E kae bicycle?

On Thursday night, I remembered that the most crimes occur during the first and last three months of service. Except for my iPOD debacle during training and the amount of unwanted attention/verging on harrassment from men, I counted myself lucky. True, I have stories but my health and possessions were intact. I crawled beneath the mosquito net and fell asleep to the sounds of TV in the next room.
While I slept, Mma checked on her merogo. That day, she gathered a bag of the almost-spinach leaves at ther masemo (garden), washed them when she returned home, and finally laid them out to dry in the shed. After checking, she came back inside and questioned Papa. "Where's Lethabo's bike?" (Well, she really said, "E kae bicycle?" Mma doesn't speak English.)
"It's not in the shed?" Papa replied.
"No."
"She must have moved it into her room."

My room is the last place I want my bike. There ins't a good place for it. Every where I put it I end up crawling over it, knocking it over, getting cuts and bruises, and swearing. The mornings that I use it, I wake up before the sun and anyone else in the house repeating swears while I maneuver it around four doors, two of which only open half-way. I repeat the process after coming home, this time dripping sweat and contemplating the next time I'll pee after drinking two Nalgenes (usually three hours later). The shed only has one door and I don't to crawl over it in there. My bike remained in the shed for the past three months.

Friday arrived. I woke up a little surly (it was pre-dawn, I'm entitled) but start the morning routine any way. As I'm heating up water for my bath, I go outside to retreive my bike. It wasn't there. Mma bustled in the outdoor kitchen next to the shed, preparing for her 1.5 mile journey to the masemo.
"Mma, e kae bicycle?"
"I don't know."
Since I'd exhausted my relevant Sepedi vocabulary, I found Papa inside so that I could query in English. I assumed someone borrowed my bike without asking. But that's not the answer I got.
"It's not in your room?"
Confused, I shoke my head. I was told of Mma and her late-night merogo checking and the missing bicycle. Papa decided to call the police. I decided to SMS (text) my principal and tell him what happened, send outraged SMSs to other PCVs, and inform Lydia (associate Peace Corps Director) of the situation. The police on their way and supervisors and friends notified, I hid in my room for a quick woe-is-me sniffle.
"Thabie?"
"Ke eng, Papa?" I dry my eyes and enter the hall-way.
Papa showed me a note Mma found. On one side is a numbered list, the other a name of a girl. It says things like:
1. I love you, Eiva.
2. Ke o rata love. (I love you love)
3. Ke nna ____. (I am ____)
6. Kiss to sex.
Since the note didn't mention me, I'm relieved. The writer can't express himself in English or Sepedi and I started imagining an 18 year-old that should have gone to better schools. Mma already had plenty of time to contemplate and called for Papa and I to follow her.
Mma led the way with the side-to-side sway of someone who doesn't bend her knees any more. Papa was second with a slow shuffle as if each step is pain. I bring up the rear, trying not to giggle at the sight we must make. We followed bike tracks around the yard. The perp took a wide loop around before exiting through the front gate. He must have been riding around as we watched TV and ate dinner.

The police came 45 minutes later. They quickly realized that I only really speak English well, not a useful language like Sepedi or Afrikaans and spent most of the time questioning my parents. I got to giggle again under my breath as they followed Mma around the yard (they looked bored). When Papa explained the note, one officer sped off to find the girl's family and left another officer with us to write down the report.
I spent the next hour hearing 'bicycle' surrounded by words that I don't know. Every once in awhile, Papa would translate the highlights.
The other police officer returned with two 12 year-olds. They had written the note (12 year-olds asking for sex!!) and were pushed to follow the tire tracks around the yard. I didn't giggle, the boys looked way to scared. The police officer drove off again with the boys in tow.
Another hour passes. Neighbors started to come and get the story. Mma was in her element, talking fast and the center of attention. Bicycle kept trickling to my ears, but I didn't hear the rest. The driving officer returns to pick up the marooned officer and they sped off to the station.

The rest of the day passed. Mma related the story to as many people as she could. Papa translated little bits so that I wasn't completely lost and made faces to perk up my spirits. I got calls from the Peace Corps, principals, and SMSs from PCVs commisserating and offering suggestions. At the end of the day, the driving officer returned with two more boys and asked me the color of my bicycle: he had found a blue bicycle that none of the boys owned. Alas, my bike was red.

Now, it's Wednesday. Still no bicycle and it looks like the boys were released. The mother of one of the boys came by last night and received a lecture from my host father (no cliff notes translation though). Because everything happens in Sepedi, I rarely know what is going on. It doesn't look like the thief/thieves are able to use my bike because everyone knows that it's mine and that it was stolen but it doesn't look like it's coming back either. Ah well. I'll get another bike, keep it safer, AND I got another story out of the deal.

miss you all

You say it's your birthday

Today is the 76th birthday of my host father, John Monyeki. In honor of the day, here's a little more about my host parents.

Papa, as I've mentioned before, is fairly sick. He has adult on-set diabetes, high blood pressure, and arthritis. His kidneys sometimes bother him, but it's not diagnosed. Despite this, he says that he's not goingto complain about his health any more because it will get him no where. He continues to go to meetings several times a week for his induna duties, and leads Sunday services at the African Methodist Episcopalian Church. But he has started skipping Saturday funerals because he knows that he can't walk as far as he used to. He returned from three weeks in Hammonskral at the hospital about as new as a 76 year-old can be.

He cooks for himself occassionaly without complaint unlike any other South African male I know. He enjoys to eat one type of food for about two months, and then switches to something new. When I arrived at site, he was in a cabbage kick (with bogobe) and he switched to mazaban (a kind of boiled potato dish with onions and tomatoes or carrots) with bogobe.

He loves watching and listening to the news (except in English) and discusses local news with me when no one else is around. His favorite phrase: 'fuck 'em.'

Mma is my co-conspirator. Usually I do my best faces and impersonate people (especially Papa) for her benefit and mutual laughter. She especially enjoys my terminally cute moments.

She is the cooker and cleaner of the household (like all the gogos I know) but leaves work for her granddaughters to do when they visit.

TV and radio do not entice her, but she loves to talk and visits neighbors and relatives as often as she can. I'm afraid of what she tells them because she's convinced that when I leave and go back to America, that I will take her with me. She's even growing out her hair so that she can impress everyone there. She does not speak English and I don't think that she will enjoy the hustle and bustle of an American day. My least favorite thought is that she thinks that I will buy her plane ticket.

The final member of my immediate host family is Lefie, our cat. Papa ignores him but keeps Lefie around because he is good at catching bugs, lizards, birds, and large rodents. Mma enjoys pestering him and getting him to lash out and try to bite and scratch her. I scratch his ears occassionally making me his favorite person (he follows me almost every where including the pit toilet).

Pretoria

Unfortunately I don't have much to report this week. I went to Pretoria to check out the office and picked up a few books on education (including 101 Kid's Chemistry Experiments) and few fiction books. I ran into a couple of other volunteers there and we spent the weekend feasting on food that I remember from home (I really want a bagel with cream cheese but I couldn't find any), watching movies, and wandering around the largest mall in the Southern hemisphere. We also went out and danced at night and ended up at a predominately Afrikaner club called "Drop Zone." The place always makes me laugh because of the wierd mix of music, Afrikaans folk song leading into gangster rap, and the attempts at dancing by Afrikaner men that look like they've had a few too many steriods. Regardless, I had fun primarily because the other Peace Corps Volunteers are so cool. Without them, Pretoria is a place to buy delicious food and feel very lonely.

In the office, there were a pair of med-evacs: one from Botswana and another from Madagascar. When I say that Peace Corps volunteers are simply happy for no apparent reason in other countries, Madagascar is one of the places I'm speaking of. The volunteer had been at her site for the same amount of time as I have but only had positive things to say and had never contemplated going home. I'm happier, but still jealous.