To the few people who have dropped by here in the past year in hopes of finding something new to read: My apologies. I was originally planning to use this blog to update my family and friends on my experiences in South Africa, but then found an easier (but much more annoying) method in line with infrequent Internet access: mass e-mails.
However, after two weeks of nationwide school strikes and a week of recuperating from an ACL injury suffered from an foolish leap off the back of a pick-up truck in front of a crowd of Venda women watching a traditional dance video outside the TV store in Thohoyandou -- I am finding myself with way too much time on my hands. In my case, this means there is way too much thinking going on inside my head which I can't discuss with my host family because I can't speak Tshivenda well enough (even if I could, brooding is not a common preoccupation in this part of the world). But I do have a laptop, keyboard and a memory stick. Ahh, you lucky readers!
I am missing school these days. Not the corporal punishment that teachers mete out when they think I am not watching or the hours of waiting to accomplish one small task because someone is late or has lost the proper paperwork, etc, etc. Mostly I miss the kids.
I have to admit that I enjoy the way the grade R learners (kindergartners) chant my name in unison when I visit their classroom or the way kids of all ages will continually shout my name on the playground until I acknowledge them with a smile or wave. I can see how movie stars can get used to constant attention and come to expect it after a while. Are you still real if someone doesn't recognize you?
But the attention isn't the only reason I miss those little buggers. It's the way they are all so eager to be at school, the joy on their faces when they are asked to do even the smallest thing -- like write on a chalk board, the way they are so generous with each other, sharing their lunch or a pencil with someone who doesn't have one. It makes for a wonderful, affirming work environment.
I'm not lonely though. The house is filled with people ALL the time -- Vho Maggie, Awelani, Thihangwe, Vho Mammburu, Mudalo, Rose, Vho Nyadzanga, various visiting relatives and friends. Awelani and Rose brought bathwater and meals to me just after my injury when I couldn't walk. And the kids in the neighborhood are also keeping me company -- picking objects off the table in my room and asking "is this?", eating it if it is food, drawing on their arms and legs with it if it is a marker or eyeliner, making pretend cellphone calls with it if it is anything else, playing with great imagination and energy, occasionally hitting my injured knee on purpose to make sure I am still in pain, being cute.
But I also miss being busy -- having a busy daily schedule, many things to do, places to go, papers to shuffle and organize. When I was at the Peace Corps office in Pretoria for x-rays and stuff last week, I was so envious of the staff and their ringing phones and official-looking desks with crammed in-boxes.
Sure I have things to do here -- complete plans for the high school peer counselor camp in July, complete an application for a well for one of the schools, plan an upcoming vacation to the Grahamstown Arts Festival and a week along the Wild Coast. But none of it seems official enough or of urgent necessity.
As I write this, I see how ridiculous I am, missing what I don't have and not wanting what I do have. If I was in school, I would be complaining that I wanted more time to rest my leg and plan my vacation. While working three jobs at the same time just before I left the states, I was dreaming of simplicity in a rural environment. I have so much. Feeling dissatisfied is really just a bad habit.

The Mochakis, one of the families I stayed with when I first arrived in South Africa had a ceremony one evening to honor their ancestors. The kids and I were not permitted to witness the actual events taking place in the darkness outside the house that night, but we heard the rattle of stones tossed onto each corner of the tin roof and, the next morning, saw a calabash laying in a small hole in the ground by the door where Damaris told me that home-brewed beer had been poured as a gift to the family members who have passed away.
While ancestor worship has not been ritualized in my culture, it is still present in its own way. And it makes wonderful sense to me.
So many people who have guided me in my life are now gone from it. Yet, when I am still, quiet and open, their wisdom and love fills me -- in quantities so great it is clear that death has not silenced them completely. They are my personal cheering squad.
Mom, Dad, Dede, Grandaddy, Uncle Paul, Aunt Marie, Uncle Harold, Aunt Alice, Uncle Ed, Patti and others. During my nearly two years in South Africa, I have felt them all here with me at some time or another -- as calming as a father-sized hand on my head, as strengthening as an embrace from familiar motherly arms, as loving and accepting as doting grandparents, aunts and uncles.
Perhaps it is they who whisper words of joy disguised as children's squeals of delight, heat-soothing winds and bird calls. Or who draw my attention to an inspirational paragraph in a book I have just opened, offer examples of strength in the form of elderly women carrying bundles of firewood down the mountain and who provide difficult people and obstacles to teach unconditional love, endurance, patience, contentment.
I was strongly aware of the presence of my ancestors one day during my first week in this country. Missing my Dad, who had died only a month prior, and overwhelmed by a sense of not belonging, I went to a sandy spot under a big tree and just let the tears flow. Silently, I asked Dad for help, as I would have if I could have called him on the phone.
There was no sudden voice from above or a lightning bolt, but after sitting for about 10 minutes, I became aware of the birds in the tree and there came an overwhelming sense of peace. It was the same way I felt when my father would say to comfort me during difficult moments: "You're OK kid. Daddy loves you." It was enough.
Acknowledging such gifts from my family members (including the non-biological ones), what they offered when they were alive and what they continue to give after their death, is necessary -- even if I choose not to do so with a gourdful of African beer. It reminds me that what I am and what I have yet to become, is never, ever achieved alone.

The neighborhood kids and I are hooked on Nollywood soapies. My host family has DSTV (lucky for me) and one of the channels, 102 -- known as Africa Magic -- runs Nigerian dramas for most of the day, every day. So many afternoons, after the kids and I are out of school, they will quietly slip into the house and congregate on the floor in front of the television. One of them, usually Phuluso, the oldest (10) will whisper "Sheila, 102!. 102!" And soon we are watching shows like "We Are But Pencil in the Hand of the Creator."
The things that movie snobs would deride in Nigerian films are what I love: overly dramatic scenes with the same, predictable scary music ("dum dum DA!"), goofy romantic scenes with the same Whitney Houston songs or really bad made up love songs ("I just love you, because I just love you") and the episodes about witchcraft where the simplistic special effects are no better than what was used in the Dr. Who series.
Maybe I like Nollywood dramas because they remind me of some of my earliest TV obsessions. I must have been no more than 6 when I hung out with the neighbor kids and their mom in the early afternoon, watching Days of Our Lives and Dark Shadows. But I still recall sitting with them in front of the tv in the master bedroom and anticipating that moment when a serious male voice would intone: "Like sands through the hourglass, so are the Days of Our Lives" followed by the swell of romantic theme music. And I remember being creeped out by the evil deeds of vampire Barnabas Collins, but being unable to stop watching Dark Shadows.
I wonder if, years from now, Phuluso, Vhuthu, Mishumo and Vonnguali will feel equally nostalgic about the sound of Whitney Houston and bad special effects.