Poverty

I set my 2-liter box of 100% Grape and Apple Juice Mixture (which is as close as juice gets to one hundred percent in my shopping town) down. I place it in between a can of mayonnaise and a block of cheese. I’m two people away from the cashier in the grocery store and am reassessing the items I’ve placed in my shopping basket. I can go without juice. Water is free and refreshing. Besides, it’s getting cold, and I’ll probably want coffee or tea. Additionally, I’m buying bananas, which is a treat. And plainly, this juice would cost me nearly 32 rand and that’s just too expensive for a food item that I’ll finish within the week.

In America, I would probably be embarrassed to admit that I am not going to purchase this item that I have hauled all over the store and realize that I don’t have the money to afford such a purchase. In Nqutu, South Africa, it’s nearly a norm. My grocery store, Shoprite, isn’t much different from your grocery store. In the checkout aisle, candy, gum, small school supplies, single light bulbs, and key chains are displayed to suggest a last minute buy. The difference is that within the candy bars other items sprinkle the shelves: a stick of butter, a baby’s bottle, a loaf of bread, a package of hot dogs, and two bags of Nik-Naks (similar to Cheetos). Just as I have done, the people in my aisle have placed their wish list items down before reaching the cashier. When I look at a tempting candy bar, I see the price: 7.99 rand. There is no way that I’m going to toss eight rand into a 3-minute splurge. The prices make me look into my basket and reevaluate my choices.

When I reach the cash register and watch my total amount quickly rise. The two bills in between my fingers won’t cover the amount I owe. I shake out the coins and see that I don’t have the cash. I place the bills back into my wallet and pull out my debit card. I am a rarity with the ability to charge my purchase. Most of the people buying groceries have cash, but not always enough. When their bill is too high, they must once again tailor their purchases and forfeit more food. There is a shopping basket located next to the register devoted to this. This basket is usually overflowing. The cashier is trained to remove an item from the bill, unlike in The States when a cashier must summon a manager to void an item.

Most South Africans have a similar standard as Americans in regards to what a bank, grocery store, post office, shoe store, or fast food restaurant should look like. It is easy to walk around the Nqutu shopping complex (a plaza with roughly 40 small businesses and one larger grocery store) and forget that most of the people walking around cannot afford to buy what I can. I make about 2,000 rand (around 300 USD) a month. This amount is not much according to employed people of South Africa, but is plenty in comparison to my village, which is more than 97% unemployed. On my way to town, where I will buy food, I often pass children walking back to their homes with breakfast for their family. They carry a 2-liter bottle of Coke-a-Cola and a loaf of bread, or a 1.25-liter bottle of Orange Fanta and bread. A regular breakfast for many children is a sucker, similar to a Blow Pop, filled with chewing gum.

Most people in my village share a mattress (or a floor mat) with multiple siblings. Learners use an old piece of string to tie their only pencil around their neck for safe keeping. Most people’s socks have large holes in the heals and toes. Laundry is done nearly every day due to the limited amount of school uniforms. Buttons are missing. Heals of feet hang over sandals and the backs of shoes are folded down so that a new pair of shoes is not necessary. Children play in jeans that end 5 inches from the ground with an unzipped fly. Toddlers wobble from foot to foot. Their bare butts are flashed when they lose balance and the overgrown t-shirt falls to the side. Women carry heavy bunches of wood to burn for warmth in the family hut. You can see the poverty if you are looking.

It’s not difficult to have more than most in my village. It is hard to figure out how to go about changing things.

Belonging

Last day of a surprisingly long break: 11 days


I’ve been battling homesick feelings off and on for a few weeks now. They always get worse with school, public, and real holidays. Today, as I wrapped up an amazing book (First Comes Love Then Comes Malaria) and read about how the author had to say goodbye to her small village in Uganda, I couldn’t help but cry. This time, in fear of leaving.

I’ve struggled back and forth with the way things are here. I have a hard time comprehending how much corruption occurs. I guess it presses on my innocent American ideal that fairness should win, not power. I also often get disgusted by men. Their marriage proposals drip out of their mouths after they shout “Malungu!” in my direction. A School Governing Body Chairperson, a husband and father, of a nearby village recently told Chad and Christian how he saw me from afar and wants to sleep with me. I’m nearly certain it wasn’t me that he saw, probably one of the other four white female volunteers who share my shopping town. He’s never met me and doesn’t know what I look like. Still, there is talk about getting with me. I am often left with hopelessness when my efforts for positive change are countered with shrugged shoulders and people passing along blame and responsibility. These challenges leave me longing for my home.

I dream of a date with a guy that asks about who I am and is critical of my statements. I’ve literally thought about wearing a bag over my head. The stares might stop. The following may cease. The calling out to the white girl would calm. “Everyone deserves a home, a comfort, a refuge…” I’ve thought in the weaker moments. Hovering above it all is the never-ending question: why? Why have I decided to leave those that I love? Why do I always crave a difficult life? Why am I serving?

I wake up most days from a dream situated in my memory of America. I open my eyes as the rooster crows and remind myself: I am in Isandlwana. This thought is followed by a variety of emotions, depending on the day. Usually, sadness sweeps in until I realize there isn’t enough time to lie there and think. I get up, start boiling water, get my iPod out for sit-ups, and get going with my day.

No matter the weight of these homesick feelings now, I can’t begin to consider the overwhelming sense of loss when I wake up, look around, and realize: I am in America.

Life (with all its chickens, goats, dogs, cows, geese, turkeys, babies on backs, children, sisi’s, ubthi’s, baba’s, mama’s, and gogo’s) has found me here. Laughter sneaks its way into every exchange. Smiles are wide (regardless of teeth being present). Thankfulness and blessings are showered on me daily. Pain is shared and held by all. Everyone is involved in everything – which is completely frustrating, stressfully complex, and preciously beautiful, all at once. There is an inherent understanding of how to live off of the land: without electricity, without running water, and in poverty. There is little and yet no one is homeless. All are accounted for and known, even if school records don’t reflect this. Somehow, I fit here. A place for Khethiwe is always added, if not already there as a center piece.

I can’t even fathom the aching of saying goodbye to it all. And with that, I hold on. Missing family, friends, and coffee, I’ll remain slightly homesick knowing that it would be much harder to have to leave than to stay.


I miss you all dearly, but know that for now I feel like I belong where I am.



Also, I’ve been working on loading pictures of my home, vacation, and trainings on Facebook. Even if you are not on Facebook, you can view these photos by following this link: KP's Facebook Profile