Old shoes in a brand new town

Its funny - everyone always notices the shoes I wear. Take my flip flops for example: a pair of old rainbows that I wear everyday, I'm sure initially for the fashion statement, but they are comfortable, cool in hot weather and easy to slide on. Here, no one wears flip flops. Or my sneakers, I'll admit the are a bit bright with their pink and yellow stripe, but the kids are fascinated by the little holes all over them - made so they are breathable while running. My old shoes fit the same, they hug my feet in just the right places, but they feel different walking around a new land.

Yesterday has been two weeks since we arrived in South Africa. It feels like we have been here forever and yet it also all still feels completely new. I think I’ve mastered driving on the other side of the road, on the other side of the car, avoiding people and cows in the middle of the street, and doing my best to steer clear of the Kumbi taxi’s who pack 12-15 passengers in and whose driving skills parallel that of a hyperactive six year old. I feel like I have decent sense of directions at least within a 25 mile radius of our house, we aren’t going much further then that anyway. I did however try to turn into oncoming traffic today, so perhaps I should give it a few more weeks before I begin to brag..

This past weekend my new friend Martin, one of the local guys from Kloof Parish took us out around Durban. He brought us to the shore and we got to meet the Indian Ocean – it was wildly warm and the waves were enormous. He brought is to a restaurant called Moyo where we met about 10 others and ate traditional foods, saw some traditional (and also some awkwardly new age) dancers perform. After which they brought us to Ushaka, an aquarium on the water. The aquarium is built on and in an old boat. It was after hours and was closed, this they knew –but they snuck us up a back stair case to the top. We were able to see close to 50 sharks, many different kinds of fish, all of Durban, the Ocean, and the new World Cup Stadium. We all ran around like children on a make believe pirate ship, climbing ladders, calling to the sharks, talking in pirate voices and joking around... if anyone had seen us they would have thought we’d hit that bottle o' rum a few too many times...

(Mary-Kate, Me, Becca, Sinead...and the Indian Ocean)

After we left Durban we went back to our friend Mike’s place for dessert and cordials. I kept just thinking how kind it was of them to take us out and really invest time into acclimating us. I’d like to think that I would do the same if I lived in a city where volunteers worked. It was nice to feel like we had friends and to just be off of our property for a while. Although I really don’t feel unsafe here, the reality is that it isn't anything like being at home. We have to make sure our doors are locked the moment we get into our car. We can only crack our windows while driving, even on the hottest of hot days because there are often carjackings. We put our bags in the trunk and wear sunglasses so other drivers/people can't see which direction we are looking. We have a gate at the front of our property that opens to let us in and out. We can’t go anywhere alone and especially can’t drive far distances after nightfall.

From living a life of almost complete independence to feeling guarded at all times has been hard. I guess the word I would call it would be exhausting. I’m constantly thinking of safety- safety in numbers, safety in locking doors, being conscious of who is around you and where your exits are. My brain feels like it doesn’t rest. I’m not complaining because we by all means have it so much better than most of the population around us I just haven’t quite adjusted that’s all.

I think my roommates are feeling the same way though which in a way is comforting. We are all adjusting to life here, some more rapidly than others. Some (myself especially) are more homesick than the rest, but I think their time will come. I don’t wish I was anywhere else, but I do miss having a routine, having friends and family I can be 100% myself with. I miss showering and feeling clean. You shower here and the moment you dry off you are sweaty and feel dirty. I miss speaking during the day – I try and communicate with my patients, but most of the time they don’t understand me. I miss being alone, which for me is huge – I don’t think I’ve ever really wanted to be alone, but here alone times are few and far between. I miss friends just showing up, laying in my bed for hours and laughing. We try to make the best of situations here, and we do have our fun, but laughter especially at the worksites is hard to come by.

I don’t miss my phone, texts and phone calls as much as I assumed I would (we do have cell phones here but I only know my three roommates, the three priests, Martin and my bosses numbers... not much texting happens) I do however miss the feeling of receiving a text/call and knowing that you are being thought about. (It sounds all poor pitiful me, and I’m in no way intending that... I just miss getting a text or a call and knowing I was on someone’s mind). I also miss just texting or calling someone just because.

And I didn’t think I would ever say this, but I do miss Henri and the Doodles (Nanas stinky dogs..and yes Nana as much as you wash them they still smell... ) I’m constantly surrounded by bugs, I miss having actual pets. I miss hugs and being close to people. Touch is very guarded here.

So on to what I have been enjoying... my first days at St. Theresa’s Home (an orphanage for 70 boys). I was assigned Cottage 2 and was promptly greeted by ten inquisitive, energetic and charming young men; ages ranging from 12-15. There are two women they call “Auntie” who alternate weeks living in the cottage taking care of the boys. The Auntie that was there yesterday, Thangiwe was overly sweet. She literally let me run the Cottage for the hour and a half we were there and kept refilling my glass of Coke Zero.

I started by having the boys go around the room and say their name, age and grade in school. Although adorable, I quickly realized my retention rate is about 1 % with the names here- most of which are Zulu or Indian and a million letters long. One of the older boys kindly wrote all of their names on a piece of paper so I could “take it home and study it for homework”-And they did test me Tuesday when I got there...I failed miserably, but don’t worry I brought paper, markers, plastic and safety pins so we could make nametags. Typically I will be at St. Theresa’s to provide assistance with homework, but both Monday and Tuesday the boys had already completed theirs so the rest of the time was spent getting to know one another. They asked me a million hysterical and "practical" questions

-Are you a rapper? Can you bounce like Beyonce?

-What movie stars have you seen? Do you live near any of them?

-Are your eyes real? (They made me take my contacts out to prove that they were really blue)

-Why do you have an earring in your nose? Did you do it yourself? Can you pierce ours?

-Do you like wrestling? Do you know who the Undertaker is? Do you wrestle?

-Do you know Michael Jackson? Who lives in his house now that he’s dead?

-Do you know the “Cha Cha slide dance” and can you do it with us? This prompted a dance party, but not before they put on their cologne....little studs. I didn’t realize how much I miss just being ridiculous and laughing until it hurts. The boys have serious dance moves and told me “for a girl dancer I "do alright..”

After our hour long dance party I picked a book off their shelf and had each of them read a paragraph. I want to have fun during the three afternoons I will be there with them, but I also want to encourage their educational advancement. It was obvious that some of the boys (unfortunately it was mostly the older ones) were struggling with the larger words and most struggled with reading out loud. I want to encourage the confidence in these boys. I want to help them to realize their worth and let them learn that despite the terrible situations they came from, they are now in a great place and have the ability to start anew.

After waking up at 6am and having a long day at 1000 Hills or the Respite, driving 25 minutes in rush hour traffic to St. Theresa’s to supervise 10 youngsters will certainly test my endurance, but I think it will be a blessing in disguise. The children are just that – children. I think they will nurture me in ways I can’t yet imagine needed to be nurtured. I think they will force me to find humor in the midst of the chaos. I think they will teach me to step back from all that I am doing and take time to breath, enjoy, live, and think. I know they will demand love, they already do and as a result will encourage me to be the best me possible.

1000 Hills has been a nice reprieve from the hardships that face me at the Respite. I love my three jobs equally just in different ways. At 1000 Hills the other day I worked in the nursery with the small children. I read them Sleeping Beauty while one of the workers translated and then I played with them outside. When it was nap time they all lined up right next to one another with about a half an inch between them on a large mat, they put their hands over their heads and all peacefully fall asleep. It was shocking how well 2-4 year olds knew the routine. Everyone laid down and no one made a peep. I'll add a picture of this soon, its insanely cute.

The Respite has been much more challenging. Today I had a very difficult case. I had to help restrain one young woman who is 17,but looks 7 because she was drinking from her colostomy bag and eating her egg crate. Both things she does on a regular basis. She is at Hillcrest not because she has AIDS or TB, but because she has been sexually abused, neglected and has the most awful bedsores I have ever seen.

Whenever she was seen drinking from the bag or eating the pad a nurse would flick her with their pen and the patient would scream the same words over and over. I finally asked what she was saying and they said she was yelling “do it again, hit me again” - not sarcastically, but because she wanted them to. It makes me sick to my stomach to think about the trauma she has endured. I had to tie her bag to her crib,yes she is in a crib, so she couldn’t keep pulling it up to her mouth. I wanted to tell her how unsafe it was, I wanted to scold her, I wanted to hug her and let her know she was loved. The Respite is such an emotional place. I still haven’t figured out how best to deal with all of my feelings surrounding the work I do there.

During my time at the RespiteI have visited a few different hospitals. Each unfortunately presented a new set of challenges and frustrations. On the outside Don McKenzie, the local Tuberculosis clinic (Where my boss Maryann’s husband is a Doctor) appears to be efficiently run, clean, and organized. When you arrive at the front gate they have you sign in, they check your ID and search your trunk for weapons.

Operationally speaking Don McKenzie looks much like a hospital you would see in the States. However after sitting in a waiting room for over four hours waiting for a prescription I got some insight into the disorder lying beneath the pleasant exterior. Mary Kate and I spent the majority of our morning bouncing from Doctor to waiting room to Nurse to waiting room to Counsellor to secretary to intake to waiting room to Pathology to waiting room to Pharmacy to Doctor to Pharmacy to waiting room to Counsellor. We finally found a Doctor who would write the prescriptions for us, but then were told that the patient had the same ID number as another in the system. And by system I mean a huge book with pencilled in names, no admit. or discharge dates. It took forever to locate the two patients, and change their Id's.

Another hospital, R.K.Khan that I visited was just as backwards. I went with David an OxFam intern (with the most delicious Australian accent) who is working at the clinic with me. We went to fetch a patient’s file and found ourselves in the middle of a circus; metaphorically speaking. We had to pay R20 for the file to be taken out of the hospital, yet when we arrived at security they wouldn’t let us take it off of the grounds. They told us we needed 12 doctors’ signatures to do so. There were only 10 Doctors on staff that day. Eventually a Doctor photocopied all the papers we needed shoved them in my bag and told me to run through security because what I was doing was illegal. It sounds more dangerous than it was. I calmly walked through the gate while two security guards a.k.a. 18 year old girls texting watched me. We made it safe and sound back to the Respite Unit.

I was glad we got the files, but beyond irate to see what they held. The patient with the large wound on his backside that I mentioned in a previous post had been treated for years for a cancer he didn’t have. He was told medicine wasn’t working and that he had to go home to die of either cancer or his AIDS. Not only was I furious for the unnecessary procedures he had to withstand, but it makes me question whether or not his wound is from a bedsore that he received while laying in bed thinking he was dying of a cancer he never had. I don’t think I have ever been so beyond mad and not been able to do anything about it. There was no one to blame, no fingers to point, no one to yell at, no letters to write and nothing to compensate him with. I know injustices occur everywhere, but never have I heard of something so outlandish.

It was frustrating to see how gradual their medical culture is evolving. During the four hour waiting period we had plenty of time to look around the small and crowed waiting room. I was astounded to see posters on every wall chronicling the treatment of Cholera. It was unreal to think that cholera was prevalent enough here that posters were hung describing its sources, susceptibility and treatment. Cholera is PREVENTABLE AND TREATABLE.

It is hard to put myself in a South African mindset. I keep comparing the Rand to the Dollar, medical facilities here to those in the States, quality of education in both. And what we consider the quality of life in the States to that in which the people of KwaZulu Natal live has been on my mind lately. They walk for miles (Kilometers...ahhh still working on that conversion) on end to sit in a waiting room in hopes of seeing a doctor and chances are they won’t be seen. They leave their families to go to hospital to die of TB or AIDS because they are too full of shame to ask for forgiveness and assistance. Grandmothers try to breast feed babies when there isn’t enough food to go around.

I sometimes wish I could go into a place and fix the system – teach a mother to encourage abstinence and safe sex to their children so they don’t get pregnant - give them computer access and put all the patients files online in an organized manner – teach them about diseases and how preventable many of them are. But then I realize the worth of sustainability. Nothing will last if roots haven’t been established. I, and we all must take baby steps if anything is going to change. I firmly believe that some of the cause of diseases, or poor health, or poverty, or teen pregnancy, or violence, or hatred is lack of education.

I have struggled already and I know I will continue to do so. As hard as we work this year to understand the culture I don’t think we will ever really fit in. At work we are the white American’s who come to provide medical assistance or to educate. We don't understand the cultures or the language or the norms. At Kloof Parish (the white South African Church) we are the kind, yet crazy Americans who risk everything to venture into the Valleys. Valleys that most think of as treacherous, if they think of them at all...

I am excited to learn this year. Learn about South Africa and the Zulu culture. I am excited to learn about my roommates and their views on the world, life, love and religion. I feel fortunate to be able to work at St. Theresa’s, 1000 Hills and The Respite alongside many exceptional women and men who will help me understand how best to utilize my talents.

My old shoes, they fit the same, they hug my feet in just the right places, but they feel different walking around in this brand new town. I don't know if its me making something big out of something little, but I feel different. I notice a feeling of humility for those I now walk alongside.