Pass on the Love That Has Been Given to You

On Friday, I received packages from Aunt Marsha and Team PJ-Katie. It felt incredible to receive gifts from home. These packages seem to say to me, “Home is still there.”

Aunt Marsha, always thoughtful, grounded, and considerate, gave me a beautiful gift filled with items that will help me educate my learners and community. She sent National Geographic and National Wildlife magazines, tons of stickers, cards with pictures of creatures from all over the world, soap made from goat’s milk (which puzzled the South Africans more than anything), a lovely note, and candy. I was so happy to share this package with my staff members. I opened the soap and had them smell it to prove that yes, indeed, goats milk could be an ingredient in soap; perhaps this could be a secondary project (a new product they could sell). They learned about the world as they flipped through the magazines together and asked me to tell them what was in the picture. After an hour of happily tasting American sweets, them choosing their favorite candy, and talking about the pictures in the magazines, my staff members approved of Aunt Marsha. (They told me this with glitter on their faces from the stickers!) Thank you, Aunt Marsha, for giving me an experience. You always seem to understand how to connect with others. I won’t forget how wonderful it was to share this gift with others. I promise to continue.

PJ and Katie sent me treats from Trader Joe’s, an awesome used cell phone holder (these are super popular here and are perfect for walking around the village), a CD, fancy soap (I’m starting to get the point, Guys. Don’t worry, I plan to continue with my bathing.), and pictures from Thanksgiving and them preparing to move to Alaska. The Salsa Verde takes a close second place favorite to the pictures. A photo finish, really. The pictures brought me back home. I now understand what Thanksgiving was like. Carol making sure Joey wasn’t ruining dinner, Swedish pancakes in the morning, the family visiting the home where Mom, Dad, and PJ lived when PJ was a newborn. I may not have been there, but I can feel how it must have felt to be together. What a gift, that is.

I know that you all in America are busy buzzing from here to there. Life, here, is much slower. I’ve sat in my pajamas for nearly four hours, just typing and making coffee, and don’t feel that there is much more to do today. Thank you for finding time to send me such thoughtful things. I am so blessed to have my incredible family and friends in my life. Your letters tell me how “inspirational” my work is. To tell you the truth, I don’t know if this is fair. You people, at home, inspire me to work harder here. I’m the only person Peace Corps gave to this village. What a shame it would be if I didn’t love these people and assist them. You’ve all taught me how to love and how to give. It is my hope that I can pass this on to my village.

Sometimes I get the line: “I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner.” Stop saying this. I can’t tell you how much I hang onto every word you write in e-mails and letters. I’m so lucky to hear from you whenever I get the privilege to do so. You’re cards, letters, and pictures decorate my kitchen. Thank you for taking the time to fill me in on your lives and keeping me up to speed. It is healthy that I hear about your moments in coffee shops and in bars. I sometimes worry that it’ll be hard for me to readjust to people walking on my paths, rather than cows. Anyways, it doesn’t matter how long it has been, it’s always wonderful to hear from you. So, thank you.

Aunt Marsha included a piece of paper that I hope to read every day. I send this same message to all of you. I hope it touches you, as it has and will continue to touch me. It reads:

‘May today there be peace within. May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others. May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content with yourself just the way you are. Let this knowledge settle into your bones, and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.’

Longtom

The Longtom is approaching. I signed up for this marathon during Pre-Service Training in hopes that I would keep up with my running. The Longtom is actually a half- and an ultra-marathon. I’ll participate in the half (all 21.1km of it!) on March 27th. The marathon is a fundraiser started by two Peace Corps Volunteers a few years ago, here in South Africa. The funds cover one needy child’s tuition to an excellent independent high school in Mpumalanga: Uplands College. The recipient will go through a four-tier application process. (It reminds me of the Peace Corps application: an almost never-ending process.) In order to participate, I have to raise a minimum of $100 USD. (Although this may not seem like a lot, it is more than my weekly allowance.) Check out the website if you are interested (www.klm-foundation.org). If you are able and willing to help sponsor me, I’d be honored. It’s tax-deductible. There are two ways to donate:
1. Go to www.klm-foundation.org and click on the “Donate” image. Type “Katie Petersen” into the white box of the runner you’d like to sponsor and provide payment information below.
2. Send a check and a message explaining that you’d like to sponsor “Katie Petersen” via post (to a US address).
Make checks payable to: "Kgwale Le Mollo (US)"
Address: KLM Foundation (US)
c/o Bowen Hsu
461 So. Bonita Avenue
Pasadena, CA 91107
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Since I’ve arrived to Isandlwana, I’ve feared running alone. My front porch looks out onto the road that bends into the distance. I worry that I’ll encounter a person or a snake and no one will hear my whistle. Today, in spirit of training, I manned up and headed down the gravel road. I hit my stride and remembered how good it felt to get away. The distance between my thoughts seemed to lengthen out on the road with my iPod and whistle tucked away into my workout gear.

When I turned back home, I nearly fell over in awe. The sun, in all its glory, was on its way to the hiding spot for the evening, tucked just behind Mount Isandlwana. My village felt like a treasure that had been entrusted to my care. I’m not a fool who believes that it is my duty to take care of Isandlwana. It is quite the opposite way around here: this village takes care of me. I’ll never run without my whistle nearby, but I know these people care for my safety and my health. I am excited to start running again. I’m glad my training is for a good cause, helping to provide an unimaginable education to a deserving child. I look forward to starting out 2011 in my running shoes, taking time to unwind and let my thoughts breathe.

When I reentered my section of town, I was greeted by gogos, babas, and numerous children. “Khethiwe, uyagijima!” (Khethiwe, you are running!) Everyone was proud of my workout. I turned down my path while listening to R. Kelly’s “Sign of a Victory,” a song from the FIFA World Cup:

(Zulu calling and cheering)

I can see the colors of the rainbow
I can feel the sun on my face
I see the light at the end of the tunnel
And I can feel heaven in this place
That’s the sign of victory
That’s the sign of victory

I can feel the spirit of the nations
I can feel my wings riding the winds
I see the faintest light just up ahead now
I can feel it rising deep within
That’s the sign of victory
That’s the sign of victory

Now I can see the distance of the journey
And how you fought with all your might
You opened your eyes to global warming
And through it all you sacrificed your life
That’s the sign of victory
That’s the sign of victory

Feeling Welcomed

The races of South Africa are still very distinguishable today. Post-Apartheid, equality is spoken of and yet each group of people has recognizable differences. This is obvious when traveling from town to town. Some towns are very African, like my shopping town. Some towns are Afrikaner, which feels like small town Indiana to me. The cities have their pockets of ethnicities: Indians, English, Blacks. White South Africans often tell me that they are glad all people are equal today and in the same breath mention stereotypes proving their distrust in Blacks. “Zulus are fighters,” I hear often, “They love to fight and are stubborn.” I smile because I am a walking contradiction to that very statement. I explain how they have welcomed me into home after home and given me everything I’ve needed. I don’t care to win this argument, so I let it fade. I find it interesting. I had a similar realization when traveling after a training in December.

My training workshop was located 4 hours north of my site, in the Mpumalanga province. My first host family also lived in Mpumalanga. I, unaware of how freaking massive South Africa is (especially when traveling via taxi), decided it would be logical to visit my first family after the workshop. We’ve stayed in touch and I had promised them that I would try and see them near the holidays. One thing I love about Black South Africans is that there is no need to give much advance on a visit. I called Elizabeth, my first Black South African mom, the day I arrived to training and explained that I will be back in Gaphahla in five days.

“May I stay with you?”

“Of course, Katie. You may do whatever you would like.”

“Alright. Well, I know it is last minute and I don’t want to impose. Could I just stay for two days?”

“If you wanted to come today, you would be welcomed. Of course.” I hung up the phone thinking, That was easy! I thought of Mom, in the States, getting this call and being furious that someone would swing by, expecting to be fed, and housed for a few days without sufficient warning.

My trip up to Gaphahla proved to take much longer than expected. This meant that traveling home would require two days of travel and a safe rest stop for a night. I called a white South African friend, Mike, who lives in a suburb of Johannesburg with his family. He immediately invited me to stay with him, even for the rest of the week if I needed to do so. Wow, I thought, the hospitality of these South Africans is amazing! Not five minutes later, did I get a call back from Mike. His wife retracted the invite to stay for a week, but said it would be alright to stay for a night and leave early the next morning. It was perfect for me; I confirmed that I’ll figure out how to get to their neck of the woods.

When I arrived to Gaphahla, my sister, Memory called. She asked when I was leaving. Just as I told Elizabeth, I told her I’d head out in two days. “What?! Katie. You must stay longer than that! At least the weekend! I have parties planned for you. I have people that want to meet you. There is so much to do.” I stuck to my plan and apologized. Memory and the rest of the family were slightly upset that I was only staying for such a short visit.

On my first day, I visited Maria, the aunt in Gaphahla, and enjoyed being back in my old village. Everyone wanted to see every picture that I had taken. They wanted to know the names of my family members. They tested out my Zulu and were proud of how much I was learning. Elizabeth happily told me that there was peanut butter in the cupboard for me. She also bought brown bread, just for me. In the morning, she set out instant coffee, rather than tea. Everyone was shocked by my fast turnaround, but they all made sure to see me. Blessing, my brother, and his entire family loaded up in his truck late in the evening to see me before I left. When they arrived (at approximately 11pm), we went out to buy meat and celebrate being together.

The next morning, on a public holiday, taxis were scarce. Blessing, determined to help me get home, drove me from town to town, taxi rank to taxi rank, trying to find a taxi. We even stopped taxis on the highways and ask them if there was room for one more. I was overwhelmed by the fact that this family had gone out of their way for me, begged me to stay longer, and were driving me to all the corners of the earth so that I could get back home.

On the contrary, among the whites, I found myself rolling into Joburg on a taxi, texting Mike to see where I should get off. He asked if I can get to a mall, where he and his family were shopping. The taxi driver, who I had befriended on the 2-hour drive, smiled and stopped taking passengers. He drove me way out of his route and offered to drop me off wherever I’d like in the complex. I saw the golden arches of McDonald’s and texted Mike that I’ll be at the American favorite.

Mike’s family of two children (Connor, 8, and Emily, 4) and his wife (Elmarie) picked me up in their Jetta; I flipped back into white-person zone. We headed back to their beautiful home, situated in a gated community. The entire time, I felt very out of place and like I was in the way. I packed up all my belongings the night before and prepared to leave early in the morning. In the AM, everyone seemed to go their own way. I barely got a chance to thank Elmarie for having me.

“I’m not sure when I’ll be able to see you again. If you ever come out to Zululand, I’d love to have you over.” I say as she heads out the door.

“Oh, no. I’d rather not. Enjoy your time there, though.” Typical judgment of Zulus.

Mike calls a Zimbabwean worker of his to accompany me through the hectic Joburg taxi rank. I say my goodbyes and head out with my newest Black friend.

When I was invited to join Peace Corps South Africa, my booklet warned me of how changing from first-world to third-world life within a country can be difficult for some. I have been able to play the flipping game with more ease than expected. What is most strange to me is the difference among the people. Although I completely understand the stress of a visitor, two young children, and a husband that works away from home, I couldn’t help but compare this to my Gaphahla family that didn’t want to let go of me.

I was ecstatic to return to my third-world life. People know my name, ask me where I’m going when I walk around, and tell me how to do things. Maybe I do everything wrong, but there is no doubt that I am welcomed.

The Color of Your Eyes

Opening Christmas presents was absolutely amazing. When my mom sends presents, she has this ability to eliminate distance in between the giver and the receiver. She has always boxed things perfectly and seems to send just enough of home to make one feel like they are there. Nothing has changed, when you open her packages. Christmas presents to Africa were nothing short of typical Mom. I won’t go into the long saga of the actual delivery of packages, but rather I’ll pick up when I unpacked perfectly wrapped presents from large FedEx boxes.

Every gift was wrapped in paper, ribbons, and tags from home. I could almost touch the tin box of tags and slip the rolls of wrapping paper out from the large cardboard box that housed such exquisite papers. Glitter covered my floor from tissue paper that she had splurged on, because what would Christmas be without stunning gifts? She even found a mini Christmas tree, some ornaments, battery-operated Christmas lights, and plenty of hanging décor to bring Christmas into my hut. The colored Christmas lights illuminated a display of gifts that coated an entire bookshelf, complete with stocking and all. I laughed out of glee and embarrassment. I wouldn’t even know how to explain this to a Zulu if they peaked in the window.

The gifts remained under my mini tree for about a day, when my mom and I were able to have a talk date and I could open presents with her voice.

“I don’t even know where to start, Mom! There’s too many. Maybe I’ll just open one every month for the rest of my time here. Which one gift should be my Christmas present for December 2010?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Pick one. I can’t even remember what all is there anymore.”

I picked up a square box, Anthropologie-shaped, if my memory served me right. The tag read, “Merry Christmas, Dollbaby. (You may not like this.) Love, Mom and Dad.” This looked like a good starting point, I could work my way up to the exciting gifts. I described the wrap and read the tag to my mom and she recalled the present, “Oh, yes. I hope you like this, but you may not.”

I unwrapped an adorable sweater and tears came to my eyes. I couldn’t stop crying. With one gift, I remembered that I had a favorite store, and favorite clothes, and style! I forgot about me. I cried and cried. The phone cut out, because cell phone service is essentially nonexistent in my house. By the time my mom called back, I was wearing the cutest sweater I’d ever seen and was still bawling.

“Mom!” I said through the tears, “I forgot! I forgot that I love cute clothes! I own a cute piece of clothing again! I forgot that I could do this!” She laughed and laughed and admitted that she had to excuse herself from work because she didn’t want to miss out on my Christmas.

“Open another!”

“I don’t need to. This is beautiful,” I wiped my eyes and was floored that there was even more to open.

Let’s be real, of course I opened more presents. I cried with each present. I couldn’t even control the tears. “I’m happy,” I said, “I swear. I don’t know why I can’t stop crying.”

“You must have just forgotten about home and who you are aside from REI labels and dorky blouses. Open another! This is so fun!”

I picked up a small box. “Oh my God! Is this from Fini?! I forgot about Fini!” (Fini is one of my favorite Seattle boutiques. It’s a tiny shop near Pike Place filled with unique accessories, all of which I would love to have.) My mom said nothing; either it was Fini, or a risky gift chosen by Mom in a daring moment. The small, non-Fini box held a pair of stylish and artsy earrings. “Oh my God. These. These, are beautiful.”

“Oh good! They’re by a local artist on Whidbey Island. I know that you wanted a pair of earrings you could wear with everything, like some of my artsy earrings. I hoped that you would like them as much as I did.”

“Mom. Wow. I love them. Although my light is on, I can’t tell what color they are. Black? Are they black? God, these are awesome. These will go with everything! What color are they?”

Pause. “They’re the color of your eyes.”

With that, I lost it. Tears, tears, and more tears. My mom knew the color of my eyes. Well, of course she did. But someone, somewhere loved me that much. My mom knows my style, knows my eyes, knows me. I’m a person that has style and has distinctive characteristics beyond the fact that I have white skin.


As much as I walk through this village, and every single person calls my name, most would fail to identify me in a crowd of white people. I am so valued here, and yet so unknown. I wonder how often we do this in life. How many people do we rely on and yet don’t know? Usually, there are so many distractions and others to comfort these people that actually knowing a person doesn’t always matter. There are days here when I don’t care if I am the only person who understands me. But apparently, it is unavoidable that I desire to be loved as an individual here. I wonder if there will be a day when someone knows me here like my friends know me at home. I guess that isn’t the reason for me being here. I’ll have to learn how to remember myself, and celebrate that self, enough to teach other who I am. Beyond a white person, beyond a woman, beyond a PCV, beyond an American. I would like to introduce myself as an individual. Perhaps, I need to also welcome in the individuals that surround me. Beyond a black person, beyond a South African, beyond a Zulu. We are all people.


My favorite gift of Christmas was a small, intricately crafted, cobalt blue box. It reminds me of my mom. It reminds me of her style, her favorite color, her writing, her wisdom, her love. Although one goal I had when joining the Peace Corps was to lose my dependence upon material objects, a few small presents represented my heart. None of these things were needed; but being reminded of individual beauty was a remarkable gift for Christmas.

Thank you, Mom, for shortening the distance of home and reminding me of who I am. I love you.