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.
29 August 2010
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.
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.
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