There are never enough minutes in an hour

When my husband, Brian, and I planned to travel to South Africa to see my daughter (in the Peace Corps), we could only get three weeks off. We wanted to stay longer, but I had not yet accrued 15 vacation days. I had to promise to avoid getting sick. Brian had to stand in line, fill out forms, and talk with his chief to get the same number of days off (it was considered a hardship leave). We worked hard to get there, and we wanted to see everything.

All of South Africa in three weeks? It is twice the size of Texas, so Ronda suggested Kruger National Park, a place where the animals are free and the people are restricted. It is about her favorite place in the whole world, and it quickly became one of ours.

Kruger takes up a goodly portion of northeast South Africa. We stayed in that corner of the country, starting in Johannesburg, heading north to her village (Makotse), east to the Park, and then south to the east coast (St. Lucia). The rest of the country, especially Capetown, tugged at us, but it would have to wait for the next trip.

In 1982, Ronda and I spent seven weeks in Europe and only visited five countries. A later trip took us to Europe for three weeks, and we only dabbled in Italy and Greece. I’ve known people who donned their Nikes and t-shirts and tried to see 15 countries in two weeks. I’ve never wanted my trips to be a photographic blur, as theirs must be -- a dream made real but one resembling cotton candy.

I'm still trying to figure out how to add pictures to these entries. It will happen. Also watch for Italy and Greece.

More about the Makotse people

The northern middle part of South Africa in February was really, really hot, even in the early morning. Ronda lived only a 10-minute walk from her office, but she wanted to drive to work because she thought she'd have to leave a few times. She knows how to avoid the dreadful loose sand at intersections that sucks cars in. She picked up her friends, Nathan and Jeff (also Peace Corps volunteers) from the taxi ranks because they had agreed to help paint the poles.

When she dropped Brian and me off, the ladies were already busy at making marula juice. I greeted Pilate, but she was busy, so we didn't talk. We sat in the shade in chairs that people happily got for us. Soon Ronda returned, and she and some men started coating the poles with creosote for the tomato hydroponics project. The tomato patch was her idea. She wrote the grant and was very excited about it.

The marula fruit looks kind of like a crab apple but has one large stone and very little flesh. It's tasty but not very satisfying. People make beer, cosmetics, and liqueur from this fruit. It brings a lot of money into the community, and everyone helps -- from picking the fruit to making the end products and working at the festival.

I had seen some women peeling the fruit the day before and peeled one for each of us with a fork at Ma Mello's. It wasn't hard.

Sitting in the shade while everyone else was working didn't feel comfortable, so I asked Pilate if I could help. She made room for me in the circle and gave me a bucket and fork. I washed my hands and got busy, my only concern the possibility of stabbing my left thumb. One lady used a long galvanized nail. Some women sat on the ground and ate their lunch of KFC and mealy pap. I worked and worked, partly because I enjoyed it and partly because there was no one to talk to (Brian, Ronda, Nathan, and Jeff were painting poles). Lively African music played from a nearby shed.

I worked while I watched the ladies interact and speak in their musical Sepedi. More people from the office joined us. One wore a plastic lunchroom-type bib apron. Most tied cloths around their waists. I casually did nothing to protect the pants that Ronda had loaned me. I checked on the pole painting a couple of times, but I enjoyed the rhythm of my work, the conversations around me, and the music. The women watched my bucket, and when it started to get empty, they brought me more fruit. The breeze from the field of 10-foot tall maize plants helped to cool our shady spot.

I got tired after about an hour ("worked and worked" is an exaggeration), helped paint a couple of poles, which wasn't fun at all, invited Brian to take a break, and then took pictures of both activities.

Ronda asked if I'd brought snack bars. Darn! I hadn't. I offered to drive to her house, to experience driving on the left. On roads of sand, though, it doesn't matter much because staying in the ruts is the only crucial rule. Brian and I left and should have been back in 10 minutes.

We couldn't find Ronda's house. Then I got stuck in the sand because I cut a corner too close and forgot to stay in the ruts. The MCW gardener came with a shovel over his shoulder, but he and Brian just pushed a little as I backed up. Then Ronda and Nathan sauntered over, having heard something like, "Your mom is stuck! Your mom is stuck!" Everyone hits the sand trap occasionally, but when the American visitors did it, it made news.

As we were leaving for the day, I danced in place a little. When the women laughed at me, I realized that they'd been watching me closely. Ronda confirmed this. She also said that my work "went a long ways."

Late in our stay, we met Mma Legodi (sounds like "mallahodee"), Ronda's supervisor. She has three children. The oldest is a beautiful girl named Mahji (I'd like to think that it has something to do with magic). Ronda's name is "Karabo," pronounced "gahrahbo." When Ronda arrived at Makotse, the women had been praying, and their "answer" was Ronda.

Ronda told me later that when she turned in her resignation to return to the States, she went to a church service. She heard her name, Karabo, mentioned several times in the prayers. Mma Legodi asked Ronda if she understood the prayer. Ronda didn't. Her supervisor said that they were praying that the next volunteer would be like her.

We are white, and we stood out

In South Africa, I was a member of a minority. This was a change for me, as I have spent all of my life in the U.S. In my two trips to Europe, only my accent (in England and Scotland) and difficulty with the French and Italian languages set me apart. Even when I traveled to Nicaragua and Japan, being one of the few Caucasians didn't feel awkward.

In South Africa, however, standing out was a given. We looked like Americans or Afrikaners. Our accent probably would have solved that puzzle, but add our light skin to our American clothes and rented car, and we really stood out.

Ronda did okay. She wore a uniform at work and spoke some Sepedi. Brian and I, however, were completely at the mercy of curious African people. In the mountains, the few people we saw seemed to be pleasantly surprised and friendly. It was awkward for me. Was it acceptable to wave at everyone? Was it condescending to smile and wave at people seated by the side of the road as we flew by in our car?

I took a chance, and it felt okay. For me, friendliness worked better than fear.