Thunder Storms

I was woken this morning at 5:10am to roaring thunder and lightning. When I first opened my eyes I was confused as to what jolted me awake. The noise was constant and reminded me of several fighter jets flying directly above my head. The lightning lit up my room as if it were the middle of day and a torrential downpour hit the windows like golf balls hitting a metal roof. Unrelenting and unforgiving, the storm lasted hours and needless to say, I'm exhausted. In Limpopo I had not seen rain since last March. Here in Mpumalanga, it rains nonstop and the storms are mesmerizing in their own state of chaos. I was lying there thinking about the people living in informal settlements, wondering how their small homes stay upright. I wonder if I can work on getting these informal settlements changed into RDP housing, (similar to low income housing in the States) and how long something like that takes. Unfortunately, many who live in these settlements are non SA citizens and are here illegally. Not a hurdle easily overcome

It's amazing to feel such a difference here compared to my village. The mountains encompass the towns here (see photos above of White River and Sabie) and driving around during the day is so relaxing, despite the poverty hidden among the forests. I have to think of things I haven't had to in the past 10 months. For instance, last weekend, I went for a walk along a main road towards the mountains. That Monday I was with my coworker who then told me not to walk there. "Why not?" I ask. "Because all the prostitutes walk this road. You'll get picked up. It doesn't matter that you're white." Well! And as we drove along to some farming schools, he proceeded to point out several women along the road who are waiting for "business." The last thing I need is to be in the paper labeled as the newest item on the block!

Everyone talks about Obama here. They love him, and being a huge supporter, I'm happy to talk about it with folks. It's on every channel, every news station and in all the local papers here. People get down on their knees and praise him. It's really worth seeing. I believe he is more loved here than in America, if that is possible. I find it to be a blessing as I've missed so much of the elections: seeing it here from their standpoint allows me to participate in the election from a unique standpoint: I am able to be both there and here at the same time.

Still Flying

When I was thirteen I remember going backpacking somewhere in the Cascades in Washington with my aunt Bobbie and uncle Wayne and my family. It was always such an ordeal for me, starting before I could remember. When I was three, I was afraid of the deer. At six or seven, I was terrified of the dirt roads. As a pre-teen I cringed in fear of the mosquitoes and I always had to know just how long it would take to get to site. It was guaranteed to pour five out of the six days, our tents leaked and my dad burned a hole through my shoe every year. Arguments about crackers with peanut butter or salami were a given. Ridiculous camp songs were sung, Wayne had to go skinny dipping, letting the entire Cascade Mountain Range know as he yelped from the cold and often the Blue Herons stole our fish. My dad would curse the lake as his fishing line was caught in a log pretty much daily and my brother Daniel created Cowboy and Indian wars with sticks and "little people" toys, ignoring the intolerable amount of estrogen flowing around the campfire. Nicknames I won't repeat were created and some of the most embarrassing moments of my life, which I'm sure will be relived on my wedding day, were created in the depths of the Northwest. Daniel and I would inevitably fight on the drive out to the trailhead and my cousins Jodi and Rachel would also have at least one screaming match each trip. Bobbie would itch her mosquito bites until they bled and it always amazed me that no bones were ever broken. Near death experiences, sure, but no broken legs. Once, Wayne caught mild hypothermia and nearly drowned my father in a river as we all stood on the shore watching and running from the fresh Bear tracks lining the riverbank. The upside, however, was always the bag of candy we'd get for the trip. None the less, it's family tradition and summer break would not have been the same without famous backpacking trip.

This particular trip has always stood out in my mind, as a thirteen year old. A few days into the trip after much of what's been stated above had taken place, I felt the need to try and feed the camp robbers (birds) from my hand. I found some boulders to stand on, took some bread and remember standing for hours lost in thoughts, droning out the constant bickering around the corner. I stood there with my hand stretched out above my head waiting, knowing. My cousins were busy chisling away at a stick, carving out figures and using symbols to represent men and women. "It'll never work" they all said. But I stood there. I knew. As quiet surrounded me and I stood above the ground, there was nothing but my own reflection in the lake and I knew. If I waited long enough, the birds would surely come.

And they did.

I stood in awe as they landed, on after another, on my hand eating out of my hand. They would land cautiously and continue to eat. As bravery builty, they pick fights with each other fighting over who landed first. In that moment I felt lost in the pure beauty of nature at it's finest. Nobody was around as my cousins had long since lost interest. It was myself and those birds and my own personal accomplishment. I remember wanting to jump around and laugh and scream to show the others. Instead, I stood still, barely breathing and taking in the tranquility and serenity that I felt as the birds came again and again to eat out of my hand. Every day I would saunter off to feed the birds.

Weeks after the trip, my father handed me a picture he'd taken of me standing on a rock with my arm outstretched; bird in hand. I remember wondering how he'd seen it, why I didn't know he'd taken it and realizing perhaps I really wasn't alone with those birds out there. I often reflect back to that photo as the years have passed, remembering how I knew that if I waited long enough, they would come. And I am thankful that my father knew in that moment that it was mine and mine alone.

Here I am, once again with my arms stretched out waiting. This time I'm reaching for something but sometimes I'm not sure for what. It seems to change with each month that passes. But I know that if I reach out long enough, it will fall into place. That same serenity and silent understanding seems to reach around and touch me. For all the shit that happens in this country, all the fear people live with and the lack of trust, this place is truly surrounded with miracles. If I keep waiting, I just know that change will come and the right thing will happen. Sometimes when I really feel like giving up, I go back to that moment where I felt their wings flutter as they curled their small talons around my finger. I remember that I felt alone out there, but really wasn't. Sometimes it feels like I'm fighting an uphill battle and nobody else is fighting with me. But I know they are, even if I can't see them yet.

The traditional backpack trip continues still, just in an altered form. There are no longer little children running around and I hope they've finally come to the conclusion that peanut butter really is better than salami. I'm sure Wayne still screams to the mountains as he jumps in the lakes and I'm certain the songs have continued, as well as my father cursing the line. Though it's changed, it's still there, still moving forward and creating memories. The birds are still flying free above the peaks and if I keep holding out my hand, they will land, sooner or later.

I just know...