I went out for a run tonight.  Two of the younger girls from the orphanage went with me, Fikile and Kayelihle,as did Dumsile, a tall, thin, athletic, and studious high schooler.  It has been a while since I ran with the girls.  I have been gone more than here in recent months and, when I do run, it is usually very early.  All my life I have wanted to be a morning runner.  I admired, tremendously, those who could jump out of bed, irrespective of weather, and take to the road or the gym.  I would drive by them on my way to the lab in Petaluma, seeing them through the glass front of the building on the treadmills and cardio equip, knowing more were upstairs in the weight room.  And I admired them, their sincerity.  I have run for many years now and, finally, I can run in the morning.  It started when Sindi and Maseko, two very overweight women at the bomake market, wanted to start exercising.  They asked me if I would walk with them, but the only time they could get away was half past five in the morning.  The rest of the day they are at the canteen at the bus rank, cooking or hoping to cook for whomever could pay a few bucks for a meal.  So half past five it was.  And after we did one lap, of about 2.5 miles, I would continue to run another couple laps.  They have since lost interest, the cold of winter giving them an excuse to rest again.  Me, however, when I am not away from the orphanage for one reason or another, well, I prefer the morning run.  My body still does not eagerly await the sun.  I am older and stiffer and the morning is a sharp reminder that at least my most agile days are behind me.  And I love the evening run as the sun is setting, especially with the girls at the orphanage, when I have had the whole day to warm up.  But now I prefer a day that starts with my hair flying and a cool wind in my face. 

Today, however, I am with the girls, the two small ones barely 10 years each.  They are running barefoot and in tattered skirts, skipping over sharp stones and gravel that would stop me flat.  Fikile flaps her arms like a bird as we fly down the dirt path toward the main road.  She is a stocky little thing, all muscle and grit.  Her freeness fills me.  There are problems at the orphanage where I have been places, problems for sure.  The place is poorly managed and the facility is horribly run down.  But the housemother here, who takes care of these 27 children, is a good woman.  The girls are so much better off than other children on homesteads in the community.  Here, the girls are not beaten, abused, or molested like so many young girls on homesteads.  They are outspoken and have a strong sense of self and of their immediate community.  They do everything for themselves, collecting and cutting firewood, growing vegetables, grinding corn all day long, cooking, etc.  And, because there are so many and the work is divided, there is much time for playing and singing, both of which happen spontaneously and randomly.  They are noisy.  God they are noisy.  I used to think I would never get used to the noise.  Now I notice it more by its absence- when they are at church or at bed time.  For an hour or two, the peace is sublime and I just sit, immersed in stillness.  After too long, I become edgy, I miss the way they fill the air with song and laughter.  And noise. 

 I have meant to write about the girls and I cannot bring myself to do so.  It is too close, too personal.  Each of them is unique and each deserves a book, not a line or two on a web journal.  Every time I think of leaving them, which is imminent, a tremendous sadness falls over me.  When I moved here, it was made clear that the orphanage was not my job.  My job was to do HIV outreach and education in the community.  The orphanage was my homestead, where I lived and, hopefully, became a role model or mentor for the girls.  So, I made sure it was not my job.  Consequently, it has become my family.