In a little more than 48 hours I will be in Ohio -- where the temperature is 20-something Fahrenheit and there are mounds of snow on the ground, I am told. A dramatic switch from summer in South Africa. I expect to have other adjustments besides getting used to the cold. I'll be with my sisters, friends and other family members saying a final goodbye to my father, who passed away just before I left the country in August. It will be a bittersweet, but necessary time of reconnecting with my American support system and dealing with this loss. But I am also eager to return to Africa to get started on my plans for the new school year, to learn more about this multifaceted country, to utilize all the gifts my father and others who touched my life have given me and to remain wide awake through it all.

One of the biggest misconceptions I had about South Africa regards animals. In our Peace Corps orientation in Philly, many volunteers (me included), wondered about the possibility of encountering wild animals in our remote villages. We worried about getting ambushed by a lion or run over by an elephant. It's funny now. I did see an elephant very close to where I am living, but it was securely trapped inside the fences of Kruger National Park. My family assures me that it is rare that any animals escape from the park and never have they seen anything more wild than a dog. South Africa is supposedly home to the Big 5 animals (elephant, lion, giraffe, etc.), but they are no more visible to folks here than are the animals in the zoos in America. Most are restrained in maintained game parks.
Yet my village certainly has its share of resident non-humans. Herds of cows wander everywhere, occasionally blocking the roadway or wandering into the yard to find green grass. Mangy dogs come and go as they please, usually in a playful pack, as well as the occasional very scrawny cat. (None of the animals are permitted inside or are spoiled like American pets.) My family keeps about 8 guinea hens, freaky-looking turkey/roosters (pictured at left) that constantly squawk like children swinging on a rusty swingset. In addition, chickens, roosters and baby chicks roam about at all hours. There are dozens of doves that roost on the roof, as well as numerous other native birds flying about. And in a pen away from the house, are two huge hogs and six newly born baby piglets. During the day, the trunks of mango trees are home to two blue-headed green-bodied lizards the size of iguanas and very large brown bats that fly noisily overhead at night.

Schoolchildren follow me home from one of the three primary schools where I am working.

A gift of South Africa
As I was sitting in the crowded, quite battered minibus taxi on my way to the town of Thohoyandou to write this today, I tried to pass the time by reading a book by Deepak Chopra (The Book of Secrets, a gift sent by my sister Julie). I was immersed in the chapter titled "There is No Time But Now" as the taxi's rusty sliding door kept sliding open. Since I was the one sitting closest to it, I had to grab the handle and pull it shut each time. Three times I successfully accomplished the task with my left hand while still keeping my eyes on the book held in my right; but on the fourth, my little change purse tumbled from my lap and fell out the door just before I could close it. I shouted. The driver stopped. I retrieved the purse. When I sat down again, I put the book away. This allowed the wise-looking older woman in traditional Venda attire to ask me what I was doing in Tshifudi -- my little village -- and to give me a brief history of the town. No longer trapped by the book, I was able to gaze at the mist high above the green Zoutpansburg mountain range rising into the sky along the road, to feel the welcome coolness of a cloudy day after a week of 100 degree-plus temperatures, to hear the sweet chatter of a toddler who was cradled by his grandmother on the seat next to me. The greatest gift I have been given so far from South Africa is a growing ability to stay present for moments like these.
Sometimes the slow pace of the rural culture is frustrating. Every transaction takes three times more than it did in the US. People tell rambling stories that take a while to get to the point. Visitors drop by unexpectedly at all times of the day and are in no hurry to leave. The wait for a taxi can last more than an hour. But the thing is: I am not usually scheduled to be anywhere else. There is no easy means of escape (except perhaps to a book and see where that got me). I have no car. Thohoyandou is a 45 minute taxi rideaway from Tshifudi and it's only filled with shops, the Internet and three restaurants. It's too hot to walk far. My family has a TV, but that medium no longer holds my interest for long. Everyone else in my village just relaxes and enjoys the day together. So I do the same.
When the temperatures rose to 107 degrees Fahrenheit last week, most of the members of my host family, the Mammburus, gathered on the front porch at night where it was coolest. We watched the sky fill with stars (more stars than any sky I have seen before), helped the little ones to sleep with wet rags on their heads, listened to the chirp of bats and other animals that were were active despite the heat, and talked about all kinds of things. I might have been cooler in an air conditioned house somewhere, but I would not have found the companionship and simple joy that came out of that hot evening in Tshifudi.