Motorbike Mishaps

Disclaimer: this post is very much an obnoxious, overly optimistic, “It’s all about perspective” message.  For those cynics out there, best to stop reading now.  Or continue on with an open mind, but you’ve been warned. 

“I can’t wait to hear all about your adventures!” I can’t tell you how many times people have told me this over the past few weeks.  After two years in Africa, hitch-hiking in truck beds, wandering alone through the bush, and living 20 miles from the nearest American, a couple months playing tourist in Southeast Asia hardly seems adventurous.  But I suppose that 7-ish weeks of largely-solo travel in a foreign country qualifies as “adventurous”, even if I have every intention of earning glorified beach bum status.

Until today, my trip had gone relatively smoothly.  After  19+ hours of travel from Bangkok, I arrived on the island of Ko Pha-Ngan to my private bungalow just a five minute jaunt from the beach.  I’d downloaded a photo of the beach a while back and every time things got rough in Swaziland, I’d whip out the photo and let my mind wander: “Only __ more days…”  We’d learned the hard way from our trip to  Blyde River Canyon, South Africa in May that Google images can sometimes be deceiving, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that Hat Salad Beach was everything I’d dreamed during those tougher moments in Swaziland: soft white beach lined with lush green palm trees forming a stunning contrast with the clear aqua ocean.  My tropical paradise.  I grabbed a beer and headed straight for the beach.  The combined effect of severe sleep deprivation, the intensity of the sun, the booze, and the relief at finally having arrived at my destination sent me into 12 hours of blissful , uninterrupted shuteye.   

I woke up feeling refreshed and set out for a run to explore the area.  As I ran through the clusters of shops surrounding each beach, I found myself overwhelmed at the abundance of advertising.  Apart from the occasional Coca-Cola billboard or the vibrant MTN logos signaling the availability of mobile airtime, advertising is hard to come by in rural Swaziland.  Dining options are limited: chicken stew or beef stew?  Rice or porridge?  Not too many choices.  I didn’t expect the reverse culture shock to fully set in until I set foot on US soil, but I felt it the moment I landed in Bangkok.  I was relieved to escape the bustle of city life, but here it was again: so many options!  Thai massages, mani/pedis, full moon parties, kayaking, happy hours, diving excursions, boat tours, 10-page menus with 50 different stir fries.  You’d think that after two years of such limited variety, I’d welcome the plethora of options.  Quite the contrary.  Not to mention that my post-Peace Corps budget didn’t exactly afford much wiggle room for such activities. 

I finally decided to splurge a whopping $6 to rent a motorbike and set off to explore the island.  And it was incredible.  It was one of those wind in your hair, sun on your back kinda days where you just want to scream “FREEDOM!”  (Maybe this solo travel thing is making me a bit crazy, I can’t be sure…) I spent the day putzing around from beach to beach, sipping fresh coconut water straight from the coconut, and making up for two years of sun-deprivation (for my thighs and stomach, that is).  This was the island adventure I’d been dreaming of.  On my way home I set off to explore one more beach in an attempt to nail down accommodation for the remainder of my time on the island.  The sun hung low in the sky, reflecting against the water and illuminating the fishing boats sprinkled throughout the bay below.  It was breathtaking.  Talk about heaven on earth.  And then the paved road came to an abrupt end and the road turned to an uneven spread of rocks and sand.  Considering my sub-par motorbike skills, I decided to head back, abandoning my curiosity to explore this final hidden beach.  What I failed to consider was just how difficult it is to pull a U-ey (how do you even spell that?) on a steep incline.  I figured the safest option would be to switch off the motor and manually maneuver the moped to face back up the hill.  What I failed to take into consideration was the sheer mass of this girly pink bike.  As I struggled to shove it back up the hill, I made the impulse decision to lightly tap the gas to give it a bit of a kick.  So as I stood beside the bike, I did exactly that.  Terrible idea.  Within two seconds I had lost control of the bike and watched it spin off the road and crash into a pile of rocks in the ditch below.  Crap.  Not exactly the “adventure” I had in mind to report back to my friends at home.  I stood there in disbelief for I don’t know how long, sweat dripping down my face from my matching pink helmet, wondering how in the world I was going to hoist that massive bike back up onto the road and simultaneously praying that if I somehow managed to do so that it would still run.  I look around to realize that this dude had been observing me the whole time I’d been struggling through what should have been a simple U-turn.  We make eye contact and this scrawny twenty-something kid hobbles over on his busted flip flops to greet me in broken English.  I desperately beg him to help me and together we somehow manage to hoist the bike out from the ditch.  I’m still not entirely convinced that this barefoot, probably asthmatic, twig-like guy was real.  For lack of a better word, I may go so far as to say he could have been an angel.  I’ll never know.  I do a quick inventory and am thankful to find that the bike has incurred only minor injuries: a couple scratches and some slight dents here and there.  As I putz on back to my bungalow, I can’t help but laugh at myself.  I’ve lost count of the number of times in the past two years that I’ve thought to myself “my life is a JOKE”.  This was one of them.  My pride has been beyond repair from the moment I began collecting classic Peace Corps poop stories.   This was just another story to add to the books.

And to my bank account.  It was all fun and games until I cruised back into the rental shop where I was greeted by the disapproving Thai girl who had witnessed my less-than-graceful exit as I first set foot on the bike that morning.   It didn’t take long for her to summon her mother, about half my size, who promptly whipped out a clipboard and pen to record the damage.  Note to self:  don’t sign papers in foreign languages without fully comprehending what’s at stake.  In case you’re wondering, 550 USD were at stake.  No, not 550 Thai Baht.  Not $5.50.  Five hundred and fifty dollars.  My first thought: that’s like 1/12 of what I earned in TWO YEARS in Peace Corps.  My second thought: that could cover my expenses for THREE MONTHS in Swaziland.  My third thought: Well, I used my Peace Corps passport as collateral, but I’m not travelling with that…so I could just bolt out of here…. But I’d just spent the afternoon reading a book about the importance of integrating my spiritual and everyday life (for the record, the point is that there shouldn’t even be a distinction) and decided that Jesus probably wouldn’t approve of such a stunt.  My tears were entirely ineffective on this heartless woman who was probably thinking to herself “haha! Sucker! Shopping spree for me!”  When I planned for this trip I made two separate budgets: one titled “For if I’m feeling stingy” and one titled “Cheese Girl Budget.” (For those missing the cheese girl reference, cheese girl is the term Swazis use for spoiled city girls inept at rural living).  Exorbitant motorbike repairs did not factor into either of those budgets.  So what started as a cheap $6 adventure ended as $550 hard earned dollars down the drain.

Two years ago, I would’ve sulked in a self-pity.  Peace Corps volunteers love to grovel at how little we earn.  (I’ve never understood this, we are volunteers, aren’t we?)  We pull the #helpmeimpoor card far too often.  But the fact of the matter is, at the end of the day, I have the money.  It’s not how I intended to spend it, but I just got paid for my service.  I’m not stranded on this island with no way home (although that wouldn’t be too bad…).  I’m alive.  And more than anything, I’m here.  In Thailand.  On this island with breathtaking views around every corner.  I am blessed.  I’m having one of those classic perspective moments where I am reminded of the insignificance of my plight relative to the death, disease, poverty, injustice, and abuse that I’ve witnessed over the past two years.  In the end, that absurd sum of money that I just forked over isn’t going to send me onto the streets.  I am fortunate that I have gracious and loving parents who are eager to house me until I get settled into this whole business of real life. I don’t mean to downplay the value of the ridiculous fine because $550 is a lot of money.  I try not to think about what that much could buy for my friends in Swaziland: school fees, a roof, books, uniforms, food.  But for me the implications of such a loss aren’t quite as drastic.  It means a few less pina coladas.  And opting for dorm beds in hostels over private bungalows.  And a couple more months of hand-washing my clothes.  And a couple more weeks of sporting my disintegrating bikini rather than splurging on a new one.  And certainly no more motorbike escapades.  As for the abundance of activities that had overwhelmed me?  Not really an option anymore.  And that’s okay.  If Peace Corps has taught me anything, it’s how to differentiate between want and need.  Those are wants.  Things that the Western world tells us we need for the ultimate island vacation: fancy cocktails, decadent spa treatments, guided adventure tours.  I came here to reflect, to process, to relax.  I have the beach and God’s breathtaking creation – everything else is just fluff. 

So, there you have it for all of you wanting stories of my “adventures.”  Not exactly the adventure I had in mind, but an adventure nonetheless.  So cheers to perspective, to the end of a short-lived cheese girl life, and to 6.5 more weeks of hopefully less-costly adventure! 

post-accident selfie

looks fine to me...

can't complain too much

First Stop: Bangkok

Day 1 in Bangkok: Feeling pretty accomplished having navigated Bangkok’s public transit system from the airport to my hostel clad in the front and back backpack combo, I ditched my bags and headed out on a two-fold mission: find me a way to the beach and then track down some frozen yogurt.  Two hours of sleep and a burst of adrenaline powered me through a successful first day in Thailand.  In addition to booking an overnight bus to the beach tomorrow and indulging in some long-awaited fro-yo, I:

• ·         Rode a boat upstream and then traversed essentially the entire city by foot
• ·          Survived my first tuk-tuk ride
• ·          Indulged in two cups of real iced coffee (not the coffee milkshake Swazi style iced coffee) for the first time since leaving the States
• ·         Took a risk on the sliced mango from the street vendor (this ended poorly in Guatemala) and have zero regrets…not yet, at least….
• ·          Purchased some flowy elephant print fabric shorts to complete my dirty backpacker wardrobe and supplement my ill-fitting makeshift jorts that I crafted from my old jeans
• ·         Basked in the glory of AC in Bangkok’s shiny malls, meandering aimlessly throughout the stores, fingering the beautiful clothes and then quickly retreating after measuring up the price tags next to my Peace Corps stipend

I’ll admit that Day 1 was a bit overwhelming, vacillating from moments of ecstasy as I embraced the freedom of solo travel to moments of longing for the familiarity of Swaziland.  Peace Corps Volunteers are notorious for scoffing at tourists, making snide remarks about their inability to converse in the local dialect and their utter disregard for cultural norms.  Snobby, I know.  We pride ourselves in the intimacy of our integration.  Here I am on the other side, fully aware of my clueless foreigner status, frequently consulting my map on street corners and likely paying the “umlungu discount” for basic services.  It’s certainly humbling, especially coming from such a small country where a trip to town guaranteed a run-in with a familiar face.  Towards the end of the day, the stimulation overload of city life began to wear me down.  I returned to my hostel exhausted, covered in a sweaty grime of humidity, travel, and pollution.  Just as I collapsed onto my bed in the empty dorm room, feeling a bit far from home, in walks not just another American, but a Peace Corps Volunteer serving in Thailand.  My loneliness quickly subsided as we bonded over our shared background.  That’s the beauty of travel: this ability to connect, to share in our common humanity, even on the outskirts of our comfort zone.  

From Swaziland to Southeast Asia

Well, it’s official: As of Thursday August 14 at midnight, I am a Returned (…returning…) Peace Corps Volunteer.  I haven’t fully processed the magnitude of the change that has rocked my world over the course of the past week.  An odd analogy, I know, but I liken my response to a turtle, slowly poking its’ head out and then quickly retreating to the safety of its shell.  I go through moments of just barely grasping the reality that hut life is behind me, but then quickly snap back into the present, not fully ready to accept the permanence of this transition.  That’s what this trip is for though.  These next 7.5 weeks of travel are not a unique and separate journey, like vacations I have taken in the past, but a continuation of the greater journey on the path I’ve been walking since setting foot on African soil.  They mark the next step of the transition, a blending of past, present, and future.  Of processing the ups and downs of the past two years, of celebrating my newly-acquired RPCV status, of indulging my wanderlust, of praying over this next season of my life.  This trip is much more of a personal, spiritual sojourn than a site-seeing extravaganza. 

So, what exactly is on deck for this eat, pray, run/hike/yoga/tan/drink-fancy-drinks-with-umbrellas-while-lounging-in-a-hammock adventure?

First stop: Thailand.  Mission: Eat, pray, yoga, tan, R&R.  I’m currently en route from Joburg to Bangkok and I have every intention of hopping on the first train to the islands once I get my bearings.  I’m bringing a bit of that unhurried, unplanned, Swazi way of living with me and my plans for this stretch of the trip are pretty loose.  I’ve booked a bungalow on the beach on the island of Koh Phangnam for several nights, but apart from that my only plans include: reading, journaling, praying, and exposing those pasty parts of my body that haven’t seen the light of day for far too long.  Expect obnoxious photos of my feet in a hammock against the sunset with maybe a pina colada slipped in there.  Sorry I’m not sorry, two years of hut life warrants some celebration. 

Next up: Vietnam.  Mission: eat, pray, run, REUNITE WITH MELINH.  For those of you concerned that I’ll be gallivanting around Southeast Asia solo for two months, have no fear.  For 10-ish days, I’ll be blessed with the company of my good friend from Emory, Melinh, who has been living in Vietnam for about as long as I’ve been in Swaziland.  From her place in Ho Chi Minh City, we’ll head to Danang and Hoi An, where I’ll be tackling the beast that is the Danang International Marathon.  From Hoi An we’ll head to the beach at Nah Trang and then back to Ho Chi Minh City to catch a glimpse of Melinh’s life in Vietnam.  When we’re not catching each other up on all of the adventures of the past two years, you can find us chilling at a beach front brewery and eating ridiculously delicious Vietnamese food.

Third stop: Cambodia.  Mission: eat, pray, EXPLORE.  Apart from the obligatory visit to Angkor Wat and a visit to a local Peace Corps volunteer, my plans for Cambodia are pretty open.  Limited internet combined with the rush of goodbyes and closing out projects meant minimal planning for this part of the journey, but I like it better that way.  At some point while I’m there, I’ll turn 24, so I’ll be toasting to that!

And then: back to Thailand.  Mission: eat, pray, ZEN.  From Cambodia, I’ll head to northern Thailand for a week of yoga and meditation.  I’ve found a place called the New Life Foundation, which from what I gather on their website is somewhat of a recovery center for stress, burnout, and addiction.  Sounds like exactly what I need, minus the addiction part.  I’ll be serving as a volunteer on their sustainable farm in exchange for discounted rates and access to all of the yoga and meditation activities that the residents enjoy.  I’m looking forward to the opportunity to reflect and practice the art of remaining present, especially in light of my impending reentry into American life.  But apart from getting my Zen on, the highlight of Thailand Part 2: reuniting with my parents at long last!  My mom will join me for a few days at the center before we meet up with my dad in Chiang Mai for some elephant rides and a Thai cooking class.

Final stop: Bhutan.  Mission: eat, pray, HIKE and ENJOY MY PARENTS.  From Thailand, we’ll journey to the Kingdom of Bhutan, the land of Gross National Happiness, for two weeks of trekking through the Himalayas.  More importantly, we’ll be celebrating our long-awaited reunion. 

When I returned back to Swaziland after my visit home in January, I was hesitant to commit to such a long trip for fear that I’d be burnt out and eager to return home upon completion of my service.  Taking the leap of faith and going for it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.  I’m not ready for America yet.  I need this time of prayer, reflection, adventure, recovery, and celebration.  If not now, when?  There is nothing holding me back: no boyfriend, no job, no school, no kids.  I’m wise enough to know that life has a tendency of getting in the way.  I’ve had the same conversation with numerous people: “I was going to do Peace Corps, but then…”  We so often get bogged down by what we think we are supposed to be doing that we sometimes fail to recognize what we really need.  I need this.

Cliché, I know, but the only way I can think to conclude this ending of an era and commencement of this new chapter is with the words of Kerouac:

“What is that feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain til you see their specks dispersing? – It’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-bye.  But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”

final khumbi ride out of Swaziland

rocking the double backpack, or as we fondly call it, "Turtle up," with fellow RPCVs before jetsetting around the world 

celebrating our final night in Africa with some sparkling wine

Transition

Written August 7 2014

Transition.  A word that has snuck into my life with gusto, uprooting the life that I’ve finally settled into and sending me forth into uncharted territory.  Language is a beautiful thing, one word representing such a spectrum of sentiments.   It’s more than the shifting of old to new, of past to future.  It’s a process, a journey.  It’s a mourning for what was, an eager anticipation of what’s to come, a renewed appreciation for the life, the people, the land that you may have taken for granted.  It has no designated start and finish.  It begins long before the physical act of moving and extends past the moment of relocation.  For me it began several months ago, this realization that I am hovering at the precipice of such drastic change.  I’m in limbo, stranded between past and future, struggling to grab hold of the present.  I exist in two separate worlds, not fully belonging to either.  Africa, Swaziland, is part of me now.  It always will be.  I will never be the same.

Stay present.  That’s what everyone tells me and for the most part, I’ve been able to do so.  But part of this presence is allowing my mind to wander, stepping back to recognize how far I’ve come.  Life and work in community can be suffocating at times.  Every day brings a new battle, motivating counterparts to assume responsibility, staying patient with the process, keeping calm when the kids beg for sweets or the women pinch your love handles.  Simply living can take its toll, operating out of a bucket, living in a space that serves as your bedroom, your toilet, your kitchen, and your gym.  It’s difficult to see the bigger picture when you’re struggling to stay afloat. 

As my projects come to a close, I’ve entered a period of simply being.  It has been a time of reflection and of healing.  Blessed is the only word that comes to mind to describe the past month.  I’m finally beginning to understand the magic of Africa so often romanticized by travelers who likely haven’t fully immersed themselves in the less-than-magical realities of this continent.  Lately I’ve been soaking it all in: the morning runs through sugar cane fields beneath the rising sun, the silhouettes of barren acacia trees against the glow of dusk, the unpolluted clarity of the Southern Cross and stars at night, the orchestra of roosters, goats, cows, and birds each morning, once abrasive to my ears, welcoming the new day.  Swimming in the river with a gangle of girls eager to see how the umlungu  fares in water, detouring home through the bush in search of giraffes in the bed of a pickup beneath a starry sky, sharing meals around a smoky fire with my closest friend, laughing as we recall memories, crying in anticipation of goodbye.  Even the absurdity of public transport has redeemed itself with a certain charm: marriage proposals from a mute bus preacher, face to face encounters with cows through the khumbi window, the live chicken flailing in a plastic bag on my neighbor’s lap.  I’m romanticizing it too, I know that I am.  It doesn’t detract from the moments of frustration, despair, rage, and homesickness that I’ve experienced over these past 26 months.  Those were real, and I won’t forget them.  If I do, I have 3 journals chalked full of tirades to remind me.  But I’ve needed this time of bliss, of fully experiencing the peace of unrushed life, of embracing the relationships for what they are without the pressure of my work-related agenda.  My departure from Swaziland does not mark the end of my time in Africa.  I will be back, probably intermittently for the rest of my life.  The Lord is using this period to heal my heart for Africa, for Swaziland.  To remind me that despite all of the disease, corruption, violence, and injustice, He is bigger.  He is in control. Someway, somehow.  Swaziland shattered my idealism long ago, but I leave hopeful, and more so grateful for all that I have experienced in these past two years, the good and the bad.  For the countless times I failed, for the afternoons spent learning traditional dancing, for the women who have inspired me with their strength and resilience, for the sleepless nights I spent questioning it all, for the incredible friends I’ve made along the way (Swazi, American, Portuguese, South African), and for the family and community that has welcomed me as their own, that has humbled me, fed me, forgiven me, and reminded me of our common humanity.

The transition does not end here.  But for this step of the journey I am grateful.  

Gogo Jele: Crutches, Booze, and Prawns

As my time in Swaziland winds to an end, I seek to reflect on the aspects of Swaziland that have made my experience meaningful and unique. I have been blessed with the opportunity to live and dwell in this rural community alongside a host of characters that bring life to this sleepy village.  Some have become close friends while others I have simply observed from afar, but all have in some way impacted me, bring my joy, making me laugh, and reminding me to count my blessings.  I am embarking on an attempt to chronicle these individuals, as I feel we all have something to learn from their stories.  I wish that Megan could be here to more eloquently document these unique personalities, but in her absence I will do my best. 

Gogo Jele

My crippled, widowed, unemployed, impoverished, HIV positive, most likely diabetic neighbor.  Sure, on paper she looks like a cause for sympathy.  But don’t let her sad story fool you – homegirl can’t be stopped.  I first noticed Gogo Jele one day early in my service as I was sitting in bed enjoying my morning coffee.  At this point I was unaccustomed to the general absurdity of life here and was startled to find an fleshy old woman, clad in only a sheet of fabric wrapped loosely around her chest, crutching along while balancing an entire bundle of firewood on her head.  Talk about a BAMF.  I soon observed that she is essentially an adopted member of the family, despite her residence in a modest stone hut located separate, but adjacent to our homestead.  Living alone and without any reliable income, Gogo Jele subsists on the generosity of my Make and Babe.  I wake each morning to the clang of her crutches outside my hut as she heads to the main house in search of the morning’s handout – bread, maize porridge, cold water, and leftover chicken parts on special occasions.  She’ll crutch home with said goodies balanced on her head, singing joyfully.  Some days when I run, I’ll find her miles from home, hobbling back with a backpack full of prawns from the river.  God knows how long the journey takes her or how she manages to catch the prawns, but somehow she finds a way. 

So Gogo Jele is a bada** on crutches.  But her real claim to fame: this lady knows how to throw back the booze.  Seriously.  She could give any frat star a run for their money – she’s a tank.  In fact, I can’t be certain whether I’ve ever seen her sober.  The local shebeen (bar) is conveniently located just up the hill from our homestead.  This mud hut bar beckons a rowdy crowd of the village rejects, offering a reprieve from the loneliness and monotony of rural living.  On any given afternoon Gogo Jele can be found crutching up the hill, sporting her finest outfit, ready to shotgun some maize brew.  She must have a sugar daddy or someone who hooks her up with drinks, because she her lack of income won’t get her far in the way of belligerency.  Either that or her wit and charm earn her free drinks on the house (on the hut?).  At dusk she hobbles back down the hill, slurring her songs and chuckling to herself. 

She’ll be the first to tell you how much she loves tjwala (alcohol).  In fact, when my mom and Megan came to visit, she refrained from greeting them according to traditional Swazi etiquette.  Instead, she simply mumbled to herself, “Gogo Jele utsandza kunatsa tjwala.”  Gogo Jele loves to drink alcohol. 

Her favorite time of year: marula season, when the fermented fruit drink is more readily available than water.  From February until the end of the harvest in late March, Gogo Jele basks in the abundance of marula brew, her world revolving around its preparation and consumption. She has bartered with her more straight-edge neighbors for access to their marula harvest, hauling large bags of the fruit back to her homestead, where she diligently prepares for the drink the remainder of the afternoon before heading back up the hill for the evening festivities.  Gogo Jele is truly at her prime during marula season and on several occasions her drinking habits have impeded her ability to return home safely.  Most recently, she has called upon our family to rescue her after losing balance on her trek back from the bar after several jugfulls of drink.  Upon discovery that a rescue entailed a free lift home in a wheelbarrow, she has conveniently upped the frequency of her requests for rescue missions. 

The latest news with Gogo Jele:  The bar owner has recently gifted her with her very own cell phone.  Gogo can now call ahead to ensure that the brew is in plentiful stock before making the journey for her daily dose. 

Gogo’s thirst for both booze and life bring color to our often bleak rural community.  Some might critique her excessive drinking habits, arguing that they hinder her progression out of poverty.  Sure, if she cut back on the drink she could probably save a couple rand, spare her liver, and possibly tack on a few extra years on her life.  But who can blame her for making the most out of her unfortunate situation?  The community has embraced her, belligerence, crutches, and all.  I know that as a “community health educator,” I should probably be lecturing her on the health implications of excessive alcohol consumption, especially on an empty stomach and whilst taking ARVS.  But all I can do is sit back and applaud her zest for life.  So many of us choose to dwell in the sorrows of our less-than-perfect lives.  To say that Gogo Jele has been dealt some pretty crappy cards in her lifetime would be a severe understatement.  However, not once have I heard her resent her situation or wallow in self-pity like so many others, including myself.  Come to think of it, she is the only person in our community who has not asked me for handouts.  Gogo Jele refuses to succumb to her poverty, her disability, or her poor health.  Not only has she lifted my spirits on gloomy days with her jolly chuckle, but she inspires me with her zest for life, encouraging me to seize the opportunities with which I have been blessed.  I think we all need a bit of “Gogo Jele” spunk in our lives.

Shop with the Red Rhinos!

In light of the Red Rhinos’ recent success, I feel suddenly inspired to promote their blossoming business wherever possible.  Some of you have suggested we set up an online site where the women can sell their goods abroad, but considering the general lack of wifi in this godforsaken Kingdom, exorbitant shipping costs, and the overall mystery that is the African postal system, I don’t see that happening in the near future.  BUT, today I’m presenting you with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to shop with the Red Rhinos.  On April 4, my father and grandmother arrive in Swaziland and have agreed to transport goods back to the States for those of you who are interested.  Here’s how this will work for those of you pining for some African bling: I will post photos for the items for sale.  You shoot me an email at kefreeman9@gmail.com with your order.  Each product is individually crafted, so if you specify the general color scheme/pattern you’re looking for, I’ll do my best to pick out something that matches your request. You send money to my lovely sales reps (Cali folks, this means my mom, dad, or grandma.  ATL folks, this means the beautiful Megan Freeman).  You can expect to get your goods in mid-April upon my dad and grandmas’ return to Amurica.  I am hoping to purchase the goods on March 14, when I travel with Busi and Ivy (Red Rhino co-MVPs) to meet the group of women who are actually making the goods.  We will still accept orders up until April 4, but if possible, I would love to receive them by March 13. 

For those who need a refresher on the history of Red Rhinos:  The Red Rhinos are composed of seven women from a rural Swazi community that serves host to the nation’s most esteemed Safari Game Reserve.  The Red Rhinos have partnered with Bambanani, a group of skilled artisans from the south of Swaziland that lack a local market to sell their goods.  The constant flux of tourists through our community makes it the ideal location for a market.  Both Bambanani and the Red Rhinos are composed to women who play active roles in the community, volunteering as caregivers to serve the sick, elderly, and orphaned.  Caregivers are uncompensated and the women often use their own money to purchase soap, gloves, adult diapers, and food for the families they serve.  Many of my women are involved with the community HIV support group and lead their peers in exemplifying the meaning of “positive living.”  These women lack a reliable source of income, so this business partnership provides them with the means to purchase more nutritious food for their families, pay medical fees, and send their children to school.  This business has empowered the women from both groups to take ownership of their own lives and enables them to continue to serve their communities as volunteers. 

That being said, here’s what we’re offering:

More shots of the bags featured above - all are reversible and have different prints on the inside

Prices are as follows:

Earrings (woven and beaded): $5

Double-stranded bracelet: $5

Necklaces: $7

E-reader bag: $10

I-pad bag: $12

Bucket bag: $15

If you have a knack for rocking African jewelry, send me an email and we will hook you up!

Thank you all for your support! And special thanks to those who have listened graciously as I vented about this project and celebrated the revival of what I once thought was doomed to fail!

Life is Good

If you’d asked me 6 months ago what I’d miss most about Swaziland, I would have thought long and hard.  I probably would’ve responded with something vague: the sunsets and sunrises and the culture of greeting people.  I’m not sure whether it was the rejuvenating trip home that left me with a fresh perspective or the fact that everything came together over the course of the past week, but somehow I’m coming to realize that saying goodbye to these people and this place is going to be harder than I originally anticipated.  I fear that as my time here winds to an end and as I transition beyond this season of my life I’ll over-romanticize my experience.  I don’t want to forget the sleepless nights, the tearful phone calls home, and the days I nearly packed up and peaced out of Swaziland.  I want to remember those moments so that I can maintain a realistic vision of what development looks like on the ground, especially as I move towards a career in public health and international development.  But I also want to take a moment to celebrate how freaking AWESOME it feels when things finally fall into place, especially in light of all of the setbacks we had to overcome to get here.  The majority of this blog has documented the failures of my Peace Corps service, so today I’ll take advantage of the fact that there are actually some successes to report(!)  Here’s a taste of what’s been going on lately:

GLOW:  After attending training with my counterpart in January, our GLOW club is up and running this school year.  Somehow, we quickly went from zero teacher involvement to having three regular teacher counterparts who are sharing the responsibility of leading the club.  I played a much more instrumental role in club last year, but after watching and learning, these teachers are taking the lead.  Last week about 15 girls attended and learned about menstruation, a mystery to many of the young girls who are raised without a mother figure to help them navigate these major life changes.  When I see my GLOW girls in town or on the bus, they always ask whether I’ll be coming on Friday – it’s these little victories that make it all worth it. 

Library Project:  I won’t delve into the fiasco that it has been working with the administration at this school, but I will say that after purchasing the books five months ago, the new library stock is finally being put to good use.  Last March when we began working on this project, I presented the idea of a reading competition as an incentive to encourage the students to read.  Well, nearly a year later, the school is finally on board to get this thing rolling.  Last week they announced the competition to the school: “Last year Nosipho raised X amount of money from the American people to buy us books.  As part of her grant, she has to do a reading competition.  If we don’t do it, Peace Corps won’t let her go back to America in August.  Read books so she can go back.”  Not exactly how I anticipated the promotion to go, but it worked nonetheless!  Now during my career guidance classes, I find kids reading behind their notebooks instead of paying attention to me.  I guess I can’t complain too much…

Career Guidance:  The high school has now entrusted me with four Career Guidance classes, so I’m relishing the opportunity to mentor these students.  Some highlights from last week’s “getting to know you” complete-the-sentence activity:

-My favorite part of my body is…penis, vagina, my breasts, viginal (nice spelling, girl), and private parts (penis) (thanks for the clarification, buddy)

-When I get angry, I…will beat everyone

-I don’t like…rice because…it is asia food

-When I am sad, I like eating banana

-My weakness is…­stabbing people in the back

-My biggest threat is…fancy car, iphone, fiancé (Justin Beiber) (I think this got lost in translation somehow…)

Yesterday I mentored some young boys on how to release themselves from the grip of their “Sugar Mammas” – I’m changing lives over here, y’all.

Red Rhinos: 6 months later, I am ELATED to report that the Red Rhinos are finally taking off!  We still don’t have a consistent showing from all members, but we’re getting there.  Two of the members, Busi and Ivy, have inspired me with their commitment to this project, encouraging me to have faith in my moments of doubt.  Over the course of the past three weeks, at least one of them has been at the market every day, rain or shine.  They initially hid under the shade of a large acacia tree, not realizing that while the spot served as a refuge from the African sun, it also was not visible to tourists passing through.  The market is located at the pickup point for guests entering the game reserve, so most guests arrive early and park their cars in the dirt lot.  I have encouraged the ladies to move their goods out into the sun and closer to the lot.  It didn’t take long for them to realize that this relocation was well worth the heat.  I also made a sign using chalkboard paint on an old cardboard box and this seems to draw attention to the goods.  These two changes have led to a significant increase in business.  Last Thursday, the women sold nearly ALL of their stock and have sold at least one item every day since.   Upon witnessing their success, the rest of the members now have a sudden interest in the business.   To celebrate our recent success, we will start building a permanent structure next week.  Words don’t do justice to how awesome it feels to see this come together.  I am so encouraged by Busi and Ivy’s faith in this business.  They have picked me up when I was on the verge of abandoning the project and I could not be happier that they are finally witnessing the fruits of their labor – they deserve it!

Ivy

Busi and her son, Mcawe

It feels really good to be at a point where the cancelled meetings, endless excuses, and hours spent waiting finally seem worth it.  I’m thankful that I heeded the advice of the second year volunteers that claimed that Year 2 is what makes your service.  I’m starting to really grasp why Peace Corps is a two year commitment – it takes a significant amount of time and effort to truly integrate into a community and to gain the trust and respect of your work partners.  Over time, I’ve slowly expanded my network and understanding of the ins and outs of the community.  I will always be an outsider, but right now I feel about as “in” as I can hope for.  I recently found myself caught in the throws of family drama – it doesn’t get more integrated than that.  So, things are looking up as I approach the final months of my service.  I know that there will still be roadblocks ahead, but right now I’m savoring this success.