I'm leaving for Vienna tonight, to spend some time interning at the international AIDS conference. I will try and write a note or two while I'm there, but I might just be busy working. I had a moment yesterday though, that I've been mulling over since and wanted to try and articulate.
At the mall, a lady asked me if I wanted to sign up for some mailing letter, or something, so that I could continue to receive the company's excellent product. I said no thanks because I was just visiting, and she asked me where my home town was -- where was I going back to? And I realized that that was actually kind of a tricky question at the moment. Its not Baltimore anymore, its not Mbabane yet, it may or may not eventually be DC. I told the lady it was complicated and laughed, and moved on. Then I got to thinking, its not like this is the first or the last time in my life that that question has thrown me a little bit. Where do you live? Good question. When I was travelling and would have to mark my hometown on a border crossing form of some sort, it always seemed odd to write down a place where I hadn't lived in seven years. And then I thought some more -- of course it will always be Ventura.
The point is, the fact that it doesn't bother me for that question to occasionally be a bit confusing, but that I also have the security of knowing there will always be answer, well...thanks mom and dad. I'm going to head off and start doing ridiculous things for ridiculous stories again, but I could never do all this wandering if I didn't know for sure that there was something so strong right behind me.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Sunday, May 09, 2010
The sequel...
Its been 18 months since I left. And in 3 more? I'm heading back.
Stories, songs, inane observations, and related verbal rambling to follow soon.
Friday, November 07, 2008
Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates, aka*
On the 28th, after a little bit of doubt, I made it to Atlanta from Paris. On Hallowe'en (somebody's new year) I found myself back in Ventura California after slightly over 27 months away. (Plenty of photos of all that, plus previous travelling are up at Snapfish.) I will now attempt to become a productive member of society in a country that -- lucky for me -- seems to suddenly be brand new for all of us. The last couple of years have been a great adventure and a great joy, but as I am no longer wandering South Africa (no matter how much I wish I was) that means that it is time for this blog to make an end. Until the next time I hop on a plane of course. But, in anticipation of that moment, I will just say PEACE OUT! And leave you with the lyrics of the great Paul Simon:
A man walks down the street
It's a street in a strange world
Maybe it's the Third World
Maybe it's his first time around
He doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says Amen! and Hallelujah!
*The End
A man walks down the street
It's a street in a strange world
Maybe it's the Third World
Maybe it's his first time around
He doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says Amen! and Hallelujah!
*The End
Monday, October 20, 2008
Zanzibar for Obama
Since the last time I wrote, I've embarked on a 40-hour train ride (in which I learned the kiSwahili phrases for both "My name is not Mzungu!" and "No, thank you." Useful.), briefly peaked at Lake Victoria (fishy), took a 15 hour landrover ride across the Serengeti and Ngorogoro conservation area (Big. And dusty), spent a day chilling in a Masai village, and managed a brief but eminently satisfying view of Mt. Kilimanjaro, snows and all. Wow. It's outrageous just to read that sentence, isn't it? Sometimes I take a second to reflect on all the places I've been, and people I've met in the last couple of months, and I find myself simply flabbergasted. It is unbelievable that I have had the good luck to experience a trip like this, and I try to spend at least a minute or two each day feeling greatful for it. To be fair, this is usually not the minute when some street-vendor or other has started up with a combination of 'flirting' and selling me something I don't want. Occasionally he will throw in a reference to how fat I am and how attractive African men find this. At this point I usually throw the concept of cultural-sensitivity out and respond exactly as I please:
"Big mama! How are you today! Nice t-shirts, good price!" (while puffing out his cheeks and miming a big stomach. Or, occasionally, making eating motions. My favorite.)
"Hey, Fuck you! I'm great, no thanks." I talk fast and say it all with a big smile. You can get away with anything with a big smile. I doubt they even hear me.
A lot of this has been going on recently, since a few days after my brief view of Mt. Kilimanjaro (how much longer is the snow there supposed to last, anyways?) I made my way to Zanzibar. Which is FANTASTIC. I hesitate to label any place I've been as a favorite, I feel like everything should be evaluated in its own time and place and context and, I've loved almost everywhere. But despite the almost obscene amount of tourists wandering the island, and the obscenely irritating number of shops, street-vendors, and people generally trying to make a buck that the tourists have generated, Zanzibar -- and Stone Town, where I am now -- is still amazing. Zanzibar is the center of a swirl of every culture, language, religion, and individual quirk that has ever seemingly wandered across the African continent. Hindu temples and shops, Omani mosques, a Portugese fort, remnants of hundreds of different southern, central, and African tribes -- come as either willing traders or as slaves to be sold in the last slave market in Africa -- all shape the place and the language and the food and the smells. I just don't have words for it.
And its hard to mind the tourists in that case, because in a place where cultures and people from across the world have ebbed and flowed for over 1,000 years, it makes perfect sense that toddlers now shout "Ciao!" as well as "Jambo!," that restaurants ease Swahili food for European mouths, and the sheer amount of energy and infrastructure that goes into, well...international trade, I suppose you could say. (Even put into this context, however, the man who has been trying to sell me bootleg swahili reggae CDs for the past 3 days still irritates the living crap out of me). So I love it. Zanzibar is the home of intersections, of contrasts, of blending and bending and history and modern crap. The last slave market in Africa is now the home of "Zanzibar for Obama!" election headquarters.
"Big mama! How are you today! Nice t-shirts, good price!" (while puffing out his cheeks and miming a big stomach. Or, occasionally, making eating motions. My favorite.)
"Hey, Fuck you! I'm great, no thanks." I talk fast and say it all with a big smile. You can get away with anything with a big smile. I doubt they even hear me.
A lot of this has been going on recently, since a few days after my brief view of Mt. Kilimanjaro (how much longer is the snow there supposed to last, anyways?) I made my way to Zanzibar. Which is FANTASTIC. I hesitate to label any place I've been as a favorite, I feel like everything should be evaluated in its own time and place and context and, I've loved almost everywhere. But despite the almost obscene amount of tourists wandering the island, and the obscenely irritating number of shops, street-vendors, and people generally trying to make a buck that the tourists have generated, Zanzibar -- and Stone Town, where I am now -- is still amazing. Zanzibar is the center of a swirl of every culture, language, religion, and individual quirk that has ever seemingly wandered across the African continent. Hindu temples and shops, Omani mosques, a Portugese fort, remnants of hundreds of different southern, central, and African tribes -- come as either willing traders or as slaves to be sold in the last slave market in Africa -- all shape the place and the language and the food and the smells. I just don't have words for it.
And its hard to mind the tourists in that case, because in a place where cultures and people from across the world have ebbed and flowed for over 1,000 years, it makes perfect sense that toddlers now shout "Ciao!" as well as "Jambo!," that restaurants ease Swahili food for European mouths, and the sheer amount of energy and infrastructure that goes into, well...international trade, I suppose you could say. (Even put into this context, however, the man who has been trying to sell me bootleg swahili reggae CDs for the past 3 days still irritates the living crap out of me). So I love it. Zanzibar is the home of intersections, of contrasts, of blending and bending and history and modern crap. The last slave market in Africa is now the home of "Zanzibar for Obama!" election headquarters.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Stop Stealing My Chacos!!!!
The other day I got caught in a rainstorm blown in by an errant and early monsoon. I ran to the nearest open building, which happened to be a restaurant, and sat drinking chai massala (spiced tea) in Dar es Salaam on a Sunday afternoon during Ramadan. The day before that I took a 13 hour bus from Mbeya to Dar, and as the bus wound through a game reserve I saw herds of giraffe, zebra, kudu, and impala meandering along the side of the road. Even a small cluster of baby elephants lazing in the shade of a Baobab tree. From the window of a bus!
Sometimes, I take a second to think about all of the people and places and sights that I have been lucky enough to come across in the last 5 weeks, and I simply can't believe it. I am blown away that I have this opportunity, that I am walking in a place which, while hopefully it won't be a once in a lifetime visit, is certainly a once in a lifetime experience. I love this place, the different people and the different countries, and the different land, and I plan to spend a good deal more time here in the not-too-distant future, but that in no way detracts from the uniqueness of what I'm doing now. No stepping in the same river -- or the same daladala -- twice, and all that. To reduce it all down to the most basic summary: Its pretty badass that I get two months to wander through Africa all on my lonesome. I try very hard not to lose that perspective, even when busses take hours to fill, or trains break down for TWENTY FIVE HOURS, or people constantly try to sell me something or hustle me, or just otherwise part me from my cash. Its all part of the deal, and part of the story. While at times I do get so frustrated and exhausted of everything that I just want to scream and cry and break things, well, that sort of part of the package. If I wanted a no-hassle, no-fun vacation I would have signed up for club med. This is real. Whatever real is.
Today is Eid, the end of Ramadan, which matters in Dar es Salaam. Dar is a mix of seemingly everybody who has ever wandered across the African continent. Maasai in traditional wraps are hired as security guards at shops and cheap tourist hotels, which in turn are located across the road from massive mosques and hindu temples. People wander the streets in any traditional outfit you can think of, and the streets smell like fried samosas, sweets from the Taj Mahal Confectionary shop, spiced tea, live chicken, rotting garbage, bananas, coconut, coriander, and wet pavement from the last rain to blast through. I am undecided on if I like the place or not. When I first got here, all I could think was that it was so BIG. I was vaguely reminded of sketchier parts of Hollywood, but with a lot more mosques. Big, and busy too. Cars zoom up and down the streets, people are everywhere, the place is littered with shops and stands and carts and people people people. After wandering from laid-back Malawian village to village, its all a little overwhelming. In fact, it all reminded me a bit of the feeling of going into Pretoria's biggest mall two days before Christmas, after having spent three months straight in Steenbok. Just...too much.
Now I've been here for a few days though, and I'm slightly better adjusted. Hopefully this afternoon I'll begin moving on to Mwanza, on the shores of lake Victoria. I was supposed to do this yesterday, but...thats where the 25 hour train delay comes in. All part of the fun, right?
Sometimes, I take a second to think about all of the people and places and sights that I have been lucky enough to come across in the last 5 weeks, and I simply can't believe it. I am blown away that I have this opportunity, that I am walking in a place which, while hopefully it won't be a once in a lifetime visit, is certainly a once in a lifetime experience. I love this place, the different people and the different countries, and the different land, and I plan to spend a good deal more time here in the not-too-distant future, but that in no way detracts from the uniqueness of what I'm doing now. No stepping in the same river -- or the same daladala -- twice, and all that. To reduce it all down to the most basic summary: Its pretty badass that I get two months to wander through Africa all on my lonesome. I try very hard not to lose that perspective, even when busses take hours to fill, or trains break down for TWENTY FIVE HOURS, or people constantly try to sell me something or hustle me, or just otherwise part me from my cash. Its all part of the deal, and part of the story. While at times I do get so frustrated and exhausted of everything that I just want to scream and cry and break things, well, that sort of part of the package. If I wanted a no-hassle, no-fun vacation I would have signed up for club med. This is real. Whatever real is.
Today is Eid, the end of Ramadan, which matters in Dar es Salaam. Dar is a mix of seemingly everybody who has ever wandered across the African continent. Maasai in traditional wraps are hired as security guards at shops and cheap tourist hotels, which in turn are located across the road from massive mosques and hindu temples. People wander the streets in any traditional outfit you can think of, and the streets smell like fried samosas, sweets from the Taj Mahal Confectionary shop, spiced tea, live chicken, rotting garbage, bananas, coconut, coriander, and wet pavement from the last rain to blast through. I am undecided on if I like the place or not. When I first got here, all I could think was that it was so BIG. I was vaguely reminded of sketchier parts of Hollywood, but with a lot more mosques. Big, and busy too. Cars zoom up and down the streets, people are everywhere, the place is littered with shops and stands and carts and people people people. After wandering from laid-back Malawian village to village, its all a little overwhelming. In fact, it all reminded me a bit of the feeling of going into Pretoria's biggest mall two days before Christmas, after having spent three months straight in Steenbok. Just...too much.
Now I've been here for a few days though, and I'm slightly better adjusted. Hopefully this afternoon I'll begin moving on to Mwanza, on the shores of lake Victoria. I was supposed to do this yesterday, but...thats where the 25 hour train delay comes in. All part of the fun, right?
Monday, September 22, 2008
Sing Us A Song
I have finally managed to slow down a bit and stop jumping from place to place. After the marathon that was Botswana-Zambia, and even the first couple of days in Malawi, I feel like I am finally starting to relax and take things at a travellers place, without always worrying about the next place I'm going to and how important it is that I get there now now. On the one hand, this is very relaxing, but on the other it gives me much more of a vacation feeling which for some reason I feel like I am not -- nor should I be -- on. I can't explain this, maybe I feel like I'm supposed to be communing with Africa and not spending my days laying on hammocks and watching the lake swish back and forth. Thats what tourists do. I am not a tourist. I am a peace corps volunteer, and we do thinks a little different from that generic backpacker-on-holiday set. Except now I'm not. I'm just one more unemployed girl watching the lake swish back and forth while drinking beer in a hammock. Which is, of course, not the worst thing in the world to be by a long shot.
Recently a lot of that hammock-lounging has been taking place on Likoma Island, in the middle of Lake Malawi. Likoma is, as you would hope a small tropical island in the middle of a large Rift Valley Lake would be, very beautiful and very laid back. There are two roads on the island, and maybe twice as many cars (the fancy resort's land rover, the Unicef truck, the ambulance, and the German guy's green jeep). The sunsets are also up to standard, and so I won't bother to describe them, I'll just allow you to consult all of the postcard sunset imagery in your head. Besides being an (unemployed) bum, on Likoma I spent four days learning to SCUBA dive, and have decided that I am totally in love. Diving is like nothing else, you become completely a part of the water around you, as much as the fish and the rocks and the light that floats down in tendrils and waves. Its amazing to swim 3 inches above the sandy bottom of a lake, and know that the surface is 18 meters (thats 54 feet) above your head. Plus, the gasses and pressures and whatnot involved made my freshly burnt arm break out in little bubble-wrap like nodes. Icky and fun, what a great sport!
Unfortunately, I got those sunburnt arms from one of the most GOD AWFUL boating experiences of my entire life. Likoma, like I said, is an island in the middle of one of the world's largest freshwater lakes. So of course, you can only reach it by boat (or plane, but like I can afford a private plane flight). The boat of choice coming from the Malawian main land is the Ilala Ferry, a huge old steam boat thats been chugging up and down the lake for half a century. Most people rave about the thing. They have fantastic experiences, meet cool people, spend their time admiring the Mozambican and Malawian shores while drinking beer and generally having a good time. I, of course, happened to hop on during one of the worst storms of the year. Which really confused me, since there was no rain or clouds or even swells (though, in retrospect the ones I were estimating at 2-3 feet were probably a lot closer to seven, with occasionally bursts up into 9 or 10 if they were feeling particulary energetic.) There was just wind. Lots and lots of wind, which in turn made the boat rock and pitch continually, so that everything slid back and forth on the deck and most people had to give up and crawl to where they wanted to get. This still might have been fun (at no point did it feel dangerous -- just very rolly) had I not spent most of my time leaning over the side, trying not to lean over the side, or racing for the side, instead of just watching it all happen. So I was a little distracted and forgot the sunblock. (Mostly I was more angry than sick. Well, maybe almost as angry as sick. There was a lot of sick. BUT, I am not the one who gets sea-sick. I've been on boats my whole life! Don't the sea gods know this? I decided the problem was that we were on a lake and not an ocean. Stupid lake.)
Now, however, both my island and my lake times are up. Today I'm in a beautiful little place called in Nkhata Bay, staying at possibly one of the world's most social backpackers. So mostly I'm just hanging out and making friends before making the final run up to Tanzania. I like the place (Mayoka Village, should you ever find yourself here) for many reasons, but a major one is that they are heavily involved in the community around them, they don't set themselves apart. So last night a local church choir came to sing before dinner in the hopes of raising money for a new church roof. I like that this is something the owners would agree to, and something the church felt comfortable requesting. So the choir came up -- four ladies, two men, and a guy in back playing a keyboard with all the backbeats and synth settings he could muster. And the choir rocked out, and the ladies sang and dance, and the pastor/baritone held up his arms and called out 'Hallelujah!' whenever he felt the music required it, and the tourist audience sat quietly and attentively and applauded very nicely when it was over. And I laughed, because it was such a classic combining (I won't say clash, there was nothing violent) of cultures. Everybody played by their rules and wanted to be at their absolute best, and the rules were totally different on both sides. So the choir kept singing, and then of course the kitchen staff, and the barmen, and all the locals in the place got up and started singing and dancing too (because those are, of course, the proper rules to play by. There's no divide in African music, no performance space and audience space, no creator/reciever. Its all just music, and you're all inside of it) and the tourists thought to themselves 'oh, how charming' or maybe 'oh, how rude!' and I thought 'Rock on,' but I'm still too much of a chicken to get up and play even when I know the right rules. Until the next song, when the inevitable of course happened and the choir and other people up front starting pulling up the tourists to join -- starting with the girls in the front, of course -- and the tourists thought 'oh, how daring and how local we are!' and I'm sure the Malawians just laughed, or wondered what it was that glued those white butts to their wicker seats. Finally it ended like it should, with many people from many places up and dancing -- though still with a clear front and back to the room. Here is where people sing and dance, here is where we sit and admire people singing and dancing -- and a hat was passed around, and people gave money for the new church roof. I liked it. There was such an honest effort on both sides to come across that gap, or at least take an open eyed look. Nobody made it entirely to the other side of course, but it was a solid and friendly attempt. Which is all you can really ask, isn't it?
Recently a lot of that hammock-lounging has been taking place on Likoma Island, in the middle of Lake Malawi. Likoma is, as you would hope a small tropical island in the middle of a large Rift Valley Lake would be, very beautiful and very laid back. There are two roads on the island, and maybe twice as many cars (the fancy resort's land rover, the Unicef truck, the ambulance, and the German guy's green jeep). The sunsets are also up to standard, and so I won't bother to describe them, I'll just allow you to consult all of the postcard sunset imagery in your head. Besides being an (unemployed) bum, on Likoma I spent four days learning to SCUBA dive, and have decided that I am totally in love. Diving is like nothing else, you become completely a part of the water around you, as much as the fish and the rocks and the light that floats down in tendrils and waves. Its amazing to swim 3 inches above the sandy bottom of a lake, and know that the surface is 18 meters (thats 54 feet) above your head. Plus, the gasses and pressures and whatnot involved made my freshly burnt arm break out in little bubble-wrap like nodes. Icky and fun, what a great sport!
Unfortunately, I got those sunburnt arms from one of the most GOD AWFUL boating experiences of my entire life. Likoma, like I said, is an island in the middle of one of the world's largest freshwater lakes. So of course, you can only reach it by boat (or plane, but like I can afford a private plane flight). The boat of choice coming from the Malawian main land is the Ilala Ferry, a huge old steam boat thats been chugging up and down the lake for half a century. Most people rave about the thing. They have fantastic experiences, meet cool people, spend their time admiring the Mozambican and Malawian shores while drinking beer and generally having a good time. I, of course, happened to hop on during one of the worst storms of the year. Which really confused me, since there was no rain or clouds or even swells (though, in retrospect the ones I were estimating at 2-3 feet were probably a lot closer to seven, with occasionally bursts up into 9 or 10 if they were feeling particulary energetic.) There was just wind. Lots and lots of wind, which in turn made the boat rock and pitch continually, so that everything slid back and forth on the deck and most people had to give up and crawl to where they wanted to get. This still might have been fun (at no point did it feel dangerous -- just very rolly) had I not spent most of my time leaning over the side, trying not to lean over the side, or racing for the side, instead of just watching it all happen. So I was a little distracted and forgot the sunblock. (Mostly I was more angry than sick. Well, maybe almost as angry as sick. There was a lot of sick. BUT, I am not the one who gets sea-sick. I've been on boats my whole life! Don't the sea gods know this? I decided the problem was that we were on a lake and not an ocean. Stupid lake.)
Now, however, both my island and my lake times are up. Today I'm in a beautiful little place called in Nkhata Bay, staying at possibly one of the world's most social backpackers. So mostly I'm just hanging out and making friends before making the final run up to Tanzania. I like the place (Mayoka Village, should you ever find yourself here) for many reasons, but a major one is that they are heavily involved in the community around them, they don't set themselves apart. So last night a local church choir came to sing before dinner in the hopes of raising money for a new church roof. I like that this is something the owners would agree to, and something the church felt comfortable requesting. So the choir came up -- four ladies, two men, and a guy in back playing a keyboard with all the backbeats and synth settings he could muster. And the choir rocked out, and the ladies sang and dance, and the pastor/baritone held up his arms and called out 'Hallelujah!' whenever he felt the music required it, and the tourist audience sat quietly and attentively and applauded very nicely when it was over. And I laughed, because it was such a classic combining (I won't say clash, there was nothing violent) of cultures. Everybody played by their rules and wanted to be at their absolute best, and the rules were totally different on both sides. So the choir kept singing, and then of course the kitchen staff, and the barmen, and all the locals in the place got up and started singing and dancing too (because those are, of course, the proper rules to play by. There's no divide in African music, no performance space and audience space, no creator/reciever. Its all just music, and you're all inside of it) and the tourists thought to themselves 'oh, how charming' or maybe 'oh, how rude!' and I thought 'Rock on,' but I'm still too much of a chicken to get up and play even when I know the right rules. Until the next song, when the inevitable of course happened and the choir and other people up front starting pulling up the tourists to join -- starting with the girls in the front, of course -- and the tourists thought 'oh, how daring and how local we are!' and I'm sure the Malawians just laughed, or wondered what it was that glued those white butts to their wicker seats. Finally it ended like it should, with many people from many places up and dancing -- though still with a clear front and back to the room. Here is where people sing and dance, here is where we sit and admire people singing and dancing -- and a hat was passed around, and people gave money for the new church roof. I liked it. There was such an honest effort on both sides to come across that gap, or at least take an open eyed look. Nobody made it entirely to the other side of course, but it was a solid and friendly attempt. Which is all you can really ask, isn't it?
Monday, September 08, 2008
Evidence
Today I'm in Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi, after saying my goodbyes to Zambia. The border crossing was memorable mostly for the sheer number of times you have to change modes of transportation to travel less than 100 kilometers.
First there is the shared taxi from the Zambian border town. Apparently there used to be mini busses a year or two ago, but they were done away with since they weren't filling fast enough. Instead, little toyotas patrol back and forth from the border, leaving town when they fill up, shuttling people over, and then stuffing themselves full again before shuttling back. When I say little toyotas, I mean approximately 1998 camrys, not land rovers, and by full I mean at least 6 full grown adults -- not counting the driver. Four cram into the backseat, which isn't so bad, but then two more stuff themselves into the front passenger before the driver will even think of taking off. And in my ride, at least, I was not the biggest of these people. A feat I don't think I've seen attempted since college -- Picnic Day, usually -- and never without the influence, procurement, or escape from the consequences of, alcohol involved. (With adults in a sedan, at any rate, I can't even remember the record for the Chia car in high school, but I know it was a solid 2 digit number at the least).
Eventually we made it, though, and the driver kindly dropped me off exactly at the border post -- not before he and about 17 of his friends had even more kindly 'helped' me to exchange all my Zambian Kwacha for the Malawian brand. But the price was fair, and forex's are a pain, so even that wasn't so bad. I got myself stamped out of Zambia -- where the exit and security procedures include waving down the customs officer from his chat with the cold drink lady, having him stamp your passport without much inquisitiveness, and then being pointed in the direction of a large ledger book, where you are instructed to write down your name, country of origin, and mode of transport, for purposes that elude me, and probably the customs officer as well. What, if anything, is ever done with this book is a mystery to me, but I've learned its never a good idea to argue with the man holding the large rubber stamp, so I filled in the book and off I went. The same process essentially applies in Malawi, including the over-full toyota sedans and the men desperate to exchange cash. But finally I made it onto a bus heading to Lilongwe and into Malawi proper.
To be honest, I came prepared to love Malawi -- its talked up so much, "the lake of stars" "the warm heart of Africa"... -- so perhaps I was already a little biased, but certainly not dissapointed. I've been here two full days, and only to the capital, and so far I'm already in love. On the way in we passed three weddings (a pleasant departure from the funerals that always seem to line the sides of the road in South Africa), and two men walking down the road in traditional Chewa dress. I don't know why, but it still made me happy. The man next to me in the taxi took it upon himself to be my personal tour guide, pointing out "this one, it's Chewa culture! Of course!!" whenever we passed anything remotely Chewa-related, and punctuating everything with a huge laugh.
Today and yesterday I spent my time wandering old town Lilongwe, tomorrow I'll do the same, except with more purpose in mind. On friday I'm off to Likoma island, and will attempt to learn to Scuba dive, so money and sunblock will be the goals of the day.
First there is the shared taxi from the Zambian border town. Apparently there used to be mini busses a year or two ago, but they were done away with since they weren't filling fast enough. Instead, little toyotas patrol back and forth from the border, leaving town when they fill up, shuttling people over, and then stuffing themselves full again before shuttling back. When I say little toyotas, I mean approximately 1998 camrys, not land rovers, and by full I mean at least 6 full grown adults -- not counting the driver. Four cram into the backseat, which isn't so bad, but then two more stuff themselves into the front passenger before the driver will even think of taking off. And in my ride, at least, I was not the biggest of these people. A feat I don't think I've seen attempted since college -- Picnic Day, usually -- and never without the influence, procurement, or escape from the consequences of, alcohol involved. (With adults in a sedan, at any rate, I can't even remember the record for the Chia car in high school, but I know it was a solid 2 digit number at the least).
Eventually we made it, though, and the driver kindly dropped me off exactly at the border post -- not before he and about 17 of his friends had even more kindly 'helped' me to exchange all my Zambian Kwacha for the Malawian brand. But the price was fair, and forex's are a pain, so even that wasn't so bad. I got myself stamped out of Zambia -- where the exit and security procedures include waving down the customs officer from his chat with the cold drink lady, having him stamp your passport without much inquisitiveness, and then being pointed in the direction of a large ledger book, where you are instructed to write down your name, country of origin, and mode of transport, for purposes that elude me, and probably the customs officer as well. What, if anything, is ever done with this book is a mystery to me, but I've learned its never a good idea to argue with the man holding the large rubber stamp, so I filled in the book and off I went. The same process essentially applies in Malawi, including the over-full toyota sedans and the men desperate to exchange cash. But finally I made it onto a bus heading to Lilongwe and into Malawi proper.
To be honest, I came prepared to love Malawi -- its talked up so much, "the lake of stars" "the warm heart of Africa"... -- so perhaps I was already a little biased, but certainly not dissapointed. I've been here two full days, and only to the capital, and so far I'm already in love. On the way in we passed three weddings (a pleasant departure from the funerals that always seem to line the sides of the road in South Africa), and two men walking down the road in traditional Chewa dress. I don't know why, but it still made me happy. The man next to me in the taxi took it upon himself to be my personal tour guide, pointing out "this one, it's Chewa culture! Of course!!" whenever we passed anything remotely Chewa-related, and punctuating everything with a huge laugh.
Today and yesterday I spent my time wandering old town Lilongwe, tomorrow I'll do the same, except with more purpose in mind. On friday I'm off to Likoma island, and will attempt to learn to Scuba dive, so money and sunblock will be the goals of the day.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Like a Hundred Million Hotdogs
Today I am in Lusaka after almost two weeks on the road. I got here via Botswana and Victoria Falls (sadly, the Zambian side only, I opted against a brief foray into Zimbabwe as a gift to you, mom) and tomorrow I start making my way into Malawi.
Northern Botswana is every image you have in your head about Africa, all distilled into one half of one country. Its full of huge expanses of bush and forests, crap roads, occasional small towns that are nothing much more than a couple of gas stations and a lady selling oranges, and rich tourists flying into remote $600 a night bush lodges on chartered planes to enjoy personal butlers and the chance to shoot/photograph something. Elephants, ostriches, giraffe, and all sorts of other animals wander the highways. A truck driver showed me the massive dent a buffalo made in the passenger-door one morning at 5am, a security guard at a campsite/lodge in the middle of nowhere (that I accessed by foot and not charter plane, by the way) told me stories of having to chase elephants out of the swimming pool with nothing more than a strobing flashlight (apparently elephants hate strobes, they run away from them instantly. So should you ever find yourself in the bush facing down an elephant... you're welcome.) I personally saw the ostriches and a giraffe just hanging out by the side of the road, not all that interested in the busload full of pointing Batswana -- and me.
Baobab trees also line the roads, and there's something really amazing and beautiful about those trees. I can't explain it, but there's a reason that they carry with them such a strong image of "the real Africa" (for whatever that phrase is worth) and are so iconic in so many people's imagination. They are, of course, enormous. As tall as a 3 or 4 story building, as big around as many houses I've seen, but their is also something vaguely silly about them. They're upside down trees, with their roots reaching up and who knows what going into the ground. But they are beautiful, and preposessing in a regal sort of way. They are old, old trees, that have seen a lot come and go over the centuries. If none of it bothered them, its hard to see a reason for you to get upset about what happened just an hour ago.
After Botswana I made my way into Zambia, across one of the tiniest borders in the world. The Botswana/Zambia border consists of about 25 feet of the Zambezi river, across which ferries that can hold all of 3 trucks and 40 people chug back and forth continually. Why the can't just build a bridge is a mystery to me -- the river can't be more than 30 feet across, and the lines of semis waiting for their turn on the ferry stretches at least the equivelant in miles -- but all the same, if you're on foot its pretty fun to cross borders on a ferry.
Crossing from Botswana to Zambia reminds me, in retrospect, of the crossing from South Africa into Mozambique -- calm to chaos, logic (as far as these things go) to anarchy. There is no line in the Zambian customs office (as much as there's ever a line anywhere in southern Africa) just a bunch of people shoving passports and 'temporary documents' at the customs officer, who stamped everything in site without much concern for the huge hordes of people, or the actual identity or nationality of the paper in front of him.
From the border I caught a public taxi with a driver who had decided to hang the days catch outside the window, and then drive at what couldn't have been over 70k/hour the whole 60k to Livingstone and so everything I own now reeks of dead Zambezi fish. On the plus side, he did drop me off exactly at the front door of where I was going -- after consulting 3 police officers, two other passengers, 5 ladies selling more dead fish at an open air market, and the guy who kept telling him he knew the exact address not once.
So, finally the next day I made it to Victoria Falls. Which is outstanding. I don't really have the words to describe it, its just the biggest thing you've ever seen, a cliff hundreds of feet long and that drops down sheer hundreds of feet down. Kayakers paddling around below you look like toys, and as the water falls over the cliff it hits with an unbelievable impact that -- in the rainy season -- can throw up plumes that can be seen as far as 2k away. I was reminded, watching the falls smash into the gorge below (and that is the word, the water falls so far that it literally smashes into the river underneath it) of nothing more than a sack of cement hitting the ground from 20 feet up, and throwing up dust all around it. And thats all water. Victoria Falls was originally known as Mosi Oa Tunya, the smoke that thunders, before Livingstone re-christened it, and the water is thrown up so far it looks like smoke, and hits so hard you can only be reminded of thunder. In the words of Eddie Izzard, we're going to have to take 'awesome' back (from who? from people like me, most of the time, unfortunately) because you can't just say that Victoria Falls, Mosi oa Tunya, is really really cool. It's awesome, in the original sense of the word.
Northern Botswana is every image you have in your head about Africa, all distilled into one half of one country. Its full of huge expanses of bush and forests, crap roads, occasional small towns that are nothing much more than a couple of gas stations and a lady selling oranges, and rich tourists flying into remote $600 a night bush lodges on chartered planes to enjoy personal butlers and the chance to shoot/photograph something. Elephants, ostriches, giraffe, and all sorts of other animals wander the highways. A truck driver showed me the massive dent a buffalo made in the passenger-door one morning at 5am, a security guard at a campsite/lodge in the middle of nowhere (that I accessed by foot and not charter plane, by the way) told me stories of having to chase elephants out of the swimming pool with nothing more than a strobing flashlight (apparently elephants hate strobes, they run away from them instantly. So should you ever find yourself in the bush facing down an elephant... you're welcome.) I personally saw the ostriches and a giraffe just hanging out by the side of the road, not all that interested in the busload full of pointing Batswana -- and me.
Baobab trees also line the roads, and there's something really amazing and beautiful about those trees. I can't explain it, but there's a reason that they carry with them such a strong image of "the real Africa" (for whatever that phrase is worth) and are so iconic in so many people's imagination. They are, of course, enormous. As tall as a 3 or 4 story building, as big around as many houses I've seen, but their is also something vaguely silly about them. They're upside down trees, with their roots reaching up and who knows what going into the ground. But they are beautiful, and preposessing in a regal sort of way. They are old, old trees, that have seen a lot come and go over the centuries. If none of it bothered them, its hard to see a reason for you to get upset about what happened just an hour ago.
After Botswana I made my way into Zambia, across one of the tiniest borders in the world. The Botswana/Zambia border consists of about 25 feet of the Zambezi river, across which ferries that can hold all of 3 trucks and 40 people chug back and forth continually. Why the can't just build a bridge is a mystery to me -- the river can't be more than 30 feet across, and the lines of semis waiting for their turn on the ferry stretches at least the equivelant in miles -- but all the same, if you're on foot its pretty fun to cross borders on a ferry.
Crossing from Botswana to Zambia reminds me, in retrospect, of the crossing from South Africa into Mozambique -- calm to chaos, logic (as far as these things go) to anarchy. There is no line in the Zambian customs office (as much as there's ever a line anywhere in southern Africa) just a bunch of people shoving passports and 'temporary documents' at the customs officer, who stamped everything in site without much concern for the huge hordes of people, or the actual identity or nationality of the paper in front of him.
From the border I caught a public taxi with a driver who had decided to hang the days catch outside the window, and then drive at what couldn't have been over 70k/hour the whole 60k to Livingstone and so everything I own now reeks of dead Zambezi fish. On the plus side, he did drop me off exactly at the front door of where I was going -- after consulting 3 police officers, two other passengers, 5 ladies selling more dead fish at an open air market, and the guy who kept telling him he knew the exact address not once.
So, finally the next day I made it to Victoria Falls. Which is outstanding. I don't really have the words to describe it, its just the biggest thing you've ever seen, a cliff hundreds of feet long and that drops down sheer hundreds of feet down. Kayakers paddling around below you look like toys, and as the water falls over the cliff it hits with an unbelievable impact that -- in the rainy season -- can throw up plumes that can be seen as far as 2k away. I was reminded, watching the falls smash into the gorge below (and that is the word, the water falls so far that it literally smashes into the river underneath it) of nothing more than a sack of cement hitting the ground from 20 feet up, and throwing up dust all around it. And thats all water. Victoria Falls was originally known as Mosi Oa Tunya, the smoke that thunders, before Livingstone re-christened it, and the water is thrown up so far it looks like smoke, and hits so hard you can only be reminded of thunder. In the words of Eddie Izzard, we're going to have to take 'awesome' back (from who? from people like me, most of the time, unfortunately) because you can't just say that Victoria Falls, Mosi oa Tunya, is really really cool. It's awesome, in the original sense of the word.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Homeward Bound
(slowly)
As of yesterday morning, I am no longer a Peace Corps Volunteer. I have officially COSed, and therefore am officially no longer the US governments problem if I do something stupid. Which is probably comforting for all of us. I was going to have some long, summing up "wow, Peace Corps sure was great"post, but I just read the one I made a couple of weeks ago, and I can't really think of a better summary than that intense feeling of awe and gratitude. So I'll leave it. And besides, as I've been saying goodbye to almost every person who has kept me going in the last two years, I've decided that its not really the goodbyes or the last nights out, or the summing up that counts, its all the stuff that came before it. So lets not worry about the end of PC, because it was everything up until the end that matters.
About two weeks ago I took Jabu and Latoya to the big mall in Nelspruit to say goodbye. We got all dressed up and went to Spur (a 'wild west' steak house) and then to see Batman. Neither of them had ever been to a movie theater before, and I really wanted to do something special as a way of saying goodbye. Those two were my best friends, and I'm really going to miss them a lot. The thought of never seeing them again, not seeing the type of people that they will grow up to be, makes me so sad that I've justdecided not to think about it. I did write down addresses (of course!) and give them mine -- I also gave Latoya a couple of pre-stamped envelopes with my address already on it, so in theory all they have to do is put some words in an envelope and drop the envelope through a slot. That is at least a little comforting.
This morning I have been wandering Gabarone, in Botswana. This is the first step on my 10 week amble across southern and eastern Africa. Gabarone is an interesting city, very laid back, very calm, though that could be because I've been doing all my wandering on a sunday morning. Probably its a little more hopping monday through friday. But the people are nice and the houses don't look like maximum security prisons (pretoria -- I'm looking at you), which is a definite bonus. Tomorrow morning I move on to a city called Ghanzi in the middle of the Kalahari. I'm excited.
As of yesterday morning, I am no longer a Peace Corps Volunteer. I have officially COSed, and therefore am officially no longer the US governments problem if I do something stupid. Which is probably comforting for all of us. I was going to have some long, summing up "wow, Peace Corps sure was great"post, but I just read the one I made a couple of weeks ago, and I can't really think of a better summary than that intense feeling of awe and gratitude. So I'll leave it. And besides, as I've been saying goodbye to almost every person who has kept me going in the last two years, I've decided that its not really the goodbyes or the last nights out, or the summing up that counts, its all the stuff that came before it. So lets not worry about the end of PC, because it was everything up until the end that matters.
About two weeks ago I took Jabu and Latoya to the big mall in Nelspruit to say goodbye. We got all dressed up and went to Spur (a 'wild west' steak house) and then to see Batman. Neither of them had ever been to a movie theater before, and I really wanted to do something special as a way of saying goodbye. Those two were my best friends, and I'm really going to miss them a lot. The thought of never seeing them again, not seeing the type of people that they will grow up to be, makes me so sad that I've justdecided not to think about it. I did write down addresses (of course!) and give them mine -- I also gave Latoya a couple of pre-stamped envelopes with my address already on it, so in theory all they have to do is put some words in an envelope and drop the envelope through a slot. That is at least a little comforting.
This morning I have been wandering Gabarone, in Botswana. This is the first step on my 10 week amble across southern and eastern Africa. Gabarone is an interesting city, very laid back, very calm, though that could be because I've been doing all my wandering on a sunday morning. Probably its a little more hopping monday through friday. But the people are nice and the houses don't look like maximum security prisons (pretoria -- I'm looking at you), which is a definite bonus. Tomorrow morning I move on to a city called Ghanzi in the middle of the Kalahari. I'm excited.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Home in the Land of the Homelands
As my time run outs, I find that my words seem to be as well. Two weeks ago I had my farewell function for my schools, and next Thursday (well, today by the time I get a chance to post this, I suppose) I will have left Steenbok forever and ever. And I don’t know what to say. Well, that’s not true. Of course I’m still me and the words never run out, but writing about leaving just makes everything so much more real and so I keep finding excuses not to. But two weeks to go is no time to quit, so I’ll do my best.
My farewell function was…well it was just as ridiculous as I ever could have dreamed. There were speeches and poems and dance performances by various learners who had been co-opted into entertaining the crowd. A couple of girls read poems that they had written, and my schools presented me with a full “Swazi” outfit and jewelry (and by Swazi they meant covered in lots and lots of beads. Its not traditional, but it is pretty cool). I gave a speech thanking everybody, we had a big meal and headed home. The whole thing was really touching, I couldn’t believe the effort so many people had gone through just to say goodbye to me. (A very Peace Corps sort of moment: walking to the function – the first time, before they made me walk back so that I could be picked up in style 2 hours later – I saw kids of all ages running around at 9am on a Friday when they should have been in class. Why no school? Because it had been shut down for the day to say thanks to me for all the work I’d done trying to help improve school! Oh well.)
Two weeks later, of course, I’m still here, and I keep running into people in the street who seem a little shocked by the fact. “Usahlala ekhaya?” “Utomuka nini?” (You’re still here? When are you leaving?) seems to be the standard refrain from every gogo I meet. They’re not being mean, we just spent 6 hours saying farewell, and then I didn’t go. It’s weird. I hate saying goodbye, and this extended three week process is very close to excruciating. It’s like tearing the world’s most epic band-aid off one hair at a time. I’ve been trying to keep myself busy, mostly by painting another world map at my key school – this one very tiny – and slowly giving away most of everything that I own. This has to be done incrementally, since if I start giving away too much at once it turns into a feeding frenzy and I have to beat off teachers and children with sticks. Recently though I was told that everything I own “even the spoons” must go to my host family. Really I don’t want to give them anything at all – except for the girls, of course – because generally they’re just not good people*. They don’t take care of things, or people, and I know they won’t value or take care of the things I give them. Which isn’t to say it won’t start an enormous amount of dispute and bad feeling if I don’t. But the passive-aggressive in me (or maybe just the part of me that has learned to pick its battles) says: ‘Fine, less work for me to do, then.’ I’ll pack my bag, clean the room, and they can sort through it all for me.
I think I sound bitter, but maybe a better word would be melancholy. I’ve spent two years in Steenbok, and its been an amazing transformative experience for me. I’m not really sure how to say goodbye, or how to summarize two years in a few sentences. It’s been…outstanding. Literally not a day has gone by when I haven’t felt an enormous sense of gratitude and privilege for the opportunity I’ve been given, for the people I’ve worked with, and the children who have been willing to play with me and teach me about their world. For the music and the language and the sunsets. Yesterday I took the bus home from Malelane. It took an uncommon turn into an out of the way village and we bumped down a dirt and sand road at what couldn’t have been more than 15 miles an hour. There was dust blowing up from both sides of the bus, cows ambling through the veld, kids running home from school, dancing in front of their houses, arguing with their friends on the footpaths that wound through the houses. I saw a gogo walking down the road with a walking stick that reached up to her shoulder and an old wrap and t-shirt she must have bought at the Naas market. The river was off to the left, and beyond that fields and fields full of mealies, po-po, cabbage, onion, tomato, sugar cane. And beyond that the Lubombo mountains that have hemmed me in and provided backdrop and border. It was nothing, it was an ordinary day in an ordinary village not far from my home. And all I could think was, “I am the luckiest girl alive.”
*Comforting, in its way, I suppose, to know that petty and selfish people extend across all cultures. No one country has the monopoly on jerk.
My farewell function was…well it was just as ridiculous as I ever could have dreamed. There were speeches and poems and dance performances by various learners who had been co-opted into entertaining the crowd. A couple of girls read poems that they had written, and my schools presented me with a full “Swazi” outfit and jewelry (and by Swazi they meant covered in lots and lots of beads. Its not traditional, but it is pretty cool). I gave a speech thanking everybody, we had a big meal and headed home. The whole thing was really touching, I couldn’t believe the effort so many people had gone through just to say goodbye to me. (A very Peace Corps sort of moment: walking to the function – the first time, before they made me walk back so that I could be picked up in style 2 hours later – I saw kids of all ages running around at 9am on a Friday when they should have been in class. Why no school? Because it had been shut down for the day to say thanks to me for all the work I’d done trying to help improve school! Oh well.)
Two weeks later, of course, I’m still here, and I keep running into people in the street who seem a little shocked by the fact. “Usahlala ekhaya?” “Utomuka nini?” (You’re still here? When are you leaving?) seems to be the standard refrain from every gogo I meet. They’re not being mean, we just spent 6 hours saying farewell, and then I didn’t go. It’s weird. I hate saying goodbye, and this extended three week process is very close to excruciating. It’s like tearing the world’s most epic band-aid off one hair at a time. I’ve been trying to keep myself busy, mostly by painting another world map at my key school – this one very tiny – and slowly giving away most of everything that I own. This has to be done incrementally, since if I start giving away too much at once it turns into a feeding frenzy and I have to beat off teachers and children with sticks. Recently though I was told that everything I own “even the spoons” must go to my host family. Really I don’t want to give them anything at all – except for the girls, of course – because generally they’re just not good people*. They don’t take care of things, or people, and I know they won’t value or take care of the things I give them. Which isn’t to say it won’t start an enormous amount of dispute and bad feeling if I don’t. But the passive-aggressive in me (or maybe just the part of me that has learned to pick its battles) says: ‘Fine, less work for me to do, then.’ I’ll pack my bag, clean the room, and they can sort through it all for me.
I think I sound bitter, but maybe a better word would be melancholy. I’ve spent two years in Steenbok, and its been an amazing transformative experience for me. I’m not really sure how to say goodbye, or how to summarize two years in a few sentences. It’s been…outstanding. Literally not a day has gone by when I haven’t felt an enormous sense of gratitude and privilege for the opportunity I’ve been given, for the people I’ve worked with, and the children who have been willing to play with me and teach me about their world. For the music and the language and the sunsets. Yesterday I took the bus home from Malelane. It took an uncommon turn into an out of the way village and we bumped down a dirt and sand road at what couldn’t have been more than 15 miles an hour. There was dust blowing up from both sides of the bus, cows ambling through the veld, kids running home from school, dancing in front of their houses, arguing with their friends on the footpaths that wound through the houses. I saw a gogo walking down the road with a walking stick that reached up to her shoulder and an old wrap and t-shirt she must have bought at the Naas market. The river was off to the left, and beyond that fields and fields full of mealies, po-po, cabbage, onion, tomato, sugar cane. And beyond that the Lubombo mountains that have hemmed me in and provided backdrop and border. It was nothing, it was an ordinary day in an ordinary village not far from my home. And all I could think was, “I am the luckiest girl alive.”
*Comforting, in its way, I suppose, to know that petty and selfish people extend across all cultures. No one country has the monopoly on jerk.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Extensions
Well, now my fingers are much warmer. Possibly because we recently got a new administrative block (building) at my key school. With that came several heating/air-conditioning units. With those came remote controls to regulate the ambient temperature. With that particular piece of modern convenience, of course, came the losing of said remote controls within five minutes of setting the clerk’s office at 32 degrees Celsius (aka, 90 degrees Fahrenheit). So my fingers are plenty warm now. Also I think I might pass out of heat stroke at any point in the next 15-20 minutes. But such are the sacrifices I’m willing to make to keep you happy, mom.
Girls camp, then: Likusasa Letfu, Part Two* was fantastic. Last year we had 25 girls for four days. This year we had 30 girls for six. We talked about self-esteem, good decision making skills, gender roles (one of my personal favorites) what love really means, and what we expect out of relationships, and of course a whole lot of HIV/AIDS education and discussion. One of my favorite parts, just like last year, was our I Can’t Funeral. Everybody wrote down things they couldn’t do, or thought they couldn’t do (“I can’t speak siSwati, I can’t draw to save my life, I can’t…” You get the idea.) Yunus, another volunteer, then made a fantastic coffin for I Can’t, and we all filed into the ampitheater of the place where we were staying to have a full two and a half hour funeral for I Can’t. Sure in
All in all, it was a great week, and much less stressful that I thought, probably for both external and internal reasons. Last year I was pretty much the only person doing everything, and I was certain that it was all a matter of life and death, too. The schedule had to be followed precisely, everything had to happen just so, and if not then clearly everything else would go straight to hell. Partially that was my fault though: I was the only one who had a clear idea of what exactly I wanted to happen, so I was the one with the burden of making everything go. Also, I’m American, and that mindset just seems to create its own stress. This year, all but one teacher who was there had been there last year, too. Everybody knew the game plan, everybody was in 100% (well, at least 70%. But C’s get degrees, right?). Plus I’m just a lot better at letting things go after two years in
But let me wrap this up, because I know things are getting long. Here’s what I think the point of camp really is, beyond arguing what boys can do and girls can do, and the benefits of using condoms or knowing your status: Girls in this community, and in a lot of communities, are incredibly disempowered. Especially smart girls. The ‘clever’ girl, who speaks up a lot, who gets the answers right and gets them right in excellent English, who knows what she wants her future to be, that girl has a problem. It happens in America, of course (I’m pretty sure I once lost a tail-light on the chia car as a thank-you for setting an economics test curve too high in high school.) But in
*A joke that was specifically translated for my benefit: “A South African and an American decide to go out to lunch at a restaurant together. The South African orders chicken and the American gets a sandwich. As the meal progresses, the American watches the South African annihilate both the chicken, and then the chicken bones, leaving only a tiny pile of the least digestible parts [I watch this happen every day. It’s amazing.]. The American looks at the tiny pile of what’s left with astonishment and asks: ‘In
Monday, July 14, 2008
Hamba Kahle, I Can't!
Well, I apologize that its been so long since I wrote anything. First I didn't have much to say, and then too many things happened to have time to write about it all. Typical, I guess. I'm still going to cut this short though, because winter has hit Nkomazi, and quite frankly my fingers are too cold to type anything much with any degree of accuracy for any decent length of time.
First of all then: Lots and lots of photos are up at Snapfish. So if a picture is worth a thousand words, then I should be in the clear. There are shots of Lesotho, Steenbok, Likusasa Letfu camp -- which just finished last week -- and family members in Steenbok being adorable. Enjoy. (And try to guess which one I'm going to turn into a tattoo...)
Second -- Camp!! Last week, from Sunday to Friday was the second annual Likusasa Letfu girl's empowerment and HIV education camp. (It's a long title, I know, but we had a lot to talk about). Everything went amazingly well, and was much less stressful than last year. It was really a pleasure to see my teacher's begin to take a leading, in-charge sort of role this year, instead of sort of being in the background like last year. We talked a lot about how we could keep things going throughout the year, as well as how to carry on next year even when I'm gone. I'm really happy.
Third -- a wedding! I promise to write more about this later too, because it was really interesting, but the very first thing I did the day after spending a week at camp was get right by up and go to a wedding with some of my teachers and friends from the village. It was great, we all got into taxis and drove to the next village over, where guests and community members and everybody else inbetween poured into a huge community hall for an african-western hybrid wedding, all to the beat of jesus/techno/house/choral-pop. I'll write more next week when I come to town and my fingers are thawed, because I just can't do it justice now -- but it was all great. Myself, one of my favorite teachers, and a couple of other ladies snuck over to the bar, where they saw me drink alcohol for the first time. ("How!! Nomvula!! You are drinking a beer!"), and then we headed to Naas for a beer and Cheese Puff run, followed by aimless driving around yelling at people we saw out the windows. No lie.
Its been a fantastic couple of weeks. And in just four more -- I'm all through! I can't even fathom it right now, but July 25th is my farewell function and by August 15th I'll have left Steenbok for the last time. Frostbite is inducing brevity, and so all I can say to that is: Wow.
First of all then: Lots and lots of photos are up at Snapfish. So if a picture is worth a thousand words, then I should be in the clear. There are shots of Lesotho, Steenbok, Likusasa Letfu camp -- which just finished last week -- and family members in Steenbok being adorable. Enjoy. (And try to guess which one I'm going to turn into a tattoo...)
Second -- Camp!! Last week, from Sunday to Friday was the second annual Likusasa Letfu girl's empowerment and HIV education camp. (It's a long title, I know, but we had a lot to talk about). Everything went amazingly well, and was much less stressful than last year. It was really a pleasure to see my teacher's begin to take a leading, in-charge sort of role this year, instead of sort of being in the background like last year. We talked a lot about how we could keep things going throughout the year, as well as how to carry on next year even when I'm gone. I'm really happy.
Third -- a wedding! I promise to write more about this later too, because it was really interesting, but the very first thing I did the day after spending a week at camp was get right by up and go to a wedding with some of my teachers and friends from the village. It was great, we all got into taxis and drove to the next village over, where guests and community members and everybody else inbetween poured into a huge community hall for an african-western hybrid wedding, all to the beat of jesus/techno/house/choral-pop. I'll write more next week when I come to town and my fingers are thawed, because I just can't do it justice now -- but it was all great. Myself, one of my favorite teachers, and a couple of other ladies snuck over to the bar, where they saw me drink alcohol for the first time. ("How!! Nomvula!! You are drinking a beer!"), and then we headed to Naas for a beer and Cheese Puff run, followed by aimless driving around yelling at people we saw out the windows. No lie.
Its been a fantastic couple of weeks. And in just four more -- I'm all through! I can't even fathom it right now, but July 25th is my farewell function and by August 15th I'll have left Steenbok for the last time. Frostbite is inducing brevity, and so all I can say to that is: Wow.
Monday, June 23, 2008
In Other Words
This is a good article that from Slate about the xenophobic violence that occurred in and around Jo'burg and Cape Town a while back. It's interesting, I don't know what the coverage was in America, but I get the sense that it provides a different perspective. And anything has to be more coherent than my rambling*.
*Mom: I'm STILL FINE**.
**But I'm not going to Greece.
*Mom: I'm STILL FINE**.
**But I'm not going to Greece.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
I Hear its Warm in California
I currently have the cold from hell, its been stalking me for at least the last 10 days, and while it makes me feel like kind of a baby for complaining -- its a cold for goodness sakes! -- the darn thing keeps trying to drag me down to a point thats just getting irritating. Fortunately, I happen to be in Pretoria right now, and PCSA has one of the best medical officers anybody could ever ask for. Not only did she stop by the backpackers where I'm staying to see me on a Saturday, she brought a small pharmacy, lots of sympathy, and even a bottle of orange juice. Amazing. So I spent all day sleeping, drugged myself out on anti-histamines and decongestants, and today feel a million times better. Die cold, die!!
I also spent a lot of time watching television, because, well, I was in Pretoria and I could. Something that for some reason has never occurred to me before, but finally did as I spent 4 hours on the couch, vegging out to Mythbusters and the Daily Show, was how much television here is in English. It never seemed too weird to me, after all I conduct most of my daily conversations in the language, almost everybody speaks it at least a little, and english is the only language tv has ever been in for me anyways, but here...it's really nobody's first language. People speak english, they learn it, business and government and school and lots of important things are conducted in it, but its still a foreign thing, it has to find its way through a filter, be translated and co-opted before whatever concept that is being relayed can be owned.
Okay, maybe that sounds a little silly, the concept of a lingua franca has been around pretty much since there have been languages, I can only assume. Maybe its not such a big deal. But it still seems odd to me that virtually 99% of life in the public sphere is conducted in a language that belongs to nobody, that there are always so many translations and shiftings happening in the simplest conversation. The word for English in my village, or rather the slang word, though its the one that everybody uses, is something along the phonetic lines of "Sloo" -- white person. Swazis speak siswati, zulus speak isizulu, white people speak...'white people.' And everybody who wants to get along, they must learn 'sloo' too. The word for Afrikaans is different, as is the word for an Afrikaaner. But the word thats usually applied to British/English speaking white people is derived quite literally from the color white, so thats more of the default, and english becomes the language of the white people.
I honestly don't know what that means, or why it seems to have grabbed my attention so much. Something about everything in the country happening in translation..from afrikaans, siswati, sepedi, nothing is original. Nothing is completely owned, its all coming from 'out there', happening on somebody else's terms, with somebody else's design. The way a language is built says a lot about how a culture thinks, so how odd must it be to have somebody else's thoughts in your mouth? Not that I think its bad that English is used so much. I love the English language, I love how it morphs and adapts and takes so many words from so many places. I love its flexibility and nuance and that you can find 100 different words for the same thing, but they all mean something just a shade different, they all have just a slightly different history behind them. And it is an international language, and it is important for people to know it. But my family and teachers have learned that just like "Mhlungu akusilo ligami lami!" ("White person is not my name!") I hate it when I hear English called Sloo. The learners must be taught in 'white person', 'white person' is the most important language in the world. We must speak 'white' because its an important meeting. That drives me crazy, for all of the obvious reasons.The 'proper' word, the one I prefer, is Singlisi. Which if you say it out loud sounds pretty much like English -- just in translation.
I also spent a lot of time watching television, because, well, I was in Pretoria and I could. Something that for some reason has never occurred to me before, but finally did as I spent 4 hours on the couch, vegging out to Mythbusters and the Daily Show, was how much television here is in English. It never seemed too weird to me, after all I conduct most of my daily conversations in the language, almost everybody speaks it at least a little, and english is the only language tv has ever been in for me anyways, but here...it's really nobody's first language. People speak english, they learn it, business and government and school and lots of important things are conducted in it, but its still a foreign thing, it has to find its way through a filter, be translated and co-opted before whatever concept that is being relayed can be owned.
Okay, maybe that sounds a little silly, the concept of a lingua franca has been around pretty much since there have been languages, I can only assume. Maybe its not such a big deal. But it still seems odd to me that virtually 99% of life in the public sphere is conducted in a language that belongs to nobody, that there are always so many translations and shiftings happening in the simplest conversation. The word for English in my village, or rather the slang word, though its the one that everybody uses, is something along the phonetic lines of "Sloo" -- white person. Swazis speak siswati, zulus speak isizulu, white people speak...'white people.' And everybody who wants to get along, they must learn 'sloo' too. The word for Afrikaans is different, as is the word for an Afrikaaner. But the word thats usually applied to British/English speaking white people is derived quite literally from the color white, so thats more of the default, and english becomes the language of the white people.
I honestly don't know what that means, or why it seems to have grabbed my attention so much. Something about everything in the country happening in translation..from afrikaans, siswati, sepedi, nothing is original. Nothing is completely owned, its all coming from 'out there', happening on somebody else's terms, with somebody else's design. The way a language is built says a lot about how a culture thinks, so how odd must it be to have somebody else's thoughts in your mouth? Not that I think its bad that English is used so much. I love the English language, I love how it morphs and adapts and takes so many words from so many places. I love its flexibility and nuance and that you can find 100 different words for the same thing, but they all mean something just a shade different, they all have just a slightly different history behind them. And it is an international language, and it is important for people to know it. But my family and teachers have learned that just like "Mhlungu akusilo ligami lami!" ("White person is not my name!") I hate it when I hear English called Sloo. The learners must be taught in 'white person', 'white person' is the most important language in the world. We must speak 'white' because its an important meeting. That drives me crazy, for all of the obvious reasons.The 'proper' word, the one I prefer, is Singlisi. Which if you say it out loud sounds pretty much like English -- just in translation.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Father's Day
So here's a cheesy story I like that I bet you've heard before:
There's a little boy walking down a beach, and the beach is covered in starfish, thousands of them, as far as the eye can see. The boy is picking them up, one at a time, and throwing them back into the ocean so that they don't dry out and die. A man comes along and starts laughing at the kid, "Why are you doing this? Look around! There's way too many starfish for one person to save. You will never be able to make a difference." The little boy just picks up another starfish, throws it in the water and says, "I made a difference to that one."
My dad once told me that that story makes him think of me, and it is literally the best thing another human being has even said to me.
Dad, it makes me think of you too. You inspire me constantly, from 400 miles away or 10,000. Happy Father's Day.
There's a little boy walking down a beach, and the beach is covered in starfish, thousands of them, as far as the eye can see. The boy is picking them up, one at a time, and throwing them back into the ocean so that they don't dry out and die. A man comes along and starts laughing at the kid, "Why are you doing this? Look around! There's way too many starfish for one person to save. You will never be able to make a difference." The little boy just picks up another starfish, throws it in the water and says, "I made a difference to that one."
My dad once told me that that story makes him think of me, and it is literally the best thing another human being has even said to me.
Dad, it makes me think of you too. You inspire me constantly, from 400 miles away or 10,000. Happy Father's Day.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Hang Tough Napoleon
Well. I forgot to write up a blog entry this week, I was too busy map-painting. But what I do have for you is...pictures! From Steenbok, and also my trip to Lesotho a few months ago that was very pretty.
My map!! We've been practicing our geography all week. Also, my hands and arms are blue.
The beginnings of a school library at Gebhundlovu Primary.
Me and my horse in Lesotho. The horse was hungry. I was sunburnt.
A National Geographic worthy shot in Lesotho. These are two of the kids who hung out with us in the mountain village where we stayed overnight.
Sunrise and a Marula tree in Steenbok.
My map!! We've been practicing our geography all week. Also, my hands and arms are blue.
The beginnings of a school library at Gebhundlovu Primary.
Me and my horse in Lesotho. The horse was hungry. I was sunburnt.
A National Geographic worthy shot in Lesotho. These are two of the kids who hung out with us in the mountain village where we stayed overnight.
Sunrise and a Marula tree in Steenbok.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Still Plugging
Three posts...one day? It's madness!
That, and I just wanted to be sure that my shameless begging/plugging for cash for the libraries of Steenbok is at the top. So if you want to help out with getting 25 boxes of books to three libraries that could really use them, here's the link. It should work and everything.
That, and I just wanted to be sure that my shameless begging/plugging for cash for the libraries of Steenbok is at the top. So if you want to help out with getting 25 boxes of books to three libraries that could really use them, here's the link. It should work and everything.
American Pie
Last week marked three months left of my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer, and so I’m beginning to shift my focus on to other things. I’ve still got a few projects left at school – my map of course, which is coming along nicely, slowly building our libraries,* one last Likusasa Letfu girl’s camp, and a young author’s faire that I basically knelt down and begged the principal for. It won’t be sustainable, but it will be really fun and cute. Other than those one time things though, I’m mostly just wrapping it all up, writing things down for the next volunteer (well, planning to do that eventually, anyways), and researching the trip I plan to take after COS.
I realized the other day that its been a really long time since I felt homesick. Not a really long time since I desperately wanted to be home, or since I felt out of place, or since I missed my friends and family, but…a long time since there weren’t other things to balance it out. I am overwhelmed by what a great privilege it is, and has been, to live here and to become a part of the scenery, not just a tourist. I love my morning walk to school each day. I love watching the women sweep their yards, hearing the kids call to one another, seeing sunrise over the Lubombo mountains each morning. I love taking the bus through the farms and mountains to town, and listening to everybody on it singing hymns all the way.
The music here is a gift. It is so simple – incredibly simple! Its just voices in four part harmony, learned by ear and sung by people who don’t rehearse or study or bother with the theory. They just sing, and pick it up, and join in. And its some of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. I’ve been to and been in some of the most technically difficult and musically beautiful concerts, and nothing here is diminished in comparison. A woman once asked me, “In
*“growing” them, if you will, but I hate that term. I remember having this argument with dad in the seventh grade. I still stand by my claim that it’s a silly buzzword, whose only purpose is to make you sound more important. Growing is an individual process that a thing does on its own. Plants grow. Building is an active thing that you or some other individual participates in. You build something. Its active and participatory. There is work involved, not standing around watching it happen.
Dancing in the Streets
Before I get started, go ahead and glance to your right a little bit. On the computer screen, I mean. You see that little bit under ‘Disclaimer’? The one that mentions nobody and nothing is responsible for the things written here except for me – including the US Government, the South African Government, Amelia Earhart, etc…etc…? Yes. That. It still holds.
So, that said, I’ve been getting some concerned emails and phone calls lately. Ones that usually begin, “Um, Becca I’ve been reading the news about
I’m Fine
There have been a series of attacks against foreigners and immigrants in
On the whole, that’s pretty much true, too. While they are horrific, and I’m in no way downplaying the sheer…evil it takes to destroy another human’s beings life just because they’re different, all of these attacks have been pretty isolated. Mbeki has called out the army, and some places are attempting to declare a state of emergency, but…the country keeps going. My village is full of immigrants from
What it does seem to reveal – to me at least – is a serious undercurrent of anger in
There is so much anger in this country, and it lies under such a thin and stretched-taut skin. Did you know that there are more violent deaths per capita in
*To re-iterate, Mom, immigrants from
**Sorry, Mom. Wasn’t planning to tell you that until November. But: I’M FINE.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Want to Help?
Hey everybody
So remember how I keep talking about libraries and and young author's faires, and how much work it is to create a culture of reading in South Africa? Well, if any of you have ever read that and thought maybe it might be a cool thing to help out a bit, now's your chance.
All three schools have now gotten libraries up and running, but they're small. Not too long ago a wonderful lady agreed to donate thousands of books to our libraries. She got the books together, she got the books boxed up...and then the cost of shipping went through the roof. So we need money to get the books from San Francisco to Steenbok, and we need a little something to pay for customs when they get here.
This Link is for a grant I recently wrote, allowing any and all donations to go through Peace Corps and to therefore be tax deductible. So it's practically free, right?
I'm not asking you the individual for all $3450, even just $5 or $10 will help. Whatever you've got. Look at it one of two ways:
1) You're doing something awesome for children in Africa who would never otherwise have this opportunity. You are in fact being a Good Person. Karma and all that.
2) Over the past two years maybe you've been entertained by stories of my ridiculous life. Bucket bathing is way funnier when its not happening to you. Say thanks with $5 or $50. Or heck, $500. I'm not picky.
In the immortal words of Stan and Kyle, "I mean...come on!"
So remember how I keep talking about libraries and and young author's faires, and how much work it is to create a culture of reading in South Africa? Well, if any of you have ever read that and thought maybe it might be a cool thing to help out a bit, now's your chance.
All three schools have now gotten libraries up and running, but they're small. Not too long ago a wonderful lady agreed to donate thousands of books to our libraries. She got the books together, she got the books boxed up...and then the cost of shipping went through the roof. So we need money to get the books from San Francisco to Steenbok, and we need a little something to pay for customs when they get here.
This Link is for a grant I recently wrote, allowing any and all donations to go through Peace Corps and to therefore be tax deductible. So it's practically free, right?
I'm not asking you the individual for all $3450, even just $5 or $10 will help. Whatever you've got. Look at it one of two ways:
1) You're doing something awesome for children in Africa who would never otherwise have this opportunity. You are in fact being a Good Person. Karma and all that.
2) Over the past two years maybe you've been entertained by stories of my ridiculous life. Bucket bathing is way funnier when its not happening to you. Say thanks with $5 or $50. Or heck, $500. I'm not picky.
In the immortal words of Stan and Kyle, "I mean...come on!"
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