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.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
(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.
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.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
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
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
Friday, November 19, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 15, 2010
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)