Most Significat Story

Recently we’ve begun an activity with our coaches called “Most Significant Story.” It’s an opportunity for the coaches to discuss their experiences with kids during interventions, what they witness with changes in kids’ behavior as well as their own. The coaches divide into their respective sites where they work and are given time to share these stories and discuss. The group picks the best story, and the individual coach will share with the entire office, after which we vote for which one everyone likes best. It’s tough to vote, knowing that everyone delivering our curriculum meets and experiences incredible children dealing with really tough situations. Each coach also has their own story and reason for working with Grassroot Soccer, many of them being affected personally and closely by HIV and AIDS. We vote solely to provide funders with an inspiring story that we hope in turn inspires them to keep the money coming in.

Our first MSS took place a couple weeks ago, and the story chosen was told by Glen, a coach from Zwide. Just a quick explanation about our curriculum: it consists of 8 practices during which kids go through activities to learn about HIV and AIDS, and have the opportunity to talk with their peers and the coaches about the virus and the myths, stigma, and taboo surrounding it. The coaches share their personal stories with the kids throughout the interventions, allowing the participants to feel comfortable sharing their own experiences. During the final Skillz practice, volunteers from the class are asked share their “Coach’s Story” with their peers. This practice in particular can be difficult and extremely sad, inspiring, happy, or a combination of everything. The most important thing is that the kids get a chance to share and to talk about their experiences. I hope you enjoy this story:


I’ll never forget our first intervention at W.B. Tshume Primary School in Zwide, Port Elizabeth in August 2009. Coaches Mendisto, Amy, Nkadi and I were working with sixth grade boys and girls. When we began, it was clear that some students did not want to participate. The down‐turned faces, the curious glances and the hushed whispers all said the same thing: the kids were uncomfortable. We learned later that they thought Grassroot Soccer was for little kids because they saw students just running around, and others did not want to participate because they knew we talk about HIV and AIDS and they feared being stigmatized.

The teacher at W.B. Tshume told us not to pressure those that did not want to participate and
mentioned that several kids had personal/behavior problems. We felt like outsiders as we began to run Skillz practices with shy, reluctant kids. It was a monumental challenge. Some kids were absent for days at a time. It was difficult to tell if we were reaching anyone with our messages. One 17 year‐old girl named Ntombi1 always caught my eye. She would just sit in the back, never speaking or participating in games. She was often absent too. When we did Team Talk she did not even look or listen to the other kids in her group. I feared that we were not reaching her and that we were letting her down.

The turning point of the intervention came during Practice 8, the final Skillz practice, which features an activity called “My Coach’s Story.” During the activity, we asked volunteers to come to the front of the class and share an experience that challenged them and explain how they triumphed in the face of adversity. “Volunteers only,” we repeated. There would be no pressure to perform. A young boy, one of our most enthusiastic participants, was the first to step forward. When his story concluded, he sat down, leaving the stage for a new presenter. As silence descended upon the room, I scanned the classroom for signs of life. No one could have predicted what happened next.

In the back corner of the room sat Ntombi, who had not spoken all week. Without lifting her gaze, she quietly got up from her chair and walked slowly down the aisle toward the front of the class. Her quiet confidence mirrored the class’s stunned silence.

In a soft but steady voice, she told the group that her mother was HIV positive and had been bedridden at Dora Nginza Hospital for the past six months. Because her mother had fallen ill, she had moved in with her aunt. But rather than love and support, Ntombi was met with scorn and disapproval. Ashamed of her sister’s “condition,” her aunt was determined to take it out on her young niece. She gained confidence with every word and slowly gained the courage to confess something she had never shared with anyone before.

In May 2009, one day after school, Ntombi went to Greenacres Mall with her brother’s friend. On the way back, he raped her. Despite the fear and pain that consumed her, Ntombi knew what she had to do. Ntombi went to the Dora Nginza Rape Crisis Centre, where one of the diagnostics is an HIV test. There she learned that she had, indeed, been infected with HIV. Shocked and confused, she didn’t know how to handle the situation. Without a strong support base at home, she chose to run away to live with a friend in Motherwell. This was why she had missed so many school days.

She didn’t have anyone. There was no one to protect her and no one to turn to. Although weakened by the experience, she was not broken. She still had the courage to confide in us, her Grassroot Soccer Coaches and fellow participants, to seek help from those who cared for her. She told us her story, and we connected her with the Ubuntu Education Fund, a long‐standing partner of GRS that provides longterm counseling and support for youth in Port Elizabeth.

It has been four months since we completed our first intervention at W.B. Tshume Primary School. Ntombi is now attending counseling and is ready to disclose her status to her mother and her aunt. She said that things are much better in her life after sharing and telling other people about her story.

This year, when we went to her school, she was friendly and open and shared with us that she really liked the My Coach’s Story activity because she got to share what she was feeling inside. Now she is working toward the completion of grade seven. This time, when we were doing Team Talk, Ntombi told her friends the story of being raped by her brother’s friend. “Be careful,” she warned, “because even if people know you and offer you things you should not completely trust them.” She also participated in Risk Field and talked to the class about the danger of sugar daddies. Ntombi’s transformation from shy and reclusive to a classroom leader demonstrates the impact our program can have.

Now when we head to W.B. Tshume, students ask us to come early so they can tell us about their friends who also need help accessing counseling services, HIV testing, and rape victim support. These were the same students who wouldn’t even talk to us before, and now they are open to share and even help recruit kids for Grassroot Soccer programs. I am proud that, since 2006, our team in Port Elizabeth has touched the lives of more than 7000 youth like Ntombi. With the support of the Red Ribbon Foundation and others, we will continue to grow and expand our impact on the lives of South African youth.

Tanzania

Our safari in Tanzania was an incredible experience. It was five days of driving, mostly in silence, giving us all a chance to do a lot of thinking. We would drive for hours at a time without talking, just watching the world go by. I had these almost out-of-body experiences at some points, feeling like I was looking down on myself in the truck. It was pretty surreal, but very therapeutic.

Our guide, Tuma, picked us up in Moshi on Christmas Eve morning. We packed our bags into our own personal Toyota Land Cruiser, and then made our way out of the city, toward Lake Manyara. This was our first stop, and we made camp at a campground just outside of the park. Once the truck was unloaded, Tuma drove us into the park for an afternoon game drive. He described Lake Manyara as the “appetizer” to our safari. All I could think driving through the park, was that it was a pretty damn good appetizer.















The day was sunny and warm, and we popped the top of the truck open so we could stand and have a 360 degree view of everything. We saw all sorts of animals, including giraffes, hippo, zebras, monkeys, and my favorite, elephants. Toward the end of our drive we came upon a herd of elephants crossing the road. We stopped to let them pass, watching as the adults led the way while the babies followed close to their mothers. Just as they had crossed the road I saw another young one burst through the bushes, running to catch up. I could almost hear it calling, “Hey wait guys, wait for me!” (with a slight lisp and a high-pitched voice).

We spent the night at the campground, and on Christmas morning we packed up and headed out for the Serengeti. We drove by the Ngorongoro Crater on our way, which we would visit on our return. The word “Serengeti” is a Maasai word meaning “endless plain,” and that it is. I remember thinking on the drive that you can actually feel how old the land is. We stopped for lunch just after entering the park, and climbed up onto a rocky mound to get a view of the plain. It literally stretched out as far as we could see, and then kept going. I had the Lion King soundtrack and a certain few Paul Simon songs on repeat in my head for most of our time there.


The wildebeest migration was going on while we were there, which was amazing to see. Hundreds of thousands of wildebeest could be seen for miles, grazing and moving slowly across the grass. We saw herds that stretched out to the horizon, becoming a dark smear against the ground in the distance. Tuma told us that the herds just kept on going past the point that we could see. The wildebeest graze with zebra, using the zebra’s eyesight while the zebra use the wildebeest for their sense of smell, to stay alert to predators. They would dart across the road in streaming groups, so we spent a lot of time just watching them run by, looking for better areas to graze.


The best part of our first day came as we were driving past a tree, when we realized a lioness was dozing in the branches. Tuma managed to pull up right next to the tree, and I ended up parked about 10 yards from this lion, face to face with her and her claws. It was awesome. She looked right back at us while we snapped pictures, and then put her head back down to continue her nap.


We went for an early morning game drive a couple days later. We saw a leopard and some hyenas who decided they’d prefer not to move out of our way in the road. The highlight of the morning was when Tuma pulled off to the side of the road, asking us if we could see the lions through the tall grass that was growing next to a muddy stream. We looked closely, and saw a couple female lions emerge from the grass. That in itself would have been really cool -- then another lion with three cubs walked out of the grass and crossed the stream. The group walked right by our truck, crossing the road, and made their way to a tree a few yards away from the road. The adults climbed up quickly, and we watched for a while as the cubs tried jumping and clawing their way up the tree. No success. They flopped down on the ground to nap for the day.

We spent our last night on safari camped above the Ngorongoro Crater. We asked Tuma what “ngorongoro” means in Maasai, thinking it would have some romantic origin like “Serengeti.” He said, “You know the bells that cows wear?”… “Yes.”… “You know that sound they make, ‘ngorongorongorongoro’?”… It took us a minute, but then we all burst out laughing. More practical than profound.

Our campsite was full, and it was much colder at the higher elevation. We had our final dinner, and went to get ready for bed. It was dark by that time, and the grass was wet with dew. I rolled up my pant legs to avoid getting wet, and as we were leaving the bathrooms, I noticed what looked like a dry area to walk across. I stepped up onto some concrete, and without looking, took one more step forward…into a knee-deep pool of kitchen run-off water. Nice. I managed to keep my other foot out of the water, and tried to step up onto the grass again. My submerged foot had settled into who knows what at the bottom of the pool, and as I lifted my leg out, I felt my sandal sliding off. I tried to keep it hooked onto my toes, but no dice. My leg came squelching out of the cesspool of nastiness, and all I could do was stare down into the brown, greasy water. My friends didn’t know whether or not to laugh, but one of them grabbed a stick to try to fish out my lost sandal. Again, no luck. At this point we all started laughing and I ran back to the bathroom to wash my leg and dispose of my other sandal. No point in keeping it with the other one drowned.

The next morning we packed our things and descended down into the crater. Tuma told us the crater is about 2,000 feet deep and about 100 square miles in area at the floor. He also explained that animals migrate in and out of the crater using the same road we did to get to the floor. We drove around for a few hours, checking out flamingos in a small lake, some ostrich, and, completing our sighting of the Big Five, rhinos.
We also saw a female lion stalking some zebra and I thought we’d get to see some serious badass lion-hunting, but they caught on to what she was doing and scattered. It began to rain heavily, and fog settled into the crater as we climbed up the road that led up and out. Our last vision of the crater was through rain-smeared windows as our Land Rover groaned up the muddy, red road.

Zanzibar: Time on the Island

The three days we spent on the island were pretty idyllic. Beautiful, screen-saver-worthy beaches, fresh mango at breakfast, warm blue water. Nice, right? It was perfect for me, mentally and physically, to go die on a beach for a few days. I read, laid in the sun, and rested. We went on a spice tour one morning, which ended up being very interesting. Even better, the lunch they served us was delicious. Pilau rice (rice spiced with cinnamon, ginger, coriander, among others) with coconut sauce and a tomato sauce, and then hunks of fresh mango for dessert. They served us chai tea made with spices from their farm. It was perfect.

That afternoon we went to Stone Town, where our driver magically procured a guide to take us around the city on a tour. Our guide’s name was Striker and he literally appeared out of thin air at our door. Striker was a native Stone Townian and after the formalities were taken care of, he led us off on a walking tour of his hometown. We started in the fruit markets, and made our way through the narrow streets, almost constantly shadowed by tall buildings on either side. Stone Town got its name from its buildings, all of which are made of…stone. There is a law stating that any building in the city must be constructed out of stone, no other material.



















We walked to a church/museum that had been built on the site of the former slave market in the city. Once inside, we were taken by another guide down below the church to see where slaves had been kept…stored is a more appropriate word…while awaiting their fate on the market. The traders would pack over 100 people into these cells, which had a central aisle that ran between a raised, semi-circular platform on which people be crammed. We sat on this platform while our guide explained the trading process, and got a look out of the cell’s only window -- a sliver that had been cut out of the wall no more than a foot tall and a few inches wide. And this was the wider version they had enlarged from the previously smaller, original window.



















From the holding cells, we walked to the church and explored the inside. One funny story involves the columns (pictured) that were erected by local workers. The architect wasn’t on site, but had given instructions to finish getting the columns in place. The workers accidentally placed the columns upside down, with the base supporting the ceiling and the top resting firmly and securely on the floor. I snapped a picture for those art and architecture buffs, thinking you’d enjoy that. Our guide told us about Dr. Livingstone’s connection to the church, and to Stone Town, explaining the plaque dedicated to Livingstone that hangs high on the wall next to the pews. He told us the story of how Livingstone had died while traveling with his two best friends, and they had carried his body all the way back to Stone Town. He said that a few years ago he had been explaining the story to a group of Brits when one of the women broke down crying. Obviously bewildered, he asked what was wrong and it turned out that she was one of Livingstone’s descendants and had been shocked, and very moved to hear the story. Small world.

We left the museum and church, meeting Striker and making our way back through the streets. He pointed out the unique architectural features of the buildings, the Indian and Arabic influences on the finely decorated wooden doors we passed. We ended the tour back at the water, looking out at the harbor. Striker said his goodbyes, and left us to wander around for ourselves a bit. We had an incredible dinner on the beach, and then realized there was a nightly food market that was set up in the park by the water. We walked over to find endless tables and stands that had been set up, with men cooking all different kinds of meats, breads, roti, vegetables, pancakes with bananas and chocolate sauce. It was unbelievable. We made our way through the crowd of people who had turned out to eat, stopping for a fried pancake with banana and chocolate. After eating our faces for the 4th time that day, we fell into our cab and drove back to Paje. What a day.



Our last day was another wake up, eat mango, lay on the beach day. I thoroughly enjoyed it. There was, however, the small detail of booking a flight back to Dar. We considered taking the ferry from Stone Town, but logistics would have been a nightmare. So, I tried to give my old pal Robert a call with the help of our friend, Nicolas, at the front desk. I showed Nicolas my plane ticket with Robert’s number. He looked at it quickly, and then told me he would take care of it; rather, he would speak with a guy who had a phone (out at the moment), hopefully there would be a flight available (“there is probably a flight tomorrow”), and there would be no problem! This fell on very American ears. Trained by my dad to book flights with online reminders up until takeoff and to arrive at the airport hours early, I was a little wary of this plan.

I ended up speaking with Annika, our hostess for all intents and purposes. She assured me she would call the travel agent and arrange something. Fast forward to late afternoon…Check in with Annika and no news yet…“I will speak with her tonight and let you know…” Okay, dinner rolls around -- no news. I was told to check in with her the next morning.

Morning comes, and I walked as quickly as I could to Annika’s office, trying not to look too eager or too strung out about not having secured our flights yet. As I walked in, she looked up at me and it was like it took a minute for her to remember why I was busting down the door at 8. Ohhh -- that flight. Well, it turns out our travel lady had no generator the night before, and with the power outage island-wide, no dice on the tickets yet. At this point, I could have pulled a major American and flipped out. However, I kept my head (be proud of me), smiled, and said I would check in again after breakfast.



Breakfast over. Annika had good news. We had tickets waiting for us at the travel agent’s. She handed me a medium-sized envelope addressed to the agency and, holding it against her chest, looked me in the eye and said, “Give this to the lady at the agency.” For a second I wondered if it was something illegal or awesome like that, but then I snapped back into reality (though it was a bit dramatic the way she gave her instructions). She then mentioned that the tickets were cash-only -- shocker. We loaded up our van and headed off to an ATM to withdraw thousands of shillings once again. Money in hand, we drove back into Stone Town and the driver pulled over near a cluster of old buildings near the water. No one said anything, and there was no sign for a travel agent in sight. Just as I was asking if we were going to the agency, the driver turned around to ask us the same thing. He assumed we knew the white building to our left with no markings was our destination.

Out of the van, into the building, envelope handed over to a nice woman, who became even friendlier when we forked over the cash. Here’s the best part -- she proceeded to tear a corner off an add for “Spanish Dancer Dive,” whatever that is, and then write our names and the name of the airline with the flight number on the back. She handed it over and I managed to keep a straight face until we got outside. At that point, our plane was scheduled to take off in 20 minutes. I remained surprisingly calm, having given myself over to the fact that things would happen and I had zero influence over them. Better to sit back and enjoy. We arrived at the airport 5 minutes to takeoff time, managed to check our bags and get through security (really just a matter of walking through the right door). Passengers were given umbrellas to use when they ran across the tarmac to the little 12-seater -- except us. When we got to the door and asked if we could use one, the answer was a shake of the head (no). Sweet. Mad dash to the plane, damp ride back to Dar, and, finally, got on the plane to Moshi.

Zanzibar: Getting there...

So begin the stories from Tanzania and Zanzibar. I’ll do it in a couple installments so you don’t go blind from looking at the computer screen for too long.


We left for Zanzibar the night after that 3rd break-in, which put a bit of a damper on our excitement for the trip. It was a relief to be out of that house, though, and once we got on the plane to Joburg, we didn’t talk much about what had happened. The break-in remained in my mind throughout our trip. I had moments of real panic, wanting to talk about it, but at the same time not wanting to bring it back into the light, not wanting to analyze and wonder about it. That’s all I’ll say about it in relation to our holiday, because our trip was a beautiful, incredible experience, turning out to be very therapeutic.

We flew from Joburg to Dar es Salaam, an uneventful flight until we reached customs in Dar. We were asked for our passports and 100 USD, which we definitely didn’t have on us. I hadn’t seen US dollars since August. Of course we couldn’t pay by card, so the customs officer called a guard over to escort us to an ATM. The ATM was located outside the building. Picture this: three white, oblivious Americans, laden with backpacks and handbags, sweaty and tired, fresh off the plane, following a guard outside the airport to withdraw tens of thousands of Tanzanian shillings. From the ATM we ambled on over to the Bureau de Change to exchange our recently acquired TZ shillings for some good old American dollars. We’re pretty certain the guy at the counter had no idea what the exchange rate was, but we handed over the shillings, and got nice, crisp 100 dolla bills in return.

Our chaperone escorted us back through the doors, away from TZ soil and delivered us to our less-than-charming customs officer. We handed over our passports and said goodbye to our Benjamins, and waited a half hour while they processed our visas (this involved photocopying our passport photos and cutting/pasting that picture onto a visa to be stamped into the booklets). We grabbed our passports and made our way out into Tanzania for the second time that day, looking for our ride to the ferry to Zanzibar. I had previously communicated with a woman from the hotel we booked and arranged for someone to meet us at the airport. I assumed she knew that when I said we’d be arriving at DAR, I meant Dar es Salaam, not Zanzibar airport. Not the case.

We were wandering around at the arrivals gate, searching for a sign with my name on it, when a man came up to us and bluntly said, “You are going to Zanzibar, yes? You will not make the ferry. You must book a flight.” How he knew what our plan was, and that we were stranded I have no idea. He hurried us into an office where another man named Elijah set to work on getting us tickets to the next flight to Zanzibar, leaving in 45 minutes. We just sat there, stunned by the air conditioning and cold bottled water they offered us.
Elijah convinced us flying to Zanzibar was our best (and only realistic option) at that point in the day, so we set to work booking tickets. When I say “book” I mean we watched as Elijah filled out ready-made airline tickets by hand, and then we made another trip to the ATM to withdraw a few more shillings (200,000 to be exact) to pay for the tickets. Cash only. Yessah.

Tickets = booked. Taxi to domestic airport = ripoff, but successful. We unloaded our bags at the domestic airport and were guilt-tripped into tipping everyone who helped us. One man led me into an office and informed me that I needed to pay an insurance fee of 5,000 shillings per person. I highly doubted this was true, but what was the point in arguing it? He also gave me his name (Robert) and number (written on the back of my plane ticket) in case we were interested in flying back from Zanzibar. He promised a great price.

We boarded a 12-seater on the runway and enjoyed a smooth, 30 minute flight to the island. I freaked a bit when I realized I had to look at the control panel of the plane (memories of a less-than-smooth trip to and from Green Turtle Cay a few years ago). I was relieved to land, collect my bags, and see my name on a sign for our hotel, the Paje Ndame. Our driver loaded us into a van and we drove about an hour to the hotel. Zanzibar had lost power on the entire island about two weeks prior to our arrival, and it remained without power during our stay, so the drive got very dark very quickly. It was nice, though, to drive through the darkening jungle roads with the warm breeze blowing through the windows.

Thanksgiving '09 and VCT

So, the VCT. We had our tournament on the 28th of November, the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Another intern came down for the week to help us finish preparing for the big day. We decided to do a full-on Thanksgiving also, so that added a bit to the craziness of the week. Sarah and I took most of Thursday off to cook. We found a frozen turkey at Woolworth’s, and realized that morning that we were supposed to defrost it overnight in the fridge. Whoops. We filled the sink with cold water and threw the bird in, hoping it would thaw out in a few hours.

We had to run into the office quickly, and grab some last minute supplies, and then we rushed back to the house to start the bird. I can definitely say putting my hand into that turkey is one of the grosser things I’ve done, though essential to pulling off the day. We got the turkey into the oven, and then proceeded to make all the sides. I was nervous all afternoon that I was going to screw up cooking the bird, especially when I couldn’t find a baster. We found a rubber brush that ended up as a good substitute, so crisis averted.

We knew we were on the right track when the boys walked in the door and we could hear their excited voices exclaiming how wonderful everything smelled. At that point Sarah and I were collapsed on the couch, watching Love Actually, completely wiped out. The turkey came out brown and crispy, and we had a pretty good crowd for the evening: an intern from last year was here visiting his girlfriend, so we had them come, as well as another American we’ve met here, and the staff from our office. Our supervisor, Mpumi, and two of our Head Coaches, Titie and Ngwenya, had never had Thanksgiving before, so it was fun to share our favorite eating holiday with them.

On Saturday we were up early to get to the VCT venue to set everything up. We had 12 teams participate in the tournament, 8 boys’ teams and 4 girls’ teams. Teams were assigned to two of our coaches for the day, who acted as chaperones to lead them to and from matches and Skillz activities. They would compete in a match, and then move onto an activity from our curriculum. They were also given an opportunity to test. At one point I walked back to the classrooms being used as testing rooms, and lines were out the door.
























Nurses from the Ministry of Health, as well as a testing van from a local organization, came to test participants as well as community members who came to the event. In total we were able to test 188 people, including the teams who played in the tournament and many of our coaches and staff. I tested for the second time since being in South Africa. My first time was in Cape Town, and it was a nerve-racking experience. Even if you’re sure you’re negative, having someone sit you down, take a blood sample, and actually perform the test makes you question yourself. It had been three months since my test in Cape Town. This is considered the “window period,” meaning if you test negative, and then negative again in three months, you are definitely HIV-negative. The antibodies that are measured by the test take some time to be produced once the virus infects an individual. A person may test negative when in fact he or she is infected, and hasn’t produced a measurable amount of antibodies. The window period of three months allows time for measurable antibody levels to be produced if an individual is infected.

The day was a big success. All of the teams showed up to play, which is unheard of, and we managed to test just under 200 people, our goal for the event. We had a great time hanging with our coaches for the day. We rarely get to spend time with them outside of the office, on the weekends, so it was a good day for some GRS bonding. The people we work with are incredible individuals, and they help keep me centered when I get overwhelmed by this place.



One of our coaches, Zukie, running an activity with the players






Siya (left) and Mpumi (right) on the vuvuzelas




Siya with his team at half-time






One of our coaches, Bere, having a dance-off with one of the kids










An adorable little girl, ready to party










The Team

Happy New Year to all! I have completely neglected blogging since November, but I’ve been writing down thoughts and stories I want to share, so I’ll be doing smaller, separate blogs to try to catch up.

We returned from our trip to Tanzania on New Year’s Eve and celebrated the night here in PE. It was a relief to come back, to see my bed again, after sleeping in a tent for 5 days. The past couple weeks have been dedicated to finding new accommodation for ourselves. We had our third break-in the night before we left for Christmas holiday. For me, it was the most invasive we’ve had so far. The guys used a ladder to climb up through our bathroom window, about 16 feet above the ground. We had left it cracked, not thinking someone would actually put in the effort to climb up through it.

We think there were two men involved. I was asleep for the entire thing, but my roommates, Mike and Sarah, heard the men climb into the bathroom, and Sarah saw one of them when they came into her room. When the man realized Sarah was awake, he bolted out our back door with the stuff he’d already taken. Thankfully they were just as scared of us as we were of them, and only wanted physical goods.

I do know that one of the men came into my room, taking my backpack and a computer that was next to my head. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about having a stranger in my room, that close to me while I was sleeping, and don’t really know how to write about it. It’s obviously a complete invasion of my space, but I feel like it’s much more an invasion of me, mentally and emotionally.

My first reaction to this break-in was anger. I was so pissed that these guys had the audacity to use a ladder to climb up a 16-foot wall to get into our house. Over the couple of weeks we were traveling I had a lot of time to think, and I spent a lot of time dwelling on what had happened. It’s not like I could do anything about it while I was in Tanzania, but I did have moments of overwhelming anger, and then overwhelming panic. Being in Tanzania helped a lot, taking my mind off the break-in and helping me focus on things outside our little bubble here. It was a wonderful experience, and it was also wonderful to come back to PE, back to our lives here.

Mike came back a few days after us, and his first night back he woke up to some guys trying to break into our neighbor’s car to steal his stereo. The alarm went off, and the guys bolted, but Mike heard tapping on the windows of our place. Everything was closed, but the thought of someone else trying to get in put us all over the edge. We got permission from GRS to move into a motel for the time being, and the go-ahead to start looking for a new place to live.

It’s been an experience learning how the real estate market works. I’ve never apartment-hunted in the States, nor have 2 of the 3 other people I live with. I think we’ve been up and down almost every road in downtown PE looking for a place. If anything, I’ve gotten to know the city better. After 3 hellish weeks, we’ve finally got an application in for a townhouse. We’re waiting to hear that we’ve been approved, but things look good. We’re trying not to get our hopes up until the lease is signed, but it will be a huge relief to have a home again.

The next few blogs will be stories from Christmas holiday, as well as the long-awaited VCT blog from November. Enjoy!