The Bad News: Death isn't Fair

It's a well known fact that life is not fair.

We all have our own stories and examples to illustrate this universal trait.

In the past few months in particular, what I've come to realize is that death, like life, is just as unfair, if not more so.

Death is as impartial, unbiased, unprejudiced, unjust, inconsiderate and infuriating as anything on this earth. And recently, it has stepped on one of my few remaining nerves, igniting an anger inside me that makes me want to pummel death back to life. I am unable to truly put into words how much the "unfairness" of death has affected me. I suppose it's something we all have to get used to, but just because we all have to do it, doesn't make it any easier to deal with.

The back story...

I don't keep in touch with many people from Vorova, but I still maintain contact with a few friends who I felt very close to. As is the case in many small rural villages, many people within a community are members of only a few extended families. From what I could gather, there were only about 2 or 3 groups of families in Vorova. My good friend, Jealous, is part of the rather large Mhlongo family. Jealous is in his 30s, has three children and a wife. They are a close-knit nuclear family - the closest I had met in the entire village. Jealous has had a job as a farm manager at a nearby farm for the past 10 years, but despite his length of time on the job, the 10 to 12 hour days he works, and the number of responsibilities and skills he has acquired, he still gets paid less than 900 rand per month (about $120). That is not very good even by rural South African standards.

Jealous had always struck me as a family man. Don't let his uncommon name fool you (I think it's actually a variation on "Julius"). He is a gentle, mellow soul, and a man of intelligence, even though he only finished school up to 5th grade. He is reasonable, good-natured and kind hearted. He is proud of his achievements, frustrated at the system he lives in, but very optimistic for his childrens' future.

Jealous

I left Jealous a message about a month and a half ago. I wanted to see how he was doing and how life was being lived in Vorova. Two weeks ago, he sent me a text message back. While it was good to hear from him, he had sad news to report. His text read:

"Hi joey igreatyou,ihaverecive yourmessage.W e are still alivebutnot allofus.Surprise,died onthe 20.06.2008.So weburriedhim isthat all by .Jealous"

The message, though somewhat cryptic, left me speechless and feeling like I had been shocked by an electric fence. There was confusion and doubt at first, then all of a sudden, a stinging pain coming from somewhere inside of me. I understood the message loud and clear, and it hurt me to do so.

Surprise, not yet 3 years old, was the youngest member of the Mhlongo family. He was Jealous' nephew, and brother to my closest companion in the village, Selby, who is 12.

Surprise

Selby and Surprise lost both of their parents 2 years ago (the assumption is that they died of AIDS, but virtually no one talks about it the disease openly, so I could never get the full story). The two brothers were being raised by their aging grandparents and older aunts and uncles who live nearby. Selby stood out from most of the other young boys in the village in my eyes, because he was more reserved, a bit shy, but most of all, was the most respectful of them all. It's hard to really describe why one may become attached to one kid over another in this type of situation, but there are reasons for it, even if they can't be explained or justified. Selby was that kid for me. I felt like he was the much younger brother I never had. (My actual younger brother is only two years younger than me, which isn't that much younger, but he's stronger than me and could very likely beat me up, so it's not quite the same. Shout out to him now: Love you Brother)

It was pretty obvious by his behaviour and demeanor that Selby had been strongly affected by the loss of both his parents, and he was probably in the same mental state as any 12 year old would be who had gone thru such an ordeal. In our time together, Selby reminded me a lot of myself when I was younger (or what I think I was like back then - Mom and Dad would have to verify). He was a smart kid, but made silly mistakes, and didn't seem to have the same level of street smarts as the other boys. Selby wasn't the strongest kid, and he didn't take being made fun of by the other boys very well. He looked up to me a lot and was the only kid who respected what I had asked of the group of boys.

Often times I would have a group of boys over to where I was staying, and they would help me water my garden or I'd show them some magic tricks or let them play my guitar. Being 12 year old boys, they would often get rowdy and would begin doing things they weren't supposed to do - things like fighting over insignificant objects, hitting each other, handling my breakable possessions as if they were designed to play tug-of-war with, etc. I would always ask them nicely to change their behaviour and to essentially "chill out". They didn't always listen to me. When it came down to it, Selby would see that I was getting annoyed and angry with the boys, and he would tell them in siSwati that it was time to go because they were being disrespectful and I was getting fed up with them... all without me saying anything. Selby was very conscious of me and my frame of mind. He could read me very well.

Selby and I (being awesome)

Selby understood and spoke very little English, which was the same for me with regards to siSwati. Although we were able to verbally communicate effectively only about 40% of the time, we were able to communicate on a different, non-verbal level. I tried not to play favourites with the young boys, and I succeeded outwardly in that regard I suppose, but Selby was always different from the rest, and he always will be. I want so badly for him to break out of the cycle of poverty and hopelessness that surrounds him. I don't want you to think I'm heartless - I want that for all the young boys, obviously - but I didn't see the desire for that to happen within them like I did in Selby.

Another thing I noticed about Selby was that he cared deeply for his younger brother, Surprise. I didn't get to know Surprise very well - he was extremely shy, uncomfortable, and seemed very untrusting of anyone who didn't live within the makeshift mud and reed gates and walls that made up his world. What always struck me most about Surprise though, was the perpetual sadness that emanated from his small dark eyes. I rarely saw him playing with other kids, and I only saw him smile once in the 8 months I knew him. I never saw or heard him laugh. I would talk to him in siSwati with Selby next to me, but he always turned away. When I would greet him and try to give him a high-five or shake his hand, he let me take his hand but made no effort to comply with the gesture. He just looked at me with a skeptical and disinterested gaze.

Side note: Surprise also rarely ever wore pants.

I called Jealous after I received his message because I was curious to know what had happened.

Why had Surprise died?

It turns out that there had been an outbreak of cholera in Revolver Creek. Jealous told me that Surprise had died soon after he got sick, as did 3 older people in the village. A number of other people had contracted the disease, but had not died. I don't know if Surprise was HIV positive. But it wouldn't really have mattered if he was or wasn't. Almost any child under the age of 5 wouldn't stand much of a chance in a fight against cholera.

I tried asking Jealous how Surprise had contracted the disease. He didn't know how it happened, and he was rightly skeptical of the shady reasoning given to them by the Dept. of Health, whose explanation was that "people from the mines brought it in". Whatever that means. No one works in the mines in Vorova. To my limited yet constantly increasing knowledge base, cholera is transmitted most often thru contaminated water. I checked up on the disease on Wikipedia and got schooled on just how vicious the disease is. An excerpt on how it's transmitted...

"Cholera is transmitted from person to person through ingestion of water contaminated with the cholera bacterium, usually from feces or other effluent. The source of the contamination is typically other cholera patients when their untreated diarrhoea discharge is allowed to get into waterways or into groundwater or drinking water supply. Any infected water and any foods washed in the water, can cause an infection."

No one was sure how exactly how the disease spread thru the village. Cholera used to be a common problem in the area that resurfaced frequently before the neighbouring farm allowed the community to take water from the taps on its property. But it had been years since the last outbreak.

My thoughts went immediately to the canal water that runs thru the Vorova. I believe it most likely had originated there. I had been trying to get the people of Revolver Creek access to clean water for months because the situation was so dire. I would have been furious if the cause of the outbreak was the canal.

As was told in my previous blog post, Vorova had a functional water system at the time of this outbreak. That's encouraging, but... the canal was still there, and it's not going anywhere in the future. Maybe people were still washing their pots and pans and food with the canal water. I imagine that old habits die hard, even in desperate circumstances. I can only speculate that the combination of the canal water and overall poor hygienic conditions in the village lead to an outbreak that claimed the lives of those whose bodies were too weak to fight it. I don't know what else to think. I can't help but have my mind wander and wonder.

The good news of the clean water system was for the time being, overshadowed immensely by Surprise's death.

The way events have played out over the past few months has been a hard thing for me to come to peace with. I am thrilled that there is a clean water system in place now, and I do celebrate this success. However, a larger picture emerges from recent events. Despite the fact that there was a functional water system in the village, there was still an outbreak of a water borne disease. This shows that although clean water is a huge step in the right direction in terms of development, it is not a silver bullet in terms of solving the plethora of problems faced by poverty stricken communities every day. Sanitation and hygiene issues must also be emphasized when working in community development.

People will be happy to have access to pit toilets as opposed to having to shit in the bush, but germs and disease will still spread if people don't think to wash their hands after using the latrine. Infrastructure is not the only thing that must be developed - people must be educated about how to maintain healthy lives for themselves and their children.

At the risk of sounding preachy, please allow me to ascend onto my temporary soap box...

I am much more angry than sad at the thought of Surprise's early death. There is nothing normal or natural about a 3 year old child dying... at least it shouldn't be considered normal. And it's not - in the first world at least. The maddening thing is that it is accepted as a fact of life in the developing world. The death of children in the third world is so widespread that you have no choice but to numb yourself to the idea that these kids never got a chance at living their lives.

Even more maddening is the fact that the way in which the majority of children in developing countries around the world meet their premature end, is due to completely preventable problems, such as a lack of access to clean water, malnutrition, poor hygienic conditions, and locally unavailable inoculations and vaccinations - some that cost less than 10 cents to administer.

As I mentioned before, I wasn't very close to Surprise. However, I was [and still am, in my heart] very close to Selby. How would I have reacted if I heard that it was Selby who fell ill and died in this fashion? I don't like to ponder that thought. I fear for him and all the other kids in similar living situations throughout Africa and the world. There is so much that needs to be done to try and offer them a fair shot at life. But where does one even begin? Selby is now the only person left in his nuclear family. He lost both his parents, and his younger brother, all within a time span of 2 years. How does one expect him to cope? Who will be there for him to support him emotionally as he grows up? Will he ever have a chance to come to peace with all that has happened around him?

Selby is one of many in this situation. I can't be there for all the kids in his situation. No one can be there for everyone. Hell, I can't even be there for him for more than a few months of his young life.

But what I can do, is be there for him when I am nearby. I can let him know that there are still people in the world who care about him, who love and support him, no matter how far away they live. I'd like to think that I've let him know that already, since before I left.

Being in Peace Corps and/or working in development in any regard is so much more than helping people to help themselves, to lift themselves up... it's so much more than advancing social causes and organizations, improving education systems, etc.

At the core of all the work we do and the lives we live both abroad and at home, is a passion and motivation that cannot be accurately portrayed in words. It can only be felt. That motivation and passion, as best I can try and explain it, is what is most precious to all of us - it is that sense of connection - pure human connection that is at the foundation of all the emotions we are capable of feeling. It is this connection that transcends every other reason and detail of why we do what we do.

Gontse and I - January 2005

When people ask me if I ever regret coming here and doing what I'm doing, given my less than stellar experience over the past year, at times I am tempted to say "maybe a little bit". But I never do. All I do is think about Selby, and Rafilwe, and Gontse, and about all the other kids that have touched my life so deeply, and it doesn't take long for me to answer the question with a resounding and whole-hearted "No."

The bad news hurts and the effect still lingers. And I'm sure that there will be more bad news to come in the future as well. Some things we cannot fix right away. But there is light and hope that shines thru here too. There will always be good news to counter the bad, if we want it badly enough and work to see it thru.

I don't regret any of this. How could I? Just look at all the beautiful people who have changed me and my life forever...

I only hope that I can do the same for them in return.

The Good News

I'm pregnant.

Ha! Just kidding. Or am I?

No, I am. I think.

Kidding, that is.

I wanted to take this opportunity to share with any readers who still read this, a relatively big success story for me.

As many of you may or may not know, my focus over the past 8 months has been getting communities access to clean water. I started down this path after witnessing the desperate conditions in the community near my first site in Mpumalanga called, Revolver Creek.

Revolver Creek was [and still is] to put it lightly, extremely poor. The people living there are on the bottom rung of the ladder of development, and yet only 40 km in any direction, there are affluent suburbs and growing cities - people are living no less comfortably there than many do back in upper and middle class American towns.

The village of Revolver Creek (called Vorova by those who live there) consists of approximately 60 households, home to about 250 people. The houses are made of dried reeds and mud, usually topped off with scavenged pieces of corrugated tin. Despite the very basic structure and architecture, the houses are very weatherproof. I can attest to this fact after my experience when I took shelter in one during a freak rainstorm back in January. The humble abode that kept me and 12 others dry, had two beds inside - one full size, one twin - a small counter top and a plethora of milk crates which served as seats, storage, tables, step stools and even as cat traps if there was a mischievous boy in the house. It is dark in the houses because there are no windows. Ventilation is poor, but for nothing more than mud and sticks, it is a reliable shelter.

A view of Vorova

As could be expected, there is no running water and no electricity in Vorova. This description sounds like a cliche of much of the third world, but the meaning and significance of "no running water" and "no electricity" varies greatly from one place to the next. It is one thing to live without these luxuries if you live in a climate zone where the rain comes often and the temperature never becomes uncomfortably or unbearably cold. It is a completely different story if you live where the rain is seasonal, sporadic and unpredictable, and during winters the nites can drop to almost freezing. Vorova falls into the latter category.

Unemployment is not just high, but it is accepted as a fact of life. There is very little work around, and the work that is available can be dangerous and doesn't pay very well - such as working at the nearby timbermill, chemical yard, or neighbouring farms picking tomatoes and other fruits. Money is tight, resources are scarce and most people don't have space to even grow a garden for themselves.

I could go on about the problems that plague Vorova and other small villages just like it nearby, but this post is meant to share the latest good news from the village.

I'm getting to it, I promise.

Back in January, I noticed that many kids in Vorova had developed some really nasty looking sores on their arms and legs. It looked like a mosquito had bitten them - but it looked like the mosquito was the size of a small hawk and had a proboscus the size of a 1/4 inch drill bit. There was something not quite right about the bites...


After doing some light research, I found out that what had been happening, was that the kids would scratch the mosquito bites so much that they would open up. Then, when they would play or bathe in the filthy canal water running thru the village, the water would get into the open wounds and the wounds would get infected.

Seeing this condition spread so rapidly lead me to really think hard about the myriad of problems that face communities throughout Africa and the rest of the developing world. It made me rethink my "assignment" of HIV/AIDS education, and question what it was I wanted to and what I could actually focus on during my time here.

The more I talked to people, the more I began to realize that very few people actually cared about HIV/AIDS. Yes, it's a problem, and a number of people were even infected in Vorova (though no one talked about it). But the reason no one cared about HIV/AIDS was because everyone was [and still is] more concerned about what they were going to eat that nite and the day after.

When people live in conditions of extreme poverty, everyone lives in survival mode. They think in terms of day to day, not month to month, and very few people seem to have dreams for their long term future, which is completely opposite from the mindset we have at home in the US.

Besides food issues, the other main problem facing Vorova and other communities nearby is the relatively obvious lack of access to clean water. The only water source close by is the dirty, polluted and bacteria infested canal water, which is by no means safe to drink, and as illustrated by the example above, isn't really safe to wash with or play in either.

With all this in mind, I set my mind to finding a way to get the people of Vorova access to clean and safe drinking water.

The next 4 months at site were fraught with extreme frustration, dead ends, chasing down government officials, no one returning emails or phone calls, and seemingly nothing getting done, despite my best efforts.

In the weeks before I left my first site, I decided I no longer had much to lose, and decided to step up my efforts to get someone to recognize the water situation out in Revolver Creek. I went into town and walked directly into the Municipal Manager's office in the Barberton Municipality and made my case for bringing clean water to Revolver Creek. The man I spoke to had only had his position for a few months, and told me he was aware there were a number of villages in my area that needed clean water, but that they didn't fall into the municipality lines. Essentially, they were someone else's responsibility.

I knew this wasn't the case, but I didn't think this man was being dishonest. He obviously just didn't know he was wrong. So I stood up and punched him in the face.

I'm just kidding.

I would never do that. Besides, this guy seemed like a genuinely decent person.

I stood up and walked over to the big municipal map hanging on his office wall with all the borders precisely laid out, and pointed to Revolver Creek and all the small villages in that area. They clearly fell within the municipal borders, though they were close to the edge.

With this new insight, the man promised me he would make a personal to the site the next week.

Now, no matter how genuine a person is, I never take them at their word when they make an appointment to meet. True to form, my man didn't make it out the next week, but he did make it out the week after, which happened to be my last week at site. He brought a high ranking counselor with him to survey the area. They were an hour and a half late meeting me, which I normally wouldn't be happy about, but this time, it was excusable because during that hour and a half, they were visiting all the small villages buried in the landscape behind Vorova, which were even more isolated, but affected by the same issues.

Inspecting the old bore hole pump

I took my guests for a short tour of Vorova (the village is only so big), and introduced some of the older members of the community to them. They conversed for a while, and were shown the old broken bore hole that needed to be repaired, and they were shown the canal which people relied on for their water. Upon seeing the canal for the first time, the two government officials both recoiled unintentionally and let out an expression which in one syllable suggested the phrase, "Holy crap this is disgusting. I can't believe people even think to use this water."

Sensing this, I commented, "You can see why I was so pushy to get someone out here. The situation is pretty dire."

"Yes, we see now." was the somewhat sheepish reply.

For a number of months following, I heard nothing more of the situation.

Fast forward (or now, I guess it would be rewind) to three weeks ago. I was notified that since I left back in early May, the municipality had provided Vorova with a functional bore hole, water storage tanks, and even a couple of outdoor toilets.

..........

I don't think I can really express how good this news was to hear, and how important it really is for the people who live there. This news signified a huge success for me personally, and of course, for the people of Vorova as well.

So why didn't I feel any sense of relief? Of accomplishment? Of satisfaction? Why didn't I feel any different?

Why didn't I feel as happy as I thought I should be?

I had worked my ass off for months trying to get to the very end result that ended up happening. That's amazing and wonderful that it actually happened! It's honestly more than I expected to happen. I thought at best, Vorova would get looked at, put on the back burner, and eventually forgotten about. But the municipality went the extra mile and even installed pit latrines in the village. In reality, you can't really ask for more than that. I must applaud the people at the Barberton Municipality for following thru as they did.

I haven't been back myself to see the "new" situation yet. I hope to get there sometime over the next few months. When I do, I'll be sure to include pictures.

The real test will be to see how long the system is operational for. Working with Tsogang, I've heard many stories of government water systems working great for a month or two, then breaking down, and having no one go to fix them for weeks on end. This forces the people of a community to return to their contaminated water source, and it breeds contempt for government systems that are seen as unreliable.

That could be one reason I'm not as happy as I thought I'd be.

Another plausible reason is purely mental.

It's great that there is a functional water system in place. But there's still SO MUCH more that needs to be done. And not just in Vorova, but everywhere across this earth.

I've begun to get past this way of thinking though. It's a demoralizing, depressing, warm vat of spoiled milk and rotten eggs that serves as a breeding ground for pessimism and negativity. It's not a good place to be mentally.

It is my belief that anyone working in development must savour all the successes we rack up, no matter how small. The bigger picture is absolutely daunting - like climbing a mountain where the summit grows just as fast as you ascend. But even though you can't see the top, when you look back, you can marvel at just how far you, and everyone else has come.

The success story in Vorova was more than one step forward - it was a huge leap. Now, instead of worrying all at once about all the other problems that we must face, the focus must be on making sure we don't start slipping backwards from our recently acquired progression forward. The people of Vorova must be provided with the knowledge of how to fix the water system if it breaks down - they must know how to maintain it correctly. Most importantly though, the people of Vorova must feel that they have ownership over the new water system. They must view it as explicitly theirs.

It is at that point that we all can view this project as a true success, and begin tackling the next issue.

So let's keep moving forward.

Some of the kids from Vorova (with tree flowers, of course)

BDTJF: Part 2 - No Lettuce

When Phil didn't show up to collect me on Monday (or Tuesday), I went to go see Tom at his organization, Sekhukhune Educare Project (SEP). Tom was busy doing what he does, and I settled in to help my friend Shadrack order some books on theatre games and improv ideas for the children's drama group at SEP. Lunch time came around, and as is usually the case, I was hungry, and wanted to fill my belly with delicious food stuffs.

The Good Doctor

The good Doctor Tom Barker (he's holds a PhD in Awesome) decided we should go out for a bit, and do a little walkabout of BDTJF, so I could see it as he see's it in all it's glory and magnificence. After a small tour of the town, including houses where previous PCVs had stayed, and the stone patio beer shacks at the crossroads which carry the heavily potent stench of urine to any noses within a 100 meter radius, (we even casually observed an older man who had whipped it out and began relieving himself in plain view of anyone within eyeshot) we stopped at a small corner restaurant that Tom enjoys, expecting a decent lunch of burgers, fries, or something similar. We suspected something wasn't quite right when he noticed that the two usual people behind the counter, who are from Zimbabwe, were no longer there. There was a woman in her mid-20s sitting lazily in a stool who didn't even acknowledge us as we walked up to the counter.

Tom asked aloud for 2 menus, and [correctly] assuming that the girl didn't really understand English, he made the motions of opening up his hands like a book and holding up 2 fingers. Blankly, she reached for a napkin, and Tom said, "No no, 2 menus" and made the hand signals again. I saw this girl wasn't quite getting it, and so I grabbed the corner of what I saw was a menu behind the counter, and held it up. "Can we have one more of these?" I asked, holding up one finger and pointing to the menu. She got the visual reference, and found another one.

Tom and I stayed at the counter and made our lunch choices quickly, not wanting to lose the girl's attention. I ordered a burger with bacon, cheese, and fries on the side. Tom ordered a chicken burger with fries. We both pointed to our choices on our menus to be perfectly clear as to what we desired to ingest that afternoon.

This girl - we'll call her Lazi - half turned around and said something in siPedi to a man standing at the door to the "kitchen" behind her, accentuating our orders in English. The man answered something back and didn't move. Lazi kept her eyes lowered and said "No chicken." Tom reordered a Vienna (which is like a large hot dog) with fries on the side. The man disappeared thru the doorway, and Tom and I sat at a table and began to talk about the advantages of rocket boots over salami sandwiches.

Ok, so I don't really remember exactly what we spoke about initially, but our conversation eventually turned into just the type of venting and bonding session that is often needed between PCVs. And Tom is a great guy to talk to about all that stuff. This is is second time around doing Peace Corps.

About 15 minutes later, Lazi brought Tom's plate of food to the counter. Tom took it and asked for some ketchup. Lazi shook her head and said there was none. "No ketchup? ...Tomato sauce?" (the preferred name for ketchup here). Lazi shook her head again. That didn't make sense. Curious as to what the red plastic bottle standing amongst 3 yellow bottles was, I walked up to the counter, grabbed it, took it back to Tom, who poured some out, tasted it and said, "It's ketchup."

Huh. Go figure.

I understood that getting our food at the same time at a place like this was highly unlikely, so I was prepared to wait a bit longer for my burger. Fifteen minutes after Tom began eating, Lazi reemerged from the kitchen door, laughing at something inside. Tom raised his hands and pointed to the blank spot on the table in front of me. "Where's his food?" he asked.

Lazi stopped dead in her tracks and looked at Tom like he had 6 heads and something growing out of the ears in all of them. "I'm still waiting for my food", I said. Lazi backtracked into the kitchen.

Another fifteen minutes passed with no sign of Lazi. She reemerged in the same fashion as before and didn't acknowledge us until Tom and I repeated our gestures of confusion and inquiry. Again, Lazi froze up and looked as if she had been slapped in the face by a 40 year old hunchback in diapers, and stumbled back into the kitchen, more slowly than I thought was humanly possible.

She came out 5 minutes later and as she sat back down in her stool, without looking at us, she said very matter of factly, and in a conclusive tone,

"No lettuce."

.....

Now, for a few brief seconds, Tom and I were both utterly confused and a bit speechless. Then we seemed to snap out of it at the same time and started half-chuckling half-protesting the insanity of what she had just said. We quickly realized this course of action was not going to work or benefit anyone, so very calmly, I looked at her and said, still somewhat unbelievingly, "You can make a burger without lettuce, right? You can still make it with the beef, the cheese, the bacon, the bun, the fries... right? You don't have to put on any lettuce."

I'm running out of ways to describe the looks that this girl was giving us. It was as if she was saying with her eyes, how dare we come in to the restaurant and make her do the most minimal amount of work required for her to earn the few rands that she gets paid - which would be the same amount as if she was doing nothing at all.

So yea. How dare we.

At our latest request that they still make my burger without the lettuce, Lazi dejectedly walked back to the kitchen with a look of utter disbelief on her face and did what her job entails, which was telling the guy back there what to cook. It was at this point that it dawned on Tom and me that they hadn't even begun to cook my burger.

"Four minutes" Lazi said as she walked back to her stool.

It shouldn't have to be said that there was no way in hell we believed it would be four minutes until my burger was ready. I think Lazi ran out of words and actions (or never had them to begin with) to tell us to get off her back, so she picked the first number that popped into her head and added "minutes" to the end of it.

Another 15 minutes passed and Tom and I made the decision to split. I'd pick up something elsewhere. We stood up, Tom paid his bill, and even left a tip for Lazi despite the complete lack of service. As we were paying, she looked at us with a confused expression and said, "But it's ready."

"No thanks. We're going somewhere else. It's too long to wait." And with that we left. I got some delicious chicken a few stores away, and it only took literally, 6 minutes to order, pay, and start eating. I recommend Sebs chicken to anyone passing thru the BDTJF area.

The best part about it? It doesn't even come with lettuce.

BDTJF: Part 1 - Introduction and Nightly Excursions

I recently spent the past 2 1/2 weeks down in what my good friend Tom Barker refers to as "Beautiful Downtown Jane Furse" aka "BDTJF". Jane Furse is a somewhat large rural shopping town in the Sekhukhune district of Limpopo. I unexpectedly ended up in the BDTJF area [temporarily] after being tasked to join one of Tsogang's project managers, Phil, to learn about and take part in some hands on field work. Our work was to be stripping old non-functional hand pumps, and installing new ones in rural villages.

I arrived in BDTJF on July 22. After spending the afternoon out in some rural areas while our team took out an old hand pump, I was dropped off at what would be my humble abode for the next 2 weeks. I was told before coming here to bring mostly everything that I would need to live comfortably. The house I would be living in was extremely bare, I was told. Preparing for the unknown, I brought my sleeping bag, 5 days worth of clothes, some Nat'l Geographic and Outside magazines to catch up on, my laptop, all the food I had stored at my Tzaneen residence, my stovetop/oven, cutlery, my journal and my guitar. I was glad a grabbed a roll of TP before I left as well, because otherwise, I would have been in a very awkward predicament those first few days.

The house I was to stay in was actually a very nice place... or it looked like it would be nice if it was taken care of by someone at some point. There was a big open space living area, red-orange tiles covering the floorspace throughout, a sizable kitchen, 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. It also had spiderwebs everywhere as I realized when I first entered the door and spent the next minute wiping cobwebs from my face and hair, praying I had no 8-legged critters crawling amongst my cranial area. Though the house looked like it hadn't been lived in in quite sometime, it didn't take too long for me to settle in. There was electricity and running water, but no hot water. It was a step above camping, and I've lived in much dirtier environments, and much worse. My favourite part of the house was the bedroom I chose to stay in - a very small space with a single bed, but it smelled like the upstairs bedrooms in my Grandma's house, which made me feel very at home.

I had no idea until the second day that my living space was in such close proximity to two other PCVs who I hadn't seen since December. Tom and Jami are both NGO volunteers that came over with me last year. I got to check out their digs, see where each of them lived and worked, and began remembering what it was like to socialize with other people again. We even got to share a number of meals (pasta, instant pacakes and egg baked brunch, homemade potato leak soup, homemade Indian food etc.) and watch some DSTV that Tom recently acquired. That was certainly a strange experience. But familiar...?

I had a great time with both Tom and Jami, together and separately, and as a result, I often found myself out well past sundown. This is not ideal in most parts of South Africa, but the "not-idealness" is determined and decided by the individual on a case by case basis. The walk back from Tom's trailer-home-turned-"Love Shack" is about 20 minutes. The path goes up a dark dirt road, past some houses on the left and a primary school on the right. I then turn in to the private high school campus, walk up past Jami's place, and if I'm lucky, walk thru the gate, around the old hospital, down some more dark dirt paths, tripping on rocks and the uneven surface, and continue on to the phosphorescent globe lit grounds of Operation Hunger, whose property I was living on.

This journey "home" took on a new and exciting form each nite, until only a few nites in when I decided I had had enough excitement for a while.

The first nite out, not really knowing the area very well, I walked home with clenched fists and a constantly swiveling head, my ears sharp and my eyes narrowed to pick out any figures lurking in the shadows. There were none. The streets were empty and I realized I had been making myself more scared than necessary. It happens.

The gate behind Jami's residence is a large one, and "if I'm lucky" I walk thru it and go on straight home. However, I was only "lucky", once. When my luck is non-existent, I am forced to climb thru what Jami and I have dubbed the "Rabbit Hole", which is a small hole at the top corner of the fence, no bigger than 2 feet in diameter. The hole is about 6 feet up, and requires minimal strength to climb up to reach, but it requires masterful skill and agility to squeeze thru without getting your clothes (or skin) torn by the barbed wire above and below said hole.

I had seen Jami do it once in the daylight (I must say she surprised me - I didn't peg her as a climber) and had tried it once on my own. It wasn't too bad during the day. At nite it was a different story. There was no moon out the nites I went this route, and maneuvering one's body in the dark thru such a small opening proved a bit more difficult and ensnaring. Most of the times passing thru the Rabbit Hole I escaped unharmed, though I ended up ripping a hole in my jeans near my underside (free show for anyone watching me from behind) and I made a nice deep incision on my hand my last time thru. Stupid barbed wire. Anyway, it felt good to feel like a kid again. It was kinda like playing man-hunt, only I wasn't hiding from anyone and no one was looking for me. So, I guess it was actually only like man-hunt in the sense that it was dark outside.

The second nite going home, it was very chilly out, so I decided to jog up the dark street to cut some time off the trek and to warm my scantily clad body up (I only had a t-shirt and jeans on). I started jogging past the first few houses, with dogs behind fences barking their heads off and charging at me, stopping when the metal mesh prevented them from advancing any further. "Dogs are so silly" I thought to myself. "They know there's a fence there, why do they always run up as if they can get past it?"

It was at this point that I sensed something had gone awry. I looked to my left to watch another viciously barking dog run up to his fence, obviously annoyed at my presence. Only this time, there was no fence between his teeth and my cold bones.

The dog was running so fast that he left a trail of dust rising slowly in the electric light of the homes behind me, his big frame charging me like a dark curving bullet, obviously intent on sinking his teeth into something. Slightly panicked (or very panicked) and with nothing to defend myself against the oncoming attack which was only 3 feet behind me, I did the only thing I could think to do. I turned around and started barking and yelling at the beast in the most vicious tone I could muster up. To my surprise, the dog was caught off guard, put on his brakes and tripped a bit over himself, and backed off momentarily, obviously confused. But then to my dismay, the werewolf-esque black shadow resumed his attack, at which point I instinctively let my foot fly and kicked him in the face. Twice.

Thankfully, instead of shaking it off and pursuing me, tackling me to the ground and devouring my soul, the creature of the night ran off, back to where he came from, like a ghost from the darkness. He probably ran back to tell his friends that they wouldn't believe that a skinny white guy from suburban Long Island just scared the crap out of him and kicked him in the face. Twice.

My heart was beating hard and my lungs hurt from the cold air I was breathing too hard. Dizzy, exhausted, shaken, but relieved I rhetorically asked myself, "Why don't more people have guard cats?"

The last few times I walked home, I had no heart pounding incidents. I did however, have some interesting exchanges with some people I met on the way back, including a security guard who tried to make me pay him to walk thru the campus, and a bunch of students who were busy scarfing down cold french fries and asking me a thousand questions about where I'm from what I'm doing etc. But the most "South African" exchange I had on my way back went as follows:

The fourth or fifth nite, when I was about halfway up the dirt road, I saw two pairs of headlights coming down the lane. I have always been uneasy at the thought of close proximity drivebys due to past experiences in the US involving bottles being thrown at me (more than a few times) and for some reason, getting shot with a paint ball gun (thankfully, only once). I never feel right when a car passes close by - especially not at nite. To my relief, the first one passed by, like most usually do. I was keeping a close eye on the second pair of lights when all of a sudden, the car veered towards me, and as I side stepped getting hit and was about to throw a fist into the open passenger window, I saw it was actually a police car, patrolling the streets.

Jackasses almost ran me over.

The cops spoke English, and seeing that I obviously wasn't from the area, asked where I was from. "New York? Ah, it's too far." they would say.

Thanks for stating the obvious, guys. Next time try not mowing me down.

"What are you doing? Why are you walking alone around here?" they wanted to know.

I explained I was on my way home from a friend's place - walking because I had no other option, and I was alone because I don't have a Siamese twin. They didn't get the Siamese twin joke, and I didn't know the siPedi translation for it. The moment was lost.

Shame.

All joking aside, I was hoping they would get the hint and maybe give me a ride back to my place when I said, "I don't like walking around here at nite. But I don't have a car, so I have to walk. I wish I had someone to drive me back."

They didn't get the hint, and replied with characteristic cluelessness and carelessness, "Yes. Jane Furse is very very dangerous. You shouldn't be walking at nite." At which point they said goodbye and drove off.

It's no surprise people don't bother calling the cops here when there's a serious problem that needs to be dealt with.

Anyway, I got back safe after my passage thru the Rabbit hole. Shortly thereafter, I decided that enough was enough. No more walking around Jane Furst at nite for me.

Except for maybe next time if I have to. {Shakes head}