It's funny that once you've been somewhere, you can always find someone else to talk to about it. Since I've returned, I've had no less than four conversations with as many people about South African experiences, both mine and theirs.

It's funny how small the world really is.

Burning (wo)Man

Consider it a lesson learned. 

I've been thinking back on my experience (as I'm so often prone to doing) and I'm realizing that one lesson I need to learn out of this is: stop burning bridges. 

I wrote a five page (typed) debriefing when I left South Africa detailing my problems with the business project at Projects Abroad South Africa. I agree with everything I said. I re-read that document no fewer than five times (which is a first, considering I hate proofreading my own work). Every statement I made was meant to be effective yet emotionally removed from the situation at hand. It was supposed to reflect my views on South Africa as being positive but my views on the business end of things to have a more pessimistic outlook. 

I don't regret it. 

I wish I would have been able to explain it, though. Because I know that everyone who goes to that program (and many of the other programs under the Projects Abroad umbrella) have problems with it. And I know that not everyone is going to speak up about it. I'm happy that I voiced my concerns. I hope that the UK office chooses to take to heart some of the criticism they're getting (and have been receiving in recent months) and take some action. 

I realize that it's a non-profit organization and there are limits to their spending abilities, but let's just say that 3rd party sources have confirmed that the administrative fees we pay support very luxe lifestyles. And it's a given, but it would be nice if some parts of those salaries could be be put toward the projects "we're" supposedly supporting - something besides free labor. 

(This started out as an apology of sorts but then I realized I don't have anything to apologize for. I love South Africa. I liked the people who worked for Projects Abroad. I hated the way they implemented their programs. Enough said. I won't be asking them for references and I can assure you I won't be getting any. All that's left to do is complete an article and finish editing a small video for micro-financing and then all will be well in the world. They'll carry on and so will I.) 

Food Update

I brought a pack of Pick N Pay Ginger Biscuits on the plane with me, hoping that they'd last until we landed in Denver. I've never been particularly fond of ginger, but for some reason, I'm now completely in love with the sharp spicy sweetness of these biscuits. I opened the pack on the flight from DC to Denver, and between the two of us, they were gone before the stewardess could make a round with the drink cart.

I found South African wine at King Soopers. While I'm not entirely sure why King Soopers is selling wine, I'm not complaining (at least, not yet). I didn't find any of the labels that I was seeking, but I found one that was familiar and another that was $5. So of course, I bought them both.
It's going to be interesting to try and find the wines I want here. Hmm....however, there's a bottle from Spier that I brought back. I'm holding onto it until I feel like drinking it, but it's going to be delicious. Maybe it'll be my Christmas dinner contribution.

Fairview makes the best white rock cheese with apricots. They also make one with cranberries. I realized that there was no way I was going to be able to get packages of the cheese home alive, so I settled for trying to find some here. And I found an English white cheese with cranberries, so I bought it. However, it lacks the sweetness of the Fairview cheese and instead, tasted almost too bitter for me. I'm going to have to be creative in my cranberry cheese applications now, as I have a rather large triangle of it and no particular inclination to devour it.

Things I bought yesterday: turkey. Sliced turkey breast. I have not seen any lunch meat that's not processed in three months, so it was a pleasure to open the container and taste pure turkey with black pepper. Mozarella. I have a feeling I'll never get away from this new love of cheese. Fruit. Cabbage. V8. This is heaven, really.

The call for coffee consumes me.

...US soil

It's 6:30 am.
I've been awake for two hours.
All I really want to do is go dancing. That's weird, I think.
I've watched Sister Act on Comcast and am contemplating re-reading the 7th Harry Potter book.

It's too dark to go for a run.
It's too late to go back to sleep.
I'm too mind-boggled to try and start finishing this blog beautifully.

The trip was long. But it went smoothly. Apparently as we landed in DC, the winds were almost too much for our 767. People were throwing up in their vomit bags. I am glad I enjoy turbulence.
We almost missed our third flight (to Denver) because of the line at customs, but we ran, so it was alright.
I am so glad that Mike is my little brother. He's the best.

Quick itinerary and the like

Of course I haven't packed yet, are you mad?



Itinerary, for the interested:

Flight # 1:  
Cape Town to Joburg
departs 1:50 in the afternoon.
Duration: 2 hours

arrive Joburg at 3:50pm.
Layover.

Flight #2:
Joburg to Washington Dulles
departs: 6:55 pm
Duration: 18:05 hours (ugh)

arrive DC at 6 am (Wednesday)

Flight #3:
Dulles to Denver
departs: 8:20 am
arrives 10:35 am
Duration 4:15.

With 24 hours of flying time ahead of me and nearly 36 hours of actual travel time, I'm already prepared to be exhausted.
Pick up for the airport is before 11 tomorrow.


Will give more information about Projects Abroad debriefing and my tormented emotional state tomorrow when I buy internet at the airport, or finally manage to get it to go from my phone to my computer again.

There were tears yesterday and I anticipate more tomorrow.


Cape Town, I have loved you.

(Dis)quiet

I almost cried last night, overwhelmed and exhausted, laying in my bed staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.
I didn't, though.
I've only cried once in Cape Town, and it was right in the middle/end of September when the days seemingly stretched on endlessly and I thought I'd never find my way.
Those feelings are long gone.
I used to cry a lot. It's my way of cleansing. But during the past few years I've seemed to stop doing that. Part of me wishes I could just have a good cry sometimes, followed by a hot bath and heavy sleep.
But maybe that part of me is just wishing for a hot bath and heavy sleep.

I'm ready.
There are no words to describe the feeling I have now.
I've put off leaving - I always do. There is still a large mountain of things to do spread before me, around me, and I'm not sure if I'll get to all of them before I leave.
The most important is the District Six museum. I want to buy little things, of course, little flags and stuff, but I'm warning you ahead of time that I'm not going to be bringing much home with me. When I think of Cape Town, I don't think of the mass-produced wooden spoons with carved giraffes. I think of other stuff entirely.
So, it's been decided that you'll each get something else. We'll explain it later.


Last night, there was a discussion. It was like being six all over again. I sat in the corner and tried to mind my own business while the argument occurred. There was no escape. I read the news on my phone and tried to be as engrossed as I possibly could in the North Korea situation. In the end, I had to jump in as mediator, but it was futile, just like all mediation attempts. No understanding was reached, there were tears (not mine), and all wasn't well when we all retreated to our separate bedrooms for sleep that didn't come.

Again, I'm tired. I feel it pulling at the bottoms of my eyelids, pressing into the tops of my cheeks. I'm desperate for rest. I want to pile pillows all around me and jump into a nest of blankets. I want to pull all the shades closed and sleep for a week. And I plan on it.

Applications will be made, but there's a glitch in the process at the moment. I can't apply until I have a working phone number, which might be just as well. I can have a few days to breathe before the application process begins, although there's an opening at the Colorado Blvd store that I'm quite eager to fill. Nervous energy is coursing through me.

Petty Drama in the House of Females

Tension is rising in the house at the moment.
Priscilla hates that my room is cluttered, is having dreams about mice, and will be certainly convinced that my room is the center of the flea epidemic that's hitting our house once she finds out about it.
However, I am not the epicenter of the flea problem. Margaret works in Vrygrond and there's a good chance that she's brought them home with her from work where they have begun to nest in her bed.
Or it might be bedbugs (it's a very common host family problem here). I still lack the bites that she has - this morning there were 18 new ones on her, and zero on me. I've got three left over from the weekend, and they're all in exposed places like my feet or arm, and none of those can be traced to fleas or bed bugs. I'm calling mosquitos on those.

Either way, my clutter and her bites aside, there are problems at home.
Margaret and Priscilla are the same age. Margaret is a successful, wealthy (ish) woman from the Netherlands who shows no signs of slowing down in her professional career. Priscilla is ready to retire, constantly complaining about menopause and possibly realizing her socio-economic situation more and more as Margaret has been here.

She accuses Margaret of being a snob, an accusation that I wholeheartedly disagree with. And Margaret is upset about unfairly being singled out all the time

There are food issues. I have them too. Priscilla won't buy the food that we'll eat and won't listen to our suggestions - instead, buying things she thinks we want. It's been an issue, but I long ago learned to not worry about eating breakfast at home and to just buy lunch out. It's costly, but necessary.

There are space issues. When Margaret came in, she didn't have a door to her room. We put up a blanket, just to block out the light. She wasn't overly concerned about privacy, because there's really not any anyway. So Priscilla called it the Vrygrond door in her derogatory way and we went about our business. This weekend, she had Jared, her daughter's boyfriend, put a door in. It's a nice door and Margaret said thank you. But Priscilla has been calling it "Margaret's door" and constantly referring to it. Margaret doesn't care. She's happy to have a door but at the same time, she doesn't want it to be all about her - meaning that it's Priscilla's house and if she wanted a door, then it's fine.

Then there was the bathroom painting incident. I live in a cramped, narrow, all-too-pink room and there's a small bathroom (toilet, sink, shower all within arm's reach) behind it. The bathroom is a bit moldy due to climate and lack of ventilation, and Priscilla had decided to paint it. So after asking several (seven) times, Margaret and I volunteered to paint it. I couldn't get out of work, though, so Margaret spent Friday afternoon painting the bathroom purple. Priscilla didn't say thank you, and then began criticizing the painting.

It's a hot mess, really.

So while I am going to miss both of them (equally), I'm not going miss being caught in the crossfire.

Also, as an added plus for the week, Priscilla has offered to drive me to the laundry today. I don't leave my clothes in the drawers because they (the drawers) are strangely dirty and smell of mothballs, but since when have I ever put my clothes in drawers? So they are strewn around, spilling out of suitcases, etc.
Obviously, this is a ploy to get me to pack, but it also saves me from having to haul 10 kilos of laundry a mile or so.

I'll take that.

Email correspondence - copy

Hello Grandpa! (and others who I added as I realized I was going to want to tell you about this anyway...)




Unfortunately, I don't believe that much of the aid from any country is really helping in South Africa at the moment.

Much of the problems stem from the fact that South Africa is still a very segregated country. While the Western Cape (the province that Cape Town is in) is very, well, westernized, it's the white people that have the highest standards of living. The colored, black and Indian populations still remain unable to access certain resources and education.



Many of the problems are also health related, and stem from the living conditions. A high instance of HIV/AIDs coupled with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and Tuberculosis hinder a lot of human advancement, especially since they lack access to even the most basic things: indoor plumbing, electricity, doctors, etc.



Probably because of the low education rates, the crime rate and gang membership is very high. Mike can speak more on that because most of his work is in areas that are directly in the paths of gang violence. (He wants me to assert here that he's safe here, and well taken care of. I'll let him address the situations that he's found himself in and his reactions to them.) Many of the children are neglected and abused, and it's sad to see that they won't ever have access to proper schooling or resources.



I keep finding that my minor in Gender Studies is so very applicable to the patterns of male behavior here - especially since they lack legitimate means to access respect and power, so they choose to act violently as a way to gain the "respect" that they think they "deserve." Also, the country is still very far behind as far as advancement for women goes. There is a lot of violence against and intolerance for homosexuals as well as others who choose not to maintain a traditional life-trajectory of courtship leading to heterosexual marriage.

(Today, my Auntie Debbie - Mama P's neighbor - was asking me if I'd be married in a year or so. I laughed.)

But that is also incongruent with the statistics of out of wedlock pregnancy. Most of the young women here experience pregnancy during teenage years or in their 20s. (Here, they use the verb "fell" as in "I fell pregnant." It's an interestingly passive verb used to describe the situation.) However, even though these pregnancies don't always result in marriage, it's shocking to me that so many fathers are actually involved. The importance of family in the South African culture seems to be holding the family structure together, even if it is not directly aligned with the traditional family structure that we're used to seeing. But really, are we used to a traditional family structure?



The illiteracy rate is shocking, as well. Mike can tell a story about a friend of his who was trying to give him the Rastafarian history but who couldn't spell - so instead he drew a pictographic map of the history. It was actually really cool, but sobering.

South Africa has made me ever so grateful for my education.



South Africa is still struggling as a democracy, and the political structure (including police, etc.) is very corrupt. Without a unified plan to attack the social problems, South Africa won't be able to succeed as a fully integrated society.

I was on the train last weekend with Mike and we were speaking to a white couple about our work in the townships - which are places that few white people will ever venture into - and one of the women said, "It's such a shame there are so many social problems in the townships, but that's not the real South Africa." I was so upset because she was trying to say that they weren't her social problems.

That's the entire South African problem in a nutshell - no one wants to take responsibility for any of the problems and they keep blaming other groups, specifically racial groups.



But this is a beautiful country with a lot of opportunity for economic advancement, particularly where tourism is concerned.

Since it's English speaking, it doesn't present so much of a language barrier for English-speaking tourists from the Americas or Europe.

The wine here is amazing and priced incredibly well. I wish Americans drank more wine, I really do. I think I'm going to start sending away for some and having it imported into the US. South Africa is where the pinotage variety of grape was originally blended. I've been writing a story about wine for the journalism project, so of course I've taken the liberty of doing a bit of field research.



The tourism as well is wonderful and relatively cheap. It's also safe - we just got back from a six day road trip and we encountered no problems along the way, and were able to do the trip for about $100 US dollars a day including going out for three meals, accomodation and car rental as well as tourist attractions.

We climbed through caves and rode ostriches and bungee jumped and hiked in the national forests along the way and swam in the ocean every chance we got.

This coming weekend, since it's going to be our last in Cape Town, we are planning to spend Friday night in Stellenbosch, near the wine farms, and then come back to Cape Town for Saturday night.

From there, the plan is still undecided. I hope to spend Sunday or Monday at the beach, saying goodbye to the ocean.

We leave Tuesday morning for the airport. We will then fly to Johannesburg, have a two hour layover there, before flying to Washington DC. Then we will fly to Denver.



I'm going to need time to process the experience, obviously. I can't believe that we're about to leave - I feel like we just got here. But I can already tell you what I've learned about food.

I have been eating different types of cheese, and I've learned that they're not all so bad. Tomatoes were my newest obsession prior to leaving the US, and that hasn't changed, but I've added grilled tomatoes to my eating patterns. It's so strange just to eat half a tomato that is soft and warm, but it's wildly delicious.

Mushrooms, sauteed, grilled, raw, whatever. I want them all the time now. I want them covered in cream sauce on top of pasta, I want them next to my eggs at breakfast.

Curry. Not too hot, not too bland.

Hot sauce - chili sauce, green chili sauce, red sauce. I ate that on top of cheese toast this morning.





Alright, so much love to everyone from both mike and I.

and Happy Thanksgiving.

make Mom eat some cranberry sauce for me!

and Grandma Mary, will you please make me a jar so I can have some?



Love again

Katie

The Friday shuffle.

Twenty two and a half and tired.
I had to write my own blurb for the magazine this morning, and that's not what I wrote, obviously. But I thought about it.

Katherine Barry is twenty two and a half (as of yesterday - a fact that I didn't remember myself but that my mother did. Thanks for the email, Mom!) and absolutely exhausted.
The last few days have been the sort of days where productivity finds itself moving in a negative direction. Instead of getting anything done, I think I'm digging my heels in and moving backwards. Slowly.

I've been burying myself in the wine story, reading about GDPs and export statistics, salaries, fetal alcohol syndrome numbers, black economic empowerment initiatives, and quite frankly, I'm exhausted. Tying them all together into a cohesive story is going to be something that I don't want to do, and yet I must.

It's proof that I'm the shadow of my former self. Katie Barry can write anything, I thought. I can sit down and the words come. I can type a five page paper (citations and quotes included) in just over an hour. I'm that good.
But yesterday, I stared at the computer screen and there was nothing. The clicker blinked on the blank word document. I blinked too, not as rhythmic, obviously.
I could see what I wanted to describe in my mind. I could see the picturesque afternoon scenery. I could smell the wine. But my fingers remained linguistically stagnant, tapping idly on the table.
Today, things were a little better. I'm a paragraph in. But it's all stats. Easy stuff. Squish some stats in and then throw on the adjectives and you've got yourself a story.
But I want it to be compelling. I want it to be unique, approachable, memorable.

So that when I complain to Projects Abroad about the shit situation they've got going on in South Africa, I will actually have something to lean back on. Because currently, two months and one article is looking weak.
And it is.
But I've been doing a hell of a lot of blogging and blog reading, which is moderate journalism in its own right.

That's a lie but let's not worry about any of that for now.

Let's look forward.
Wednesday night I ate a bad falafel. Yesterday I did my laundry in a three foot square shower. Today I'm wearing running shorts and shoes, but a normal cardigan. I've obviously not learned the valuable lessons from my oft-repeated mistake of neglecting to wear socks while wearing running shoes. My hair is disheveled and my makeup never made it onto my face.
It's that point in the trip, when everything has gone to hell and all I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep.
I'm currently alternating between New York Times blogs and some slide show about dating with depression, neither of which I have problems with (the dating or the depression, but I guess I don't really have problems with NYT blogs either). This is my life. Hello, 11am on a Friday.
I am officially Bridget Jones. South African Bridget Jones.

There's no time for that, though.
There's no time for sleep when the days stand at eleven. The countdown has begun. It's official.

I'm ready.
I'm ready for the twenty four hours of airplane and transit hell that is the trip from Cape Town to Joburg to DC to Denver. I'm ready to be strip searched by TSA officials looking for contraband. Actually, that's a lie, too. Is anyone ever really ready to be strip searched?
I'm ready for bad airplane food, bad sleeping, turbulence while I'm in the restroom (every time, I swear). I'm ready to pack incorrectly, as always, and then not have what I need when I need it.
I'm ready for the inevitable breakdown when I realize that I've loved this experience so much.
I'm also ready the breakdown that will occur when I check the bank account.
I want to snuggle my fat cat and drive my car.
I want to eat things that don't involve the word curry or fried.


I dont want to leave, though. I'm finally getting some color into my skin. I'm finally settled into my routine. I love the beach and the ocean. I love the city and the trains. I love how loud it is here, I love how laid back the attitudes are.
I love everything.
I love the chaos. It fits me perfectly.

BUT-

The other night, Mike lost his wallet. Some time after, as I was leaving Green Point Stadium, the police stopped a man who was trying to get his hand into my bag. They slapped him as he protested, and told him to Shut up! And then they kept slapping him.
I was overwhelmed.

The amount of recent violence here has been incredible. Not in a good way. It's starting to wear on me. The racism, the poverty, the crime - it's too much.

So maybe a healthy dose of home might be a welcome change.

The Car Rental.

Car rental is not an easy thing.
That is a universal truth.

However, it can be hilarious, as well. (Here, people pronounce as well as one word, making it sound like "asswell." That, too, is hilarious in its own way.)

After we realized that we needed a credit card to rent that cars, Philipp, Mike's roommate stepped forward and gallantly offered his. Without him, we'd never have left Cape Town.
The two of us were the only drivers throughout the 2200 kilometer adventure, meaning that we each spent at least 24 hours driving over a five day span.

Anyway, the whole trip went off without any major issues, but there were a couple of minor ones that presented a few problems.

I hit a curb.
The first day was a 9 hour adjustment period. It's really hard to remember that you have an entire vehicle on the left side of you and nothing on the right, so you naturally want to orient yourself to the left side of the road. But you're on the right side of the car.
So - we were driving, I was too close to the left, I hit the curb, I bent part of the hubcap and scratched the rim a little bit.

We checked it out and the car was fine, but we knew we'd be in some serious trouble with the car company. Apparently, the fine print (which we examined quite closely) tells you that even though you've paid for extra super executive cover, the "tyres, hubcaps, rims, and wheels" aren't covered.

And of course, one of my hubcaps got stolen or went missing along the way.
One day, Philipp was driving next to me when he noticed that I was missing a back hubcap.
(This is where I would like to insert the fact that I've never lost a hubcap before in my life.)

We knew we had only one option: replace the two hubcaps. If the rental car company saw the damaged one, they'd immediately do rim inspection and realize that I was the source of the problem and then proceed to charge us wild amounts of money for a problem that wasn't really a problem.

So - we started looking for Nissan Tiida hubcaps. And we didn't see any. Well, that's not entirely true. We did. We were stuck behind a South African police vehicle at a checkpoint for a good ten minutes and they had a Nissan Tiida with exactly the hubcaps I needed.
I told Philipp that I'd give him R10 if he stole them right then and there, but obviously, that wasn't an option.
Had I been smart, I would have offered them cash to buy them off of the police officers right then and there.

But I'm not.
Either that or I'm cautious, especially when it comes to shady dealings with the law.

We drove back to Cape Town.
We woke up early on Friday - we had to have the cars back in the city before 9:30 or we'd be charged for another day of rental.
So we drove toward the city looking for hubcaps on Nissans, whether they were parked or in a shop.
We didn't see any that could be conveniently stolen, so we went into a wheel shop and inquired. We were told that they only sell real Nissan hubcaps in Nissan dealerships.
So we went to Cape Town, but by the time we got there, we were out of time.

We pulled over into a parking lot. I pulled the damaged hubcap off of my car while Philipp pulled two hubcaps off of his car. He put them back on my car and then we threw the damaged one away.
Carol suggested that we take all four off since they were "stolen" but we decided it'd be better just to go with it as it was.

So we drove them back to the rental place. We made it with three minutes to spare. I drove conveniently into a dark corner so that the vehicle inspection wouldn't necessarily be so thorough. I signed off on the car after the man had inspected it and declared it perfect.
Whew.

Then we told them that the other car had had two hubcaps stolen. What's the procedure from here? I asked.
The woman's face grew grave. "You should have just stolen some," she said. We tried to look like that hadn't even been an option. "It's normally a R450 handling fee, plus the cost of hubcaps, plus a percentage of the cost of the hubcaps," she said. I felt my heart sink. "But," she said, "I'll take you. You can just buy new hubcaps."

Relief.
She drove us to a dealership that even my GPS couldn't find and we proceeded to cut a deal with the people there. Instead of R700 for each hubcap they charged us R550 (making the total R1100), and we slipped her a R100 bill for her trouble.
They took one hubcap off a new car and then gave us another, and the deal was done.

And when we left, I felt so much better. When it was all said and done, we paid less than R6500 in total for ten people to rent the car for six days and for replacement hubcaps and wheel-greasing - it's the South African way.

I felt so relieved, overjoyed, immensely pleased.

It was such a lovely trip.
I also really enjoy driving on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the road.

More of the trip to come.
But first - Bafana Bafana, tomorrow night at 9:30 at Green Point Stadium in Cape Town.
I bought my shirt today off of a vendor on the street who was in no mood to negotiate - none of them were, so I settled on a jersey for less than R70 ($10) and a flag for R30.
Deal done.
Excitement is setting in. Mike and another American kid are cheering for the USA.

A Township Perspective, my contribution to the Projects Abroad South Africa blog

I came to South Africa with a limited idea of what a township might be. People living in shacks, I thought. Of course that’s what a township is. But that’s the most basic definition of what a township could be. There is a sense of removal from those people you see in pictures, or read about – the people who live in somewhere far away in a shack.

            My first memory of Cape Town is seeing a township along the left side of the highway as we drove away from the airport.  I later learned that it was Khayelitsha, one of the biggest townships in South Africa. I’ll never forget the cars speeding past the homes, the corrugated iron, long rusted from wear, that made up the roofs and the sides; the blue fabric tarps; the trash littering the ground, intertwined with the metal of the fences.

            This past week, I drove past Khayelitsha again, this time headed east. I drove and Khayelitsha followed me. Hills covered with shacks, uneven but sturdy in their construction. From the highway, it seems as if there’s no organization. They sit crookedly on the hills, not uniform in any way.  I couldn’t believe immensity of it. It spread around me, almost endless.

I hadn’t imagined the townships to be so very human. This is something that perhaps everyone visiting a township or reading about them should keep it mind – the humanity. The people in townships are people. They’re not there by choice (unless they are), but they are making do with the materials that they have been given. They’re living their lives, just like you or me.

This past weekend a tourist couple was hijacked in Gugulethu and the wife was found dead in Khayelitsha. This incident of violence has shocked the world and will spread fear about the safety of townships. Perhaps this story can serve as a precaution to people wishing to venture into the townships to get a perspective on life there, but I also think it should serve as a reminder. The townships are not tourist attractions – they shouldn’t be treated as zoos. The people there are not there to be gawked at; they don’t stand around waiting for tourists to snap pictures of them. They don't exist to live forever in photo albums of the fortunate. 

            Townships aren’t far away. They’re closer than you’d ever think. They’re the reality that many South Africans face every day. But they’re also a forgotten segment of society.  I was on a train last weekend riding next to a middle-aged white couple. We were speaking about our volunteer work with Projects Abroad, and the fact that we work in townships came up. My younger brother spoke of the violence that he sees everyday, about the children he loves so much, about the poverty there, and the woman replied that it’s a shame that there are so many social problem in the townships and reminded us that those impressions are not really South Africa.

            I was offended.  Social problems aren’t part of the REAL South Africa? The social problems shouldn’t be relegated to land not occupied by whites. The social problems affecting the townships are social problems that affect South Africa.  South Africa, like any other country on this earth, has social problems. There are poverty, crime, corruption, education and health issues everywhere. This is a universal problem – the problem of problems. They exist. There is no perfect society – at this point in time, it seems impossible that one might ever exist. But the townships should not be left to cope without the unified assistance of their countrymen. They should not be abandoned just because there is no chance. There is always a chance.

I spent a month working in Vrygrond, a township in the Southern Suburbs of Cape Town. While I was there, I spent quite a bit of time walking through it. My terrible sense of direction would have found me lost and wandering, but my colleagues wouldn’t let me walk alone, and I was grateful for their guidance and their willingness to share their experiences with me. While I was there, I became friends with the people I worked with. We shared inside jokes, we laughed, we worked.

Even though there are problems including poverty, HIV/AIDS, under-education, and crime, a sense of hope lives in these communities. There is such a sense of triumph, of accomplishment and expectations; it’s contagious. Family trumps all and even though things are sometimes slow moving, there is an overwhelming sense of future for the people there.

            The townships have a sense of community unlike any other I’ve experienced while in Cape Town. I have enjoyed the hospitality of a woman who let me come into her home to conduct interviews, who made me tea in her tiny kitchen, who let me carry her children around. This was no woman begging for handouts, this was a proud and dignified mother, an intelligent teacher, a strong community leader.

She spoke of her neighborhood nostalgically - speaking of its birth and growth and the momentous occasion a couple of years ago when they finally got electricity. She told me that even though some people are ashamed to come from such informal settlements, she has a sense of pride about her home. I agree; her home is lovely, clean and well kept, something that people assume might not be possible in a township – which is a lie that helps perpetuate the idea that people coming from townships are dirty and unclean. Her home is just that, a home. It's lived in and well-loved by the family who keep it. 

She told me that her sister always tells people about the view from her house, which is a three-room shack on the edge of a township. I went to the edge of her property and looked. Behind me were small shacks and other crudely constructed houses, electricity connected from the tall wooden poles scattered almost randomly throughout, but in front of me spread the nature reserve, all white sand and green brush and blue sky. Above me hung plastic flags representing different countries, fluttering colors against the sky.

I felt like I too was at home.

          

http://www.mytripblog.org/pg/blog/kbarry/read/17450/a-township-perspective

Guy Fawkes Friday

It's Guy Fawkes day.
I don't know much about it. I know it has something to do with an obviously thwarted plot to blow up British Parliament by a guy named Guy Fawkes on the fifth of November.
Apparently in South Africa, it is celebrated with eggs and fireworks and maybe knives and stones put into socks. But that's only apparently.


The ride to work was uncharacteristically smooth. Of course, I missed the 8:47 train. My phone has been acting up lately; it constantly believes that it is somewhere around 2:15 am and so I'm constantly having to manually reset it to ensure that I am indeed woken up at the right time. However, my guesswork isn't always the most accurate, and so when my phone said 8:47 this morning, I didn't believe it. Turns out, I should have.
I crossed the road right as the railway crossing was cleared for traffic to move through again, disappointment pouring out of me. Damn! I wanted to yell. Everyday I'm late.  I'm supposed to be at work at 9 o'clock but I'm always on the 9:05 train, which presents a problem. I get to work around 9:30, my arrival usually precipitated by a text to my boss Rebecca sending my apologies.


*

My stress this morning was not undue: we had a writing workshop today. I enjoy these sort of things, even though they tend to be a bit repetitive. It's nice to brush up on things, remind myself why I'm not a journalist, and get some writing done.
Here's a snippet from a writing exercise:

·      Silver, or gold, glinting in the sun. Except for the strips of silver tape hiding the cracks, the broken space with nothing behind it. 710-PTV, stamped on metal, sits in front of white-capped mountains and green plains.  Zero, waiting for acceleration, the white light set against the bright blue of the background. Red lights flicker then disappear. Ignition. The soft purr is lost under the thrum of music, pouring steadily into the small space. Fingers touch a dial, but barely, and the sound fades then disappears entirely. The hum remains, louder now. Tan fabric, tan plastic interior. Gray spreads before me, leading into the glass-covered information panel. Bare feet press into the grooved pedal, easing, pushing movement. Glass, glinting in the sun, reflecting pools of sky and clouds back out to the world. Silver, or gold, glinting in the sun. Simon.

Ah, Simon. My beloved. 

But I enjoy the presentations. They're a nice break from the monotony and they give my slagging motivation a lift. 

Ah, I'll have two working weeks left once I return.  That is when the most of everything will happen. There will be no time for sleep, no time to dream. Only to time to work, and write, and live. Oh, and packing must happen at some point. Here, there will be no time for going back, no time for things left unpacked, things left unfolded, no cupboard left unopened and cleared. 

During this time, I need to finish editing a short video, writing a newsletter cover story about townships, writing a piece about wine, a piece about domestic workers, and a piece about American influence in South Africa. 

And yet I hesitate here, knowing I've got so much. I want to relish this working environment by relishing my lack of productivity. 

So I take my computer with me on the adventure and will hopefully get some work done while I'm away. That might be entirely a lie. Perhaps I'll get nothing done. Perhaps I shouldn't even take my computer with me. 

Perhaps this is some morbid foreshadowing. 

Ah. Decisions. 

We leave tomorrow morning. I must be on the train at 7:21. From there, we'll pick up the rental cars in Cape Town and then drive 8 and a half hours to Jeffrey's Bay. 

Three nights there. 

Then two and a half hours to Knysna for two nights and then the return. 

You'll be able to reach me by cell phone or email the entire time. Just a reminder, my number is +27 766658767 just in case. 

And then two weeks until Denver. 

Wow. Time is flying, speeding, and I'm just along for the ride. 

oh, p.s., Oktoberfest!

Bacon, and then some

Maybe it's because I've been reading "Eat Pray Love" and maybe it's because I realize that my time here is quickly coming to a close, but I want to entirely capture Cape Town in words. I want you to feel what I feel when I think of this city.

I realize that this isn't possible, but I also realize that I'll have some time during my (f)unemployment (not math-speak for function -- straight up unemployment with possibility of some fun) to recap my time here. So this blog should continue for a bit after - don't stop reading after December 1st.

It's like I was just saying to one of my work friends, "I miss bacon."
How do you blog about bacon?
You can't devote an entire blog to food (that's a blatant lie) - but I want to tell you all the things I think, all the comparisons I've drawn, all the strange and lovely things. One thing I can't give you is scent, but you'd not understand anyway, so that I won't concern myself with.

But, back to bacon.
The bacon here is not real bacon. I lust for slices of thick-cut, maple-cured bacon.
I mean, it's pork product, maybe just cut differently, but it lacks the sexy taste and texture that "real" bacon has.

Today, we are going to the Spur (it's the American-Indian themed restaurant here - sort of Chili's meets Denny's meets the Southwest) for breakfast. We always get there too late - breakfast ends at 11:30 - and are forced instead to order quesadillas or do the two-for-one burger deal. But today we are going for breakfast. There's a sense of excitement in the air (or maybe it's just me). We have the Spur Family Card, the frequent eater card. And we will be using it.
I'll report back.
It's probably going to be exactly what I'm expecting and I'm going to call myself notorious for having low food expectations. But it's breakfast! Breakfast for lunch! Nothing is better than that.

On the same breakfast-for-lunch thought path, there aren't any bagels here. Seriously, none. I would give anything to see a magical oasis of a Dunkin' Donuts and order an everything bagel slapped with a huge amount of cream cheese.  The crinkle of the wrapping, the seeds falling off, the excess cream cheese coming through the hole in the middle - that is heaven.

The weight report!

I thought I’d lose weight here. That was a sorely misguided assumption. Instead, the pounds have slowly gathered around my thighs and in my stomach, thickening my arms, and probably my face, softening my usually angular appearance. While I don’t quite yet resemble the typical African mama, I’m still not entirely happy with the way things have gone.

            Mama P tells me that I can starve myself when I get home, and while I have no intentions of starving, I also have no intentions of living off of meat, meat, meat, custard, and other sugars. Did I mention meat? I sorely crave a chicken breast served with brown rice and vegetables – fresh vegetables, not flash frozen, over-boiled mixes. Margreet and I tried to convince her that potatoes and white rice are never served together, but she remains adamant that this is South African food.

            It may not be entirely South African, but it is definitely cuisine enjoyed by the colored and black cultures. At the birthday party last weekend, I saw something stewing at the dessert table, and poked at it with the serving spoon. “It’s sweet potato stew,” said Mama P’s mother, a severe looking woman with blue eyes. She had changed from her heels into soft brown slippers, somehow making her appear shorter and more squat than she already is. “You must try it,” she said, spooning a heaping helping onto her own plate and then pouring the ever-present custard over it.

            I did the same, minus the heaping helping part. “No,” she corrected me. “You must stir it around and dig deep into the pot.” So I did. I took it back to the table, sat down, and stared at it. Sweet potato stew? At least “stewing” was the right verb to describe the pot, I thought. I poked at it again, this time with my fork. I tasted it. It was delicious. Thinking Vitamin A and not fatty milk product, I proceeded to devour the entire dish.

            It’s the devouring that’s the problem, but it simply can’t be helped. You have to eat it, you’re guilt-tripped if you don’t, and the prospect of facing the same dish for three days is hard to stomach. Margreet and I have taken to calling ourselves “The Big Two” after the Big Five: lions, cheetahs, hippos….and two others (us). 

            It’s not entirely safe to run around the neighborhood – I did it a bit in the beginning, but since the transfer north to Wynberg, I’m finding that I just don’t have the energy or the daylight to go and run around once I get home from work – and I’ve been unable to make the time to get anything done here, but with unemployment looming, I see the opportunity to try and make things work as far as exercise once I return home.

            I can join a yoga studio, I can walk, and oh, I cannot wait to get back on a bicycle. Perhaps I’ll even let Mike drag me to 24 Hour Fitness so the fit, muscular, tan people can laugh me at. This winter I want to learn to ski, so hopefully that will be something I can get into. And spring and summer will bring long biking sessions – hopefully both in the mountains and in the city.

            I’ll be back to normal in no time.  

But I will not give up bacon. Never! 

Today's train report : rainbows. 

It rained last night. I'm so grateful that we don't have a tin roof like some of the families here. The rain just clatters and stomps across them in the night. But this morning dawned wet, water dripping from the roofs and the trees, puddles everywhere. The sky above the mountains was gray and gloomy, huge black clouds looming. I love that time though. When everything is either gray or green. It's the post-rain glory, everything looks brighter and more distinct. I was late for the train (always) and as I was walking, I looked down the road and saw a rainbow, hovering low. It was the lowest rainbow I'd ever seen and it appeared to be less than 200 meters away. So close! 

I may be holding your hand, but I'm holding it loose

I love my brother more and more every day. I'm so grateful to have him as my brother.
The other night, we were out and in a rare moment, he leaned over and poked me in the side. "You know, you're not such a bad travel partner," he said.
In Mike-speak, that means he loves me.

Mike, in his infinite wisdom, told me the other day that I'm going to have to marry a man who I love more than he loves me.
Why? I asked, offended.
Because if not, you'll never settle down, he said.
What about equal love? I wanted to know.
He rolled his eyes.

The inevitable has happened again.
The lead up was not slow, but the tipping point was sudden, irrevocable, immense.

I sat on the patio of a downtown jazz bar, sipping a glass of red wine. I sat across from the group. The man next to me leans over and asks me where I'm from.
We begin talking.
His wife is from Canada. We talk snowboarding. We talk snow. We talk travel.
And then the guy that I've been seeing for nearly a month leans over and interrupts.  "My name is James." He shakes the man's hand.
"Clint," the man replies.
Clint and I hadn't hadn't even introduced ourselves yet. We were just talking. There was no imminent threat.

It happens every time, in every relationship. It's always the point at which I realize I'm through.
It's the point at which the guy I'm dating tries to assert his dominance over me, always in a public setting. It's the point at which I realize I'm no longer my own person in his eyes, that he feels as though he mustn't let me have a moment to myself.
It's the point at which I know it's time to go.

The trajectory of my relationships is thus: meet, hang out, fall into a comfortable pattern, boy falls in love, I go along with it, sometimes in love myself, eventually this fizzles into my growing discomfort. Soon I can't stand anything. I sit, foggy minded, cataloging his faults in my mind: I hate his posture, I hate the way he washes his hair, I hate his facial hair, I hate the way he dances, I hate the pants he's wearing, I hate the way he agrees with me, I hate the way he doesn't know anything.
It's usually the not knowing anything that begins to irk me, the point where my mind and eyes begin to wander.
After my cataloging, I think maybe I just need some time to get used to it. And then the control sets in. The desperate fear that if I'm left alone I'll act on my independence and flee. (Their fears are entirely valid. After the cataloging, there's really not much left to do for them but beg.) Then comes the public hugging, the too-close-hand-holding, the oppression, the maddening oppression.
Then I start to nag, start to answer questions sharply, start to get uneasy.

Ah.
I can't stand it. 

I want someone who makes me want to know more, I want someone who can talk about issues without sounding like an idiot, I want someone who can back up their statements with fact. I want someone who can use big words effortlessly but not pretentiously. I want someone educated, someone driven, someone who's not making excuses for their own lack of accomplishment. I want someone to push me, to make me feel beautiful and worth it, but who also knows their own value.

I have friends who just moved to Portland together who are intellectually compatible on all levels, whose discussions and interests are, well, interesting to each of them and not so intertwined that they've lost their senses of self. They are two distinct personalities, yet they are so well matched, it's insane. I often wonder if I would find that with someone. Find that intensity that can be calm and laid back but also enough to set a life course in motion.

I want someone to respect my mind, but more importantly, I want to respect their mind in return.

Ugh. And so this chapter ends, I think.

*

But I'm glad.
I like that I've been able to pinpoint the problem with men and will hopefully be able to move into the next period of my dating life with grace, maturity, and a sharper eye for intelligence.

I've also been starting to get anxious about what I want to do when I get back home. I think this anxiety is very healthy, hopefully, and I'm going to attempt to control this energy and channel it into wild productivity upon return.
I think that South Africa was the perfect sojourn from "the real world," which I've not yet publicly admitted yet but was exactly my purpose in coming here. I was putting off real life until I had accepted that real life was coming whether I liked it or not.

I love it here but there's that lingering sense of stagnancy about the whole thing. I want to resume the life course that will eventually lead to nothing more than mortgages, death and taxes, hopefully with some lovely vacations in between.
Oh but I miss my car. I can't explain to you how much I love driving, and especially how much I love driving Simon. Mom knows this - she offered to let me drive home (not Simon, sadly) from DIA on December 1st. I've been begging since October 2006 when I first came home from Loyola.

But I'm ready. I'm not ready to leave this place, of course, but I'm ready to attack real life like a rabid animal (that was a horrible simile, forgive me). I'm ready to begin.



*

Language is a funny thing.  I speak English. I am ashamed that I only speak one language. I have six years of Spanish under my belt. I still can't converse properly, although if it was life or death, I'd do alright. I read it and write it better than I speak it, and my comprehension is moderate.

Here in Cape Town, the primary languages are English and Afrikaans. Afrikaans is derived from Dutch, mostly, but has Germanic elements as well. Margreet, my Dutch roommate, speaks with Mama P in Afrikaans. I usually can use context clues and tonal cues as well as hand movements to figure out what they're talking about.
Margreet also speaks French.

I have decided that whenever anyone is speaking a non-native language, they think in their first secondary language. For example, whenever I'm learning anything in Afrikaans, I use Spanish to say "and." Because somehow my brian is trying to put Afrikaans into the Spanish folder in my head.
This is proven (however non-scientifically) by Magreet's lapses into French when trying to speak in English or German.

Last night, she was saying something in some language and I looked at her and answered in English. She looked at me, surprised, and I shrugged. "Latin," I told her. I love Mr. Hilbert for making us do etymologies for weeks - as a result, I have a nice idea of where words originate, especially if they are Latin or Greek in origin. "And Spanish," I added.
Words are so similar in different languages, really. What Margreet said last night in French translated to "easy" in Spanish, hence my basic comprehension. Here, I've found that I can usually figure out what people are talking about based on words that I can hear in their sentences. All you have to know is the root, or some synonyms, and you've got it. Comprehension isn't complete but it's present.


*

The weekend trip is nearly managed - we're headed off to Jeffry's bay early Saturday morning. We'll spend three nights there and then go back to either Plettenberg Bay or Knysna for two more nights before returning home.

It should be nice to get away.

The Racism Rundown (incomplete)

Every time I spend all day writing a blog, I go to publish it and then it magically deletes it all and makes me sign in again. I realize that this is partially my fault, and partially the fault of the all-knowing internet, but I will retype this blog.

I just wanted to have something to publish today.

I spend a lot of time writing about how much fun I'm having.
I am having fun, actually.
But this place is not all party, I promise.

I've been actively avoiding trying to encapsulate this place entirely, avoiding telling you the things that irk me or the things that are starting to grate at me.

But it's time.

I've opened my eyes to the true nature of life in and around Cape Town and found that all that glitters is not gold. The sandhill in Vrygrond, the largest single standing free space in the township, covered in glass that glints under the South African sun, is testament to the waste of beautiful natural resources and careless disregard for the environment. The trash that litters the roads, blowing in the wind, corroborates that testimony.
There are so many silent reminders here about lack of education, lack of resources, lack of exposure.
Because so much of it is exposure.

I'm starting to get sick of the racism that floods around the people, weaving their daily lives into a sort of battle pitting them against what they construe to be "other." Other is any color but their own.
To be with blacks is shameful, to be with the colored, the same.
I have said that I walk the lines between the three, and from all sides, I hear the same. "They don't want us here," the chorus echoes, black voices blending with white. And the colored people are pitted with the blacks by the whites, but are steadfast in their disapproval of black culture.

It starts at home. Priscilla hates black people. Her paranoia is contagious. At every sound, she runs to the front window, checking nervously for signs of intruders. The gates are padlocked, the alarms set. Anyone who walks down the street, anyone black, does not belong. She speaks ill of them, calling them "illiterate," a designation I find to be mildly amusing based on the fact that her hatred betrays her own lack of education. She spits the word, feeling its venom tingling against her tongue, I can tell.

Her fear keeps her from traveling anywhere. She refuses to go into town, she refuses to go anywhere but her church, her work, the shops.

Everyone accuses everyone else of everything - but isn't that the same as it always is?
I worry that change won't come during my lifetime. I worry that if it does come, it will come in the form of a civil war.

Everywhere here there is a sense of stagnancy, of change that hasn't come, of fear, of lowered expectations, but of hope.
But there are no actions.

Part of my first article, incomplete of course

Hello,

Just to prove that I'm actually moderately accomplished, I've posted the very incomplete text of my first article!
So read it. Enjoy it.
Know that it's not done yet but still, it's on its way.


(insert clever yet serious title)
(insert clever subheading about rising from the ashes of a fire...phoenix....something)

A pile of charred wood is all that’s left of the shacks. The sand where they sat is littered with burned belongings: a blackened Bible, an office chair, clothes no longer usable. The metal sheets that had once been walls have been salvaged, taken for use in new shacks, the obviously burnt edges blending in amongst the rust.

The first fire broke out three weeks before in the same shack that would be the ignition point of the second fire, which would tear through the informal settlement of Village Heights in Cape Town, depriving fifteen families of their homes.

 Fires in informal settlements like Village Heights represent one of the biggest dangers of living in such a community. Even with attempts to build with space on all sides, fires such as the one that destroyed fifteen shacks can spread quickly since the materials used to construct the homes are highly flammable and unregulated.

“It was better under apartheid,” says Bernie, the community leader who has created and maintained the Village Heights library, and who is the recipient of the first Projects Abroad sandbag house in South Africa. “At least then we all had our own homes and jobs. Now we have nothing.”

According to residents, after the first fire the government offered four wooden posts, five pieces of metal and some grounding plastic as a replacement. However, the metal went to the construction of a roof and the residents were left to use plastic to create walls. During the second fire, a woman was badly burned when the plastic melted onto her skin.

Proper housing is something that many people living in South Africa lack, for a multitude of reasons. “I’ve been on a waiting list for twenty one years,” says one woman who lost her home in the fire. “My daughter’s twenty now.”

While debates rage about governmental involvement and personal contribution for houses, the issue remains that people lack proper living quarters. Residents of the informal settlements around Cape Town and throughout South Africa are forced to create homes using materials that they can find, salvage, or buy, resulting in homes that often lack even basic features such as a floor. Security measures are an afterthought, allowing for criminal activity to flourish in the neighborhoods.

Sand is nearly ubiquitous in Cape Town and the surrounding areas, and it might present a feasible solution to the problem of the shack homes in the ever-expanding informal settlements. Filling bags with sand and then stacking them within a frame can create a solid structure that is built both efficiently and quickly.

Beginning with materials, construction with sandbags can be a cheap alternative to traditional building methods. Since all that is needed to build a sandbag structure are bags, sand, cement and a wood and metal frame, the cost drops significantly due to the lack of construction equipment needed. No cranes, no stacks of bricks and no heavy vehicles entering or leaving the construction site.

            This cost effective creation is also eco-friendly. Since most of the building can be done with materials found on-site, the need for waste is nearly eliminated. This waste elimination plays a large factor in the eco-friendly nature of the sandbag buildings.

            Builders who choose to use sandbag building as an alternative to conventional construction methods also stand to gain carbon credits for their choices. Carbon credits programs offer financial incentives for companies to build in keeping with the “green” trends and for waste elimination and recycling of materials.

This waste elimination and recycling presents an opportunity for those who are economically disadvantaged. By being able to build effectively and also save money, they can increase community bonds and safety.

Besides being fireproof, the sand structures also present an element of soundproofing not found in the corrugated iron structures, which currently make up most of the homes in the townships and informal settlements in the Cape Town area.

They are also not easy to deconstruct or demolish, in essence creating a lasting home that won’t be victim to natural disasters such as flooding or tornadoes.

The solidity of the sand as it is packed and stacked neatly to create walls allows for an element of indoor climate control that supersedes that provided by the corrugated structures as well. The sand essentially insulates the home, keeping it warmer in the winter and cooler in the summer.

The surmountable caveat to sand building is that it is not well known. The newly homeless fire victims had never heard of sandbag building when asked about it yet were curious as to how it might work. They eagerly agreed that the community would want to be involved in such building, given the right materials.

Based on the readily available materials and the community mentality that many of the neighbourhoods have, it seems that if sandbag structures could catch on, they might make a wonderful improvement for communities who are underfunded and under protected.

Projects Abroad began constructing their sandbag house at the site of the Village Heights Library in August of 2010. While normally the construction of such a building (one room) would take less than a month, due to staggered volunteer arrivals, the project has continued for more than three months. However, the house is beginning to take shape.

The project supervisor, Deen Singh remains optimistic that the sandbag building will be used for the betterment of the community. He explained that everything must be done to help the children. 

....

it will go on. 

Scattered Tuesday Musings

Funny, here you never hear the classic bar songs that you'd normally hear in the US.
I've gone two months without hearing Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" and I'm not entirely upset about it.
The music here changes wildly depending on where you are, obviously, but I've found that music here is everywhere. People don't have iPods. They have music on their phones or on small mp3 players. Often, instead of using headphones, they just play the music out loud. I hear a lot of the same music here, easy repetition that is slowly shaping my experience.
Mama P has horrible taste in music, and always listens to strange songs I can only describe as depressingly country. That or "Lady in Red." I will always think of her when I hear that song.

I love how loud this country is. I love that music goes with everything. I love that so many of my blissful memories are so tied to the music that I was listening to at those points. And maybe that's why music is such an enduring cultural element - there's nothing more communal but also individual than the experience that is music. Everyone individualizes the music they love and makes it their own.

***

Last night, I was playing pool with the boys in Claremont. I am a terrible pool player, although every now and then I get a lucky shot. It's not that I don't know how to play (okay, maybe I could use some lessons in technique) but it's also that I just lack the patience to focus on the shot. It's all about angles and even though I know where I'd like to put the ball, it doesn't always seem to work out that way.

I'm coming to realize that a lot about myself. I can hear bits of accents and things but can't recreate them. I can see the difference between certain things yet can't replicate the movements.

Alas. The boys were good sports about it and luckily, I was able to hold my own. (A little.)

On deck tonight is family dinner. I'm cooking for the first time since I got here. I think I'm going to make the one thing I do well, which is mustard chicken. It sounds horrifying but it's actually delicious. Anyway, we shall see.
Also, I'm almost done with my first article!!
I'm going to post most of it immediately following this, so if you're reading this, maybe you've already read it.

http://www.businessweek.com/managing/content/oct2010/ca20101022_785986.htm

A Bit of Philanthropy with Your Résumé?

"Career advancement" and "philanthropy" may not seem to belong in the same sentence, but Projects Abroad is melding them to everyone's benefit

Worth a read, especially since it pertains to me.

The Shack

It’s a dark bar guarded by a dark man. We enter, climbing the concrete steps into a dimly lit space. What I don’t know is that this bar goes on forever, winding up sets of stairs, through rooms with bars, pool tables, couches, a kitchen. But I’ll find that out soon enough.
I stare around, squinting my eyes in surprise at the crowd gathered here. I recognize the music. Here, I can rarely name artists and song titles, but here, I know them. A man with square black glasses and a mustache slips past me and I smile, repulsed by his fashion sense but intrigued by his presence. Hipsters? In Cape Town?
Really.

We get cheap drinks. I stated earlier in the night that I think Black Label is the PBR of Cape Town and I believe I’ve been proven right. Everyone is tattooed cute and I’m trying not to stare. Thank god I wore my black skinny jeans and not some dress, I think, and then shake the notion out of my head with a toss of my hair and a flip of my fringe. (Yes, I fit right in here. Not on purpose, and not really, but the façade will keep them at bay for now.)

A man sits next to us. He wants to talk to my tall blond friend. She stands up and sits on my other side. She pulls out her phone, and then walks across the room. The other two are cuddling. I stare for a while. There’s a nearly melted candle on the table in front of me. I stare at that when I get bored of staring at jean shorts.

I turn to the man. “Tell me something,” I say, uttering my most used but worst pick up line. It’s all right; I have no intention of actually picking him up. “I’m bored.” For once, this is not a lie. Sometimes it’s easier to tell strangers the truth.
“Anything?” he says, turning to me, exhaling blue smoke and then tapping the ash off of his cigarette.
“Anything.”
“What color was your room when you were ten?” he asks. He has dark hair and a straight nose.
“Care Bears,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “It wasn’t painted until I was twelve.”
“It was painted Care Bears when you were twelve? That’s not what I asked.” He replies.
I spent a minute explaining. Care Bears up to twelve, blue and green post twelve.
“You seem very sure of this,” he says.
“I wasn’t ten too long ago,” I respond.
We chat about Los Angeles and La Jolla for a while. And then London.
My friend sits back down.
“Her eyes are almost as beautiful as mine,” he says to her. I roll my beautiful eyes.
He asks her where she’s from. She tells him Cape Town. She’s the one who’s lying now. I tell him she’s my host sister. We’re together in the lie.
Finally they tell me we’re leaving.
I stand and smile at him. “It was lovely not to meet you,” I say and then turn and walk down the concrete stairs into the darkness of Cape Town night.

Friday thoughts

You know, you're rather profound for being sick on antibiotics. It sounds like you came to South Africa for your brain, but it's your soul that is growing and being nourished. It's like a likable version of Eat, Pray, Love.

Feel better soon.

(The above comment is something that my friend Beau Smith posted on my wall. It was unexpected and it made my day!)

And that's really all I have to say for Friday because I think that pretty much sums it up. 

He's right. 

love to all. 

You know you're sick when you start making obvious grammatical errors

Wednesday is normally drunken shenanigan night.
Tonight, however, there will be no drunken adventures for me. I'm exhausted and on antibiotics for the first time since I got here. I actually might be running a fever.
Ugh, woke up yesterday and it was a flashback to Loyola graduation. I had the intention of going in to work, but then I curled up and slept for eight hours.
Prudently, I stayed home last night.
And, for my trouble, I woke with a head cold.

I'm three doses of 500mg cipro in, and signs of improvement can be seen but I'm erring on the side of caution and remaining stagnant for the next few days.
Maybe tomorrow I'll sleep again and work from home.
I left my charger at a friend's house so I need to them or I will have no power, so that won't be good.

I have completely lost my train of thought.

Ah.
Yes.

We've been talking about things a lot lately.
Things I've been hesitant to post to my blog lest you think this trip was in vain.
And today I feel like telling you.

I came here to do a business internship. I paid with the expectation that I would be doing an internship.
The website says:

We organize work experience internships in a number of business sectors. These currently include chartered accounting, business consulting, marketing and branding, media/PR, and international development projects.

Interns working on an accounting internship will join a firm of accountants and work on a variety of tasks. Your responsibilities will normally include book keeping, forensic and management accounting, advisory roles including corporate recovery and restructuring, audits, tax assessments, and trustee services.

Interns working in marketing, media, or PR work on marketing strategies, marketing campaigns, branding, various sponsorship deals, events, networking, public speaking, and writing for the press.

We also offer several specific business internships in International Development and Business Enterprise.

As an intern working on one of our Business internships, the actual work you do will depend on the internship and will vary. You could find yourself gaining exposure to board meetings to observe business development plans, attending client meetings, working on set briefs, putting together portfolios, helping with events, and much more. As with all internships, you should be prepared to undertake some tasks such as proofreading, filing, and answering the phone, but provided you show enthusiasm and willingness, your English speaking colleagues will be happy to give you insight into their area of expertise. You'll go home with a new set of skills and a good understanding of how the business world works.

During the internship, interns are expected to be punctual, professional and hard working. You will be required to work an average of 35 hours per week, usually Monday-Friday. When you arrive at work on your first day, you will be assigned a supervisor who will be able to advise and support you during your internship, and of course our Projects Abroad staff are always available to help.

Developing internships in other business areas is always possible - just ask!

But what I was doing here was nothing like what I expected.
They reneged on my original internship days before I arrived.
And when I got here, they had no idea what I was going to be doing.
That reeks of mismanagement and lack of preparation.

The pre-trip is so beautifully arranged and communicated, and pick up is lovely. But project-wise, people are often left to fend for themselves. They are dropped at projects that don't know that they're even coming to work.

When I leave, I'm going to tell them that there's no way I would send anyone here to do any sort of internship. Because I came here to learn and I was put into a place that was neither professional nor very structured and because of it, I wasn't able to learn anything (except how to use a copy machine).

And I'm not learning.

Even now, in journalism, I'm not working alongside real journalists. I'm in an office with other volunteers and I'm setting my own pace. I'm blogging right now when I should be writing something useful.
But selfishly, I feel better for being in journalism, because at least I'm using internet and space that my payment might have paid for instead of being thrown into a strange project that didn't even know I was coming and being used to fulfill a gap that couldn't have been filled.

And if it wasn't for my host mother and my host house, which I love beyond belief, and the friends that I've made here (both Projects Abroad and otherwise), I'd feel as though I had no purpose being here.
Yes, I came here to explore and to live, but I also came here to learn about business. And the only thing I've learned about business thus far is that it takes a lot more than promises to get anything done.
So while both the business internship and the journalism internship are going to go on my resume, I feel as though I'm lacking the true experience that Projects Abroad promised - project-wise.


Projects Abroad says that it's what you put into your internship that matters, but there are matters of materials, etc, that can never quite be sorted out. One girl can't print things for her project because she has to pay for them out of her own pocket.
The projects are mis-managed and lack structure and focus. Instead, there is a sense of stagnancy about the whole thing. Productivity is by the wayside.

And thus I've learned about what not to do, and perhaps that's productivity in itself.


But please don't think that this doesn't mean that I'm not loving it here. I wish to stay here forever, if I could.
I love this place.
I love being here.
I love what I'm doing.
I love the cultural atmosphere, I love the languages, I love everything.
I am learning about myself, and about what I can do and what I'm capable of, and I believe that it's all knowledge in itself.
But I so badly wish I was coming back with actual business experience because I could have taken the money I spent to come here and gone around the world with it.

But for now, the frustrations are minimal. I wake up every day looking forward to spending time with the family I have here. And when we all get home, we sit and cook dinner and talk about our days.
The woman I live with is in HR and is a writer, so I feel as though maybe I have a lot to learn from her.





In other sad news, Dad and Jeanie have ended their relationship after three or so years.
I got the phone call the other day at work.
I didn't think it would upset me, but I spent that entire night sort of in a dark mood.
I know that I'm too old to be upset, but I was. I really was.
I guess I knew it was coming and I should have been prepared for it, but it sort of hit me strangely.