A Few Moments of My Day

10:00 am

I stepped into the principal’s office to discuss our current condition of Leadership Academy. Some leaders are talking back to the teachers. Learners, not in Leadership Academy, are caught daily urinating on the garden that we are working to create for the school. We, as educators, have not provided a strong project for the leaders on which to be focused. The grades of the leaders are dropping. The defensiveness of our leaders towards teachers is increasing. Other students are challenging if the leaders deserve respect. The leaders simply want recognition among their peers without doing work. He, Mr. Mbatha, was busy with some registers. As we discussed the problem with the leadership Academy, he displayed the mirror image happening among the staff.

A pregnant teacher who is away on leave never took attendance. Not ONCE. It is August, term 3. The attendance sheets are blank. Mr. Mbatha is filling them in for the entire year. “And she earned a salary for the whole year,” he said. “You know, Katie, as we are in a post-Apartheid government, our people believe this ‘democracy’ means freedom. Everything you want will be free. Free handouts and the like. We learn to continue using this word ‘unprivileged’ to describe ourselves. When will we stop uttering this word?”

Those words hit home for me. When I give to the school, weather that is in time, materials, manual labor, etc, people often interpret this as a freebee. I’m not sure what the solution to this problem is. The government has seemed to take care of this by requiring more paperwork for people to prove that they are actually working and using the materials given to them. In actuality, they are skipping class and not teaching in order to fill out paperwork that proves they are teaching. Confused? Yeah, the system of education in this country is “still developing.”

I reflect now on the American Dream and feel a deep pride in my nation. Although some have it backwards, I believe I come from a people who understand that work put in has a direct relationship with what will come out.

I can’t help but laugh. A loveable class clown that I taught at Rainier Beach went in shock when I told him I was going to join the Peace Corps to live and work abroad for two years. He came up to me and said, “Ms. Petersen, you are making a mistake. You are going to go abroad and miss it here. Let me teach you a little song,” he placed his hand over his heart, looked up to the ceiling and sang, “And I’m happy to be an American, where at least I know I’m free!”

“Jatorius, it’s proud. I’m proud to be an American,” I corrected.

“Oh, sure. Whatev. Ms. P. You should be proud to be an American. Don’t leave.” I’ve learned many lessons here, from the beautiful people who understand life in much more fragile yet deep terms. However, I am proud to be an American.

As I finish up this moment in thought, my mama reaches behind my chair to take a stick and hands it to a teacher in the doorway. That stick will be taken to class to strike learners.

11:00 am

A bit bothered from the laziness around me and my job of relying on those around me to complete my projects, I turned to Ms. Zondi, an English teacher sitting next to me. “Ms. Zondi,” I said, “I admire Africans. Do you know why?”

“Why, Khethiwe?”

“Because Africans have this ability of strength. I am exhausted from all of the disappointment around me. I am a weak American in many ways, very emotionally sensitive to the surrounding conditions. Africans are like flowers among thorns. You all have this ability to smile and find happiness during hard times.”

“Yes, Khethiwe. Sometime you are beat up.”

“Mhmm,” I agreed.

“Sometimes you are attacked.”

“Mhmm.”

“Sometimes you are raped, beaten within inches of your life, and going into a coma.”

“M---huh?” I looked up from my hands.

“Yes. This is what happened to me,” Ms. Zondi continued to tell me her story. “Do you see this scar?” She pointed to an inch-long scar just below her left eye. “That is from the knife. And this eye,” she points to her right eye, “I lost my vision. The men who did this to me were of my same surname. It is like a Petersen doing this to another Petersen.” Ms. Zondi told me about an August evening in 2006. She was in her grandmother’s village, doing some work in the field. She was returning home, just as the sun was setting, and she felt a stone hit the back of her head. She doesn’t remember anything else. It was later determined that a group of five men attacked her. They raped her, beat her up, stabbed her multiple times, and tossed her into a large hole out in the brush to die. Her family assumed that she went to church with some friends when she did not return home. She laid there for eight hours, until she gained consciousness. Her eyes were almost completed swelled shut and her clothes were drenched in blood. She moaned and cried all the way home. Her family rushed her to the hospital, where she went into a coma for eight weeks. She’s had multiple eye surgeries since.

“What has happened to these men?”

“Nothing,” my jaw dropped at her reply. “And I am called by my faith to forgive. So I have. God gave me strength to survive. Those men wanted me dead.”

I started to think about how I believe we are not given anything we cannot handle. I don’t know if I could deal with such an incident. Ms. Zondi has and continues to face these men when she visits her grandmother. I teared up, thankful for her strength.

“Don’t cry, Khethiwe. I am here today. I have told my story to many and offer encouragement. I may not be able to see very well and perhaps I am covered with scars, but I am alive. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”

“You are…” I tried to find my words, “strong. You are so strong.”

Ms. Zondi picked up her marking pen and continued her grading and sang a worship song, “I am safe in the shadow of His wings…”

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

On the Backside of the Rondavel

I follow Poppy as we walk down the narrow grass path. The neighbors’ house is just five families down the way from my own but I’ve never been on their property. A familiar child’s face pokes out of the window, smoke escaping out the opening around him.

“uGogo ukhona?” (Is granny home?) Poppy asks him.

“Yebo. Uyafika.” (Yes. She is coming.)

Gogo comes out of the small, rectangular building and says, “Heybo!” (Oh, my!) as she sees me standing with Poppy. Poppy greets Gogo and asks to stay outside because it is cold indoors. We walk around a second building, a small rondavel. Gogo, then Poppy, then I take a seat in the short grass. Keeping our legs together at all times, as respectable women, we tuck our legs to the side. The sun is strong on us. It feels good after the cold of the morning.

“Ngisebenza neSiyanakekela. Sisebenza nobantu ukusizo abantwana esikoleni. uKhethiwe uyavakasha futhi ukukhaluma nawe,” Poppy begins. (I work with Siyanakekela. We work with people to help children at school. Khethiwe is visiting also. We want to speak with you.) She continues to explain herself. I am tagging along on my first home visit. Poppy serves as a community outreach to five schools. We are at the Mayisa home to discuss Thulani. Thulani is a boy in grade one. He does not have an adequate birth certificate and therefore no identity number, updated immunizations, or a physical check up from the clinic. The family had never reported him to the government and to fix this, when a second child was born, his name was added to her certificate.

Soon, Gogo called for Thulani. Thulani ran quickly up to us, stopped behind me, and took two small steps into our conversation, head down.

“Sawubona, Thulani,” Poppy smiled at the young boy just taller than her while she sat on the grass.

In a soft whisper he recognized her, “Ye-“

“Uyahamba eSandlwana Primary?” Poppy asks. (You go to Isandlwana Primary?) No response from Thulani. Just a smile and his tongue moved around below the roof of his mouth. “Uyafunda eGrade One?” (Do you study grade one?) His eyes stay focused on the ground in front of his toes and move from one foot to the other. His smile grows.

“Alright. Siyabonga,” Poppy excuses him. She turns back to Gogo with a small laugh, signaling that she appreciates his shyness as a sign of respect to her. The two talk for a while longer. I study Gogo’s reaction to us visitors. She appears to be establishing trust in Poppy slowly. I wonder what she is thinking about me, a strange girl from America who cannot continue most conversations past the greetings. She picks a long piece of grass to use as floss, tilts her head to the right, and squints at Poppy. Poppy confidently continues to ask questions and rests her hand on Gogo’s lap. Gogo, a typical Zulu woman, doesn’t respond to Poppy’s hand. When women interact with one another, they often touch each other, even if they have just met. I recall being very uncomfortable when a woman first put her hand on my chest as if my chest was her knee. I now understand this is a possessive way a woman can touch me, almost like a compliment to me. It is like I am her child if she touches my chest when she talks about me or to me.

Gogo responds to Poppy’s questions. Her answers get longer. Then, she shouts to another child. Gogo instructs her to fetch the birth certificate.

“Khethiwe,” Poppy looks at the ground and whispers to me, “Isibindi Park must be engaged in this issue.” Isibindi Park is a PEPFAR funded area in Isandlwana. Poppy was employed by Isibindi before she started working for Siyanakekela. There is a small playground and a few portable buildings at the park. This is to allow for children to enjoy childhood play in a safe environment. The staff of Isibindi is trained extensively in HIV/Aids, community outreach, learner support, child development, and parent support.

“Mhmm,” I approve.

“They can help get the government grant for this child.”

“Mhmm.”

“The clothing costs, the school costs, the food parcels. The family is struggling now without the government being aware of this child.” The paperwork comes and is handed to Poppy.

I look over Poppy’s shoulder and read:

Surname: Mayisa

First Names: Azuko Thulani

Sex: Female

“Yebo! Khethiwe, this is just as I suspected,” Poppy takes some time to explain what is happening. “See here? Azuko is the girl’s name. The second name here is Thulani, the boy. And the gender? It is female. Thulani is not in the system. He does not have an identification number. I have an identification number. You have an identification number. We must all have a number.”

Poppy pulls out the second piece of paper just to reveal the top portion. It appears to be a doctor’s physical. The paper reads:

First Name: Azuko

Surname: Mayisa

Place of Birth: Home

A child returns to Gogo with an infant. This baby wears an outgrown long-sleeved white shirt, a piece of yarn around the waistline, no pants, and mud on her face. The yarn is most likely from a traditional healer. Perhaps it is a form of protection for the child, from witches, bad omens, bad luck, etc. Poppy and Gogo’s conversation continues. The baby fuses a little as she adjusts to the sunlight. She snuggles low in Gogo’s lap where she finds shade.

“Khethiwe,” Poppy turns to me, “Is it possible for you to go to the Department of Home Affairs, explain that Thulani’s name must be removed from this birth certificate? Then go to the SES to explain the situation and have them issue an identification number for Thulani? Then return to the Department of Home Affairs and receive a new birth certificate for him?”

I, unaware if she is asking if one can do this or if she is actually requesting me to go and do this challenging task, reply, “Yes.” Either way, it is culturally acceptable for me to agree to her question and not to make conflict.

“Yes. It is possible,” Poppy turns back to Gogo. “This must be done.”

She explains this idea to Gogo. A bucket with hot water is brought to Gogo’s side. Gogo touches the water and instructs the child to fetch more cool water. Two cups of cool water are added to the bucket. Soap and a wash cloth are handed to Gogo. Gogo undresses the child and is doing most of the talking now. The baby starts to cry. Gogo kisses her open mouth and says, “Thula, Sisi. Thula.” (Quiet, Sister. Quiet.)

The baby girl listens to her gogo and leans across Gogo’s lap. Babies are taught at a young age to just deal. That is what all Zulus seem to do in life. There is little complaining, little fuss; consequently there is also little change, little desire of success beyond the village. She shuts her eyes as Gogo washes her hair and neck with a bar of soap. Gogo washes her face and the crying starts again. A mother however many times over, she instinctively moves this child from her lap and places her into the bucket before tears start to come. She takes the wash cloth out of the water and shows the baby how the water runs back down into the pool of water she sits in. The baby smiles and splashes her hands into the water. I watch this beautiful, baby girl smile at the interaction with water. I can’t help but think for a second, I wish I had a bucket large enough for me to sit in and play in the water. Her water was probably fetched by her older sister. Her head is nearly completely dry from the sun’s rays. I think about how she was probably birthed in the rondavel we are sitting next to. Her large brown eyes find my blue eyes. She shakily grabs the edge of the bucket and smiles. I laugh. Gogo and Poppy look at me and laugh too.

Gogo starts to talk about me. I know this by the way she is looking at me with accepting eyes. Her voice imitates my own, “Sannibonani!” She says within her description of me. She is saying that she always hears me greet her as I walk by. She continues to talk about me and I just look into her eyes. She pauses and smiles.

“She doesn’t want for you to go back to America,” Poppy says.

“Aww. Siyabonga,” I reply. (Thank you.)

Gogo talks to Poppy, occasionally looking at me. She takes her hands and moves them in the shape of a skirt around her legs, “uKhethiwe uyamuhle eduze esitoleni…” She is talking about how she saw me near the store and she thought I looked beautiful, which probably means that I looked like a Zulu. She points in the direction away from her house and my own house, then nods to me with a smile. I have a feeling Gogo is trying to fix me up.

“Khethiwe, would you get married in South Africa?” Poppy asks. Yeah, Gogo’s trying to fix me up for sure.

“Angazi. Umama wami eMelika aujabula.” (I don’t know. My mom in American would not be happy.) They laugh. The conversation turns to family. For a long while I don’t understand what is said. My mind wanders to the scene.

On this ground, I sit. To my right is knee-high grass. To my left is a mud house with three shadows. IsiZulu circles around my ears. I sit among two women who have just met. One, a community worker who is confident in who she is and what she can do to help. The other, an older grandmother who continues to care for infants. The two women, as defined by culture, are to follow a man’s lead, provide for their families until they are unable, and to protect their families from unacceptable members in the community. The two women, in reality, are fully in charge of their homes. Their knowledge of tradition, laws, religion, health, and education will determine their children’s dreams, and ultimately their children’s success. They exchange stories and find similarities. They bond and create a plan. Because of this moment, a child will be able to receive sufficient food and a potentially education past grade twelve.

We thank Gogo. She thanks us.

“uKhethiwe uyakhaluma isiZulu,” Gogo incorrectly states. (Khethiwe speaks Zulu.)

“Ngiyazama.” (I try.)

We exit down the same narrow path as before. Poppy and I are happy.

“Gogo was just telling me about the baby’s mother who passed away and how she is now raising the children again,” Poppy tells me. “Gogo is going to work to get Thulani a birth certificate.”

“Poppy, that was so great. You are really doing great things.”

“It is fun for me.”

“Well, I’m headed this way. My home is just down the way here.”

“Alright, Khethiwe.”

“Ngizobonanini?” (When will I see you next?)

“Next week.”

“Alright. Hamba kahle, Poppy.”

“Uhamba kahle futhi, Khethiwe.” (You go well also, Khethiwe.)

Not Home

I set off to do this amazing adventure so that I wouldn’t be jealous of others when they tell me of all the places they’ve been and things they have learned. Why is does my daily life feel like a cycle of jealousy now? I’m supposed to be happy. I’m supposed to be in love with my work and beyond satisfied with where I am. What’s wrong?

Lately, maybe just the past week, I’ve been homesick. I think my mind started to turn this way at the last training I attended in Pretoria. Before The Health Symposium training for myself and counterparts, the group before me (SA 21) had their mid-service training. This is the week when Peace Corps talks to us after a year into our service. Apparently there are some discussions about up-coming plans (thank God. I’ve always been horrible at planning out my life), preparing to leave country, and reflecting on the past year. I looked around at the faces that I have grown to look-up to. They knew so much more about culture and language than I. They seemed to have been in their villages forever, although they arrived 5 months before I had. They, the experts of all things Peace Corps, were only ONE year in? There was still ANOTHER year? Oh, God. This is a long commitment I’ve made.

Since that training, I keep feeling that I wish I could experience something else. That something else is at home. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss teacher beers and grocery stores. I miss movie theaters. I miss wine bars. I miss central heating and my clothes. I miss being able to call up my friends and talk. I miss going to the gym. I miss Starbucks. I miss my ex boyfriend. I miss teaching Americans. I miss being able to speak normal-paced English and being considered funny (this only happened occasionally). As this service has been rather enjoyable, I’ve considered extending for another year. Perhaps I’ll go to the South Pacific Islands and be a PCV there for a year, I’ve thought. Now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to make the full two years that I’ve already committed to. When I pause and recall America, being hugged by my parents, and holidays, I can’t help but think that the person who lives abroad for an extended amount of time must gain the unnatural ability to go numb. I feel like if I can make it two years, I’ll have successfully blocked out many things that are dear to my heart in order to do so.

It’s getting cold outside. According to the village people, this cold is only fall; winter will be much, much worse. I have slept in wool socks, pants, three shirts, a sweatshirt, down vest, hat, and gloves and still wake up cold. I think I’m going to die. I also think that the news is missing the top story: South Africa has been physically cut off from the rest of Africa and is floating towards Antarctica. Holy crap, people. It’s freezing. Sigh. I can make this. I’ve actually sat on the edge of my bed and given this pep talk to myself, twice. It’s only about 4 months of cold. And what is cold weather going to do to me? Well, thus far, the dark just gives me more time to sleep and stay inside, alone. It gives me thinking time, which is dangerous when you are a volunteer. But can’t I also think myself towards happiness too?

Maybe it’s the cold. Maybe it’s the amount of down time one has when she lives in a foreign country and has her own living quarters. Maybe it’s weakness. Whatever is making it hard is real. When I say to my family, “I can’t wait to see you,” I’m not sure if I’m telling the truth.

The other day, as I looked out a cramped car window on the way to church I thought: I wonder if this falls under that Peace Corps promise of ‘I promise to serve under conditions of hardship if necessary.’ I teared up, imaginary-flapped my face, and looked around. Gogos were holding onto my knees and the entire car was singing hymns. I know this is a wonderful place with some of the most inspirational people. It’s just not home…

I don’t mean to be overly dramatic, although I am. I just wanted to update my blog, reach out a little bit, and put my first downer entry on the books. So take it or leave it. I’m missing home.

No Right Answer, But I Am Wrong

“Wow. I am whiped,” I sighed and collapsed into the one chair in Chad’s hut.

“How could you possibly be tired? You live in South Africa! What are you working so hard at?”

“Well, I’ve been speaking to Ben about getting new toilets and chalkboard paint for the primary school. I’m in communication with a reading workshop facilitator who has promised new books. I am team teaching grade 10 English. I am working with Leadership Academy and we have our first huge meeting of the year on Friday. I just finished making testing kits for the primary school teachers, to make testing simpler. I am working with the clerk to create a resource center for teachers. I’m helping other local volunteers with Camp GLOW, a Peace Corps girls empowerment camp. And the local NGO asked me to help her find financial support and tutor the children once a week. I’ve been communicating with other PCVs about career and guidance center materials for the center I’ll create in a few months. What have you been doing this week?”

“I went to one school and am helping the clerk sort one filing cabinet into things she needs to keep, and things that can go. This may take all week.” I gave Chad the death stare. He continued, “I think some of us are here to live like Zulus. And some of us are here to live like Americans.”

The dilemma: my culture meets your culture.

The other volunteers in my area sleep in everyday. They go into their schools most days, but often only choose one school to attend each day. They wait and wait and wait for someone to become available to work with them. They have South Africans doing most of the work.

I, on the other hand (which is so far away, it might as well be disconnected from the body), wake up at 5h30. It is rare for me to not attend both schools each day. I walk into school and have a clear agenda. In fact, I am aware of every individual I must speak with and what we need to discuss. If there is a down moment, I get out my phone and pop out a few e-mails to schedule future projects. There’s always someone to reach out to for help. If the ladies working at the local NGO spot me, they ask me to visit them after school. When I return home, I have papers to grade, things to plan, a to-do list to complete for the evening.

Our job calls for us to transfer skills and provide lasting change. I am here to teach South Africans how to manage their own problems, to find solutions, to accomplish new things. Is my style of being a volunteer impressive? No. It is downright foolish. It’s too American.

Why am I wrong?

Firstly, South Africans don’t plan. This whole concept of having an agenda is mostly to impress others, not for the functionality. In fact, when there is an agenda, it is rarely followed. South Africans could be teaching me about life if I slowed down enough to listen. They believe things will come together. Somehow food will find their table, money will find their wallets, and a car will pick them up to take them into town. When things come together, they praise God and thank Him for working in their favor. To be assertive is unnecessary, and unfortunately it is often considered rude.

Secondly, the lifestyle here doesn’t support a work-to-the-bones type of attitude. When you arrive home, there is no crashing in front of a television, ordering delivery, or taking a nice hot bath. Instead, there is water to be fetched, food to be prepared and cooked, clothes to be washed by hand (before it is late so they can dry in the sun), children needing help with homework, and music to keep you company. Sleeping happens after you wash your dishes by hand (which includes you heating the water first), clean the kitchen, and iron your clothes for tomorrow. Bedtime is no later than 21h00, or you will be a zombie in the morning. My principal once pulled me aside and said, “We, South African teachers, are lazy.” I explained that they are much more active at home, and therefore are tired when it comes time to work. Americans always put work first, which isn’t healthy. I don’t believe there is enough energy within my body to work like an American at school and as a South African at home. I must choose one.

Finally, this isn’t what I want. I want to be a volunteer with patience and focus. I want to be intentional. I came here to deal with massive problems in a relaxing way. (Yes, I set out to accomplish an oxymoron. Maybe I’m the moron.) I wanted to flee fast-pace America and take up a life of slowness and purpose. South Africans say the white chicken is stupid, perhaps this refers to white men running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

Even though I can see, comprehend, and reason all of the above, I don’t want to change. I am American. I work hard. I don’t want to sit around and wait. I like to move. I like to have new projects on the horizon. If I slept in everyday, I’d miss the best part of school, bonding with the staff in the morning. I wouldn’t get alone time with Mama if we didn’t walk to school together. I would become depressed if I had day after day to myself to sit in my home. Besides, I am not here to sit around.

How do I balance the culture in me with the lifestyle around me? There is no right answer. It happens in a variety of successful ways. I would like to learn how to throw out my agenda, be in the moment, and realize that my American timetable is not honored here. (This sounds nice, doesn’t it? Try it. You will hate how it feels to throw away your plans for the day. But do we value time more than people in our culture?) Do I not have the faith to trust that if it must be, it will be without my planning? I would like for this faith in the unknown and unseen to be strengthened. I would like to allow for things to flow. An old lady at a writer’s night once told me, “Don’t push the river.” When I find that I am the only one rushing to make a meeting, I will pause. I will wait until there is a desire from a South African for me to work on a given task. I will start here.

By joining Peace Corps, I wanted to gain more perspective, find peace in daily life, and live with locals. I didn’t realize I would have to forfeit my cultural pace and work ethic in order to gain these things. The sacrifice is worth it, but that adjustment period is difficult. I wanted to return to the states with a silent, lengthy list of projects I had completed in the Peace Corps. I think the shorter the list, the more I have adjusted to their culture, and thus a stronger impact they have made on my life and I on theirs. This culture will teach you that by focusing on individual accomplishments one misses the essence of life: being with people. My devotion to my personal agenda notebook has led me astray from the one plain focus I must maintain. What should be my focus? The people. What is the right answer? The people. (The what?) The people.

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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.