Rejuvenation

I staunchly defend the position that a blog must offer, above all else, a home for honesty. Maintaining that commitment is, I confess, easier said than typed. When writing is my primary means of both relaying, and personally digesting an experience that I was incessantly told would be wholly enriching, it’s tempting to focus on the good and gloss over the bad and the ugly. But my life here includes all three, and more.

After our weeklong Holiday Camp festivities, I was seriously worn down. I was exhausted, and while I’d seen and experienced some truly inspiring moments, I’d also seen the opposite. One day as I waited for the teams to finish their games, I watched as a small girl lost her balance and tumbled off the nearby bleachers. She curled into a little bundle of collapsed, limp limbs, and as her sobs wilted into whimpers, I saw her tears drip onto the red dirt. A gang of teenage boys sat with her on the bleachers, and at the sight of her fall, they laughed hysterically. It was a raucous, wild laugh, not the subtler, guilty laugh that sometimes slips out when someone falls or does something embarrassing. It made me sick to my stomach. I’d endured their harassment everyday throughout the week, but when I saw this, I lost my last semblance of patience. I angrily demanded why no one helped her. They continued to laugh as they twirled their index fingers beside their ears, gesturing to me that they believed she was crazy. When I helped her up and sat her back on the bleachers, she just smiled at me and repeated my name, “Lindiwe, Lindiwe.” She even laughed at the boys. I wanted her to be angry like I was, and to fight back, or at least refuse to acknowledge her cruel tormentors. She did the opposite. She indulged them. I was speechless. The entire interaction lasted only five minutes, if that, but it broke me. I was disillusioned and frustrated. I wanted to go home—all the way home.

Vonnegut said that laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I met the completion of that week, including its most testing and draining experiences, with the latter.

Vonnegut preferred the former, because there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

Our camp officially ended on Friday evening after we hosted our 24 coaches for dinner at our house. The following day, Hooter and I woke up at 7am to make the 2 hour trek to Danielskuil and Lime Acres to drive our coaches home, only to be followed, naturally, by the 2 hour return home.

Our Toyota Tazz-Condor combo caravan pulled into the Gateway 2 Heaven around noon. We planned on leaving again at 2pm, this time to dribble approximately 15 kilometers through Galeshewe to raise money for Grassroot Soccer with Hooter’s previous employer, the Greenwich Country Day School. Admittedly, I would have preferred to embark upon this sure-to-be-strenuous expedition on a different day. Alas, the Connecticut counterpart of our fundraiser was scheduled for that Saturday, so I had very little choice in the matter.

Outfitted in our bright yellow Grassroot Soccer t-shirts and two partially deflated Nike soccer balls, we set out on our journey, dribbling down the quieter and well-maintained streets of Kimberley. The atmosphere changed as we neared the township limits, and we were greeted by honking cars and enthusiastic bystanders. Interest mounted as we ran through a local park and called out in Setswana.

A left turn took us onto the busiest road in Galeshewe, where we were beautifully ambushed by a horde of intrigued and excited kids. They eagerly followed as we dribbled along the bustling streets and through the lively neighborhoods of Galeshewe, garnering much attention from older onlookers. The kids were elated to pass and dribble with us, and their happiness was contagious. With every kilometer we traveled, the weight of the past week slipped away from my mind. As we entered into the heart of the township, glorious South African rain began to pour down onto us, and we took refuge in a local school. We played soccer drills under an overhang to wait out the thunder. It was sublime chaos.

When we finally began to make our way home, we had to carry some of the youngest, and most tired, kids. The rain still fell softly, and every one of us was thoroughly drenched. I had befriended a young boy early on, asking “Leina le gago ke mang?”—what is your name? I think I fell in love when he responded, “Trouble.” I carried Trouble on my back from the school to his home. I held his older brother’s hand. I think it was the happiest I’ve been since I arrived on the African continent. Honest truth. Honest good.

Our farewell to these kids was bittersweet, but we said we’d return some day to play more soccer. I believe we will. I owe them. At one of my lowest times in Kimberley, the street soccer players of Galeshewe rejuvenated me.