Really? All this for a cell phone?

I nearly tore into a run the other day when I was walking home from work, readin’ a letter, and passed a house playing, yes, Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”. I could hear people singing along. It, seriously, took everything I had not to run in the house and dance like crazy. Since I missed that opportunity, I just spent the last 15 minutes or so dancing around my room to good ol’ Cyndi. Makes me smile. Makes me think of 80’s dancing, Inside Books benefits, my record player and “She’s So Unusual” on vinyl, and how awesome it is that there are girls in a village in South Africa getting’ down to some good stuff. And yeah, I passed two boys coming from school, listening to Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ On A Prayer”, was on the koombi yesterday when the radio was tuned to a station that was having a “Springsteen” weekend, and on the way back to the village this afternoon heard Maria le Maria in the koombi…my favorite South African group right now.
My mind has been swimming with all kinds of things I want to remember, little details that make up long days in the village. I can’t report doing much in the way of work last week, but I was busy, exhausted once the weekend was here. I went to a few meetings, learned more about the transportation system, started a good book (“Eat, Pray, Love” by Elizabeth Gilbert), sent a couple of letters, and discovered a few more ideas about projects I could work on while here. I have to say it’s the little details that make me tired, exhaust me.
On Tuesday my cell phone decided to stop working properly. Now, it’s sad to say, that, in the States, even if I wasn’t particularly busy, I probably would have felt so put out by having to go take care of getting it fixed. There’s a string of reasons why this is annoying: the phone is only a couple of months old, I paid a good chunk out of my monthly allowance to acquire such a phone, it’s the most direct way people in the States and in South Africa can get a hold of me, and I really didn’t have enough money to take a trip to town to get it taken care of. My first reaction was just to shrug. Oh well. The phone’s broken. Guess eventually I’ll have to do something about it. Guess if someone needs to get a hold of me they’ll have to figure out another way. Funny. I eventually went into action mode a couple of days later and showed my coworkers the problem…. it was working but no graphics were showing up on the screen. After a few practice calls (making sure to hang up before people actually answered… don’t want to use airtime!) and repeatedly turning the power off and on, taking the battery out, and shaking it pretty vigorously, we came to a general consensus: the phone was not working properly. I asked when a good time for me to go to town would be and my question was answered with “Be Free, Mmapula, when do you feel would be a good time for you to go to town?”. That day would be the day to go. Ke tla go bona gosasa. See you tomorrow coworkers! I’ll be back with a brand spankin’ new phone! It was 9:30am and I was going to town. Folks, let’s remember that the day has been in full effect for, at least, a good 4 hours by this point… my day and time were burning away. I was in search of the receipt for the phone and then I would be on my way to town. Simple. I would catch a taxi, get off at my stop, walk the 20 minutes to my house, get the receipt, walk the 20 minutes back to the taxi stop, catch another taxi to the taxi rank, catch the taxi to Tzaneen, and be in town by, what?, 11:30? Noon? Simple. Ha. I left the office and was hit with the heat. Geez that sun was blazin’. Should have brought my umbrella. I sweat across the bakery parking lot, across the crossroads (where the tar road and the main road for my village intersect), and catch a taxi, thanking the driver profusely for coming just at the right time. He drops me off, not at my taxi stop, but close enough to it, and RIGHT in front of the primary school, RIGHT in time for morning break and all the kids to scream and wave. I walk home after screaming and waving back… Duuuuuuumelang! Le Kae?! Sweating. Unlock the gate, unlock the burglar bars, unlock the door, unlock my door, shuffle through my wardrobe, and find that, yes, the receipt is nowhere to be found. The receipt for my 2 month old phone, the freakin’ guarantee that I can exchange my phone for a new one without having to pay any money, is no longer in my wardrobe, no longer in my room, no longer a freakin’ receipt. In a cleaning frenzy a couple of weeks ago that important little piece of paper went up in flames with all the other trash from my house while the neighbor kids and I looked on in fascination (we watched the fire for a good hour). No receipt. Shrug. Locked my door, locked the door, locked the burglar bars, filled my water bottle from the rainwater tank, locked the gate, and walked back to my taxi stop. No taxis. It’s 10:30, one will come soon. Maybe. Thobela boMma. Le Kae? I greet all the women selling Simbas (chips and Cheet-O type snacks) and airtime at little tables shaded by umbrellas. I wait for the taxi. I remember I brought my new book. I start to read, trying to forget about the fact that I’m waiting, that time is burning away, that it’s hot, hot, hot. Hello! Hello? I look up, Hello! A nice man has stopped his Toyota Corolla right in front of me and offered a ride. Heeeellllllo. I situate myself in the passenger seat, greet, and realize that my body temperature is dropping because, yes, this man has air conditioning in his Toyota Corolla. I nearly cry. Amazing. Just when things seem to be building up and I feel as though frustration might show its face, a nice man offers me a ride and has air conditioning. He’s a teacher and is taking one of his students home. Yes, I’m from America. Yes, it’s hot in America. Yes, just like it’s hot in South Africa. I’m a volunteer. I’m here for two years. I work with a home based care. I do love it here. I do miss certain things about America. Thank you so much for giving me a ride. You came at just the right time. I will see you soon. Yes. Thank you. Have a good day. He flags a taxi for me. And then, I’m on a taxi! We’re heading for the taxi rank and the taxi to Tzaneen! I might just make it to town by noon. Or not. We pull into the taxi rank and every taxi I see is empty. Thobela Mma. Which is the taxi to Tzaneen? Ah, that one. I walk to a taxi that has a sleeping driver and is completely empty. It is in that taxi that I sit for over an hour while it fills, one or two people at a time. I shrug. I wait. I eat an ear of roasted corn. I read. It fills, slowly, but surely, and we’re off to town, off to where they sell cell phones. My taxi is carrying 17 people. 4 in the very back row, 3 in the next row, 4 in my row (it holds 3), 3 in the front row, and 2 people plus the driver in front. It’s hot. The window latch is broken and I am sticking to the woman next to me. My arm is stuck to her’s, there is no space between our bodies. I have to breathe. Have to keep telling myself not to flip out. I’m stuck. I’m on my way to town in a taxi that took an hour to fill up. I can’t really afford this trip. I can’t really afford a new phone. My sandals are too tight. I can’t open a window. I can’t bend over to loosen my sandals. When I start to head back later in the afternoon it will take me forever to get home because I live so far from the main road. I am so far from town. If I needed to get out of this taxi I couldn’t. Will she just move a little? Just scoot over? Phil Collins’ Best of album is pulsing through every inch of my trapped body. I read. The feelings pass, I manage to get my mind on my book. As we get closer to town people get off the taxi, but my row still manages to hold 4. We’re approaching the outskirts, we stop, and the man in my row, closest to the door, gets off. The woman slides over a little, air passes between us, the claustrophobic feelings subside, I feel some relief, and the breeze against my sweat feels so, so good. We get to town. Tzaneen is a 45-minute drive from my village and I managed to make it in 4 hours. I thank the driver and kind of stumble out of the taxi, I’m starving, and seriously feel like I’ve spent the morning doing something strenuous; my body aches, I’m tired, and I just want to keep shrugging things off, but it’s getting harder to do. I walk to the mall. Calvin, the cell phone guy at Game (like a Target), tells me I look like I’ve had a rough day. I ask him if I can just purchase a phone exactly like the one I have. He wants to identify the problem, wants to send it away. I explain I don’t have a receipt. There aren’t many options. He steers me towards the display case. In a matter of minutes I have purchased a new phone (with some US savings) and Calvin has winked at me 3 times, telling me to keep my head up, and pointing out that there are positives: I get to keep my old number, I have an extra battery, and I have a new receipt. Thanks Calvin. I walk to the coffee shop, order a huge salad and pot of tea to calm my nerves. I sit in a booth, all the way at the back, read, and calm myself. In the span of the next hour I’m busy with refueling my body, speaking Sotho with my waiter and the man occupying the booth in front of me (to their shock. Most white people, it is assumed, don’t speak any African languages, white people speak Afrikaans.), and get somewhat defensive when I discuss village life with the manager (who is an Afrikaner). I get defensive because he asks how life in the village is and proceeds to continuously be shocked by everything I say. You have electricity? Why would you choose to live with those people? Isn’t it hard? Don’t you miss a flush toilet? No running water?! Why are you speaking that language? I know he wasn’t trying to be rude or insensitive, he seemed genuinely concerned and curious, but I was tired. Such a conversation was making me weary. I HATE, absolutely HATE, the “us and them” conversations. I live in a village, with other people, other people who happen to be black and I am white. Yes, most people do have electricity. I choose to live here for many reasons, some of which are: I want to learn from people, learn about who they are, I want to teach people about where I come from, who I am, I want to attempt to make small changes. It is hard, but the reasons it’s hard are so much deeper and more complicated than missing flush toilets and M&M’s (peanut, please). I, honestly, don’t think about flush toilets, I’m happy to have a place to pee. No running water, but there is water. I speak the language because I want to communicate, want to learn one more piece of the people I live with and around. Conversation over, I feel sick, and once again, time is burning away. I hike up the hill through town to get my water bottle from some other PCVs (I left it last time I was in town). By the time everything is said and done, there is no way I am going to catch a taxi to my village, then a taxi to my taxi stop, and then make it home before dark, so I stay in town. I fall asleep, in my clothes, to the ticking and humming of a ceiling fan. In the morning, I wake up, as always, a little after 6. Take a shower (a shower!!!!) and at 7 make my way down to the taxi rank, greetin’ everyone headin’ to work the whole way. I want to catch the very first taxi back to my village, think maybe I’ll make it to work by 8:30. Ha. I am the first one on the taxi, again. There is one major advantage to this, you get to pick where you would like to sit (preferably by a window that I can open, please). I SMS (text message) my supervisor and tell her what happened. I wait. I read 30 pages. I get an SMS from a coworker about getting her some chicken from Hungry Lion, her favorite fast food chicken place. I get off the taxi to see if Hungry Lion is open. It’s not. I go back to the taxi and I wait some more. I read 25 pages. I go check Hungry Lion again. Still closed. I try to translate the conversation in Sotho in the seat behind me. I watch my seatmate drink half his cold drink (Coke) and then fill the can with Brandy, tasting it a few times to see if the drink is mixed enough for our ride home. The taxi leaves the rank at 10:30. 10:30. 3 hours after I got on it. I shrug. I think how happy I am that we’re finally moving. I make a mental note that if there is a next time I will get a cup of coffee and sit somewhere until midmorning and then head to the taxi rank. On the ride home, while our taxi weaves its way in and out of villages between my village and town (about 4) I put my hair back in pigtails. Fixing my hair in such a way reminds me of a black and white picture of my mom I had on my wall in high school. In the picture, Mom’s in her early 20’s, looking off, away from the camera, and smiling, her hair is in pigtails. Mom. I tear up. Don’t cry, Megan. If you start crying, if you cry as hard as you would like to right now, no one will know what the hell to do with you, people already don’t know what to do with you. I shrug. I switch gears and think of something else, laugh at how ridiculously long my trip to town has turned out to be, all for my phone, the phone I will place on a satin pillow every night if it means I can have it work for forever. I walk into work at 11:45am, about 4 hours after I got on the taxi. I apologize to my coworkers. They tell me to rest. I spend the afternoon reading and sitting in the shade, under a tree outside, with everyone, because it is so hot in the office.
Oh it’s the little things. It’s craving a fresh baked bun from the bakery next door, smelling them all day long, and after work walking in to see that they have a 4 pack right on the top shelf, still warm, with my name written all over it. It’s a rainstorm, in the middle of the hottest part of the day, that lasts long enough to soak the ground and drop the temperature a few degrees. It’s going to a meeting and having a conversation with one of my coworkers and a guy from another NGO about how frustrated they get with meetings starting late (It’s not just me!!!!!!). It’s walking home, having a woman smile and clap her hands when I greet her, asking me for R5 (rand), and looking at me warily when I tell her I don’t have the money she needs. It’s knocking off of work early and having enough time to not only wash all my clothes, but also enough time to clean my room and read. It’s having a 14 year old boy walk part of the way home with me, insist that he is a man, and tell me that he wants to come visit me and be my friend (which actually means be my “special friend”, which actually means be my something between a boyfriend, lover, and husband), all while he is avoiding eye contact and biting his thumb. It’s buying fresh peaches, a big bag of avocados (the last of the season!), and an ear of corn roasted over an outdoor fire with a good, new friend after a great weekend of exploring the area around the village. It’s greeting someone on the road and hearing some people in a nearby yard make fun of the way I said my greeting. It’s waking up to rain hitting the tin roof, knowing that that means there’s more water for drinking, cooking, and irrigating, and that I’ll be slugging through the mud on the way to work. It’s seeing and hearing a HUGE spider, about 3 inches legs and all, scrambling all over my walls the other night, taking a deep breath, and getting it out of my room without totally losing it. It’s giving my phone number to someone and them laughing because the way I say my 4’s makes me sound like a Nigerian speaking English (this is an insult)…WHAT?! It’s riding in a koombi where the sliding door is actually wired to the rest of the taxi’s body and the driver is hittin’ every bump in the dirt road, even if he’s trying his hardest to make his way around them. It’s visiting a coworker in the maternity ward of the hospital and welcoming little Mashego into the world. It’s my coworker getting mad when people stare at me or don’t respond to my greetings because I am no different than anyone else (well, certainly no different than her, we came from the same womb). It’s neighbor kids weaving thin palm leaves together to stick in the holes of the tree where magoro (termites) live and watching them pull the leaves, covered with the bugs, out and emptying their treat into cups they’re taking home. (I learned the ones with the darker heads are the ones you want to eat.) It’s being asked to lead the morning prayer in our office, feeling a little flustered, and coming up with, “Thanks for this day, Thanks for all the people in this room. Amen.”… Oh Mmapula that was a beautiful prayer! It’s being warned by an Afrikaner man that the taxi rank I’m standing near is not safe (it’s MY taxi rank) and that if he were me he wouldn’t hang around such places (oh, mister, how do I explain that I live here?) It’s requesting “Oh L’Amour” by Erasure, explaining who The Kinks are to a fellow PCV, and splurging on lunch at a pub in Hoedspruit. It’s getting good emails and letters from friends and family far away that say I am loved and missed very much. It’s thinking about birthdays, weddings, holidays, and anniversaries that are big celebrations in some very important peoples’ lives (occasions I wish, very much, I could be around for). It’s thinking about the places I can travel and see. It’s waking up and realizing exactly where I am.

Time. Waiting. Fun.

I have a soundtrack to my life (well, I guess everyone does)… I tried, once, to write all the songs down, but the task was too overwhelming. I’ve basically left it to hearing a song and thinking to myself, “yep, this reminds me of such and such.” So the birthday mix my sister sent me is part of my South Africa now. “Beautiful Girls” by Sean Kingston? Yep, my second weekend at site. Reminds me of being on the koombi in Polokwane, at 3 in the afternoon, panicking, thinking we weren’t going to catch another taxi and make it to Tzaneen before dark. I bought an ear of corn at the taxi rank when we were waiting for the taxi to fill. I’m exhausted. I think I say that pretty much everyday… but today, today I REALLY mean it. Yesterday was a 14 hour day. Two nights ago, after drinking some tea and getting’ my chocolate fix, I couldn’t go to sleep. And then I started thinking about how I had to get up earlier than usual and there was some stress… didn’t want to sleep through the alarm. And then the rain started and continued all night long, pelting my tin roof. And then, when I had finally drifted off, it was 5 am and I had to get up. I was meeting one of my coworkers at the taxi rank, had to be there at 6:30 sharp. I could have every entry of a blog focus on an example of the concept of time in Africa, how strange it is to move from the fast paced, time centered States to the more relaxed South Africa. I dragged myself out of bed at 5:15, washed, drank some tea, ate a Luna bar from the states (I’m running low on food and heading to town today), and basically, power walked to catch a taxi at the high school. Yep. 6am. No taxis at the high school. Glancing at my watch, speed walking, and shortening my greetings, I walked towards the post office, hoping that I could at least cover some land and catch a koombi at some point down the road. I grabbed a taxi by the big shade tree where the gogos sit and made it to the taxi rank at EXACTLY 6:30 (I bet anyone who knows me is totally shocked by this… Megan? ON TIME? And on time THAT EARLY?). I was pretty proud of myself and once again gave myself the little speech about letting things go, not stressing so much, and remembering that I’m in Africa now… things are more chill, and everything seems to work out ok. No need to stress. I see my coworker get off his taxi, we greet, I ask what the plan is, he’s not sure because things haven’t been explained to him. We head to the office. He makes a few calls, we head back outside to, yes, sit at the taxi rank for an hour and a half waiting for a bus that might have already passed us. We’re going to an awards ceremony in Polokwane and a bus has been hired to pick up representatives from NPO’s all over our district (kind of like a county). It’s funny, as it usually is, no one is mad, no one is wringing their hands, no one is getting bent out of shape because the bus hasn’t come. We just wait. We laugh. We wait. I talk to a few neighbors. We wait. I ask my coworker about his family. We wait. People here are SO good at waiting. I can’t tell you what time we got on the bus or what time we got to Polokwane or what time the event started (although it was later than the start time on the program), but those details don’t matter anyway. It was a great day. The ride between Tzaneen and Polokwane reminds me of being in a coal car, on the tracks, coming out of a mine, in the cartoons. Both times I’ve done the roundtrip trip we’ve bounced along, at high speeds, on slick roads, switchbacking through the valley and mountains. It’s one of those times where your life is flashing before your eyes, where cars are passing just a little too close, the speed is a little too much, but you don’t even close your eyes or make a silent prayer, you’re too entranced by the surroundings. I had a book, but couldn’t read because I didn’t want to miss the whole hour of lush, green, rolling hills, mountains, flowering trees, the winding river (which my coworker thinks was the Groot-Letaba), and all the nurseries and greenhouses lining the road. You come visit me and we’ll drive through here… we’ll stop, eat some bananas and try to figure out how to describe such a place, such beauty. The event was, well, an event. The three representatives from my office sat in the back (so, according to my coworker, we could talk and be close to the exit, when it got to be too much we could to step outside. Um, how is it that I was PERFECTLY matched with my NGO?). We covered the formalities and award giving, got a good free lunch (pap, chicken, red gravy, butternut, sugar beans, and cold drink (Grape Fanta for my coworkers, I stuck with Sprite), and I networked. It was great. At lunch I, by chance, sat across the table from the very man who supervises all the social workers in Tzaneen. He gave me the name of the man who supervises all the social workers in my municipality, the man who’s office is walking distance from my office. I met a lot of really nice people and, as usual, found everyone really willing to help me out, give me names of people I should talk to, organizations I should see. After we ate and before I headed back to the bus, I stopped by the DJ booth to praise the musical selections for the day. Yep. A DJ booth. If only more employee appreciation days and trainings had DJ booths! The day was full of music. Traditional African beats, some jazz, some folk, some Ladysmith Black Mambazo, and yes, Bill Withers’ ‘Ain’t No Sunshine’ were played in between speakers, when pictures were being taken, and when award recipients made their way to the stage. If people in the audience were moved by the beats, and most of them were, they would just get up and dance. Moved their hips, waved their hands in the air, stomped their feet, and whooped and yelled. YES! The energy was great and I couldn’t stop smiling, laughing, clapping. The DJ and I swapped emails, he said he would send me a list of songs and artists from South Africa I should check out. I’m excited, I miss music so much, and I’m in a country where it’s so important. In the koombi, in the office, in the bakery parking lot, in the house, walking through the village, the Jet Music store in the ShopRite mall.. it’s everywhere. On the way back to the village after such a big day, I sat in the back of the bus with my coworkers and people from the NGO down the hill from ours. I felt like I was on a school field trip. Someone’s cellphone played the soundtrack to a dance party, people pointed out places I should visit in my Lonely Planet, I was taught a few Sepedi words, and I learned more about Mopani worms (worms that are cooked and then eaten with pap. I’ve seen kids in my neighborhood build fires and cook ones they’ve found in the trees, in tins). We stopped in Tzaneen so people could buy food and I opted to stay on the bus, in the back… sat for a good half hour watching kids running around the open air market selling roasted ears of corn, tomatoes, onions, simbas (chips), and lightbulbs, dishtowels, cellphone airtime. Canopies are lined up along the waiting areas for all the buses (buses go in and out of villages and bring people to town, their fares are cheaper than koombis, but they don’t run as often), with women filling plates with pap and stewed chicken. Makeshift restaurants. I love this. I love sneaking glances at my coworkers dancing on the bus, smiling because I’m not sure they really will ever understand how much they already have done for me and taught me. I love breaking an ear of corn in half, eating it, and washing it down with the mango orange juice a friend bought me when she was at the store and thought I should have cold drink too. I love sitting in my office talking to the chairman of the board and the coordinator about politics in the US and learning words in Sotho throughout the conversation. I love having the bus drop me off at the taxi rank, walking a little ways with a woman who’s a carer with another NGO, learning about her family, and then catching a koombi where everyone knows my name, knows where I’m to be dropped off. So many little stories, little things that get me excited about what’s to come. I left work early one day this week and went to visit the crèche (daycare) where I had heard there was beadwork being sold (an income generating project). Awesome. I greeted all the kids, greeted the cookers, and was led across the road to another building, where, in one room, three women were beading. Intricate necklaces, belts, earrings, bracelets, and pouches with patterns based on the traditional. I splurged, bought some belated birthday gifts for myself and promised to be back for a visit and a beading lesson. On my way out the door, one of the cookers called me back over to the kitchen in the crèche. She filled a little bag with biscuits just out of the oven, warm, and ready to eat with cold drink or tea. For me. They went well with my tea that I drank while I watched One Life to Live with my neighbor (I think we’re about 6 months behind the states. The acting is SO bad, but how can you not watch? I mean Jack, who everyone believed was dead, is back!)
My housing is still up in the air. I know I’m moving soon, but soon is relative. Soon can mean tomorrow. Soon can mean Christmas. A couple of weeks ago everyone in my office walked over to see how the preparations of my new room were coming along. It’s great. A little square box of a room to call my own. They’re putting in a light and an outlet, fixing the pit toilet to meet safety standards, and scrubbing it clean. A place to put the little oven I’m going to buy! A place to put all my pictures up in! A place to set up a little writing area! Oh relief. It’s funny how you create routines even in the midst of everything hanging in the balance. I am living out of one bag and only eat foods that are easy to prepare or are prepared. I won’t even go into my diet, let’s just say it’s… interesting. BUT I get up in the morning and wash at a certain time, drink my tea, and go to bed at about the same time every night. I walk a different route home everyday, but still manage to stop at the post office to check mail, the tuck shop nearby to get popcorn, and on certain corners to greet and talk with locals.
I’m rollin’ with it. That’s what you have to do here. You accept things, don’t hold grudges, and relax, because really that’s what everyone else is doing. I feel good. Amazing what a drastic change that is from a few weeks ago… the shock is wearing off, I’m making friends, I stick out, but I don’t notice as much anymore, I’m laughing, really laughing, and things are settling. I’ve got a mean tan… a Chaco’s tan, a farmers’ tan, but tan all the same… and to think we have months left of Summer. I’m a master bug killer. I read by headlamp. I eat insane amounts of carbs. I carry my cellphone and wallet in my bra. I carry toilet paper with me wherever I go. I devour books. I write letters about memories, NGO work, and little things that make me shake my head. I chase chickens out of the kitchen when I make breakfast. I don’t think I ever get all the way clean, but I’ve gotten to the point where I can convince myself that I am. I hitch rides in the back of trucks with many other people, live chickens, huge cabbage heads, and cold drink. I’m livin’ in South Africa.
It still doesn’t seem real. It seems like I’ve just been dropped off in some other world and one day, someone will pop up and tell me it’s time to go back to where I came from.
I know I’ve said it before, but I wish I could describe everything. Wish there was some way to paint the picture, the whole picture, filling all the little holes with all the little details. There are so many things you can’t even begin to describe. Words don’t even do justice. Pictures come out too dark or not close enough, lack emotion. You can write a story, but the visuals, the smells, the tastes are missing… I think that’s why the music is so important to me. The soundtrack keeps getting longer, new tracks are added everyday. I hear a song and I’m immediately pulled towards a list of memories. It’s comforting and it reassures me that even if I don’t get all the little details down, I’ll be able to go back, see and feel some of the same things again.