Molo Sisis and Bhutis!

It has been an extremely long time since I've written in this thing.  So here we go...
I have now completed one month in South Africa.  Due to barely any internet, I have been unable to write as much as I would've liked.  So I feel I should start from the beginning in an attempt to not leave any crucial ingredient out.  Thanks to my handy journal.  However, there is so much that I don't believe I'll be able to express through writing.  I'll be tackling this portion of writing in sections.

Two days after biding my farewells to the fierce cold in the states, I arrived in Cintsa East, South Africa.  The heat was both welcoming and overwhelming (due to my unprepared winter outfit).  I had always wanted to come to Africa and I was finally here.  It happened.  The town of Cintsa consisted of a couple bars and restaurants, a neighborhood, beautiful beaches, and a township.  A township is where many black people live in poor conditions.  This is where I would be volunteering for the next month in a preschool.
My first day teaching was Valentine's Day so we rummaged through all the paper at the school to find enough pink paper for the 30 or so students in the Grade R class (preschool).  At 8:30am, I got dropped off along with a couple other volunteers at the entrance of the Cintsa township.  We all walked down the dusty, dirt road filled with potholes to the public school.  Moving through the township was something I'd never experienced before.  Being so close to what was actually going on in the world was satiating.  These "homes" appeared as shacks in my eyes glued together with scraps found about the earth.  Random dogs would prance along with their rib cages sticking out.  As we got closer to the school, I spotted a student ringing an old bell announcing the commencement of the school day.  A couple stragglers' backpacks danced to the rhythm of their run; already late for school.  Tiny sweat droplets began to form on the children's faces due to the intensifying heat.  Hundreds of smiles greeted me as I turned into the schoolyard.  They tugged at every limb of my body, wanting to be held and played with.  I couldn't take my eyes off these beautiful children.  Their massive, dark chocolate eyes were overfilling with joy and excitement, erasing any worry in the world.  I was hooked.

The nice sized classroom for Grade R was set apart from the rest of the school.  Instead it stood next to the kitchen.  There was an average of thirty students Monday through Friday, ranging from the ages of four to six, occasionally the "babies" would wander in in an attempt to sneak an older kid's lesson in.  Amongst those babies was a little three year old boy with an old man face and a tummy that screamed  "Happy Buddha."  Everything about him was unbelievably cute and amazing.  I tried not to pick favorites and treat every child equally, however, when it came to this little guy, Phumalela, I had to make an exception. More smiles and laughs came from him than words.  It was only the first day and the taste of adoption had already formed within me.
One in four children have HIV/AIDS here.  I was told to be careful around a child if they are bleeding, since you never know for sure if they have it.  Nothing seems to bring these kids down though.  I don't think I've seen a day without smiles from every student here. That is one thing they do not lack in their difficult-seeming lives.
Every morning around half past ten we have snack time.  Phumla, the Xhosa teacher for Grade R, forms the girls into one line, then the boys into another by the door.  Their bodies all squish together, anxiety pushing each other to get out the door and retrieve their backpacks from their cubbies containing their snack.  First the ladies sweetly walk out the door, then the gentlemen fight with all their might to get to their pack first.  Once all the children are seated on the floor of the classroom chowing down, a few come up to me, holding two hands out.  They have no food.  I take the sandwiches that a group of local women make every day for the children, from a plastic bread bag.  As I place a sandwich in each innocent hand, they respond with, "Enkosi," meaning thank you in Xhosa.  They know barely any English.  I was told from the teacher that some children come to school solely for the reason of food.  Many students in this community have alcoholics as parents whom forget to wake up and dress and feed their children.  Some are even living alone with no parents at the age of sixteen and younger.  One five year old child, Lisakhanye, went home from school one day to an empty house.  Her parents had up and left, her sisters had gone to live with their boyfriends, and her brother was living with another family.  By 9:00 at night, not knowing what to do, she walked on her own through the township past drunken faces to her teacher's home and knocked on the door.  Phumla welcomed her inside, giving her a family for the night.  "I feel like I'm rubbish that someone has dumped and just forgotten about," she voiced to Phumla.  Never would one wish to hear those words come from a five year old.

As a portion of our lesson one day, we taught about the different kinds of families.  One typical one; mother, father, brother, and sister, then we considered the others; some families without a mother or a father, some with children raised by their aunts, uncles, or grandparents, and some with just children.  When we talked about each family the children responded with, "Maybe the father is just gone and not dead... All the kids living by themselves could go to the orphanage."  My attachment was growing exponentially now, unwilling to stop.