Why I'm thankful for mud slides and flying kittens

The weather has been funky lately. We’ve had thick, foggy mornings (makes it extremely difficult to see but it’s kind of cool in a creepy sort of way), and it’s been raining several times a day and throughout the night (for some strange, unexplainable reason, day showers are typically unheard of in my hood) which has caused the dirt paths of Makapanstad to flood excessively. The mud reaches up to half a foot deep in softer areas and makes it a big pain to go anywhere.

At first I wore flip flops to overcome this SOB of a problem. The rationale behind this was that my feet are going to sink regardless so I might as well wear shoes I can easily clean afterward. I learned shortly this was not the way to go. Not only did they splash mud all over my calves and clothes every time I took a step, but in the less shallow pools my body would literally lower into the ground and I would come out barefoot upon re-emergence. The kids got a kick out of it while the grannies helped me look for my shoes.

After day after day of this nonsense, you don’t get used to it, you get sick of it, and irritated. I have contemplated calling in sick several times just because it is such a chore to leave my house. And it isn’t just me, the teachers at my schools ask why I bother coming in with the hellish road conditions when I don’t have a car. I suppose calling in annoyed is just as justified as calling in sick?

Anyway, today I was over being frustrated so I decided I was going to sing songs on the way to school to pacify myself. While doing so, I was able to enjoy the walk and I noticed things I never noticed before. Like everyone else’s suffering. I looked ahead of me and all around, and I saw kids, parents, and others sliding around the mud and sinking and slipping just like me. There were goats with mud all over their butts too.

Imagine an ice skating rink packed with first-time skaters. Now replace the ice with patches of grass, puddles of water, an occasional farm animal, and mud everywhere. Multiply the ridiculousness by your choice double digit number, and there you have it, a blessing in disguise. I realized my negative attitude was causing me to miss out on the hilarity that is my walk to school this whole time.


I was teaching at one of my schools today, when all of a sudden I heard screams coming from outside. I left the class to see what it was and saw 30+ children running out the door for their lives. I followed the sound of continuing screams into the classroom. There were three teachers inside who had discovered a nook behind one of the desks a family of kittens had overtaken. They grabbed each kitten by the legs, would scream, do a little arm flail action, and then chuck it across the room until the kitten ran out the door.

I felt really bad for the kittens but I couldn’t help but watch and laugh, at the grown adults who legitimately feared the kittens, at the terrified 5-year olds screaming and running around aimlessly in the courtyard unsupervised, and at all the airborne kittens flying in every which direction.

A dollar a day keeps higher education deprivation away

This weekend I did my very first half-marathon thanks to Denise! She told me about the Pirates half-marathon and I invited myself. I’ve never done one before, and I thought it’d be a good kick start to my weight loss plan. I hadn’t really trained (Two 30-minute runs in total to be exact) and clearly had no idea what I was getting myself into.

The Pirates is known for its 3 hills (which is a complete lie because there were several and I had false hopes every time I thought I completed the 3rd one), in which 2 are killer, making it “extremely difficult,” and in fact the “most difficult half-marathon in Gauteng” says the official website. A lady we met in the bathroom who was a seasoned veteran of the race told us, “You turn one corner and the pavement is touching your face.” Lol Clearly it was a tad bit of a hyperbolization, but it wasn’t far from the truth as I found it nearly impossible to walk up the monster hills even at the interminable pace of 0.01mph, if I was even going that. I felt like I was on a treadmill, walking but going nowhere. My legs kept moving but my surroundings stayed the same. I felt like vomiting several times throughout, the feeling in my legs would sporadically come and go, and I’m pretty sure at one point I was drooling.

I did eventually finish at 3 hours and 2 minutes. Denise was there to greet me at the end because she had crossed the finish a good hour before me. Aside from the sense of accomplishment and the cool medal with the skull and crossbones on it, the scenic route made the run more than worthwhile. At the peak we got a spectacular view of the entire city and I finally got to experience the “runner community,” some of the nicest of people I’ve ever met. I definitely see how important marathon prep is now and I will start working toward the Longtom next month, which brings me to my next point.

About 5 weeks from now, I will be running in the Longtom half-marathon which raises funds that go toward the KLM foundation (http://www.klm-fondation.org). The KLM foundation is a wonderful organization that can change the lives of hard-working, underprivileged kids by sending them to college, an opportunity they would otherwise not be given.

Every runner must meet the minimum of US $100, but the more we raise, the more students they will be able to send to get a higher education. I know we all be po right now, so any little bit helps. It’s an amazing cause and you will really make a difference in someone’s life.

You can donate one of two ways:

Method 1: Online

1. Go to the KLM foundation website (http://www.klm-fondation.org)
2. Click on the Donate photo in the upper left corner.
3. This opens up a secure https connection for people to donate.
4. Don’t forget to put my name (first and last) in the “Longtom Marathon” field so they know the donation was made in your name.

Method 2: Check

1. Make out a check to: Kgwale Le Mollo (US)
2. Add a sticky note declaring which PCV (peace corps volunteer) the donor is sponsoring
3. Mail it to:
KLM Foundation (US)
c/o Bowen Hsu
461 So. Bonita Avenue
Pasadena, CA 91107

Thanks for all of your support, friends, South Africa loves you! And so do I!

Wednesday Funnies

Today started off as a not so good day. For no reason really, I just think it’s that time before that time of the month when girls get all depressed and stuff. However, as the hours went by, these things made my day turn around and a little brighter.

Scenario 1 – At one of my schools:

Lunch Lady: “Bonolo (that’s my Setswana name), come here.”
Me: “Yes?”
Lunch Lady: “Are you wearing a wig?”
Me: “Lol. What makes you say that?”
Lunch Lady (while pointing at a teacher): “You look like her.”
Me: “Is she wearing a wig?”
Lunch Lady: “Yes.”

Hmm.. I don’t really know about this one. I’ll let you be the judge.

Scenario 2 – Escuela de fellow PCV

Not quite a scenario but it’s a picture of a handout a fellow PCV's learner turned in for his economic management class. He spelled his name correctly, but answered all of the questions solely comprised of Ls, As, and Hs.

Scenario 3 – Hitchhiking with the popo

A police officer picked me up today and here was part of our convo:

Me: “Dumela.”
Popo: “Agee.”
Me: “Thanks for picking me up.”
Popo: “No, sharp sharp. (That means “It’s all good.”) Where are you from?”
Me: “Texas, in the United States.”
Popo: “When did you get here?”
Me: “Almost 7 months ago.”
Popo: “Yes, I can tell. Your English is struggling.”

I know I’ve already put something like this up, but I was surprised that I couldn’t speak past “Hello” in Setswana and he said my English was struggling. LOL My theory is that they see the China eyes and hair, completely disregard anything I say, and just hear a bunch of “Wa wa wa”s streaming out of my mouth. Or, my English is just really bad.

I thought my being from the states would suggest a thing or two about my medium of communication. Then again, a fellow PCV once visited and we were talking at one of my schools when we were interrupted by wild stares and a, “Why are you speaking English?” We apologized and told her how bad our Setswana was, and she said, “No, not Setswana. Why aren’t you speaking in your language?” Confused, we asked her what our language was. “American.”

It’s good to know that something as simple as a 30-second conversation can offset my hormonal imbalance back to normal or at the very least offer some temporary placation. Who needs prescription drugs and anger management when you can have a chat?

Where’s Rivers Cuomo circa late ‘90s when you need a hot, emo shoulder to cry on?

First off, let’s get this straight, I’m not crying. I don’t cry because I physically can’t, but if I could, I think it would be happening right about now. And quite frankly, I need to bitch.

Peace Corps always tells us to play it safe and discourages us from conversing with drunken men. I follow this pretty strictly and merely wave or acknowledge them with a hello before continuing on my way. Today I was getting lunch before going to my second school when a man at the shabeen called me over. It was 11am, I was in somewhat of a hurry, and I mistakenly thought a little small talk wouldn’t hurt anyone.

He started off with the typical “I love you” that men so love to greet the ladies with. It’s interchangeable with “Hello” or “How are you?” Well, at least the frequency of the usage makes it seem so. I of course told him he didn’t love me and started walking away. He told me I needed to give him R10 since he loved me. Again with the logic. I explained to him I didn’t come here to give money to people, so he asked why I was here and I told him to teach skills to whoever was interested. He asked what, I said particularly English and computer. He told me that I’m doing that because all of us white people think we’re better than black people.

By then I was running late but I couldn’t leave it at that and let him think what he just said was true. I asked him when I ever said I was better than him. This is the first time I’ve met this man. He looked me up and down and said, “You voted for Obama.” I told him I did and this is usually my saving grace when people point at me and say how terrible us white folk are. I asked him how he knew, and this just completely backfired.

His answer: “Obama is black, but his mother is white. You voted for him because he’s half white and has the superior race in him.” There is so much wrong with this statement, oh my God. I’m not even going to go into detail because you already know, and my explanation would consume megabites I can’t afford right now.

As the saying goes, you can’t fight with an idiot, you’ll never win. So I proceeded walking. He stopped me again and asked for money, again. I told him I couldn’t do that, but I’d give him a bite of my lunch, so he accepted. I began walking away again and he told me to give him the rest of my food. I told him it was my lunch. He pointed at me, the worst point I think I’ve ever been given, and said in the nastiest voice that that’s how all us Americans are. What we buy is ours, and ours only. It was really quite terrible.

I wanted to tell him to first off, shove it, secondly that if I had asked his drunk ass for his beer he’d say no and would therefore be a hypocrite, and thirdly, that if I knew he needed it I would’ve clearly given it to him, but seeing that he’d fail a sobriety test with flying colors, he obviously has money, and it’s not my problem he chooses not to spend it on food. I’m totally not down with this one-way, double-standard ubuntu. Uncool.

I realize these are things I should be adjusted to, but every now and then you just need some cathartic relief when there isn’t a tall margarita in sight. Luckily, right after this very unpleasant verbal attack, I saw my friend who tried to make me feel better. She said any woman in the village who rejects a drunk man is called a bitch and yelled at.

I sympathized, but as much as that sucks, I’d rather be called a bitch than a racist.

The Emancipation

7-JANUARY: It’s 2010 and I’m finally back from vacation. Before I forget,

IF YOU SENT ME A PACKAGE AND IT IS RETURNED TO YOU, PLEASE LET ME KNOW SO I CAN AT LEAST THANK YOU AND APOLOGIZE ON BEHALF OF THE SOUTH AFRICAN POST OFFICE FOR NEVER TELLING ME IT CAME. THE POST OFFICE AND I AREN’T EXACTLY ON THE FRIENDLIEST OF TERMS AND THEY REFUSE TO TELL ME WHO THE MYSTERY PERSON IS.

So holiday was fun in the sun. We did part of the Sunshine Coast, all of the Wild Coast, and the teensiest bit of Zululand (Port Elizabeth-East London-Cintsa-Coffee Bay-Port Saint John’s-Durban) and I’ve never seen anything more spectacular in my life. It was pretty much the same scenic view for over 8 hours straight-lush, rolling hills with Xhosa villages scattered throughout, shepherds herding their sheep, and hitchhikers, lots of hitchhikers-but it felt like I was seeing it for the first time the entire way.

About a month ago I was acting very typically me and drowned my digital camera in water, so the only one I had was the dinky excuse for one I have on my phone. I thought it was blasphemous to try to capture the beauty of the drive on 3.2 megapixels so I took next to no pictures and consequently don’t remember a lot of my vacation (I guess my state of sobriety, or lack thereof, also had something to do with it.) But here are some highlights that stick out in my head:

PE: went clubbing with a mobster, danced with fettucine alfredo, bribed someone with a meatball sub

EL: had shoes stolen during Carnaval weekend, passed out in a sand dune

Cintsa: met Pushkin whose evil spirit then followed us all the way to Pretoria and even continued its journey to Kate’s village 200k outside of Vryberg

CB: spotted my first Koreans. I knew immediately. There was a family crouched in the rocks of the oceans slapping crustaceans and crabs with their shoes which they immediately consumed afterward. And granny wore a Texas-sized visor Robocop would’ve been jealous of-now if that doesn’t epitomize “Korean” then I don’t know what does, played Xhosa drums by a fire pit and jammed out

PSJ: drank sulphur in a cave, did laundry by MACHINE

Durban: was eaten alive by mosquitoes (I’m pretty sure every single mosquito in Durban took a turn biting me at least once during my stay), spent New Year’s Eve dancing at Taco Zulu with free drinks and food, and visited the TOURIST JUNCTION!!!!

If you’re ever in Durban, this is where you want to be. No one goes to the tourist junction to find out about touristy things because you won’t really, but it’s super nice-the best bathrooms in Durban fully stocked with the finest TP, nice sofas, and great company. After some trouble with our backpackers, Kate and I were left homeless and the tourist junction guy offered his place (even after he though we were making fun of Apartheid-which we weren’t-just your typical miscommunication), helped us find cheap hotels and hostels, and even told us what we needed to do if we wanted to sleep at the tourist junction which was the first option we inquired about. (This place is seriously nice and has tons of empty offices where we could’ve pitched our tent with minimal disturbance to visiting tourists. We even offered to tidy the place up and bring them morning coffee.) Unfortunately, the mayor was out of town and we could not arrange a meeting with him to ask for permission to stay in the tourist junction for the night. Man, it is the best.

Now I’m home. My body acclimatized to my spoiling it with daily showers and began producing oil again like it would on a clean person, which I am no longer. Until my body gets used to village Zita (3L of water a week on bathing), as opposed to city Zita (15min showers a day), I’m going to be stank to the max.

13-JANUARY: Mom's Bday!