Wining and Dining with the Ambassador

Happy Belated Thanksgiving everyone! I hope everyone had a wonderful time with family and friends, with lots of turkey and pie and all the good Thanksgiving food! This entry is dedicated to my new favorite person in South Africa: the American Ambassador to South Africa. About three months ago, Bush appointed a new ambassador to South Africa, Ambassador Bost, and around this time all of the PCVs in the country received an invitation to join the Ambassador and his wife for a Thanksgiving feast at his residence in Pretoria. For my group, especially, this was nice. Last year we were still on travel restriction for Thanksgiving, and so that Thursday I know I spent a somewhat miserable time alone in my village. I decided NOT AGAIN, and RSVPed to go to the ambassador's. Most everyone else in my group did as well.

May I just say right now that the Ambassador's residence is beautiful! He lives in this really nice estate/compound on a hill overlooking Pretoria, with gorgeous rooms and a very well manicured garden. Not a maize stalk in sight! From the moment we arrived, he and his wife made us feel completely welcome. The very first thing that he said to us was "Welcome, it's great to have you here. The bar is right over there." That would be an open bar. He seems to know Peace Corps volunteers very well! Things just went uphill from there. He was a great guy, and tried so hard to give all of us a traditional American Thanksgiving. He oversaw the chef's meal, and he even had flown in from the US Butterball Turkeys and Heavenly Hams, and imported Vermont syrup for home-made pecan pies! He seemed determined to spoil all of us, and he very well succeeded! Yesterday's Thanksgiving was my first real American meal in fifteen months, and the best meal I have had in over a year. I stuffed myself silly. I indulged in two full plates of food, and then went back to get three pieces of pie (hey, of course I did! There was a selection of homemade pecan, pumpkin, and apple pie! I couldn't NOT take a piece of each). I am writing this entry a full twenty hours after the meal, and I am still full. Last night when we returned to our backpackers', we couldn't do more than just sit and digest.

After the meal, it seemed like the day could not get any better. But then it did. We were sitting, finishing off our pie, when the music went on. We have quite a few dancers in our group, and noticing this, the Ambassador then invited us into his huge living/entertainment area (when I say entertainment, I mean the place probably used when dignitaries from South Africa and other countries come to visit. It reminded me of the Oval Office!) and encouraged us to dance. So, we had a dance party! Quite soon, this turned into line dancing and the absolute best part was, the Ambassador and his wife soon joined in! I spent my Thanksgiving dancing with the Ambassador!

All good things come to an end, though, and soon it was time for us Peace Corps to depart, and leave the Ambassador in peace. But we were all extremely touched by his generosity. Not only did the Ambassador open his home (and bar) and welcome eighty crazy Peace Corps volunteers into his home with open arms, he also tried his hardest to give us a Thanksgiving that would remind us of home. It was definitely the best holiday that I have spent thus far in South Africa. And so, I would like to end this entry simple by saying: Thank you Ambassador Bost, YOU ARE AWESOME!

Return to Transport

I know that a few weeks ago I dedicated an entire blog entry to the subject of Transportation, but now I feel that I really must return to it in lieu of an interesting experience I had just last week with public transportation. I feel that it really sums up the entire concept, so sit back and listen to a rather ludicrous and interesting experience:

Last weekend was my friend Amanda's birthday, and she invited me to attend a small birthday party at her site. I had never been to her site before, and I thought that it would be a nice experience to not only help Amanda celebrate, but also to see another village. She lives outside of Tzaneen, which is only about 100km (a trip I have made that usually takes between 1 and 1.5 hours) from where I live, so I thought I could easily swing by for a night, and take off back to my site the next day. Luckily for me (so I thought) there was a direct taxi I could get from Acornhoek straight to Tzaneen, so not only would it be a fun trip, but a very easy one as well! On Saturday morning around 9 I arrived at the taxi rank. The taxi to Tzaneen had only one other person in it, but as it is a pretty common route, I hopped in, thinking that in less than an hour we would get going. Five hours later, we were still waiting. There's the unfortunate "leave when full" policy... and the taxi did not fill up until 2:30. Now, you might be thinking, why did she wait so long? There were other, less direct routes to Tzaneen, and after two hours, realizing that I was late and also that the taxi would take another several hours before it got full, I prepared to hop right back out and take another form of transport. That was when I ran into my next dilema. The second I got into the taxi the que marshal (taxi rank leader) asked me to pay and write my name down on the list of passengers. I thought it was a bit odd that he asked to do this right away (normally it is done when the taxi is almost full) but shrugged it off and paid my fare. When I told the que marshal that I wanted to take another taxi, and therefore needed my money back, he shook his head.
"Don't worry, ma'am," he said. "We are leaving just now."

I should translate what "just now" means: it means anywhere in the future, from five minutes to ten hours. "Now now" actually means "at that moment." A little later I asked again, and got the same response. That's when I realized that I was not getting out of the taxi. The guy was not prepared to give me my money back, so I had to sit back and wait.

But, my five hours was not without entertainment, during that time, the que marshal asked me for my cell phone, saying that since I was white, of course I could pay for another one (I ignored him, and decided it would do no good to say I probably made less money per month than he did) and then I noticed him in cahoots with another passenger. The other passenger had a camera phone, and the two were whispering with each other, throwing a periodic glance in my direction. Then the que marshal came over near the outside of the window I was sitting next to. He was a few feet away, but angled himself oddly, and then I noticed that the passenger with the camera phone held it up, and then I also realized that the que marshal was getting a picture taken with me, without asking for permission. Seriously pissed off, I slid as far as I could away from the window right before the picture was taken. Listening to their uproarious laughter, I got even more pissed off and just gritted my teeth.

Around 2:15 we only had one more passenger to go. That was when the que marshal did an absolute no-no in the land of taxis. He asked the passengers to all chip in and make a "donation" and pay for the last empty seat. Now, there is a certain etiquette in dealing with taxis and passengers. Each person pays the amount one seat costs, unless they offer to pay for an empty seat. To ask for the passengers to pay more is wrong. And that is when the screaming began. I was almost certain that the passengers would riot against the que marshal. Many of them had been waiting just as long as I had, and we were all tired, cranky and now furious. Luckily for the marshal, another passenger wanting to go to Tzaneen arrived just as the angry yelling was beginning to die down.

So, we were finally on our way. After a lovely 5 and a half hours of waiting, we were off! But it was not long after we started driving that I noticed that we were traveling awfully slowly. Normally, I am terrified because taxis drive to fast, but I swear we were only going like 60km an hour, if that. That is practically unheard of. So, we plodded along at a snail's pace, and I was wondering if we would even get to Tzaneen that day. And then, not an hour on the road, we made a stop. This was another thing unheard of: the trip from Acornhoek to Tzaneen is non-stop. And then the passengers were getting off, and going into the nearby gas station to buy drinks and snacks. I was livid. By my calculations, we were only half an hour away from Tzaneen (little did I know we were actually still an hour away), and people could not wait? The driver also disappeared for about 20 minutes, but he finally came back and we were back on the road.

By this time, Amanda is sending me rather frantic sms', she was concerned that we would not get to her village. I, for some odd reason, was still oddly opptimistic. I told here we were nearly there (I did not know that that was a blatant lie) and joked that the only thing that could go wrong now was if the taxi broke down.

I should not have tempted fate.

Not 10km outside of Tzaneen (and at 4:30 I was wondering why the hell an hour trip was taking more than two) the people in the front of the taxi began yelling, and suddenly the taxi driver jerked to the side of the road. Those in the front two seats leapt out of the taxi, and the driver quickly pulled up the seats to reveal a steaming engine (in some of the older taxis, the engine extends to under the seats). Then the trip clicks. I suddenly understood that the reason why we moved at such a snail's pace and why we made a twenty-minute pit stop was because the driver was afraid the engine would overheat. And it looked just then like it was. I almost panicked then. I began making plans as to what would happen if Amanda and I missed the last taxi to her village, and even began wondering if I would ever make it to Tzaneen. If the taxi just stopped there in the middle of no-where, I was toast, plain and simple. But the driver did not panic. He got a jug of water out from the back, and poured it over the engine. After waiting another fifteen minutes, he judged it safe to finish our drive to Tzaneen. We pulled into Tzaneen about 5:15, three hours after leaving Acronhoek, and eight hours since I tried to start my journey, where Amanda and I luckily caught the very last taxi of the day to her village.

So, to sum up my experience I will once again say that public transport in South Africa is unpredictably, if anything. And I have learned my lesson. The direct route is not always the best route, and I will never take a direct taxi from Acornhoek to Tzaneen ever again.

Ignorance IS Bliss

(Warning: This entry is particularly Long Winded and talks a lot about politics and current affairs. I apologize if I bore you, so be forewarned)

Last week one of my teachers asked me about the elections in the US. That brought up an interesting response from me.... my initial reaction was to think "what elections?" It took me a minute to remember, "aw, THOSE elections." What the US has been talking about for months, will the Democrats retake Congress? (HAHA, take THAT Bush!) I think it's pretty safe to say that the majority of PCVs are in the dark about current affairs. We live very isolated lives with not the greatest sources of information: the daily newspaper in my area is the Daily Sun, and I once read an article, but never finished it because I was laughing too hard. Let's just say it is no New York Times. First of all, the Daily Sun's writers have a certain affiliation for exclamation points. Second, it is not so much a newspaper as a tabloid. So, the only news I get is from the scattered magazines from the Peace Corps office and my family (normally old news by the time it reaches me, but I'm not complaining), the Daily Sun, and the few rare days with the BBC on my short wave radio is not just static. I really have no idea what is going on in the world. When I first arrived in South Africa and was going through training, the lack of knowledge about the state of the world drove me crazy. We had just come from a country where everywhere you turn there's a headline about global or national affairs but suddenly we decended into Moletjie, our training village, and all our ties to the outside world were severed. Durring training we got no magazines, no newspapers, and my short wave radio was packed in my second bag, being stored at the Peace Corps office until I went to site. And I HATED it! I hated not knowing what was going on! I have an International Relations degree, I like knowing what's happening in the world.

When I arrived at site, it was with a sigh of relief because I once again had access to information from the outside world. My family had a TV so I could watch the nightly news if I wanted (not CNN but really, beggars can't be choosers). I had access to my shortwave radio, and could pick up the BBC and soon, packages from home and our monthly mailing from the Peace Corps office in Pretoria brought a plethora of Newsweek and Time Magazine. It wasn't the same as being back home, but it was something. Slowly though, over the course of the year, knowing about the outside world did not become so important. I really don't know why, but as I became more content and accustomed to my village and living in South Africa, I grew more content NOT knowing what was going on in the world. I still read the magazines I got, and listened to my radio, but it was not with the same fervor as twelve months ago. Then about two months ago it happened. I became fed up with the outside world. It had been building up for weeks, I think: many of the articles I read and the news I heard just disgusted me. I was tired of the scandals, the name calling, the senseless violence, and the pettiness that the stories talked about. Finally, I shut all my magazines and radio in my closet, and stopped watching the nightly news. I imposed a news embargo on myself. For several weeks I simply did not care what was going on in the world outside of my village.

Interestingly enough, I was perfectly content not knowing the state of the world. I know, some International Relations graduate I turned out to be, but if I did not know what was going on, I could pretend that the entire world was in a state of peace. It was a really nice feeling. No more was I worrying about Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and the possiblity of war with Iran. I wasn't thinking about North Korea or Iraq, and no more did I hear the idiotic things Bush was doing (ok, my logical mind knew that he was still doing them daily, but now since I did not have to read about them I did not cringe every time and wonder how badly his decisions would reflect upon me, an American living abroad). In the weeks that my embargo lasted, I discovered that ignorance really is bliss... for awhile at least. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending how you want to look at it), my embargo did not last forever. Slowly, as I heard bits and pieces about current events from my teachers and other PCVs, my interest was piqued and I began wondering just what had I missed? My strike against all things relating to news ended officially last week, with the last few days before the US election. It was my teachers, really, who encouraged this end, because they began asking questions about what the election would mean for the United States and for Bush's policies. As I explained our government and how the country as divided between the Republicans and Democrats, I grew more and more interested in what was going on back home, until last Tuesday and Wednesday I was in a state of agitation. While the South African news had talked about the elections for days beforehand, they did not mention the results. Once when I really needed it, the BBC was in static. Finally, I sent my Dad a text message begging for information (by the way, thanks Dad!) and he complied, telling me the results. And I was greatly relieved. Well, this entire episode taught me something: ignorance really is bliss, but only for awhile and it is not for everyone. For me, while I enjoyed my state of ignorance overall, I much prefer knowing about what is going on in the world, even if it does mean shaking my head in disgust or ducking in embarassment.

Wild Kingdom

Sometimes I think that my schools are less than schools and more of zoos. And it is not because the kids act like animals half the time. We seem to collect a certain amout of wildlife on our school grounds, and have amusing times trying to shoo them out. First of all are the bugs. Every one of my schools are infested with bugs to a certain amount; ranging from dung beetles and ants lazing about in the school yard to entire classrooms being eaten alive by termites, or infested with cockroaches. Ugh, cockroaches seem to be eveywhere in this country! Then there are the birds. They are the most tame creatures around the school yard. They make nests in the eaves of the roof, or in the rafters, but seem to keep to themselves. Bats as well, but they are more unnerving. Especially when you are in a classroom observing, and suddenly you hear this chittering noises from the ceiling, and you wonder if one is going to swoop down and want to drink your blood (ok, so I know bats don't do that, but seeing them fly around at night, I can't help but think dracula and vampires). But the chittering can also be rats, not that that is any better whatsoever. It has taken me a long time to stop becoming squeamish to the fact that the majority of the buildings in my village are homes to rats. Luckily, my house has thus far not had any unwanted rat tenants, but all of my schools house a varying number of them. They are worse than cockroaches. Ick. Finally there are the farm animals that mosey their way in during the day when the school gates are open. Chickens scratch contentedly at the yard, and goats meander their way around the building, looking for scraps to eat. And sometimes the goats even meander their way into the classrooms, and we have to chase them out. I actually had to shoo a goat out of the staff room as it wandered in during a meeting. Entertaining, to say the least. But with all the bugs, birds, bats, rats, chickens and goats, we have never before faced a snake in the classrooms, until last Monday.

Before I go into that story, may I just say that everyone here is absolutely terrified of snakes. I don't like them very much myself, but I learned that if you don't bother snakes, they won't bother you; even if they are the most venomous ones in Africa. And South Africa has a few of those: the black and green mamba, the broomslang, the puff adder, the African cobra... just to name a few. But my dislike of snakes is nothing compared to the downright fear most everyone I have met here seems to share. It seems to be some sort of disease: if you see a snake, KILL KILL KILL it before it can kill you! Nevermind it may be a harmless garden snake, it is clearly deadly and must be disposed of! So, when I saw a snake slithering out of the third grade classroom afterschool on Monday, I decided to keep my mouth shut as to where it came from exactly. If anyone knew that it came from inside the class, no one would ever go into that class again (just last week Lethabo saw a snake in the vicinity of our pit toilet, and my host mother forbid anyone to go near it for days. Finally I decided enugh was enough and scouted around the toilet, and decided that the snake had vacated the premises. Luckily also. I was getting tired of going to the neighbor's to use theirs). Now this snake looked perfectly harmless. It was just slithering around the courtyard, minding its own business, and hopefully looking for rats to eat. I decided to leave it alone, but a few girls who were cleaning one of the classrooms nearby saw it, and suddenly, the air was filled with screams. Before I knew it, all of them had run away and returned, each bearing a long stick. At that point I said farewell to the snake, because I knew it was not going to live another minute, but then the principal walked over to see what was going on. He regarded the snake for a moment, then looked at me.
"You know, Reamogetswe," he said. "I don't think we should kill it."

Well, that caught me off guard. Not kill a snake? Was I suddenly transported out of South Africa? But he continued, and explained that last year a few workers from Kruger Park had come to talk to the kids about wildlife and invasive species. They had mentioned that snakes are good for the environment, and eat rats and other pests. I nodded my head and agreed, and we convinced the girls not to bludgeon the snake to death, but rather to use the sticks to toss the snake into the bushes. Mission accomplished, the snake was free to live another day, and maybe it would consent to eat some of our other pests that putter around the school. A few less rats would be very nice.

Flood?

South Africa has an interesting set of seasons. Oh, they are named summer, spring, winter, fall like in the US, but really, I think that those names are not the best to explain them. For starters, it is increasingly difficult for me to say it is summer in the middle of November, and for it to be 100 degrees in January. Just as difficult is the July where temperatures get down to 50 degrees, and I am shivering in a fleece and wool all day long. Too weird. Really, for me, I would much prefer to lable these seasons as freakishly hot and wet, hot and wetish, cold and dry, and not so hot and dry. Yep, that basically sums up the seasons we have here! Right now we have just started the freakishly hot and wet season. And when I say freakishly hot, I mean freakishly hot. Last year around this time I recorded the temperature to be 117degrees in the sun one day. Luckily, so far this year we have only made it to 98; and I really hope that is the highest we will get! Even with temperatures around 100, with no air conditioning or fans to alleviate the heat the only thing you really can do is sit under the trees in the shade and sweat. All energy is sucked away and the only other time I have ever felt so lethargic was in Niger during the hot season. But, that is where the rain really helps things a lot. The freakishly hot and wet season can be broken down even further into about three to four day intervals. Day one is cool (in the 80s) and rainy. Day two is warm (low 90s) and humid. Day three to four is freakishly hot (high 90s and low 100s) and dry. Then the cycle begins all over again with a good rain. The rainy days are a wonderful relief!

Around October and November, I have noticed that my village always waits for the rain with a mixed degree of eagerness and worry. Eagerness because it has been six months since the last rain fall and we are all choking on dust. Worry because what will happen if the rain is late or not enough? The planting season does not start until the rain comes, so if the rain is late the crops will be late. I cannot count how many times in the past few months where I talked to my host mother about the rain and she just shakes her head mournfully.
"It doesn't want to rain," she sighs every time (regardless if we had a light rain shower earlier in the day or not). "We are suffering for water."

But last Sunday I think really eased all the worries about the rain, or so I thought at the time. I was alone in the house with just my host sister, Lerato, all the others away at an all day church function (definitely not going to that!), when I noticed that it was getting windy outside. The next thing I heard was a crash of thunder I was sure was going to break all the windows in the house, and then the rain started pouring down. Followed by lightning. Followed by hail. Followed by flooding. It seriously poured, hailed and stormed for hours. We closed up all the windows and doors, but it did not stop the water. Soon, both the kitchen and garage were flooded as the water seeped in through the cracks in and under the door. We tried to mop it up, but more water kept coming in so finally we just barricaded the kitchen and stuffed towels under the door leading to the rest of the house until the rain stopped. About four hours later, just about the time I was contemplating the story about Noah and the flood, the rain ceased, and we managed to mop up the water from the house.

Rain like that definitly left its mark on the village. The dried out water holes are now filled to the brim with water, our dirt roads are in need of repair from all the erosion, and mud and puddles are still found everywhere, despite how it is now three days after the storm. Now we know for certain that the rainy season is here to stay, and people are out beginning to plow their fields. I mentioned this to my host mother yesterday, saying that the storm seemed to do a lot of good. But she just shook her head mounrfully.
"Hard rain like that is no good," she sighed. "We are suffering."
Sigh... Sometimes you just can't win.