Zimbabwe -- He Said, She Said

One week from now, I'm home sweet home. But first, I’m a tourist again.

Don’t get me wrong; I wouldn’t consider myself a “local” in Cape Town. I’m a temporary resident with a pretty good understanding of at least my corner of the city, but I’m a familiar face by now. I’m rarely asked who I am, where I’m from, or where I’ve been anymore.

I’m on the tail end of my biggest adventure outside Cape Town all year. Game drives in Kruger National Park in the Gauteng Province of South Africa, sightseeing on the Panorama Route in the Mpumalanga Province of South Africa, and a day trip to the small and mountainous Kingdom of Swaziland are behind me, and I’m writing this from a backpacker (hostel) in Zimbabwe.

Throughout the adventure, I’ve been reminded over and over that I am, indeed, a tourist in a new land, even if I’ve been living in southern Africa for nine months. These moments, which have reminded me again and again why I love to travel, have been some of the most poignant memories of my journey yet.

Zimbabwe, y'all.

“Elephants!” he said, just after we’d come right after a sharp turn. We looked ahead through the windshield and saw them ourselves. Inside the residential neighborhood that our backpacker is nestled into were about ten elephants, whose silhouettes grazed in front of a large building before our eyes.

“Safe travels,” I said as I shook two hands that had traveled the world. As we drove away from the desolate road, I snapped a picture: two German guys with backpacks as big as them, on to their next adventure. Over the past 24 hours, I had devoured their stories from their seven months of backpacking on a $30 per day budget. Victoria Falls was just a stop on their round-the-world journey, and the Botswana border was calling for them. We left them to hitchhike. 

“Do you know what he says? He says you’re white people,” said the taxi driver, nodding to his two-year-old son, who hovered between the driver and passenger seats, one hand on each headrest. I wondered the sorts of people the taxi driver’s son had encountered in his short lifetime. And that’s not to mention the things that were carried in the back of the car. Today? A few chickens. 

 “You sit at a desk. I sit on an elephant,” he said, before commanding our elephant to stand steady. He’d started work as a farmhand working with cattle, and his boss had asked him to find a replacement for himself. He’d decided to go with God, not questioning the fate of his employment. In time, he found out that his boss had found him work at another company, where he worked with wilder animals. He advanced from cleaning elephant stalls to guiding tourists on their elephant-back safaris. 

"My car is fine!" he said, while he banged on the dash. Our driver had just dropped a group off near the Zimbabwe/Zambia border, and an officer had stopped him for inspection. When we pulled away from the obviously heated exchange, the driver translated the argument for us. According to the driver, it's common for such officers to ask to see one's driver's license, only to hold it ransom for a payoff. The driver, a clever man, had refused to hand over his license, only to wave it before us after we were back on the road.  

"I've got a small problem: mosquitos," he said. It took me a minute. Most people approach us for "small change" or "bread and milk for the children" from a nearby convenience store. All this guy wanted, though, was insect repellent. With uncountable bites on my own legs, I had more empathy than usual for this guard who would spend the night outside. 

"Ooooooh," she said, and turned back to where we stood in the walk-up window. We had just ordered two Bar-One ice creams, and just as our $10 bill was being exchanged for change, the electricity hummed to a halt. In Africa, power failures are fairly common, sometimes as rolling blackouts and other times, like when one has just ordered ice cream, as unexpected hurdles. As we'd already spent a good portion of our day attempting (and failing) to withdraw cash from at least 5 different ATMs, we couldn't help but shrug and smile. 

I’ve fallen for a few Zimbabweans in Cape Town. Their smiles glow and their spirits reflect the African sun. Tawanda, a taxi driver, grins while he tells me stories from his country as he transports me from Point A to Point B. Brightman, who cares for the plants at a coffee shop I frequent, speaks carefully crafted sentences while he asks about my experiences in South Africa and the USA. Oslean smiles while we talk about “Twelfth Night” by Shakespeare, which we share as a favorite. Terrance, a barista at a cafe on Long Street, stretches his arms wide for a hug when I duck in between stops. 

From the beginning, I’ve pondered what it is about Zimbabweans that makes that makes them so magnetic. Now that I’ve seen just a slice of their country, I understand a bit better. It comes from the dust under my feet, the colorful sky up above, the elephants in the yard, the red sunset on the horizon, the chickens in the back of the car, and even the mosquitos buzzing in my ears. Zimbabwe, you’re a gem.

Our co-pilot in the taxi.

Make that plural. Co-pilots. 

Can you imagine this being your job? 

"I sit on an elephant." 

Farewell, Germans. Good luck getting to Botswana.

Looking back on Zimbabwe.

"May Blessings Go With You"

"May blessings go with you." That's what one of my students said as he walked out the door with a smile and a Kentucky quarter in his hand.

Over the past couple of weeks, I've said farewell to a handful - okay, a few handfuls - of African refugees who have staked a claim to a huge portion of my heart. People who found their way from faraway cities and villages to Cape Town. Though our backgrounds and situations and stories may be wildly different, their journeying paths crossed mine in a mecca of sorts: Scalabrini Refugee Centre.

When it comes to adventure, I daydream several steps ahead. As I prepared for - and even as I landed for - my time in South Africa, I already had my eye on the day I'd leave. I suppose my way of living in the moment and soaking it all in is to imagine how hard it will be to see all of these things in the rearview mirror.

I must admit, though, that I never saw this coming. I didn't even have a solid plan to teach while I was here. And I certainly never really thought about how much I'd value my students and their life experiences at the end of it all. I never considered the concern I would have for people I will probably not see again.

Pre-Intermediate II

As interested in their lives as I have been, they have probably been more interested in me. They love to ask questions about my family, my friends, my culture, and my home. I've proudly told them all sorts of tidbits, some more personal than others. While gearing up to say goodbye to them, I came up with a way to encompass it all, and to leave them with a small token of our time together.

We'd been studying first conditional phrases in my Pre-Intermediate II class. If you haven't studied up on English grammar in a while, here's a reminder. You combine (if + subject + present simple verb) and (subject + will/won't + infinitive verb) to talk or write about situations that are possible or likely to happen. So, after placing a small surprise at each of their seats, I wrote this message on the board: In my culture, if you find a 'heads up' on the ground, it will bring you good luck.

Folker, his Kentucky quarter, and Mputu

Their small surprise was, of course, a Kentucky quarter. We discussed the head on the front, the image on the back, and the value of the coin ($0.25 = R2.50). I told them to keep their coins for good luck that will follow them on their journeys ahead, and then I got a bit teary-eyed. Not for long, though, because I had Oreos (my favorite American treat) to share. None of them had eaten an Oreo before, either, and I wouldn't be surprised if they told you they liked the cookie better than the coin!

Leaving Scalabrini is definitely one of the hardest things about wrapping up my time in Cape Town, but it is the perfect manifestation of the Winnie the Pooh quote that's tossed around the Internet...

I Hope You Dance

@LindseyHouchin: "Gonna need some help, y'all."

One year after I posted the above tweet, I can think of no better words to say than thank you. To those of you near and far who have made the past year the best it could have been, thank you for answering my cry. While losing one of the most important people in my life was one of the most difficult things to do, there have been plenty of silver linings. In the year following my Momma's death, I've been reminded of the love I'm surrounded by, even when one of my life's most reliable sources of love has expired.

As I've said time and time again, my Momma loved Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance" and quoted it more times than I could even estimate. A few weeks ago, it crept into my headphones while I was working out. All it would have taken to wave away the sentimental song was a quick shake-to-shuffle, but I let it linger. Before long, I was the goofy-looking girl grinning ear to ear on the elliptical machine. Take a look at these lyrics:

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder
You get your fill to eat, but always keep that hunger

My "sense of wonder" was enough to cause Momma's heart attack. She couldn't ever quite understand why I was endlessly curious about what else there was, where else I could go, and who else I might meet. I couldn't tell you how many times she asked if I really wanted to go to South Africa, but I also couldn't tell you how many times I'd be greeted with a text message after turning my phone back on after a flight that read, "Who'd you meet this time? Any good stories?" I've made it through another adventure with stories to tell, but I'm already looking forward to new ones. And Momma, these extra kilograms (pounds) I'll come back with prove that I've gotten more than my fill to eat!

May you never take one single breath for granted
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed

If there's anything the sudden death of a loved one teaches you, it's to be present in every moment. Take advantage of every moment, and seek out moments that leave you astounded. Then tell someone about them. Get lost in the wonder of the world, and get caught up in overwhelming feelings for the people you're surrounded by. I've always been lucky to have incredible people - strangers, acquaintances, friends, family - in my life, and they've shown me that when one person is taken from your circle, many others reflect the love that was lost. Empty handed is the last phrase I'd use to describe myself.

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean
Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens 

I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance
Never settle for the path of least resistance

There are few places in the world that are blessed with mountains and the ocean and urban city life, and Cape Town knows how lucky it is. On many occasions during my time here at the bottom of Africa, I've overflowed with joy when standing between the ocean and the mountains. Breathtaking views are an everyday occurrence in this majestic city, and they always leave me humming these lyrics. I've never felt more humbled than when standing on the top of Table Mountain and gazing into an endless horizon of ocean. And from the foot of the mountain, what I call "home" here in the City Bowl, reverence best describes my feeling for the mountains. They keep me from settling in too much, from forgetting what else might be out there, and from forgetting to look up and away every now and then.

My Momma did everything (and I mean everything) she could to talk me out of coming to South Africa, not because she didn't support me, but because she wasn't sure she could handle being so far away from her "baby" - the one who'd depended on her so much for so long. In 2012, without my Momma, I wasn't sure this was the right decision. It wasn't the path of least resistance that led me here, but the reward is reassuring. From the end of my adventure, though, I can confidently say that this is just what I needed. And I think she'd agree today.

This quote landed in my inbox on the day my Momma died.
Thanks for the reminder then and now, daily email.

Without the help of friends and family in all corners of the world, and even strangers along the way, I wouldn't have been grinning ear to ear on the elliptical that day. I cried for help, and you answered. Abundantly. To those of you who came to my rescue one year ago, to those of you who helped me find my footing when my world shook, to those of you who crawled into bed with me when it was all I could do, to those of you who encouraged me when I was unsure, to those of you who listened when I talked in circles, to those of you who sent me encouraging messages, to those of you who hugged me tight before I adventured on, to those of you who planted yourselves in my life as my Momma's spirit, and to those of you who were patient with me every step of the way, thank you. You'll never know how much it has meant to me.

Now, let's have a good day, shall we?

A New September (in Memory of My Momma)

I've loathed the month of September for years. So much so, in fact, that the "Over It October" celebration I kicked off with one of my best friends in college has become an annual month-long holiday we look forward to for eleven months of the year.

September hasn't established the best reputation for itself in my lifetime, and last year was no exception in its poor performances. I, along with her many other admirers, said goodbye to one of the most outstanding people I've ever known: my Momma. 

A date that will be marked on my
calendar for many years to come.

When September snuck into my peripheral vision this year, I immediately started dreading it. After all, I'm very far away from home and anyone who even knew my Momma, yet I'll have to watch two significant dates come and go: September 9th and September 20th. 

September 9th is my Momma's birthday.
September 20th marks the commemoration of her death.

Heavy, right? It's really easy for me to chalk September up as a loss for my morale, but in the spirit of the woman behind those two dates, I'm determined to turn September around. Rather than focusing on the dates that bookend her life, I hope to celebrate the many days between them. This year, I'll be making extra effort to celebrate my Momma's outstanding life - beginning to end - from  Monday, September 9th to Friday, September 20th. That's twelve days. Two weeks. One weekend.    

My Momma was the kind of person who radiated sunshine on the cloudiest of days, believed in you when you didn't believe in yourself, and celebrated the smallest tidbits of joy. In her honor, I'm challenging myself to mindfully make decisions that perpetuate her warm spirit as often as possible. 

If you knew my Momma, or even if you didn't, I'd love for you to join me. I'm not asking for extravagant and elaborate; she didn't have much taste for such things anyway. She was a fan of the everyday, of the simple, and of the thoughtful. 

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qUH4ZOzda4Y/UGeSqs-E_nI/
AAAAAAAAKIc/1C1p2fVLXuI/s320/september.jpg

From September 9th to September 20th, you can help me make sure her legacy lives on long after she did. It can be as simple as choosing to be patient, sharing your favorite memory of my Momma, deciding to listen rather than talk, catching up with an old friend, planting flowers for someone else to enjoy for years to come, saying hello to a stranger, sending a post card, posting an encouraging Tweet or Facebook status update, leaving a small note, sharing your cupcake or umbrella or optimism, letting your kids stay up 15 minutes later than usual, doing your roommate's least favorite chore, or offering someone a ride.

Looking for inspiration? A lovely lady took on a similar challenge for a whole year, and she's got this project to show for it. And if you're really wanting to go the extra mile, I'd love for you to share some of the ways you're remembering my Momma in a comment below!

Together, we might manage to turn September around.