A foreigner's ode to Jo'burg

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

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

"Don't Get Her Arrested"

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

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

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

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.