I carry you with me into the world...

Oh say can you see?

2009-07-06T07:31:00.001-07:00

Although we are somewhat estranged from the usual Independence Day goings on, Linn and I, along with the other volunteers decided to do our best to celebrate all the same! A few recommendations for a non-traditional Fourth of July:

1. Have confidence in your ability to build a fire--if Linn Groft and I can build a bonfire, (an impressive bonfire, I might add), practically from scratch and without using any sort of lighter fluid or other flammable liquid, you can surely do the same. Do be sure to have lots of firewood, and give yourself a good hour and a half to really get it going. When you finally have it really burning, it's okay to feel really proud of yourself. Building a fire is hard work.

2. One way to make yourself feel like a real American is to distribute an absurdly sugary treat to children who previously were satisfied fresh fruit as a treat. Since you already have a fire going, why not make s'mores--it's three sweets in one! Be sure everyone is aware that, while it is okay to let your marshmellow catch on fire, you probably do want to blow it out eventually.

3. The national anthem is great and all, (who doesn't love to associate her country with explosions and bombs?), how about shaking things up a little by promoting "You Are My Sunshine" as a true hymn of your nation? If you have a teenage crowd, maybe dancing around the fire to "Buffalo Soldier" and "Redemption Song" could be fun? I mean, independence is independence, am I right?

4. My final, and favorite tip: In lieu of fireworks, try handing out glow-sticks to 20 small African children. You will not be disappointed.

Two more days til we're off to Amsterdam and then on our way home! Did I mention that I now have a forty hour layover in Amsterdam? Yippee, forty hours of fun in the Netherlands. Predicted thunderstorms for the duration of our trip, but we're not worried :). I could spend some time writing now about how much I'm going to miss these girls and this place, but I'm going to save that post for when I'm back home, I think....

To certain poor shepards in fields as they lay...

2009-06-21T05:25:00.000-07:00

Taking Christmas card photos with girls from Hekima Place = an adorably frustrating day of cuteness.

Clouds keep moving to uncover the scene. Stars above are chasing the day away to find the stories that we sometimes need.

2009-06-14T03:10:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to report that my life at Hekima Place has indeed settled into a gentle routine, comforting and quiet, yet filled with little reminders of both the cruelty and the compassion that exist on our little planet.

Each day I wake up between 7:30 and 8, and begin work on various projects--most often lately on a scrapbook that I'm putting together for the girls. Around 1pm we have lunch--usually rice or ughali with beans or lentils or some sort of green. After that we sometimes walk or take a matatu into town to run errands. Sometimes we go on other little exploratory trips around Karen, usually returning to Hekima Place around 4, which is when the girls get home from school. For the next two hours the girls are taking their baths and settling down from school, and there are always lots of hugs and greetings and small talk. At 6 we have dinner, usually rice or ughali with beans or lentils or some sort of green, except on the three nights a week when the girls have meat--on those nights Linn and I come up with something else to eat. After dinner the little girls' house, called Maisha House (maisha is "life" in Kiswahili), dissolves into storybook reading and jump-roping and the general chaos you can imagine in a house with 20 little girls. Bed time is 7:30 for the littlest girls, 8:30 for those who are a bit older. In Baraka House (meaning, House of Blessing) the middle school girls work on homework after dinner, and we do what we can to help, or just hang out with the girls who have finished. I think I most prefer Baraka--I like that age group the most, especially here, where the girls are less inclined to be catty and competitive with one another. Our meals in Tumeeni House, (tumeeni means hope), are much more subdued and calm. These older girls tend to carry on more of their conversation in Kiswahili or Kikuyu, so it's sometimes hard to feel very engaged. Although, as I get to know them better, I feel more comfortable about reminding them that, though I am trying to learn more Kiswahili, I can't really have conversations with them unless they speak English. Because the girls in Tumeeni are all close to my age, I feel a little bit invasive about forcing myself into their conversations, because I know they all have a lot going on that doesn't involve Hekima Place. After dinner they work on homework that I can't really help them with, because am pretty clueless to a lot of precalculus at this point, and am utterly useless in chemistry and physics. On the evenings when we eat in Tumeeni I usually slip away to Baraka or Maisha, or retreat into Amani House, the office building which also houses the volunteers--amani appropriately meaning "peace."

Many of the girls have school for a half day on Saturday, so the mornings are generally pretty calm. All of the girls hand wash their clothes for the week, and there's lots of playing outside. A lot of times Linn and I bring out our I-pods and speakers, and try to entice the girls to please not play the same songs over and over and over again, which they always do anyway. Funnily enough, they LOVE to listen to the Macerena, and, of course, to dance to it. Seriously, you wouldn't believe how many times these girls would dance the Macerena in one day if we let them. Their other two favorites are Lollipop, by Mika, and Hey Mickey. They sometimes ask for 1,000 miles by The Proclaimers, but I think that's mostly just because Linn and I make fools of ourselves dancing to that one. In general when dancing, Linn and I make fools of ourselves. I swear that even the youngest girls here have dancing abilities like I've never seen--I think that they must have been built with either a few extra or a few missing vertebrae. Either way, I'm pretty sure that there will be no point in my life where I will be able to move my hips like that.

One Friday night the Maisha girls get to watch a movie, and on Saturday night both of the older houses watch one. This is a nice break, and the girls are so adorably into the movies that you can't help but enjoy them. I've never heard a group of people so freely express their indignance over villains, or sigh so emphatically over the slightest romance, or laugh so heartily at any moment of humor. I love it. I've watched two of the Lord or the Rings movies and High School Musical 2 and 3, and I've thoroughly enjoyed all of them.

On Friday night Linn and I went up to the roof to do some star gazing, and three of the girls we're closest to came up with us, despite how chilly it was--and this is saying a lot, because chilly to us = freeeezing to Kenyans. We laid on the roof with Mercy, Beth, and Elishpa, some girls from Baraka, between 10 and 12 years old, I think. I feel particularly close to Mercy and Beth, and I can already feel how it will hurt my heart to leave them. At such a high altitude the stars are beautifully clear, and, like magic, all of the clouds that were blocking the view when we first arrived rolled eastward, and within half an hour it was completely clear. We saw several shooting stars, and had a pretty great time making up constellations. I think Mercy had the most fun finding constellations, exclaiming with joy each time she found a shape--usually the shape of a pan or a pair of pants, which she refers to in the singular. Every few minutes she would giggle and point "A pant! A pant!" It was pretty adorable and hilarious, and that was one of my favorite nights here at Hekima.

At the end of this week we're taking pictures for Hekima Place Christmas cards, which involves coming up with costumes to create a nativity scene entirely out of small African girls, AKA, the most adorable nativity scene you've ever seen. I can't wait to show you pictures of our little drummer girl.

Whatever it is that you give your life to is the shrine at which you adore.

2009-06-06T06:19:00.000-07:00

After not posting for a shorta while, I hate to start back up with more negative commentary on the Catholic Church, but the experience that I've had which stands out to me most gives and an unfortunately unflattering picture.

On Tuesday afternoon while the girls were out to school, we decided to go into town with Mum Lisa, the voluneteer coordinator, to do some shopping at Jesuit craftstore, where all the goods are made by refugees who are living in IDP camps. I can at least give props to the Jesuits here, because this little shop is doing a great thing by giving employment and distraction to people who desparately need it.

We walked about two miles through town to get to the shop, finally turning right next to a Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception Hospital: Where all life is respected. I got some really neat gifts at the shop, and really enjoyed browsing the crafts. We started on the way back to Hekima Place, feeling like it was a really good day.

Not fifty yards away from the shop, we were met with a surprise. Lying on the sidewalk was a man who was having a seizure. I've seen seizures before, but it's always really scary to see one. He's alone, and it's pretty apparent that no one else was going to help him, and, really, people had to have walked right past him without stopping before we arrived.

Luckily, or so we thought, we were right outside of a hospital. If I would've thought about it more, I probably would've considered that there's really nothing you can do for someone who's having a seizure, and maybe the best thing to do would've been to just wait with him until he woke back up. But at the time, it seemed that the obvious thing to do was to fetch a nurse or doctor from the hospital that was right across the street. So, leaving Mum Lisa and the other girls with the man, Linn and I ran into the compound to find someone.

We were first told, by a nurse in a habit, that all of the doctors were out to lunch. Is there anyone else who might be able to help? She directed us to another sister.

"Oh," she said, "Is he alone?"

"Yes, he's alone, except for some of our friends who are with him now."

"Oh. You'll have to talk to the sister in charge. She's in the pharmacy."

Run to the pharmacy. Explain to the sister in charge.

"Oh," she said, "Is he alone?"

"Yes, he's alone! Can you come see if he's okay?"

"So is he a friend of you?"
(I realized later on all of the things that this question contained. Is he white? Is he American? Will you be paying his bill?

I should've said yes. Yes he's my friend, he's my brother, will you please just come and make sure he's okay? But at the time, I wasn't thinking of all this.)

"No, sister, he's alone. We just found him. Can you help us?"

"Is he on drugs? Has he consumed alcohol?"

"We don't know. We just found him on the sidewalk and he's having a seizure. Is there anyone who can check to see if he's okay, please?"

It was shocking to me how casual these women, who have presumably taken a vow to serve Christ and his people, could be so casual when we were so concerned for this man. They really, really, were not interested in helping us.

"Okay," she says, as she continues to go about her business in the pharmacy. "I can come."

She takes about five minutes to close up. We follow her to another building, where she goes in for a few minutes, and then comes back out. The another building, where we can hear her joking with some other sisters. By the time she walks out with us, it's probably been 20 minutes since we left the group. The man is gone. Mum Lisa flagged down a car to give them a ride to a different hospital, and she's gone with him to see if everything is okay. The nuns walk back into the hospital.

I was really shaken by this, wondering if I would get the same reaction at a hospital in the United States, wondering at the people who walked past the man without stopping, wondering what it says about a religion when those who one would think would are the most devout cannot even walk across the street to care for a man who has fallen. It was not a good day.

I just finished reading Life of Pi, which is a really good book that speaks a lot about religion and spiritualty. At one point Pi points out that there are so many people who are quick to defend God, as if he were a vunerable widow or an injured child. So many people cannot stand to hear a word spoken against their lord, and are always eager to fight to defend him. We want to argue and debate and let the world know that God is right right right and they are wrong wrong wrong and so many of us are not at peace until we have made clear that God is not to be attacked or accused. Sadly, while defending a reportedly Almighty God, so many of us overlook the wounded and the vunerable who are among us, who badly need someone to who would be quick to raise a voice in their defence.

Where injustice sprials, and where hope retreats....

2009-05-25T21:37:00.000-07:00

I knew that, at least in the abstract, there were Catholics who genuinely believed that condoms were an instrument of the devil, even in a part of the world where up to 17% of the country is infected with HIV. I guess I just never imagined myself at an AIDS orphanage in Kenya having a conversation with someone (actually three someones) who think just this way.

The four of the volunteers here from Ohio attend Franciscan College, which I gather from the name and from their descriptions to be a intense Catholic experience. Aside from a touch of the attitude that I've heard from from a lot of people who attend small private colleges (Oh, our experience is just different, it's such a community, you just couldn't understand unless you went there), it sounds like an okay place. I grew up in the Catholic Church, went to Catholic school, and, I was confirmed as a Catholic. Even though I was received into the Episcopal Church a few years ago, all of my immediate family is still Catholic, and I have always had a special place in my heart for the church. However, I have to say that I have never been more proud not be a Catholic than I was throughout this conversation last night.

The thing is, I really like these girls that we're volunteering with. They're all really great, and I even think that a lot of their ideas about the role that sex should play in a relationship is great. I even think that the idea of being "open to life" and using methods of natural family planning sound really interesting and the way that they talked about it was really earnest and beautiful. But, to sit there and listen to someone really say, and earnestly believe, that condoms are useless, and that people who are living with HIV, should be abstinent, even if they're married--it made my heart hurt. To think of sex as only an act of procreation, to not even give a nod to the fact you are an American who has never had to worry about falling in love with someone who has HIV, and to boldly say that that's just their cross to bear--surely this is greater heresy?

I'm blown away by this. The Catholic Church has such a foothold in Africa, so many opportunities to educate and equip the next generation. Can you imagine abstinence only education at Nyumbani, a Catholic orphanage right up the road, exclusively serving children who are HIV positive? Even teaching that condoms are ineffective and useless? I remind myself that I cannot know the mind of God. Whisper to myself my most difficult lesson to hold onto, "I could be wrong, I could be wrong, I could be wrong." And I could be. But for now, I feel the Catholic Church's treatment of AIDS prevention in Africa is lacking both in pragmatism and in compassion.

Souls like the wheels turning, taking us with wind at our heels. Burning, making us decide on what we're giving... Change this way of living...

2009-05-21T06:34:00.000-07:00

Linn and I are getting to put some of the skills that we've learned in the process of building up our student organization, Apwonjo, to good use. We're working on grant proposals for Hekima Place! Although neither of us is terribly experienced, Linn was pretty skilled at convincing people to fund our Apwonjo events, so we're at least giving this a shot. Currently, Hekima Place exists on rented land, and in order to really be sustainable, they really need to raise the money to purchase something of their own. This is obviously a pretty hefty purchase, so any money available will be a help! If you have any suggestions on grants we might apply for, let me know.

In terms of the documentary that we're making, we've made some progress as far as discussion, but we haven't done a whole lot of filming as of yet. The major point frustration is that we desparately do not want to make a really sad, slightly heartwarming piece about orphans in Africa who are oh-so-adorably waiting for you to send them care packages. It's a tricky trap to avoid though, because these kids obviously do have a way of pulling at your heart strings. They can and will and should make you want to make the world a place full of their laughter instead of their tears. And, as we saw on our visit to a tiny school in a Nairobi slum today, you can't at all say that this isn't a place that calls for some crying. The thing is, we can't allow ourselves to see only the sadness. If we do that, we flatten people out into characters, with no depth beyond the need for food and water and medicine. Or worse, we start to see African people as pound puppies, so precious and isn't it sweet how you want to save them all, but we can only take one home today so let's just pick the one with the most pleading eyes and get home in time to watch Extreme Home Makeover.

It sounds terrible, but I really do have to remind myself that this needs to be more a place that I've come because I have one last summer to do something interesting. It's disheartening, how easy it is to believe that the most important things to have are health insurance and a savings account. I feel like we spend so much time waiting to be ok enough to reach out to others. As if we can ever store up enough things to pacify our insecurities and fears. I see the lesson every day that it's trust in God or the universe or in whatever powers that be that will free us from our desparate need to feel secure. We clutch our fear like the security blanket that it is. I'm trying to learn to let it go. Let it go, let it go, let it go.

Oh dear... that's enough preaching for now! I was talking about our movie!

Here's the email I sent to Andy and Rachel, our trusted advisers and instructors.

So, despite all of our initial hesitations and protests against making a movie about orphans....We're totally going to make a movie about orphans.

First of all, Hekima Place, the orphanage where we're staying, is pretty much the only part of Kenya that we're really going to have enough access to to make a story. But beyond that, I think that we've both become more open to the idea now that we're here. Of course, we still don't want to fill up fifteen minutes with sad African children, or even with saved African children. So now we're on a search for a story that's still compelling, still speaks to justice, but does neither of those things.

We have really amazing access to every girl here. That's about fifty girls, from toddlers to university students, and surprisingly, one little boy. Hekima place was started in 2005--prior to that, most of these girls lived in really dire conditions, experiencing everything from rape to starvation. So, they have some powerful stories--the kind of stories you expect from Kenyan orphans--but I'm afraid that a film that profiles one or two girls with a story like that will be too much the piece that we wanted to avoid.

The really striking thing about Hekima Place is how beautiful it is, and how happy the girls here are. I don't think it's what people normally think of when they think "orphanage in Africa." First of all, we're in the city (technically village, but it's more of a small, sprawled city) of Karen, which is literally Boardwalk on the Kenyan version of monopoly. It's green and beautiful and there are flowers and birds singing and the weather is perfect. The girls are well fed and happy and they play outside and do homework together and attend private school. It's mostly funded by two large churches in the United States, as well as by some small grants, also mostly from religious institutions. Of course money is a bit tight--the girls wear mostly second hand clothes, all of which are hand washed every day, and there's definitely a sense of the importance of not being wasteful, but, overall, this feels like a place of growth and security and healing.

So, the easiest thing to do might be just to do a piece about Hekima Place as a place of justice for children. I would even say that the lives of these kids, in terms of how much love they recieve and how much they learn and play together, is probably much healthier than the lives of a lot of children in the United States. They don't watch television except for maybe one movie on the weekends, if it's raining. All of their clothes and toys are more or less communally owned. For the most part, they play outside and get a healthy amount of exercise. They don't take their education for granted, and even the littlest girls seem to be really diligent about doing their homework. I've yet to hear a single girl complain or whine.

The tricky part is, can we do a story about Hekima Place that wouldn't need to include footage or Kibera, the slum where most of the girls come from? This footage wouldn't even be impossible to get--actually, because we're also working on a promotional piece for Hekima, I think that we're going to Kibera specifically to film at some point in the next couple of weeks. But, again, I'm not sure that we want to make a film that has a place for that kind of footage.

The one more concrete idea that we've really tossed around is something dealing with the Declaration of the Rights of a Child a document issued by the UN (http://www.unhchr.ch/html/menu3/b/25.htm) , maybe specifically with Principle Seven, which says that "the child shall have full opportunity for play." This is a right that the girls here definitely have full access to, but, in Kenya, as in many parts of the world, many children do not. Or maybe even a piece that isn't so much a story as a really beautiful illustration of these rights being lived out, with the rights narrated throughout the piece.

We also have the possibiliy of going to interview the mother of the only three girls here who are not orphans. She has multi-drug resistant tuberculosis, and two of her daughters were rescued while she was in the hospital for an extended stay. She voluntarily gave up her youngest daughter, Teresa, for fear that she would also catch TB. I know that she still visits the girls here, and, as we understand it, she is, for the first time, actually starting to respond to TB treatments, possibily because of the stress relief that comes with knowing that her children are all taken care of. This piece would get into the question of non-orphans in need of care in developing countries, and how a parent makes the decision to give her children up to a stranger, knowing that their lives will be better for it.

Thoughts on these ideas?"

And people are just people; they shouldn't make you nervous... People are just people like you.

2009-05-19T06:45:00.000-07:00

I’m only halfway through my second full day at Hekima Place, and already I’m beginning to feel the steadying comfort that comes with a daily routine. While I haven’t quite had the time to fully settle into what will be normal for me for the next two months, I at least have an understanding of where I am and what my relationship to this place will be.

Paint a mental picture of what you think a Kenyan home for AIDS orphans looks like. My guess is that Hekima is nothing at all like what you’ve got in your head right now.

The sign at the entrance reads “Hekima Place: a home for girl scholars.” Everything here is green and in bloom and beautiful. The dirt is reddish like the clay in Alabama, but the green is much richer and darker, and there are flowers everywhere, even though right now is the equivalent of winter in Kenya. It rains almost every night, but without all the electric pageantry of the storms that we see during tornado season at home. It’s very declarative rain. The coldest it gets is around 50 degrees, and it gets up around 70 in the afternoons. The rooster wakes up and 5 and the songbirds wake up at 6, and we all go to bed around 9.

Hekima Place is located in Karen, the wealthiest suburb of Nairobi, home to the prime minister, as well as a large expatriate community. On the Kenyan version of monopoly, Karen is boardwalk. There are 54 girls here, ranging in age from 18 months to 22 years, and you have never seen a more joyful group of children in your life.

Mom Kate, who founded and is now executive director of Hekima Place, worked in Kenya for two years before she decided to start an orphanage of her own. Although the girls are incredibly joyful and loving and happy here, they all come from really dire situations. I haven’t learned a whole lot about many of their backgrounds, but hearing about some of their lives is enough to realize that many of them wear their scars on the inside.

Why ponder the future thus the future to foresee, and jade thy brain to vain perplexity?

2009-05-18T22:09:00.000-07:00

Why ponder the future thus the future to foresee, and jade thy brain to vain perplexity? Cast off thy care, and leave Allah's plans to him--He formed them all without consulting thee.

I’m writing this from the airport in Amsterdam, sitting on a small patch of tiled floor that Linn and I have staked out for ourselves as we wait for our flight to Nairobi to board. I keep hearing songs that sound vaguely like soft rock hits from the seventies, but all of the lyrics are in Dutch, making the identity of each song and singer just slightly beyond my grasp. As Linn keeps pointing out, there’s an unrealistic quality to our journey so far. I think that all great leaps into new worlds hold that quality for a little while—you feel like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life, or some alternate reality where you are the kind of person that is sitting in the corner of an airport in the Netherlands, mysterious typing on her tiny green laptop. You know those moments—when your mental picture of your life is out of sync with your experience—this trip, at this point, is sort of like an extended moment of such a moment.

The plane ride here was just over 8 hours long, with an impressive variety of movies and television shows to watch. I watched The Devil Wears Prada, 30 Rock, the Office, and several episodes of Grey’s Anatomy. I tried to watch Slumdog Millionaire and Milk, but for some reason I can’t ever bring myself to engage in heavy subject matter while I’m flying. Maybe because that tiny screen is mounted only inches away from my face, on the back of the seat in the row in front of mine. It’s too close for anything more than frivolity. Too inescapable.

When we got to Amsterdam, we had three hours to explore the airport here, and we used that time in the airports’ interfaith meditation room. We both did some stretching and some deep breathing, amidst a small crowd of Muslim travelers answering the call to prayer. It was pretty refreshing after being on the plane for so long.

Our flight to Nairobi is just about 9 hours long, putting us in the city at about 7pm. We’re on a Boeing 747-400, which is, I think, the biggest plane I’ve ever been on. It’s two stories, seating a total of 428 people. I’m hoping to be able to find some wireless internet once we get to Kenya. If you’re reading this right now, that means I’ve successfully found a place to connect!*

*While we do have internet here at Hekima, it’s not wireless, and my computer won’t connect through the mechanisms here. I’m retyping everything I’ve written so far, and then posting this, so all of my posts will be a few days behind. For a more current picture of my experience, read Linn’s blog at catchingnewrain.blogspot.com!

What if our passports showed our heart's travelings?

2009-05-12T23:48:00.000-07:00

Hello old friends, and new friends too!

I kept this blog last summer while I spent time in South Africa and Namibia. This summer, I'll be going to Hekima Place, a boarding school for girls orphaned by HIV/AIDS in Karen, Kenya, a suburb of Nairobi.

My good friend Linn Groft and I will be helping out in various ways there, including making a short video for Hekima. And, while we're there, we'll also be making a short documentary about some issue of social justice.

Stay tuned for a summer full of updates!

Guardian angels in airports, the least conspicuous way to fly...

2008-07-20T08:09:00.001-07:00

Not an hour after I parted from my group, I found myself facing, for a brief moment, the possibility the I might have to spend the night in Johannesburg. I rushed to catch my plane to Windhoek,only to find out that the plane was delayed. I spent the hour delay talking to two gentlemen about my age, one Namibian, and one Afrikaans. This made for some pretty interesting interaction, because these two guys, who both grew up in the city of Windhoek, have waaay different perspectives. And I would also say that they weren't exactly keen to talk to one another either, and there's nothing like a bit of cultural tension\boyish one-up-manship to spice up a layover. So, needless to say, I had an excellent conversation, and entirely distracted myself from the lingering worries in the back of my mind. Traveling by by myself across southern Africa was kind of unnerving, and because of my own negligence, I did not have a contact number for Jeremy and Penny in Namibia, nor did I have a phone to contact them, nor did I have any idea where they were staying or what they were really doing. If proverbial wires would only be crossed, I could potentially find myself quite stranded in a very foreign country. So, these kind sirs were a very needed excuse to ignore my little voices of doubt and fear. Then I hear the announcement that, due to weight restrictions, 14 passengers have been moved to tomorrow's flight. Well, shit. I was one of the 14.

I barely had time to tear up and panic before my two new companions were at the desk behind me, both speaking 90 to nothing in their native languages, both gesturing to me with righteous and pleading motions. Not knowing what else to do, I nodded along with every bit of whatever was said, and, wouldn't you know it, the lady at the desk either found some space for me on the plane or booted some other passenger off, because 15 minutes later I boarded my flight from Joburg to Windhoek. Knowing the language allows you a world of options, and I'm amazed that I happened to strike up a conversation with two people who spoke the two languages necessary to move mountains in South Africa: Zulu and Afrikaans.

So, two hours later I arrived in Windhoek Namibia, and, siyabonga for those marvelously ordered wires, there were Jeremy and Penny at the airport.

I have to say that Namibia never did make its way into my heart the way South Africa did. For one thing, I arrived there with my heart already missing the beloved country, so, in all fairness, Namibia only had the chances of a rebound lover. Jeremy and Penny were amazing hosts, and, after hours thinking of all of the alone time that I needed while I was constantly surrounded by people in my homestays and among my group, I finally did have some space to breath. I had my own room and a shower with hot water and a toilet and even a washer at my disposal. And, oh, Namibia is beautiful.

I loved the people and the attitude of the coastal province of Kwa-Zulu Natal, and I did see some really beautiful things there. One day of the camp we did with the KZN Youth Empowerment Program, I saw beautiful hills and plants and rappelled down the side of a muddy muddy wall, to a beautiful gorge where I jumped from about 15 feet up into water so cold it knocks the breath out of you. But that's another story. Most of the scenery of KZN is beachy and coastal, and I've never been much of a beach person. The landscape of Namibia is like an enormous blanket after God's picnic. It's all billowing and wrinkled, but still somehow smooth and inviting, with hills just rolling out in front of you--so much space. New York City made me feel in a hurry, because there's no room for your thoughts to spread out, and so they tumble over each other in a great rush, like the blood that rushes, single-filed down to the cell, through my--to the astonishment of the children of South Africa, translucent capillaries. In Namibia your thoughts can wander out and stretch their toes. They can take leave of one another and recline. There on the edge of the Namib Desert, your thoughts amble carelessly and freely. Even though Windhoek is at a higher altitude than Denver, Colorado, I found it easier to catch my breath.

Still, Jeremy and Penny have their work cut out for them. I think that their biggest challenge in the next three years at St. George's Cathedral will be walking the balance beam between the worlds of existence there. St. George's is a regular host to ambassadors and government ministers, with the occasional appearance of a first lady and perhaps her secret service. Important officials in the country with the largest disparity of wealth in the world, though the pressure of that title doesn't seem to be kicking up the same sort of struggle in these folks as it did to me and does to Jeremy and Penny. Throughout my study abroad experience, I didn't have a lot of interaction with the privileged of South Africa--with the people here who enjoy the same sort of lifestyle, or perhaps a slightly more extravagant lifestyle, as I do. I had to check myself in Namibia, ask myself why it was that I could live with the 10Gs it took to get me to Africa, but it tried my heart to see a person buy a $20 meal.

Spending time with these people in Namibia gave me uneasy feeling that I go when I tried on bathing suits after I gained my freshman fifteen. Literally and figuratively, it's no fun to look in a mirror and dislike what you see. So, my first instinct is to cover up more with something more modest and, hoefully, more flattering, to suck in and stand at odd angles so that I can convince myself that this is only a matter of perspective. You probably already know this is a poor solution, because, you probably know that as much as I creatively cover up, if I don't like the self that's under the fabric, everything is not hunky-dory-glory land. So my second option is to change my appearance, which takes a good deal of work and effort, and, most of all, a good deal of time. And then I've got the option to just flat out love myself as I am, without apology or intent to change.

I would like to say that, in regards to the matter of my cultural swimming costume, I've decided to choose a combination of all three. And I leave you with that.

Oh, right, I also almost missed my plane out of Johannesburg, and I would have, if not for the kind heart and compassion of a flight attendant, upon whom I wish a hundred million blessings, and I hope you'll take a moment to do the same. Because of some confusion with my e-ticket (a pox on Lyon Travel Agency!), my flight extension wasn't registered, and, even though I was given a boarding pass, I was not actually issued a ticket to get on the plane. I was standing at the desk when I realized that everyone else had boarded and it dawned on me that I was really not going to be on that plane, that I was going to have to spend the night in Johannesburg, South Africa (Johannesburg, for goodness' sake!), and I was SO tired, and I did not just tear up, but really started to cry, and it was one of those things where, once you start, all of the sadness and the frustration and the fear you've felt in the past two months just decide to come pouring out from under your eyelids, and I imagine that I was just pitiful. After a round of, "oh shame" and sympathetic and frantic Zulu, the last lady out there tells me to run down the boarding hall, and my tears just stop right away, and, I'm telling you, she did not have to tell me twice. They had already shut and locked the door to the plane, and my ticket was not in order, but this lady pounds on the plane door, and, just before my tears are about t turn back on, the door opens. She speaks some quick Zulu, and the unhappy man who has opened the plane door looks at me, and then asks me if I'm a minor. Just like at the last airport, I nod like that's the only response I know, and as I turn to give a Zulu thank you, "ngiyabonga" to my guardian airport angel, she winks at me, and I know now for sure that the universe is conspiring to shower me with blessings.

I'm six hours into my seventeen hour flight now. I'll post this impossibly long blog when I get to New York or DC, depending on when I get set up with some wireless.

Tomorrow is another country...

2008-07-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

So, I leave South Africa tomorrow, and arrive in Windhoek, Namibia at 6:30 in the evening. As excited as I am to move on to new adventures, and as much as I miss my family and friends, I'm already thinking ahead to when I might be able to return to South Africa. I'm pretty positive that this will not be my last time in this country. Next time I come though, I want to be here for longer than six weeks--I feel like I've only gotten a small taste of what it's like to live in South Africa, and I want a broader view. Really, I miss this country already.

So, I still have a lot more stories to tell, but still don't have the time or the energy to put them into words. Here's my reflection on the rural winter camp where I spent the past week though, in case you have time to spare for a 1,500 word reflection. No promises on the quality!

British author Norman Douglas once said that "Education is the state-controlled manufacture of echoes" Though I wouldn’t concede that the South African education system is state controlled, these words ran through my head often in the time that I spent helping in a week long winter session of life orientation with the students of Mathubesizwe Senior Secondary School in the rural area of Amacaambini, South Africa. The thought of education as the making of echoes seemed most profound to me when I most wanted to communicate some of my own cultural ideas to the learners--that is, when I had the distinct feeling that one might get if she were to shout into a chasm, or perhaps, an abyss, and then to listen for the return of her own voice. I grew more and more frustrated with the other voices shouting along side me. How was I supposed to hear my own echo when so many others were filling the air with different ideas? How could I hear the return of my emphatic, "Womens' rights!" over the scream of, "Traditional values!" that rang out from the person beside me? How could I reflect on my shouted pleas that youth should be valued when I had to compete with cries of deference to the elderly? There came a point in my time in rural South Africa that I needed to stop shouting and take a breath. For at least a moment, I had to stop listening for the echoes, and start paying attention to the origins of the sounds around me.

Approximately 600 students pay R150 per year to attend grades 10-12 at Mathubesizwe Senior Secondary School . The class size shrinks as the grades go up, with about 265 learners in grade 10, and only 150 by matric year. In conversation between students in teachers about the school, students say that they like Mathubesizwe because of the respect they feel between the students and the teachers. They don't just feel like numbers on a page here: the teachers and the principal knows each learner by name. There are daily school wide assemblies, and various extracurricular activities are offered. Teachers list instances of orphaned students being adopted by teachers, and praise the administration for its leniency on students who can't afford to wear a full uniform. Because my time at Mathubesizwe was at a winter camp, rather than a regular school session, I didn't actually observe any interaction between the students and the teachers. Still, I feel that the school is a center focus for the community that surrounds it, and that these family sentiments are not put on. Still, Mathubesizwe is not without problems.

The school's student body is largely made up of disadvantaged students, nearly all of them black African. Though the rural areas are generally safer than the urban, incidence of crime at Mathubesizwe is still high; their computer labs have been broken into twice in the previous year. The school is, in areas from text books to toilets, poorly resourced. A teacher at the school conjectured that the previous term's matric pass rate was 68%, perhaps lower than usual as a result of the past year's teacher's strike. She approximated that between 20 and 25 girls had left in the previous year because they had "fallen pregnant." According to the educators, these students had to leave school when they were found in this condition, as mandated by the "learner written" code of conduct. Though this stipulation is not written in the printed edition of the code of conduct, we were swiftly assured that there was also a spoken code, not included in the printed pamphlets that would be distributed and submitted to the government. There is obvious tension present between the government's idea of what education should include and the school administration's idea of what education should include. This tension is particularly relevant when the subject of corporal punishment is raised. Though educators assure that after school detention, parent conferences, and trash and toilet duties are all used as punishment, they do admit that corporal punishment is used as well, and insist that this is necessary for students of this background, and that the "code of conduct" would have it no other way. A student later explained to me that while it is appropriate and effective for white parents to use discussion as a method of discipline, this is just not feasible for Zulu students. "It's part of our culture."

Throughout my time in the rural area, I had a difficult time deciding and understanding which discrepancies I felt with individuals, and which discrepancies I felt with the culture in which I was immersed. I was also made to consider my view of South Africa , and South Africans’ view of my country. I feel that most of the children I talked to had a skewed view of the United States , and, as a result, they were inclined to dismiss my views on the world. Just as the student earlier dismissed my objection to corporal punishment because I came from a white background, I felt that my views on women’s rights and gay rights were put away as ideals that would work in America , but never in South Africa . The objection that I felt to this was that these issues of social justice are not resolved in the United States ; and, for that matter, issues of poverty, language, and racism are still constant problems in the United States . I wanted to relate the problems of South Africa to the problems of my own country, but I felt like the problems of my country were viewed as totally un-relatable.

I think the day that educators ought to hope for, and the day that countries ought to strive for, is the day that we finds ourselves yelling into a chasm, and then listen for our echo, only to hear an entirely new voice emerge from the abyss—a voice that is stronger and louder than the weak response to which we’ve become accustomed, with characteristics and words different from those issued from the crowd. I’m not sure that Mathubesizwe is helping its learners to find this voice, but, then, I am not even sure that I’ve yet found my own. It is my hope that the youth of South Africa, as well as the youth of the rest of the world, will find the confidence and possess the knowledge to speak words not yet spoken, to find new ways to decorate and embrace the line between tradition and progress, and to boldly shout their dreams into realities, from the chasm of education from which they shall emerge.

Til it was a battle cry...

2008-07-06T07:54:00.000-07:00

Hey friends! Sorry for my recent lack of contact--I've spent the past week in a rural homestay, where flushing toilets are a luxury, and wifi isn't really something you see a whole lot in those parts. I've got lots of stories to tell from there, but at the moment I'm at a backpackers' about two hours from Durban, without a lot of internet time, so I'll have to fill you in later. As a preview though, I went on a safari today, and I saw giraffes and zebras and rhinos and water buffalo and antelope and wart hogs and crocodiles and hippos, including a baby hippo, and it was reaaaaaaaaaally cool.

I missed home a lot on the 4th of July. I missed Special Session and the lake. I'll be on a plane to Nambia on the 11th (only 5 days from today), and on a plane to NYC on the 18th (only 12 days), and I fly into Huntsville on the 21st (15 days). So I feel like my adventure is winding down--or, at least, the South Africa chapter is winding down. Namibia is a whole new story.

I have about 20 hours of film for my documentary, and at least 2 more interviews set up this week.

I'll hopefully hit you with a longer and more substantial post some time soon.

A brief note on minibus taxis

2008-06-23T07:45:00.000-07:00

I wrote about minibus taxis once before, in regards to taxi violence, but I have something more to say about them at this point. First of all, I'm no longer in an area that has a problem with taxi violence, and, in fact, my host father is a minibus taxi driver, so I've been a bit more experienced with them in the past week.

Minibus taxis are the most-used mode of transportation by the African and Indian people that I've met. They're usually the size of a 15 passenger van, and it costs about 5 rand (R8 = $1) to take one. I saw similar vehicles in Guatemala, except that there, the were called chicken buses, and they usually held about twice the recommended capacity. Also, the minibus taxis in South Africa have a good bit more character.

The vans are typically named with a reference to movie or a song ("Scream" and "Slim Shady" drive past my house), or sometimes with not so subtle names like "Pleasure Ride" and "Seduction." The sides and windows of the taxi are usually painted to match the name. So, you catch the minibus as it comes by, with the driver honking like mad and one other taxi-employee calling out its destination like an auctioneer on crack.

Riding in a minibus taxi is like riding in a van where an over the edge soccer mom has decided to give her obnoxious 13 year old free reign over the CD player. Each taxi plays music to suit the preferences of the driver--so far I've heard pop r&b, hip-hop, gospel, and, mostly, what's called house music, which is like techno, and which is hugely popular in South Africa. So, regardless of the type of music playing, the only volume I've come across so far can only be described as "really f-ing loud." Like, the kind of loud that rattles your teeth and dictates your heartbeat. The kind of loud that overpowers your thoughts and blurs your vision. The kind of loud that means that no matter how persistent your host mother is in trying to engage you in conversation during the ride, you STILL CANNOT HEAR HER. The kind of loud that can either ruin your day, or just make you laugh, because you're in South Africa, riding in a van, listening to absurdly loud music.

These two options cross my mind a lot, actually, and I think it makes it pretty difficult for things to ruin my day. Nothing seems quite so bad when it happens that I'm doing it in South Africa. "I'm waking up at 5:30... in South Africa!" "I think I just stepped over a puddle of urine... in South Africa!" "I'm eating curry...again... in South Africa!"

So, anyway, minibus taxis are neat, and I appreciate them a whole lot.

2008-06-21T01:32:00.000-07:00

As of today, my time in South Africa is over halfway over. I'm leaving my current homestay family on Monday, and moving on to a winter youth camp for high school kids. Th next two weeks most South African schools are let out for winter vacation--similar to our Christmas holiday. After that we move into our rural homestay up the coast, which I think will be the greatest level of culture shock. The rural areas of Africa are probably more like the Africa that we Americans like to assume. It's also supposed to be really cold there because of high altitudes--it may even snow! This pretty much sucks, because not only do I not really have a winter coat, the likelihood of a family having heating is pretty low. No worries though--there are worse things than being cold.

A brief note on the food here, since you asked! First of all, I'm pretty sure I'm gaining a few pounds, because not only is it starch starch starch with carbohydrates on the side, we're hardly even allowed to walk around at ALL, and so I'm getting zero exercise. I eat veg Indian curry basically every single day. Even with my Zulu family, it was curry curry curry, all the time. Not to spicy though-it's actually a really nice meal, if you don't have to eat it all the freaking time. We do usually have a nice "salad" on the side though, which consists of shredded carrots, or maybe diced tomatoes and onions.

Gotta run, but in the future, I want to tell you about the shack dwellers movement here! Check out abahlali.org!

Happy Belated Birthday, Meagan!

2008-06-17T04:50:00.000-07:00

June 16 is a national holiday in South Africa. In addition to the fact that it's Meagan's birthday (you're world famous, Meg!), June 16 is Youth Day in South Africa. Youth Day is on the 16th to commemorate this day in 1967, when thousands of school children marched in the streets of Soweto, protesting a new law which mandated that Afrikaans be the language of instruction in South African schools. A boy named Hector Pieterson was shot and killed in the midst of the protest, and many see this uprising as the beginning of the end of apartheid. Last Thursday we went to see a commemorative Youth Day ceremony at a prison, which was really fascinating, except that the whole thing was conducted in Zulu. Actually, the fact that the whole thing was in Zulu is interesting in itself, because the implication is that everyone in prison speaks Zulu (which they do), because everyone in prison is black (which they are). My director informed us that 40% of the prisoners there have actually not been found guilty of anything--they're awaiting trial and can't pay their bail, some times set as low as $600 rand, which is less than $100. It is extremely unlikely that even a small percentage of the inmates will be released without contracting HIV. Sigh. So in this ceremony, there was some really beautiful singing, and some traditional dancing (which was a lot like an incredible step show), and some inspirational speakers that I could not understand, except to say that they were about the equivalent of any Christian evangelical preacher in any maximum security prison. Can I get an amen?

After this weekend we've moved into new homestays, and I was really sad to leave my Zulu family behind. I'm now staying with an Indian family in a part of town called Newlands (Durban has the largest Indian population outside of India, and it's very much a different culture. There is a LOT of racial tension between India and Zulu people). Another tragic story here: My family here is an older couple and a small girl, Talia, who is 4 years old. Talia is their granddaughter--she lives with them because three months ago (THREE months ago), her mother, (their daughter), was murdered by her husband. She was twenty two years old. He stabbed her to death and then hung himself in prison three days later. Intense. I don't think that stories like this one and the story of my last family's son are incredibly common in South Africa; no one else in my study abroad group has had stories like these. I'm just lucky, I guess? What's amazing to me is that just six weeks after their daughters death, this couple (I'm sorry to say that I don't know their names yet. They never introduced themselves, and I let this go on too long, and now it'd be awkward to ask) began hosting strangers like me. I have to say that I do find it sort of strange--I feel like a really odd substitute daughter. I've only been here since yesterday, and my host mother has already done all of my laundry, and last night after I had a bath she insisted on blow-drying my hair for me. She's very kind and very sweet, but I feel like she's also very brittley sad, held thinly together and wanting to just crumble. I can't possibly even understand the pain that this woman is still going through, and I feel so much empathy for her that at this point nearly everything she does makes me want to cry. When she combs my hair, she must be thinking of her own daughter's hair, and maybe wishing that she could just brush it one more time. I know that she is taking care of me, not for me, but for her. When she washes clothes, she remembers every load of laundry she's ever done--the tiny dresses and the lacy socks for her little girl who barely grew into a woman. She washes clothes with so much love, not for me, but for her. And when I leave the house in the morning, and when she grabs my hand and tells me that I must be a very strong woman today, I know that she is saying these words, not for me, but for her.

Sorry to be so depressing. You should also know that the little girl, Talia, is adorable and bossy, and that they have two furry dogs named Cuddles and Pirate. And that today, because it is Youth Day, I have the afternoon off, and I'm going on a boat ride! Most of my study abroad group wants to go to the beach every day off, and the beaches here are beautiful and all that jazz, but, seriously, I'm over it. What's the big deal about sand any way? It's just tiny rocks...

Extremely Close and Incredibly Loud

2008-06-11T04:44:00.000-07:00

By command of the collected and most adorable first graders of South Africa, I must unconditionally surrender all previous notions of personal space, give up any and all inclinations to shy from disease or poor hygiene, and abandon all ideas which contradict the premises that I am beautiful, brilliant, and, by all means, lovable. At school and at home, there's really no concept of personal space or personal time in South Africa. No LindseyTime. I'm dealing with it.

I have CONSTANTLY had children in my lap, in my hair, telling me they love me, how pretty I am, how can I please come and live at their house, mam? Yesterday I was in a class of SIXTY first graders. There is no teaching here--its crowd control at best. One of the teachers was absent (according to my lectures, teachers will often switch out with one another, rotating days to come to work), and so what should have been two first grade classes was combined into one. And, since I was there (I think?), the teacher felt pretty ok with coming and going out of the classroom.

So, a good bit of chaos (one boy got his teeth knocked out), but apparently this is nothing exceptional for a day in the first grade? Channeling every bit of Susannah Whitsit I have within me, the day ended up being pretty ok. I sang the about 40572 rounds of Black Socks, Down by the Bay, The Itsy Bitsy Spider, Head Shoulders Knees and Toes, and I'm a Little Teapot. As with the high school, all of the instruction is in English, while very few of the kids actually know the language. They can mimic the words (and most of the learning is oral class response, so they can get by), but they really don't have any comprehension. But the biggest problem is that there are just SO many freaking kids. It blows my mind how crowded these classrooms are. But the thing is, this is a teacher problem. More than 27% of South Africa's spending is on education. The country DOES pay for enough teachers--the teachers just suck. And there are reasons for this that I don't have time to go into now, but I do think that SA has what one of my lecturers referred to as Oprah Winfrey Syndrome (forgive me, Genevieve). Their government tends to just throw money at problems, and then expects them to get better. But, in the education systems, the administration is so poor that the money doesn't help.

So, anyway, even with all of that, these kids are freaking precious and I love them and I would work in these schools every day with these rambunctious and sometimes violent first graders. They follow me around in droves, hug me nonstop, and ALL of them (20% of them orphans, probably a good bit HIV+, and few coming from actual homes), are SO in need of love. As badly as I think I need space, they NEED to be touched, and hugged, and held. I would love so much to bring the entire student population of Bonela to Camp McDowell.

2008-06-10T06:37:00.000-07:00

My Zulu family is made up of three girls--Funeka, age 12, Nomcebo (the "c" in Zulu is one of the letters that's a click, so I have a hard time pronouncing 'Cebo's name), age 9, and Thembilihle (also a tongue twister, although there's no clicking involved), age 8, and then Mama Zandile (Zan-del-ay, with emphasis on the middle syllable). They also refer to their father (buying them glasses and paying their school fees), but I can't tell if he and Mama Zandile are divorced, or if he just works in town or some where else. They also used to have a brother, but he was killed in 2006--shot by the police. They talk about their brother pretty openly, except that I can't get a story on why he was killed? He was only 18, shot three times, twice in the leg and then once in the head, and this happened right in front of their house. So I get all of these details from Mama Z, but I don't want pry for further details. I can't at all imagine what kind of crime would warrant that, but the family doesn't seem to have any bitterness or sense of injustice, or, if they do, they don't mention it. I know from Funeka that after this brother was killed, Mama Zandile didn't leave her room for months--she lost her job then, and still can't find work. I assume she's now being supported by the girls' father who is maybe also her husband? Overall I think the story of this brother is very mysterious, and very sad.

There's not much sadness in the house now though--these three girls are pretty much a party in a can. On Friday and Saturday we danced around the house to Disney music for a good three hours or so, with a bit of High School Musical and the Beach Boys thrown in for a good measure. We blew bubbles and colored with chalk, and watched Angus and some really terrible football movie from the early nineties. That's one thing about Zulu culture that I didn't expect--the television is ALWAYS on. And, seeing as there are only really four rooms in the house, there's not much escaping it while you're here. The TV finally goes off around 8 o'clock, which is bedtime, which is why I'm able to sit here and write a ridiculously long blog, which I will post when I go to my lecture at SIT tomorrow. The two little girls sleep in the same bed as me, but they're absolutely passed out, and it's only 9, and here I am, feeling antsy. The unfortunate thing about my homestay is that the girls are not allowed to leave the house without a boy, and, of course, there are no boys, and so we didn't go any farther than driveway the whole weekend. That's a pretty small place to be contained for three days.

I got a bit of not-so-fresh air today though, when I rejoined my study abroad group to accompany the students of Mayville Secondary School on a field trip (yay!) to the Durban water treatment plant (ew...) It seems that the Mayville school administrators forgot that we were coming today, so they just threw us in with this 11th grade field trip. So it was awkward, first because we entered this classroom where there's someone from the plant lecturing about water sanitation, and this poor woman can't even get the students to answer the most basic questions. This lesson is nearly painful to sit through, as I think we all just want to raise our hands and answer her questions just to ease up on the tension. The class's regular teacher, who is sitting in the back of the room, stops the lady at one point and explains that most of these students come from "informal settlements" (a euphemism for shanty towns that are all over the outskirts of Durban). He says that when she refers to water taps and sewage drains, they don't know what shes talking about.

Ok, so this is a really tragic sounding explanation, and its what we all expect to hear about Africa, but I don't actually think its true. I mean, I know that these kids have seen a sink before, because we all washed our hands after the tour, and none of them even batted an eyelash. So what's the real reason for their lack of knowledge? Well, I made friends with this one girl in the class, named Pretty, and we were having this nice conversation, with her asking me about America and me asking her about South Africa, and all the while she was talking to her friends in Zulu, and then asking me the questions that they were asking her. And I finally asked her why it was that her friends didn't just ask me themselves (Are they shy or something? Do they dislike Americans?) and she said it was just that their English wasn't very good, and they didn't feel comfortable talking. Pretty used to go to a private school, which she said had white and Indian as well as Zulu students, and so she was comfortable speaking English. My girls at home speak mostly Zulu (which, btw, I'm not in the least bit picking up--it's literally the most foreign thing I can imagine, and I don't think I've learned a damn thing besides how to say hello, and even that I say very poorly), but when they don't seem to be uncomfortable talking to me in English. Also, English is the only language of instruction in South African schools! Of course these kids aren't answering questions in class! Pretty told me that a lot of times the kids don't learn English well because students who DO speak English are made fun of, and called "coconuts" because they are brown on the outside and white on the inside.

We talked about this problem of language in my afternoon lecture at SIT, and it's quite complex. First of all, the majority of Zulu parents in South Africa insist that English be the language of instruction in the schools, in spite of the fact that their children will grow up speaking Zulu almost exclusively in their homes. The parents know that their children must speak English to get a job. Secondly, Soweto school uprisings of the 1970's (a reaction to the apartheid mandate that the language of instruction would be Afrikaans, which was spoken almost exclusively by whites) were a huge springboard for the entire resistance movement, and to have a school with Zulu as the language of instruction is just as exclusionary. English is, then, something of a happy medium.

I have also learned that racial integration in South African schools was not mandated as is was in the United States. Rather, when apartheid ended, all of the schools were required to admit all students. So you had a rush of African and Indian students to the formerly white schools, while many of the whites are either moving to very expensive private schools, or their families are emigrating to other countries. So, while many of the upper level schools did become integrated, the lower schools were either deserted or filled up with poor black African students who can't afford to travel to other schools, or to pay higher school fees (which can range from 50 rand a year to 11,000 rand a year). All of these students speak Zulu in their homes, and of course speak Zulu to one another, and their teachers often speak Zulu as well, but not in class, because they know that all standardized tests must be given in English, and they want their students to be comfortable using this language.

So, tomorrow we won't go back to Mayville Secondary (SIT is having some administrative conflicts with them), but we will go to Bonela Primary School instead (that's 1st through 7th grade). I've been more excited about the primary schools all along, but I have to say that my experience today, and especially my conversation with Pretty, who was very enlightened and also very funny, made me really curious about secondary schools here(high schools, that is), and I hope I'll have a chance to check out that environment later.

OH, and I forgot to say that three monkeys live in the bushes by our house, and they are the funniest things, and Thembelihle is afraid of them, only not in the way that an 8 year old in the United States might be afraid of them, but more in the way that an 8 year old in the United States might be afraid of dogs. I think that these monkeys are just really freaking cool.

Now I guess I'll join these two little African princesses who are sleeping beside me, snoring like Canadian lumberjacks. I could drown them out with my i-pod except that its battery is completely dead after about 60 rounds of "A Whole New World" and "Under the Sea." This is my Africa :).

Sawubona

2008-06-05T01:06:00.000-07:00

Zulu language makes Swahili look like pig latin. All of the clicks that everyone asks about-they're im-freaking-possible to pronounce. It's fun to learn though, as long as you're willing to laugh at yourself and spit everywhere.

So, we were staying at Marionhill, this convent outside of Durban, which is really awesome, legendary for being a safe-haven for revolutionaries and run-aways. It did feel a bit cut off from the rest of the world though. BUT, we moved from Marionhill to a hostile called Surf and Dream, which is closer to the city. We moved because the Marionhill area has seen an increase in taxi-violence, which is just exactly what it sounds like. Taxi companies are competing for business, so they're literally shooting their way into the routes. No worries about my safety though, because first of all, the taxi violence is between the cheaper minibus taxis that locals use, rather than the metered taxis that we've been instructed to take, and, second of all, we moved out of that area and into this hostile which is totally Western. Tomorrow we move into our Zulu homestays though! Yay!

So far I can mostly say that South Africa is not terribly different from the states. Yesterday I went to the biggest mall I've ever been in--the biggest mall in Africa, and the city of Durban is bigger and cleaner than any American city I've seen. The weather is temperate and the roads are well maintained. At the same time, people are speaking in Zulu, which sounds absolutely foreign. And every home that you see has barbed wire and security systems out the roof, and people are constantly talking about the crime rates--about locking your car doors and keeping your windows up when you're stopped. One in every two South African women will be raped in their life time, and everyone has a story about crime. Not to mention that HIV rates are out the roof, and despite constant predictions about rates peaking, the numbers just keep going up.

I think that once I move into a home tomorrow I'll be able to get a better picture of life in South Africa. At this point I'm getting a bit tired of having 8 hours of lectures about this country. Er... frustration...

2008-06-01T12:37:00.000-07:00

So, after seventeen hours on an airplane (which is exactly as excruciating as it sounds), we finally landed in Johannesburg! My study abroad group is made up of really exciting people from all across the US--I've really enjoyed getting to know everyone so far.

In Johannesburg we're staying at in what used to be a Catholic monastery--there's only one member of the Order here now--he's the caretaker, and very kind and I like him very much.

Today we ventured to the apartheid museum, which was really powerful and intense, totally a reminder of everything that the country's been through, and so recently. The museum completely made use of film, which was really cool to see--there were little televisions everywhere, showing everything that happened--the Soweto uprisings, the violence used by the police, Nelson Mandela's release from prison. One thing I really liked about the museum displays was their use of mirrors, which framed a lot of the art work and lined a lot of the museum. It seemed to me to be a subtle message of something that my program direct put like this,

"The important thing to remember about Apartheid is that ia is by no means unique to South Africa. There's no sort of oppression here that didn't happen in your own county as well. In fact, I would say that this is the history of the world for the past 500 years)"

We drove through Soweto in the afternoon, past Nelson Mandela's house and Desmond Tutu's (two Nobel Peace Prize winners on one street!), and Winnie Mandela's house as well. The roads are SO good here, and the conditions overall are really impressive. Not that my opinion is all that informed, but I would totally label this a developed country.

My phone doesn't work here (Mom, if you're reading this, could you call AT&T?), and I don't have a whole lot of patience to spend online, so I'm sorry for my lack of email correspondence. We leave for Durban tomorrow, but we don't move into our homestays until Friday.

But where were they going without ever knowing the way?

2008-05-28T20:47:00.000-07:00

Subways sound like lost souls when they pull into the station, and nobody even pays attention. But listen some time; they're very mournful.

I wandered a lot today. And I like this city very much.Good job picking a capital, USA. And good job with all of the parks and statues. I went through one metro station--Dupont Circle I think--that had Walt Whitman quotes engraved all over the place, and I loved that.

I went to change some dollars for South African rand, except that both places I went were out of rands, so I didn't. I went to the South African Embassy and filmed some b-roll, hooray! I'm so off to a killer start. I got to the embassy right at 5, so I didn't think I was going to get to go in, but then I met a man who worked there, and he was from Rwanda, and he spoke Kiswahili with me! And then he unlocked the door for me an let me take some brochures, and inside, they have a giant clock counting down to the World Cup in 2010, and I learned that in South Africa they also call it soccer and not football.

I went to eat fondue with my godparents, and made some serious progress on my plan to try to eat meat before I leave for Africa. Meat is heavy stuff though, and it fills you up in a really different way than vegetables. I just don't think it lives up to the hype, especially when you think about it too much. I just honestly keep thinking about all of that fear and sadness and loneliness that was borne into the world when this animal was killed, and how all of that is now a part of me too, and that make ME feel sad and lonely too.

I'm off to New York City tomorrow, and I'm not really as nervous as I thought I would be. I like big cities where no one is paying attention to you. Although, riding the metros across DC today did remind me of the time that my brother and I rode the subways all over London, and that might have been one of the best days I've ever spent. Graham is like the best travel partner ever, because he's laid back and flexible without being wishy-washy,and I hope that he and I get to travel together like that again some time.

So have your things and wait there for a plane ride, with no one there to sit and hold your hand in flight

2008-05-27T11:38:00.000-07:00

So my adventure begins with waiting in the Huntsville Airport, where a screen from United Airlines cheerfully insists that my flight to Washington DC is departing just on time, despite that it's already four minutes late, and there's still no plane outside. Luckily I'm now at the beginning of an epic adventure, and, at the beginning, we are patient. Like movies and roller coasters--everybody understands that the tension has to build if you're going to get some decent excitement.

Boarding call! (that's the click click click of the uphill roller coaster)

A more readable itinerary...

2008-05-26T14:00:00.001-07:00

(all times are local)

Tuesday, May 27
Depart from Huntsville at 1:39 pm
Arrive in Washington DC at 4:35 pm

Thursday, May 29
Take train from Washington DC at 5:02 am
Arrive in NYC at 8:10 am

Friday, May 30
Meet with SIT group at JFK International, Terminal 4 at 2:20 pm
Depart from NYC at 5:20 pm

Saturday, May 31
Arrive in Johannesburg, SA at 5pm

Tuesday, June 3
Bus ride from Johannesburg to Durban

Friday, July 11
Depart from Durban at 2:40 pm
Arrive in Johannesburg at 3:50 pm
Depart from Johannesburg at 5:25 pm
Arrive in Windhoek, Namibia at 6:25pm

Friday, July 18
Depart from Windhoek at 12:50pm
Arrive in Johannesburg at 3:45pm
Depart from Johannesburg at 7:10 pm

Saturday, July 19
Arrive in NYC at 7:05 am
Somehow get back to Washington DC?

Monday, July 21
Depart from Washington DC at 12:20 pm
Arrive in Huntsville at 1:15 pm

Flight itinerary for this summer!

2008-04-22T14:39:00.000-07:00

---------------------------------------
New York to Johannesburg
---------------------------------------

Flight 1 - Friday, May 30, 2008
Status :passive confirmed
Departure :17:20 - New York, USA - John F Kennedy, terminal 4
Arrival :17:00 +1 day(s) - Johannesburg, South Africa - O.R. Tambo International, terminal A
Note: includes 1 technical stop(s)
Airline :South African Airways SA204
Duration :17:40
Fare type :Economy
Aircraft :Airbus Industrie A340-300
Meal :DINNER, BREAKFAST
Last check in:information not available

---------------------------------------
Durban to Johannesburg
---------------------------------------

Flight 1 - Friday, July 11, 2008
Status :passive confirmed
Departure :14:40 - Durban, South Africa - Durban International
Arrival :15:50 - Johannesburg, South Africa - O.R. Tambo International, terminal B
Airline :South African Airways SA562
Duration :1:10
Fare type :Economy
Aircraft :Boeing 737-800
Meal :SNACK OR BRUNCH
Last check in:information not available

---------------------------------------
Johannesburg to Windhoek
---------------------------------------

Flight 1 - Friday, July 11, 2008
Status :confirmed
Departure :17:25 - Johannesburg, South Africa - O.R. Tambo International, terminal A
Arrival :18:25 - Windhoek, Namibia - Hosea Kutako International
Airline :South African Airways SA1735
Duration :2:00
Fare type :Economy
Aircraft :Canadair Regional Jet - Operated by South African Express
Baggage :20 kilogram(s) per traveller
Meal :SNACK OR BRUNCH
Last check in:information not available

---------------------------------------
Windhoek to Johannesburg
---------------------------------------

Flight 1 - Friday, July 18, 2008
Status :confirmed
Departure :12:50 - Windhoek, Namibia - Hosea Kutako International
Arrival :15:45 - Johannesburg, South Africa - O.R. Tambo International, terminal A
Airline :South African Airways SA075
Duration :1:55
Fare type :Economy
Aircraft :Boeing 737-800
Baggage :20 kilogram(s) per traveller
Meal :LUNCH
Last check in:information not available

---------------------------------------
Johannesburg to New York
---------------------------------------

Flight 1 - Friday, July 18, 2008
Status :confirmed
Departure :19:10 - Johannesburg, South Africa - O.R. Tambo International, terminal A
Arrival :07:05 +1 day(s) - New York, USA - John F Kennedy, terminal 4
Note: includes 1 technical stop(s)
Airline :South African Airways SA203
Duration :17:55
Fare type :Economy
Aircraft :Airbus Industrie A340-300
Meal :DINNER, BREAKFAST
Last check in:information not available

I'll also be driving or flying to Washington DC on the 27th of May, and then taking a train to New York City on the 28th or 29th...