Coasting

       I was sitting on a bus again for nine hours, which seemed to be the magic number for getting anywhere in Africa. I stared out the window. Never before in my life have I had nine-hour blocks of time to think. Some people, when they eat pray love, go to India and meditate for hours on end to find themselves. Me? Evidently I prefer sitting on a bus surrounded by Africans, whose odor is, at times, almost unbearable.  As I sat, my thoughts wandered to what meaningful volunteer work I might participate in next. The need in Africa is so great that it felt like anything I did would just be a drop in the bucket. I was dismayed at this thought, which concerned me because it was evidence of where I was emotionally. Rather than wanting to roll up my sleeves and dig in, I just felt overwhelmed as though I didn’t have the energy to make my voice heard. I’ve always been a helpmate, one to rally the troops or fight for a cause.  It was my identity. Could I live without that?

       Time after time and village after village, I was feeling the same way.  I couldn’t muster enough outrage to stay and help. I felt certain, or was hopeful anyway, that this was a temporary condition, but it was real nonetheless. It began to occur to me that maybe I had gotten it all wrong. Possibly the purpose of this trip was that of helping me. Fixing me. Allowing myself some space to sort through the past in order to move into the future. As women, we often spend so much time nurturing and caring for others that we don’t always do a very good job of taking care of ourselves. I realize that's cliche, but still, it rings of truth.  Could I have this experience without a noble intent?  It seemed shameful and selfish. Would it be sufficient for me to just “be” each day, and write? Is that a worthwhile life for now?

       I debated putting my deepest, less than heroic thoughts in print for all the world to ponder, but I realized this is the story of my new beginning and I can't take you on this journey with me if I don't take you on the journey. So here I am.  This is me as the halo fades.

South African contemplations

       I was headed towards the eastern coast of South Africa.  I arrived in Durban at dusk and found a cool hostel called the Happy Hippo.  The owners bought an old warehouse and completely refurbished the entire place.  Everything was new and hadn't been beaten up by years of weary backpackers.

Happy living room

Happy dining, kitchen and laundry room.  My journal for this day says:
"Today I put my laundry in a washing machine for the first time since October  2010."

The next morning I went out to explore and found the beach,
which came with a bonus; Durban.

The football stadium built for the World Cup

       Back on the bus I moved further down the Eastern Cape to an area called the Wild Coast.  It is unspoiled, not cluttered with urban sprawl or trampled by tourists.  There is plenty of big, beautiful wide open space.  I stayed for quite a while.

This little guy woke me up every morning jumping on the roof.

I signed up for a 28k ride to a Xhosa Village and back.  They said it was mostly downhill.
That just doesn't even make sense, and yet eight of us fell for it.

        We rode into the village and met Mama Tofu. Yes, Tofu is her name and at age 94, she is the oldest living, licensed guide in South Africa.  Speaking in very good English, she taught us about the traditions and practices of the Xhosa Tribe (pronounced cosa), passed down from their forefathers. Within the Xhosa culture each person has his or her place in the clan, and goes through many graduations and rites of passage ceremonies throughout their life. At each stage they sit with the elders for quite some time to learn from them, before the ritual of passing through. 

       To me, the most interesting thing about the Xhosa culture is they speak the 'click' language.  Even the word Xhosa begins with a click. There are different types of clicks formed in certain areas of the mouth for different meanings.  The closest thing we have to understand how it sounds might be when one clicks a horse into a gallop.  It was fascinating to hear it spoken and none of us mastered even one click. 

Mama Tofu

One test for marriage is if a woman can mill this corn efficiently.
If  not, she may not ever be married. It's more difficult than it looks,
and it was determined that I am not marriage material.

Xhosa home

       At the end of the tour, as we were saying our good-byes, I went to her.

       "Mama Tofu, you are ninety four, have lived a long life and seen many things."

       "Yes."

       "Do you have any words of wisdom for me?"

       She took both my hands in hers and looked deeply into my eyes, pausing for a long moment before she spoke.  It was as though she knew me, her eyes searing straight through to my soul.  I felt extremely vulnerable and uncomfortable as it seemed that minute stretched into two or three while she stared at me.

       "You," she paused, "are enough."

       In the ninety-degree heat, I had goose bumps.