Telling my Peace Corps Story: Lens of Faith

As long as I can remember back, I've always been drawn to the desert. Growing up in Oklahoma, I had no experiences with deserts, but always gravitated to the Southwest part of the U.S. I loved turquoise and silver, chiles, mesas, giant, colorful skyscapes, brilliant sunrises and sunsets, learning about the indigenous tribes like Navajo and Pima, but mostly the idea of what the desert embodies: conservation, isolation, quiet, and solitude. Thomas Merton's The Wisdom of the Desert offers aphorisms from early monks living in the desert. Abbot Pastor said: A man must breathe humility and the fear of God just as ceaselessly as he inhales and exhales the air. Abbot Alonius said: Humility is the land where God wants us to go and offer sacrifice (pp116-17). I had to write an essay to tell the admittance board why I wanted to join the Peace Corps. At the time, I was fixated on the duality of wisdom and compassion, contrasted with knowledge and judgement. So, I said something like, as a judgmental person by nature, I wanted to develop compassion. But, in retrospect, what I was really seeking was humility.
There's something very humbling about leaving your home, your country, every social fabric you've weaved to help you become the person you are today, and start anew as a volunteer. It seemed exciting at the time; a real chance to dive into the sense of wanderlust I'd had since I was a teen. After becoming accepted to the program, I received my assignment. I told the recruiter I would accept any position from any country, so I had no idea where I would be stationed. I had been tasked as an information technology resource specialist in the schools and community resource project in the Northern Cape Province of South Africa, located in the Kalahari Desert. As vague as the job title sounds, it really meant I was assigned to work in two villages, each of which were small in size, and had one primary school apiece. I was to assist teachers, parents, out of school youth, especially in the area of life skills and HIV/AIDS education, in a variety of ways. In order to really help, though, I needed to first understand; who are these people? how do they fit into the bigger society? locally, regionally, and globally? How can I use my gifts and talents to serve them? How can I balance taking care of myself and serving others? Some of these answers were given during my 8 week training, and some of them have yet to be uncovered today, a decade later. One song I learned then, from our Setswana teachers, is called "Thula pele," pretty much means close your mouth and listen, foreshadowed the meditation stage I'm in now. Lots of listening, remaining a non-judging observer, exploring awareness, and teaching others, every Monday at public library formally, and informally by my way of life.
My village, where I lived for nearly two years, was called Logaganeng, "the place with the little cave," in Setswana. I wonder how long ago there was actually a cave, because nobody I asked had any idea. It was as flat as the Oklahoma plains from where I came. Was it irony? The BaTswana have a very rich language, full of allegory and other sophisticated modalities of speech, so I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. The next village over, where I also served, was called Ditshoswaneng, meaning unknown to me. They were about 7k apart, and I alternated one week at a time going between the two. I chose to walk; partly to save money, and partly because I rode a donkey cart one time, and it was so awkward getting off and on, and the cart rolled over my foot! Also partly because I love solitary walking. Just like when I learned about the joys of mindlessness through running, I came to adore my walks to and home from school on those weeks I traveled to the neighboring village. After about 15 or 20 minutes, the thoughts would quit their ceaseless barrage in my head, and it became like a walking meditation. A time when I didn't have to worry or help anyone. I could simply enjoy the sunshine, how different the thorn bushes looked than the leafy American trees I was used to, what the sounds of silence sound like, and frequently, thoughts began to drift to John the Baptist.
"I am the voice of one calling in the desert; prepare a way for the Lord!" he says in the New Testament. He wore sackcloth and ate the fruits that the desert provided, forsaking the comforts of tribal living among his peers, in order to follow his calling. That's what this is really about. The need to listen to that little voice inside me that whispers when I get quiet. The knowledge that the best part of me has not yet been revealed and needs to be uncovered. I've seen glimpses of that person who understands life is not all about her, in the orange that she always shared with someone on the bus ride home from shopping back to her village, who stood up to the man who tried to steal something out of her purse. No, I will not let you take advantage of me. I may be a foreigner, I may be a woman, but I am worth more than that selfish act of thievery.
The idea of a calling was not foreign to me; I was raised in an evangelical Christian church where people made decisions more on a calling than they did on other principles, laws or traditions. Some of my favorite memories of church were when the missionaries would come to visit. They would bring clothing, toys and other regalia from some remote land where they were serving. I would sit on the edge of my seat, excited to hear the tales of what it was like to leave their home, live with people they had never met and whose culture was foreign to them, but also to fill their calling of ministry. How exciting and scary all at the same time, I imagined you must be very brave and trusting in God to sign up for a job like that. Although I had stopped attending church and thinking about God about a decade prior, one of the ways I stayed centered during my Peace Corps service was to visit the Moffat Mission, located a few miles outside my shopping town of Kuruman.
Kuruman. The outpost of the Kalahari. Home to the Moffat Mission, where David Livingstone visited, and courted Robert Moffat's daughter, Mary. They were married beneath an almond tree, which stands today with a placard noting the significance. Alan Paton wrote about his forays into the bush, seeing remnants of the fabled Lost city of the Kalahari, long before he penned the apartheid novel, Cry the Beloved Country. Departing from Kuruman, when no roads were paved, and only accessible via Land Rover. Water was scarce then as it is today, but not for the white Afrikaaners who live in town, closest to the "eye of Kuruman," a water source. That diversity, abject poverty next to opulence, was one of the hardest parts about serving in South Africa.
Surrounding Kuruman in all directions are townships and villages, where all the BaTswana live, in varying states of poverty to rising middle class. It is common to see tin shack shanties on dusty patches right next door to a brick home with a bit of landscaping in the yard. Most do not have indoor plumbing, but some do. Most do not own a vehicle, but some do. I am reminded of a recent blog post from my friend Becca who talks about the South African culture of ubuntu, which is essentially all about sharing. "People are quietly loaning each other money, bringing food to neighbors, etc. People know when their help is needed, and they bring it. They aren't, like us Americans, trumpeting what they are doing for other people to everyone they know. I think that humility is a part of ubuntu because you do what you do because of the way you are connected to other people. You don't see it as a triumph but as a part of being a person."
Where there is civilization, there will be inequity. One NGO, or volunteer cannot erase this. Dr. Muhammad Yunus, father of the Grameen Bank and microlending, has an inspiring plan to eliminate povery, unemployement and net carbon emissions by leaving capitalism behind, which he chronicles in his latest book, A World of Three Zeroes, published in 2017. The purpose of the Peace Corps is not to eliminate inequities, or poverty, though. To promote world peace and friendship by fulfilling three goals: To help the people of interested countries in meeting their need for trained men and women. To help promote a better understanding of Americans on the part of the peoples served, and to help promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans. For me, understanding took place in a visceral way, of living it, that there are people who have very little or nothing, who live in distress and discomfort,  who are not even a generation removed from an oppressive apartheid government, who have little education, but, who value each other, value the dignity of human life, respect religion, ritual, diversity, helped me see I wasn't on the wrong journey. I had simply just taken the first step.

southeast asian- south african- inspired dish

Serves 2. 250 g whole wheat spaghetti, 4 tbsp crunchy peanut butter, few garlic cloves minced, half onion small dice, thumb size nug ginger minced, small glug oil, tbsp turmeric, one red chili minced, one and a half t curry powder or masala, salt, large pot of water, medium pot or pan. Boil water for pasta. Meanwhile, brown onion with oil, add all other ingedients except peanut butter and cook for a few minutes. Cook pasta al dente and save water. Add peanut butter to onion mix and up to a cup of the pasta water. You want a semi thin consistency. Add pasta and stir. If you can stand it, let stand and refrigerate to eat later. Yum! A nice addition would be bean sprouts and fresh coriander. A complete meal.

Back to africa

Back to africa! Last december, I didn't think this would ever happen. I was convinced that my next visit would be in several years, or only via blog posts and memories. Little did i know i would be headed back before the end of january. It couldn't have happened at a better time. Dead of winter, unemployed and recovering from injury, i need my sunshine and wacky taxis. I need peers, independence, and my sweetheart.

After almost two months back in the states, i had time to think, to process and let things come to light. Such as, absence makes the heart grow fonder, the grass is often greener on the other side, hindsight is 20/20, and i need to be productive in tasks that are fulfilling in order to be content. My family has not somehow morphed into these amazingly perfect characters, i have not changed into an amazingly tolerant and forgiving person to those closest to me. My life was never and has not been put on hold, and i cannot escape reality no matter how much i want to sometimes. Were my lessons learned and experiences gained during my time in the peace corps in vain? Can i take nothing away to interact with the people who mean the most to me? Will i let an amazingly negative string of circumstances get the best of me?

Yesterday, i commented to my family how full i was of piss and vinegar, when someone else described themselves as sweet. No one disagreed. Even though we laughed about it, it still made me think that i have A long way to go before i am again proud of my actions and deeds. Maybe this time, africa.

first musings as a peace corps trainee

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I just wrote a 4 page blog about my African experience, and the computer ate it. Yes, I saved every 10 minutes. Booooo!!!

Anyway, when I left Stillwater, I was exhausted from all the going away parties, goodbyes and emotional stress of leaving someone I love very much (person and pets). I hadn’t anticipated how much the separation would affect me, so it took me by surprise. It was really hard to leave and hold it together. I hadn’t really been nervous, just wiped out and looking forward to a good night’s sleep before flying to Washington, D.C. for staging. I arrived on a muggy, cloudy afternoon to check in to our hotel, and meet my new fellow trainees, soon-to-be volunteers.

I walked into the lobby, and already people acted as if they had known each other for years. I was nervous! As much as I love meeting new people and making new friends, I always get nervous. The first person I really talked to was Karen, a gardener from Kentucky. She reminds me so much of my mom; down to earth, beautiful but totally humble and modest. After an entire day of introductions, what to expect, and some paperwork, we were given money for our last American meal. I chose a sushi restaurant, thinking I might not get to eat it again until after my 2 year service. It proved to be delicious, I could not even finish my meal.

We packed up and left for the clinic the next morning to be vaccinated against yellow fever, then straight to the airport. We arrived about 6 hours early for our flight, so us smokers (myself, Tim a young physicist from Illinois and Anne, a young graphic designer from Minnesota) found coffee in Dulles airport and smoked outside until we boarded South African Airways. Some people scrambled around to change dollars to rand, the South African currency. I did not, I want to try to live and travel solely on my Peace Corps salary. There was an excited hubbub throughout our gigantic line of 43 volunteers. (We started with 45, but one couple woke up late in D.C. and decided not to go.) I thought I might be one of the oldest volunteers at my ripe old age of 27 (now 28!) but definitely am not. There are six married couples in our group, one of them in their early 70s. Two are under 21, and a good portion of us are in our late 20s-early 30s. Some are in their 50s. We come from all over the country, and strangely enough, 4 came from Oregon and had been student-teacher a few years previous. On the plane, I sat next to Kelsey, the 20 year old from New York who recently graduated with a BS in math and attended Obama’s inauguration. We both love baking and food, among other things. It was nice to sit next to someone and form a bond so early on.

After the 19 hour plane ride (one stop in Dakar, did not deboard) we got on a bus for a 2.5 hour ride to Marapyane, where we have been in training. Our new language and cultural teachers greeted us warmly and enthusiastically with traditional BaTswana songs and dancing, and we shared a meal before being assigned individual dorm rooms and a 7am breakfast the next day. I would have loved a shower and a fall into bed, but in the Peace Corps, one rarely gets to make these decisions for oneself. It was the dead of winter and very, very cold. Peace Corps bought everyone bedding, including a mink blanket, which was much needed. No one has indoor heating here.

I wasn’t used to getting up early, complaining if I was woken before 8am back in the States. Now, I wake at 6am everyday (sometimes earlier if traveling), run 10k before dinner, and try to get in some yoga. I am actually training for a marathon in April- it benefits local South African kids to go to college- and it’s a 21k. Well, the half marathon, the one that I’m training for, is 21k. The Ultra is 56k or some crazy thing like that. I never thought I would run in a marathon, but I’ve been doing a lot of things I never thought since I’ve been here.

I’ve stayed with a local family while training in Marapyane, they are an older couple who take care of two of their grandchildren. A boy, aged 7, and a very naughty girl, aged 4. They have all modern ammentities, like an oven, refrigerator, running water, electricity, fruit trees in their backyard, etc. It’s a bit different from my situation at my permanent site, a tiny village about 20k away from Kuruman in the Kalahari desert. I don’t have running water there, but I do have my own 4 room house! A living room with some furniture, a bedroom with big double bed, vanity, and lots of space, a kitchen with a hot plate and soon-to-be refrigerator, and an extra room with nothing in it (yet). I plan to draw and paint in that room, or maybe use it if someone wants to come visit me.

We have a lot of time off for traveling, and I plan to do as much as I can. One of our volunteers stays near Meerkat Manor, some kind of popular place on the Animal Planet channel. I believe we are going there for Thanksgiving this year, and I am supposed to go to Cape town later this month with my school for a field trip. Exciting!

On limited mobility

This is the first time, save when a broke my ankle at age 2, that i have been immobilized; this reason is the left tibia has two fractures, and i cannot bear any weight on the leg for 5 more weeks (total of 6 weeks of estimated healing time). There are metal pins and plates now inside, at knee and shin, keeping the bones level while they heal. Surgery was much less scary than i anticipated, but the pain is oh so much more. Not only do i feel the ache and throbbing at the site of said cutting and metal, but an almost constant cramping of the calf muscle. When i move from a horizontal t vertical position, there is several minutes of pain from rapid circulation, i guess.

Pain management was one of the two most difficult parts of my hospitalization. There were times i felt like Frida, waking from nightmares, screaming in pain, only to be stilled by in injection of strong analgesic. Never have i seen my body tremble so violently from a negative experience. The other terrible part was being alone. I never imagined i would come to need and enjoy the company of others, until this past 15 months of experiences in the peace corps. Especially in such a difficuly time, as being hospitalized, having surgery, and enduring so much pain. I did bond with the peace corps driver who picked me up from kuruman, took me and Jackei to our respective villages, then drove me to pretoria. He agreed to pick up a fellow volunteer so she could accompany me to the hospital. She also came to see me the next day, with another volunteer, and they brought me stuff to read, candy and a really nice card. The following day, a different volunteer came to see me. There aren't people i know all that well, or people i even see very often, but when you're in the peace corps, your bonds with fellow volunteers are very strong. You share this unique experience, and also don't know anybody else. Jackei couldn't leave work to come right away, and i was so grateful for the way these friends quickly accommodated time for me. Without them, i seriously don't think i would have been able to handle this situation. Last weekend, 5 or 6 of my friends were in town to celebrate their birthdays, and stopped by with mimosas to chat for awhile. People have been calling, texting and facebooking me every couple days. I am definately feeling the love.

Since i left the hospital, i have been staying in a private, en suite room with a double bed at this guest house in Pretoria. The peace corps uses this one for all africa volunteers who are in town for medical reasons. Currently, there are 4 other pcvs staying here. Having the company, albeit limited, is really great. One day, they helped me go grocery shopping. Let me describe that experience, just to give you an idea just how limited i really am.

Each morning, the peace corps sends a driver with a minivan (we call them kombis) to the guest house between half past 8 and 9. From here, people are taken to doctors appointments, the peace corps office, or on other errands. On this particular day, i went to the office for a check up with the peace corps doctor. I didn't have an appointed time, as things mostly organically evolve around here rather than adhering to a rigid schedule. I had time to use a computer for about half an hour before i checked in. Hobbled my way, on uneven cobblestones, and up four gigantic steps into the medical building. Up two more steps and down a hallway, to the exam room, and i am dripping with sweat and breathing heavily. By the time i fill out and file some paperwork and finish with my checkup, it is 11 and i am tired. A driver is available, and other volunteers are running errands, so i go so they can help me. The driver pulls right up to the entrance of the shopping plaza, but i must still walk a short distance to the grocery store. Mind you, one week out of surgery, on crutches, tendonitis in the left arm, i am moving at a turtle's pace and sweating again. Trying to remember what i need, my helpers pick and weigh my produce, accompany me to block other idiot shoppers from my hurt leg (people have come dangerously close!) And to make sure i don't fall. What normally takes 10 minutes took me (us) almost 45. I kid you not, i was so weak and shaky and positively soaked in sweat by the time it was over, that i wasn't sure i could make it.

Cooking regales a similar experience. Everything takes twice or 3 times as long, and i can't carry anything. I must put it in a backpack, or a bag that can hook on my crutches. I have carried beer in my pockets and pushed coffee on the tile floor with my crutches. I wash my hair in the sink with my drinking cup while i precariously balance on my good leg. My daily routine involves a distance of less than 1k, no doubt. I am doing seated and lying calisthenics for muscle strength, tone and rehab.

Mentally, it has been tough. Just knowing i can't go anywhere, run for stress relief, do my old yoga routine, almost anything i am used to, is tough. Not knowing if a can go back to my site while i recover or if i will get medically separated and be forced to recover in the states is kind of stressful. I am in the middle of visa applications, community projects, and leaving right now sort of mucks up all my plans. I am supposed to just concentrate on getting well, but when my near future fate is frightfully unknown, it is distracting. Almost as much as the constant charlie horses.

My Africa

My Africa

by Jenneffer Sixkiller
September 2009

A place where the stars surround me
like a blanket of hidden secrets
just waiting to be revealed.

Where the sun's departure leaves a trail
So colorful that it
Takes my breath away.

Where I run with gusto and leave a trail of children
in my wake
Whom I know will remember me tomorrow.

Where the roosters are confused
But sometimes so am I
Maybe

If I make enough hand gestures, and
Say dumela with a smile
Someone will understand me.

Where I never know
Which child belongs to whom
And it doesn't even matter

Where the scent of orange blossoms
Perfumes the air and
Permeates my memory

Of who I am
of who I was,
of who I can become.

Where I have a new family,
a new hane,
a new home.

Falling in Love

I've had somewhat of an adventurous life.  I'm 31 years old, and have tried not to waste any of those years.  I've traveled a bit of the world, met some really interesting people, participated in events that made a difference, drank a lot of beer and made a lot of friends.  I've also savored the experience of falling in love.

The head over heels, world spinning outside your door, glowy feeling that comes when you stumble over that special someone is like no other.  Sometimes you feel like a superhero, invincible and strong.  Other times, it can make you feel week in the knees and stomach, like your heart will jump out of your throat.  And in the tenderest of moments, you feel melded into the other person, two becoming one and never to be separated.  Nobody else matters.  I've spent the last year slowly falling in love with my son.

Once I found out I was pregnant, I was in a state of shock for quite some time.  It wasn't an entirely unplanned pregnancy, but I wasn't really prepared for it, either.  I guess you could say nobody really is, but in my case, my world had just been flipped upside down, and this followed on the tails of another big, life-changing experience.  I had just broken my leg while serving in the Peace Corps, and had to come back to the USA much earlier than planned to live with my parents, as I was homeless, jobless and injured.  Pregnancy was another big stressor, and I wasn't in the best of places to handle it.  But, I did, as best as I could, and had a textbook labor and birth with no complications. 

I did not experience an immediate connection with my son, or have romantic feelings about him or us.  Previously, I had decided I wanted to have an unmedicated birth and nurse, because those were the best choices.  And I dutifully read the books, consulted the experts, joined a support group for breastfeeding moms, and have not wavered from giving him these gifts.  I had some help from my sister and mother, so I was not completely alone.  We waited for my then fiancee to receive his visa so he could come and be with us while he waited in South Africa, not knowing how long that would take.  But for many months, I felt overwhelmed and barely able to be me.  I was getting lost in the swell of the baby, of motherhood, and I was so angry.  I was many times balancing the feelings of anger, regret and sadness at the loss of self, with those of joy, peace and giving of things and time for my son.  Maybe I was struggling with a bit of post-pardum depression?  Maybe those feelings are normal, but people don't talk about them?  In any case, I wished I could be a little more relaxed and just enjoy being a new mother instead of worrying about finding a job, a home, getting my fiancee to the USA, and never having any time for myself.

When my son was about 6 months old, his daddy finally received his visa and we went to meet and accompany him back to the States.  That was not a smooth transition, and it has taken about 6 months for us to adjust and get along.  I had so many expectations of him, what he should be doing to help with the baby, and around the house, I wasn't very gracious at giving him the chance to adjust himself!  I'm not proud of that, but I just couldn't physically be kind and gentle.  I was like a wounded animal, lashing about and feeling guilty about my sanity flying out the window on a regular basis.  I wanted to be peaceful and zen-like, I knew it was possible, but I just couldn't get there.  There were moments of clarity and sanity, but much of the time it was like a roller coaster ride.

Now, it has been 13.5 months since the birth of my son, and I can honestly say I am in love with him.  His morning babbles, his soft skin, smooth little head with whisps of brown hair, his toothy grin that lights up a room, the relief on his face when he sees me, his precious closed eyelids as he drifts off to sleep.  All these things and so much more are the joy of mine just because I am his mother.  I may not do everything right, but I never fail him.  Even when I feel weary, or when I don't feel like it, I play games.  I hold him.  I sing and rock.  I patiently pick up blobs of food after he's finished a meal.  And I don't resent it.  It's certainly not what or how I imagined, but it's motherhood.  I have the peace of mind now that the storm has settled, to realize I am still me.  I can look back on these months and see his gradual independence when it seemed he would be attached to me forever, growth and change, and it's a really neat thing.  I feel privileged to have a healthy baby and to be the center of his world.  It feels great to finally be on the up, and be in the groove again.