Running for a Good Cause

One week from tomorrow on February 2nd, I will have been in South Africa for exactly one year. It's hard to believe that it's already been a year, and still I am learning so much and gaining so much from this experience. And plenty of new experiences are yet to come.

One of these is the Longtom Marathon--actually a half- and an ultra-marathon. Though I'd love to tell you that my running has improved so dramatically that I'll be running the ultra, I'm going with the much more attainable half, 21.2km. The marathon takes place on March 27 in Sabie, Mpumalanga Province, not too far from Kruger Park. It starts at the top of the Longtom Pass and goes downhill most of the way into Lydenburg. You may remember seeing pictures from my trip to Blyde River Canyon. Longtom Pass is in the same region as the canyon. Longtom is a major annual event for Peace Corps volunteers. It will be a lot of fun for all of us to get together in one a place. Its rare that so many of us, somewhere around 70, are able to get together.

In addition to having a good time though, the main reason for taking part is to support the KLM foundation. The organization was founded by two PCVs (Peace Corps volunteers) who served here in South Africa a few years ago. They decided to use the Longtom Marathon as a fundraiser to provide the financial means for a worthy, needy child to attend an excellent independent high school in Mpumalanga called Uplands College. It's a great opportunity to bring great educational opportunity to a child who will become a leader in the future of this country. The children they choose for this opportunity are very carefully selected through a four-tier application process. In the seven years that KLM has been fundraising through Longtom, seven children have been chosen and are all excelling. You can read more about the work of the KLM foundation at www.klm-foundation.org.

But why share all this with you? I am asking for your support. Please give what you can; any amount is appreciated. Even if you can only give $5, it is much needed. Of course, larger donations are welcome too :) And your donation is tax-deductible. So please go to the KLM website to make a donation, just click on the 'donate' photo. Make sure to put my name in the white box where it asks for the Longtom runner you want to sponsor.

The online donation is preferable, but if you need to mail in a check, please make it payable to "Kgwale Le Mollo (US)" and send it to:

KLM Foundation (US)
c/o Bowen Hsu
461 So. Bonita Avenue
Pasadena, CA 91107

Please make sure to include a note that your donation is on my behalf.

Thank you for your support, and especially for supporting the child who is chosen next year to attend Uplands College. I'll be sure to put up a post after the race, and let you know how everything went.

Shipwreck Coast Photos

Pictures from the trip have now been uploaded to Picasa. From now on I'll be updating to Picasa rather than Flickr. But I'll continue to let you know when I've uploaded new photos. You can see the new photos here.

Holiday Travels

Over the Christmas and New Year's Holiday, I went on a backpacking trip along the Shipwreck Coast with three other Peace Corps volunteers. It was a fantastic trip, and I was thrilled at the opportunity to see and experience so much more of this beautiful country.

We took a six day hike along the coast and finished up the week in the Port Elizabeth area. The Shipwreck Coast is a beautiful stretch of land along the Indian Ocean that is mostly uninhabited. We went days without seeing another person. We hiked along white sandy beaches with the Indian Ocean to one side and huge sand dunes to the other. Seashells, coral and seaglass where abundant. Absolutely one of the most pristine and beautiful stretches of coastline that I have ever been on.

We had the privelege of being the second group ever to set off on the new trail--really decently priced for permants, etc. and most of the proceeds were going to an NGO set up by our trail supervisor. (I highly recommend this trail for PCVs, anyone reading this, email me and I can get you Dave's information.) Day one was mostly along the coast. We hiked barefoot through the sand and stopped often for playtime in the sand and the water. It was my first experience with the Indian Ocean which I had always heard was supposed to be warm--apparently not when its mixed with arctic waters. Highlight of the day was coming across a giant sea turtle and getting to get up close and personal.

Day two was split between hiking on the beach and then hiking into the bush to a gigantic treehouse, our lodging for the night. It was nice change for my calves that were aching from walking in the sand with my pack weighing me down. And the treehouse was fantastic. I was a little sad in the morning when it was time to go. (That was also the dead dolphin day. His carcass had washed up onto the beach. Not my favorite part of our travels. I much preferred the petrified leopard shark carcass we found the day before.)

On day three we hiked back out of the bush into open pasture land. Cows a plenty, but nice, fat, healthy cows unlike the village cows I've grown accustomed too. The pastures were beautiful and the elevation high enough that in many spots we had a nice view of the coast. Our aim was a Cold War Era, American funded, Soviet Spy Station, operational during Apartheid which would be our night's lodgings. Yes, we all fully appreciated the great irony of Peace Corps volunteers staying there. Before evening set in, the three girls in our party hiked down to the beach for some playtime on what turned out to be one of the most beautiful beaches we were on for the length of the hike.

Day four started with a short hike through beach bush to the mouth of the Kleinemonde West River where our trail supervisor Dave met us with the canoes. We canoed 10km into the Nyala Valley Game Reserve where we took a short hike to the Lilypad Hut, a beautiful bamboo, open-air camp ground set up by the game reserve. On our short hike we came across a baby zebra and had a great photo-op. Since the reserve was non-predator, we were free to walk around. It was an awesome experience to walk freely through the reserve and come across herd after herd of various types of animals--wildebeest, giraffes, nyala, etc.

The next day we hiked back out and canoed upriver against fierce winds. It was definitely not the easy canoe of the day before, but I'll say for myself that I enjoyed the challenge. After the canoe, we hiked along the coast through some beautiful rocky beaches before turning inland. We had already hiked up several sand dunes in previous days (not an easy feat in normal circumstances but especially not with a pack), but the dunes on day five were especially steep. Hiking more often meant crawling up them. But our reward was a beautiful hike through more pasture to the Stone Cottage. The cottage was built in 1854 and had recently been renovated to include a clawfoot tub, shower, stove, all the modern conveniences. Not only was it luxurious for hikers, it was luxurious for Peace Corps volunteers used to village accomodations. From the window, we could look out onto the pastures and watch springbok and impala herds. The whole experience felt like something out of Jane Austen, and I definitely wanted to live there forever.

The last day we hiked back out to the coast past the Fish River Lighthouse to the mouth of the Fish River where the trail ended. After seeing no more than probably ten people for the past five days, we suddenly came upon a crowded beach of swimmers. Our first stop off the trail with our grubby, sand-coated selves was a local pizzeria in Port Alfred. Ah, pizza and beer, nothing better for a first meal off the trail.


The last half of our day was spent driving to Away with the Fairies Backpacker in Hogsback, the supposed inspiration for JRR Tolkein's Hobbit and his boyhood home. We didn't have much time there and were all wiped out, so we missed the amazing hiking in the area. I'm looking forward to going back when my parents come to visit.


Our final day before heading back to site was spent at the Seaview Lion Park just outside of Port Elizabeth. Its a great little gamepark, but the best part was getting to play with lion cubs and then camping in the middle of the lion enclosure. It was an awesome thing to wake up, open the tent flap and have four adolescent male lions staring at me from about 30 feet away--thankfully with a lot of fencing in between us.

I'll hopefully get a lot of pictures posted soon. It was a really amazing trip and a great way to spend the holiday so far from home. Hope every one is having a great start to the new year!

New Photos

I've finally posted photos from my trip to Blyde River and a few from the village. You can check them out here.

A Few of My Favorite Things

A friend just sent me a one line email with the question "What is your favorite thing about South Africa?"

I wish that the answer came as easily as the question. I wish there was just one thing that I could pin point and say, "that's my favorite thing about this place." But its not that simple, especially when you are talking about a place as complex as South Africa.


However, since I'm sure that Oprah's doing it and its the time of the year to pull The Sound of Music off the shelf and because its Christmas time,  here's a few of my favorite things as best as I can represent them:

My Favorite Store: Fruit and Veg City. The freshest fruit and veggies I think I've ever seen in my life, and they always have great deals. I'm lucky to have one in my shopping town.

My Favorite Pizza Place: Bravo Pizza. Americans need pizza or at least we need something that makes us feel a little connected to home. Its a small place in Pretoria with outdoor seating, a brick oven and the thinnest crust I've ever found. Amazing and oh so good. And the people who run it are great.

My Favorite South African Food: A toss up between Sepatlo and Samp. Sepatlo, a South African sandwich that's ridiculously bad for you but ridiculously good. Samp, similar to hominy but not quite the same. Hard to describe.

My Favorite South African Beer: Yeah, haven't found that yet. Not a place especially known for their beer.

My Favorite Spot in the Village: The road behind the village that I run on in the mornings. Not much traffic, foot or auto. A nice quite place to run where I can enjoy the solitude and can watch the sunrise.

My Favorite Village Animal: The donkey. Hands down saddest and yet funniest creature in the world.

My Favorite South African Saying: It varies between "Eish", "Sharp", and "Owwa". Eish is kind of like saying "oh, my goodness." Sharp like saying "its good", "i'm good", "got it", or basically anything you want it to mean at the time. Owwa like saying "I can't believe you just said that" or "no, that's not at all what I was trying to say".

My Favorite South African Adventure: Skydiving or getting up close and personal with an elephant herd.


My Favorite Time of Day in South Africa: Sunset. Beautiful.

My Favorite Part of My Life in South Africa: The simplicity of life in the village. I have few possessions and with a few notable exceptions (like my computer) most of them are not worth very much. Life is slower and calmer. I read. I write. I watch movies. I sit for hours chatting with my host mom and neighbors. I bake my own bread and make my own pasta sauce. Everything in my life with the exception of the grocery store and the ATM is a fifteen minute walk or less.  I realize more and more how little in life I actually need, and its a nice realization.

My Favorite Thing about South Africa: It is a country that desperately wants to heal from its past. I think that overwhelmingly people want to put Apartheid and its results behind them, but how to do that is a confusing and very complex thing. Often what is tried is not effective or doesn't have the intended effect. But almost everyone I talk to, they want to move forward. And I think that's simply amazing.

Africa's Sex Appeal

“Africa is not that Sexy,” read the article headline in the latest Relevant Magazine issue newly arrived in far off Mmametlhake, South Africa. Yes, it’s true. Africa is not that sexy.

The African cause. No matter how many dollars are poured into aid and development. No matter how many celebrities stand up in support of their favorite charity. No matter how many politicians visit the remotest parts. Africa is not that sexy.

I thought it was when I moved here. The sex appeal and the romanticism of living in the African village. The simplicity of it. Working with your hands. Teaching and serving. Making a difference and making life long friends.

But simply put, it’s just not that sexy.

The pit latrine. The insects the size of my fist. The passive aggressiveness so prevalent in South African culture. The corruption and nepotism that runs rampant and seemingly unchecked. The stereotypes one African culture has about another, leading to xenophobia and racism. The unemployment rates. The widespread alcoholism. The violence. The crime. The poverty. The hungry. The sick. The dying. None of it sexy.

But when was it supposed to be sexy. When was giving a cup of water or a loaf or bread ever supposed to be sexy? When was caring for the widow or the orphan ever supposed to be sexy? When was loving others as yourself ever supposed to be sexy? Was acting out the gospel message ever supposed to be sexy?

I don’t think that it was. People didn’t believe in Jesus because of his sex appeal. They believed because of the simple complexity of grace and the fullness of love. And the people he lived among and served weren’t sexy. But they carried in them a need for the love of God and his mercy.

No, when you look at it, Africa has no real sex appeal. At least what I have seen of it. But it has a lot of people who have a lot to give and a lot to receive.

Life is not easy here. Simpler maybe, but not easy. It’s not romantic. It’s not ideal or even that fun a lot of the time. But it’s a place where Jesus is. It’s a place where God is moving and working. And where God’s people move and work. It may not be sexy. But I do believe that it holds the quiet beauty of a place being shaped and formed by the hands of God.

A Pre-Technology Kind of Life

I just wrote the following article for our monthly (or sometimes monthly) Peace Corps South Africa newsletter and thought some of you out there might be interested in the read:

I was talking with another volunteer the other night about life in the village without a computer. Her laptop recently had a bad run in with an electrical storm and she’s now learning to live without until she can get it fixed.

My own computer’s power adapter went out back in July. At the time, I was able to easily get a replacement, but unfortunately the box store that sold it to me sold me the wrong adapter. It was just an amp off from what it needed to be, and that one little amp fried my ac/dc connection and the screen. Four months later, and I just heard the good news that my computer is on the way back from HP.

I greatly admire those volunteers who decided not to bring a computer with them, but I was not hardcore enough to be among that crowd. I need my fix—Gmail, Facebook, The Office and movies galore. In the first few months at site, I developed a reliance on it for brain-numbing entertainment and a taste of America.

Without my computer, I was at a loss. Within a month, I had read ten books and worked my way through two books of crosswords. Bedtime went from 11pm to 9pm. I cooked, baked, exercised, wrote letters, journaled and eventually found that I was sitting for long periods of time doing absolutely nothing.

After that first month, I began to adjust and being computerless did not bother me quite as much. I grew accustomed to the new forms of entertainment and discovered a sort of nostalgic enjoyment for pre-technology life. I discovered life at a slower and more enjoyable pace. I discovered the joy of simpler pleasures and rediscovered old hobbies.

Now that I have a computer again (I have a loner from a friend for a few weeks), I am certainly enjoying and reacquainting myself with the technological wonder that is the computer, but it’s nice to know that I can live without it. That I don’t really need the fix. It’s not the most profound of self-discoveries that I will experience during my Peace Corps experience, but it is a step towards deeper self-awareness none the less. And I certainly didn’t know that all that time without a computer would bring me to a better understanding of myself. The experience brought home to me that our time in Peace Corps is on one level about coming to a better understanding of ourselves and what we am capable of—whether its life without a computer, a toilet, running water or Chipotle. I think we are unimaginably capable of pushing ourselves beyond the limit we previously knew. With a world of limitless possibilities, new depths are always possible.

Tragedy Part 3 (Written 28 August 2009)

It was early, the sun had yet to find the horizon and the moon was growing dull in the early morning haze. 5:00am.

I wanted to stay in the warmth of my bed—deep in the embracing comfort—but this was not the day for snoozing.

I pulled the covers away and fumbled quickly for extra layers of clothing. The nights were slowly becoming warmer, but it was still very cold outside of my toasty bed.

The light. The kettle. The mug. And the can of instant coffee.

I moved back to the dresser. A long black skirt. A long sleeved brown shirt. The best funeral garb I had. Out of the drawer came a thin, black scarf. Hair up in a bun and the scarf wrapped neatly around. Shoes—brown slides. Not the best outfit I had ever put together, but it would do. Everyone would be happy to see my head covered, my arms covered, and the skirt. No one would care about the style or lack there of in the ensemble.

I sat to wait. I heard Rakgadi return. The sun had risen but was veiled behind a thin layer of clouds.

6:00am passed and 7:00am approached. Maybe Rakgadi had changed her mind about taking me along. Maybe it was all too much for her and she wasn’t up to being my chaperone today.

No—the familiar “sissy” soon came. I opened the door and came out of the house. There was a look of approval from Rakgadi, and I know a look of envy from me as I noticed Papis’s jeans.

We walked to the gate, left our yard, and walked the path to Rakgadi’s sister’s house. All the while the singing of the night before continued and amplified as we neared the tent prepared for the funeral guests.

The funeral service lasted well over an hour. It was too sad for words, and many of the words spoken I did not understand. As it drew to a close, the guests began to make room in the yard for the make-shift hearse. Majority of the guests would follow to the nearby cemetery. I stayed behind with Rakgadi to help with the final preparations of the meal the guests would soon return to.

Rakgadi was unsteady and unsure of herself. She walked slowly into the house and sat down on the sofa. No words. No tears. Just a blankness. I held her hand, rubbed her back and sat in silence with her.

Ten minutes passed and she forced herself to return. To remind herself of the task. She moved slowly to the back of the house where the preparations were going on—still in a daze.

“Aus Natai” from one direction. “Aus Natai” from another. All were asking her questions—they needed her guidance. She looked towards her name each time it was spoken, but past the person speaking. Several minutes passed before she became herself—giving answers, directions, and finding the many tasks that her hands needed. I followed dutifully along, helping where I could.

By the time we arrived home that day, the exhaustion was well worn on Rakgadi’s face, and my own tiredness was beginning to take its toll. Rakgadi gave a simple thank you for my help. It was more than what was needed. We both knew it. We both felt it. Our relationship had changed that day.

“Family” was no longer a word thrown about, but it was what we were. Since, our meals together have become more frequent. Our talks together more intimate. The way we move about each other in our day to day more familiar. And our mutual love for one another deeper.

I have always known that tragedy has a way of bringing people together, but over the passing of these days, I saw it played out in my relationship with Rakgadi. And although we still have many days when culture and language just don’t translate, we have a deeper understanding of each other that pulls us through those moments. Ours is a relationship that I could not nor would want to do without in my South African journey.

Tragedy Part 2 (Written 23 August 2009)

10kg bags of carrots and potatoes and onions were stacked around and under tables in the small room. A group of women crammed in around the tables littered with fresh vegetable peelings. I greeted the women, took the rather dull knife that was handed to me and found a place around the table. Potato in one hand and knife in the other, I began to scrape the skin from one vegetable after another.

The short walk with Rakgadi to her sister’s house had seemed endless. We had little to say to each other—her grief weighing heavy upon her, my nerves jostled at the thought of the coming cultural interaction. I had helped prepare meals at weddings and other village celebrations, but never a funeral. No, I shouldn’t have offered to come and help. I should make an excuse and leave soon. I am the foreigner. I am the legoa (white person). What can I give? No, this is not about my comfort level. This is about supporting Rakgadi and the community. This is not about me. This is not about me.

As we peeled and diced and chopped, the women talked freely. But there was a blanket of sadness that hung about the room. This was not the lively and jovial talk that I was growing accustom to.

I went about my work quietly, occasionally smiling to myself at the small bits of conversation that I caught. My hands grew tired as I struggled with the dull knife. Potato after potato, carrot after carrot and the hard rinds of the pumpkins. After the bags of potatoes and carrots, bags of onions appeared on the tables. One onion, eyes began to sting. Two onions, eyes were watering. Three onions, large tears were brimming, making it difficult to see. Four onions, the tears were spilling over and we began to laugh in spite of ourselves.

The laughter and the tears were freeing to all the women at the table. Some how they brought us closer together. The laughter and the tears. Laughter and tears over the potency of onions, but laughter and tears over something much deeper, as well. It is the unspoken thing around the table. It is what we cannot say or admit to. It is the horrific and the painful—layers as potent as the layers of the onions.

In that moment, we found a common bond—a bond around the laughter and the tears. That bond would carry us through the onions and the rest of the pumpkins to the finality of tea and biscuits as the sun set over the day.

Rakgadi would soon walk me home and gather blankets to bring back. She and her sisters would spend the night—cooking all through so that when morning came, all would be ready for the funeral guests.

As the sun set that night, I heard the song begin. The song of mourning and lamenting that would drift through the night air until the first rays of sun returned. I listened to the song as I laid in my bed, remembering in its slow rhythm the laughter and the tears. The laughter, the tears, the song—they all merged and melted into dream as I lay in my bed. Dream and hope for something better the next day.

Tradgedy Part 1

My good friend Roze has graciously loaned me her computer for a week, so I'm going to take full advantage and post several blogs entries that I have written over the last few months. Below is the first post in a three part series...

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Tragedy Part 1
15 August 2009

It was a day as any other day. My host mother came home from school. I heard her open her door, and I waited and listened to the sounds of her settling in after the day's work before going to greet her.

I continued reading my book, half-listening to the sounds when I heard a new sound. It was the faint sound of uncontrollable sobbing. I have heard this sounds before since coming to the village, but it was usually at night and now seemed out of place in the daylight hours. I know that there is much hidden sadness in this place, but I question how I can help this mourner in this moment. Can I help them? Should I? And the final, incessant and irritating question--What is culturally appropriate?

Before I can make a decision, I hear the familiar sounds that signal my host mother's readiness for our daily greeting.

I put down my book. The wailing has stopped. I stand and walk to the door. I can hear my host mother making moves to the same door.

"Dumela Rakgadi" (Greetings aunt)

"Aghe, Le kae sissy?" (Hello, how are you sissy?)

"Ke teng. O kae?" (I'm fine. How are you?)...but as I ask, I can see. Rakgadi's eyes are swollen with tears. She is the wailing woman. She falters and asks me how my flu is before I can ask her what is wrong. I tell her I am better but don't have the words to speak further. Tears in this strong woman's eyes are not something I have seen.

She finds the words that I do not have.

"It is very bad," she says as she swallows back more tears. "Do you remember that girl who came to ask you about the computer?" I remembered her. She had come to ask Rakgadi--her rakgadi and my rakgadi--about places to use the Internet. Rakgadi asked what she needed the Internet for--"to search for scholarships." I told her of an Internet Cafe I knew of in a village not far from here--a R10 taxi ride. She was shy and quiet in front of the American and thanked me before leaving. After she left, Rakgadi remarked, "she's very clever, that girl."

Yes. I remembered her. Seventeen years old. Just completed metric--the equivalent to senior year in schools in the States. I remembered her.

"That girl has been killed."

"What?" I stammered. "That's awful."

I was again at a lost for words, but I didn't need them as Rakgadi continued, "Did you see the police come past last night? I saw them and told Papis I had a pain. I knew, I knew then. They found her body in the bush. Killed by her boyfriend's friend."

It was still too awful for words. I wanted to reach out and hold Rakgadi. I wanted to hug her and let her cry. I wanted to offer some comfort, but all I could offer was my shock and stunned silence.

I asked if Papis, my host brother, knew.  She said it was he who had called her. She was leaving to go to the family--to sit with them, to mourn with them, and as one of the elders in the family to begin making arrangements for the funeral.

The story would later be told to me. That this friend of the girl's boyfriend had called her late at night and told her that her boyfriend was cheating on her. He lured her out of the safety of her home under the guise of taking her to see the boyfriend's infidelity. Once he had lured her out he raped and killed her, leaving her body in the bush.


This clever girl. This young, clever girl who had found, applied for and won a scholarship to the University of Pretoria. This girl with the bright future--the chance to pull herself out of poverty and her family along with her. This girl stolen and now mourned by a grief-stricken community. Yes, I remembered this girl...

As Rakgadi prepared to leave, I told her to let me know if I could do anything to help. It is what we say in our culture. An offer, to show our condolences and our sorrow. But it lost its meaning as it crossed from my lips to her ears. I saw the question in her face. "Anything," I said, "I want to be of use. I want to help. You, you are my family now. This is my family." With these last words, I saw understanding pass into her eyes.

Family. This was her family. I was asking in this moment of grief to be a part of the family and offering to give what I had.We both found a shared understanding in this word. and in the coming days it would come to have a deeper meaning for our relationship. Family. It would come to be the word that would carry us through.

Village Fun Run

Let me start out by providing you all with some sage advice. If you are going to Africa or some other remote place in the world, I highly recommend doing a full overhaul and check-up on your laptop before you go. It’s been almost three months since I took my laptop to Pretoria to be fixed and it is likely to be at least one more month before I get it back. The first place I took it to was unable to fix it, and although the second place can fix it, they have to wait on the parts. So in the mean time, I’m dependent on my internet phone and infrequent access to rather pricey internet cafes. Thus my long absence here. But I wanted to give you an update and let you know that I am still alive.

So alive that last Friday, I participated in the Mmametlhake South African Police Service (SAPS) 5K Fun Run. For those of you who are fans of “The Office,” yes, there were many similarities to that remarkable episode, but with a South African flare.

The race was scheduled to start at 7am that morning. Graciously a few other volunteers who stay in villages near me came to run. (Thanks again, Laura, for sticking it out.) Being Americans, we arrived at SAPS at seven. Several of the officers and the superintendent seemed to be in a pre-race meeting, so we hung back until Constable Ngobini—one of the officers who works closely with my organization and a friend—came over to tell us that they were running late and would be starting soon. This was expected and as we seemed to be the only participants, we sat down to wait it out.

Eight o’clock passed and a few other participants began to arrive. By 8:30 there were about fifteen of us, and there was no putting it off anymore. The plan was to start by our in-progress domestic violence shelter (still roofless) and run back to the SAPS offices. Six of us climbed into the back of an ambulance, a few more into a squad car and the remaining into a taxi. The ambulance drove to the shelter, and…we waited. For some reason the other vehicles did not arrive for another fifteen minutes.

Finally, we all arrived at the starting point, and Laura and I were ready to go. (Anne and David, neither one feeling well, had by this point gone back to my place to cook us cinnamon rolls as an after race treat.) Before starting one of the officers organized us into lines of four. Strange, but I thought, “Okay that’s logical. There’s only a few of us running on a tar road. It’s a safety thing.” Oh, no. Not a safety thing. The officer began leading us in stretches and a, well, 1980’s aerobic style warm-up. Laura and I, deciding that we had already done plenty of warming up, stepped to the side to, umm, observe.

After a grueling warm-up the lead car set off and we finally started the run. Besides my self and Laura, there were two other guys who were actually runners, and I should point out much better runners than myself. The rest of the group was a hodge-podge of employees from the various government offices in our village most of whom admitted to the fact that they had not run in years. Laura and I did fairly well coming in a respectable forth and fifth overall and first and second among the women. When I checked my watch to see our time, we had run it in a remarkable 25 minutes. I know I’m improving and getting back to my pre-Colorado departure pace and I know we were running a little faster than normal pace, but 5K in 25 minutes? That couldn’t have possibly been a full 5K. I’m running between a six and seven minute kilometer on a regular basis, which means we should have been running for five to ten more minutes. When we checked it on Google Earth later, we discovered that our 5K fun run was probably just over 3K. Oh, well, “E” for effort.

Overall it was an enjoyable time, and I’m all about promoting exercise and healthy habits in the village. I’m also looking forward to the opportunities that will come out of it. I’ve been asked to help plan the next run which I am hoping we can turn into a big community event for World AIDs Day on December 1st. I also have a new running buddy out of it, Constable Connie, one of the officers who helped plan the run. If interest continues to spread from here, there might also be an opportunity for creating a running club. But that’s all to come…

So six and a half months into my service—more than a quarter of the way through for those who are keeping track—I am still finding my groove in my community and contributing where I can. It’s never easy but never unbearably hard either. I’m looking forward to the return of my computer and posting the many blog posts I’ve been saving. Until then…

The Pretoria Effect

So this will likely be my last blog post for a while. Why? Because my laptop is feeling a little ill and had to go visit the doctor. Hopefully it's not too serious and the doctor bill won't be too steep. That also means I will be a bit slow responding to emails, etc. (Currently at an internet cafe in town. And since I don't get to town all that often...)

The past two weeks, I have spent readjusting to life in the village. Readjusting after almost a month living in Pretoria. At the end of June, I started having strange and very painful cramping and stabbing pain throughout my abdomen. Peace Corps brought me to Pretoria to do some tests and try to determine what was wrong.

I lived the posh life in Pretoria at the Rose Guest Lodge--a nice bed and breakfast that Peace Corps uses to house med-evacs from other African countries and South African volunteers who are having a time of it medically. It was definitely high living--in some ways higher than in the states: breakfast made-to-order every morning, terry cloth bathrobes, hot shower complete with water pressure, real coffee. It was a good life at the rose.

I spent my days going between medical appointments, wandering around one of the three malls near the Rose, waiting for test results, deciding which movie theather to go to and which movie to see, deciding what test to try next and choosing between restraunts, ordering-in or cooking with the other volunteers staying at the Rose. It was an entire world away from the four months I had spent in the village.

After a litany of blood, urine and stool tests, an ultrasound, an x-ray, a CT scan and finally a colonoscopy and gastroscopy--all of which came back normal--we decided to try an anti-parasite treatment even though there had been no evidence of parasites in my urine or stool. Two weeks after the start of the ten day treatment, I seem to be fine. Apparently those little tiny creatures are really good at hide-and-seek.

The month in Pretoria was physically, emotionally and mentally exhausting. While it was nice to have all of the modern conveniences surrounding me, this was not the life that I came to Africa for. I was tired, and many times seriously considered whether it was worth it or not to continue with Peace Corps. Each time a test result came back normal, I was happy to know that the signs pointed to nothing seriously wrong with me but was still in a lot of pain and disappointed that we were no closer to finding the answer. I wanted to be back in my village--building relationships, settling into the routine of village life, learning the culture and language and assisting my organization. But having so much time on my hands also made me resent many of the things that I had come into contact with in the village. So while I wanted to get back to the village, there was a part of me that also wanted to have nothing to do with the village. I wanted friends and family and resented that they were not there to comfort me through the barrage of medical exams and tests.

It was a strange experience that I really had no one who I could fully express all the things I was feeling to. There were just certain thoughts and emotions that didn't translate without a good understanding of the context. And the Peace Corps rumor-mill is a vicious thing. I wanted to keep myself out of it as much as possible, so I tried to limit the number of volunteers who knew that I was in Pretoria. (Thinking back on it, I'm sure everyone knew, but I like to think that I kept it pretty quiet.)

My month in Pretoria is a feat I hope not to replicate during the rest of my service. It's a nice place to visit for a few days, but a month is too much. The "Pretoria Effect," as many volunteers refer to it, can be a very damaging thing to one's psyche. I am very happy to be back in the village now and as much as possible am trying to pick up where I left off. In some senses, I am starting over and rebuilding, but I know every night when my host brother comes over to say goodnight and everyday when the women at my organization ask how I am feeling and when I recieve a big hug and a "I was praying for you"--I know at those moments that people do care and are truly glad that I'm here. That foundation is still there, just some cracks that need to be filled in before we can start building again.

Welcome Home

It’s time for a home warming party. Welcome to my family compound. The incomplete house in the center is the future home of my host family. I live in the small sand-brick house on the far right.

 

This is my house. Just the perfect size with two small rooms.

The first room I have set up as a kitchen area. The small electric stove is a loner from my organization. The large yellow bucket in the corner is where I store my water, and the blue bucket serves as the kitchen sink. I’ve been keeping myself busy with lots of little projects like the suspension systems for my pots, mugs and plates.

The second room is set up as the bedroom, office, living room and bathroom.

The bedroom:

The office:

The bathroom: (The make-shift shower is a great improvement over bucket-bathing.)

Outside are the washer and dryer:

 

And let’s not forget the toilet:

 

You can see a few more pictures over on my Flickr page.

Straddling the Line

Last week I spent my first few days in Pretoria. It was a strange experience to be in a modern city after four months of village life. Towering buildings, lights, sounds, people everywhere and seemingly limitless choices--where to eat, what to eat, what store to shop at, what taxi service to use...

Pretoria has nothing that would distinguish it from most other modern cities with the exception of the high walls, razor wire and electric fencing that surround every home and many businesses. Unfortunately this level of security is necessary due to the high level of crime in the city. Walking in pairs during the day is highly recommended, and at night don't walk anywhere without a group of at least five--even in the nicer areas.

I stayed at one of the local backpackers that caters to Peace Corps volunteers. I found it to be a nice little haven in the midst of the busy city around me. In addition to the few volunteers, there was also a group of students from the UK, a traveling musician from Spain, a couple form Australia and another American who was in Pretoria doing free-lance writing for ESPN (the FIFA Confederation Cup began last week). Each had equally fascinating stories for how they ended up in South Africa, and I enjoyed conversing with the diverse group of travelers.

On Friday evening, our new free-lance journalist friend invited us to go with him to the Italy national team practice. When we arrived, the practice turned out to be a scrimmage against a team of South African All-Stars. So we found ourselves in the press box with free buffet and open bar watching the reigning World Cup Champions soundly thrash the competition. Two nights before I was in my village listening to the drumming of the rain on the tin roof and praying for the electricity to come back on. The juxtaposition was almost too much for me.

After a few interviews with the players, we jumped back into the rental car and headed back to the other side of Pretoria. Here I was in the city that my host brother commutes to on a daily basis for school. The city where probably about 90% of the employed in my village commute to work--what can be a three to four hour taxi ride despite its proximity to our village. And here I was living the high life. It was a lesson in opportunity--a lesson that I'm still trying to choke down. How do you move gracefully and easily from a "developing world" setting to a "developed world" setting? And how do you fit comfortably into either when you live above the standard of the first and below the standard of the second? I'm afraid there is no answer to these questions.

The Top Ten

Top 10 items that I packed in my suitcase:

1. Photos from home
2. Duct tape (I have not found it here, and it really is the most useful item I brought. Yes, it really does rank higher than my laptop.)
   
3. Laptop
4. Books/movies (lots of downtime)
5. Reusable grocery bags (I use them on a daily basis)
   
6. French press (unfortunately broken but has since been replaced)
7. Sewing kit (I've hemmed curtains and sewed all sorts of useful items for my house)
   
8. iPod (Is it possible to live without music?)
   
9. Running shoes
10. Sleeping bag

Top 10 items I have purchased for settling into my new home:

1. Cell phone (Not sure it really fits the list, but that means calls from the States and Internet access)
2. Solar shower (I don't know how I lived four months without it)
   
3. French press (Well, I consider good coffee an essential)
4. Water barrel (Keeps me from having to haul water from the tap every day)
5. Buckets (Handy for hauling water when I need to refill the bucket)
6. Rope (Hanging things from the rafters saves storage space)
7. Wall hooks (Another space saver)
8. Electric kettle (boils water super-fast)
9. Tupperware (The obvious food storage use but also came in handy before I purchased dishes)
   
10. Refrigerator (Well, I like food to stay fresh.)

Top 10 items I've received in a care package (and lots of thanks to everyone who has sent one):

1. Pictures from home
2. Thomas the Train Valentine's Day Cards from my nephew
3. Starbucks coffee
4. TLC granola bars
5. A copy of TIME
6. Stickers (I've mostly given them away to kids, but they still make me really happy to see them in the package.)
7. Lotion from Bath and Body Works
8. Duct tape (It hasn't arrived yet, but I was told it was coming. I've already used the roll that I brought with me.)
9. Clothes that wouldn't fit in the suitcase and still have it meet the 80lbs. limit
10. Relevant Magazine (Coming directly from Relevant--way to go to them for sending it to my the post office in my little village.)

Top 10 items that I just couldn't do without:

1. Pictures from home
2. Peanut butter (readily available and regularly purchased)
3. Cell phone
4. Books
5. Britae filter (Peace Corps gave it to us. The water from our tap is really sandy. I've never seen a filter get so nasty so quickly.)
6. Toilet paper (It almost makes going to the pit latrine seem normal.)
7. Pee Bucket (Because my pit latrine is at least a hundred yards from the house, and I just don't want to traverse that at night.)
8. Duct tape
9. Buckets
10. The big, fuzzy blanket from Peace Corps (It keeps me warm at night when the temperature gets down to 40°F and the tin roof and concrete walls let in the cold.)
    

Meeting Makau

Legoa (Le-ho-a) is a word that I have become all too familiar with. In
Setswana it means "white person." It doesn't necessarily have a negative
connotation, but in certain circumstances and uses it is not exactly a
compliment.

Most often I hear it from children as they eagerly wave and yell for my
attention, "Legoa! Legoa!" This encounter is usually followed by an
explanation in Setswana that my name is not Legoa but Amanda or Makau
(my Setswana name). Now when I pass by the primary school on my way to
and from work, I hear shouts of "Amanda! Amanda!" along with the eager
waves.

This encounter was magnified last week when we went to visit two of the
local primary schools and one of the middle schools as a part of Child
Protection Week. Upon my arrival at the first primary school, all of the
children crowded around the doorways shouting legoa and giggling to see
a white person at their school. Later during the presentation led by
members of the police force and one of our own volunteers at the victim
empowerment center, I was introduced properly.

Schools in the villages do not have auditoriums, gymnasiums or
cafeterias for assemblies. Most consist of three to five buildings
surrounding a large courtyard area. Each building usually houses three
to four small classrooms. For assemblies, the students carry out chairs
into the courtyard and arrange them in rows. At the middle school, the
students where required to stand in rows. Rainy days, hot days and cold
days make assemblies rather miserable.

The middle school we visited is the same school where my host mother
teaches. The entire faculty consists of eleven people including the
principal, and there are over 300 students. Class sizes range from 40-60
kids crammed into a classroom, sharing desks and/or chairs. Not exactly
a conducive work environment, but both teachers and students work with
what is available.

Although somewhat thrown together at the last minute, our presentations
went rather well. We had the opportunity to share valuable information
with students on how to protect themselves and how to report abuse and
crime. I was really glad that I had the opportunity to tag along and
that I got to know a few of the officers at the police station a little
better. It was a really great experience, and I'm glad to be Makau in
the minds of so many more children.

Medicating the Problem

I spent the last three weeks trying to fend off an annoying and persistent cough. This means staying in pretty close communication with our Peace Corps Medical Officer (PCMO) and traveling back and forth to my shopping town to get medication from the pharmacy.

There is a pharmacy at the hospital in my village, but my host mother assures me that it is better to use the pharmacy in our shopping town. The hospital means long lines and waiting for hours. From what I understand there is also a chance that the hospital pharmacy may not even have the medication that you need, especially if it is not a commonly prescribed medication.

It's slightly annoying to have to travel by taxi to my shopping town, especially when I don't feel well--but the convenience of getting a prescription in five minutes or less at the pharmacy and being able to send that little receipt off to Peace Corps for a reimbursement makes it worth it. And its a convenience that I am highly aware is not available to most people in my village. Yes, they too could travel to the pharmacy in the shopping town, but that's a R58 taxi ride round trip plus the cost of the medication. It's expensive and a luxury that most people around me simply cannot afford.

The last few days of training, our PCMO gave me a PPD test (TB skin test), it thankfully came back negative. I had asked for the test because of a high suspicion that at least one member of my training host family (possibly all three) have active tuberculosis--a strong possibility when 95% of the South African population has latent TB.

The day I was given the test, I walked out of the exam room and started crying. I cried not because I was afraid of having contracted TB, but because of how easy it was for me to get tested and how easy it would be for me to get treatment if the test showed positive. I knew that it was not easy for my host family to get that kind of care or to be able to afford the treatment necessary. In that moment, my life of privilege was blatantly contrasted with the new world I found myself in. And now I see that contrast in a thousand ways almost on a daily basis. It is a contrast that I sometimes have a hard time coping with--feeling guilty, angry, remorseful, frustrated, and a host of other emotions.

Those emotions can eat away at you--eroding hope and crippling your ability to serve the community and empower them to build up needed resources. It is a trial that I think many volunteers face.

For me, there is only to lay those emotions at the feet of Jesus and ask for hope and love in their stead.

News at the Embassy

The US Embassy in South Africa put up a nice article about our group of volunteers on their website. You can check it out here.

Lessons in Painting

On Tuesday of this week, Stellah, Sophy and I met at my house to finish painting the interior walls.

This was our second attempt.

The first time we tried to paint the house we ran out of paint after the first coat in the first room (it's a two-room house). Really this was probably my fault. When they asked me if I thought "five" would be enough, I naturally thought that of course, five gallons would be more than enough to paint two coats in two small rooms. Unfortunately South Africa runs completely off of the metric system. So "five" meant liters and not gallons, and five liters was enough for one coat in one room on a concrete wall.

For the second go around, they bought a ten liter bucket. I new it wouldn't be enough to fully finish the job, but I was more concerned with the other more serious problem. This was a different kind of paint! Not only a different shade--this was water-based and in our previous attempt we had used oil-based. My mind wandered back to basic science in elementary school--oil and water do not mix. I already knew, but now I was positive that this was my coworkers' first experience with painting a house. And really, what could I do? The paint had already been purchased, and I knew that it had cost the center a lot of money that they didn't have to spend. So we started painting the second room...

During my previous experience of painting with Stellah and Sophy, I found myself several times teaching basic painting skills like: paint in the same direction to keep the paint from looking streaked or blotchy when it dries, don't put too much paint on your brush or in the paint trays, finish painting the section you are on before moving to the next. I frequently found myself feeling like Mr. Miyagi in the Karate Kid--"paint the wall, Stellah-son and Sophy-son." But I don't think I was displaying the Miyagi patience. Several times I felt my frustration rising as I showed them again and again the importance of painting in vertical strokes--not circular motions or a few vertical strokes followed by a few horizontal and diagonal strokes.

At one point on Tuesday, I asked Sophy if she was tired, "A o lapile?" Sophy said "no" that she liked the work. I was surprised at her response. I knew how tired and frustrated I was. I really just wanted the project to be done. But as Sophy's response sunk in, my heart softened and my frustration began to subside. I suddenly realized how empowering this simple activity was for these two women. Two single mothers in their late twenties for the first time in their lives doing a job that is traditionally thought of as a man's job. My friends got to live for a few hours outside of the cultural norm and experience something challenging and new. And I became so excited and happy for them.

At the end, we completed two coats in the second room--which looks pretty good--and one and a half coats in the first room--we'll call it art-deco. It was an experience that I hope I will not forget soon, and I'm hopeful that Sophy and Stellah will not soon forget it either.

A Day at the Nature Preserve

I got to spend the day at a nature preserve near my site last week to help with a Peace Corps training. It was amazingly beautiful! To check out more pictures from the day, visit my Flickr page.