Leaving Footprints

Leaving Footprints

When I first decided to make the leap, to join the Peace Corps, my biggest concern was not missing my friends, was not missing my family, was not missing favorite foods, was not leaving behind the comforts of the first world. These things were all certainties. I prepared myself to know that I would, in fact, miss my friends, miss my family, miss my favorite foods, and miss the luxuries of showers and a Starbucks five minutes down the road all dearly. The one uncertainty, and thus my biggest concern, was would I have to miss and give up running for 26 months of my life (coincidence that my service is 26 months and a marathon is 26.2 miles…)? Laugh if you will, but over the years running has become a part of my life, and thus a part of me. When not running during service was mentioned as a possibility during my initial interview, I took a big gulp and braced myself. “Sure” I could do that, more trying to convince myself rather than the woman across from me writing down every last word that I uttered.

When I arrived to South Africa, and as I met with our group’s wonderful Peace Corps Medical Officers (seriously, we love our PCMOs), I expressed my concern of not being able to run in my village. When I asked them about being able to run, and telling them that this was my biggest worry at the moment, I was fearful that they would chuckle or even worse, say “no” and bear out my greatest fear. Fortunately for me, they confirmed that this is a common anxiety for many volunteers, and that I would, in fact, be able to run at my site. Phew!

When I first arrived to site, my running was the talk of the village. I figured I might as well let everyone know I run from the ghetco, so as to not come out with any surprises later on. I was already something new to the village, and my running could go along with this newness, or this strangeness rather. The kids LOVED it! During my site visit, and on my first run in the village, I had at least 20 (I stopped counting since I lost track) giggling, barefoot children running after me. How they can run barefoot is still a mystery to me, but they do, and fast! People on the street stared, as this strange white female ran without any apparent reason. After all, nothing seemed to be chasing after me. A few Gogo’s started jogging along, curious as to what I was doing.

Running helped everyone in the village to get to know me. At first my running caused my host family, my fellow teachers, and the adults in the village some unease – being very protective, they did not want anything bad to happen to me. When I talked to my host brother about it he compared me to “his egg,” that he had to take care of since I was very “fragile.” Almost 9 months later, this “egg” still runs 4-5 days a week in my village. Whether I prefer it or not, if the kids are up and not busy with chores, they join me, still giggling and barefoot. My host family and those who were a bit nervous at first have grown comfortable with my running (or have just given up trying to talk me out of running), especially now that Jack and Butch (my 2 dogs) accompany me, again whether I like it or not. Aside from the smile I get when I go for a run and I hear the kids yelling “Naledi! Naledi!” over the volume of my music, running puts me at peace. It acts as my “me” time, my time for reflection. Depending on the time of day, it starts my day off on the right foot or it helps me to unwind. It keeps me being me, and reminds me that no matter where I go, all I need is my pair of sneakers to keep me going.

Running also offers me some amusement as the races here are a tad bit different from in America. Since coming to South Africa, I have been able to participate in 3 road races thus far. The first race I ran was back in early October. It was about 9km, in my shopping town of Giyani. I was psyched since I wasn’t sure how many opportunities I would have to race (it seemed that I would have more than I originally thought). For this race, my friend/fellow PCV Jill and I were chatting and all of the sudden, without any warning, Jill and I realized the race had started. We were off! In addition, since there were no bag checks or places to put our things, we were forced to wear our XL race t-shirt over our running outfits during the race. Without any other option, we pinned our pieces of cloth with spray-painted numbers to our bright and rather baggy yellow t-shirts. Finishing first and second for women, Jill and I posed for many pictures after the race. We enjoyed vaars and cold drink after cooling down.

The second race was held in late March. This was the Longtom Marathon and included either a 56km or a 21km, in Mmpumalanga. Many PCVs did this race, as it benefited the KLM foundation, helping to send impoverished youth to university. I chose to do the 21km, and enjoyed every minute of it. The snacks along the course could have easily been confused for a Movie Theatre Concession Stand, offering everything from chocolate covered bananas to small candies to gummy bears to coca-cola. Additionally, rather than handing out cups of water, there were bags of water which were much easier to drink. At one point I was offered a beer which, sorry to say, I had to turn down. Side note – I enjoyed this race so much that I will be heading up the Longtom Committee for 2013 along with two other
volunteers. I’m wicked excited!!

The third and most recent race, which was about 10km in distance, was also held in my shopping town. This race started on African time, about 45 minutes after the scheduled start. Instead of numbers we were given index cards in little baggies to pin onto our shirts. My favorite part of the race was prior to the start, as all of us stood ready to go and we sang the South African National Anthem. Again Jill placed first while I took second. During our warmup we had discussed hoping that this encourages women in South Africa to run, and to compete. As I raced I thought about this, and could see that some of the women I passed were motivated to do well. They were beating men, not allowing gender stereotypes to hold them back.

Running in the races I do gives me a lot of hope for a united South Africa. Running is such a common language, where race, age, and gender do not matter. Women run along men, children along elders, and blacks along whites. All of us lace up our shoes and go, everyone understanding the joys and the pains of running. It has been at these races where I have seen the most diversity, and it has been at these races where I have seen so much joy and happiness.

With running, you leave your footprints and you leave a trail where you have gone. You are able to set your own pace, make your own path. This made me reflect on the figurative sense of “leaving footprints.” As I approach the 1 year mark in my service, I hope that I have been able to leave my footprints in at least some places, with some people. I hope that I am making a positive difference where I am working and living. I know for certainty that the people I live and work with have left footprints for me, changing me for the better, and making me a better person. So, leave footprints, run your race without fear or inhibitions. Just go.
Ke rata go kitima (I love to run) – Sepedi

Ni rhandza ku tsutsuma (I love to run) – Xitsonga

Le rata,
Meg :)

The Wheels On the Bus Go Round and Round

Friday night, as I prepared my peanut butter and banana sandwich and slipped it into my freshly washed Ziploc baggie (in which Tumelo later made me transfer to a Tupperware since he said people would think I was “somehow” if I showed up with my sandwich in a plastic baggie) I felt like a young school kid.  Even Saturday morning, as the sound of my wristwatch alarm beeped into my ear at 20 minutes to 6, I was excited.  I was headed on my first school trip in South Africa with one of my primary schools.  We were traveling to another village for a soccer and netball tournament.  One of the teachers called my ever-so functioning phone (I dropped it into my bucket last week…not my proudest moment so far…) and told me that he would be by to pick me up shortly.  To my surprise, and to the great upset of African time, he rolled up 3 minutes early.

                As we entered the school ground, I suddenly felt underdressed.  Here I was, clad in jeans, my BU sweatshirt (remember, it’s now “winter” here), my Nike baseball cap, and my pair of TOMS that I should reserve only for Sundays as they have become ever so holey.  Meanwhile, my students were dressed in their very best, which I can’t blame them since they do have to wear their school uniform every Monday-Friday.  Girls had new hairdos, donned more bling than my sisters and I combined have ever owned, and were powdered in makeup.  The boys had fly caps, nice tekkies, and sported sunglasses despite the fact that the sun was still seemingly fighting its own alarm clock.  When our bus (The Great North Transport) drove up, all of the learners piled in with their blow horns, athletic uniforms, and bags.  We were off.

                Prior to reaching our destination, we stopped at the SPAR in Giyani (SPAR is like Giant or Shaw’s).  Nice, but definitely not yet reaching Wegman’s or Trader Joe’s quality.    We were stopping so that the kids could buy food.  I had assumed I’d be home by 12:30, or 1 at the latest.  When I told Maggie and Tumelo this, they laughed, telling me to pack food just in case.  Maggie told me I wouldn’t be home until maybe 3, while Tumelo joked saying I’d be home at 8:30.  Although I didn’t need to buy anything, I went in to greet my favorite SPAR employees (this is where I do all of my food shopping so they know me and the other PCVs now) and to use the toilet.  Once I was done, I waited by the cash registers to keep an eye on the kids.  I couldn’t help but smile when I saw the kids’ baskets filled with more sugar-filled items than is likely healthy for a family of four for an entire year.  One of the learners tried to buy 5kg of ice cream, but thankfully the cashier advised him to put it back, knowing it would melt within minutes.  I swear the kids tried to buy out the SPAR, buying cakes meant for momentous celebrations like birthdays and weddings, lollipops, yogurt drinks, Zimba chips, and more.  You see, when these learners go on a trip, their parents treat them, giving them R40 or even R50 (this equates to about $6 or $7).  On any given day, the most these kids see is R5.  With this much money, they go hog wild, splurging at everything in sight.  Unfortunately, some of the younger ones still haven’t quite mastered the art of adding/reading, so there were quite a few times when items had to be put back, and kids couldn’t buy everything that they wanted.  There were even a few times that the Manager had to be called over to void orders.  Before we left SPAR, one of the teachers, a real go-getter, sweet-talked the manager into giving all of the teachers/chaperones free cold drink and a DVD to one of the learners for the business that our school brought in that morning.  As obliging as the manager was, I couldn’t help but to feel a little awkward taking the cold drink.

                Before long, we arrived at the school where the competitions would take place.  It took a little under 2 hours from our starting destination, which isn’t terrible as we traveled using mostly gravel roads.  I assumed that the games would begin immediately, but as always, I had assumed wrong.  When we pulled in, we were all ushered to be properly welcomed (South Africa is huge on making sure people feel welcome and at home…Ubuntu).  After a few minutes, the teachers and I were taken to the staff room where we were presented with scones, muffins, and of course, cold drink.  I guess my peanut butter and banana sandwich would just have to wait.  The muffins were delicious!  Once we finished, we were taken back outside in order to continue with the welcoming ceremonies.  The principal and the deputy principal thanked us for traveling and coming (all in Xitsonga).  Following their speeches, some of the girls danced Cibalani (the traditional Xitsonga dance which I love, but cannot do for the life of me) and some of the boys did their traditional dance. 

                The girls (JV as we would term back home) Netball team kicked off the games.  They started things off on the right foot for our school as they crushed the other team, winning an impressive 7-1.  It didn’t hurt that the scorer on the team, one of my Grade 7 girls, is almost as tall as the net.  This was quickly followed by the start of the boys (again, JV) soccer game.  The boys also fared well, tying in a 1-1 game.  Although a penalty kick was considered, all involved decided that “friendly games” do not include penalty kicks, which I thought was fair.  Next came the girls (Varsity) Netball team.  I thought the first game was exciting, but this one was crazy!  For this one, our girls outdid them in what I think was a final score of 15-1.  I almost felt bad for the other team…

By now it was a little after two, and I was feeling quite glad that I had brought a baseball cap as it no longer felt like the “winter” of the early hours.  The kids and I were shepherded to the school yard for celebratory pictures.  I gladly posed, very excited for the kids’ win.  Strangely enough, I was asked to pose for the opposing team’s pictures as well…I obliged.  Just as I thought we were ready to board the bus, all of the teachers were again called to the staff room.  This time, we were presented with pap, 3 different types of chicken (fried, cooked, and chicken parts), cabbage, salad, sauce, and cold drink.  It now dawned on me why my fellow teachers hadn’t come prepared with food…they knew we would be taken care of and I’m not sure why I haven’t realized this yet.  Everywhere you go in South Africa, people give their very best to make sure that you are content.  My poor peanut butter and banana sandwich took the backseat once again.

Following our lunch, and feeling quite food comatose, I headed over to cheer on our boys (Varsity) soccer team.  I watched in awe as these boys played soccer barefoot, taking no notice to the rocks or prickles in the field.  The other team was HUGE, and my fellow teachers and I agreed that some of them had to be borrowed from the high school.  Despite their height advantage to our boys, our school again proved victorious in a final score of 2-0. 

At lunch I had commented to the HOD of the school we were visiting (who also turned out to have taught the principal I work with when he was in primary school) how much I enjoyed the dances earlier in the day, saying that he should be very proud of his learners.  As I am sure I have mentioned in at least one previous blog, I really, really need to zip my lips sometimes.  Wanting only to make me happy, all of the sound equipment was taken back outside and the learners performed yet again.  More speeches were made, and at last we boarded the bus to make our trek back home.  Accidentally, we left one of our teachers, so after about 5 minutes we had to turn back around.  Luckily he was very forgiving of our mistake.

During the trip back home, as I watched the sun set (nothing quite like an African sunset), I realized how proud I was to be a part of this school family, a part of the staff, and a part of these learners’ lives.  I thought about how each and every one of them, against all of the odds that they face on a daily basis, is a winner in every sense of the term.  Despite the fact that they live in a rural and impoverished village, despite the fact that many of them don’t have one or both parents, despite the fact that water and food is far and few between at times they all show up to school every day willing and eager to learn.  I have never once heard any of these kids complain, and I only ever see them smiling.  Maybe they needed this day and these wins to feel like winners (because, hey, we all can use a win every once and a while, right?).  But to me, this day just reinforced what awesome kids they are.

My reflection time was soon interrupted as we stopped on the side of the road less than 10 minutes away from the school.  The kids stormed out of the bus, nearly trampling one another.  It took me a minute to realize what was happening, but then it came to me that they must have had a whole lot of cold drink before getting on the bus…kids will be kids.

When I got home at 8:30 (Tumelo, to his delight, was right), and after I greeted my family, I was exhausted and thankful for silence.  I was also appreciative that Maggie has a spare key since I locked my key in my house earlier that day (I was quite frazzled by the early arrival of my teacher).  More than anything, though, I was quite pleased that I still had my peanut butter and banana sandwich since I was far too tired to cook. 

Le Rata (With Love),

Meg J

20 / 2 = 10

Division…it is something that we are taught early in our education, in the foundation phase around grades 1 and 2. Our enthusiastic teachers help to demonstrate the concept of division with play dough and pizza (who KNEW that learning could actually be fun?). It continues to be taught throughout our schooling days, teachers edifying us on fractions and on how to do long division. Division even creeps up on us as math becomes so foreign I’m really not sure why they still consider it math (Calculus, you are your own beast). So, yes, division, in many senses of the word is a mathematical term. However, what other implications, what other meanings does the word division carry?

Division is something that I have thought about a lot in my time here thus far in South Africa. I think about it in many aspects of my life here; it is something that exists in many facets of everyday life, whether people would like to admit it or not. I think that division is something that needs to be discussed in order to, hopefully one day, be rid of.

A few months back, I was visiting and helping another PCV/my closest friend – Jillian (“Xongile”). We are working together in doing teacher workshops at our respective schools since we figured two heads are always better than one (Jill is better at Science/Maths while I have the English/Education edge; plus, Jillian really wants to get her idea of “Friends Corps” off the ground and running). While I was at Jillian’s site, she put on a brilliant lesson discussing the idea of “labeling,” trying to get her Grade 7 learners to realize that we should not judge a person based off of looks/appearance. So often, we label people. Before getting to know a person, we make snap judgments based on what someone is wearing, where someone is from, how someone speaks, what language someone speaks, how old someone is, what skin color they are, etc. If you are currently sitting in your chair and reading, thinking “I have never made a snap judgment before,” kudus to you, really. You are a much better person than I am since this has sadly become so engrained into our culture. With labeling, we make divisions. We put people into different groups, separating “us” from “them.” Once this division is made, it is hard to go back. Prejudices are created, discrimination begins. This lesson really got me thinking about division based off of things like race, age, gender, wealth, etc.

In South Africa, Apartheid (literally “separation” in Afrikaans) ended in 1994, not so long ago. The Apartheid was a great struggle of racial separation lasting from about 1948-1994, and the tension still exists between the different races in South Africa (whether it be whites, colored’s, Indians, Asians, blacks). I especially see this tension between the blacks and the whites (the Afrikaners) where I am stationed. Whenever I am in my shopping town, I hear “mulungu” or “legkoa” at least 10 times before going home. Yes, I am a white person, but never before did I think I would be called that. I have never thought about my skin color so much as I do now. In addition to being called by my skin color, I am constantly asked for money. Since I am white, the assumption is that I am also rich. As much as I’d love to help out by giving my rand to a good cause, little do they know that I am a struggling volunteer, scraping together two rand for magwinya (okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration…). The reason for this is that there are hardly any white people in my shopping town. So, when I do my shopping with my other PCV friends, we call a lot of attention to ourselves simply because of our skin color.

The other week, I went to my larger shopping town with my host brother, Tumelo. Even in a shopping town with a larger percentage of Afrikaners, we still got attention. When we got home Tumelo talked about how he loved how many people looked at us. He said they were all surprised to see us (a black young male and a white young female) together. This should come as no surprise. Why can’t a white female and a black male be seen together? Why does there need to be this division of races? Why is it that I am the only white person living in a village (something that people here are still utterly shocked at when they learn where I live)? Why is it that there are still sections of town designated for “coloreds?” The village life is great – people are friendly, relationships are cherished, food is delicious, and cold drink is flowing! Let’s cross this racial divide and come together. Let’s really embrace the idea of “The Rainbow Nation.”

This is not to say that this racial divide exists everywhere. I do see hope at some points, on certain days. We often have Afrikaners come to our schools, selling things like kitchen ware to the teachers. Also, that same day that I was shopping with Tumelo, I went to get a much needed haircut (I just can’t give way to cutting my own hair yet, sorry!). At the salon, there were two boys – one Afrikaner and one black – who seemed inseparable. We really need to learn from this new generation. Skin color does not, and should not, ever define who we are.

“The men eat too much meat.” This was the reasoning my best friend in the village, Sylvia, gave to me when I asked her why the men and women had separate food lines after every funeral. We had just returned from the burial, it was hot, I was hungry, and the line for food for the women was 30 minutes long. The line for food for the men, on the other hand, was non-existent. I, clueless like always, asked Sylvia why we couldn’t get food from the other line. Apparently, “men eat too much meat” and my village has laws about men and women eating separately. The men have their line, the women theirs. This even crosses over into lunch at one of my primary schools. All of the male teachers eat together, and all of the female teachers eat together, never daring to comingle. The male/female duties in the household are also much divided: the woman does all of the cooking, the cleaning, the washing, etc. (just imagine all of the women here wearing “Superwoman” capes) while “the man of the house” waits to be served his food (pap and meat) and drink. Again, I am seeing hope for the future that this will not always be the case – my host brothers help with the wash and cleaning the house, and it is my host brother Tumelo who taught me how to hand wash my clothes (sheesh, was I terrible at this when first arriving!).

For me, sometimes I feel like I am between the two in my village (that is, not quite the level of a male, but also not the level of a female). It’s like I am floating above any gender expectations. Whenever I go to a gathering in the village, and all of the women are on the ground on straw mats while the men are seated in chairs, someone rushes to get me a stool or a chair. Again, I assume this comes back to the issue of race. While during the first few months in my village I submitted to taking the chair to appease my community, I no longer allow it. I might not be breaking gender inequalities by sitting on the ground, but I sure will not keep any race barriers in my village. I am integrating.

South Africa has one of the highest economic disparities in the world. You can take a taxi for a little over an hour from my village, escaping the third world and enter into the first world (or darn close to it) just like that. All of the sudden you have left the dirt roads, the schools with only half of a roof, and the thatch-roofed rondavels; you suddenly find yourself surrounded by tarred roads, schools with beautiful sports grounds and facilities, and houses that seem to have appeared from “Better Homes and Gardens.” There are families in South Africa who can hardly afford to put porridge on the table, while there are families in South Africa who can afford to send their children to the top-notch schools. My fellow volunteers and I often joke that we have “first world problems in the third world” but it is so true. Sometimes it can be a bit jostling switching back and forth.

As I discuss this conundrum of division in South Africa, I reflect back to my life. Even as a volunteer, I myself feel divided at times. In the village, I sometimes feel pulled in one million directions. I don’t know who or where or what to help with at times. I divide my time between three schools – 2 days at one primary, 2 days at the other primary, and 1 day at the high school. I try to divide my time evenly in helping all of the educators. I try to divide my time amongst my classes of 50, trying to work with each and every student. I divide me time with family time. So many divisions. I wish that I could be everywhere at one time, but I can’t. Some days, I wish there were 10 of me.
Additionally, I sometimes feel divided between two worlds – my life at home in America and my life here, at my new home, in South Africa. I often catch myself thinking about family and friends back home, wondering what everyone is up to. As one of my best friends is about to graduate from grad school and start his new job, as my Mom is about to run her biggest race (woot woot Broadstreet!), and as my older sister is about to have her first baby, I can’t help but think of home quite often. I can’t help but feel a little guilty that I am missing all of these momentous occasions. I can’t help but be a little too attached to my Blackberry (again, first world problem). However, as much as this is true, I need to be more present, as do all of us. I need to remember to live in the moment, not in the past or in the future. I need to be fully present, my whole self. A divided me won’t do any good for anyone. Neither will a divided nation, a divided village, or a divided anything really. I know that sometimes I can be too much of an optimist, and that things are far easier said than done, but let us try to live in the moment. Let us try to forgive past faults. Most importantly, let us try not to make snap judgments. Let us try not to divide “us” from “them.” Because, in the end, division just doesn’t add up.

Ke a leboga kudu!
Meg :)

As I work with about 20 other Peace Corps Volunteers on “The Books for Peace” library project, please feel free to check out the following link in an effort to bring literacy to rural South Africa.

https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=donate.contribute.projdetail&projdesc=674-072
Meghan K Downey
Peace Corps Volunteer, South Africa
Education and Community Resource Specialist