Living in Contrast

A foreigner's ode to Jo'burg

2011-02-21T07:09:00.000-08:00

It is an elusive city; it always slips through your fingers when you try to grab it. This is the problem with living in a poverty-stricken metropolis: you want to hold up the darkest corners and show their beauty in the light. But when you lift the veil to see them, you are often met with a concrete reminder of why they have been covered for so long.

New foreigners say the city is full of contradictions, but often fail to point out its complexities. Yes, if you go to the suburbs in the morning, you will see the upper-middle class whites out for a morning jog, passing the black maids and gardeners walking to work from the taxi ranks. But at least these men and women are employed. You will go out to Diepsloot and see the Ferraris driving past the shacks. But the contrast just exemplifies people born in different circumstances. You will never become indifferent to the wealth discrepancy, but there is an inevitable callousness that ensues if you see it for long enough.

You will probably be taken advantage of. You will try to forget your skin color, your nationality, and your honest-looking face. You will try to cross the racial boundaries, but will get tired of being terrified of crashing in the taxis. In the beginning, you will empathize with the poor. Then, you will battle with yourself when you don’t, because you’re afraid it means your intellectual reasoning has trumped your humanity.

You will wonder why you were mugged, if it was karmic or just a coincidence. You will blame yourself for trying to get too close to the city—burning your hands in the fire when you just wanted to warm them.

And at night you’ll lock the garage, the gates and all of the doors. You’ll put your computer in the cupboard and turn the key before the maid comes. You’ll wish that trust wasn’t such a high commodity. We are all people, after all.

Then, the city will redeem itself. Even when it has pushed you to the brink, you remember the amount of good you can do here with so little. You will go to the townships and be embraced by the community. You will change a child’s life. You will dance to Kasi music: the African beats mixed with electro new-age pop. You will feel the heartbeat of the city. Someone will give you an opportunity you could have never dreamed of, because here tenacity is rewarded. And you will remember that the struggle of life in Johannesburg is more unified than it is divided.

Photo by David Dini

Umuzi Audio Slideshow

2011-01-18T06:58:00.000-08:00

Hello All!

I have been terrible at keeping this blog up over the last few months, but I'm going to try to rejuvenate it in the New Year.

Below is the link to an audio slideshow I produced for the Umuzi Photography Exhibition in New York. The story centers around a series of workshops we did in the township Diepsloot, located on the outskirts of Johannesburg. As you will see, the students produced incredible work.

Umuzi Audio Slideshow

Enjoy!

Special Needs in Brits

2010-10-27T05:37:00.000-07:00

"Don't Get Her Arrested"

2010-08-22T07:34:00.000-07:00

Here are some of the photos from my three days in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe, where I worked with Radio Dialogue. Despite many fears, the trip was incredible-- I have never been met with such kindness. The resulting print story will be in the Global Journalist Magazine, and (hopefully) the multimedia piece in the Mail And Guardian Online. Stay posted!

Where the Dirt Meets Concrete on Main Road

2010-08-12T01:54:00.000-07:00

The soles of my worn running shoes slap the pavement and my eyes water, absorbing the dust and smoke encircling Main Street. I try to meet the downcast eyes of the men and women walking past me, pushing up the treacherous hill. Some are hypnotized in transition: solely seeking home, a warm meal, and a bed in which to rest their heads. I speed down the curved decline, watching them carry grocery bags up -- sauntering from where the taxis have dropped them, up to the bus stop at the top of the hill. They pass where the dirt turns to concrete, where the sidewalk cracks in sharp slabs and trips me up.

The things I love and hate.

A dark figure is in the distance. He isn’t walking straight. When I get to him I don’t know if he will sway in to me, if he will speak ill to me, or if he will grin with all his teeth. “Nice legs.”

So I will say hello to everyone; the ones who match me with a kind smile recall my humility. But it is a warped game. At the root of my friendliness is fear. Because maybe if I make eye contact with this man I’m not sure I can trust, he won’t mug me.

The energy from the evening traffic is like a shot of adrenaline. The anxiety from the honking cars, speeding taxis, propels me forward. I cough on the fumes, resenting how they restrict my breath. I imagine the people driving by and wonder how they laugh at my struggle.

Later, another man races down the concrete hill on a side street, coming toward me. He’s wearing jeans and a dark zip-up top. When he gets to me he fiddles with the headphones that are falling out of his ears. I can’t help but wonder if he is running from a crime scene, or just going for a jog in normal clothes. I exhale hard, resenting myself for such skepticism.

But even the thieves look like businessmen here, with nice cars whose doors they leave open so they can make a getaway on a busy street and disappear into traffic.

My knees pound against the dirt, my arches curving to adjust to the protruding rocks. I lift my knees higher and push the balls of my feet into the ground. The ache verges on unbearable. I watch each face. And somehow, through my physical pain, hope to grasp each hardship.

But they just stare at me with equally watery eyes.

I glide down the final hill, over the dirt, over the concrete, over the broken glass, and feel like I am flying. I barely notice the homeless man sleeping between two trees covered in a blanket, surrounded by his only belongings. When I soar past him, I momentarily loathe myself for having the freedom to run, for having the strength. And, most of all, for not stopping.

A Vuvuzela Story: Game One

2010-06-18T07:58:00.000-07:00

They start at five a.m. and I am immediately awake, watching the sun come in through the stained curtains.

VOO VOO VOO VOO-VOO-VOO

They’ll persist until the night folds into morning, when sirens yell through the streets and fans finally turn in.

It is a constant hum. On TV it sounds like the accented announcer is screaming over giant pestering buzzards. But up close they’re sharp and catch in your ear until your head shakes.

On the street they come up behind me, blaring in time until a response sounds deeper from someone else a few meters ahead. When the two meet, the call and response continues and everyone dances around on the sidewalk. It carries on for several minutes then the group splits apart, carrying on down the street until each meet another.

In a moment of quietness I smile at a car guard who is beaming at me through white teeth. “It is here,” he says.

On the train to the fan park there is a baby next to me, pressed against her mother’s chest. Orange earplugs are bright against her skin and she is oblivious to the party in the car.

There is no point in talking; all words are overridden by celebration.

The women, draped in flags are seated and singing in Zulu, the men blow their horns echoing the women's voices. Everyone is swaying, stomping, a mob of green and yellow whistle wildly, their faces painted with the flag, hair covered with Mohawk wigs. Mobs of people press in to the cars blowing red horns and small whistles. The doors open and the party spills out into the streets.

The Central Business District in Cape Town is tame compared to Johannesburg, but we get out, following the instructions of a disheveled passenger in yellow pants. He said to find the waterfront. He turns to disappear in the crowd, on the butt of his pants in scrawled sharpie it reads: SA: 2 Mexico: 0.

Flash forward to the first goal scored by South Africa; the first goal of the World Cup. I am crushed in a mob of people that fill a tiny bar. On my tip-toes, I peer over the shoulders of a stranger, pushing against him so I can see the game projected against the wall. I turn my face to the ceiling, struggling to get clean air not tainted with body sweat. When South Africa scores I lose the screen, united in jumping madness. The blaring noise pounds in our ears; the sound of the entire country celebrating. I imagine the African ground below us, pounded with the feet of millions, the air carrying the vibrations of celebration.

We will tie Mexico, but the party will go into the night—filling the streets and blocking traffic. The South African rhythm will be the backdrop until dawn, blowing, humming and reminding every foreigner on this soil: it is here.

Video From Game Two in Jozi:

The Graduation Speech That Never Was

2010-04-28T18:33:00.001-07:00

For all of the journalism grads out there. It wasn't chosen, but this is what it would have been.

My fellow journalism grads, families, friends and everyone who has been on this journey with us, not just at Mizzou but throughout the years that have shaped who we are today.

It seems like we have just barely gotten through finals week, only to wake up this morning to a bright sun and the next chapter of our lives... I know, I didn’t expect it to happen this quickly either.

Surely it is a mixed bag of emotions. Surely we are sitting here, blinking, hardly able to believe that the last four years have gone by.

We came in, determined to be journalists, advertisers, and communicators. Now we question what these titles practically mean for the rest of our lives.

We are far from the eager-eyed and cocksure freshman who complained about taking Journalism 1010.

Now, we are not looking ahead to intimidating capstones, but rather the daunting task of taking our skills outside of the University context.

Today as we take those steps beyond the pillars that once warmly welcomed us with Tiger Stripe ice cream, there are two things as communicators, as students and as people that we must never forget.

The first is to know that we can accomplish anything.

They tell us there are no jobs.

They tell us the industry is failing.

They tell us that the future is unknown, that we must decide it.

They are waiting with baited breath.

When I hear these things, my stomach drops. Just like it did waiting for the results of a midterm I took after no sleep and six hours of coffee-induced studying.

But where does this fear come from? It comes from our imaginations.

My brother once told me that “too often great minds or gifts are wasted out of fear or excuses.” So let’s not make excuses.

Because right now there is more opportunity than ever before to shape this industry and this profession into what it should and could be: reliable, honest, informative, accurate but also meaningful.

Yes, the arrival of new media has forever changed the way we communicate, but it should never change why we communicate.

Stories and people have not changed.

We must remember to stay humble, we must remember those we serve. We must remember at the core of every story is a story about humanity and it is our duty to clearly express this—whether through twitter, blog, photos, video, flash graphics, slideshows, audio, or text.

Secondly, if we take away nothing else, no other skill from the Univeristy of Missouri School of Journalism let it be our ability to question.

Question the state of the world.

Question the societal role of journalism and advertising.

Question the barriers in the industry.

Question ourselves as we change.

We are no longer the gatekeepers of information. But there is still a role for us. It is to go deep enough into a story or message to find a truth that resonates with everyone.

We can still be the bearers of light, but remember that the wisdom is not a given. We are not wise for bearing light, but rather will be wise if we are gutsy enough and patient enough to delve deeper.

We have literally watched our dated journalism school move into the new media revolution. Now it is our turn.

Lets go out in to this world and embrace this life for what it is and for the possibilities of what it can some day be.

Please, Just Light My Way Home

2010-03-30T16:25:00.000-07:00

I realized before I left on the two-hour drive that I had forgotten my glasses. It was dark out and the streetlights played with my eyes and danced across my windshield. Their blurry impressions of light left my mind free to fill in the details. I started wondering, as I often do when I forget my glasses, if the Impressionist painters were really just near-sighted. I know that Van Gogh had epilepsy, but what about Monet? Did he too see the world without its details? Did he too extract from this that you don’t need every fact to form the exquisite truth?

I let my eyes blur the lights instead of straining to see their sources. Out of the corner of my left eye, I followed the painted white line illuminated by my headlights just a few feet in front of me. My step-mom’s words started to echo in my head: the saying she would tell me when I got overwhelmed about the uncontrollable future, “You can drive all the way from New York to California only seeing the road in front of you.” Sometimes all you need to see is that patch of yellow-lit black pavement. Luckily, that was mostly all I could see.

I looked at the wide windshield as if it were a frame for a moving painting. Blurred McDonalds arches and white billboards I couldn’t read came in and out, barely becoming more in focus. Perhaps the Midwest highway is more beautiful this way. I could see the open sky and the glow of the full moon hanging low. I could see the reflectors on the side of the road, forming a line that made its way to a disappearing point in the distance—a point always on the horizon no matter how far I’ve driven.

This will be one of the last trips I make from Kansas City to Columbia. This is one of the last times highway I70 will lead me home. It was on this highway four years ago that I woke up sweating in the backseat of my mom’s car. I felt soaked in the August humidity and drenched in resentment. Why was I brought here? I was groggy and couldn’t remember the picture of our destination or how I should feel about it. The only images I could recollect were the tearful goodbyes compounded by my gut that ached with the pain of detachment. There had been so many goodbyes. And then the crisp night before, which I spent on the floor of my empty room in Portland. That night, Audrey slept with me on my unfolded sleeping bag where the bed used to be. The room was a different color now. The ceiling finally matched the angled walls. Fresh paint replaced its old comforting smell. My photographs, cards, and posters were gone. It was just us, my pink-striped sleeping bag from summer camp and my rolling black suitcase.

Since that night, home has been a place that is ever changing for me. But maybe that’s just the nostalgia talking. Maybe even before that, my home was never set in stone but characterized by an overnight bag that moved with me from Mom’s house to Dad’s. Or maybe home isn’t a place at all.

I just finished reading an essay one of my professors wrote called “Home is Where the Heart Aches,” and I can’t seem it get it, or its title out of my head. Home is where the heart aches. Sometimes my heart aches for Portland. It aches for the summer days that dragged on, sitting in the backyard of my friend Annie’s house listening to music, having water fights and making whipped cream from scratch. Sometimes my heart aches for New York and the month two summers ago I spent with Ben and his roommates. It aches for the scorching, miserable day when we lugged the blow-up pool (and two 25 pound weights that Ben insisted on buying) from downtown Manhattan to his house near Queens because we had to have a kiddy-pool on the roof. It aches for the summers in Baltimore when I heard crickets and saw fireflies for the first time. When I drove down the highway with my cousin Jeremy listening to Shimmer by Fuel and feeling much older than I was. It aches for the day my grandfather Poppop watched me run around the high school track near their house. “You’re real good, Em,” he told me as I circled around, shoes burning on the ground-up tires.

It aches for my vegan Thanksgiving in Kansas City. It aches for the spongy grass in Florida. It aches for the Alaskan world that I have yet to discover.

When I was a little girl I would lie awake in my bed in Portland, listening to the breeze through the old mesh windows. I would look out over my neighbor’s yard to a streetlight on the next block. Every night I would look for it. And every night it glowed yellow. Sometimes I thought of it as a star watching over me. I loved that blurred light so much as it always managed to glow through the overgrown trees night after night.

In many ways these moments of contentment will always be the home that I have in myself. Even if the places where they occurred are not my physical home. Sometimes finding home feels like aiming for that disappearing point on the highway. Sometimes I will resent it because I can only see what it isn’t, and not the elegant, beautiful, blurred painting that it is.

For now, I will continue my drive, playing games with the lights as they hit my windshield, and relishing the unique magnificence of my Missouri home.

Revival

2010-02-21T12:38:00.000-08:00

In light of some recent happenings, I have decided to revive the blog. Perhaps readers won’t be quite as intrigued now that I am not technically Living in Contrast, but I think that in some ways I still am, in the way that everyone is.

Naturally, my goals for this blog have changed somewhat. Initially I wanted to tell stories about South Africans I was meeting and experiences that I was having. But when I look back over the last entry, I see that it is more about accomplishing an unfathomable dream.

In many ways life in Columbia has been much more challenging than life in South Africa. Even the most optimistic, hopeful, determined person can be crushed by the pressure of graduation, of reality, and of that word that I hate: future.

I feel like my life has once again become a countdown of time: three months until graduation, four months until I return to Johannesburg, six months until United Airlines will remind me to come back to Kansas City. Ten months until I am 23 and need to prove to myself that I have done something in this world, that the last year has not been a waste, and I have lived to my fullest potential.

Sometimes I get glimpses of what my parents and grandparents have been telling me for years: time goes by quicker than you think. When did I become 22? There are eight years until I am 30. Seriously. Think about that—it is equidistance from 14. I still feel 14, okay not really… but at least 17. Not 22.

Several years ago I felt a similar perplexity at the loss of time and decided that I would do something remarkable with my life every year. At least that way I can look back on my life and say,

that was the year I ran my first marathon

that was the year I wrote a screenplay

that was the year I left everyone I knew in Portland and came to Missouri

that was the year I went to Johannesburg for five and a half months.

Some year I’ll be 81, looking back on my eightieth year that has just been a tiny fraction – a mere 1/80^th-- of my lifetime. A millisecond.

That was the year I learned to knit because damnit, I’m 80.

It doesn’t matter the level of the accomplishment, but if it is remarkable to you in some way (like my aunt who started creating sculptures out of dryer lint) then do it.

If I keep track in this way, will it make my lifetime seem more quantifiable? I’m not sure. Maybe it makes the countdown less maddening.

I talked to my brother last night, trying to get the cliff notes on how to approach graduation and the daunting task of deciding your life. He told me the simplest thing, that of course I knew along, and we all know all along, but just lose sight of: it is the journey that counts, not the destination.

I am going back to Johannesburg for the World Cup in hopes of jumpstarting an international reporting career. Will it work? I have no idea. Am I terrified? Absolutely. Yes my 22^nd year can always be “the year that I graduate,” but for me I know that my remarkable thing must be more than that. Graduation, for many of us, has become a given. Where you direct your life after that is the challenge. So let yourself be remarkable.

On Endings

2010-01-28T14:33:00.000-08:00

This is the third time that I have tried to write a formal close to this blog. There is so much that I want to sum up, so many lessons that I have to share with anyone who graces across this page, that it is a challenge to know how to start.

When I left, Jillian and I wrote letters to each other that we didn’t read until I was sitting on the plane. Coincidentally, in both of our first paragraphs, we acknowledged how intimidating it was to write such a goodbye letter. How would we express the impact the other had made on us? How could I put in to words that none of this personal growth would have happened without her by my side?

And now, as I hope to write something similarly conclusive, I have realized several things. The first is that no matter how hard I try, there is nothing I can say in this entry that will “sum up” this experience. As I’ve learned with most things in life, the reality of it, and the impact it has made on me, will keep molding and changing—just as all things in life. I cannot conclude it any more than I could conclude the first chapter of a book—because that chapter will mean something different after I read the second, the third, the fourth, and the last. I cannot impart wisdom that will always be applicable. I can only be honest, as I have tried to do in every entry that I write.

As I look back over the entries, I do get a gut urge that screams DELETE IT, similar to how I felt when I read back over my middle school diary. I thought about writing a disclaimer to many of the entries—in part because some are so honest and so raw. It is a challenge to know that these personal thoughts are out there in the universe for people to read. Also challenging because I know that many of the thoughts I had then do not reflect how I see things now. But I guess that is the growth part, and that is the journey.

In my History of Memoir class we are reading the first memoir ever written: Confessions By Saint Augustine. My professor was examining the way that this historical text was written and made a comment that stuck with me: “He writes as he progresses and he progresses as he writes.” He is literally trying to make sense of everything on the page as he is writing, and the reader feels that struggle.

For many of these entries, and even this one, that is what I feel like I am doing: finding meaning as the words spill out. Perhaps this isn’t the way one should write because it is less cohesive. But when you’re 'in it', all you can do is tell your situation. Even if that just means events and reaction.

So I guess I will be writing this final entry for the rest of my life. I will describe this experience differently wherever I am, and that’s okay.

When I left I told Jillian that people can adapt but they can’t change. Sometimes I repeat this saying to myself, turn it around on its head and try to apply it differently. What is the difference between adaptation and change? I truly believe that humans can adapt to nearly any situation they are put in. For the people in the squatter camps, they were used to the way that they lived, and that was just life. It wasn’t pitied because there was little opportunity for comparison. You do what you have to do: you let yourself live; sometimes you make yourself.

I adapted to my world in Johannesburg, so much so that it became life. It was not a trip, it was not a vacation; I was not a traveler nor a reporter moving through, as I had envisioned: I had a family and experiences that brought me elatedness, sadness, joyfulness, and sometimes despair.

From South Africa I will take this: I have never been to a place where there was so much enthusiasm, energy, and hope put forth in to molding the country. Yes, people are suffering, and many of the places I went to were not happy places. I sought out to find “the South African identity” and realized that it was ever changing—not black, white, Indian, coloured, poor, rich, middle class, rural, urban, suburban—but all of these things at the same time. It was and is an enigma, and I have no right to try to define it.

From living in South Africa I will take this: I have learned that I can stand on my own wherever I am, that I can see extreme situations and keep my heart and my head. I will get by no matter what I do in life, no matter where I am. Because I simply have the human drive to live, and live as the best me that I can possibly be. And to my friends who are graduating or graduated and are terrified of what lies ahead I have learned this: we will get by.

I watched Conan’s goodbye show the other night and he said something like “but I have learned, if you do good, and are kind to people, amazing things will happen.” I have faith in the unknown that amazing things will happen in your life if you let them, welcome them, and approach them with the childlike glee that you had when you were little and easily excitable.

Try to achieve everything that you have always dreamed of simply because you can. Do not be afraid and cut yourself short. Because if you can imagine it, then the path leading you there will come.

Thank you to all of my faithful readers who stuck with me through breakdowns and revelations. I am so grateful to all of you for such wonderful comments. Sometimes I go back and read them over because I can hardly believe I’ve been so blessed with such wonderful people in my life. I love you all and there is a good chance that this isn’t goodbye.

“Find your purpose and fling your life out to it. Find a way, or make one. Try with all your might. Self made or never made.” OS Marden

The Stone of The Fruit

2009-12-15T09:05:00.000-08:00

I’m walking through the airport choking on salt. Then I’m running, skirt flies, flip-flops hit the tile and I never want to stop. If I sped past the gate, if I sped past the commitments... if I just kept going, turned left at denial and came back to the tiny bed, came back to my world...

The words aren’t coming easily now. On the plane all I wanted was a pen. Because the sun came up over the clouds and it was as if I had already left that world. We passed the Atlantic threshold and I was waking up on the other side. The American side. I found myself grappling with the moments that stood in my mind, the moments that had just happened before I took this seat. I willed the tears back so at least I could continue living them. But for the first time in 15 hours, they didn’t come as quickly.

Now, I’m waking up in the warm bed that’s like sleeping on a cloud. The space heater is on and the room feels like a sauna. I walk out in to the hall and look through the giant windows at the cold Missouri streets, at the cold sun that hangs in the clear sky, at the matching houses that line the block… I turn back to the bed, hide my face in the covers and let the sobs come out.

In my mind I picture I am holding on to a diamond. This diamond of experience, this precious rock that I’m squeezing so hard-- praying that it’s not going to deteriorate before my eyes.

My phone has text messages from people, but part of me is terrified to respond. I’m terrified to take a step back in to this world because of what it might do to my diamond. How is it going to change as I recollect it as experience? How is it going to change when I realize it is no longer my life, but just a chapter that can be paged through?

How are the people who have shaped my life there going to change in my mind when I try to translate them in to what can be understood here?

Perhaps it will make it easier, or perhaps I will just be more frustrated that no matter what words I use, pictures I show, videos I watch these are only a fraction of what has transpired these last five months. I will never be able to grasp all of it because the pieces only truly form the whole when you are in it. And I will never be in it again.

There are so many moments that I never want to forget. When I said goodbye to him in my room, sobbed in his shirt and asked how do you do this? I keep asking everyone, asking God, how do you do this? How do you keep everything that you have become, everything that you have seen, all the people that you have met—how do you hold them honestly when they are reshaping themselves and molding in to memories?

Because that is the hardest part: “The pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding” the shell of my understanding is breaking, it has cracked and I’m running around desperately trying to figure out which pieces go where. I sigh, collapse on the floor and realize that it is hopeless. “Even as the stone of the fruit must break so that it may stand in the sun, you must know pain.”

The Hourglass

2009-12-01T04:55:00.000-08:00

The sand slips against the curvature of the glass. One grain at a time so you turn your head, distracted by the beautiful light coming in through the window. When you turn back the bottom is filled to the brim – the particles now forming a solid base in the glass.

Your jaw drops. You look in the mirror and your hair has grown, your face has changed. You speak and your voice is the same, but now maybe the soundwaves don’t fluctuate as much as they did. Maybe they’re grounded in something that only time can establish.

It isn’t easy for me to write about coming home. Partially because it is emotionally challenging to deal with being torn-- but also because it’s hard to explain not wanting to leave.

Words cannot express how much I miss everyone in the states. Like I’ve said in previous entries, I think about you all of the time. But at the same time I’ve never felt so completely content and completely myself in my entire life. And it is hard to leave that.

On a lighter note, instead of going in to all of the emotions I’ve been going through lately, I’ve decided to prepare some of you for the changes to expect in me when I return:

Number One:

The use of 'just now' and 'now now' as in “I’ll be there just now” or “I’m coming now now.”

At first, I hated that in South Africa “now” doesn’t mean this second. It actually means more like “sometime” or “maybe never if I don’t feel like it.” So if upon return I say “yea, I’m coming to your house just now” it could mean in a little bit, or it could mean I’m not coming at all. However, if I say “now now” the likelihood of me coming goes up, but it’s still not definite.

Number Two:

Dropping sentence inflection when asking a question.

I honestly don’t know when this phenomenon occurred. But never the less, I sound like I have an accent when I ask a question because my voice no longer goes up.

Number Three:

Use of the expression “We’ll make a plan.”

To me, this is a brilliant expression and one that I am not ready to let go of. It can be used when asked “How are you going to get to the party?” Response: “Don’t worry, I’ll make a plan.” Now, granted, sometimes these plans fail, but at least there is some security that action is being taken.

Number Four:

Uncontrollable crying for no apparent reason.

This may or may not occur, so be prepared.

Number Five:

Inability to describe the experience when asked: How was South Africa?

I might return the question to you: and how was the last six months of your life? Hard to sum up isn’t it? But I will go in to as much or as little detail as you would like, just let me know :)

Number Six:

The use of a word pronounced 'shop' but actually spelled 'sharp' accompanied by a thumbs up. And also, use of the word scafe.

Shop, means fine. So typical conversation: “I’m coming just now” “Sharp.” Scafe could be translated to I want some of that as in “Scafe juice, or scafe beer etc.” In return, you would give me a sip.

Number Seven

Rushing phone conversations to be less than one minute.

For the last five months I’ve been buying air time in 12 Rand increments. I don’t have a cell phone contract, so in order to save air time, I’ve become an expert at saying everything that needs to be said under one minute. Be prepared for me to rush you out of habit, even though it will no longer be necessity.

Number Eight:

Being incredibly excited about any of the following: Taco Bell, good pizza, bagels, cheap Thai food or Mexican food, real coffee that is still inexpensive, soft pretzels, and huge margaritas.

Chances are if you ask me if I want to go get any of the former, I will be there now now. :)

I will be home December 14, and the sand keeps slipping. Love you all.

No Words

2009-11-16T22:21:00.000-08:00

Because sometimes it's hard to find the words, I thought I would show you some of my experiences through pictures.

Here are some of my favorites that I've taken in the last few weeks. There are more to come and I also have several albums on my facebook if you're interested. Enjoy.

Bongeziwe Mabandla poses for a photo before he goes on stage at House of Nsako. His music is a mixture of African folk, world, and soul but his Xhosa lyrics seem to strike a chord with even non-speakers.

Chris Wilson and Mothusi Thusi jump against a graffiti wall at a school in Melville. The school paid for local artists to paint it and some of the messages read "Stay in School". The artists were arrested while painting because the police didn't believe them when they said they were hired to do it.

Students in Mpumalanga province pose for the camera while playing soccer during one of their breaks from class.

A Grade One learner who is learning to read in her mother-tongue language takes a break from reading for her teacher.

This child stayed and stared at me through the window for almost all of my visit.

Remembering the Rain

2009-11-09T03:38:00.000-08:00

I’m in the coffee shop and can smell the rain before it comes down. In sheets it starts slowly and then dark clouds mask the sunshine and hail balls pound the pavement. The sky cracks and thunder echoes outside, providing a backdrop to the Norah Jones soundtrack that plays softly in the warm café.

I look out through the padlocked French doors and see the violet petals now flattened in small pools of water. I wish I had my camera because right now, the reflections are beautiful.

A little girl with nothing wrong, and she’s all alone…

I momentarily flash back to my living room in Portland. The gray outside, the fire in the fireplace—perhaps it’s a Sunday. Norah Jones is playing on the old CD player that was a gift from an ex-boyfriend of my mom’s. Or is it a friend of Ben’s?

My mom and I are reading in the living room. Muffy is curled up next to the fire. And I have this feeling that runs through my entire body: I am so content in this little world. I never need to go outside, I can stay in all day and do exactly this. If it is possible, I feel nostalgic for a moment that is happening as I am experiencing it.

My mom looks over at me and says that the song reminds her of me. I smile and understand why.

Spinning, laughing, dancing to her favorite song...

When I was really little, my mom used to play Bach on the piano. There was one song in particular that was my favorite and I would spin around the living room, twirling and twirling as the music climaxed. I would jump up on the couch and then down again completely uninhibited. When the music came to a close I would fall dramatically in the middle of the floor.

I don’t know if my mom noticed as she concentrated on the keys. Her long fingers elegantly stretching the octaves, pressing down as she glanced up again to check the music.

Eyes wide open, always hoping for the sun…

There are few distinct memories that I have. I have always wanted to be someone like my friend Kyle who can remember nearly every moment that ever happened—what was said, who was there (for better or worse)—but rather my memory is composed of feelings contrived from a series of events.

But the rain always takes me back to Portland.

To the warmth of the house, the smell of the fire (slash Duraflame log).

To Christmases spent running down the stairs in the morning and finding oranges in the bottom of my stocking.

To stripping off soaking wet running clothes or shin guards and feeling cold to my very core-- even after a shower and takeout from Du’s.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m traveling to search for something. To search for a place that was as comfortable as my childhood. I have met people and learned about myself, I have encountered sadness and turmoil no matter where I am in the world.

But yet, whenever it rains if I close my eyes I am back in the living room-- spinning and twirling to the music. I am unsure if the knot in my stomach signifies my sadness at a time that has passed or my yearning for another complete moment that perhaps won’t slip through my grasp so easily this time.

Crooked little smile on her face. Tells a tale of grace that’s all her own.

The rain clears and they push the windows open letting in the sunlight. The music switches to salsa and my cloud of memory is gone. Through the French doors, only the puddles and petals remain.

At the Heart

2009-11-04T23:20:00.000-08:00

I feel like I’ve sat down to write a blog post so many times, but when my fingers start punching the keys nothing of worth has come out.

I guess it’s partially because it becomes harder to be a spectator of the experience you’re having once it stops being an experience and starts being your life. It has also become harder for me to detach myself from what I do every day to ask: what would people at home think is interesting? Which tidbits of life, who have I met, what have I seen would resonate with someone on the other side of the world?

To my luck, I’ve been able to express some of what I’ve been doing through photos and video, so at least that will paint the picture that my words can’t.

I do learn a bit more about myself and about South Africa and America every day. Last night (and nearly every Wednesday since I’ve been here) I’ve gone to a bar/club/restaurant called House of Nsako for Bantu Boer night. The idea is very progressive and aims to bring together the diverse generation that is shaping the future of South Africa.

We normally watch a thought-provoking and somewhat controversial documentary about Africa, and then have a discussion about what it means for this country. Nsako is like a mutual meeting place—there are both white and black South Africans and also a number of international people come to discuss the issues that are facing the nation.

Each time that I go, I listen attentively to the discussions that are very often racially charged. But I still haven't gotten the courage to speak confidently.

Last night we watched a documentary about Zimbabwe, what has happened under Mugabe, and how it is a microcosm of Africa as a whole. The discussion moved towards which type of government is best for South Africa and the rest of the continent.

It’s so interesting to be in a place where this generation of people really has the power to shape the future of South Africa. It was very clear last night that the days of the ANC are limited and people are starting to question which party, which leader, will actually be the best for South Africa. There is no other country like it in the world, so why should it try to emulate those governments?

The speakers challenged democracy and challenged each other to just look at South Africa: Without comparing it to the democracy of the West, what would work here?

There is so much potential for this country to set the standard for Africa. It is the first world, it is the third world, and if this generation of people can rise up and make the country what they want it to be, I think it will eventually bring the baseline, poverty-stricken people up.

But I think it also has to start with the classroom.

I have been around enough to see the discrepancies in education. I have gone to schools where teachers don’t show up, where they neglect the given curriculum, where their passion is dead, or never existed in the first place.

If something isn’t done in these rural areas, the wealth discrepancy will continue, only perpetuated by access to good education. How is it that in 2009 a nine year-old in Johannesburg knows how to surf the internet, create little videos, upload photos... and a child in the Eastern Cape has never been read to in his entire life because there are no books in his mother-tongue language?

I have faith in the passion of the people here to make this country what they want it to be, and I only wonder if I will be part of that effort, or if I will be watching it from the other side of the world.

My Video for Umuzi

2009-10-21T02:02:00.000-07:00

Dave and Andrew from the Umuzi Photo Club (umuziphotoclubnews.blogspot.com also has a better version of the video) are doing an interview for eTV (it's national!) and asked me to make a short video for them to show what goes on in the classroom.

Needless to say, I slaved over Final Cut for several days and this was the end result.

Special thanks to:

Andrew and Dave for some of the footage and photos from the gallery.

Thanks to Thato for giving me Final Cut Pro.

Thanks to the students for the amazing photographs and inspiration.

Music: Amagugu "Ulimelani Endleleni (Why Are You Cultivating Near The Path?)"

Inside the Umuzi Photoclub Classroom from Emily Coppel on Vimeo.

Maybe it's Instinct

2009-10-13T00:13:00.001-07:00

Hello wonderful family and friends,

I really regret that I haven’t been as on top of the blog (or emails, or messages etc) in the last month, but thank you all for being patient with me.

As most of you know, I started volunteering at another charity in the beginning of September. I can honestly say that there are few times in my life that I have worked so hard. I was literally coming home every day exhausted, and started cutting off from a lot of my friends here because I just didn’t have the energy to be social. For those of you who know me well, that is a BIG sign that there is an imbalance in my life.

I did enjoy the work, even though it really took it out of me. On top of what I was doing there, I was still working at Molteno and the Umuzi Photoclub (while trying to stay on top of my work for Mizzou). Combined, I think I was in a little over my head.

I’m not really going to go in to everything that transpired, but as of last week I stopped volunteering with the new charity. When I come back to the states, I promise I will fill you all in on some more details, but for now this isn’t the time or the place.

Please know that I am doing okay and that I welcomed the change and new chapter of my experience here. Thank you all for your messages and words of support-- they mean the world to me.

I have to say that going through this past month without the people that I care about most was probably one of the hardest things I have ever done. People have said to me that I’m so brave to come here and leave my family. For a long time I didn’t see it as bravery—Shelly is brave for getting her second tissue expander, Gladys is brave for taking on a new life when she knew no one and had no money—but me coming to South Africa never really seemed brave. Rather, it was expected.

But after experiencing so much emotional stress, and not being able to talk to the people I love in the moment of need is an ache like I’ve never felt before. Perhaps facing that pain and knowing that you don’t have a choice is one form of bravery... but I guess you can be the judge.

.....

On Thursday I left the house around noon. It was warm out and I walked the familiar way to Seventh Street: down Main—the busiest street in Melville—and then I turned on Fourth Avenue. The Car Gods shouted at me and I smiled and shook my head; I didn’t have any change for them.

As sun beat down on me, all of the events that had happened kept running through my head. The realizations stuck to the pit of my stomach and I felt nauseous thinking about what I was going to do now. I felt that lump crawl from my chest up to my throat.

Almost immediately I thought about my dad who I hadn’t talked to in a couple weeks. The urge to talk to him became almost overwhelming and I wished that it wasn’t 3am in Alaska.

I kept walking to The Loft (where I steal free internet from the place next door), wishing that I had left earlier so he might have been awake.

In the back of my head I thought about the quickest way to tell him what had happened. Seeing as he is a new facebook member, I decided to update my status to say that I had been fired. To my surprise he responded almost immediately. I jumped on Skype and found that he was online despite the obscene hour.

It turns out that he hadn’t been able to sleep and had had a feeling that something was wrong. He checked the computer and saw my status, responded, and stayed on Skype.

It boggles my mind that all the way (literally) on the other side of the world he had some how thought of me just when I needed him the most. This exact thing has happened with my mom and others since I’ve been in SA: My mom and I will miss each other at the same time—once I was in tears – and I later found out that at nearly the exact same moment she was thinking of me as well.

I will think of a friend from home and then check my facebook later in the day to see a message from that exact person, sent at almost the exact same time I was thinking about them.

Now you could say that all of this is coincidence. You could say that it is only natural for us to think of each other because it has been so long since we’ve been together. But so many people have experienced something similar that I can’t help but conclude we have some instinct that transcends time and location. Whatever it is, words can’t express how thankful I am for it.

.....

Moving forward I am going to be planning a backpacking trip soon. I don't know how it is all going to come about or where I'm going to go-- but I know somehow it will.

I've been fortunate enough recently to visit some schools in Limpopo (a province north of Jo'burg by the border of Zim) to see Molteno's new digital literacy program in action: (think old African women who barely speak English, with their hair tied back in cloth, learning how to click a mouse, drag and drop, and put words together in their mother tongue languages all on the computer). There is a video coming soon I promise. And yes, I took photos.

The photography workshop is going really well. I'm continually impressed with how thoughtful, daring, creative (the list goes on) these high schoolers are. They showed us around Hillbrow last weekend, which was definitely something I won't soon forget.

Now that I have more time on my hands I'll make more of an effort to put up multi-media content. Fridays are going to be my Umuzi/school days so I should be on the internet most of the time if you ever want to Skype/ struggle to make facebook chat work.

I love and miss you all, nine weeks to go-- can you believe it?

The Adult Ward

2009-09-17T07:49:00.000-07:00

We walk down the halls of Jo’burg Gen (Hospital), Shelley is showing me the way because she’s been here before. I hand her the file and think to myself that I am completely useless and completely unnecessary because of my naiveté towards tissue expansions.

Yes, I came weeks ago with the young boys who didn’t hesitate before jumping up on the hospital table, taking the syringe from the doctor’s hands. One, two, three. They pushed the saline solution into the “ports” behind their ears and I watched as the tumor-looking bulges on their heads began to expand, stretching their skin to accommodate the inflating bags under the surface.

But Shelley is 18, and this trip would be much different than the one in the children’s ward.

Later I will try to voice my unease about the hospital with my boss and Chris, but I know it comes out trivial. They’ve seen this before. They’ve done this a million times. They’ve seen fresh burns, smelled the melting skin and waited for surgeries that never came soon enough.

And now it’s just Shelley and me, waiting in the queue with the coughing man and the woman with gauze on her neck who walks a bit sideways… and dozens of others.

Shelley has her hat on. It’s pretty and white and frames her beautiful face. Her eyes take everything in and she is quiet. I ask her meaningless questions that I convince myself will keep her distracted from where we are and from what is about to happen. She answers me politely and concisely then says nothing more.

Tissue expansion is a simple concept. The doctor who later treats Shelley says that it originated from the novelty of a woman’s pregnant belly: when forced, skin will expand.

Many burn survivors are left with spotty hair if they’ve been burned on the scalp. Tissue Expansion is one solution to give patients back their own real hair.

First they will undergo a surgical procedure where doctors will place a silicone bag under the part of the scalp with the most hair on it. The bag is similar to a breast implant but comes in different shapes, depending on what the patient needs. In addition, there is a small tube that goes from the bag to a small port that is also strategically placed under the patient’s scalp.

Over the course of three months, the patient will visit the hospital once, twice or three times a week depending on availability and a doctor will inject saline into the port. From the port, the saline will travel through the tube and inflate the bag, stretching the skin that has the most hair. After the patient has undergone all of the injections, they will have a large tumor-looking growth on their head covered with their real hair.

For the final operation, the bag is deflated and the skin that has been stretched with the hair is put over the patient’s head, eventually giving them a full head of hair.

This is Shelley’s first saline injection since she had her second Tissue Expander (the bag) put in. I can tell she is nervous and I ask her a little bit about her history with Children of Fire. She says she likes the charity and explains a little bit about how her dad found it. I ask her if she’s had a tissue expander before and she says yes. I can sense the dread.

Watching the three boys the week before, I remember being shocked at the ease with which they injected themselves. I remember asking myself if I could hold this needle and poke it in to the back of my head knowing that it is going to push my skin further into deformity all in the hopes that it will be fixed eventually.

I don’t think I could do it.

The silence in the hospital waiting room is unbearable. The room is unbearable. I look around at the rugby player whose arm is in a splint, leg in a cast, the boy whose parents have accompanied him, most likely wanting to fix his sagging purple eye.

There is the short white man with a small tumor looking abnormality on the bridge of his nose, blocking the eyesight out of one of his eyes. There is the old albino woman with her head down, wrinkles sagging from her face and her eyes closed. Next to her a black woman has taken up the identical position.

I watch the old white couple in front of us who are trying to control an anxious three-year old colored girl who seems to have infinite energy that they may have had a handle on were they 20 years younger.

After waiting in the “Appointment” line we give our card to the receptionist and sit down. We wait.

I suggest Shelley and I play dots. She knows how and I find myself loving that the game is universal.

In between drawing lines I look up and watch an older over-weight black woman walk up and down past the waiting sick people. She has a clear tube hanging from her neck but I can’t figure out what it’s connected to on either side. She calls out names and hands out large pink folders to people waiting. When they get their folder they sit accordingly in the chairs next to the two offices where the doctors keep coming out of.

The Doctors

I would say the majority are some-what attractive Indian men. They strut up and down among the sickly, barely seeing the people suffering in front of them. Perhaps there are too many. Perhaps they have lost the sympathetic view that I can’t seem to escape. One or two cast me a glance-- they probably caught my glare.

We wait.

Half an hour goes by, an hour. An hour and a half. I ask Shelley if it normally takes this long. She says no, but says that the man with the lump on the bridge of his nose has been waiting for his folder as well.

Finally after the second game, she hears her name and takes her pink folder from the woman with the tube. We wait again outside one of the doctor’s rooms.

The other four, two kids who were getting injections and two volunteers, one of whom is writing an article about tissue expansion join us.

Shelley doesn’t seem phased and greets the kids.

We shift chairs as the patients in front of us go into the room. I look up at the Indian doctor guiding them in. I feel like even if I saw him on the street, without his white coat, I would still know he was a doctor.

Finally we sit in the chair next to the door and he invites us in waving the next patient on. Myself, Genevieve, Sizwe, Karabo and Maura follow Shelley into the room. She sits on the chair and takes off her hat.

Dr. M looks into her pink folder.

“Oh, you have a tissue expander.”

The doctor feels her head gently and asks her if it’s sore. She says it’s not. He feels its placement and talks to Maura about what a tissue expander is and how it works.

I watch Shelley’s face and wish I could tell her how brave she is without sounding cliché. I nod quietly at her and make eye contact. She looks at me then looks away.

Dr. M takes us in to the next room where hospital beds are separated by hanging sheets.

He continues to explain to Maura about how tissue expanders work. He draws her a diagram and then fills up a syringe. She will be getting 260ml of saline solution.

Shelley covers her face with her white hat and he sticks the syringe in the port behind her ear. She shudders.

I imagine it's me. I am in the chair, with the hat over my face. Waiting for this solution to be released so the bag on my head will expand. Later everyone will leave the hospital room. Later, everyone will forget about the three syringes. But I won't. I will be reminded every time I look in to the mirror.

Where was I when I was 18? Wanting a boyfriend, shoping with my freinds, getting ready for college... where is Shelley?

I watch as he pushes the full syringe in, desperately wanting to say something to Shelley. Her face remains hidden.

When he fills up the next dose I feel the blood drain from my face. I watch as he pushes it in to her scalp. My ears start to ring and I’m fading, I know the feeling and I look away, breathing quietly.

Karabo who is 8 takes my hand. I wonder if she knows she will be next to go through all of this. Today she just asked if she would be going to sleep at the hospital. I told her no.

Dr. M takes the next syringe.

I walk in to the next room and sit down, putting my face in my hands until my mind comes back to the room. Karabo is drawing on my lap.

When I have it together I walk back to Shelley. She removes her hat from her face and puts it on over the now inflated tissue expander.

I hug her gently. She puts her earphones back in.

Her next appointment is Wednesday the 30th of September.

Gladys

2009-08-31T00:37:00.000-07:00

Rustenburg

We leave Johannesburg around 3:30, it was supposed to be three but she was running late. Soon we’re on the road and the gray fog of the city morphs into brown hills and dry land. Short trees stretch upwards, their branches bent and crooked—characteristics that only perpetuate their sense of wisdom. There is some green but it is sparse and pale waiting for the summer rains.

Johanna from Molteno tells me we are driving to Sun City in the Northwestern Province. I think to myself that it’s so convenient the provinces are named after their location, otherwise I would have no idea where we’re going.

I would define this area as “rural” but I’ve found in recent weeks that ones' definition of rural is pretty relative. The outskirts of Sun City is rural compared to Jo’burg—but then again almost any place would be. This rural has groups of shacks spread out on large stretches of land. The communities are small and poor, but there are streets and schools and people selling avocados and oranges along the road.

There are some gas stations every so often and Johanna will later show me a “mall” which has quite a few shops, a Chicken Lickin’ (South Africa’s Popeyes) a supermarket, a furniture store etc.

On the long stretches of road in between the fenced in communities there will be a man or woman walking ever so often. Looking forward and behind me, I can’t see where they are coming from or going to.

The B+B

We eventually find the Bed and Breakfast that I am staying at—it’s a beautiful two story house with a high fence and fresh paint. It stands out from the houses around it and I feel that sense of dread in my stomach when we pull in.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate having nice accommodations that are paid for. I could say that makes these excursions more like a vacation than like work. But to be honest when I look at the housekeeper, I wish I could have just stayed with her and given her the money. Even if it meant living in a shack, it’s odd but I think I would prefer it.

The staff is very welcoming and nice. They’re eager to find out what I would like for breakfast and I struggle to make a list for them.

Gladys

Gladys is tall and thin and could pass for a model in the United States. Here, she is a housekeeper for the Bed and Breakfast. Her hair is a light brown wig that compliments her mocha complexion. When I first see her eyes, I’m convinced that they’re color contacts and they remind me immediately of a pair my friend bought in middle school. When I think about this twice, I realize they’re not fake.

After I’m settled Gladys comes into my room and I invite her to sit on the bed. When I tell her I’m from the United States she lets out a yelp, throws back her head and claps her hands.

“Wait until I tell everyone that we have someone staying here from the U.S!”

I tell her that one day she can visit me and I’ll have biscuits for her just like she has for me. She shakes her head vigerously and beams when I ask her if she would like to come to the U.S. someday.

She eagerly says yes.

We start talking for a while and she says that she came here from Zimbabwe three years ago. She says that she had nothing there and it was her only choice to come here. She has a three year-old daughter and I ask if she was pregnant when she came. She tells me that is a story for another time.

Gladys found a job once she got here but it paid so poorly that she was only making R50 a month after taxes. That’s the equivalent of six dollars. She said she had to live in a shack and eventually work another job.

After moving several times, she gave birth to her daughter. They wouldn’t give her a birth cirtificate at the hospital because she is Zimbabwean—even though her daughter was born here. I ask her if she wants to enroll her in school when she is old enough. She says desperately yes. I ask her what she is going to do about the birth certificate (children can’t be enrolled without one) she says she is going to keep praying that something will happen.

A little bit after her daughter was born, a friend phoned Gladys and told her her mother had died. She says she still hasn’t come to terms with it. Because she didn’t have enough money to fly home for the funeral, Gladys worked as hard as she could for a few months before she flew back. Her job would only let her off for a week and because that wasn’t enough time to grieve her mother, she quit and flew to Zimbabwe.

Listening to her talk I felt that familiar, overwhelming urge to do anything for her. To help her get the birth certificate for her daughter, to give her money to move in to a better house… anything. But in reality, I realized there was little I could do.

As the week went on we became closer and closer. I asked to photograph her and she let me even though she was embarrassed that she hadn’t done her hair. She showed me a picture of her with her hair showing on her cell phone, it’s short and sticks out from her head, framing her face. She says she cut it off when her mother died.

She touches my hair gently and is shocked when I tell her I don’t put anything in it, just wash it and let it dry because I am too lazy.

She feels it with her fingers, “I wish I were white.”

I think she means, “I wish I had white hair” but the comment sticks with me.

On Wednesday I am so sad to leave this family that has welcomed me. I promise to come back and visit, especially the little boy, Kabello, who is ten.

I hug Gladys and tell her that I left her a present by my bed. As we drive away I imagine her walking up the stairs and finding it: a rock with “courage” imprinted on it and R50. It’s all I had.

Coming Together

2009-08-21T04:17:00.000-07:00

Hello All,

Well I have been a bit behind on updating the blog so this is going to be less of a poetic entry and more of a what’s-going-on-in-Emily’s-life entry.

As you probably read in the last entry, I was getting a little frustrated with my day-to-day life. Other than working at Molteno I started volunteering with another organization on the weekends going to some of the squatter camps with a close friend of mine named Chris. The other organization (whose name I am not going to put in here yet) works with children who have been victims from shack fires. It is a huge problem here because in the squatter camps, the shacks are so close together that if a propane stove tips over, one shack after another will go up in flames. The children who get burned either die or are outcast by their peers. This organization works to educate communities and also helps the kids get the medical attention that they need.

So because I felt so connected with this organization (and really love some of the kids—they’re so sweet) I decided to look in to volunteering with them. This came at the same time that I got an email from Mizzou explaining that I cannot do journalism work and receive Civic Leaders Internship credit. Since the PR work I’m doing at Molteno falls in that category, I realized I was going to have to find something else. So I have decided to start working with the children four days of the week and continuing to do journalism for Molteno the rest of the time.

Now for the really exciting news…

While I was at work the other day I started googling random things and came across a website called umuziphotoclub.blogspot.com (seriously check it out).

It is an organization that teaches photography workshops every weekend to students in developing communities. They are sponsored by an organization in the US called SNAP that donates disposable point-and-shoot cameras to high school and primary school learners. So far they have had two exhibitions: one in Johannesburg and one in Brooklyn-- both were met with huge success. They’ve also been getting a lot of media attention because some of the photos that the kids have done are SO stunning (if you click on photos, it will take you to the gallery).

So naturally, being the Born in to Brothels fan that I am, I emailed them immediately. To my surprise the president (he’s a New Yorker named David) called me the same day. I told him a little bit about my photojournalism background and what I would like to do with the kids. He told me that they have a lot of offers from volunteers and are very specific about who they let on. I was a little disappointed, but he seemed interested in what I have to offer so we decided to meet later in the week.

I ended up getting dinner with the two guys on Monday, which was cool for several reasons. Number One: it was nice to talk to an American. I realized that other than Jillian and Rebecca I haven’t talked to any other Americans (maybe one in passing) since I have been here. In some sense that has made this experience truly great because my friends are from here (other than Chris who is British, and the two girls he lives with are German and French). But other than that, most of my friends are black South Africans—I’ve met only a handful of white South Africans that are my age and none are really in my circle of friends. Also, David has been to Portland so we talked about home for a bit, which definitely made me homesick.

The other reason the meeting was nice was that I really felt like I could help them. They told me about three boys who have shown immense talent and said that they really want to take their skills further. They have been trying to find someone to develop a photojournalism curriculum for them so that they may have the chance of going to University some day because of their photographs.

I was so excited, and really felt like we clicked well. They said they would call me the next day (after I sent them some of my slideshows) about whether they would take me on. I heard from them the next morning and they said that they wanted me to develop the curriculum for the boys. JJ happened to be online the next day, and we started putting some things together about the basics of photojournalism. If any of you know of some pictures I should absolutely include in the lessons, PLEASE let me know.

Our first workshop is this Saturday so I will keep you updated on how it goes. It’s in Hillbrow at a school called Barnato Park, which is the largest inner city high school in South Africa.

In other news, I’m still a bit sick and have a runny nose, but the green mucus is gone. Get excited.

It’s funny how things just come together. I know it’s going to be tough working for three organizataions, but I am so passionate about all of them that it almost doesn’t seem like work. I can hardly believe I am not going to be there when Mizzou starts next week. It still boggles my mind that summer is over.

I love and miss you all, I have some stories that I have written about recent experiences that I am going to try to put up soon. So stay posted!

Much Love,

The Day-to-Day

2009-08-11T07:00:00.000-07:00

It wasn’t what I intended.

I don’t have a good excuse for why I haven’t written about what I actually do day-to-day, and I think it’s partially because I feel a little guilty about it. I’ve reread some of the old posts and there is such a build-up about hearing the stories that count, that the reality of what I’m actually doing is really menial.

I wanted this deep, meaningful experience while I’m here. I wanted to connect with the faces that are never seen… but in reality I sit in an office eight hours a day editing photos of corporate events and launches for new literacy campaigns sponsored by this or that government official. It’s all very political.

Today my boss left early, so I’m sitting here typing on my laptop, looking out the window at the way the sunlight reflects off the buildings in downtown Johannesburg. Spring is finally here and I don’t have to wear my jacket in the office or cuddle my legs up to a space heater.

Am I spoiled if I say that I am not satisfied? Yes, I know that literacy—especially in monther-tongue (African) languages is incredibly important. But what about AIDS? What about poverty? Maybe I am suffering from the grass is always greener, but if I spend every day for the next five months in this office… I feel like I will have failed every person who is reading this blog.

I gave a proposal today to my boss, asking her if I could do an internet piece about some of the teachers, or the trainers, and the difficulties they are facing with the country’s youth. She mentioned going to Alexandra (one of the oldest townships that is in very rough condition, the autobiography Kaffir Boy is based on one man’s experience there) and I only hope that I can spend enough time there to grasp what I’ve been looking for.

In other news…

I’ve been sick for over a week now and I’m really getting tired of the gravelly voice, running noise, cough, neon mucus—I won’t go on. You get the idea.

Last Thursday I was feeling particularly light-headed and my boss Patience (great name, she’s like my mother here) insisted that I go to the doctor. Needless to say I resisted. I couldn’t imagine how complicated a doctor visit would be, transferring insurance information country to country, getting any medical records the doctor might need. It seemed like such a hassle that I only went with her down the street for formality’s sake.

We walked in to a small office in Braafontein Centre, which is so crazy and busy sometimes I get a headache just walking outside. Think New York: non-stop honking, taxis almost hitting you, pushing through crowds even on the sidewalk, it’s hectic.

The tiny office was nothing impressive. Two doors into separate rooms and a receptionist desk in the middle. Over one door it read DENTIST over the other, DOCTOR. Patience arranged an appointment for me around 2pm. We left.

I came back and was treated by a short Indian woman who asked me several times if I had had an AIDS test. I reassured her. She rambled off some other typical doctor questions and I’m still surprised she never asked me if I smoked (seeing as I clearly had a respiratory problem). Then it was typical blood pressure test, temperature reading etc. Diagnosis: Sinus Infection. I could have probably told her that, as I has been googling the symptoms earlier that day. She said if it didn’t get better I would have to be tested for swine flu. Get excited. Yes, it’s hit South Africa too.

She wrote me a list of prescriptions, only half of which I ended up getting (perhaps why I’m still sick four days later) and told me the total for the visit was R150.

I gawked at her.

Number one: I had forgotten to bring money, so I blushed and I asked to call my boss. Phil came and delivered it quickly.

Number two: R150 is less than $20. That’s less than $20 for someone (me) who showed no proof of health insurance, no documentation as to her identity…nothing.

I’m trying not to be biased as I’m writing this. You can take with it what you will. Perhaps you think it’s terrible that no background check was done. Or maybe you think that healthcare should be this easily accessible to anyone who is feeling ill—no matter what their background.

Socialized healthcare is not without its issues. This was still a private office that I went to, and I think it may have been the office that everyone in my organization uses. But nevertheless, for less than $20 I was diagnosed and given the tools to make myself better.

One Month

2009-08-02T05:09:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I will have been in South Africa for one month.

Before I left I thought this was going to be the hardest part—when the “honeymoon” period ends, when I realize that I’m really not going to see the people who are closest to me for five times this period I’ve already experienced. I thought I would be multiplying the time in my head—overwhelmed with the separation factors.

But it hasn’t happened like that. I haven’t shut myself off from home—I think about everyone nearly every day. I’ll hear a song and a face will pop in to my head, or a thought that I shared with someone from home about will come in to my mind out of no where. I think the hardest thing is standing in one place, knowing that there is someone on the other side of the world that would have such an appreciation for the moment I’m experiencing, but that I can’t share it with them.

I’m trying so hard to relay this experience to all of you, hoping that something will strike a cord or broaden an understanding. It’s still all filtered through me, but at least it’s a story that wouldn’t otherwise be told.

The other volunteer Jillian and I talked the other day about the connection that we feel to this country. It’s something that swells inside me when I think about it. To be South African—an identity so conflicting on every level—is a paradigm I’m completely enamored with. There is sincerity and honesty about issues that could be so easily wiped under the rug. Racism, poverty, what it is to be “African” what it is to be “Western” and it all manifests itself in different ways.

But they are confronted. Everyone knows the issues, and instead of becoming taboo they’re addressed and approached realistically, with heartfelt intentions rather than guilt.

It’s so hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that it’s August. I feel like I’ve freeze-framed home just as I left it on the fourth of July. But it’s almost Caitlin’s wedding, Aly’s birthday… everyone is going back to Mizzou. Football games will start and I won’t be wearing yellow in the crowd. Time goes on and every day I grow a little more in my understanding of life. It is amazing that the human condition, human tendencies and passions truly transcend race, borders, cultures, traditions, and environments.

So thank you all for reading and for looking at the photos. I miss you all terribly and know you’re always in my heart.

Constitution Hill

2009-07-29T22:43:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: This entry is graphic, so please be warned. To be honest, censoring it wasn’t an option and I think it’s important to recognize the realities of prisons in South Africa during Apartheid. I wrote it as honestly as I can remember.

Background:

Constitution Hill was built on the site of the main prison in Johannesburg. The constructors left some of the old bricks and large parts of the prison in tact so that visitors could come and see what men and women went through before 1994. Now the site is home to the Constitutional Court of South Africa, the idea was to build a place for the future on the ruins of the past. Number Four was the prison for black males, with a separate section for political prisoners because it was thought that if they intermixed with the others they would gain support. This is my recollection.

I’ve known that I should write about the prison visit for a while. In the back of my head I told myself I was “processing it.” I don’t even know what that means. You can’t process such hideousness. I can’t explain what could make a human being do such horrifying things to another human being.

People frequently say that I’m innocent. In my heart I think it’s because I have never met someone that I thought was inherently evil. Someone who I could look at – truly look at -- and not see some remnants of humanity, some shed of light no matter how hidden.

But the men who monitored Number Four… there are no words that I have to describe these men. When I think that the cracked bricks still standing were once the caged in reality of political prisoners... that these men actually felt the end of the whips that now hang on display.. that these men stood on these steps and were forced to dance naked in front of each other, then bend over so that the guards could inspect their anuses… that these men, young and old, had to put their arms out like birds, spin in circles and jump-- their black naked bodies catching the light, humiliating themselves in front of the thousands of men around them…it makes me pause at the human condition that we could create such a reality.

It’s painful for me to write because I don’t want to romanticize it. The reality is sickening enough. We walked along the brick sidewalks, silent as our soft-spoken guide thoughtfully explained the lives of the men who lived in Number Four. They were cramped—60 peoople in a cell made for 20 with concrete walls and no windows, maybe 20 feet by 10 feet. With gang bosses who—rather than joining together—exploited new prisoners and established power. Yes, you say. That is a typical prison, what do you expect?

But is it typical to have a chamber only large enough for one man to stand inside with his hands and feet chained to the ceiling and the floor, spread eagle and naked like the Peruvian man? Is it typical for this metal chamber to be completely closed off except for “peep holes” just large enough to slide open and see the handcuffs and whips hanging from the ceiling-- to see only glimpses of the suffering inside? Because men were chained for hours, waiting until the guards came to whip and beat them over and over again. Did they die? Bodies were taken from the prison daily.

Our guide tells us that some of the cells are haunted. Perhaps it’s because even the Universe can’t avenge such atrocities.

Response

2009-07-20T06:37:00.001-07:00

I was going to just write a response after the comments, but instead I'll just write a short post...

Thank you all for the sweet notes. It means so much to me that someone out there is reading these people's stories. I'm working on the pictures.. I actually haven't taken many because it isn't safe to take my camera in public. I'm finally over the fear of taking my computer out.. don't worry the camera will be next. I am terribly sorry that I have no pictures of Lindi and her family. Next time I visit I will definitely take some. Lindi's husband (to my surprise) lives with the family. My other host mother in Soweto, (her name is Tshidi) who lives with her 9 year-old daughter, is no longer married to her husband. She lives with Kabo and her older daughter in the small house. There was recently an article in the Times (kind of like the South African version of the New York Times) about the increase of families raised by single mothers. This is definitely the case. For the most part, the mothers take care of the families and the fathers work in the city.

Eric, who I described in the last two posts is our "guide" who has been taking us around and working out the homestays. He is from the Shangaan tribe, which is (as I mentioned) one of the darkest tribes in South Africa. During apartheid they were massively discriminated against by other blacks. They were seen as inferior because of their dark complexion-- a result of living further north than the other tribes. They are also incredibly open-hearted and welcoming-- perhaps because they have received such additional discrimination.

I am done with orientation now, except for going to the apartheid museum. We haven't completely found time for this yet because it takes about four hours. I'm still trying to prepare myself emotionally to see it.

For everyone who was wondering, I chose the second organization called Molteno and start work on Wednesday. Hopefully I will still have thoughtful things to share. It's kind of intimidating knowing that I'm going to be working 40 hours a week. So wish me luck! I love and miss all of you.

Buckets and Huts

2009-07-19T05:45:00.000-07:00

The rural communities of South Africa are different from the townships, but not exactly what I had expected.

Lindi

As we drive along the dirt road, swerving rocks and deep holes I watch the small cement houses pass by. Each seems to be connected to a large garden that produces enough to feed an extended family. I find myself crossing my fingers that Eric’s car will pull up to one of the round huts with grass roofs that appear from time to time intermixed with the other houses. I don’t know why but I have this incredible urge to sleep in a hut.

Ironically to my chagrin we pull up to one of the largest houses I’ve seen in the area. Of course they send the Americans to the nicest house, we start laughing in the car because it appears to be the most luxurious in the community.

We are greeted by Lindi who is the mother of the family. Her head is tied in a wrap and she has the same complexion as Eric: they are both from the Shangaan tribe.

Lindi’s voice is deep yet light hearted. There is a power about her that seems both nurturing and commanding at the same time. Her one-year-old is tied tightly to her back and he smiles widely at us with big, engaged dark eyes.

The entire family welcomes us when we walk in to the house: Three older girls 14, 15, and 17 and the younger boys-- Bruce who is about 10 and his younger brother (whose name I can’t spell… Bafanas?) around 6, and the baby who wobbles around the living room . Sandra who is 15 has her hair half done in braids and her sister sits behind her on the couch helping her twist them in to her hair. They tell me it takes about three days to finish.

Bruce is quiet towards us at first, but there is such a gentleness and wisdom about him that I can hardly believe he’s only ten. His sister tells us he’s a great dancer and he grins, throwing himself back in the big chair. She starts playing an Usher song on her cell phone and he stands up and starts dancing with elegantly controlled movements. He moonwalks like Michael in small steps, then puts his hand to his heart contracting his rib cage and pulling his shirt with his hand in such a way that it appears his heart is pumping out of his chest.

He hasn’t had any lessons and we applaud when he finishes, completely impressed with his talent and style. Later, he sings the African national anthem to us. His voice is soft but I marvel at how uninhibited he is—something that I find myself noticing in so many African children since I’ve been here.

Lindi brings out the dinner she prepared: two spinach dishes, pap, and chicken, which she puts out on the table for us to serve ourselves buffet style. There is also a dish of small sweet potatoes—a staple that is always around the house like a sweet for everyone to eat even with coffee or tea.

“Pap” is probably like the dinner rolls of South Africa…or maybe the ranch dressing? If it’s not on the table, everyone is looking around asking where the pap is. It’s made of corn and probably closest in taste to polenta or grits but the texture is harder. Lindi serves it in round slabs that you pick apart with your fingers and use to scoop up the food. It can also be prepared to have the appearance of mashed potatoes.

I marvel when I see Lindi’s because I’ve never seen it in slabs before so I ask her if she’ll teach me how to make it after dinner. She agrees. The food is wonderful, some of the dishes are really salty (South Africans like their salt) but it’s so nice to have a cooked meal like this with nearly all of the makings coming from her garden. Talk about sustainable living the Oregonians would be proud.

No, I didn’t eat the chicken. But I don’t think anyone noticed.

Shangaan

We talk late in to the night after dinner. Lindi’s brother comes over and the conversation switches from English to Shangaan. Jillian (the other volunteer) and I play with the littlest boys and make faces at the baby. I watch the family conversation intently—listening to their voice inflections, hand gestures and any English words I can make out. In my head I try to imagine what they’re saying.

When they notice how closely I’m watching them, they ask if I can understand. I tell them I was trying to guess in my head. What was my guess? Something about work because Lindi was talking about photocopies and gestured, adjusting an imaginary suit. They all started laughing and explained they were talking about the increase of identity fraud by Zimbabweans who were entering the country (they photo-copied the ID’s of South Africans and then made a business of selling them). I say I should stop trying to guess what they’re talking about and go look for my credit card. They laugh.

The house feels so warm and happy with everyone talking and joking. What was it like to be raised in this environment? There is no running water and the rats scamper across the roof and in the walls that the father made himself. But everything feels relaxed. The children have shining faces and hopes for the future: careers off in the distance they will pursue after school is finished. When we finally go to bed, I don’t brush my teeth because I don’t know where to get water.

The Bucket

Jillian and I wake up the next morning at 7a.m. Lindi is heating a kettle over a fire in her garden and the kids aren’t up yet. The kettle is so black and burnt that it’s hard to believe it was ever any other color. She pours water in to buckets for us to take back to our room and bathe. I am embarrassed that I forgot a towel and she brings two for us along with a bar of soap and some lotion.

Now I could barely take a bath effectively in a bathtub—let alone a bucket. So I stand in it and kind of brush the water up and down my legs. I grab the bar of soap and attempt a lather, which is only somewhat effective. Water sloshes on to the floor and I decide that I’ll shower when we get back to the house later that afternoon. I still feel like I wimped out.

Lindi takes us to the school where she teaches and tells us about the huge classes and problems with children misbehaving and using drugs in school. The community seems so united and peaceful it’s still hard for me to imagine this dark underbelly.

I don’t really know how to describe the school. I guess it is what you would expect of a rural school in South Africa. Parts are dirty and falling apart, there are cracked windows… I didn’t see any of the classrooms and I really wish I had. Sorry I don’t have any pictures (big surprise) I forgot to charge my camera. It’s good to know that my forgetfulness transcends boarders, oceans and cultures.

Outside we could hear drums banging and shouting. One of the older daughters who is my age and out of the house takes us to the backyard of one of the houses where a group of men are practicing their traditional tribal dances. She says that these groups perform for tourists and it’s a good way to earn money because there are few other outlets to make money so far from the city.

I watch the group of five men, huge smiles spread across their face as they kick the air in unison. Their faces are bright in the sunlight and their dreadlocks smack against their faces as they turn. Each has his own swagger that gives the historic dance a modern feel.

Later we see property her grandparents own. Chickens run around in the yard and several large huts are on the property next to the main house. We go inside one and Basani tries to catch a cockroach with her foot. There are animal pelts on the floor, a huge snakeskin spread across the wall and chests filled with glass jars of herbal medicines and remedies covered with dust.

I wish I could stay on this land with the family. Sleep in the hut on the grass mats. I tell them I’ll come back and visit and stay for longer.

Later we return to Lindi’s house to leave. She packs us plastic containers filled with boiled sweet potatoes and a root vegetable that tastes kind of like a yam but not as sweet. She embraces me and I give her the rock with “strength” inscribed in it that I brought from the states. I know she doesn’t need it.

It's odd to feel nostalgic about a life that is so far from your own. But there is something about the simplicity of their lives that keeps grabbing me and pulling me in. In these small communities everyone is in it together. Mothers take in orphaned children as their own. Families have such light-hearted connections and unity that life seems so basic and easy. In America we try to emulate sustainable living by being "green". If you grow your own lettuce, you're progressive. But here it is all a given.

Yellow Lights

2009-07-14T07:45:00.001-07:00

Yellow Lights

It was dark out by the time we headed in to Soweto. We were supposed to leave around six, but in South African time—that could really end up being anywhere in a five hour range. Eric is driving on my right. A short black man, his background stems from one of the darkest tribes in South Africa. His silhouette and dark skin seem to glow with the passing street lamps. He has a jovial look to his wrinkleless face and I watch the way his smile lifts his cheeks. I’m shocked to hear he’s fifty.

I find myself shooting questions at him, some he answers directly, some he side-steps vaguely. I can’t tell if it’s because of a miscommunication, or his refusal to take the questions head on. But he answers most of them with a forthright honesty I didn’t expect.

He tells me he was part of the student uprisings and the development of the ANC before apartheid. He tells me about being caught without a pass pre-1994 when he was crossing the street. He left it in his car. The policeman didn’t care. He hit him over the head with the butt of his gun. It was nine days in prison, and torture for his association with “communist” (aka anti-government) organizations. He survived.

I ask him about forgiveness and look at my white reflection in the window. He says it’s resilience and that he holds no hostility. I scrutinize his face when he says this, looking for a disconnect or lack of focus that might insinuate a disingenuous statement. But his eyes are bright and his face is relaxed with unassuming contentment.

We’re going down the freeway and it’s dark, save a few factory lights. Then, in the distance I see a sprawl of lights that go as far as my eye can see.

“Do you see how the lights are yellow?” Eric asks.
I nod.
“That’s Soweto. They made the street lamps where the blacks live yellow, and the ones in the white neighborhoods white. That way if a white man got lost, he would know not to stop where the lights are yellow.”

I look out the window at the flow of yellow lights that go for miles, the largest township in Johannesburg. Gradually the white freeway lights fade away, a detail I wouldn’t have otherwise noticed.

Soweto

I got used to the stares after a while. It’s funny that even as I caught the glances through my car window, I didn’t sense hostility. But it wasn’t curiousity either, just a stare, as I watched them, wondering what the old man’s life was like. Wondering how long that child had been standing there, holding on to the fence with a far-away look in her eye. Wondering how the women could effortlessly carry such obscurely shaped objects balanced on their heads.

There are no white people who live here. How many people live in Soweto? Millions. In tiny two or three room houses stacked next to each other where extended families of six or seven crowd in. In the morning I notice the colorful rooftops that give the houses a slight appeal.

“It’s so the tourists would come and remark pre-apartheid ‘See how well these South Africans treat their blacks!’” From the road, you can only see the rooftops.

The woman walks barefoot down the side of the street where the concrete is unfinished and her feet pick up dirt. Men and women drag themselves from work back to the townships from the taxi stations.

“Here the sidewalks are not finished, but see how many people walk! In Melville your sidewalks are finished, no cracks... but no white people walk.”

I watch through the window at the market on one of the side streets. Shocked but not shocked because it was what I expected. This is Kliptown, one of the most poverty stricken areas of Soweto. I get so caught up looking out the window that when we pull to a stop, I hesitate to enter this world I’ve been a spectator of.

When I step out on the street I look at the rows of fly-covered fruit stands and blankets laid down covered with old clothes: hand-me downs for sale. I feel the eyes on me. I feel the clothes that I am wearing. I cover my white hands with my sleeves, as if shielding most of my skin will mask my race, my wealth, my nationality.

I feel a surprising sense of peace. This is what I came for.

Let God in this Place

“Are you a Christian?” My host mother asks after I tell her I’m a vegetarian.
“My Dad’s Jewish.” I tell her the history of my eating habits.
“Oh. We were hoping you would come to Church with us on Sunday.”
I feel a smile spread across my face then she quickly writes off my worries of what to wear. In retrospect, this was a ridiculous concern.

She knocks on my door at seven a.m. and says she’s drawn me a bath. I realize I don’t really know how to bathe without a post-bath shower. I also realize she has no shampoo, just soap. Even if she did have shampoo, it wouldn’t suit me. (As my old roommate Amber would say.. I “got that white girl hair.”)

So I get out with greasy hair and my host mom is running around because we are late and her nine-year old daughter isn’t wearing her sweater.

“Kabo doesn’t think you’re going to stand when they ask who is new to the church.” She has a wide smile that shows all of her teeth and crinkles her eyes. I feel like a giant next to her short stature.
I laugh and tell her daughter I’ll stand up.

We drive to the church and she laughs at me saying I’m so safe because I put my seatbelt on. I look out the window and can’t believe how many people are out. Runners, children, people waiting for taxis to take them to church, people coming from church, people at fruit stands along the side of the street.

When we pull up to the building, there is a man directing people where to park. Already there are easily several hundred cars parked in the dirt lot. I look at the church and realize it is a coliseum. This isn’t an exaggeration or an adjective: the building really is a coliseum.

We walk in and I keep my head cast down. I don’t make eye contact or look up because I’m afraid of what the glances will say. We take Kabo to her youth class then walk back to the main building. My host mom shows me all of the overflow rooms with projecor screens where they show the service because everyone cannot fit in the main building.

There are now blacks everywhere, hundreds and hundreds pouring in to the building--easily over two-thousand people. I can not see any other white face.

We line up at the door for the first service to end, I’m shaking slightly thinking that I will have to stand in front of all of these people.

When we go in it is a mad dash for seats, I momentarily lose her then find her again.

The chorus starts to sing and I look around as thousands of blacks rise to their feet singing and swaying and dancing. Raising their hands up. I feel so aware of my white-girl shuffle. But I also feel so carried by the tone in their voices that I lose myself in the emotion and energy of it all.

“Let God in this place...”

The singing and unity is unlike anything I have ever witnessed. These are some of the most poverty-stricken people in the world. Here in this room, their voices carry their desperation, their hope and completely unrestrained passion. The sound in the room seems to go on forever and my chest fills up with the emotion and pain as the room flows together carrying itself to higher place that I have never before experienced.

I stand when they ask who is new, a man waves to me and the woman in front of me turns to shake my hand. Welcome.

Arrival

2009-07-09T08:22:00.000-07:00

I have no time to write a new message but I'm copying the email I sent to my parents. I miss you all!

Mommy! I so wanted to call you this afternoon, but then I realized it was about three in the morning your time so I thought I would email you instead! I hope you are doing well and enjoying your new purse, I soooo wish you could explore this place with me but I guess I will have to describe it for you the best that I can. I just decided that I would copy Dad, Claire and Ben on here as well so hello to all of you as well!!

So the flight went really well, surprisingly well-- I was so expecting to be stopped in customs because I didn't have this paper or that paper and sent back to the US. But I made it through after
1. Sitting next to an Indian man whose cologne sadly didn't mask his hideous body odor.
2. Sitting behind a woman (on the next flight) who was morbidly obese and I have deducted was the only possible source of the whiffs of gas that I kept getting throughout the flight. But
3. I did meet a lovely steward on South African Air and we chatted for a bit by the bathroom (half an hour) because he seemed more excited about my trip than I was.

I was also able to fanangle (sp?) the last vegetarian meal from him that one of the muslim passengers passed up. Thank Allah. The flight was a total of 18 hours after stopping for gas in Senegal for a crew change.. etc etc.

We arrived nine hours later in Jo'burg and my biggest fear was realized when I went through the gate: the people who were supposed to get me-- the long brown-haired girl in the orange sweatshirt as she self-described in the email-- was no where to be seen. I waited with my two gigantic backpacks, teetering back and forth near all of the African men holding signs with last names that I couldn't make out. Half an hour passed. One man with a red hat started eyeing me. I moved to the other side of the circle outside the gate. I tried to smile at the people I recognized from my flight, trying to ask in my glance: "Please take me home with you?" But they all shook me off, no one wanted the American girl with the backpacks that were bigger than her small frame. Finally a curly haired girl walked up with a large black man with dread locks and asked if I was Emily. I thanked Allah once more.

And we drove to the Visions House QUITE the experience, but we survived. The house.. the house is nothing to write about. Except that our electricity was shut off today and we all have agreed that we're being ripped off. But I have a bed, a heater that doesn't like to work at night, and three pounds of blankets/towels that I can use to keep me warm.

I just realized there are going to be a million spelling errors in this email because I can't check the spelling and I don't want to go back and re-read it because It's 10R for 30 Mins. Sorry Mom.

JO'Burg..
This city is amazing. It's like New York except when you drive down the street after a while you realize that you have only been seeing black faces. I thought I would feel awkward about standing out, but it's to the point where it's so blatant that I don't really care anymore. There are a couple downsides to the city, which I'll probably write about in my blog. The main one is that there is NO public transportation system that is safe. So imagine travelling around NY without public transport. Pretty much your only option is drive your own car or take a "taxi" which is like VW bus packed with people that you pay 7R for and it drops you off like a bus, at certain places. I'm still getting experience with these, some people (and guidebooks) say they're dangerous, but I think they're pretty harmless. Maybe I'll make friends?

I interviewed with both of my organizations today and I am so torn over which one to choose. One would be working with kids, the man was a little bague about what I would actually be doing, but he said that I might be able to visit some of the prisons etc which would be so cool. The thing I liked is that there are a ton of programs that they have ALL of which would be really really interesting. I just don't know exactly what he would want me to do.. we threw around the idea of giving the kids cameras and teaching them basic photography techniques and then I could compile a book or a slideshow with their work. I thought it sounded very NPR (giving street kids marantz recorders and producing a show about their life). So I was excited, a little hesitant because he was so vague. Another plus is that they would provide transportation.

Option number two would be working with a pretty large organization that teaches English in rural areas in South Africa and about four or five other countries in Africa. The feeling I got was that they were VERY eager to have me and my multi-media skills and that I would essentially be doing PR for them. They would take me to all of the provinces around South Africa and I would interview the teachers and the children to show what they're doing-- do photography video etc. It sounded amazing because they would pay for all of my travel and accomodations-- but I wouldn't be actually working with the kids, just interviewing doing press releases etc. They are a pretty well-established organization but have no communications area which is where I would come in.

I'm really torn, let me know what you all think. I pretty much have to decide by tomorrow and I think both would be amazing. One would be a great resume builder and has great opportunities, very straight forward, office building etc. The other.. more vague probably working with kids, and prisoners?? I don't know. But I'm having a very hard time deciding. There is so much more to say, but I don't really know where to start. I love it here. I don't even really know why. I can't pinpoint it. But every once in a while I have to stop and pinch myself and realize I'm actually in Africa and that there is something intrinsic about that that I still can't completely grasp. I love you all, and I miss you. Please tell Mimi I'm safe and forward this to Sheryl so she can read it.

Hopefully I'll update soon. Emily

Gratitude

2009-07-03T17:04:00.000-07:00

Two days until departure.

The emotional rollercoaster continues. I don’t know how to describe it. Some of this is so hard to grasp that there’s almost no point in trying. In my mind, I classify it like leaving for college. I remember making the rounds to say goodbye to everyone, not completely knowing who I would be when I came back. Back then, I was determined not to change and now I’m welcoming the transition.

The biggest difference: this journey is with my heart, not my head.

It boggles my mind how many people have come up to me and said, “This is perfect for you.” The words always catch in my chest, and part of me is speechless. Not just because I was somehow able to manifest this dream, but because so many people see that in the deepest recesses of my soul, this is what I have been longing to do.

I was telling my mom the other day that it has felt like a journey to the journey. For the last three months I’ve been meeting with so many people who have helped to make this trip possible. Even before I knew exactly where I wanted to go, or how I was going to do what I want to do, it was everyone’s enthusiasm that reminded me of the goal and helped me persist.

Words cannot express my gratitude to everyone. I have never felt so supported and loved in my entire life. It is all of you who I want to tell these stories to and share my journey with.

I don’t know what these next few months will bring. Last night I was so anxious I felt like I could feel my blood surging through my body. It could have been my blood pressure going up because of the numerous pretzel cheese sandwiches I ate (we were out of animal crackers Whit)… but more likely it is this anticipation that keeps curdling in my stomach.

I don’t know if I will write again before I leave on Sunday. I love writing on the plane, and chances are I’ll have some thoughts to put down. This is by far the hardest thing I’ve ever done (yes, harder than the marathon) but I am so thankful that I am able to do it.

To everyone I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to, please know that I am thinking about you and taking you with me. To everyone who is holding me in their thoughts: I couldn’t do this without you.

Your reason and your passion are the rudder and sails of your seafaring soul.

If either your sails or your rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill in mid-seas.

For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own destruction.

Therefore let your soul exalt your reason to the height of passion, that it may sing;

And let it direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its own daily resurrection, and like the phoenix rise above its own ashes. - Kahlil Gibran

Apprehension

2009-06-29T14:49:00.000-07:00

I leave in less than a week, and to try to handle the flux of emotions, I started writing about this journey in word documents.

Last week.

I’m completely terrified. I ramble off this recording of what I’m going to be doing, telling people how I’m going to save the world, save the children with a hint of sarcasm that leaves us both wondering. Life is so comfortable here. It’s so easy. Why would I ever want to leave? Where is that urge that I’ve been feeling for the last few months propelling me forward? What happened to the desire that I was so sure of? The menial steps seemed easy. One task to overcome after another. Get Visa, stick me with the needle until I pass out on the floor- brag about this as evidence of my test of will to go against the norm. It was simple then. And now it’s a week and a half away. And I can still feel this swelling ball somewhere in my gut screaming at me for what I’m about to do.

It looks good on paper.

What a resume builder.

But how do I put down on a resume this fear that keeps consuming me? So worried that they’ll hate me. Is that really my biggest fear? To be labeled as a naïve white girl? But that’s who I am isn’t it? I guess it’s better to recognize it now and go in to it realizing that living there will pry apart my greatest insecurities. But maybe they are as apprehensive of me as I am of them. What does it mean to suffer? All I can do is be humble and hope that the rest will fall in to place.

Three weeks ago.

I wonder what I’ll feel when the wheels hit the ground.

When I come in and find the weak water-pressure and the luxuries that I take for granted aren’t going to be mine for six months. I’ll live under the electric fence, will I ever get used to the fear? What does that do to a person? But I’m yearning for the culture shock. This living room is far too white, far too pristine.

Show me the dirt of the world. What a morbid thing.

I remember he told me about the refugee groupies— like vagabonds going from one emergency site to another. What is it in your soul that makes you feel like you must see the world’s suffering?

It’s like a sick social experiment of how much I can take. Thanksgiving, Christmas, Birthday… how much will it hurt? What toll is it going to take on this person I have become? But if it doesn’t kill me.. just don’t kill my spirit.

I’m so excited. I’m so.. speechless at what this is going to do to me- how this is going to change me. But my heart is like rapid fire when I think about it. The thought of staying makes me restless, makes the energy surge through my legs and I’m more terrified of being complacent than going. Help me make the decision I must.

She says it’s a world of contradictions, so yes I will be contradicted.

That's all I have for now.