat. We squished into the small boat, which was perilously overloaded (the boat was so heavy that the top of the boat was only about 2 or 3 inches above the water), and then we sailed through the pitch-black water towards shore. Because the boat was overloaded, however, we couldn't make it all the way to shore, and so we had to take off our shoes, roll up our pants, and wade through pitch-black thigh-deep water with our backpacks to shore.

Finally on Likoma Island, we made our way in the back of a pick-up truck and then on foot down rocky hills in the darkness, and eventually reached Mango Drift, the backpackers lodge on the island. I set up my tent on the beach and enjoyed a relaxing few days on Likoma Island, reading, swimming, and walking around the island. Likoma Island is home to one of the largest cathedrals in central Africa, an imposing and impressive (and completely out of place) structure with gothic architecture and tin roofs. On Likoma, I met a Brit named Andrew, who owns both Mango Drift as well as Kaya Mawa, the high-end fancy lodge on the island. His numerous stories, of life on the island, of traveling through Sudan and through Mozambique during its civil war (including being successfully dissuaded from boarding a bus he was scheduled to take, and then seeing that same bus overturned, filled with bullet holes, and on fire later that day), and of seeing people get shot at all-night raves in the Netherlands in 1988, kept us entertained.

Because Andrew owns both the backpackers lodge and the tourist lodge on Likoma, our backpackers lodge was host to the pre-wedding party for one of Kaya Mawa's employees--it was quite a sight! Hundreds of villagers from the island arrived at the backpackers on foot, and wealthy Europeans from Kaya Mawa arrived on speedboat. There was a boat race and traditional Malawian music and dancing. It was a good time to be staying at Mango Drift.

After four nights on Likoma, Brian and I got a ride on a wooden sailboat from Likoma to neighboring Chizumulu Island, a 90-minute boat ride away. We left at 6:30, with the sun rising. The trip was going well, until one of the boat's wooden beams broke and a sail fell off halfway to Chizumulu. We ended up making it the rest of the way to Chizumulu just fine with only one sail. There is only one place to stay on "Chizzie"--the Wakwenda Retreat, a lovely little spot with hammocks, sun-chairs, excellent landscaping, and the best snorkeling I've ever seen right next to the lodge, with large schools of colorful fish swimming all around me while I snorkeled.

On Chizumulu, I decided to climb up to the top of the island's "mountain"--it was an easy climb, and the views from the top were wonderful. However, I must have strayed too close to a bird's nest. I saw large birds of prey, which looked like hawks, circling overhead (I later discovered that they are known as "Yellow Kites"). There were at least 20 of them circling, and then they started coming lower and lower, closer to me. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but then one of the large birds descended and strafed the top of my head as a warning. It didn't hurt too much, but I got the message loud and clear, and quickly descended back to the lodge.

After three nights on Chizzie (one week total on the islands), it was time to leave. My time on the islands, and on the lake in general, was incredibly chill---reading, swimming, lying out in the sun. I was ready for some action, though, and when the Ilala showed up at Chizumulu at just after midnight on Saturday night, 24 November, I was excited to get on the mainland again. We took another wooden boat (this one was a paddle-boat) out to the ferry, and then slept under the stars on the deck. At about 7am, we arrived in Nkhata Bay, our destination.

Nkhata Bay, where I stayed for four nights, had an entirely different vibe than the islands or Cape Maclear. Where the islands were almost devoid of any travelers except for Brian, myself, and a few others, Nkhata Bay was full of backpackers everywhere. There was a real party vibe, with late nights and loud music. After such a long time relaxing, it was a real pleasure to be around lots of people again. The main town in Nkhata Bay is bustling, with an internet cafe, lots of cheap delicious local restaurants, and large chaotic markets. (I also had an interesting trip to the larger town of Mzuzu, to use the ATM, during which my taxi ran out of petrol halfway home)

Brian left Nkhata Bay shortly after we arrived--he was ready to leave the lake and move on to the next stages on his own overland journey. We said goodbye, and I stayed for 3 more nights in Nkhata Bay, where I met loads of travelers from all over the world. Unlike backpackers in Europe (so I hear) and in Thailand or South Africa (as I remember), most of the backpackers in
Malawi are a bit older, a bit more well-traveled, and on long overland trips. Many of them were fairly knowledgeable about Africa, and I was able to have some very interesting conversations and debates.

Mayoka Village, the backpackers lodge I stayed at in Nkhata Bay, was a lively place, with buffet food nights, live music, free snorkeling, and numerous other activities. On Wednesday, they arranged a boat trip for those of us staying there; we fed fish eagles (beautiful), jumped off 7-meter rock cliffs, and lounged on a lovely beach with soft sand (a rarity among places I stayed). As much as I would have loved to have stayed longer at Mayoka, it was soon time to leave, and on Thursday I left Nkhata Bay with some other backpackers I had met there--Tim, an Australian; Kristin, an American, and Danny, a Brazilian.

We had to get to Mzuzu before 6:30am on Thursday to catch the bus to Lilongwe, and our taxi was a bit late in getting us that morning--we left Mayoka at almost 5:30 and then almost broke down from overloading (there were 4 of us in the backseat, all of our bags in the trunk, the driver in the front, and his buddy in the shotgun seat). The muffler fell off and had to be attached with a wire. The undercarriage scraped against the dirt road every time we hit a bump. We drove fast, to make it in time--rounding a corner at high-speed, we ran over a chicken, the car thumping over it and continuing along. The muffler fell off again, but our driver was on a mission to get us to our bus on time, and we just left it on the road, continuing on with our collapsing automobile. People jumped out of the way when we approached, because our driver did not slow down for anything. It was an exhilarating trip, and it's a good thing he drove as fast as he did, because we made it to the bus station in Mzuzu at 6:29, just in time to get on the bus as it was about to leave.

From Mzuzu, we traveled to Lilongwe, where we switched off of our bus and continued on to the border at Mchinji, and then to the Zambian town of Chipata. From Chipata, it was an early 5am bus to Lusaka. We arrived in Lusaka yesterday; after 18 long hours of transport.

Lusaka is a clean city; it reminds me more of South Africa than anywhere else I've visited. Some people say it's devoid of charm, and I can see that--it lacks something that cities like Maputo or Blantyre have. It's still a fine place to be, though, and I'm looking forward to spending a few days here, until Erica arrives Monday night and we head down to Victoria Falls on Tuesday.

Today is World AIDS Day, and there are large marches throughout the city. I'm reminded of one year ago, when my peer educators and I went to the Tshamahansi Clinic and were tested for HIV. That was the first step in our campaign for HIV awareness and testing in Tshamahansi; now, with all of that behind me, I wonder what is happening in Tshamahansi for World AIDS Day this year. Are the peer educators doing something? Are there more people going for HIV tests at the Tshamahansi Clinic today? I truly hope so; seeing the marches in Lusaka today reminded me of them and the work that we did together, and I hope that it is continuing without me.

Travel Update #2: From Maputo to Tofo (and on to Vilankulos)

2007-11-04T16:03:00.000+02:00

When I last wrote, I was in Maputo, Moçambique, getting ready to leave for Tofo. I had originally planned on leaving Maputo last Thursday, the 25th of October, but when Luis, the manager of The Base Backpackers, told me that there would be a direct door-to-door shuttle on Friday, I decided to stay in Maputo for an extra day. That last day in Maputo was cold and raining, and I spent most of the day indoor, reading at the backpackers. On Friday morning I was up early, and was ready and waiting at the front entrance at 5:30am for the transport, as I was supposed to. Well, 5:30 passed, 5:40, and still no shuttle. Eventually, the guard at the backpackers called a private taxi for me because he was worried I'd miss the buses that leave from Junta (my only option at this point).

I arrived at Junta at about 6:15am...it was as chaotic as I remember it being. My driver and some random dude at junta (who ended up working there in some capacity) spoke for a minute in portugese, and then the other dude opened the door and grabbed my bag. Granted, my bag is pretty heavy, but he tossed it over his head and I had to walk briskly to keep up with him as he led me through the maze of buses to the one going to Inhambane. Eventually I got on a half-sized bus and sat down with my bag. All around me, crowds were moving. I'm used to people at taxi and bus ranks in South Africa selling cold drink and snacks, but at junta, I saw masses of people walking around selling everything imaginable, from baby clothes to fried fish. One guy was walking around selling only two things: mosquito nets and machetes. An interesting combination, I thought.

Eventually we did leave, but the journey was incredibly slow. The bus made numerous unexpected stops, some for no apparent purpose. Once we were out of the Maputo area and into the countryside, we would stop off in random small towns, and women would run up to the bus, offering bananas, tomatoes, or onions to sell. Transactions would be hastily made through the bus windows, and then the bus would lumber away down the road. I knew, with each stop, that I would not get to Tofo within the 7 hours the journey was supposed to take. I had expected to arrive there by 1pm, but that was no longer a possibility.

As the journey went on, the countryside became green and lush. We crossed the Limpopo River, and then the road went bad. It was still a tarred road, but there were so many potholes in it that our bus had to slow down to a near-crawl at many places. It was the first time in my life that I would see an oncoming car swerving back and forth across a perfectly straight road and think to myself, "that's a good driver!"

We began passing wonderful little Moçambican villages. I immediately felt a pang of envy, because these villages looked exactly like the minds-eye picture I had formed before coming to Africa of what my Peace Corps experience would be like. The villages are beautiful--thatch, mud, and palm-tree rondavels and huts set in open clearings surrounded by lush green vegetation, shaded by palm trees, all looking entirely natural and in-place. This is a far cry from the brick and tin-roof villages that are common in South Africa. Whereas South African villages usually detract from the natural beauty of their surroundings (although Tshamahansi is in a very scenic area, nobody can say that it is a pretty village), Moçambican villages actually add to the natural beauty. They seem like extensions of, not infringements on, nature. And, as we neared closer to Inhambane province, the number of palm trees surrounding us grew...there were palm trees, and then more palm trees. We drove through forests of palm-trees; I had never seen anything like that before. Rows upon rows of beautiful cocounut palms.

After 40 minutes spent fixing a flat tire, and other inconveniences, our bus finally pulled into the town of Inhambane at around 2:30pm. I had no idea of where were were or where to go, but someone grabbed my bag and put it into a local bus, and I followed. Once I was on the bus, I asked if the bus was going to Tofo, and was pleased when I heard that it was, indeed. It was a crowded bus, and I stood as we left Inhambane.

A few minutes later, I heard a commotion, and then looked behind me. Just behind me, the bus doors had closed and a man was being dragged by the bus. It turns out he was a drunk old man who had been trying to get off the bus at the previous stop, and then when the bus doors closed, his jacket got caught. Nobody noticed, and then when the bus left, he was dragged. The bus stopped, the doors opened, and the old man collapsed to the ground. He lay there, face-down in the dirt, not moving, as a commotion formed around him. Inside the bus, the rest of us were looking out of the windows. The old man was turned over, and his entire lower leg and foot were a bloody pulpy mess, with skin hanging off of it.

The bus stopped, and we had to wait there until help arrived to take the passed-out bleeding drunk man to the hospital. Once that was taken care of, we continued to Tofo. I didn't arrive at my destination, Bamboozi Backpackers Lodge in Tofo, until almost 4pm. It had been an eventful journey, but I was finally there. I set up my tent on the sand on the Bamboozi property, and was surprised when the first other guests I saw there were Cort and Sam, whom I had just said goodbye to a few days earlier in Maputo! They were on their way back from Vilankulo. I was able to spend a few days in Tofo with them before they returned to South Africa.

Bamboozi Backpackers is a lovely place, shaded by coconut palms, thatch-roof dorms and chalets rising above the foliage heading up a sand dune; the bar/restaurant is atop the sand dune, looking out both on the property and on the Praia Do Tofo (Tofo Beach)--a pristine sandy beach stretching out on both sides.

The Indian Ocean extends to the horizon. And, for the most part, the beach was empty. There weren't too many tourists walking around--only some backpackers here and there. I'm sure that during peak season ( i.e. South African holidays) the place is packed, though....but when I was there, the beach was lovely and calming. The water was warm, the waves were exhilarating, and the sand was soft.

I ended up staying in Tofo for 8 nights, and it was exactly what I needed--a perfect decompression period after my experiences in South Africa. Every day I was up before 6a.m. (the sun rises early in Mozambique). I'd run along the beach in the early morning, feeling the ocean breeze, looking out at the blue horizon. I camped the entire time I was there; originally, I pitched my tent in an open, sandy clearing, but soon discovered that the hot Mozambican sun would heat up my tent to such an extent that my deodorant stick actually melted! I had never known that could even happen--I guess Old Spice High Endurance deodorant isn't really all that "high endurance" after all. After that experience, I moved my tent under some palm trees for shade. And after another experience, when I returned from the bathroom to my tent and found a 2-foot long, bright-green snake slithering inside, I decided to close my tent even if I left for only a moment.

In addition to lounging around onthe beach, I actually accomplished something in Tofo: I learned how to scuba dive. I had never been diving before, and the thought of all that heavy gear weighing me down in the water, where I had limited beathing capacity, had made me apprehensive in the past. Coupled with my history of lung issues, I didn't think I could do it. But I did. I took the PADI Open Water course, which involved 5 knowledge sessions, complete with reviews, quizzes, and a final exam at the end. Then I had to swim 200m and tread water for 10 minutes. I then had to complete 5 pool (confined) dives, where I learned how to do all of the routine things that scuba divers do--breathe underwater, maintain buoyancy, clear flooded masks, etc.

Once that was done, however, the fun began: my four open-water dives. These were real scuba dives in the Indian Ocean, on reefs off the Mozambican coast. My first day involved two dives; I became terribly sea-sick after my first dive, but then persevered through to do my second dive. The second day of open-water diving involved two more dives, and I was able to see sting-rays, huge fish, lobsters, and an octopus at the bottom of the reef.

PADI Open Water Certification means that a diver is qualified to dive down to 18 meters (60 feet) below sea level. Many more exciting and rewarding dives, however, are deeper than 18 meters, so after I finished my open-water certification, I signed up for a PADI Adventure Deep Dive. Doing this would certify me to dives as deep as 30 meters (100 feet) below sea level.

On Thursday, I did my deep dive at a place called Manta Reef. It was an incredible dive experience; Manta Reef is Tofo's signature diving destination and an incredibly beautiful dive. The bottom is at 26 meters, and huge pinnacles of coral spire up from the bottom. These coral are surrounded by huge schools of fish, from the tiny up to the massive. Brightly colored fish swam all around me, close enough to touch. Already, the dive was incredible.

In the distance, I was beginning to make out an ethereal shape in the water. Slowly it came into focus: a huge manta ray. For a split-second my brain didn't process what I was seeing and I thought I must be mistaken: surely manta rays weren't that big? This thing I was seeing was at least 5 or 6 meters wide (that's about 16-20 feet or so), absolutely beautiful, gliding through the water. It swam around us divers as we watched, awed. And then it swam right towards me. I had to descend a little in the water, and the manta swam right above my head, probably no more than 1 meter above me. It was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen.

After Manta Reef, I did another dive at a place called Sherwood Forest, and I did manage to go down to 30 meters on that dive. It was the last dive that I did in Tofo, before i left for Vilankulos.

I arrived here, in Vilankulos, yesterday. The trip took a while; first was the 25-minute walk from Bamboozi to central Tofo; then the 45-minute chapa ride to Inhambane, then the walk to the pier in Inhambane, then a ride in a dingy old ferry boat to Maxixe, then a crammed chapa to Vilankulos.

Vilankulos is the gateway to the Bazaruto Archipelago; I'm going to see the islands of the archipelago tomorrow. I'm incredibly excited, especially because so far Vilankulos has been underwhelming. The beach is not great; there is seaweed everywhere and there are many rocks. The water is lovely, though; it is calm, shallow, and perfectly turquoise; uncharacterized by the violent waves of Tofo. Leaving Tofo was a little tough; it could be very easy to just stay there, enjoying its many charms. But my journey continues; I have many more exciting destinations ahead of me.

(*pictures to come at a later date*)

Travel Update #1: Maputo, Mozambique

2007-10-25T14:45:00.000+02:00

Last Friday was my last day as a Peace Corps Volunteer; I walked out of the Peace Corps office that day a "free man," about to begin my adventure. Two days later I was gone, on a combie to Nelspruit, with my giant backpack squished into my seat with me. One more day later I crossed the border into Mozambique.

I was fortunate enough to discover that two of my fellow PCVs, Cort and Sam, were also planning on going to Maputo on Monday, so we were able to travel together. Crossing into Mozambique itself wasn't groundbreaking, but very soon afterwards I began noticing that I was, indeed, no longer in South Africa. Among them was the sight of an overpass above the paved highway we traveled on; there were no cars on the overpass, but it was full of a herd of cattle walking across, in their own sort-of traffic jam. English disappeared, replaced by Portugese, which is the official language of Mozambique.

About 10km outside of Maputo, our combie (which, in Mozambique, is referred to as a "chapa"), stopped at a hectic, bustling depot, crowded with people. This was "junta", the main starting/stopping point for long-distance chapas and buses. Immediately as we stepped outside of our chapa, we were mobbed--cellphone accessories, chips, soft drinks, airtime, sunglasses--we were offered it all. Some people just dispensed with any pretense and flatly begged for money. Our bags were in an open-air trailer attached to the chapa, so we grabbed them, squeezing our way through the crowd, and put them inside our chapa. The driver pulled away and drove us into Maputo. Cort, Sam and I looked at each other--well, that was interesting!

Our driver didn't know the streets of Maputo very well, so he dropped us off somewhere in the middle of the city--we had no idea where we were, but we were able to get a private cab to take us to The Base Backpackers on Avenida Patrice Lumumba. I spent the rest of the day with Cort and Sam, and the next morning they left very early for their next destination, Vilankulos.

I've been able to spend some time in the city, walking along its streets. It's very different from South Africa, but I knew it would be. Maputo is chaotic, dirty, and much livelier than any South African city. The streets have interesting names--Karl Marx, Mao Tse-Tung, Vladimir Lenin, Ho Chi Minh--a pattern emerges. The buildings are old and rotting; their once-bright paint faded and peeling and pockmarked with bullet-holes, remnants of the former civil war.

English is very rarely heard here--interestingly enough, the most common languages heard are Shangaan and Portugese, which are mixed into a local dialect. I've had to use my different language skills here--I've been speaking more Shangaan than I had expected to, at the backpackers, walking around the streets, at cafes and restaurants, and mixing it with bits of Spanish and Portugese that I can remember. Every "bom dia", every "obrigado," every "ndzi kombela..." helps. Unlike South Africa, most people's second language here is not English, but Portugese.

Coming from South Africa, where every street holds the potential for a mugging or worse, walking along the streets of Maputo has been refreshing. I still have my guard up, as I have become accustomed to over these past two years, and I guess that is helpful, but it will take time for me to walk along streets and not feel paranoid the entire time. Mozambicans, from what I have seen, usually mind their own business---they haven't given me too many strange looks...except for once, when I saw a woman selling food from some pots on the side of the road, bought the food from her, and sat there on the sidewalk eating. Maybe they had never seen a white person eating on the sidewalk before.

I had expected to leave South Africa and enter "real" Africa, where I could be the only non-black person around. I was surprised when I walked around Maputo to find many latinos, mullatoes, Indians, and whites. It gives Maputo a very Latin flavor, worlds away from South Africa. I wonder if other former Portugese colonies, like Angola, have a similar Latin flavor. South Africa was white-and-black, but so far Maputo has been every shade of brown inbetween.

I had been told to visit the Mercado do Peixe (Fish Market) from everyone who had been to Maputo. Yesterday I decided to go; I walked to a main street where I caught a chapa (chapas here in the city are all labeled with their routes--what a great idea! Why don't they do that in South African cities? I mean, the Menlyn Taxi Association in Pretoria has certain specified routes, but more detail always helps) to Costa do Sol. I got off at the market, in the middle of a wind-storm, and was almost blinded by flying sand. I walked to the market, bypassed some very persistent hawkers, and then bought some seafood. There are just buckets and buckets full of seafood in the place--fresh prawns, calamari, fish, lobsters, clams--at good prices, which are much better with bargaining. The place wasn't as big as I had expected, or as crowded (I was the only "mulungu" in the place at the time), but I bought some tiger prawns and some calamari, and then negotiated with one of the local restaurants inside the market to cook them for me with some chips on the side. I've already bargained more in Maputo than I had in South Africa--there's really no bargaining in that country.

Coming back from the Mercado, I caught another chapa, and was squeezed in the back with three very large women, something that I've gotten used to over the past two years. The woman next to me started speaking in Portugese, and then noticed my lack of fluency in the language, so switched to English. When I told her I had been living in South Africa, and spoke Shangaan, she got very interested. She had once lived in South Africa. And, "that Gazankulu Shangaan is not like our Shangaan here!" she mentioned. That, I knew, was true. She even referred to the former apartheid homeland of Gazankulu--clearly a woman who knew her stuff. She asked if I spoke any Sotho, and when I replied "Aowa, a ke bolele sepedi. Ke bolela hanyane." she was amused. We spoke some more, until I got off of the chapa on Avenida Julius Nyerere.

Maputo has been a nice gateway for me; I've been able to relax here, to enjoy my first days of travel and post-Peace Corps life. Tomorrow I head up to Tofo. I can't wait.

Pictures below:

Maputo is full of old, run-down high-rise buildings.

A busy street.

At the fish market.

Sunset, as viewed from The Base Backpackers.

Goodbye South Africa

2007-10-15T09:18:00.000+02:00

It has finally come to an end. I've said my goodbyes. I've packed my things. I've left Tshamahansi.

My time as a Peace Corps Volunteer won't officially end until this Friday, 19 October 2007, but in effect I am done.

The past six weeks have been interesting. After the completion of the Tithembheni Tshamahansi HIV Testing Drive, I felt as if I'd done what I needed (and wanted) to do in South Africa. But I still had 6 more weeks left. That isn't nearly enough time to start any new projects or initiatives, and so I was in a bit of limbo for a while. At least I had graduate school applications to keep me busy.

A final update on the Testing Drive: after our final function, I went to Pretoria for a week and finished my final report. When I returned to Tshamahansi, I discovered that the Coca Cola banner we had been lent, which had been hanging from the fence of the Tshamahansi Clinic, was nowhere to be found. I inquired with the Nurses, and they knew nothing. I even asked the clinic security—surely they would have seen something? But they just shrugged and said they didn't know. It seems the banner was stolen and nobody, not even the security whose job it was to watch over the Clinic, took any responsibility. In response, I too just shrugged; there was nothing I could do and I didn't want to cause a scene.

The news hasn't all been bad though, with regards to the project. The Department of Health was so impressed by the results of the testing drives in Tshamahansi and Jakkalskuil (Erica's village) that it is planning on holding some more HIV-testing campaigns in different parts of the district, using ours as a model. I gave them some advice, but unfortunately I won't be around to help them with the new campaigns. It's better, though; they need to be able to do it on their own and I think they will be able to.

In addition, my committee has pledged to continue working with community projects and HIV awareness. Some of them have become active working with the Red Cross; 3 of them were invited to and went to a 3-day, all-expenses-paid, Red Cross camp / retreat. That's an amazing feat, and I am so proud of them. I gave them the spark and the motivation that they could do something, and they ran with it. Bernard, one of the attendees, mentioned to me that “Omar, it's all thanks to you man!”

They returned from the camp having pledged to use the Peace Corps Life Skills Manual, in addition to the material they received from the Red Cross, and train 25 of their peers in much the same way as I had trained them. I'm delighted to hear that my departure does not signal the end of efforts in Tshamahansi. I came to South Africa hoping to instill sustainable change in the schools; instead, I instilled sustainable change in the village. I couldn't be happier.

Starting on 6 September, my group of Peace Corps Volunteers—those of us who had arrived in country together on 18 August 2005—were allowed to COS (Close-of-service) and leave South Africa. That was the week that I was in Pretoria, so I was there to see most of my friends prepared to return home or travel Africa. While they were departing for other destinations, to move on to the next step in their lives, I instead returned to Tshamahansi. The rest of my group COS'd on 6 October, and I was supposed to as well, but I'd decided to stay in the village during the month of Ramadan, which began soon after I returned from Pretoria. Ramadan was easier this year than in the past, and I was fortunate enough to spend some time in Mokopane (my local town) with a Muslim family of Indians, the Bhikhoos, who were so welcoming and treated me like a member of the family. I was able to spend time going to the Mosque, breaking the fast with them, and doing Taraweeh prayers at night.

Every year a new group of Peace Corps Volunteers arrives in South Africa; two years ago, my group, SA 14, arrived. Last July SA 15 arrived, and this year SA 16 arrived. On 20 September, Peace Corps South Africa held a function in Pretoria to mark two occasions: the swearing-in of SA 16, and the 10th anniversary of Peace Corps South Africa. I went to Pretoria for two nights to attend. (at the function, the Ambassador mentioned my fellow volunteer Tom, who had thrown a pie in his face at the 4th of July party—we were all very amused)

The Peace Corps Regional Director, Henry McKoy, who is in charge of Peace Corps for all of Africa, was also in attendance. He was in South Africa for one week, and he requested to meet with a few volunteers. He had two days available for volunteer site visits, and Peace Corps was so impressed with the Testing Drives that Erica and I had done that they selected us to host him for a day; they scheduled him to spend one day with us, in Erica's village, discussing our projects. Director McKoy proved to be a very personable, open man, and the visit was a pleasure. After leaving South Africa, he spent a week in Lesotho and then continued to Ethiopia, where he opened the Peace Corps Ethiopia Program. (via CNN)

Eventually, on 13 October 2007, this past Saturday, exactly two years to the date of my swearing-in, I left Tshamahansi and Mokopane and went to Pretoria. Leaving the village itself was not very difficult, but there were definitely some people in the village that I am incredibly sad to be leaving behind. First is the committee I had worked with, for over a year, who had been so dedicated and worked so tirelessly, and who I saw as the truest testament to my Peace Corps Service.

Second, and more important, was the family that I became a part of. The Baloyi family has been my family since March 2006, and I will miss them terribly. They opened up their home to me. They treated me as an adult; they gave me just the perfect combination of support and independence. Some host families might give a volunteer enough support but not enough independence; others might give enough independence but not enough support. I was fortunate enough to receive just the right amount of both. Whenever I returned home from a weekend or week away, my host mother Esther would receive me with a smile and “Ha amukela!” (We welcome you) or “Welcome home!” And whenever I left, she would say, “Mi famba kahle” (Go well) or “Have a nice journey.” So when Esther walked me to the combie as I was leaving for the last time, and Esther said “famba kahle”, I realized that I wouldn’t get to hear “ha amukela” again, for a long time at least. It saddened me. My entire host family—my parents Ben and Esther Baloyi, my brothers James, Dennis, and Tumisho Baloyi, my sisters Susan Baloyi and Patience Ngobeni, and our housekeeper “Auntie Christine”—I will miss them all. Indeed, they are what I will miss most about Tshamahansi. (At the bottom of this post is a picture of Esther and Auntie Christine that I took a few weeks ago)

Now I am about to leave not only Tshamahansi, but the country of South Africa. For over two years this has been my home; as with any home, my feelings about it are conflicted. I simultaneously love it and will miss it, but I am also extremely frustrated by it and can not wait to leave. I feel these things at the same time. My thoughts about South Africa are so complex, and so conflicted, that I can't really express them. But I will say this:

There is so much potential here. I've mentioned before that the youth I've come across offer the best hope I've seen for this country. But, as I've also mentioned before, it's a fragile hope. What happened to the youth of 1976? It's what I've noticed over and over and over again during my two years here…the first inklings of power and things change.

Coming from a background of such poverty, people tasting some sort of power or authority for the first time wildly grasp at it. They indulge with their newfound money, having spent their lives in poverty and finally breaking free. But here is where the problems start. Caught between two worlds—traditional culture and society on one hand and “modern/Western” society on the other—people choose to embrace the worst aspects of both. They hold on to some archaic cultural practices and opinions, but disregard others. One of the first things to go is the wonderful African practice of “ubuntu.” Ubuntu means that we are all the same; I cannot succeed if we all do not succeed. It's a wonderful equalizer, where we are all supposed to look out for each other. In two years, I have very rarely seen ubuntu of any kind coming from people with authority—municipal workers, teachers, nurses, local officials, administrators. When ubuntu and the other positive aspects of traditional culture are lost, what takes their place are aspects of Western culture. But the aspects which are chosen—materialism, greed, selfishness, a constant desire for more—are harmful, especially when they are not coupled with the Western values of responsibility and accountability. What I've seen is the worst of two cultures come together, while the best of these cultures is lost.

In the large “Westernized” cities and in the rural “traditional” villages, things look more positive. I've found some of the nicest, most genuine people I've ever met in remote rural villages like Gonani and Jakkalskuil; in the cities there are plenty of hard-working, responsible people. It's in the in-between places—the small towns, the “locations”, places like Tshamahansi, or like Mokopane—that things don't look so great.

There's a reason that there's such a lack of service delivery in underdeveloped areas of the country, and that is because the people in power, the teachers and nurses and administrators, have yet to find a good balance between cultures. There are always exceptions, and I've met quite a few, but this is the pattern I've seen. And unfortunately, that lack of ubuntu, the lack of responsibility, has been seen more commonly in the very peaks of government recently. Thabo Mbeki has made some seriously dubious decisions this past year—firing Nozizwe Madlala-Routledge, supporting Manto Tshabalala-Msimang in all of her malicious incompetence with regards to the HIV epidemic and more, trying to get warrants against Police Commissioner Jackie Selebi overturned and then firing Vusi Piloki when he refused to withdraw the warrants. Jacob Zuma could be under investigation again for corruption. The list goes on. Part of me worries that things are going to get worse before they get better, and the most cynical parts of my psyche expect South Africa to turn into Zimbabwe in a few years. I mean, Zimbabwe was also very successful for its first 10 years or so, and Mugabe used to be the darling of the Western community, an eloquent anti-apartheid speaker, a reconciler, a liberation hero. Will we see the same mismanagement in South Africa, the same deterioration? Is that why Mbeki is so silent on the Zimbabwe crisis?

In all honesty, though, I don't think it will get that bad. Rural schools are churning out undereducated, subservient kids, and they will continue to. But the same selfish teachers and administrators who don't care about rural children's education are sending their own children to private schools, and so these children will grow up with a real opportunity to be successful and make a change. Slowly but surely, there will be more previously disadvantaged children doing wonderful things with their lives.

After months of continuous work, last month I had some free time. I spent it reading, and had the opportunity to read two fantastic, very different South African books: Alan Paton's “Cry, The Beloved Country” and Nelson Mandela's autobiography, “Long Walk To Freedom.” Reading these books so late into my service gave me the background to truly understand them and to appreciate them. First, the opinions that I had formed over my two years in South Africa were eloquently stated in “Cry, The Beloved Country.”

"Because the white man has power, we too want power, he said. But when a black man gets power, when he gets money, he is a great man if he is not corrupted...Some of us think when we have power, we shall revenge ourselves on the white man who has had power, and because our desire is corrupt, we are corrupted, and the power has no heart in it. . . I see only one hope for our country, and that is when white men and black men, desiring neither power nor money, but desiring only the good of their country, come together to work for it."

Alan Paton was writing about apartheid at the time, but the sentiments echoed in his work are a mirror of my own sentiments; things, it seems, have not changed all that much. I'm also thinking of something I read in “Long Walk To Freedom” ….Nelson Mandela says,

"The policy of apartheid created a deep and lasting wound in my country and my people. All of us will spend many years, if not generations, recovering from that profound hurt...Perhaps it requires such depth of oppression to create such heights of character. My country is rich in the minerals and gems that lie beneath its soil, but I have always known that its greatest wealth is its people, finer and truer than the purest diamonds... The truth is that we are not yet free; we have merely achieved the freedom to be free, the right not to be oppressed. We have not taken the final step of our journey, but the first step on a longer and even more difficult road. For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others. The true test of our devotion to freedom is just beginning."

I've always believed that South Africans have enormous potential, and I have seen them rise up to the occasion when needed. This is especially true of those determined youth from my committee, for who I see great things. But, as Madiba says, South Africans are not yet free. They have freedom, but their psychological and cultural chains are still binding them. Only when teachers and nurses and administrators and local officials truly live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others will this country truly be free. Mandela thought it might take years or generations to recover from South Africa's horrors…I think generations hits closer to the mark.

Where will South Africa go from here? I can't say. In much the same way that I can't say where America will go from here. It could go in either direction—up, or down. After this weekend, I won't be here to witness South Africa's changes, but I will be watching, from afar, curious as to what happens next and truly, for the sake of the many wonderful South Africans who have enriched my life, hoping for the best.

Rising To The Challenge

2007-09-03T17:21:00.000+02:00

When I last wrote, the Tithembheni Tshamahansi HIV Testing Drive had just started and I had gone through the very stressful process of planning and holding the kick-off function. At the time, I was upset at the apparent theft of tee-shirts by the local Municipality. I had thought that the next four weeks would be comparitively easy, that I would be able to spend some time at my schools, and that planning the final function would be easy.

Alas, things were so simple back then.

I did have a meeting with Madam Speaker from the Municipality to discuss the tee-shirt issue. When I brought it up, a look of surprise flooded over her face. She had no idea what I was talking about, and she seemed as upset by the news as I was. She immediately called Lilly, one of the other Municipal staff members assisting with the project, and got the entire story. It turns out, the Municipality had promised us 5,000 Rand worth of tee-shirts; at the going rate, that would give us 125 tee-shirts, which would all be given out on a first-come, first-serve basis. The supplier ended up printing up extra tee-shirts, which Lilly decided that the Municipality should keep (being that it was over the 125 promised) and give out to Ushers at their Women’s Day Function. In theory, that’s not a terrible idea, but as Madam Speaker told her, it sends a terrible message. The tee-shirts are for those who tested, and those who tested only. Madam Speaker basically chewed Lilly out on the phone in front of Erica and I, and I was happy to see that. So, one issue was solved.

During the Month-Of-Testing, as we called it, (it was only 28 days, actually) we were encouraging people around Tshamahansi to get tested. There were two ways for them to do this: the first, and most recommended, was to go to the Tshamahansi Clinic for free VCT any day they chose. The second was to attend one of our HIV outreach days (we had 6 in total), where I had arranged Mobile Clinics and Red Cross counselors to set up for a day at certain locations throughout the village.

The first problem was with the Outreach Days. We had scheduled three days at high-schools (one at each high-school in the area). This was a HUGE success, but a bigger success than we had imagined. Students queued up in long lines, seemingly desperate to test. I’m sure that most of them just wanted to test for the prizes, but some of them were insistent, “I only want to test to know my status. I don’t care if I get any prize at all.” Whether or not they were just saying what they thought I wanted to hear is up for speculation. At the end of each day, when the nurses and counselors were tired, the queues had not ceased and many eager learners would still be waiting, having stood for hours, to test. The look on their faces when we had to tell them that they couldn’t test was palpable; they were very disappointed. I mentioned to them that they could get tested any day at the Clinic, but I never saw those long queues at the Clinic (I’ll mention why soon).

The other three days of outreach were held at the residences of the three Indunas (headmen) in Tshamahansi. Because people trust their Induna, and the Induna has a wide platform on which to encourage them to test, I approached all three indunas requesting assistance, and was allowed to bring the Red Cross and Mobile Clinic for one day at each. When Indunas told people and encouraged them, as Induna Matjeke did, the turnout was huge (35 people were tested in one day at Induna Matjeke). When Indunas forgot to tell people, as Induna Baloyi did, the turnout was negligible (only 3 people were tested at Induna Baloyi).

The second, bigger, problem was at the Tshamahansi Clinic. On a near-daily basis, I would stop by to visit the Clinic, and to visit Deborah, the local VCT counselor at the Clinic. She would tell me her progress, I would thank her for her help, and that would be that. I’d see small progress at the Clinic—10 people tested one day, 5 another, 8 another. While that was commendable in itself, it was not in line with the long queues I had been seeing at the schools. I thought that the students just didn’t want to go to the Clinic (maybe they were lazy, I thought). I was very wrong: in numerous conversations, I started to hear that students don’t like the local Clinic. They don’t want to go. The nurses are mean to them. Some of the nurses know their families and will tell their parents what they are up to (in violation of any rules of confidentiality). The nurses tell them to go away.

At first I thought that maybe this was an exaggeration, but I started to hear more and more stories of learners being turned away at the Clinic. I was extremely frustrated, and I decided to see what was happening for myself. I confronted Deborah and the Sister In Charge (Head Nurse), Sister Maphoto. Deborah said that because the Clinic is very busy during the day (only partially true), often the nurses are too busy to help doing the VCT prick, and would not be able to help her to do any HIV testing. Thus, she would sometimes have to turn people away. In addition, the Clinic “closes” at 4pm every day, after which time, only emergency services are available. And on Fridays, closure is at 1pm. Not to mention that the clinic is “closed” Saturdays and Sundays. For a kid in school all day, finding time to go get tested turned out to be much more difficult than I had planned on.

The irony of all this is that there are Nurses at the Clinic, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. All nurses are trained in HIV VCT—they just refuse to do it. For months and months, I had been working with the Department of Health, with the Clinic, getting repeated promises that we would work together to make this month a success. But, when push came to shove, they did not go out of their way one inch to accommodate the extra demand. Broken promises are as much a staple of South African life as mealie meal, I’ve come to discover. And so, because the nurses refused to take on any extra work, and because Deborah was only there for limited hours (7-4 Monday-Thursday, 7-1 Friday), people who wanted to test couldn’t always come. Add on top of that, the fact that Deborah wasn’t always doing her job properly, and the situation looks dire. Often times I would come into the clinic to find a line of people waiting and Deborah in the back, drinking coffee or eating bread. One one occasion I even heard of her turning people away because she “wasn’t feeling well.” There were frustrations on top of frustrations.

All of that is forgivable, though—its ordinary South African ineptitude. What is unforgivable was something that I discovered over half-way through the testing drive. My committee and I had made 600 prize bags (each with a Certificate of Bravery, a raffle ticket, a beaded HIV pin, and sweets, among other things) to be given out to people who tested. These were kept at the Clinic, in a supposedly secure room. However, after about 320 people had tested, I heard the news that there were only about 25 prize bags left. Where had the rest of the prize bags gone? I asked Deborah about this at one of the outreach days; she took me aside and said that she thinks they were stolen by the nurses at the Clinic; she mentioned that sometimes she would walk into her office in the morning to find empty prize bags on the floor. I was furious—why hadn’t I been told about this? Why were the nurses, who were supposed to be taking care of my prize bags, stealing them?

I scheduled a meeting with Sister Maphoto, Deborah, and another nurse from the clinic to discuss the issue of the missing prize bags. At the meeting, Deborah basically denied having told me anything about finding empty prize bags, and the nurses would refuse to accept any blame. They blamed the Red Cross for leaving the prize bags unattended for a few minutes at the kick-off function (even if that were true, nobody could have stolen almost 300 prize bags and walked away without being noticed), and then assumed their work had been done. At the end of that meeting, they seemed to agree that the problem had been solved and everything was ok.

“What about the missing prize bags? What about the 6,000 Rand that I (on behalf of the United States government) had spent on them? The 6,000 Rand that were STOLEN from me?” I asked.

“Well, we all make mistakes. We learn from our mistakes and move on.” was the reply I received.

When I mentioned that I would have to go to the Police, they all stressed how they had done everything to ensure the prize bags’ safety and would not be held accountable, because it was not their responsibility. I walked out of that meeting frustrated and bewildered. I spoke to the woman in charge of the Department of Health for the area, whom I had been working with in planning the project, and mentioned what had happened. She said that this was a serious matter, that the police should be informed, but that we could not do that until we had a meeting with her, myself, and someone from the Red Cross to figure out what really happened. I told her that this would be fine, although I really wanted to go to the Police immediately, and told her that I would wait until our meeting to report anything.

Is anyone else surprised at the fact that the meeting still hasn’t happened? I tried to schedule the meeting on two separate occasions and both times it was cancelled at the last minute (and I only knew about the cancellations because I kept on calling). I still haven’t reported anything to the police, but if this meeting doesn’t happen within the next few weeks, I will go to the police anyway.

It may sound cynical for me to say, but working on this project has really made me lose faith in the people who are in important positions to help South Africa. We worked with a lot of stakeholders in planning this project, and every single on of them (except for Coca Cola, oddly enough) disappointed me during the project. The Municipality, obviously, was a disappointment on many factors, especially the tee shirts. The clinic disappointed me on everything I mentioned above. The Red Cross disappointed me by agreeing to attend things and then not showing up (at one point, I called someone from the Red Cross, who said that they were on the way to an Outreach Day in the village. When I was there waiting for them, I was told second-hand that they wouldn’t be coming). Anglo Platinum disappointed me by agreeing to donate money to the project but then failing to deliver the funds on time. Both the Red Cross and the Department of Health were supposed to send high-level speakers to my Final Celebration, but cancelled. The local pastor in my village led a sermon at my Final Celebration about how, even if you find out you are positive, if you pray hard enough you will become negative again. The traditional healer said the biggest problem facing South Africa today was that people wanted to “know too much.” Local businesspeople made agreements to provide services for the project and then changed the agreements at the last minute, at which point we’d have no alternative but to accept the changes begrudgingly. In fact, aside from Coke, the only people who haven’t disappointed me are my committee and Erica.

So, with all of these frustrations and failures, was the project worthless? Was it a failure? ABSOLUTELY NOT. In my mind, the project was a HUGE success, even more so because it overcame all of the challenges. Even with the Clinic’s antics, and everything else, people kept on going back to test. When the pastor mentioned about praying leading to negative status, people booed him. I saw so much during this testing drive to give me hope; real hope in the future of the country. It’s a fragile hope, indeed; the youth of 1976, who were so instrumental in challenging Apartheid, are now the systematic oppressors and incompetent leaders who are ruining South Africa. I truly hope that the new generation, the youth, who are so positive and so dedicated, don’t lose that. It might sound incredibly cheesy, but in South Africa, the children are the future.

And, so, what about the testing drive? How many tested? From the beginning, I had a goal of over 400 people testing. I didn’t know if that goal would be reached, and with all of the issues that we came across during the project, I was sure we wouldn’t reach it. But, in the end, FOUR HUNDRED AND TEN people were tested as part of the “Tithembheni Tshamahansi” HIV Testing Drive. I reached my goal; I can’t imagine how huge those numbers would have been if things hadn’t been made so difficult for people wanting to test. Rising to the challenge; that’s what these youth are doing. That, right there, is hope.

And so the testing drive ended, and on this past Saturday, 1 September 2007, we held our Final Celebration. Apart from some small mishaps (i.e. the pastor, the cancelled speakers), it went very well. It was much less stress and much easier to plan than the Kick-Off Function had been. And, at the function, we gave away our donated prizes: some gift vouchers, a DVD player, 5 prizes of 1000 Rand each, and one grand prize of 5000 Rand. The prize-giving was the most fun I’ve had in the village in a long time; the crowd was so excited, and the winners so happy. When a middle-aged woman I know in the village, Johanna Mhlaba, won the 5000 Rand prize, her friends ran up to hear and hugged her, she jumped up and down, and was practically in tears. She gave me a big hug and promised that she would spend the money to buy her family a refridgerator.

And so, in the end, it was all worth it.

Committee members Lizzy and Andrew.

Committee members Benjamin, Letticia, and T.K.

Our cooking ladies.

Committee member T.K. on stage.

Committee members Iris and Rosina, and their family members.

Me showing off the DVD prize.

Committee member Bernard, hugging an elated prize-winner, whose mother was overjoyed.

A 1000 Rand -winner gives me a hug.

Giving the 5000 Rand prize to Johanna Mhlaba, practically in tears

ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER

2007-08-11T08:57:00.000+02:00

This past Saturday, 4 August 2007, I stood amid what looked like chaos, with mountains of responsibility and people at me from all sides requesting my urgent advice or help with some emergency task, and I thought to myself: this is it; it’s all been leading up to this. It was the kick-off for the Tithembheni Tshamahansi HIV Testing Drive.

But more about that later.

In previous entries, I’d mentioned ths South African workers’ strike and its effect on my life and the lives of other South Africans. Well, the strike ended after about 4 weeks, at the end of June / early July. Things are now back to normal; schools are playing “catch-up” to try to recover some of their lost time.

Although the schools were closed for the entire month of June, I didn’t have a single day off. Erica and I were busy with meetings related to our HIV projects every single day; multiple meetings on some days. This was the pattern for two full weeks; on the third week, I left Tshamahansi for 4 weeks (I had to, and it a terrible time for me to be away with regards to the project). First I went to Johannesburg and took the GRE exam; I’m happy to say that I did well.

After Jo’burg, I went to Pretoria and onto my group’s Peace Corps Close-Of-Service (COS) Conference. This was basically three days of dealing with the past two years, discussing policies and procedures with regards to leaving our villages and returning home, and reflecting on accomplishments and challenges. Because of the 90-day early leave policy for school or work (i.e. if you are a volunteer in “good standing”, have fulfilled your duties, and have a job or school to go back to, you can leave country up to 90 days early), our COS Conference was in late June, and some of my fellow volunteers have been leaving South Africa, having completed their service, since early July. As for me, I’m still here for two more months, and I can’t even think of the end of my service at this point. There’s still much too much to do before then.

After the COS Conference, Erica and I went to the Drakensberg Mountains for some spectacular hiking. Those of you back in the States might be confused at the thought of hiking through the snow in Africa in June, but that’s exactly what we did. The snow-covered peaks of the Draknesberg are breathtaking, and there are some pictures (which do NOT do the views justice) on Erica’s blog.

We eventually left the Drakensberg and returned to Pretoria just in time for the 4th of July; I was able to see another PCV, Tom Kulkinski, throw a pie into the Ambassador’s face (I’m not joking) at the Embassy July 4th Party. That was quite a sight.

I also had a whirlwind, quick, hectic trip home to New York to see my family; my first time in America in 23 months, and I was only there for barely a week. Seeing immediate family and a few close friends was great, but there were many more family and friends that I didn’t get a chance to see, or even to speak with. I guess I’ll have to wait until I return home for good next April for that chance.

Being in New York was surreal; I felt out of place. It felt much more natural for me to return back to South Africa. As I exited the OR Tambo Airport in Jo’burg and walked out into the winter air, I felt at home. That complacency didn’t last long, though, because I was immediately thrust back into the heaps of work that had to be done for my HIV project.

Before I even had time to adjust and unpack my things, I was busy with meetings, running around and coordinating different things for the project. (Literally: I had to go meet someone from the Municipality even before I was able to return to Tshamahansi from my trip) From meetings with my committee to updates from my beading group to shopping trips to town to buy supplies for the project or make thousands of photocopies to meetings with the Municipality, to meetings with the Red Cross, Thobela FM, Anglo Platinum, to writing and delivering invitations, to arranging for supplies and delivery, and so on, things did just NOT STOP. And that says nothing about time spent helping Erica with her project. I was so busy, in fact, that I have STILL not been back to any of my schools.

I’m not going to talk about Erica’s kick-off function on 28 July, the preparations that went into it, or the frustrations and successes of the day, here. I’ll leave that to Erica on her blog. (Click here)

Last week, from 30 July until 3 August, was amazingly hectic. Friday, 3 August, was a non-stop day, the least stressful part of which involved riding around on a donkey cart collecting large, heavy iron pots (and “driving” at one point), and the most stressful part—well, I won’t get into it. There’s a lot that goes into a village-based function, and so many things had to be done on Friday. At 6:00 in the morning, before the sun was up, the cow I had purchased was to be delivered to the school grounds (where the event would take place). Bernard, a Grade 11 student and one of the hardest-working members on my committee, volunteered to be there so early, and when the cow was delivered at 6, he helped tie the very LARGE cow to a tree. At 2pm that day, a group of elderly village men who had volunteered to slaughter the cow did their job; it was the first time I’d ever seen a cow slaughter from up close from beginning to end, and it was vicious. I won’t go into the gory details (of which there are many), but I will say that cows are much stronger and tenacious animals than you might realize. I mean, the poor beast’s head was almost the entire way off and its legs were still moving, trying to stand itself up. It did not go quietly, quickly, or easily.

Eventually the cow was skinned, portioned, and cut into small pieces which were cooked on Saturday. We were told that we couldn’t leave the cow meat at the school overnight because the tsotsis from my village (there are many) would break into the school and steal it all. So we asked the old men to stay overnight and look after the meat. They agreed, on one condition: beer. That was simple enough, so after we bought them beer, they were content. I’m sure they had a blast that night; an old-man drunken sleepover party.

I also realized on Friday that cow intestines (“mogodu”) are a very prized delicacy, and the dispute for the mogodu between the cooking ladies and the old men was another headache for me, piled onto all of the rest. Thankfully Eric Mphande, from Anglo Platinum, was there helping us out that day, and he was able to mediate the dispute. I have no idea what ever ended up happening to the mogodu, or whoever ended up eating it.

Between Friday, Saturday, and (to an extent) Sunday, I worked myself and stressed myself out more than I thought possible; I exhausted myself so much that I got physically sick and was bed-ridden for large portions of Sunday and Monday.

The bottom line, though, the reason for all of the effort—the event on Saturday—was a huge success. Let me break it down like this: the Mogalakwena Municipality showed up with their 125 promised tee-shirts, plus Madam Kgobe, the Municipal Speaker, to serve as MC and the Honourable Mayor, Bob Mmola, to give the Keynote Address. The Department of Health showed up with nurses, catering for VIPs, and some ladies to assist our community-based volunteer women in cooking for everybody. The Red Cross showed up with 11 VCT Counsellors, 2 HIV ambassadors, and a lot of promotional materials. Anglo Platinum helped out with a lot of stuff. Coca Cola brought squeeze bottles for people testing, plus their Road Show, complete with DJ, sound system, and stage. Thobela FM (the biggest radio station in the province, with hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of listeners—they refer to themselves as a “Weapon of Mass Instruction”) brought broadcasters, entertainment acts, and an HIV ambassador. Mamolefe, my contact at Thobela, gave a great speech about how we are all “either infected or affected.” Over 1000 people showed up; 114 were tested for HIV during the course of just a few hours, and many more (about 50-75) were queued up, waiting to get tested when the counsellors finally said that they were done for the day. We had a pastor and a traditional healer do the opening prayers; the local Induna (headman) gave the welcome. The programme went off well; the day’s message (“Get tested, know your status, and be proud!”) came through loud and clear.

For a long time leading up to the event, it didn’t seem like things would turn out that way, though. Even at 10:00 on Saturday, when the event was supposed to start, and nobody had showed up, I was doubting whether things would work out at all. It turned out, there were three funerals in the village that morning. Plus, the two most popular soccer teams in the country were playing each other that day. So, although the people came late, they did come out in large numbers eventually.

Another huge headache involved a realization that I had come to a long time ago, but which was reinforced over and over and over again in the weeks and days leading up to the event: ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS.

The local Ward Councillor (the village’s representative to the Municipality), Doma Gubayi, had been “on board” the project since its beginning in February. He always sounded excited, saying how much he supported the project. He wouldn’t really show up to our meetings, but he kept reiterating his support. I let this slide because, in all honesty, he is a very busy man. But when push came to shove, he maliciously abandoned his responsibilities with regards to the project at the very last minute. I won’t go into the details, but his abandonment and utter lack of any sense of responsibility came to light on Wednesday, only 3 days before the event. This led to a heated phone argument, some frantic last-minute phone calls, and a big headache.

Doma, I’ve come to realize, was only involved in the project in order to take credit for himself and to make himself look better. He is an elected politician, after all. And listening to him explain things, you might be inclined to sympathize with him...his words are convincing. But his actions were inexcusable, and actions speak louder than words.

In the same line, it was at these last-minute changes of plan and last-minute work that I really realized whose help I could count on. People in South Africa, ESPECIALLY those in positions of power, are skeptics when it comes to youth; they don’t believe that the youth are responsible, dedicated, or hard-working. They would never trust anything in the youths’ hands. (They forget that it was the YOUTH who provided the biggest uprising against apartheid, back in 1976) And so, when people saw the dedication, hard work, and long hours that my committee was putting into this project, they were surprised. My committee, as a matter of fact, consists entirely of Grade 11 and 12 students.

They worked so hard, moving hundreds of tables and chairs, putting newspapers on the windows of all of the school’s classrooms so that they would be used as VCT rooms (newspapers were needed to ensure confidentiality, so that nobody could peer through the windows), helping me with all of the manual and logistical work that goes into making a function a success, but which is never recognized or thanked by the people in power. Then, after the function was over, they spent Saturday evening and Sunday putting everything back and cleaning up.

Eric, from Anglo Platinum, was also a huge help, transporting supplies, mediating disputes (as I mentioned above), and just providing extra manpower and advice in those crucial final days. And my friend Tom came all the way to Tshamahansi from his village near Bushbuckridge, a full day’s taxi ride away, to help out with the project. Tom’s help was huge; he single-handedly organized and controlled the people who were queued up waiting for their HIV test on Saturday.

My biggest help, though, was my partner on this project from the beginning, Erica. When the stress verged on becoming too much, when I was about to lose it and blow up yelling in someone’s face, or cursing them out, when I was lamenting the inevitable failure of the entire project, she stepped up and provided exactly the help that was needed. She did almost as much work to help the Tithembheni Tshamahansi HIV Testing Drive Kick Off Function as I did.

As I mentioned above, my committee worked so long, and so hard, and so tirelessly on the project. Since February we’ve met weekly (more often than that, for some of us), together every step of the way. The Municipality had been helping us out, on and off, since March, and got more involved in early June. But when a local Municipal Councillor got up on stage at the beginning of the function, she mentioned very loudly into the microphone that this was a MUNICIPALITY event, which it was obviously not. (Obviously they were trying to take credit; they didn’t want to be upstaged by a bunch of kids and an American) This upset some of my committee members, and when they mentioned it to each other, a representative from the Department of Health overheard and told them to, basically, shut up because they’re “just ushers.” That’s just one example of the bad treatment and lack of respect that these kids got. There are many.

One of the most telling examples of the disrespect, though, happened later on in the day. We had arranged food for everyone, but there was separate catering for VIPs. VIP catering was provided by the Department of Health; this being my project and my function, though, I was insistent that my committee eat as VIPs. When they finally did show up to eat with the VIPs, though, after having overseen the food for everyone else and (in some cases) worked as food servers, they were treated with utter disrespect by the VIP caterers, who were basically yelling at them, saying “I shouldn’t be serving you KIDS this VIP food!” I wasn’t there to see that, but thankfully Erica was there to stand up for the committee and put the bitchy caterers in their place.

Not everyone was as blinded or as self-centered as those VIP caterers or that Councillor, though. Tom was amazed by the work these “kids” were doing, and told me as much. My comittee members’ teachers were beaming with pride at the work their students were doing. The Red Cross was so impressed that they have invited my committee to join the Red Cross. And Eric, from Anglo Platinum, has offered to support them in the future, commenting repeatedly on how impressed he was with their hard work. My biggest joy of the day came at seeing the long queues for HIV testing, but hearing these people praise my committee was a very close second. I’m very proud of them.

Personally, I’ve always believed that a person’s intentions mean as much as their actions; it’s an important part of Islamic morality. If you have good intentions, then your good actions will be recognized. But if your intentions are bad (i.e. doing something “just for show”), then your actions are, in effect, worthless. In preparing for the function, however, I’ve realized that even good things can happen if the participants’ intentions aren’t pure. It’s the “actions speak louder” theory.

Sure, the Municipalilty wants the credit for the event; its members are elected and they need to justify their existence to the population. But that doesn’t discount the help that they gave to the project. And sure, Anglo Platinum is a big mining corporation, and they need good PR to get the locals on their side; it will make it easier for them when they eventually decide they want to mine for platinum under our villages and relocate everyone. But that doesn’t discount the help that they gave us. And, sure, the Peace Corps is a tool of the US Government meant to support America’s fragile (dare I say, shattered) image around the world, to counter its more domineering foreign policy elsewhere. But that doesn’t discount the work that we do. The fact is, everyone was in this for their own selfish reasons, but the actions themselves were anything but selfish. And that’s the belief on which our entire testing drive hinges: most people probably won’t get tested for the right reasons; they will get tested for the chance of winning 5000 Rand. But in getting tested, they will be confronting their own behavior and taking the first step towards responsibility of their own health.

(On a more sinister note, I recently discovered, purely by accident and coincidence, that the Municipality quite possibly stole FIFTY of the tee-shirts they were supposed to provide us. These shirts were meant to be given out to people who are tested as part of the project, on a first-come first-serve basis. The Municipality, however, took fifty of these tee shirts and gave them out to their employees for a separate event. If this is true, it is utter theft and dishonesty on the part of the Municipality. I have a meeting scheduled with Madam Speaker; I’m going to raise hell.)

The Kick-Off Event is not the entire Tithembheni Tshamahansi HIV Testing Drive, though. The real work is in getting people to keep testing for these 4 weeks, until 1 September, when we will have our final function. The final function on 1 September won’t be as hard to plan as the kick-off was, and I’m not as worried about it. In fact, I think it will be kind of fun!

On Tuesday I made arrangements with the Red Cross and Department of Health, and they brought their Mobile Clinic, 2 nurses, and 3 VCT Counselors to one of the local High Schools in my village. The demand was amazing; the students queued for hours for a chance to test, and many more were waiting when, after hours of testing, the nurses and counsellors declared that they were through testing for the day. If we can keep that kind of demand going, then we will reach our goal of 600 people tested. We’ll see how that goes.

I know that my own intentions are pure, and I’m hoping for the best.

Erica and Macdonald, my right-hand man in planning everything.

Not so long earlier, that had been a cow.

Patrick, a late-addition to my committee, and a VERY dedicated worker, doing his trilingual HIV hip-hop. Madam Speaker (seated) seemed to enjoy it.

Me and the Committee.

Patrick, Michael, and T.K. show off their new shirts.

Crowd shot. Sponsors galore.

People seemed to enjoy the day's festivities.

Macdonald giving his speech (with other Committee members behind him for support). My favorite part: "The youth of 1976 came together to stand against apartheid. Now it's time again for the youth to stand together against HIV and AIDS."

Erica and I, tired, towards the end of the day.

Bernard reading off the announcements.

Giving my speech.

Tom is tall. Florence, from the Red Cross, is short. Hilarity ensued!

Committee members serving food.

MOTHO KE MOTHO KA BATHO

2007-07-03T19:35:00.000+02:00

I'm going to quote a very interesting editorial I found from this week's Sunday Times here in South Africa. As a "white" man living in a rural South African village, I feel that this article has a lot of relevance. (ps: "lekgoa" in Sotho is "mulungu" in Shangaan, "makua" in Venda, etc...)

enjoy. The article is linked at : http://www.sundaytimes.co.za/article.aspx?ID=505687

***************************************************
"As divisions blur, we will find new meanings for old words

Tony Harding unpacks the word ‘lekgoa’, used to refer to white people, and demonstrates how its interpretation is changing to deal with new social realities in South African society.

A friend was telling me how a group of pre-school neighbourhood children were engaged in an animated conversation. The topic was identity — well, at least it was to parental ears.

The topic arose out of the incongruous fact that a child in the group had a white father, but the child was black, just like his friends. The children, in all innocence, pressed the child: “Your father is lekgoa.”

The child responded: “Ga se lekgoa. Makgoa a tshosha (He is not a white man. Whites make you scared).”

In South Africa many whites know that they are called “lekgoa” (plural ‘makgoa’) by a section of the black population of the country.

Similarly, expatriates in Botswana and Lesotho learn very quickly that children shout out spontaneously “lekgoa” (more accurately ‘lekgooooa!’) when any white person arrives in a township or village.

Many black people have accepted that lekgoa is a normal term for white people. Why has the word lekgoa established itself in popular language? I started trying to understand the deeper meaning of the word while working as a rural development activist during the ’80s and it has fascinated me ever since. Of course, in those times it was quite tough to be white in the villages of the then northern Transvaal. Most of the whites in the area were policemen, soldiers or farmers, and tensions were high between blacks and whites.

I have listened to the word used in countless exchanges with people and this has given me some sense of how the meaning of the word is changing to deal with new social realities.

Although the word is now used by the black youth without any real sense of its deeper origins, it is very clear to me that the older generation continues to have a clear sense of its meaning.

Let’s be a bit technical and look at what language specialists call the root of the word. Lekgoa derives from the (Sesotho, Sepedi, Setswana) root verb “(go) kgoa”. The dictionary meaning of the verb is given as “to tease, provoke, challenge”.

However, in popular usage, the verb “(go) kgoa” is used in the sense of “to lack decorum, to be rude, to be an embarrassment (or a person who embarrasses you), to be annoying, to be disrespectful, to have no regard for other people, to have no shame”. The word lekgoa denotes a person who is “disrespectful” by denigrating the integrity of another person. The English language talks of “defamation of character”, and this is sometimes given as a further meaning of the word.

If you use the verb “(go) kgoa” about someone, either black or white, you are saying that they have certain negative behavioural attributes. There is no way of avoiding the conclusion that the term lekgoa describes someone who is part of a class of persons (white) who “lack respect for other human beings”.

Of course, it is not quite as simple as that. In introducing a white colleague, it is possible to say “ga se lekgoa, ke motho (he/she is not a lekgoa, he/she is a human being)”. Likewise, once a relationship has been formed between strangers, the comment could be made in the form of “o tseba go hlompa (he/she shows respect for me as a person)”.

Also, it is common in conversation to say “ga se lekgoa, ke motho” to indicate that someone else under discussion is not a white person, but a black person (a human being). The word “motho” (plural “batho”) is used generally to describe blacks. In real terms, it means “human beings”.

In a reversal of the dehumanising media stereotype of blacks in apartheid years, the discussion of a fatal accident will attract comments such as “one motho and five makgoa were killed”.
What does this all mean — and can the term lekgoa be defined as a contemporary racial slur? The answer, I think, is no.

Lekgoa is not racist or hate speech as the word describes real historical power relations in society, with the intent of restoring lost dignity as a result of dispossession of property, labour and identity.

In a colonial and apartheid context, the term describes accurately the domination-subordination relationship between whites and blacks — and has the political meaning that the “oppressor is not human”. In other words, it is an affirmation of black humanity in the face of oppression.
The term lekgoa is also revealing of the negative impact of colonialism and apartheid on social identity.

The sense of the statement “setlhare sa mosotho ke lekgoa”(the medicine of a [black] is a white) — which is expressed by the elder generation when they get upset with internal squabbling among black leaders — is of a complete loss of power to influence the course of history. That was the reality in many black communities that led to the resistance politics of the ’70s Black Consciousness movement.

Let me deal briefly with another question. Why is the term “sekgoa” used for the English language when “seburu” is used for Afrikaans? This can be explained by the fact that the British imperialists in Southern Africa were English-speaking, and they were the first makgoa.
Language in popular use is very dynamic, like society, and the boundaries of the use of the word lekgoa are always changing. For example, the use of lekgoa for a black supervisor — that is “the person thinks he/she is white” — is common in the days of “coconuts” educated at private schools in the suburbs.

The question is: will our popular language and discourse change to include more blacks under the meaning of the word lekgoa, as differences in economic class or social status influence relationships in our society?

The idioms “good fences make good neighbours” and “motho ke motho ka batho (we are people because of our relationship with each other)” illustrate the defining values of two societies — one white, the other black.

It is possible that the word lekgoa will continue to evolve in popular discourse to reflect the effects of class and social status on both white and black value systems — particularly as the privileged of all races adopt lifestyles that conflict with the values of “ubuntu/botho (being human)”.

It is increasingly common to hear the popular expression “lekgoa la ka (my boss)” being widely applied to both black and white.

In recent years, a new kwaito sensation hit the music scene in the form of young Afrikaner Francois Henning, who adopted the fast-paced style of music and created his own variant of tsotsitaal, a township lingua franca combining elements of many South African languages, including Afrikaans. He called himself “Lekgoa” and his public relations experts say that this means “white boy”.

Of course, it was a clever marketing ploy to take on a name used so frequently in everyday township talk. He has become popular among audiences across language groups and even received a nomination for a Kora All Africa Music Award for Most Promising Artist before taking his multilingual career into the local television soapies.

There are also moments in our society when our ability to keep the boundaries between the stereotypes of ourselves “fall apart” such as in a recent episode of Strictly Come Dancing, the popular evening entertainment programme on SABC2.

Sandy Ngema, host of the show, asked popular music star Hip-Hop Pantsula’s blonde partner how it was dancing with Hezekiel Sepeng (whose partner is also a blonde). She responded: “I don’t know, but HHP is fantastic” (or words to that effect). Referring to his colleague, co-host Ian von Memerty quipped: “That was a blonde moment.”

Talk about blurring the boundaries. Yet as we embark on a process of collective forgetting, as a society, about this country’s divided past, it is likely we will find new meanings for old words — and will forget about the deeper meanings of words and about relationships that bind people to fear. Steve Bantu Biko wrote in the ’70s that fear is the root of oppression, and we all need to be liberated from it. "

Sowetan Editorial

2007-06-21T11:47:00.000+02:00

As of tomorrow, the public workers' strike will have been in effect for 3 weeks. Three weeks without schools, with limited health care, limited services....

Today I saw a very interesting commentary by the editors of a popular Black newspaper, The Sowetan. I'd like to reprint it here.

"TEACH, DON'T CHEAT THE FUTURE"

"Few things are as infuriating as the sight of adults behaving like irrational delinquents. It is worse when teachers--those people who are supposed to shape our leaders of tomorrow--revel in such conduct. It is, in fact, tragic for our teachers have become a runaway train of destruction. When they are supposed to be teaching our children to live by the dictum of live and let live, they are practically telling them 'do as we do(strike in this case) or you are an enemy to be destroyed.' They have conveniently forgotten that we all have a right to say no to the strike. It is time for SADTU and COSATU to stop denying that some of their striking members are behaving like a pack of wild hounds. Many of us witnessed their members' wanton attacks on others, the tearing of a fence, trashing their surroundings and beating up teachers at a private school in Soweto. Shivering with fear, one teacher locked himself in a toilet as the mob ran amok. Such thuggery will remain an enternal blight on our democracy. We urge SADTU to join us in our call for a halt to the rampaging. SADTU and COSATU must also act now against such barbarism, lest their cause be riddled with the blood of innocents."

A Humble Request

2007-06-15T09:07:00.000+02:00

The strike continues....

Things have intensified recently in South Africa, where COSATU and other prominent unions are engaged in action against the government. Striking workers are getting more and more worked up; incidents of violence are not uncommon anymore. People are being threatened by gun-wielding union-sponsored thugs at some places. What started off as legitimate demands from the unions (and still are, to some extent) has been overshadowed, in my mind at least, by what some union members have been doing. They give other union members a bad name.

Here is what I think about the strike.

The strike seems set to intensify. Currently, the government has raised its offer up from the initial 5.5% up to 7.25%. The union has also decreased from its initial stand of 12% down to 10%. But they seem locked at these figures, and so the alliance of unions has been reaching out to other labor unions across South Africa; if demands are not met by Monday, they are threatening a total shutdown in the country. All workers at all stores, municipal offices, etc. could strike. Public-taxi and bus service would stop. Nobody would be able to get anywhere; nothing would run. We here in South Africa are waiting to see what the next step is.

In the meanwhile, I’ve been busy. This week I spent four hours working with Grade 12 students at the local high school; they have been without a Mathematics teacher for some time, and their Matric exams are coming up in October. I’ve volunteered to help teach the class once classes resume; this week was my first time doing any work with them. Some of these kids are very bright (and some are not) and I think it will be a pleasure to work with them.

On Wednesday after I finished up with the Grade 12 students, I was walking through my village, on my way to get a taxi to take me into town (for a meeting with the Red Cross), when something very mundane, very common, and very illustrating happened. I saw a half-naked toddler sitting in the dirt, wailing, crying inconsolably. As I passed the house, I waved at the crying young one; he immediately stopped crying and looked at me with a blank, fascinated stare. I waved some more; his older sister told him to greet me (in Shangaan), so he waved back. The beginnings of a smile had begun to creep into his face. This is one of the small pleasures of my life....something so simple, that happens very often, but says so much.

I’ve been hectic to an extreme recently. In addition to what I’ve mentioned above, I’ve been incredibly hectic with stuff for my HIV project, and when I’ve had free time I’ve been intensely studying for the GRE, which is less than a week away. In fact, in only a few days, I’ll be leaving my village, heading down to Gauteng to take the test.

After the test, I’m not coming back to my village; it’s Winter Holiday, from June 22 until July 15. For the first time since I’ve arrived in South Africa; I’m actually very guilty to leave my village for such a long time. I’ll be gone well over three weeks. Ordinarily I wouldn’t mind, but things have been gearing up into full swing with my HIV project and I’m leaving a lot undone and in the hands of my committee members, who will be working with Erica to get stuff done.

(For details about my HIV project, see my previous entry, “MY VAST PROPOSAL”)

Things are looking great with the project, though. We’ve gotten amazing support from the Municipality. The Red Cross is extremely helpful, excited, and eager to help us make our testing drive a success. The Department of Health is also on board. We have secured major support from local businesses, the most popular radio station in the province, and even Coca Cola!

There is a MAJOR problem with all of this, though. My HIV project, the “Tithembheni Tshamahansi” HIV Testing Drive, was funded by a VAST (Volunteer Activity Support & Training) Grant, which falls under Prez Bush’s PEPFAR Initiative. VAST funds are topped at USD $5,000; this is equal to about 35,000 Rand. That money is being stretched to the extreme; we are using it to fund a LOT of stuff. The Municipality is helping us out a lot with resources, but they have also imposed some extra conditions on the project to bring it up to Municipality-acceptable standards.

The biggest draw when speaking to anyone in my village about the testing drive has been the cash prizes that will be offered in the raffle. The real draw that we have, which we are hoping will draw people to the testing drive, is the raffle. There’s also going to be a free party and free meal for those who are tested, with special guests, etc. but the people are excited about the money. Someone who would be very apprehensive about getting tested for HIV will literally change their mind in an instant when faced with the prospect of winning a large amount of money. That’s what poverty will do to someone....the desire for any money is so strong that a person will reevaluate any existing preconceived notions. In most instances, this is a terrible thing; people will sink to robbing their neighbors or selling their bodies for any pittance. But in our case, with this project, it’s a benefit because it is drawing people toward something that will help them in the long run.

I may be a cynic; I believe that most people are motivated by greed. That’s why the money is so important. But I’m also an optimist at times; I believe that these improperly-motivated people will be exposed to a lot of informative material and confront their own health and their own behavioral choices when going to get tested; they will go through the experience and will leave the clinic having learned about HIV, about their own lifestyle, and about their own health. They will also leave the clinic knowing a lot about how the HIV test works. All of this new information will spread among the village; people will tell their family, their neighbors, their friends, their significant others. (Notice, I said OTHERS, not OTHER)

Basically, to sum up, the cash prizes are THE MOST IMPORTANT aspect of this HIV testing drive.

That brings us to the problem.....we don’t have the money for the cash prizes. The VAST funds don’t cover prizes (and we wouldn’t have enough left over for prizes, anyway, after all other expenses are accounted for). Erica and I have been busy going to businesses in Mokopane, sending out requests to local and international Rotary Clubs, etc. So far, the response has been tepid. We have received some small donations, a few hundred Rands here, a few hundred Rands there.

But, I’ve been advertising that I’m going to offer 10,000 Rand (approx. USD $1,500) in cash prizes at the raffle. That’s what’s been getting the attention. I hate asking for money (although I know I just asked for KLM donations a few months ago), but at this point Erica and I have exhausted all of our other options and are, basically, desperate.

Maybe you’re reading this, but you don’t think you can donate enough. Any small donation will be very helpful. USD $10, $20, $50, $100 ---anything would be helpful. My mother has Power Of Attorney for me; any (cash or check) donation could be addressed to me (Omar Ahmed) and sent to her; she could then deposit the funds into my bank account, which I have access to here in South Africa.

Her address is:
Nooshi Ahmed
1590 Westview Drive
Yorktown Heights, NY
10598

If you donate, I will gladly send you pictures from the event, a thank-you letter, and a report from the event. I know all about the pros and cons about giving a monetary donation to a foreign country; I’ve read Paul Theroux and I know that throwing money at a problem won’t make it go away. But I truly, truly believe that this situation is different. Your money WILL make a difference. I wouldn’t have spent so many (literally hundreds) of hours working on this if I didn’t believe that down to the bottom of my heart.

If you donate, you truly will be making a huge impact and I can’t tell you how grateful I would be.

Strike and death

2007-06-08T11:19:00.000+02:00

There's a lot to say. Life has been incredibly busy recently, and things are constantly changing. I knew that my last 6 months of Peace Corps service would be anything but boring!

(about 6 weeks ago, my friend Eric had a VAST event in his village. He put pictures up on his blog, check it out)

First off, I have not been to any of my schools for over a week. Why not? you're wondering. Well, last Friday, 1 June, all public sector employees in the entire country of South Africa went on strike. This includes all teachers, all nurses, police officers, etc. The nurses and police are so-called "essential services" which means that members can't officially strike (it would create chaos) but they have been taking part in the actions when possible and "going slow" when at work. COSATU, the Congress Of South African Trade Unions, which is the main participant in the strike, has been holding firm to their demands for a 12% pay increase for all members, in direct opposition to the government's offer of 6% (the government later raised their offer to 6.5%, but this was basically spat upon by the union). Both sides have been firm in their stances, and I doubt that the strike will be over anytime soon. The real losers in all of this: students all over the country. Grade 12 students especially are losing valuable time every day, since their Matric exams are coming up very soon.

The strike hasn't affected me personally all that much, however, because I have been so busy planning my VAST project. Every day has brought a new meeting---with a local mine, with local businesses, with the Municipality, with the Red Cross, etc. I haven't had a chance to rest at all!

Yesterday in town I saw a pedestrian hit by a car. He was lying on the side of the road, his body broken, sprawled out. A crowd formed around him, spectators. People walked by. The police arrived but nobody attended to him; he was still breathing and his eyes were twitching. The police put up traffic cones to direct cars away from him, and then just stood there. Nobody attended to him; it was like he wasn't even there. Time went by. 5 minutes. 10. 15. Eventually an ambulance showed up, at least 20 minutes after the incident. I'll remind you that this happened IN TOWN----imagine what would have happened if he had been hit in a village? It would have taken hours for any help to reach him.

Perhaps you are thinking that this is a result of the police's "go slow." That might be the case, except that this isn't the first time I've seen something like this happen. Last October I was on a day-trip to Polokwane; some Peace Corps friends wanted to go to the public pool and I accompanied them. I didn't swim because I was fasting at the time, so I sat on the grass and lounged. I noticed a small commotion; a young male, probably high-school aged, had been pulled out of the pool, not breathing. Lifeguards eventually attended to him, while other pool-goers laughed, jumped in the pool, and pretended as if he wasn't there. Eventually the lifeguards gave up; he was dead. People just stood around, detached from the whole thing. After almost THIRTY minutes, an ambulance showed up. The paramedics calmly got out of the ambulance and strolled over to him; they confirmed that he was dead, calmly strolled back to their ambulance, brought out a stretcher and body covering, put him on the stretcher, covered him up, and calmly took him away. The real tragedy of the entire thing was that the public pool in Polokwane is only 100 meters away from a Medi-Clinic.

I have no idea what happened to the pedestrian yesterday. He was obviously badly injured; nobody's body should lie slumped in that position naturally. There's a good chance that he is now dead; the lack of attention given to him by police and the slowness of any paramedic's arrival obviously contributed.

But hey.....T.I.A.

There's much more that's been going on in my life recently, and I'll be updating again soon. Until then, take care.

Life

2007-04-28T11:45:00.000+02:00

As of April 6, I am in my last 6 months of Peace Corps service. On the one hand, that is a good thought: less than six months until I finish up, leave my village, and head off into the Great Unknown. On the other hand, there is so much left to be done here before I leave that it gets stressful to think about sometimes.

How did this happen? The past six weeks, since I wrote “Time”, have gone by in a blur. Perhaps this is because so much has happened to keep me busy; I haven’t had time to really sit back and digest it all. Soon after I wrote that entry, I was mugged (it truly IS a South African rite of passage—in fact, soon afterwards, my host brother Tumisho was also mugged), I went to Erica’s site for a fantastic carnival (at which I was a ridiculous clown), and then the first school term was over.

The end of each school term means a school holiday, ranging anywhere from 1 week to over 5 weeks. This March/April holiday was 2 ½ weeks long, and so just as school ended, I was off.

First, I went to Pretoria. I spend the first week of my vacation relaxing there, reacquainting myself with civilization (easy internet access, cinemas, nightlife) and doing work at the Peace Corps office. (I also got bed bugs from the backpackers, but that’s another story.)

Since late 2005, I have always had my near future mapped out. I would take the Foreign Service Exam during my Peace Corps Service (and nail it!), return home, pass my oral interview with flying colors (obviously!), and soon head off for a rewarding career in the State Department. Imagine my surprise when, looking at the State Department website at the Peace Corps office, I discovered that the Foreign Service Exam isn’t even being offered internationally this year. (Gulp!)

All of a sudden, I panicked. What to do? I could wait until I return home before taking the exam, but the process from exam until employment could take two years or more. Spending the next two years of my life after returning home, sleeping on my mother’s futon, waiting for the exam and employment procedure, would not be the best thing for my career.

At this point, my options are open. I’ve signed up for the GRE in June, although I haven’t started studying and don’t have any of the study guides yet….but, hey, I’m not worried. That’s one option. Or I could get a job working for another international (N)GO. Or I could end up somewhere I haven’t even considered yet. As I said above, when I leave South Africa, I am heading off into the Great Unknown.

Anyway, after Pretoria, I traveled eastward to Sabie, where I spent a fun weekend with about 60 other PCVs (and some of their visitors from the USA, like Erica’s dad for example). I ran the Longtom Half Marathon on a brisk morning, finishing in my goal time of 1:50. That night, Erica and I held an event that we had planned for the rest of our fellow PCVs: the Longtom-off. This was an idea that had been brewing for quite some time.

What exactly IS a Longtom-off, you ask? Let me explain. There are two groups of PCVs in South Africa: SA 14 and SA 15 (the 14th and 15th groups of PCVs to arrive in South Africa). SA 14, of which I am a member, arrived in August 2005. SA 15 arrived in July 2006. Our groups tend to have a minor obsession with lankiness, and it turns out that Tom Brownlee, from SA 14, and Tom Kulkinski, from SA 15, both just happen to be very lanky (or LONG, if you will). In the spirit of inter-group competition, Erica (who is SA 15) and I (SA 14) organized the Long-Tom-Off, and the night after the race, we held the contest. There were five grueling events (including a “Peeping Tom contest” and “Tom trivia”) which culminated in a lank-off—basically a competition to see who could prove themselves as the lankiest. Our reigning champion had been Dan Ondrusek, but that night Tom Kulkinski won the lank-off and, thus, the Longtom-off. My hat is off to you, Tom Kulkinski.

After the success of the Longtom-off, I was off….Bree, Nicolette, and I went to Johannesburg, aka Jo’Burg, aka Jozi, aka Murder City. (The last one is not an official nickname, but it might as well be) In almost 20 months in South Africa, I had still not been to Jo’Burg. Since arriving in South Africa, we had always been told to beware the Big Bad City. We were told the true statistic that any PCV who takes a public taxi into the Jo’Burg taxi rank will be mugged within an average of 45 minutes (in fact, it is now forbidden for any PCV to be at the Jo’Burg taxi rank—possibly the only place in South Africa we are strictly forbidden from going at any time). We saw Tsotsi. Plus, when my host brother James was shot in the neck in Hillbrow (one of the worst parts of Jo’Burg), I knew to take the threat seriously.

Bree, Nicolette, and I did NOT take a taxi to the Jo’Burg taxi rank. Instead we took public taxis to the Jo’Burg airport (O.R. Tambo International) and got picked up by the backpackers we were going to stay at. That night we decided to go out to the Market Theater in Newtown, so we had a private taxi pick us up from the backpackers and drive us there. It turns out that the driver didn’t know exactly where he was going and got lost, driving us through the outskirts of HILLBROW! Yikes. I instinctively locked my door and slouched down in my seat as we drove through. He did finally end up getting us to our destination, though, safe and sound.

During the day, Jo’Burg is lively, crowded, and busy. But at night, the streets in the city center empty out and it becomes shady, and dangerous. Driving through that first night, we saw Jo’Burg at its shadiest. I asked myself, why did you come here?? But the next day, in the sunlight, things looked much better. Jo’Burg is actually a very lively city during the day, and downtown Jo’Burg is the only place in South Africa that reminds me of New York City. Jo’Burg itself is huge and sprawling; the downtown is only one small part of the city. On that day, the backpackers organized to take us to the Apartheid Museum and to Soweto.

The Apartheid Museum is an amazing place. It’s easy to forget about the past when walking around the fancy malls and quiet suburbs of South Africa, but the past is always there. The Apartheid Museum confronts you with South Africa’s history—all of that ugliness just stares you right in the face. I highly recommend it to anyone who ever visits this incredible country.

After leaving the museum, we continued on to Soweto. SOWETO….the SO-uth WE-st TO-wnships. The place is the beating heart of black life in South Africa. I’d imagined the place for such a long time, and going there was truly an experience. Driving through Diepkloof, where we entered the townships, I was surprised to see nice, big, brick-and-tile houses. These were the “suburbs” of Soweto, the nicer part where you move once you have some money and are out of poverty. But soon we were driving into the heart of the township. To be quite honest, Soweto looks similar to so many of the other townships I’ve seen in South Africa, but the scale of the place is huge….it just goes on forever.

We made some interesting stops along the way in Soweto, including the Hector Pieterson memorial and museum, Nelson Mandela’s old house, and the Regina Mundi Catholic Church, but for me the most memorable part of the entire place was going to an informal settlement. An informal settlement is just an area where extremely poor people, who cannot afford to live anywhere else, settle and build their shacks. The place we went, the Motsoaledi Informal Settlement, was just a series of tin shacks stretching far into the distance. The poor residents of the settlement sat around in chairs, or on the floor, or walked around the dirt and mud streets. The tin shacks stretched on into the distance. I’m sure that this was quite a sight for most tourists, but to me it just reminded me of a poorer version of my village.

Ordinarily I’m turned off by what you could call “human zoos”—places you visit where you can look at people who might seem strange, quaint, or barbaric to you, where you can take pictures of them. “Look at their primitive culture! Isn’t it just so odd?” That whole thing does not appeal to me at all. Thankfully, this was not like that. The residents of the Motsoaledi Informal Settlement came together and decided to find a way to bring some income into their community. So they started offering tours to anyone who wanted to visit…that was what we did. We were shown around the settlement by a man (I forget his name) who actually lives there. The whole thing is an income-generating project for them, and I really respect that.

Bree, Nicolette, and I were not alone…there were 5 other people from our backpackers who were also with us. We walked around the settlement, and the others did the usual tourist thing, looking around with awe, taking pictures. As for us, we spoke to the tour guide for a while, and then he discovered that we can speak South African languages. (Bree and I can speak Shangaan; Nicolette can speak isiNdebele) This really impressed him for some reason; I guess most people who take the tour don’t speak South African languages. Townships like Soweto are filled with people who might be from all parts of the country; they are melting-pots of languages where people have to communicate with one another. Many people in townships can probably speak quite a few South African languages. The tour guide was very impressed with my Shangaan, so every time he saw a Shangaan person, or someone who could speak Shangaan, he would call them over and tell them to talk to me. They would immediately become surprised that I could communicate with them. This guy speaks Shangaan? I could see the incredulity in their faces—but it was something I’m used to, because I get reactions like that all of the time.

So as we walked around the settlement, I was paraded out, introduced to lots of people. It was amusing to see how this affected everyone. Even the other backpackers with us were amused. I don’t even know that much Shangaan, but after living here for so long, I have been able to learn to speak Shangaan with a Shangaan accent, and I think that was the most surprising thing for people. By the way I speak, people seem to think that I know a lot more than I actually do. (If they speak to me for long enough, they soon discover how misleading my Shangaan accent really is, when I have to shrug my head and say “A ndzi twisisi”—I don’t understand.)

There were also lots of children in the settlement. Small kids, used to seeing lots of strange foreigners. The children in my village are very shy at first, especially the young ones. But these little kids, they just ran up to us, hugged our legs, reached up to hold our hands, walked with us. It surprised me. But, in retrospect, it shouldn’t be that surprising. These little kids have seen white people walking around their homes every day, they have gotten used to it, and they know that these strangers will play with them—they go looking for the attention, which is often lacking at home. Some of the older kids asked us for money, which is also not surprising. I refused to give them any money, which is ALSO not surprising.

As we left the settlement, the tour guide told us how much he enjoyed having us on his tour. He said it was the best tour he’d done so far this year, because it was the first time that he had people that could, and were willing to, speak to the locals. Usually tourists will come in, take pictures, and leave. We actually spoke to the locals, greeted them, didn’t treat them like animals in a zoo…and it had an effect. It made our tour guide’s day, and it brought big smiles to everyone we spoke to. We only spent 20 minutes in the settlement, but that is the biggest thing I will remember about my visit to Soweto.

We spent another day in Jo’Burg, but nothing else was as noteworthy as the visit to Soweto. We went out that night to the very young, trendy Melville area. The next morning we got a rental car and drove to Sandton, which is an upper-class, “fancier” part of Jo’Burg. Then we drove into the city center and walked around Newtown. We also had a very shady drive through sketchy parts of downtown Jo’Burg on our way from Newtown to the airport. (I was going to get off at the airport; Bree and Nicolette would continue on to Pretoria) I’m not scared of Jo’Burg the way I was before, and I am happy that I had the chance to go and see the place for itself. I’m looking forward to going back sometime—taking all precautions, of course.

From Jo’Burg, I flew to Cape Town. The flight itself is about 2 hours long; it cost me 1000 Rand round-trip ($140 USD)…not bad.

Cape Town was beautiful, as always. This was my third trip to the “Mother City” in less than a year. I was there for five days, during which time I ran another half-marathon, the Two Oceans Half Marathon. The Two Oceans is an amazing, beautiful, and very well-run race. The day after the race, I climbed Table Mountain again….but doing the climb after running two half-marathons (and only one day after finishing one) might not have been the best idea. My legs were sore!

In Cape Town I did the “tourist” thing—in addition to Table Mountain, I went to Cape Point and to Stellenbosch, saw the breathtaking views along Chapman’s Peak Drive, hung out at the Waterfront and ate at fancy restaurants. I saw the movie “300.” Cait, Meagan, and Jillian found a hole-in-the-wall Mexican Restaurant (possibly the only one in the entire country of South Africa) where we all ate Mexican food that reminded us of home. Jenny, Erica, and I went to the Buena Vista Social Café. I went with Erica and her dad to The Africa Café. We drank Dr. Peppers and Cherry Cokes at the only place any of us had ever found them in South Africa.

It was a nice trip, a break from life in South Africa. But soon it was over, and I flew back to Jo’Burg. From the airport, I found a way to get to the backpackers in Pretoria for only 23 Rand ($3.20 USD) using public taxis—otherwise I would have had to pay 250 Rand for a private taxi. I felt very good about my ingenuity, although it was actually my friend Eric who had found the public taxi route to the airport. The next day I returned home to my village, and back into my life as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

During the past 2 ½ weeks back at site, I haven’t gotten too much done at school. But then again, as I mentioned in “Time”, my previous entry, I wasn’t expecting to. I’ve only given one workshop so far; I’ve also observed some classes and I did two demonstration lessons. At school, that’s about it. At Makgubuketja Primary School, where the teachers don’t like me, I have given the principal an ultimatum: sometime during the next week or so she is going to call a staff meeting and ask the educators if they want me to come into their classes and help them, or not. (So far, the influence of bad teachers has really gotten in my way) Either they’re going to start cooperating with me more, or I’m not going to go there anymore except to give workshops occasionally. We’ll see what happens.

Things have been going better with VAST-related issues, however. After having to make some last-minute changes to my proposal, I re-submitted it and got approval!!! All I had to do was sign some consent forms and get a member of my committee to sign an acknowledgement form. I did this last week, and so all of my VAST work, in regards to the proposal, is done! Now that I’m approved, all I have to do is wait until the $5,000 USD (35,800 Rand) is deposited into my account. Then the real work begins. (I’ve posted some excerpts from my VAST proposal on the blog, below)

Erica and I have also had some very productive meetings since returning from Cape Town. We went to the Coca Cola headquarters in Polokwane, met with the manager of Special Events, and got his agreement to attend our events with a Coca Cola truck, stage, and free Coca Cola for our guests. Then, we met a woman named Rachel Sethosa, who runs an HIV/AIDS NGO in Polokwane. She is an amazing woman…dedicated, hard-working and HIV-positive since 1989. Let me repeat that….this woman has been HIV POSITIVE for EIGHTEEN YEARS. In a country like South Africa, that’s almost unheard of. It’s amazing, and she has agreed to come to our VAST events and speak. I am so excited for people in my village to hear that HIV does not equal misery and death.

Our recent meeting with the Red Cross was just as productive. Not only will they be at our events, but they will be bringing HIV Ambassadors (HIV-positive speakers), and they will also be bringing HIV counselors to assist the one HIV counselor who works at the local clinic in my village. This is going to be VERY helpful, since one person alone would not be able to administer over 600 HIV tests in one month, especially on busy days where there might be a rush or a long line of people to test.

All of these meetings have been very beneficial, but they have meant time away from my schools, since meetings are usually on school days. But I’m not complaining…I’m getting more done at these meetings than I would at the schools, anyway.

Obviously, scheduling issues often cause things to be slow at school and tend to get in the way of me getting a lot of work done. But, recently, there is also something else: death. When a teacher dies, usually all of the teachers from the Circuit go to the memorial service. Twice now, in two weeks, teachers have left school early to go to the memorial service of a fellow teacher. These teachers who have been passing away aren’t teachers at my school or in my village, but two deaths in two weeks are a lot: death seems to be in the air.

And it isn’t just that. Two weeks ago I found out that Marcus, my host father from Moletji, my training village where I lived from August – October 2005, passed away. He was 59 years old. So, last weekend, I went (and Erica went with me) back to Moletji for the first time since I was sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer on October 13, 2005. It was a surreal experience. The house where I had lived was full of people, and there were many more sitting in a tent outside. I was not able to attend the funeral (it started at 7am and I wouldn’t have been able to get there so early in the morning) but I am happy that I was able to go back and visit the family. I expressed my condolences to my Moletji host mother, saw a lot of family and family friends from the village whom I had not seen in 1 ½ years. And then I left again.

That same week, I found out that my grand-uncle (my “Chotai Dada”) had passed away in Toronto. While it wasn’t surprising to me, since he was over 90 years old, it was deeply saddening. And then only a few days ago I heard that one of my sister’s good friends (a great kid, whom I had also known for many years) was killed in a motorcycle accident near his home. It seems as if death is everywhere, and even my life at home cannot escape it. Now my Aunt (my beloved “Phuppoojaan”) in Toronto is very sick as well, and I am praying that she gets better soon. There’s been too much death recently.

And that’s the way it goes….life goes on, for most of us. For me, life will continue as it has. We’ll see if things get busier at my schools. I know for a fact that things will get busier as I get deeper and deeper into the planning of my VAST event. These next few months are critical for the success of the event. I’ll be busy studying for the GREs, trying to work at school, and running around to all sorts of meetings for VAST.

I’m reminded of a quote I read in a recent issue of The Economist. In an article about Russian fatalism, an interviewed Russian said something to the extent of, “Life is dangerous. Nobody has ever survived it.”

As I’ve said before, a Peace Corps Volunteer’s work is never done.

My VAST Proposal

2007-04-28T11:35:00.000+02:00

Below are excerpts from my (recently successful!!!) VAST proposal. They will hopefully give you an idea of what the situation in my village is like and what we have planned to address it.

“TITHEMBHENI TSHAMAHANSI” HIV TESTING DRIVE PROJECT

Summary

Members of the “Tithembheni Tshamahansi” (“Trust yourself Tshamahansi”) HIV Testing Drive Project (TTTDP) have seen the devastating effect of HIV/AIDS in Tshamahansi Village and the surrounding area. We recognize that people in the village are unwilling to acknowledge the presence of HIV/AIDS in the community and in their own lives, and therefore do not go to the local clinic to receive the free HIV/AIDS test. We feel that it is vitally important for people to acknowledge that the disease does affect them personally, and to begin talking about HIV/AIDS in the community. We feel that it is important for community members to know their status and become proactive about their own health.

This project aims to address both of these concerns. Throughout a series of events in Tshamahansi Village, TTTDP hopes to educate over 1,000 members of the community and encourage open dialogue about HIV/AIDS, leading up to a month-long HIV-testing drive at the Tshamahansi Clinic.

We intend on pursuing four separate activities to help stimulate dialogue about HIV/AIDS in Tshamahansi Village and motivate people to receive the HIV/AIDS test. These activities are as follows:

Women’s Beading Group:

A women’s beading group will create beaded HIV/AIDS pins which will be given to the local clinic and passed out free to anyone who receives the HIV/AIDS test at the Tshamahansi Clinic during the “month-of-testing” drive.

Parade / Kick-Off Event:

On the Saturday before the “month-of-testing” drive, we will have a parade in Tshamahansi Village and a kick-off event to spark interest in the community, provide information about HIV/AIDS and healthy living, and explain the testing drive to the community. This event will also serve as a motivation to the community to receive the free HIV/AIDS test.

“Month-Of-Testing” Drive:

For four (4) weeks, community members will be encouraged to receive the free HIV/AIDS test at the Tshamahansi Clinic. Once they receive their results, they will receive a prize bag that will include a number of gifts, including the beaded pin made by the women’s beading group.

Final Celebration Function:

At the completion of the “month-of-testing” drive, we will hold a large celebration for everyone who received the free test at the clinic during the month. Admission will be reserved to those wearing their beaded pin. This celebration will celebrate their great achievement and bravery, and will include a free meal, games and activities with small prizes, and a raffle with large prizes.

Through the many facets of the project, TTTDP believes that we will reach over 1,000 people in the community, and begin to bring about a culture of open dialogue about HIV/AIDS.

Statement of Need

The focus of our project will be on Tshamahansi Village, although anyone from neighboring Magongoa Village will also be welcome to attend and participate. Tshamahansi Village is located in Mogalakwena Municipality, Waterberg District, Limpopo Province. Tshamahansi is situated 18km north of Mokopane, the nearest town. With a population of 13,393 people living in 2,682 households, Tshamahansi is the biggest village in the Mogalakwena Municipality and among the biggest in the Waterberg District. Almost all people living in Tshamahansi are of the Tsonga and Sotho tribes, with small numbers of others. The primary languages spoken are Xitsonga (91%) and SePedi(8%).

In addition to its large size, Tshamahansi is also a very poor village. According to Census 2001 data, out of all working-age adults, only 21% are employed. The rest are either unemployed (22%) or not economically active (57%). The “best and brightest” usually leave Tshamahansi forever, making futures for themselves in the large cities of the Gauteng Province. Among all adults 20 years of age or older in Tshamahansi, only 44% have completed primary school education or further; the rest either have no schooling or left school before completing primary school. 60% of the population has no monthly income, so a sizable portion of the community receives their income from old-age pension grants and child support grants provided by the government.

Tshamahansi, on the whole, is a fairly “young” community, with 37% of the population under the age of 15, and only 28% over the age of 34. It is telling that the number of children in the village is so high; many parents who move to Gauteng leave their children with their elderly parents. Since the number of elderly people is not very high, many of them are placed in charge of 2, 3, or more of their grandchildren while the children’s parents work in Gauteng. Due to this situation, many youth grow up without a strong parental figure or positive role model. These youth become influenced by negative factors and begin engaging in risky sexual activities at a young age, without thinking about the consequences of their actions. These dangerous practices give HIV/AIDS the opportunity to spread among community members at an alarming rate. Although the disease is spreading in Tshamahansi, people still do not talk about HIV/AIDS or take responsibility for their actions. In this highly at-risk area, TTTDP believes that a large-scale HIV education and testing campaign is vitally important.

Information about HIV/AIDS reaches people primarily through schools (where teachers often have outdated information or unprogressive opinions) and through media like television. Many residents still hold fallacious beliefs about the spread of HIV/AIDS, its effect on the body, the effectiveness of ARVs, and the necessity of the HIV/AIDS test for those at-risk. Even those few who have correct information still engage in risky behaviors; this is especially true of youth. Many youth can recite the causes of HIV/AIDS, the ABCs (“Abstain-Be Faithful-Condomise”), and other information about the disease, but they do not create the link between these concepts and their own lives and behaviors. This PCV trained a group of 14 youth (7 male, 7 female) from the two high schools in Tshamahansi Village between August and November 2006 to be Life Skills Peer Educators. These youths had been singled out by their teachers as the “best of the best,” but many of them lacked vital knowledge and held outdated opinions about HIV/AIDS before the Life Skills Training began. Considering that these were the “best of the best,” the evidence is clear that there is an urgent need for information about HIV/AIDS in Tshamahansi.

To date, large-scale programs and activities have not been developed in the area of HIV/AIDS education in Tshamahansi Village. As a result, myths about the disease circulate in the village, and HIV/AIDS is a topic that is off-limits in most conversation. Most people are unwilling to go to the Tshamahansi Clinic to receive free testing; on average, only 30 to 40 HIV/AIDS tests are conducted in the village each month, and that is the mandatory test that is given to pregnant women. The results of these tests are that about 10 tests per month, or 25% of the results, turn out to be positive.

Most people in the village are unwilling to go to the Tshamahansi Clinic to get tested for a number of reasons. One reason is that many people fear that other people will gossip and spread rumors if they go to the clinic to get tested. Many people are afraid of the test itself; they fear that the needles will be painful and the test will be very difficult to go through. People also worry that others will discover their status, which, if positive, can be very detrimental to the person’s reputation in the village. But most importantly, people are unwilling to get tested because they are afraid they will be positive. A number of people have told me that, “If I find out I am positive, I will die sooner because of the stress of knowing than if I had never found out.”

We believe that being tested for HIV/AIDS is the first step towards acknowledging the disease, as well as a crucial step for those who may be positive to obtain the support they need. Through education and other incentives, we hope to motivate a large number of people to get tested at the local clinic over a period of four (4) weeks. If we can motivate hundreds of people to go in for the test, the risk of rumors spreading throughout the village will be eliminated. Also, through testing, people will gain valuable information about HIV/AIDS and learn about positive life choices that will help them to lead healthier lives. The message of practicing abstinence and, especially, of being faithful to one’s partner will be stressed throughout the entire project. In addition, if people do find out that they are positive, they will be given the medication and support that they need to help them live healthy lives. Finally, if a large number of people know their status in the village, they can serve as ambassadors in the community, espousing the benefits of testing and encouraging others to be tested. This could possibly serve as the stimulus for a dialogue about HIV/AIDS that has never existed in Tshamahansi Village.

Goals and Objectives

Goal

We hope that by increasing the number of people getting tested for HIV/AIDS in Tshamahansi, we will make the process of getting tested for HIV/AIDS a non-threatening, acceptable practice among its residents. We hope that this will inspire a culture of open dialogue about HIV/AIDS in Tshamahansi.

Objectives

1. We will provide 600 – 1000 people in the community with education about HIV/AIDS and healthy living, stressing the importance of abstinence and being faithful to one’s partner.

2. We will motivate 400 – 600 people in the community to receive a free confidential HIV/AIDS test during our “month-of-testing”.

3. We will provide the stimulus to make the process of being tested for HIV/AIDS a non-threatening, acceptable practice in Tshamahansi Village.

4. We will teach 8 – 10 unemployed, middle-aged women the skill of beading and will empower them through the formation of a beading group.

Beneficiaries

The parade, kick-off event, and month of testing will be open to anyone who wishes to participate. However, the target audience will be those most at risk for contracting HIV/AIDS, males and females ages 15-45. The kick-off parade and event will be open to the general public, but admission to the final celebration will be limited to those wearing their beaded HIV/AIDS pins, which will be given out at the test. We are hoping to have 600-1000 people attend the kick-off celebration, and 400-600 to go through with the testing over the course of the four weeks. In addition, 8 – 10 women will learn beading in our women’s beading group.

Project Design and Action Plan

Women’s Beading Group

The first phase of this project will be to form a group of 8-10 women who will make beaded HIV/AIDS pins. These pins will be Tshamahansi-specific (i.e. they will have “Tshamahansi” or something of the sort written on them). The pins will then be given to the local clinic to pass out to people who are tested. The target group for beading is unemployed, single mothers. This will allow for income-generation, skills-building, and empowerment. Once the group is formed, we will find a venue and set up a schedule for beading. We will bring in a beading expert from the community to teach the women how to make the pins. After 600 pins have been produced, the women will be paid for their labor (R15/pin).

Completed beaded ribbons will be stored securely at the Tshamahansi Clinic. Each individual in the group will make her own ribbons and will be paid individually, in Rands. The money received can either be used as personal income for the women and their families, or can be re-used for the purchase of more beads to continue beading for additional income.

Parade / Kick-Off Event

In order to elicit support from the community and motivate members to participate, we will hold a parade and kick-off event during either the last Saturday in July or the first Saturday in August. We will create posters to advertise for the event, which will be hung up in local tuck shops, shebeens / bottle stores, churches, schools, busy intersections along the taxi route, water taps, Induna residences, the soccer grounds, and the clinic.

Parade

The parade will begin at one end of the village (either at the taxi rank or at Induna Baloyi residence) and will finish at the soccer grounds, the venue for the event. The total distance is approximately 5km. We will gather 50+ people to walk in the parade, and hire a local DJ from the village to provide music and a microphone, which will be transported on a donkey cart. We will use the microphone to advertise the event and encourage people to join us in the parade and attend the event. Also, we will make giant HIV/AIDS ribbons out of poster-board and sticks, which we will wave in the air to attract attention and to indicate that the day’s event will be HIV/AIDS-themed in nature.

Kick-Off Event

The kick-off event will begin directly after the parade. Through advertisements around the community, word-of-mouth, and the parade, we are hoping to attract 600-1000 people to the event. In addition, in the weeks before the event, we will speak to various groups in the community, give them handouts, and encourage them to tell others. These groups will include high schools, churches, pension days, traditional leadership structures, the Ward Committee, and others.

The program will promote the “Month-Of-Testing,” and include various speakers who will emphasize the importance of knowing your status and acknowledging the presence of HIV/AIDS in Tshamahansi Village. A representative from the clinic will talk about support services available and ensure confidentiality in the test results.

We are hoping to bring an HIV-ambassador to the event to speak about living with AIDS to show people that life can indeed go on after they find out they are positive. Also, because many people are very afraid of the test itself, the PCV (Omar) will publicly be tested in front of everyone to show exactly what happens during the test. Pamphlets will be available to all guests, which will include information about the “month-of-testing” and educational information about HIV/AIDS. These pamphlets will be written in English, SePedi, and Xitsonga to allow for maximum understanding. Information in the pamphlets, as well as information provided by all of the guest speakers, will stress the importance of abstinence and being faithful to one’s partner.

The event will also include entertainment for all guests. The same DJ from the parade will provide music, and we will have HIV/AIDS ribbon face-painting, along with some other small games/contests with small, inexpensive prizes. We will also try to find any local groups available to provide free (In-Kind) entertainment, such as traditional dance troupes, musicians, etc. Punch will be available free of charge, and we will invite local vendors to sell food.

Month of Testing Drive

Directly following the kick-off event, we will begin 4 weeks of testing. During this period, we hope that 400-600 people from the community will be tested for HIV/AIDS at the Tshamahansi Clinic. As an incentive to be tested, participants will be given a prize bag, including:

§ A beaded HIV/AIDS ribbon made by the women’s beading group
§ A “Certificate of Bravery”
§ Condoms
§ Candy/sweets
§ An information card to pass along to a friend (written in English / SePedi / Xitsonga)
§ An invitation / directions to the final celebration
§ A blank raffle card for the final celebration

We will decorate the clinic during the month, and create a large banner advertising the events that will be hung on the clinic gate. Many of the decorations placed in and around the clinic will stress the importance of abstinence and being faithful to one’s partner.

Final Celebration Event

Following the 4 weeks of testing, we will hold a final celebration function to reward everyone who participated in the testing. Admission will be reserved to people wearing the beaded HIV/AIDS pins they were given in their HIV/AIDS test prize bags.

The event will celebrate the huge accomplishment of the people tested, and include motivational speakers who will speak about the importance of acknowledging the disease and being proud of knowing your status. These speakers will stress the importance of abstinence and remaining faithful to one’s partner; speakers will encourage guests to practice these ideas to stay healthy. A representative from the clinic will speak about support services available for those who tested positive. Pamphlets, written in English / SePedi / Xitsonga, will be passed out to people. They will include information about healthy living and support services available, and will encourage open dialogue within the community.

Entertainment will be provided by a local DJ, and we will provide a variety of games and activities. There will also be a raffle with money donated from businesses in Mokopane and organizations in the United States. People who were tested could bring in their raffle tickets from their prize bags to enter the raffle free-of-charge, and stand a chance of winning one of five monetary prizes between R500 – R1000. Free lunch will also be provided to everyone in attendance.

Sustainability

Obviously, the event itself is not sustainable – funds for repeated testing drives and celebrations would be unavailable, unrealistic, and unnecessary. However, the event itself is designed to create a sustainable change in Tshamahansi, namely a culture of open dialogue about HIV/AIDS. The sight of 400 – 600 people from the village going to the clinic to receive the free test would pique attention in people who might otherwise have dismissed those who receive a free HIV/AIDS test as promiscuous or irresponsible. In addition, the act of testing itself will lose its stigma, and the hope is that those who have been tested (especially those who test negative) will disseminate useful information about testing throughout the village, taking pride in knowing their status and encouraging others to do the same.

The event will have many beneficial and positive effects for the community as a whole, but there will be a large number of people (approximately 150 if current statistics can be extrapolated) who will discover that they are HIV+ during the course of the testing drive. TTTDP strongly believes that, after the month-of-testing and final celebration are over, support must be provided to all community members who received the free HIV/AIDS test at the Tshamahansi Clinic during the testing drive and discovered their HIV+ status. The Tshamahansi Clinic already has support in place for HIV+ individuals; they provide counseling and referrals to the Mokopane Hospital for further treatment and ARVs. When physical conditions worsen for HIV+ individuals in Tshamahansi, the clinic also provides access to Home-Based Care.

There is also a garden on the clinic grounds which all HIV+ individuals are welcome to use, free-of-charge. The clinic has some gardening equipment and access to water, so any HIV+ individual could easily show up at the clinic, use its garden, and grow nutritious food to feed him or herself, free-of-charge. According to the “Sister-in-Charge” at the Tshamahansi Clinic, this would also be beneficial in that HIV+ individuals would be in close proximity to the clinic and could be continuously counseled and monitored to ensure that they are taking their medication and eating nutritiously. Also according to the “Sister-in-Charge”, although there may not be immediate, direct benefits to those who have discovered their HIV+ status, the large number of HIV tests conducted during the testing drive will serve to improve the HIV statistics for Tshamahansi Village; this new information could serve to buttress requests by the clinic to the Department of Health for additional assistance in Tshamahansi in the form of additional HIV counselors or even a hospice in the village.

In addition, the group of 14 Life Skills Peer Educator that this PCV trained in 2006 has already received permission to start a Support Group in Tshamahansi; they have named it “Together We Can” (TWC). This group will also serve to support and assist those community members who may have discovered their HIV+ status during the testing drive. At the final celebration, members from TWC will invite any participants in the audience to attend TWC’s sessions and receive support.

The women who make the beads will have learned a valuable income-generating skill, and the hope is that they will continue to bead in order to earn some income.

And, finally, all of the members of this committee are living in Tshamahansi and will have been exposed to proposal-writing and management of large-scale events and funds during the course of the planning and implementation of this event. As a result, they will have the knowledge, skills, and resources necessary to design and manage their own life skills projects in the future.

Done!

2007-04-07T18:20:00.000+02:00

Well, I did it. For this March/April break I set myself two goals:

1. I would run the Longtom Half-Marathon in 1 hour 50 minutes.

2. Seven days after the Longtom Half-Marathon, I would run the Two Oceans Half-Marathon. My cumulative time would be less than 4 hours.

Bear in mind that, when making these goals for myself, I had only run one half-marathon in my life, and I hadn't even run the whole thing! (last year I finished Longtom in 2 hours 17 minutes) So I considered them to be pretty substantial, yet reasonable, goals.

Well, let me give you the results of my races:

1. Longtom: exactly one week ago, I ran with about 55 of my fellow PCVs (see picture above.....yes, Tom aka Hot Dog Man ran in a diaper and bonnet). I finished in 1 hour 50 minutes 41 seconds....achieving my goal-time!

2. Two Oceans: this morning at 6am the race began in the beautiful city of Cape Town. I ran along with ELEVEN THOUSAND people running the half-marathon....it's an amazing sight to see that many people running at once. (there were also eight thousand ultra-marathon runners who ran the 56 km Two Oceans Ultra Marathon today). I arrived at the start line this morning still a bit sore from Longtom last weekend, but I had set myself this goal and I intended to achieve it. I finished the race today in just under 1 hour 55 minutes. So, that puts my cumulative time for the two races at 3 hours 45 minutes, well under my goal-time!

So I've achieved what I wanted to (in terms of running, at least) this holiday. I'm happy that I was able to do Longtom to benefit the KLM Foundation (see below for more info about KLM). And I'm just as happy that I was able to travel across the country to run the World's Most Beautiful Race. So far, it's been a helluva vacation! (more on that next time)

Erica's Carnival

2007-03-25T12:44:00.000+02:00

At the beginning of the week I wasn't in the greatest mood (see "A South African Rite Of Passage" below) but I was excited to go to Erica's village, along with 10 other Peace Corps Volunteers, to help her give a carnival at one of her schools.

It was a great time! I volunteered to be the Clown at the carnival, and I was a helluva clown!
Here are some pictures:

For more pictures, and more information, check out the entry on Erica's blog:
http://ericainsouthafrica.blogspot.com/2007/03/best-carnival-ever-africa-style.html

Scary Clown

Gangsta Clown (Tom's representing East Coast...I'm representing Western Hegemony)

Tom the Hot Dog Man and I got up in front of a crowd of over 500 and did a 2-minute dance. It was ridiculous.

A South African Rite Of Passage

2007-03-25T12:19:00.000+02:00

Well, it was bound to happen....

Last Friday (just over one week ago) I went to Mokopane; it was another ordinary day. As is usually the case on Fridays, I went to the Mosque just outside of town and prayed Friday (Juma) Prayers. Afterwards I went to my friend Sulayman's house for lunch, and then afterwards he gave me a ride back into town, to the hardware store where he works.

Ismail's Hardware, where I got dropped off, is about one block away from the main taxi rank in Mokopane; it's an area I know very well. I've walked it so many times; every time I'm there I almost feel like it's an extension of my village because people just seem to know me and greet me in Shangaan, especially lots of people whom I've never met before. That "local celebrity" feel makes me feel welcome in town, feel like I belong, safe, like it's MY town.

Alas....not EVERYONE knows me. I was walking near the taxi rank, on a crowded, busy street. Stalls selling sacks of potatoes, mopani worms, cellphone chargers, and cheap hats were all around me. I know it well. I heard a beep from my cellphone; I'd received an SMS. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my cellphone; it was an SMS from Caitlin.

I was reading the SMS, looking down at my cellphone, and didn't see the guy step in front of me, blocking my path. I noticed at the last second, and tried to move out of the way, to side-step him, but then I noticed that there was another guy on my side, blocking my way. Immediately, I was pushed into the small alleyway I was at the entrance of. There were three of them: one snatched my phone out of my hand. A second started rummaging through my pockets. The third stood on the side, holding me back, saying over and over into my ear:

"Shut up. Shut up. I shoot you. I shoot you."

One of the three grabbed my wallet and opened it. I saw my identification and bank card looking at me, and the thought of losing them, the hassles I'd have to go through, made me inadvertently speak. I asked for my ID back. So, in a small gesture of decency (can you even call it that?), the douchebag holding my wallet took all of the money out of my wallet (it was about 400 Rand or so) and then actually handed the wallet back to me. I was thankful for that. The "spokesman" of the group, who had been threatening to shoot me, said "Get out of here" and pushed me.

I went to leave, but the other asshole was blocking my way. And still, the spokesman was telling me to "Get out of here." This was just ridiculous; I was pretty pissed off and I yelled "I'm going!" I pushed my way through and left them behind.

And that was that. It took less than a minute total. Like so many others, I was mugged. It's almost become a South African "rite of passage", it's so common. What really got to me was that, although I'd expected a mugging at some point and always guarded myself against it, I'd never thought it would happen in MY town. I let my guard down; I got too comfortable. It won't happen again.

All night I was pissed off, in a bad mood. The next day Erica and I were scheduled to meet Mmushi, a guy who runs a local NGO, for lunch in town. I went into the meeting with a bad attitude, and came out of it entirely reassured. We had an intense 2-hour conversation; Mmushi is an intelligent, caring, dedicated guy who knows what he's talking about. When arriving in South Africa, I'd hoped that my teachers would be like that and was sorely disappointed. But Mmushi could talk at length with Erica and I about things we care about. Even more surprising, his views were not outdated, but were balanced and informed. Then he paid for our meal, took us to Checkers (the local supermarket) and bought us a bunch of food. And the whole time, he was saying, "I'm so sorry you were mugged yesterday. I feel bad. I want to treat you today, to make you feel better."

People like that make my experience that much more worthwhile. Last Saturday entirely made up for last Friday.

Time

2007-03-10T09:15:00.000+02:00

“You’re casting opinions at people who need them,
All sparks will burn out in the end.
Well be careful, angel, this life is just too long.
All sparks will burn out in the end.” –Editors, “All Sparks”

“Peace Corps-types only stay around long enough to realize they’re not helping anyone.” –Leonardo DiCaprio, “Blood Diamond”

“In the long run, we’re all dead.” –John Maynard Keynes

There are many things to be said about life as a Peace Corps Volunteer in South Africa, but it is not dull. As I have proceeded into my final calendar year of service, and the days tick away, things have become simultaneously easier and more difficult; I am getting more done than I had imagined and yet am often bored to death. The amount that I can still get done begins slipping away, and yet new opportunities keep appearing. I’ve become happier, comfortable and at ease in my surroundings, but at the same time things frustrate me much more than they have since the beginning of my Peace Corps service. In just 7 months I will be packing away my things and leaving my village forever. The stakes are both raised and pushed further out of my control. Those are the contradictions that define my life these days.

My primary work in the schools has proceeded, at a pace that does not surprise me, but that does not mean that it is the pace I had wished for. On the day before the first day of classes in January, I called all three of my principals together for a meeting, where I outlined a list of my grievances from the past year and suggestions for change. I reiterated time and time again that my time here is limited; obviously the principals joked about me extending my service. They seem to think that I’ll be around long enough to address everything at the pace they want. That’s impossible.

After the meeting, I plunged into my work head-first, trying to do things as quickly as possible. But, as I have discovered over and over again, me trying to get things done quickly and haranguing others doesn’t serve its purpose; things don’t really go any faster and I just end up stressing myself out. So I stepped back, and in all honesty, not that much has happened this school quarter. I’ve given some workshops, conducted or assisted some meetings, given some demonstration lessons in classes. For the most part, that’s about it. There’s the constant stream of interruptions that mean something I had planned will inevitably be delayed. At all three of my schools, I am not as far along as I had hoped to have been this quarter. A lot of days I might just end up sitting in the principal’s office for an hour or two (sometimes more), extremely bored, reading the newest issue of The Economist or Newsweek because there is nothing else for me to do.

But that doesn’t mean that I’m not doing anything these days, that my work is ineffectual, or that I’m unhappy. It could easily have gone that way, though, and for a time it seemed like it might have. Life here is always unpredictable, and at any time things could take drastic turns for the better or worse. In fact, just recently, two of my fellow Peace Corps Volunteers, my friends, terminated their Peace Corps service because they were unhappy. It was a shock to the system, and I’m sure that any PCV, when hearing that others are leaving, will re-think his or her own experience here. These two (former) PCVs had been there with me when we went to Philadelphia on 15 August 2005. They were on the plan with me when we flew to South Africa, and together with me during the two months of Pre-Service Training. They could easily have been me. (And having already put in so much time, 19 months at this point…)

It is a fact that I have learned over and over, that a volunteer’s site defines his or her experience. If your village is terrible, you will be unhappy and you might leave. The fact is that a lot of people don’t want help, and they don’t want to change. If you were surrounded by that, by people who opposed you, who didn’t want your help…you would leave too. (What makes the Leo DiCaprio quote from “Blood Diamond” I included above note-worthy is that, in many cases, it’s unfortunately true) I know for a fact that if I hadn’t moved villages a year ago, I wouldn’t be in South Africa right now. So when I see my fellow PCVs leaving, I feel sad to see my friends go and I only feel regret that their experiences were not what they had hoped; I know they could just as easily be me. When she SMSd me to tell me she was leaving, one of my friends wrote, “This country has really messed me up. I need my mommy to fix me and make me better again.” Were it not for a decision that my supervisor made exactly one year ago, that might have been me sending out that SMS.

So, yeah, my current village, my current situation is not perfect. But it’s enough for me; I have things I can keep busy with in the village and people I can count on. For that, I consider myself lucky.

The most valuable thing, probably, was starting that Life Skills group last year. Not only was the training itself rewarding to me, but it has opened up doors to a lot of other work that I can do. The fourteen Peer Educators who I trained last year are, for the most part, dedicated, hard-working, and dependable. They are just great people to be around. So now, I’ve decided to work with them, together as a team, on a very large-scale project.

The project wasn’t my idea, actually. My girlfriend, Erica, another PCV thought up an idea for an HIV testing drive. She presented the idea to me two months ago; when I heard her preliminary plan, something clicked and I saw an opportunity to do something incredible in my village. I immediately started working trying to see if the idea for a testing drive could be feasible in my village.

The idea itself grew out of this opportunity: there are funds available to Peace Corps Volunteers…these funds are known as VAST funds (Volunteer Activity Support and Training). Any volunteer who is interested can apply for up to USD $5,000 from VAST, which falls under Bush’s PEPFAR initiative. (President’s Emergency Plan For AIDS Relief). PEPFAR funds target 15 highly-at-risk countries, and South Africa is one of those 15 countries. To qualify for a VAST grant, a PCV has to demonstrate community initiative, involvement, and commitment. Everything needs to be provided in documentation in a written, formal project proposal: detailed actions plans, community statistics, back-up plans for when things go wrong, monitoring and evaluation plans, sustainability, and a fully-detailed budget. If the proposal is accepted, the funds are deposited directly into the PCV’s bank account and he or she is personally liable.

The VAST project idea that Erica and I are trying to implement is detailed, but to summarize, the point is to get people to get tested for HIV/AIDS in our villages. Currently, almost nobody goes for the free HIV/AIDS test, although the disease is prevalent and a huge risk to them. (the clinic only gives 30-40 HIV tests every month, to pregnant women who are required to receive the test, and 10 of those turn out to be positive….over 25%) People don’t get tested because they are scared. There’s a huge stigma, and the goal of the project is to provide the stimulus to get rid of the stigma. To do this in my village, there will be massive advertising campaigns in and around my village, culminating in a “kick-off event” on 5 August. We’re looking to attract over 1,000 people from my village to the event (a daunting task), and there will be music, dancing, entertainment, games and activities, and a series of speeches. At the event, I will get tested for HIV in front of EVERYONE, so that they can see that it’s a perfectly normal thing, quick, and almost painless.

The event will serve as the “kick-off” to a “Month-of-Testing” where community members will be encouraged to get tested at the clinic in my village. We’re hoping to get 600 people in the village to get tested. If they get tested during the month of testing, they receive a small prize bag with some goodies, a raffle ticket, etc. At the end of the month of testing, there will be another big event…a “final celebration event.” This event will be different from the “kick-off” event in that only those who were tested will be allowed in. (We’ll be able to tell they were tested because they’ll be wearing a beaded HIV pin that was beaded by a group of women in the village and provided free in their prize bag).

At this celebration, there will be more entertainment, music, dancing, games and activities with small prizes. There will also be more speeches. All guests will also be given a full catered lunch for free. Then, we’ll have a raffle where five winners will each win prizes of up to 1,000 Rand (USD $143). That might not seem like a lot of money to an American, but consider that most villagers live in poverty; a large majority of them earn less than 1,000 Rand every month. We believe that through education and, more importantly, incentive, people will have that little push they need to get them to the clinic to receive the free HIV/AIDS test. As the phrase goes, money talks….

I realize that the project is going to lead to a lot of people getting terrible news. They will learn that they are HIV+. We won’t abandon them….I’ve met with the clinic about this, and they have basic counseling available, but there is no support group in my village. And, as I’ve said before, my Peer Educators are dedicated, hard-working individuals….they are starting up a Support Group in the village to help all of those people who discover their HIV+ status during the course of the project. Their dedication keeps me dedicated….this project wouldn’t be possible without them.

Work planning the VAST proposal has taken up a LOT of my time these past two months. I might not be busy doing school-related work all of the time, but I am incredibly busy working on the proposal, the budget, having twice-weekly meetings with my VAST committee (all of my Peer Educators, some other community members, and the Ward Councilor from my village), meeting with the clinic, and doing other related work with Erica.

The prizes and raffle money we plan on giving away are not covered under VAST funds, and so we have to find other sources of funds for them. Erica and I have been going around town in Mokopane meeting with business managers, requesting donations. So far we have not received many donations, but things are looking promising. My friend from Mokopane, Sulayman, also gave us the idea to rent out advertising space at our events for a fee, so we have also been approaching businesses trying to sell them advertising space. This has been starting to work for us. (But, we haven’t gotten all of the donations we need….if anyone wants to contribute ANY money to help this project, it would be VERY APPRECIATED! My email is: omar.ahmed@gmail.com if you’re interested)

A few weeks ago we were in Mokopane requesting donations, and ended up meeting the Head of Finance of the Municipality. A seemingly random meeting turned into an hour-long discussion (which at times turned into an almost-heated debate between the Head of Finance and myself, during which Erica would have to act as mediator—who knows what would have happened if she hadn’t been there!). The Head of Finance ended up scheduling a meeting for us with the Mayor of the Municipality. This was huge for us; there are over 200,000 people living in the municipality (many of whom live in poverty), and it spreads over 6,000 square kilometers. The Mayor has a LOT to do.

We had the meeting with the mayor; he, the Head of Finance, my Ward Councilor, Erica, and I met at the Mayor’s Office. We presented our idea (basically Erica presented it and I backed it up) and amazingly, the Mayor liked it! He pledged his support, and invited us to meet with the Municipal HIV Council, which we did. We presented our idea to the Council, and got their approval and support. We also got some good contacts in the Department of Health, the Anglo-American Potgietersrus Platinum Mine (the BIGGEST platinum mine in the WORLD, located within the municipality….I can see it from my village), and some local NGOs.

Our work on the VAST proposal is almost done; within a week I’ll be sending it in for approval. Once I get approval, then I get funds; once I get funds, then the real work begins. It’s something that is set to consume most of my time from now until I leave in October; it gives me something to do, something to look forward to. When I have a bad day at school, the VAST work keeps me motivated. As I told my committee, “We’re going to make history in our village.”

And if all of this work isn’t enough, I’m also training for TWO half-marathons. I’m running the Longtom Half-Marathon on behalf of the KLM Foundation on 31 March, and then seven days later, on 7 April, I’m running the Two Oceans Half Marathon in Cape Town. Longtom is run over the longtom pass, just outside of a town called Sabie, in the eastern part of the Mpumalanga Province. It’s in the very eastern part of the country; then just after the race I’m headed to Cape Town, literally on the other side of the country, to run Two Oceans. So after a long day of giving workshops or working on VAST stuff, when the 35-degree (Celsius; about mid/high-90s Fahrenheit) heat starts to cool, I might just have to put on my shoes and go for a run.

And so I’m very busy these days…just not always at school. At school I will continue to do what I can, but I know I can’t do it all. Some teachers will absorb the information and help I give them, and they will (hopefully) be better off for it. Some other teachers will remain indifferent, as they have been, until the day I leave. And still others will remain openly hostile to me. In fact, at one of my schools, one teacher in particular has been blatantly hostile towards me for a long time, and the worst part about it is that he has a lot of power in the school. When he chairs meetings, he kicks me out. At one point he even kicked me out of a meeting that I had called for! Other teachers don’t stand up to him because of the perverse influence he carries, and so instead of dealing with a minor mutiny, my principal had no choice but to ask me to leave the meeting that day. That was back in November last year. But the hostile teacher has stepped up his influence recently; he somehow influenced and persuaded 8 of the male teachers at that school to boycott all of my workshops. They don’t want me there, and I won’t do anything to change that.

But I could care less about them. There are more than enough people in my village that I do care about; the little kids waving at me (after all this time, my novelty among young children has STILL not worn off), the old grandmothers greeting me in Shangaan, the extremely dedicated Peer Educators I’ve worked with, the family I feel at home living with. One of the most valuable things I’ve discovered in my service is that these are the people I want to help. While I want my work in the schools and with regards to HIV de-stigmatization in the village to be sustainable in the long-term, that’s not my only, or even my main, goal. I want to make some small difference in the lives of the people I live with, now, while I can. The famous economist John Maynard Keynes once said, “In the long run, we’re all dead.” It’s time for me to do something now, while we’re all alive.

A Peace Corps Volunteer’s work is never done.

Longtom Update

2007-02-23T13:26:00.000+02:00

Well, I know this sucks, but the KLM Donation Process has changed. I received this email from the KLM founder, Allison Howard:

Dear PCVs participating in the Longtom Marathon Fundraiser on 31 March 2007:
Greetings from the USA –

We are thrilled that nearly 65 PCVs have signed up to participate in this year’s Longtom Marathon fundraiser in support of the KLM Foundation. As members of SA11 and RPCVs, we understand that you all are very involved in your own projects and we are so grateful to you for supporting this cause. We truly believe that KLM is making a lasting contribution and we hope that you will continue to be connected to KLM after you finish your Peace Corps service in South Africa.

We’re contacting you today, less than 6 weeks before race day, with disappointing news about our collection method for the generous donations you are soliciting from friends and family. As you know, we had initially devised a system through an organization called CAFAmerica to transfer contributions to KLM-South Africa. We are terribly sorry to have to ask you to change course, especially after all the effort you have put into outreach and fundraising … but KLM is no longer able to work with CAFAmerica for any donations under $500 due to an exorbitant and unexpected fee structure. Changing course mid-way through the fundraising was a terribly difficult decision to make and we recognize and apologize for any inconvenience it will cause you. Ultimately, as leaders of KLM who are responsible to our donors and the children we support, we decided that CAF’s administrative system and the concomitant, revised fee structure were untenable.

Of course, it is possible that some of your friends and family will already have sent sponsorship donations to CAF and notification of the change may not reach them in time. Please don’t worry about this scenario. These people will receive a letter from CAF and from KLM, explaining the change. This letter specifies contact information for Bowen and Allison in the US and we will be happy to answer any questions that your donors may have.

Once again, we express our sincere apologies for having to change course, but we believe a simpler system will be more user-friendly and efficient. This is an administrative matter, but we will save a significant amount of money by doing it this way and all of your hard-raised money will go 100% to support KLM kids.

We advise you to notify your potential donors ASAP about the new donation system for Longtom 2007.

Donation checks should be written out directly to “Allison Howard” and mailed to the following address:

Allison Howard
Kgwale le Mollo Foundation
49 East 117th Street, #2
New York, NY 10035

The full 100% of the money you raise will be transferred to KLM's South African bank account at First National Bank in Johannesburg. We respect and entirely understand that this is a rather unorthodox way to collect money for an established charity. The difficulty is that KLM’s 501(c)(3) status in the US is still being processed. We have full legal, charitable status in South Africa, of course, and by collecting the donations personally and then transferring them in bulk to South Africa we will avoid the overseas processing fees. Initially, we hoped that our 501(c)(3) status would be approved in time for the race, failing which, CAF would perform the transferring function for us; but, we have made the difficult decision that CAF cannot efficiently process donations. For donors who wish to contribute over $500, CAF is still the way to go because they will be able to offer a tax receipt. All donors will receive a personal letter of thanks from the Board of KLM along with a brochure about our work.

Please don’t hesitate to contact Jesse Herrera (or Alli or Bowen in the USA) with any questions or concerns!

We THANK YOU for all the great work you’re doing on behalf of KLM and we plan to make the 3rd Annual Longtom Weekend in Sabie a memorable time for everyone!

Sincerely,

Alli Howard, SA 11, KLM Director
Bowen Hsu, SA 11, KLM Director

Allison J. Howard
508.454.8993

and i also received this..

Kindly inform your donors to include the NAME of the PCV they are supporting in the memo section of their checks - this way, we can keep track of donations and keep you posted about who contributes on your behalf. We'll be sure to contact you regularly with information about your donations so that you can extend your personal thanks to your sponsors.

Thanks everyone! ps the KLM website is : http://www.klm-foundation.org/Site/main.html

The Longtom

2007-02-09T10:49:00.000+02:00

Well, it's about that time of year again....no, I'm not talking about Valentine's Day, although that's nice and all. What I am talking about is my own training for the Longtom Half Marathon. Yep, that's right, I'm doing it again. For those who remember, last year I basically destroyed my legs by trying to run the half-marathon without training at all. I did finish, at 2 hours, 17 minutes, but I could barely walk for days afterwards.

The situation will not repeat itself this year; I've been training and even bought some new running shoes to help me. (Nike Air Pegasus 2006 shoes are incredible! They actually do make a person faster, I don't know how.)

And again, I'd like to remind everyone that I, along with 62(!!) other Peace Corps / South Africa Volunteers, am not running the Longtom just for the hell of it. We're all doing it for a cause, the KLM Foundation.

Here's an email that I received from my friend Jesse, who's helping organize the Peace Corps-logistics of the race this year.

"01 February 2007

Dear South Africa PCVs:

Greetings from the KLM Foundation! As many of you have heard, the 2007 KLM/Longtom Half Marathon is on the horizon! We'd like to invite you all to this third annual event!
The KLM Foundation is a non-profit organization founded by two SA-11 volunteers in an effort to make a lasting, sustainable contribution to a better future for South Africa's kids – long after the end of Peace Corps service. With the support, input, and encouragement of our fellow PCVs, we founded KLM in 2004 in partnership with Uplands College – a private secondary school outside of Nelspruit. KLM provides a 5-year bursary and leadership development program to talented, motivated kids from under-resourced rural areas. To date, there are 3 KLM students enrolled at Uplands College with more to follow! Refilwe Ndimande, Sibusiso Shube, and Sandile Mbuza are fantastic kids and it is truly our honor to support their success.

In 2005, we convened the first annual Longtom Half Marathon fundraiser as a way to bring our friends and fellow PCVs together and to share with them our vision and plan for KLM's future. It began as a social, community-building exercise with modest fundraising goals … and, thanks to people like Gerrit Hamre, Jesse Herrera, Ann Hathaway and many others, it has become an exciting annual event and a significant source of financial support.

The third annual KLM/Longtom event is scheduled in Sabie, Mpumalanga, on March 30th! If past years are any indication, it's going to be a great weekend and we hope that you can all attend! The Longtom Half Marathon is open for runners, walkers, strollers, and scenery-viewers alike, so don't be intimidated by the pros! Over the past two years PCVs have raised $20,000 for KLM – It is essential funding and all your efforts will go directly to help the KLM kids on their journey. Don't doubt that the $25 and $50 donations add up – nearly all of the $20,000 has come from these modest, meaningful amounts.

Jesse and Ann will distribute fundraising instructions to all Longtom participants!
We hope that the Longtom 2007 Weekend will just be the beginning of your long association with KLM. You have our thanks and gratitude – Let's make Longtom 2007 the best year yet!

Sincerely,
Allison Howard, SA-11, KLM Director
Bowen Hsu, SA-11, KLM Director
Jesse Herrera, SA-14, Longtom 2007 Co-Coordinator
Ann Hathaway, SA-14, Longtom 2007 Co-Coordinator"

So now here, on my blog, I am sending out a heartfelt plea to anyone reading....if you can spare any money at all, please donate to this worthy cause.

(there's no processing fee and no deadline)

KLM Donation Form (link via Dan's website)

Diamonds Are Forever?

2007-01-28T15:20:00.000+02:00

So, I'm well into the 2007 school year now....and all of a sudden, time is on my mind. I split my work schedule between 3 schools....and it has recently dawned on me that I have less than 3 school quarters left in my village. That means that I have less than 10 weeks at each school, and if you count all of the time spent dealing with unplanned problems and issues, that doesn't leave me too much time to do a lot more at my schools. Let's hope that I'm busier this year than I was last year.....but judging from the first few weeks of school, with delayed meetings and workshops, as usual, I'm trying not to be too optimistic and get my hopes crushed.

*****

One of the advantages of living in South Africa is that, when I really need modern amenities, I can find them. It might take me a while, or a lot of travel and hassle, but I can find and do most things that I'd like to. So, this weekend, I saw a new movie: Blood Diamond, starring Leo DiCaprio.

I'd heard about the movie, and was intrigued at the premise. I finally saw it, and was pretty impressed at the result. It's not a perfect movie...not even close. But it's well made, entertaining, full of small accuracies that I noticed and add to its effect, and well-intentioned. It's a movie that takes place in Sierra Leone for the most part, in West Africa....far away from South Africa. But South Africa is all over this movie.

First off, Leo DiCaprio pulls off a pitch-perfect South African accent. It's remarkable to see (trust me, I can tell). He peppers his dialogue with little South African-isms, like "lekker," "bru", and even the "k" word ("kaffir"). "Bru" was all over the movie...and it reminded me of some characters I've met at backpackers around South Africa...."grooovy bruuuu" (and for those who don't know, in South Africa the "k" word carries the same connotations as the "n" word in America). Granted, Leo doesn't play a South African, he plays a "Rhodesian" (Zimbabwean)....that explains the references to the Shona, the dominant ethnic group in Zimbabwe.

**a note: when I say Leo pulls off a perfect South African accent, what I mean is that he pulls off a perfect WHITE, ENGLISH-SPEAKING accent. Afrikaaners have a bit of a thicker accent. And a Black South African accent is entirely different. They don't even use the same words when they speak. White South Africans like to say "lekker" and "bru", but in my life, around black South Africans, I hear "sharp" and "brah" (rolling the "r" in "brah")

At times, the movie is even insightful. At one point, Leo says: "Peace Corps types only stay around long enough to realize they're not helping anyone." Whether or not that's an accurate assessment (its truthfulness would depend on the individual, most likely), it was one that caught my ear, and it's something I think about sometimes. So to hear it in a movie was surprising.

There are a few scenes that take place in South Africa....but only in and around Cape Town. They serve as a stark contrast to the poverty and squalor in Sierra Leone.....there's a scene showing a massive estate in the Cape, with well-manicured lawns and shaded trees, and the next scene shows an informal settlement, shanty-town in Sierra Leone. Then there's also a scene at the very end of the movie, where Jennifer Connelly is on the phone with Leo, and she is standing at the Cape Town waterfront with Table Mountain in the background, a beautiful contrast to the violence and destruction that the viewer has just been watching. But Cape Town is not all there is in South Africa...it does not encapsulate what South Africa is.

In fact, much of the movie looks as if it could have been filmed in South Africa; the landscapes are very similar. (I've heard that most of the movie was filmed in Mozambique, which would make sense) A few scenes (notably the scene where Leo gets in a fight with Djimon Hounsou, calls him the "k" word, and pulls a gun on him) really remind me of the landscape near my village.

There are also some scenes where the "Colonel" in the movie speaks Afrikaans....I'm wondering, were those scenes sub-titled in America? They weren't subtitled here, and I'm wondering if that's because perhaps it's assumed that a South African audience will understand Afrikaans??? Perhaps someone who's seen the movie in American can help me out there......

A few pictures....

2007-01-13T10:56:00.000+02:00

More Updating

2007-01-13T10:43:00.000+02:00

So, it has been far too long since I've updated. I'm back at my site now (have been back for over a week), and I have to say, my trip in December was amazing. It's sad to be done with it.

Our road trip continued with great success following the bungee jump....we visited a number of destinations and they were all gorgeous.

In Jeffrey's Bay (one of the surf capitals of the world) and East London I tried learning how to surf....wtith VERY little success. I can stand up on the board, but I can't ride a wave...I just get thrown off pretty easily.

Buccaneers Backpackers in Cintsa is the best backpackers in South Africa. It's amazing! We played beach volleyball, used their free canoes and boogie-boards, and generally had a blast while we were there.

On Christmas Day we were in Port St Johns...we went on a "hike" up to a pretty beautiful waterfall...the hike itself was really awesome, swinging on vines, crossing rivers, scrambling up hillsides, trying not to slip in the mud.

And, finally, on December 26, we ended up in Durban. We said goodbye to the rental car that had served us so well, and said hello to about 20 other Peace Corps Volunteers who were also there. We were there for a week of fun....waking up late, spending the day at the beach, eating fantastic meals. Amazing Indian food, and (surprisingly) pretty decent Mexican food! I hadn't had a good chimichanga for a while before this trip.....

(While in Durban we also had the opportunity to see the Tenacious D movie...disappointing, I have to admit)

I've transitioned from "vacation mode" and am now back in "village mode".....school has re-opened, and I'm busy planning out my work for the coming year, until I have to leave in October.

On the first day of school this year, I paid attention to the Grade R learners (South African version of "kindergarten"). There were so many cute little kids at school, standing at assembly. Some of their parents had brought them to school...you could see the age differences. Many of the little ones were brought by grandparents, since many adults live and work in Johannesburg and leave their children with their parents. And a lot of the parents were very young....some of them were probably not more than 20 years old. Some of the parents were high school students wearing their high-school uniforms, and dropping their kids off at primary school. It was an interesting sight.

Then, obviously, the kids got scared, and tried to escape. So they were all grabbed and put in class, and then the teacher closed the burglar door and locked them inside while she had to go and take care of some administrative work. It was half-funny and half-sad to see a class full of about 75 young kids, many of them crying, some of them at the windows and at the burglar door, reaching out, trying to get free.

I know that in many countries, children are always scared of the first day of school. The difference here is that they probably have good reason to be scared! They are setting themselves up for 13 years of extremely sub-par education and probably a lot of beatings along the way.

The Jump

2006-12-16T17:36:00.000+02:00

So, I guess since I've been in South Africa I've become much less averse to taking risks.

Today, Dan and I went bungee jumping....and, not only that, we went bungee jumping at the HIGHEST BUNGEE JUMP IN THE WORLD. I figure, if you've never been bungee jumping, why not start with the best one? Since it's only a short drive from Plettenberg Bay, where we are staying, the decision was an easy one.

The Bloukrans River Bridge Bungee Jump is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as the world's highest bungee jump, at 216 meters. In fact, the bounce-back is higher than the Victoria Falls Bungee Jump, which is the #3 highest in the world. (The #2 is in New Zealand somewhere)

It was exhilarating! Here are some pictures.

First up, here is a picture of the bridge. Look closely...at the center of the bridge is a platform where we jumped from.

Me getting strapped in.

Jumping off, and thinking "What the hell did I just do?!"

Falling!

Getting lifted back up to the bridge.

Dude, that was totally awesome.

All of us who jumped, along with the bungee staff (who are all awesome and amazingly friendly by the way).

And, as always, Dan has good pictures on his blog as well.

Trip Update #1

2006-12-15T12:54:00.000+02:00

Greetings!

Almost one week ago I left my village and headed off for my December vacation. I met Dan in Pretoria and we left for our road trip. It was a LONG journey but we eventually made it to Cape Town! It took about 1500km (almost 900 miles) over the course of 2 days, through the desolate interior of the country--The Karoo. As I don't yet know how to drive Manual, Dan's been driving so far. Imagine 18 hours of listening to the new Tenacious D album, thanks to Tom's parents (Thanks Mr. and Mrs. Brownlee!!!) and you'll have some idea of what the journey was like.

Cape Town was as gorgeous as I remember it...possibly even more so. We went to the gorgeous Clifton and Camps Bay beaches, lounged on the Waterfront, and climbed Table Mountain. And astonishingly, we climbed that sucker quickly! Dan finished in 55 minutes; it took me 1 hour and 6 minutes. It was a hell of a climb, especially considering that it usually takes about 2 hours at a moderate pace, or 3 hours if you're hungover (as Dan was the last time he climbed it).

We left Cape Town yesterday and drove to Buffalo Bay, in the Garden Route. I must say, the Garden Route is BEAUTIFUL. It's been cloudy and overcast since yesterday, but that hasn't hidden the beauty of the coast. We stayed at an awesome backpackers right on the beach, went running this morning, and then left. We are now in Plettenberg Bay, which is incredibly gorgeous.

I can't wait for the rest of this trip.

For another perspective on the trip and for a few pictures (i.e. Dan and I on top of Table Mountain), check out Dan's blog entry.

PS yes I know we look like tools in that picture of us shirtless....but that was the point of the picture =)

"SISTAH BETTINAH!"

2006-12-07T10:03:00.000+02:00

For some reason, I'm reminded of an incident that took place about one month ago. I was in Mokopane, my shopping town, after school one day. I went to the bank because I had to pay the deposit for a backpackers lodge in advance of the trip I'll be taking along the coast this December holiday.

I went to the bank, waited in line, told the lady bank teller what I needed to do, completed the transaction, and left. I also saw another PCV's Principal there and greeted her. In any case, I didn't think much of the situation until the next time I saw that PCV, whose Principal I'd seen at the bank. I guess her Principal had recounted the following story to her:

She had seen me at the bank, and then I left. Once I was gone, the bank tellers began talking to each other in SePedi. They were confused: I had actually been NICE to them. They were amazed by this! The Principal had to explain to the tellers who I was and where I'm from. The bank tellers replied with something to the extent of, "I knew something about him was different--he actually treated me like a human being."

I find the fact that she actually had to explain WHY a "white" person would treat a black person like a human being says a lot.

The other reason I'm writing this entry is to update on my Life Skills group. Last Friday, on World AIDS Day, I met up with them; we went to the Clinic in the village and all got tested. All in all, I got tested with 5 boys and 7 girls (only a few of them couldn't make it). It felt great to do at least that much; none of them had been tested before, and some of them were VERY nervous based on past risky behavior.

After everyone was done with their test (it was the rapid test, so they all knew their results), the Clinic Sister called me in to her office (they call Nurses "Sisters" at the Clinic). She was impressed with what I'd done; she actually took off the VCT pin she was wearing and gave it to me. It was a huge surprise, and I really appreciate it.

The following day, I went with the Life Skills group on a day-trip to celebrate the end of our training and the HIV test. We went to Waterland in Polokwane, which is a "waterpark"--I use quotes because it's just 3 small pools and one slide that doesn't work. We had a great time, though. We spent the day swimming, relaxing, braai-ing (South African barbeque), and dancing to popular Kwaito and house music.

One song that I heard a lot that day is called "Sistah Bettinah"--I heard it at least 15 times throughout the course of the day. Everyone loves it! It is a ridiculous song! It is simultaneously catchy and stupid (and, to me, annoying!) I can think of it as the South African "Hollaback Girl."
The day was great, though, and we all had a fantastic time. I think it was a fitting way to cap off the year.

The 2006 school year is over, and now I have four and a half weeks of vacation to look forward to. I leave on Saturday for Cape Town, Plettenberg Bay, Jeffreys Bay, East London, Cintsa, Port St Johns, and Durban. I can't wait!

THANKSGIVING

2006-11-28T10:16:00.000+02:00

Last week I, along with many of my PCV friends, went to Pretoria for Thanksgiving at the Ambassador's House. It was great to see everyone again, to get away from the village for a few days (end of the year...not a lot going on in the schools...lots of boredom). And the Thanksgiving feast itself was amazing. The Ambassador actually had Butterball turkeys flown in from the States for the meal!

While in Pretoria, I also had the fortunate opportunity to watch the movie BORAT....and wow. I'd always been a fan of the character from the Ali.G show, but this took it to a whole new level.

Here is a picture of my friends Tom, Seth, Dan and I (in height order!) that I stole from my friend Cait's blog.

LIFE SKILLS

2006-11-22T16:01:00.000+02:00

Top Row: Bernard Luvhimbi, Thabo Chuma, Michael Mashabane, Eulenda Masingi, Macdonald Ngobeni

Middle Row: Rosina Nkuna, Letticia Tshabalala, Tsakane Kubayi, Tinyeko Masingi, and Me

Bottom Row: Wilson Hlangwini, Lizzy Mathobela, Benjamin Baloyi, Dikeledi Matjabela, Iris Nyalungu

Quite possibly the most personally satisfying thing I have done in South Africa has been my Life Skills group. In a previous entry, I mentioned that I'd been planning an after-school group with local high school kids. Planning the thing was a lot more work than I had planned!

First I had to create a schedule for my group; I created this using the Peace Corps Life Skills Manual, and I brought it to my meetings. My plan was as follows: there are two high schools in my village. I wanted to work with a small group of committed 10th and 11th graders from both high schools. So first I went to Somavugha High School and met with the principal. Once I had his permission, I was able to meet with the Grade 10/11 teachers and present my plan to them. Then I had them select a list of their best male and female students, and I arranged to speak with these students. I invited the students to my first session. Finally, I arranged to have access to a classroom after school, from 3-5pm, Mondays and Thursdays, with chalk and a "duster." Then, I went to Ben Hlongwane High School and did the exact same thing.

The entire planning process took weeks, and it kept me occupied for most of August. I often had to schedule meetings when both I and the other parties were available, which wasn't always easy. Sometimes, unexpected events like dying students caused other delays (here, they refer to that as a "death case")

Eventually, in early September, I had my first Life Skills session, on a Thursday, from 3-5pm, at Ben Hlongwane High School. A total of 28 students from both schools showed up, out of the 40 I'd invited.

And so we began the Life Skills training. It took 17 sessions over the course of 9 weeks for a total of 34 after-school hours. It was a lot of fun, but took a lot of planning and preparation. Over the course of those 9 weeks, the 28 students shrank to 14, but those final 14 who finished my training are great kids, dedicated, and just a pleasure to work with. (Other kids dropped out due to a variety of circumstances; for example, one of my favorite students dropped out because she got pregnant. I guess she was missing some crucial life skills! Other students couldn't follow my no-unexcused-absence policy, and after 3 unexcused absences, I kicked them out)

The sessions themselves were great. There were skits, role-plays, dramatizations, games, contests, etc. There were condom demonstrations with bananas. There were lots of group activities, lots of discussions, and a lot of debate and disagreements. I introduced a lot of new concepts to these kids, but i didn't come with all of the answers. They had to figure things out for themselves.

We discused our role models, alcohol and drug abuse, a lot of HIV/AIDS topics (facts and myths, effects on the immune system, transmission, prevention, and disease progression). We had a lot of lively discussions around the topic of gender and culture, especially when related to the spread of HIV in South Africa. We discussed risky behavior, communication skills, assertiveness, peer pressue, and self esteem. The purpose of the whole Life Skills training was to turn these kids into community peer educators, and so we ended our training with sessions on how to support responsible behavior, and how to deal with problems when facilitating group discussions.

I set out to empower a small group of kids to become peer educators and to in turn empower others in the community, and in that respect, I think that the training was a huge success. These kids, the 14 who finished, are incredibly bright and dedicated, and some of their plans for how to assist the community are really ambitious. First up: they will start mentoring 5th, 6th, and 7th graders in the primary schools, who are a very high-risk age-group. ("So young?" you ask. Well, sexual activity does begin earlier here)

These kids will stick by their beliefs and serve as role models; at our last session I told them that World AIDS Day is approaching; I would like to go and get tested with anyone who would like to join me. I was pleased when EVERY SINGLE STUDENT raised his or her hand. We'll see if it actually happens on 1 December, but if past behavior is any indication, then they will all keep their word and be there with me. I really hope it works; the stigma of getting tested is still huge here. If you go to get tested, it's obviously assumed that you have AIDS. But if "the American" and some of the best kids in the village get tested....well, maybe some minds will change.

In summary, this was about them, not me. I'd like to thank each of them. So....to Macdonald Ngobeni, Dikeledi Matjabela, Bernard Luvhimbi, Wilson Hlangwini, Lizzy Mathobela, Michael Mashabane, Tinyeko Masingi, Tsakane Kubayi, Benjamin Baloyi, Eulenda Masingi, Thabo Chuma, Letticia Tshabalala, Rosina Nkuna, and Iris Nyalungu....thank you.

MST

2006-11-17T10:05:00.000+02:00

It's been a long time since I've written, and a lot has happened. I could write a lot right now, but I'd like to mention two things quickly: my Life Skills Training (see next entry) and our Mid Service Training.

Mid-Service Training (MST) happens after Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs) have been at site for one year. SA 14 (the 14th group of PCVs in South Africa, of which I am a member) education volunteers all arrived at our sites on 13 October 2005, and on 23 October 2006 we had our MST. It was great to see my fellow PCVs; many of us had not seen each other in many months, and some of us had not seen each other since IST in early March.

MST served, for us, as a recap after one year at site. We were able to hear each others' stories, successes, and frustrations. We got tips and helpful ideas to take back to our sites.

For me, though, the best part of any training is always the chance to reconnect with my friends, and MST was great. It was held in Rustenberg, at a nice resort called the Oasis. It had 18 holes of mini-golf, squash and racquetball courts, a trampoline, tennis courts, and a pool with a waterslide. Needless to say, we all enjoyed ourselves! And the food was amazing as well.

Since MST happened to (nearly) coincide with Halloween, we all held a Halloween party during the last night of MST. I organized it with my friend Tom, and it was a success! There were a lot of very interesting costumes. For my own costume, I decided to go as "white trash." I was thinking of portraying a Southern redneck, so I had my friend Cort cut off my hair (which I'd been growing for 11 months into a very impressive 'fro---I was very sad to see the hair go) and shave off my beard into a moustache. My hair was cut into the most ridiculous mullet we could think of. I put on a WWE t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and some very short denim shorts, aviator sunglasses, fake tattoos...and voila! I was "Billy Ray." Although once the transformation was complete, I was told that I looked like an Italian from New Jersey. Ah well.......

...it was destiny....

2006-09-16T11:25:00.000+02:00

NEW SLANG

2006-09-08T09:39:00.000+02:00

I usually don't mention books that I've been reading, but this past week I read a fantastic book that I am highly recommending.

The book is called "Beasts Of No Nation" by Uzodinma Iweala. It's a very short book, under 150 pages, telling the story of a young boy in a war-torn African nation being forced into joining a guerilla army, told from the boy's perspective. Its narrative is fairly straightforward, but the book is noteworthy because of the way it plays with language. The book is written in English, but it is also distinctly African. It seems that many of my favorite books mess with language, like A Clockwork Orange which created its own dialect, and The Lord Of The Rings which created its own languages and alphabets. Now, Beasts Of No Nation is joining that list.

Although I have serious problems with the book's ending (which I won't give away here), I highly, highly recommend Beasts Of No Nation. You should all read this book. I mean, any book that takes its title from a Fela Kuti song has to be awesome, right?

In addition, I've also recently read both Guns Germs & Steel and Collapse by Jared Diamond. One word can sum them up: GENIUS.

(and on a totally unrelated note, THIS DUDE is awesome!)

RITUAL DE LO HABITUAL

2006-09-08T09:22:00.000+02:00

So why the strange entry title? Well, first, I saw a pretty intense ritual last weekend. But, even more so, "Ritual De Lo Habitual" is the title of a pretty awesome Jane's Addiction album.

Last weekend was a very interesting weekend for me in Tshamahansi. It was a weekend during which I didn't leave the village, but whereas most weekends in the village end up largely consisting of me in my room, bored and reading, this one was different.

Being the very beginning of September, in my village the children were celebrating the end of winter. What this entailed was all (or at least most) of the young kids in the village running around and dumping buckets of water on each other. Watching these kids chase each other around with big buckets of water was very amusing!

After watching this for a while, I decided to go exploring in the village by myself for a while. I walked around the dusty streets greeting everyone, taking paths I'd never taken before. I climbed up some hills that offered me fantastic views of my village and the surrounding areas. On top of those hills, I cursed the fact that I'd left my camera back in my room.

After descending back down, I went for a walk out past the boundaries of the village itself, out into the bush, near the base of the small mountain that rises up behind my village. In a village as large, spread out, and overpopulated as mine, getting out into the "bush" takes a lot of walking! At one point, I got pushed off of the dirt pathway by a large herd of cows. (A fitting analogy: cows are big, dumb, slow, and travel in large groups. Basically, they are exactly the same as tourists in Manhattan.)

Eventually I returned into the village, and then walked the 40 minutes from the edge of the village to my house. I got home, but then I ran into my host brother, Dennis, who was home for the weekend. (Dennis lives with James in Jo'Burg) Dennis said, "Get dressed! Let's go to Xisebesebe." and was so insistent that although I was exhausted (I had unwisely gone on a run before my long walk into the bush), I agreed. Oh, and a "xisebesebe" is just a village house-party with loud music and dancing.

I got dressed and headed to the party with Dennis and some of his friends. The sun was beginning to set when we got there, and we stayed for a few hours, until it was pitch black outside. There was a lot of traditional Shangaan dancing ("xibelani"). The women danced. Children played. Old men drank vats of traditional home-made beer. Young men drank their Castles, Carlings, Hansas and Amstels. I drank a very delicious and refreshing Fanta Grape with Jimmy, one of Dennis's friends. After we finished sharing our soda, Jimmy let me hold his very cute 6-month-old daughter. (Jimmy is 21 years old)

South African men in villages have a habit of going on 3-day drinking binges every weekend. I definitely saw plenty of that; sloppy old guys stumbling around, trying to keep their balance as they attempted to dance. I saw two middle-aged men get into a drunken fistfight, after which one of them proceeded to throw up against a fence. One old drunk guy, with terrible breath, a habit of spitting when he talked, and one eye, decided to harass me for a while. It got to the point where William, another of Dennis's friends, almost got in a fistfight with the old man on my behalf. (Dennis had to hold William back)

People like Dennis, William, Jimmy, etc. are one of the reasons why I never feel unsafe in my village.

Eventually, we walked home, exhausted. I fell asleep very quickly, but then had to wake up at 5:45 the next morning in order to see the ritual that was the highlight of my weekend, and that was:

RITUAL
GOAT
SACRIFICE!

Yes, it's true. A few weeks ago, I'd been walking through the village, when a Sangoma (traditional healer) called me into her home. She was an old lad, and she showed me her traditional medicines. There was also a younger woman there, around my age or a few years older, who spoke fairly decent English and invited me to a traditional function on Sunday, 3 September. I said of course, I'd love to attend. So on Sunday I got up and went to the Sangoma's house, at the other end of the village. Dennis decided to go with me as well.

Let me give you some background on the whole thing: a few months ago, the younger woman I met at the Sangoma's house had gotten "sick." She went to doctors and hospitals, and nobody could see anything wrong with her. After exhausting the options of Western medicine, she went to see a Sangoma, who "diagnosed" that she had the GIFT, meaning that she was meant to be a Traditional Healer. She was sent from her home in Kwa-Ndebele, in the Mpumalanga Province, to my village, to study the practice of traditional healing under a local Sangoma here. Once here, her sickness vanished and she spent months in the tutelage of this local Sangoma, learning.

What we were about to witness was her "final exam" -- she had to go through a ceremony of rituals, and if she passed, she could become a fully-practicing traditional healer. If not, her "gift" would be considered a "mis-diagnosis" and she would just return home.

There was already a crowd there when Dennis and I arrived. The young woman was sitting on a mat on the ground, with a group of older Sangomas around her. Two of them were each holding a goat. One was chanting. A man held a traditional spear, and he would gently poke each of the two goats (not drawing any blood), and then would also gently poke her. This went on for a while.

Then, she was made to lie down, and the first goat was placed on the ground next to her. A sheet was placed over the two of them, and after a few seconds, the goat stopped trying to get free. They were there together under the sheet for a few minutes. This was part of the ritual; the goat had to fall asleep. If it didn't, that would indicate some flaw in the training.

After a few minutes, the woman stood up, but the goat was still asleep under the sheet. (The other goat was standing there, watching) The sheet was removed, and the goat was lifted to its feet. The woman sat back down, and the goat was brought up to her, facing her, held tightly by two old ladies. The man grabbed the spear and then plunged it into the goat's neck. The goat yelled in pain, jerked and struggled trying to get free. Blood began spraying and dripping from its throat onto the woman's face, hair, and clothes.

The near-dead goat was tossed aside, where it twitched for a few minutes and then stopped, dead. The next goat was brought up, and it too was speared in the throat, and it jerked, trying to get free. It was lifted above the woman's head, and blood from its wound dripped down onto her hair, face, and shirt. When the goat opened its mouth to yell, blood poured out onto her.

The woman was taken away, her face and body dripping with goat blood. I had my camera with me, but didn't take any pictures during all of this because I didn't know if it was allowed or appropriate, and as a guest I didn't want to cause any problems.

The ritual wasn't over, though! She had just passed the first part of her exam. The two goats were skinned, gutted, and hacked apart piece by piece. At one point, I saw a boy walking around...holding a goat liver in his hands. Certain parts of the goats were taken aside for use in the next part of the ritual. There was a long period of waiting, but eventually the young woman emerged again. She was with a group of Sangomas. There was a stone pot on a wood fire in the yard, and they began to circle it. Inside the pot was a mixture of goat blood, digested stomach contents, and I don't even know what else. It was boiling, steam rising up from it. The ladies, including the young woman, circled the pot, holding long pipes in their hands. They "smoked" the fumes coming from the mixture, inhaling them with their pipes. Women in the audience banged away on drums.

The ladies all had to circle the pot, reaching in, getting the mixture on their fingers, and licking it off. From the looks on their faces, it must not have been very pleasant-tasting stuff! They got on their knees, surrounding the pot. This was another part of the test: each had to pick the burning-hot stone pot up off of the fire without using her hands, using only her mouth, while the others chanted. Most attention was paid when the young woman attempted, and succeeded in doing this. It was pretty impressive!

After this came the final test: the young woman went off running. Parts of the goats (a foot, some bones, a gallbladder, etc) had been hidden in and around the house. After being covered in and drinking their blood, inhaling their essence, etc. this woman was expected to be able to have a "connection" to them, to be able to sense where these buried parts were.

She went off running around the house, searching in certain areas, running in one direction, stopping, and then running in an entirely different direction, almost as if being guided. She ended up finding all of the hidden parts in only a few minutes, a very good time from what I've been told. This was the end of the test: SHE PASSED. Sangomas cheered, people danced, and she was carried away like a triumphant fighter.

That was the end of the ritual, and the only thing left was the feast. It was great; Dennis and I both enjoyed some VERY FRESH goat meat, as you can see. That's all for now. Take care!

Incoherent Thoughts

2006-08-23T10:07:00.000+02:00

So I am currently in Pretoria for my mid-service medical exam. Mid-service, already....

Yesterday I went with some friends to the Menlyn Mall, which is an American-style behemoth of a shopping center where you can get lost and forget that you are anywhere outside of America. (well, there are a lot of places here where that can happen). Anyways, we decided to see a movie, and we saw UNITED 93. I have to say, that was possibly the most difficult movie-watching experience I've ever had. It was almost too much. It was the first time I've cried during a movie in many years. And, it feels very timely, in this season of foiled terrorist plots and "liquids on a plane."

On a semi-related note, my friend Jenn recently emailed me an article written by another of my friends back when I was at Columbia University. This is a great article to read, I must say:
http://www.slate.com/id/2146306/

And, on a totally unrelated note, the 15th group of Peace Corps South Africa volunteers (SA15) arrived in country at the end of July. I'm reminded of my own first experiences of South Africa, and I thought I'd let these new arrivals figure South Africa out for themselves, like we did. But then I received my August Peace Corps mailing, in which was an article written by one of the SA15 trainees. After reading this article, I have to say that this group might be in serious need of intervention! I'm going to transcribe the article here, with the name of the author omitted to save him any embarassment.

Thoughts on the first few days in South Africa: Too Much And Not Enough.

Understanding how to use words means first understanding all of the ways that they fall short in the description of our most significant experiences. Understanding first impressions of South Africa means understanding that the phrase "falls short" does itself fall short.

Those first feelings, of course, were different for everyone, but I imagine that the sense of being overwhelmed was virtually universal. How big it must seem to those of us who are returning, and to those of us just arriving...well, there is vitality to the land and the people that reminded us of something we had always imagined, and perhaps even felt, but never known.

Our trainers, for example, are foreign but haunting in their beauty. Life bursts forth from them, singing, dancing, recalling shared human memories that we have forgotten not because of time, but because of rush hour, because of McDonalds, because of capitalism. The first night, as they sang while we left the cafeteria after our first taste of (crossed fingers) pap, moths to a flame is perhaps the best way to describe it. Volunteers to words that rang clear and were understood without any need for translation.

I do not mean to denigrate our own culture, for it surely has its bright spots. But there are parts of it that seem to have convinced us to forget things we can find again in Africa, in African singing, African dancing; things best remembered.

I am running out of room, and perhaps I have failed to address many concerete impressions, but the words truly do fall woefully short. If they didn't, then I imagine most of us would have never left our loved ones (and probably our plumbing) behind to come here.

So First Impressions? Words.Looking back over these pages I see overwhelmed, vitality, foreign, haunting. None of them are enough; none of them completely describe it. But neither, I suspect, will two years be enough, will two years describe it. For what, when it has passed, is time save fading memories that, like words, fall woefully short of the reality.

First off, what the hell is this guy talking about? He speaks of words falling "woefully short", and in his case, that is exactly true.

This little article is indicative of an idea that really bothers me, and that is the idea of Africa being the "other" place (whether its a "dark continent" or a "Dark Star" or whatever). Whether that "other" is better or worse, people tend to put up boundaries to separate themselves from Africa or Africans. It's "that" place, a mystic land, where animals run wild, where nature is vicious, where life proceeds as it has for millennia. It's a place to explore, to find yourself, to reinvent yourself as a man (or woman) of adventure, of the people, whatever. All of these are common conceptions of Africa, and they are FALSE. That romanticized image only serves to further push apart people from recognizing commonalities.

The author of this article seems to have come to Africa looking for something different, to take him back to some unknown roots that he had "always imagined, and perhaps even felt", as he says. But that is NOT the South Africa of 2006. Anyone who comes looking for this romantic image is bound to be severely disappointed. But anyone who is properly informed will appreciate the country for all of its true worth, both natural and human.

His sentence on our language trainers is laughable at best. My friends and I have spoken this line to each other, mocking this poor trainee, and it never fails to elicit a laugh from us. "Haunting in their beauty?!?!" That paragraph as a whole is incredibly naive and pitiful, although I think that might be a little harsh of me to say. (recalling shared "human" memories? what, as opposed to shared animal memories?)

He speaks of McDonalds, rush hour, and capitalism eroding the human memories of Americans. Um, dude. Rush hour in places like Johannesburg is as bad as any rush hour in America. South Africa has embraced capitalism, and it seems to be working fairly well for the country these days. And as for McDonalds....I'm sure every one of the "hauntingly beautiful" trainers has either eaten at, or worked at, a McDonalds. I smirked as I passed by a long line of people waiting at a McDonalds here in Pretoria as I walked to the internet cafe to write this.

Anyway, I hope that these initial misconceptions are easily changed. If not, SA15 is in for a rough time. But, I have to say, I don't have anything against the author. I'm sure he's a very nice guy. I met some SA15 trainees at the Peace Corps office yesterday, and from them I've found out that the author of that article unfortunately had to leave South Africa and return home to care for his father, who is seriously ill. So, yeah, I feel bad about attacking the guy, but that doesn't change the fact that these comments had to be said.

On a final note, here is a picture from my village. This is a bar/shebeen. And yes, the name is "Loss My Cherry." Every time I walk by it, I smile.

Pictures From My Village (finally!)

2006-08-21T12:17:00.000+02:00

This is a view of the land around the village, from the outskirts of the village.

This is the storm-water drain where I usually go running.

Another view of a small part of the village.

On a rare cloudy day. A good view of some mountains.

This is the main street in my village (I'm not joking)

The village "stadium"--meaning that the brown dirt on the left of this picture is where soccer games are held.

Some local kids.

James (my host brother) on the street in front of our house.

Some Pictures From Winter Break (Part 3)

2006-08-21T12:07:00.000+02:00

This is Cape Town. Beautiful!

Camps Bay Beach, Cape Town. (The "12 Apostles" mountains are in the back)

Our Robben Island tour guide (a former political prisoner) in front of Nelson Mandela's cell

This was written on the wall of one of the backpackers.......'nuff said.

New Title / Anniversary

2006-08-20T18:43:00.000+02:00

So, as of this past Friday, August 18, the 14th group of Peace Corps South Africa Volunteers have been in this country for 1 entire year. A year! It's been an eventful year.

On that note, I'm not really a "stranger" here anymore. I've gotten to know this country and the (sometimes) wonderful people who inhabit it. And, again, South Africa is no longer a "strange land." Things that happen here seem instinctual to me now, second-nature almost. I realized that when my family visited and things I took for granted were different and new for them. It seems so obvious to me. And, on closer reflection, is any place really a "strange land?"

(Aside from Crawford, Texas that is.....haha, I keed!)

Anyway, so I'm not a stranger in a strange land anymore. Now I'm just Omar, in Africa.

Some Pictures From Winter Break (part 2)

2006-08-20T17:56:00.000+02:00

First up, some pics from when I took Mom and Sara to visit Gonani, my former site which I am no longer at.

Hlaluko Alicia Maluleke....my favorite South African (holding her new teddy bear)

Me and Hlaluko (in front of rondavel)

On a walk with Sara, Happy, Hlaluko, and Max

And more Cape Town pics..

Me and Sara on top of Table Mtn

Sara and I on top of Table Mtn (view of the Cape Peninsula)

Some apartheid statistics from the Nelson Mandela Gateway To Robben Island

A view of Cape Town from the waterfront

Me and Mom at Camps Bay Beach, Cape Town

Some Pictures From Winter Break (part 1)

2006-08-12T10:42:00.000+02:00

The view of Table Mountain from the Bo-Kaap District at dusk. Cape Town.

Mom and Sara at Boulders Beach in Simon's Town

The view of downtown Cape Town from the top of Table Mountain

The view of Lion's Head and Signal Hill (Robben Island in the background) from the top of Table Mountain.

Me having a deep conversation with my penguin friend.

The Three Rondavels

Bourke's Luck Potholes

Sara and Mom at God's Window

Me and Mom at the potholes

Mom, Sara, and Me at the Potholes

Foundations

2006-07-29T08:38:00.000+02:00

"The successful man is the one who is able to lay a firm foundation with the bricks that others throw at him." --Proverb

As I've mentioned previously, the three schools where I work as a Peace Corps Volunteer are BIG schools. Chumana Primary School (my key school, the one where that proverb is written on the wall of the principal’s office) has 870 learners and 23 educators; Makgubuketja Primary School has 810 learners and 23 educators, and Dumazi Primary School has 480 learners and 13 educators.

During the last school quarter I spent weeks--literally, weeks--just sitting with each educator individually for anywhere between twenty minutes and two hours, interviewing them, finding out what they want help with. I find that interviewing teachers and listening to their needs is a useful tactic here; instead of me being this outsider intruding on these peoples' work spaces, I'm learning from them, and coming up with helpful suggestions and solutions to THEIR self-admitted problems. Change shouldn't be some externally applied force; it needs to be self-implemented for it to be sustainable.

One of the strengths and weaknesses of my duty as a PCV is the general vagueness of my job. There are certain areas where we are supposed to assist our schools--i.e. mathematics, science, and English instruction, outcomes-based education, etc--but aside from that, the job is what we make it. There is a lot of room for us to customize our term of service based on the individual needs of our schools or our own preferences or initiatives. It's amazing to me to hear the variety and scope of all the things my fellow PCVs are doing in their schools and communities.

I call this vagueness both a strength and a weakness because it allows us the customizability to really attack the problems of our school and make our own assessments of what we need to do. (and, as common knowledge dictates, people will always be more willing to change if they've had a hand in making the changes themselves) I call it a weakness because the scope of the work is HUGE. It can be overwhelming, and it can lead one to think, "Where do I start?" I know this because I've been at points where I've been incredibly grateful for the flexibility in my assignment, and points where I've been frustrated and overwhelmed. Sometimes those emotional peaks and valleys even happen on the same day.

The flexibility adds to the project's sustainability, which is the most important thing in any sort of aid work. (apart from those special situations that Dr. Paul Farmer would refer to as "Areas of Moral Clarity") What's the purpose of building a library if nobody wants to maintain it? It will fall into decrepitude and books will gather dust on their shelves. Likewise, what would be the usefulness of doing something at my schools if nobody wants to go along with it? That's the question that we as PCVs are faced with.

The interviews served as a great way to meet the teachers and to hear their needs. Conducting the interviews was time consuming, though; it took me almost the entire month of May. I did get some useful, if predictable, answers though. Most teachers want help with lesson planning (the Department of Education is putting a lot of emphasis on ensuring that teachers write up lesson plans), teaching style ("How do you teach in America? Can you do a demonstration lesson so I can see?"), RNCS (the Revised National Curriculum Statement, the framework that South Africa has in place to implement Outcomes-Based Education), IQMS (the Integrated Quality Management System, a self-evaluation tool that the Department of Education uses, which many educators are having a tough time with), fundraising, classroom discipline, etc.

There's a lot to do. And, while the Department of Education is trying to make changes, I don’t think they’re doing a very good job. Let me give you an example: for year and years (generations perhaps), the norm of classroom discipline was beating. Teachers carried sticks; if you misbehave, you get hit. If you're late, you get hit. And so on. So, when the government made Corporal Punishment illegal during Mandela's presidency, many teachers were stuck in a Catch-22. They had NO idea how else to discipline learners. The government said they couldn't hit them, but didn't give them any alternatives. Those who stopped hitting were left with no methods to discipline, and their classes were out of control. Those who kept hitting were breaking the law. Even to this day, many teachers are still using their sticks, not because they like to hit children in some sort of sadist way, but because they have no idea of what else to do. And that's just one example, indicative of a much larger lack of professional training.

In addition to assessing the situation at my schools, I have also started doing some work, which has been coming along very well. I've been giving some workshops to school leadership and will soon be expanding my scope to include more teachers. In my interviews and observations I also noticed some serious intra-staff conflicts at one of my schools, with cliques forming and the school situation becoming incredibly tense. It was a bad state of affairs, and to some extent still is. So, my next workshops will be on conflict management and resolution. I'm optimistic that they will serve to at least normalize relations at that school.

I've also branched out of my three schools and into the community. At one of the local high schools, the Grade 12 Mathematics teacher killed himself in January, and for over two months the Grade 12 Maths class was stuck without a teacher. Eventually the physical science teacher took on the class in addition to his regular class load, but the class is way behind. They have their Matriculation exam in October, and they need to be brought up to speed. The school asked for my help, and so I went a few times after school hours in June, giving 90-minute calculus lessons to a class of 35 Grade 12 students.

They're currently in the middle of pre-Matriculation trials, but once they finish I'll be going back to continue my calculus lessons. That task may not be sustainable, but it is incredibly rewarding. It did give me one of the best moments I've had in a school setting here. I was in the habit of giving weekly homework, but at the end of this lesson, I said, "Good news class! I'm not going to give any homework this week!" To which the class replied, "What? That's not good news! We want homework!" Granted, I didn't end up giving them any homework because I didn't have any prepared that week, but hearing their eagerness to learn and their desire for work really gave me a sense of satisfaction that most work doesn't give.

Up until now I haven't been doing much work on the HIV/AIDS issue in my community. I know that the disease is a problem not only for South Africa as a whole, but also for my village. I visited the local clinic in my village and from speaking to workers there, I've discovered that 1 out of every 4 HIV tests conducted at that clinic turns out to be positive.

Knowledge is a huge problem in the area, and I'll illustrate using an example. I was at a SADTU (South African Democratic Teachers Union) workshop in May. The topic of the workshop was HIV/AIDS education; it was meant to help teachers approach their schools to introduce HIV/AIDS education for their classes. At one point, a teacher asked "Is there safe oral sex?" and one of the facilitators (a facilitator, not a participant) replied, "You mean, like when a man puts a condom on his tongue?" I mean, wow. Wow! My work is cut out for me!

I am starting soon, though; I'm currently in the process of setting up a Life Skills Training Series, in which I will be meeting with high school students weekly after school with intensive training on HIV/AIDS, safe sex, responsible behaviors, peer pressure, and assertiveness. I've seen that this sort of venue for addressing Life Skills can be effective; my friend Caitlin recently did a similar training to high school learners in her village, and was very successful. I was able to visit her and witness her Life Skills Training first-hand and I was impressed.

My goal is to train a committed group of high-school learners to be peer educators, and also to have them start going to the primary schools and speaking to Grade 5, 6, and 7 learners on a semi-regular basis, because by the time learners are leaving primary school, many of them are sexually active. And, at such a young age, they are at the highest risk to make bad choices.

I have been keeping busy, but life here is all about down-time; time at school, sitting in the principal's office with nothing to do, hours spent sitting around in the afternoon at home, etc. In all of the downtime at home in the evenings, I got to spend a lot of time with James, my host brother who I've previously mentioned. He was incredibly bored as well; he's used to big-city fast-paced Jo'Burg life. But, he was stuck in the village, recovering from his bullet wound. We had some great discussions; it got to the point where I could understand what he was saying just by watching his lips move (since he couldn't speak). James is one of the very few South Africans that I've been able to have such in-depth discussions and debates with, and it was great to not have to hold back in the name of "cultural sensitivity" with him.

Since then he has had some more operations, though; he's talking again (very softly though) which is great news. He is also back in Jo'Burg and has returned to work, so he's not around the house anymore.

I'm reminded of one conversation I had with him in early June. We were debating a number of issues--the outcome of the Jacob Zuma trial, Thabo Mbeki's call for a woman president, etc.
The conversation shifted and we started talking about work ethic and change. James basically said that, in large part (but not totally), my job is hopeless because teachers have a low work ethic; teaching is just a job that pays the bills, as far as they are concerned. Many of them never even wanted to be teachers in the first place, but due to limited job opportunities (during apartheid, job opportunities for blacks were limited to teacher, police officer, nurse, and a very few others) many were forced into their jobs. They don't want to do their jobs well; they don't want to change. They won't change, as far as James is concerned. He says the reason they still like me is because I'm "new" and "exotic"--an American! He predicts that the friendliness will fade, eventually, and I will see a lot less cooperation.

He gave me the example of his dad, Ben, my host father, who was sitting at the table grading papers as James and I were debating. Ben, a Grade 12 English teacher, is hard-working as far as South African teachers go. James told me to ask Ben how many friends he has among his coworkers at school. I asked Ben, and he said "Not many." I asked why, and he shrugged. James told me to ask Ben if it was because he is a hard worker. (the reason I was relaying messages was because by that time I could understand James better than anyone else, pretty much) I asked, and Ben said yes, that is the reason. He said that his coworkers think his hard work makes the rest of them look bad, and they resent him for it. As James and Ben framed the situation, it seemed pretty bleak, and I was left for a few minutes to think about it. Eventually I said:

"No, it can't be hopeless. It can't. I have to believe that I'm doing something good here, that things can actually and WILL actually change. I mean, if people won't change, then maybe we just need to get tougher on them to keep them in line."

At that point, James looked at me and mouthed these words: "I tried doing that at my job. It didn't work; all it ever got me was a bullet in the neck."

That ended the conversation; it silenced me. How could I possibly argue with that? I've never been friends with anyone who'd been shot before, let alone someone who was the victim of an attempted pre-meditated homicide, and by his own coworkers! Sobering stuff, I must say.
Soon after that conversation, the second school quarter ended, and I was off for three weeks of vacation. My friend Caitlin and I went down to Pretoria; we were there for almost a week. When we were there, it was COLD. Late June / early July is mid-winter in South Africa, and the temperature would drop down to one or two degrees C at night. It even slipped below zero during that week when we were there. In a country where the concept of indoor heating basically doesn't exist, that is freezing! I'd have to sleep in a fleece and 3 blankets. When I came to Africa, I'd never expected to be freezing; isn't it supposed to be hot here?

I was down in Pretoria for two reasons. One of those was to do some work at the Peace Corps office; I wanted to research conflict resolution materials, in relation to the conflicts at my schools that I mentioned above. The second, more important, reason that I was in Pretoria was because I was anxiously waiting for my Mom and sister to arrive into South Africa. Ever since I had first learned that they were planning on visiting me, I'd been excitedly waiting for their arrival. And, by some crazy coincidence, they just happened to be on the same incoming flight as Caitlin's family.

So Caitlin and I went to the airport in Jo'Burg and met our families. It was great to see my Mom and my sister, Sara. I took them up to my village; we spent two nights in my home with my host family. I took Mom and Sara driving around the Limpopo province, from the savannahs around Polokwane to the lush hills near Tzaneen to the mountains of Venda and even to my old village, Gonani, where I introduced them to Max, Happy, and Hlaluko. It was especially great to see Hlaluko again. Mom and Sara both enjoyed seeing my villages; Mom especially enjoyed it. I think that using pit toilets traumatized Sara, though!

I put in a lot of driving during those two days; our rental car covered a lot of ground. It felt fantastic to be driving again, and adjusting to driving on the opposite side of the street was a lot easier than I had expected it to be.

After the villages and our tour of Limpopo, our next destination was Kruger National Park, one of the best safari parks in the world. Mom and Sara came in with the mental image of safari parks as places where you go around in an open-roofed 4x4, driving off-road through endless plains, with nobody else around, alone with nature and abundant wildlife. They were surprised to learn that their preconceptions were not true in Kruger, which is full of tarred roads, where we could take our own car, and where thousands of other tourists were on the roads looking for the same things that we were. We did manage to see a lot of wildlife though: wildebeest, vervet monkeys, baboons, ostrich, kudu, impala, zebra, giraffe, elephant, buffalo, white rhinos, black rhinos, and some hippos too. We didn't see any of the big cats--lions, cheetahs, or leopards--but they are notoriously difficult to find.

The highlight of my vacation, however, was Cape Town, a two-hour flight from Jo'Burg. Cape Town is quite possibly the most beautiful city I've ever seen, and it really reminded me of the best parts of San Francisco and Rio De Janeiro. The weather was nice; it was still a bit chilly, but not nearly as cold as the rest of the country.

Throughout my time in Cape Town, I had to keep reminding myself that Cape Town is a part of South Africa. It looks nothing like what you would expect of Africa; in fact, it looks much more like a coastal European city. Also, Cape Town is a very diverse city; it's one of the few places where black people are not the majority. To be honest, it felt a little strange not to be surrounded by black people.

Cape Town is also much more integrated than other South African cities; it didn't have the de facto segregation that I've observed in the rest of South Africa. I saw a lot of interracial couples, which was awesome. In addition, I hardly saw any poverty or signs of poverty in or around Cape Town (apart from driving past the townships and settlements of Khayalitsha and Gugulethu). It was actually a bit of a culture shock for me to see such a lack of poverty. Knowing that my village and ritzy places like Clifton or Muizenberg are in the same country is a bit hard to reconcile.

The views in Cape Town are stunning; I can't tell you how nice it was to wake up in the morning, walk out of the front door, and go running on the slopes of Table Mountain. The views alone made it worthwhile; I don't think I could ever get bored of runs like that.

We also went up Table Mountain; the views from the top are breathtaking. We took the cable car up, but I really wanted to hike down, so we did. Bad idea! I made the descent pretty easily, without any real difficulty, but sometimes I forget that my mom is almost fifty years old and not in the same physical shape as me--descending down a STEEP, 1000-meter mountain (without a single railing) might not have been the best idea for her. I enjoyed the stunning views on the way down, but Mom and Sara were really struggling. From that day forward, Sara began referring to Table Mountain as "Broke-Leg Mountain."

Another worthwhile experience was heading down to Simon's Town and Cape Point, both on the Cape Peninsula. Boulders Beach, in Simon's Town, is one of the very few places in the world where you can actually get up-close with penguins, in their natural habitat, without any barrier between you. It might actually be the only place outside of the Antarctic where that is possible, actually. Further south, we reached Cape Point, the southernmost tip of the peninsula. It is the point where the cold Atlantic current and warm Indian Ocean currents meet. It is a gorgeous place, and the drive there, along some steep, sheer cliffs, was exhilarating.

We also went to Robben Island, which was quite an experience. We were supposed to leave on the 11 am ferry, and to board at 10:40 am. But at 10:40, when we didn't start boarding, one of the ferry employees informed us that we were waiting for someone who was going to board the ferry first, and also going to disembark from the ferry first. I looked over and saw police officers with bomb-sniffing dogs on the ferry, and my curiosity was piqued. Then I saw bodyguards, military generals, an entourage dressed in khaki, and a man in a suit walk by. As I discovered, that man in the suit is actually the President of Tanzania, home of Lake Victoria, the Ngorongoro Crater, the Great Rift Valley, Zanzibar, Mt Kilimanjaro, and the Serengeti. Tanzania, the country I had initially hoped I'd be assigned to for my Peace Corps service.

I couldn't help myself, so when we were on the ferry, I approached one of the bodyguards and asked if I could possibly speak to the president for just a minute or two. I wanted to say hello to the man, to say who I was and what I do, and to talk to him about some of my plans for after I finish Peace Corps service (which will hopefully bring me into close contact with many African governments). I was expecting the bodyguard to immediately say no, but to my surprise he said that he'd see what he could do.

A moment later, one of the president's handlers approached me. He got up in my face, very close, and said, "Well? What do you want?" I told him that I'd like to speak to the president for just two minutes if at all possible. He gave me a long, steady look and said "No. No way. It's not at all possible." And then, just like that, he walked away. It was a very amusing encounter.
Robben Island was a very sobering experience. It's an island that served for many years as the apartheid regime's most high-security prison. In that way, it's similar to Alcatraz, but much farther away from the mainland, and the water between Robben Island and Cape Town is teeming with great white sharks.

Robben Island was the infamous prison where political prisoners like Nelson Mandela, Walter Sisulu, and Ahmed Kathrada served out their prison sentences. Our tour guide was a former ANC political prisoner who served over ten years on Robben Island, and who now lives on the island giving tours for a living. We got to visit different areas of the prison, including Nelson Mandela's cell. Like all prison cells in Robben Island, it measures 2 meters x 2 meters square, with only a bucket and three blankets, without even a mattress! One blanket would serve as a "mattress" of sorts, one as a pillow, and one as a covering. The cell had no glass on the windows; just a hole in the wall with bars. On a rainy day, the cell would get wet. I can't imagine how cold it must have been in the winter with just one blanket on top of you to keep you warm.

It was sobering to see the evidence of some of the horrors of the apartheid regime at Robben Island. I see its lingering effects every day in my village, and so visiting Robben Island was an especially poignant experience. But, as those former political prisoners who serve as our tour guides say: "Forgive, but never forget."

After Cape Town, Mom and Sara flew back to New York, and I returned to my village. I've gotten myself back into the daily routine, and I feel like this vacation and the family visit served as a refresher for me. I feel re-energized and ready for the next 15 months.

That's all for now. Take care.

New Address

2006-06-26T13:51:00.000+02:00

So I've moved this blog, as you can notice. Why, you may ask? Well, for one, people kept asking me, "what's your blog address again? how do you spell that?" and so I had to keep repeating that pretty often.

But the major reason I moved my blog address is because of the name. My old address was Ndzivalelo.blogspot.com , since I was Ndzivalelo Maluleke in my old village. But, now, I'm not living in that village anymore.

In Tshamahansi, my new name is Tiyani Baloyi. The name Tiyani roughly translates to "get strong" or "be strong".

So, anyway, let me give you all a quick update: the 2nd school quarter for 2006 just ended on Friday. Now the schools are on a 3-week winter break. Yes, it is WINTER here right now. and yes, it is cold. At night it's been getting down to near-freezing, around 2 or 3 degrees Celcius, and in the daytime it's been in the low 20s C. It was a good term; I would love to tell you all about the work I've been doing, and I will write that update soon. For now, I'm just enjoying the school holiday; I am in Pretoria, waiting for my mom and sister to fly in from New York (they will be here Thursday night!).

I'll write again soon.....and I'll have a lot to write about. Until then....take care.

Omar

p.s. i finally have a new mailing address!

Omar Ahmed
PO Box 469
Suswe, 0612
South Africa

"The Times, They Are A-Changin' "

2006-05-13T10:18:00.000+02:00

"In the mid-Nineties, the town (Mokopane) attracted worldwide publicity when white locals tried to prevent black children entering what had been all-white schools during the apartheid years. This display of dogged racism earned the town the unenviable title of racist capital of South Africa."
--from The Rough Guide to South Africa, Lesotho & Swaziland

"The (Johannesburg) inner city suburbs of Hillbrow - with the exception of Constitution Hill - and Yeoville are now de facto no-go zones at any time of day and you shouldn't even think about wandering through them without an extremely savvy local guide."
--from Lonely Planet South Africa, Lesotho & Swaziland

It has been far too long since I've had the time to actually sit down and write a long blog entry; a lot has happened, and I'd like to share a few things.

First off, towards the end of March, I moved to my new site. I said goodbye to Gonani and all of the great people I got to know there. My new village is named Tshamahansi (pronounced "ts-ha-ma-hawn-see"), and thankfully, it is also a Tsonga-speaking village, just like Gonani was. (In fact, the name "Tshamahansi" amusingly translates to "sit down") The similarities between old site and new end there, though. Tshamahansi is a BIG village--to illustrate, I think that Gonani had something like 80 households. Tshamahansi has over 4,000. The village is so big that it has not one, but THREE indunas (headmen). The village is so big that the (dirt) streets actually have streetnames, something almost unheard of in a South African village. (I now live on Chris Hani Street)

At my old site, I served three schools in three villages, since each village was not large enough on its own to have more than one primary school. There was a total of 1,000 primary school students between my schools in my three villages. In comparison, Tshamahansi itself has 4 primary schools. My job duties and responsibilities only afford me to have three schools, however, so the fourth school is left without a volunteer. The 3 schools that I am at, though, have 2,150 students between them. I've more than doubled my student population, and the number of teachers I'm working with has also drastically increased from 34 at the old site to 59 at the new site. I'm still learning all of their names.

Although Tshamahansi is a Tsonga speaking village, the schools are taught in SePedi (Northern Sotho). This might make no sense, so let me explain. Tshamahansi is about 15km north of the town of Mokopane, about three hours driving southwest from my old site. It's in a totally different part of the province, closer towards "civilization," so to speak. Tsonga, the language, was brought into South Africa a long, long time ago via Mozambique, where it is also the spoken language. The Tsongas, in general, stayed in areas of South Africa that border Mozambique. (Mokopane is NOT near Mozambique -- it's closer to Botswana, in fact). Some isolated communities of Tsongas migrated westward through the years, and lived in harmony among the SePedi people, who were (and are) the majority of the population further west.

But then the Afrikaners took over, and instituted the terrible policies of apartheid. One of their policies was to segregate different tribal and ethnic groups; as such, all of the Tsongas living in this area were collected and told to move to Tshamahansi, to a strictly Tsonga village. And then, the apartheid instituted another policy, educational uniformity. Since this is a majority Sotho-speaking area, the government set, as its policy, that all schools in this area would be taught in Sotho, whether or not the inhabitants actually speak Sotho.

You may be asking yourself, since apartheid ended 12 years ago, why are schools in Tshamahansi still being taught in SePedi? Well, for one, all of the teachers grew up under apartheid and learned SePedi; it's the language they know how to teach. And, also, most teachers don't actually live in the village--they live in surrounding villages and, especially, in the local township, Mahwelereng.

For those who don't know what a township is, let me explain. Under apartheid, black people were not allowed to live in many towns; they could come in to work, but then they had to go home. As a result, black townships began to appear on the outskirts of towns and cities across South Africa. The most famous township is just outside of Johannesburg, to the South-West of the main city. This is the SOuth WEst TOwnship, aka SOWETO.

So, back to Tshamahansi. The village is right off of a major tarred road, the N11. On the N11, the township of Mahwelereng is just over 10km away, and the town of Mokopane is about 15km away. It's pretty easy for me to get to town now, as opposed to the difficulties it took for me to get from Gonani to Thohoyandou.

It's funny that I'm back here now; when we first arrived in South Africa nine months ago, we went from Johannesburg International Airport to the Mokopane Multi-Purpose Center in Mahwelereng, where we spent our first few days and nights in South Africa, getting our introduction the country we now call home. This was even before we went to Moletji, our training village. Coming back here is almost like coming back "full circle."

Mokopane is actually a very nice town. It has pretty much everything I need, from an internet cafe to an actual cafe where I can get good food and coffee, to four different supermarket chains (that's a lot for a South African town), two KFCs, and three King Pies. And the King Pies in Mokopane even keep the elusive "apple pie" in stock, in addition to the usual cornish or steak & kidney pies. There is a high Afrikaner population in town as well; Mokopane is known to be a bastion of old-school Afrikaner racism (see quote above), but I have found it to be less racist than Makhado, the city 80km west of Thohoyandou, which would at times remind me of the American south in the pre-Civil Rights days. I remember one day I was at a public swimming pool in Makhado with Eric. The place was such a blatant example of segregation that we felt like we had gone back in time to Birmingham, Alabama, circa 1960. There might be racism in Mokopane, but it isn't the worst I've seen. And, on long weekends, if I want to get away, Mokopane is only two and a half hours north of Pretoria, the capitol.

Another stark contrast between old site and new is the local Masjid in town. In Thohoyandou, the Muslim population is almost entirely composed of Indian and Pakistani immigrants; they have a very insular community, and I didn't feel that I could relate to it. In Mokopane, however, the Masjid is a varied mix of some immigrants, many native-born South African Indians (some of whom have roots in South Africa stretching back many generations), and a lot of black South Africans. Sermons are in English, not Urdu. But, most different, the community here has accepted me with open arms. The first time I went to the mosque, I was looking around, and a black man named Suleiman noticed that I was not from around there. I told him who I was, where I'm from, and why I'm in South Africa. Immediately, he invited me back to his home for lunch; afterwards, he even drove me around as I ran some errands. He took me to the supermarket and even held my shopping cart as I picked up some groceries. And, in a similar vein, every time I've gone to Friday prayers, I have ended up having lunch unexpectedly at someone else's house, always shown the most amazing generosity and the warmest welcome.

The talks I've had with some of these people have been very eye-opening. I've heard another perspective on South African life, but even moreso, I've seen how deeply ingrained certain fears have been implanted into the psyche of this country. The apartheid regime deliberately separated every ethnic and tribal group, as I've already mentioned. Everybody had his or her place, so to speak. The government played on each group's fears and mistrust, deliberately. It's a lot easier to manage control over a lot of separate groups than it is to control one large group of oppressed people. And, unfortunately, the effects of that policy are still felt today. Mistrust, resentment, and fear abound everywhere. Max, my former host from Gonani, is a great guy, but he remains, to this day, deeply mistrustful of Venda peole. He told me once that I needed to be very careful when I'm in Venda; if I'm by myself somewhere, they'll attack me and kill me! Obviously this is an irrational, unsubstantiated fear, as my fellow PCVs who live in Venda would be the first to mention. The apartheid regime encouraged each ethnic group to keep and protect and foster its own culture and its own identity at the expense of finding common ground, a common enemy, a common oppressor.

I encountered this deep-rooted fear at the home of some South African-born Indians. They still have a deep mistrust and fear of black South Africans. When I told them where I live, how friendly the villagers are, and how safe I feel in my villages, they were surprised and incredulous. "But they'll kill you! Those people, they're dangerous!" And how can I argue with such an irrational, implanted fear? I know it's utterly groundless, and therein lies the tragedy; apartheid may be gone and the ANC may be in power, but the effects of the old regime still linger on.

On the same topic, I'm reminded of an amusing anecdote. I was recently in Polokwane with my friends Seth and Caitlin, on our way to Seth's house. We were outside of the taxi rank, buying some fresh vegetables from a vendor. It was a crowded, busy afternoon; we were obviously the only non-black people around. Out of nowhere, I was approached by an Afrikaner male in the middle of the crowd. He asked if we were lost, where are we from, etc. I was a bit apprehensive, wondering who the hell this guy was, when he pulled out a police badge. An undercover cop. He told us that we weren't in a "safe area," and by the way he phrased things, Seth assumed that the cop was telling us to get out of there. So Seth got a bit defensive, saying "We live in villages. I come through here every week. I take that taxi over there every week, we know what we're doing, we've never had a problem here." The cop eventually left, giving us a warning to "be careful," and we found the entire incident to be amusing. But, alas, this is the mindset that prevails; change takes time, and I wonder how long it will take South Africa to achieve some sort of harmony. It's been almost 40 years since the end of segregation in America, and prejudice, fear, and bigotry are still ugly realities that we live with.

I was only in Tshamahansi for a week, however, before the school first quarter ended and we were off on a two-week break. I was away for the entire break; first I went to Pretoria, where I did some work at the Peace Corps office and hung out with friends who had also come to town. I even met some PCVs from Botswana and Togo. All in all, I was in Pretoria for a week before a group of us left for Sabie, and the Longtom Half-Marathon (which I'd mentioned in previous entries). Sabie is a gorgeous town in the eastern Drakensberg enscarpment, with rolling green hills, rivers, and waterfalls. Some of the views there were breathtaking. It was great, also, to hang out with 45 of my fellow PCVs.

When the race began, I had no intention of running it. I had planned to walk, along with my friends Dan, Tom, and Andrew. Andrew and I decided to jog for a half-hour or so, just to get a little exercise, and then walk the rest of the way. So we started off running, but then half an hour later we didn't stop. I just figured I'd run until I got exhausted. I think I was about 8 or 9 km into the race when I decided, what the hell, I might as well just run the whole thing. And aside from some uphill stretches that I decided to walk up, I ran the entire race. I finished with a time of 2 hours and 17 minutes, tired, exhilarated, and sore as hell. I had never run more than 5k before; at Longtom I more than quadrupled that distance. And with my history of asthma, nobody was more suprised than me that I actually ran a half-marathon without any training. My goal now, for next year, is to finish in under two hours.

I'd planned on heading home the following day. In the morning I was all packed up and ready to head out, but then my friend Heidi convinced me to go to Durban with her. Some of our other friends were heading down there, and I figured, why not? So, next thing I knew, I was on my way to Durban. We took a taxi back to Pretoria, and then an overnight bus from Pretoria down to Durban, in the southern part of the country, on the Indian Ocean coast.

Durban is a fantastic city; I can't wait to go back someday. It reminds me of Miami Beach or Rio De Janiero. I spent six fantastic days there. We went to the beach a few times, relaxed on the sand and battled the waves in the sea. We ate some fantastic Indian food, since Durban is the center of South African Indian culture. We walked around city streets and fleamarkets, and I even went with Heidi, Mike, Monica, and Hossam to the Juma Masjid, the largest mosque in the Southern Hemisphere.

The highlight of my Durban trip, however, was skydiving. Hands down. Cait, Hossam, Heidi, Mike, and I all decided to do it. We did tandem jumps with instructors; I jumped out of a plane from 10,000 feet in the air and went into 35 seconds of exhilarating freefall. At 5,000 feet, the cord was pulled, opening the parachute, and then I glided down the rest of the way. It was incredible; I had an amazing view of the beach, the city skyline, the ocean stretching far out to the horizon, and the hills of KwaZuluNatal in the distance. It's something that I won't soon forget.

All in all, it was a fantastic and surreal break. I ran down a mountain, jumped out of a plane, and fought waves in the ocean. I went to restaurants, cafes, and large American-style shopping malls. At night I wasn't in bed by 8:30 as usual; instead I was out, enjoying South African nightlife. I used flush toilets and took hot showers. It was almost enough to make me forget where I was, I could easily have been in America for all I knew.

During break, I also had a chance to see some movies; I saw "Brokeback Mountain", "V For Vendetta", "Tsotsi", "Inside Man", "March Of The Penguins", and "Hustle and Flow." They were all great films, but "Tsotsi" is the one that sticks in the mind. For those who don't know, "Tsotsi" is a South African film, and it won Best Foreign Film at this year's Oscars. It's a story about a thug living in the slums of Jo'Burg (nobody calls it "Johannesburg"). In fact, the word "Tsotsi" means "thug." This tsotsi robs and kills mercilessly. One night he carjacks a woman; he shoots her and speeds off in her car, not realizing that her infant child is in the backseat. This turn of events serves as a catalyst for change in his life, as he attempts to take care of the young child, and undergoes a crisis of faith, so to speak.

It was great to see the movie, and to actually relate to the place it's coming from. In many ways, the movie is incredibly accurate. I'd pick up on little things throughout the movie. The slang, the environments, the little things that a casual viewer wouldn't notice. The music in the movie is fantastic; it's an accurate representation of popular Kwaito music in South Africa. And I particularly enjoyed the scene where the tsotsi makes a diaper out of a copy of the Daily Sun (I've espoused my opinion on the "Sunion" before). I wonder if that's the filmmakers' sly attempt at saying that the Daily Sun is full of shit? It was also really cool to be watching a movie in a foreign language, surrounded by people who are speaking exactly that same language.

However, although the movie was incredibly accurate in many respects, it was also watered down in terms of its violence and depiction of how heartless many of these "tsotsis" really are. I recall going to a music store in Pretoria, just a few miles away from Jo'Burg, where the events of the film take place. I was speaking to the young black sales clerk about the movie. He said, "That movie, it isn't accurate. In real life, he would kill the baby, rape the mother, and burn the father alive." And, from what I've heard about the life of tsotsis in Jo'Burg, that sounds more accurate.

So, anyway, now I'm back in Tshamahansi. I've settled back into a routine, and things, in general, have settled down. It's a very different situation than what had happened during the first few crazy days I spent in Tshamahansi. I arrived on a Friday afternoon; my host mother was not at home because she was away with a school trip (she's the Deputy Principal at my "key school"). I was already asleep when she returned home.

At 4am, there was a knock on my door. I woke up, and my host father walked into the room. He said that there had been an "incident" in Jo'Burg, and said that they had to leave. He asked if I'd be okay by myself in the house during the day. I was really out of it; I said sure. I didn't know what was going on. Then my host mother walked in, introduced herself, and spoke to him in Tsonga. Still being half-asleep, I made no attempt to try to listen to what was being said. She told me to go back to sleep, turned off the light, and softly shut the door.

In the morning I woke up, expecting to be alone in the house, but then I saw my host mother outside, sweeping the dirt. I asked her why she didn't go to Jo'Burg; she said that she had been away all day, and I had just arrived, and she wanted to keep me company so I wouldn't be alone on my first day in the new house. She said that Ben (her husband) had gone down to Jo'Burg to find out what exactly had happened, and she said that he'd be keeping her updated as soon as he heard any details. I asked her what had happened; what was the "incident" in Jo'Burg? Whereupon she looked at me and calmly said "James, my son, he was shot."

I was shocked; I was horrified at this turn of events, and oddly comforted by the fact that she chose to stay back and look after me, and yet I felt deeply guilty for being the reason she didn't go to Jo'Burg. As the day went on, she got details on what had happened, and due to the severity
of the situation she decided to leave for Jo'Burg.

It turns out that James had been shot in the neck; the bullet had entered his neck, passed through his lung, and finally got lodged in his back. He ended up having a series of operations over the course of the next few days. He was put into an induced coma. Eventually, after 3 or 4 days, he regained consciousness. His vocal cords had been damaged, so he couldn't speak, but he was able to write a full statement for the police.

I've gotten some details about what exactly happened, but it's obviously a sore subject in my house, so I haven't really pushed the issue. What I've gathered is this: James is the same age as me, born in 1981. He graduated from university with a degree in Civil Engineering and got a decent job with a Civil Engineering firm in Jo'Burg. He moved to Hillbrow, which is a section of Jo'Burg--it also happens to be a very dangerious section of Jo'Burg. If you're not black, you DO NOT go to Hillbrow (see quote above). It's like the "South-Central" or the "City of God" of Jo'Burg.

Anyway, so some of James's coworkers invited him over to their flat that night. Turns out, because he has a university degree, he was getting bonuses, raises, and promotions ahead of other employees who had been working there longer but didn't have degrees. So they resented him, but they didn't show it. They invited him over, proceeded to get him drunk on Jack Daniels, and then kicked him out at 2am. I guess they didn't want to do whatever they had planned in their flat. So as James was stumbling home, drunk, through the streets of Hillbrow at 2am, they ambushed him and shot him. At that's all I know about the situation.

I did get a pleasant surprise when, after I left Durban and returned home after over two weeks away, I walked into the house to find James there, sitting on the couch, discharged from the hospital and home at last. He's doing well; he's still here, getting some much-needed R&R. He has a tube in his neck; he can't talk, but recently he has been able to croak out a few words. I've gotten to spend some time with him; he's a great guy. I think if he was able to talk, we'd get along fantastically. Most South Africans don't really like to read (unless you count the "Sunion"), but James has borrowed, and has been reading, my autobiography of Gandhi. I also played some of my music for him; surprisingly, he wasn't too enthusiastic about my 50 Cent or Jay Z albums, but he really enjoyed listening to Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash. Turns out, his favorite music is country music, oddly enough.

I have to say, the past two months have been incredibly eventful. I've moved sites, traveled around the country, ran a half-marathon, jumped out of a plane, and so much more. After so many months of hardships, I can finally say that I am having a FANTASTIC time.

And so, that's all for now. Take care.

Omar

On a totally unrelated note, I have been trying to keep sort of up-to-date on happenings back home. Here I am in Africa, when back home, my favorite band, TOOL, have released a new album, their first in 5 years. (Who cares if they are an "uncool" band?) They've also started touring; they played the Coachella festival in the Palm Springs desert a few weeks ago. Here is a video of my favorite band, playing my favorite song, "Forty Six & 2", at the Coachella festival. Enjoy!

Civilization

2006-04-06T11:55:00.000+02:00

...at a cafe in Pretoria....

I'd like to write all about my past month, but alas, I don't have that much time. The good news is that I have, in fact, switched sites. My new village, Tshamahansi, is about 3 hours away South-West of my old site. I am currently in Pretoria, the capitol of South Africa; I've been here since Saturday, doing some work at the Peace Corps office and just enjoying civilization for a week. It has been very strange and surreal to be surrounded by nightlife, cafes, restaurants, etc. We've gone shopping in malls and have seen movies. I've already seen Brokeback Mountain and V For Vendetta, and am seeing Tsotsi this afternoon. Tomorrow I leave for Sabie, to get there in time to walk the half-marathon on Saturday. Then, back to my site.

I'll write again with my whereabouts soon. In the meanwhile, enjoy some more Chuck.

Throwaway Post

2006-03-21T10:28:00.000+02:00

So I'm online today, for the last time in Thohoyandou. (I'm moving to my new site on Friday. I'll talk all about it in my next entry) Goodbye cheap internet! I've decided to spend a few hours today watching online videos. Wow, it's fantastic.

First off, I guess some sort of Chuck Norris mania is sweeping America? It's about damn time!!!!! Here's a video I found of Chuck reading some "Chuck Norris Facts" on tv.

My favorite Chuck Norris facts:

Chuck Norris thought up some of the funniest Chuck Norris facts ever, but he hasn't submitted them to the site because he doesn't believe in any form of submission.

Chuck Norris once visited the Virgin Islands. They are now The Islands.

Chuck Noris puts the "laughter" in "manslaughter".

Chuck Norris frequently donates blood to the Red Cross. Just never his own.

Most men are OK with their wives fantasizing about Chuck Norris during sex, because they are doing the same thing.

Chuck Norris does not know where you live, but he knows where you will die.

The quickest way to a man's heart is with Chuck Norris's fist.

The only thing we have to fear is fear itself... The only thing fear has to fear is Chuck Norris.

If at first you don't succeed, you are obviously not Chuck Norris.

There was going to be a special edition Chuck Norris toliet paper, but Chuck doesn't take crap from anybody.

Jesus owns and wears a bracelet that reads, "WWCND?"

Genius!

In addition, I finally was able to see the Natalie Portman rapping video that has been online for a while. Here's a link.

...and finally, no post is complete without some Tenacious D. I give you....TRIBUTE!

TURN CLOCKWISE

2006-03-11T09:32:00.000+02:00

"Where's Omar?" --Ivy Leavitt-Carlson

There I was, watching 8 of my (female) friends perform The Vagina Monologues. For those of you who may have seen the Monologues at some point, I was watching the "If My Vagina Could Talk" segment of the show. And, to my surprise, Ivy stood up in the crowd, the surprise guest, and said those two words. I don't blush easily, but that just might have done it. But then again, I wouldn't have noticed, because I was laughing too hard.

Let me backtrack for a bit. After four months at site, Peace Corps Volunteers (PCVs) meet up for 8 days of In-Service Training (IST). For a long time, I had been looking forward to seeing my friends again --especially those friends who are located so far away from me that I hadn't seen them since our Pre-Service Training ended in October. Training would also be a chance for all of us to get some tips and tools to help us do our jobs better in our respective communities and schools.

I had been having some difficulties in my village for a while (more on that later), and so on Monday February 13, I called up my APCD, Lydia. (APCD = Supervisor, in Peace Corps lingo) I mentioned to her that I'd been having difficulties and would like to shadow another PCV for a week. One of my friends, Cait, has been extremely active and productive at her schools, and I thought that spending a week at her schools with her would do me some good. In addition, she would be holding some workshops on teacher work schedules and planning math/science curriculum that week, and would really be able to use my help. Lydia agreed, as long as I got one of my principals to approve it and sign a Site Leave Form. I got the signature, and had the form faxed to Peace Corps HQ in Pretoria. Everything was set, Cait and I prepared workshops, and I was ready to leave on Saturday, February 18. I would go to Cait's site, and then on Sunday February 27, we would head over to IST together.

However, I decided to leave a day early, on Friday. (It's a long story) I took a bunch of combies (taxis)--from Gonani to Malamulele, from Malamulele to Giyani, Giyani to Tzaneen, Tzaneen to Kgapane, and then from Kgapane to Cait's village. I was on the combie from Giyani to Tzaneen when Lydia called me. I couldn't answer my phone because combies are NOISY. So when I got to Tzaneen, I sat down at a coffee shop (Tzaneen is a civilized town; it has a real, actual, coffee shop!) and listened to Lydia's message. She said that before any leave can be approved, the Country Director, Lisa, has to sign off on it and give approval. Lisa wouldn't give approval to me going to Cait's site because she thought that it was too far from my site to be at for a long period of time. So Lydia told me not to go to Cait's, and instead she would call me later. I was already in Tzaneen, though, having left a day early. Eish!!

I was at Cait's house when we finally got in touch with Lydia. I mentioned the situation to her, and she gave me two options: either I could go back to my site on Sunday and go to my schools for the week, or I could stay and she'd have to talk to Lisa on Tuesday (since Monday was a US holiday) to decide what course of action to take. Lydia warned that Lisa could decide to charge me annual leave days for being at Cait's. I definitely did not want to go all the way back to my site, and we had already planned out our workshops, so I took my chances and told Lydia I'd be staying. She said she'd call me on Tuesday after speaking to Lisa.

I had a great weekend. I spent time in Tzaneen (which is a gorgeous town), saw some friends. Hung out with my friend Meagan. Saw a beautiful sunrise. I also had a very productive week with Cait at her schools. For more details, check out Cait's blog (the posts "Omar", "Dam", "Earthquake", and "Education" are relevant)

On Tuesday, Lydia called me, having spoken to Lisa. The decision had been made that my time at Cait's site would be counted against my annual leave; I could either go back to my site or continue to accrue leave days. I decided to stay and finish the workshops.

At IST, I scheduled a meeting between Lydia, Lisa, and myself. I brought up the leave issues; I mentioned that I hadn't been off partying somewhere; I was at schools, giving workshops. Granted, they weren't my schools, but I was still being productive. Perhaps they thought that Cait and I are "together"---also untrue. Finally, after 15 minutes of discussion, we reached a compromise. All of the days until I received final word from Lisa would not count against annual leave, but the days after would. So 6 days of leave was reduced down to 3.

However, leave issues were not the only topic at our meeting. There were site issues as well. I'd had some difficulties at my site for quite some time. Gonani is very far from the nearest combie stop, very isolated. The roads are terrible. When it rains a lot (as it did in early January), I am, for all intents and purposes, trapped. I definitely got stuck in the mud a few times trying to get to my schools. Trust me, when your shoe gets stuck in ankle-deep mud and comes off and then you have to dig into the mud to find it, it's not fun. And giving a workshop, you are much less effective and presentable when the bottom of your pants, not to mention your shoes, is caked with drying mud. Mud is definitely a problem. In early January, when I wanted to go to Thohoyandou and celebrate Eid-ul-Adha with the Muslim community there, my combie got stuck in the mud and I wasn't able to make it.

In addition, the roof of my house leaks. One of the leaks is directly above my bed--during rainstorms I need to cover myself in my waterproof sleeping-bag so that I don't get leaked on. And one of my interior doors fell off of the hinges. And the light in one of my rooms hasn't worked since mid-December. There are a lot more issues that I could mention, and I could go on and on, but I won't.

In a previous post, I mentioned that my Key School Principal has kind of an abrasive personality. He is not an easy person to get along with. In addition, he had some misconceptions about my job and my role in the schools. When Lydia came to visit me in mid-January, and she tried clearing up matters with him, he lost his temper and yelled at her. She decided that he is not a good personality for me to be dealing with, and scheduled a meeting with all 3 of my principals and my Circuit Manager. At that meeting, a bunch of issues were brought up, work-related issues as well as site issues. Lydia decided that after hearing my accounts of leaks and getting stuck in the mud, among other things, my current living situation was unacceptable. She gave my principals and circuit manager a deadline of February 6 to find me a new, leak-free house near public transport. To make a long story short, they found a new house for me. I saw it, and it seemed okay to me. Lydia also came and saw it and gave her approval. The house was in the process of being prepared for me when I left to go to Cait's site.

When I was at IST, the new house fell through. I brought up this point at the meeting I had with Lydia and Lisa. They came to the decision to move me from my site. I was overjoyed. I would be given a new site, with new schools, a new village, a new house. A fresh start!! The move will be happening before the end of the month. For the time being, I'm back at my site (I got back from IST on Tuesday), wrapping things up at my schools while Lydia finds me a new site.

So, while I may be slightly frustrated with Peace Corps staff with regards to leave issues, I am really happy and grateful for all of their help with regards to my site issues. Sometimes it's nice to know that I have that support system behind me.

IST was, in general, a great time. It was held at a lodge just outside of Polokwane, the provincial capital. I shared a room with my friend Dan (check out his blog). We had a great time. It was a room with a flush toilet(!), a hot shower(!!), and air-conditioning(!!!). We spent 8 days eating good, large meals. I probably gained a few pounds. We played football in our free time. There was a small pool. I probably took at least 20 showers during my stay there. Our training sessions were well-run and informative, and I learned a lot.

But, most importantly, I spent a lot of time with my favorite people in South Africa--my fellow PCVs. When I look back on it, that's what I will remember. I can't recount exactly how much time I spent with Dan, Tom, Seth, Ivy, and Nichole listening to, and debating the intricacies of, Tenacious D. Probably more than is healthy! We would discuss and debate songs. For example:
WONDERBOY: This song starts out great, and legit, and then just turns absurd in the best possible way. "Mind-bullets?!?" And where, exactly, is the "Crevasse Village?"
ONE NOTE SONG: Who does the "bendy" first? Is It JB? Or, as Dan would argue, KG? The debate is heated.
F*CK HER GENTLY: After our Life-Skills Training, I asked whether this song was passive, agressive, or assertive. I mean, what about this line? "That's cool with me, it's not my favorite but I'll do it for you." Sounds pretty damned passive to me!
DOUBLE TEAM: What, exactly, constitutes a "side-hatch"? And what is the proper pronounciation of "underpants"?
MALIBU NIGHTS: I proposed the theory that, in terms of sheer number of laughs in the shortest amount of time, Malibu Nights is the funniest, best Tenacious D song. The theory hasn't been disproven.

....and the list goes on...

While we were at IST, the South African film Tsotsi won Best Foreign Film at the Oscars. We didn't get to see the awards, obviously, but the local channels played clips of the acceptance speech during the news. Best. Acceptance. Speech. Ever! I don't know if many of you saw the awards, but during the Tsotsi acceptance speech, the director yelled out "Nkosi sikelel i Africa!" which translates to "God bless Africa". It's also the opening line of the South African nantional anthem. Pretty badass, I think.

While I was at IST, I also signed up for the Longtom half-marathon. It will be held next month. I'm going to walk it; next year I'll try to run it. It's for a great cause, the Kgwale le Mollo Foundation. For more info on KLM, check out http://kgwalelemollo.org/ (and if you are interested in donating to this worthy cause, send me an email to omar.ahmed@gmail.com and I will forward you a donation form. It's all US tax-deductible and legit.)

So now, I'm back at my site, wrapping things up. There are a lot of things that I'm happy to leave behind, but there will also be a lot of things that I will miss. Children playing in the sandy street. Friendly greetings from villagers as I walk by. Children running with me when I run laps around the soccer field, just to keep me company. The beautiful mountains of Venda. And, most importantly, I will miss my host family--Max, Happy, and Hlaluko.

If you are planning on sending me any mail or packages, don't. International mail usually takes 2-3 weeks to arrive, and by that time I will probably be at my new site.

So now, I leave you with some words from the (funniest!) Tenacious D song, Malibu Nights. It sums up my opinions on life, love, religion, politics, philosophy, charity, and anything else you can think of.

"Because it's time for my breakfast.
Time for some cheese."

Take care.