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.

Weekend Wrap Up

It's a small bar at the top of a backpacker's hostel on Long Street. You go in an unmarked door and you take the elevator to the sixth floor, and then you walk through some double doors, past the front desk and on through the winding halls (through a kitchen, too) that smell faintly of cat urine and finally up some stairs. The top of the hostel is open to the air, a rooftop oasis from the wild night. It's comfortable, couches everywhere, blankets for when you get cold. 

The bartenders let me go back behind the small bar, covered sort of by flags of all nations (not the US or Ireland, though). They let me open Black Labels and pour shots. I take the money, hand it over and continue with my work. 

One of the bartenders knows I like the Deftones, so every night he plays me a song I love. It's nice. 

That was Friday. There was an international phone call that came in while I was up there, not necessarily paying attention to a game of pool. And then there may have been street food and dancing and a late night spaghetti adventure that involved me clamoring around the kitchen at five in the morning. 

But then there was sleep. Saturday was a beautiful day for sleep. 

And a nap. 

And some delicious little pasta delight. 

And then some more sleep. 

Sunday was by far the most wonderful day I've had in Cape Town yet. I cannot believe how much I love water. We went to Muizenberg Beach. I took Margaret (my new Dutch roommate) to Muizenberg Market where we bought sunglasses. I am now the proud owner of a pair of knock-off Ray Bans. The vendor tried to take our money and then not give us two pairs because he was convinced that Margartet had stolen a pair. It took a good few minutes of tense conversation to get it all worked out, and in the end, he found the pair he thought she'd stolen and we went on our merry way. 

We walked down the beach, found a nice spot, and set up camp. I laid out my stolen South African Airways blanket (hey, I paid for the flight ticket and I didn't drink any of the complimentary wine) and stretched out in the sun. We were joined by Mike and Philpp and their new roommate Utah as well as Ellie and Ryanne. 

I got to swim in the ocean! It was so cold, but the day was hot and after awhile, all I felt was the sea around me. I swam and jumped in the waves. I let them lift me up and surround me and cover my head. 

Afterward, I went and laid on my blanket and drank wine and soaked up sun and wind. 

I was overjoyed. 

Overjoyed, yet sunburned. 

And so today, I have a red back that bears hand prints and other odd markings from where I attempted to put on sunscreen. Oh, but I'm so happy. I can't wait to get back in. I want the weather to be warm enough that I can go and lay out or go and swim without a wetsuit. 

The train home was horrible. We missed the first train and had to wait nearly an hour for the second one, so we went to a local pub and had a beer. It was nearly empty, seated at the bar were people who looked as though they'd lived their entire life at the beach - leathery skin and graying hair, yet still slender. 

We drank quickly, ignoring the drunken man who kept trying to engage us all in conversation - he thanked Mike profusely for bringing lovely women into the bar - and then went back to catch the train. 

However, it seems that everyone within a ten mile radius wanted to catch the train at that particular time. It was a literal stampede of people rushing for the doors of the already quite full train. And so we jammed ourselves on. Well, some of us jammed ourselves on. Mike and Margaret were left standing on the platform and by the time I saw them and figured out their situation, I was sandwiched in between a stroller with some really sharp wheels, a woman and a baby, Philipp and a man. 

As the train started moving, I felt the man put his head against my back. (He was probably a good five inches shorter than me.) His friends laughed. I shifted. He put his head back again. I turned entirely. My backpack was hanging off one shoulder, held against my stomach with my hand. As soon as I shifted he began a gross humping motion. At this, I turned and looked him square in the eye. "Don't even try it," I snapped. 

"But you have such beautiful eyes."

I rolled them. 

"NO." I said. "Get away from me." 

I said it loud enough that the people around me could hear and then I gave the death glares I'm known for. He stopped, thankfully. And when we arrived at our station, I was grateful to be moved along in the crush of people exiting for safety.

Here's hoping that I don't find myself on a packed train anytime in the near future, as I'm apt to just wait for the next one.  

I arrived home sunburned, exhausted and so happy to have spent the day in the sun. 

And this week brings adventure as well. Robben Island on Wednesday with the Journalism people, hopefully the completion of my first story (I've been ADD-ing out on this one, in case you were wondering why it's taken me so long. I am going to do a work-from-home sort of thing tonight and try to get it all sorted.) Some more interviews and the beginning of two different stories. 

And then what?

Next weekend, Biscuit Mill on Saturday and then hopefully a wine-biking tour sort of thing on Sunday. 

I love this place. 

I really do. 

It's strange and it's wonderful and it's everything I never expected but could ever want. 

Except I miss fiber bars and healthy food and real spinach. 

Fireproof

I've spent the last two days in a state of absolute bliss. 

I'm invigorated. I'm excited. I am young. 

Tuesday morning I went with Desiree, my pre-journalism minibus driver, to the site of the building project. It's in an informal settlement called Village Heights near Lavender Hill (that's where Mike works). By informal settlement, I mean community built entirely of shacks. No sewage systems, no toilets, just bits of tin and scraps of wood on sand. 

This wonderful woman named Bernie has five children, two of whom aren't old enough yet to be in school. They hang around and watch the building project, clinging to their mother, too shy to say hi yet. She laughs and tells me that they're still getting used to white people. 

The building project is in her backyard - it's going to be made into a creche for the neighborhood kids. It's a  sandbag structure that's cemented on the outside. It's soundproof, and most importantly, fireproof. 

They took me to a site a few paths down where three days ago twelve or fifteen shacks burnt to the ground after a fire was started in a shack. 

I stood looking at the blackened pile in the sand. Burned wooden posts, once-colorful clothes now black, the remnants of a charred Bible. I stood there, gazing past the people who were pouring out their story for me at a man picking through the rubble with a stick, pulling out things he might find useful. His slow progress marked the time for me, as the stories came. 

One man with four children no longer has identification or birth certificates for his children or himself. 

Everyone has lost everything. 

What are we supposed to do? was the refrain. 

Every story came back to that.
We have nothing now. 

And it broke my heart. I shifted the baby on my hip. (Bernie's youngest had finally warmed up to me enough to let me carry him around. I would pretend to drop him and a baby smile would break across his serious baby face.)

I listened as the government came up, adding to the melody. What have they done? What will they do? Nothing, nothing. 

And we stood and they spoke and I felt their excitement. 

Bernie told them all I was a journalist and I told her not to give me so much credit, but I felt it flow through them. The smiles told me everything. 

You'll tell our story, someone will hear us. 

And I tried to tell them that their story won't be told to mayors or governors but that it would be published in a small magazine. 

Abroad! 

Well, some copies will go abroad. 

People will hear. 

That's all that matters. 

And then we walked back, I shifted the child again on my hips. I watched them speak and I felt that perhaps even the speaking was a start. 

I came home happy and so full of everything. 

Priscilla and I got a new roommate, her name is Magreet and she's 48 and from Holland. More on this to come. She has her own room, though she will come and use my bathroom. So I'll have to keep the Bat Cave clean, or at least clear. 

Today, I brought my friend James with me to see Village Heights. 

He came in to meet Mama P last night and I've yet to hear her reaction but I think it will be favorable. He's heard me speak of her all the time and he told me that he's sure that she loves me. "You can see it, she loves you much," he said. (and I glowed on the inside, I so very much respect that woman.)

He has lived in and around Cape Town his entire life but has never gone into the Cape Flats or the townships or anything. Up until last week he'd never come to my side of the tracks (literally) and so I've decided that I'm going to show him my Cape Town. We got in the minibus this morning with Desiree and I watched his eyes widen. We went through Vrygrond and then through Lavender Hill and then finally into Village Heights. The people took to him instantly, although they were a bit shocked that he was a South African and not a volunteer. 

I took him to the burn site and left him to fend for himself while a crowd of well-meaning women descended on him to talk to him. He stood there and listened and observed and I was so proud of him. Not because he was making some big leap that he had been previously afraid to make, but because he actually asked me if he could go. The other day, he was driving me home and he told me that I should take him around sometime because he's never spent time where I live. I appreciated that. 

Today, he jumped right in and helped mix cement and lift sandbags for the building project. I am secretly feeling as though I'm helping to bridge the gap that still exists between the whites and the colored and black here. It's not because anyone means for it to be there (that's not entirely true, but....), it's just that it's the way things are and no one sees fit to change them. 

By the way, the building project manager thinks I'm adorable. I appreciate this support. He told me I was bubbly and adventurous, although he reprimanded the boys for letting me work so hard (since I am apparently a "lady lady" and not some sort of hulking man-girl). 

Bernie also reprimanded James for not carrying my backpack as we walked through Lavender Hill. I was carrying her son Ethan and my backpack and when he offered to carry the backpack, she said, "Should have offered a long time ago."

It was cute. 

Race is still very important here. It matters. And as an outsider, hanging out with a white crew, living with a colored woman but working with black and colored, I feel as though I'm able to walk between the invisible lines. I feel like I'm getting the full spectrum of life here and that's what I'm here to do. I can go to places where people live on meager government hand outs and I can go to places where people live comfortably and I can go drink a swanky cocktail and look adorable (ha, just kidding. I was really excited about my outfit last night.)

Ah, last night, fast cars and glittering city lights and sweet uninterrupted sleep. 

And tonight, fast cars (maybe not) and dancing. 

monday stuff

The weekend brought many things, including rain.

I'm staring out at the gray day, thinking of everything. 

My time here is drawing to a close, so short, it seems. 

I have just seven weeks and one day left before I leave. 

Wow. 

Nearly halfway there. 

And I feel like I just got here yesterday. 

If time could suspend itself, just for a little bit, I'd be eternally grateful. I wish to float right here and right now for quite some time, watching and being and living. 

Priscilla asked me if I had any regrets about coming here. I laughed. None whatsoever. 

I wish I could explain it. It's not different and yet it's nowhere I've ever been before. 

On Friday, as I was headed home on the train by myself around 6pm, I stood up to stand by the door for my stop. A man came up to me and said, "You stay in Muizenberg?" 

"No," I said.

"You used to stay in Muizenberg?"

"No," I said.  "I stay here."

"You know this is a black area, right?"

"Yes," I said. "I live here."

I find it interesting. I've been hanging out with a set of white kids from Cape Town and I've been listening to the things they have to say and seeing the places that they live and go, and I've been cataloguing it all next to my perceptions of the coloured experience and the black experience. It's drastically different.

We were out Friday night, late, and we were going to get a ride to meet up with my friends. The kids driving us were colored, friends of a girl I stay near. One man, a white bartender, told us we were making a huge mistake. I told him she'd gone with him before and that it shouldn't be an issue, and that at any rate, I wasn't about to let her go alone. 

Again, we arrived quite safely in a nice car, and my friend's friends saw me. They immediately wanted to know who the "thugs" I was with were. I told them they were friends of a friend and they got apprehensive. 

It's this ingrained tension and unease that's holding everyone back here, I think. 

But alas, I'm happy here. I'm doing sociological research and I've come up with some lovely story ideas. Tomorrow I should be finishing up the building story since I'm going to do the interview for it and then on Wednesday I might be filming again. 

Laundry, though, looms ahead of me, as always. 

I'm getting a roommate on Friday, so I must do some legitimate cleaning (ah, the bane of my existence) before she arrives. I really don't want to have to share my room. Really. 

Weekend Wrap Up

Monday night was lovely. 

Tuesday night was sweetened sleep.

Wednesday night stole my voice. 

Thursday brought the sniffles. 

And today, I'm still waiting to see what is in store for me. 

I'm not giving the weekend my sickness. 

I'm not going to let the fact that I have no voice get in the way of adventuring. 

Tonight I will get dressed up and go out. 

Tomorrow I will go to the old Biscuit Mill. 

Maybe Sunday I will sleep, and clean, and get more sleep.

But maybe not. 

Monday I have a production meeting (it's apparently what we'll be doing every Monday). Tuesday I'm interviewing the building project for my story. Wednesday I'm filming. My piece should be done by Thursday and then I should be able to start getting into the swing of things. I'd like to have another entire piece done by the end of next week, but I'm not seeing that as an actual possibility. 

I seem to not be moving very quickly - especially today, with my brain off in the clouds of grog. (grog being the gross cold I seem to be coming down with)

I hope that you have a wonderful weekend, world. 

Please expect a piece about the township tour I got yesterday. 

I loved this week. I really love this place now. I think it's the commuting. I really dig public trains. 

The most awkward attempt to summarize Priscilla

I wanted to wait awhile before trying to write a post encompassing my host mother, Priscilla. I apologize if any of this description is repetition.

But I worry that I will wait too long and then it will never come to fruition and then I'll have left out of this blog one of the most important parts of Cape Town.

I live in Steenberg. She has declared that it's Retreat, actually, and if it is, then it's the Steenberg side of Retreat. (I've come to learn that these neighborhood distinctions are actually incredibly important to the people who live here, but more on that later.)  I live on a small side street opposite the train tracks that divide the white side of Steenberg from the colored side. I stay on the colored side.
The house is small, two-stories and full of character. There is a small carport outside, where her little green car lives.
One set of iron gates swings in to let the car in and then closes (manually, of course) upon entrance. From there, you walk across the bricks of the carport to the front door. The front door is barred by a gate. Think a screen door but made of iron (like Mom's house - those white gates). Both gates have the potential to be padlocked, although one is padlocked all the time and one is only padlocked at night or during the day when no one is home.
After the padlock is opened, the gate must be lifted to be opened and then swung out.
And then there's the front door.
I remain legendary for my inability to open this system of padlocks and chains and gates when slightly inebriated, but I am slow at it even stone sober.
The front door has a charming, antiquated key that I thought was a keychain the first time I saw it.  My keys have an adorable little zebra keychain that I bought at a market on them. (You'll notice that for the first time in my life, I don't have one of those long lanyards trailing after my keys - this is so they can fit nicely into my bra when I go out so I don't have to worry about losing them. One of the other volunteers almost got beaten up by his host family for trying to climb the gate at four in the morning after losing his keys. You see the problem it might present.)

Alas, the inside of the house. A charming, modern art deco style lounge (living room) and a kitchen and then my room and then the winding staircase that leads upstairs to Priscilla's bedroom and bathroom and the spare room.
It's by all US standards a relatively tiny house.
But it's lovely. I feel so at home.

Priscilla is nearly fifty and going through menopause. Between the two of us, we're always looking for a set of keys, or something that we've misplaced. She loves to talk about her life and I've discovered that she and I are the quite the set of kindred spirits. We sit on the chairs in the lounge and talk and talk about everything.
And I do mean everything. We talk a lot about South Africa, a lot about racism, a lot about class structure, life struggles, and stuff. Boy stuff, you know.
She takes good care of me and reminds me that I'm a strong woman and an adult and worth everything. She's quite determined to see me wined and dined and taken care of. She reminds me that everything was "lekker" when she was young and has informed that I'll never regret any adventure.
We tease each other quite a bit - her about me never wearing socks, and that she's going to get out the wooden spoon and hit me, and me about her and well, everything.

She likes nice things, and works hard to keep her house lovely on the inside.
She's terrified of things like spiders and snakes, and every time we have the door open, we sit in the chairs and we have to watch in the mirrored bar separating the kitchen from the lounge to make sure that nothing comes in.
Every year, she buys something nice for herself. This year, it was a computer. Some other years, it was a wood floor, two nice chairs for the bar, that wrought iron spiral staircase.
She's simple - she keeps to herself and likes to reminisce about the past - but she's nowhere near simple minded. She's sharp as a tack, witty, and sometimes rude. (She mutters things in Afrikaans and then laughs with me - I'm starting to always be able to at least understand the gist of what she's saying. Last night, she was telling Mike she was going to hit him but it was a word that sounded like murder. I knew what she meant, and as the two of us laughed, he told her she'd have to catch him first.)

We laugh, and we drink tea, and we talk about our days while she serves me dinner at night. And then we sit and have tea and wait for the weather to come on the news.

I have to pause in the middle of this to explain that there is no eloquence necessary for this post. I can't contain it in words. It's love. She's my South African mother. Don't expect grammatical grandeur here, you won't find it.
Expect respect and admiration and companionship.

When I told her that I was switching projects, she was terrified that they were going to move me from her. And I realized that even if they offered, I wouldn't accept. I love where I live. I can sit down and have a glass of wine and relax, while in other host families, those things aren't allowed.

I have a lot to learn from her - this woman who apologizes for nothing, who owns her experiences, who lives for her children, who is stern and funny and generous, who teases Mike for me.
I listen, I'm practicing listening, and I know that she's listening too.
One day, I wasn't feeling well. Surprise, surprise, it was a Sunday morning following a late Saturday and she came in with tea and hugged me.
And it was the first time we'd really hugged. And she said, "I know you're not feeling well, but don't you miss your mom right now?" and I told her she was right and that the hug helped a little bit.

Last night, she invited Mike over for dinner. None of the other volunteers from his house were invited, which I thought was cute. We ate chicken curry and rooti (this is bad spelling, I know), a Muslim sort of tortilla and finished off with sago pudding and cream. She put the pudding in the oven to brown on top and when we took it out, the top was a little bit overdone (read: blackened) and the two of us just starting laughing.
Mike's face was bewildered because he had no idea what we were laughing about.
But we took it out and pulled off the crust and ate it anyway and it was delicious.
She likes the way that Mike looks after me, the way that he's protective of me, the way that he is in general. The two of them tease each other all the time, which I like. Dinner last night was wonderful. It was so nice to have a chance to chat with Mike - he told Priscilla all about the township where he works and the school.
She teased him and then sent him home with leftovers.

She's short and sarcastic and wonderful.
I couldn't be in better hands.

The climb, the painting and the new assignment

I've gone in and spoken with the Projects Abroad people and I am now officially a member of the Journalism Project here. They publish a small magazine called the "Cape Chameleon."
I started this afternoon. I've been assigned a story about building with sandbags and will be starting that while I also get the video filmed and edited (Thursday). Tomorrow will be all prep work for those and the beginning of the contact process.
I'm already turning through subjects in my mind - perhaps this will be something workable and I will find myself to be useful and productive.
I'm thrilled beyond belief - it's as though a huge weight has been removed from my shoulders.
I've got to take the train every morning now instead of being picked up be Desiree in the mini bus, so I'm obviously sad to leave that little group. I got money from Projects Abroad to take the train and so I'm hoping I don't lose my monthly pass.
I won't be getting free lunch everyday, so that might make me a bit sad, but other than that, I'm enthusiastic and energized. The office is located in Wynberg, about halfway to the city from my house, so I'll be more in the middle of things and more able to access to possible interview subjects, etc.

Ah, relief.
Delicious dinner at an Italian restaurant and then warm, delicious, chocolate cake yesterday evening. Cape Town is a wonderful place to be today - the weather is bright, my mood is wildly optimistic and I've got potential adventure in the making.

Pictures below from the painting of the creche and then Table Mountain:

                                                            (before - inside the creche)

(before - outside the creche)

(me, priming)

(Mike, painting inside)

(the outside)

(the inside)

(volunteers who worked on the inside and helped with the flag painting)

(the beautiful outside painted in South African colors)

(street view in Vrygrond, Capricorn)

(my red handprint in above the yellow hand)

(all of the Dirty Weekend volunteers)

(the first set of ladders on the Skeleton Gorge route up Table Mountain)

(desperately needed food break)

(up we go!)

(and up)

(some plants, of course)

(no path, just rocks)

(hiking across the top of Table Mountain)

(hiking down Platteklip Gorge in a cloud)

(ryanne, lucy and paul)

(table mountain in a cloud)

(the view of the Cape Town city bowl)

(clouds over the mountain)

Resignation, Regrettably

Since I last posted (oh, about an hour ago), I've started thinking.
I am very comfortable where I work. I love the people around me - from the facilitator of the Fit for Life program to the cleaning ladies to the caterers - I think they're all wonderful.
The only person that I have not been able to get comfortable around is my boss.
And today, I confirmed that this might be the best move.
I was trying to explain something and I was cut off multiple times while I was speaking. Like, mid-sentence cut off.
When she came in this morning and announced that she was getting two new volunteers from her previous position (at another NGO, I'm assuming) and that they would be in charge of everything (because they're German and assertive, she said), I realized this might be the perfect time for me to step out.
This is not the first time she's wished that I act more German. She's said it before, that her German volunteers are more assertive, all said while looking pointedly at me.

But when I try to stand my ground, I'm run over, just as I was in our conversation today. There was no attempt to understand my side (I was trying to explain that what we're doing is little more than theft and she was trying to tell me just to change the material to make it alright) and there was no attempt made to ease my doubts about this project (a facilitator's manual).

When I offered to guest lecture on gender and sexuality, she told me she'd need a copy of my lecture so that she could have others do it after I was gone. I was mildly offended. Even though I'm not the kind of person whose gender lectures are going to be wildly valuable and sought after, they are still mine and not for use by anyone who wanders in.
That's the problem that I have with this whole manual thing. It's theft. It's intellectual property of someone else, and some of it is copyrighted. And they're stealing it to use in these programs. She tells me they're going to be accredited by the SETAs but I'm not entirely convinced that accredidation is possible with odds and ends and scraps of material.


I didn't come here to Google. I didn't come here to sit on the South African version of Craigslist and troll for low-level positions. I came here to do something. And business volunteer or not, I'm not busy enough and I'm not satisfied with my position. Perhaps it's true, I am not assertive enough. But I'm not entirely sure that there's anything to assert.
I've been declared Job Placement officer and that is what I have been unable to do.
I have raised the issue with Cheryl, my boss, who recently had a treadmill put into her office. I have not been satisfied with the response.

I will go to her today and tell her that I'm not going to be in tomorrow because I'm going to the office to have a discussion about my placement and then I will leave.
And I'm not sure that I'll be back.

I have the film project laying before me, something that I'm actually quite confident in. I can edit video (even if it's only iMovie that I have with me) and I can create a nice, short video that is aesthetically alluring and packs a narrative punch.
This will take me two weeks or so.
Hopefully in this time, things will start to come together again.

I'm upset. I feel as though I failed, but then I realize that perhaps this wasn't something that had success as an end point from the beginning.
I'm sad.
I adore the people here.
But I realize that I did not come here to do these things - I came here to learn and to put some of those skills to work. I did not come here to sit and work with a system that is unworkable. I'm comforted by the fact that no other volunteer has lasted as long as I have here besides one Australian girl.
The others always leave.

Selfish, probably. But entirely necessary, absolutely.


I've been unhappy for a couple of weeks and I've exhausted my options.
And so there will be a meeting with Projects Abroad tomorrow and we will explore the options. I'm going to be firm with them and stand my ground. I came here for a business internship, I didn't come here to do anything else.
But at this point, I'm even willing to join the building project, I'm that desperate for an escape.

Another moody Monday post?

It is apparent that Mondays really aren't my day.

But before we get to that, I'm going to tell you all about my wonderful weekend!
Friday night we went out to a bar, did some dancing and then came home. A few of the volunteers got their phones stolen and one girl lost her camera, but other than that, it was a nice night.
Saturday morning, we all got up early to go help with a "Dirty Weekend." It's something that volunteers apply for. After they apply, they are awarded money for a project of their choosing. This time, it was painting a creche. (Creche is the world for kindergarten here. It's also interesting because all of the centers are called "educares".)
And so we painted the inside of the creche and then the walls outside the colors of the South African flag. I was covered in paint by the end of it, but it was a satisfying experience. Since I arrived here, I haven't felt like I was "doing something" and this experience was something that really felt hands-on and satisfying in that visceral way. I could see the change happening before my eyes and was energized by it.
We had about seven people working on it. Some were painting the inside white. Others were applying color to the walls outside. I was in charge of priming the fence and the concrete pillars and then painting them over black.
The color scheme was black for the main parts, with yellow, red, blue and green for every little wooden part of the fence. We painted large footprints on one column and then the logo and contact information. It was a fun experience.
At the end of the day, we all dipped our hands in paint and put them on one of the concrete pillars.
After that, we had a quiet dinner at the seaside restaurant in Kalk Bay. It's quickly becoming my favorite restaurant here. It's called the Brass Bell and it's not anything wildly special, but it's comfortable and the view of the ocean by night is something I can't quite get enough of. You should all know by now how I feel about chocolate mousse. And they make a delicious one.

Sunday morning we woke up early again to take the train down to Newlands (where the Projects Abroad office is) to get a picnic and then take a cab to the Kirstenbosch Gardens (you'll remember the botanic gardens from a few weeks ago). From there, we hiked up Table Mountain via the Skeleton Gorge Route. Oh my god, you have no idea how out of shape you are until you try to climb a mountain. I've never been so grateful for hiking boots in my life.It was a beautiful day - so hot that I was glad I'd brought a tank top.
As we began, I had one of those, "I'm in Africa" moments. Surrounded by rocks and green and the path ahead, I forgot about everything else.
Parts of the trail were just ladders that you had to climb and then my favorite part was just rocks. You had to sort of boulder your way up along a river. It was lovely. The rest of the climb was like steps - rocky steps. My legs are miserable today.
As we got up, the cloud descended down on us and we walked through the mist. It got a bit colder, so we put on jackets as we went up. By the time we got to the top, we still had another hour or so of hiking but we were surrounded. We couldn't see any views or even more than twenty meters ahead of us.
It was like a rocky swamp at the top - all pools of water and rocky surfaces. It was surreal, knowing that you are at the top of the bottom of the world but not being able to see anything.
As we got to the cable car station at the top, the horns were sounding for high winds, so we ate our picnic quickly and began our descent down Platteklip Gorge. As we were sitting at the top, every now and then, the layer of clouds would part and we could see through the layers of mist to the sea below. Sea and the cloud wall, but only for seconds each time.
In the clouds, water was starting to form droplets in our hair and the wind was cold and wet. But still we climbed down, slowly descending back to the city. After about an hour and a half we broke out of the cloud and were back underneath it. It got warmer.
After seven and a half hours in total, we got off the mountain and headed for the train station back home.

A placement change has officially been set into motion.
I have a meeting with the Projects Abroad man tomorrow and hopefully will be in a new placement by the end of this week. Today my boss informed me that she's getting two new volunteers who have worked with her previously and that I will now answer to them.
And I realized that this situation is the out that I'm waiting for. So I jumped, emailed the Projects people and will be meeting with them tomorrow.
Wish me luck.

Graffiti and other odds and ends

The week ends on an up note.
Yesterday, I took the train down to Newlands to the Projects Abroad office and had a Skype meeting with a Canadian guy who wants to organize a micro-financing project. And thus, I am going to be filming and editing a short video in the coming weeks about the Vrygrond community and some small business owners.

I love trains. I so very much loved riding the train alone in Chicago, the city all around me, speeding south. And here, I speed toward the city, passing stations in varying stages of repair, signs, people in and out. It's the jostle of the city, contained in a single train car. Tired faces line the cars, children on their way home from school, people trying to make a living playing music as they walk up and down the cars, holding out tin cups - the coins clank and clatter as they land. People are so giving, so willing to listen and give.

You can tell a lot about a city by the graffiti. Here, the graffiti is everywhere, an underlying reminder of artistic culture. It clouds the trains, it covers walls. I love it. It's representative of the feelings here - so much of it speaks to hope and about South Africa. It betrays the pride here felt by the people who live here. I sat on a train car covered in graffiti once - every single surface. It had obviously been done by someone who was desperate to find a voice - some it was as simple as "love" and "tea" but some of it was quite rude. I loved it though. Once, I got up from a seat only to find that I'd been sitting on my initials the entire time. KB was scrawled behind me in thick, black marker.

As I got off the train to head back home, I heard someone calling me. I looked around to see a man I'd met the week before. It turns out he sells fruit at my train station to pay for his electrician schooling. We had a cup of tea while we chatted by the side of the road and then I turned and went home, feeling quite at home.

So hopefully this weekend will bring a happy sort of contentment to settle back around me. We're doing work in one of the small schools around here tomorrow - painting and such. It's something Projects Abroad does called a dirty weekend. Someone has to apply for money to help fix a place up or do something and then it will be granted and then put into action with the help of the volunteers. Someone here at my place got a chicken coop put in.