Coming Home

1/5/09

An anxious knot rested heavily in the bottom of my stomach, as I feared the transition that lied ahead. For months I have dwelled on adapting to South African culture and have been equally focused on my mission to impact change in the rural areas. My mind space occupied no other thoughts. With the prospect of vacation on the horizon in December, I was uncertain how I would cope with letting go of the culture that circulated through my blood night and day for months. Leaving the village was harder than I expected, and I looked back several times, taking mental photographs of waving neighbors, the dog from across the street, and the children fetching water in buckets on their heads as I hailed a taxi with my finger raised towards the sky.

During the first few days of life away from the village I was numb. I was confused. I did not know where I was, what language to speak, or how to act. I second guessed a lot of my thoughts and habitual behaviors. I was actually readjusting to life with fellow Americans. Realizing what was happening; I couldn’t help but be amused. Humans are truly creatures of habit.

Within a few days, I was comforted by the familiarity of my traveling companions, and I dusted off the hidden layers of my personality, as we quickly returned to sarcastic jokes, intellectual conversations, philosophical analysis, and being spontaneous and free together, all of which have been absent from village life.

 For five days, my traveling companions and I organized an informal summer camp for the learners of Kwa-Mhlanga, (Steve’s Peace Corps site) to challenge their minds and their creativity during a wasteland time of unproductivity and boredom in rural village life. Each morning we would engage the learners in “ice-breaker” and team building activities, following by work on our world map during the afternoon, and then sporting events weather permitting. We battled the cloudy skies and attempted to squeeze the available minutes to undertake this ambitious project in less than a week.

Torrential afternoon showers threatened our plans, but by the end of day five, a world map stretching more than four meters wide was boldly emblazoned on the wall facing the community streets. We tackled our elaborate plans in varying stages, beginning with our scale for the map. Transferring our hand eld Robinson Projection World Map to the enormous school wall, involved creating a scale of 5 cm squares. One box at a time, we sketched fragments of the world onto the freshly blue painted oceans. The world was slowly created from one grid line to the next. After two days of drawing, it was time to mix the paints, and bring life to the political map. Countries were vibrantly colored in with paint and continents were raised from the depths of the ocean.  From a great distance, the bright blue and continental land formations could be seen. Geography will be eternally etched in the minds of the villagers of Kwa-Mhlanga, and the constant exposure will influence their understanding of the vast world in which they are apart of.

December 21^st marked the first day of travel, as we set sail for Mozambique. Aboard an overly crammed taxi of bags and bodies, I was glued to the glass window watching a world of activity flash by. Two words flickered in my mind, as we passed hundreds of kilometers of dense vegetation, rural villages, and coastline: Ndzi fikile (I have arrived). I was overcome with a strange sense of nostalgia and connectedness to a land I had never before seen, and its people whom I’d never before met. As though I was experiencing déjà vu, I was drawn to this culture like a flying insect to the flame of a candle. A part of me felt as if I was traveling back to discover my roots. While I’ve lived amongst a community surrounded by first generation Mozambican immigrants in South Africa, I have felt at home with the culture of the Shangaan tribe. While these immigrants have assimilated largely to South African culture, and have shed many layers of its own traditional heritage, they have also been impacted by the first world influences that the richest nation in Africa possesses. Therefore my village, along with several others scattered throughout the Bushbuckridge region of South Africa, boast a Shangaan population that is more Westernized, capitalistic, and modernized. But across the border, it seemed as though I had traveled back in time. A caravan of a dozen women dressed in colorful vibrant fabrics, and headscarves (dukus) balanced 25 liter water containers on their heads with their arms at their sides, carrying on conversations in depth and laughing, passed by in the flash of an instant. Villages are comprised of a collection of thatched palm frond huts and a few smoking fires for cooking. Towns consisted of small collections of cement buildings hand painted with rich, vibrant murals in a wide range of colors. The pure, organic roots of the culture that I have become a part of were just outside the window that my cheeks were pressed up against.

Mozambique oozes with the sultry heat of the tropics, the muted f

lair of Europe, and the cultural heart of Africa. This unique combination of culture and environment has produced a country rich in pride and humanity. A sense of genuiness is felt with each sincere greeting, warm handshake, or a calm and confident look directly in the eyes followed by an open smile. As we continued along the poorly paved roads, bouncing in the rickety transportation with its shot suspension system, I drifted in and out of a dream-like trance, being lulled to sleep by the beauty of thick, dense overgrown canopies of forests painted in palettes of green shades. Farmlands spotted the road sides on either end to the horizon.

Nearly five hundred kilometers and six hours later, we shook the sleep from our tingly limbs and took our first steps in Inhabane. It is a coastal village amongst highly concentrated patches of endless palm trees. From a hundred meters away, the unforgiving Indian Ocean could be heard crashing into the shoreline, grinding down the beach. Looking up to find the sun, we could see only bits of blue in between sections of palm fronds.

Throughout Christmas we remained in paradise, soaking in the rays on the beach and engaging in conversations with transient travelers passing through. From volunteers to soccer players to Rastafarians to honest hard working citizens in between, we spent countless hours sharing our story and hearing the tales of others.

By the 26^th we had quenched our thirst of the coast and made our trek inland back toward South Africa. In one day we traveled for twenty hours, crossing three borders into our final destination of Swaziland, picking up a rental car along the way, and two additional traveling companions. A six hour nap fell short of quenching our thirst for rest, before we continued on a white water rafting adventure on the Great Usuthu River. Due to low seasonal rains in the region, the River was well below its usual level. The second half of the river was closed due to its shallow depth, so we set out for the first 8 km trail. As we drifted down the river, we were humbled by the sheer size of the mountains that enveloped us. Approaching a bend in the surging river, I was staggered to set my gaze upon a large family of ten nude bodies bathing in the running water and washing their clothes. Unaffected by our approaching flotilla of kayaks, they continued in their daily tasks openly. The further we ventured into the heart of the mountains the more we became in sync with the River. Paddle strokes synchronized, movements flowed, and together we became one.

Eager to press on, we continued our journey through Swaziland stopping off at picturesque backdrops and magnificent vistas that surrounded us at all angles. We traversed through downpours, trampled through pot holes, and even fixed a flat tire of our rental car on the side of the muddy road. By nightfall of the 28^th, we had arrived in yet another destination in South Africa’s prized province, Kwazulu Natal (KZN). The touristic town of St. Lucia resting on the perimeter of pristine ecosystems including estuaries, coral reefs, swamps, and more became a familiar resting ground for the midpoint of our adventure. The first world influences lined the cobblestone paved streets, lit by street lamps, and beautifully decorated store front windows in the center of the vacation town. The following morning we entered the cautioned gates of a nature reserve park, warning us of danger, as we entered the habitat of many plain dwelling grazing animals including Wildebeests, Zebra, Water Buffalo and more. Added to the ecosystem were herds of hippopotami, crocodiles, and even leopards. A bit apprehensive, we entered with calculated, timid footsteps. Immediately we were welcomed by a group of grazing zebra off in the distance. We walked further to an estuary and saw hippo and packs of birds nearby. Not a gate, fence, or other construct separated us from the wild life that flourished all around us. As we returned to the entrance, we followed closely behind a large group of zebra and wildebeest, observing them at a comfortable distance of less than 50 footsteps. For nearly an hour we studied their every action, and they reciprocated each calculating stare back at us. Unbound and free, we walked through knee high weeds and soaked in the atmosphere of untamed Africa.

December 30^th presented another day of travel. We packed our bags into the boot of the rented hatchback and took to the roads headed for Durban on the coast. As we snaked down winding highways through open lands of green fields and farmlands, I thought about the distance we had covered and all that we had gone through in less than two weeks. Traveling is not just about the places one visits, the sites seen, or the activities experienced. The journey one undertakes encompasses the process. It involves everything else that happens along the way and in between the people one meets, the thoughts that cross one’s mind, the conversations one entertains, the realizations that become unveiled, and so much more are all part of the experience. This adventure had offered its share of experiences, funny stories, and has helped put not only my volunteer service, but also my life into perspective.

The beautiful integration of cultures and the amalgamation of first and third world influences took me by storm upon meandering through the international city of Durban. For nearly six months I have lived in the separated, divided rural areas of South Africa. The contrast of Durban’s diversity provided a distinct encounter for me. I was stimulated by an influx of curry spice smells coming from select corners, coexisting Muslim, Hindu, and Christian religions, and colorful, beaded saris in storefront windows and worn by elegant women, and thriving markets everywhere. I was overcome by a feeling of safety and appreciation walking through a Rainbow Nation of acceptance.

New Year’s Day, I joined the flocks of black South Africans that congregated on the city’s shoreline to bathe in the ocean and wash away their sins from the previous year. Dozens at a time, we timed our entry into the assaulting waves, continuously crashing into the eroded shore. Successfully dodging the initial breaking waves, I trudged forward. Pummeled by the powerful waves, I was folded in half by twelve foot swells, and washed backwards, tumbling through the surf and entangled with a mass of bodies on the beach. Like a tail wagging dog, I returned again and again to the Indian Ocean for more cleansing. After two days of the deep rinse cycle, I felt cleansed of my sins.

The epic voyage home took two full days of travel aboard koombis, buses, and other modes of transport. During this restless time cramming amongst luggage and other fellow South Africans returning home from their vacation travels, I was forced to confront my lingering thoughts and fears that stomped around in my brain. I was uneasy about my return to the life I had known before this crazy, unexpected adventure began. How would the villagers receive me upon my arrival? Would my language skills return? I was filled with questions and uncertainty. It felt as though months had passed since I departed the village.

As I disembarked the last taxi, and stepped foot on village soil, I expected an arduous process of readjustment to the slow pace of rural life. I imagined a drawn out readjustment to the culture and an even longer time rekindling relationships with fellow villagers. Much to my dismay, I was pleasantly welcomed by an instantaneous split second adjustment, greeted by the familiarity of waving gogos, affectionate greetings, and the shrilling sound of a dear friend (the Primary school general worker) yodeling to signal my return.

Greeting my neighbors it seemed as though years had passed. The boys next door had grown what seemed like several centimeters since the last time I saw them. The garden behind them sprouted with stalks of corn, miroho (spinach), timanga (peanuts), and other vegetables that were mere sprouting shoots just three weeks earlier. Everything fell right back into place. As I opened the kitchen door to my abode, it felt like home. I was relieved to return to the inviting space of habit and routine.

Forgetting that I had used up my last supply of water and had thrown out all remaining food before I set out for my travels, I realized that I still had a great deal of labor ahead of me. Despite the exhaustion brought about from weeks of carrying a heavy backpack, living a transitory lifestyle, and enduring the roasting 40 degree Celsius temperature of the day, I was forced out of the house to fetch water and food. Life in the streets of the village was just as it was before I left. Passing each house I exchanged a few words of my travels, and stopped at the chicken dust stand to speak with my high school friend entrepreneurs and catch up on life during the holidays. By nightfall I rushed home with my rusty wheelbarrow spilling out splatters of water from the plastic barrels piled high talking with my teenage friends at either side. We took turns pushing the heavy load and wiping the sweat from our brows. The muggy temperatures saturated our clothing in salty sweat that made the folds of our elbows sticky. Upon loading the week’s worth of water into my kitchen, we stepped outside and noticed the sound of the wind howling through the passageway of the front door. Looking upwards towards the sky, I was taken aback by one of the most beautiful sunsets I had ever stood before. A broad purple curtain of clouds was wrapped around the orange embers of the firery flames of the sun as it descended behind the mountains igniting them into a vibrant blaze of colors. I bid farewell to my friends and grabbed my camera bag. With a wired Bully at my side with his tail and tongue both wagging incessantly, we sprinted towards the edge of the village and the beginning of the bush. Darting through side streets and running through backyards and gardens we arrived at the lip of the open fields of bush looking westward. To the south the threatening storm approached, and within minutes of gawking at the converging shades, a gale force wind threatened to rip me from my firmly planted feet on the ground. With hair blowing back, I snapped photo after photo of the most striking scene my eyes had ever seen. The rain drops pounced on my skin offering nourishing refreshment and washed away the deposits of salt caked on my skin. Claps of thunder roared through the sky and resounded under my feet.

It is good to be home.