December 19, 2010
So! IST (In-Service Training) is officially over and I have set off on my vacation adventures. First stop my friend’s site in Kwa-Zulu Natal. Four of us have spent a relaxing and goofy week chilling in his rondaval (thatch hut) listening to music, going to the beach on sunny days (hitching rides with tourists – it’s so weird to be around so many Afrikaaners because in my small village it’s all black South Africans), and, for my part, reveling in the greenery that is foreign to my part of Mpumalanga. This gorgeous blue-green part of sea is set off by a coral reef and it’s really pleasant to float in the warm swells of the Indian Ocean.
On the 21st, another friends parents will take a larger group of us out to dinner, in another shopping town also near the coast. I’m excited for that, but glad it won’t be as many people as came to IST (50 was too much!)
Then more Christmas in earnest. From the 23-26 I’ll be around East London with 5 friends at a hostel. Other Peace Corps volunteers will be there as well, from other years. There’s talk of white elephant presents and stockings, and I’m glad I’ll be able to continue some traditions I’m familiar with. Even though it’s cool to adventure in this part of the world, being sunburnt in December is kinda strange!
After Christmas we’re traveling up the Wild Coast to Durban. I know our travel plans and the places we’re staying, but we’ll be playing lots of things by ear, especially for New Year’s in Durban. All I know is the Wild Coast should be beautiful, and Durban will be exciting. A ton of us volunteers will be spread out among various hostels over Durban, so we’ll be able to do group things or split up according to our mood. Yes, we’ll see how it all turns out!
I hope you are all doing fabulously you guys. Miss you, love you, Rebecca
Sunday, December 19, 2010
December 4, 2010
A warm evening has turned to the clouds above my village grayish-pink, and a group of young women wearing striped, colorful blankets has returned, singing, through the front door of our house. The iqude, or initiation celebration for Gogo’s 19-year-old granddaughter, has officially come to a close.
It began two nights ago, when the same group, with the girl of the hour presumably shielded by their little circle, walked quietly away from the house in the late afternoon. No one was allowed to tell me where they went. That night they returned after sunset. And I was woken at 5 am (the iqude was a pretty big deal so I was luckily ready for anything) by the girls singing and beating a drum inside the back shed which had been set aside as their special sleeping quarters. The rain then drowned out their voices, even though the shed is right outside my window, pounding down thunder onto my tin roof. I didn’t see Gogo’s granddaughter all day – she has been concealed ever since that first night and will be for quite some time – while preparations for the big celebration were in full force. Luckily (I suppose) I was busy at a community event (more on that later) and did not get to witness the slaughtering of two sheep and a cow!
A friend was visiting me, a volunteer from a nearby village. We went on the coolest walk! We followed a long dirt path down through the wide fields, then turned off into the grasses and through a strip of trees (runty as tree clusters go). But the fields were gorgeous as the yellow sun lowered into the grasses ahead. And on our way back (the clouds were blue, pink, gold – there’s a lot of sky around here – we explored a ruined house and trespassed across an abandoned dairy farm!
Our dinner consisted in my favorite South African treats: sweet bread cakes, too many of them. People were everywhere, gogos sitting on colorful straw mats, kids everywhere, and very satisfied males barbecuing, sawing through carcasses, and hanging up parts of the cow. Blood was everywhere too, as the women were busy washing and emptying intestines and other savory innards!
We were very tired. But before bed, around 10 o’clock, the real fun began. I don’t know how into detail I am allowed to go. I guess Gogo’s granddaughter was still chilling in the shed, but just outside, on the lawn, there was drumming and dancing, an orange log fire, and we sat under the sharp white stars and watched (the only males present were about three). Lots of traditional singing in isiNdebele, lots of females having a good time.
Guess what woke me the next morning? You guessed it. The girls disappeared again and my friend and I (solemnly vowing not to gorge ourselves on cakes and, for my part, delightedly breaking that resolve) went to help with the preparations. While the Ndebele girls spent an uncomfortable day in the bush under a hot December sun, the Americans cut green beans and carrots. We also took pictures, of the gogos’ bright dresses and the huge black pots over the flames, one of which containing a gaping dinosaur jaw! Just kidding, but the cow’s ribs reminded us both of huge blunt teeth.
The guests/entire neighborhood who wasn’t already there arrived around twelve. The girls came back from the bush, only their heads showing above the blankets which still shielded the celebrated girl, who it seemed to me was missing out on her own party. She did get to listen, however, as the community announced the gifts that were set out before her, for everyone to look upon besides her. There was a large bed piled with bright pink pillows, placed on the lawn with its accompanying black wood chests of drawers, about twenty warm winter blankets, almost as many traditional straw mats, multiple towel sets in bathing buckets . . .
Before the presents were presented, the girls spent maybe twenty minutes under the tree, singing half-heartedly behind their thick blanket-wall. I could hardly blame them, two sleepless nights and a blazing exile in the bush explained the lyrics they were singing in isiNdebele: We are tired, we are hungry, we walked far, the sun is hot . . . I translated to my Sepedi-speaking fellow volunteer, making brilliant inferences about how these were traditional songs. Turns out the girls were coming up with chants at the spur of the moment, trying to hurry the process along: “Come on, father, come on grandmother, we’re tired, the sun is hot” . . . very creative!
Finally the men emerged, hopping enthusiastically and singing with knobbly sticks in their hands. They put a glass jar on the ground and stood in a group while a spokesperson announced how much money each community member was giving the girl: “Fifty rand from Baba Mahlangu, for school . . . two hundred rand from Baba Skosana, for house something-or-other” (I couldn’t understand everything). And after every offer the young woman chanted, “Eh, Baba __________, thank you,” with varying degrees of enthusiasm and embellishment depending on the amount of money. A drunk guy who strayed in late gave four rand and the girls were not impressed!
Well, then the men left and the women came. This part was really touching. There were tears as each woman ducked into the circle of blankets and emerged again. Gogo’s granddaughter was given her own traditional blanket to wear in the future. The presents were presented, the girls left, and the food began to make its rounds. Here in South Africa the women can get really into the commotion over serving food, practically shoving the line along and hollering out who should get served and how much. There was a lot: pap, beef, mashed potatoes with peas, mashed pumpkins, carrots and green beans (hold your applause, please), and mayonnaised cabbage with sweet raisins. It was excellent – even the beetroot, which I usually dislike, was sweetly mixed with bits of apple. There were tons of bottles of cold drink (soda).
Well there’s not too much else to tell about the inqude. It was so fun to see the tumbling kids in a line before the dancers, mimicking the young man who kicked up their legs and stomped down upon the grass. Keep in mind that the African fields stretched gold and green and blue to the far blurred horizon, beneath a lovely sky with white clouds to high to cast shadows!
Then there were impossible contests for the increasingly drunker men, like holding a 2 liter glass soda bottle (full) at straight arm’s length for six whole minutes, or hopping over little items while stretching down to touch your toes. Ridiculous. The other side of such glorious cultural events is that it’s harder to have privacy and people can be pretty blunt about how they feel about your actions. This one drunk guy was plaguing me for a strand of my hair! For like twenty minutes! Luckily I enlisted two young South African women to laugh with me and question him and explain to him that his efforts were in vain because “Nhanhla agafuni” (Nhlanhla doesn’t want to).
To get away from the guy and because the day was cooler now and the late afternoon sun was on the tall yellow grass that the herded cows walked by, as they passed thatched rondovals and barbed-wire fences. Ran into some kids, some of my learners, stopped to talk with a gogo and her daughter under a tree, helped some men push their car, accepted a peach from another kid (they’re everywhere these days) (both kids and peaches).
I think I’m done talking about that! Nice, huh?
December 4, 2010, but on another note . . .
The Healthy Living Project, the community-based youth HIV/AIDs awareness group that the former volunteer worked with, had an even yesterday for World Aids Day (which is actually Dec. 1). It was last-minute, I wouldn’t normally tried to organize so much in so little time but it worked out (not smoothly or exactly as expected, which was to be expected). My friend, who if you’ll remember was visiting, remarked that it was really good to see this kind of thing taking shape. The event was from 9-4. People started wandering in at 2 or so. It was stressful to get things to happen. But in the end, what made it worthwhile was that we got the young people, mostly teenagers along for the loud music and rapping, to get tested. There were local nurses, a mobile clinic from the municipality along with visitors from the Department of Health. And the other super encouraging thing was seeing the young guys take charge of the event, giving speeches, making posters . . .
A big part of my job, I’ve discovered, is trying to discover what my job actually is. It sounds strange, but I don’t want to end up doing everything, I want to empower the community and be a resource, but I still want to show that I’m working hard, and I want to integrate and figure out just how friendly to be. I need to keep emotionally sane, to adapt . . . the list gets long!
Anyway, the event was a success.
A warm evening has turned to the clouds above my village grayish-pink, and a group of young women wearing striped, colorful blankets has returned, singing, through the front door of our house. The iqude, or initiation celebration for Gogo’s 19-year-old granddaughter, has officially come to a close.
It began two nights ago, when the same group, with the girl of the hour presumably shielded by their little circle, walked quietly away from the house in the late afternoon. No one was allowed to tell me where they went. That night they returned after sunset. And I was woken at 5 am (the iqude was a pretty big deal so I was luckily ready for anything) by the girls singing and beating a drum inside the back shed which had been set aside as their special sleeping quarters. The rain then drowned out their voices, even though the shed is right outside my window, pounding down thunder onto my tin roof. I didn’t see Gogo’s granddaughter all day – she has been concealed ever since that first night and will be for quite some time – while preparations for the big celebration were in full force. Luckily (I suppose) I was busy at a community event (more on that later) and did not get to witness the slaughtering of two sheep and a cow!
A friend was visiting me, a volunteer from a nearby village. We went on the coolest walk! We followed a long dirt path down through the wide fields, then turned off into the grasses and through a strip of trees (runty as tree clusters go). But the fields were gorgeous as the yellow sun lowered into the grasses ahead. And on our way back (the clouds were blue, pink, gold – there’s a lot of sky around here – we explored a ruined house and trespassed across an abandoned dairy farm!
Our dinner consisted in my favorite South African treats: sweet bread cakes, too many of them. People were everywhere, gogos sitting on colorful straw mats, kids everywhere, and very satisfied males barbecuing, sawing through carcasses, and hanging up parts of the cow. Blood was everywhere too, as the women were busy washing and emptying intestines and other savory innards!
We were very tired. But before bed, around 10 o’clock, the real fun began. I don’t know how into detail I am allowed to go. I guess Gogo’s granddaughter was still chilling in the shed, but just outside, on the lawn, there was drumming and dancing, an orange log fire, and we sat under the sharp white stars and watched (the only males present were about three). Lots of traditional singing in isiNdebele, lots of females having a good time.
Guess what woke me the next morning? You guessed it. The girls disappeared again and my friend and I (solemnly vowing not to gorge ourselves on cakes and, for my part, delightedly breaking that resolve) went to help with the preparations. While the Ndebele girls spent an uncomfortable day in the bush under a hot December sun, the Americans cut green beans and carrots. We also took pictures, of the gogos’ bright dresses and the huge black pots over the flames, one of which containing a gaping dinosaur jaw! Just kidding, but the cow’s ribs reminded us both of huge blunt teeth.
The guests/entire neighborhood who wasn’t already there arrived around twelve. The girls came back from the bush, only their heads showing above the blankets which still shielded the celebrated girl, who it seemed to me was missing out on her own party. She did get to listen, however, as the community announced the gifts that were set out before her, for everyone to look upon besides her. There was a large bed piled with bright pink pillows, placed on the lawn with its accompanying black wood chests of drawers, about twenty warm winter blankets, almost as many traditional straw mats, multiple towel sets in bathing buckets . . .
Before the presents were presented, the girls spent maybe twenty minutes under the tree, singing half-heartedly behind their thick blanket-wall. I could hardly blame them, two sleepless nights and a blazing exile in the bush explained the lyrics they were singing in isiNdebele: We are tired, we are hungry, we walked far, the sun is hot . . . I translated to my Sepedi-speaking fellow volunteer, making brilliant inferences about how these were traditional songs. Turns out the girls were coming up with chants at the spur of the moment, trying to hurry the process along: “Come on, father, come on grandmother, we’re tired, the sun is hot” . . . very creative!
Finally the men emerged, hopping enthusiastically and singing with knobbly sticks in their hands. They put a glass jar on the ground and stood in a group while a spokesperson announced how much money each community member was giving the girl: “Fifty rand from Baba Mahlangu, for school . . . two hundred rand from Baba Skosana, for house something-or-other” (I couldn’t understand everything). And after every offer the young woman chanted, “Eh, Baba __________, thank you,” with varying degrees of enthusiasm and embellishment depending on the amount of money. A drunk guy who strayed in late gave four rand and the girls were not impressed!
Well, then the men left and the women came. This part was really touching. There were tears as each woman ducked into the circle of blankets and emerged again. Gogo’s granddaughter was given her own traditional blanket to wear in the future. The presents were presented, the girls left, and the food began to make its rounds. Here in South Africa the women can get really into the commotion over serving food, practically shoving the line along and hollering out who should get served and how much. There was a lot: pap, beef, mashed potatoes with peas, mashed pumpkins, carrots and green beans (hold your applause, please), and mayonnaised cabbage with sweet raisins. It was excellent – even the beetroot, which I usually dislike, was sweetly mixed with bits of apple. There were tons of bottles of cold drink (soda).
Well there’s not too much else to tell about the inqude. It was so fun to see the tumbling kids in a line before the dancers, mimicking the young man who kicked up their legs and stomped down upon the grass. Keep in mind that the African fields stretched gold and green and blue to the far blurred horizon, beneath a lovely sky with white clouds to high to cast shadows!
Then there were impossible contests for the increasingly drunker men, like holding a 2 liter glass soda bottle (full) at straight arm’s length for six whole minutes, or hopping over little items while stretching down to touch your toes. Ridiculous. The other side of such glorious cultural events is that it’s harder to have privacy and people can be pretty blunt about how they feel about your actions. This one drunk guy was plaguing me for a strand of my hair! For like twenty minutes! Luckily I enlisted two young South African women to laugh with me and question him and explain to him that his efforts were in vain because “Nhanhla agafuni” (Nhlanhla doesn’t want to).
To get away from the guy and because the day was cooler now and the late afternoon sun was on the tall yellow grass that the herded cows walked by, as they passed thatched rondovals and barbed-wire fences. Ran into some kids, some of my learners, stopped to talk with a gogo and her daughter under a tree, helped some men push their car, accepted a peach from another kid (they’re everywhere these days) (both kids and peaches).
I think I’m done talking about that! Nice, huh?
December 4, 2010, but on another note . . .
The Healthy Living Project, the community-based youth HIV/AIDs awareness group that the former volunteer worked with, had an even yesterday for World Aids Day (which is actually Dec. 1). It was last-minute, I wouldn’t normally tried to organize so much in so little time but it worked out (not smoothly or exactly as expected, which was to be expected). My friend, who if you’ll remember was visiting, remarked that it was really good to see this kind of thing taking shape. The event was from 9-4. People started wandering in at 2 or so. It was stressful to get things to happen. But in the end, what made it worthwhile was that we got the young people, mostly teenagers along for the loud music and rapping, to get tested. There were local nurses, a mobile clinic from the municipality along with visitors from the Department of Health. And the other super encouraging thing was seeing the young guys take charge of the event, giving speeches, making posters . . .
A big part of my job, I’ve discovered, is trying to discover what my job actually is. It sounds strange, but I don’t want to end up doing everything, I want to empower the community and be a resource, but I still want to show that I’m working hard, and I want to integrate and figure out just how friendly to be. I need to keep emotionally sane, to adapt . . . the list gets long!
Anyway, the event was a success.
Monday, October 11, 2010
October 8, 2010
October 8, 2010
It would be a crime if I didn’t describe the nature here in Mpumalanga, as we’re nearing spring/summertime and the rainy season is beginning. From my window I can look out over the veld, miles of yellow grass fading into a hazy blue horizon. You can’t help but feel free when you walk past that in the morning on the way to school. Some of the trees here are blooming pure purple, and scattered on the grass are bright petals as thick as a shadow. Today at school I saw a crow with a white neck fly around one of these trees and thought how nice-looking it was. Meanwhile, the mulberry tree in our yard is yielding purple berry-fruits and it’s getting warmer.
Yesterday evening I experienced my first African thunderstorm, which the neighbors assure me was insignificant --- but I was awestruck. It’s been dry lately but that afternoon the sky above the veld grew very dark blue, and beyond the grazing cows shade crossed over the fields, rapidly nearer and nearer. A strong wind, a heavy rain . . . and the storm was upon us. It pounded hard upon my tin roof and the electricity went out. Then I stood by the window and looked out into the darkness, and over and over the thunder rang and the veld lit up rapidly. In those split seconds of illumination, the grass looked unnaturally yellow and the sky strangely bright blue. It was so cool!
So there’s a bit of excitement for you. Life here in the village seems so quaint and I’m learning the true meaning of Ubuntu. Ubuntu is at the heart of South African culture and everyone knows the term and what it stands for: I am because you are. I am who I am because of you. In other words, we are all dependent on each other and share each other’s pain and sorrow . . . give if your neighbor is needy with no thought as to whether you’ll get anything in return.
And I love my colleagues! I’ll post more about it all now that I’m starting to figure out this Internet thing!
Love, Nhlanhla
It would be a crime if I didn’t describe the nature here in Mpumalanga, as we’re nearing spring/summertime and the rainy season is beginning. From my window I can look out over the veld, miles of yellow grass fading into a hazy blue horizon. You can’t help but feel free when you walk past that in the morning on the way to school. Some of the trees here are blooming pure purple, and scattered on the grass are bright petals as thick as a shadow. Today at school I saw a crow with a white neck fly around one of these trees and thought how nice-looking it was. Meanwhile, the mulberry tree in our yard is yielding purple berry-fruits and it’s getting warmer.
Yesterday evening I experienced my first African thunderstorm, which the neighbors assure me was insignificant --- but I was awestruck. It’s been dry lately but that afternoon the sky above the veld grew very dark blue, and beyond the grazing cows shade crossed over the fields, rapidly nearer and nearer. A strong wind, a heavy rain . . . and the storm was upon us. It pounded hard upon my tin roof and the electricity went out. Then I stood by the window and looked out into the darkness, and over and over the thunder rang and the veld lit up rapidly. In those split seconds of illumination, the grass looked unnaturally yellow and the sky strangely bright blue. It was so cool!
So there’s a bit of excitement for you. Life here in the village seems so quaint and I’m learning the true meaning of Ubuntu. Ubuntu is at the heart of South African culture and everyone knows the term and what it stands for: I am because you are. I am who I am because of you. In other words, we are all dependent on each other and share each other’s pain and sorrow . . . give if your neighbor is needy with no thought as to whether you’ll get anything in return.
And I love my colleagues! I’ll post more about it all now that I’m starting to figure out this Internet thing!
Love, Nhlanhla
Sep
Today, my first day at the junior secondary school here in the village, lived up to all my imaginings of what Africa and my job here would be like. My situation is lovely. The strike was suspended, maybe permanently, so we all swore in, said bittersweet goodbyes, and scattered off to our various sites. I’m situated in a village in Mpumalanga, not far from the training college or a few other volunteers. I live with a gogo (grandmother) and her five-year-old granddaughter Senaye (S’na). Imagine me trying to whip Gogo’s four cows into the corral when the whip keeps getting tangled in branches, while the cows stare at me balefully. Or running in the afternoon down the village’s dirt roads, accompanied by eight kids who stand obediently in a line as I lead them in stretches before and after. I basically never thought of myself as a cowgirl or aerobics teacher, but there you are.
I’m also learning patience. When my principal and I visited the village chief, the lackadaisical village atmosphere was as heavy in the air as incense in a chapel. I sat in a chair opposite the chief, who was only distinguished by the animal skin hanging on his chest. The conversation was slower than any I think I’ve ever had! One man would make a comment and my principal would murmur in understanding. Pause. Then he’d answer, gently, usually staring out at the street and berry tree (I don’t know the name) instead of his interlocutor, who would also murmur in agreement while staring at the ground. I’ve picked up enough of South African culture to know roughly how to act: slowly, respectfully, informally. I poured the chief Coca Cola before the others, for example.
As for the school and my future colleagues, I feel really glad and lucky (like my name, Nhlanhla). I only work at one school, and it seems like everyone knows what I’m there for because there have been Peace Corps volunteers in this village before. I’ll be teaching Grade 7, after I observe the place and do a needs assessment (we’re talking for weeks, not days). I’m supposed to do this before starting projects, and my co-workers are cool with that. They’re also super interested in me, and respectful. I only hope I can live up to the principal’s description of me as “an experienced English teacher.” Wow. I present myself professionally, but I don’t pretend to a lot of classroom teaching. They seem to welcome me for whatever my strengths are, and I was touched by the principal’s introduction of me to the students at assembly. He told them to respect me, and they were clearly impressed by the fact that I’m from America. That’s a typical reaction, and I know they’ll soon be asking if I’ve met Will Smith, Shakira, and Biance! Did I even spell Shakira right? I guess I’ll have to say no.
I miss my PST host family though (Lina, etc.) Busi and I wrote a play that we performed with Kgomotso and Shirley, a couple of others, and some fellow volunteers. We actually brought it to the Ndebele College when the families visited for a farewell braai. I really grew close to my family there and I plan on visiting them a lot. The Peace Corps wants me to stay at site for the next three months though. And I’m already integrating myself into this community. My isiNdebele’s really good, if I do say so myself, so that helps! Even though this house is really big (there are actually two houses on the property, a huge kitchen with an electric stove, a flush toilet and even a washing machine) the village atmosphere is here waiting for me and the people are welcoming. It’ll be hard to be away from the other PCVs, maybe, but I’ll meet up with the ones who live nearby. In the meantime, the kids are great and the faculty and I are developing a great rapport, I’m feeling confident that I do have something to offer the school. Maybe we can have a play-writing club! That’s a good way of teaching English to seventh-graders and it aligns with the national curriculum standards . . . we’ll see!
Love, Nhlanhla
I’m also learning patience. When my principal and I visited the village chief, the lackadaisical village atmosphere was as heavy in the air as incense in a chapel. I sat in a chair opposite the chief, who was only distinguished by the animal skin hanging on his chest. The conversation was slower than any I think I’ve ever had! One man would make a comment and my principal would murmur in understanding. Pause. Then he’d answer, gently, usually staring out at the street and berry tree (I don’t know the name) instead of his interlocutor, who would also murmur in agreement while staring at the ground. I’ve picked up enough of South African culture to know roughly how to act: slowly, respectfully, informally. I poured the chief Coca Cola before the others, for example.
As for the school and my future colleagues, I feel really glad and lucky (like my name, Nhlanhla). I only work at one school, and it seems like everyone knows what I’m there for because there have been Peace Corps volunteers in this village before. I’ll be teaching Grade 7, after I observe the place and do a needs assessment (we’re talking for weeks, not days). I’m supposed to do this before starting projects, and my co-workers are cool with that. They’re also super interested in me, and respectful. I only hope I can live up to the principal’s description of me as “an experienced English teacher.” Wow. I present myself professionally, but I don’t pretend to a lot of classroom teaching. They seem to welcome me for whatever my strengths are, and I was touched by the principal’s introduction of me to the students at assembly. He told them to respect me, and they were clearly impressed by the fact that I’m from America. That’s a typical reaction, and I know they’ll soon be asking if I’ve met Will Smith, Shakira, and Biance! Did I even spell Shakira right? I guess I’ll have to say no.
I miss my PST host family though (Lina, etc.) Busi and I wrote a play that we performed with Kgomotso and Shirley, a couple of others, and some fellow volunteers. We actually brought it to the Ndebele College when the families visited for a farewell braai. I really grew close to my family there and I plan on visiting them a lot. The Peace Corps wants me to stay at site for the next three months though. And I’m already integrating myself into this community. My isiNdebele’s really good, if I do say so myself, so that helps! Even though this house is really big (there are actually two houses on the property, a huge kitchen with an electric stove, a flush toilet and even a washing machine) the village atmosphere is here waiting for me and the people are welcoming. It’ll be hard to be away from the other PCVs, maybe, but I’ll meet up with the ones who live nearby. In the meantime, the kids are great and the faculty and I are developing a great rapport, I’m feeling confident that I do have something to offer the school. Maybe we can have a play-writing club! That’s a good way of teaching English to seventh-graders and it aligns with the national curriculum standards . . . we’ll see!
Love, Nhlanhla
September 1, 2010 cont'd!
Another unique feature of this “Rainbow Nation” is the 1st world/3rd world divide we witnessed on our trips to Pretoria and Johannesburg. Last Saturday, in Jo’burg, we went to the Apartheid Museum and then to the mall. It’s as developed as an American city. Electricity, faucets that turn on automatically, stores that sell humus or bree cheese, etc. And then we came home to bucket baths (which are actually fine once you get the hang of it) and dirt roads with kids running barefoot everywhere, and tin shacks and cement buildings, and chickens and goats and cows. It’s weird, my family (surname Mahlangu) has a TV and radio but no running water.
This post is long, but I’m trying to sum up a month’s worth of complete newness. It’s stressful to be the center of attention in a new culture. But my fellow PCTs make a great support network! Our village representatives set up a system where we leave little notes in each other’s envelopes, stapled to a wall at the college. Some are anonymous, like the illustrated installments I get of Lewis Carroll’s “The Jabberwocky,” and some are sweet messages from individual friends. Our South African teachers nicknamed me “Reebs” after the famous singer Rebecca, Queen of Gospel, and it stuck. And back in the village they know me as Nonhlanhla (or Nhlanhla). It means “lucky”!
That’s it for now! I love you all and I’ll buy a cell phone and Internet phone (or modem stick) very soon. Volunteers also have lots of time to write at their site, which for me will be the village of Gemsbok, only a couple of hours outside of Pretoria. I’ll be living with an ugogo and am teaching at a junior secondary school. I’ll also be continuing a previous volunteer’s Healthy Living Project, teaching about HIV/AIDS. It’ll be hard but I’m really looking forward to seeing my site . . . when the strike ends! That’s Pre-service Training in a nutshell.
Love, Nhlanhla
This post is long, but I’m trying to sum up a month’s worth of complete newness. It’s stressful to be the center of attention in a new culture. But my fellow PCTs make a great support network! Our village representatives set up a system where we leave little notes in each other’s envelopes, stapled to a wall at the college. Some are anonymous, like the illustrated installments I get of Lewis Carroll’s “The Jabberwocky,” and some are sweet messages from individual friends. Our South African teachers nicknamed me “Reebs” after the famous singer Rebecca, Queen of Gospel, and it stuck. And back in the village they know me as Nonhlanhla (or Nhlanhla). It means “lucky”!
That’s it for now! I love you all and I’ll buy a cell phone and Internet phone (or modem stick) very soon. Volunteers also have lots of time to write at their site, which for me will be the village of Gemsbok, only a couple of hours outside of Pretoria. I’ll be living with an ugogo and am teaching at a junior secondary school. I’ll also be continuing a previous volunteer’s Healthy Living Project, teaching about HIV/AIDS. It’ll be hard but I’m really looking forward to seeing my site . . . when the strike ends! That’s Pre-service Training in a nutshell.
Love, Nhlanhla
Saturday, September 25, 2010
September 1, 2010
Today is the first day of summer, a holiday aptly named "Summertime" by the villagers with whom I live. My hair is still wet from running around with buckets on the main street,getting attacked and attacking everyone from little kids to teenagers. I came home and talked for a while with my host mom. My isiNdebele (the language spoken by the Ndebele people) is really coming along -- I can have a basic conversation with only a few moments of confusion. Today my host mom is cooking rice, tomatoes, and canned fish, which is delicious, preferable as far as I'm concerned to chicken feet and liver :)
I love this time of day, looking forward to 8:00 when the whole family watches "Generations" together (super popular soap opera) and eats dinner. Usually we eat pap (boiled cornmeal)and chicken, with maybe some boiled cabbage. We eat with our hands, and the whole experience is comfortable and domestic. It's usually 7 of us: me, my mom, my 17-year old sister and 7-year old little brother (he is so cute), two neighborhood girls, and the ugogo who lives next door. "Ugogo" means grandmother, age here is respected and the word is widely used. The older brother is 19 and rarely eats with us, although we did get to watch his cultural dance group the other day--ayoba! (Cool)
I actually got soaked twice today.The first time was at the Ndebele college, where my fellow PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees) attend technical sessions and language lessons all day long. There are 52 of us, and even though we live in 3 separate villages we come together for training because of the strike. We have to meet at this central location because the schools are closed and the teachers are all demanding higher wages and a housing allowance. The strike is teaching us all a lesson in flexibility.It may go on for months, it may end tomorrow. Whatever happens, I'm swearing in soon and I'll be an official PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer)!
Pre-service training is good preparation for being at site, because we have to be flexibile when the schedule changes and patient during sessions. It can be fun though! One of the best sessions was the Diversity Panel. We were visited by 5 South African guests: an Indian man, an upper-class English woman, a Coloured woman, a black ex-freedom fighter, and an Afrikaaner miner (an ex-soldier on the government's side during apartheid). As you can imagine, the conversation between them was fascinating. Past injustices were addressed by the English woman and the Afrikaaner, the identity issue of Coloured people came into contention, and the Afrikaaner and freedom fighter sat side by side chatting about armed conflict. More than anything else, that session gave me a taste of how apartheid still affects South Africans. The times are changing, but it takes a long time for actual people to change.
I'm going to see if this post worked before continuing with September 1st!
I love this time of day, looking forward to 8:00 when the whole family watches "Generations" together (super popular soap opera) and eats dinner. Usually we eat pap (boiled cornmeal)and chicken, with maybe some boiled cabbage. We eat with our hands, and the whole experience is comfortable and domestic. It's usually 7 of us: me, my mom, my 17-year old sister and 7-year old little brother (he is so cute), two neighborhood girls, and the ugogo who lives next door. "Ugogo" means grandmother, age here is respected and the word is widely used. The older brother is 19 and rarely eats with us, although we did get to watch his cultural dance group the other day--ayoba! (Cool)
I actually got soaked twice today.The first time was at the Ndebele college, where my fellow PCTs (Peace Corps Trainees) attend technical sessions and language lessons all day long. There are 52 of us, and even though we live in 3 separate villages we come together for training because of the strike. We have to meet at this central location because the schools are closed and the teachers are all demanding higher wages and a housing allowance. The strike is teaching us all a lesson in flexibility.It may go on for months, it may end tomorrow. Whatever happens, I'm swearing in soon and I'll be an official PCV (Peace Corps Volunteer)!
Pre-service training is good preparation for being at site, because we have to be flexibile when the schedule changes and patient during sessions. It can be fun though! One of the best sessions was the Diversity Panel. We were visited by 5 South African guests: an Indian man, an upper-class English woman, a Coloured woman, a black ex-freedom fighter, and an Afrikaaner miner (an ex-soldier on the government's side during apartheid). As you can imagine, the conversation between them was fascinating. Past injustices were addressed by the English woman and the Afrikaaner, the identity issue of Coloured people came into contention, and the Afrikaaner and freedom fighter sat side by side chatting about armed conflict. More than anything else, that session gave me a taste of how apartheid still affects South Africans. The times are changing, but it takes a long time for actual people to change.
I'm going to see if this post worked before continuing with September 1st!
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