First, a few pictures.

Our second-class compartments consisted of six bunks, three on each side. The top bunks were about 6 feet off the ground, with nothing but this small bar. The first night we were hoping that the incessant shaking and braking and bouncing of the train wouldn't send us flying off, so I found a simple solution: use the extra room in your belt to make a safety harness!

Africa loves Obama! From Zambia to Zanzibar, they all ask us if we like him. We found this sign in Stonetown and had to take a picture with it.

And even though I'm not a big fan of seafood, it was cool to see so much for so cheap. Many of us got a plateful of all different kinds of exotic seafood for less than 6 dollars.

PART I: Kapiri Mposhi or Bust!

We were scared out of our shorts riding three different koombis to the airport in Jo'burg, but everything worked out. We got on our Zambian Airways plane and started the trek back to row 22. We got to the last row of seats, marked 20, and kept going until we ran into the toilets and attendant area. We asked an attendant where row 22 was and she said "They sold rows that don't exist again?! I'm sorry. You can just sit anywhere." Luckily the plane wasn't full. The flight was uneventful except for an apparent problem with the cabin pressurization, which caused me to be partially deaf in my left ear for the next 10 hours after landing. It was a very strange feeling.

We landed late in Lusaka and found a girl from Russia and her Zambian husband (what a strange coincidence--I haven't met any Russians in South Africa during my 9 months, but I do after 20 minutes in Zambia). The Zambian website told us we could buy visas when we reached Lusaka, but forgot to mention that they don't accept anything but dollars--not even their own currency, the Kwachaa. It was a rigamarole to get and change enough money to appease them. They didn't even know the exchange rates.

We then found that all the taxi drivers wanted way too much money. One man I had spoken with earlier said he wanted to help and offered us seats on a big minibus for much cheaper. We got to the street where a Zambian PCV lived (we met him in Mozambique and he'd given us the whole trip idea and offered to let us stay with him en route) and found that 20 Mutende Road was not a straightforward address. First we found 20x, then 20A, then a few more 20s with other letters. We knocked on one of them, only to find that we'd stumbled onto the Danish Embassy. We finally found the one place with just a plain 20 on it and all 12 of us crashed on his floor and got an early koombi to the bus station the next morning.

The bus station was one of the few horrible experiences of our trip. Our Zambian PCV friend told us that 20,000 Kwachaa (about $10--a good amount for a PCV) per person was a good price for a bus ticket to Kapiri Mposhi (where the train to Dar starts). As soon as we offloaded the koombi we were swarmed by about 50 men, all shouting and trying to get us to go on their bus. They all wanted at least 35,000 Kwachaa (about $15--the equivalent of three nights at a backpacker), so we tried to barter until someone finally said "okay, 20,000" and we followed him to a bus. That was 6 AM, when they said it would leave at 8 sharp. When 9 AM came and went, we asked again, and were told it would leave soon. After we asked all the people who looked semi-official, we figured that we were soon going to be in trouble. The train in Kapiri leaves twice per week only, and if we didn't leave the bus station by noon, we'd miss it.

We had been sitting in this stinky bus for 6 hours, watching painful Nigerian flicks on the TVs and listening to Zambian rap. They told us all to pay 35,000, and after we argued about the price they'd orignally promised, we just got fed up and paid the new price. At about 10 AM they had started the bus and were rolling it back and forth and revving the engine a lot, as we all joked that they were trying to lull us to sleep so we'd stop asking questions. The driver still hadn't shown up. We soon found that another bus company had already loaded a whole bus and had left and was filling another. They were asking 35,000, but were apparently the only ones who actually did business.

So we asked for a refund so that we could buy tickets for the working bus, but they refused. Tempers escalated and we were all soon shouting. I led the protest, as we were not about to be conned out of 420,000 Kwachaa. (Editor's note: none of us would have dared raise our voices to anyone if this were South Africa. We would have been summarily shot. But most other places in Africa are comparatively safe)

I went to the police station and got a man to come over. He talked to the guys and seemed very reluctant to do anything and soon disappeared. Most of our group gave up and got on the other bus, cutting their losses. I was not about to give up so I went to find the policeman, couldn't, and asked a policewoman to save us. As we got to the bus and I gave her our tickets and explained our plight, one of the PCVs in our group ran over and said the other bus was literally driving away and I had to run. I told the policewoman to please get our money and I'd be back in 2 weeks to get it. I ran away with no hope in the world that we'd ever see it again. I barely made it onto the other bus, as it was already out of the station and on its way. I slumped, sweaty and tired, through all the other passengers to the back, but as I sat down I was determined not to let this ruin our trip. The other volunteers were surprisingly positive and we were all ready to put it behind us.

Let me skip to our return to the bus terminal at the end of our trip. We'd had a great vacation and as we looked for a taxi back to the Zambian PCV's house I decided to go see if the Policewoman had our money. It was more out of curiosity than expectation. I entered the small office as a 'disturber of the peace' was being shoved into the rear holding cell for 'not flushing,' or something. The lady wasn't there, so I asked another cop. He had me on the phone with her soon and lo and behold! She had our money!

She soon came to work and handed us 300,000 Kwachaa (120,000 short), telling us that they had taken 10,000 per ticket for 'stationery fees.' But even this last log on the neverending fire of ridiculousness of traveling in Africa could keep us from being genuinely happy. And I have no doubt that most of that happiness was derived not from the money, but from the fact that we, who have spent the last year trying to help this continent's people, had found a grain of hope in this woman's honesty and diligence. We thanked her so profusely that she had a huge smile before we left. And I just finished an email to the Zambian Ministry of Tourism, telling them to get her a raise.

PART II: THE TRAIN

The bus from Lusaka dropped us about 2 km from the train station, so we trudged over--12 white Americans with huge backpacks in single file. Needless to say, we were ogled many times during this trip. They didn't have our reservations but we were able to get two second-class compartments and made it onto the train with 5 minutes to spare! Not even scary at all.

The train went 30-50km the whole way there and we were able to see the majority of Zambia and Tanzania from our windows. Zambia is nice, but Tanzania is beautiful. It got progressively greener as we went. And along with the huge green mountains and valleys and the beautiful little thatched huts and corn fields, we saw mangled train cars strewn along the tracks about every 200 km. It was quite disconcerting, though luckily they were only cargo cars.

The most interesting part of the train experience was the toilet. They were small rooms with squatters (a hole in the train floor with ridges on either side for your feet). I've used squatters in Ukraine before, but none of them were moving around underneath you. An added element of fun was the shallow pool of liquid that sloshed from wall to wall as the train jostled on the tracks. In order to keep from falling, I had to hold on tightly to some pipes sticking out of the wall. Not only was the train bouncing side to side, but up and down and back and forth all at the same time. All of us prayed that we wouldn't be in the toilets when the conductor decided to do a random brake check, which were performed arcanely several times an hour. In these instances, everyone slammed into whichever wall was immediately forward of them, and in the toilet, these otherwise manageable occurences could prove lethal... in an e. coli-esque sort of way.

Besides the theives and the one man who tried to assault a woman in the toilet once, the only other problem on the train were the middle bunks. The top and bottom bunks were firmly attached to the walls, but the middle ones folded down, so that we could sit comfortably during the day. The first night we couldn't figure out how to lock them into place at one end so all the jolts and the jostling were compounded at night, and every 30 minutes or so the train hit an unruly stretch of track and bounced up and down sending everyone about 3 inches off our beds. The night was full of laughter and joy. And a few screams and tears.

The next morning a PCV from the other compartment told us that there was actually a locking mechanism on the middle bunk. We tried it that night and it worked fine. We had to laugh.

To be continued...

Rocks, Water, and Mice

Hello world! Or at least the few dozen of you who can read this. My last update was less than recent, so I’ll try to cover the balance.

Computer classes finally started! I now have a project which brings immediate results (something I think all of us need at least once in awhile). I had to coordinate with the center administrator and the Department of Education, write a Roll-Out Plan (and find out what a Roll-Out Plan is), design flyers, write a curriculum and make registration forms. It took weeks for the Department to give approval, which they did seemingly begrudgingly, but not before one official drove out to meet with me and the Center Administrator. It was the strangest meeting I’ve ever been invited to. I sat down, introduced ourselves, and then the official didn’t say a word. I assumed that since she had called the meeting, she would initiate some kind of questioning. But after a long awkward silence I just started giving a synopsis of the class, drawing mostly from the documents I had sent them (which she hadn’t read). And when I asked if the Department could provide me with a printer, paper, and a projector for the class, she gave several contradictory responses, (which I have become accustomed to from several principals and others who don’t seem to know what to say.) I’m still not sure why I had that meeting. She couldn’t even give permission to start the classes. She had to ask her boss. But, nevertheless, after another week of waiting and calling, they gave me permission (3 days before the class was supposed to start). I had to change all the dates of the classes and remake and distribute the flyers. And not until the day of the first class did I get the essential projector (which my Center Administrator had to pretty much steal from the Department). I don’t think I’ll ever get a printer, but I’ve learned to be resourceful.

So, I now have a beginning, an intermediate, and an advanced class, each meeting once a week. This first set of classes, set to run through mid-December, is for educators in the local schools. The beginning class was almost full. They were also the most grateful to be there. Several of them, in their 30s and above, had never touched a computer before. They confided before the class to me that they were worried about breaking them. I had to start simple.

During the typing practice at the end of the lesson there were several educators writing things like “I am so happy, I can use a mouse!” They also were bragging and still ecstatic the next few days at the schools. Not only was this supremely fulfilling personally, but knowing their reaction also reassures me that future workshops will go more successfully because of the bridges being built.

I also have been without power almost every day from about 4 PM till Midnight or later, ensuring that my dinners are no more nutritious than peanut butter or cereal. A few other PCVs who were visiting went to my village store during the outage the other day and reported that all the store workers stood like sentries at the ends of the aisles holding candles. The rest of the store was pitch black, so they would follow each customer around while they shopped.

Last night the outage was due to the rain, which turned into hail the size of marbles and started coming through my roof again. It was leaking so bad over one table that a book there was soaked when I found it. The hail also made so much noise on my roof that it hurt my ears. And speaking of water, I’ve been having shortages there too. I’m not complaining, just keeping a record, as it were. But it is tough that I won’t have any hot water until next year because the heater pipe broke and sometimes the general water pressure is so low that I can’t even use the toilet. So I’m essentially back to bucket baths and pit toilets/buckets.

Even more frustrating than not having plumbing at home is that my host mom, who is usually a very nice lady, is somewhat OCD when it comes to cleanliness. She is also a principal at one of my schools. And I recently discovered that she locked the toilets and the water faucet that the children use because they were “making a mess.” While I have yet to ascertain the true seriousness of the situation, it really is a human rights issue: when children do not have access to water at school, it becomes a health concern. And when the toilets are locked the kids have to use the field, which not only makes all the teachers pray mightily for no wind, but could potentially be very embarrassing for older students, especially 6th and 7th grade girls who are menstruating. Issues like these are so dumbfounding and frustrating, especially because I have no idea how to approach the problem. I asked the principal (my host mom) about it, and she gave the standard response when a real response is lacking: “umm, the learners can use them, only one stall is broken; they are all broken but they will be fixed tomorrow and the SGB (PTA) is meeting next week to decide what do and maybe they will fix them and they are already open, and only one isn’t working, but it’s okay.” It’s happened enough for me to give it a name: the DCC. The Discursive Circumlocution of Contradiction.

Anyway, I finally got my furniture (about a month ago). Although it came much later than hoped for, the quality is also much more than I hoped for. So now I have desks, chairs, and a bed!

I had a really nasty case of food poisoning two nights ago. It started after I came home from running and got progressively worse until about 11 PM, when the pain was at its maximum. I have never felt such terrible and constant pain in my stomach. It was coming out every which way and it still hurt like crazy. I had to pull my hair to get a moment’s respite, forcing my brain to register a different pain. Sometime after 3 AM I must have finally vomited all that was left and fell asleep.

A week later I found out that a female PCV living in a township (the shantytowns where much of the crime happens) here in SA had been jogging with her iPod on and later woke up, on the ground, with her iPod stolen and a mark on her neck where the thief had strangled her and knocked her out. Peace Corps didn’t dispatch a vehicle. They made her ride alone into Pretoria to headquarters before she could receive attention.

I have come to the conclusion that Peace Corps, (as its parent nation has been described by political scientists), is a “sleeping giant,” who is hard to awaken, but when something does wake it up, it massively overcompensates in its prescriptions for retribution and action. (This title is much more apposite when describing the US as a whole, however, due in part to the nation’s immense size and capability.) And, luckily, PC South Africa, thanks to my Country Director Gene, is one of the most well-run posts. Gene was formerly a trainer of Country Directors and took over as CD of SA when the last CD (who was rated as one of the worst CDs in the world, according to an internal PC report) finally left. So I have reason to be grateful!

As far as other safety happenings recently, (and on a lighter note), another PCV in the Kalahari district with me broke his arm after jumping off a donkey cart that he was attempting to drive. It was apparently his first lesson, and he was doing great until the donkeys started running off the road, leading the cart into a fence. The PCV jumped off preemptively. Luckily he’s okay now. He will most likely be up on the cart again, however, as his post is so remote that donkey carts are the best mode of transportation. Even in my village, which is closer to a town and quite large itself, people use donkey carts about 1/3 as much as cars.

And I just realized that I never wrote about the craziest adventure I’ve had so far. While still in my training village, I was riding back from town in one of the oldest, most beat up khumbis I’ve ever seen. I later found out that the driver was related to another PCV’s host family and was about to sell (?) the khumbi and start a different career. He should have acted sooner. I was sitting in back, next to a nice lady from Jo’burg. Not long into the trip, the driver had to swerve to avoid hitting a jaywalker and we went up on three wheels and almost tipped over completely. Needless to say, it gave us all a shock, and the lady next to me was just as scared as I was. She said that every time she rides transportation she wonders if she’ll make it home to her child, because of all the traffic accidents.

Not long after she said this, however, I heard a very loud crack at the front of the khumbi and we started swerving all over the road again. The driver slammed on the brakes and I saw the khumbi which had just been tailgating us swerve just in time to pass us before it hit us. We eventually pulled over and all got out. I looked at the front of the khumbi and saw that the left headlight and left half of the bumper were completely gone. Someone said that we hit a goat. I could only see bits of hair sticking out from parts of the hood. I couldn’t believe our luck. The girl who had been in the passenger seat and saw the accident close-up (these khumbis are like VW buses—the hood is almost vertical and the engine is elsewhere) was in shock and crying. Apparently, to make it worse, she had just been in another accident the week before. They had to put her on another khumbi. But it didn’t look like I’d be able to find a seat on any other khumbi, and my fellow passengers were already back in and saying “Hey, lekgoa! Come back in!” The lady from Jo’burg finally relented. I was worried the whole way that the inevitable third crash would be the worst. But the only incident remaining was a progressively slower trudge up a short hill on the way back, on which our driver had to downshift all the way to first gear and even then we barely made it over, at a measly 10 km/h. I felt like I was a passenger on the Little Blue Engine that Could.

Before I go on to the next topic I must add that while I was making myself a bowl of cereal with warm milk, an ant crawled into the bowl and I’m not completely sure I got it out. Oh well. As my Dad says, they’re good sources of protein! Even though ants are continually omnipresent in my shack, I’ve been hard pressed to get rid of them. I’ve sprayed tons of DOOM, the SA version of RAID, on every crevasse I can find (though every space where the tin roof meets the concrete walls is big enough for bugs to come through). And even when there is no food for the ants to scavenge, they come after the wax of my candles. At least they’re not the huge ants I see on my running trails through the bush.

The most fulfilling thing for me today was while I was still on the job. Today is my day off from classes and I was the “guest speaker” at a girls' club workshop, with my self-selected lecture topic, “Self-Esteem and Warding Off All Those Nasty Drunk Men And Boys Who Bother Girls All The Time.” I did a lot of research on activities to boost self-esteem because I saw this as a rare opportunity for them to see a guy (albeit white) telling them that they are important and special and unique and don’t need to put up with all the crap that guys put them through. I started out with a section on uniqueness and had each girl put her fingerprint on a piece of paper using the multicolored ink pads my mom so graciously donated to the cause before I left. I gave them one minute to run around the room looking for another fingerprint that was exactly the same. Many of them raised their hands when I asked if any of them had been successful. (Not all lesson plans go exactly as planned). But with some detailed explanation they soon realized that no two fingerprints were exactly alike. I also talked about self-esteem and good vs. bad attention. I wasn’t sure how they received it all, but I was extremely happy to find out that the next day they all recited the vital elements of my lesson perfectly and with apparent satisfaction. That was a good day.

These girls will grow up to be great women. And from what I have seen I can only hope that they will find worthy and equal men to be their counterparts. While it may sound overly pessimistic and dramatic, as I have been studying and reading more and more about all the terrible things that happen in this world, from genocide to human trafficking to rape to general oppression, (almost all of which happen everywhere on earth) I have become sadly convinced that that there will be very few men in heaven. Why is it almost always men who are the murderers, the rapists, the leaders of genocides and human trafficking rings? How many women have you met who think of war as a game, and guns as toys or objects of fascination and esteem; who can think of people, especially those who are poor or disadvantaged, as lesser, ciphers, or collateral damage? The fires of hell are surely fed with blood and testosterone.

In Israel, for example, a modern nation founded on pretexts and premises of a pious faith, the men who rule have allowed prostitution to remain legal, which opened the floodgates for the men who traffic women into sexual slavery. There have been reported brothels right across the street from police stations. Finally, under pressure from the US, Israel made Trafficking in Persons illegal, though they still don’t do much about it and they treat the victims as criminals, forcing them to testify against their captors and then deporting them to their home country, where they are often in danger of being trafficked again.

God bless the women of this world.

92 Years Too Late

The House of Representatives has finally turned up the light on the hill from off to dim. The House Committee on Foreign Affairs passed 27-21 a non-binding resolution calling the 1915 killing of 1.5 million Armenians a Genocide. Although it comes 92 years too late, I feel celebration is in order. Although President Bush and his cadre are fighting this tooth and nail, Rep. Adam Schiff, D-California said there are already 226 co-sponsors waiting for a full House vote. He also said this is the most support an Armenian Genocide resolution has ever had. Hooray for America! Or at least half of it! One arm of the sleeping giant has finally awoken to join the fray. If only Raphael Lemkin were here today. He wouldn't be cheering, though. He'd be at the door of every last Representative, before he even slept or ate, to urge them to keep fighting to "change the world."
The sad part of the story, or at least one of the many, is that the campaign of international secrecy and misinformation perpetuated by Turkey's architect of the Armenian Genocide in 1915 is still felt today. I read about this news on CNN.com, and was completely disheartened by the lack of balanced journalism. Here is what I wrote to them:
"I was shocked to find that your article provided almost no information about the subject of the resolution in question--the Armenian Genocide. The little information provided gave only the diluted version of the story: the version which Turkey has been promoting since it committed the crimes a century ago. The deaths caused by Turkey's systematic campaign were not only due to deportations and its aftereffects. Like Hitler's campaign, the killings were widespread and well planned. As Minister of the Interior, Mehmet Talaat, orchestrated the entire genocide, making sure to minimize international awareness. The US Ambassador to Turkey at the time eventually resigned in protest. This was the first genocide of the 20th Century, and we cannot assume that Turkish-Armenian relations will be destabilized by the world's greatest power finally admitting the truth. We should have passed this resolution when Armenia was truly being destabilized, 92 years ago. Perhaps it would have changed the world's pitiful reaction to the Holocaust, Bosnia, Rwanda, Cambodia, and Darfur."
When will "Never again!" finally be spoken in truth?
I know that many of us, including myself 3 years ago, had never heard of the Armenian Genocide. It makes me sick inside to think that over a million voices cried out for help only 92 years ago and we have already buried it in the history books to be glazed over by indifferent high school students. And even if some contend that its significance is less than that of other human tragedies, speaking in terms of numbers, I must disagree. Even if you only look at 1.5 million as a small statistic, you must also look at the other numbers of this travesty: 1915. This genocide, especially the way it was carried out with little direct interference from the international community, was a stepping stone for the ambitions of one Adolf Hitler. He was aware of the ease with which Talaat carried out the genocide and used it to his advantage. According to one source, Hitler said in a speech to his troops "I have placed my death-head formation in readiness ...with orders to them to send to death mercilessly and without compassion, men, women, and children of Polish derivation and language. Only thus shall we gain the living space which we need. Who, after all, speaks to-day of the annihilation of the Armenians?"

It's About Time!

Imagine a private organization that has little or no accountability to the law. Imagine that it pays its members handsomely and that it operates in near absolute secrecy from the public. Its thugs transport precious commodities for high-paying governments, killing all who threaten them or, as has been the case, even innocent bystanders.
Now open your eyes. What's your first guess? A drug cartel? The mafia? Wrong. This group is called BLACKWATER, an apt name* for a wannabe-clandestine mercenary kill-squad which has repeatedly ignored both international, domestic, and military laws, not to mention every scruple and ethic held by honest men and women. They are one of several military contracting firms hired to protect US officials in Iraq. Its members have, by the testimony of eyewitnesses, killed innocent people and have not been brought to justice.
One drunken Blackwater employee killed a guard of a member of the Iraqi Government and received nothing harsher than severance and a plane ticket home. Now they have killed at least 13 more civilians without provocation.
It's about time. Although it is undoubtedly too little too late, the House (and, consequently) Secretary Rice are finally doing something about this subsidized evil.

*According to Wikipedia, Blackwater is also a term "used to describe water containing fecal matter and urine."

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20071005/ap_on_go_ca_st_pe/blackwater_rice

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/05/washington/05cnd-blackwater.html?_r=1&hp&oref=slogin

http://www.amazon.com/Blackwater-Rise-Worlds-Powerful-Mercenary/dp/1560259795

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.

To Reckon With Evil

Raphael Lemkin is my new hero. And he is, perhaps, one of the most deserving humans to ever bear that title. One could argue that his zealous passion for changing the world as he saw (and felt it) was mere long-lived emotionality. Yet as Samantha Power writes, Lemkin knew the only way to stimulate changes globally was to appeal to that keystone of humanity, emotion. Too often, coldhearted and heavy handed calculations decide the fate of too many. Lemkin, though he was a lawyer and a scholar, never lost the ability to let his heart rule where it must. Power writes that “[New York Times reporters] were fond of Lemkin but recall the horror of many a correspondent and diplomat when the wild-eyed professor with steel rimmed glasses and a relentless appetite for rejection began sprinting after them in the corridors, saying ‘You and I, we must change the world.’”

Lemkin was not afraid. Morality and the Ethics of Humanity were his witness and his friend. He did succeed in changing the world, though it took all of himself and the many he touched in life. Yet like so many wonders of architecture and painted masterpieces, that which takes a lifetime to build can be undone in a day. That which Churchill called a “Crime without a name,” committed under the “barbaric fury of the Nazis” now had a fitting name, and thanks to Raphael Lemkin that name became the core of international law banning this barbarity, this crime of Genocide.

Yet for decades the United States of America didn't ratify the treaty, annuling it in the eyes of those who understand that the most powerful country in the world will neccessarily make or break international law by its decision to recognize it or not. And when the pressure mounted and the US finally did ratify it, certain Senators, among them one Mr. Orrin Hatch, made sure that the ratification was so burdened with RUDs (Reservations, Understandings, and Declarations) that the resulting dilution of the treaty carried little weight and was more of a slap in the face of humanity, and Lemkin personally, than an act of morality.

As Samantha Power wrote, “Despite graphic media coverage, American policymakers, journalists, and citizens are extremely slow to muster the imagination needed to reckon with evil.” Has the great American nation become so numb to the problems of the world that we can’t wake up? Are we lulled into a drooling slumber by the murmur of the oceans which surround and protect us from so many evils? Have time and wealth wrought a schism in our minds, dividing us from a history that once painted us as outgoing individuals and good-hearted people? Far too often, yes, yes, and yes.

Power writes that “[US leaders] brand as ‘emotional’ those US officials who urge intervention [in genocide] and who make moral arguments in a system that speaks principally in the cold language of interests.” But lest those brave few lose hope, those who still call people with a different color passport brother or sister, let us remember that “In each case [of genocide] a few Americans stood out by standing up. They did not lose sight of right and wrong, even as they were repeatedly steered to a ‘context’ [of international politics] that others said precluded action.”

Lemkin’s call to each of us is simple, humble, and unabashedly straightforward. A native Pole who was able to lecture in English within weeks of his arrival to America, he pleaded: “If women, children and old people would be murdered a hundred miles from here, wouldn’t you run to help? Then why do you stop this decision of your heart when the distance is 3,000 miles instead of a hundred?”

Before the graves in Rwanda have had time to rest; and long before the last tears were shed in Bosnia; Darfur started burning under the hellfire of Genocide. They still cry out: the women who are raped while fetching water; the children who have learned to fear the sound of hooves and airplanes as they bring fire and death; and the men who see that there are so few of them left and no one seems to care: They still cry out; though the desert and the ocean and the TV muffle their cries.

Updates

Hello from the Kgalagadi (Kalahari)!

First, the Boring Section:
Lerato (Dani) and I (Thato) are sitting on our newly acquired cheap-as-we-could-find camping chairs, directly in front of our new oscillating fan, which, sadly, provides only brief and intermittent respite from the might of the desert sun in September (late spring in the Southern hemisphere). But hey, at least we have electricity! That, of course, is one of the luxuries of Peace Corps South Africa: 99% of volunteers have electricity in at least part of their house (some only in the kitchen, and then only sometimes).

In our particular situation, we have two small adjoining rooms with one outlet each, a bed (kindly provided by our great host Mom from her own room, as the Northern Cape Department of Education has not yet provided any of the volunteers in our district with the necessary furniture, (an agreement between the Department and Peace Corps.)) Each volunteer is required to have the PC necessities: a bed, a chair, a desk, a closet/dresser, and access to drinking water within reasonable walking distance. Some of our colleagues have found that those “basics” are very loosely adhered to, if at all.

One of our friends has to walk several blocks to get to water, and even then it is laden with algae and other critters which aided him in an apropos demonstration of the human digestive function known as reverse peristalsis for all his teachers. This also happened to another one of our friends during site visit. Needless to say, they both were able to land an in-depth tour of the village clinic. As far as H2O goes, we’re one of the lucky ones. It’s a short 10 meter walk to the spout under the water storage tank in our compound, and only 20 meters to the house where there is a sink. We can use the toilet and bathtub during the day (though there is often no hot water), and at night we use the inescapable chamber bucket. We still wash our laundry by hand, but at least we have our own basins so we can soak things overnight.

Today the wind was blowing so much that while doing laundry my hands were freezing cold, even in the heat. And when we were about to cook dinner we noticed that leaving the window open even a crack leaves you with a fine layer of dust on everything in the room. So with our corrugated tin roof and no ceiling, our nice little toaster oven will have to be cooled from within, hopefully with the help of another fan if we can afford it.

Friday and Saturday were both spent scouring our shopping town for the cheapest prices on everything from rags to pots to extension cords. At about 5 or 6 PM, after the shops close, our hiking backpacks (thanks again Mom and Dad!) are bulging at the seams and our arms are completely full. We, perhaps unwisely, have opted both times to cram everything onto our laps and around our feet instead of paying for an extra seat for our stuff. Saturday’s ride back home, though not actually too long, left poor Dani sitting on one cheek the whole way and my leg jammed into the side of our bucket with no room to even get the taxi fare out of our pockets. After we dismounted and limped home we both were still sore and aching. FYI, the khumbis here, unlike in our training village, are mostly converted pickup trucks, with the former truck bed now covered with two side benches, supposedly big enough for two people on each, though I’m still skeptical, even after I’ve seen the feat with my own eyes. Somehow we always end up in the back.

I also want to mention the many names we have been called while here. Of course there are the African names, which both mean Love, given to us by our awesome host family the day we walked into their home. We now have a different surname (used in order to establish familial ties in the village, not only for integration, but also safety and security), but we kept our first African names. However, some names we’ve been given have not been as welcome. Many people, especially young children, call us “lekgoa” as we pass, which means “whitey.” Although not inherently rude, it belies not only the oddity and rarity of seeing a white person in the village, but echoes the stark, oppressive, and lingering aftereffects of Apartheid, where the color of your skin was Who You Are. Thus we have embarked on a mild campaign (which will probably last until the day we leave) to politely tell people “I am not whitey, I am Thato.” Many young children are too young to know better, but the upside is that once adults hear us say this they almost always are very understanding and call us by our names, as well as try to help their kids do the same. As I was running down the red and white dirt roads today a guy my age waved his hand and with a big smile said “Hello lekgoa!” I stopped and greeted him back, trying to correct him politely as always: “Hi! I am not whitey, I am Thato.” He paused, raised his hand again, and with an even bigger smile said, “Hello, Thato the lekgoa!” I guess you can’t win ‘em all.

Even worse, however, is when people call us “Boss.” An obvious and very depressing remnant of Apartheid, this is heard much less often, but when I hear it, my heart sinks. It always reminds me of the similarities between Apartheid and Segregation in America. And it also makes me at least a little ashamed to share the skin of so many evil people who have made their lasting and crippling mark on the world.

In many ways those around the world who share that proud African heritage are similar to the Jews. Scourged, hated, ignored, massacred, and forgotten throughout the ages, it makes you admire the mere ability to survive, much more the ability to keep some semblance of dignity under the anvil of oppressors through the ages. (One thing I’ve noticed is that, like the Jews, they have relied on a remarkable sense of humor to pull them through the tough times.)

Important to mention also is that I’ve realized more and more while here how tainted the English language is with racism. While teaching in school last month I became supremely humiliated when I used the term “Black Plague,” quickly returning to the proper term, “Bubonic Plague” as I mentally kicked myself for saying it. There are so many of these, it’s almost depressing: blacklisted, black mark, black spot, etc. And similarly, white is often used as the symbol of beauty and all things noteworthy. Just look up those words in the dictionary.

Second, the Worth Reading Section:
After re-reading the part about our living arrangements, I decided that lest I sound like I’m ungrateful, I should share that, as one of my favorite children’s books sagaciously taught, it could always be worse. Concerning housing, for example: although we have not yet seen the biggest “townships,” like Soweto, we have driven past some pretty huge ones in my eyes, which would more accurately be described as shanty towns. Township was the term the Apartheid government used as a euphemism for these modern day ghettos. They played a major role in the Anti-Apartheid struggle, after they united in spite of the extreme tribal segregation within the townships. I would encourage all to read more about them. But suffice it to say that what I have seen is heart-wrenching. Driving past, you can go for miles without seeing any other building material beside corrugated tin, most of it obviously used and salvaged at least once already. The shacks, which look scarcely big enough to hold a few large pets, let alone a family, are usually no more than 2 meters by 1.5 meters by 1.5 meters high. Looking up from those lining the road you see a vast sea of similarly disheartening and precariously standing shacks, each only a few feet from the next.

Many times already in my experience as a trainee and now PCV I have realized that no matter how many hardships and frustrations and morasses I encounter, it could always be worse. And it is, on a daily basis, for roughly 2/3 of the world’s population. If you ever want to get a taste for poverty, try living on less than $2 a day for a week. Most of us wouldn’t last. And neither do many of the 3 Billion people, many of them children, who live on that amount their whole lives (and in case you’re skeptical, these World Bank statistics are measured at purchasing power parity, so even if 1 US dollar = 7 SA Rand, that sack of flour is equally expensive for both).

And if a crumb of how the other half lives isn’t enough, take a bigger challenge: hundreds of agencies could put any donation to good use. Last I heard, the World Food Program had a campaign to feed school kids for just 19 cents a day.