Workin' It

We had a false-alarm the other night. Alarms started blaring after we had just finished an informal discussion of how dangerous Cape Town actually is. We have panic buttons throughout the homebase that we are assured summon armed response in less than three minutes. I am not getting out my stopwatch, but after seeing how things work in Cape Town, I wouldn't put much money on the validity of that promise. Welcome to the rape capital of the world. After the alarms started ringing, we all just congregated downstairs and found out that it was the neighbor's alarm. It makes me wonder what is going on over there, after the blood-curdling, gut-wrenching scream that I heard the other night. I feel bad for Bradley, one of our security guys. He must have shit his pants. Twenty American chicks, four guys and the odd Canadian are a lot of responsibility.

The last two days of work have been great. Yesterday was Wednesday, so they had the welcoming program for the new refugees. When I got dropped off at Scalabrini, there was already a crowd waiting to get in. I interviewed them trying to remember the details that Barbara taught me the previous day, and did a horrible job at first. The first guy didn't really speak English, and that did not help anyone. The other problem is that I am American and ignorant and don't know shit about Africa. Some guy's permit said that he was from Zaire. I am supposed to write the route that he got into South Africa. Uh, where the hell is Zaire? Apparently, it is the DRC, but why wouldn't they just write that? And what do you put down for nationality? Shit, I should have paid attention in high school. Not to mention that the awareness that everywhere writes dates differently than we do in the US does not make it any easier to actually do it correctly under pressure. Some guy was telling me the dates like, "Twenty, zero-two, two-thousand eight." When he realized how hopeless I was. I am sure that they thought that I was the biggest moron ever. Imagine fleeing your country to escape political persecution, jumping borders with only the clothes on your back, walking miles with no shoes, and settling under a bridge in a country whose inhabitants practice xenophobic attacks. Then you go to seek assistance and you find ME. Me and my idiotic smile. I am officially a bimbo. Sorry Dad. After that, I helped Bella sort donated clothes. I didn't feel as stupid, but it wasn't as fun either.

In the afternoon, some of us went to Green Market Square and the Pan-African market. The weird dude that I bought a bracelet from actually got mad at me for bargaining with him. Whatever. Some kid tried to get us to give him money, but we are not allowed. We told him that we were strictly prohibited, but he was persistent. He told us not to be shy. He could tell that we wanted to buy him food. He told us we wouldn't get in trouble. Finally, he went away.

Today, I got to teach an English class. I taught them about family relationships using the possessive. Maggie and Lisa are Bart's sisters. Homer is Marge's husband. They are weird about The Simpson's here. In the middle of a square in the city they have a huge African sculpture with Bart's head protruding out of it everywhere. They also sell Playboy grooming products in the pharmacies. I don't get it. After playing teacher for an hour and a half, I went down and made soup for the homeless refugees with Fazal, who is only twenty and a Zimbabwean immigrant. He is fun to talk to. Or maybe I should say listen to, because he never stops talking. Daniel is Italian and very nice, but more quiet. They are both musicians. I suck at peeling potatoes, and cried like a baby when I cut the billion onions that were needed for the soup. I have absolutely no problem with feeling like an idiot, though. Must be the maturity that comes with my old age. It was a fun day. I love my job.