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.
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