Adam writes:
So Jess and I have some big news, and I mean ‘Rhinoceros big’. We have decided to end our service with Peace Corps and come home. I know that this news probably comes as a shock to most of you and so I wanted to write this post to shed some light on this decision and how we came to make it.
As those of you who have been actively been keeping up with this blog have probably noticed, Jess has written 90% of the posts. It is true that Jess enjoys the process of blogging more than myself, but this has mostly been a practical application of the rule, “If you don’t have anything good to say, say nothing at all.” That is not to say that I have nothing good to say about this country or our time here, rather, for a long time now I have been unhappy and have not felt motivated to write much.
I have felt for a long time now that I have been simply “spinning my wheels”. So much changed over the three years we applied that I didn’t even see till I was here for awhile. For the first time in a long time I had been excited about the future and motivated to begin it. This, I thought, was simply the first step. After this, culinary school and then the world! I have been looking for a project to get interested in and sink my teeth into ever since. I have been helping Jess in the meantime here and there but for the most part I have had little to do here.
Coupled with having little to do here is the fact that there is nothing to do here. In our after work hours, our activities are limited to household chores and movies on the computer. There is some socializing with other volunteers on the weekends, and occasionally we get to travel (and traveling in this country has been amazing), but for the most part we sit.
I became frustrated, to say the least, and Jess and I spent more and more time discussing ways that I could find some amount of meaning and purpose here. Over time we began to discuss the difference between simply making it through and enjoying our time here. In the end we both realized that for me it would never be the latter. I had started exhibiting symptoms that indicated that my unhappiness and anger were beginning to border on something worse.
It needs to be said here that my wife is the most amazing person I have ever known. If she were here on her own, she would have easily finished her service and contributed remarkably to our organization. She is exceptionally good at what she does. She has also been amazingly supportive. I on the other hand have been a pain in the ass at the best of times and unbearable at the worst. She has stood by me and offered her support through it all.
The discussion of what is best for us in terms of our future with Peace Corps had been ongoing for the last several months. We discussed all sorts of options ranging from me just sucking it up and finishing, to me returning and her finishing, to our leaving together. In the end we decided that the best thing for us was to come home together.
Over the last several months I have received a great deal of support from a few other PCV’s in helping me to find some meaning here and yet were always adamant that I needed to do what was best for me. To those PCV’s, and I hope you know who you were, thank you.
As we reached our decision and since there have been several things, both large and small, that have seemed serendipitous. There were random occurrences that seemed to be telling us we needed to be going home, and there have been many things that seem to be telling us that we made the right decision. It was after we had made our decision and told our supervisor that we found out that there was someone who wanted to take over Jess’ big project. Also, the RPCV who had our site previously is back for a few months to help out and has taken over our house, which used to be hers.
Most importantly, we are coming home to both our sisters having babies, and we are both excited to meet our new nieces/nephew. And, with Jess’s sister getting married, Jess is looking forward to being around to help plan and dress shop. Both Jess and I believe that we are making the right decision and are excited for our future. We don’t see this as a failed attempt, rather as our first big adventure together, of which we plan on having many more.
In fact, we plan on moving from this adventure to another. We are planning to move to Portland, OR sometime this year. I have found a culinary program that I could not be more excited about and Jess is actively looking to start her career there. And then from there, who knows?
If I had the chance to go back four years ago knowing then what I know now and I had to decide whether or not to submit my application to Peace Corps again, I would do so without hesitation. Through this entire adventure I have learned two important lessons that I will take with me: First, if you want something badly enough, are realistic about what it takes to achieve it, and are willing to put in the time and energy, than anything is possible. And second, life is not worth it if you aren’t happy.
To all who read our blog, thank you for sharing in our adventure. Good-bye to South Africa, a beautiful country that I have loved exploring (I don’t think we are done exploring this country or this continent yet). And, hello again to all of our family, friends, and loved ones back home.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Addendum to ‘The Times They Are a Changin’
Jess writes:
As an additional piece of information to our New Years post a while back, there is one last little, tiny, teensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy, onesie-sized, gummy bear-shaped, bit of ‘change’ that I’ve been waiting quite a while to share… and that is…
My sister and Devin will also be having a baby girl in 2011!!! This has meant that, like Adam, I have gone into super-Aunt mode (well Adam would be super-Uncle mode, obviously) and I've spent a great deal of our holiday vacation time and past few shopping trips on ‘African Babes’ clothing and baby curios shopping!! And since we only just found out about the sex of the baby and, thus, I have purchased neutral colors to this point, I am already planning for at least one very pink and frilly buy before the due date! I think it is also worth pointing out here that, as it turns out, my sister is following the classic ‘Murphy timeline’… which means I was actually the only odd duckling that chose a more, ummm… ‘traditional’ path with Adam… *wink*!! Plenty of news from her to come soon, but as I mentioned before, ‘The Times They [certainly] Are A Changin’!
As an additional piece of information to our New Years post a while back, there is one last little, tiny, teensy-weensy, itsy-bitsy, onesie-sized, gummy bear-shaped, bit of ‘change’ that I’ve been waiting quite a while to share… and that is…
My sister and Devin will also be having a baby girl in 2011!!! This has meant that, like Adam, I have gone into super-Aunt mode (well Adam would be super-Uncle mode, obviously) and I've spent a great deal of our holiday vacation time and past few shopping trips on ‘African Babes’ clothing and baby curios shopping!! And since we only just found out about the sex of the baby and, thus, I have purchased neutral colors to this point, I am already planning for at least one very pink and frilly buy before the due date! I think it is also worth pointing out here that, as it turns out, my sister is following the classic ‘Murphy timeline’… which means I was actually the only odd duckling that chose a more, ummm… ‘traditional’ path with Adam… *wink*!! Plenty of news from her to come soon, but as I mentioned before, ‘The Times They [certainly] Are A Changin’!
Monday, January 24, 2011
RWO: One of the Many Reasons that We May Forever Say ‘Zed’
Jess writes:
South Africa is often abbreviated Z.A. – right, not S.A., but Z.A. – this has to do with the Afrikaans name for “South Africa”, which is “Zuid Afrika”. Regardless, it gets a little addictive when saying “Zed” for everything (i.e., www.google.co.za, KZN – the abbreviation for KwaZulu Nataal, etc.) So, it is entirely possible that we may forever say ‘Zed’. Just figured we should give you fair warning.
South Africa is often abbreviated Z.A. – right, not S.A., but Z.A. – this has to do with the Afrikaans name for “South Africa”, which is “Zuid Afrika”. Regardless, it gets a little addictive when saying “Zed” for everything (i.e., www.google.co.za, KZN – the abbreviation for KwaZulu Nataal, etc.) So, it is entirely possible that we may forever say ‘Zed’. Just figured we should give you fair warning.
Some of Our Conversations with South Africans
Jess writes:
One of the greatest aspects of cross-cultural exchange, in my opinion, is the conversations you have with the family, friends, coworkers and fellow travelers you meet when staying someplace different for a while – the casual, unassuming chats that lead to something surprising and, as is usually the case, rather entertaining or enlightening. While we’ve had more of these types of interactions than we could possibly recount in a single post, there were a couple note-worthy ones that I felt should not go unmentioned. Each one provided some type of insight – either funny or intriguing – that I thought was worth being recorded somewhere along the way. Enjoy!
A Conversation with Mama Christine & Johannas:
South Africans tend to be very honest about their observations of others. In fact, it is not uncommon at all for our reasonably fit and petite, female volunteers to be told by a woman three-times they’re girth that they are “looking quite fat” on their first day back to work after vacation!! But it is never intended as a direct insult of any kind, it is simply a statement. And it works in the reverse as well… When Adam and I returned to visit our PST Host Family during our training in July, both of our host parents made mention of our somewhat decreased “size”. Our host mother, Mama Christine, is a very rotund woman (due mostly to the rampant diabetes in South Africa), while our host father, Johannas, could not weigh more than 100lbs, soaking wet – they are quite the couple! Our return conversation went something like as follows…
A Conversation with an Eskom Supervisor:
We often get curious, if not worrisome looks, from white South Africans when they see us walking through our village with our work backpacks or grocery bags. Simply put, most white South Africans are not accustomed to seeing other white people – especially younger ones, that look as though they are quite familiarized – in the rural villages and towns of South Africa. This was one such instance as I walked back from The Plaza with some groceries and passed a group of Eskom workers (all black South Africans) and their supervisor (a white South African).
A Conversation with Dumisani:
Dumisani is one of the drivers and maintenance workers for Thembalethu. He has one of the softest voices and one of the greatest smiles! As the summer days get longer and hotter, he often takes on the task of driving our lazy butts back home after work, as we are entirely exhausted from sweating all day in the offices of the compound. On one drive, we discussed the incredible amount of rain that we had been getting in the area and how a lot of the roads had been flooding and becoming impassable:
A Conversation with a “Bru”:
While travelling over the holidays, we had the opportunity to meet many of the younger Afrikaans and British residents of South Africa. Many of these encounters were thoroughly enlightening – as we learned (“learned”) the rules of cricket, heard their insights on the socio-political climate of their country, and exchanged stories about living in rural areas versus city centers. Many in this younger generation strike me as an odd mix between ethnic African lifestyles and a type of laid-back, Australian, surfer lifestyle. For example, more than few love the word “Bru” when talking to eachother. While staying in Coffee Bay, we played a game called 30 Seconds (basically the South African version of Catchprhase) with several of these fellow residents. And while Adam and I were at a serious disadvantage, because most of the words on the cards were native to South African pop culture and history, we had one particular round that left us rolling on the floor…
Our Conversations with Siyanda:
We have many, many conversations with our two year old host brother. While doing laundry, while sitting out on the stoop, while hanging out on their porch, he chats and chats and chats to us and we listen intently to his stories of, well, who knows… it’s all in SiSwati. Sometimes, he’ll add to his stories by utilizing props for our benefit, such as playing his toy electric guitar while singing a song (usually, not at all to the pre-set tunes on the guitar) or the time that he took a tin can, filled it with dirt, placed it atop his head, and walked with a funny little waddle across the yard saying, “Gogo! Gogo! Gogo!” (“Gogo” means “Grandmother”) Ha! That was a particular favorite!! But most of our conversations are pretty much repeats of all the others, and they go something like this…
And about a half hour later, after helping with the laundry, lounging on the stoop with us, or commandeering the bed to act out his very vivid stories…
Thanks for all the conversations everyone! We’ve loved every one of them!!
One of the greatest aspects of cross-cultural exchange, in my opinion, is the conversations you have with the family, friends, coworkers and fellow travelers you meet when staying someplace different for a while – the casual, unassuming chats that lead to something surprising and, as is usually the case, rather entertaining or enlightening. While we’ve had more of these types of interactions than we could possibly recount in a single post, there were a couple note-worthy ones that I felt should not go unmentioned. Each one provided some type of insight – either funny or intriguing – that I thought was worth being recorded somewhere along the way. Enjoy!
A Conversation with Mama Christine & Johannas:
South Africans tend to be very honest about their observations of others. In fact, it is not uncommon at all for our reasonably fit and petite, female volunteers to be told by a woman three-times they’re girth that they are “looking quite fat” on their first day back to work after vacation!! But it is never intended as a direct insult of any kind, it is simply a statement. And it works in the reverse as well… When Adam and I returned to visit our PST Host Family during our training in July, both of our host parents made mention of our somewhat decreased “size”. Our host mother, Mama Christine, is a very rotund woman (due mostly to the rampant diabetes in South Africa), while our host father, Johannas, could not weigh more than 100lbs, soaking wet – they are quite the couple! Our return conversation went something like as follows…
Us: Sanibonani!!
Mama Christine [upon seeing Adam first]: Jabu! Jabu! Oh my goodness… where have you gone?!? [Then patting him around the middle] You are going to end up like Johannas!!
Us [picturing Adam as a 100lb man]: Oh no mama, he won’t end up like Johannas [Johannas nodding]. This is good, we are healthy!
Mama Christine [then turning to me, who had lost far less weight]: Oh Sesi! Sesi, you too are getting so sick! Why have you done this?!?
Us [trying to reiterate that we were, in fact, in much better shape at that point]: No mama, we are just walking more every day. It’s good for us!
Mama Christine: Oh, but Sesi, I liked you better when you had all your curves. [She then proceeds to make multiple “donut” gestures around my mid section, not including my boobs.]
Me [thinking to myself]: Thanks.
A Conversation with an Eskom Supervisor:
We often get curious, if not worrisome looks, from white South Africans when they see us walking through our village with our work backpacks or grocery bags. Simply put, most white South Africans are not accustomed to seeing other white people – especially younger ones, that look as though they are quite familiarized – in the rural villages and towns of South Africa. This was one such instance as I walked back from The Plaza with some groceries and passed a group of Eskom workers (all black South Africans) and their supervisor (a white South African).
Me [as I was passing the supervisor]: Hello.I glanced back at the supervisor, he was utterly baffled. Too funny!
Supervisor [looking a bit confused]: Um, hello. Are you lost?
Me [slowing down to answer]: No, I stay just there [pointing to the dirt road off the main route.]
Supervisor [confused]: Oh, okay… but wait, where do you actually live?
Me [starting to laugh]: I actually live just there [pointing to that same dirt road.]
Supervisor [even more confused]: But you have a car to get to and from the city for work?
Me [laughing now]: No, I don’t have a car. I work in the village – I walk to work.
Supervisor [totally confused]: Then how do you get to the city???
Me [bordering on an entertaining sense of frustration]: I take the coombies.
Supervisor [chuckles loudly]: No really, how do you get there?
Me: Really, I take the coombies.
Supervisor [in total schock]: The coombies?!? You mean the public taxis?!? With everyone else?!?
Me [rolling my eyes]: Yes, those coombies.
Supervisor: Oh… [trailing off to nothing].
Me [as I started walking again and was passing his team of workers]: Sanibonani!
Workers: Sawubona sesi!
A Conversation with Dumisani:
Dumisani is one of the drivers and maintenance workers for Thembalethu. He has one of the softest voices and one of the greatest smiles! As the summer days get longer and hotter, he often takes on the task of driving our lazy butts back home after work, as we are entirely exhausted from sweating all day in the offices of the compound. On one drive, we discussed the incredible amount of rain that we had been getting in the area and how a lot of the roads had been flooding and becoming impassable:
Me: So Dumisani, is the bridge that goes that side [pointing towards Tonga, on the western side of Schoemansdal] still above water?
Dumisani: No, it has been flooded all week.
Me: Then how is everyone getting to work from there?
Dumisani: They have to pay the coombie to drive them all the way around, through Malelane, to come this side.
Me: Oh shame! That is very expensive!!
Dumisani [more somber]: Yes, but last week a taxi tried to cross the bridge that side and it went underwater and the woman in the front could not get out. She drowned.
Me [horrified]: Oh my! That’s terrible!! Why did the coombie go through the water???
Dumisani: The driver did not want to pay the extra petrol to go all the way around. Me [still horrified]: And she died because of that?!? That is awful!!!
Dumisani [turning to look at me in order to provide this very pertinent bit of advice]: Nobuhle, you should know, that when the roads are flooded, I think it is better to pay the extra money for petrol than to get trapped in the coombie underwater and drowned. [A long pause.] Yes, I do think so.
Me [trying to restrain a smile at this advice in the face of this seriousness]: Yes Dumisani, I think you are right.
A Conversation with a “Bru”:
While travelling over the holidays, we had the opportunity to meet many of the younger Afrikaans and British residents of South Africa. Many of these encounters were thoroughly enlightening – as we learned (“learned”) the rules of cricket, heard their insights on the socio-political climate of their country, and exchanged stories about living in rural areas versus city centers. Many in this younger generation strike me as an odd mix between ethnic African lifestyles and a type of laid-back, Australian, surfer lifestyle. For example, more than few love the word “Bru” when talking to eachother. While staying in Coffee Bay, we played a game called 30 Seconds (basically the South African version of Catchprhase) with several of these fellow residents. And while Adam and I were at a serious disadvantage, because most of the words on the cards were native to South African pop culture and history, we had one particular round that left us rolling on the floor…
Bru #1 [flipping the card to start giving clues to the word]: Okay, Bru, right, right, this is totally like one of those Egyptian kings, you know bru?!?
Bru #2: Umm, King Tut, right bru?
Bru #1 [standing up in his excitement to give better clues]: No bru, come on bru!! Like another one, I think a newer one… think of a newer one bru!
Bru #3: Okay, um, King Tut isn’t newer though bru! What other one is there bru?!?
Bru #1 [totally frustrated and now jumping up and down]: Argh… come on bru, you know this! Come on!
Brus #2 & #3 [yelling angrily]: Bru, King Tut is the only one we know bru!!
Us [watching the last bit of sand fall in the timer]: Time!!
Bru #2: Christ, bru!!
Bru #3: Yeah, bru, who the hell was it?!?
Bru #1: God bru, it was Desmond Tutu.
Us: [I’m not even going to try to explain our response… I almost pissed my pants!!!!]
Our Conversations with Siyanda:
We have many, many conversations with our two year old host brother. While doing laundry, while sitting out on the stoop, while hanging out on their porch, he chats and chats and chats to us and we listen intently to his stories of, well, who knows… it’s all in SiSwati. Sometimes, he’ll add to his stories by utilizing props for our benefit, such as playing his toy electric guitar while singing a song (usually, not at all to the pre-set tunes on the guitar) or the time that he took a tin can, filled it with dirt, placed it atop his head, and walked with a funny little waddle across the yard saying, “Gogo! Gogo! Gogo!” (“Gogo” means “Grandmother”) Ha! That was a particular favorite!! But most of our conversations are pretty much repeats of all the others, and they go something like this…
Siyanda [spotting us from the porch and yelling very sweetly]: Nobuuuuhle! Theeeemba!! (Our SiSwati names, with very elongated vowels)
Us [waving back]: Yebo bhuti! (“Yes, brother!”)
Siyanda [frighteningly stern & demanding]: Buya! (“Come here!)
Us [walking down to him]: Unjani bhuti? (“How are you brother?)
Siyanda [back to being very sweet and innocent]: Nikoooona. (“Good”, but stretching out the vowels)
Us: Okay.
Siyanda: Okay. [And then he starts to prattle in SiSwati] Aasdfkj werlhaf adihawenka poweasdjdfkj fdahwenk [my interpretation of what he is saying.]
Us: Oh, uh huh.
Siyanda [still prattling, sometimes more enthusiastically or in a new tone of voice]: kfsldkjflknwe asdfininf nnvheryo jopfenio!
Us [starting to walk back with him to our house, where we are working]: Oh! Yebo!
Siyanda [more prattle]: iidfndkanfek hadfqebnf alkjfpopjean.
Us [every now and then, to break up the conversation]: Eh wena!! (“Hey you!”, but translates loosely to, “Really?”)
Siyanda [always very serious at this point]: Wena! (“You!”, but again, translating loosely to, “Yes, really.”)
Us: Hauw! (“Wow!”) Okay…
Siyanda [prattles again for a while]: knndaslfow ihfehean asdlkn fewa sfdfjefi….
And about a half hour later, after helping with the laundry, lounging on the stoop with us, or commandeering the bed to act out his very vivid stories…
Siyanda [done prattling and entirely abruptly]: Okay, bye bye now. [And off he goes with a wave.]
Us [always with a laugh and wave]: Okay, bye bye Siyanda!
Thanks for all the conversations everyone! We’ve loved every one of them!!
Sunday, January 23, 2011
RWO: Ubuntu
Jess writes:
It’s not just a funny sounding word! It is also the underlying philosophy of South African life. The most common definition of ‘Ubuntu’ is “I am because you are”. This may sound like one of those cryptic philosophies of age-old civilizations, but you can actually still see this practice – or rather, this feeling – among families, neighbors, close-knit communities, and sometimes, even in cross-cultural of cross-racial interactions. Since I will not attempt to provide an appropriate explication of the word, the philosophy, the feeling – I will, instead, provide an anecdote (told to me by a fellow PCV) that I believe captures the essence of Ubuntu most perfectly:
A mid-thirties white couple and their baby broke down outside a township and were forced to utilize the public transit system via the local taxi rank. This (that is, white people at a taxi rank), in case you have not heard it explained by us before, is extremely uncommon. And for the white South Africans of this country, it is often viewed as a virtual “don’t” on the list of transportation options. But apparently there was no other option. The wife carried her young child, no more than 6 months, who was crying incessantly throughout the taxi rank experience. (I would make the conjecture that this may have had something to do with the most certain level of unease that the baby’s mother was emanating at the time.) The taxis began to load and the couple, in line to board the over-cramped and steamy minivan, waited in line with the other passengers. The baby continued to howl. Finally, a large black woman – the type that has obviously had her fair share of babies and has cared for her fair share of others – tapped the young wife on the shoulder. They exchanged some words and gestures (as the black woman did not speak much English and the white woman spoke absolutely none of the local language), but it became apparent that the black woman was offering to hold the child. The mother, perhaps grasping at her last bit of emotional strength, eventually gave in. The stranger, taking the child in one arm, borrowed a towel (used here as a baby wrap) from another mother standing nearby, swung the child onto her enormous back, tied up the towel tight around her bossom, and stood virtually still… the baby quieted within seconds. The white woman was astounded, confused, almost frustrated and began stringing together all sorts of foreign English words to ask simply, “How?” The comforting woman – who I imagine to have had that familiar round face that shows far too many lines for a life not yet old – just replied with a smile. All that was needed, you see, was another woman, another mother, an ounce of assistance and commonality in the form of a gesture that said silently, “We may seem worlds apart from one another, but I know something that you may not, and I can help you.” To mean, that is Ubuntu.
It’s not just a funny sounding word! It is also the underlying philosophy of South African life. The most common definition of ‘Ubuntu’ is “I am because you are”. This may sound like one of those cryptic philosophies of age-old civilizations, but you can actually still see this practice – or rather, this feeling – among families, neighbors, close-knit communities, and sometimes, even in cross-cultural of cross-racial interactions. Since I will not attempt to provide an appropriate explication of the word, the philosophy, the feeling – I will, instead, provide an anecdote (told to me by a fellow PCV) that I believe captures the essence of Ubuntu most perfectly:
A mid-thirties white couple and their baby broke down outside a township and were forced to utilize the public transit system via the local taxi rank. This (that is, white people at a taxi rank), in case you have not heard it explained by us before, is extremely uncommon. And for the white South Africans of this country, it is often viewed as a virtual “don’t” on the list of transportation options. But apparently there was no other option. The wife carried her young child, no more than 6 months, who was crying incessantly throughout the taxi rank experience. (I would make the conjecture that this may have had something to do with the most certain level of unease that the baby’s mother was emanating at the time.) The taxis began to load and the couple, in line to board the over-cramped and steamy minivan, waited in line with the other passengers. The baby continued to howl. Finally, a large black woman – the type that has obviously had her fair share of babies and has cared for her fair share of others – tapped the young wife on the shoulder. They exchanged some words and gestures (as the black woman did not speak much English and the white woman spoke absolutely none of the local language), but it became apparent that the black woman was offering to hold the child. The mother, perhaps grasping at her last bit of emotional strength, eventually gave in. The stranger, taking the child in one arm, borrowed a towel (used here as a baby wrap) from another mother standing nearby, swung the child onto her enormous back, tied up the towel tight around her bossom, and stood virtually still… the baby quieted within seconds. The white woman was astounded, confused, almost frustrated and began stringing together all sorts of foreign English words to ask simply, “How?” The comforting woman – who I imagine to have had that familiar round face that shows far too many lines for a life not yet old – just replied with a smile. All that was needed, you see, was another woman, another mother, an ounce of assistance and commonality in the form of a gesture that said silently, “We may seem worlds apart from one another, but I know something that you may not, and I can help you.” To mean, that is Ubuntu.
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