Thursday, July 29, 2010
Mr. Golden Sun, please shine down on me
I sit in the sun and read. Don't worry, I always put on sunscreen beforehand. I know too well how easily my nose turns bright red at the smallest exposure to that brilliant golden glow.
The past couple of weeks (I think; my concept of time here is off) have been filled with days of cloudless skies and comfortable temperatures floating in the 60s during the day. Today is no exception.
There is a stone patio directly outside of the guesthouse with a picnic table, another table, and six chairs. There is a small pool about 20 feet to the left of the guesthouse entrance. It is currently covered because it's too cold to swim. I take one of the chairs and place it on the edge of the pool. There's a sweet spot that gets direct sunlight for about four hours during the middle of the day, with a short break of about 20 minutes (right now) when the sun moves behind the only tall building in the area. I'm still in the process of reading Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela.
It is moments like this - sitting in the sun, feeling warm, soaking up vitamin D, devouring page after page - that bring me so much joy and contentment.
I am momentarily unable to move forward with my work related to the South African Citizenship Amendment Act and the Births and Deaths Registration Amendment Act. The boss has all of my notes to review. We need to sit down so that he can tell me line by line what the organization supports or opposes and how I should move forward. So until he gets the time to do that, I'm going to enjoy my book in the sun.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Border/Clash decompression
On Friday, I went with K and ChuckNorris, two other interns, to see 'Border/Clash: A litany of desires,' a one-woman slam-poetry-style show by Staceyann Chin at the Baxter Theatre in Rondebosch, the southern suburb where the University of Cape Town is. Chin is a Jamaican-Chinese lesbian who was born in Jamaica but now resides in New York City (when she's not touring with her show).
The show seamlessly moved from comedy to tragedy and back again, a series of poems interwoven to tell a life story that was at times foreign and familiar to me (and I imagine many women). Chin talked about the pain of her father choosing to not recognize her as his daughter and twice being abandoned by her mother, who chose a life alone in Canada to one in which she raised her two children. She talked about her childhood curiosity sparked by her changing body, watching in amazement as she transformed from a girl to a woman. She talked about discovering her love for women and the harsh backlash from Jamaican society in response to her living out loud. She talked about her decision to move to New York City and how she grew as a poet there. She talked about a lot of things.
She relived almost being gang raped by a group of students in a bathroom at her university in Jamaica (I think in Kingston). It was to be a corrective rape, to teach her 'what a real dick feels like' and fix her of her lesbian ways. By luck, someone walked into the bathroom and served as a distraction for enough time for Chin to escape. She also alluded to being molested or sexually assaulted by a male cousin. This was what she fled from - sexism and homophobia, both of which made her the target of violence.
Toward the end of the show, Chin stood at the back of the small stage on top of a foot-high platform with her arms spread wide, as if ready to hug everyone in the audience. At first in a normal voice, she said, 'What happened to you was not your fault.' And then she said it again louder. And again louder. And again louder, until she was shouting with her head thrown back, her wide open arms now making her look like she was on a cross, a martyr for the female cause.
What happened to you was not your fault.
It breaks my heart that I know so many women to whom this sentence should be, and has been, said. I know family and friends who have been abused, assaulted, and raped. Chin shouting this line was not to make sure that her audience heard her. It was a small theater; we all heard her. Her shouting was an attempt for her message to move beyond the walls of the theater and be heard by all who were not in attendance. Or perhaps her shouting was an attempt to make the statement permeate the skin, muscle, and bones to reach the center of each individual so that we carried it with us when we left. It was an empowering moment to hear this stated so forcefully, but also tragic because I know I will repeat it in the future.
And this is why I needed a hug after the show.
As K, ChuckNorris, and I left the theater and made our way down the steps to the foyer, we were all quiet. The first thing said was, 'Well, I don't know about you, but I thought she was hot.' I had the urge to turn to K and yell, asking how something so shallow could possibly be her first thought. But I realized this might be how she was processing the gravity of the show's content, by focusing on something light. When I was little I would smile before crying when I heard something sad, like when I was told that my Grandma died. My reaction made no sense to me then, but I couldn't help it. That was just how my brain responded. Now I mostly choose to be silent after experiencing something emotionally draining or traumatic, process things internally and then talk through it later. It sucks to not have my nearest and dearest actually near me; I could use a real conversation - not one by Skype - followed by a real hug. 37 days until I'm home.
The show seamlessly moved from comedy to tragedy and back again, a series of poems interwoven to tell a life story that was at times foreign and familiar to me (and I imagine many women). Chin talked about the pain of her father choosing to not recognize her as his daughter and twice being abandoned by her mother, who chose a life alone in Canada to one in which she raised her two children. She talked about her childhood curiosity sparked by her changing body, watching in amazement as she transformed from a girl to a woman. She talked about discovering her love for women and the harsh backlash from Jamaican society in response to her living out loud. She talked about her decision to move to New York City and how she grew as a poet there. She talked about a lot of things.
She relived almost being gang raped by a group of students in a bathroom at her university in Jamaica (I think in Kingston). It was to be a corrective rape, to teach her 'what a real dick feels like' and fix her of her lesbian ways. By luck, someone walked into the bathroom and served as a distraction for enough time for Chin to escape. She also alluded to being molested or sexually assaulted by a male cousin. This was what she fled from - sexism and homophobia, both of which made her the target of violence.
Toward the end of the show, Chin stood at the back of the small stage on top of a foot-high platform with her arms spread wide, as if ready to hug everyone in the audience. At first in a normal voice, she said, 'What happened to you was not your fault.' And then she said it again louder. And again louder. And again louder, until she was shouting with her head thrown back, her wide open arms now making her look like she was on a cross, a martyr for the female cause.
What happened to you was not your fault.
It breaks my heart that I know so many women to whom this sentence should be, and has been, said. I know family and friends who have been abused, assaulted, and raped. Chin shouting this line was not to make sure that her audience heard her. It was a small theater; we all heard her. Her shouting was an attempt for her message to move beyond the walls of the theater and be heard by all who were not in attendance. Or perhaps her shouting was an attempt to make the statement permeate the skin, muscle, and bones to reach the center of each individual so that we carried it with us when we left. It was an empowering moment to hear this stated so forcefully, but also tragic because I know I will repeat it in the future.
And this is why I needed a hug after the show.
As K, ChuckNorris, and I left the theater and made our way down the steps to the foyer, we were all quiet. The first thing said was, 'Well, I don't know about you, but I thought she was hot.' I had the urge to turn to K and yell, asking how something so shallow could possibly be her first thought. But I realized this might be how she was processing the gravity of the show's content, by focusing on something light. When I was little I would smile before crying when I heard something sad, like when I was told that my Grandma died. My reaction made no sense to me then, but I couldn't help it. That was just how my brain responded. Now I mostly choose to be silent after experiencing something emotionally draining or traumatic, process things internally and then talk through it later. It sucks to not have my nearest and dearest actually near me; I could use a real conversation - not one by Skype - followed by a real hug. 37 days until I'm home.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Policy research here I come!
Today I met with the boss to discuss my proposal to further reduce the number of hours I volunteer each week. I spoke with some people on Skype last night and got the chance to practice my explanation. I felt prepared to make my case.
I was going to tell him that I understood my volunteering was to be a mutually beneficial work arrangement. that in the two months I've been here, I see little to no benefit for my resume. that I still have enough time in the next three weeks to accomplish something on my own, outside of working with the organization. that I planned to pursue research on immigration issues and interviews for articles I want to write. that the two options I see moving forward are either this is my last week volunteering or I cut down to only two days a week for the next three weeks.
I was prepared to hear him make empty promises of changing my work so that I'd be happier, but I've heard him say this too many times without any follow through to believe it. I was prepared for his attempt to guilt me into staying, based on his email last night saying that he'd accept my 'resignation' with 'great disappointment.' [Sidenote: Volunteers can't resign. So dramatic.] I tried to prepare myself for what I expected to be a volatile, emotional reaction, since that's how he usually responds to things.
This morning, the boss and I moved from the office to the back porch to discuss my schedule. I told him I was frustrated by my lack of new work experience. I told him I planned to pursue research and interviews on my own outside of the office. And he listened without interruption. This is not his normal reaction. He sat stoically, sipping his black coffee, his feet resting on the white wicker chair in front of him. And when I finished talking, we proceeded to have a conversation - not a debate or argument - about what it was that I hoped to do while I was here - policy research on immigration - and how that could still happen in my last three weeks here. The boss pulled out a copy of today's Mail&Guardian newspaper and showed me two calls for submissions from Parliament on upcoming legislation that could impact immigrants in South Africa.
We discussed what steps are necessary for me to research and write short policy papers on behalf of the organization and what can be done to lobby MPs to support our recommendations beyond just submitting the statement. We discussed who would take over my current work load. We discussed that I would not be tied to the office and could work wherever I wanted, so long as I kept to the proposed schedule and got the work done.
This was not at all what I expected. As of last night, I was resolute that I was done with this organization. I was done sitting back and watching my time here slip by as I continued to do a whole lot of nothing of importance. But just when I think I'm out, the boss pulls me back in. So I'm back in until my tentative trip to Durban and Gaborone. Today I found and read the originals and proposed amendments to the South African Citizenship Act and the Births and Deaths Registration Act. Tomorrow, I will summarize the proposed changes, with an emphasis on those that would directly impact immigrants.
And the other benefit of this new plan is that I don't have to give up on my plans for pursuing interviews for articles. The flexibility offered by my new schedule and the fact that I'm not pinned to the office means I can schedule interviews when I want, so long as they don't interfere with my work.
So I will be getting the new work experience I wanted and a more flexible schedule so that I'm also able to pursue outside-of-work interests. I'm still confused how this all happened, but I'm okay with it.
I was going to tell him that I understood my volunteering was to be a mutually beneficial work arrangement. that in the two months I've been here, I see little to no benefit for my resume. that I still have enough time in the next three weeks to accomplish something on my own, outside of working with the organization. that I planned to pursue research on immigration issues and interviews for articles I want to write. that the two options I see moving forward are either this is my last week volunteering or I cut down to only two days a week for the next three weeks.
I was prepared to hear him make empty promises of changing my work so that I'd be happier, but I've heard him say this too many times without any follow through to believe it. I was prepared for his attempt to guilt me into staying, based on his email last night saying that he'd accept my 'resignation' with 'great disappointment.' [Sidenote: Volunteers can't resign. So dramatic.] I tried to prepare myself for what I expected to be a volatile, emotional reaction, since that's how he usually responds to things.
This morning, the boss and I moved from the office to the back porch to discuss my schedule. I told him I was frustrated by my lack of new work experience. I told him I planned to pursue research and interviews on my own outside of the office. And he listened without interruption. This is not his normal reaction. He sat stoically, sipping his black coffee, his feet resting on the white wicker chair in front of him. And when I finished talking, we proceeded to have a conversation - not a debate or argument - about what it was that I hoped to do while I was here - policy research on immigration - and how that could still happen in my last three weeks here. The boss pulled out a copy of today's Mail&Guardian newspaper and showed me two calls for submissions from Parliament on upcoming legislation that could impact immigrants in South Africa.
We discussed what steps are necessary for me to research and write short policy papers on behalf of the organization and what can be done to lobby MPs to support our recommendations beyond just submitting the statement. We discussed who would take over my current work load. We discussed that I would not be tied to the office and could work wherever I wanted, so long as I kept to the proposed schedule and got the work done.
This was not at all what I expected. As of last night, I was resolute that I was done with this organization. I was done sitting back and watching my time here slip by as I continued to do a whole lot of nothing of importance. But just when I think I'm out, the boss pulls me back in. So I'm back in until my tentative trip to Durban and Gaborone. Today I found and read the originals and proposed amendments to the South African Citizenship Act and the Births and Deaths Registration Act. Tomorrow, I will summarize the proposed changes, with an emphasis on those that would directly impact immigrants.
And the other benefit of this new plan is that I don't have to give up on my plans for pursuing interviews for articles. The flexibility offered by my new schedule and the fact that I'm not pinned to the office means I can schedule interviews when I want, so long as they don't interfere with my work.
So I will be getting the new work experience I wanted and a more flexible schedule so that I'm also able to pursue outside-of-work interests. I'm still confused how this all happened, but I'm okay with it.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Smörgåsbord of thoughts
This is going to be a bit hectic, but there is no singular thought or event or topic on which to focus. I just need to write it down before I forget.
- Enough is enough. I'm so sick of complaining about the office and my frustration over not professionally benefiting from my time here. I'm giving the boss the option of either having next week be my last week volunteering OR reducing my schedule to only two days a week for the next three weeks. I'm going to spend the rest of my time here (before travel and being a tourist with Ari) conducting interviews and writing the articles I've been meaning to write for the past two months.
- I just got home from seeing 'border/clash,' a one-woman slam-poetry show by Staceyann Chin. It was spectacular and entertaining and emotional and intense and now I need a hug. And not just a quick embrace, but the kind of hug that says 'I am your friend and will support you emotionally; Lean on me.' And I have no one to get that kind of hug from here. Blerg. Oh, and you should definitely look Staceyann Chin up. Do it.
- I went to the beach! I went to Camps Bay with the two newish interns - K and ChuckNorris (his name is not really that, but it's what I've been referring to his as based on a joke he made) - G, the former organization project/office coordinator, G's roommate, and G's student journalist friend. We sat at a seaside cafe, ate lunch, basked in the glow of the glorious sun, walked along the water, and then sat on some rocks to watch the sun set. It was excellent.
- I'm loving the time I've been spending with ChuckNorris and K. They're both nice, funny, relaxed people, and as a bonus, they can relate to the chaos of the office. The three of us are planning on hiking Table Mountain on Sunday. If this is successful, I can check off one of Cape Town's three mountains. Fingers crossed the weather doesn't mess it up.
- I got a cupcake from another place listed as having one of Cape Town's top ten cupcakes. I've decided that I'm going to try them all before I leave. This new one was Florentines, which is in Kenilworth just a few minutes from where I'm staying. I got the lemon meringue cupcake - light lemon cake with a dollop of lemon curd in the middle and topped with fluffy meringue. 'Twas delicious.
- Looking forward to yoga tomorrow morning. Then lunch with K. Then finding and writing postcards to those I promised I would while hopefully sitting in the sun at a coffee shop.
- I'm on my fifth book of the trip - Long Walk to Freedom by Nelson Mandela. I'm about a third of the way through it and loving it. So far, I haven't read anything about him murdering anyone, but I've got my eyes peeled for that tidbit.
I think that's everything. Thanks for listening. Hopefully my next entry will be more coherent and fluid.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Discussing post-World Cup xenophobia
Yesterday I had a conversation with my friend from Simmons, Renee, about the issue of xenophobia in South Africa. I thought I'd share that gchat conversation with you because I think it brings up a lot of good questions (and decent answers on my part) about what's going on here. Please disregard the typos; it was on gchat, after all.
Renee: so whachadoin now?
3:22 PM me: working on text for a funding proposal. there's a former intern who wants to do a cycling trip from cairo to cape town to raise money and awareness about [the organization] and the plight of refugees in SA.
it's a really ambitious plan.
so i'm helping out with the actual proposal.
Renee: wow. sounds awesome
3:23 PM me: yea
Renee: so, was post-world cut violence not as bad as predicted?
me: it's a six-month trip, going through 9 countries.
Renee: on a bycicle?
yeesh
me: on a bicycle
yea
3:24 PM i was asking her what training she was going to do to prepare - since she plans on biking around 50 miles a day - and she said she's not really worried about training, she just assumes she'll adapt after the first week or two. eesh.
so there have been some sporadic flare ups of violence, around 100 people in the western cape were displaced. but there is a lot of tension, fear that something will still happen.
3:25 PM Renee: oh goodness
me: yea
Renee: has your organization been threatened at all?
3:26 PM me: right now the police presence is high, and the army are on high alert, so it seems that's the main reason nothing has happened, or nothing big anyway, but it's unlikely the police will stay out at their current levels, which means once the police leave, the frustration remains, and then something could happen, just a bit delayed.
3:27 PM not the organization. but some zimbabweans who work here are definitely worried, scared about their safety bc they live in the townships.
3:28 PM Renee: is there anything that can be done to ease that tension?
or are foreigners just leaving on their own?
what a horrible situation
me: a lot of zimbabweans have left to go back to zim, which says a lot about the situation in SA and zim.
Renee: no kidding
me: i think there is work that can ease the tension, but there's no short answer.
3:29 PM Renee: sure
me: bc the tension revolves around jobs, housing - things that take a long time to address.
Renee: right right
3:30 PM me: and there are low level ANC politicians, who are unable to deliver on those things that they promised, so they tell their constituents that it's the foreigners fault, not their own.
3:31 PM so a short-term solution is for high-level politicians to stand against xenophobia and make it clear to those low level politicians that promoting conflict will not stand.
Renee: so it's coming from the top?!
me: no, it's coming from the bottom
Renee: oh my goodness. what a mess
3:32 PM me: politicians are saying what they have to to get re-elected.
Renee: as is always the case
me: but if the top guys say to the bottom guys that they cannot promote conflict and expect to remain in office, then those at the bottom might change their tune. bc it's all about staying in power and staying in office.
3:34 PM it's a hot mess.
3:36 PM Renee: well it's a good thing they've got people on the ground like you trying to work on it!
me: haha, thanks
3:38 PM i'm impressed and thankful for the strong government and civil society response to the threats, BUT it's also too little, too late. it's a reactive, not proactive response to a continuous threat. this didn't come out of nowhere and it's not going away any time soon.
3:39 PM Renee: are there really efforts within the government to make long-term changes?
me: not that i can see.
3:40 PM THOUGH there is a piece of legislation coming up through parliament between now and september that make xenophobia a crime.
which i think is a really good step. it's like hate crime legislation - the intent of the crime is important.
Renee: that's a step
for sure
3:41 PM me: yea
3:42 PM and [the organization] is part of a 3ish-month campaign with three other ngos to collect 1 million signatures to stand against, racism, xenophobia, and hate... which is nice, but i'm skeptical about how much it'll change the real dynamic of south africans with their african brethren.
3:43 PM Renee: you have to start pushing for change somewhere
and let it be know that it's not accepted and it's not right
and whatever
me: right
haha
the whatever part is very important ;)
3:44 PM Renee: i didn't know how to end that
me: haha, neither do i. and it seems many here don't either, which is why the problem remains.
3:46 PM Renee: that country has been through so much in only a few years
hopefully they can figure it out
3:47 PM me: yea, they'll have to. and i think the pressure is really on after the successful hosting of the world cup.
3:49 PM Renee: very true
me: what an exciting time to be in south africa...
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Happy Mandela Day!
Today - Mandela Day - was another great day. In honor of Nelson Mandela's 92nd birthday, everyone was encouraged to do 67 minutes of community service today to commemorate the 67 years of service Madiba has given to South Africa.
I did community service with D, the couchsurfer who hosted me on my last trip, and two of her coworkers. We went to a food bank in Philippi, a township about 30 minutes outside of Cape Town; we made and packaged sandwiches that were later delivered to an orphanage in Khayelitsha, Cape Town's largest township. The first picture is of me with D (far right) and her two coworkers behind stacks of packaged sandwiches. The second photo is from a wall at the orphanage. I wanted to take more photos there, especially of the children, but it seemed inappropriate considering I was there as a guest, not a journalist.
I did community service with D, the couchsurfer who hosted me on my last trip, and two of her coworkers. We went to a food bank in Philippi, a township about 30 minutes outside of Cape Town; we made and packaged sandwiches that were later delivered to an orphanage in Khayelitsha, Cape Town's largest township. The first picture is of me with D (far right) and her two coworkers behind stacks of packaged sandwiches. The second photo is from a wall at the orphanage. I wanted to take more photos there, especially of the children, but it seemed inappropriate considering I was there as a guest, not a journalist.
The orphanage is part of a larger organization, called Baphumelele, that has an HIV/AIDS clinic and daycare center, among other things. The most moving and upsetting program at the organization is called Angel's Window. It consists of a large-closet-sized room with a window that opens out to the street where people can drop off babies that they don't want. This is to prevent those infants from being dumped into the garbage or ocean or wherever. I want to go back to do an interview with Rosie, the woman who runs the whole organization, about Angel's Window.
Two noteworthy (at least to me) thoughts popped into my head during my morning. One, I learned that D and her fellow Indian coworker both speak Afrikaans. They learned it at school. They said it was compulsory, but I don't know if learning another language is required or learning Afrikaans specifically is. I think it's the former because D's roommate took Zulu. I didn't ask this of D or her coworker, but my first thought was, 'How do you feel about learning and speaking the language of the oppressor?' This definitely goes back to an issue I mentioned several blog entries ago: In general, I have a problem with Afrikaans culture. Of course, it's not until writing this that I even consider that English is also the language of the oppressor, just one that didn't orchestrate and implement apartheid. Instead it is my language, and since I don't think of myself as an oppressor, I don't associate my language with oppression. But if it's fair for me to disassociate my language from the acts of others who also speak it, shouldn't I be able to separate Afrikaans from what some people who speak the language did? I am going to dwell on this further...
The other thought I had was about the leftover physical structure of apartheid. It took around 30 minutes to get from Kenilworth to Philippi by car. I imagine that it would be closer to an hour to get from the township to Cape Town by minibus because of stops along the way. In traveling this distance, it is not hard to imagine that white people didn't know what was happening to their black and coloured brothers and sisters during apartheid. Even today, while trying to find our way to the food bank (we got lost; it actually took closer to an hour to get to our final destination), D's coworker made some odd comments when driving past or through certain areas. My impression is that he rarely travels into a township and carries preconceived notions about them when he does. I found this surprising because he's Indian; it's something I would more expect from a white South African. I think this shows that today the divide in South Africa is not along race lines, but class.
After giving 67 minutes for Madiba, I made a quick stop at the grocery store and then went into to town for the Ubuntu Festival. This was also part of the Mandela Day celebration.
I was supposed to go to town earlier to join the march against xenophobia - sponsored by the delicious Charly's Bakery - and meet up with K, the newish intern, but the morning took longer than planned, so I ended up going to the festival by myself. There was live music - Keeno Lee and Chad Saaiman are worth checking out - and vendors selling food - I got the best cupcake I've had here and a Portuguese treat called malacada.
Despite being surrounded by people, I felt detached from it all. I'm realizing while it's great to see and experience new things, it's so much better to share those new things with someone else.
Random sidenote: I am feeling the lingering pain of the more-challenging-than-my-body-can-handle yoga class from yesterday. I can't wait to go again on Saturday!
Saturday, July 17, 2010
They call me the Astronaut
What do you think of when you hear the term 'baby shower'? I think of a prim and proper luncheon with either light pink or pale blue decorations. A pile of meticulously wrapped gifts containing baby blankets, bottles, rattles, toys, maybe a stroller stacked in the corner of the room. An agenda with games sandwiched between eating and opening presents. Full disclosure, I've never been to a baby shower, so this image is based entirely on what I've seen on television and in photos and heard about from friends.
This is a very American version of a baby shower. Turns out, Zimbabweans do it a bit differently.
Background: Earlier this week, I, along with the other women in the office, were invited to attend the baby shower of a friend of T, the Zimbabwean women who works here. She said it would be a chance for us to see their traditions and customs. I hadn't put much thought into the invite and wasn't planning on attending. The only reason I did go was because I was with K, the newish intern with whom I've been hanging out, and she wanted to go, but not by herself.
The shower was hosted in someone's apartment, which was in what looked like a South African version of projects. Or at least what I imagine projects to look like, again based on television and photos. The hallways had no lights. The stairs, floor, and walls were all dark gray concrete. When we got to the apartment, it was a small room with one overhead light and a small window with a swing-out cover looking into the hallway. There were around 20 women sitting around the edges of the room on plastic white chairs, encircling a blanket and pillow on the floor. There was a table to the far left with food and a cooler with Smirnoff Twist (or something like that). K and I declined to take the food and drink offered to us. I can't speak for her, but my 'no, thank you' answer was both because I was full from lunch and I felt bad taking it when I brought nothing. I felt guilty taking food and drink from people who appeared to be in a financial situation where they could not afford to give it away.
K and I arrived two hours after the scheduled start of the shower, but we got there right on time. Turns out the first two hours were just for eating and drinking - not official traditions and customs. I don't know what I expected to see or learn, but what transpired was beyond my wildest fantasy. This Zimbabwean baby shower was focused around the idea of all the women coming together to teach the mother-to-be how to please her man. Now, you might be thinking, 'If she's pregnant, clearly she knows how to have sex.' True. T explained that the games played were more typical of a bridal shower, but they decided to have it at the baby shower.
The event started with a prayer; it was in Shona, so I have no idea what was said, but there were several points when 'hallelujah' and 'amen' were said by those listening. The MC of the event was nice enough to translate most everything from Shona to English for K and me, but left out the opening prayer. The serious prayer was followed by another prayer of sorts, giving thanks for the penis and the vagina and that they fit together so nicely. And from here, with the second prayer setting the tone of the shower, the ridiculousness starts.
The MC informs everyone that each woman has to give herself an 'insulting' bedroom name; if she fails to do so, she is fined R10. Goodness me. I think even the most sexually liberated American woman would have blushed. Some stellar names, which I'll refrain from explaining because my parents read this, were CNN (Condom Not Necessary), Sugar Factory, Backstitch, and Firecrotch. I, too, came up with a name because I couldn't afford the R10 fine. Again, I'll refrain from explanation, but I dubbed myself the astronaut. All of the women roared with laughter at the names my fellow pale American and I gave ourselves. I don't know if they thought we wouldn't play along, but they certainly loved that we did. I can't remember the last time I was so mortified and embarrassed. I laughed, both because it was funny and terrifying, almost the entire time. The best part was that the MC's translation of each woman's name was usually accompanied with some hip gyration and hand gesture. What might have been lost in translation was definitely made up for in charades. Oh, the MC also had a prepackaged banana-and-two-oranges sculpture hanging from her waste, held on by a shoelace tied around herself. Unfortunately, K and I could only stay for an hour before catching a minibus home before dark. We missed what I imagine would have been even more amazing than the name game - each woman demonstrating her own tried-and-true technique for the soon-to-be mom.
Today was the best day I've had since arriving in South Africa. I am littering bouncing in my seat right now, trying to keep my fingers steady on the keyboard as I type. Today included:
This was as perfect a day as I could imagine here.
This is a very American version of a baby shower. Turns out, Zimbabweans do it a bit differently.
Background: Earlier this week, I, along with the other women in the office, were invited to attend the baby shower of a friend of T, the Zimbabwean women who works here. She said it would be a chance for us to see their traditions and customs. I hadn't put much thought into the invite and wasn't planning on attending. The only reason I did go was because I was with K, the newish intern with whom I've been hanging out, and she wanted to go, but not by herself.
The shower was hosted in someone's apartment, which was in what looked like a South African version of projects. Or at least what I imagine projects to look like, again based on television and photos. The hallways had no lights. The stairs, floor, and walls were all dark gray concrete. When we got to the apartment, it was a small room with one overhead light and a small window with a swing-out cover looking into the hallway. There were around 20 women sitting around the edges of the room on plastic white chairs, encircling a blanket and pillow on the floor. There was a table to the far left with food and a cooler with Smirnoff Twist (or something like that). K and I declined to take the food and drink offered to us. I can't speak for her, but my 'no, thank you' answer was both because I was full from lunch and I felt bad taking it when I brought nothing. I felt guilty taking food and drink from people who appeared to be in a financial situation where they could not afford to give it away.
K and I arrived two hours after the scheduled start of the shower, but we got there right on time. Turns out the first two hours were just for eating and drinking - not official traditions and customs. I don't know what I expected to see or learn, but what transpired was beyond my wildest fantasy. This Zimbabwean baby shower was focused around the idea of all the women coming together to teach the mother-to-be how to please her man. Now, you might be thinking, 'If she's pregnant, clearly she knows how to have sex.' True. T explained that the games played were more typical of a bridal shower, but they decided to have it at the baby shower.
The event started with a prayer; it was in Shona, so I have no idea what was said, but there were several points when 'hallelujah' and 'amen' were said by those listening. The MC of the event was nice enough to translate most everything from Shona to English for K and me, but left out the opening prayer. The serious prayer was followed by another prayer of sorts, giving thanks for the penis and the vagina and that they fit together so nicely. And from here, with the second prayer setting the tone of the shower, the ridiculousness starts.
The MC informs everyone that each woman has to give herself an 'insulting' bedroom name; if she fails to do so, she is fined R10. Goodness me. I think even the most sexually liberated American woman would have blushed. Some stellar names, which I'll refrain from explaining because my parents read this, were CNN (Condom Not Necessary), Sugar Factory, Backstitch, and Firecrotch. I, too, came up with a name because I couldn't afford the R10 fine. Again, I'll refrain from explanation, but I dubbed myself the astronaut. All of the women roared with laughter at the names my fellow pale American and I gave ourselves. I don't know if they thought we wouldn't play along, but they certainly loved that we did. I can't remember the last time I was so mortified and embarrassed. I laughed, both because it was funny and terrifying, almost the entire time. The best part was that the MC's translation of each woman's name was usually accompanied with some hip gyration and hand gesture. What might have been lost in translation was definitely made up for in charades. Oh, the MC also had a prepackaged banana-and-two-oranges sculpture hanging from her waste, held on by a shoelace tied around herself. Unfortunately, K and I could only stay for an hour before catching a minibus home before dark. We missed what I imagine would have been even more amazing than the name game - each woman demonstrating her own tried-and-true technique for the soon-to-be mom.
Today was the best day I've had since arriving in South Africa. I am littering bouncing in my seat right now, trying to keep my fingers steady on the keyboard as I type. Today included:
- Beautiful weather;
- An ass-kicking yoga class this morning;
- Trying a new restaurant - Mango Ginger - in a new neighborhood - Observatory;
- Attending a Zimbabwean baby shower; and
- Bonding with K at all three events.
This was as perfect a day as I could imagine here.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Adapt. React. Readapt. Act.
I never thought I'd take advice from Michael Scott, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
I cannot continue to complain about my frustrations with work and my stifled existence outside of the office without taking action. I sit in the office with little work to do and the work I do have is mostly mindless. After work I sit in my flat, alone, because I cannot afford safe transportation into to the city and back to the suburbs after dark. I am missing out on the awesomeness of Cape Town for no reason. I go days without leaving the house/guest house compound. I go from the guest house across the driveway to the office in the house and then back to the guest house. Often, my only escape beyond the gate during the work week is the restaurant or gas station up the street. I feel trapped and isolated. I am wasting time in an office when I could be enjoying the Mother City. I am starting to resent the organization and boss because I see them as impeding my happiness. But the reality is that I decided to come here. I decided to stay in the guest house for the entirety of my internship. I decided to work with this organization. I decided to volunteer full time.
I decided it's time for a change.
I am cutting my hours in the office. I will now only work until 1 p.m. on Tuesdays and Fridays. This will give me plenty of time to go into town and come back to the suburbs before dark. I want to explore all the neighborhoods I've heard about but never visited. I want to pursue freelance articles more aggressively and now I'll be able to schedule interviews during work hours. I want to hike Cape Town's three mountains, but have so far been thwarted by the weather on the weekend. I want to sit at seaside cafes and read a book. I want to meet new CSers for an afternoon coffee. I want to have a life outside of work.
Hopefully this change will re-energize my efforts in the office and reignite my love affair with this city. I think this will do the trick to get me through the last 4.5 weeks of my internship without constantly questioning my decision to be here.
Yesterday - as a test run before discussing the time change with the boss - I left the office around 2:30 p.m. with the purpose of buying World Cup items for people at home and finding the best bakery in town. Both objectives were achieved with great success. The WC gear isn't worth a picture, but the baked goods are.
This new arrangement is working out already.
I cannot continue to complain about my frustrations with work and my stifled existence outside of the office without taking action. I sit in the office with little work to do and the work I do have is mostly mindless. After work I sit in my flat, alone, because I cannot afford safe transportation into to the city and back to the suburbs after dark. I am missing out on the awesomeness of Cape Town for no reason. I go days without leaving the house/guest house compound. I go from the guest house across the driveway to the office in the house and then back to the guest house. Often, my only escape beyond the gate during the work week is the restaurant or gas station up the street. I feel trapped and isolated. I am wasting time in an office when I could be enjoying the Mother City. I am starting to resent the organization and boss because I see them as impeding my happiness. But the reality is that I decided to come here. I decided to stay in the guest house for the entirety of my internship. I decided to work with this organization. I decided to volunteer full time.
I decided it's time for a change.
I am cutting my hours in the office. I will now only work until 1 p.m. on Tuesdays and Fridays. This will give me plenty of time to go into town and come back to the suburbs before dark. I want to explore all the neighborhoods I've heard about but never visited. I want to pursue freelance articles more aggressively and now I'll be able to schedule interviews during work hours. I want to hike Cape Town's three mountains, but have so far been thwarted by the weather on the weekend. I want to sit at seaside cafes and read a book. I want to meet new CSers for an afternoon coffee. I want to have a life outside of work.
Hopefully this change will re-energize my efforts in the office and reignite my love affair with this city. I think this will do the trick to get me through the last 4.5 weeks of my internship without constantly questioning my decision to be here.
Yesterday - as a test run before discussing the time change with the boss - I left the office around 2:30 p.m. with the purpose of buying World Cup items for people at home and finding the best bakery in town. Both objectives were achieved with great success. The WC gear isn't worth a picture, but the baked goods are.
This new arrangement is working out already.
Monday, July 12, 2010
No need to worry
It has come to my attention that my post about xenophobic violence in South Africa might cause some people to worry about my safety here. After rereading it, I realize it's a bit dramatic. The reality is that the first part of the last line rings true: I have no reason to be scared for my personal safety here.
Historically, xenophobic violence has been committed by members of the impoverished communities and targeted against other impoverished Africans. And the violence is physically isolated within those communities. As a white American living in a wealthyish suburb of Cape Town, it is unlikely I will see any xenophobic violence other than through photos in the newspaper.
The apartheid strategy of divide (literally, the city and townships in Cape Town are divided by mountains) and rule set up a very structured approach to separating the white population (today it's more honest to say upper/middle classes, though still majority white) from the black and coloured populations (today, the poor). I do not expect to be impacted by violence because the apartheid structure, the aparthied landscape, still lives. If it weren't for media coverage, or the fact that I'm volunteering with an organization concerned with the wellbeing of immigrants, I could easily go about my day without knowing anything about what is happening in the townships.
So far there have been several reported incidents of violence - approximately 35 Somali-owned shops were looted and around 110 people were displaced by a mob throwing rocks. Based on what the boss told me, the police responded swiftly and safety sites were set up for the displaced until things calm down. I think the South African government will do everything in its power to stomp out any violence. It would be stupid to let all the goodwill earned from hosting a successful World Cup go to waste. The government has had plenty of time to prepare for such attacks and it has experience dealing with it from the 2008 outbreak. It should know how to react and it would be stupid for it not to.
Historically, xenophobic violence has been committed by members of the impoverished communities and targeted against other impoverished Africans. And the violence is physically isolated within those communities. As a white American living in a wealthyish suburb of Cape Town, it is unlikely I will see any xenophobic violence other than through photos in the newspaper.
The apartheid strategy of divide (literally, the city and townships in Cape Town are divided by mountains) and rule set up a very structured approach to separating the white population (today it's more honest to say upper/middle classes, though still majority white) from the black and coloured populations (today, the poor). I do not expect to be impacted by violence because the apartheid structure, the aparthied landscape, still lives. If it weren't for media coverage, or the fact that I'm volunteering with an organization concerned with the wellbeing of immigrants, I could easily go about my day without knowing anything about what is happening in the townships.
So far there have been several reported incidents of violence - approximately 35 Somali-owned shops were looted and around 110 people were displaced by a mob throwing rocks. Based on what the boss told me, the police responded swiftly and safety sites were set up for the displaced until things calm down. I think the South African government will do everything in its power to stomp out any violence. It would be stupid to let all the goodwill earned from hosting a successful World Cup go to waste. The government has had plenty of time to prepare for such attacks and it has experience dealing with it from the 2008 outbreak. It should know how to react and it would be stupid for it not to.
Food for thought
I'm not homesick, but I miss home. I think this is largely due to my frustration with work. It is hard to feel justified being here - away from there - when I am doing and gaining so little with this organization. I could be frustrated at my lack-of-work growth in Boston. The whole point of being here was to be challenged, learn new things, and contribute meaningful assistance to an organization in which I believe. Maybe I am blinded by being in the middle of the experience, but I have trouble finding value in my time here so far.
This work frustration is hard, but by my inability to cook and bake and eat as I did at home is what really gets to me. I knew food was a big part of my life, but I just recently realized how much it defines my existence. I like cooking because I create something. because I can share that creation with others. because it's a social event. because it warms me up or cools me off. because each new recipe is an adventure, a challenge. because as a new recipe becomes a tried-and-true favorite, I can play with adaptations. because I know, and control, exactly what goes into my belly. because it is relaxing. and most importantly, because I get to eat at the end of the process. nom nom nom.
Here my kitchen is limited - one pan, one pot, one four-burner stovetop, one microwave. I like to think of this - making something delicious, yet simple - as an ongoing challenge. But the meals have become routine and boring. And cooking for one doesn't offer the same satisfaction as cooking for others. And baking would make the cold more bearable, but I have no oven.
During a recent Skype date with Alyssa, I expressed my surprise at going through cooking withdrawal. She was surprised by my surprise, pointing out that every time we see each other I talk about some new recipe from Vegetarian Times or a new kitchen tool Ari ordered online. Valid point.
When thinking of being home again, I am looking forward to the food as much as seeing friends and family again. (No offense.) I am looking forward to making the food I think about instead of thinking about the food I can't make.
Goodbye World Cup, Good riddance vuvuzelas
The World Cup took my hearing and might haven given me cancer. It was totally worth it.
Last night, I watched the final match with a coworker, C, her partner Paul, 17 of their friends and a couple hundred crazy fans at a bar called the Mexican Shebeen. The only thing Mexican about the place that I could see was that they served "tortilla with vegetables/chicken." The shebeen (formerly the term for an illegal bar in the townships; now most are legal, but still informal) part, though, seemed pretty accurate. The walls were covered with corrugated metal, giving the appearance of being inside of a shack; the seats were overturned, empty beer crates; and the tables were either picnic tables or just a piece of wood balanced on top of a stack of overturned, empty beer crates. There was always at least one person around me smoking, creating a haze that seemed ideal for concealing illegal activity.
Despite the lack of light and the clouds of smoke, there was no about who supported who. Individuals painted the flag of hir chosen team - Spain or Holland - on hir cheek and some, for those super hardcore fans, even painted hir entire face. Spanish and Dutch flags were worn as capes. People wore jerseys of red and yellow and scarves of orange and white. Personally, I donned an orange and black hat with joker-style cones with bells at the end sticking out of it. I found the Dutch fans to be more creative and committed when it came to their costumes. There were a couple of people in orange jump suits. Some wore neon orange afroesque wigs. But I could be biased because I was rooting for the Netherlands. I could also be biased because I was surrounded by Spanish fans, most of whom I wanted to punch. But there was one man who really stood out among all the others. Let's call him Dick.
Dick supported Spain. Dick had the red and yellow stripes of Spain's flag painted across the width of his face, from ear-across the nose-to ear. Dick had his hair styled like David Villa and drew a perfectly triangular black soul patch centered under his lower lip. Dick waved a full-size Spanish flag over anyone around him and from time-to-time created an unnecessary cloth door with the flag in the poorly lit, disorganized, small walkway next to our table. Dick, instead of walking around the table to get from one side to the other, walked across the table, often using me to balance himself and causing pieces of the ceiling to fall like a dusting of snow on everyone and everything below him. Dick, at one point, decided to stand next to me on the bench where I was sitting and blow his vuvuzelas while doing a little dance, which resulted in him almost falling on top of me and hitting me in the head with his butt. All of this would have been manageable if Dick didn't have a vuvuzela. But he did. If I blame anyone for my current hearing problems, it is Dick. Dick blew his stupid vuvuzela almost constantly for five hours. In or very near my ears. I take back everything positive I ever said about vuvuzelas. Dick ruined them - and my auditory system - for me.
By the end of the night, most of the tables in the bar were covered with empty bottles of Savanna Dry (hard cider) and Miller Genuine Draft. As the game wore on, people became more drunk and less patient for someone to score. There was one particularly stellar individual - not Dick - who decided that incessant banging on the metal walls was a useful way to expel some energy. When Spain finally scored and won the game, the place erupted. Someone spilled beer on me. A drunk man stood on an unstable table, which broke, causing him to fall and kick me in the leg on his way down.
What a glorified way to celebrate the beautiful game.
After the game, C, Paul, and I walked to Cape Town's party central - Long Street. The original plan was to go to Waiting Room, a hipster bar that I visited on my first time in South Africa with the Children's Table, with some of their friends, but we instead ended up at a pizza place. This was just fine by me. The three of us shared a pie and then squeezed our way back through the crowds of crying Dutch fans and euphoric Spanish ones to Paul's car.
Despite this not being the first World Cup game I watched in a bar, it was definitely the most fun. I can say without hesitation that I enjoyed the World Cup the way the World Cup was meant to be enjoyed, at least by drunk American standards.
Last night, I watched the final match with a coworker, C, her partner Paul, 17 of their friends and a couple hundred crazy fans at a bar called the Mexican Shebeen. The only thing Mexican about the place that I could see was that they served "tortilla with vegetables/chicken." The shebeen (formerly the term for an illegal bar in the townships; now most are legal, but still informal) part, though, seemed pretty accurate. The walls were covered with corrugated metal, giving the appearance of being inside of a shack; the seats were overturned, empty beer crates; and the tables were either picnic tables or just a piece of wood balanced on top of a stack of overturned, empty beer crates. There was always at least one person around me smoking, creating a haze that seemed ideal for concealing illegal activity.
Despite the lack of light and the clouds of smoke, there was no about who supported who. Individuals painted the flag of hir chosen team - Spain or Holland - on hir cheek and some, for those super hardcore fans, even painted hir entire face. Spanish and Dutch flags were worn as capes. People wore jerseys of red and yellow and scarves of orange and white. Personally, I donned an orange and black hat with joker-style cones with bells at the end sticking out of it. I found the Dutch fans to be more creative and committed when it came to their costumes. There were a couple of people in orange jump suits. Some wore neon orange afroesque wigs. But I could be biased because I was rooting for the Netherlands. I could also be biased because I was surrounded by Spanish fans, most of whom I wanted to punch. But there was one man who really stood out among all the others. Let's call him Dick.
Dick supported Spain. Dick had the red and yellow stripes of Spain's flag painted across the width of his face, from ear-across the nose-to ear. Dick had his hair styled like David Villa and drew a perfectly triangular black soul patch centered under his lower lip. Dick waved a full-size Spanish flag over anyone around him and from time-to-time created an unnecessary cloth door with the flag in the poorly lit, disorganized, small walkway next to our table. Dick, instead of walking around the table to get from one side to the other, walked across the table, often using me to balance himself and causing pieces of the ceiling to fall like a dusting of snow on everyone and everything below him. Dick, at one point, decided to stand next to me on the bench where I was sitting and blow his vuvuzelas while doing a little dance, which resulted in him almost falling on top of me and hitting me in the head with his butt. All of this would have been manageable if Dick didn't have a vuvuzela. But he did. If I blame anyone for my current hearing problems, it is Dick. Dick blew his stupid vuvuzela almost constantly for five hours. In or very near my ears. I take back everything positive I ever said about vuvuzelas. Dick ruined them - and my auditory system - for me.
By the end of the night, most of the tables in the bar were covered with empty bottles of Savanna Dry (hard cider) and Miller Genuine Draft. As the game wore on, people became more drunk and less patient for someone to score. There was one particularly stellar individual - not Dick - who decided that incessant banging on the metal walls was a useful way to expel some energy. When Spain finally scored and won the game, the place erupted. Someone spilled beer on me. A drunk man stood on an unstable table, which broke, causing him to fall and kick me in the leg on his way down.
What a glorified way to celebrate the beautiful game.
After the game, C, Paul, and I walked to Cape Town's party central - Long Street. The original plan was to go to Waiting Room, a hipster bar that I visited on my first time in South Africa with the Children's Table, with some of their friends, but we instead ended up at a pizza place. This was just fine by me. The three of us shared a pie and then squeezed our way back through the crowds of crying Dutch fans and euphoric Spanish ones to Paul's car.
Despite this not being the first World Cup game I watched in a bar, it was definitely the most fun. I can say without hesitation that I enjoyed the World Cup the way the World Cup was meant to be enjoyed, at least by drunk American standards.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Preparing for the worst
Rumors of post-World Cup xenophobic violence have been swirling around South Africa for months. Some incidents have already been reported in the local township communities. Now, with only three days left of the tournament, it seems the attacks are inevitable. The office phone has been ringing all day since Monday with reporters seeking an interview with the boss; we even got a call from the New York Times.
Today, several of my coworkers and I discussed what the organization could/should do to prepare. The consensus was that preventive efforts would be for naught at this point. There's nothing we could do before Monday, especially considering our limited funding, to stop anything from happening. There are plans in the works to set up "help desk" offices in four township to address xenophobic tensions, but those will take at least one month (probably longer) to establish and are designed to be long-term investments in the community. They might be effective today had efforts been made to establish these several months ago. They might also be pointless considering how much frustration is here among the poor - people who are tired of waiting for the services they were promised at independence 16 years ago - to be manipulated. Instead, it seems our efforts are better spent planning for response should anything happen. We think we could be effective in terms of monitoring communities and safety sites after any incidents. I have no experience monitoring on-the-ground conditions in at-risk, post-trauma communities. I hope there is no reason I have to learn this skill set now.
There was one reported incident of a Zimbabwean man being thrown out of a train in the Cape Town area. There are four Zimbabweans who work in the office, all of whom are concerned about being targets after the World Cup. There is one woman - quiet, shy, sweet - who is now scared to ride the train to and from work. It is heartbreaking seeing how scared she is and knowing there is nothing that can be done - nothing I can do - to make her feel safe.
And despite having no reason to be, I am also scared.
Today, several of my coworkers and I discussed what the organization could/should do to prepare. The consensus was that preventive efforts would be for naught at this point. There's nothing we could do before Monday, especially considering our limited funding, to stop anything from happening. There are plans in the works to set up "help desk" offices in four township to address xenophobic tensions, but those will take at least one month (probably longer) to establish and are designed to be long-term investments in the community. They might be effective today had efforts been made to establish these several months ago. They might also be pointless considering how much frustration is here among the poor - people who are tired of waiting for the services they were promised at independence 16 years ago - to be manipulated. Instead, it seems our efforts are better spent planning for response should anything happen. We think we could be effective in terms of monitoring communities and safety sites after any incidents. I have no experience monitoring on-the-ground conditions in at-risk, post-trauma communities. I hope there is no reason I have to learn this skill set now.
There was one reported incident of a Zimbabwean man being thrown out of a train in the Cape Town area. There are four Zimbabweans who work in the office, all of whom are concerned about being targets after the World Cup. There is one woman - quiet, shy, sweet - who is now scared to ride the train to and from work. It is heartbreaking seeing how scared she is and knowing there is nothing that can be done - nothing I can do - to make her feel safe.
And despite having no reason to be, I am also scared.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Back from the land of sun and sand
I am back in Cape Town from my short holiday in Namibia. I'll be posting photos and all the details in the next day or two. Overall, it was a great trip. I already have a longer return trip planned in my head. Below is one photo from the trip, just as a teaser for you.
That would be me petting a cheetah. I totally understand your jealousy.
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