Last January I left the United States on my transatlantic voyage. Packed amid my clothes and pictures were an assortment of well wishes from various individuals. The phrase “this experience will be such a positive one for you” inhabiting space on nearly every card. On any other day, embarking on any other adventure, to any other location I would have overlooked the word positive. It would have been just that, a word in the middle of a sentence. Instead the eight letters seemed to leap off of the page and hold tight to my heart as if they were a tangible thing.
Sitting aboard the airplane headed for South Africa I kept thinking about the AIDS Respite Center where I would be volunteering for the next year and each of my patients whose status was positive. Until then my use of the world positive had typically been in the affirmative. How could I now be embarking on a journey that I hoped would ultimately be a positive experience when that same word was being used to describe someone fighting for their life?
A year later, as I pack my bags and prepare to say goodbye to my beloved South Africa I can whole heartedly say that the word positive has been powerfully redefined in my vocabulary. It is no longer only something that expresses the affirmative, nor is it only something negative, but rather a word that encompasses both optimism and faith.
My patients, who have become my dear friends, are HIV positive and although many wear the duress of their disease in lines on their faces an impressive veneer of resiliency encases them. Their unfathomable needs are masked by their strong faith, passion for life and infectious love for one another and for God. Watching their commitment to faith and dedication to life even during their most painful of days has encouraged my own faith in God.
An HIV positive status will always be heartbreaking, but through my patients I have learned to see the silver lining. Amidst the heartache and struggle there lays an important lesson in being told you are positive, finding a way to live positively.
-Thandiwe lived positively by openly discussing her strong faith and accepting Gods plan.
-By encouraging her community to get tested one of my co-workers is currently living positively.
-Delisile, a strong beacon of hope, lives positively by ensuring that faith, love and laughter flow freely.
-Mlungisi, with his bright smile and big hugs lived positively by embracing me in friendship and support.
-By spreading awareness through her school, Nokuphiwa a beautiful 14 year old lived positively until the day that God called her home.
Somewhere deep inside me still aches when I hear that another individual is admitted to the Unit or when I sit with someone as they take their last breath. However through it all I have learned to rejoice in knowing that someone’s status may be HIV positive, but God is on their side encouraging them to live positively.
I am leaving South Africa understanding what it is to really feel love, to hold hope so close to the heart, to see the face of God in the friends I have met and to know that He is encouraging each of us, regardless of our status to live positively.
06 December 2010
24 November 2010
Two weeks.
In two weeks I will be climbing into a big ole Boeing 777 headed for home.
Saying that sentence is easy and hard at the same time. It seems fake. I'm a mix of emotions; happy to see my family and my friends that I have missed so much, sad to be leaving a land and people that I have fallen so deeply in love with. I'm excited at the opportunities that await me, yet terrified that for once I don't have a structured "plan" of what comes next.
South Africa has seeped its way into my soul. It has captured me and I'll be leaving a large part of my heart here.
-Some will stay with with the Home Based Care Ladies and Nurses at Hillcrest AIDS Centre who, despite a language barrier have guided me through the hardest and most physically and emotionally draining days of my life.
-A large piece will stay with my former patients - those who have passed away and shown me what it means to have unending strength and to die with dignity and those who are living and have become a source of hope and some of the most genuine friends I have known and will ever known.
-Part will stay with the Woza Moya staff - Claudia, Paula, Kerry and Gogs who have taken me in as one of their own family members; showering me with love, attention and more sleepovers than I could ever have dreamed of.
-Some will stay with the Reception staff - Skhumbuzo, Julie, Daniella and Louise who are constantly encouraging me to be myself and giving me opportunities to do so.
-Part will stay with my neighbors the priests and sisters who have acted in lieu of family and let me "borrow" food and wine whenever my refrigerator is bare.
-A huge chunk will stay with my St. Theresa boys, each who have melted my heart on a consistent basis this year.
-And another huge chunk will stay with my South African friends; Wade, Andrew, Mart, Matt, Claire, Claire, Rich, Will, Adam, Jeff and Gordo who have given us a social life, shown us the ins and outs of Durban and unconditionally loved us.
I'm truly at a crossroad of thoughts: somewhere North of rhyme and reason just South of details and structure slightly West of convention and customs and East of old and new.
Saying that sentence is easy and hard at the same time. It seems fake. I'm a mix of emotions; happy to see my family and my friends that I have missed so much, sad to be leaving a land and people that I have fallen so deeply in love with. I'm excited at the opportunities that await me, yet terrified that for once I don't have a structured "plan" of what comes next.
South Africa has seeped its way into my soul. It has captured me and I'll be leaving a large part of my heart here.
-Some will stay with with the Home Based Care Ladies and Nurses at Hillcrest AIDS Centre who, despite a language barrier have guided me through the hardest and most physically and emotionally draining days of my life.
-A large piece will stay with my former patients - those who have passed away and shown me what it means to have unending strength and to die with dignity and those who are living and have become a source of hope and some of the most genuine friends I have known and will ever known.
-Part will stay with the Woza Moya staff - Claudia, Paula, Kerry and Gogs who have taken me in as one of their own family members; showering me with love, attention and more sleepovers than I could ever have dreamed of.
-Some will stay with the Reception staff - Skhumbuzo, Julie, Daniella and Louise who are constantly encouraging me to be myself and giving me opportunities to do so.
-Part will stay with my neighbors the priests and sisters who have acted in lieu of family and let me "borrow" food and wine whenever my refrigerator is bare.
-A huge chunk will stay with my St. Theresa boys, each who have melted my heart on a consistent basis this year.
-And another huge chunk will stay with my South African friends; Wade, Andrew, Mart, Matt, Claire, Claire, Rich, Will, Adam, Jeff and Gordo who have given us a social life, shown us the ins and outs of Durban and unconditionally loved us.
I'm truly at a crossroad of thoughts: somewhere North of rhyme and reason just South of details and structure slightly West of convention and customs and East of old and new.
01 November 2010
Dinner at Delis
I have talked a lot about the inconsistency in emotions that I experience at the AIDS center. The sadness that fills my heart when a new patient is admitted and is in the deepest stages of illness is something I still have not learned to completely deal with. The struggle to understand death consumes me every time a patient passes away and those feelings are magnified when that patient is a child. But the joy that I find through working with my patients is unparalleled. Each and every time I help a patient pack up whatever small tokens of home they have brought to the Centre with them and give them a hug as they are discharged home my job seems worth all the sadness and tears.
Delisile was admitted to the Respite Centre just after I arrived in South Africa. From the first moment I met her I recognized that her heart not only filled her tiny body, but exploded from it; consuming all who came into contact with her. She has a magnetism that draws everyone to her. The first time I saw Deli, a 32 year old woman whose illness stole her capacity to function, pulled her away from her family and job and ripped weight off her body I thought she was a frail 13 year old. Since those early January days, I have seen a miraculous transformation.
Deli moved from depending on everyone for all of life’s basic necessities (feeding, bathing, transportation) into someone whose brilliant story was featured in Oprah’s magazine. She can eat food without falling ill and has thus regained weight and her mobility. She has been discharged from eight months in the confines of a metal hospital bed to the loving arms of her daughters and family. She has become a survivor and my best friend here.
For selfish reasons there is a teeny tiny part of me that misses seeing her vibrant smile and receiving her warm hug every morning, but knowing that she is at home, functioning as a healthy woman and mother overrides the absence of her in my daily life.
Three weeks ago Mary-Kate and I were invited to her house to spend the day with her and her family. As we got out of our car and approached her home we were greeted with open arms and love by her entire extended family, neighbours and friends.
Inside we were presented with a plate overflowing with chicken, rice, sweet potatoes, salad and potato salad-a beautiful token of their appreciation. 
Although the food was beyond outstanding I couldn’t help feeling slightly self-conscious as we sat eating while everyone else empty handed watched us. Part of living here is recognizing that others give from what they have – Deli’s family had food and prepared a feast for us because they could. I struggle with accepting a meal knowing that I have ready access to an abundance of food and her family’s food consumption is limited. A complex feeling that will always leave me unsettled.
The day was nothing short of beautiful. People from all over kept coming to her house to greet us, thanking us for helping her to get well which is a true testament to the strong woman and integral part of the community that Deli is. Her daughters and other various young children preformed dance after dance for us and even sang the whole Shania Twain CD.
I couldn’t help but choke back tears as her two beautiful daughters appeared from around the corner in dresses my Nana had made and sent over here with my family. Although they are beautiful and I would have loved to keep them for myself I gave them to Deli when she was discharged to bring home as a gift for her daughters. I realized that my already overflowing closet was not where the dresses would be the most appreciated and seeing the girls sashaying through the house, big smiles on their face reaffirmed that decision. They send many thanks to you Nana! 
The day concluded with many pictures of everyone all together, big huge hugs and a promise to see each other again. With my days in South Africa coming to an end saying goodbye to her was one of the hardest things, but knowing that she is healthy, happy and at home where she belongs puts a smile on my face.
Friends come from an assortment of places, with their ages- races- and significance in our lives varying. Deli has taught me that love between friends, true inner strength and determination have no regulated maximum, but rather are the most infectious ailment one could be lucky enough to confront
Deli now!!!
Deli a few months ago
Delisile was admitted to the Respite Centre just after I arrived in South Africa. From the first moment I met her I recognized that her heart not only filled her tiny body, but exploded from it; consuming all who came into contact with her. She has a magnetism that draws everyone to her. The first time I saw Deli, a 32 year old woman whose illness stole her capacity to function, pulled her away from her family and job and ripped weight off her body I thought she was a frail 13 year old. Since those early January days, I have seen a miraculous transformation.
Deli moved from depending on everyone for all of life’s basic necessities (feeding, bathing, transportation) into someone whose brilliant story was featured in Oprah’s magazine. She can eat food without falling ill and has thus regained weight and her mobility. She has been discharged from eight months in the confines of a metal hospital bed to the loving arms of her daughters and family. She has become a survivor and my best friend here.
For selfish reasons there is a teeny tiny part of me that misses seeing her vibrant smile and receiving her warm hug every morning, but knowing that she is at home, functioning as a healthy woman and mother overrides the absence of her in my daily life.
Three weeks ago Mary-Kate and I were invited to her house to spend the day with her and her family. As we got out of our car and approached her home we were greeted with open arms and love by her entire extended family, neighbours and friends.
Inside we were presented with a plate overflowing with chicken, rice, sweet potatoes, salad and potato salad-a beautiful token of their appreciation. 
Although the food was beyond outstanding I couldn’t help feeling slightly self-conscious as we sat eating while everyone else empty handed watched us. Part of living here is recognizing that others give from what they have – Deli’s family had food and prepared a feast for us because they could. I struggle with accepting a meal knowing that I have ready access to an abundance of food and her family’s food consumption is limited. A complex feeling that will always leave me unsettled. The day was nothing short of beautiful. People from all over kept coming to her house to greet us, thanking us for helping her to get well which is a true testament to the strong woman and integral part of the community that Deli is. Her daughters and other various young children preformed dance after dance for us and even sang the whole Shania Twain CD.
I couldn’t help but choke back tears as her two beautiful daughters appeared from around the corner in dresses my Nana had made and sent over here with my family. Although they are beautiful and I would have loved to keep them for myself I gave them to Deli when she was discharged to bring home as a gift for her daughters. I realized that my already overflowing closet was not where the dresses would be the most appreciated and seeing the girls sashaying through the house, big smiles on their face reaffirmed that decision. They send many thanks to you Nana! 
The day concluded with many pictures of everyone all together, big huge hugs and a promise to see each other again. With my days in South Africa coming to an end saying goodbye to her was one of the hardest things, but knowing that she is healthy, happy and at home where she belongs puts a smile on my face.
Friends come from an assortment of places, with their ages- races- and significance in our lives varying. Deli has taught me that love between friends, true inner strength and determination have no regulated maximum, but rather are the most infectious ailment one could be lucky enough to confront
Deli now!!!
Deli a few months ago
27 October 2010
Overheard in the classroom part two and three
Correcting a 13 year olds paper on types of natural disasters, these are the responses:
"1. torna-doz
2. mud slide
3.lots of rain for a flood
4.earthquake
5.maybe heart break?"
Talking about the letter B
Me: "What else starts with the letter B"
Lindo: "Butthole?"
Me: "Well yes, that does start with B, but lets think of a word that is english classroom friendly."
Spha: "English people don't have buttholes? MAN I AM GLAD I AM ZULU!"
"1. torna-doz
2. mud slide
3.lots of rain for a flood
4.earthquake
5.maybe heart break?"
Talking about the letter B
Me: "What else starts with the letter B"
Lindo: "Butthole?"
Me: "Well yes, that does start with B, but lets think of a word that is english classroom friendly."
Spha: "English people don't have buttholes? MAN I AM GLAD I AM ZULU!"
12 October 2010
Sure, I'll sign autographs
Awhile back I wrote about a PBS film crew that joined us in South Africa filming a documentary for their program, Visionaries which profiles non profit organizations. Season 16 episode 1602 highlights the Order of St. Augustine and the amazing work the Augustinians do in Philly, South Africa and around the world. It shows clips of our house, the girls school, and me delivering food parcels in the valley. Its a truly beautiful video and I was lucky to have a chance to take part in it!
Hit the big blue play triangle in the middle of the screen, sit back, relax and enjoy.
Its only PSB and I am choking back tears the whole interview making me look ridiculous, but celebrity status starts somewhere right?
If your computer will not let you watch the video via blogger you can try and access it from another computer via the website listed below
http://www.divshare.com/download/11598048-293
Hit the big blue play triangle in the middle of the screen, sit back, relax and enjoy.
Its only PSB and I am choking back tears the whole interview making me look ridiculous, but celebrity status starts somewhere right?
If your computer will not let you watch the video via blogger you can try and access it from another computer via the website listed below
http://www.divshare.com/download/11598048-293
11 October 2010
fancy a lil tug o' war
A few weekends ago we spent a full Saturday at St. Theresa's with the boys for their annual sports day. We arrived and our car was canvassed by a sea of red, green, yellow and blue shirts. On typical days at St. T we assist the boys with their homework. Once homework is complete, if there is time we play with them outside. Saturday we were able shed our authoritative homework helper roles and instead play all day. As soon as the teams began chanting back and forth I reverted back to childhood joined in the friendly fun. I cannot remember the last time that I have laughed more or for such an extended period of time. Watching the boy’s attempt to maneuver an orange around the circle using only their necks and chins was beyond comical.
I felt like a proud mother seeing the older boys demonstrate how to complete each activity to the younger boys; their patience was heartwarming. Watching the two ages bound by string and determination during the three legged race was hysterical.
The field behind the home was turned into an abundance of sack races, cones for soccer dribbling exercises and an obstacle course for jump rope competitions.
The day concluded with a tug of war between the teams and then we all joined together for a BBQ style lunch. Day after day I have found that it is impossible to leave St. Theresa’s without a smile on my face. Because despite whatever horrendous circumstances brought the boys to the home, or however frustrated and impatient they get with me as I explain homework, or however many times I have to remind them that kicking - pinching - hitting - or biting each other is not acceptable - at the end of the day they are a part of a family.
I felt like a proud mother seeing the older boys demonstrate how to complete each activity to the younger boys; their patience was heartwarming. Watching the two ages bound by string and determination during the three legged race was hysterical.
The field behind the home was turned into an abundance of sack races, cones for soccer dribbling exercises and an obstacle course for jump rope competitions.
The day concluded with a tug of war between the teams and then we all joined together for a BBQ style lunch. Day after day I have found that it is impossible to leave St. Theresa’s without a smile on my face. Because despite whatever horrendous circumstances brought the boys to the home, or however frustrated and impatient they get with me as I explain homework, or however many times I have to remind them that kicking - pinching - hitting - or biting each other is not acceptable - at the end of the day they are a part of a family.
07 October 2010
Overheard in the classroom
Me:
"Class do you now understand the difference between then and than or do you have questions"
....silence....
10 year old student:
"Miz Meggie do you understand that if you were black you could dance better and Lil' Wayne and Usher would like you or do you have questions?"
"Class do you now understand the difference between then and than or do you have questions"
....silence....
10 year old student:
"Miz Meggie do you understand that if you were black you could dance better and Lil' Wayne and Usher would like you or do you have questions?"
01 October 2010
A new neighbor
Father Bob has officially movef in as my neighbor in South Africa! The priests my roommates and I surprised him at the airport and even after traveling for 24 hours his smiles and hugs were abundant and his energy plentiful! He was a wonderful friend and neighbor in the Bronx and South Africa and I are both blessed to have him here this year!
27 September 2010
Nkosi Haven
In May I wrote a blog that discussed a book I recently read by Jim Wooten. The book, “We Are All the Same” chronicles the life of Gail Johnson a woman living in Johannesburg who started an AIDS home for mothers and children and during the process found herself taking a young boy with AIDS into her family and her heart. The story spoke to me on many levels. I was touched by the connection between boy and woman, I found myself getting lost in their trials and triumphs, in the love and dedication between the two. I was impressed by their strength and learned more how to relate to my patients at the AIDS center through their story.
While we were wandering around shops in Johannesburg last weekend we walked into a used book store. The first book that caught my attention was “We Are All The Same”, ironic I thought considering we were probably just a few minutes from Nkosi’s Haven, the site Gail Johnson had created.
I found their number and address in a phone book and after getting lost for a good 25 minutes, my patient roommates and I found the center.
Gail unfortunately was not feeling well and had gone home sick, but we were given a tour of the beautiful facilities. I was impressed with the size of the place which houses currently 91 children and 32 mothers and is still not at max capacity. The accommodation includes housing, food, love and support, treatment administration and encouragement, as well as specialized therapy sessions for children (speech and language, occupational therapy and a social integration play room). There was a beautiful bakery on the property
a brightly colored leisure room 
and various places for children to play.
As we were leaving I rememberd the copy of “We Are All The Same” that I had purchased. I asked one of Gails co-workers if she thought Gail would be willing to sign it and mail it back to me if I left money. In all honesty I wasn’t expecting it to realistically happen, but two days later I received a package in the mail with a very kind note in the front of the book.
“Dearest Meghan,
Wishing you all the very best in life and in your future career in nursing. All my love – Gail Johnson”
I have recently been trying to decide where I want to go once this year is complete – it has been a toss up between going back to school for speech therapy or nursing. I never told anyone at Nkosi’s Haven that I was interested in nursing, but perhaps it’s a sign?
While we were wandering around shops in Johannesburg last weekend we walked into a used book store. The first book that caught my attention was “We Are All The Same”, ironic I thought considering we were probably just a few minutes from Nkosi’s Haven, the site Gail Johnson had created.
I found their number and address in a phone book and after getting lost for a good 25 minutes, my patient roommates and I found the center.
Gail unfortunately was not feeling well and had gone home sick, but we were given a tour of the beautiful facilities. I was impressed with the size of the place which houses currently 91 children and 32 mothers and is still not at max capacity. The accommodation includes housing, food, love and support, treatment administration and encouragement, as well as specialized therapy sessions for children (speech and language, occupational therapy and a social integration play room). There was a beautiful bakery on the property
a brightly colored leisure room 
and various places for children to play. 
As we were leaving I rememberd the copy of “We Are All The Same” that I had purchased. I asked one of Gails co-workers if she thought Gail would be willing to sign it and mail it back to me if I left money. In all honesty I wasn’t expecting it to realistically happen, but two days later I received a package in the mail with a very kind note in the front of the book.
“Dearest Meghan,
Wishing you all the very best in life and in your future career in nursing. All my love – Gail Johnson”
I have recently been trying to decide where I want to go once this year is complete – it has been a toss up between going back to school for speech therapy or nursing. I never told anyone at Nkosi’s Haven that I was interested in nursing, but perhaps it’s a sign?
26 September 2010
I'm brushing up on looking down I'm working on my roar
Last weekend the girls and I took our first ever big road trip together. Our boss April came from the states for our last site visit and the office kindly took us on a trip to a game reserve near the baorder of Botswana.
We estimated our trip would take 10 hours so we had an early start. Sinead kindly set up the ipod and speakers to play our favorite community song "Alejandro" which came bumping through our house at 2am Friday morning. I couldn't help but laugh as Mary-Kate and I silently laid in bed and took turns echoing various combinations of "thats loud", "thats so loud". We collected our things, packed our bags and at 3am embarked upon our trip.
Our 6am breakfast of PB/Honey and Bananas on toast
After 12 hours of rotating through our various cd’s, seeing outrageous signs including a warning for Owls for the next 5k and a HIJACKING HOTSPOT FOR THE NEXT 6K (see below) stopping for a few bathroom and coffee breaks, and one minor “detour” we arrived at Mosetlha bush camp. During the ten minutes it took us to drive from the main gate to our bush camp we saw elephants, zebra and giraffe – a promising start to a fantastic weekend.
Our weekend included two night drives and a full day drive, many scrumptious traditional Zulu meals and “Sundowners” – South Africas version of happy hour where we got excellent drinks and a beautiful sunset!
The game drives were incredible; we saw everything- lions, rhinos, elephants, monkeys, baboons, zebras and giraffe.
The first evening game drive we crossed paths with a gigantic giraffe
as well as two very casual lounging lions. We were at most 10 feet away from the pair who languidly looked us up and down and returned to their naps.
During the day drive we saw a pregnant giraffe, numerous Zebras and more lethargic lions.
The second night drive we were blessed to see a mother Rhino followed by the smallest yet fattest baby rhino running, closely being followed by two lions in pursuit.
As we headed back to the camp we stopped by a watering hole and emerging from the pitch black night came the outlines of elephants. Not one or two, not twenty or thirty, but close to 200; bathing, drinking water, playing and splashing, itching themselves on trees. It was something that no words or pictures could do justice. The eight of us in the rover just sat in silence mesmerized.
After our first night game drive we got back and they had set up lanterns leading down the various paths – a beautiful scene. The bush camp we stayed at was very primitive it had no running water or electricity, a lesson in really living simply. The huts that we slept in had a roof and two walls – the other two were partially covered in somewhat of a cabana style. Sleeping in the fresh air was amazing, probably the best two nights of sleep I’ve had since being here.
To take a shower we each got a bucket of water which was poured into a metal contraption that used a fire underneath to heat the water.
Once heated and mixed with a portion of cold water you put the water into a second bucket in the bathroom and used a pulley to hoist the water above your head. An off on lever allowed the water to be turned off between latherings, something which really made me realize how much water I waste on a normal basis. One bucket lasted me through shaving my legs, washing and conditioning my hair and face and I even had some left over.
Our weekend safari concluded with a night stop over in Johannesburg which is about half way from where we were to home. We spent a day at the Apartheid Museum which was both educational and overwhelming. An experience that I would relate to visiting the Holocaust Museum. It was important yet very hard to witness the separation of a country, the harsh reality of a group of people that I have come to love and the brutality of mankind. I was certainly taken aback, but I think it was really beneficial for us to visit the Museum. It’s difficult to believe that Apartheid occurred so recently, that many of the older individuals we come in contact with on a daily basis actually lived through it.
After the museum we were blessed with hospitality and kindness from my extended family members who opened up their home to us. We spent our evening in Joburg driving around (getting lost in ehhh) and finding the Airport to drop April off. The following day we enjoyed a delicious breakfast with Leon and Charlotte and then made our way through the city. Our day in the city was filled with wonder and excitement; we wandered through bookstores, cafes, clothing stores and antique dealers. We ate lunch at a funky café and were able to visit an orphanage and meet a friend of Mary-Kate’s.
I wish we had more time to explore the city; Joburg is somewhere I need to return to – if not during this year then sometime in the near future. Its rich history is abundant and the progress it has made is evident.
We estimated our trip would take 10 hours so we had an early start. Sinead kindly set up the ipod and speakers to play our favorite community song "Alejandro" which came bumping through our house at 2am Friday morning. I couldn't help but laugh as Mary-Kate and I silently laid in bed and took turns echoing various combinations of "thats loud", "thats so loud". We collected our things, packed our bags and at 3am embarked upon our trip.
Our 6am breakfast of PB/Honey and Bananas on toast
After 12 hours of rotating through our various cd’s, seeing outrageous signs including a warning for Owls for the next 5k and a HIJACKING HOTSPOT FOR THE NEXT 6K (see below) stopping for a few bathroom and coffee breaks, and one minor “detour” we arrived at Mosetlha bush camp. During the ten minutes it took us to drive from the main gate to our bush camp we saw elephants, zebra and giraffe – a promising start to a fantastic weekend.
Our weekend included two night drives and a full day drive, many scrumptious traditional Zulu meals and “Sundowners” – South Africas version of happy hour where we got excellent drinks and a beautiful sunset!
The game drives were incredible; we saw everything- lions, rhinos, elephants, monkeys, baboons, zebras and giraffe.
The first evening game drive we crossed paths with a gigantic giraffe
as well as two very casual lounging lions. We were at most 10 feet away from the pair who languidly looked us up and down and returned to their naps.
During the day drive we saw a pregnant giraffe, numerous Zebras and more lethargic lions.
The second night drive we were blessed to see a mother Rhino followed by the smallest yet fattest baby rhino running, closely being followed by two lions in pursuit. As we headed back to the camp we stopped by a watering hole and emerging from the pitch black night came the outlines of elephants. Not one or two, not twenty or thirty, but close to 200; bathing, drinking water, playing and splashing, itching themselves on trees. It was something that no words or pictures could do justice. The eight of us in the rover just sat in silence mesmerized.
After our first night game drive we got back and they had set up lanterns leading down the various paths – a beautiful scene. The bush camp we stayed at was very primitive it had no running water or electricity, a lesson in really living simply. The huts that we slept in had a roof and two walls – the other two were partially covered in somewhat of a cabana style. Sleeping in the fresh air was amazing, probably the best two nights of sleep I’ve had since being here.
To take a shower we each got a bucket of water which was poured into a metal contraption that used a fire underneath to heat the water.
Once heated and mixed with a portion of cold water you put the water into a second bucket in the bathroom and used a pulley to hoist the water above your head. An off on lever allowed the water to be turned off between latherings, something which really made me realize how much water I waste on a normal basis. One bucket lasted me through shaving my legs, washing and conditioning my hair and face and I even had some left over.Our weekend safari concluded with a night stop over in Johannesburg which is about half way from where we were to home. We spent a day at the Apartheid Museum which was both educational and overwhelming. An experience that I would relate to visiting the Holocaust Museum. It was important yet very hard to witness the separation of a country, the harsh reality of a group of people that I have come to love and the brutality of mankind. I was certainly taken aback, but I think it was really beneficial for us to visit the Museum. It’s difficult to believe that Apartheid occurred so recently, that many of the older individuals we come in contact with on a daily basis actually lived through it.
After the museum we were blessed with hospitality and kindness from my extended family members who opened up their home to us. We spent our evening in Joburg driving around (getting lost in ehhh) and finding the Airport to drop April off. The following day we enjoyed a delicious breakfast with Leon and Charlotte and then made our way through the city. Our day in the city was filled with wonder and excitement; we wandered through bookstores, cafes, clothing stores and antique dealers. We ate lunch at a funky café and were able to visit an orphanage and meet a friend of Mary-Kate’s.
I wish we had more time to explore the city; Joburg is somewhere I need to return to – if not during this year then sometime in the near future. Its rich history is abundant and the progress it has made is evident.
Call me Miss Meggie
For various reasons and after a lot of extensive soul searching I came to the difficult, yet necessary decision that I would no longer be working at the Community Center. The decision was something that I had been struggling with making for quite some time now. It took me eight months of being more unhappy than happy to realize that I needed to make a change. It is something that I now realize should have happened long ago. It’s a frustrating feeling to be upset every time you leave work. It’s bothersome to feel underutilized and under appreciated– feelings that made me anxious going to work each Monday and made me a much more negative community member then I readily like to admit
I realized that I had just under three months left in South Africa and that although being a volunteer is 95% about putting others needs before your own, there are certain times where if you don’t look out for yourself you are actually doing everyone as a whole a big disservice.
I had heard of StreetWise through Fr. Tony who came from PA with a group of High School boys a few months ago. One Monday morning I found the number online, called Sr. Helena a kind older woman from Ireland. She invited me to come meet her and the boys and the rest is history.
StreetWise is a facility about 25 minutes from my house. Their outreach team travels through the streets of Durban and meet with boys living on the street. After extensive conversations with them about what brought them to the street and what their goals for the future are they offer the boys a place to stay off the street. They provide love, food and shelter to about 40 boys. They educate them on the premise, give them counseling and eventually place them into traditional school settings.
I was originally going to help out in the classroom as a teacher’s aide two days a week, but the teacher Leko liked how I was interacting with the children as asked me if I would be willing to do more work. I now have an hour in the mornings where I do an English comprehension lesson. And then I, along with three German volunteers run an hour of 'study time' creating math worksheets and helping the children answer and process the questions. In the afternoons we’ve been doing life skills projects: baking lessons, team building games, sports activities, music etc.
My days at StreetWise have already proved to be long, and challenging. Teaching is no easy feat especially when the age range is from 7-18 and the education levels range from never being in school, little to no understanding of the English language, not being able to read or write to the complete other end of the spectrum –some boys have gone to school before, some are fluent in English, some are so smart they are bored!
I've already learned that in the classroom Nice Meg needs to take a backseat and Miss Meggie needs to be a bit more firm. I've learned that if I bump rap coming to and from work and during break if I talk about hip hop music and rappers or showcase my terrible soccer skillzz I win over hearts. I've learned that a one inch pencil is better then no pencil at all and that a hen sitting on a nest of eggs in the classroom is not only commonplace, but provides comic relief. I've learned that regardless of how many times I say my name is Meg or Meghan that everyone - children, teachers, nuns alike will call me Miss Meggie (spelled Maggie or Miggie).
Thank God for my roommates who have been teaching all year and who have let me borrow supplies, books and ideas and for my dear Mother from whom I learned the art of loving children and patience in the classroom.
I realized that I had just under three months left in South Africa and that although being a volunteer is 95% about putting others needs before your own, there are certain times where if you don’t look out for yourself you are actually doing everyone as a whole a big disservice.
I had heard of StreetWise through Fr. Tony who came from PA with a group of High School boys a few months ago. One Monday morning I found the number online, called Sr. Helena a kind older woman from Ireland. She invited me to come meet her and the boys and the rest is history.
StreetWise is a facility about 25 minutes from my house. Their outreach team travels through the streets of Durban and meet with boys living on the street. After extensive conversations with them about what brought them to the street and what their goals for the future are they offer the boys a place to stay off the street. They provide love, food and shelter to about 40 boys. They educate them on the premise, give them counseling and eventually place them into traditional school settings.
I was originally going to help out in the classroom as a teacher’s aide two days a week, but the teacher Leko liked how I was interacting with the children as asked me if I would be willing to do more work. I now have an hour in the mornings where I do an English comprehension lesson. And then I, along with three German volunteers run an hour of 'study time' creating math worksheets and helping the children answer and process the questions. In the afternoons we’ve been doing life skills projects: baking lessons, team building games, sports activities, music etc.
My days at StreetWise have already proved to be long, and challenging. Teaching is no easy feat especially when the age range is from 7-18 and the education levels range from never being in school, little to no understanding of the English language, not being able to read or write to the complete other end of the spectrum –some boys have gone to school before, some are fluent in English, some are so smart they are bored!
I've already learned that in the classroom Nice Meg needs to take a backseat and Miss Meggie needs to be a bit more firm. I've learned that if I bump rap coming to and from work and during break if I talk about hip hop music and rappers or showcase my terrible soccer skillzz I win over hearts. I've learned that a one inch pencil is better then no pencil at all and that a hen sitting on a nest of eggs in the classroom is not only commonplace, but provides comic relief. I've learned that regardless of how many times I say my name is Meg or Meghan that everyone - children, teachers, nuns alike will call me Miss Meggie (spelled Maggie or Miggie).
Thank God for my roommates who have been teaching all year and who have let me borrow supplies, books and ideas and for my dear Mother from whom I learned the art of loving children and patience in the classroom.
15 September 2010
Cheers to a quarter Century
I just got home from having our typical Wendesday night dinner with the priests...amusing that, that is something that is routine for me! This Wednesday dinner consisted of our typically cheese and wine hour, but was also special because April our boss from the States is here joining us and also because we celebrated my birthday (which is tomorrow). As the priests, April and my roommates sang happy birthday and I made my wish I couldn't help but take a moment to think.
Tomorrow I turn 25
25 is one of those mile maker ages in life; one that when you are young you apply a significance to. I used to think that turning 25 defined independence or maturity, responsibility or adulthood. Realistically all I can do now is rent a car in the USA, yet I live in South Africa and could probably have rented a car here ages ago.
I remember being younger and living life between my house on 21 Fitch Ave and Beckys on 21 North Street. Her, Kayla and I spent hours making up dances, collecting berries, riding bikes, making wedding cakes out of sand and planning our lives. [By the time I was 22 I thought I'd be married, 24 own a home and 25 have twins...all the important things in life]
I remember living in Vermont turning 16, my Mom took me to get my license. I remember thinking I was SOOOO old. I remember living in Chelmsford Townhouse and turning 21. Everyone got dressed up and took me out to eat and then the big girls took me out on the town for a night of shenanigans.
And now here I am years later. I'm living in South Africa, I'm surrounded by landscapes, sun rises and sun sets that take my breath away each day. I've been introduced to cultures, a language and a way of living that is so far beyond the scope I had when I was a daydreaming 10 year old. I've made friends and I've made family. I'm not married nor do I have children. I haven't started or finished Graduate School I don't own a house or even an apartment for that matter and I have no real idea of what I'm doing come December 2010, but I am content.
Reflecting on where I've been in the last 25 years - where I want to go - who I've met - who I've yet to meet, makes me realize how much of my life, the world and myself I've yet to experience.
Tomorrow I'll wake up and be 25, I'll carry out my day at the AIDS center just like any other Thursday and then Friday I will get up with my roommates at 3am and drive to the border of Botswana and will be on a Safari all weekend...I mean you might as well turn a quarter century in style right?
Tomorrow I turn 25
25 is one of those mile maker ages in life; one that when you are young you apply a significance to. I used to think that turning 25 defined independence or maturity, responsibility or adulthood. Realistically all I can do now is rent a car in the USA, yet I live in South Africa and could probably have rented a car here ages ago.
I remember being younger and living life between my house on 21 Fitch Ave and Beckys on 21 North Street. Her, Kayla and I spent hours making up dances, collecting berries, riding bikes, making wedding cakes out of sand and planning our lives. [By the time I was 22 I thought I'd be married, 24 own a home and 25 have twins...all the important things in life]
I remember living in Vermont turning 16, my Mom took me to get my license. I remember thinking I was SOOOO old. I remember living in Chelmsford Townhouse and turning 21. Everyone got dressed up and took me out to eat and then the big girls took me out on the town for a night of shenanigans.
And now here I am years later. I'm living in South Africa, I'm surrounded by landscapes, sun rises and sun sets that take my breath away each day. I've been introduced to cultures, a language and a way of living that is so far beyond the scope I had when I was a daydreaming 10 year old. I've made friends and I've made family. I'm not married nor do I have children. I haven't started or finished Graduate School I don't own a house or even an apartment for that matter and I have no real idea of what I'm doing come December 2010, but I am content.
Reflecting on where I've been in the last 25 years - where I want to go - who I've met - who I've yet to meet, makes me realize how much of my life, the world and myself I've yet to experience.
Tomorrow I'll wake up and be 25, I'll carry out my day at the AIDS center just like any other Thursday and then Friday I will get up with my roommates at 3am and drive to the border of Botswana and will be on a Safari all weekend...I mean you might as well turn a quarter century in style right?
08 September 2010
Cause out on the edge of darkness, there rides a peace train
Michael and Freeman are quite possibly two of the most polar opposite people. Michael an older man grew up in England whereas Freeman a young man grew up in the valleys of KwaZulu Natal, South Africa. Michael a travel enthusiast moved to South Africa after a hard divorce – Freeman never married and only travelled the world in the depths of his own mind. Michael healthy, Freeman sick. Michael white, Freeman black.
Despite the divergences something brought them into each others lives and something even stronger kept them there. The bond between them puts a definition on the title ‘best friends’. It is unlike anything I have ever witnessed.
When Freeman entered the Respite Centre he barely looked like a human, let alone an adult. His skeletal body haphazardly jerked itself to the empty bed, his eyes staring into the distance. Freeman’s last ounce of strength evaporated as he collapsed on the bed. A moment of panic washed over me as I thought he might pass away then and there.
Suddenly his eyes began to focus, his breath became steadier and his mouth formed the words “thank you”. I thought his newfound source of strength was nothing short of a miracle until I realized that Freeman and Michael were holding hands; willpower to survive being transmitted between the palms of friends.
Over the last two months I have formed a strong friendship with both Freeman and Michael and watched in awe as their companionship flourished. It seemed as though as Freeman’s body became weaker day by day his memory became sharper. Many afternoons I would sit by his bed deep in conversation. We covered everything from our favorite foods to where we were the morning of September 11th. From the practicality of Skype to the disappointment we feel when people don’t understand our sarcasm.
We talked about the power of love and the devastation of disease and our shared love for Cat Stevens. He told me all of the places he wanted to travel when he felt better and suggested places that I should visit while in South Africa.
On the last day I saw him Freeman retold me the story of his friendship with Michael, this time with a fondness surrounding him. The two met years ago and Michael has been financially supporting him and his educational endeavours since. When Freeman matriculated (passed his final exams senior year of high school) Michael surprised him with an adventure. His tale goes a little something like this:
I don’t know who had more tears rolling down their face, Freeman or I but we were both smiling. That was the best thing about Freeman he always ALWAYS made me smile. Even in his weakest of moments his giant smile found me and his friendship surrounded me.
Without fail up until the last day Michael was at the Respite Centre every single day, bringing Freeman juice or crackers, different types of fruit and most importantly hope. The two of them held friendship in their palms. They showcased love on the outside instead of masking it under the skin.
It’s been two days since Freeman lost his battle with AIDS. Now this might be fate or it might be that this blog has taken me hours to piece together - going through the entire repertoire of my ipod, but as I am sitting here teary eyed trying to finish writing, thinking about the funeral this Saturday “Peace Train” by Cat Stevens is playing on my ipod. I can’t help but hope that it’s a last parting gift from my good friend Freeman.
Despite the divergences something brought them into each others lives and something even stronger kept them there. The bond between them puts a definition on the title ‘best friends’. It is unlike anything I have ever witnessed.
When Freeman entered the Respite Centre he barely looked like a human, let alone an adult. His skeletal body haphazardly jerked itself to the empty bed, his eyes staring into the distance. Freeman’s last ounce of strength evaporated as he collapsed on the bed. A moment of panic washed over me as I thought he might pass away then and there.
Suddenly his eyes began to focus, his breath became steadier and his mouth formed the words “thank you”. I thought his newfound source of strength was nothing short of a miracle until I realized that Freeman and Michael were holding hands; willpower to survive being transmitted between the palms of friends.
Over the last two months I have formed a strong friendship with both Freeman and Michael and watched in awe as their companionship flourished. It seemed as though as Freeman’s body became weaker day by day his memory became sharper. Many afternoons I would sit by his bed deep in conversation. We covered everything from our favorite foods to where we were the morning of September 11th. From the practicality of Skype to the disappointment we feel when people don’t understand our sarcasm.
We talked about the power of love and the devastation of disease and our shared love for Cat Stevens. He told me all of the places he wanted to travel when he felt better and suggested places that I should visit while in South Africa.
On the last day I saw him Freeman retold me the story of his friendship with Michael, this time with a fondness surrounding him. The two met years ago and Michael has been financially supporting him and his educational endeavours since. When Freeman matriculated (passed his final exams senior year of high school) Michael surprised him with an adventure. His tale goes a little something like this:
“He surprised me! He said get in the car we’re going somewhere I’ve already got a bag packed for you. And he did! We drove and drove I think we drove the entire length of Africa and back again. We stopped at some places to stay and they were so beautiful. Michael went to bed because he was tired from driving, but not me! I had a drink [chuckles to himself] okay maybe I had a few drinks. Vodka, hah that stuff is hard [his sullen cheek bones wriggling as he remembered the taste.] Then Meg then the car stopped. Michael made me put this black tie over my eyes. He got me out of the car and I could hear this sound unlike anything. It was so powerful. We walked for a while and I was trusting Michael to lead me in the right direction. And then he took of my mask and I opened my eyes and we were at the biggest waterfall. Victoria Falls it’s called. It was beautiful. He calls me Casanova because he thinks too many ladies like me, but really he is the one that always cared the most. He’s my best friend.”
I don’t know who had more tears rolling down their face, Freeman or I but we were both smiling. That was the best thing about Freeman he always ALWAYS made me smile. Even in his weakest of moments his giant smile found me and his friendship surrounded me.
Without fail up until the last day Michael was at the Respite Centre every single day, bringing Freeman juice or crackers, different types of fruit and most importantly hope. The two of them held friendship in their palms. They showcased love on the outside instead of masking it under the skin.
It’s been two days since Freeman lost his battle with AIDS. Now this might be fate or it might be that this blog has taken me hours to piece together - going through the entire repertoire of my ipod, but as I am sitting here teary eyed trying to finish writing, thinking about the funeral this Saturday “Peace Train” by Cat Stevens is playing on my ipod. I can’t help but hope that it’s a last parting gift from my good friend Freeman.
“Now I've been crying lately,
thinking about the world as it is
Why must we go on hating,
why can't we live in bliss
Cause out on the edge of darkness,
there rides a peace train
Oh peace train take this country,
come take me home again”
29 August 2010
"You did a damn good job changing my nappie...you'll make a great nurse"
HIV/AIDS is a devastating disease and it scares me to think of number of young lives who are being infected and affected each day. I understand being young and wanting nothing more then to be in love. At the same time it terrifies me to see that one impulse action can have such a negative reaction. I'm not here to lecture anyone on the importance of making smart sexual decisions, that choice is up to you. I do wish however that people I know would be more realistic about the disease itself. Its not limited to Africa or to blacks or to gays. Thinking like that is ignorant and wrong.
I wish I could fully explain just how much havoc HIV/AIDS does on the body. The opportunistic infections (TB, STI's etc.) that coincide with AIDS are just as debilitating. I know everyone thinks 'it can't happen to me,' but each and every day I hear the echoes of "how could this happen to me?"
Friday at Don McKenzie I had the pleasure of sitting with a feisty young woman named Lauren. Her hair was matted and falling out and her frail body required oxygen numerous times throughout our conversation, but her spirit was spunky. August 20th - It was her 20th birthday; she was upset that she was so sick and in the hospital.
I spent a good hour listening to her talk about how she was lucky enough to make it out of the valley and attend a great local high school, Kloof High. With pride she explained how she was able to go onto University. We talked about the 15% matriculation (passing your high school final exams) rate. An alarming rate which includes both Zulus and white South Africans. Lauren chronicled her first two years of University with a gleam in her eye. She told me how she was a part of the debate team at school and how she was really quite clever. She told me that her and her teammates went to a match where she ended up meeting a guy. The two of them had unprotected sex and a few months later while joking around with friends on her University campus she got tested for HIV. She tested positive.
As she retold the story her eyes filled with tears and her pain filled the room. She quietly admitted that it took her almost six months and becoming very ill to acknowledge the results, tell her mother and start receiving treatment because she thought the test was wrong. "I didn't think it could happen to me" she said over and over and over.
It was heartbreaking to hear her story and to see someone with such a passion for life, wisdom beyond her years and a yearning for education be confined by such an illness. She told me that her goal in life was to graduate school with a degree in public relations and then to go onto Medical school. I told her I was toying with the idea of being a nurse and her sassy reply, "You did a damn good job changing my nappie, if you don't vomit after something like that and you can still talk to me like we friends you'll make a great nurse" made us both laugh.
I went to check on Lauren on Tuesday and was told that she ended up being discharged so she could pass away at home. I thanked the nurses and told them that I had had a great conversation with her the previous Friday. To which one of them replied: "You're Meggie? She kept talking about you and left you a note"
"Dear Meggie" it read...
"You listened to me and made my birthday very special. You are my new special friend and I can't thank you enough for making me smile on my hard day. I love you - love Lauren"
I can have the worst day here and then a second later something so profound happens. Lauren and people like her keep me going, but they also are a clear example of the devastation that one careless act can do to your body and the rest of your life. Her story is profound because she was a profound young woman.
I wish I could fully explain just how much havoc HIV/AIDS does on the body. The opportunistic infections (TB, STI's etc.) that coincide with AIDS are just as debilitating. I know everyone thinks 'it can't happen to me,' but each and every day I hear the echoes of "how could this happen to me?"
Friday at Don McKenzie I had the pleasure of sitting with a feisty young woman named Lauren. Her hair was matted and falling out and her frail body required oxygen numerous times throughout our conversation, but her spirit was spunky. August 20th - It was her 20th birthday; she was upset that she was so sick and in the hospital.
I spent a good hour listening to her talk about how she was lucky enough to make it out of the valley and attend a great local high school, Kloof High. With pride she explained how she was able to go onto University. We talked about the 15% matriculation (passing your high school final exams) rate. An alarming rate which includes both Zulus and white South Africans. Lauren chronicled her first two years of University with a gleam in her eye. She told me how she was a part of the debate team at school and how she was really quite clever. She told me that her and her teammates went to a match where she ended up meeting a guy. The two of them had unprotected sex and a few months later while joking around with friends on her University campus she got tested for HIV. She tested positive.
As she retold the story her eyes filled with tears and her pain filled the room. She quietly admitted that it took her almost six months and becoming very ill to acknowledge the results, tell her mother and start receiving treatment because she thought the test was wrong. "I didn't think it could happen to me" she said over and over and over.
It was heartbreaking to hear her story and to see someone with such a passion for life, wisdom beyond her years and a yearning for education be confined by such an illness. She told me that her goal in life was to graduate school with a degree in public relations and then to go onto Medical school. I told her I was toying with the idea of being a nurse and her sassy reply, "You did a damn good job changing my nappie, if you don't vomit after something like that and you can still talk to me like we friends you'll make a great nurse" made us both laugh.
I went to check on Lauren on Tuesday and was told that she ended up being discharged so she could pass away at home. I thanked the nurses and told them that I had had a great conversation with her the previous Friday. To which one of them replied: "You're Meggie? She kept talking about you and left you a note"
"Dear Meggie" it read...
"You listened to me and made my birthday very special. You are my new special friend and I can't thank you enough for making me smile on my hard day. I love you - love Lauren"
I can have the worst day here and then a second later something so profound happens. Lauren and people like her keep me going, but they also are a clear example of the devastation that one careless act can do to your body and the rest of your life. Her story is profound because she was a profound young woman.
What protects your heart?
What protects your heart? Is it stability in life, love and family? Is it confidence in the work place or the understanding that regardless of how bad your day may be, at the end there will always be a healthy dinner on your plate, a secure roof over your head and a warm bed calling your name? Is it the realization that healthy or sick an educated physician is merely a phone call away and medical attention accessible day or night? Or the knowledge that with the wealth of education you received options for employment and advancement are endless?
Take away stability. Remove confidence and understanding. Evaporate the table of food, well constructed roof and warm bed. Eliminate access to medical professionals, confiscate necessary medicine and delete the option for education.
Forget about viable transportation or a reliable income, for those never existed within your possession. Add a lifetime of suppression, depression and disappointment. Add a generation of death and disease pillaging your community, your neighbors, and your home. And to top it off add a current debilitating strike which closes the doors to all schools, clinics and hospitals.
Welcome to South Africa. Welcome to the recent harsh reality of the children my roommates want to be teaching, the patients I care for and want to aid in obtaining their necessary medicine. Welcome to the closed doors at hospitals, the locked gates at clinics and the vacant classrooms in both government and some private schools. Welcome to frustration, hindrance, and heartbreak.
South African public servants have been on official strike for a week and a half; unofficially striking for two plus. Teachers, nurses, janitors and orderlies have left their stations and headed outside to toy toy, dance and chant in hope of a higher pay raise. They have only re-entered to harass, intimidate and forcibly remove others from their posts.
The nationwide strike has paralyzed the world in which I live. The unions are demanding an 8.6 percent payment increase and a 1000 Rand – around $137 USD per month housing allowance increase. They are threatening a secondary strike including all taxi drivers and other public workers if demands are not met. I understand that the union members are using their working abilities as leverage because it is all they have, but it hurts me to see that those most affected by the strike are children and the sick.
My roommates whose classroom lays dark sit at home day after day unable to even privately tutor students for fear of attacks. The children who would be attending school sit at home, empty bellied because their largest and often times only meal is one that is provided on the school grounds at lunch. My clinic is still functioning which is a blessing for the 22 patients admitted. They have a bed and care, but my patients along with all of those who are sick at home are unable to go to clinics to receive pertinent treatment.
Patients are being discharged too early because there is not enough staff to care for them. Those with AIDS who depend on their regularly scheduled appointments at ARV (Anti Retro Viral – AIDS medicine) collection sites to obtain medicine imperative to their survival are being turned away. Individuals with Tuberculosis are being sent home. They are carrying with them the great risk of obtaining multi drug resistant strains of their disease, instead of the medicine that can restore them to health; effortlessly exposing countless others.
The strike infuriates me. I’m annoyed that day after day I can’t do my work as regularly scheduled. I’m troubled by the lack of responsibility on behalf of President Zuma. I am bitter, pissed, annoyed, stressed and sad. I hate that people will die because of this.
As the unrest and cacophony of the strike surround me I think about what protects my heart. Although the stability and confidence I have help, it’s not them. It’s not the food or shelter, the medicine or knowledge. It’s the unspoken love I am surrounded with even in times of annoyance. It’s the dedication and strength in the eyes of my patients even when their appointments are cancelled. Its being able to have faith in something bigger than myself and my feelings.
What protects your heart?
Take away stability. Remove confidence and understanding. Evaporate the table of food, well constructed roof and warm bed. Eliminate access to medical professionals, confiscate necessary medicine and delete the option for education.
Forget about viable transportation or a reliable income, for those never existed within your possession. Add a lifetime of suppression, depression and disappointment. Add a generation of death and disease pillaging your community, your neighbors, and your home. And to top it off add a current debilitating strike which closes the doors to all schools, clinics and hospitals.
Welcome to South Africa. Welcome to the recent harsh reality of the children my roommates want to be teaching, the patients I care for and want to aid in obtaining their necessary medicine. Welcome to the closed doors at hospitals, the locked gates at clinics and the vacant classrooms in both government and some private schools. Welcome to frustration, hindrance, and heartbreak.
South African public servants have been on official strike for a week and a half; unofficially striking for two plus. Teachers, nurses, janitors and orderlies have left their stations and headed outside to toy toy, dance and chant in hope of a higher pay raise. They have only re-entered to harass, intimidate and forcibly remove others from their posts.
The nationwide strike has paralyzed the world in which I live. The unions are demanding an 8.6 percent payment increase and a 1000 Rand – around $137 USD per month housing allowance increase. They are threatening a secondary strike including all taxi drivers and other public workers if demands are not met. I understand that the union members are using their working abilities as leverage because it is all they have, but it hurts me to see that those most affected by the strike are children and the sick.
My roommates whose classroom lays dark sit at home day after day unable to even privately tutor students for fear of attacks. The children who would be attending school sit at home, empty bellied because their largest and often times only meal is one that is provided on the school grounds at lunch. My clinic is still functioning which is a blessing for the 22 patients admitted. They have a bed and care, but my patients along with all of those who are sick at home are unable to go to clinics to receive pertinent treatment.
Patients are being discharged too early because there is not enough staff to care for them. Those with AIDS who depend on their regularly scheduled appointments at ARV (Anti Retro Viral – AIDS medicine) collection sites to obtain medicine imperative to their survival are being turned away. Individuals with Tuberculosis are being sent home. They are carrying with them the great risk of obtaining multi drug resistant strains of their disease, instead of the medicine that can restore them to health; effortlessly exposing countless others.
The strike infuriates me. I’m annoyed that day after day I can’t do my work as regularly scheduled. I’m troubled by the lack of responsibility on behalf of President Zuma. I am bitter, pissed, annoyed, stressed and sad. I hate that people will die because of this.
As the unrest and cacophony of the strike surround me I think about what protects my heart. Although the stability and confidence I have help, it’s not them. It’s not the food or shelter, the medicine or knowledge. It’s the unspoken love I am surrounded with even in times of annoyance. It’s the dedication and strength in the eyes of my patients even when their appointments are cancelled. Its being able to have faith in something bigger than myself and my feelings.
What protects your heart?
How do you continue?
South African Public Servants are on strike.
Last Friday I was asked to help work at Don McKenzie, a tuberculosis hospital I frequent with my patients to pick up medicine because the staff had not been there in days. The hospital whose normal 200 + capacity had to be cut in half with early discharges because there was not enough man power to staff the facility.
When my boss asked me if I would assist her husband, the head Doctor at Don McKenzie for the day I unhesitatingly agreed. It wasn’t until I closed the door to our car and started walking down the hill towards the picket line that I began to grasp to what I was agreeing to. Leaving Sinead sitting in the car and willingly walking towards the locked gate and strikers felt like walking into the lions den. I have never been so terrified. I was all alone and even though many of the strikers I recognize from bringing patients there for appointments I was beyond intimidated.
Chants and screams in Zulu, “Fuck you Umlungu (white person)” and other phrases I couldn’t quite understand surrounded me. Bodies encircled me and vuvuzelas were thrust forcefully in my direction. The exuberant symbol they once stood for just a month ago during the World Cup instantaneously shifted to one of terror.
Friday I joined Dr. Stephen Carpenter and three others in running a hospital. I performed every task: making meals, making beds, helping to administer meds, washing floors, changing adult diapers, doing bed baths for patients that couldn't bring themselves to the bathroom and everything and anything in between.
The day was a blur of chaos and frustration coupled with pride in my abilities. I felt good about being able to assist and I am proud of myself for being able to work under pressure and take charge, but I have also never been so scared.
I sat with a man for a solid hour during my time at Don McKenzie. I changed his diaper, bathed his frail body and cleaned the thrush out of his mouth. At 29 he was the most emaciated man I have ever seen. Frail is an understatement, his body was much smaller than many 10 year olds. I have dealt with death a lot this year at the Respite Center and I am comforted by the fact that I am able to be with the person in their last moments so they are not alone. I then pass the responsibilities of post mortem on to the nurses. Friday I was the only one.
As his breathing labored and then slowed and eventually ceased and his deep dark eyes became glassy and hallow I knew that it was the end. Dr. Carpenter was busy keeping everything else in line and the nurses were outside chanting. I did as I have seen my co-workers at the Respite Center do. I lifted his head off his pillows and lowered his body into a horizontal position. I pinched the skin around his eyes with one hand and with the other pressed his lips together tightly. As frustration and revulsion welled inside me, I swallowed down nausea and I held tight so as his body went into rigor mortis he would stiffen with both closed. I put name tags on the four parts of his body - head, shoulder, stomach and toe so the morgue could identify him.
As I rolled Bafana onto and then zipped up the white body bag I thought of the irony of his name – Bafana meaning “our boy” – the name of the SA World Cup team. I thought of the striking difference between what South Africa was experiencing a month ago with the World Cup hype and now... a world of striking.
Friday was quite possibly the longest hardest day of my life. I love South Africa, the people and cultures here have enriched my life. However I am frustrated – I am sad – I am overwhelmed. I have three months left here and day by day I am trying to make the best of it, but it is harder than I ever imagined. I know I won’t leave early, but I also won’t lie...I have entertained the thought on a fairly consistent basis. Emirates flights are quite expensive...I check too frequently for my own good.
There are days where I feel like I am so far beyond knowing what I am doing here. I knew this year would be hard. I knew it would challenge me and push me to my limits, but putting someone in a body bag was a harsh realization of the fragility of life. Plain and simple – it was terrible. How do you move beyond that?
Last Friday I was asked to help work at Don McKenzie, a tuberculosis hospital I frequent with my patients to pick up medicine because the staff had not been there in days. The hospital whose normal 200 + capacity had to be cut in half with early discharges because there was not enough man power to staff the facility.
When my boss asked me if I would assist her husband, the head Doctor at Don McKenzie for the day I unhesitatingly agreed. It wasn’t until I closed the door to our car and started walking down the hill towards the picket line that I began to grasp to what I was agreeing to. Leaving Sinead sitting in the car and willingly walking towards the locked gate and strikers felt like walking into the lions den. I have never been so terrified. I was all alone and even though many of the strikers I recognize from bringing patients there for appointments I was beyond intimidated.
Chants and screams in Zulu, “Fuck you Umlungu (white person)” and other phrases I couldn’t quite understand surrounded me. Bodies encircled me and vuvuzelas were thrust forcefully in my direction. The exuberant symbol they once stood for just a month ago during the World Cup instantaneously shifted to one of terror.
Friday I joined Dr. Stephen Carpenter and three others in running a hospital. I performed every task: making meals, making beds, helping to administer meds, washing floors, changing adult diapers, doing bed baths for patients that couldn't bring themselves to the bathroom and everything and anything in between.
The day was a blur of chaos and frustration coupled with pride in my abilities. I felt good about being able to assist and I am proud of myself for being able to work under pressure and take charge, but I have also never been so scared.
I sat with a man for a solid hour during my time at Don McKenzie. I changed his diaper, bathed his frail body and cleaned the thrush out of his mouth. At 29 he was the most emaciated man I have ever seen. Frail is an understatement, his body was much smaller than many 10 year olds. I have dealt with death a lot this year at the Respite Center and I am comforted by the fact that I am able to be with the person in their last moments so they are not alone. I then pass the responsibilities of post mortem on to the nurses. Friday I was the only one.
As his breathing labored and then slowed and eventually ceased and his deep dark eyes became glassy and hallow I knew that it was the end. Dr. Carpenter was busy keeping everything else in line and the nurses were outside chanting. I did as I have seen my co-workers at the Respite Center do. I lifted his head off his pillows and lowered his body into a horizontal position. I pinched the skin around his eyes with one hand and with the other pressed his lips together tightly. As frustration and revulsion welled inside me, I swallowed down nausea and I held tight so as his body went into rigor mortis he would stiffen with both closed. I put name tags on the four parts of his body - head, shoulder, stomach and toe so the morgue could identify him.
As I rolled Bafana onto and then zipped up the white body bag I thought of the irony of his name – Bafana meaning “our boy” – the name of the SA World Cup team. I thought of the striking difference between what South Africa was experiencing a month ago with the World Cup hype and now... a world of striking.
Friday was quite possibly the longest hardest day of my life. I love South Africa, the people and cultures here have enriched my life. However I am frustrated – I am sad – I am overwhelmed. I have three months left here and day by day I am trying to make the best of it, but it is harder than I ever imagined. I know I won’t leave early, but I also won’t lie...I have entertained the thought on a fairly consistent basis. Emirates flights are quite expensive...I check too frequently for my own good.
There are days where I feel like I am so far beyond knowing what I am doing here. I knew this year would be hard. I knew it would challenge me and push me to my limits, but putting someone in a body bag was a harsh realization of the fragility of life. Plain and simple – it was terrible. How do you move beyond that?
Delisile Gwala, my dream come true
Not that I'm supposed to have favorites, but if I were to Delisile would be my number one. She’s a pint sized little thing that was admitted into the Respite Unit just after I arrived in South Africa. I spent many months by her bedside watching her regain her strength and listening to her stories.
She is a mother of two and has the most positive outlook of anyone I have ever seen. She is battling HIV and TB and remains positive. Her laugh and the love that emanates from her is contagious. She is the reason I push through each day. She calls me her “icecream” because I am “white and sweet” and I call her my brownie because she is brown and delicious. She is my inspiration and my strength. She is my best friend in South Africa and my family.
The Oprah magazine did a story on the Dreams for Africa chair that 160 beaders produced. I have written about the chair in a previous post. Deli sat in the chair and shared with us her dream. She was highlighted in Oprah and the magazine came out today- just in time for her to read it at home healthy and stable!! I have never been so proud of someone in my life.
Let her story inspire you. Let her courage motivate you. Let her love fill you.
Deli in the Oprah Magazine
Her beautiful lay out
The print of her that my brother bought me for my birthday!!! Cause he is the absolute best!!!
Deli signing the print for me!!!
"Delisile Gwala, 32, is a domesitc worker and mother of two. Whe she arrived at the Hillcrest Aids Centre Trust early this year, she was so ill she was admitted to the inpatient care unit. She was entranced by the chair, but too weak to even be lifted into it, so Claudia unhooked one of the wings for her to touch. Two months later, when the chair returned from the Design Indaba in Cape Town, Deli had recovered enough to sit in it -- and to dream again. 'I would like my daughters to have happy and healthy lives so they can be themselves. I want everyone to have their own happy ending!' "
She is a mother of two and has the most positive outlook of anyone I have ever seen. She is battling HIV and TB and remains positive. Her laugh and the love that emanates from her is contagious. She is the reason I push through each day. She calls me her “icecream” because I am “white and sweet” and I call her my brownie because she is brown and delicious. She is my inspiration and my strength. She is my best friend in South Africa and my family.
The Oprah magazine did a story on the Dreams for Africa chair that 160 beaders produced. I have written about the chair in a previous post. Deli sat in the chair and shared with us her dream. She was highlighted in Oprah and the magazine came out today- just in time for her to read it at home healthy and stable!! I have never been so proud of someone in my life.
Let her story inspire you. Let her courage motivate you. Let her love fill you.
Deli in the Oprah Magazine
Her beautiful lay out
The print of her that my brother bought me for my birthday!!! Cause he is the absolute best!!!
Deli signing the print for me!!!
"Delisile Gwala, 32, is a domesitc worker and mother of two. Whe she arrived at the Hillcrest Aids Centre Trust early this year, she was so ill she was admitted to the inpatient care unit. She was entranced by the chair, but too weak to even be lifted into it, so Claudia unhooked one of the wings for her to touch. Two months later, when the chair returned from the Design Indaba in Cape Town, Deli had recovered enough to sit in it -- and to dream again. 'I would like my daughters to have happy and healthy lives so they can be themselves. I want everyone to have their own happy ending!' "
Cheers to you Dad!
Being away from family and friends for a whole year is part of what makes the volunteer experience challenging. The distance keeps me from feeling like I am ever fully a part of anything that is going on in the lives of those I know and love. I have had to learn to rely on e-mails, pictures and phone calls chronicling life (thank god for facebook).
Finding a way to feel like I can comfort someone from miles away has tested not only my patience, but also my writing abilities. Learning to accept that for this year I will not be able to physically be a part of birthday celebrations and engagement parties (congrats Erin and Court!) or acknowledging that for the first time in eleven years I was not able to work at Camp Daybreak is something that has been beyond hard.
Just as I have learned to make accommodations to live life in South Africa in new and creative ways I am learning new ways to keep my sense of self alive back home.
Last week my Dad retired from being a Doctor. My family put together a big party celebrating his accomplishments and although the invitation to the extravaganza made its way to my doorstep in South Africa, the price of flying home for a quick weekend jaunt was too expensive to tick the “I’m attending” on the RSVP. More than anything I wanted to be there to commend him on being the best Doctor I know and thank him for sharing his gift for medicine with me.
While visiting me in Africa Colin helped conspire with me on how to make that happen. We spent hours writing a speech to be read at his party. Colin would read the beginning and then hit play and a video recording of me reading the second would play. A little rendition for those of you would also couldn’t be there...
Colin:
“Tonight is a night that is about celebrating the accomplishments of a man whose devotion has always been to the service of others. Through his consistent positive role modeling, Tim Cope has shown each of us what it means to be a devoted employee, husband and father. His work ethic is unbeatable, his tolerance is endless, his love for all that he cares about is immeasurable and his jokes are plentiful.
As a father, Pop has taught us many things, but the one that we both agree is most valuable would be the meaning of devotion. Devotion to one’s family, devotion to a life of education and devotion to a hard day’s work.
As a father, Pop has taught me many life lessons, but the most important has been devotion. I have been shown through his unconditional love and support that devotion to one’s family is invaluable. He has taught me that devotion to a life of education is important by always encouraging me and my abilities in the classroom. And through seeing the dedication he has for his job, he has taught me the meaning of devotion for a hard day’s work. His kindness and patience have enriched my life and have given me the confidence and support to become a proud member of our family, honest member of the working world and a respectable man.”
Enter video of me (I even got dressed up and had a glass of wine to celebrate!):
“As a father, Dad has taught me devotion to one’s family with his consistent love and support. He is always willing to provide me with advice. Whether it is advice for a broken heart or a potential broken bone or advice on how best to comfort a patient dying of AIDS, he always knows how to ease my pain. He has taught me the importance of devotion to a life of education through his unending support and encouragement of my educational advancements. And through watching his work ethic I have learned that devotion to a hard day’s work is one of the most important elements of a successful life. His unconditional love, support and friendship have exceeded all exceptions. He has enriched my life in countless ways and given me the tools to better myself in his image.
The commitment and affection he has shown each of his children has always been carried into his office and into the hearts of each and every one of his colleagues, interns and patients.
From all the way in South Africa it is with my great pleasure that I ask you to please join Colin and I in raising your glasses and commending the vast accomplishments of Timothy T. Cope, Doctor, co-worker, friend, husband and our loving father.”
I think I spend a lot of time thinking and processing what I see, feel and think about here. I do not give enough credit or thanks to each of you, who have supported me, encouraged me and loved me through this adventure. Dad, you have been one of my biggest fans, one of my most valued outlets and the person who has inspired me to fall in love with the medical field.
This ones for you!
Finding a way to feel like I can comfort someone from miles away has tested not only my patience, but also my writing abilities. Learning to accept that for this year I will not be able to physically be a part of birthday celebrations and engagement parties (congrats Erin and Court!) or acknowledging that for the first time in eleven years I was not able to work at Camp Daybreak is something that has been beyond hard.
Just as I have learned to make accommodations to live life in South Africa in new and creative ways I am learning new ways to keep my sense of self alive back home.
Last week my Dad retired from being a Doctor. My family put together a big party celebrating his accomplishments and although the invitation to the extravaganza made its way to my doorstep in South Africa, the price of flying home for a quick weekend jaunt was too expensive to tick the “I’m attending” on the RSVP. More than anything I wanted to be there to commend him on being the best Doctor I know and thank him for sharing his gift for medicine with me.
While visiting me in Africa Colin helped conspire with me on how to make that happen. We spent hours writing a speech to be read at his party. Colin would read the beginning and then hit play and a video recording of me reading the second would play. A little rendition for those of you would also couldn’t be there...
Colin:
“Tonight is a night that is about celebrating the accomplishments of a man whose devotion has always been to the service of others. Through his consistent positive role modeling, Tim Cope has shown each of us what it means to be a devoted employee, husband and father. His work ethic is unbeatable, his tolerance is endless, his love for all that he cares about is immeasurable and his jokes are plentiful.
As a father, Pop has taught us many things, but the one that we both agree is most valuable would be the meaning of devotion. Devotion to one’s family, devotion to a life of education and devotion to a hard day’s work.
As a father, Pop has taught me many life lessons, but the most important has been devotion. I have been shown through his unconditional love and support that devotion to one’s family is invaluable. He has taught me that devotion to a life of education is important by always encouraging me and my abilities in the classroom. And through seeing the dedication he has for his job, he has taught me the meaning of devotion for a hard day’s work. His kindness and patience have enriched my life and have given me the confidence and support to become a proud member of our family, honest member of the working world and a respectable man.”
Enter video of me (I even got dressed up and had a glass of wine to celebrate!):
“As a father, Dad has taught me devotion to one’s family with his consistent love and support. He is always willing to provide me with advice. Whether it is advice for a broken heart or a potential broken bone or advice on how best to comfort a patient dying of AIDS, he always knows how to ease my pain. He has taught me the importance of devotion to a life of education through his unending support and encouragement of my educational advancements. And through watching his work ethic I have learned that devotion to a hard day’s work is one of the most important elements of a successful life. His unconditional love, support and friendship have exceeded all exceptions. He has enriched my life in countless ways and given me the tools to better myself in his image.
The commitment and affection he has shown each of his children has always been carried into his office and into the hearts of each and every one of his colleagues, interns and patients.
From all the way in South Africa it is with my great pleasure that I ask you to please join Colin and I in raising your glasses and commending the vast accomplishments of Timothy T. Cope, Doctor, co-worker, friend, husband and our loving father.”
I think I spend a lot of time thinking and processing what I see, feel and think about here. I do not give enough credit or thanks to each of you, who have supported me, encouraged me and loved me through this adventure. Dad, you have been one of my biggest fans, one of my most valued outlets and the person who has inspired me to fall in love with the medical field.
This ones for you!
16 July 2010
Please help my friends in South Africa
everyone asks how they can help my friends in South Africa and this is how:
One of my job placements is at an AIDS Respite Unit, a place I have fallen in love with. A co-worker of mine, Cwengi Myeni is one of 15 women nominated to be South Africa's Woman of the year. She is by far one of the most outstanding women I have ever met and deserves this honor.
If she wins our program gets R100,000 and she herself gets R30,000 That is aprox 12,500 US dollars for the program and close to 4000 US dollars for her. THESE ARE HUGE AMOUNTS OF MONEY TO BOTH THE PROGRAM AND TO HER AND HER FAMILY.
Please take one minute to vote for her all you need is an email address.
go to:
www.womenoftheyear.co.za
vote under "Educators" for Cwengi Myeni (You can click on her picture and read more about her)
Please pass this on to anyone and everyone I would greatly greatly appreciate it!
11 July 2010
Five months
Being half way though a volunteer is both exciting and frustrating. On Thursday I realized that I had exactly five months until I was boarding an Emirates plane headed back to the States.
There are days that I love being here, I love the culture, the people, I adore my roommates and I am thankful for the distance from everything I have ever known. In those moments five months seems entirely too short.
I scoff at people who tell me that I’m lucky to be able to ‘take a year off from reality’ a sentence that I surprisingly hear quite often. Volunteering is not taking a year off, but rather a year on. In fact I would bet that as a volunteer more work is completed, more hours are put in and more challenges are faced. And to say that we are taking a year away from reality is making an uneducated statement. Reality surrounds me in its rawest form.
There have been days where it takes all my strength to pull myself out of bed. To know that I have to face yet another long day filled with frustration after frustration, death, exhaustion and putting the needs of my roommates before my own. It is in those days that the prospect of five more months is suffocating.
Just as the mid year slump was starting to really take its toll on me I was blessed to have three of my good friends from home visit. Christine, Meg and Liza were a large blessing in disguise. Of course for very selfish reasons I was happy to have them here, but their trip turned out to be much more than just being surrounded by people from home.
They were able to witness my life, something that words on a blog, sentences in an e-mail or conversations on skype can't quite fully capture. They were able to work at all three of my work sites and visit the homes of former patients who have since turned into friends. Through them I was able to remember a side of volunteering that I have recently shuffled under the rug; the joy that this opportunity provides me with.
While the girls observed my interactions with a patient I became embarrassed and frustrated that in her state of confusion it took me 20 minutes to get her to take her medicine at the Respite Unit. To later hear them say that they were impressed with my patience made me re frame my day to day interactions.
During our safari I was beyond irritated that our safari guide was chugging whiskey while driving us back to our hostel, an action that caused us to leave a night early, but to hear the excitement as they recounted seeing elephants five feet from our vehicle was priceless.
I was intimidated by their exhaustion and felt bad that I kept their visit jam packed with activity after activity, but sitting outside under the stars on their last evening in South Africa and seeing their tears when talking about how changed they felt and how sad they were to be going home made it all worth it.
I don't want to lie and say being a volunteer is easy, because it’s not. Every day I struggle. There are moments where I am bored with feeling useless at work, I’m sick of being polite, I’m annoyed I’m not making money and I’m over feeling guilty for spending money I don’t have on a chocolate bar just because I want one. There are moments when I hate coming home after a long day and feeling forced to be present within our household, or feeling like I can’t take the car to just get out of the house because someone else might need it. There are moments during each day (many more then I should so readily admit) that I want to take the easy rode and give it all up and head for home. Every day is a struggle of emotions, love, frustration, sadness, grief, heartache, passion, and contentment, but my friends visiting reminded me that is those emotions which make my time here such a special experience.
I am so thankful that I have roommates like Sinead, Becca and Mary-Kate who allow me to feel the way I feel and to be present and supportive every second of every day. And I am so thankful that I have friends like Christine, Meg and Liza who are willing to spend an outrageous amount of money, take time off from work, travel half way around the world, put up with exhaustion though my crazy itinerary and still find time to love me, to listen to me and to remind me why I am here.
Five months is a number. One that will ultimately approach faster then I can imagine. Just as my friends said before leaving, good day or bad day I am lucky that I have five more months at my disposal deciding where the next five months will take me is the hard part.
There are days that I love being here, I love the culture, the people, I adore my roommates and I am thankful for the distance from everything I have ever known. In those moments five months seems entirely too short.
I scoff at people who tell me that I’m lucky to be able to ‘take a year off from reality’ a sentence that I surprisingly hear quite often. Volunteering is not taking a year off, but rather a year on. In fact I would bet that as a volunteer more work is completed, more hours are put in and more challenges are faced. And to say that we are taking a year away from reality is making an uneducated statement. Reality surrounds me in its rawest form.
There have been days where it takes all my strength to pull myself out of bed. To know that I have to face yet another long day filled with frustration after frustration, death, exhaustion and putting the needs of my roommates before my own. It is in those days that the prospect of five more months is suffocating.
Just as the mid year slump was starting to really take its toll on me I was blessed to have three of my good friends from home visit. Christine, Meg and Liza were a large blessing in disguise. Of course for very selfish reasons I was happy to have them here, but their trip turned out to be much more than just being surrounded by people from home.
They were able to witness my life, something that words on a blog, sentences in an e-mail or conversations on skype can't quite fully capture. They were able to work at all three of my work sites and visit the homes of former patients who have since turned into friends. Through them I was able to remember a side of volunteering that I have recently shuffled under the rug; the joy that this opportunity provides me with.
While the girls observed my interactions with a patient I became embarrassed and frustrated that in her state of confusion it took me 20 minutes to get her to take her medicine at the Respite Unit. To later hear them say that they were impressed with my patience made me re frame my day to day interactions.
During our safari I was beyond irritated that our safari guide was chugging whiskey while driving us back to our hostel, an action that caused us to leave a night early, but to hear the excitement as they recounted seeing elephants five feet from our vehicle was priceless.
I was intimidated by their exhaustion and felt bad that I kept their visit jam packed with activity after activity, but sitting outside under the stars on their last evening in South Africa and seeing their tears when talking about how changed they felt and how sad they were to be going home made it all worth it.
I don't want to lie and say being a volunteer is easy, because it’s not. Every day I struggle. There are moments where I am bored with feeling useless at work, I’m sick of being polite, I’m annoyed I’m not making money and I’m over feeling guilty for spending money I don’t have on a chocolate bar just because I want one. There are moments when I hate coming home after a long day and feeling forced to be present within our household, or feeling like I can’t take the car to just get out of the house because someone else might need it. There are moments during each day (many more then I should so readily admit) that I want to take the easy rode and give it all up and head for home. Every day is a struggle of emotions, love, frustration, sadness, grief, heartache, passion, and contentment, but my friends visiting reminded me that is those emotions which make my time here such a special experience.
I am so thankful that I have roommates like Sinead, Becca and Mary-Kate who allow me to feel the way I feel and to be present and supportive every second of every day. And I am so thankful that I have friends like Christine, Meg and Liza who are willing to spend an outrageous amount of money, take time off from work, travel half way around the world, put up with exhaustion though my crazy itinerary and still find time to love me, to listen to me and to remind me why I am here.
Five months is a number. One that will ultimately approach faster then I can imagine. Just as my friends said before leaving, good day or bad day I am lucky that I have five more months at my disposal deciding where the next five months will take me is the hard part.
Ubuntu rolled out
Today, Sunday July 11th the day of the final 2010 World Cup game I am overcome with emotion. The 2010 World Cup in all of its grandiose scale has managed to take my June and now a good portion of my July days hostage. With do and partially undue intention, being a faithful spectator has taken prescient over numerous other daily factors.
The past five weeks have jostled every aspect of my previous idea of what it means to be a volunteer; I have struggled with balancing the act of working with the poor and then spending a night on the beach front watching games on the largest tv screen imaginable. The past five weeks have flipped my work schedule upside down and then for good measure shaken it around a bit. They have put strain on my bank account and sleeping patterns and pulled my community in a million different directions.
The last five weeks have also encouraged a special unity within my community; nurturing our relationships with each other and the friends we have met here. They have also made me fall even more in love with the Ubuntu Nation and the ease and grace with which South Africa has completed the task of being the host city.
I had initial reservations about the challenges that went behind hosting such a large scale event. Despite a few hiccups, whose importance I do not miscalculate [namely the death of three local children and the missing report of another] I give a hearty congratulations to South Africa for a job very well done.
I have fallen in love with the fans of this sport. Their allegiance to respective countries, their fervour for the game, and most visible- their devotion to dress.
From German fans sporting the ever interestingly tight lederhosens or Australians in good Steve Irwin fashion donning all khaki everything and hats with corks hanging from the brim. Or fans from Ghana wrapped in four piece elaborate patterned traditional beaded outfits, Japanese men and women with full white body paint and a red dot on their forehead, Mexicans and Brazilians hidden behind elaborate (and borderline scary) facemasks
, South Africans in a sea of yellow and green or in a unitard showcasing the South African flag colors 
and Portugal’s dedicated fans with little to no clothes on despite cold temperatures.
On numerous occasions I myself had the honor of wearing red, white and blue
or turning the United States flag into a dress (the thought of prison time and defacement of the flag was a fleeting thought, but was overridden by my desire to be a loyal fan.) I was able to sing alongside hundreds of other fellow Americans as our National Anthem played a moment that as a proud American I will forever cherish.
I was also able to proudly support South Africa, wearing my yellow and green Bafana jersey and dancing like crazy with hoards of other fans as "Africa" (I bless the rains down in Africa) by Toto played.
The people regardless of the team they were supporting have made this experience magical for me. There is a word in the Zulu cuture, “Ubuntu” which has come to define my year here. Its literal meaning “I am because you are” has been showcased over and over though out these five weeks.
In conjunction with a theoretical FIFA red carpet being rolled out on opening day, it is my opinion that on June 11th South Africans also unveiled the Ubuntu carpet and have kept it in the spotlight since. It has been emotional to witness my neighbors come together as a country. Not as self titled white South Africans or black South Africans or Indian South Africans, but rather as unified peoples under one name: South Africans.
I have fallen in love over and over with the unity present. From the South African flags adoring every side mirror on every car, to the Bafana Bafana Fridays where every single person myself included has been adorned head to toe in yellow and green.
I feel so proud to tell people that NO I am not here just for the world cup, I live here or to join the masses at the fan park as the National Anthem is being played. I was overwhelmed with pride as Bafana Bafana tied Mexico in the World Cup opener. I cried tears of joy alongside white – black – colored- young – old – rich –and poor as they beat France and tears of sadness as they were defeated by Uruguay.
I fell madly in love with South Africa as I saw more then ever, Ubuntu at its finest when South Africans after not qualifying to move on continued to be a part of the tournament and united behind Ghana as a continent of proud Africans.
Being here I have often found myself reading Wayne Visser’s poem “I am African.” On an average day his words put me at ease giving me meaning and connecting me to this continent. During the last five weeks of the world cup his words resonated in me everything I feel about my time here.
“I am an African
Not because I was born there
But because my heart beats with Africa’s…
I am an African
Not because my skin is black
But because my mind is engaged by Africa
I am an African
Not because I live on its soil
But because my soul is at home in Africa
When Africa weeps for her children
My cheeks are stained with tears
When Africa honours her elders
My head is bowed in respect
When Africa mourns for her victims
My hands are joined in prayer
When Africa celebrates her triumphs
My feet are alive with dancing
I am an African
For her blue skies take my breath away
And my hope for the future is bright
I am an African
For her people greet me as family
And teach me the meaning of community
I am an African
For her wildness quenches my spirit
And brings me closer to the source of life
When the music of Africa beats in the wind
My blood pulses to its rhythm
And I become the essence of sound
When the colours of Africa dazzle in the sun
My senses drink in its rainbow
And I become the palette of nature
When the stories of Africa echo round the fire
My feet walk in its pathways
And I become the footprints of history
I am an African
Because she is the cradle of our birth
And nurtures an ancient wisdom
I am an African
Because she lives in the world’s shadow
And bursts with a radiant luminosity
I am an African
Because she is the land of tomorrow
And I recognise her gifts as sacred”
Today, Sunday July 11th the day of the final 2010 World Cup game I am overcome with emotion. Awe at the execution, fondness for the game, pride for each culture, love for the people and beyond everything I feel blessed for the opportunity to say that I was there, in South Africa, in the stadium, on the beach front at the fan park.
(Durban on the left, stadium in the middle, ocean and pier on the right)
The past five weeks have jostled every aspect of my previous idea of what it means to be a volunteer; I have struggled with balancing the act of working with the poor and then spending a night on the beach front watching games on the largest tv screen imaginable. The past five weeks have flipped my work schedule upside down and then for good measure shaken it around a bit. They have put strain on my bank account and sleeping patterns and pulled my community in a million different directions.
The last five weeks have also encouraged a special unity within my community; nurturing our relationships with each other and the friends we have met here. They have also made me fall even more in love with the Ubuntu Nation and the ease and grace with which South Africa has completed the task of being the host city.
I had initial reservations about the challenges that went behind hosting such a large scale event. Despite a few hiccups, whose importance I do not miscalculate [namely the death of three local children and the missing report of another] I give a hearty congratulations to South Africa for a job very well done.
I have fallen in love with the fans of this sport. Their allegiance to respective countries, their fervour for the game, and most visible- their devotion to dress.
From German fans sporting the ever interestingly tight lederhosens or Australians in good Steve Irwin fashion donning all khaki everything and hats with corks hanging from the brim. Or fans from Ghana wrapped in four piece elaborate patterned traditional beaded outfits, Japanese men and women with full white body paint and a red dot on their forehead, Mexicans and Brazilians hidden behind elaborate (and borderline scary) facemasks
, South Africans in a sea of yellow and green or in a unitard showcasing the South African flag colors 
and Portugal’s dedicated fans with little to no clothes on despite cold temperatures. On numerous occasions I myself had the honor of wearing red, white and blue
or turning the United States flag into a dress (the thought of prison time and defacement of the flag was a fleeting thought, but was overridden by my desire to be a loyal fan.) I was able to sing alongside hundreds of other fellow Americans as our National Anthem played a moment that as a proud American I will forever cherish.
I was also able to proudly support South Africa, wearing my yellow and green Bafana jersey and dancing like crazy with hoards of other fans as "Africa" (I bless the rains down in Africa) by Toto played.
The people regardless of the team they were supporting have made this experience magical for me. There is a word in the Zulu cuture, “Ubuntu” which has come to define my year here. Its literal meaning “I am because you are” has been showcased over and over though out these five weeks.
In conjunction with a theoretical FIFA red carpet being rolled out on opening day, it is my opinion that on June 11th South Africans also unveiled the Ubuntu carpet and have kept it in the spotlight since. It has been emotional to witness my neighbors come together as a country. Not as self titled white South Africans or black South Africans or Indian South Africans, but rather as unified peoples under one name: South Africans.
I have fallen in love over and over with the unity present. From the South African flags adoring every side mirror on every car, to the Bafana Bafana Fridays where every single person myself included has been adorned head to toe in yellow and green.
I feel so proud to tell people that NO I am not here just for the world cup, I live here or to join the masses at the fan park as the National Anthem is being played. I was overwhelmed with pride as Bafana Bafana tied Mexico in the World Cup opener. I cried tears of joy alongside white – black – colored- young – old – rich –and poor as they beat France and tears of sadness as they were defeated by Uruguay.
I fell madly in love with South Africa as I saw more then ever, Ubuntu at its finest when South Africans after not qualifying to move on continued to be a part of the tournament and united behind Ghana as a continent of proud Africans.
Being here I have often found myself reading Wayne Visser’s poem “I am African.” On an average day his words put me at ease giving me meaning and connecting me to this continent. During the last five weeks of the world cup his words resonated in me everything I feel about my time here.
“I am an African
Not because I was born there
But because my heart beats with Africa’s…
I am an African
Not because my skin is black
But because my mind is engaged by Africa
I am an African
Not because I live on its soil
But because my soul is at home in Africa
When Africa weeps for her children
My cheeks are stained with tears
When Africa honours her elders
My head is bowed in respect
When Africa mourns for her victims
My hands are joined in prayer
When Africa celebrates her triumphs
My feet are alive with dancing
I am an African
For her blue skies take my breath away
And my hope for the future is bright
I am an African
For her people greet me as family
And teach me the meaning of community
I am an African
For her wildness quenches my spirit
And brings me closer to the source of life
When the music of Africa beats in the wind
My blood pulses to its rhythm
And I become the essence of sound
When the colours of Africa dazzle in the sun
My senses drink in its rainbow
And I become the palette of nature
When the stories of Africa echo round the fire
My feet walk in its pathways
And I become the footprints of history
I am an African
Because she is the cradle of our birth
And nurtures an ancient wisdom
I am an African
Because she lives in the world’s shadow
And bursts with a radiant luminosity
I am an African
Because she is the land of tomorrow
And I recognise her gifts as sacred”
Today, Sunday July 11th the day of the final 2010 World Cup game I am overcome with emotion. Awe at the execution, fondness for the game, pride for each culture, love for the people and beyond everything I feel blessed for the opportunity to say that I was there, in South Africa, in the stadium, on the beach front at the fan park.
(Durban on the left, stadium in the middle, ocean and pier on the right)
16 June 2010
Free ticket and front row seats...
After a successful, fun filled evening at the Fan Park Friday night the girls and I decided to venture back into Durban Saturday for the USA v. England game. Our local paper said the game was supposed to start
at 6:30pm, but upon arrival to Durban we realized it wasn’t until 8:30. The girls and I spent the next two hours talking, dancing and playing cards with fans from all over the world. Playful banter about whose team was better was shared as we taught our new friends how to play all the old American (college) classics; up the river down the river, pyramid and kings.
Our eye-catching RED WHITE AND BLUE outfits attracted quite a crowd, both USA fans and casual spectators most looking to take a picture with us. I’ll have to admit, my very blue frilly tutu really
sealed the deal on patriotism. (Although they don’t celebrate 4th of July here it is one of my favorite holidays back home and I think the skirt will play a large role in my outfit!)
Two of the individuals we met Friday night at the fan park joined us Saturday -Jose a Venezuelan and Hindu who both go to Colombia University. It felt so refreshing to talk with them about New York
City and my life pre Africa in the Bronx. The two told us their extensive travel plans throughout South
Africa – catching various games. They mentioned that they had a spare ticket to Sunday’s game: Germany v. Australia which they offered to me at no charge.
I felt guilty as a volunteer accepting a ticket to a World Cup game, something my patients and students could never afford. After a bit of internal deliberation I graciously accepted knowing that not only would I kick myself later for not going, but I would have a line of others waiting to do so as well.
Walking through security into the stadium was exhilarating to say the least. Everywhere I looked fans were sporting their countries colors, but as I looked closer I realized a large majority were also bearing South African attire – beaded SA flags, or Bafana Bafana face paint. I again was so proud of the way this country has come together for the good of all. Before 11 June I had reservations about the success and safety of everything World Cup related, but after last weekend I couldn’t be more impressed with South Africa for pulling off such an immense undertaking, and doing it really really well..
Jubilation is one of the only words I can think of to describe the game start to finish, and even that doesn’t do it justice. Our seats (and I shouldn’t complain because they were free) were quite high up in the stadium. Before the game started I dragged the boys down to the first level to try and get a better picture of the stadium. I ended up talking with a member of security. One thing led to another and I found myself effortlessly walking through security into the section closest to the field. For part of the game we sat about 10 rows back and as if that wasn’t good enough I tried for a bit closer.
Now, I’m not always a con artist, but exciting times call for exciting measures….I saw an empty front row seat and happened to sit down; telling myself, of course that should the occupant decide to come to the game I would move. They never came, I never moved.
The ambiance that surrounded me quickly gave way to elation, eyes filled with tears of pride and goose bumps on and off through the entire game. Again, I felt so proud to call South Africa my home and so fortunate to be blessed with such a special opportunity.
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