Termite Question

On Tom's termite question:

- I was walking around some stalls where they sell all sorts of random foods: pyramids of tomatoes, bags of onions, miscellaneous leaves for brewing homemade beers, and grubs for eating. As I passed, one of the dudes at the stall offered a termite sample. It felt very much like a sample. I told him I don't eat meat, but that, what the hell... so I popped the bad boy.
- It was crunchy... I would say... like a popcorn kernel. I believe they are prepared by boiling with salt. I imagine that would make it taste downright nasty. All in all though, it was unoffensive.
- As I feel confident that resources were not compromised due to the death of this particular termite (it was not mass-produced and in fact, my eating it probably saved some trees), I don't feel it falls within my moral responsibility.

Incidentally, shout out to Tom for calling me last night. We spoke on the phone for about a half hour. All are encouraged to do same.

Belatedly Titled

The architects of tshiVenda decided they were so tickled by alliteration that it should inform the guiding grammatical axiom for a whole new language. For example, take the word show. A single show is tshienda in the tshi noun class, the seventh of 21. Make that plural and you're in the zwi noun class with zwienda. Now let's say you've got a pair of black (ntwsu) shoes. There has to be noun agreement between nouns and the adjectives that modify them so you have zwienda zwintswu. You're a possessive person so let's throw a pronoun in there: my. Again, noun class agreement, so we have zwienda zwintswu zwanga. Throw in a to-be verb, also taylor made for each noun class, and you got zwienda zwintswu zwanga zwi ~ (my black shows are ~).

It was hard leaving all the other volunteers after training. We were all sort of breaking up. And then of course, as we got in the TVEP car to drive up to Venda (me and a friend got a ride together), Richard Marx came on the radio singing that one about maintaining a long distance relationship. It's funny... I vaguely remember reading a story about a woman's move to her site in some of the PC advertising propoganda. It was written by the Country Director who was accompanying her in the car. Imaging this moment for myself was terrifying. Ultimately, it made me question whether I could hack it. Oddly enough, the drive up for me, and all it meant, was fine, a blessing even. I've got an amazing assignment, an amazing homestay, and a fabulous site. How I managed to get this lucky, I don't know.

I spent last weekend moving in. I've embued my bedroom with...me. This is somehow especially important because there was a former Peace Corps Volunteer who lived there before me. Anyway, my room is covered with photos; I've reorganized the furniture; I bought my own food, including an excellent array of Indian spices.

I ate a termite.

I'm currently typing at the University of Venda. I think I'll hang out here some. They've got a great library and a computer lab, plus, only a short hour walk from my home.

My first day of work last Monday.

I Titled This One Late

I've resumed my jogging routine and it makes all the difference. I sleep about three hours less a day, I have more energy, I am happy. These are obvious benefits, but I've never seen them work so quickly over night. It took about two days to overhaul my brain chemistry.

Things have been great with my training homestay as well. My sister and I have been cooking pap every night. We sit out in this corrugated metal structure out back and cook the stuff in a metal pot over the fire. It involves a lot of muscle I don't have, but I enjoy entertaining Rendani with my attempts. Mostly she does the heavy mixing, especially when it starts to get really thick. We're in and out of there for about an hour. The structure fills with smoke and my eyes and nose are really runny by the time dinner is ready. I practice tshiVenda with my family and it's really starting to take off. I've been stringing together every more complicated sentences and making fun of my sister where I can. "Rendani, you walk like a chicken." To which she responds, "when your mother leaves to visit Venda again I will kill you." I tell mom and hilarity ensues. I can't express how content I feel these nights - sitting over the fire with my sister, laughing, my glasses smudged, my face a wet mess. My mom will bust out this upbeat music from Zimbabwe (it's not contemporary?) that I like to dance to. More laughter. This family is definitely what I will miss most about Moletji.

I'm sure it's well trodden-turf, but I'd love to sociological or anthropological study of WWF. I've watched more WWF in the last couple months than I'd ever imagined I would. I would wager it is a telling portrayal of the challenges that confront poor, disadvantaged white American men. It deals with issues of paternity, fatherhood, sexual assault, and domestic violence. I'm afraid the picture is grim. Underdogs don't necessarily fare too well; villains can and do win. Take the conflict between Rey Mysterio and Eddie Gerero (forgive possible spelling errors). Rey raised Dominic, whose biological father is Eddie. Dominic is in ignorance of this until Eddie tells the world and reclaims Dominic for his own. Rey and his wife are distraught til Rey challenges Eddie for custody of Dominic. Sadly, Rey is defeated and the family is destroyed. But I think Dominic ends up in foster care - there was an episode I missed. I'm still trying to figure out the significance of the cowbell. (I expressed concern at this whole drama and my homestay mom consoled me that it's not real).

Other random facts - they've put Bocceli to techno. That's Con Te Partiro, the Remix.

I am painfully genteel. Aside from the difficulty I have whipping up a satisfactory pot of pap, I recently spent a couple of hours helping my family around the house and only proved what a huge wuss I am. My sister was smashing some wood chips into powder for Mawae. Mawae prescribes the powder for people to bathe in to cure them of their bad luck. (My homestay mom is a traditional healer, a sangoma). Anyway I offered my help in making the powder. I imagine the action is similar to that used to churn butter. Big metal mortar and pestle. I recall once asking (I think in an obligatory gym class) what good are triceps for... how often do you grab something from behind you anyway. It seems neglect of this muscle group has put me at considerable disadvantage. After making the bad luck medicine, we shoveled out the garbage pit and moved some bricks. My family is so hard working.

Ironing is this new facet of my existence. This is not to say that I'm naturally sloppy or law with my personal hygiene. I've always felt presentable. I suppose I can be found walking around in boxer shorts, but those are certainly days I would call casual. I never really ironed my clothes for work and I felt satisfactorily business casual. If you have wrinkled clothes here, it seems you are more or less a pariah. Perhaps, my clothes made me a pariah in the states as well, but I guess pariahs fare better there. Given that washing clothes is a good two hour process of bicep and tricep intensive labor, who would want to follow that up with another 45 minutes of ironing when it's 90 degrees +? It feels particularly useless trying to maintain this high standard of dress when I could be smelling funky for a week if my upwind neighbors decide to burn their trash the day my clothes are drying on the line. Come on South Africa, let's give up. Wouldn't it be more fun in boxers?

Only a week left til swearing-in. It will be nice to have agency again. Peace Corps training has eaten every moment of my free time.