Was it all just a Dream?

As I sip on my steaming pumpkin spice latte, taking in the smell of the crisp fall weather on an October morning, I think to myself, “Was it all just a dream?”  As I drive to school in my beloved Babs, a short commute of just 15 minutes away, stopping for busses and stoplights, I think to myself, “Was it all just a dream?”  As I key into my own classroom filled with bright color, decorations and technology, and prepare for the day ahead, I think to myself, “Was it all just a dream?”  Then, it all comes back.  The longing for a South African sunset at the end of a long day.  The dread of dusting my rondavel yet again.  The sweaty, cramped, and seemingly endless taxi rides to see Nick.  It was not all a dream.  I am so thankful that it was not just a dream.  

After being stopped by airport security to inspect my grass broom and my mat, both gifts from Maggie, my host mother in South Africa, the man at Agriculture asked if I had been in contact with any cattle during my time in South Africa.  I stifled my laughter as well as my tears, thinking of all of the cows I passed on my way to school on a daily basis, and told the man I had never been in “direct” contact with any cattle.  Sure there were a few close calls, but my neighbors always saved me.  I never stopped and pet the cows, that's for sure.  My family was just a few minutes away, right through the doors after customs, and I couldn’t wait much longer to see them.  I really did not want to discuss cattle.  After all, it had been over two years and then about 20 hours.  It had been a long trip home, and I was ready to see everyone who made home home.  

The milkshakes at Nifty’s were sweet; the hello’s even sweeter.  It was like I never left, like I had just been there.  I’ll never forget passing through the doors at the airport, being welcomed by my loved ones.  Tears were shed, pictures were taken, grass brooms and mats questioned.  As I chowed down on my first American meal, sipping the extra-thick chocolate shake and savoring the spicy cheese chicken nuggets, I couldn’t help but reflect on how lucky I was.  My family as well as Chibby, my best friend, had all come to welcome me home.  This may have been the best day ever.  All of these people were so happy I was home.  I was so happy to be home.  

Since arriving back to the states, I’ve been asked a few times about how the transition back has been.  “Has it been difficult?”  I always respond that clean water from a tap, a Dunks AND a Starbucks down the street, and hot showers aren’t hard commodities to return to.  Add family, friends, and running trails, and I’m on Cloud 9.  However, there are days that are difficult, that I really miss my life in South Africa.  While I can’t say I miss the constant stares, the blazing temperatures, or the cramped kombi rides, the aspects of life as a PCV in South Africa that I do miss are numerous.  I miss the people: my host family, my friends, and my colleagues.  I miss the craziness that eventually became normalcy: the dancing Gogo’s, the roosters on my roof, and the kids petting Nick’s arm hair.  I miss the simplicity: taking the time to talk to people and really getting to know them, enjoying the small celebrations in life, and eating with your hands.  I miss all of the small stuff that I never really appreciated while I was there.  I miss my stoven.  I miss my bucket bath.  I miss my broken wardrobe.  Most of all, I miss the sound of my kids’ laughter as they played games with rocks in the street.  I miss the shouts of “sesi Naledi!!” as I would run past them.

Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely happy to be back in the states.  I love being able to pick up the phone and call my family and friends whenever the mood strikes.  My parents and siblings might get annoyed with my 2+ phone calls a day, but deep down, I think they really enjoy it.  I love being able to spend more time with Nick and not having to see him after a 6+ hour sweaty taxi ride.  I love the conveniences we are blessed to have.  All of these things I appreciate so much more.

Sometimes I worry that my time in South Africa will become a dream, a distant memory.  I’m hopeful that this will not happen.  Nick and I have each other to talk about our time in South Africa.  We also have our other fellow RPCV’s.  With the wonders of whatsapp, Facebook, and Skype, I’m able to speak to my family and friends back in South Africa.  More than anything, South Africa will not become a dream because I came back a different person than when I left for South Africa.  While I may have left South Africa, South Africa will never leave me.

As far as how I’m doing, I’m loving life.  I love my teaching job as well as my coaching job.  Both my students and my colleagues make my 12+ hour days go quickly.  I'm running and shopping at JCrew - life is good.  I feel blessed to be where I am and to have the opportunities I have.  I feel so lucky to have had the chance to go to South Africa, and I can’t wait to return again.

For the meantime, don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about the blog.  I’ll keep writing, I promise.  I’ll leave you with a short story that made me realize South Africa will never just be a dream.  I asked a colleague of mine how she was doing.  Her response took me aback when she said, “I’m here.”  In South Africa, you never say, “I’m great” or “I’m okay.”  The literal translation of “re hona” is “I’m here.”  

Readers, I’m here.

Lots of love,
Still and Always Naledi

It's Not Goodbye...It's I'll See You Later

“Tears are the noble language of eyes, and when true love of words is destitute. The eye by tears speak, while the tongue is mute.”
― Robert Herrick

A little over two years ago, I wrote my first blog post.  It was right before I left for staging in D.C. and right after I had said the majority of my goodbyes.  In it, I wrote that “saying goodbye is never an easy thing.”  I still stand by this statement, maybe even more so now than before.  A little over two years ago, the train conductor, a total stranger, performed the first of many acts of Ubuntu that I would experience over the next two years.  Seeing our tears and prolonged hugs, he allowed my parents to take me down to my train where we would need to part as I started my journey to South Africa...

 

Two years later…My Peace Corps Service has been one of the most incredible, life changing experiences.  I’ve met people who will stay with me forever.  I’ve learned more about teaching and more about myself than I ever thought possible.  I’ve been given the opportunity to travel to some of the most beautiful places in South Africa.  I can’t believe that it is over.  There were tough times and days that I never thought it was going to end, sure, but the good times definitely outweighed them.  I never imagined that this part of my service would be the hardest…saying my goodbyes.  Saying goodbye to my village and my schools was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.  Two years ago, we were strangers.  Now we are sisters, neighbors, friends, colleagues, family.  Everyone I’ve grown to come to know and love I’ve had to say my farewells to.   These are the people who took me into their community, and made me a part of them.  They are, and always will be a part of me.  I am forever grateful.  

You know, it’s interesting how things always seem to come full circle.  Over the school holiday in July, Nick and I traveled to our PST training site to say farewell to our host families from our first two months in country.  We both wanted to see the people who took us in from the very beginning once more before setting off for America.  During my weekend with my host family I realized how far I have come in just two years.  Silly things like not having toilet paper didn’t bother me anymore – use newspaper.  Situations I used to find awkward weren’t.  I didn’t mind writing to my host family’s church thanking them for all they had done for me, because I knew it meant a lot to my host mother.  I even found it humorous as the kids gawked over Nick’s arm hair.  I couldn’t have asked for a better weekend.  I spent the first day with my host niece and nephew trying to keep them occupied with playing cards and drawing (back to the days of babysitting), the first evening eating dinner and watching “Teen Mom” with my host sisters telling them I hope I don’t ever see them on the show, the next day with the entire family watching my host brother’s wedding video (albeit for an entire 24 hours), and the rest of the time just reminiscing on my first days and weeks in South Africa.  Tears sprang to my eyes as I noticed the enlarged picture of the Charles River framed on their wall – “Boston University, U.S.A.” they had typed.  More tears came when looking at my host brother’s wedding album and wedding video where I saw Nick and I highlighted in both more than once.  These people have become my family and being with them was so nice.  I’ve realized that I’ll always be a part of their family as they will be mine no matter the time or the distance.

The last week in my village, I tried to soak up everything I could.  I seemed to cry at the slightest thing as I realized I only had days left in what had become my home, my community during my time here.  I tried to memorize the sunset as I washed my dishes.  I tried to really feel the ground beneath my feet as I did my final runs in the village.  I tried to listen to the roosters and donkeys just once more…they made sure they were heard at every hour between 10pm and 6am.  

As I packed up my rondavel and said goodbye to a lot of my things (I can’t get over how much stuff I accumulated during my time here!), I also said goodbye to my 8-legged roommates.  I said goodbye to my faithful pee bucket and my bucket bath.  I’m hopeful that I’ll have a toilet and a shower in America.  I said goodbye to the dust in my room and my handmade book shelf.  I said goodbye to my lifesaving fan and my fridge that was held together by Band-Aids.  Daddy long-legs and company, I’m sorry to say, I won’t miss you too much.  Thank you for staying on my walls and never climbing into my bed…at least not that I know of. 

The toughest goodbyes came on the day that I left my village.  Just yesterday, I said goodbye to my village and my two schools, Lekgwareng Primary and Ndzhovela Primary.  Tears flowed like a faucet as I hugged my colleagues, my host family, my neighbors, my best friends, and my students.  Tears flowed as I gave Rhulani one last kiss and hug, as she looked on confused by the scene of departure around her.  Tears even flowed as I pet Jack, my faithful running companion one last time.  It was the first time in my stay here that I saw tears flow from the people in my village which made me cry all the more.  I was lucky to have Sue and Eddie (two more people I do not want to say goodbye to), two of the kindest human beings I know, who were incredibly thoughtful to travel to my village, see where my home was, and take me to Pretoria for all of my closing appointments.  Things would have been much more emotional, and much, much more uncomfortable, had I had to cram into a taxi for 6+ hours following my farewells.

As I’ve said my goodbyes, I’ve reflected quite a lot on my time here.  In our Peace Corps “life-cycle charts,” it explains that feelings of uncertainty will arise during this time.  This and many other emotions have come up over the past few weeks.  I’m on the emotional roller coaster – excitement, sadness, uncertainty, nervousness, stress, worry.  You name it; I’m sure I’ve felt it or will.  I wonder, have I done enough during my time here?  Could I have done more?  When I signed up for the Peace Corps and when I first met my community and schools, I had grandiose visions, as do many incoming volunteers.  I was going to change the school system here and turn everything around completely.  I was going to move mountains if it killed me.  Everyone was going to like me and become motivated.  If only I had magical powers and a wand…These expectations soon changed and I, as well as my goals, became more realistic.  I’d do what I could and I’d help who wanted help.  A few people helped me as I came to terms with my readjusted vision.  I am only one person, after all.  I’d like to think I’ve done some good in my time here.  Among my proudest accomplishments include the relationships I’ve formed with my host family and other members of the village, the teachers and students I’ve helped, the Library I helped to create, the Scouts Troop I established, the camps I held for my kids, and the other volunteers I’ve helped to train.  Can I go home happy with this?  Yes.  Is there still work to do?  Yes.  But, it’s time to pass the baton.

More than anything and something I never really expected when I signed up to do Peace Corps, I think I have gained the most from my time here.   I’ve grown a lot since I first stepped off of the airplane in Joburg.  I’ve met amazing people who will stay with me forever: other PCV’s, people I’ve worked with, people in my community.  I’ve learned two different languages and I’ve become conversational in both.  I’ve learned about different cultures, and I’ve had the opportunity to become a part of a culture and a new community.  I’ve eaten with my hands and I’ve gone termite picking (those things bite!).  I’ve eaten bugs and worms and I’ve become a rather good cook so I don’t need to eat them on a regular basis.  I’ve learned kindness like no other, when someone without floors or beds gives you your favorite fruit just because they know you like it.  I’ve learned what it means to be humble.  I’ve found that it’s much better to give than to receive.  I’ve learned so much about myself and the world around me.  I’ve had the chance to run into a South African sunrise and to read a book while watching a South African sunset.  I’ve had kids run up to me shouting my name just because they’re excited to see me; I’ll never forget “Meghanee!!”.  If that doesn’t bring a smile to your face, I don’t know what will.  I’ve learned to appreciate the small things in life and the beauty of simplicity.  I’ve realized just how wonderful hot showers are and how I can’t wait to take one every day.   I’ve realized just how much I love my family and friends, and how I can’t wait to be with them again and only a drive away (7 hours isn’t too bad).  I’ve realized that people are more alike than different, and that if we look to the similarities rather than the differences, we’d be much better off.  I’ve learned how blessed I am with the family and country I was born into.  Being a female in America is more than I could have ever asked for.  Top that off with a great education system and a really good government (go Obama!); I’d say I couldn’t be any luckier.  I’ve gained lifelong friends both through the Peace Corps and my community.  Heck, I’ve met the love of my life.  I made out pretty well.

 

Earlier this week, I was told terrible news.  My best friend Sylvia informed me that one of the grade 6 learners at my school, one of my Scouts, passed away in a car accident along with her Mother and her younger brother.  Shock, disbelief, anger, and sadness overcame me.  During my last few days in the village, this got me thinking quite a lot about “goodbyes.”  While some goodbyes are final and don’t even allow for a farewell, such as Mahlatse’s, others are not absolute.  My goodbyes, I hope, are not forever.  I’ve promised myself and those I love that I will come back in a few years once I’ve saved enough.  Sure I will miss my family and friends here, but I’ll be back.  It isn’t goodbye, really.  It’s just, I’ll see you later. 

If it’s okay with you, dear readers, I’d prefer not to end on a sad note.  This will not be a “goodbye” post.  During my time here, I’ve realized how much I enjoy writing.  It’s therapeutic and I’ve been told that some people enjoy reading what I write.  So, be excited, the blog will continue.  I hope the reading will continue too.  I’ll continue writing as I continue on with my adventures and as I re-integrate into American life.  I fly out of South Africa on July 20^th and land in Philadelphia on July 21^st.  I’ll be home for 2 weeks before packing the bug, my faithful Babs, and moving to North Carolina on August 5^th.  I will be teaching Grade 12 English and I couldn’t be more excited.  I’m hopeful that I won’t need to write anymore stories about pit latrines or bugs bigger than my hand, but I’m sure I’ll find some things to write about. 

Turn your radios up everyone, because it’s going to be a Party in the USA when I’m home and I can’t wait to give you all hugs and kisses, and say HELLO!

See you soon America.

Love,

Meg :)

                                                              

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

 

The Ultimate Human Race

87 kilometers.  54 miles.  Durban to Pietermaritzburg.  The “Up” run.  A start of 5:30 am.  A journey with 18,000 other runners from all walks of life.

14,414.90 kilometers.  8,957 miles.  Collegeville to Lekgwareng Village.  The PCV life.  A start of July 8, 2011.  A journey with 54 other Americans from the 50 nifty states.

On Sunday, June 2^nd, I participated in the Comrades Marathon.  Comrades, an ultra marathon that is famous in South Africa, had called my name from my very first day in South Africa.  I am a runner and this is the ultimate running challenge.  I had to give it a go.  What made me bite the proverbial bullet after all this time?  Last year I was lucky enough to go and watch the race.  As much as I enjoyed cheering on my family friends Eddie, Cliff, and Tim, I wanted to be the one running.  I wanted to be the one with pre-race jitters and post-race soreness.  I was green with envy as they hobbled around the next day (strange, maybe, but runners will understand)!  Even after seeing the crowded medical tent and zombie-like beings who came out at the finish, I decided this crazy race was for me.

It’s interesting that Comrades fell right towards the end of my service.  With less than 100 days in country, time is ticking.  Being two back to back marathons and then 2 more miles (still thinking like an American rather than two 42’s and then 3 kilometers), Comrades resembled my Peace Corps Service quite nicely – two years and two months.  While the first marathon/year went by rather slowly, sometimes feeling like snail’s pace, the second marathon/year flew!  Thanks to this convenient parallel, I’ve done a lot of thinking on the two, and now a blog post.

Comrades, by far, was the most physically challenging event I’ve ever put my body through.  Some of my friends thought I was nuts; one even said “Good luck.  You’re a moron.”  Fair enough.  This year was an uphill run, meaning I had the luxury of cresting Cowies Hill, Field’s Hill, Botha’s Hill, Inchanga, and Polly Shorts (“The Big Five”).  Let me tell you, there was nothing “short” about those hills.  Now, how does one prepare for such a race?  Even more so, how does one prepare for such a race in a village?  Lucky for me, my village knows I run, so there wasn’t anything new there.  Before starting, I first wanted to get some of the history on the race.  I needed to be invested for this.  After all, I’d be spending half of my day on the road.  My #1 supporter and South African Coach, Eddie Beddy, an accomplished Comrades runner himself, gave me a book on Bruce Fordyce, who has won this race 9 consecutive times and continues to run to this day.  I was hoping to catch a glimpse of him on the route, but he’s still super fast.  From reading his book, I learned that Comrades played a big part in helping to end the Apartheid.  I learned about the camaraderie on the course.  I learned about training.  I learned about the course itself.  I learned about “smart” racing.  Most importantly, I learned the recipe for a chocolate cake that Fordyce eats prior to every Comrades race (one his Mom makes).  As all of you know, if chocolate AND running are involved, I’m in.  Once I was hooked, I began the training, physically and mentally.  In preparation for Comrades, I ran countless miles in my village (to the point that the taxi drivers using that route now know me), I ran a few marathons and half marathons, and I did The Two Oceans Marathon (another famous ultra of 56km or 35 miles…by far the most beautiful run I’ve ever done).  I even practiced relaxation and visualization with yoga.  I was as ready as I’d ever be.

On the actual day of Comrades, I started off with my own comrades – Cliff, Tim, Brad, and Hubble (and about 18,000 other odd runners).  There were all shapes and sizes of runners.  A guy before us even wore a rhino costume to raise awareness for rhino poaching (to his credit, he also finished in the costume, sweltering I’m sure!).  Cliff, Tim, and Brad had dressed as Pirates, getting us some extra support.  I decided not to dress up, although I did think of some Pirate jokes along the way, keeping myself occupied and trying to contribute to the theme.  (What is a Pirate’s favorite type of movie?  Rrrrrrr Rated!  What is a Pirate’s favorite letter in the alphabet?  Rrrrrrr!)  You’re probably rolling your eyes right about now, thinking Rrrrrr you serious?

My legs were not happy with me as I urged them to move before the sun rose.  Nevertheless, I ran with a sea of other runners, setting off for Pietermaritzburg.  By mile 13, when I first spotted my NASCAR Pit Crew (thanks Nick, Eddie, Sue, Kevin, and Briana), I had to back off of the pace a bit.  I still had some ground to cover…I wanted to be smart.  When Nick offered me a Snickers Bar (my FAVE – peanut butter AND chocolate), my stomach refused it.  I was a bit nervous about this, thinking that I needed to keep my energy levels up, but I charged forward.  Along the way I downed some gummies, water, boiled potatoes with salt, Energade, bananas, and Pepsi to keep me going.  When I couldn’t finish something I had taken, I gave it to the kids who had come out to watch.  Waste not, want not.  I even spotted some Americans sporting the patriotic Red, White and Blue.  I chatted and made some new comrades, making the time go by.  By the half way point, I was feeling good.  I was on pace for under 11 hours, and I was doing my thing.  Unfortunately, my IPod didn’t enjoy the distance and decided to drop out of the race early, and I had to go without for the rest of the way.  A little bit after half way, I spotted Eddie.  Tim and Brad were with him, so we continued on together.  I was glad to have some company again.  When we got to Nick, Kevin, and Briana they made sure to apply ample sunscreen.  (Thanks guys, I’m sure I smelled really good!)  Nick was even so kind as to call me beautiful (and the award to best boyfriend goes to)!  After our brief hello, Brad, Tim, and I continued on.  I was feeling good, and I was still keeping pace until about 10 miles to go.  All of the sudden, I felt nauseous and my stomach was cramping.  I could only manage to drink water.  Every step that I took, especially on the downhills, felt like my feet were breaking.  My pace had slipped.  I knew I could make it under the 12 hour cutoff, but unfortunately I would fall short of my goal of sub-11 hours.  I was still thrilled knowing I would finish.  With less than a mile to go, the crowd support was unlike anything I had ever seen.  The pain subsided (temporarily) and I ran through a tunnel of people.  Hearing Eddie and Kevin shout my name, I ran to the finish, finishing in a time of 11 hours and 24 minutes. 

Like I said previously, this is the most physically challenging thing I’ve ever done.  Am I glad that I did it?  Yes!  Would I do it again?  Ask me in a few weeks.  It was such a special experience for me.  I was able to take part in something that is so monumental in South Africa and so important to this country.  I was able to take part in a race where all South Africans come together and for one day, everyone is a runner.  No differentiation is made between black and white, or male and female, or old and young.  Everyone is running Comrades and helping one another get to the finish line.  This is how it should be.

When I think about it, I’m not sure if I would have been able to do this race two years ago.  Comrades took a lot of physical strength, sure.  But it also took a lot of mental strength.  I owe this mental strength to my Peace Corps Service.  While Comrades was the most physically challenging event I’ve ever partaken in, Peace Corps would have to be the most mentally challenging experience I’ve gone through.  This is not to say it’s a bad thing.  Not at all.  Just as I loved running Comrades, I’ve loved my time in South Africa and I love Peace Corps.  It just hasn’t always been easy.  Again, am I glad that I did it?  Yes AND yes!  Would I do it again?  Maybe…once I retire.  Being away from family, friends and familiarity has not been easy.  While I know they are only a phone call or whatsapp away, I miss them dearly.  Going from 1^st World to 3^rd World rather often is very difficult; it can be somewhat exhausting.  One hour I’m using a shower and a flush toilet, the next hour I’m peeing into a hole in the ground…literally.  One day I’m surrounded by beautiful schools with all of the resources you could dream of and the next I’m working in a dilapidated building, using leftover yogurt containers to paint my map.  One week I’m a face in the crowd, and the next I’m mulungu or legkoa.  I’ve had my Cowies Hills and Polly Shorts that I’ve had to climb during the Peace Corps.  I’ve felt like I couldn’t go another step.  I’ve had terrible stomach cramps (both literally and figuratively).  Just like in Comrades, I kept moving forward.  That’s all you can do.  With that forward motion and determination, I’ve made it and I’ve accomplished a lot.  Even more, I’ve grown so much.  I’ve learned a ton and I’ve met incredible people who will stay with me forever.  Just like in Comrades, I’ve had great support.  Without it I couldn’t have accomplished what I have.

My older sister and brother-in-law gave me a magnet as part of my going away gift.  The magnet reads “Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.” ~Neale Donald Walsch   This magnet is on my mini-fridge and I look at it every day to give me strength.  What it says is so true.  In life, you’ll have challenges.  Don’t shy away from them.  Go after those challenges, head on.  It’s the challenges, the big hills in life, which will make us stronger and better people once we’ve reached the top.  And guess what, what goes up must go down.  With challenges come rewards and good times.  Enjoy the downhills, but don’t be afraid of the up.

**History on Comrades – The first Comrades Marathon took place on May 24^th, 1921, “Empire Day.”  The race was proposed by Vic Clapham, a veteran of World War I.  He thought of the idea in order to pay homage to all of his own comrades that were lost during the Great War.  Bruce Fordyce, the runner I spoke of earlier, ran the race for years and years, winning a total of 9 consecutive runs, both up and down.  Each year the race switches course.  The up run is a total of 87 km, from Durban to Pietermaritzburg while the down run is a total of 89 km, from Pietermaritzburg to Durban.  1981 is notable since Fordyce wore a Black Armband that year, protesting the Apartheid Government’s involvement in the race (changing the date now to June 1^st), which had at this time secluded South Africa from athletic competition with any other country.  While this was a somewhat risky move for Fordyce, it brought much attention to the corruption that was taking place, leading South Africa just that much closer to a Democracy.**

Le Rata,

Meg :)

"You've Got Mail"

You’ve Got Mail.  Pammycakes, I’m sorry to say, but unlike the title of this blog post, you don’t have mail, at least not from me.  And, unfortunately, unlike the classic with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, a favorite of mine, you won’t hear the cool AOL sound when you get it (although that would be nifty if that started happening for actual mailboxes). 

Anyway, that is why I’m writing this blog post.  Think of it as my Mother’s Day Card to you, just with lots of other people reading over your shoulder.  I could list a dozen reasons why I didn’t send you a card (cards and then postage add up quickly, the people at the post office kind of scare me, I forgot, I don’t trust the South African mail system, blah, blah, blah).  In the end, excuses, excuses.  You know what they say about excuses?  “There is no such thing as a list of reasons.  There is either one sufficient reason or a list of excuses.” –Robert Brault.  In the end, there isn’t a reasonable explanation for me not sending you a card.  I should have, and I’m sorry.  It’s really the least I could have done after all that you’ve done and continue to do for me. 

This blog post is for you, Mom, and also to all of the other amazing mothers I know and cherish in my life: my oldest sister, Jeannine, Happy First Mother’s Day…Ben Burrito is extremely lucky to have you; my host mother, Maggie, who has helped me to feel more at home in South Africa and has taught me many tricks of the trade about living in a rural village; Sue Beddy, who constantly amazes me with the amount of love she has to share; my Aunt Barb who continues to support me in all of my endeavors; and the list goes on.

Pammycakes, think of this as my (less formal) ode to you.  For those of you who don’t like sappy readings, maybe this blog post isn’t for you.  Rating: extra-sappy, tissues may be needed. 

The Miley Cyrus song (yes, I’m a Miley fan), “Butterfly Fly Away” speaks volumes of my Mom when she sings:

You tuck me in,

Turn out the light

 kept me safe and sound at night

little girls depend on things like that

  Brushed my teeth and combed my hair

 had to drive me everywhere

you were always there when I looked back

You had to do it all alone

Make a living, make a home…

 

From the time that I was young, my Mom has taken on both roles: Mom and Dad.  It was always my Mom who did everything for my younger sister and me.  It was always my Mom who picked Erin and me up at Day Care.  I looked forward to the “clippity clop” of her high heels every day, ready to whisk us away in her Mommy mobile – the infamous green minivan.  I too wanted to be a business woman one day, so I could produce my own “clippity clop” noise.  Look at me now…no “clippity clop” going on in the dusty village roads.  The closest to “clippity clop” is the cows I pass on my way to school in the morning.  It was always my Mom who took us to soccer practice, and made cupcakes or brought orange slices for our teams after games.  It was always my Mom who made us soup when we didn’t feel well or bandaged our knee after a bad spill.  It was always my Mom who read us bedtime stories, being sure to skip the scary parts of Harry Potter, so we (cough, cough, Erny) could fall fast asleep.  And it was always my Mom who never complained when Erin or I would climb in during the middle of the night, frightened by a bad dream.  When my parents divorced, my Mom was our rock.  As she read us “Dinosaurs Divorce,” she assured us all would be okay, and she was right.

The wonder that is my Mom continued after childhood and into adolescence.  Obviously I was quite the angel…no, seriously, I was.  I still remember my Mom telling me the story of the birds and the bees.  She helped me through my awkward teenage stage of braces and pimples.  She helped me with my crazy hairstyles and she drove my friends and me from here to East Jabip.  With the unstoppable minivan, she took all of us to the movies and the mall, making sure that we stayed out of any real trouble.  She always encouraged Erin and me to have friends over, and our house was “the house.”  She would rather have us home, keeping her up until the wee hours of the morning watching movies, listening to terrible music, and giggling than being somewhere unsafe. 

Luckily, Pammycakes gained a sidekick.  Jack, now my Dad, whisked my Mom off her feet in, ironically?, a walking club.  No longer did she have to be both Mom and Dad.  She could focus all of her energy in being Super Mom, which she was already mastering quite well in my opinion, and hopefully save a bit of that energy for herself.  My Mom deserves the best, and she got it, finally.

Throughout high school, my Mom and Jack continued to be the most supportive parents any kid could ask for.  Cross Country Meets, Track Meets, day-long Winter Track meets, Award Ceremonies.  You name it, they were there.  Late nights of homework, school projects, proms (Erin had a million+ of these), summer jobs, fights with friends.  My Mom was always there, no matter what.  Heck, my parents even bought us cars!  Now that I think of it, this was probably more for them than for us so they didn’t have to keep driving us all over creation ;).  No matter the reason, I am still very appreciative of Babs and always will be.  Heck, my Mom listened to me rehearse my graduation speech more times than she’d like to remember.  Even when I flubbed on the actual speech, saying “sex-cessful” rather than “successful,” (I was presenting to my entire class and a football stadium full of people…) I was a star in her eyes.  When it came time to choose a university, a bit of a stressful time, both my Mom and Jack were there for me, encouraging me to choose the school I wanted, the school that would give me the best education.  

Fast-forward to Boston University, my university of choice.  Boston is about 6, 7 hours from my home.  That’s a door-to-door drive estimate.  (I did push the pedal to the metal on my way home senior year, clocking an impressive 5.5 hours.  I’m pretty sure I would’ve turned back and tried to stay if I didn’t drive that fast).  While this might not seem like a long distance, especially now that I’m a 16+ hour FLIGHT from home, back then it was pretty much unthinkable.  My Mom is my best friend.  We are very close, and I feel very lucky to have our relationship.  I tell her pretty much, okay, everything.  But then, I digress.  Being so far from home was not easy at first, mainly because I was so far from Pammycakes.  When I phoned my Mom and told her I was having trouble being far from home, she looked up transfer options and said whatever I needed to do, she’d be there for me.  Luckily, in the end, and as evidenced by my last blog post, I fell in love with my school and the city of Boston.  Still, despite the distance, Pammycakes was always there.  We spoke usually twice, sometimes three times a day (hey, there’s a lot to chat about!).  She and Jack came for my Freshman Parents’ Weekend, in which they both watched, terrified I’m sure, as I played in a Women’s Rugby Game (yes, I played Rugby for a little while).  For my 21^st birthday she drove the 6+ hour trip with my Aunt Barb just for the night to take me out for dinner and my first official drink.  For my 22^nd birthday she came for the weekend, and cooked a delicious ziti meal for my closest friends and me.  When I ran the Boston Marathon during my junior year, she organized it so my entire family could come and support Katie and me as we ran.  For the Scarlet Key Award Ceremony and graduation she and Jack went all out to give me an unforgettable weekend.  This doesn’t even count the odd weekends she would come to spend some quality time in Bean town.  This doesn’t even cover all of the train, bus and plane tickets she purchased for me to come home for holidays. 

The first time I mentioned the possibility of me doing the Peace Corps to my Mom was when I had my interview scheduled.  I didn’t want to fight or get anyone upset unless it was a real possibility.  Penciled into my day planner, I called my Mom.  I shouldn’t have been so apprehensive.  Like every other time in my life, Pammycakes was on my side (maybe a little less so than before knowing the distance and time commitment, and also concerned that maybe I had hit my head on something).  Nevertheless, my Mom and Jack have been my biggest supporters.  Whenever I have a bad day I know I can talk to my Mom and she’ll make me feel better.  Maybe I can’t crawl into bed with her like when I was younger, but I can speak with her on the phone right before bed, and sleep well having talked things over with her.  Whenever I have a great day I know I can share my joy with her, and know that she’ll genuinely share in that excitement.  Heck, she even flew the 16+ hour flight with my younger sister to see me!  I think we both realized we couldn’t go much longer with only letters, whatsapp, phone calls, and Skype.  My Mom treated Erin and me to an amazing vacation, a vacation that I will never forget.  She’s helped me get through my ups and downs during the Peace Corps.  She’s done this halfway around the world…

I know that as I look to the future, my Mom will be there for me.  That is the best, most heartwarming feeling in the world.  As excited as I am to be coming home soon, I’m also rather nervous.  I haven’t been home in over 2 years.  It will be a big change and quite the adjustment.  Knowing that I have family and friends, and Pammycakes to support me makes those fears diminish a bit.

Mom, thank you.  You are not only the best Mom a kid could ask for, but the best friend a girl could ask for.  You’ve helped me to grow into the person I am today.  You’ve taught me right from wrong.  You’ve taught me what really matters in life.  You’ve taught me how to be a lady.  You’ve taught me how to accessorize.  You’ve taught me to be proud of who I am and not to want to be someone different.  You’ve taught me to go after my dreams.  You’ve taught me the meaning of love and care.  I hope one day to be half the women that you are, Pammycakes.  I hope that one day I can do all for you that you’ve done for me.  If I could, I’d give you the moon and the stars.

Readers, tell the women in your life how much they mean to you.  Tell your Mom that you love her.  Thank her for all of the wonderful things she has done and continues to do for you.  Make everyday Mother’s Day.  Realize that not everyone is so lucky to have loving and supportive parents.

P.S. Pammycakes, a card is going in the mail.  I know it will be a tad late, but it’s really the least I can do.  I can’t wait to plant flowers with you next Mother’s Day!

Until then, Le Rata,

Meg :)

Sweet Caroline

I would like to dedicate this post to anyone and everyone who was recently affected by the bombing at the Boston Marathon, a true tragedy.  To Boston Marathoners, runners, spectators, volunteers, Bostonians, this is for you.

Do you remember the first time you fell in love?  I can’t remember the exact moment.  I’m not sure whether it was when I ran on the esplanade for the first time, on a crisp fall day, feeling the crunch of the leaves beneath my feet while greeting the other happy runners as we passed one another.  Maybe it was the first time I saw the CITGO sign fully lit, the designated North Star.  Perhaps it was my first margarita and shared plate of nachos at Sunset Cantina with my college friends.  It could have been during my first game at the historic Fenway Park, listening to the melody of “Sweet Caroline.”  In the end, the moment doesn’t really matter.  I was in love.  And his name was Boston.  Boston was my first true love.  It captured my heart from the moment I arrived as a freshman at Boston University.

Now, I realize that most people’s first love is not a city.  However, I think this exception is made for anyone who has gone to Boston if only for a day.  I had the pleasure of attending Boston University, and living in Boston for 4 years of my life.  In that rather short period of time, I found myself considering Boston my home.  My family made sure I remembered my roots, especially to sport my Phillies cap, which I always did, but in the end I became a Bostonian.  Maybe it was because some of my closest friends were from the area.  Maybe it was the fact that I really liked the Boston accent (I always tried my hardest to master “Pahk the cah in Havahd yahd”).  Maybe it was because I could find a Starbucks or a Dunks on just about any street corner.  Or maybe it was just the charm of the city.  Boston became a huge part of me, and I was lucky enough to become a part of the amazing city. 

Boston was a first of many for me, and holds a special place in my heart.  I attended university in Boston, I worked in Boston right in Copley Square, and I had some of my best memories in Boston.  Some of my very best friends still live in Boston.  I even had the privilege to run in the great Boston Marathon.  Not once, but twice.  The Boston Marathon is always an incredible day in Boston, for everyone in the city.  Not only do dreams come true as thousands of runners come together to turn right on Hereford, left on Boylston, but the Sox play, and spectators keep the runners up to check on the score.  People from all over the great city come together to enjoy the marvel that is Marathon Monday and cheer on the runners.  Sure my legs hated me as I ran, especially when I reached the top of Heartbreak Hill, but crossing the finish line of what is probably the greatest marathon in America was one of my best moments not only in Boston, but in my life.  Marathon Monday is a magical day, and the fact that this tragedy occurred truly broke my heart.

Being so far from home can be difficult.  Days can be rough and without the comfort of family and friends it’s not always easy.  I’ve discovered, though, that the worst days aren’t when crappy things happen here.  No.  The worst days are when terrible things happen at home, and I can’t be there to help or offer comfort to my loved ones.  It makes me feel helpless. 

On Monday evening, Evelyn, a fellow PCV and very close friend who I attended university with, called me to tell me the news of the bombings at the marathon.  Horror, disbelief, shock, confusion, worry, sadness all overcame me in one moment.  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  Who would do something so awful?  My thoughts immediately jumped to those I knew in Boston.  Five of my friends were running, who thank God all of whom are safe as are their families.  My friends who live and work in the city are also fine.  However, not everyone was as lucky.  People were killed, hundreds were injured, and the sacredness of the Boston Marathon, of Marathon Monday was taken away on that special day.  The joy of crossing the finish line became horror, something that should never happen.

I may not be able to do much from here for Boston, for the city that holds my heart, but I will keep running.  I will do the Comrades Marathon June 2^nd in honor of Boston and all of those affected by this tragedy.  I know the people of Boston are strong (they survive Boston winters, after all).  Boston will pull together and get through this.  I hope to be toeing the line of the Boston Marathon 2014 if I am able to qualify.  I will continue to work towards qualifying so that I can again take part in one of America’s finest pastimes.  Whoever committed this terrible act cannot take away the love or wonder of Marathon Monday.  It will live on, and we will always remember those lost during the Boston Marathon, 2013.

Boston, you’re my home.

Le rata,

Meg

Be Prepared

As I quiz my Scouts on different Scout facts, several hands fly up when I ask “What is the Scout Motto?”  “BE PREPARED!!”  the Scouts of the 1^st Lekgwareng Scouts Troop shout.  I try to work with my Scouts on different concepts like this, in order to make them more responsible citizens.  The Scout Promise, the Scout Motto, and the Scout Laws (A Scout is to be trusted, A Scout is a friend to animals, A Scout is a brother/sister to all other Scouts, etc.) help to make my kids more conscientious citizens of South Africa, more conscientious citizens of Lekgwareng Village.  I have seen a huge improvement in their behavior since they joined in September.  Never a Scout myself in America, it came as quite a shock to me when Scouts suddenly became a huge part of my Peace Corps service.  In fact, it has become a cornerstone of my service.  Before doing Scouts in South Africa, the most I knew about Scouts were thin mints and samoas.  Like many Americans, I couldn’t wait for Girl Scout Cookies to go on sale.  Now I can’t wait for our weekly Scout Troop meetings every Wednesday after school; I hold them with my counterpart, Sylvia (friends and family, I still appreciate and crave Girl Scout cookies...you all have my address).  In addition to teaching the kids about Scouts and Scouting history, we play games, sing songs, and just have fun.  It’s my favorite hour, hour and a half of the week.

In life, it is usually a good thing to “be prepared.”  After all, “before anything, preparation is the key to success.”  However, if I’ve learned anything in the Peace Corps, it’s that you really can’t be 100% prepared for anything.  Sorry Baden Powell, sorry Mr. Bell, but sometimes you can’t be prepared for some of the things that happen.  You’ve just got to be prepared for what life throws at you and hope you don’t miss.  Maybe that’s what they were getting at?  Be prepared for anything that comes your way?

For the first part of our school recession, I held a Scouts Camp, focused on the Scouts earning their Pathfinder Badge, with four other Peace Corps Volunteers.  (The Pathfinder Badge covers map reading and compasses, camping and cooking, First Aid, Pioneering, Hiking, and observation as a backwoodsman.)  Preparing for this camp was fairly straightforward, although a lot of hard work, tears, and sweat went into it.  I was to prepare my Scout Troop for camping and cooking (each troop, 6 in total, was responsible for teaching a set of skills to the other troops).  Luckily the Scouting Organization that we work with closely is not too far from my site, and came to show my Scouts how to properly set up a tent and go over the other essentials of camping.  I had a meeting with the parents, went over all of the in’s and out’s of the camp, and purchased the scarves so that my troop could be in Scout uniforms.  All of my bases were covered.  I was prepared.  Or so I thought.  The day prior to my camp proved rather emotional.  Without going into too much detail, the camp was almost pulled from my Scouts for no reason at all (I blame it on a power play and red tape).  I was not going to allow this to happen: the kids were so excited, had worked so hard, and they deserved this.  I was determined to make it work.  Following a tearful and embarrassing scene in the hair salon, my Peace Corps supervisor swooped in to save the day, and all was a go.  Can we say Clark Kent?

Again, be prepared.  I question this.  I was not prepared for such a last minute emergency situation.  I reacted quickly, and with the help of a good friend and my supervisor it worked out.  Moreover, I was not prepared for how incredible the camp turned out to be.  Sure, we had our mishaps such as being stranded in town for 3+ hours, but even that turned out to be fun as we played different Scouts games in the Game parking lot.  In the end this camp was, without a doubt, the highlight of my service thus far.  We all go to summer camp as kids, whether on a daily basis or for longer stretches of time.  Yet, I think we take such small, seemingly simple delights for granted.  I know I did.  This was the first opportunity my 12 Scouts had to experience anything like summer camp before, the first opportunity most of them had to leave the village for more than an afternoon.  Seeing the smiles on their faces was worth every tear and every minute of sleep I lost due to the stress beforehand.  I was prepared for a camp that taught my kids some Scouting skills and taught the kids some new songs and games.  I was not prepared for the overwhelming elation I felt when my host mother, one of my counterparts for Scouts, bit into her first S’more after our evening campfire.  Surely it has to be illegal not to have a S’more as a child!  I was not prepared for the pride I felt when four of my Scouts became official Scout members.  I was not prepared to see the reaction on my kids’ faces when they could go swimming (nor was I prepared for the heart palpitations I experienced while making sure they were all okay in the longest 15 minutes of my life as they swam in the nearby river).  The experience was incredibly heartwarming.  Thanks to everyone who made this camp possible, especially to my family who keeps me going. Thanks also to Zach, Kyle, Sean, Howell, Deon, and Colin for being great male role models to my kids, something I obviously cannot do as a female PCV.

As sad as I was to leave my Troop and to leave the camp, I was in desperate need of a break.  I was so ready for vacation.  Nick and I had signed up to run the Two Oceans Marathon, an ultra marathon of 56km.  The race took place in Cape Town, and I was going to road trip down with my second family in South Africa.  I was really excited!  I hadn’t seen Sue or Eddie since Christmas time, so I was looking forward to the time with them, Cliff, and Porsche.  We took our time getting down to Cape Town, and the relaxation, no-rush atmosphere was wonderful.  Just what the doctor ordered.  I was in bliss with tea time twice a day, long naps in the car, and mouth-watering hot croissants.  I even had the chance to go to a pretty unique church service and visit a donkey sanctuary (think retirement home for donkeys).  While I was enjoying the trip down, I couldn’t help but think about my training up to that point.  Had I put in enough miles?  Was I crazy for doing such a long distance (as I type this, I wonder if I am even crazier for my next race)?  Was I prepared for 56km, approximately 35 miles?

Fast-forward, and my alarm, rather unwelcome, buzzed in my ear at 4 o’clock in the morning (I am never prepared for my alarm clock).  Whelp, no matter if I was prepared or not, this was it: Race Day.  It was go time.  I pulled on my race outfit and downed a cup of coffee, hoping it would bolt me awake out of my unconscious state and filled up with some more carbs.   Strangely enough, I felt calm.  I wasn’t nervous, and I slept until we were dropped off with the thousands of other runners donning plastic bags in the early hours of the morning.  (Maybe there should be a rule that races can’t start until the sun has decided to wake up?)  During miles 0-10, I was still a bit worried about my preparation.  I made sure to watch my pace, worried that I was feeling too good and that would quickly go away.  I kept waiting for the pain to set in.  Eventually, maybe around mile 20, I realized I had prepared enough.  I could do this.  Sure my feet felt like they were breaking on the down hills, but I was prepared both physically and mentally.  Despite this, I was not prepared for how beautiful the race was – the view, or maybe the crazy wind, literally took my breath away.  I had heard the race quoted to be “the world’s most beautiful marathon.”  Certainly this had to be an exaggeration.  Nope.  First ultra marathon – check!

The rest of the vacation seemed to follow suit – it was a truly magical vacation.  Utter bliss.  During our time in Cape Town, a group of us decided to go shark diving!  This is something I would never have done five years ago, but I was pumped to try it.  We had a great group going, and the weather was ideal.  Although I was not nervous when the great whites were splashing around near the cage (that was cool!), I was NOT prepared when the tuna head, used as chum, came right in at me.  Woof.  The day before we left, Nick, his sister (also Erin) and I went to Charlie’s bakery.  While Nick had raved about this bakery, I again was unprepared for the deliciousness of the brownie and cookie (I had just done a 56km race so I felt these treats were well deserved) I purchased.  Probably the best brownie I’ve ever tasted.  Like most vacations, I was not prepared for it to be over.  I’m now settled back in the village, and busy with projects for the next term, but it’s never easy leaving paradise…

Before the Peace Corps, I did as much research as I could.  I even tried to learn the local language that we were supposed to speak.  The joke was on us as our group didn’t even learn the language we had been told we would (nor did we go to the provinces we were informed of).  No matter how much I did in preparation, I’m pretty sure I could not be prepared, at least not entirely, for what was to come, for what laid ahead of me in South Africa.  I was not prepared for many things: I was not prepared to fall in love on an airplane.  I was not prepared to get used to bathing in a bucket.  I was not prepared to learn more about myself in an entirely foreign country. I was not prepared to become more confident, finding the courage to stand up for myself and what I think is right, and learn how to be a professional in what can sometimes be a rather unstructured environment.  I was not prepared to make lifelong friends.  I was not prepared to experience some of the hardest and some of the happiest moments of my life.  A lot of things I’ve gone through in country I have not been prepared for (being asked to have a complete stranger’s child, being asked to have a grave site/viewing site in my room, being offered chicken feet and worms as a meal).  No, none of these things I could prepare for.  Can anyone, really?  But, I have learned that not much surprises me anymore, and to always be prepared for what could come.  

As I think about my future after the Peace Corps, it shouldn’t come as much as a shock that I don’t feel too prepared.  I’m doing as much preparation as I can: I’ve started applying to different jobs and I’ve even had two interviews so far.  No matter how much research I do, no matter how many cover letters I send, I don’t feel prepared.  But, it’s a huge transition back.  Many people say the transition home is more difficult than the initial transition to the country of service.  Maybe I shouldn’t feel 100% prepared.  Believe me; I’m ready to be home with family and friends (and Starbucks and JCrew).  I’m ready to have a salary and not to be in the “fish bowl” anymore.  I’m ready to be in a place that doesn’t reach 112 degrees and have humidity of 80%.  But, there are things I’m not prepared to leave and I don’t think I ever will be prepared to leave despite how much time I have: my host family, my co-teachers, my friends, my schools, the kids who yell “Meghanee!!” as I run past, and the simplicity of village life.  The list goes on.  As much as I him and haw about it now, I’m going to miss being crammed in the back of khombis with smiling toothless Gogo’s who carry your bags for you on their heads.  I’m going to miss the little things.  I guess we can never really and truly be prepared for huge changes in life.  We have just got to prepare as much as possible for what is to come, for what can come, and hold on tight, enjoying the ride all the while.

Le rata,

Meg :)