Yesterday, two khumbi rides and an hour and a half later, I arrived in my friend alyssa"s shopping town with my jaw dropped in shock.

My shopping town is a plaza with about 20 or 30 stores, including a pizza place, a grocery store, and several clothing and furniture stores. It has almost everything I could need. But not much else.

Alyssa's shopping town, was an actual city. Many streets filled with different restaurants, shops...there was even a library! Even more weirdly, there were white people there!

We ended up meeting with two education volunteers at spur, a native american themed restaurant. A native american themed restaurant... in south africa. Cacti, both painted and real, covered the walls, american music and television were playing and the menu could fit right in at a chain restaurant at home. Sitting with three other americans in the restaurant, as I ate cheese quesadillas and watched espn, it didn't feel like I had left home.

However, my real moment of culture shock came as we left the restaurant and went to the supermarket. Again, it felt like we hadn't left the U.S. I stared open mouthed at the twelve different varieties of feta cheese, the fruits and vegetables that you could buy pre sliced for some extra rand, the rack of magazines that went across the store. "Who needs all that choice?" I wondered.

But I was happy to pick up some soy sauce and pasta sauce. I contemplated buying some other stuff, like slivered almonds and tahini, but after consulting my budget I stuck mostly to the basics.

I also wondered if this made a huge difference in alyssa's and my services. But after talking to her, it didn't seem that way. She lives in a village similar to mine, working at a home based care, with a similar family structure. The only difference was that she had more choice in her shopping town.

I found a shortcut which made the return trip only about 45 minutes. I arrived home the same way I usually feel after a trip, tired, overstimulated and very very happy to be home in bundu.

I like my small town life here in south africa. But it was very nice to learn that a sliver of america exists pretty close by

For my primary assignment in south africa, I, like all other CHOP volunteers, was assigned to an organization. During training, we were told numerous times that our orgs would probably be low functioning, that they might see us as their "savior" and expect us to do everything, that they might have very little in the way of organizational structure and policy. I thus mentally prepared myself to be assigned to a low functioning organization that could use my help.

However I was assigned to a high functioning, well run organization... that seemed to neither want nor need my help.

For the first two weeks, I think I spent one or maybe two useful minutes there. I spent most of the time crouched between two file cabinets, trying to stay out of the way. I was told by my supervisor that I shouldn't ask questions to anyone but he, because my curiosity would be seen as negativity towards the organization. I was not allowed to look at any documents or talk to any clients. The only thing I could do was observe the waiting room. All of my offers for help were refused.

Let me say, that this clinic is very well run, highly functioning and a great resource for the community. The staff seem incredibly good at their jobs and extremely busy with their work. It is a great place.

Just not one that wanted or needed me.

Last Tuesday, after two weeks of sitting, trying to help and always being refused, I went to my supervisors there in tears. My supervisors were sympathetic. They are two wonderful people who have really helped me a lot They understood why I was so upset, however their busyness and the political structure of the clinic prevented them from being much help to me inside the walls of the clinic. So they suggested I do work outside the clinic, doing an assessment of Bundu. I spent the next week doing that.

And it was the best four days I have spent as a pcv. During my walking around, I found that the last volunteer here had left a lot of secondary projects that could use my help. So I spent this week following up on them.

I led an exercise class for a group of gogos and strategized with them on how to sell their beautiful beadwork. I saw a community garden being deweeded and learned about plans to increase food security among bundu. I met with the ward counselor and heard about the need for youth to have something to do after school. I found all the members of the last volunteer's girls group and planned an introductory meeting. I learned about a library that had been started in the junior high school and scheduled a meeting with the teacher in charge.

The most common thing I heard from the people I talked to was "We've been waiting for you"

I met with my supervisor on friday and made a plan to continue this work and community assessment until IST, also known as the end of June. While exciting, it is incredibly scary. The only structure I have during the week is what I create myself. My supervision is very minimal. It will be a challenge for me. I'm going to need a lot of courage, drive, initiative and maybe most importantly, I'm going to need to ask for a lot of help.

But I think this will work out fantastically.

"I would often fantasize that maybe someday I could be one of those stoic badasses whose emotions are mostly comprised of rock music and not being afraid of things"

Two weeks ago, I accidentally poured boiling water on to my hand. It led to a pretty decent first or second degree burn that I now show off proudly. However, it didn't need to have happened.

After I burned myself, I was too afraid of inconveniencing my host family, that I didn't ask for the help I needed, this time, access to cold water. Instead, I spent much of time afterwards trying to convince them I was fine, while trying to find cold water...without them realizing that I was in pain.

To say that was completely idiotic would be putting it lightly. And now I've got a scar to remind me of it.

I've always had a problem with asking for help. This hasn't manifested itself as much when I was in the US, because I knew how to do most of the things I wanted/needed to do. In south africa, everything is completely new.

And instead of asking for help...I've tried to act like a stoic badass. And it usually hasn't worked that well. Besides burning my hand, I've gotten incredibly lost on the streets of pretoria, really messed up doing my laundry, gotten sick in several cars, got caught in a thunderstorm... And that's just off the top of my head.

But I can see right now, if I continue this, I can't be a good peace corps volunteer. I need to ask for help from my counterparts, from my host family, from peace corps, from my friends, from the clinic, from bundu. And truth, that almost paralyzes me. I am incredibly scared. Maybe of rejection, maybe because I fear people thinking less of me, of failure.

But in order to get where I want to go, in order to be a good peace corps volunteer, in order to be the person I want to be, I got to face my fear and do it anyway.

Time for the 80's pump up music!

"I would often fantasize that maybe someday I could be one of those stoic badasses whose emotions are mostly comprised of rock music and not being afraid of things"

Two weeks ago, I accidentally poured boiling water on to my hand. It led to a pretty decent first or second degree burn that I now show off proudly. However, it didn't need to have happened.

After I burned myself, I was too afraid of inconveniencing my host family, that I didn't ask for the help I needed, this time, access to cold water. Instead, I spent much of time afterwards trying to convince them I was fine, while trying to find cold water...without them realizing that I was in pain.

To say that was completely idiotic would be putting it lightly. And now I've got a scar to remind me of it.

I've always had a problem with asking for help. This hasn't manifested itself as much when I was in the US, because I knew how to do most of the things I wanted/needed to do. In south africa, everything is completely new.

And instead of asking for help...I've tried to act like a stoic badass. And it usually hasn't worked that well. Besides burning my hand, I've gotten incredibly lost on the streets of pretoria, really messed up doing my laundry, gotten sick in several cars, got caught in a thunderstorm... And that's just off the top of my head.

But I can see right now, if I continue this, I can't be a good peace corps volunteer. I need to ask for help from my counterparts, from my host family, from peace corps, from my friends, from the clinic, from bundu. And truth, that almost paralyzes me. I am incredibly scared. Maybe of rejection, maybe because I fear people thinking less of me, of failure.

But in order to get where I want to go, in order to be a good peace corps volunteer, in order to be the person I want to be, I got to face my fear and do it anyway.

Time for the 80's pump up music!

Saturday evening, I was playing a version of pictionary with my six year old host sister (she, using a stick, would draw something in the dirt, and I would have to guess what it was) when I heard a noise. It was coming from the pile of logs. When I went to investigate, I found a kitten. It was an orange tabby, probably less than a week old, its eyes barely open. It was the same color as one of our two cats. Further observance of the log pile found another kitten, the same age, this one pure white. It was the same color as the other of our two cats

In rural South Africa, it is very rare for children to be raised by both their mother and their father. Because of many factors, lack of employment in rural areas, the commoness of multiple concurrent relationships, the age of sexual debut and other, most children are raised by their grandmother. Their mother and sometimes father, live and work in the nearest city and come back when they can. The grandmother usually has many grandchildren living with her, from many of her children. This situation also has a monetary benefit. In South Africa, if one is raising your own child, one receives 250 rand a month per child from the government. But if you are raising someone elses child, you receive more than 1000 rand per month per child. Sometimes one of the mothers also lives with her children and the grandmother. And in one family I know, the father lives with his children and his mother. But in the village of bundu, I only know of one family where the children are being raised by both of their parents.

My first instinct when I found the kittens was to bring them to their mother. However, when I brought them to her, she seemed startled, but not interested. My host mother brought a large bowl and put a blanket in it and made the kittens a new home. Their mother ignored them. I started to get angry at the mother. I grabbed the mother by the neck, and held her down in the bowl, and guided the kittens toward their mothers nipples so they could feed. "You are a bad mother!" I yelled at the cat. "This is what happens when you have sex. You have to live with the consequences! You can't abandon your children!"

In rural South Africa, the kids take care of each other. They play together after school, a mix of ages, no adult supervision. The older ones help the younger ones out. Kids take on much more responsibility here than in america. One of my favorite sights has been watching my six year old neighbor teach his three year old cousin how to ride a bike. However, grandmothers, who have huge houses full of children can only do so much. As many of my fellow volunteers found out, children can be dropped off to live with their grandmother at any age, without any warning. Grandmothers have to triage. So kids seem to grow up without very much adult supervision or help. Makes it much easier to fall through the cracks. Especially since many of the children, most usually the girls, run the household, starting as early as ten. A fellow volunteer told me about how when her host brothers mother left him at his grandmothers for a year, to follow a man, he failed several classes. It takes a toll on kids.

When I was holding the mama cat down to feed her kittens, I misunderstood directions from my host mom. My grip slipped and the cat ran off. After chasing her for awhile, she evaded our grasp. Its been 24 hours and she hasn't come back. We wrapped the kittens up in a blanket and hoped for the best. When I was chasing the cat, before it got too dark to see my host mother told me "You can't make her into a good mother. She abandoned her kittens." I knew that, instictively. But I also knew these kittens needed food and the only way to get it was through her. I didn't want these kittens to die because she was a bad mom. Not under my watch. But she evaded us. The stores were closed, the khumbis had stopped running and there were no shelters to take them to.

When I woke up this morning, the kittens were dead.