All I Felt Was A Slight Burning Sensation

You may have noticed in my previous post that I did not conclude discussing my events of the weekend. However, this was done with purposeful regard for my Dear Readers, who I honestly didn't think would want to sit through another two pages of my rapier wit and Holmes-ian insights into the human psyche. And so, I left it for today! And the topic of discussion...going to church! After the previous days' foibles, I was in need of some kind of spirit-cleansing ritual to remove my streak of bad luck (maybe I really shouldn't leave my laundry on the line overnight--more on this later). Lucky for me, we were in for a long stretch of good, Christian, revival/praise/worship style church.


Like so many other things, I was surprised to find how deeply Western influence has been integrated into the religious culture here. It is even more surprising as I generally always expect religion to be one of those things to which people cling most strongly. However, in the several hundred years since the first white establishment was settled at the Cape of Good Hope to provide a refill station for sailors working for the East India Trading Company, (what I call) Western religions such as Christianity have made a distinct impression on the cultural landscape.

In fact, the only religion locally (to my knowledge) that can really be considered a traditional African religion is Shembe, and even this is apparently a form of the Baptist Church. I am told the attendants dress in more traditional clothing, with leather skirts, head wraps, etc., and their places of worship can be seen periodically in the form of a circle of white stones on the ground. The circle represents their church hall, as it were, with a space left in the stones to serve as a "doorway," through which they come and go. Their belief is that Shembe is a kind of prophet or intercessor between that person and God.

**I know this is a very superficial description of a religion, but it's all I've got so far and I will correct any inaccuracies at a later date as I am made aware of them (speaking of--thanks for the Facebook tip several weeks ago, Meredith. I have corrected my "personal information" page. Lol--wouldn't want to make that mistake. Although, who knows? I might actually go to heaven). This goes for everything else in this or any other post--I take no responsibility for my inability to tease out all the varied and nuanced beliefs and distinctions of a different culture, especially one in which my language capacity runs that dangerous gauntlet from, "Hello. How are you?" to "Where's the bathroom?"**

Even so, what we would consider religious belief is not always so distinct from daily life here, and the Christian traditions which have grown up have done so alongside many continuing cultural practices. For instance, it is still known that the ancestors are not only present, but actively interacting with the physical world on many levels. They are prayed to for help and guidance, and married women continue to cover their hair in their homes, even if nowhere else, for fear of displeasing them.

So I went with my wonderfully friendly weekend-host family (I think I'm going to have lots of these) to their church Sunday morning, and to my initial and immediate shock, I did not burst into flames upon entering the building (all I felt was a slight burning sensation; I must not be doing something right). And so we took our seats at the front of the approximately 800-capacity hall, which quickly filled behind us.

I must say, this church puts TV worship/praise services in the States to shame. For the first hour (no kidding), one song played while people sang and danced and praised Jesus. The music never actually stopped, but the band (drums, guitar, keyboard) would variously change the tempo and roll from one theme to another. Seriously, this group could have made a fortune as a jam band in the States playing for teenagers on mind-altering drugs. Widespread Panic at its height didn't go for this long. Anyway, all the while the people were dancing and singing, praying independently and out loud, so that the room was filled with a veritable storm of worshipping. This was all led by a group of women at the front who were dressed as though for stylish job interviews, wearing neon pink silk shirts under smart black business suits with skirts and strappy heels. One woman even wore knee-high black leather boots. Generally one of these women would be at the front, straining into a microphone, seemingly under the impression that the louder she praised God, the more likely He would be to hear her. "Thank you...Jay-suhs! Thank you...Jay-suhs! Thank you...Jay-suhs! When your praises go up, your glories come down!" Throughout all this, the women on stage were steadily working themselves into a frenzy, pacing back and forth, necks taut and straining with the tension of their prayers, hands beating in rhythm to the music.

It was about this point in the service that a woman sitting in front of me fell out on the floor, hands fluttering at her chest and tears streaming down her face. Everyone just sort of moved the chairs out of the way so that she wouldn't hit her head as she slumped down, then several women hurried over with shawls to cover her legs so that her nether regions wouldn't be exposed during her raptures.


Around this same time, I noticed one of the women on stage was lying down, also in a sort of rapturous exaltation. However, unlike the woman in front of me who got up after about 10 minutes, this woman stayed on the floor throughout the next three hours of the service, intermittently flapping a body part such as a hand or a foot, or rolling onto her stomach and shaking all four limbs in the air. In between times, she would lie there, seemingly worn out. Had I not been in a church and seen everyone else's nonchalant response, I would have said her asterixis was acting up again (can't remember if I spelled that right). I personally think she just wanted to take a nap, and felt she had to keep up the act every now and then. Of course, she could really have been touched by the Holy Spirit. As for me, I don't want to be touched by anything I can't see.

After another hour or so of singing, it was time for the sermon, and it was just as animated as one could hope for. Several different people came up to preach, and each had their own style, though they all fell under the "televangelist" heading. And sure enough, the service was being filmed for broadcast in the local areas. That's when my big debut came about. They called all new members up to the front, so I and about 20 others had to get up in front of this enormous crowd, and I quickly introduced myself in isiZulu as both Lindsay Wiggins and Lwandle Ndunakazi, and left it at that. Several people then came up to green us, and were extremely sweet and excited as they shook my hand. I don't think they'd ever had a white person there before, but like in all other aspects, they were thrilled when I came in to share in their experiences. So for a while at least, I was on South African church TV. Wonder what they thought about that.

Eventually, it came time for those people in the crowd who felt as though they needed to be saved, or resaved, or something like that (it was Zulu), to come to the front and kneel down. This was when I determined the significance of the women with the shawls. Several of them lined up behind the group of about 75 people kneeling in front and passed out shawls to each other, I assume so that they could rush in and cover any female in the group overcome with the Holy Spirit. I suppose this happens enough that they're prepared and have now appointed this guerilla-style fashion police. Maybe it's just me, but I would think that if God caused you to fall over in ecstasy at his presence, He could at least have the decency to cover up your legs for you. Either that, or maybe relax the standard about women having to wear skirts.

Anyway, the service ended up with more singing and dancing. After four hours, the entire while I having been a good, respectful, diligent Southern daughter who appreciated the people I was with and the fact that this was a cultural experience I would likely never have again, I had to excuse myself. I intended to give my mind a rest by sitting in the car and reading my science fiction book (oh, sweet science). Shortly thereafter, however, my host family came out and joined me. They, too, were worn out (the service had apparently run long even for them; usually its only about three and a half hours), and no one seemed to be surprised by the fact that I couldn't hang.

So, I hope everyone takes this post in the manner in which it was intended, not to make fun or make light of a truly wonderful group of people and their admirable enthusiasm in their style of worship. But I can't help but treat this form of religious expression with the same skepticism that I treat all religions. I mean, really, is it any more believable that wine turns to blood with a few magic words, or that everything that doesn't go right in life can be explained by God's divine plan (as in, "Damn it, I didn't win the lottery when I know there were about 1.3 million other people also praying to win. Must be that Plan everyone is talking about, as opposed to just pure friggin' chance."), than that a demon spirit possessed my host cousin a few weeks ago because she believes there were Satanists in the crowd at church (which she believes happened; again, more on this later)?

Anyway, I hope I haven't stepped on too many toes with this blog, and that everyone will keep reading. I suppose I'm just bitter because religion has managed to corner the marked on expressive forms of belief. How would it go over if we could get the scientists to jump on this bandwagon? "Thank you...Ein-stein! Thank you... Ein-stein! As the mass...uh-goes down...the uh-energy...approaches the spay-eed...of light!"

So, as for this week's pictures. The first is me with my host brother in my first home, Thulani. After a few weeks, he finally warmed up to me, and began calling me "Sisi," meaning "sister,"and making me feel very special. The next is several of our group dressed up at the farewell dinner we had for our host families during training. From L to R are Doug, wearing clothing from Swaziland; Grace, wearing Xhosa; Ntokozo, one of our LCFs, wearing her Zulu outfit; Leah, wearing Ndebele; and Matt--I forget now, but I'll remember later. It's like a veritable African Red Carpet Awards. The next pic is me with a bunch of PCVs at one of our few opportunities to go to a real restaurant, followed by a pic of me with Ntokozo and Bongiwe at our 5K Fun Run we put on. Next is a pic of the kids at the start of our 5K race, followed by a shot of the gorgeous view we had at Newcastle when we were there for a Supervisor's Workshop. Anyway, I love and miss everybody! Hope you're all doing well, and that Mama Jean's finger is doing better. Write me, text me, email me, comment me.

My Vanity Fair

So this weekend was full of interesting cultural experiences. I was invited by a colleague at work to spend the weekend with his family in a nearby township, attending a wedding and church with them, and I was surprised how much many of these "traditional" activities have become so similar to American or westernized traditions.

Before launching into all that, I'll give a bit of background on the activities surrounding weddings, as they still retain a good deal of the more historical cultural elements. Initially, when a man wants to marry a woman, he has to pay what is called lobola, a kind of bride price, to her family. This is done in the form of eleven cows. This is quite expensive--each cow is approx. 6000 Rand, or $850, for a grand total of ~$10K. Eight of the cows represent a monetary payment to the family, one cow is meant for the mother-of-the-bride in thanks for having given birth to her, and two cows are for the bride: symbols of her virginity and the future children she will bear in the marriage. But here's the thing: if a girl already has a child (the only time her virginity can conclusively be said to no longer be present), the man only has to pay nine cows. I suppose this can be seen as either a good thing or a bad thing depending on your point of view. Like everything else, recent historical events have had a direct impact on the practice. With the introduction of apartheid, the population became more and more poverty-stricken, making marriages less common as men were unable to pay the lobola. With this, more and more women had babies prior to becoming married, so much so that now I don't think it's considered in any way a detriment or shameful. Instead, it's just another thing to be taken into consideration, like if a fiance' has a lot of student loan debt (that's me!). But this may not be accurate, and instead a mistake on my part due to language and cultural barriers. Regardless, there's a lot of people raising children while unmarried.

Heads up: ever since I've been here, there has been talk of little else but someone paying lobola for me, as in, oh, haha, we'll find you a husband, oh, haha, this man will pay lobola for you, etc, etc. However, whosoever should embark upon this task would find it a difficult one to accomplish, as my host mother has now made the stipulation that he should have to pay fifteen cows for me; eleven to her and the family here (I presume for being here so that I could come and find a husband) and four to my real family in the States (I was told four is just a good number). But don't worry, Mom and Dad; for people who live in cities, or, for example, overseas, it's not necessary to take the cows, as nowadays money can change hands instead.

All that being said, to the wedding. The first night, generally a Friday evening, a large party is given and the two families exchange gifts. Many of the presents are what we would recognize as more traditionally wedding related, but others are historically tribal based, such as food and blankets. I haven't actually been to one of these parties yet, but I've been told there is a tradition of wrapping the women of the families up in thick, heavy blankets one by one (remember, this is South Africa, where the temp is in the 80s or above for 10 months out of the year with no air conditioning at these events), while they're all smiling and having their pictures taken. I'm not sure what this symbolizes, but I'll update if I find out. It is at these parties that one of the cows is slaughtered in celebration, and also to assure that there will be enough food at the wedding the next day (generally there is no guest list, everyone is welcome). Apparently, this has become a source of conflict, especially in areas where blacks and whites live relatively close to one another. The whites don't slaughter cows, see it as cruel, and complain that it's messy and brings in flies. Even some of the young black South Africans are developing mixed feelings about this particular tradition, so I'm not sure how much further into the 21st century it will last. As for my part, I couldn't stand to watch an animal be slaughtered and then say, "Oh, yes, this is delicious, good thing we murdered it in front of our little ones," but I also don't want all the traditions of the world to slowly be replaced with McDonald's and Coca-Cola and Wal-Mart.

The next day, Saturdays, are usually reserved for a Westernized ceremony, complete with white dress and veil, bridesmaids in matching dresses, cutting the cake and tossing the bouquet (which I almost caught). Even the decorations were similar, with white chair covers tied with sashes and draped guazy material everywhere (although the colors were African themed--white with black, brown, yellow, and leopard-print touches; very pretty). However, the ceremony was spiced up with the fact that the wedding party all danced down the aisle and back, there was a much more free-flowing atmosphere to the entrire thing,and the reception seemed an extension of the ceremony itself. There is a great sense of excitement and a feeling that all are responsible in some part for making the ceremony complete, as music and dancing are much more organic at these kinds of events, and people join in and often take the lead as they feel compelled.

Sundays are reserved for the capstone of the weekend, the traditional African wedding. Unfortunately, I have not yet been able to attend one of these, but be assured I'll post when I do. So you may be wondering how I responded living with a new family (the third so far) for a weekend while experiencing all these new and fascinating sights? Well, this little social climber didn't disappoint. Firstly, I was not exactly appropriatly dresed, as everyone here dresses much more fashionably than we Americans do--looking nice is of utmost importance here and shows your respect for others, and they were all dressed in cute little dresses and skirts, and I had my dowdy, long black skirt (which I actually rather like). I then managed to spill a bottle of sparkling red grape juice all over my white sirt and the white tablecloth when I was asked to pop the cork. Later, we went home and I managed to lock myself in their bathroom (oh, sweet, hot, running water), then break the key off in the lock trying to get out. My colleague had to rescue me by taking the handle off the door. The to top off the day, I managed to recreate Becky Sharp's little scene of choking on the hot chilies while trying to impress the host family--"oh, yes, I'm a Southerner, we just love spicy food." Lastly, several times this weekend I walked into the room where I was staying and noticed a strange smell. I didn't know where this was coming from as the room was clean, my clothes were clean, I was clean, etc. Then I had a terrifying thought--am I the stinky foreigner now?

Anyway, that's it for this entry. One last thought--I just explained to the father of the family that no, American wresting isn't real in the sense that he thinks it is. I felt like I was telling a five-year old there was no Santa Claus.

Enjoy the pics, although they don't relate to this post. The first is of myself and friends Claire and Ryan in our first ever khumbi ride--this was one of those death traps on wheels, but we made it fine. As you can see, this was a sweaty day for me. The second is of a vervet monkey, one of the many at the nature reserve where we had classes for the first eight weeks. They were bold enough to steal lunchboxes, and I even got one to eat out of my hand (I know it's bad, but I was having a bad day and needed some animal cuteness). The next is of several gogos (grandmothers) in their traditional Ndebele clothing. These were drumming while several other did a dance for us when we first met our host families (if I'm ever able to post the video I took of them, I will). The last is...wait for it...the pit toilet. Yes, this is it, complete with enormous spiders and lots of flies, though, surprisingly, not that stinky.

Hope you're all doing well. Love hearing from you, and yes, I can get email now if anyone wants shoot me a line.

The Grapes of Wrath

So although I will have more to post later about my further adventures in my first South African home, I'm going to move on to my new (and final) location. The transition from being a Peace Corps Trainee to a Peace Corps Volunteer was not without its share of Peace Corps moments (namely, tons of baggage, fifty people all scrambling to do different things, complaining about such and such, no longer any respect for our poor, bedraggled PC Training Intructor, Victor, etc, etc). In the midst of all this, we were sworn in as true, honest-to-God PCVs. For the first time in 8 weeks, we were able to get dressed up and have a ceremony to commenorate this momentous occasion in all our lives. It wasn't quite as formal as all that, but it was very nice, and considering we'd all had a very nice time the night before, hanging out like dirty, sloppy Americans, it was just the thing to top off our training experience. At the ceremony, we sang both the American and South African anthems, then took the same pledge that members of Congress take (sorry, Brice, beat you to the punch). Anyway, after much photo-taking and general to-do (of course I'd forgotten my camera), we were off, perhaps never to see each other again (except during Mid-Service Training, In-Service Training, Close of Service stuff, etc, etc). It's surprising how quickly you become grand friends with 36 other people when you put them in a situation like this.

Then after much hugging and Good Lucks!, I was out to the parking lot to find that, actually, I would not be setting out on this voyage of discovery all alone, at least not just yet. In fact, I would be traveling the rest of that day with five other PCVs who were all going to the same general part of the country. That was the good part. However, we then realized that, in our supervisors' efforts to save what little money their organizations could afford, we would all be riding together in one mini-van taxi, along with our six supervisors and three drivers/guys to help with luggage (that's fifteen). Additionally, we had our six bedding comforters, six large blankets, pillows, twelve overstuffed pieces of luggage, twelve carry-on bags, and approximately 36 random articles ranging from bags of books to portable fans to water filters, crock-pots and electric kettles (I like my electric kettle). Did I mention that this was in one khumbi? And that it had a prominently displayed sign that said, "Maximum 13 passengers, 0 kg luggage?" Anyway, it was quite an experience, one person having to stand for three hours in the middle of all our stuff literally packed to the ceiling around us, and the roof piled on top with the stuff that might have actually killed us had we wrecked. (I remember thinking that if we did in fact wreck, I didn't know if we'd be fine because we were so well padded, or if we'd all die slow, tragic, sweaty deaths buried under a mountain of stuff from which they'd never be able to retrieve our mangled forms.) Anyway, we eventually picked up a trailer, reloaded it and set off again. Surprisingly, we and all our stuff arrived at our individual sites safe and in one piece.

The area of the country in which I am now posted is on the eastern coast of the Indian Ocean near Richards Bay. It's absolutely gorgeous, lush and green and semi-tropical, with light misting rains several days a week. The wide stretches of green are even more pronounced because of the fields of sugarcane and groves of tall, thin gum trees making up the majority of local vegetation. When the wind blows through these trees, hard and insistently as it so often does here, it sounds like the ocean at home, being back on the water with the wind rushing past your ears and the water chopping along under the boat. Fruit trees grow huge and abundantly; mango trees like oaks and avocado trees dropping fruit the size of grapefruits are found throughout the region, including, happily, in my yard.

The beach is not too far removed, only a short drive away (supposedly a short walk as well, but I've not yet had someone show me where to go). The beach was amazing, white sand stretching on for probably 300 yards, waves crashing at one end, and on the other side a small cliff-like wall of sand and rock covered with trees and home to numerous vervet monkeys running around and onto the sand. For some reason, the locals don't use the beach much, and many talk as though the last time they went was many years ago; there were only a few other people out the day I went with a friend. If this were in the States, it would be covered in condos and beach chairs and colorful, tacky umbrellas. Needless to say, if I can figure out how to walk there, and talk down my host family's fears of me going by myself, this is going to become my new retreat. I think this is very appropriate that I should be living here on the beach, and come from the beach at home, as my Zulu name is Lwandle--I may have mentioned this somewhere else, but the name means "ocean" and "traveler."

My host family at my final site is really wonderful, a mother and father (JZ and Mike) with two young sons (Thalente and Sipheto), all of them as sweet and kind as I could hope for. My host mother is a kindergarten teacher at a school just a three minute walk down the road, and my host father works at one of the local industries on the docks (Richards Bay is a fairly large port), but they are both quite entrepreneurial as well, she selling bags and shoes on the weekends, and he owning several small business ventures as well as some real estate. The family is quite well off, and the home is a two bedroom with a kitchen and living room, and, glory of glories, a bathroom (my new standard of high living)! There is no running water inside, but there's a large barrel of water in the bathroom they refill everyday with a hose that is used to flush the toilet and take a bath. So no more bucket baths for me! Although I still have to heat my own water (in my electric kettle!), this is a small price to pay in order to lay down in a tub.

My pointing out that the family is well off has less to do with gloating on their behalf than it has to do with commending them for the ways in which they use their status. As I've written before, the families often live together in sort of compounds, and my host family has five or six other smaller homes surrounding theirs. Additionally, they help support many of these family members, and have become surrogate parents to many related children whose parents have died. When I first met my host dad, he proudly told me he had 13 children. I tried to politely hide my disbelief and untintentional judgement. I now realize he means he is supporting that many. I've not heard how any of these other relatives have died, and I think often if someone is ill, especially in the case of HIV due to the local stigma, they are not public about it; instead, as the person sickens and weakens, they simply become more closeted and hidden in their homes, and later they are simply said to have died because they were ill.

On that topic, the organization I'm working for is one of several satellite stations of an NGO called NOAH Ark (Nurturing Orphans of Aids for Humanity). This is an OVC (Orphans and Vulnerable Children) organization which identifies children who are orphans (not necessarily of AIDS) or classified as "vulnerable" meaning they are living in some sort of undesirable circumstances, meaning their parent(s)/guardian is too sick to care for them, there is abuse in the home, or they are living in a child-headed household. The org is based at the nearby school that my host mother works at, and we provide hot, (somewhat) healthy lunches to them daily. The org also assists in geting the children's birth certificates if they don't already have one so that they can apply for governmental assistace, as well as provide the children with school uniforms, blankets, or any other available items. Currently they feed about 300 children daily, and have a daycare for those too young to be in school.

As this has become a long post, I'll stop here for now and only say that, I'm sure you'll all be thrilled to know I now have my first South African infestation. I think this must be some form of bedbugs, but whatever it is, I have the dreaded itchy bump disease, bane of good explorers and travelers throughout time immemorable. So wish me well, and more effective fingernails. Salani kahle!

P.S. At this point, I've lost the cable to my camera to upload my photos, so I'll put up ones of my new site in a later post.

Bucket Bathing for Beginners

This is actually not quite as difficult as it seems. Using a plastic wash basin, fill with just enough water (generally three inches worth) to spread the dirt on your body around a little more than it already is (don't expect to be able to actually get it all off). The purpose of using as little water as possible is that you quickly find water to be a great commodity, and what with it being turned off about half the time, you spend the rest of the time that it is on filling buckets to store for those times when it's off. Plus, water is heavy, and when you have to start carrying buckets to take a bath, you generally carry as little as possible.

If you can stand it (I can), it's easier to just go ahead and use cold water; otherwise you have to heat water on the wood-burning stove. For my purposes, however, cold water is key--generally, I've been a dripping ball of American sweat all day, so a cold bath before bed is the best way to sleep.

It is necessary to assume the proper position. Kneel in front of the wash basin on your white towels (which are no longer white) so that your knees don't grind into the concrete floor. Turn your head upside down and wet your hair in the three inches of cold water, shampoo, lather and rinse. This last step is more along the lines of "put your head back in the soapy water and pretend the soap actually comes out." Apply conditioner and repeat (now your hair will generally be even soapier, but that's ok--you'll sweat it out tomorrow). Next, while still kneeling beside the bucket bath, scrub your upper body with a washcloth and soap, then rinse. Climb into the bucket and kneel down to now scrub your lower body. The purpose of doing all this at the level of the floor is to of course try and spill as little water as possible (did I mention you'd be doing this in your bedroom?). That being said, you still will generally have only about one inch of water left in your wash basin, so it's fairly easy to dispose of.

Prior to this, however, it is necessary to scrub the underwear that you wore that day in what's left of your bathwater with soap, then hide it somewhere in your room to dry overnight. This is because it's not seemly to hang your underwear on the clothesline with the rest of the wash. (I actually really like this step--this way there's never any dirty underwear lying around waiting until wash day.)

Finally, you pour what's left of the water in the wash basin into a bucket to be carried out. However, if you're smart and this is your evening bath (generally they bathe here at least twice a day when the water is available), you'll keep your dirty bath water in your room overnight. This brings us to the delicate subject of what I like to call the "pee bucket."

The pee bucket serves as a receptacle for you-know-what at night. This is because most houses in villages don't have bathrooms inside. Why not go out to the pit toilet, you might ask? This seems like a simple enough question, but don't be fooled. Generally, the residents of these communities are nervous to be out at night--there's nothing to do after dark, so the only people out at that time are really up to no good. As for my purposes, there are spiders in the pit toilet, and no way in hell am I going out there at night thave them crawl on my bare butt in a coffin-sized pit toilet that smells like poop.

It's recommended that if you use your pee bucket at night, you should "dilute" it with a little waer so that you don't stink up the whole house. Then, in the morning, you have to sneak out to dispose of it, because even though everyone uses them, no one wants to be caught carrying a bucket of pee.

Here's the ingenious part. If you pee in your dirty bath water from the night before, no one will suspect when you go to carry it out in the morning. Problem solved! Just be sure and rinse the bucket out really well before bringing in your next bucket of clean water to bathe with.

A word of caution: it's called a "pee" bucket for a reason. If you have to do the other, that's just too bad.

And The Band Played On...

So, further updates--we spent the first eight weeks of our stay in Pre-Service Training (PST), spending long days having sessions on cultural integration, safety and security, working with NGOs (non-governmental organizations), health, and (my favorite, of course) HIV/AIDS training. This last aspect is the crux of our work here, as we are part of the Community HIV/AIDS Outreach Program (CHOP) sector; other PC volunteers are working in education, community development, etc. Along with this, we also had several hours of language classes every day--I was lucky enough to have a really awesome language group with a great teacher, Sandile. Not all the other groups played as nicely as we did. The majority of us (including my language group) were learning isiZulu as most of us were to be located in the province of KwaZulu-Natal, where this is the most widely spoken language. However, SA has 11 official languages, and depending on where they were to be located, some of the other groups were learning isiNdebele, SiSwati, or XiTsonga.

Other exciting events during training included getting about 83 injections each (yes, medical personnel make the worst patients, although I tried to be brave), going on several trips to the Apartheid Museum, the Voortrekker Monument, visiting several NGOs, and putting on a 5K Fun Run for the two local villages we were staying in. I hate to say it, but of everything during training, this was not my cup of tea. To be told one week in advance that you should put on a run for an estimated 1000 people (mostly kids whose language you don't speak), and organize the run, prizes, donation, drinks, snacks, etc, etc, with no independent money, transportation, or means of communication (at this point we didn't have cell phones) was just ridiculous. It was neither fun, nor did I run--instead, I helped with the first aid tent. Anyway, it was for a good cause, however; we were trying to raise money for a local HBC (home-based care) organization that had not had funding since April of last year, and were washing and reusing old bread bags as gloves in order to give injections. Although we only collected a modest amount of money in the long run, one of the people involved with the organization was heard to comment that we'd helped teach them how to raise money for themselves, which was the best outcome we could have hoped for.

One of the great things about our training experience was getting to work with and learn from our LCFs (language and cultural facilitators). This was a group of eight host-country nationals who not only patiently taught us their languages, but served as sort of cultural ambassadors as well. They were a fantastic resource, as often within a new culture, it can feel disrepectful to always be questioning new experiences. This feeling was accentuated by the fact that in SA culture, it generally is not done to question everything; if an elder or someone in a higher societal position than you tells you something, you generally take it at face value and don't ask why. But our LCFs were well-prepared to answer to a bunch of inquisitive, pushy Americans who want to know the how and why of everything. Here I have to give props again to my group's LCF, Sandile. He's a great guy who seems to see beyond the spoon-fed BS that can become the brain's default mode if one isn't aware of it. Congrats to him on finishing law school soon, finishing his novel, and putting up with us for eight weeks. Shout-outs to all the other LCFs as well--if you get to see this, we had a great time and appreciate all you did (sorting groceries and all!). In the pic are our LCFs, from L to R: Senele, Joshua, Sandile, Thokozani, Bongiwe, Ntombi, Ntokozo, and Mama Simangele.

One of the other quick perks of training--we had it in a gorgeous location, at the SS Skhosana Nature Reserve, where we were surrounded by vervet monkeys literally stealing our lunches every day. Too cute!

The rest of the time in the villages was spent geting to know our host families, attending cultural events, learning to catch a khumbi (mini-van taxi; aka, Death Takes a Holiday, and He Rides In A Khumbi), as well as how to ride in them (squeeze in as many people and extraneous goods as possible), pay for them (pass your money up front from the back through approx. 20 people; surprisingly, it usually gets to the driver, who then counts the change for all ~20 people while speeding around potholes and random children in the road), and use hand signals from the road to indicate which general direction you want to go (woops! Ended up in Darfur!). We also spent a good deal of time walking through the village and enjoying the beautiful scenery of Mpumalanga Province, as well as visiting a small river that was absolutely gorgeous (the locals don't visit it much; more on this in a later post). Anyway, enjoy the pics, and I will post again soon. Love you and miss you all! Salani kahle! Stay well!

P.S. I had several other pics to upload here, but just getting this up took about 8 hrs over three days, then no more would load. So, I'll post others as I can. Of these, the first is me with my friend Claire in our village. The others are me with Sandile, the LCFs, and a pic of the river.

Welcome to South Africa!

Sanibonani, everyone! Welcome to the inaugural posting of my Peace Corps blog experience! To those to whom I've written letters, please write me back--it makes me feel loved and like a real person. To those I haven't written yet, write me anyway. :)

So how to write an observational exposition on a topic such as this? I don't know, but for my reader's sakes I'll try to be brief (yeah, right). At the end of January, after a short staging event in Washington, DC, we took an 18-hr flight into Johannesburg, South Africa! Along the way, I and the other Peace Corps Trainees (PCTs) got to know each other a bit, and I have to say, for a girl from the deep South, it's refreshing, to say the least, to meet other young people who don't wonder why when you say that recycling is the most religious thing that you do, or that equal rights should actually mean equal rights, or that traveling around the world to live without electricity or water or basic sanitation is a valid form of existential experimentalism. (This is not to say that I didn't get fantastic support from home, but there are guys in this group who argue more for women's rights than I do. I mean, come on).

So after arriving in South Africa and spending a week of initial training at a college campus in Mpumalanga Province, we set up shop in two little villages about two hours outside of Pretoria (PC policy is that we don't give any specific locative details on here--wouldn't want some crazy stalkers flying to SA to knock off a couple of PC do-gooders). This was an experience, to say the least, for both ourselves and our host families. To give a bit of background as to my mindset when joining the Peace Corps, I thought I'd be going somewhere where race didn't matter and we could "all just get along." Then I found out I would be going to South Africa less than 20 years after the fall of apartheid. Needless to say, race is still an issue, and for the residents of these communities, having a white person living and working with them is like watching a three-headed dog walk on its hind legs. As for 40 white people (Americans, no less!)--well, you get the idea. But everyone was extraordinarily kind and gracious to us, and welcomed us wholeheartedly into their homes and communities.

The family I stayed with for seven weeks was the Masimula family, consisting of grandparents, several adult children and their spouses, and about six kids; they were all wonderful. They took me in and immediately treated me as one of their own, calling me Sisi ("sister"). The family's name for me, though, in their native isiNdebele, was Thembi, meaning Hope.

So I'll leave it here for now, and let you savour that little taste before posting again. Also, while I can access the internet (finally, after 2 1/2 months), it costs an arm and a leg to do so, so I would love to hear from everyone by old-fashioned snail mail--I'll post my address on Facebook so only friends can see it. Also if anyone wants to call me (yay!) you can call my new cell phone number from skype and it would be free for both of us (wouldn't work the other way around). Again, I'll post that on Facebook. Anyway, love you all and miss you! Salani kahle!