When I was little, I had cousins in West Virginia. They were my Dad’s favorite cousins and vice versa. When my dad went into the Peace Corps so did Mary (his cousin). While there she met Karl; they married and moved to West Virginia where I would visit them. Often.
After a few years they moved closer to us in a town called Germantown. I loved it because it meant I could sleep over at their house (which I loved because it was even more decorated with African Art than my house is) more often.
Another year or so went by and they adopted two children from Bulgaria, Sara and Dancho. They stayed in Germantown for another few years – about five – raising Sara and Dancho who were three and two respectively until they broke the most exciting yet devastating news: they were moving to South Africa.
As a middle school-er I was thrilled at the bragging rights this would give me, but mostly I was upset that our summer cookouts, dinners, and Easters would never be the same. At our final dinner (the first and only time I’ve been to Red Lobster) my worries were abolished by one piece of news: We were visiting hem during my next spring break. This hadn’t been the first time I had been out of the country) but this trip was going to be even more exciting. I suddenly couldn’t wait for spring break.
Fast forward a few months and I’m in the beautiful country of South Africa. Even though we arrived at night and I couldn’t see much of Pretoria, I could tell it was amazing. The next day I found out just how beautiful the rest of the country was as we drove across South Africa and into a small country at it’s border, Swaziland. Swaziland is where my dad lived when he worked in the Peace Corps. As we were touring there I had one of the most interesting cultural experiences of the trip.
We were at a convenience store called “Snip and Save” and my cousins were looking at some school supplies (with the exchange rate it was much cheaper to buy things in Swaziland than South Africa). Because I didn’t need anything and everyone was in the checkout line anyway, I decided to wait by the door. I was standing there and I noticed the store greeter staring at me. It was a bit disconcerting, but I smiled and nodded at him to be polite. He waved at me. I waved back. And then he spoke: “You are very beautiful.”
Now, as a thirteen-year-old American girl I grew up with “don’t talk to strangers!” embedded into my head, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I thanked him. He continued to say, “Yes, yes, very beautiful.” a few times and I again smiled and thanked him. He then asked me how old I was. I told him, and he called me beautiful again while nodding his head. By that time my family was done checking out and I thought I was free to leave the awkward situation, but the man turned to my dad and asked if I was his daughter. He told my dad he thought I was very beautiful and asked “how much?” At this point, I was a bit concerned but my dad, who was much more cultured than I laughed and said, “100 cows”. The man chuckled and said, “Oh, too much! Too much! But very beautiful.” My dad thanked him and we left the store. Once outside my dad told me that that was the way marriage proposals worked in this part of the world.
To this day, I’m not sure if the store clerk was joking or not but it’s still a good story.
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