beginning my township adventures

Moving to my site in Eastern Cape was a crazy adjustment from Pre-Service Training.  Instead of having most of my days dictated by Peace Corps classes and activities, I was totally on my own and free to make my own schedule.  It was kind of like making the transition from high school to college, and at first I didn’t know what to do with all the freedom.  I’m incredibly lucky to live with a fantastic host family, and they made my whole adjustment process so much easier.  I did my best to be out and about in the township so that people would begin to recognize the crazy “umlungu” (Xhosa for white person) scampering around the “location” (what everyone here calls the township).  I went to funerals, churches, a baby shower, a graduation party, and many other events where I was the only white person for miles and I was warmly welcomed by the community members who all wanted to know why on earth an American would move to a township in rural South Africa.  When I accompanied my host dad to the church where he serves as the reverend, I was placed in a seat of honor at the front of the church (even though I had no idea what was going on as the entire service was in Xhosa) and later, during the collection, I ended up dancing in a circle of gogos and generally looking like an idiot, I’d like to think the gogos got a kick out of it.  

One of my favorite days when I was first at site occurred when I went with the kids from my host family (there are 9 of them) on a hike up a nearby mountain outside of Molteno.  Most of the children had never been to the mountain before, but once we got started they were more excited than me.  After a season of heavy rains the mountains and veld were green and beautiful and looking down on the countryside from the top of the mountain left us all standing in awe.  Eastern Cape is a gorgeous province and I feel really lucky to be a part of the first (and probably last) Peace Corps group to be placed here.  Being with the kids, climbing the mountain, taking countless pictures, writing our names on a rock at the top, and exploring this new area made me really feel like a part of the family, which was surprisingly comforting after such a long separation from my family back home.  After our hike I even attempted to be domestic and baked peanut butter chocolate chip cookies with the little ones, who went crazy for the new treat.  It’s been kind of unreal how quickly the children in my host family accepted me as part of the family unit.  While a lot of people in the township still can’t quite wrap their heads around an American living in their midst, these children run down the street to me every day on my walk home from work and welcome me back with an endless stream of hugs.  Occasionally some of the neighborhood children will jump on the hug train and sneak their way in there, I figure at least they can tell their friends at school that they touched the crazy umlungu . . . and she’s not as scary as they think.

Even though I’m living in a township in rural South Africa, my life here can often seem strangely familiar to my American life.  I eat dinner with my host family every night and we all will gather around the television and watch the famous South African “soapie” (SA term for soap opera) called Generations.  I have been an avid watcher since training, and my host family still gets a kick out of how obsessed with it I am.  The music I hear the most walking through the location is Rihanna or Beyonce, and the little kids go crazy over WWE wrestling.  It’s not at all how I imagined my Peace Corps service in Sub-Saharan Africa, but there are still these mildly surreal moments that remind you you’re half a world away from a comfortable American life.  Walking back from work one day, I rounded the corner behind my house and came upon the severed head and legs of a buck that my host dad and brother had slaughtered in the yard.  After recovering from the shock, I went into the kitchen and found some of the kids helping to clean the intestines of this buck.  Many of the internal organs are considered especially tasty in the township and I knew I would encounter them eventually, but I didn’t know I’d also have to deal with these things raw.  Mind you I wouldn’t even cook meat for myself in the states because a pre-packaged, boneless, skinless chicken breast grossed me out.  Not to be outdone by a couple of 12 year old girls who were cleaning the intestines, I choked back my vomit and jumped right in.  I didn’t have quite the seamless technique they had, after all those little fingers had been cleaning intestines from a very early age, but I managed to help a little, and I think I earned some serious street cred with my host family (however, they could not stop laughing at the expression on my face while I cleaned these intestines, it was a mix of horror and despair I think).  After I had put in the necessary effort with the intestines, the raw liver was brought out.  One of the kids cut off a piece, sprinkled some salt on it and popped it into her mouth like it was candy.  She told me that the liver was her favorite part and wouldn’t I like to try some?  The kids in my host family quickly learned that they could get me to do almost anything if they said it was a “cultural experience.”  They told me that the girls cleaning the organs was part of their culture, as was nibbling on the raw liver . . . so I ate some of the damn liver.  It wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it’d be, but after sampling a variety of organs, I’ve decided that I’m probably more of a brains girl (cooked, thank god).