Back to Reality

Well, I am home. The girls behind me on the flight from JFK to Minneapolis were proof enough of that. I think one was doing the People crossword and it was giving her hell. "What was the captain's name in Moby Dick?" she asked her friend. "A-R-A-B?" Yeah, good old Captain Arab. I am no literary expert, but you might want to double check that second letter. The words "Idol" of American Idol and "Inn" of Tori and Dean: Inn Love caused quite a bit of confusion as well. Good thing she didn't opt for the Times. Even if it hadn't been Sunday she wouldn't have stood a chance. In addition to her abysmal spelling and deficient reasoning skills, she possessed a diamond ring on her finger that you could probably see from outer space. Nothing screams "fucked-up values" like a conflict diamond that is big enough to feed the entire population of Bangladesh. It must be true love. Africa must have mellowed me out, because I didn't even start cursing the American education system, the evils of mass media or a God that I am not sure I believe in. I just laughed to myself and took notes on the airsick bag. I still think that she's an idiot and symbolic of a lot of things I don't believe in, but I didn't get angry. I have a lot of work to do on myself before I can be too judgmental.  

***

People have been asking a lot of questions since I've been home. I get a few pretty consistently. What is the best thing that happened? I have no idea how to answer that question. What did I learn about myself? I haven't really had time to do a proper analysis yet. Did I meet someone? Only my future husband. The best came from one of my patients. I am her favorite, and she has told me on numerous occasions that she loves me, which is not normally something you tell your dialysis nurse. When I visited the unit to say hello to everyone her eyes lit up and she smiled so big her whole face was teeth. "Darling! You look fabulous! You've lost weight!" she said excitedly. She is very concerned by me being fat. "Did you find a husband?" She asked it as if I went to Africa to go on a man safari. "Yeah. I did." I said. "Is he white.....or black?" The first part was asked in a normal voice, but she sounded pained to even utter the last part. I hesitated before saying, "He's black." I know her feelings on this particular topic, and she wouldn't consider my man safari a success unless I found a white one. "Oh. Is he nice?" she asked. I told her that he was. "Don't gain weight. Don't eat any bread, and you'll find someone better here," she advised. So much for him being nice. When she asked what he did for a living I knew I was in big trouble. "He's a bartender," I told her, trying hard not to laugh. I thought I was going to have to call a code and administer CPR. "NO BREAD!" she reiterated firmly, as she shook her bony, crooked finger at me. "OK, OK," I said, "but it's so hard." She told me that it wasn't. She thinks that my happiness depends on finding a man, and that finding a man depends on me dropping about eighty pounds. I don't know if it was subconscious sabotage, but I ate approximately three sandwiches today. Among other things. I don't want to find a better man here. 

Life is a Musical

We are usually tired. Some of us have showered, others opt for head wear to creatively cover the evidence that it has been awhile. Hangovers afflict an unlucky or overindulgent few on any given day. Some enjoy a leisurely breakfast, while others hastily throw a piece of toast into the toaster at 7:43 willing it to please pop up with enough time to throw some butter on it. What we all have in common is that at 7:45 one of the staff rings the bell, which is our cue that our butts need to make their ways to our respective vans. And that is how every weekday morning here begins.

There are five big white vans that transport us all to our various placements. For the first three weeks my driver was Malinga. He is my parent's age, and one of my favorite people here. I knew that we were going to click right away. The very first time I met him was when he picked my group up at the airport. He played the most amazing music. It was the perfect soundtrack for my first glimpse of South Africa's shantytowns. "I want to be there when the people win the battle against AIDS. I want to lend a hand. I want to be there for the victims of violence and abuse. I want to lend a hand." That drive is symbolic of my trip thus far. I see the reality of South Africa. I see the seemingly insurmountable problems that face this country, and I acknowledge that I have no idea how they will ever be solved. Simultaneously, there is something telling me that there is hope. After all, look at was has transpired in the last twenty years in South Africa. Miracles happen.

My new driver is Bongani. I have to admit that I was disappointed when the routes changed after the first three weeks, and I lost Malinga. I have really lucked out with drivers, though, because Bongani is awesome. He is in his thirties and is absolutely adorable. He has a gold tooth, and I can identify his van in the morning line-up by following my ears. His oozes the reverberating beats of the gangster rap that he favors. My mornings wouldn't seem complete these days without Tupac and Biggie. This morning really solidified my feelings of platonic affection for the man. He drops Meg and I off first, unlike Malinga who dropped us off last. It is slightly annoying because Scalabrini doesn't open until nine and we've been getting there at about 8:15 lately. I politely brought up the idea of a new dropping order once, but it was shot down. Today was Wednesday, which is the day that the new refugees show up. They line up very early in the morning to get numbers, because we can only take in so many. When Bongani pulled up to the throng that was gathered this morning I muttered something like, "Great...I get to stand on the street with the refugees for a half hour." Meg didn't come today. I was on my own. I have nothing against the refugees, but it is not really a welcoming environment to be thrust into. Actually...maybe the problem is that it's too welcoming, if you catch my drift. I took a deep breath and got out. I tried to muster an air of confidence as I walked without making any eye contact directly into an area of women near the door. I looked back. The van was still there. I looked to my left. Some guy was making a "how you doin'?" face at me. I looked toward the van again. I accidentally saw two more guys leer and wave. I walked back to the van and knocked on Bongani's window. He rolled it down. "You can't do this to me," I said. My hands were shaking. He told me to get in. After we dropped everyone else off and I had moved to the front with him, we had a talk. He told me he didn't know that Scalabrini didn't open until nine. I told him that I informed him last week. He told me that he would be in "big shit" if he had left me there because it was dangerous. When we went back, there was still a crowd but it was smaller, because by that time some had been let in. As I got out, Bongani turned off the van and told me he was coming with me. He led the way through the mass of bodies. It was an unpleasant ten foot walk to the door, but I felt better with him there. It made the inappropriate touches more bearable, because I knew no one would try any shit with him around. He is dropping me off last from now on. I think the experience was all the evidence needed to support that plan. When he took us home after work I made sure to thank him for being my bodyguard. He smiled. God, I love that gold tooth.

A Dealer in the Ghetto

I am really struggling with blogging right now. The fact that the internet was down and I share a computer with forty people doesn't help, but I think it has more to do with me. I can't do this experience justice. I can't write about everything that I am doing, because it would be impossible, for one, and because I want to keep some of it to myself. I guess I will have to be content with a disclaimer: I cannot express what this experience means to me. I will not try. I will just stick to sharing parts of my life here that I think are amusing.

I have taken on a second placement. I go in the afternoons, but only a couple of days a week. The place is called Etafeni, and is in one of the townships, and I help with the after school program. Yesterday was my first day, and it was great. A little girl named Sibongile attached herself to me right away. She asked me my name and tried to teach me Xhosa. She got out a picture book meant for five-year-olds and pointed to the words and spoke them to me. I repeated. She'd point to the cat and say, "ikati". I'd say, "ikati". She'd look at me and smile. "That's very good," she'd say. Then she'd get to a word with a X, C, Q or HL. These are sounds that my white tongue cannot make. Three of them are clicks. I told her that I can't do clicks and she kindly skipped all the words with those sounds from that point forward. She kept telling me how well I was doing. Then Vuyo, the guy in charge, brought in a small, silver suitcase and told me that it was a new game for the kids, and he wanted me to teach it to them. I opened it and found poker chips, dice and cards. There were instructions for Texas Hold 'Em that I couldn't decipher. I didn't want to let Vuyo down, but there was no way in hell I could teach fifteen kids from six to twelve years old how to play Texas Hold 'Em. So I taught them blackjack instead.

I love the randomness of life. If I had to guess, I would expect to be helping Sibongile with her homework. I saw her homework, and it is in Xhosa, so I won't be much help there. Instead, she became the teacher. I also never would have imagined that I would be in a township dealing blackjack to school children. But I was and I did, and like my experience in Africa as a whole, I doubt that I'll ever forget it.