Unraveling the Family Tree

6/18/2006

So, last night after I arrived home from the wedding, I discovered that my host mother was having a family gathering. It is not unusual for family to stop by and say hello- in the house in back of ours lives one of my aunts, a cousin, and her two children, and three houses down live another aunt, her children, and my grandmother. But, this was a special family gathering as it had relatives who came from Johannesburg to visit for the long weekend (Friday was Youth Day- a public holiday). Being away, I missed the family arrival, so my host mother took it upon herself to introduce me to the people I did not know. One of the women she introduced as her sister.
“Oh hello,” I responded to the woman. “And how are you related?”
That response suddenly struck me as odd, but it is one that I have gotten used to saying. Many of you might be thinking, ‘well, your host mother just told you that she was her sister, stupid!’ But there are many different types of “sisters” in a South African family. In fact, my host mother has more that fifty of them, many of whom I have yet to meet. And those of you thinking about polygamy: nope that’s not the answer. My Rakgolo (grandfather) only had one wife, and they only had five children: my host mother, her brother, and then her three younger sisters. So where did the other forty-seven sisters come in? Let’s return to Anthropology 101 and learn about the exciting world of African kinship!
When I first took anthropology in university, we spent a lot of time learning about the different descent groups: patrilineal, matrilineal, etc. It was a rather confusing unit, and I am afraid that I did not understand everything about these peculiar kinship groups. Now that I am living it, I do understand a little bit more… but have been pretty confused for the past ten months. Let’s start with a hypothetical family. We’ll have a mom, dad, and six children, three boys, three girls. Ok, now all of these six children get married and have kids of their own. Well, in American culture, we would say that the kids of these original children will have five aunts or uncles. Not in Sotho culture! These kids would have five mothers, fathers, aunts or uncles. Let’s look at the girls. Say that the middle daughter has a child, and has a younger sister and an older one. Her child would then have three mothers: its real mother, its younger mother- the younger sister- or “mmane” (literally translated to little mother) and an older mother- the older sister- or “mamagolo” (literally translated to big mother). So, the kid has three mothers. But, instead of having four fathers (the biological father and the three brothers of the mother) the kid would have three uncles. Ok, the girls are sorted out; now let’s look at the boys! So the middle brother has a kid. This kid would have three fathers- its real father “tate,” its older father “ramogolo” (the older brother to the biological father, the name literally translates to big father) and its younger father “rangwane” ( the younger brother to the biological father). But, the child would have three aunts, the sisters to its biological father. So, to recap: an uncle is only the brother of your biological mother, and aunt is only the sister of you biological father. Any sister of your mother is your mother as well, and any brother of you father is your father as well. Confused yet? Just wait! It gets better!
So, we have defined mother, father, aunt and uncle… now let’s look at the term sister and brother. Looking back at our family, the children of the original six brothers and sisters would all be cousins, right? Wrong! Instead, it is a jumble of brothers, sisters, and cousins. This is a bit easier to explain… sort of. Well, so the child of the middle sister has three mothers, right? So it makes sense that the children of those mothers are all the kids’ brothers and sisters. And that’s how it works. Quick example: like I said, my host mother has three younger sisters, my mmanes (bommane if I want to be linguistically accurate) so all of their children are also my host brothers and sisters. But, with the brother of my host mother (my uncle) all of his children would just be my cousins. Now, let’s return to the boys of our hypothetical family. So, the middle brother has a child, and the child has three fathers. All of the children of those fathers would then become its brothers and sisters. But, its three aunts’ children would all be cousins. Another example: in the US my dad has two brothers, one older, one younger. So I would have three fathers. My cousin Perry, the son of my rangwane, would be my brother and my other cousin Catherine, the daughter of my ramogolo, would be my sister. Whew! The most confusing part though, is when we get to the third, fourth, fifth etc., generations. I still have not figured this out yet. My host cousin, Ellen (well, as she is the daughter of my mmane, she’s actually my sister) has two children, Thabang and Mavu. Now, I am completely confused as to how they are related to me. Are they my niece and nephew? Cousins? What? (Hell, I’m not even sure what they’re title would be in the states: second cousins? First-cousins-once-removed?) My host sister, Lethabo, though, just refers to them as her brother and sister. So, as far as I can figure it, following the separate lineage of the men and women in the family, everyone finally gets so confused that everyone else just becomes a brother or a sister. That makes it so much easier, and avoids a lot of headaches. So, that’s the story of South African kinship, and explains why my host mother has a million brothers and sisters- even if some of them turn up to be fifth cousins thrice removed or whatever… Yep. Definitely a headache.

Nighttime Paranoia

6/13/2006

I don’t know what it is about the dark, but it tends to make my imagination run out of control. All I have to do is turn out the lights, and suddenly my mind is going on full blast and no matter how hard I try I cannot turn it off. Perhaps that explains why I am a major insomniac… anyway, far be it for me to speak for the entire human race, but I think it is safe to say that most people feel this way. When darkness surrounds us, objects that were so clear in the light take on grotesque or obscured appearances. And then there are the night sounds. Growing up in Maryland, I fell asleep easily to the sounds there- the quiet hum of crickets at nighttime, the occasional roar of a car going down the nearby road, and as I grew older, the steady pounding of my sister running on the treadmill at all hours of the night (she’s an insomniac too!). When I went to school in Boston, I had a whole new wave of night sounds to get used to, but after a few weeks I did so, and fell asleep to the sounds of drunken college students on the street, occasional sirens running down Commonwealth Avenue, and the rumbling and ringing of the T until it finally shut down at midnight. Now in Africa, I have a whole new range of night sounds to get used to, and even after ten months I have still not gotten used to some. Now I can sleep through the chanting of the ZCC church on the hill behind me as they hold all-night vigils, and I can sleep through the barking dogs in the houses next to us. I can even sleep through the crowing of roosters (I don’t know who it was who stated that roosters crow at dawn, but it is a myth… no scratch that, it is not a myth, it is a downright lie! Let me tell you, roosters do not just crow at dawn, they crow whenever they damn well please! It can be in the middle of the afternoon, dusk, or, if it suits their fancy, the middle of the night. And once one rooster starts to crow, it suddenly becomes a competition of masculinity, because every other rooster within hearing range crows also until there is an entire chorus).
Well, I digress- as usual. You might be looking at the title and be wondering, “Ok, where is the paranoia?” Well, as I said previously, night changes the face of objects, people, and even sounds, and can allow some imaginations run wild. That in itself can lead to wild dreams that cause anyone to wake up with a sense of paranoia. In PC South Africa, though, we have something that makes it worse: Mefloquin. As South Africa is a target for malaria, all PCVs have to take anti-malarial prophylaxis. Mefloquin is one of these medications, but its side effects include anxiety, nightmares, and acute paranoia. I had to take mefloquin once before, in Niger, and I promise you, it is not something that I would like to repeat. I still remember waking up to absolutely wild nightmares that ranged from riding a runaway camel through Boston Commons, to dreaming that Satan was sitting at the foot of my bed, watching me. So, I was very relieved when PC decided to put me on another type of prophylaxis, Doxycycline, a med that did not have these wonderful side effects. However, there have been mefloquin-induced paranoid stories from other PCVs, including a search and destroy mission that lasted for three hours against an invasion of cockroaches and the absolute certainty that bugs were crawling over another throughout the night. Despite the fact that I am not taking mefloquin, I still have paranoid imaginings, but only at nighttime. During the day, I am as sane as I possibly can be, but at night, well, let’s just say that sometimes it can get bad.
Last night was a perfect example of such a paranoid episode. I was woken up by some noise outside my window at about one in the morning. It was absolutely silent in the house, so I heard the sound of rustling and fumbling outside quite clearly. Instantly I was on alert, and lying rigid in my bed, allowed my imagination to start. Now, if I had taken a deep breath and thought clearly, I would have probably come to the logical conclusion that it was a stray goat or dog outside- they come into our yard on a regular basis. But, as I believe logic disappears from the mind the second the sun goes down, of course the very first thing I thought of was that there was an ax murderer outside, and he was trying to get in my window. This in itself is ridiculous, because I have steel burglar bars welded into the window frame- it is impossible for any human to crawl through (not the most comforting thought when you think of it as a fire hazard, but oh well). However, as it was pitch black in my room, the dark played up my fears and the thought that the bars would protect me did not comfort me in the least. I just turned my train of thought to the fact that the thug outside could shoot me with the AK-47 he clearly had if he wanted to. For several minutes I lay as still as a stone, too afraid to move and too afraid to peek out the window to see what it was (because he would shoot me if I dared look!). After a moment, I heard the rustling move towards my host mothers’ car parked directly behind my window. I then knew that the thug had decided not to try and get into my room, but to steal my host mothers’ car! While I was relieved that I would not die, I did not want to just sit and let the thief get away, either. I was preparing myself to scream when the noise abruptly stopped. Puzzled, I lay still for a moment, and then a creaking sound emerged. I steeled my nerves to peak outside, and there the culprit was- a small white bird barely the size of my hand and currently using the clothesline outside as a swing. Eventually I managed to fall back asleep, but it was not until this morning when I felt some shame and embarrassment with the entire episode- then hilarity replaced the embarrassment. I got all worked up because of a bird. Amused, I texted the story to one of my friends, and her response: “That just reminded me to take my mefloquin.”

Burning Down the Kitchen

6/2/2006

I have discovered since joining Peace Corps that there are certain hobbies one can take up to pass the time and help keep the boredom at bay. For me, I have become very fond of cooking. In fact, one of my favorite times of day is dinner preparation time. I think that my host family enjoys my dinner preparation time also, because usually I am making something they have never had before, and are amazed that it can actually make a meal. In fact, I often have an audience when I cook. One of my possessions that I cherish above all others is the Peace Corps Cookbook (yes, yes, I’m pathetic). Let me tell you, that thing is AMAZING! It has some wonderful recipes and excellent ideas to throw together a scrumptious meal of only a few ingredients. I don’t think that I am the only one who cherishes it, either. SA-14 was as a whole highly disappointed that we did not receive it during our training, so when at In-Service-Training five months later PC Medical Staff announced that they had the cookbooks for us, there was a mad rush to obtain them. It is a very good thing that the Med Staff had enough, because I am very certain that if they did not a riot or brawl would have begun.
So, for the past five months or so, I have highly enjoyed experimenting with the cookbook recipes. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t, and sometimes, like today, they get me into trouble. I decided this morning to try out a donut recipe in the cookbook. Kelsey, my closest volunteer, tried them a few weeks ago and raved about them, so I decided to get up extra early to whip up a batch before heading off to school. It was only after I mixed up the batter that I discovered that our stove had broken sometime during the night. No matter, I thought, we had a paraffin stove. That should be easy enough to use. Now, I must admit: I am pretty clumsy with this mini stove as I am not accustomed to using it, but after a few minutes, I managed to fill it with paraffin, but was unsuccessful in lighting it. My fourteen-year-old host sister Lethabo came in then, saw my ridiculous attempts, and said (in a bit of a patronizing way that seems to come naturally to her when she sees her silly American sister acting particularly stupid), “No, Brittany, not like that. Here, let me show you.”
She then lifted the stove off the ground and turned it at an angle. Before I could warn her paraffin spilt out of the stove and poured onto our nice, clean kitchen floor. Both of us just kind of stared at this huge paraffin puddle slowly expanding to the door of the living room, and Lethabo basically summed up what we are both thinking by stating, “Oh shit.” As a teenager, Lethabo’s favorite music includes several American rap songs, so she has a rather extensive knowledge of English swear words. One of her favorite sayings when something goes wrong (or when my host mother is out of earshot) is “oh shit” (or with her accent more like “oh shet”- sounds kind of Minnesotan) I think that right then we were both very thankful for the fact that my host mother was in Johannesburg for the weekend. Lethabo, however, is a very mercurial girl and nothing ever fazes her for long. Seemingly seconds after she was staring at the floor in dismay, she waved her hand over the mess and said, “Don’t worry, Lerato (my other host sister) will clean it up.”
As Lerato was still snoring away in bed, I highly doubted that this would happen, so I told Lethabo that I would mop up the paraffin. As her transport for school was at the front gate, Lethabo quickly lit the stove for me, and went skipping out the door. As I believed at the time that the puddle of paraffin on the floor was nothing to worry about, I put the oil on to heat and began to mop it up. Yeah, well, I soon discovered that paraffin is an absolute pain in the ass to mop up, mostly because it does not mix with water (of course) and it does not absorb well. I did my best, but as the oil was hot, I told myself I would finish cleaning up when the donuts were finished. I began to fry the dough, and when a few donuts were ready, I (stupidly) turned my back to the stove to roll them in cinnamon and sugar. While my back was turned, I heard some funny noises coming from the stove. I turned around, and right as I did the entire metal base of the stove burst into flames. I still do not know how it happened, but I was struck dumb for a moment as I stared at the fire. All I was thinking was, “the stove is on fire. Oh shit the stove is on fire. What do I do?” Then a new, more serious, thought struck me: “OH MY GOD THE FLOOR IS COVERED WITH PARAFFIN!!!!” It occurred to me then just how easy it would be for the flames to jump from the stove and onto the floor- and I was pretty sure that my host mother would never forgive me if I burned down her house.
So, I was galvanized into action, and desperately tried to look for someway to put out the fire. My first idea was water, but thankfully, that was squashed as quickly as I thought of it. I next thought to smother the fire, and realized that I had a bag of flour handy. I began throwing huge handfuls onto the stove, caking it with what soon became a thick paste that was near impossible to clean up. For good measure, I decided to throw flour on the floor surrounding the stove as well. Right as the fire burned out, leaving a horrendous mess of burning and smelling flour all over the stove and the kitchen, Lerato walks into the kitchen. She looked around at the paraffin on the floor, the stove caked in a flour-paraffin paste and me, looking pretty sheepish, and asked “Brittany, what are you doing?”
I am not my sharpest at 6:15 in the morning, and I responded with the very first thing that came to my mind. “I’m cooking!” I retorted. Lerato just stared at me for a moment, shook her head and walked out the door to the pit toilet. I can only imagine what she was thinking, and I began banging my head against the wall for being so idiotic. The moral to this story is: I should buy a hotplate, as cooking donuts on a paraffin stove is a recipe for disaster. (When I related this story to a bunch of my friends later, the very first thing that my friend Tom asked after I described my harrowing escape from the flaming jaws of death was “What happened to the donuts?” In case you are wondering, in the desperate attempt to put out the flames, many of the donuts either burned, or simply did not turn out. Very sad.)

Names

5/30/2006

South African names are very interesting. A lot of them are very pretty sounding, a lot of them I cannot pronounce for the life of me- bringing on gales of laughter by the people around me when I try- and some of them just cause me to furrow my brow and wonder what was wrong with the parents when they chose that name. But, I think the adjective that best describes the names here is “interesting.” I suppose the most interesting thing about the names is that they are so literal. A lot of common names back in the States come from root words and from languages that have changed so much during the thousands of years they were spoken that the meanings of these names lose their literalness. For example, let’s take my name: Brittany. Unfortunately “Brittany” has the most boring meaning ever- it means “from Britain.” I have no clue from what language it is from, but I am pretty certain that I cannot just go and say “Brittany” in this language and everyone will immediately think I am talking about something “from Britain” instead of a name. But here where I live, almost all of the names have a literal meaning in the vernacular and it is VERY easy to confuse these names with their meaning.
I am not certain that I am explaining this well, so let’s give an example. One of my host sisters is named Lethabo. She is an awesome girl, sweet, full of life and absolutely hilarious. Now, “Lethabo” literally translates in Northern Sotho to “happiness.” Basically, if you wanted to say “I have happiness” in Northern Sotho, it would be “Ke na le lethabo.” So, Lethabo’s name would be equivalent to someone in the States having the name “Happiness.” Nearly all of the Northern Sotho names I have come across have a literal translation: Mpho would be “Gift” in the US, Lerato “Love,” Leago “Neighborliness.” Thus Northern Sotho names and the language itself get confusing sometimes, especially for someone who is still a novice at the language like me. I cannot count the number of times when I have been at meetings and hear my name “Reamogetswe”, meaning “welcome.” I lift up my head, certain someone is speaking to me, only to find out that the Chairperson is just welcoming everyone.
As remarkable- and confusing- as the Northern Sotho names, what is even more interesting is when the parents here decide to give their children the English translation of the Sotho names. Perhaps it is just compelling to me as I am not used to people being named “Gift,” “Appreciate,” “Competence,” or “Promotion”; but since being here I have meet people with all of these names, and many more that get even more amusing and out of the ordinary. It has become common when PCVs get together that we share the more unusual names that we have heard. We have a running joke that the kids received some of the names because it was the very first thing their parents said when they were born. This would explain some of the nicer ones like Gift, or Blessing (if the parent was truly happy when the child was born) and some of the more obscure ones such as “Good Enough,” “Mistake,” and my new personal favorite “Don’t Cry.” I swear I am not making these up! All of these names have actual people they belong to! Now come to think of it, it is not the nicest joke, but it is the only way we can explain some of the names we hear. But, today during school I heard a name that no matter how much I think of it, I cannot explain it. I was helping a teacher do a class read aloud, and she was calling on the students one by one to take their turns reading. When she called out “Meatball” I turned and looked at her, confused. Where did this come from? But then a little girl from the second row piped up and began reading. Then I am certain my mouth dropped. Why would anyone choose THAT for a name for their child? What were they thinking? I could not think of any explanation for that- ahem- name. So there’s only thing I can conclude: the parents are obviously insane.

Corrupt Mail

5/18/2006

So, today I discovered something: there are just some things in a PCV’s life that should not be messed with. While I’ve been here in South Africa, I have learned to deal with a variety of situations, and even in the most maddening of times I have managed to keep my temper and hold my tongue. In fact, I have not raised my voice in anger for nine months- quite a record for me. Now, this is no surprise to my friends and family back home, but I like to argue. That might be an understatement, actually. I enjoy a good banter in fun, and like to hold arguments about ridiculous things. Being here, I feel that I have lost my touch. There is hardly anyone who I can banter with who does not get worried that I am upset or angry- and trying to be culturally sensitive, I try very hard not to show my anger even if I am seething inside. Today though, I discovered that there is one thing I cannot handle without getting obviously angry: people screwing with my mail.
I normally try not to speak for anyone else, but I think it is pretty safe to say that getting mail is very important to us PCVs. For me, checking my mailbox is one of the highlights of my trips to town, and all of the letters I receive I read at least five times the day I receive them. Now, this is not a blatant plea for mail- ok, it is not JUST a blatant plea for mail- all I’m trying to explain is that getting news- any news- from home is pretty special and exciting. For me, mail has actually risen to the point of sacredness. Mail is sacred; I am not ashamed to admit that. It was the Post Office screwing with my mail that actually caused me to lose my temper for the first time since leaving the US. Today I took my weekly trip to town, and joy! There was a package slip in my mailbox, so automatically I was in a good mood. I greeted the workers per usual and handed over my slip for them to get my package out of the back, and waited. And waited. Finally the guy came back and said, “I cannot find this package- have you already picked it up?”
Now I remember every single package I receive, and I had not gotten a slip for a few months, so I replied, “No, this was the first day the package slip was there.”
So, he went back and tried to find the package again and once more came back empty handed.
“Someone must have picked it up, because it is not here,” he said. That was when my blood pressure rose. I am the only one with keys to my mailbox, there is no possible way anyone else could have collected it. I told him this, and I must admit my voice was rising at this time. The man then changed tactics.
“Well, perhaps we sent it back then,” he said. That was the wrong thing to say.
“You sent it back!!!!” By this point my voice is definitely raised because I’m getting pretty pissed. It definitely felt that he was feeding me some lame excuses. The man began to get a little nervous and added, “Well you see, this is the second slip, and if you do not collect a package in a month we send it back.”
“I NEVER GOT A FIRST SLIP!” Yep, livid now. If I had received a slip within the past month I would definitely know it. The guy then left to get his supervisor- I guess he did not want to deal with an angry American. The supervisor was no help either- he told me the exact same thing- trying to insist someone must have picked it up, then trying to tell me it was the second slip in my mailbox and since I did not collect the package they sent it back. He got the exact same response from me. I am a bit ashamed to admit now that I actually yelled at the post office workers- but they misplaced my mail, damnit! As I said before, mail is sacred. Finally I left, seething but with the promise of the supervisor that they will keep looking for the package. I’m not holding my breath. They lost the package to begin with and then tried to cover their tracks, rather poorly also. So, after blustering around for a few hours in a horrendous mood, and now calm, I have come to a conclusion: I can handle a lot while I’m here. I can pee in a bucket, I can handle being called “white person” all the time, I can handle the boredom and the ineffectiveness of school, but I cannot handle someone messing with my mail. Misplace my mail and the kid gloves definitely come off.

Living on the Border

5/14/2006

Everyday when I ride my bike or walk to school, I spent a great deal of time greeting the people I come across on the road. Greetings are incredibly important etiquette in rural South Africa- theoretically you should say hello to everyone you meet. Now before coming to Africa, I never did this- if I greeted everyone on the streets of Boston while running to class I am certain the only response I would get would be confused and suspicious looks. Interestingly enough I have come to really enjoy this interaction. The responses I get are friendly- most of the time- and enthusiastic and can really turn a mediocre day into a somewhat better one. So, it is “Dumelang” all the way to school. However, on the days that I go to Mabon’wana Primary School, I get to cross a tar road located about a mile from my home. As soon as I cross that tar road, my greetings automatically switch from “dumelang” to “avuxeni,” because that tar road is the unofficial boundary between the Sepedi people and the Shangaan or Tsonga people, and so the language changes as well.
My site is an interesting one. I work primarily in two villages: Buffelshoek and Okkernootboom; located directly across the tar road from each other. Buffelshoek is where I live, and is where two of my schools are located. Okkernootboom is where my last school is located. Buffelshoek is Sepedi, and Okkernootboom is Shangaan. The change is astounding. When I travel through Buffelshoek, I hear nothing but Sepedi, and see the cultural aspects of the Sepedi people. But as soon as I cross that road, BOOM! I am in Shangaan territory where seTsonga is the spoken language and Shangaan culture is evident. Even more interesting, at first glance, the two villages seem to have nothing to do with each other. The people on each side of the tar road remained on their respective side, and interacted with their respective villages. While now after seven months of living here I realize that is not true, when I first arrived at site, the impression I got from these villages was that they were like two separate countries, and going across that tar road was like going across a land border. Slowly I have pieced together the history of the area, and have learned that surprisingly, this was once the case.
I live in an area that was once a Bantustan, or Homeland. During Apartheid, the white South African government pushed the majority black population onto small, destitute areas of land to keep them away from the white minority. For a long time, the black areas were mixed, especially around large cities where much of the black population worked as laborers. In the black areas, you could find Zulu, Shangaan, Sepedi, Xhosa, Tswana, and many more groups living peacefully side by side. In 1948, the white National Party came into power, and the heyday of Grand Apartheid began. With this party came the Homelands Act. The idea behind the Homelands was to create theoretical self-sufficient, self-governing tribal states where each ethnic group in South Africa could live separately from the whites, and also from different ethnic groups (and yet the black population of South Africa made up a vast majority of the workforce. If the Bantustans succeeded white South Africa would be economically crippled. So, on paper the Bantustans would be self-sufficient and self-governing, but the apartheid government ensured that they would be economically dependent on South Africa. What emerged were puppet governments in some of the Bantustans, and mass protest and refusal to accept the policy in the others). While there were many reasons why the Bantustans were created, one was due to the beginnings of the struggle. While the African National Congress (a political party that worked for creating equal rights and an integrated South Africa) had been working for freedom since 1910, it was after 1948 when more strikes, protests, and riots against the racist government began. The NP government realized that the black population was uniting against them, ignoring cultural differences to fight for the common good. How do you stop something like that? Simple. Divide and Conquer- used for hundreds of years as a method of colonial submission of native ethnic groups. Divide the population along ethnic lines. Play up cultural differences. Turn the population against each other instead of against the government. Just like that, the mixed black communities that had been living peacefully together for decades were torn apart, and the different ethnic groups ordered to move to their respective Bantustans. My area is a classic example of this. In the course of a few weeks, a Shangaan and Sepedi mixed area was forcefully segregated, and a political boundary was created between the two groups- the old boundary was my tar road that I cross several times a week. On one side of the border was the Bantustan of Leboa, where the Sepedi people lived. The other was Gazankulu, the Bantustan reserved for the Shangaan.
So, for nearly twenty-five years this border between the two territories existed, and sometimes I feel that in the minds of the older populations in these two villages, it still exists, even if the official boundary disappeared 12 years ago. Unfortunately, this “divide and conquer” rule of the government had an effect on my community. Over the years, the relationship between the Shangaans and the Sepedi people in my area grew sour, until one day it culminated into an all out “war.” My host mother has lived in the Buffelshoek area her whole life, and told me about this “war.” In 1984, she was teaching class in a school located close to the border. Suddenly, she heard a cacophony of shouting and screaming coming from the direction of the tar road. Gangs of Sepedi and Shangaan youths had begun fighting each other- rather violently with stones and clubs- on the border of the two territories. No one really knows why this fighting began, but according to my host mother, for the next two weeks everyone in both villages lived in fear. The riots grew so bad at night that the families in the villages would sleep in the bush, as far away from the tar road as possible. Finally, the government got involved and put an end to the fighting- but not before ten people were killed and scores more were injured. Luckily, the area calmed down, and when the border and Homelands were eradicated in 1994, the two areas lived peacefully side by side once more. I feel though that this division has hurt the community deeply, and while the people here live in peace and quiet, there are still some bad feelings from those two weeks in 1984. It is little things that I notice mostly where I still feel that the two areas are separate countries. There was a time in my Shangaan school when the teachers made comments about how the Sepedi are so violent, and do I really enjoy living with such people? When I first got to site, I told my principals my African name, given to me during training. My name, “Tiyiselani,” means “patience or perseverance,” and it is Shangaan. One of my Sepedi principals’ insisted on giving me a Sepedi name as well: “Reamogetswe,” meaning “welcome.” The biggest controversy was when I first arrived at site. My first host family was a fifteen-year-old boy…and that was it. No adults, no supervision, no nothing. The first night I spent there he threw a party with about twenty other high-schoolers, and I put my foot down and said no way. I want another family. I was living in Okkernootboom, and my principals moved me to Buffelshoek, to a family that I absolutely adore. I only learned about it months later, but this move created a huge controversy. The School Government Board at my Shangaan school was furious about my move, and accused one of my Sepedi principals of moving me because he wanted me in a Sepedi area instead of a Shangaan area. When they heard the real reason for the move, they dropped the argument instantly, but when I heard about this after-the-fact, I was stunned. What at the time was a simple move not a mile away symbolized much, much more to my community.
They call South Africa a “Rainbow Nation” because so many ethnic groups live side by side peacefully. I can’t help but think of the rainbows I used to draw in Kindergarten. All of my rainbows were meticulous- every color had its own area and there was no overlapping. Sometimes, I can’t help but compare those rainbows I drew to South African society I see: each ethnic group has its own area and there is no overlapping. Now, for the majority of communities in South Africa, I realize that the metaphor I just illustrated is bogus. There IS overlapping and blending, and a lot of it; and there is no animosity when it occurs. But in some areas and in politics the rainbow of ethnic and race divisions are still evident. My opinion on this: let’s forget the rainbow in a traditional sense. It can still be a rainbow nation where all of the ethnic groups and races coexist, but let’s erase the still-evident borders between these groups, and create a rainbow that is mixed, full of overlapping and blended colors. Bad feelings and a long history of pain and suffering takes time to heal, but when I was leaving Mabon’wana today and crossed the tar road, I saw a sight that made me smile. Students from Mabon’wana and students from Makgahlishe, one of my Sepedi schools, were playing a soccer match by the side of the road. The teams were mixed Shangaan and Sepedi, and the students were using Shangaan and Sepedi interchangeably. Seeing that made me realize that South Africa can heal, and can become a nation of a blended rainbow.

Letsamaile

5/8/2006

Chairs have arrived!!! After years (according to my teachers) of the children sitting on meal bags on the floor, we finally have enough chairs for every student at Letsamaile Primary School. It was a very exciting day for everyone- and I think I might have been more excited than my teachers. Perhaps I am more proud than anything. Letsamaile is one of the three schools that I work with, and out of all three it is the most functional. The teachers are dedicated and motivated, and often get upset if they have to miss class for meetings or functions- almost a novelty it seems amongst rural government schools. There is no corporal punishment at the school (big step there!) and the teachers actually seem to enjoy teaching. Of course, the school is not without its problems: the lower grades are absurdly over crowded with plus seventy students per teacher, classroom management is not the best, and the method of teaching is still “chalk and talk.” Yet, despite these problems, Letsamaile is a really good school. There is a positive feeling from both the teachers and the students, and it makes the teaching and learning atmosphere enjoyable.
I must admit, when I first arrived at site, Letsamaile was not my favorite school. In fact, it was my least favorite. I’m afraid I nick-named it the “Ornament School” because for the first several months I went there, I felt like a wall ornament. The teachers enjoyed having me at school- I think it was the prestige of having an American volunteer working there- and were nice and friendly, but they did not use me. They did not ask me for help, or to teach demonstration lessons, or even share their goals for the school. What I deemed lack of interest, I believe now was a feeling of confusion. Unfortunately, the third week after my arrival at site, the principal at Letsamaile had a stroke, and as of last month was granted an early retirement. Because the South African laws of education dictate that only schools more than 400 students (we just passed 400 this year) hire a vice principal or Head of Department (senior staff member), the school was left with virtually no official leadership. But instead of allowing the school to fall apart, the teachers impressively pulled themselves together, and kept the school functioning as normal. Since then, Letsamaile became the school I most admire, but I was still freakishly bored when I went there. This all changed one rainy morning in March. I was sitting in the staff room doing… who knows what, but I bet it was something trivial… and one of the teachers hurried in. This teacher, Judith, is an incredibly funny and vibrant person. I always enjoyed sitting in her classroom, because her interaction with the kids was so fun to watch. Last year, she was teaching first grade, but this year she moved to subject teaching in grades 4 and 5. She said to me “Reamogetswe (my Northern Sotho name) will you come and teach my class long division? I never learned it!”
So, like that, I was introduced to the world of demonstration teaching. I discovered that I really enjoy teaching (I don’t think I actually want to become a teacher though, I think the noise would very quickly drive me insane), and suddenly I had an “in” with the teachers- like magic many began asking me to do demonstration lessons in their classrooms, and even for help with planning and classroom management. Just as suddenly, I began enjoying going to Letsamaile. I grew closer to the teachers and learned more about them and I grew closer with the children. I learned what goals the teachers had for the school, and how they hoped to achieve these goals. Letsamaile became “our” school instead of “their” school; “our” accomplishments instead of “their” accomplishments. So when the chairs arrived I suppose it was no real surprise to me that I felt so excited and proud. I had nothing to do with getting the chairs- the teachers alone budgeted the school funds and ordered the furniture- but I still felt a sense of accomplishment. Most of all I was extremely happy that the teachers took the initiative to make our school better.