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.

Viva Vuvuzela

It seems like just yesterday the girls and I were scouring our closets looking for anything and everything yellow and green to wear to our respective worksites in celebration of the 100 Days until the FIFA World Cup kick off. And that ladies and gentlemen was 2 March 2010…exactly 105 days ago.

100 days ago. Even typing the sentence it sounds unreal. It has taken my boss Pat visiting from America and leading a full weekend retreat and then reflecting for the last two weeks to fully recognize that the mid way point in my year has come and gone with the month of June piggybacking closely behind it.

100 days later Enter World Cup Season

South Africa has been transformed. We have been drowning in a sea of flags rivalled by the deafening sound of the beloved vuvuzela for the last few weeks, but both Thursday and Friday of last week were unlike anything I have ever witnessed.

Thursday the girls and I joined Andrew and Gordon at a Johnny Clegg concert (At Gateway Mall- the largest mall in the Southern Hemisphere). Johnny Clegg is a SOuth African legend, not only for his invigorating music but for the way in which he inspired change just by being. Dubbed the “White Zulu”, he took strides in breaking the barrier between blacks and whites even before it was kosher to do so.

The concert opened with a singer from the band Tree63 who ended his performance by signing the three most perfect songs in a row:
-Three Little Birds (don’t worry about a thing cause every little things gunna be all right) By Bob Marley
- Wave Your Flag – the World Cup theme song
-Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika – The South African National Anthem

As I looked around I saw white and blacks together, standing side by side. Swaying their arms back and forth holding South African flags and then signing in unison the national anthem, in Zulu. Sharing together their pride, celebrating together their country. The experience was so powerful and of course I teared up.

After the concert the five of us went out for a Drink in Durban and the mood was just as vibrant. Everyone was excited and jerseys were in abundance. Conversations between cultures flew freely as everyone wanted to know who you were, where you were from and how long you were staying. I spoke with one girl from Germany in the bathroom. She complimented my shirt as I did hers- a long white sweater. I told her I had been looking for a sweater that was white and longer to no avail. At the end of the night she found me, sweater in hand and said “in the spirit of the world uniting, it’s yours”, handed me the sweater and walked out of the bar. The first of many outstanding acts of kindness I was blessed to receive this weekend.

Thursday melted into Friday. THE FRIDAY. June 11th, Kick off day typical life in South Africa has come to a standstill and instead a new vibe has been adopted. Every car has at least one South African flag flying from the window. Most cars actually have an additional South African flag or one representing another country on the other side. All cars have slip covers on their side mirrors with South African flags on them. As Sinead and I drove home from work we had the pleasure of watching a small boy try to stand in the back of a moving truck blowing a vuvuzela while waving a SA flag, not at all safe, but endearing at the same time.

The background melody of my life has transformed from the lulling of voices and cars to the not so lulling chorus of voluble Vuvuzelas (a plastic horn which when blown makes a loud monotone borderline deafening noise) rising from the valley. And somehow everyone’s closet including my own is only producing a wardrobe that consists only of the colors yellow and green.

The atmosphere of Friday evening in Durban for the opening South Africa Bafana Bafana game was unlike anything I have ever witnessed. Driving into Durban every person in every car had a Bafana Bafana jersey on. Walking down the boardwalk toward the fan park among the fans from various Countries was so exciting! The singing the dancing and the flags were everywhere and the whole experience was was so moving. Trees were being wrapped in South African flag colors and the sand was being built into the Moses Mahbida Stadium.





Again as I looked around there were both white and black, old and young donning the Bafana Bafana Jersey, vuvuzelas in hand, celebrating together.

Describing the vibe inside the fan park is so difficult as it in all of its glory was such an indescribable experience. The fragrance of excitement and pride was universal. It reminded me of the Bronx the day after Obama was elected; smiles plastered to the faces of all, everyone excited, everyone talking with each other, a real sense of unity and pride.


As I stood alongside thousands of other fans, feet in the sand; Indian Ocean to my left; Durban city to my right; World Cup Stadium behind me witnessing the dawn of a new chapter in the history of South Africa I realized the significance of that moment. For me an awestruck fan it was an exciting moment and I was proud to be a “resident” of South Africa for the year, but for long time residents it was an opportunity to unite, to see their country start to be healed and their dreams start to actualize.

I’m sure the fans will go home with a vuvuzela or two tucked in their luggage and a little ringing in their ears ...but for me the noise will not just be memories of another good game, but rather of barriers being broken, cultures merging, wake up vuvuzela calls from Embo at 5:30am – which carry on to vuvuzelas being blown on my way to work by fellow drivers or by patients at work – and St. Theresas boys teaching me how to purse my lips to make the right sound –and finally vuvuzelas will always remind me of the transcendence of love and pride.

Comrades Marathon

One of the most moving things about living at 8 Warwickshire Crescent is the location. On one side of our house we have the breath taking views of Embo and the other we have Old Main Road, home to the Comrades Ultra Marathon route.

Now, for those of you who are not in the running world is the world’s biggest ultra marathon. Ultra being the operative word. It is a grand total of 89kms which is 56 miles. I’m not sure what exactly it is that drives someone to run a regular marathon, but that alone is an impressive act and then to run distances beyond that is beyond words.

2010 Comrades details:
Date: Sunday, 29 May 2011
Start: 05h30 in Durban
Finish: 17h30 in Pietermaritzburg
Distance: 89km – 56 miles



A bit of background info on Commrades…this was the 85th year. It started as a group of runner friends daring each other to run between the cities Pietermaritzberg and Durban. The race, which was named for the acts of friendship and camaraderie found among the competitors eventually evolved to include local runners and eventually was opened up to the rest of the running world…typically there are around 14,000 runners.

The direction of the race alternates each year between the two cities Durban and Pietermaritzburg. As the World Cup 2010 “Feel it, it is here” adverts say, it is a special year for South Africa not only for the World Cup, but it was also Comrades 85th year so they extended the entries to 20,000 runners. This year also marked the first time that the run was held going from PMB to Durbs in two consecutive years, 2009 and 2010. They did this so it could end near the new Moses Mabhida Stadium.

Comrades runs through the valley of 1000 Hills, literally hill after hill after hill after hill which makes the run that much more daunting and impressive. Around the half way point on Old Main Road there is a wall of Honor commemorating the runners (I get to drive by it every time I go to 1000 Hills Community Center which is also located along the marathon route.



Watching Comrades was an event in itself. Although the race runs right by our house we decided to watch it from a neighboring town, Kloof alongside friends and family of our friend Richard who ran the race. In order to drive to Kloof, which is maybe 5 minutes away we had to wake up at 5am and be off of our road by 5:30; judging by the blockades that I sweet talked a policeman into moving, 5:30 was a time we narrowly made.

Unfortunately a few days prior my roommate Mary-Kate had her appendix out. She caught it early, the hospital is private and very nice (not some dirt hole in the ground like I’m sure you are thinking), she is doing very very well, but on Comrades morning she wasn’t feeling up to leaving the house so I went with our friends Adam and Andrew. Richards sister Claire did an outstanding job organizing our friends, food and festivities in honor of Rich!

As we settled in along side the 27k to go sign I couldn’t help but be overcome by emotions. The day in itself can be summed up in one world moving. I have never been so moved by witnessing a sporting event before. The amount of runners alone was a sight to behold and the atmosphere was one of complete support, proving the name Comrades to be a kind reality.



The winner won with a time of 5 hours 29 minutes.

I saw runners of all kinds; young and old, some fit and healthy others a bit over weight, some outfitted in barely there running apparel, others wearing outrageous costumes (two in Rhinoceros costumes, Superman and Batman, a man in a full three piece suite) twins, siblings, husband and wife and then Richard.

I started tearing up when I saw Rich. I was so impressed. As I mentioned before I have never been so moved by physical activity before. I was and still am so proud of him.

Comrades is an experience that I will never forget. Is is something that is so South Africa specific that running will be so closely linked with South Africa and my time here.

Rich’s finishing time was 9 hours 30mins and 26 seconds

This is the story of how we begin to remember

The people of South Africa have an unmatched flair for life. Their world is a captivating melody of sights, sounds and smells. Their unfathomable needs are masked by their strong faith and infectious love for one another; a love I have been blessed to witness first hand every single day.

The Kloof parish donates food for 10-12 food parcels each week and Baba Benjie has graciously let me assist him in delivering the parcels to families in the valley.
Every Friday we load up the back of the car, turn the music up and we’re off….deep into the valley. Our first stop: Matta (age 13) and Sma’s (age 21) house then down the road to pick up Andile and Zoleka (both 11).

The four strikingly beautiful Zulu children help us each Friday and I have fallen in love with them at an indecent rate. They have easily become my stand-in cousins. Their giggles are infectious and the more and more time I spend with them the more I realize that despite all the homesickness, all the challenging and exhausting days, just how much I love living in South Africa.

Our journey through the valley takes our car beyond traditional civilization lines, through paths that pedestrians would have a hard time navigating to roads which have no name. We go up wild dirt paths which barely constitute as a roads and down steep inclines to a place unlike any I have ever been before. Abject poverty surrounds us.
As scattered structures woven together with mud and sticks, passion, grief, sweat and tears begin to appear so do little bodies.

Running, racing, battling to be the first to reach our car. Their faces put an explanation behind the powerful pulsing of love in my veins. The red dust which is immeasurable taints everything from the clean clothes on the laundry line to the smirks on the children. Chickens and goats scamper to make room for our car, a luxury that will most likely never be a reality for the faces starting back at me through the glass windows.

Although many wear the duress of their lives in the lines on their faces and their broken hearts on their sleeves an impressive veneer of resiliency encases them. The reality of life is so different than that of my own and I feel so lucky to be afforded the chance to cross the barriers… to reach out and touch those deemed untouchable.

The Gogos, the mothers, the uncles and the babies fill my Friday afternoons, my life and my heart with such love.

I leave the valley 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. I leave the valley remembering what it is to love, to hold hope so close to the heart and to feel passionate.

I leave the valleys on Fridays full.

Full of understanding that this world will never be what I want it to be, but though kind actions it can be transformed into a world where love flows freely and friendships are not bound by limitations of money, status or skin.


My food parcel route babies....




I do what I do because of theses faces

Under african skies

Dual sunrise and sunset over the Indian Ocean


Sunrise at my house


Sunset at my house



Night time at my house



I mean is this real life?

St. Theresas Salon

Just a typical afternoon at St. Theresas Salon...Shin and I getting our hair done.



Which was nicely followed by MK and I teaching the little guys how to use my camera...Please note how good our hair, outfits and smiles are...



A few kids and 15 minutes later...a bit disheveled


A full camera instructional lesson for 10 boys under the age of 5, lots of photos and 25 minutes later...utter chaos. Literally how we end every single Monday, Tuesday, Thursday at St. Theresas...I mean we look good ya?

Being able to admit your shortcomings is by far one of the most humbling experiences

The last two weeks I have been feeling really discouraged. I have been homesick for awhile and many days work is very challenging, but things really came to a head when I was sick.

The stress of finding a Doctor, feeling guilty for missing work, and feeling like a burden on the community coupled with missing the comforts of home were so overwhelming. I was in pain and more exhausted then I have ever been in my entire life. There were many nights that I came home on the verge of tears and all I wanted to do was go straight to bed.

It took a solid two weeks, medicine, lots of 7pm bedtimes and love from my roommates to begin to feel physically better, but emotionally I still didn’t feel right. I realized that even though my body seemed to be back to normal my heart still hurt.

One of the best things about being a volunteer is the raw aspect of community. Living so closely with others comes with its own wide variety of challenges; it can be frustrating, exasperating, annoying and outright maddening at times, but the sense of love and support is invaluable.

Last week at some point I finally sat down with the girls and through many tears and tissues I told them how unhappy I have felt here. I love them and I love all three of my work sites, but certain aspects of my day to day routine are making life here more challenging… namely my position at 1000 Hills.

1000 Hills is one of the most amazing places I have ever been. Dawn the director is an outstandingly strong, passionate and dedicated woman and role model. She built the center from the ground up and has given her entire life to the care of so many people. Each and every day there I am blessed with smiles and hugs from the Gogos and lots of love from the babies, the one fall back of working there is the days that I am assigned – Monday and Wednesdays.

Tuesday is baby clinic at 1000 Hills and Thursday is general clinic. Even though many people come to the clinic on Monday and Wednesdays, which are my days they are very very slow. I try my best to stay busy and engage those in attendance in conversation and activities, but more often than not I have felt like a burden.

After four months of discerning my options and asking over and over ‘what can I do’ or ‘how can I help’ I made the difficult, yet necessary decision that I needed to change my work schedule. I now work at 1000 Hills only on Mondays. I get frustrated on a daily basis that my initial work schedule didn’t work out. I know I’m not here to be satisfied myself, but at the same time sitting around for hours on end drinking tea was not what I walked myself into either.

Whenever I see the babies precious faces and feel the warmth in their hugs or have a conversation in Zulu with the Gogos at 1000 Hills on Mondays it crushes me. I flit between feeling satisfied with the decision I made and feeling like I disappointed those around me.

I am often nostalgic for the simple comforts that coincide with being somewhere familiar. There are moments every day that I long for people who just get me…who know me…quirks and all. But in the middle of feeling sad I find myself face to face with Becca, Sinéad and Mary-Kate. Without their comfort, support, friendship and love I don’t know where I’d be…

Ya! I know Kwa Ximba...

It is so hard for me to believe that it is actually the middle of May. Despite the mid 80s temperature the early stages of a South African winter are starting to make fleeting appearances. My throat has that pre-strep throat itch it always gets when the cold creeps in. The trees are slowly loosing their leaves and their flowers have vanished. Recently my legs have been outfitted with tights under the daily repertoire of dresses and on more than one occasion I have woken up cuddling with the “just in case” blanket which usually resides on the bottom of my bed…all telltale signs that the colder season is arriving.

And yet here I am, May 19th still in awe at how quickly the time has passed.

I remember at the beginning of the year when we used the early May arrival of the Villanova Nurses and the Malvern High School boys as a distinctive marker in our year. An “in the future” date…something to look forward to… something that seemed so far….something signifying that almost half of our year in South Africa was complete. And here I am, in the midst of it…

Earlier this week I was ask to guide the nurses through a valley tour. As I guided the eight nursing students and two professors through the Kwa Ximba valley I couldn’t help but feel satisfied. I was not only comfortable showing them around the valley, but I actually think I did a really good job.

I was able to identify the typical touristy sights – a traditional Zulu rondoval (round house) situated adjacent to other rectangular houses, the Tuk shops filled with chips and sweets and the tribal courts.

I was also able to point out certain things that you wouldn’t know from just passing through….
- The mountain that my patients refer to as “Sleeping Beauty” (the top of the mountain looks like her horizontal profile)
- I discussed in length the significance of the rondoval house which is where the elderly in the family live as a sign of respect
- We talked about the ineffectiveness of the government toilets which were conveniently placed every few feet, but inconveniently are never emptied
-I was able to field questions they asked about things I didn’t even realize I knew the answers to… such as why the women wear an orange colored mud on their faces (for sunscreen currently, but traditionally to let men know that they were menstruating...see image below)



And I mean how beautiful is she? Shes one of the women on my food parcel route....

It felt good to be able to have an answer for their questions and to feel like a part of the South African culture instead of a visitor.

To a degree certain things in South Africa still seem foreign, but slowly it is becoming my home away from home. A feeling I treasure.

We are all the same

I just finished reading "We Are All the Same" a book about the life and death Of Nkosi Johnson by Jim Wooten.

It is by far one of the most powerful books I have ever read.

Perhaps I am so moved by it because I am a witness to the struggle with AIDS on a daily basis. I can conjure up an image of a male patient Nkosi's age. Or because the places, the nameless roads leading to crowded townships filled with people who do not have proper identification (therefore in the eyes of the government do not exist) are the same dirt paths I find myself on daily.

I think it is the detail with which Wooten employs, exposing the raw nature of that which was and in some regard still is South Africa is not only educational, but utterly authentic. The hurt. The sadness. The confusion. And most importantly the love that is encapsulated within the book echo my exact feelings.

If you haven't read it, read it.
If you have, read it again.
If you want a glimpse into what surrounds me in South Africa, read it.

Part of Nkosi's speech...
"I want people to understand about AIDS- to be careful and respect AIDS- you can't get AIDS if you touch, hug, kiss, hold hands with someone who is infected.

Care for us and accept us- we are all human beings.

We are normal. We have hands. We have feet. We can walk, we can talk, we have needs just like everyone else- don't be afraid of us- we are all the same!"

Beach Day

What’s the first thing you remember about playing in water? Maybe it is a fond recollection of running through a sprinkler with your brother or sister on a hot summer’s day or learning to water-ski on a lake. Water has always been such a huge part of my life. At every stage I have such vivid memories of summers being occupied by water activities, good friends and family.

I can instantly recall a hot Delaware summer when I was three or four where I learned to swim underwater by diving for quarters my Grampie had thrown into the pool- a high incentive when you got to keep what you found. Or splashing in the waves in Maine with my brother Colin and cousins Benny, Kayla, Kristina and Sarah when I was nine. I remember spending endless summer days after drivers ed on the boat with Heather and Tara perfecting our waterskiing, learning to master knee boarding and talking about our crushes. Or making my way to G’s boat no matter what time of day (5am!?) just to take a nap. Water has always played a huge importance in my life. I really can’t envision what my youth would have been without it.

That brings me to South Africa. The property we live on is stunning. Our stone cottage is quaintly set amid a few other stone structures, entangled in a maze of native South Africa flowers. Our pool is in the lower left part of our property adjacent to our amphitheatre (yes, amphitheatre…this place is outstanding). The pool overlooks the most breathtaking view I have ever seen; the valley of 1000 hills, on a clear day the Indian Ocean and always the homes of my patients and friends. The exact spot where my struggle with water begins.

After every long sweaty day at work in the hot South African heat or after every run I am tempted to wash away my stress in our pool or venture to the beach in Durban. Both I have done and both I will continue to do; however both cause me anxiety. The pool which we quickly fill with water from the hose when it starts to get low, sits two feet away from the cliff to the valley.

The distinction between the haves and the have nots has never been so unmistakably evident in my life.

When I heard my boss talking about how in the past former volunteers arranged a day to take patients from the Respite Center to the beach I was immediately interested. As per usual arranging a day and time to go proved to be tricky- South Africa runs on its own schedule. Mary-Kate and I planned to go three days in a row and were faced with bad weather, no transportation and abnormally busy work days. There were many countless exclamations of “TIA” (this is Africa) coupled with a shoulder shrug and eye rolls; a common expression in our household when things take a bit longer than anticipated.

Eventually we were able to gather 8 of our pajama clad patients and pile them into cars. I had the privilege of driving what they so fondly refer to as the Bucky which is no more than a overly kind name for the most impossible to drive truck with a covered back I have ever seen. Patric a patient sat up in the front with me and four others sat on egg crates in the back…another TIA moment. I prayed the whole way that the horrendous clutch wouldn’t cause us to lurch forward sending my patients flying or the breaks wouldn’t suddenly give out.



As we were driving to the beach I was talking with Patric a man in his mid thirties. I asked him if he was excited for a beach day and he shyly admitted that he had never been really played in water let alone been to the beach before. He said had heard stories of children having fun in water when it was hot, but was never able to make the half an hour trip to the Indian Ocean. I sighed realizing that in our rush to get out the door we had forgot to bring a change of clothes and towels, but assumed the patients would stick their toes in at most.

When we arrived at the beach I watched the patients run to the water and then into the water. Patric held back tentatively. Step by step he approached the ocean. He looked down at the water and up at me. With a nod of reassurance I gave him the go ahead. He rolled up his pants and stepped knee high into the water. Soon after he coaxed me in, clothes and all. Patric in his soaking wet clothes was the vision of youth.




I don’t think Mary-Kate or I have ever seen a smile so big and genuine. Moments later he was running in the waves, splashing, laying down on the shore and letting the wave’s crash over him.

I know that that although my past opportunities present a challenge for living a simple life here it is not something to feel guilty about, at least I am recognizing the injustice. It was such a joyful feeling hearing hours of laughter emerge from patients whose lives had been on the line just weeks earlier. Sandcastles and visions of sand Mary-Kates were made, Polony (a nasty hot pink version of our very own nasty bologna) sandwiches and ice cream cones were eaten, barriers broken, dreams accomplished, friendships formed and illness forgotten – even if just for an afternoon.