Everything I Haven’t Written Yet

First, the school bells here sound like air raid sirens. 56% of the time I hear it I unconsciously look out the window for stormtroopers and feel my adrenaline directing me to the safest hiding place.

Second, it still amazes me what African women are able to carry on their heads. With a little padding on their head they can carry large boxes loaded with heavy vegetables and assorted groceries, probably not centered in terms of weight, and all this while carrying a bag full of goods in each hand. Barnum and Bailey must have grown up here.

Third, on several occasions I have received random pop quizzes on the street from people I’ve never met, usually about the Setswana language. In our training village one herdsman greeted me and immediately asked, with a large grin, “What are these?” (pointing to his herd). I said “uh, dipodi!” (goats) He laughed and said “Nnyaa, rra! Dinku!” (No, sir, these are sheep!) I must insert here for my own defense that not only did I not grow up on a farm, but also that sheep here don’t look anything like the fluffy white Kate-style meepers you see in beautiful New Zealand postcards. They look exactly like goats, except for the horns… I think. I’m still not quite sure.

Fourth, even though South Africa is supremely more stable politically and economically than many other Peace Corps countries, there are still frequent strikes and riots, especially in the cities and townships, usually initiated by workers’ unions asking for more money. In fact, for the month before our arrival in country, all public service workers went on strike, including teachers, nurses, ambulance drivers, etc. Needless to say, many people died. The teachers asked for a 12% pay increase and got 7.5% in the end. Now, fortunately, they are on a recovery plan to make up lost time by holding school on Saturdays and holidays (I have to wonder if the ambulance drivers are also going to attempt a recovery plan; maybe volunteering at the morgue for 30 days as penance). Most affected by the teachers' strike, however, were the 12^th graders, who must spend most of their final year studying intensely in order to pass Matric, the dreaded, comprehensive, gargantuan exam which almost always dictates whether you’ll end up at the car wash in your village or in a penthouse in Jo’burg.

Anyway, the principality which housed our training village recently endured unruly riots due to the fact that they had no water. Apparently it became so dangerous that we had to take the long route to our shopping town. Other recent riots in Durban and other places have resulted in at least one death. And this last tidbit is from watching the news on only one night. I’m sure it wasn’t an isolated incident.

Fifth, (especially for Patrick and Eric), we have a PCV here who was born in Kenya! He immigrated as a young man, became a citizen, and here he is! He’s speaking isiZulu, and mentioned that it (along with many other SAfrican languages, I think) is Bantu-based, as is kiSwahili, so it was easier for him to learn (so maybe we can converse after PC, Patrick!) He’s a very cool guy, and unfortunately the only African American male among all our volunteers. (We do have several African American females in both SA 15 and our group, SA 16.) Anyway, when he introduced himself he confessed that he sometimes wonders where all the other brothers are. But he always realizes that many of them are in the “other Corps,” getting shot at in Iraq.

Another insight he mentioned is that, contrary to intuitive assumption, the Peace Corps really is a somewhat bourgeoisie organization. That’s true in many ways: although the lifestyle isn’t the Ritz, the training and experience and foundational support needed to be accepted and to be able to leave your life for two years financially and emotionally require a relatively substantial amount of personal privilege. And quite simply, it is a great privilege to be a Peace Corps Volunteer. And I don’t mean that in the PR, brochure-filling, obsequious sense of the word. I mean that it’s a privilege in every true sense of the term: not everyone can apply (you have to be a citizen, in good health, with a Bachelor’s degree and relative work experience, etc.); and unlike many non-permanent (short-term) humanitarian employments, you are remunerated for your service. I have a friend from eastern Russia who has been searching in vain for an opportunity to teach in Africa. When she—a smart, driven, and talented college graduate—heard that I was going to Africa to teach, she was extremely sad that it was only for American citizens. And although I often worry that our well-intentioned goodwill around the world is used as leverage for nationalistically self-interested purposes in some cases, I know that I want to do good and that this provides me that opportunity. And any tax money spent on helping those in the world who really need it is always better used than anywhere else. Always.

Sixth, the process of getting cold water to drink is comparatively involved here. First, you must fill a water bottle or small bucket to exactly ¾ full, and put it in the freezer overnight (if it fits). The next day, you patiently wait until your cold water ration for the day can’t be postponed any longer and you take out your precious commodity. If it’s in a small bucket, you must break open the ice and scoop out what you can. Be careful not to spill all the ice on the floor like I did. And if, like at our first host family’s house, you only have a freezer and no fridge, be sure to set out your milk the night before or it will be slush in the morning.

Seventh, why do Afrikaner men walk around town without any shoes on? Disregarding the fact that they wear short shorts and 80s hairstyles, this barefoot thing is flabbergasting. Especially when you force yourself to wrap your head around the fact that many of them did (and still do) think of themselves as "civilized" and superior to the African population. All the African people I've met in town wear clean, nice clothing and shoes, albeit not always new or fashionable. Yet I have seen plenty of Afrikaner men walk into grocery stores and restaurants with bare feet and no sign of embarrassment.

Eighth, we got to go to Rustenburg for our shopping day, which has an American-style mall with all the amenities. It was great, but on the way back our bus was going up a large hill and kept slowing and slowing until we came to a stop, actually rolling back several feet before the brakes stuck. We discovered later that gears 1, 2, and 3 were shot, and that the driver had guessed there was a problem before we even got to Rustenburg. So, in Peace Corps fashion, we offloaded the bus and trekked up the hill on foot, finding respite from the sun at the bottom of the other side near a construction site. Luckily they got the bus over the hill within an hour or so and we were merrily on our way! As I’ve come to realize over the last two months, as long as the brakes work, it’s good enough for Peace Corps!

Ninth, I had a small but revealing experience after shopping this weekend. With our hands full of groceries on the way to the taxi rank (where all the khumbis gather in each city) we passed an African woman in her late 20s carrying far more groceries than her two thin arms could navigate. “A nka go thusa?” I said, remembering how to say “Can I help you?” just in time. She said “Ja, dankie meneer” (Yes, thank you sir), plainly and predictably assuming I spoke Afrikaans. We took some of her bags and set off together after a few smiles. She soon asked “Where are you from?” Upon hearing that we were Americans she looked like she had just solved a very difficult puzzle. She said “Ah, that makes sense. You are nice. White people here don’t help black people.” This sentiment, though I’d heard it several times before, still pained me. We tried to assuage the awkwardness by turning the conversation toward other topics. And as I walked under the heat of the omnipresent African sun with my arms full of goods, a large drop of sweat spilled into my eye, forcing me to proceed with that eye closed for several blocks. I remember thinking that it may as well have been tears, as I pondered what this kind and endearing woman had said.

Tenth, I have had the opportunity to speak with several older Afrikaner (white South African) men and women, most of whom were quite racist. Let me first say that I understand the role that upbringing and time play on a person’s psyche. And I know that many Afrikaners both played positive roles during the Apartheid struggle and have also helped the nation wholly without bigotry since. But I speak from my experience alone, anecdotal without question, and unassuming regarding any broad extrapolations.

My first experience was with a generally pleasant middle-aged Afrikaaner woman who worked in a motel kitchen in Kimberley where we had our Supervisors’ Workshop. I went up to the buffet line to get some extra carrots and this woman, whom many of us had already greeted (practicing the little Afrikaans we were taught in training) accosted me, asking “What do you think of the schools here?” I thought this was a somewhat loaded question, as we were obviously working in rural African schools, where Apartheid policy had been particularly brutal, ensuring through vast and conniving legislation that a vicious cycle of poor education would be artificially created, aimed at producing unquestioning and docile throngs of manual laborers. (As an aside, that legislation has proven not only effective but devastatingly enduring, reaching beyond the grave of its creator to play a pivotal role in the continuing economic apartheid of the nation).

I responded evasively, stating our goals here and that I had only seen a few schools in a different part of the country. Amid the extensive monologue which then proceeded I gleaned that she was supremely unhappy with the country’s infrastructure, mentioning (apparently off-handedly) that even though there were obvious problems with the old government, at least they fixed the potholes. These comments always make me want to laugh, seeing the blatant disregard for the big picture. (Many Afrikaners still live in their own crisply manicured, self-created worlds, only interacting with their white friends, sitting in high-end establishments (where most Blacks can’t afford to go,) complaining about the government and missing the old days.)

And while this woman turned out to be, at the very least, aware of the “internalized oppression” that is racism, she still bore a large amount of frustration at the status quo, which seemed to hover just below the surface, spilling out onto the first bystander who happened to stray from the pack long enough to get some extra carrots.

My second encounter was in a cell phone shop, waiting in line. An Afrikaner man in his 40s was obviously impatient with waiting and turned to me, saying something in Afrikaans I couldn’t understand. I told him I didn’t understand and he translated, saying “This is Zania. We don’t call it South Africa anymore, it’s called Zania.” He was obviously referring to the changes following the death of Apartheid which, naturally, forced the white minority into the same infrastructure as the African majority, bringing with it all the normal bumps and inconveniences of a democratic, free, and constitutionally equal society.

And even though I understood exactly what he meant by this overt jibe, masked in the guise of covertness, I didn’t want to assume. And having been trained to be as diplomatic as possible, I (unfortunately) hesitated from saying what I wanted to say, instead replying “What do you mean?” He explained that since ’94 (the first democratic elections, bringing Mandela to power) everything had gone downhill. This was an obviously bigoted viewpoint, and I wanted to say “Well, at least there’s equality now,” but instead I (again, perhaps unwisely) forced myself to be diplomatic, saying “Well, South Africa is still far ahead of any other African states.”

Then, without hesitation, he replied “That’s because there are still some of us left.” I wanted to grab him by his collar and say “Guess what, you prejudicial racist, that is a lie! If your Perdition named Verwoerd and your Botha the Butcher hadn’t purposefully kept the African majority on its knees for half a century, South Africa would be not only a haven of multicultural understanding, but a much more powerful nation and a beacon to the rest of the continent; but instead, you used your fellow human as a footstool and when you were finally forced to put down the slave-master’s whip and walk on the same road as those whom you trampled, you start complaining about the potholes and the long lines?!”

That, however, is not what I said. In fact, I was so sickened and shocked by what this man said to a complete stranger—a white foreigner, who, because I am white, must be a racist just like him—that I was actually speechless. My face became impassive, as I couldn’t even force my face into an uncomfortable grin, and I immediately turned away. I still wish I would have said something.

I since have met another older Afrikaner man who was more subtle in his derision, cloaking it in a would-be innocent plea for the animal life that is used as food by the African population. Tangentially, I have often marveled at the ability of individuals and groups to focus so much zeal on the habitats and well-being of animals when (often, not far away) human beings are suffering a similar, if not worse, fate. I’m not an anti-environmentalist, but I believe that the environment should come second to humanity.

My last encounter was with a young Afrikaner girl, probably around 20 years old. She worked in the cell phone shop I had been frequenting while trying to solve my many connection problems. After finding out that I lived in a small village with a very non-European name she asked “Do you have transport?” I replied “I ride in the khumbis.” She laughed and, quite dubious, retorted “In the khumbis? With the Blacks?” This time (fortunately) I didn’t hesitate. I shot right back with a smile, saying “Of course, why not?” The momentary burden of a tragic history that really belonged to neither one of us lifted as soon as it had come. And though I was somewhat offended by her unabashed incredulity and knew that I would never forget that moment, I felt that I had finally won a small victory, if only in my own mind.

This feeling soon solidified further as we talked about how I was learning Setswana. She revealed that she actually knew a few phrases in Tswana, after which she spouted off some greetings in a thick Afrikaans accent. I had to smile. It made me extremely happy. Maybe, in spite of the inevitable shards of oppression which had been passed down to this representative of the new generation, a clean breath of truth and reconciliation had permeated her expanded mind enough to touch her heart.