By AJ
Last month, I focused on the parts of male culture that I saw in South Africa that promoted infidelity and having multiple girlfriends, or cherries (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/12/27/get-yourself-a-girlfriend-or-two/). There is more to the story though. The pressure doesn't just come from other guys, but from some girls too.
Now most women who have traveled abroad will probably have experienced some of the unwanted attention that is a result of a healthy patriarchy. If you are unfamiliar with this, see: (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/11/15/shes-with-me/). One of the reasons this kind of behavior is so alive and well is because a lot of women play into it. The few that don't are mavericks like Mpho (http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/10/11/starting-the-conversation/). But there is a story you may not often hear, and that is of the unexpected attention that men sometimes get when traveling abroad.
“Un”wanted Attention
I'd been at my site for almost two months and I was finally beginning to put names to faces. I had almost all the teachers down but was lost with the 500+ kids at the high school. Only a few stood out, like Mofokeng, who taught me to herd goats after school, Thabiso, who spoke great English and was teaching me seTswana, and Patience, whose powerful voice led the entire school in song at each morning assembly. She was a senior and a pretty girl. Each day after school as I walked home, I'd pass her and her group of friends as they chatted. Patience would always greet me with a big smile. One day, she called me over to chat.
“KB, when are you going to make us dinner.” (KB was my nickname)
“I think there's a misunderstanding. I'm not making any dinner.”
“Can we come over to visit you then?”
“Umm, I guess so, everyone here knows where I live.”
“Can I spend the night?”
“No no no no...and in fact, maybe you shouldn't come over...”
I hastily beat a retreat down the dusty road. This was not the first nor the last time I'd turn down such propositions and flirtations.
One instance was more subtle, but far more troubling. Lerato was a relative of my host family and often came over to help with errands and take care of the babies. She was one of my early allies as I struggled to master seTswana. She'd often help translate what people were saying in broken English. One day as we were baby-sitting the two year old Tlotlo, I tried to teach her “Rock, Paper, Scissors.” After a few minutes she gave up and insisted on showing me a game. She held out her right hand in a fist. She wiggled her thumb, and told me to raise it. Then she wiggled her index finger. Then her thumb again, this time indicating to put it down. And finally she wiggled her index finger again. As I looked to ask what was next in this game, she gave me a big smile and I looked down again at her hand. “Oh shit...” I thought to myself. The hand gesture, which some of you may know as sign language for “t”, in South Africa is one of many ways to subtly say, “I want to have sex with you.” I looked at Lerato with terror in my eyes and shook my head to try to erase any mixed signals I may have unintentionally sent. It's not that I'm terrified of girls, just that Lerato was 14 at the time.
Unfamiliar territory
From what I've seen, in the world of guys, unless you happen to be a Brad Pitt look alike or the star quarterback, it's unlikely that you'll find girls aggressively hitting on you. Flirting is an entirely different matter, but most of us are not used to having a girl directly communicate that they want us. The onus is on the guy to make the first move in general. When an American guy is then placed into this unfamiliar circumstance where he might have to actually bat away girls, there are many problems that can arise. Quite honestly, it feels kind of nice for a change and it can be very tempting for a guy alone in a foreign place. Some lucky ones find meaningful relationships but unfortunately, in most cases, I think the American guy is viewed as an economic rather than an emotional investment.
In places where male promiscuity is boasted about, it's often the case that female virginity and fidelity are highly prized. This asymmetry shouldn't be mistaken for practice. If every guy has multiple sexual partners, it's highly unlikely that all the women are sticking to one guy. When I started my service I was in a long distance relationship. I thought that the answer that I had a girlfriend would be enough to end the discussion. I was taken aback when some girls responded with, “But she is so far away. You need a girlfriend here.” Another volunteer working in the health sector was told by people in his organization that he should knock up some local girls in order to “leave a remembrance” of himself for them. Perhaps, as I discussed previously, there should be some kind of menist movement, but the feminist movement still has plenty of work out there globally and more men we get behind it rather than obstructing it, the better.
Shades of Grey
Like so many other issues, the issue of male promiscuity can't be pinned down to one thing alone. Sometimes there is pressure from both men AND women for guys to be promiscuous. It's not an excuse. But it's something to think about before demonizing men. Lots of the married male teachers I knew and worked with had stuff going on with women in the village, some even with students. In some cases, I already didn't get along with them for other reasons and this just added fuel to the fire. In some cases though, it was a tortuous relationship because I knew some of these guys were good people and good teachers but that under a very heavy societal and physical pressure they had made a few choices that were not the best.
When traveling or working abroad, you will occasionally find the guys that are true free thinkers that swim against the patriarchy like the friend I described in my last column. More often, you will find guys that are doing some things that clash with your sensibilities. Some may be jerks that you want nothing to do with. Others though, may actually be decent people that could be quite helpful. It's not easy to tell sometimes but it's worth the effort to find out.
Showing posts with label south africa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label south africa. Show all posts
Get Yourself a Girlfriend, or Two!
By AJ
When trying to think of a topic for this months column, I found myself skimming through accounts of women's travels to dig up some themes. Something that comes up again and again is outrage or at least incomprehension at how acceptable it is for men to be unfaithful to their partners in some countries. I haven't done any kind of study, but from what I've seen and read, it seems like it's fairly common in Africa and Latin America.
Now, I'm not talking about the usual double standard; that a guy that gets around is a player whereas a woman that does the same is a slutty ho. That still is fairly alive and well in the U.S.A. I'm talking about an attitude that is so pervasive that, as a married man with children, your masculinity will be questioned if you do not have a few mistresses on the side.
Before I get rolling, let me be clear about what I am NOT saying. I'm not commenting one way or the other on open relationships where all partners are in the know and agree to be open. Purely from a public health standpoint, I will just say that great care must be taken (especially in southern Africa) because having concurrent sexual partners seems to spread HIV faster than serial monogamy (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/20/AR2007112001676_2.html). I'm also not in any way trying to excuse infidelity in a committed relationship.
What I am going to do in this column and the next, is to try to paint a picture of what this all looks like from a guys perspective.
Part I: Cherry Picking
As Beth points out in “Sexism and Candy” http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/12/15/sexism-and-candy/, there is sometimes a machismo that dominates male culture. Sometimes it's strange how much resolve it takes simply to do the “right” thing when everyone around you says you aren't a man.
One day after school, Mr. Tshabang and I decided to go to the local clinic to try to build a partnership in the HIV/AIDS awareness campaign we were trying to start. The clinic was located about 7 km from the school. Fortunately we were able to get a ride from two other teachers, Mr. Ndlovu and Mr. Manchusi. At the clinic, Tshabang and I brainstormed ideas with the nurses on topics such as condom distribution, testing drives, and educational talks. After making a few plans for cooperation, we got back in the car and headed back towards the school. After a few kilometers, we diverted off the main road and pulled up to a house. Ndlovu got out and with a big grin said he'd be back soon. Manchusi joined him as they went inside.
Tshabang and I sat for a few minutes of awkward silence before I finally asked what exactly was going on.
“Ndlovu is visiting his 'cherry' in there.”
It took me a few seconds to make the connection and then it dawned on me. 'Cherry' is a slang term for a mistress. I knew all of these men were married and had children, but were now far from their families because of work. Such is the nature of the South African migrant worker-based economy. Mr. Tshabang waited for a bit before speaking again.
“You know, I really don't agree with that type of behavior.”
“I'm glad, Mr. Tshabang, because neither do I.”
In that moment of solidarity, Tshabang opened up. Almost all the male teachers had several “cherries”, some of whom were students. When he'd joined the school a few months ago, they had tried to pressure him into taking a few of his own. He'd resisted and as a result had been ostracized. He was here, in the desert, earning money to support his wife and children, over 700 km away, and the colleagues who should have been his support had pushed him away.
Mr. Tshabang is a thin guy. He is even skinnier than me. But as I would learn over the years, his slight frame contained an incredible character. He had a powerful voice, and would MC school events of hundreds of people without a microphone. His legs may have been wires, but he could run like the wind. And he had unshakable moral fiber and resolve. He became one of my closest allies and trusted friends.
Unfortunately, he seemed to be the exception rather than the rule among the male teachers. Even I got some of the pressure. Every month or so, somehow my conversations with Ndlovu would get to the topic of my love life. Having a girlfriend at home had not been enough to satisfy him. I had to have something going on locally. One day I finally got him off my back.
“So tell me KB, how are you taking care of yourself?”
“Well, I exercise every day. I eat well and make sure I get a good night's sleep...”
“No no, I mean, how are you taking care of yourself?”
“I'm sorry Ndlovu, I don't follow you.” (The standard, play dumb strategy)
“You know KB. A man has needs.”
“Oh, you mean masturbation?” (The standard, make him really uncomfortable strategy)
“No! No more talk of masturbation. You know it's only natural that a man has a woman somewhere. It's how nature works. All the animals do it. When the lion is hungry, it must eat.”
“You know what the difference is between an animal and a man? An animal is driven by its desires, its hungers. A real man can make choices and be driven by principles rather than desires.” (I do realize that this statement is not entirely accurate for animals, but it served to make a point)
“Is that so?”
“Yes it is. So which one are you?”
With a laugh, Ndlovu quickly left the room and never brought up the topic again.
As I mentored the young men in my camps and classes, I could see some of them torn between what they thought was right and what the popular culture was telling them was right. Tshabang and I tried our best to provide an example, but we were vastly outnumbered by the Ndlovu's.
I sometimes think that there needs to be a “men”ist movement. Feminism has done a tremendous amount to raise consciousness in our society, and in particular to empower the women of today. (There is still much to do on this front, as I'll discuss next time.)
For true equality, there must be more than feminism. There must be a substantial change in the culture of manhood that pervades most of the world today. I'm not talking about an emasculation as my male opponents might cry out. On the contrary, I'm talking about being a real man.
[Note: The incidents listed above are as accurate as I can recall. Only the names have been changed, not because I want to protect guys like Ndlovu, but because I don't want to compromise the ability of future volunteers working at my site.]
When trying to think of a topic for this months column, I found myself skimming through accounts of women's travels to dig up some themes. Something that comes up again and again is outrage or at least incomprehension at how acceptable it is for men to be unfaithful to their partners in some countries. I haven't done any kind of study, but from what I've seen and read, it seems like it's fairly common in Africa and Latin America.
Now, I'm not talking about the usual double standard; that a guy that gets around is a player whereas a woman that does the same is a slutty ho. That still is fairly alive and well in the U.S.A. I'm talking about an attitude that is so pervasive that, as a married man with children, your masculinity will be questioned if you do not have a few mistresses on the side.
Before I get rolling, let me be clear about what I am NOT saying. I'm not commenting one way or the other on open relationships where all partners are in the know and agree to be open. Purely from a public health standpoint, I will just say that great care must be taken (especially in southern Africa) because having concurrent sexual partners seems to spread HIV faster than serial monogamy (http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/20/AR2007112001676_2.html). I'm also not in any way trying to excuse infidelity in a committed relationship.
What I am going to do in this column and the next, is to try to paint a picture of what this all looks like from a guys perspective.
Part I: Cherry Picking
As Beth points out in “Sexism and Candy” http://letsgogirl.wordpress.com/2009/12/15/sexism-and-candy/, there is sometimes a machismo that dominates male culture. Sometimes it's strange how much resolve it takes simply to do the “right” thing when everyone around you says you aren't a man.
One day after school, Mr. Tshabang and I decided to go to the local clinic to try to build a partnership in the HIV/AIDS awareness campaign we were trying to start. The clinic was located about 7 km from the school. Fortunately we were able to get a ride from two other teachers, Mr. Ndlovu and Mr. Manchusi. At the clinic, Tshabang and I brainstormed ideas with the nurses on topics such as condom distribution, testing drives, and educational talks. After making a few plans for cooperation, we got back in the car and headed back towards the school. After a few kilometers, we diverted off the main road and pulled up to a house. Ndlovu got out and with a big grin said he'd be back soon. Manchusi joined him as they went inside.
Tshabang and I sat for a few minutes of awkward silence before I finally asked what exactly was going on.
“Ndlovu is visiting his 'cherry' in there.”
It took me a few seconds to make the connection and then it dawned on me. 'Cherry' is a slang term for a mistress. I knew all of these men were married and had children, but were now far from their families because of work. Such is the nature of the South African migrant worker-based economy. Mr. Tshabang waited for a bit before speaking again.
“You know, I really don't agree with that type of behavior.”
“I'm glad, Mr. Tshabang, because neither do I.”
In that moment of solidarity, Tshabang opened up. Almost all the male teachers had several “cherries”, some of whom were students. When he'd joined the school a few months ago, they had tried to pressure him into taking a few of his own. He'd resisted and as a result had been ostracized. He was here, in the desert, earning money to support his wife and children, over 700 km away, and the colleagues who should have been his support had pushed him away.
Mr. Tshabang is a thin guy. He is even skinnier than me. But as I would learn over the years, his slight frame contained an incredible character. He had a powerful voice, and would MC school events of hundreds of people without a microphone. His legs may have been wires, but he could run like the wind. And he had unshakable moral fiber and resolve. He became one of my closest allies and trusted friends.
Unfortunately, he seemed to be the exception rather than the rule among the male teachers. Even I got some of the pressure. Every month or so, somehow my conversations with Ndlovu would get to the topic of my love life. Having a girlfriend at home had not been enough to satisfy him. I had to have something going on locally. One day I finally got him off my back.
“So tell me KB, how are you taking care of yourself?”
“Well, I exercise every day. I eat well and make sure I get a good night's sleep...”
“No no, I mean, how are you taking care of yourself?”
“I'm sorry Ndlovu, I don't follow you.” (The standard, play dumb strategy)
“You know KB. A man has needs.”
“Oh, you mean masturbation?” (The standard, make him really uncomfortable strategy)
“No! No more talk of masturbation. You know it's only natural that a man has a woman somewhere. It's how nature works. All the animals do it. When the lion is hungry, it must eat.”
“You know what the difference is between an animal and a man? An animal is driven by its desires, its hungers. A real man can make choices and be driven by principles rather than desires.” (I do realize that this statement is not entirely accurate for animals, but it served to make a point)
“Is that so?”
“Yes it is. So which one are you?”
With a laugh, Ndlovu quickly left the room and never brought up the topic again.
As I mentored the young men in my camps and classes, I could see some of them torn between what they thought was right and what the popular culture was telling them was right. Tshabang and I tried our best to provide an example, but we were vastly outnumbered by the Ndlovu's.
I sometimes think that there needs to be a “men”ist movement. Feminism has done a tremendous amount to raise consciousness in our society, and in particular to empower the women of today. (There is still much to do on this front, as I'll discuss next time.)
For true equality, there must be more than feminism. There must be a substantial change in the culture of manhood that pervades most of the world today. I'm not talking about an emasculation as my male opponents might cry out. On the contrary, I'm talking about being a real man.
[Note: The incidents listed above are as accurate as I can recall. Only the names have been changed, not because I want to protect guys like Ndlovu, but because I don't want to compromise the ability of future volunteers working at my site.]
She's with Me
.
Two girls and a guy walk into a bar. The bartender proceeds to mack on the women while a crowd of inebriated, touchy men fall over themselves to introduce themselves as intimately as possible in the cramped space. As the two girls try to make themselves as small as possible, their male friend puts his arms around both of them, and loudly orders drinks for himself and "both his women" as the crowd begins to back off.
This story is entirely made up, but it's no joke. I could easily have encountered such a situation while I was in South Africa, out with other volunteers. And in certain contexts, I definitely would have had the same instinct as the guy in the story. Now, we may all agree that the situation the girls were in was definitely not a good one. But the reaction of the guy may have left you upset. How did his friends become "his women"? If he's trying to help them fight the patriarchy, why is he playing into it?
If you're a regular reader of this blog, odds are you may be an independent minded woman who enjoys traveling the world. I don't think it's controversial to say that traveling alone as a woman can be more dangerous than with companions. And as much you may hate to admit it, traveling with male companions can make much of the world a lot safer. (Of course, traveling with a local is probably the safest and best way to see a country, but that's another issue altogether.) As travelers, male or female, we find ourselves in unfamiliar places and often can use an ally. How does one go about being an ally? From my experience, it's not always black and white. Sometimes, a person in distress just wants to get through the situation as quickly as possible and get some sympathy afterwards. Sometimes, a little humor can go a long way to diffuse a situation. Sometimes, a person can be in danger of harm unless an ally sticks their neck out.
Following are some stories from my own experiences. Some names have been changed to preserve privacy. I'm not claiming these were the right or wrong ways to react. But I hope that you'll read through and leave a response.
American Woman
In South Africa, Peace Corps Volunteers would often converge in our “shopping towns,” the nearest urban centers where we could get groceries and basic goods. The usual means of transportation to and from these towns involved the public taxi system. Mini-bus taxis, small SUVs with extra seats added in, and covered pickups with benches in the back, were all fairly common where I was. More often than not, these do not run on any kind of schedule. They leave when they are full. This means two things for the traveler: You've got some time to kill and enjoy the circulation in your legs while you still have it. The waiting game sometimes starts earlier, as you wait for one of these taxis to fill and arrive from their first stop. So we spent a lot of time sitting around taxi ranks.
- "
- An example of a taxi rank [Photo courtesy of Wikipedia
“My brother, you have so many women. You must share some with us.”
“Trust me my friend, you don't want these women. They are American women. They are strong headed and they won't cook.”
“But why do you have so many?”
“These women are my sisters. So believe me, I know them well.”
Now, I'm pretty sure the didn't buy the claim that the Indian guy was the brother of these three white women, but they didn't push things any further. We joked for a little while longer, with Amy asserting vigorously that an American woman was definitely not what they were looking for. Eventually, the guys left.
Strong Arming
Unfortunately, some guys skip the whole small talk bit and go straight to the groping. In these cases, humor is less useful.
Katie and I were traveling to a meeting in Pretoria and had the distinguished pleasure of sitting in the far back corner. Between us and our two other row mates, it was a tight squeeze, but at least Katie had managed to grab the window. Control of air-flow is something you learn not to take for granted. As we sat while the bags were being loaded, we had the window wide open, enjoying the morning breeze. A few yards away, a guy was definitely checking Katie out. She caught view of him out of the corner of her eye and decided to try the “ignore” strategy, staring straight ahead and pretending he didn't exist. That didn't seem to make much of a difference to this guy, who eventually just walked over and grabbed her through the window. After some yelling and slapping, the window was closed.
Fortunately, we soon got on our way and we slid the window open again. Within a few minutes though, we pulled into a gas station to fill up. It was pretty hot. I could see the conflict on Katie's face as she tried to choose between being able to breathe and being able to relax without watching every man that walked by. Finally, she settled on the open window but gave death stares to any guy that so much as glanced over. It's a no win situation, because some guys seem to still see this as an invitation. One started to come over. This time, I slipped my arm around Katie's shoulder and added my own death stare. Once he was within a yard, he tried to greet Katie and I greeted him back. (Yes, you must always greet. Even when giving death stares.) The guy left. The window stayed open but I didn't take my arm away until we were well on the road again.
Talking Back
Shopping and meetings were not the only reasons to go to town. When one of the girls from our group got married in Vryburg, many of us were able to go to town to celebrate. Before the wedding, we were still busy putting together a gift for our friend and were running all over the town to get different things. I was in a group with Katie, Aaron, and Alex. To save time, Aaron wanted to take a short cut through the taxi rank. Katie was not so enthusiastic. We figured, there were three guys. No one was going to mess with her and eventually she agreed. As we went through, we got many looks because: white South Africans almost never go near a taxi rank , it's still a very odd site in smaller towns to see a mixed group of white and Indian people, and one of us was a woman. Soon, the cat calls started and they were, of course, all directed at Katie. It's degrading and demeaning, but I figured Katie was not in any immediate danger so my strategy was to do nothing and get through as quickly as possible. Aaron, though, had had enough, turning to one group of guys, waving his arm and yelling, “Voetsek!” Now, the word “Voetsek!” is Afrikaans command usually given to dogs and literally translated means “Foot sack!”. When directed to people, it's more like “Fuck off!” Coming from a white guy in the middle of a taxi rank though, it was potentially a lot worse than that. We sped up and quickly got through the rest of the rank.
Chivalry is Dead; Long Live Humanity
In all these situations, there are things all of us could have done differently. There were many situations where I saw getting involved as making things worse, so I tried to get through the situation as quickly as possible and offer a sympathetic acknowledgment that “that sucked”. The right action is not always clear. But one thing is clear to me. The motivation for action is not that men must protect the honor and dignity of women. The motivation is that humans should protect the honor and dignity of humans. Whenever this principle is followed, I don't think you run the risk of being patronizing. Sometimes we may play off the ingrained stereotypes, but as long as the baseline respect for each other as equals exists, I don't think it's necessarily out of line. Allies come in all shapes, forms and colors. An ally one day will need an ally the next. I'll always be thankful to Katie for the time where she helped diffuse a situation where I got kicked out of a hotel lobby for being Indian.
Just because the motivation to be an ally derives from a common humanity does not mean that it's ever clear what course of action will most preserve human dignity. That's where the debate begins.
Starting the conversation
Hello. My name is A.J. and I'm a man.
So why do I have a column in a women's travel magazine/blog? In my own travels, I have encountered women of different cultures who have had a deep impact on my own life. From time to time, I'll be sharing the stories of some of the diverse and fascinating women that I've encountered in my own travels. During my travels and my time living abroad, I became deeply aware of how people of diverse backgrounds can experience travel very differently. Rather than simply self-segregating though, I found it important to build bridges, sharing, understanding and finding ways to support each other. I hope to share some stories from my own experience to start a dialogue. How can men be allies to women in travels through places that sometimes, frankly, are completely repressive and abusive, without being patronizing or repressive themselves? I invite you each month to write to me with ideas, disagreements, or relevant stories that I'll try to incorporate into this conversation.
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Mpho: The Atypical Tswana Woman
When I arrived at my site, where'd I'd be spending the next two years as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I certainly did not know what I was expecting. I do know that I was definitely not expecting Mpho. There were three women that ran the household that would become my home abroad. Thati was my host mother. She was the deputy principal of one of the schools that I would work at. Her round and smiling face would greet me each morning and her laugh would light up a room. Mma Thati (literally, mother of Thati) was my host grandmother, and the matriarch of our family. While she was around, I knew nothing bad could ever happen to me because she truly took me to be a child of her family. And then there was Mpho, Thati's cousin. Though younger than Thati, her dark and chiseled face gave her a somewhat intimidating look. And she backed it up with a firecracker personality.
.
In my first months, we butted heads repeatedly. With Mpho, there was one way of doing things and she was definitely going to teach the American how to do them. Arguments about the proper place to put things, such as the toilet paper in my hut/house would end with us both exclaiming "Oa tsenwa!" which literally translated means "You are possessed" or "You're crazy." Though I was fairly proficient in basic seTswana, Mpho spoke a rapid-fire version that often left me feeling like a deer in headlights. Once, when Mma Thati checked in on how I was doing I admitted I was struggling to understand Mpho. She chuckled and said, "That Mpho, she talks too fast. And sometimes she doesn't really say anything. She just makes noise."
.
The first weeks passed and Mpho and I arrived at something of a truce. Early in my service, I had no projects to work on so I'd often spend the afternoons out in the grazing lands, helping herd and water the goats and sheep. The first few times I went, I was of little more use than a stump that could be placed in front of a gate to keep sheep from crossing. As time went on, I learned to herd, to catch a goat that needed to be inspected, and to help sort kids for feeding. Perhaps during this time Mpho began to see me as something more useful than just a lumbering American. I too began to respect her more as I saw how hard she worked, cleaning the house and making meals during the day, while taking care of the livestock in the mornings and evenings.
.
As summer approached and the Kalahari sun stretched each day longer, it was time to erect a new corral for the goats. Mpho and I jumped into the back of the family's beat up sky blue pick-up and we headed out towards the open veld to chop down some thorny brambles to make the shelter. As the truck sputtered down the road, it became clear we needed to get some motor oil before heading further so we pulled up at an odd set of buildings on the edge of the village. A school bus yellow building doubled as an auto shop and general supply store, directly abutted by a Coca Cola red tavern. As my host cousin Mofokeng went in to buy the motor oil, Mpho and I waited patiently in the back of the truck. A thin man with a scraggy beard and a bottle in hand stumpled towards us and grabbed Mpho's arm with the all too predictable line, "Hey baby, let's talk." Mpho gave the man one look and without a moments hesitation used her free arm to grab a saw and raised it menacingly in the air. As the startled intruder stumbled backwards, she yelled, "What's wrong? Come talk to me now!"
.
Now, Mpho's reaction may not seem novel to the average indpendent American woman, but I was absolutely blown away. In South Africa, any women traveling around should expect a heavy dose of cat calls, grabs, and gropes. Why do these guys think that grabbing a random girl's hand and saying he is in love with her will get him anywhere? Unfortunately, because it does. I was always shocked when I saw South African women approached like this and instead of pulling away, they'd flirt back. Now, obviously it's not the case with all South African women but it was enough that the brazen harassment method of picking up women had not been bred out. Mpho, who had grown up in the village and never completed school, had somehow decided she just was not going to put up with that. From that day onwards, I had a new respect for Mpho and even when we disagreed, I always kept my respect for her.
.
As time went on, I began to learn more about my host aunt. She lived with my host family along with her two small children. Her own mother was poor and perhaps had some degree of mental illness. When Mpho was a small girl, her mother brought her to Mma Thati to take care of and raise. In return for this, Mpho would do the domestic work and help with the livestock. This kind of arrangement is fairly common in South Africa, with more prosperous families ending up taking in the members of poorer households.
.
Every time I began to feel that I was in the know and understood Mpho, I was quickly proven wrong. After a year, my seTswana was finally fast enough to successfully banter back and forth at Mpho speed. One night, I walked into the main house to see Mpho at the dining table hunched over a book. As I approached to investigate, I realized the book was written in English.
"Mpho! You know English?"
"Ee." ('Yes.')
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
With a shrug of her shoulders she went back to reading. She was studying for the South African equivalent of a GED. With her eldest child starting school, she was setting an example.
.
After two years in the village, I don't think I even got close to learning the core of what drove Mpho, but I definitely got a good peak. What I do know is that Mpho will always find her own way.
- Mpho and her daughter, Gomolemo
- Mpho treating a goat for worms
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