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.