With apologies to past years and my family at home, this weekend I celebrated the best Thanksgiving of my entire life.
I wasn't expecting that at all, honestly. I thought that my very first thanksgiving out of the country and away from my family was going to be incredibly difficult. I thought I would be a depressed, crying, miserable, mess. Instead, I feel like everything that I really do have to be thankful for was just thrown into a sharp relief, and the day became so much more meaningful. About 15 of us got together, made delicious food, hung out and talked, toasted everything that we had to be thankful for, made a mess, ate to the point of pain, sat around holding our stomachs, and then ate some more. I was sad not to be with my family in the US of course, but this weekend for the first time it was really brought home to me how much all of the other volunteers have become my family. These are my brothers and my sisters, we commiserate and talk shit and cook and irritate eachother, but most of all we're all there for eachother. I spent Thanksgiving with my family, and I'm so grateful.
It was also the best thanksgiving ever because I got a HUGE packet of mail! Peace Corps had sent it all to another volunteer (damn the fielding-miller/miller nonsense). I got letters from my parents, from Erin and Roy and signed by a ton of other people (what a great idea guys, thank you SO much!!!), The Princess Bride, Pirates of the Caribbean, and a DVD full of excellent music from my charming and fantastic baby brother. So later in the evening, we all sat around watching Pirates and talking and picking at left over turkey -- followed by watching the international edition of The Daily Show (!! bliss!!!), the Simpsons, and ESPN's updates on college football. Maybe that doesn't sound like a lot, but here its almost a small miracle. It was like having a small piece of home out in a place where I can appreciate it even more.
I'm aware that this whole thing is poorly written, and I'll come back and fix it later. But I wanted to share, while I'm still on cloud 9, what a wonderful weekend I've just had. In the words of Angie, "When I'm 80 and sitting around with my grandkids at Thanksgiving, I just know I'll be thinking: 'you guys are ok I guess, but that Thanksgiving 2006 in South Africa was the SHIT!'"
Also, bagels are a pain in the ass to make, but worth it.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Friday, November 24, 2006
Disjointed Thoughts
My laptop battery died so I didn't get to type up any sort of elaborate eloquent post to put up today, so instead you just get some random thoughts as they occur to me:
- My house was hit by lightning, and everything electronic that I was was blown out by a power surge. There are also scorch marks on my walls and I am still sweeping up bits of plaster. Fun, huh? I wasn't in the room at the time, and wasn't hurt. Fortunately, neither was my computer.
- I am worth at least 30 cows, in terms of lobola (bride price). But I might be too expensive to marry since I don't eat pap.
- Grade R (kindergarten) graduations are pretty much the most adorable things ever.
- I don't know what the hell is going on with my mail, but hold off on any packages or letters you may be sending -- I think I'm going to get a new address since nothing is getting to me.
Thats all for now, sorry to be brief. Happy Thanksgiving!!
Thursday, November 16, 2006
On Taxis
Taxis are the customary means of transportation for your friendly neighborhood Peace Corps Volunteer here in South Africa. Well, taxis, my own two feet, hitch-hiking, motorcycles, donkey carts, and the occasional stolen car (just kidding about a couple of those…hi Peace Corps!) They’re efficient, if you’re willing to give the word an extremely elastic definition. One that totally ignores any concept of time, speed, promptness or, well efficiency. But you can get to any village, any place in the country, for very little money…eventually.
The initial step in hailing a taxi is very simple. I walk outside of my room and go stand in the street. There is no set schedule of when one of those capricious, disintegrating, hurtling tin cans will decide to mosey by. You just wait until one does. Its not like they would be on time if there were a time-table anyway. So you stand, and you wait. A crowd of school-children walk past and giggle. They say “good morning” no matter what time of day it is, because for some reason that’s the only greeting they are ever taught in English, or the only one they remember. The braver ones might say “hihowareyou” in an incredibly nasal voice. This is meant to imitate my thick, exotic, and generally ridiculous American accent. The only correct response is “I am fine, and you?” because it’s the only one they learned. When I’m feeling particularly exhausted of being the village sideshow attraction I might purposely respond with “not too shabby, what’s cracking with you?” because I know that they have absolutely no clue what I’ve just said. But generally the prescribed English, or the siSwati “ngikhona.” (I’m here/I’m fine) works just fine. The children continue walking, their entire day’s topic of conversation now taken care of and taken up by the bizarre “Mistress Nomvula.”
I wait some more. A few bakkies (pick-up trucks with anywhere from 2 to 25 people in back) whiz by. Some cows cruise down the road, impervious to the honking and swearing of whoever is trying to get somewhere behind them. A Steenbok traffic jam. A gogo by herself or in a pack walks up. (I haven’t decided yet what the correct term for a plurality of gogos is. I’m sure it exists.) They look at me as if I’m doing something slightly sketchy, and I say “sanibonani, bomake” (good day, mothers). Immediately their faces light up and we exchange pleasantries. Greeting gogos is one of my favorite parts about wrestling with this ridiculous language. They’re always ecstatic and I like to try and drag the conversation out as far as I can. They’re very patient, and at every broken sentence or attempt they will clap their hands and try to find someone new to point out this miraculous and novel white woman to. In fact, greeting in general can change the tone of an entire interaction. I’ve had young men go from looking at me like a walking job, wallet, and evil oppressor all rolled into one, to a friend in just a brief sentence. A young woman working in a shop will switch from ‘ma’am’ to ‘sesi’ (sister). A grandfather giving me the evil eye will burst into an enormous toothless grin. Its an amazing, breathtaking experience each time, even though it happens 3 or 4 times a day, and one that I don’t think will ever get old. Going from mistress to sister…I like that.
The gogos continue on to take care of their important gogo related business (I’m sure it involves some form of world domination) and I wait some more. Finally, there, on the horizon – is it? Could it be? It’s a taxi. It stops at least 5 times between when I spot its tell-tale cloud of dust and when it finally gets to me. I put my hand up and point my finger in the air – I’m heading out of town. The taxi pulls over and I yank open the sliding door of the minivan. If I’m lucky, it rolls open smoothly and there are only 3 or 4 people already inside, a few of whom I already know. If I’m not so lucky then I jerk a few times, nothing happens, the person next to the door bangs a little bit just for the heck of it, the driver turns the engine off, walks around, and manhandles the thing as far as he can. Then I climb in, watching my head because of the rope that is tag-teaming with the rust to keep the door in place, and squeeze myself in, between an enormous gogo and a mother breast-feeding her baby. In front of us a man is holding a box of chickens and next to him another man holding a box of beer. We sit 4 to a row in benches meant to hold 3 and the driver will attempt to cram at least 23 people into that poor little minivan. It can be done, I’ve seen it.
This entire process can take anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour.
I pay my dollar (R6,50) and that taxi drops me off at the taxi rink, where minivans, hawkers, drivers, and passengers all swirl around in a cloud of smoke and diesel and yelling. I greet the taxi marshall, whose job bears a striking resemblance to that of a circus ringmaster. He’s starting to recognize me, and points out the taxi I want. Then there’s a little more waiting involved. The taxi won’t leave until it is completely full – all 16 seats taken. If that takes 15 minutes great, if it takes 2 hours (and it has taken 2 hours) well, you weren’t trying to get around Africa in a hurry, were you? Rookie move.
Finally the taxi is full. I pass my fare up and try to make friends with the nearest middle-aged woman or gogo. This is a precautionary, defensive move, because inevitably I will be hit on by whatever man, drunk or sober (usually drunk) has decided today that I look like a pretty good ticket to American citizenship and a life of ease in that great, rich country where the streets are paved with gold and no alcoholic ever has to work. Busting out the siSwati is no help in this situation, it just encourages them. I’ve told men that I’m married, that my lobola is far too high, that I’m 14, that my parents expect me to come home again sans husband. None of them seem to work. I honestly don’t mind most of the time. Messing with their heads is an entertaining way to pass a long taxi ride, and its pretty good boost to the ego. There are certain key phrases that signal where the conversation is about to go:
“what time is it?” = “I’m about to start hitting on you mercilessly. Gear up.”
“Are you married?” = “I would really like to be an American citizen”
“Ngiwutandza.” = “I love you (lets get it on right here).”
So that’s fun. Finally though the taxi gets to where its going, which is hopefully within a mile or two of where I would like to be. I hop out, go do my shopping or whatever I’ve come for, and eventually amble on back to the taxi rink to do it all over again.
Nothing is ever boring here.
The initial step in hailing a taxi is very simple. I walk outside of my room and go stand in the street. There is no set schedule of when one of those capricious, disintegrating, hurtling tin cans will decide to mosey by. You just wait until one does. Its not like they would be on time if there were a time-table anyway. So you stand, and you wait. A crowd of school-children walk past and giggle. They say “good morning” no matter what time of day it is, because for some reason that’s the only greeting they are ever taught in English, or the only one they remember. The braver ones might say “hihowareyou” in an incredibly nasal voice. This is meant to imitate my thick, exotic, and generally ridiculous American accent. The only correct response is “I am fine, and you?” because it’s the only one they learned. When I’m feeling particularly exhausted of being the village sideshow attraction I might purposely respond with “not too shabby, what’s cracking with you?” because I know that they have absolutely no clue what I’ve just said. But generally the prescribed English, or the siSwati “ngikhona.” (I’m here/I’m fine) works just fine. The children continue walking, their entire day’s topic of conversation now taken care of and taken up by the bizarre “Mistress Nomvula.”
I wait some more. A few bakkies (pick-up trucks with anywhere from 2 to 25 people in back) whiz by. Some cows cruise down the road, impervious to the honking and swearing of whoever is trying to get somewhere behind them. A Steenbok traffic jam. A gogo by herself or in a pack walks up. (I haven’t decided yet what the correct term for a plurality of gogos is. I’m sure it exists.) They look at me as if I’m doing something slightly sketchy, and I say “sanibonani, bomake” (good day, mothers). Immediately their faces light up and we exchange pleasantries. Greeting gogos is one of my favorite parts about wrestling with this ridiculous language. They’re always ecstatic and I like to try and drag the conversation out as far as I can. They’re very patient, and at every broken sentence or attempt they will clap their hands and try to find someone new to point out this miraculous and novel white woman to. In fact, greeting in general can change the tone of an entire interaction. I’ve had young men go from looking at me like a walking job, wallet, and evil oppressor all rolled into one, to a friend in just a brief sentence. A young woman working in a shop will switch from ‘ma’am’ to ‘sesi’ (sister). A grandfather giving me the evil eye will burst into an enormous toothless grin. Its an amazing, breathtaking experience each time, even though it happens 3 or 4 times a day, and one that I don’t think will ever get old. Going from mistress to sister…I like that.
The gogos continue on to take care of their important gogo related business (I’m sure it involves some form of world domination) and I wait some more. Finally, there, on the horizon – is it? Could it be? It’s a taxi. It stops at least 5 times between when I spot its tell-tale cloud of dust and when it finally gets to me. I put my hand up and point my finger in the air – I’m heading out of town. The taxi pulls over and I yank open the sliding door of the minivan. If I’m lucky, it rolls open smoothly and there are only 3 or 4 people already inside, a few of whom I already know. If I’m not so lucky then I jerk a few times, nothing happens, the person next to the door bangs a little bit just for the heck of it, the driver turns the engine off, walks around, and manhandles the thing as far as he can. Then I climb in, watching my head because of the rope that is tag-teaming with the rust to keep the door in place, and squeeze myself in, between an enormous gogo and a mother breast-feeding her baby. In front of us a man is holding a box of chickens and next to him another man holding a box of beer. We sit 4 to a row in benches meant to hold 3 and the driver will attempt to cram at least 23 people into that poor little minivan. It can be done, I’ve seen it.
This entire process can take anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour.
I pay my dollar (R6,50) and that taxi drops me off at the taxi rink, where minivans, hawkers, drivers, and passengers all swirl around in a cloud of smoke and diesel and yelling. I greet the taxi marshall, whose job bears a striking resemblance to that of a circus ringmaster. He’s starting to recognize me, and points out the taxi I want. Then there’s a little more waiting involved. The taxi won’t leave until it is completely full – all 16 seats taken. If that takes 15 minutes great, if it takes 2 hours (and it has taken 2 hours) well, you weren’t trying to get around Africa in a hurry, were you? Rookie move.
Finally the taxi is full. I pass my fare up and try to make friends with the nearest middle-aged woman or gogo. This is a precautionary, defensive move, because inevitably I will be hit on by whatever man, drunk or sober (usually drunk) has decided today that I look like a pretty good ticket to American citizenship and a life of ease in that great, rich country where the streets are paved with gold and no alcoholic ever has to work. Busting out the siSwati is no help in this situation, it just encourages them. I’ve told men that I’m married, that my lobola is far too high, that I’m 14, that my parents expect me to come home again sans husband. None of them seem to work. I honestly don’t mind most of the time. Messing with their heads is an entertaining way to pass a long taxi ride, and its pretty good boost to the ego. There are certain key phrases that signal where the conversation is about to go:
“what time is it?” = “I’m about to start hitting on you mercilessly. Gear up.”
“Are you married?” = “I would really like to be an American citizen”
“Ngiwutandza.” = “I love you (lets get it on right here).”
So that’s fun. Finally though the taxi gets to where its going, which is hopefully within a mile or two of where I would like to be. I hop out, go do my shopping or whatever I’ve come for, and eventually amble on back to the taxi rink to do it all over again.
Nothing is ever boring here.
Friday, November 03, 2006
In which there's a light drizzle
I just got totally busted for having a messy room and dirty sneakers. The messy room I can almost see…sort of (and its not even near a mess for those of you who have seen my place in the States!). But really, sneakers? Its been raining like it’s the end of the world here for the past few days, and I walk to my school in the morning. Of course my shoes were a little dirty! So I had two pairs of shoes and half my clothes taken away from me, apparently on the theory that I am too American/white/incompetent to wash my own clothes.
But other than the fact that I’m an utter slob, things are still going well here. It’s the rainy season now, though its also summer. This means that its ridiculously hot, but we also get a solid dose of humidity thrown in now. It gets hot, hot, hot. The air pushes down on you, the sun tries to suck every drop of moisture out of you that it can find, and all you can do is lie down and sweat and wait for it to be over. You start thinking, “oh god, why can’t it just rain?” and then it will get so heavy, so oppressive, that eventually it seems like even the sky itself can’t stand it. The air around you begins to curdle, to twist in on itself, pushing you even harder, becoming so viscous you can nearly hold it in your hand and then its all just been stretched too far, twisted too hard, and it all explodes in on itself in some of the most mind-blowing thunder storms that you’ve ever seeen. Houses shake with every boom, the sky looks like its being torn apart with every bolt. It quite literally sounds like the voice of God, and to see a summer squall out here is to understand where that phrase came from. I love it. Even if it does make my sneakers dirty. After all, my name here is Nomvula, which in fact means “rain.”
My name is actually something of a mystery, but one that I’m enjoying teasing apart. We all got new, South African, generally Zulu, names within a week of arriving here. Our host families during training renamed us, and while most people got names like Sihle, Zinhle, Lerato, Sibusisu (pretty, beautiful, love, blessing, etc…), even Shaka. I got Nomvula. Which honestly miffed me a little at first. I mean, sure it was raining the day before we met our families but come on…how about a little creativity? Now I love it, I think its beautiful. And I can now officially claim that bad 80s song about the rain in Africa, I’ve decided its about me. (I’ve actually heard it on the radio a few times out here, it cracks me up every time). But every now and again as I chat with people they’ll translate my name not just as “rain” but as “she who brings the rain” or occasionally “mother of rain” or even “the mother of rain.” There are also Rain Queens in the Limpopo province. The rural parts of South Africa are on the whole very Christian (give or take the occasional muti-killing or resident sangoma) so it’s actually a little trickier than you would expect to pursue vague, possibly pre-Christian local beliefs. Nobody really seems to know exactly who this Nomvula person is or was, if it even is one particular personality and not just an honorific. (You should see the looks that I get when I ask who Nomvula is. “Its you, dummy!” Its sort of the same expression as when I mention riding a bike, driving a bus, or eating salad.) Or maybe they just won’t tell me about it.
Also, I think my wallet was stolen. From my room. Fucking lame.
But other than the fact that I’m an utter slob, things are still going well here. It’s the rainy season now, though its also summer. This means that its ridiculously hot, but we also get a solid dose of humidity thrown in now. It gets hot, hot, hot. The air pushes down on you, the sun tries to suck every drop of moisture out of you that it can find, and all you can do is lie down and sweat and wait for it to be over. You start thinking, “oh god, why can’t it just rain?” and then it will get so heavy, so oppressive, that eventually it seems like even the sky itself can’t stand it. The air around you begins to curdle, to twist in on itself, pushing you even harder, becoming so viscous you can nearly hold it in your hand and then its all just been stretched too far, twisted too hard, and it all explodes in on itself in some of the most mind-blowing thunder storms that you’ve ever seeen. Houses shake with every boom, the sky looks like its being torn apart with every bolt. It quite literally sounds like the voice of God, and to see a summer squall out here is to understand where that phrase came from. I love it. Even if it does make my sneakers dirty. After all, my name here is Nomvula, which in fact means “rain.”
My name is actually something of a mystery, but one that I’m enjoying teasing apart. We all got new, South African, generally Zulu, names within a week of arriving here. Our host families during training renamed us, and while most people got names like Sihle, Zinhle, Lerato, Sibusisu (pretty, beautiful, love, blessing, etc…), even Shaka. I got Nomvula. Which honestly miffed me a little at first. I mean, sure it was raining the day before we met our families but come on…how about a little creativity? Now I love it, I think its beautiful. And I can now officially claim that bad 80s song about the rain in Africa, I’ve decided its about me. (I’ve actually heard it on the radio a few times out here, it cracks me up every time). But every now and again as I chat with people they’ll translate my name not just as “rain” but as “she who brings the rain” or occasionally “mother of rain” or even “the mother of rain.” There are also Rain Queens in the Limpopo province. The rural parts of South Africa are on the whole very Christian (give or take the occasional muti-killing or resident sangoma) so it’s actually a little trickier than you would expect to pursue vague, possibly pre-Christian local beliefs. Nobody really seems to know exactly who this Nomvula person is or was, if it even is one particular personality and not just an honorific. (You should see the looks that I get when I ask who Nomvula is. “Its you, dummy!” Its sort of the same expression as when I mention riding a bike, driving a bus, or eating salad.) Or maybe they just won’t tell me about it.
Also, I think my wallet was stolen. From my room. Fucking lame.
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