Mosquitoes, Politics

I have added some pictures, by-the-way.

This morning I was late for work. Since I was late, I rushed past people that I would normally have stopped to chat with. This is very un-African of me.

As I rushed past a furniture store, where I had previously made the acquaintance of one of the sales people, I heard a whistle directed at me. This is a common way to grab someone’s attention here in South Africa; you can’t walk around downtown Tzaneen without hearing a good deal of whistling. “Why didn’t you come in and say hello?” he scolds me.

“I’m really late for work, so I’ve been rushing since I left my flat” I explain, trying to sound as hurried as possible. He laughs as he takes my hand and leads me into the store. He explains we need to talk business. When we get to his desk, he starts to describe his vision for a new company. He shows me his business plan and then asks if I can help him make it better. I’m thinking “I’m a history major…”, but I say yes anyway. After a good 20 minutes I finally get back on the street, and headed to work. I hope I can help him out somehow.

He and I have spoken many times before. He is an outspoken opponent of America’s current foreign policy. When he found out where I was from, he was thrilled that he could finally give a piece of his mind to an actual American. He has a satellite at his home and watches CNN, so he is supplied with a constant stream of news to keep him busy. “Be careful with that CNN” I warn, “It's American propaganda…” He is not alone in his desire to say a thing or two about America.

The people I meet almost always have something they want to ask or say about my homeland. The most common thing people say is that they want to visit; the second most common topic of choice is probably the presidential election, i.e. Barrack Obama. One question I got a couple times after Hillary finally dropped out of the race was “Is he the President yet?” In fact, I have been asked to explain US Presidential politics on more than one occasion. Even when people have negative things to say about the US, they almost always tell me they want to visit.

I got a call a few weeks ago from a man named Patrick. I honestly couldn’t remember where I had met him, but he was very keen on meeting up with me. I figured that if I gave him my number, he couldn’t have seemed to threatening to me at the time, so I say yes. We arranged a meeting spot at the crossroads of two major highways. I had no idea what he wanted to do. It turns out he is a scientist who has worked at the Malaria Institute for the past 30 years. So, we take a walk to the Institute.

The Malaria institute, I am told, is responsible for ridding my particular area of malaria carrying mosquitoes years ago. I am afforded VIP status and am treated to a full tour of the labs and grounds. There are dozens of containers, in which mosquitoes at various stages of life are kept. There is also a shed that houses hundreds of guinea pigs. These hapless creatures are drugged and then placed in the aforementioned containers when the scientists want the mosquitoes to lay eggs. Apparently blood is necessary for egg production; otherwise the mosquitoes seem happy enough with sugar water. Another fun fact is that mosquitoes have an average lifespan of 14 to 28 days. On parting Patrick gave me the largest banana I have ever seen, one that he had harvested from one of his own banana trees.

So, I’m meeting people, which is nice. Work is good too. I’ve finally gotten a new version of Tsogang’s website up (www.tsogang.org). It’s the first website I’ve ever published, so I’m still trying to figure it all out. Once I understand well enough, I will show my co-workers how to edit and publish a website as well. I think that’s what Peace Corps means when they talk about “capacity building”. I am also working on creating a database for all of the projects that Tsogang has worked on since 1996. Since the current filing system is a bit arcane, this is quite the task. Once I get this database finished, it will be a useful tool for Tsogang long after I leave. This is a pleasant thought.

Since I am approaching my third month in Tzaneen (and my fifth month in South Africa) I will be going to what Peace Corps calls in-service training for the next two weeks. This is supposed to consist of additional relevant training for work. It also provides an opportunity to catch up with fellow volunteers. All 30 of the volunteers in my group have been placed in different NGOs, over three different provinces. Our experiences will be diverse, and probably instructive. Another plus is that we are given three (free) squares a day for the whole training period. That, in itself, is probably enough to keep me happy.

Thanks for reading.

Mango Farmers, Settling In.

Eta hola,

I have spent the last week chatting mostly with mango farmers. It seems that every farm I went to, whether they dealt with chickens or corn or bananas, also had mangos. I was accompanying a man named Zunaid as he conducted a survey on behalf of a government agency charged with helping black emerging farmers. The survey’s purpose was to assess the needs of black emerging farmers so that some sort of program can be set up to serve those needs. It was an interesting experience.

I know Zunaid through Peace Corps. During my first weeks in South Africa, Peace Corps set up what they called a ‘Diversity Panel’ which was composed of representatives from South Africa’s major racial groups. There was a black person, a coloured person (the accepted S.A. term for a person of mixed race. I still feel a little funny calling someone that…), an Afrikaner, and an Indian. Zunaid was the Indian on the panel and had an interesting story to tell. He had been very active in the struggle against Apartheid; even getting himself jailed for what he was told was “an indefinite period of time”. He eventually went into exile to Botswana, along with many other resistance fighters within the ANC. It was interesting to hear his perspectives on race relations as well.

So, when I ran into him at one of Tzaneen’s malls and was offered the chance to tag along as he interviewed farmers, I happily said yes. As with so many aspects of South African life, the legacy of Apartheid figures in prominently. Under Apartheid, whites owned almost all of the land. So, once Apartheid began to be dismantled in 1994, the question of how to right this historical wrong had to be addressed. The solution that South Africans found was a land claims process whereby black South Africans can apply for land currently in white control.

This stands in stark contrast to the way Zimbabwe went about solving the same problem. Zimbabwe and South Africa had similar land arrangements when under white control. At that time, Zimbabwe was known as Rhodesia. However, while South Africa was able to achieve democracy with a relatively small amount of violence, Zimbabwe had a bloody civil war and fell under a harsh dictatorship. Zimbabwe’s leader, Mugabe, opted for a far more radical approach to land redistribution than his southern neighbor. White farmers were simply kicked off of their farms with no pretension of making it a gradual process, as has been the case in South Africa. Whatever method is used, there is an inherent problem. The outgoing white farmers have the expertise, the equipment, and the experience-- even if the incoming black farmers are finally getting the land. This is roughly where Zunaid and I come in. The government is looking for effective ways to assist these relatively new farmers. Zunaid’s survey was created as one way to figure out what exactly black emerging farmers need.

We had with us a local fruit merchant by the name of Steven. He knows most of the black farmers in the area and provided us the ‘in’ we needed to conduct the survey. Overwhelmingly, the farmers we spoke with are short on cash. Without money, or access to it, you can’t invest in your farm. Water and electricity were two concerns that we found across the board as well. One thing that surprised me was the almost total reliance on word-of-mouth for their advertising. While white farmers in South Africa are exporting crops to Europe and America, many black farmers are struggling to sell crops in their immediate areas. Even though most farmers described themselves as struggling, they still said they’d rather be a farmer than anything else. When asked why they had chosen farming as a trade, most farmers cited the prospect of creating jobs for their community.

Even though I was essentially just an observer, my presence was keenly felt. At one farm, Zunaid went through his spiel about all the reasons for his visit with a farmer’s wife. When she called her husband to tell him they had a visitor, all she told him over the phone was “There is an American here who can speak Shangan!” At another farm an elderly woman offered me the last remaining chair, the one she had just been sitting on. Of course the prospect of making an elderly woman sit on the ground so I could sit in a chair was just short of horrifying for me. She explained that in the bible we are told to give our chair to guests. So, I guiltily sat down in the chair knowing I had little choice.

So now I am better acquainted with the rural area around Tzaneen. I am also feeling more at home in Tzaneen proper. I am finally to the point where I am being greeted by those that know me. Sometimes a person who I don’t recognize will approach me with a handshake and a greeting. Either I’ve greeted them before or they’ve heard about me. I have a whole bunch of people that I regularly see as I walk to work that now say hello to me of their own accord. One guy, who is the security guard at a local grocery store (there are lots of security guards here), even calls me “but” which is short for butti or brother. Isn’t that nice?

Once I introduce myself, people are often very keen to get my number. Sometimes they even call me at some later point. My marital status is a very common point of discussion. After finding out that I'm not married, many people take it upon themselves to find me a mate. Steven, our guide to the farmers around Tzaneen, told me I need to marry a Shangan girl. “Even a Sotho girl would be OK” he conceded judiciously. He told me he'll ask around, so that the next time we hang out he will have found me a date. We shall see. It is interesting how my particular relationship with black South African culture is a point of pride for people that until moments before were complete strangers. Every time I eat pap, say “Avuxeni”, or mention that I used to live with a Shangan family, the face of the person I’m speaking with lights up. I suppose that’s part of the reason people always tell me I should get a Shangan wife—it would be one more way that I could indicate my admiration for their culture.

Another trend I have noticed while I walk around Tzaneen is that people are constantly asking me for directions. Many times now, a car has seen me and pulled over to the side of the road just ahead of where I’m walking. Of course, I have no idea how to get anywhere in South Africa. I am a foreigner who isn’t allowed to drive. I think it’s funny that people zero in on the least qualified person in the whole city to give them directions. A few times, the person in the car pulling over was an Afrikaner. Each time the Afrikaner behind the wheel asked me incredulously (in Afrikaans) “What are you doing walking around here!? It’s dangerous.” After some explanation they would offer me a ride.

“No Thanks” I say with a big smile, “I like the walk”.

In Tzaneen there are an inordinate number of shops related to the death industry; caskets, tombstones, funerary decorations and the like. I can’t say for sure, but I’m fairly certain this is directly related to the ongoing AIDS pandemic. It is a tricky subject to bring up, but I have asked a handful of people why they thought there is so much commercial activity in Tzaneen that centred around death. Most hadn’t noticed the phenomena. I suppose it’s the sort of thing you get used to.

Lately, when I’m not chatting up farmers or having my love life planned out for me, I am reading Noam Chomskey. Jason and Virginia, two fellow PCVs living in a nearby township, gifted me with an extensive cache of his books and interviews. Even though he can sometimes be a bit of a downer, I am addicted to reading him. I also find the time to play guitar and go on early morning runs to the dam.

So, all is well for me here in South Africa. The xenophobic violence that is plaguing the area around Johannesburg has not been a problem here. One of the friends I have met in recent weeks, whose name is Gift, actually rooms with 5 Zimbabweans. You know there is a real problem when people are actually fleeing into Zimbabwe, as they have been recently.

At any rate, thanks for reading and will make sure to blog sometime soon. A month is too long.

Greetings

Hello.

I’m walking to work. It’s about 8:30 in the morning. I’ve been saying hello to everyone I’ve walked past since I left the house. I’m getting the usual mix of bemusement, distrust, and laughter from passers by. One younger looking man stops after I say hello to him. He turns around, “Why are you on foot?” he asks suspiciously, “White people don’t walk around.”

I explain that I don’t have a car and that I am walking to work. However, this information only adds to his confusion. Finally, I can see a light go on in his head. “Do you know Jim?” he asks. Jim is a previous Peace Corps Volunteer who worked in this area. I am his replacement.

When I first arrived here, and saw my living situation, I was worried. I saw my shower and all the white people driving around in cars and I asked myself “How am I supposed to make any sort of impact here?” The answer to that question has found me.

Since moving to Tzaneen I have observed the elusive nature of the Afrikaner. I am living in a predominantly white neighbourhood, yet in this neighbourhood I share the sidewalks exclusively with black South Africans. When I am running in the morning, I do see one elderly Afrikaner couple walking with their dogs on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But that’s it in terms of white foot-traffic. It is still hard for me to understand, especially considering how pretty the area is.

So, the simple action of walking to work sends a message to everyone that sees me. What exactly that message is, I can not say for sure.

Everyday, the vast majority of my people-contact consists of greetings. Greetings are of huge cultural significance here and seem to be more uniformly adhered to than greetings in the States. I will use the exact same phrases, in the same order, over and over again. Just like anywhere, the way you greet someone is a key way for you to define your relationship and communicate social status. In any given day, I have to know Xitsonga greetings, Sepedi greetings, Tsotsi (gangster) greetings, and Afrikaans as well. The Xitsonga and Afrikaans greetings change based on the time of day. The Sepedi greetings depend on the sex and age of the person you’re speaking with, and Tsotsi greetings are a special kind of slang used by boys from early teens to men in their 30s.

Unless the person knows me, I have to be the one to say hello (or rather “Avuxeni”, “Tobella”, or “Eta”) People are usually shocked that I’m speaking with them at all, and often react in ways that I find surprising. People commonly look behind them, as if I am talking to some white guy lurking after them. They also often respond to my Tsonga greeting with the appropriate Afrikaans greeting, probably figuring that they had misheard me and that I was speaking Afrikaans in the first place. Another common reaction is the cold, hard stare.

Finally, once they understand that I’m trying to speak their language, they are very warm and open. Sometimes they will just laugh, other times they will be curious enough to ask me questions. They usually ask me where I learned Shangan (known also as Xitsonga) or Sepedi. After I explain that I lived with a Shangan family for a couple of months, that I am from America, and that I’m working for an NGO they are generally fairly impressed with how bizarre I am.

My favourite way to greet is the Tsotsi way. Tsotsi is the universal word for gangster in South Africa. First you look at who you are about to talk to. If it is a woman or an older man, you had better use a more formal greeting, unless you want to be insulting. You start out by saying “Eta” or “Eta hola”. The proper response to that is “Eta” or “Howzit?” Then finally you answer “Sharp” (pronounced ‘Shawp’). There are also a few handshakes that it is helpful to know, including one that involves precise thumb movement and a snap. After such an exchange, if I don’t have a chance to explain myself, the person will look at me quizzically as I walk off into the distance.

Of course, all exchanges are not positive. I am often called boss. Calling a white person “boss” is a hold-over from the Apartheid era. I hate being called boss. Once I was even called master, which made my jaw drop. I am also asked for a job sometimes. This is awkward, but usually less so after I explain my situation. Sometimes I will ask them if they could find me a job instead, to which I am consistently greeted with laughter. I am also panhandled occasionally, usually for a few rand or some cigarettes. “I don’t smoke and I don’t have any money” I say with a shrug.

Generally though, people are just curious about me. Everyday I am reminded how much I stand out. Recently in the supermarket, I was standing at the checkout about to pay for some groceries. I say “Avuxeni, minjani?” to the woman at the register and after looking at me she immediately starts laughing. I mean really laughing. Through gasps of breath she returns my greeting, “Hi kona, minjani?” I shrug my shoulders and say “Hi pfukile” (I’m fine) which only makes her laugh harder. I have my money out and my arm is just sort of hanging there. Other people are starting to look at us. She starts rapidly speaking Xitsonga into her radio. All I can make out is “white guy” and “Shangan”. A few moments later the manager walks up to me and, already smiling a great deal, greets me in Shangan. I go through the same script with him and now he’s laughing.

I’m starting to feel more than a little self-conscious. I’m usually thrilled to get people laughing like this, but there is a fine line between telling a joke and being a joke. I try to pay for the groceries to no avail. A new store employee has been brought in and I am now going through the greetings yet again to renewed laughter. I try to pay the bagger but she shakes her head. Finally, I pay for my groceries and get my receipt. As I walk away from the register I shout “Salani Kahle” (stay well). I turn around to see an Afrikaner woman, who was apparently behind me in line the whole time. With her arms akimbo she is giving me an intense stare. More laughter follows me as I walk out of the store, and onto the street.

I’ve been reading a great deal here. I’ve finally finished The Brother’s Karamazov. I wish I actually read it in high school, instead of pretending. You were right Jordan, it’s a great book. Since I got here I’ve also read a few murder mysteries I borrowed from my boss, two books by Alexandra Fuller, Country of My Skull by Antjie Krog, Lolita, The Common Reader by Virginia Wolf, and a novel set in 11^th century Britain about the Norman invasion. I’m currently as far as the book of Ruth in the King James Bible, halfway through a book on African history, and working my way through a massive book on physics.

My dad also sent me this great book called The 112 Greatest Chess Games of All Time. Since I don’t have a computer or TV at home, I have spent hours with that book and my chess board; re-living famous chess matches. So, I’ve been able to keep myself occupied in my off hours. While at work I’m putting the finishing touches on the company website, trying to understand was ESETA is, and generally orientating myself to the new job.

That’s how it’s been for me lately. Thanks for reading.

I have added photos

Hello. I have finally added some photos. A link to the album is located at the top of the page. The photos encompass my time in Mabula as well as a little before when I was at Mokopane College. More albums are to follow.

Now I’d like to give some general background information about life in South Africa. It will help make sense of future entries and will also answer some common questions I have received.

Kombis are the most common means of transport for inter-city travel. Since many people live in the townships and work in the city, they are used often. Kombis are big white vans that seat 16 people and always seems to be one visible on the road at any time. If a kombi isn’t full you can flag one down for a ride, otherwise you will have to catch one at a rank. Ranks are generally hectic. People vying for seats in a kombi need to be aggressive unless they want to wait for the last kombi out of town. I’ve seen men my age shove frail-looking gogos (grandmothers) out of the way while jockeying for a seat, only to get shoved right back and have to wait for the next ride. Vendors wander around trying to sell Cokes, waters, ice-cream, produce, and anything else a person might want. Kombi drivers want a full vehicle for obvious reasons. Kombi drivers are also very time-conscious since the better turn-around they have the more rides they can fit in. More rides with more people equals more money. The time crunch also means that they drive like they are on fire. They weave in and out of traffic and generally disregard pedestrians, unless the pedestrian is flagging down the kombi for a ride.

The price for a ride on a kombi varies depending on how far you want to go. The 45 minute kombi ride to Mokopane from Mabula cost R20. The longer drive from Polokwane to Mokopane cost R40. For a 20 minute drive to Nkowankowa from Tzaneen, the charge is a mere R7. Money is paid to the driver according to what row you sit in. Once the kombi starts moving, you pool the money together with everyone in your row and try to make change if possible. Then you pass the money up and indicate how many people are paying. The passenger who gets stuck up front has to deal with all the money coming up and make the appropriate change.

The staple food in South Africa is a kind of corn-meal porridge commonly known by its Afrikaans name, pap. In Xitsonga, it is called vusvwa. Pap is generally eaten at every meal and in huge portions. It consists of corn meal and water and that’s it. It is usually cooked to the consistency of play-dough. When living with my host family, I grew a little tired of pap. When I finally decided I’d had enough, I made the radical decision to skip it altogether for a meal. As I ate my dinner with the rest of the family, my host mom went back to the kitchen and scooped out a massive chunk of pap and brought it to me. When I politely declined, it was absolutely shocking to everyone present. A meal isn’t a meal unless you’ve had pap. One guy in the village told me that if he didn’t have pap for a couple of days, he wouldn’t feel right.

A very common meal here is pap and nyama (meat). The meat is usually chicken, but can also be beef. Chicken feet, chicken head, chicken gizzards, and chicken “miscellaneous” have all found their way onto my plate at sometime or another here in South Africa. Cows are also used to their fullest extent. Another common dish is known in Xitsonga as miroho. Miroho can be any cooked green, but my host mom used squash leaves. The greens are cooked and mashed until it is there is no trace of its former leaf-state present in the pot. Mango pieces soaked in a spicy-oily sauce known as atcha is common as well. Mopani worms are also eaten here. They are sold by street vendors and in tuck shops (small general stores in villages). When sold, they are dried. To cook you boil then fry.

Walking around town is always interesting. Shops commonly have loud music blasting from speakers in their doorways. Street vendors are everywhere, selling produce, hats, sandals, and sunglasses. Banks and ATMs always seem to have insanely long lines. Since I’m from America, I always look the wrong way when crossing the street. When you get in a cars way here, you are in trouble. Pedestrian rights are a low priority. I have yet to see a car slow down when it approaches a pedestrian.

Walking around after dark is not advisable. I have been told by many locals here in Tzaneen that I will be mugged at some point. And that’s if I follow the rules. Common sense precautions must be taken. Ipods are entirely out of the question. A cell phone is best kept unseen, especially if it’s a nice one. Obvious bulges in your pocket are a no-no. Generally try not to keep too much money on you at any one time. For many people, these things are obvious. For someone who has spent precious little time outside of Iowa, it is an adjustment. Women here use their bras as an auxiliary pocket. Women often can be seen with big, cellphone shaped bulges on their chest. I have seen surprising amounts of stuff taken out of bras in checkout lines at the grocery stores.

Anyway, those are a few things I’ve noticed about life here in South Africa. Everyday is a learning day, which is amazing. Something as simple as walking to the store can be exciting or at least interesting. Since I try to greet people whenever I can, I am often roped into long discussions on subjects as varied as crime, professional wrestling, US foreign policy, religion, and fashion. So, life is good and I try to appreciate everyday.

Thanks for reading and enjoy the pictures.

Reflections on Mabula

Hello. I want to talk a little more about Mabula before I move on to Tzaneen.

In the last weeks I was in Mabula I was invited to play soccer with the local guys. I think it had been something like a decade since I’d played a full-fledged game of soccer. If anyone remembers (I’m sorry Dad) my previous level of soccer ability, you may question the wisdom of opening up myself to the general ridicule of my community. I wondered about this as well, but was happily surprised to find out that I have improved slightly since I was 12. Of course I was still light-years behind the rest of the guys in terms of skill. However, what I lacked in ability I made up for in earnestness and enthusiasm. My strategy was to charge whoever had the ball with as ferocious a look on my face as I could muster, and then pass the ball away from me as quickly as possible. This worked fairly well, though it worked the best with my host brother since for him I added an angry sounding roar to my charge.

That was all very fun and my only regret is that I didn’t start playing soccer earlier in my stay at Mabula. Another interesting cultural experience for me was going to church with my family. My Family attends the “International Pentecost Holiness Church” which was founded by Frederick Modise in 1962. (An interesting and informative article on the church can be found here: http://artsweb.bham.ac.uk/aanderson/Publications/frederick_modise_and_the_interna.htm) Pictures of Modise adorned the walls of every room in my house in Mabula, including my own. In fact, the only wall decorations of any kind were those related to the church. Clearly it was very important to my host mom that I attend, so I did despite some misgivings.

I arrived and, of course, stuck out like a sore thumb. Firstly, in this church, everyone is dressed in uniforms, except for non-members. Secondly, I was one of maybe 7 men in a room of perhaps 250 women. Finally, my ever-relevant epidermal distinction helped me make something of an entrance. Men and women enter through different doors, so as I approached the church I was taken away from my family and made to enter solo. I walked in and immediately all eyes were on me. I am taken to the “visitors section” at the front. There is not enough room for me, so they give me a chair right in the middle of the aisle. The preacher has stopped speaking. No one is hiding their interest as I sit down. After soaking in a long, uncomfortable silence, I decide to go for it. “Tobella”, I say with a fragile smile, inflecting my greeting almost more like a question. There is a murmur in the audience and the preacher looks surprised.

“Tobella, le kai”, (How are you) the preacher responds. His tone indicates that this is a test. He is not convinced that I really know what I’m saying.

“Ra gona”, (I’m fine) is my final response. The room erupts in applause and laughter. It is thunderous. If I had this sort of encouragement in Chinese class, maybe I’d be in China right now.

It is important to note that Afrikaners do not generally take the time to learn the indigenous languages of black South Africans. I am greeted with surprise and disbelief when I speak even the slightest Sepedi or Xitsonga. For a white person to know the language of the area is a novelty, and an exciting one at that. My meager language skills are thus inflated; which is great. The rest of the time in the church was very interesting as well. Usually the services are held in Sepedi, but because of my presence there was an interpreter saying everything in English. The interpreter spoke directly to me throughout the 4 (!) hour service. I was often exhorted to put in my two cents worth, for the entire congregation to hear.

“Where does your body hair grow?” I am suddenly asked. I have been a bit glassy eyed since the 2½ hour mark and have missed the context of the question. I am starting to sweat through my suit jacket.

“Hmm…” I squint my eyes and look around the room. “Here?” I ask making a sweeping gesture over my entire body.

The preacher laughs and shakes his head. “No. Your hair grows here.” The preacher is now pointing to his crotch. I am growing nervous. Is this a joke? Why is no one laughing? What is going on? I want to move on as quickly as possible.

“Ok” I say weakly.

“Now, point to where your body hair grows.” The preacher says sternly. “Don’t worry, you can point there. You’re a man” he reassures me.

So, I point to my crotch and receive another, though lesser, applause. During the service I also learn that the ideal number of wives for a man is 7 and I am informed as to the miraculous healing powers of the church. This is not exactly what I’m used to in the States. The Church also had amazing gospel music, testimonials from people healed by the church, and food. Not to mention a very favourable man to woman ratio.

Another marked difference between this and my life in the states is my emergence as a ladies’ man. I am told that I am beautiful. I am proposed to and propositioned. On my way to swearing in as a PCV, I was wearing a distractingly wrinkled suit. It had been in storage for two months and I can’t iron clothing for the life of me. A woman saw me and chided, “Your clothes are all wrinkled. You need a girl-friend to iron your clothes”. I smile. “I’m around” she adds. “What’s your room number?” If the conversation goes further, the situation makes itself clearer: “I want to go to America” or more subtlety “When are you going back to America?” It doesn’t matter to me if they want to go to America though, I’m still flattered.

This has turned into a long post, so I will end it here. I’ll write again soon. Thanks for reading.

Training is over, now I live in Tzaneen.

Hello everyone.

As I write this, I am sitting at my desk. It is my first day on the job at Tsogang. But I get ahead of myself…

Yesterday I was sworn in as a volunteer by the US Ambassador to South Africa. So, I am now officially a Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV). Aside from the new acronym, my new status means I am no longer attending classes. I am actually beginning to work.

Work? I am working for a non-profit called Tsogang (http://www.tsogang.org/). We work mainly on water and sanitation projects. Since I am new, I am still trying to get a grasp on exactly what I will be doing. Tsogang is different from many of the other NGOs that my fellow PCVs are working for in that it is exceptionally well funded and well established. Another key difference is that my supervisor is not a native South African but a fellow expatriate. His name is Jon and he is from England, though he has been living in Southern Africa for over twenty years with his wife Mary. Mary is Irish.

So, my working situation promises to be very different from the typical Peace Corps experience, but very rewarding nonetheless. Instead of focusing on ways to “capacity build” within my organization, I will be learning how a sizable, seasoned NGO gets things done. I am thrilled.

Another aspect of my Peace Corps experience that is going to be a little different is my housing situation. Most volunteers end up living in a rural or peri-urban setting, surrounded by black South Africans. In other words, they live in a situation much like the one I experienced with my host family in Mabula. Village life is amazing and constantly rewarding. A simple walk around the neighbourhood inevitably yields conversations. As an American, and a white American at that, I stick out. I am known to all. I am a celebrity.

I am now living in an urban setting, in the city of Tzaneen (pronounced with a mostly silent t). Not only am I living in a city, but I am living amongst Afrikaners. That’s right: white people. Walking around my new neighbourhood is like suddenly being transported to the States—kind of. People no longer look at me. There is much less foot-traffic. There are some differences though. People drive on the left hand side of the road. Signs are in Afrikaans. Security is very tight—for me to enter my little house I have 3 fences to unlock. My windows have bars, and my door is also augmented with a gate that must be unlocked. The fences have razor wire on the top of them. So, I’m pretty safe.

The house I live in is owned by an Afrikaner couple who live on the same property in there own house. Their names are Des and Mimi. They are very nice to me. The first couple of days I lived in the house, they stopped by with food for me at various times and eventually made me a truly magnificent breakfast. Speaking of generosity, my supervisor (henceforth to be referred to as Jon) and his wife Mary are also prone to giving me food and generally making me feel welcome. So, I am well taken care of. My housing situation is quite comfortable and my working situation is exciting.

I already have a list of things to start working on for my job. Familiarizing myself with the office and the various duties of my co-workers, updating an AIDS workbook, and updating the Tsogang website are a sampling of what is on my immediate agenda. Tonight I will be visiting with some local Peace Corps Volunteers that live in a township about half an hour outside of Tzaneen. I’ve already unpacked my stuff and feel at home. I think I will try to make tacos this weekend.

So now I’m rambling… I was only able to make one blog post about my home stay, which is inadequate. My next post will reflect on village life in general and my host family in particular. My experience in Mabula deeply impacted me and deserves greater attention. While I am sad to leave the loving embrace of my host family, the Chaukes, I am also relieved to finally have some semblence of permanence. I now know where I will be, and what I will be doing in a years time.

Now that I have easy internet access, I can post and email with more frequency. I also have a new mailing address, which is on the right hand side of the page. I also have not one, but two cell phone numbers that I can be contacted at. I have instructions on how to call on the side of this page. In short, I am easy to get ahold of now. Which is cool.

Anyway, until my next post-- thanks for reading.

Wow. It feels like a very long time since I last posted. I suppose it has been.

Where to begin? I will start with the basics.

I live in a village called Mabula, which is in the vicinity of a city called Mokapane. Mokapane, in turn, is the province of Limpopo. Where I live, there is one paved road; all other streets are sand and dirt. I live with the Chauke family. The matriarch of my immediate family is Lina, our mom. I have two brothers and a sister as well that live in the house with me. The brother’s are 18 and 13, while the sister is 18. I love spending time with the family. We do all sorts of things together- homework, soccer, laundry, and a host of other things. I am very happy with my living arrangements.

My family speaks Xitsonga, also know as Tsonga or Shangan. I attempt to speak the language as well. 5 days a week (more or less) I take classes from a wonderful teacher by the name of Cordillia. I have three other people in my language group that learn Xitsonga with me, out of the whole South Africa Peace Corps group of 29 people. After Language in the morning, out group combines with the other language groups and we learn together about things that pertain to us all.

The area that I live in, while having a significant Shangan population, is predominantly Sepedi speaking. Because of this, we also have learned a little bit of Sepedi, otherwise known as Nothern Sotho, just to get by. Just knowing the greetings to these indigenous languages is a shocker for the local inhabitants. In fact, my very presence is surprising. I am often greeted with “Lachua”, which means “white person” as I walk down the street. In the US such a moniker would be rude. Here, race plays a more defining role in ones life; due in large part to the overwhelming legacy of Apartheid.

When I am greeted as such, I make of saying “e-e. Hi mina Tsakane, hawa Lachua.” in my broken Xitsonga. That phrase, by the way, means “No. My name is Tsakane, not ‘white guy’”. I think I forgot to mention that I am not known as Oliver in these parts. I was dubbed Tsakane, which means “be happy” within 20 minutes of my arrival in Mabula by my host mother.

Mabula itself is quite rural. Donkeys, cows, chickens, and goats roam the neighborhood in vast numbers. When out on a run, I have, all too often, found myself staring down a huge, one ton steer that blocks my path. Out of courtesy, I will generally find another way around. We have fairly regular electricity, except when it rains. Rain has been frequent lately. Water works most days as well. So, I am living the cushy life—I am very lucky.

In two weeks I will learn where my final site placement will be. On April 3rd I will be sworn in as a Peace Corps volunteer and will begin my two year long job. Until then I am still training, which is infinitely frustrating. But its fine. I would write more—and I have so much to write—but my time is limited. At 30 rand for 50 minutes, I need to be brief.

Right now, I sit in an internet café in Mokopane. This is the first shot at internet that I’ve had for a very long time. It may the last I have for a while as well.

In closing: I think of home often. I am also very excited and happy with where I am and where I will soon be. All is well. My previous posts have the postal address where I can be reached. If you’d like a letter, I will need your address. So, write me and I will be thrilled and write you back. I hope all is well at home, I will write when I can.