A Tale of Giving: South Africa

The rickety bus shuddered and grumbled as we made our way through the inner paths of South Africa.

At that moment, the heat was the only thing on anyone’s mind. Sweat dripped down the faces of every one of us high school students, and the mixture of dust and sand from the makeshift road seeped through the open windows and into our sunglass-covered eyes. In that moment, the priority was us: our health, our comfort, our ability to complain and receive affirmation.  But as we pulled into that courtyard, into the three small rectangular schoolhouses that made up the South African school where we’d spend the next three days, this would no longer be the case.

Stepping out of the bus one by one into the blinding sun, the first thing we noticed were the kids. Small, medium, large. They came from every direction, some barefoot, others with bows in their hair, all with their uniforms impeccably crisp. They lined up for their morning prayers as we all watched, spellbound. Their uniformity, their togetherness, their passion, their burning desire to even be there in the sweltering heat at 8 am—this was never seen at our wealthy international school in Hong Kong. The days passed as we left little drops of ourselves at the school, little reminders that we’d been there. We knew we’d never be back, but that didn’t matter. We played spelling games outside to help them learn English. We added, subtracted, multiplied. We played soccer at recess even though our “business casual” clothes got dirty. We came as teachers, but we left as more than that.

In one of those recesses, I found a shady corner in which to devour my packed sandwich. As I looked up from a bite, I made contact with the sweetest boy I had seen yet. He must’ve been about 2 or 3—one of the youngest at the school. I motioned for him to come, and he beamed broadly, making his way over. It was only when he arrived that I realized he didn’t speak English. In fact, his shy demeanor made me think he didn’t speak much at all. But that day, words weren’t necessary. I sat him on my lap, gave him half of my sandwich, and just held him. It was then I realized that I’d never see him again, that all I wanted was for him to be happy but that I had absolutely no control over his future. To be honest, I even thought about sticking him in my suitcase. I could take care of him; I could make sure he was comfortable and treated well (unfortunately he was a little too big for the suitcase).

I struggled with this uncertainty and frustration for the next three days, until the moment we boarded the bus with tears in our eyes and a knot in our throats. He looked at me and waved, smiling widely. And in an instance, what should’ve been the hardest moment turned into the happiest.

Three days, I’d thought, would never be enough to make a difference. But this was untrue. Although his life wasn’t perfect, it didn’t need to be. Because what we all strive for in the end isn’t perfection, but simply happiness. And because giving as much as a second, a minute, or an hour of happiness to another human being makes all the difference in the world.

Fabiola Perez

Fabiola grew up in many places, including: Venezuela, Northern Virginia/Washington DC, and Hong Kong. As a traveler, she believes that while visiting major landmarks is essential, additionally seeking out the more traditional spots shows the true ambiance of the country.