Botswana 2:2

5.13.13

This is not an adventure story. When I left 8 days ago, I thought I would be writing the tale of conquering my 15^th country. Traveling in sketchy public transportation buses, trying to speak the native language, and maybe getting lost in an exciting new town– these things did not happen. As it turns out, I was on a different kind of adventure. The kind that strip you of everything you thought you knew about yourself. The kind of exploration that focuses more on “self” and the new roads that lead you to the rest of your life.

 

Night one, sitting on my uncomfortable, hard, velvet cushioned, couch- staring at my Nokia blackberry-wanna-be phone that desperately needs a new face plate. The power is out, and a single candle is flickering on-top of an up-side-down pot lid on the coffee table. Its 8pm. I’m regretting not bringing a book. I stare at the phone a little longer, willing a new sms to come through. George has been traveling for 8 hours to Francis Town, in Northern Botswana; we have heard terrible stories about the road, especially at night, and my nerves are a wreck. I want to text him, but I don’t want to distract him from the road. So I just stare at the black screen, trying to guess when it will light up with a new message. Will it be….now? or……. now? Or…. how bout….NOW? Seconds pass that feel like hours. Minutes pass that feel like weeks. I make tea hoping to waste time. Cup. Tea. Sugar. Splash of milk. Heat the water. Wait. I sit back down, it’s 8:10pm. A heavy sigh escapes my throat, and seems to leave echos lingering in the empty little apartment.

 

By 9pm I can literally think of nothing else to entertain myself so I go to bed. I toss and turn. Trying to create a George shaped lump in my flat, stale pillows. The twin bed is too small, and I nearly fall off on more than one occasion. It is so quiet here. I’m wishing a dog would bark, or a car would drive by playing loud music. I lay there staring at the ceiling, wishing I had recorded a CD of George snoring to keep me company. I throw off the covers with a huff, and remember a fan in the lounge, maybe the noise will help, I think. I drag myself from the bed, and walk in a haze in that direction. I lug the heavy thing across the cold tile floor and set it up in the doorway of the bedroom. I search the baseboards for a plug and eventually find it. I reach for the cord, and stretch it toward the plug. Then I see. At the end of the cord is merely a collection of frayed wires. I contemplate shoving the wires into the outlet, but snap out of it, and crawl defeated back into bed. I stare at a fly trapped behind the curtain, trying to get into the room. Its so stupid.

 

The morning comes and i’m up at 6:55am for absolutely no reason what so ever- “thanks a lot George” I think out-loud to myself. I mix some instant coffee with boiling water from the kettle. I try the TV and can’t manage to turn it on. I walk around in a circle or two and decide to call George’s Auntie Joyce. “ We are blessed!” she exclaims into the phone. 10 minutes later, uncle Roland picks me up in his light blue Camry, that has seen better days.

 

At the house, we have more instant coffee, and a light breakfast. I hear stories for hours about George as a kid. They haven’t seen him since he was 16; apparently he was quite the lady killer. I go through his family, member by member, giving them the latest updates on school, jobs and love interests. I feel confident as I rely this information, not as a stranger would, but as another member of the family. I have met families of boyfriends in the past, but somehow this feels so different. Maybe its the investment I feel. The knowing that I will see them again, and that they are now apart of my future life. Whatever it is, it feels nice to be around family, even if it’s for the first time.

 

The next few days are mirrors of themselves. I bolt awake at 6:55am exactly and start my day with instant coffee that tastes like sewer water. I try to waste as much time as possible, before I summon the light blue Camry to the parking lot downstairs. I watch at least 3 hours of Church Sermons on the TV with uncle Roland, followed by 2 News broadcasts on rival stations. I try desperately to hold my tongue when topics of politics, religion or the USA , in general, come up in conversation. I am known to be feisty with these points, but Uncle Roland doesn’t seem to be one for debating- and he is family, so I sit and nod polietly.

 

The only break from the monotony of the week is when my phone chimes with a new message. George is updating me on his location, and even though I have no idea where Polyane is, its a comfort to hear. This is the longest we have been apart in the last year since we met. Even when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer, I managed to see him nearly every weekend. But now the bond is tighter, and the foreign feeling of his absence is unbearable.

 

Thursday I break from routine, with an intense craving for time on my own. Auntie Joyce has been busy this week with new students, and ongoing construction at the house, and I have sometimes felt like a burden that needs attention they can not spare. So after my instant coffee, I begin a 30 minute walk to the nearest mall. The weather in this place is so strange. It is near freezing in the morning and evenings, but for 2 hours at mid day it is stiffing hot. Its only 10am now, but I can feel the sweat starting to surface, as the numb cold is thawed from my finger tips. The walk is flat. Not one tiny hill. A far cry from my walks to town in Mbabane, where I sometimes wonder if a rope and climbing gear would help tackle the mountainous terrain. The flatness goes on forever, and the dust never seems to settle. I continue on the newly paved sidewalk, along a brand new tarred road, scattered with more traffic lights then I can justify. Following the footprints of the herd of donkeys that must of found this path before me, their hooves permanently set into the concrete. I pass a few people along the way, but no one seems surprised to see me here; Botswana is home to many nationalities of people. There is nothing for sale on the side of the road, except a few light vegetable stands and several dog houses, an irony I couldn’t figure out my entire trip, since I saw very few dogs.

 

Once I made it to the mall, I wasted no time scouting out all the shops I wanted to go to. I browsed through a few clothing stores, but couldn’t find anything I wanted. Then I went to the Mr. Price Home Store where I proceeded to go on a mini-shopping spree. New sheets for our bed, new shelves for our bathroom, scented candles and matching travel mugs. Everything was for “us”, and “our” home. Gone are the days when I thought about me only. And even so, I was never one to invest in house hold goods, I was always moving, or planning my next trip. Now filling our house with things to make it homey, sounds like the only practical thing to do- it is a change that still startles me when I say it out loud.

 

When friday comes, I can not manage to shake the smile from my face. George should be coming home tonight! I want to waste as much time as possible. What I do between now and then isn’t relevant- I just want to get to THEN! I feel like it’s Christmas, and i’m getting my other half as a present. The SMS’s are flying back and forth. He has meetings this morning, but if he leaves by 1pm, he should be able to make it most of the way before dark. As it nears one, I am beginning to loose hope, and then he calls and says he has to leave in the morning. And then he calls moments later and says he is coming tonight, despite the warnings about the road. I’m getty with excitement.

 

We spend a day together in Garbarone, and I can’t let him leave my sight. I missed his smile, his laugh, and that goofy car dance he does when Justin Timberland comes on. The drive back to Swaziland was long, but my cheeks hurt from laughter. I’ve always said that you can’t consider spending your life with someone until you have traveled with them- and George passes the test with flying colors. We played “Banana” the whole way home (I lost horribly), for nearly 14 hours. We debated about points and rules, but laughed the whole time. We pretended Titianna (our GPS) had a Swazi voice, and laughed some more. When silence would come, I would sit back and think of baby names I liked, and he would talk about how we would raise our kids. This car ride may sound like a horror to some of the single friends I know, but I admit, this is the happiest time of my life. I can feel am changing. Maybe i’m “growing up”, or “settling down”, or maybe i’m just brooding. Whichever way you peg it, i’m happy.

 

 

Botswana

5.7.13

Saturday morning comes, and we watch the sunrise from the rearview mirror. The landscape changes slowly as we cross the first border to South Africa. The red tint in the ground is slowly turning white with the sands of the limestone dessert. The thick forestry, and mountains are inching closer and closer to the horizon we are leaving behind. With every kilometer we travel, the road in front of us seems to stretch for 20 more. I am not use to seeing such flat land, after living among mountains and rolling hills for the last two years.

 

We stop every few hours, to stretch our legs, and fill up on snacks. I’m fascinated inside the petrol station complex’s, watching the crowds of white Afrikaans families wander around with bare feet, and speak in that shockingly abrasive dialect. The Afrikaans are relatives of the Dutch settlers that colonized South Africa. Their language is a close sister of the Dutch, rich with the full throat sounds, and unpleasant grunts that make it sound like they are coughing up a cancerous lung. George describes these people much like our beloved “American Rednecks”, and I can see why. The car-park is packed full of Caravans, RV’s and giant trucks packed to the brim with camping gear and shoeless children. Everyone seems to be on holiday this weekend, and we can’t figure out why– although these rednecks, have fully lined pockets from their hundreds of acres of farm land, so they need no national holiday to encourage time off to play with their 4-wheelers and braii freshly hunted meat on an open fire. They are a fascinating group to watch– and although I sometimes forget that I too am white, it feels so foreign to be among so many at once.

 

The road stretches on for what seems like forever. The space between towns is growing, the only reminder that there is any sign of life left on the road are the random signs for rivers or small villages off the main road. The signs are long; some with 20 or more letters, many of which repeat, and i’m entertaining myself by trying to pronounce these ridiculous words. “bloamfontein or vereeneging” I add a couple throat clears, and snorts for effect.

 

We have been traveling for over 8 hours since we left the house, the last 2 we have been alone on the road, no cars have passed, no people walking on the side. We are on auto pilot and getting a little slap happy from gazing at the sun for countless kilometers. We pass a sign that says “Restaurant and pub” and George nearly does a 360 turn without brakes. The feeling of the car stopping seems so foreign, like when you get off a trampoline and your legs feel like jelly. The sign above the gate proclaims “Predators Paradise Park”. The gate opens and we immediately see enclosures with wolfs, leopards, a few lynx and antelope, followed by monkeys and then lions. Lions everywhere. They are behind fences, but just a meter away. As we drive along the perimeter, they slowly prop their enormous heads up to investigate, and then let them drop like a heavy sack, back to the ground. There are easily over a dozen lions in this park, but looks like someone’s personal farm. I can’t figure this place out; so random; in the middle of nowhere; how did they acquire so many lions? And why? We follow the winding gravel road, following the scattered signs toward the Pub.

 

The Pub is in the far back corner, and guarded by a huge ostrich I hesitate to get out of the car as my track record with birds is not great, and this bird is bigger than me and George put together. But the thought of a cold cider is too tempting in this heat, so I follow George closely up the back stairs, watching big bird out of the corner of my eye.

 

The deck is beautiful, so we order and sit in the corner, overlooking a large field, enclosed by an electric fence just a few feet from where we are sitting. I notice something moving close by, and then see the outline of a white main. It’s a lion! A stones throw away, it is peeking at us behind the tall grass which makes a perfect camouflage this time of year. He peaks up at us every few minutes, and then drops back out of sight, while we enjoy our beers. We chat about how random this place is, and watch that creepy Ostrich roam around the ground below the deck. A bird should not have feet that big in my opinion- I find nothing interesting about this ugly thing. But George is fascinated by the way it is eating everything it can find on the ground, and watches as it straightens out it’s scrawny neck every few seconds, and the lump on the side slowly sinks to it’s stomach. I’m going to have nightmares, if I watch any longer, so we head back to the car. The key is almost turned in the ignition when we decide to get one more for the road, and George runs back up the stairs to the bar. I stay behind, opening my window and play with the radio. Then I see big bird staring at me from a few meters away. I huff and decide to play the “i’m not scared of you” card. Then it suddenly starts a steady gallop in my direction. I quickly drop my act, and roll up the manual window as fast as I can. I throws a couple peeks at the glass, and I see george at the top of the stairs holding two cold drinks. I can tell he is trying hard not to laugh, as I am trying not to scream. He pauses for longer than I can justify as he tries to regain composure, and walks to the car. The bird doesn’t move, just stares at me from behind those ridiculous eye lases. George gets in and starts backing up, laughing the whole time– big bird just stares and follows the car with little movement of its tiny little head. I’m ready for the road, and to leave this creepy homemade zoo behind.

 

The sun is setting now, and all we can see is the empty road, and the big orange sphere we are driving directly towards. I can’t understand why they would make such a road drive directly into the sunset, or why it seems to be such a deserted road leading to such a large country. We are staring directly ahead, and willing Tatianna (our faithful GPS woman) to sound the next direction. She has been quiet for hours, and i’m starting to wonder if she has short circuited or acquired some kind of glitch.

 

Finally we spot a few people on the side of the road, walking in our direction- they appear out of nowhere. And then a few cars with Botswana plates- we must be getting close- although I have no idea where these people have emerged from.

 

Tatianna directs us to turn left and we see the border before us. Nothing more then a small trailer and building. We get our passports stamped leaving South Africa, and then drive a few meters on a dirt road, and over a small river to the Botswana side to get our stamps for entry.

 

We realize on the other-side that we aren’t sure where to go from here. We were planning to stay at a backpackers I found online, near a game reserve, but we wanted to stop by George’s Aunts house first. Apparently Tatianna took us through the wrong border, and we are far from his family. It’s getting dark, so we decide to find the backpackers for the night. We find it after an hour of circling around a small neighborhood near the game park. It’s completely unmarked, and in a strange location. We were hoping for some kind of food, but were found wanting. The last thing we wanted was to get back into the car and find a restaurant, but we forced our backsides back into their well worn seat imprints and carried on. A nice man told us there was a small shopping center not far where one or two restaurants could be found. It didn’t sound great, but it was better than nothing so we went in that direction.

 

Now I should really have learned my lesson by now. Every time I go to another African country, I have this idea that it is deserted and undeveloped. That Swaziland is just this exception that has civilization that is unmatched by it’s borders. As we enter into town I am quickly reminded that Swaziland is so tiny in comparison to it’s neighbors. This “small shopping center”, is larger than any mall we have in SD. We are immediately met by a dozen fast food options, and giant stores. Despite my grumbling stomach, I have to walk around this place. Stores, and shopping and cafes. 3-D movie theaters, arcades and photo booths! I dream of a shopping center like this in Swaziland. After the wonderment wears off, we order a pizza each and head back to the backpackers.

 

The next morning we waste no time packing up and heading to his Aunties house. George has another 8 hour drive to Francis Town this afternoon, so he has to be leaving after lunch. His aunntie and uncle are so sweet, with stories upon stories of their life in Botswana. His uncle is Austrian, and Aunt is Swazi (George’s dad’s sister). They met over 40 years ago and have lived together in Swaziland, Austria and now Botswana, with a daughter my age living in Portland, Oregon. They are now house parents for a small group of government funded “top achiever” students in all of Botswana. They provide their meals and accommodation while the students attend class and study endlessly. The house is lovely, and the perfect little hidden gem for aspiring little geniuses.

 

George leaves shortly after lunch, and I check in to my motel, a few km’s from his family. It’s going to be a long week while he is away training for work- the longest we have been apart since we met. But it is nice to be able to get to know George’s family, and travel on my own a little. Seems like such a strange thing to do now, even though I have never really traveled with anyone before. It’s day 2 on my own, and who knows what this week has in store for me.

I MIGHT AS WELL BE ON THE MOON…

4.9.12

I wake up in a panic, frantically run around the house, while drinking coffee by the pot. Life has thrown a lot my way in the last month. I check my to-do list, and turn the page, again… and then again. There is so much that needs to be done, people to see, things to do- i’m lost and don’t know what to do first. I feel like a space cadet with a sugar high- contemplating moving to the moon where email and cellphones are out of range.

 

REPORTS FROM THE HOMESTEAD

It was 8pm when the phone rang on the first day. I am weary of numbers I don’t recognize, but something tells me to answer. A deep southern accent comes through the line. It’s the new PCV placed at my site. He begins telling me the story of Bonigile, my “little cinderella girl”. He heard shouting and crying from the main house last night. Babe is home, causing his usual chaos. My heart sinks and i’m at a loss of words. What should he do, he wants me to direct him. I tell him to talk to Make, and get the story- if it happens again call the Peace Corps office. I’ve often thought of my little cinderella girl, and imagined what she may be doing on the homestead. I’ve imagined jobs I could get her in the city, or at the school i’m working for. I thought maybe George’s mother, who has a habit of taking in strays, maybe able to help her with her schooling, and give her some direction. I hang up the phone, and make some inquires.

 

A few days later the phone rings again, with the deep southern accent echoing on through the line. She has been set back to her homestead to stay with her mother- which means she isn’t in school anymore. I can’t imagine a reason why- given her role on my old homestead. This story is missing a plot…

 

Again the phone rings, it’s been a month since the first call. Apparently she had been caught with a boy, and had lied about visiting her mother, when she actually stayed at a boys house. Cinderella? Surely not. I imagine her situation. Bad grades. School was not going well. She had always told me she wanted to marry and have a family- no big dreams, no hope for university. I suppose a suitor could lead her astray. I still pondered the idea of bringing her to Mbabane for a little guidance, but the responsibility is too great. If she can cause mischief in a tiny community in the boondocks, then the faster paced city would not be an improvement. I severed my roots to Tikhuba that day, and now I must let family matters be family matters.

 

Zanelle, my neighbor girl, has emailed me recently and informed me she has started university in a fashion design program. This brings light into my heart. My “beautiful Z”, has always had an eye for fashion, never wearing an outfit the same way twice, and never the way it comes off the hanger. She told me once, she figured she would become a teacher, or just a wife- and I told her I thought she could do so much more; fashion was were she was meant to shine. I’m so happy for her on her path- and have big hope for her future.

 

SOON TO BE ALONE IN A SEA OF SWAZI

The mighty fine group 9 Peace Corps Group I landed in Joburg with 2 years ago is preparing to go home. They are finishing up their service, and have stars and strips in their eyes. I haven’t kept close with many of them, but they were a constant in my life in Swaziland. I am not dreading the day they leave Swaziland, and leave me behind waving from the runway, nor will I be happy the reminder of my PCV experience has finally concluded… but it will be a moment. Some kind of moment…

 

OUT NUMBERED BY AMERICANS

I have been away for 2 years, and last month I hosted my first visitor. I was so looking forward to having a friend here. Someone I could talk really really fast with, and would understand the importance of a taco, and I wouldn’t have to explain, “it’s like a _______”. Well the month my friend arrived, so did another American friend Mandla went to university with in St Louis, and then shortly after Willow’s boyfriend joined our happy homestead. It was an eventful month to say the least. Although “american time” was fun, i’ve discovered i’m slowly turning…. i’m no longer an American living in Swaziland… I just have a little American hanging on my family tree somewhere. My fast pace is gone. My need for order is hanging by a thread. When people say “lets go”, I don’t stand and walk to the car, I KNOW it really means “lets go… in an hour or so”- and I don’t even get mad about it. I don’t need wifi, or to update my facebook status daily. I think white bread is amazing… and I don’t read the ingredients on anything. I don’t think 100Rand is cheap, because its really only 10 dollars. I know when to speak SiSwati, and when/who thinks it is considered comedy. I don’t worry when I see a man balancing on-top of a ladder with no spotter, or when I see a car full of children with no seat belts. I appreciate that I have a shower AND a bath, and am grateful when there is water pressure at all. I am offended when swazi’s are offended, and i’m pleased with tourists when they too are respectful of the culture.I know Africa, is a continent, not a country. I understand Swaziland has faults like any other country, but its an amazing place and they have the right idea in many ways- even when compared to the USA. I’m proud to be an honorary swazi

 

BACK TO SCHOOL

Teaching has been….. interesting. I come to school every Wednesday and Friday prepared for lessons- my day planned, and it almost NEVER happens that way. I am still learning the most important parts of teaching in Swaziland, and that is how the system works. Tests take an entire day, even for 3^rd grade, and tests happen every month. There are 3 terms in a year, with a month break in between, and because we are a private school, we also have a week off 2 weeks before the end of each term. A “D” is passing for exams, and swazi names are very had to pronounce because 90% of them have 12+ letters in them. I’ve renamed all my students “honey”, “sweetie”, or ‘hey you”. I am dead set against corporal punishment (spanking or otherwise hitting students), and our school has a policy against it as well… however that is how these kids were trained. I can scream, and yell as much as I want, or hope that respect for a teacher is a given… but it just doesn’t work. I sent my first letters home to parents with 2 students this week, that must be signed and returned to me or they will not be able to take their final exam. It was a hard choice, for I know there parents have no such policy. What can I do?

 

Otherwise school is going good. As with any primary school teacher, I have proud moments and those born from utter frustration. Their first tests this term I was happy to see they have learned, so at least I am moving forward. With each week I grow more confident, and I see the growth represented in my classroom as well.

 

MEANT TO BE A BEACH BUM

What would you do if you discovered your family had several acres of beach front land in northern Mozambique? I would develop it in a second! And I plan to. Swaziland is a great place to live, and George and I plan to always call it home, but when offered an opportunity to live on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, I will split my time. The plans are still in development, but we plan to start clearing the land this year and build a backpackers on the beach. First as a small house to rent, and a campsite during peak season and then in 5 years time a complete backpackers. If anyone has any suggestions on a name, please send my way

 

WEDDING BELLS TO POLISH

Planning a wedding…sigh… a million miles away, feels like my destination should be the surface of the moon. At least it would alleviate the need for finding a dress. Plans are set, and then reordered, and then wiped clean and started afresh. Why is getting hitched such a process? A good friend of mine is also getting married, and she has been delayed by the priest until she can get certificates from the Catholic Church that everyone in her wedding party has been baptized- even the jewish best man. Our situations differ, but MAN, I now understand why Las Vegas weddings are such a hit.

 

Getting people here, or there- or just about anywhere seems to be up for debate, or near impossible. We haven’t set a date yet, and are considering running away to an abandoned island with an witness and a ship captain. We will keep the guest list posted, if you would like to be a part of the madness… I mean magic. Wedding could take place anywhere from as early as December to as late as June. I wonder if swaziland has the common law, and we can just wait the 7 years….

ALL OUT AFRICA– SEEKING NEW VOLUNTEERS!

If you read my blog, you know that Volunteering abroad has changed my life in so many ways. And from YOUR comments, I know that alot of you dream of your own african adventure. The volunteer program i work with, All Out Africa, is trying to reach as many as these hopeful souls as possible. please copy and paste this poster, anywhere, anyhow, anytime and help us spread the opportunity.

Cheers!

Back to School

You can hear the children singing at morning assembly as we drive round the last bend. I’m late, as usual, and still flustered from another early morning of searching through my closet trying to find the right costume to transform myself into a primary school teacher. I tip my giant Starbucks, travel mug nearly upside down, wishing for one more sip of caffeine and willing it to surge through my veins, and jump start a little energy. I half run, half walk to stand in line next to my fellow teachers along the outside wall, watching the last few minutes of the assembly. The children are bowing their heads for the lords prayer; it always makes me giggle when they speak in unison and their accents somehow make each word have 3 extra syllables. They say “amen”, and someone in the crowd starts signing the marching song, signaling the end of the morning activities as they march to class. The little ones disperse first, and the single line formation lasts about 2 steps before they scatter everywhere, and eventually run and skip to their classrooms.

 

I head to my classroom door, which is now barricaded with a heavy iron gate, that has to be unlocked in 3 places and lifted from the frame. It is always a surprise when I enter my classroom. I only see it 2 times a week, and I swear they have elaborate parties when I’m not there. Desks scattered, chairs stacked randomly, and every surface covered in a thick red dust, a familiarity to the area of Matsapha. I begin my morning ritual of cleaning up, and organizing my classroom as quickly as possible- my first students will be standing at the door soon. During this mad dash, I always curse myself for wearing tight black pants and boots, as I do every morning here– Matsapha is HOT. It feels like the core of the earth, even at 8am. There could be frost at my house a mere 30 km’s away, but down in the valley- it feels like the soles of my shoes are going to melt on the hot dirt outside. One day I will remember this, and dress accordingly- but for now I suffer in the stale heat.

 

When I took this job I thought i’d be teaching Art- now it is practical arts, and I am still learning the difference. It’s my 4^th week, and I still don’t have my teachers guides or student handbooks- so I’m making it up as I go. From what I can tell, “Practical Arts”, is preparing the students for craft work- how to make all of the things you can find in the markets; from baskets and reed mats to beaded necklaces and bags. This is both exciting and bothersome. When you go to the markets around Swaziland, you can find any number of the same exact craft. A basket woven in Mbabane is the same identical one, you will find on the other side of the country, and for the same price. It has always boggled my mind- no difference in product. No one steps outside of normal, no one tries to improve or make their craft special. Vendors will even tell you, they don’t want to upset the other vendors by making their products unique. I remember when I was in the Peace corps, my Make would make “swazi buns”, a semi-sweet roll, that she would sell for 50 cents. At least 5 other women sold the same rolls for the same price, and there was no difference or variety. I tried on several occasions to convince her to sell banana muffins, since we had a span of banana trees on our homestead, and everyone seemed to like the muffins I would make. Even when I told her she could sell them for twice as much, she was afraid to disturb the market. To an American, I suppose this anti-capitalistic attitude just didn’t make sense. However now I am charged with the task of educating children on crafting- preparing them for a life of possibly working in these craft markets- this time I get to start young.

 

For the next few weeks I will be teaching my students how to do marketing- everything from conducting market research, to resourcing and using recycled material, to figuring out profit margins and then making a marketing plan to sell their products. It will be a 5 week lesson, before we even begin to make our craft, which will be decided only after all the research is done. I’m very excited to see them learn from their research, and how to start a successful business.

 

Class has been a very interesting new experience for me. My children range from 1^st grade through 7^th grade, and their background range even more drastically. I have a mix of urban children, and rural; as well as swazi, and Indian students (I must say I enjoy my Indian children with names like Justin and Abdul as opposed to more traditional swazi names like Sisibusiswe).

 

In the beginning of the term, I discovered right away that these kids have been trained to be obedient, and respond like robots. For a class specializing in creative thinking, this was my first challenge. On the first day of class I had them all draw self-portraits, mostly as a sneaky way of getting them to write down their names so I could practice saying them at home, but also to register what level they were at artistically. The kids broke out rulers, to draw their legs, compasses to draw perfect circles on top of their necks. The desks were covered in eraser fragments; after 15 minutes, nearly no one in the class had actually drawn something and left it on the page. A few of my classes I actually had to forbid erasers from being used at all. They were staring at me for approval- terrified they were doing it wrong. Some of the kids even drew straight from my example.

 

I pondered over all of these things during the next week, and decided that on day two we would just work on being creative. We took one piece of paper for each class, and drew one picture, together. They were SO confused by this project at first, but eventually everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves- I think in the end they understood that art is suppose to be fun and free, but we still have a ways to go. If I ask a question like “are you ready to start!? Are you excited?” I get a response back in a monotone, unison voice “yes teacher…”. Rule number 3 in my classroom is “You are not a zombie. Participate and Interact.”. One day I hope they catch the true meaning.

 

After school, I usually get stuck in Mastapha working with George as his unofficial assistant. He is full-fled working in his new job now, and too busy for words. He is a sales rep for the whole of swaziland, with at least 30 companies to which he supplies building materials to. He does the sales, the accounts, the deliveries and basically any other positions you could imagine for 1 employee running his own company. He is busy, but is enjoying the challenge. On the days when I’m not at school, I am busy running my own business, which is booming. I now have 8 clients I work with regularly, and more coming every week. It has been both overwhelming and exciting. Everyone is insisting that I register my design company and set up office somewhere, but I’m still happy working at home in my Pj’s (the advantage of having your own business in my opinion).

 

We have also expanded our little family recently, by adopting yet another dog. Let me tell you 3 large dogs are WAY more than 2. The new puppy, was another dog that no one wanted, the last picked for the kick-ball team, the runt, the little gimp- as were all our dogs. The new additions name is Frank, named for Frank Lamphart, the famous soccer player who had problems with hernias and could never finish a game. Dear Frank the puppy, also has hernias and will need an operation when he is a year old. His name was a toss up between Frank and Stevie Wonder, as he will also need eye surgery soon. He is a boer bull bred, which apparently have a common genetic problem with the inside of their eyelids growing inward, and causing the eyes to water and easily get infected. So until he is old enough for surgery, we walks around with his eyes closed, and he always looks like he is crying- despite this, he is the cutest thing ever.

 

We will also be making room for my first visitor this week! My friend Willow will be coming to stay in Swaziland for over a month, and will be my first official visitor form the states since my arrival almost 2 years ago. It will be nice to have a friend from home here, and get to show off my new home. It will also be a great excuse for me to do all of the touristy things i’ve always wanted to do in Swaziland but never had the time for. Additionally it will be a great test run for several of the activities I have planned for my family when they make the journey across the pond.

 

LIKE A DIAMOND….

1.28.13

 

It was a busy morning, waking up early to a bright sun shinning through the windows, and the smell of wet grass drifting into our bedroom with the breeze. There is much to do to prepare for the grand opening for the new primary school, George’s parents are building, and where I am now employeed. The whole community, parents of our new students, the minestry of education and all of the schools investors have been invited to the school grounds to view its progress and celebrate it’s opening. I have promised to make my famous pasta salad- in epic propotions, but I still have to get all of the ingredents and battle through the busy Pick n’Pay lines.

 

I drag myself from my slumber, fighting the will to wake up, but knowing I don’t have the pleasure of wasted time. I head straight for the coffee maker and begin to plan my day. George springs to his feet, faster than I expected, and is ready to sprint out the door before the first pot is brewed. This is strange, i’ve never seen him so eager to go to the supermarket, but I grab my shoes and hope some of his sudden energy will rub off on me. He stops me before I have the opportunity to get to the door, and offers to go on his own. It seems like a good deal, but i’m worried he will forget something, so I continue my trek for the door. He insists a second time, and i’m caught off guard, “don’t be silly “I say, “it will just be easier if I go with.” He insists again, “NO. I want to go on my own.” Fine I think- go to the grocery store alone. I decide to turn for the fresh coffee… its going to be a long day with Mr. Grumpypants.

 

He calls an hour later asking for the list of things I need from the store. I am confused, what has he been doing for the last hour? I save myself the trouble of asking, and remind him of the “To-Do list”.

 

When he returns the water is boiling rapidly on the stove and I begin making my pasta salad feast. We start the drive towards the main event. Its the end of the month and we have both just been paid, so starts the tradition of figuring out our debts, bills and needs. Its not my favorite conversation every month, but it’s one that must be had. Half way to the destination the pot and a half of coffee I managed to down before we left is catching up to me- I may burst- this minor problem also makes it’s way into conversation. George stops and looks at me at one point and says “ I love you.” He is in a very strange mood I think to myself.

 

We get to the school and find it empty. We make a few phone calls and realize we are actually the first to arrive. We lite a smoke, and pop open a Hunters Gold cider from the six-pack we brought with us. I’m still talking away about the temporary bathroom I have to use at the new school, and filling the passing time with frugil conversation. George is quiet… which means I talk more about nothing inpartcular. Then he says, “ will you look behind that book in the car door?” I was confused what he could possibly need now, so before I look, and being the control freak I am, I ask “why? For what?”. He asks again, “please just check behind that book in the passenger side door.” i’m half looking, for what I still don’t know, and asking George too many questions.” Finally my fingers run across a small black box, with a white ribbon tied tightly around it.

 

My heart stops for a moment, and George is staring at me, quiet as a mouse. “NO WAY!” I scream. “NOW?” I am still holding the unopened box. I’m somehow not sure this is for me- maybe he is holding it for a friend. Finally, when I stop shouting, he says, “open it”, as causal as a stroll to church on a sunday morning. I open it, and can’t even look for long- he continues to stare, and i’m still not convinced its mine, or I should touch it- its so shinny I’m scared to dirty it. He quietly says, “well… put it on…” and I obey, still shouting about something- but i’m unsure what words are excaping my lips. About 5 minutes pass like this, and I stare at my finger, giggle and shout something, and I may have swung a few playful smacks in his direction too. Then I realized he still hadn’t ASKED me yet, so I inquire. I know that we have been planning the wedding for a long time now, and its never been a question of IF we will get married, but WHEN; but somehow the wieght of this diamond on my finger is making it all seem more real. Its exciting, and i’m dying to tell someone, but its 4am in the states.

 

Before long, and luckily for George, other guest start arriving, and i’m forced to stop ranting and raving. We tell his sisters and brother, and welcome the hugs and excitement. I try to wast away a couple hours, willing someone to wake up eary in the states so I can share with them too. At 5:30 am (stateside), I give up- I can’t take it anymore, someone MUST be told, so they can start our family phone-tree. I call my mom first, knowing that her being the first to know will be an exciting bragging right. I call the “mom” listed in my contacts, and let it ring, and ring…. and ring some more. “THIS IS UNBEARABLE!” I think with each screech through the reciever. The voicemail triggers, and I begin my message (clear throat) “ WHAT! You guys suck! I had amazing news, but no one wants to answer my call, so now I have to tell the voice message… I’M ENGAGED! I’ll try to call you later, and you BETTER answer- this is a kill joy! Love ya, bye!” I’m a little forlorn, but I dial my sister bobbi next- again forced to leave a voice mail. I swear I come from a family of early wakers- today they must have agreed to sleep in. I’m sad I still haven’t been able to tell anyone, but I stare at the sparkly diamond on my finger and i’m suddenly in a good mood again. If they find out on facebook, at least I can say I tried to tell them in person first.

 

The day goes on, and its nearing dusk before we are packing up to go home. I still haven’t received a call back from anyone in my family. This whole time difference is annoying me. I try calling Bobbi again, and get through! At last I can tell someone on the opposite side of the world how my amazing day started. She is excited , and i’m sure by the time I hang up and make my way to the car, everyone in the family will know the news. Our phone-tree is speedy and efficent.

 

I allowed myself to post the event on facebook the next day, knowing all the important people found out at least by phone, and watch the comments roll in. I read the new post daily, and smiled at all the well wishes and congratulations. Then I saw one from my friend Kelly… “CONGRATS! My mom called and said that you left her a voicemail, sorry I missed you, but you know we don’t live in the same city right? Anyway, happy for you guys- talk to you soon!” WHOOPS! The “mom” listed on my phone was a left over number from it’s previous owner…. sorry mom- I tried.

 

So that is the epic, fairy-tale story of how I came to be engaged. It may not be the classic story you dream about as a young girl, but I think its quite a perfect redition for George and I. Thinking back on it now, I really can’t imagine it happening any other way lol.

 

And now we prepare for the wedding. If you are looking for an excuse to go on a safari, or get out of your hemisphere, please send me your address- we are starting to collect. The wedding will be held in Swaziland in late June 2014. We wanted to make sure you all had time to save your pennies.

 

Thanks for all the love, and support as my crazy adventure continues!

 

 

new year

1.8.13

 

Driving towards the border, staring out at the savanna-like landscape passing by the window, it somehow feels more like africa in the low-veld. The mountains in the distance, the tall yellow grass barely moving in the stale heat of mid-day, the vast amount of large homesteads scattered with thatch-roofed, mud and stick huts. It occurs to me, this must be where my family imagines I live– and isn’t it? But its such a contrast from the scenes of even our tiny city home on the other side of the country- it somehow feels like another world. My family has often been on my mind lately, as I plan the unofficial wedding I intend on having here next year; I plan a little more for my family to see and experience each day- this sight is on my list.

 

The New Years holiday always puts me in a reflective state of mind. Last year was my first year in the Peace Corps and I spent the holiday surrounded by young volunteers as we purged every ounce of bottled-up lonesomeness and frustration we had experienced into the bottom of empty glasses and over exposure to the searing African sun. This year I feel like a different person. There is a calmness to this years end, with a tingle of excitement of what is to come.

 

The beach in Ponta Do Ora is perfect for the way I’m feeling. This town is a hidden jem, literally unreachable by most unless you travel in a 4×4 through 30 minutes of pure sand-dunes. Traveling with George and his childhood friend Christian, this small group of non-complainers, adventure seekers with a “go-with-the-flow” mentality is an amazing change. We traveled the 300 km’s to the border in a small car, listening to Jack Johnson, while Christian read in the backseat- when we reached the sand dune border of Mozambique and had to hitch-hike the rest of the way, no one was concerned. 15 minutes of chatting with strangers and we had found a ride, a short time later we were in our sandy campsite setting up and by the end of the day we were swimming in the clear water lagoon of the Pacific Ocean.

 

2012 has offered me a lot of changes. I’ve gone from an American squatting in Swaziland via the US government to feeling like a Swazi with an American accent who lives and works here. Its taken a lot of effort and emotional strength to get to this mental state and as I watched the explosions of fireworks on NYE from the beach, I felt like I was watching a reenactment of all of my personal trials of the year- clearing every challenge with a cloud of smoke and leaving me a clean slate.

 

It’s only been a week into 2013, and this feeling is still lingering. Changes are on the horizon. I am looking forward to the end of the month, when my teaching job starts. George’s parents are building their second private primary school in Swaziland, and have offered me a position teaching art for grades 0-7. I have never thought of myself as a teacher, and just two years ago expressed a strong feeling against teaching with the Peace Corps. But yet somehow, this sounds like the most amazing opportunity. This position will allow me to be around children, which I desperately miss. I will be teaching Swazi children to be creative and will hopefully give them an outlet to express themselves which is often a rare opportunity for children here- especially in the schools. It will also allow me more freedom- a chance to get out of the house and away from my computer. I also feel very honored to be offered this opportunity by George’s parents- a sign that I am becoming a part of family more and more.

 

In fact the whole family has played an intricatal role in my optimistic view on the upcoming year. Michelle, George’s sister, tricked me into joining her social basketball team just this week. I thought I would just go a do a few hours of fitness training, but by the end of the 2-hours I was having so much fun I couldn’t deny the coaches request to return for running the next day, and practice the day after that. Considering I haven’t worked out for more than 10 minutes of Pilates in the comfort of my own home (where cheating is allowed), I was impressed at my ability to keep up and often lead my new teammates. I haven’t played basketball since I was in 5^th grade, and so far haven’t touched a basketball on the team- but I still have a good feeling about being a part of it.

 

Its amazing that just a couple new things, tossed into my existing schedule can make such a big difference– and it’s only been a week! I’m looking forward to getting everything kick started simultaneously and see how this new and improved life runs. I really feel like i’ve found a home here. Here’s to looking forward to 2013.

 

 

Second Christmas

12.6.12

 

Today I am in awe of time. Time can creep and fly by at the same time. So much can change in a year, it can leave you looking back on your past life as if it was some dream you had and vaguely remember. How you get from point A to B can seem like mystery, but ironically when you look back on that journey it can also feel so connected and meant to be. We are approaching 2013, my second Christmas in Swaziland- this either feels outrageous or somehow falls short– I haven’t decided yet.

 

When we returned from the USA, we moved straight into a new house. Literally, walked in with our suitcases were confused where to go. We spent the first couple days unpacking boxes, along side our suitcases, and slowly turned our new empty rooms into a new home. We didn’t have much time. Georges new job he was suppose to start in January, started in November. He quickly began disappearing in the wee hours of morning and returned after dark with just enough time to shovel dinner into his mouth, take a splash and then crash heavily on the bed willing the night to stretch just a little longer that night.

 

I spent my days, mostly on my own, listening to loud chick music and lugging a HUGE concrete drill around the house as I attempted to be not my typical crafty, but “handy” self. This drill was like driving a formula 1 car, but heavier and scarier. The first time I pulled the trigger I immediately set it down on the floor as I sat across from it and proceeded to have a staring contest. Eventually I gained confidence and soon I ran out of holes to drill into the walls. I was impressed I didn’t seriously harm myself. Although there was a slight incident while hanging the curtain rail in the bathroom… while standing on the toilet lid and drilling a hole, the plastic lid cracked and scattered, sending me plummeting to the ground as my left foot staid behind, stuck in the hole at the bottom of the toilet bowl. I often stare at our narrow, oddly situated bathroom and wonder in bewilderment at the many hard surfaces that surely should’ve cracked my skull in two.

 

It only took a few days to get our little cottage looking like home. There was a few surprises however. You see, this property is actually quite amazing and beautiful. This cottage especially SHOULD be way out of our price range, but when we discovered this hidden jem it was still unfinished. The owners had run out of funds after renovating the main house (which sits a whole 3 feet away from the “cottage”), so the cottage renovation was finished off by the owners brother, who we have never met, but I assume is a recovering alcholic or serious drug user with absolutely NO building experience what-so-ever. The cottage LOOKS beautiful, if you are in a room for no more than 60 seconds at a time. You must just kind-of squint your eyes and glance over the room. If you look too long, you will realize that all of the light switches are slanted, there is no more than 1 outlet in any room, and they are in the most useless places (except for the bathroom hallway where there are 3 in less than 2 feet from each other). The geyser (hot water heater) was never hooked up, the lights were wired to the outlets, and nothing was labeled right in the fuse box. And my favorite part is when the water is on in the main house our water doesn’t work at all, or vice versa. Its been a challenge, but I have learned a lot about home improvements- I feel like I should own one of those pink tool belts and rock it around the house.

 

Along with the house up-grades, I have been non-stop working on my graphic design enterprise since my return. I am constantly amazed at the need for marketing skills in Swaziland and how my name has become among the top choices. A friend of mine told me the other day she overheard a group of businessmen talking about the new graphic designer in town (me) and how impressed they were with the quality of work; as it turns out, i’ve never even worked with any of these men. When I decided to move to Africa and do a little freelance on the side, I couldn’t imagine that in 6 months I would be on my 3^rd order of business cards. This month I have had a full plate of work everyday. I am now working with 2 design companies. One that sends me overflow work and a new company that aims to boost all swazi owned businesses into a new marketing realm. All out africa has also kept me very busy as we are launching a revamped marketing campaign (I will be telling you about very soon). I have also been considering starting an art class for kids a couple days a week- something in the mix for next year.

 

Although we have only been home for one month, the states seems like a distant memory. With all the new exciting and occasionally challenging events November has brought us, it is really hard to comprehend we have passed halloween and thanksgiving and are now coming upon Christmas and a new year. We had big plans for bringing in 2013, but now George and I are looking forward to a few days when everyone else will be celebrating and therefore not emailing or texting us for a few days. George’s family will all be traveling for the holidays, his brother to Zambia to visit his wives family and his sisters to Cape Town for vacation. Our friends will all be with their families and then heading for an epic beach party for NYE. I will be content sitting in our shabby-chic house, trying to get my hands on a copy of the Christmas Story and drinking a glass of wine.

 

Happy Holidays!

 

 

GEORGE DOES THE USA

11.13.12

We really didn’t think it was going to happen. Every government building we entered in Swaziland offered us a new fiery hoop to jump through. We were literally sweating from frustration as we ran from place to place, gathering each piece of missing information, we didn’t know we were missing until we thought we had collected it all. When the day of the Visa interview came, we were more confident then we should’ve been. George proudly walked into the US Embassy, carrying a fat folder of important papers, letters, documents etc. I waited at a coffee shop nearby, with a smirk of assurance on my face- surely they could find no fault in our records, application and story. I was floored when George returned a short 15 minutes later claiming to be rejected. “REJECTED??? This must be a joke… not a funny one.” I thought. It took 10 minutes longer for me to realize the lingering punch line was not coming, and another 5 minutes for the red color of rage to leave my face, then another few moments to gather myself and make a plan. We had come to far, spent to much time and energy, not to mention spent our rent money on the 15 minute interview– I would not accept this “rejection” or the generic letter they so casual handed over as an explanation. George begrudgingly got into the drivers seat, and sat tapping my foot in the passenger seat the whole way back to the Embassy We entered, as I encouraged myself repeatedly, “be nice, use your polite words, be respectful, DO NOT SWEAR.” As I passed through the second set of metal detectors, my conscious self left my body, and I transformed into someone else. I don’t remember exactly what I said, or who I was talking to, or what my plan was- all I remember is that I wouldn’t shut up, and I had an AMAZING answer for every trap question they threw in my direction. As we were standing in the elevator 45 minutes later with our Visa in hand, my conscious was slowly sneaking back in and I had to remind myself not to jump up in down with glee, or throw my arms around the shell-shocked young swazi next to me. I couldn’t believe it, I really didn’t think it was going to happen.

 

That night flights were booked- we left 3 days later. Until our feet hit US soil it was a game of hurry up and wait, hurry up and wait. We rushed to the Swazi/Johannesburg shuttle first thing monday morning, barely making it on time. Tried our luck at a 4 hour nap on the road to the airport. Check in for our flight didn’t start for 5 hours, so we had a beer and killed time. Bags were checked, we were scanned and screened and we rushed through the airport to our terminal- to wait for 3 more hours. We sat near the windows watching our giant, beast, airbus plane fill with our luggage and meals, commenting on the bewilderment of the mechanics and engineering it takes to make something of this magnitude fly. We were delighted to find our window seat with the 3^rd seat empty on the first flight. We tried our best to sleep, but the excitement was too great, and the movie selection to grand on the way to Frankfurt, Germany. The turbulence didn’t help; it lasted most of the flight, but George wasn’t the least bit scared of his virgin voyage. The Frankfurt airport was huge, clean and empty when we arrived. We spent 3 hours walking around, exchanging a few dollars for euros so we could buy a much needed coffee from the McCafe. The next plane was slightly smaller, with less of a movie selection, but it was a day flight, so we watched the big fluffy white clouds pass outside our window. As we circled the airport of New Jersey we could see the statue of liberty and a tiny version of the Manhattan skyline.

 

We were herded through customs like cattle, and separated due to our residency. I was finished quickly and waited on the opposite side for George to pass through immigration. I waited, standing on tip toes searching over the crowd for him. I started sweating after the first 10 minutes, and I couldn’t recolonize anyone from our flight. Then I saw him. Relief hit me, and then vanished as I saw the officer at his side. “crap!” I thought. I stood there, unable to move, as he tried his best o give me an “it’s OK” smirk. He disappeared into a room a few feet away from me, guarded by officers on each side. I couldn’t see in, and I didn’t dare follow after him. I stood uncomfortably nearby, waiting desperately for the door to open. I was fidgeting with an elastic rope barrier, which slipped out of my hands as the same officer walked by me. I managed a quiet squeak “sorry” under my breath and put my hands in my pocket, leaving the rope dangling on the other end of the pole. I started pacing. I was trying to decide to interfere or to stay put, but my feet couldn’t make up their mind. After about 45 minutes, George casually walked up behind me, and I held all my questions till we put some distance between ourselves and homeland security. They had just asked him all the same questions that the embassy had, but they really had the answers already on the computers in front of them- one mistake and he would have been on a plane headed back to Swaziland and I would have been crying in the fetal position somewhere in NJ. Still shaking the fear from my body as we walked closer to our last plane, the smallest of the 3, and thankfully one last hour of travel to our final destination and final confirmation that this trip wasn’t for nothing.

 

The familiar faces, smells and sights of home smacked me in the face with joy. My grin was infectious as I scanned the crowd looking for my family. I wanted to skip, and jump and run naked through the airport, ready for an epic “welcome home” greeting from my sister, where she runs from one corner and I from another, and the scene skips to slow motion, as I wrap my arms around her and swing her tiny body around in circles. She opted to sneak up on me while searching for our bags, but I was still gleefully excited. The drive home I sat in the back seat with my two nieces, non-stop hugging and kissing every visible part of their luscious little faces. George sat in the front seat, gripping to his backpack and pressing his imaginary break as we weaved through downtown Detroit traffic, and he adjusted to riding on the opposite side of the car, and driving on the opposite side of the road. I’m secretly happy each time he grips the “oh shit” handle; now he can experience what its like to be in my swazi riding shoes. Bobbi and I talk the whole way home, excited, and speaking so quickly I’m sure George has no idea what or who we are talking about, but it feels good to speak to someone openly, with out decisively picking words, and slowing my accent. George admits that it took me about 10 seconds to regain my American accent to the full extent.

 

The first day we woke up refreshed at 4am, snuck into the kitchen for coffee and I gave george a 3 hour proper “history of Ginger” as we searched through all my old boxes and photo albums. I was floored by how much clothing I had left behind. Looking through my old closet was like being on a shopping spree with all my favorite things, and everything was in my size! I started making piles all over my sisters basement of things I wanted to bring– from day one I was asking myself “ I don’t know how I’m going to bring all of this home.” A few hours later, my sister woke up and we went shopping in the biggest mall in Michigan.

 

Everyone in my family was not only excited to meet the infamous George Green, the guy who turned their dear sister into a mushy-love-struck-planning the wedding-kind-of-girl, but they had also each thought hard about their special thing they wanted to show him. My sister Wendi wanted to show him the casino, Bobbi had a real shopping experience in mind, Jon wasted no time inviting him to the Pro Bass Fishing store, then my nieces and nephews had brought a wide variety of music, movies, x box games and sports to test. After about 2 days of this, I realized that I had somehow really REALLY poorly explained to them this Swaziland Kingdom. The contradiction between my current lifestyle and my Peace Corps experience was lost in translation somewhere, and George and I spent a lot of time trying to work out the kinks. He happily participated in every activity and every discussion He even tried his hand at teaching siswati; my family was hopeless learners (like me), but they were throughly fascinated by the “clicks” which proved to be an exhausting lesson in repetitiveness

 

After the first week in Detroit he had met my entire family, and was still somehow standing by my side. And even though we had spent the last month or more glued to each other, I found myself loving him more and more. Watching him with my family, feeling comfortable, speaking opening and easily– made it easy for me to fall just a little deeper and deeper into him. George was excelling at the “meet the parents” game, and even though by week two, jet lag had kicked in with a healthy dose of the flu, he carried on– he didn’t want to miss a beat. He did every activity with enthusiasm, and I don’t recall him saying no to one, single, trivial, thing offered to him.

 

We spent week two in Kalamazoo with my mother and older sister. We relaxed a little in the slower pace the smaller town. Saw a movie, went to the mall, had frozen custard even though the temperature outside had drastically dropped. Each week we bought George warmer clothes and a bigger, puffier coat as he proclaimed “ how do people live here?!” I was readjusting to the colder climate too, but his dramatics still made me giggle as it was still October in Michigan; only the beginning. When we went to my cousins farm just outside the city limits, he was cuddled in thermal long-johns, 4 shirts + a sweatshirt, a fleece/knit hat and gloves. After a few minutes outside he added a complete winter snow suit. If he had fallen off any of the toys Jimmy had offered him a ride on, he would have bounced back upright. We spent the whole day at the farm, and it ended up being one of the highlights of the trip. George admitted that this area was one of the few we had ventured to that he could see himself living in- a far cry from my Chicago home that awaited us a few days later.

 

Seeing the skyline of Chicago emerge from the highway flooded me with memories and emotions. So many times I have seen that skyline; getting goose bumps that turned to excitement that I was going to someday live there, and then that I DID live there. This time driving into those towering buildings was such a drastic change from where I had been living the last 2 years, that I somehow felt like I had outgrown it. It was a feeling of pride of personal growth– looking at something so enormous and thinking that I had completed that challenge and had moved to something bigger. I get the same excited feeling now when I gaze out at the mountains and vast valleys around Swaziland.

 

Being in Chicago, in my old neighborhood was amazing and erie at the same time. It was all so familiar, but I kept getting turned around on the one way streets and I suddenly didn’t know where to take George for a REAL Chi-town experience. My friends Emily and Zenas offered us their spare room, and took us to a new bar in Wickerpark the first afternoon. It was funny watching George test each of the new beers. Swaziland has 2 choices, and a few imports– his taste-buds were not prepared for the 24 home-brew selection on tap. It took a few tries to get it right, but eventually he got the hang of picking his flavor.

 

I had planned Chicago based solely on food. Being away from home for so long, and that home being a world redound exhibition of amazing food, I wanted to spend our 3 days in the city gorging ourself with every plate of food I had even thought about in the past 2 years. We started at fat willys, my favorite rib joint– shortly after sitting at the table, we realized we had already been in a food coma for the last 2.5 weeks. I was prepared to power through, willing hungry pains to surface, somewhere, deep inside my stomach. George however looked at the menu, and turned a slight shade of green at the thought of eating more food. He ordered his entire plate to go- I refused to allow him to miss out on the best food to ever reach his gut.

 

The next day we put his Chicago-walk training to the test. Starting in the loop, we circled the city about 4 times. My good friend Lorenzo graciously guided us, and became our personal photographer. By lunch we had made it to the top of the John Hancock building, where we rested over a drink and took in the city view. I think this is where George final grasped the “great” lake concept. We parted with my friend and carried on, looking at every building, going into a few shops, riding on the “L” around the loop and then walking back down State St. to all the big name restaurants like the Hard Rock Cafe. The sun had set, and all the buildings were lit up like Christmas trees when George finally looked at me and said, “ you know when your like done? Like really just DONE; you don’t know if you can move your legs anymore? That’s where I am right now.” I was relieved, I was done too, but I didn’t want him to miss anything on my account, so we dragged our tiered bodies to the bus stop and headed back to Emily’s apartment. By 7pm we were showered and spending Friday night in our Pj’s willing our last molecules of energy to stare at the TV.

 

We spent one night with a few friends at the apartment. George told stories and we all got a little tipsy. That night we realized the best way to sell Swaziland to all my family and friends may be the local car wash BBQ, bottle shop, store, friends and a clean car a few hours later- our friends were sold! They all agreed if Romney won the election, they would be dusting off their ironing boards and paddling in our direction.

 

We spent one last night in Detroit before heading home. I spent most of it surrounded by mountains of old and new stuff that had to fit into 4 checked bags, 2 carry-on bags and 2 small “personal” bags. You better believe it was ALL coming with me. I packed bags, weighed them, added, or removed as needed and sometimes completely repacked all together. Somehow I managed to pack EVERYTHING. Let me be more specific.. everything includes: a swifter/steamer, kitchen shelf organizers, kitchen aid utensils (whisk, spatulas, serving spoons etc), and ikea wall wine rack, under the counter wine glass rack, under the counter coffee cup holder, 3 11×14 pictures w/frames, 5 5 x7 picture frames, a small globe, dish strainer, drawer organizers, folding baskets, a 360 closet organizer, an extra computer, candles, a baseball bat, a metal shelf, 3 new duvet covers with shams, my portfolio, a dozen books, George’s 6 new pairs of shoes + his 3 old + my 2 new boots + 3 I brought + 4 old and an entire closet of clothes. I don’t know how I did it, but I was quite pleased when we checked in and each bag was to the max weight EXACTLY, and not one bag exploded inflight.

 

Now we are home, and in a new house too. I’ve been busy unpacking not only our luggage but our whole new house. Its been a lot of working going from vacation into this transition, but in a way its nice to be adding bits of MY old US house into this one… it makes it feel more like home. I admit it was strange on our journey back saying we were going “home” and “home” meaning Swaziland. I’ve never bought a roundtrip ticket where the destination wasn’t the states. It was a new feeling… kind of scary, but also very exciting. I’m ready to start my new adventure here, and with George. This trip has made me so excited for my family to come here and get a glimpse of our lives. We are already thinking of all of the things we want them to see and experience.

 

 

amazon.com /patrotic patty

9.24.12

 

I MISS AMAZON.COM

 

I long for the days of ordering new stuff online, paying via Paypal and anxiously awaiting that delightful, cute, smiling, brown package on my front stoop. Those were indeed simpler times.

 

This is the month of my birthday, which means much anticipated care packages from home. Boxes delivering me little reminders from the good’ol US of A. Treats that haven’t touched my taste buds in over a year, and a few luxuries like toothpaste that isn’t lemon herb flavored or new underwear that still has the elastic in tact- I LOVE getting packages.

 

Mail in Swaziland hasn’t progressed to the modern age. Houses don’t have addresses, and you’ll be lucky to know the name of the street you live on… provided that street has a name at all. For example if we were to order a pizza to be delivered, we would say “ Top of the golf course. Eveni. 3^rd house on the left. Regan’s old house.” This actually explains where we stay, despite the fact that we don’t live on Eveni, and I couldn’t tell you the name of our actual street. This is just how things work here. So when it comes to mail, everyone uses a PO Box. Since I moved to Mbabane, I share a box with my roommate Matthews family.

 

When a package arrives a the post office, a little fairy visits me in my sleep and I awake with a sense, I hope isn’t false, that I have mail. Sometimes I’m right… sometimes not. I get the key from down the street, go to the post in-town, winding through the blocks of post boxes that make up the Mbabane population and find my box 4177, whip out my old school skeleton key and cross my fingers a little white slip is inside. On this particular trip I had 3! my heart sings as I take them from the little box and start the hike back to the main post office building. However, half way to my destination I notice the charges… adding up to over 4,000 rand! WTF? When I was in the PC, customs charges were waived, but I never spent over 80 rand on a package; 4,000 was a tish excessive.

 

We would have to wait till monday to talk to the customs tax guy- and I was distract to say the least. I felt like I had just been robbed of the only small connection I had with my family. Stupid mail…

 

Monday came, and I couldn’t wait to go give SOMEONE a piece of my mind. We collected a number, and a friend of ours who knew the guy and set off to the post office ready for a fight. I wasn’t going to leave without those packages, and I refused to pay 4 x the cost of SENDING them to me in USD. We marched in, located the dude and the boys spat out some words of siswati (leaving me a bit in the dark). Before I knew it the man said, “why don’t we open them up and see?”. OH. I thought; that seems like a good plan… and easier than a screaming match.

 

So there I stood in the corner of this crowded mail room, surrounded by packages that have traveled half the world, watching my 3 little packages being ripped open by the 3 men kneeling on the concrete floor before me. It was like watching christmas morning with 3 excited children, except they were my presents… and I have to admit I felt a little robbed of my santa moment. When the tape was removed and the last box opened, the evaluating began. Each item was removed and piled up on the side. A list of values accumulated on a scrap paper nearby, and I patiently crossed my fingers behind my back that the value of the packages weren’t more than what was written on the box.

 

One by one, new t-shirts were removed $12.99, $15.99, shoes $20, shorts $24.99. then a small pile of new underwear and bras with no price tags. Each man held a delicate pair in their hands as they tried to weigh how much worth this new, eslastic-in-tact, panty could be worth… my guess was priceless, but I wasn’t about to open my mouth. I just stood and watched them fondle my new cute-booty, praying they would stop soon and trying to stay an unnoticeable shade of red.

 

After about an hour, we packed everything back up and the tax man gave us a new value of the boxes, which was 1/3 of the original price. It was still 3 x what I had paid in the PC, but I was happy to see a triple digit number to I jumped to accept it.

 

We learned a couple valuable lessons this day. 1. This isn’t amazon.com 2. nothing in packages should LOOK new, or have price tags on it, because I WILL get taxed on its value and USD converted to Rand is NOT a good deal. 3. although when you send a package from the states the “value” you write on the slip is insurance for you, it completely screws the receiver- so be nice and claim less.

 

10.11.12

PATROIC PATTY

 

After my bout with the post office last month, I realized for the first time in my life, I could be, maybe, possibly, be a little, tiny bit, homesick. This is a new feeling for me, and it hit me like a balloon with a teeny-weeny puncture… slowing weighing on me until there was nothing left but a deflated shell, empty containers of ice cream, and a pile of waded up kleenex. I wrote a depressing, self-loathing status update on facebook, and suddenly my inbox was full with messages for me to come home for a recharge. I was even more shocked with myself, when this sounded like the best idea in the world. So began mission impossible– the challenge that would finally make a patriot out of me.

 

George and I had been planning a trip to the states for a while, but balancing time with funds seemed to be a losing game for us lately. But when this happened, my family had offered to sponsor our trip, and George had the month of October completely open until his new job started, so why not? Well… let me tell you, on this side of the world, thats not the end of the story… no buying a ticket and jumping on a plane here- NO SIR.

 

First, we had to get George an international passport because so far he only had “travel documents” that are only good for travel across borders in southern Africa. We called his mother, who is master of this domain, and got the details. We needed a letter inviting him to the states for a spefici purpose (in this case a 3 week art course at eARTh studios in Detroit), 3 months of bank records, and a letter from his employer with a reason why he must return to Swaziland. Basically this whole processes is to ensure that the traveler doesn’t abandon ship and never return to SD- they are quite paranoid about this.

 

We go to the creepy, cement, dungeon-like immigration building (you may remember from previous blogs), we wander around in the damp, mildew halls, searching for the door with a makeshift “INTERNATIONAL PASSPORTS” sign. When we find it, its locked. Its 1:30 PM… lunch time- no one will be back until 2. We wait in the dark hallway, on a creaky small bench with our knees nearly touching the wall opposite us. When 2:15 rolls around a small, miserable woman squeezes by us without a word and opens the door, and closes it behind her. We exchange looks and then try our luck. As we enter, she is busy shuffling, in slow motion, a few papers and barely looks up as we explain we would like an application. She lists a few things she needs from us and we remove them one by one from our plastic folder. She then informs us we need 2 more letters addressed to the chief immigration officer- one from George that states where and when he is going (even though the “when” is still TBA pending the approval of his passport we are currently applying for…)and one from a sponsor of his trip, as well as their finical records. She turns us away without time for an argument- they close at 3PM, nothing more can be done today.

 

The following day, we collect the rest of the documents and return to the little, miserable woman. She still isn’t happy with, god only knows what, but she begrudgingly gives us the application and a list of new challenges to accomplish for the day. First it’s the police station for finger printing. I sit patiently on a bench in the lobby, watching the parade of interesting characters walk in and out. George returns about an hour later with tales of a nearly topless woman working in the back, doing the fingerprinting in traditional attire… which tends to be a little breezy. Only in Swaziland could you catch an all topless show by government employees working at the police station… these things really shouldn’t surprise me anymore.

 

Next is the Revenue Office to pay for the passport and collect a stamp for who-knows-what. The line is wrapped around the building at the main branch. There is nowhere to park, just a series of cars, backing up and slowly moving forward, turning around etc. It reminds me of one of the those mind-quiz puzzles, where only one car can move at a time, but they all have to make it out of the lot. We stand in the burning sun for 10 minutes without moving a millimeter in the right direction, only to avoid blocked in cars, trying to get out of their tight, confined spaces. We decide to check the other branch downtown.

 

This branch has a similar line, but the building is providing shade, so we stick it out. Turns out the line is moving pretty quickly for a line that stretches a city block. Within an hour we have our stamp, and receipt and can go back to the miserable woman in the depressing immigration building.

 

You can ALMOST detect a little amusement on her face as we enter her cramped, claustrophobic office with all of our paperwork in order. The last 24 hours have felt like an episode of “The Amazing Race” but instead of traveling the world, we just got to see every government building in Mbabane. We hand her ever document she requests, and we can’t help our smug expressions for being so awesome and efficient. And for our final amazing trick, George’s mom has given us a name to throw out, to expedite our passport; unfortunately the woman is out with her sick son today… so we are left with fading smiles as the little miserable one tells us to come back in 2 weeks. We leave feeling a little defeated, and I try to calm my mind from excited thoughts about visiting home.

 

The following day, we wake up early, with boundless energy ready for todays mission– but their isn’t one. We are stalled until we get the passport. Then the phone rings. It’s George’s mom, who has already called the immigration office this morning and organized his passport, it’s ready to be picked up! 100 points Mrs. GREEN! We don’t waste time as we sprint to the crumbling cement building, and we are even happy to seen the grumpy, miserable woman, who has a hint of amusement (or indigestion) on her face. We follow her around, from one office to the next, up stairs, down stairs, back upstairs and finally he is presented with his brand spank’n new, hot of the presses international passport. I nearly jump for joy right there on the spot, but restrain myself until we get to the car park. STEP ONE: CHECK!

 

Now we can apply for the VISA, which is all done online. We sit at the internet cafe answering a series of questions to ensure George has never participated in terrorism, the recruitment of child soldiers, money laundering, drugs, sex-slavery, or any other crazy outlandish thing you can think of. It takes over an hour and 3 beers to complete, but when we hit send we are excited. This MIGHT actually happen. Now we have to wait until next wednesday, because they only interview for visas on wednesdays.. Then 4 days from then, we will know for sure if this trip on a whim, will happen at all.

 

My stomach has been in knots all week. Holding back excitement, and trying to maintain a realistic mind set that nothing is in the bag yet. Its all too much to bear, and I NEED friday to get here so we know. I could be on a plane as soon as next week! The thought is too much for my brain to handle. It would be a shame if it didn’t work out, with all the hoops we had to jump through. I am left being thankful for my American passport though. After this process, I really don’t know how people outside of the western world go anywhere. What a blessing to be able to go wherever we want, whenever we want, and for how long we want… I’m realizing that this isn’t a luxury everyone has and really makes me passionate about getting other Americans outside our borders. Like our freedom of speech, freedom of press, so is our freedom to explore and learn from other places and we really mustn’t waste that privilege.