shannon's ventures: south africa

The Father

2012-05-13T10:31:00.000+02:00

I don't think I've ever encountered so much Catholicism in my life as I have in South Africa. Not because South Africa is Catholic - it's primarily Protestant. Rather, because, the Catholic missions in place in South Africa are a source of great wisdom, knowledge and sustainability within the communities where they work. The pervading issues of homosexuality, molestation and women's rights are far from reach in these mission thresholds. They are more concerned with the pressing needs of the local population - which include HIV infection, orphaning, child parenting, abuse, and hunger.

It is through the Father here that I have seen an immense love for community and a stellar example of one who has given up their life for the service of others. I have been to the Father's house several times for traditional Liverpudlian meals, cooked by him, and have been given a tour round his small parsonage. His room is bare, no less than one would expect from a priest, no pillow, no thick duvet, only a blanket and fitted sheet. His home is scattered with books and he cracks me up by listening to the Afrikaans radio station - he's trying to learn Afrikaans. He began his Sesotho studies by attending a Grade One classroom at a Primary School for a year; an impressively tall white man, sharing at a tiny desk with a half pint a quarter of his size. He is now fluent in Sesotho and presents all his sermons to the black community in their language.

The Father has a terrifically difficult job, for a South African. He must deliver sermons to 4 parishes on Sunday. Two in townships and two in the surrounding, predominantly white towns. So not only must he engage with the absolute poorest of the poor, he must also engage with two separate and very different cultures from a place of love without judgement.

I complain it's a terrific sacrifice to only return home once a year. But the Father only returns home once every three years, to England. The Father has lived in 3 different parts of the world, serving missions and learning their languages, before landing up here - where he has been 7 years and is now a citizen.

At any given moment while visiting in his lounge, drinking tea that is utterly too sweet (because he refuses to give me a 1/2 teaspoon, claiming it's ridiculous), at least five children will pop round. To each one he'll caress their little face, pat them on the head and give them an orange or two to take away. Another few knocks on the door, informal settlers will appear with buckets, requesting a dip into his well. His little home is a source of refuge. Even for me - with the appeal of foreign, not local, company and a different perspective.

He has found a niche within each community, however I have been privy to the complaints in the English community. Yes, this great man has a terrifying fault with the locals. He stinks. His hygiene is what one would expect of a hippie, but it's deliberate. He doesn't wear deodorant and only bathes twice a week, or so I've heard. The congregation has taken immense exception to this poor protocol and it has often been the topic of the dinners I've attended. It's difficult to know how this issue is perceived in the Sotho community, considering there are many a staunch, smelly armpit there; yet the Sotho people are some of the cleanest, well-bathed and manicured people I know. Cleanliness, is the holiest way out of poverty in Africa. One may be poor, but their stoop will always be clean, the sink empty of dishes, the clothes washed daily and pressed to perfection.

Honestly, it's irrelevant how the Father smells. People in small towns always want something to complain about and in this case it's the priest. But I am in awe of the Father. He's the kind of priest who will punch someone in the face for raping their niece. And he doesn't care about the implications of collecting hitchhikers on the road. I don't know what's in his head and he's probably not a pure Mother Theresa, but in my book, he sure comes close. His regard for humanity says it all.

Ricki

2012-05-09T22:06:00.000+02:00

After almost two years in the wee town of Viljoenskroon, I have started to pick up on some characters. It's a slow place where most people stick to themselves and avoid outsiders. It's not a place where you can swoop into the local pub and figure everyone out in 2 seconds flat, simply because so many people are in hiding. Often you'll find only three people enjoying happy hour on Friday. It's the type of place where people slowly emerge and their characteristics only become remarkable after witnessing repetitive behaviors, or worse, after hearing the pervading gossip and history shrouding their reputation.

I don't mean to make fun. Nor do I mean to make nice. I have observed a lot and feel it's time to take some stock in these characters on the page. What I write in the coming month (or months, depending on how quickly I deplete my small town stock) will derive from my interactions, but not necessarily a deep or thoroughly researched knowledge. I won't pretend to know someone I don't, but rather engage my inner-voyeur through probing the presenting elements and facts surrounding their "plain view" personality. These portraits may be short, but altogether they should provide a more complete mural of this Viljoenskroon town and farming area.

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First up is Ricki*. Rail thin, she works the internet counter. A bit apologetically Afrikaans, she doesn't fit the mold. Her 19 year-old peers all seem to be wearing bright flashes of red or turquoise with fingernails to match and well-maintained, over-zealous blonde highlights. Ricki wears shirts with designer razor slashes and almost exclusively black, white and silver. Her midriff tends to peer out a lot, suggesting her lean body is too long for most apparel. With morbidly pale skin, I can't help but wonder if she's trying to look like the wanton medieval victim in the video game ad printed on the side of the hard drive.

The picture of the wanton chick certainly does present some parallels. Fingers to the teeth, black hair strewn out and pasted in wet streaks upon her forehead, the forlorn environment trapping her figure; it actually begs of a girl desperate to escape.

I know a bit about Ricki. Not because we're friends. She laminates student IDs for me and gives me preferential treatment either because I'm nice or because I'm white or because I always pay. It's difficult to know. She hails from the larger town of Klerksdorp and wound up in this dinky town because of her boyfriend. Ricki lives with this oke and his mother, deeply set on a farm 2 doors over from where I stay. No car and no money, she's completely reliant on her boyfriend's mother to take her to and from work at the Internet cafe each day. It's painful just to think about.

Ricki's a quiet lass. The only time I hung out with her socially was at a cell group. What is a cell group, you may ask? I thought I was going to get some pizza at a dinner party for young folk, but it was a Christian group that meets weekly to pray. Ricki didn't know what she was getting into either, but we both were the outsiders and kind of stuck together since no one else spoke really.

Several months ago, a recent high school graduate was pummelled into a coma on the golf course with a hammer. Some jealous ex-boyfriend didn't like where things were headed between the youngster and an old girlfriend. That ex-boyfriend happened to be Ricki's boyfriend. Just so happens, he bashed up this guy while he was dating Ricki. Not the kind of boyfriend you want to be stuck with on a farm without a car.

Now, Ricki's pregnant. I thought maybe she was finally eating healthy. Truth is, there's a tiny bun in a little oven. I don't think one could begin to know how horrible her circumstances are or what life background prepared her for this imprisoning migration into adulthood.

I'm happy to report, she's not at the Internet cafe anymore. She moved to another small town called Orkney. She's living with her mother. She got out. At least, that's what I hope.

Rwanda

2012-05-03T20:52:00.000+02:00

I never posted this and feel I should share the photographs and thoughts of my few days in Rwanda. Rwanda still lingers with me and is a beacon of hope, whilst also glares a flare of warning for future generations.

The Rwanda of 2011 offers so much more than the drama of "Hotel Rwanda" would allow your mind to anticipate. Seventeen years post-genocide. Rwanda. Seventeen years democracy. South Africa. The visit to Rwanda allowed me many reasons to compare the complex state of SA to a place that has found a positive groove post-conflict. It's not really fair to compare the two, but that 17 mark is inevitable. Rwanda is small and whilst it experienced an absolute wretched, traumatizing horror in one year - South Africa is many times the size in area and people and cultural diversity and she had over 40 years of slow, debilitating, and deliberate oppression and overhaul.

But for the eventual tourist, Rwanda escapes the African cliches. Dirty. No. Unsafe. No. Untimely. No. Full of beggars. No. Chaotic. No. It was clean, well-ordered, traditional, deepest dark at night and still, safe and filled with the spiritual warmth of good people.

But the funny thing that still remains: prisoners dressed in pink serving out their sentence from local tribunal, Gacaca court hearings for certain genocide contributors. It's a thin waft on the air, but they are there. And the ghastly historical museum full of skulls... Not to mention the issue of avoiding any attributions to the past "faux" cultures of Hutu and Tutsi. Because if you know anything about Rwanda, you will know that the cultural divide of Hutu and Tutsi was based on colonial Belgian artifice. A brief understanding from Wikipedia states:

The definitions of "Hutu" and "Tutsi" people may have changed through time and location. Social structures were not stable throughout Rwanda, even during colonial times under the Belgian rule. The Tutsi aristocracy or elite was distinguished from Tutsi commoners, and wealthy Hutu were often indistinguishable from upper-class Tutsi. When the European colonists conducted censuses, they wanted to identify the people throughout Rwanda-Burundi according to a simple classification scheme. They defined "Tutsi" as anyone owning more than ten cows (a sign of wealth) or with the physical feature of a longer nose, or longer neck, commonly associated with the Tutsi. A person could change from Hutu to Tutsi by obtaining enough cows to acquire the status. Full article here.

Now, to avoid future conflict, students, children, and youngsters, no longer reveal (or even know) their cultural identity. This erasure of the past could come to haunt.

For now, Rwanda is on the up and up. They are training their varsity students overseas and building their nation from the ground up. They have resources and they are applying them to the correct channels, at least it seems for now. It is stunningly beautiful and hilly. They have the sweetest tea and most toxicly sinful hot sauce imaginable. To plan for 2012 touring, certainly. But for 2020, I'd say keep watch on the Truth and Reconciliation in this country. It is not popular to present a dissenting voice in popular politics and I imagine that will take a long time to improve.

Vaginal Room

2012-05-03T20:23:00.000+02:00

My mother has begged. The internet has forgotten. Blogger has an updated interface. And all but 2 followers remain. What can I say? I have a little steam in the Engine again and feel like writing. Writing may be a practice, but it also requires a certain amount of stamina and perspective to be worth anyone's time reading. As this is a blog and not a personal diary, it's worth writing something worth reading.

My apologies for the 10 month delay! My new blog, www.thepiedkingfisher.wordpress.com, has kept me happily busy and inspired and has little demand on my brain, enabling more freedom and creativity. Food is just easy like that.

But the past 10 months have not passed without incident. They have not been boring, nor have they been the most fun. This 29/30th year in my life has me feeling the consequences of being on the cusp of adulthood and wondering when life will ease, and still I know I have yet to meet the darkest place. May 1st passed this week and it was the one year anniversary of something unmentionable that happened last year. Perhaps that was why writing felt impossible. Perhaps that is why, one year later, I feel I am emerging to a better place.

It's not really worth recalculating the past year. I know that one of my biggest personal hurdles in life is letting go. It's hard when you have such a great memory! But it's a burden and it's time to stop adding it up for some irrelevant subtotal, just to feel worse. So here's moving on. A very short story - "Vaginal Room." At which point, if you know me, you may choose to stop reading (although this is not sexual, but medical!):

To top an off-year, I suppose it was time I encountered some, well, let me be subtle - female problems. I'm sure you may have known from the heading. But it was high time. I have had few complaints for my cogs and chambers since reaching puberty over half my lifetime ago.

I had taken out the trash. Which, to most urbanized, citified folks would mean "taken it out to the curb." But since I live on the veld and there is a wide expanse of rubbish heap 20 feet away (luckily on the windowless/road-less side of the cottage), it really meant taking the trash, neatly tied in a grocery-size parcel, to the front door. So that Johannes could walk it the further 20 feet. I hate taking out the trash. Maybe it's because I always associated that duty as my brother's responsibility. It's absurd, but I'd rather clean a toilet.

My little children neighbors being the restless creatures that they are, stumbled over to our house at some point mid-morning to help with the endless weeding and tying up of bean vines. Before I knew it, they were into the trash bag, searching for goodies. And that lurch. That gulp of a golf ball in the throat. The paling of the face. The evil knowing that they might find my baby pink, discarded "cream" applicators. In Afrikaans "room" applicators. And knowing there was no way I could explain it in the lightning-speed seconds before they were discovered. Immediately, upon alighting her hand to the so-called reinvented gem, 10 year-old Mammekie was playing with my medical tools. Disaster. What could I say? The shock upon my face melted into complete horror and absolute bewildered embarrassment. The saying "One man's trash is another man's treasure?" She ran off into the horizon pumping that ridiculous little baby pink tube into the air with shrieks of laughter; unbeknownst to her, the heart wrenching sound of my own sighs disappeared into the ether.

I promptly called Danielle. Only a woman could know. Absolute horror. I'm so glad Johannes has taken to burning the rubbish as his second calling in life. "Room" saviour.

The Pied Kingfisher

2011-07-10T08:11:00.002+02:00

Early morning, late evening; God's happiest partners make two dots of love on the wire fence along the banks of the shiny vlei. Long beaks, a black and white collage of feathers, these kingfishers are one of my top varieties of South African birds. They offer furtive glances to one another. When one picks up to fly, the other follows. You know where you see one, there must be two. It is an aberration of nature for kingfishers to fly solo. For as much as I've been alone, I still want my kingfisher to be on the next tier of the fence, glancing over at me, morning and night.

Drop in the Night

2011-06-16T08:37:00.004+02:00

The moon was a miracle to behold in the wintery African sky yesterday evening. At 8pm, the full moon was busy exposing the whole farm in a spill of silver glow. And then. The earth's shadow intercepted the sun and a haze of dark spread slowly over the full orb. For over three hours, a group of us sat entertained at the Botha's house.

From the bottom right, the moon was slowly stained grey and then red, as though a rooibos tea bag was bleeding onto a papertowel. At the height of the evening, the moon hung like a cherry-on-top, conjuring up sugary delights in the mind of my tastebuds. Orange liqueur. In-season blood oranges. Gumdrops. James and his Giant Peach. Gooseberries. Candied rose petals.

Gravity and winter's chill pulled a huddle of youngsters and grownups alike into the centre of a large trampoline, our bodies covered in sleeping bags and immersed in giggles; from here we watched the magic take over as the moon shone a bit more dull, steeped in the orange of the sun's bent rays and coloured a bit deeper from the sulfur deposits of Chile's recent volcanic eruption.

The moon travelled through the center of the Earth's shadow and I savour this moment for my mouth to remember. Orange drop.

Photo Credits:
ALAIN JACQUET of Johannesburg, South Africa, top and bottom
Derek Keats of Johannesburg, South Africa - middle photo.

Ponies and Circles: Part I

2011-06-12T10:32:00.005+02:00

A 60 kilometre road takes 3 hours to drive at an approximate speed of 20 km/hr (12 mi/hr), cobbled with loose stones, potholes and drinks of water. Thick lines of water trickle from every orifice in the hills' crevices, bubbling out into the roads and larger tributaries, gurgling across bridges. Mist fingers through mountains, sweeping around snow caps and edgy rock faces, dripping into valleys, eventually merging with the drifts of smoke leaking from every hut. Pools of sun highlight thatch rooftops and striped balaclavas, atop bounding, medieval horsemen cloaked in woolen Basotho blankets. Shimmers of white flicker across mountainsides as angora goats gloat and bleat. My little white "Twinkie" shines and rattles through the morning, rousing laughter from the shepards, children and horsemen at the size of the smallest car to ever challenge the rough roads of Lesotho. Our trip, barely starting, was already historic in the fresh Lesotho landscape.

Ten days and 9 nights marked my longest camping trip ever, shared with my ardent Johannes. After eight months in Belgium, Johannes' request for his time in South Africa was to spend as many waking moments outdoors as possible. We strutted across some of SA's worst pot-holed roads to land our first night in Maseru, the capital city of Lesotho.

Maseru begs for love from the first sighting of the border post; litter is strewn across muddied roads and throngs of people bust forth from Taxis and alight the stands of magwenya (fetkoek) and pots of steaming pap and cabbage. Nestled amongst some pretty sizable hills, Maseru is a bubble of the usual African chaos that South Africa tends to lack: cacophonous honking, insidious overtaking cars, blacked-out traffic lights, overloaded trucks with pieces of wood and furniture threatening to topple, and hoards of people walking home from work - bags of maize-meal balanced overhead and hips wagging to the speed of Africa-time.

We arrived in Maseru a day early, realising that heavy rain-fall might impact the drivability of the roads. We camped one night in a soggy spot, overlooking a mid-sized dam - we were the only campers as the rain fell and the mud froze into thick cakes. Even amongst the rain and the cold, there's nothing quite like making a fire on a cliff to the sounds of sangomas delivering the souls of customers through the beating of drums and a chorus of chants.

Our picturesque drive to Semonkong was easier than expected, although slow and, at times, a bit treacherous. Lesotho has a very limited system of tarred roads and it took us an hour on tar and 3 hours on dirt to reach a location only 100 km (62 miles) away. The dirt roads steadily decrease in quality the further they are from Maseru. The traffic we passed was limited to a couple of Taxis, a bus and a few bakkies - nary a small compact car to be seen! The majority of our passing roadsmen were actually men on horses and donkeys, as the "Basotho pony" is the mainstay in Lesotho Department of Transportation. It's a chicken and an egg scenario; which came first the bad roads or the ponies? Well, most likely the lack of roads encouraged equestrian development and with the introduction of horses to Southern Africa in 1653, the paths and trails running across the Maloti and Drakensburg mountains have been etched into the geography for hundreds of years. With the majority of the population surviving off subsistence farming, a greater infrastructure of roads will probably never be a possibility, considering the severity of slopes and passes throughout the rippling mountain ranges.

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Foible, gaffe, blunder

2011-04-20T19:11:00.006+02:00

It has been decided; in an effort to write more, I must write less.

Today let's work with the more inane of my recent experience:

My cat, Arrow, created upheaval by bringing a half-dead pigeon (which she surely felled and maimed) into the house and tossing its feathers - EVERYWHERE. Let me just say, dead bird on my door-step = okay. Half-dead bird in my house - not on your life. She has been duly told never to half-kill again. Stupid cat!

In an effort to describe the concepts of EMPHASIS and VARIETY to my all-black, post-Apartheid design class, I brought up the image of one black person in a room of white people - HA! - (of course paired with the similar idea of a white person in a room of all black people [me] or a person in a red shirt in a room of all blue shirts). Crikey, I really wasn't thinking! .... an all-too-easy foible in this part of the world. Or maybe gaffe is the better word to use.

I only discovered AFTER I ran my new oil lamp for 2 hours in a room darkened by a power outage that my lamp-oil was only intended for "well ventilated areas outside". My poor white cat is now grey and her mouse? Well definitely not white anymore. Everything is covered in grey soot. Ouch. Blunder.

Definitely make sure to turn the cap fully tight on your hot water bottle in the cold of autumn. Otherwise your bed might wet you. Happened last week. Idiot's slip.

Do we actually get smarter as we get older or do we just find new ways to make old mistakes?

Pulled strings

2011-04-03T07:33:00.005+02:00

A volunteer recently wrote that coming to South Africa was both one of the most heart warming and heart breaking experiences of her life. This pretty much sums up my day-to-day. Rarely does a day go by where my heart isn't pulled hard in both directions.

Sometimes I realise my heart has become a bit more hardened by these experiences, that the emotions on my face don't always reveal that which is in my heart. And for those who know how easily my face and tears have betrayed my feelings in the past, this is a huge shift. I suppose as we humans get older, we do begin to change; we realise we can't so easily get away with crying and facial honesty anymore. We adapt to the world - for me this has been an unwitting biproduct of a challenging environment where one really does have to change face in order to cope.

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Six year-old Thabo (renamed for anonymity) pulls on my heart strings as often as he can, virtually every day. Generally it is in the good heart warming fashion. The second I pull up my driveway, he runs over to help me carry in my bags (partially curious, I know, to find out what I've been busy buying). In the evenings, as soon as I turn on the tap, he bolts over from his catty-corner plot to help water my garden. Whether it's watering the jasmine by hand or moving the sprinkler through the maze of spinach, beets and tomatoes, he is eternally eager to be of assistance - and therefore, of notice.

Through my organisation, I've started offering a class to the surrounding village community called First Fridays. Fifteen youngsters ranging in age from 5 to 16 join in for arts, crafts, and drama games. We had one such class on 1st April and the two hours went by swimmingly well. Until Thabo locked up. Someone older had taken away his broom during clean-up time and he would not budge from his position (right in front of a particularly dirty corner). The older kids were trying to sweep around him and Thabo remained frozen in a little ball, crying.

I must admit, dealing with tantrums is not my speciality, nor much in the realm of my experience. I decided to intervene to a) console Thabo and b) to get the group back to order. I tried to move him elsewhere, which was probably a bad decision! The little guy almost bit me in the process and it just exacerbated the situation. I was actually shocked, based on Thabo's past devotion, that he would dare try to bite me. I decided to let Thabo alone.

For almost twenty minutes he sat, steadfast in his position. The class was wrapping up. We were looking at the pictures they'd been busy working on, giving out verbal acknowledgements for the "most glittery," the "most orange," the "most stripey," etc. Still, Thabo sat, unbudged. Finally as I handed out stickers he managed to emerge from his personal holding cell to collect.

That was Friday and it wore on my sleeve all night. Saturday, yesterday, I was busy working at the arts centre and heard screaming coming from the yard opposite. I saw the old man Fezile beating down on something and realised it was Thabo. Gogo (grandma) was carrying him through the yard, angrily kicking a bucket as they waded through the grass. The screaming ensued. It absolutely pierced my heart.

Because of my role in the community (where I have to be careful with all relationships and try not "to judge"), I have learned to distance myself from the tragedy that is corporal punishment in the classroom. But this was my first time witnessing it in the home. It really did make the stick-beating they use at school seem like a slap on the wrist.

Honestly, even now, I'm not judging. I know Fezile and Gogo are grandparents, from a different era, with a limited idea of what discipline looks like. But it doesn't mean seeing my baby, Thabo, hurt, kills me any less.

Yesterday evening I decided to pay Becca and Phindi, Thabo's aunt and uncle, a visit to find out more about the poor boy's deamons. I've always known he is an orphan and wondered if there was some trauma from that which played into his strange behaviour the day before. Let me repaint the picture Rebecca laid out for me:
"Thabo was still nursing on his mother's breast at two years of age, when his mother passed away. He was inconsolable and his grandparents didn't know how to handle him. To keep him from crying, they spoiled him. When he was 4 or 5 years he became very ill. That was when the doctors discovered he was infected with HIV - most likely from his mother's breastmilk. He has since been put on treatment. But something changed in him while he was ill. He can now hurt anyone and not really know what he's doing - and I mean, really hurt. Now he's still spoiled. And if he doesn't get his way, sometimes the only way they know how to handle him is for Fezile to discipline him. It's because he wasn't raised by his mother."

Now it's Sunday morning. I suppose I can't do much different to what I'm already doing. I feel a bit useless. Many people use the word "devastated" too easily. But I am devastated, in it's full form, for this little guy. After the beating yesterday, I walked by Thabo's house to turn on the water pump in the school. Thabo scampered behind me, happily, and I handed him the key - so he could do his favourite thing - unlock the door. I am not so hardened. But Thabo has still managed to open a new part of me, a part that continually seems to open manifest as I form new relationships with more and more children. It's a chamber of the heart that is exponential in its pathways; the more doors you open, the more chambers there are. You realise there is no limit to the love that can be expressed towards children. Consequently, you also know there's no restriction to the amount of hurt you can feel on their behalf.

Have a seat

2011-02-17T21:53:00.005+02:00

A messy brick stoep. Littered with empty seedling trays, 10 small pieces of firewood, and bags of elephant dung. A wire tomato-and-cheese sammie grill is propped up against the house. Brick towers-of-Pisa, almost toppling, have been scattered here, there and yonder by small children playing house. Small apricot pips are strewn about, also from the children, who climb the tree in my yard for summertime treats. And two beaded, Zulu gourds, are left haphazardly across the yard from the children’s games. Welcome to my home.

I’m baking a quiche in the oven and a bit restless because the rain prevented me from expending my extra energy on the garden. The hours one spends alone can sometimes stretch on for what feels like days. Especially on a day like today, where I haven’t actually had one full conversation with anyone. I wasn’t even graced by the perky presence of the neighbourhood gang, who was also rained-in. It becomes easy to forget what day of the week it is.

Little things keep me occupied. Sweeping. Washing dishes. Taking a bath. Closing windows and curtains. Cooking. Reading. Playing with my new kitten. Looking at my phone periodically to check for messages. Opening a beer. Taking out the compost. Applying insect repellent. Singing. Observing a candle. Spraying my cat with water for climbing the curtains. Thinking about dinner. Considering words.

The mind wanders endlessly. Routine and habit keep the mind hemmed in. I really should learn to meditate. However, at times, I feel like I’m doing relatively well keeping sane.

The Free State is a wide, open expanse full of contradictions and lots of sky. In August the winds howl and blow fine red silt through even the best-sealed eyelids. The rain seems to be all the farmers discuss, when it’s going to come, how overdue it is, how heavy it is, how persistent it is, how it’s going to kill their crops, how it can stop now, how it’s going to be worse next year, how this is one of the best crops they’ve ever seen, why, of course, how this amount of rain was to be expected. The heavy steam of a hot, heavy rain hanging in thunderous clouds in the distance can loom for days. The electric storms would make even Ben Franklin jump. The dry heat could peel even the darkest skin darker. And the wintery cold that seeps through the concrete walls makes housing interiors seem a terminally ill architectural concept.

This is where I live. The landscape is not extreme. The people are. Extremely warm. Extremely gracious. Extremely moody. Extremely racist. Extremely diverse. Extremely archaic. Extremely monolingual. Extremely multi-lingual. Extremely barefoot. However, probably no more than 3 of these in combination.

Some of the richest, most dependable South African turf is spread across the Free State. More specifically, the northern Free State churns out some of the finest mealie crops. In turn, this lines the pockets of the farming families who’ve toiled this land for generations.

There’s not much else beyond farming. It’s all a big family tree of jobs associated with agriculture. Grain silos, grain mills, peanut factories, fertilizer production, soil testing, machine depots. The government gainfully employs many citizens as teachers, police, municipal workers, and officials, however the productivity of these operations barely rival that of farming. There seems to be little to gain from a venture within government, other than a ripe salary; thus much of the area is stunted by a lack of motivation to go beyond what is expected.

Everything seems in plenty here. Money. Poverty. Inferior education. Children. Good health. Poor health. Abandonment. People with cars. People without cars. HIV. Crops. Hunger. Religion. Absenteeism. Rivers flow full and dams spill over into the dirt roads, plaguing my anxiety as I attempt fording large puddles with a small Korean tool, also known as an automobile. Tin roofs blow and spiral away in Dorothy-fashion off proudly kept shacks. The clouds drift absent-mindedly above a patchwork of fields, solid, red-tile roofs and weak roofs, held on tightly with sundry bricks, chicken-wire and tires. Only the quiet looms far away; the rural sounds of crickets, doves, owls, bats creep in steadily and the drums of the sangomas [witch doctors] and nightly shebeen [tavern] crawls keep the civilised corners in steady rhythm. Those with open eyes cannot rest easy. For all that may be present in excess, there is a simple pulse that most cling to as they strive to live in this place.

Sunday Morning View

2011-01-30T09:16:00.003+02:00

Sunday morning, two weeks after my big move, I’m finally feeling capable of lying in and enjoying the view. The busy domestic in me has been tireless in sifting through boxes of papers and allsorts, collected in duration of 2 years. It’s amazing how many items one can amass in such a short period. That said, this is the first time I’ve unpacked my full collection since I lived at Margie’s in Cape Town well over a year ago!

A very large portion of my belongings were stored in an unused garage and were steeped in rainwaters from a faulty leak for a good portion of the rainy season. Imagine the tears, pulling out all of my teaching resources and books, notations on birds, wooden spoons, journals, and clothing…sopping wet and full of mildewed stains and damage. I’ve managed to reclaim a lot; the rest I just have to let go. Miraculously, my artwork remains in minted condition - someone’s reminder to me to be glad for what I do have.

: : : :

Upon returning to South Africa, after my three-week trip home to the USA, I also find myself “at home” here. The caw of the guinea fowl at night and the hum of the morning doves are all part of the greater landscape. The sweeping of the dust from my floors, although constant, feels effortless and normal. The nightly ritual of closing all the windows and curtains to keep the bugs out is just another part of the everyday fabric.

However, my transition to a new space brings with it new delights, marvels and intrigue. A selection of the new sounds and textures and societies: The screeching of an owl or bat or mouse (?) that consistently scares the dickens out of me at night. Soft, sinkable earth out the front door. The music-drowning sound of rain on a tin roof during a storm and the music-forming tinkle of a tin roof drizzle. Sunken mud roads, closed from heavy rain. New grass roads, full of the tickle of long grass on my car’s underbelly and the THUNK of hitting a porcupine hole. The smell of grass at the start of an evening rain. The odour of bog after too much downpour. The morning rumble of the tractors. The flapping of wings when startling a flock of birds. The ever-present call of “shannono” from my new neighbours, Mahase (12), Mammekie (9), Kathleho (5) and Bulelane (2). The thinly worn textiles of my neighbours’ blouses and trousers, pitted with holes, bosoms and shoulders hanging out through the weave. The daily clicking of clippers on the hedges or tin being tinkered-with on the chicken coup by Ntate Fezile, tending his family’s garden. The relentless quest for work and money from this new community. The polka-dotted patterning of the path from my house to the arts centre, formed by very busy ants in the freshly turned soil. And, of course, the cry of the roosters.

More than anything, I am enjoying being the master of my domain. After living with another family for 6 months, I am relishing being in my own kitchen, drawing lines in the dirt for my upcoming garden, having a separation of my office from my home space, and delighting in the independence to listen to any-type of music at all levels of sound. I think the lack of personal space from the past half-year had a larger impact on me than I ever realized. I treasure this moment to be on my own.

Glamour, love, snow peace and chocolate to mud, grass, dusklight and happy chaos

2011-01-10T22:22:00.007+02:00

From this....

Parisian chocolate displays at killer prices

New Year's glamour queens

NC snow on Boxing Day

Johannesie in Paris

Oh, Target, you got Kim to buy a patterned shirt! We actually match.

....to this:

Klein huisie on the long-grassed prairie

A lot of color to view from my desk chair

First I got stuck ...

Dusk from the stoep at the arts centre

Yes, one extreme to the other: nights of sweating under heated blankets to nights sweating from the summer heat. Days of pulling on long underwear and enclosing my neck in scarves, just tasting the clarity of chilled air to mosquitoes working their way up my blouse to bite my wee bosom. Lover in Paris for fourteen hours to the friends that mud-bail my poor suctioned car. Daily planner filled with family lunches and coffees to agendas for a new era of rural art. French policeman that won't give you the time of day to children that will wash your car for free just because... Not one side better than the other, well spare the French policeman. More writing soon to follow!

My first enemy

2010-12-04T09:56:00.002+02:00

It only took about 27 months for me to make an enemy in South Africa. For years I have had the Dalai Lama’s quotation attached to my email, “In the practice of tolerance, one’s enemy is the best teacher.” While it certainly sounds intelligent and I strive to abide by such holistic principals, I have never really needed to apply this principal in an actual situation. In my world of 2010 the word enemy seems obsolete. How can a community-oriented person, like me, really afford to make enemies? No, I am not a saint. Not having enemies doesn’t bar me from having certain opinions of others and them of me. Understandably, my world of no-enemies comes from a certain privileged place of 1st-world heritage, class, education, etiquette training, great personality (please chuckle) and luck.
Last night it didn’t take much. After a long, trying week that tested some of the important community relationships I’ve been working to build, I just wanted to go out for a sweet gin and tonic with a couple of friends to celebrate the week’s end.

In Viljoenskroon, the bar options are limited. And the choice of where-to-go is entirely based on “who” I go with. For instance, a black person would never feel comfortable in a white bar – even if they went with friends. Lucky for me, white people are almost lauded when they attend the black bars, well, because it’s so rare. To be frank, there are 3 white bars “in town” and 1 black bar. “Town” means Viljoenskroon or the white part. In Rammolutsi “the township” aka “the location” aka the black part, there are myriads of taverns to choose from. A tavern is a place to buy a beer with chairs and tables and a bar is a place with a bar and a variety of liquor. So, Friday night being the night I went out with siblings Andrew and Bronwyn, we ended up at one of the limited white bars in town.

So Pikie’s Pub it was. The long and short of it, I was introduced to a farming peer of Andrew’s. In other words, a Boer. Boer being an Afrikaans farmer as they’re commonly referred to here. I think in some instances it is used as a derogatory term, but it depends on who’s saying it. After our brief introduction, the slew of typical questioning ensued, or so I thought. “How do you find Africa?” Usually after that question comes “How is America?” But that didn’t happen.

“You want to go back home.” Statement.

“No, I’ve lived here two years.”

“Yeah, well Africa, most of it’s working, there are just those 1/3 of people who don’t want it to work.”
“Well I wouldn’t have stayed if I didn’t appreciate the place.”

“You Americans, what are you doing with all your wars. Going into other countries and killing innocent peoples. Like Vietnam. You fucked up.” Statement.

“Well, I’m not supporting the wars, but what’s so different about going to another country to kill people and killing people in your own country?”

At this point the bloke was absolutely, 100% totally disinterested in what I had to say. He wanted to talk “to” me, not “with” me. And he proceeded to get 5 inches from my face, spitting on my skin, blowing his hot alcoholic breath beneath my nostrils, and went on a tirade, a verbal assault on my Americanism. He didn’t once ask my politics. He just assumed. And he assumed that I thought he’s a racist (well, after the night, I would guess he probably is), but “who are you to come to this country and help these people? These blacks, they murdered 2 whites on the farm on Wednesday. And they assaulted two small white children yesterday. And you think we [Afrikaaners] are racist?”

The man wouldn’t stop. And he was huge. I told him to stop talking to me. I told him he was talking kak. He wouldn’t listen. He went to the other side of the bar and yelled “Go back home to your fucking America. We don’t want you here.”

Wow. Like I said, 27 months in this country. I had been warned about the belligerent nature of many Afrikaans men in bars – including my English-speaking white friends who’ve been beaten-up in bars just for being English-speaking. However, I have never before given any of that real credence since I hadn’t witnessed it personally. I generally like giving the benefit-of-the-doubt. Yet, here I am in the Alabama or Arkansas or Texas of South Africa and I finally have had a real taste of how deep the divisions lie. I knew some (not all) people are totally disinterested to see my participation in the black community. But I have never been attacked for caring, though that’s not to say people haven’t thought that before.

It felt really raw leaving that bar. The guy calmed down. Everyone apologized for him. But not he for himself. His meek wife even apologized – I thought to myself, “it’s you I feel sorry for.” I thought, “why am I bothering to learn this language of Afrikaans?” I thought, “what the hell am I doing in this place?” I thought, “I will never be one of any of the communities here.” It’s a harsh reality, but it’s so true.

While I argue against some of the white people who take issue with me dropping in from the outside, there are also black people who would probably prefer my visit was up already. I don’t believe in a lot of the politics put forth by the ANC because it exacerbates racial divisions. I don’t fit in. Point blank.

But I am lucky to have a found a small holding of open, loving people in this community, white and black. And in those circles I do fit in. By now, those of you reading this may be thinking, “Shannon, darling, go home!” or “Shannon, you sound so unhappy! This is not the place for you.” But, by the grace of some God, I am here because there is work to do and I get to be part of the small forward movements in the lives of many children. And I cannot tell you how happy that makes me. If only the area was filled with the magic openness of 10 years-olds! If only people become more in-touch with the child in their heart of hearts, that part that enables them to love.

In the meantime, I have an enemy. There’s no time like now to become more challenged by practices of tolerance. How will I ever understand the struggle for blacks to love whites and vice versa if I myself have not had to learn to tolerate blatant attacks of racism and ill-will?

Breaking Ground

2010-11-07T12:14:00.003+02:00

In the three months that I’ve now lived in Viljoenskroon, I’ve had more and more difficulty writing to express the life I’m living here. It is not so radically different from the life I shared with Johannes in KZN; in fact, it’s even more civilized than my bush-life considering I’m only 60 kilometres drive from a shopping centre. But I’ve started to get deeper, much more entrenched in South African life while being here alone, without the company of a partner.

The Lekgetho family continues to offer me a space to call a home and to rest my head, although I was only meant to live with them for 1 or 2 months. After some ridiculous pricing schemes on the arts centre, Dramatic Need has finally broken ground on what will be my new home from December onwards. I look forward to running my own kitchen again, walking around in a towel, giving space to a baby kitten and nurturing a very untended and wild plot of land.

While I have not written much in the last months, I should have been. I’m finding small-town life and a lack of friends (especially female) is guiding me towards a new lifestyle, enacting a more private and quiet life – thus, bottling up the residue in my head as a result. It’s scary stuff because on a daily basis I find myself encountering tragically heavy content over and over again, with nowhere to deposit the depth of grime that sits on my scope of humanity.

Nourishing my body has been my greatest escape. A heartfelt invitation to join the gym on a benevolent community member’s company account has given me the much needed space to pound out some of what sits so heavily on my shoulders. And, at the same time, give me a renewed sense of energy and capabilities within my own body. It has been terribly neglected in this year of 2010!

I have begun learning Afrikaans and am finding it more and more comfortable rolling off my tongue. Sadly, it has little place in the black community and I will soon find it necessary to put concerted efforts to study Sesotho as well. With 2 volunteers visiting from the USA who’ve immediately taken to the Sesotho tongue, I feel a bit ashamed in my choice to pursue Afrikaans, the white language of the Apartheid oppressors. But at the same time I’ve had enough of white people talking over my head and behind my back and feel the need to be on par with people of my own race, especially in a town as racist as the one where I’m now living. The racisms are blatant and I feel I will never be able to address them properly if I’m not able to speak Afrikaans.

To date I haven’t made too many Afrikaans allies in town! But the town also boasts a crew of “English”, meaning South Africans who speak English as a first language (not necessarily people from Britain). I am slowly meeting people in the town of Viljoenskroon, population of 4,000. On the other hand, my network is rapidly unfolding in the township of Rammolutsi, population of 50,000. No longer does EVERY one turn their head to stare as my little Cape Town-registered car heads down the dirt roads where most white people dare not drive. I drive through the township multiple times a day and feel very comfortable there. I still get the occasional “Legoya” cry from a child (meaning “whitey” in Sesotho) but I’m much more used to it now!

I’ve been working on a big project, along with the 2 American volunteers, called “The Children’s Monologues”. It’s a play that we’re producing here and which will be simultaneously performed in London, under the direction of Danny Boyle, on the 14^th of November. It’s been my first real chance to get deeper into the lives of the youth with which DN works in the township. The amount of parental loss these youth have had in their lives and the greater impact that has had on their lives is astonishing to witness. Many young girls are raising their mother’s children in someone else’s home and struggling to live off the $30 social welfare grants they receive each month. There are stories of fathers who drink their money away so that there is no electricity in the house….there are stories of evil step-mothers….there are stories of having no bread…there are stories of not having access to transport and therefore not being able to attend school….there are stories of bullies stealing their bicycles….there are stories of a birthday cake being the most meaningful moment in a year…. They make my heart ache and break so many times over.

My biggest mission right now is to find a way for two boys, Skhalo and Nicolas, to attend school. The South African government closed down the farm school, Niekerksrus Secondary, where I taught two years ago when I first came to SA. Upon closing this school, the government has neglected all the students who attended there by failing to provide transport to the nearest schools. Over 20 miles from the nearest school, Skhalo and Nicolas had no choice but to stop attending at the end of 2009. Skhalo is 17 and needs to start grade 9, while Nic is 18 and needs to start grade 10. The black families in South Africa often take on hosting distant relatives, but often they mistreat them and cast them as outsiders. Nicolas and Skhalo have both experienced these issues and have no other (decent) family to turn to in the township, so I am trying my best to find a place for them to live… I am furious and angry and frustrated by a government that is failing these two boys (but mind you, there are 12 others on this same farm). Even typing, it turns me red in the face.

So, it is heavy down here. I ache for my boy Johannes , who’ll be in Belgium another 6 months. I ache to have a girl friend to confide in. And I am doing my best to trump the situation and come out stronger, wiser and clearer. Most of all, I want to be here for these children. Even though I cannot be there for them all, I relish being able to be a solid adult figure in their lives, one who cares (I must), one who is just (I try), one who is honest (I endeavour).

P.S. Totally unrelated, but throwing in some beautiful landscape photos from when my mom (see how tall the grass is) was here visiting in September plus a photo of Johannes walking through a field (because he's still in my life!). All other photos are from Viljoenskroon/Rammolutsi

Blog update

2010-10-24T18:56:00.002+02:00

To my wide and curious audience, please let me apologize for the lack of writing over the past month. I have been struggling with technical issues. My laptop of 5 years suddenly died over three weeks ago when my hard drive crashed. Then, after waiting for a work laptop to get released by customs, I finally picked it up in Johannesburg yesterday. So, expect more from me soon! I have lots to catch up on with admin from work but once that's sorted I should be able to direct more attention here. Till then, please visit the blog I'm updating for work: www.dramaticneed.tumblr.com

Two Year Blues and Dues

2010-09-15T18:41:00.005+02:00

This weekend marked a few major cycles. Nine years since 9-11, a good bye parting with Johannes onto Belgium, my mother rejoining me in her motherland and 2 full years since I moved to South Africa. Needless to say, 9-11 was on the back burner of the my mind and the rest of my brain was swimming with the more ego-centric cycles pertaining to my little life. Something like New Year's Day starts looking very small in comparison when such larger circles are in play.

For today's purposes of looking into the greater pluses and minuses of my life in SA, I must make a few lists. Bear with me.
What I don't like about my life in SA and who I am here:
* being far from family; even though I know my "extended" family has been my rock so many times I cannot help but miss the lint in their pockets
* being far from the friends with whom my relationships have been tried, tested and remain true
* being an American in another country
* technology being far too expensive
* the lack of choice in internet, electricity, transport, cell phones, etc; because it is such a small country, there are far too many monopolies and exploitative prices here
* a government that is not organized
* becoming more brash and more direct (well, sometimes good)
* people assuming I speak Afrikaans and am small minded just because I'm white
* always treated by lesser-thans as if I need to be constantly giving hand outs, including adults asking me for sweets
* becoming quiter and more inward because I don't have the friends I need (around me) to talk to about the itches on my mind
* becoming a bit hard and strict with how others live (judgemental)
* potholes and crap dirt roads
* constant road works and streets without signposting
* sun damage to my skin
* race being so prevalent as a way to describe my way of life or what it is I'm doing -- that there's always a need for the distinction of white versus black, or black versus white
* always being different, no matter what race or economic level I am with

What I like about my life in SA and who I am here:
* old houses without electricity just for the sake of an older way of living
* the movement to go slower
* cheap ass tomatoes
* slightly changed accent that confuses people about where I'm from
* I have friends who may not have known me for a long time or what my background is, but they're still prepared to pull out all stops to care for me in good & bad times
* being able to say "Jy ma se poes" or "Jy het baie klein bolletjies" in perfect diction and surprising the daylights out of America-haters
* changing peoples' opinions about America and what types of people it includes amongst the fat, overloaded, twinkie-grubbing ignoramouses who love Bush and watch crap television and hate to go places without their tennis shoes, who detest adapting to understanding foreign accents, in addition to having a lack of imagination and spunk
* being able to man-handle a dirt road even if they still make me grit my teeth
* constantly surprising myself by what I can still learn to eat: fried eggs, instant coffee, pap 'n vleis, elephant and unsalted avocado
* being able to braai without the assistance of a man
* making lots of good fires from scratch
* naturally blonder hair
* an acquired spirit that is constantly being pushed to new limits
* always learning new parts of new languages
* the capacity to be in other people's spaces for long periods of time
* constantly being around children and learning how to be more affectionate (and less germ-scared) around orphans and neglected children who truly need touch
* learning to live with less choice and to be happy with what I have (most of the time!)
* learning to cook more simple food
* realizing that I can be just as happy to see rain as I would be to see snow (after 4 months without rain!)
* amazingly cheap red wine and olives
* naughty South African humor
* being able to "sit" and just enjoy the stars, the sunset, the fire, what is playing out in front of my eyes
* constant opportunities to see beautiful places and walk in them
* the generosity of people to let strangers stay in their houses at the flip of a switch
* finding that I can create my own happiness most of the time (but this is not an easy thing and I'm still hard at work on it)
* learning that "family" is a bigger concept than who you're born to grow with
* always being different, no matter what race or economic level I am with

Should I stay or should I go?I have now booked my ticket for Christmas. The three-week trip home is looming at the front of my mind as a very exciting prospect ahead in my future. I truly cannot wait and 18 months is too long to stay away from those whose love fills your soul.

I didn't want to admit it a year ago, but Johannes did play a very large role in why I wanted to stay in South Africa. Despite all our differences and despite the great distances between us (8 hours of driving) we have managed to grow our love even more. To my own horror, I spent all Saturday a blubbery mess at the cusp of his departure for Belgium. He'll be there 7 months, possibly longer, and it's difficult to predict how our relationship will play out during this time. While I can be honest that I needed to stretch my stay in South Africa to excercise myself within the expanse of a relationship, I also have come to know, love and respect the people and the land I greet daily.

I know everyone wants to know. Am I here? Or am I not. I spend one day at a time and my life here does not get easier. I don't know if it's because I'm a masochist or because this country has seeped too far into my skin. I'm not making any commitments as to where I want to be. I'm just letting my life play itself out and will see where it leads me. On a day like today, where everything seems to be working against me, I'm ready for a zipline across the Atlantic. On other days I am right where I want to be. I think a lot of people my age could probably vouch for the same feelings, regardless if it's because they're still stuck in their home town, faced with dozens of dirty diapers, too many graduate school books spelling out a life of thankless academia, a career that doesn't match their hopes and dreams, an engagement that makes them breathe a sigh of relief and then fills them with fear that they actually have everything they want, or being on the precipice of an amazing opportunity that means leaving what they know and love behind.

I know. Nobody ever said life was going to be easy. If I look at my lists, it leaves me absolutely confused. So rather than fulfill everyone else I know with some false expectation of where I'll be in 5 years, I'm just going to keep going. As long as I'm taking stock of what it is I have, what it is I know, what it is I need and what it is I want and that I grant myself the space to not know all the answers, I'm in an okay place. Wherever that may be on this forgivingly gracious globe.

My mlungu

2010-09-04T16:15:00.004+02:00

One of the stories I've been writing in my head for a while now is the story of Sibusiso, a.k.a. Mazino. While I was in KZN I thought about writing his story so many times, from his perspective and his "voice". Admittedly, I was too afraid to try it, nervous that the racial/educational implications were too broad and that it wasn't fair for me to insert myself into someone else's head. It felt too preposterous and all-assuming. However, Sibusiso, as a failing student will struggle to ever tell his story. For now, I'd like to try and imagine it and tell it as he would say it aloud. I'm only sharing his story along the lines I know, which is why I am included:

Every day I wake uhrly to feed the chickens. I eye-ron my school shirt, the one from the day before, hanged cleaning on the line. I walk down the dirt road from the top of Magudu mount to the tar road. Next to Xolani's hut. I try to hike a ride to school. Sometimes it takes long. In a way that's funny, I like these long waits, sometimes. I'm always very uhrly just in case a car comes along. Cousins and bruh-dahs are on the side of the road. They say hello and sometimes I find a stick of cane in the middle of the road to suck on while I waiting. Some days it take too long to hike. It's too far to walk, maybe thirty Ks. I don't have a watch, but if it's too long sometimes I just go home.

At home I'm not much of an anybody. The whole village of Magudu is full of Ntshangases. I'm a Ntshangase. That means I have many bruh-duhs and sis-tahs, whether we share blood or no. I don't have a work and am still going to school so I don't give a money. My real muh-dah lives in Richard's Bay, so I live with my fuh-dah and his wife. She don't like me a lot. She treat me like nothing. I work hard, always doing a cleaning and a clothes washing.

But at school, I'm someone. Everyone knows me for something. I'm Mazino. It's an old short name because I have big teeth in front. I know EVERYone. Everyone thinks I'm funny and they like me cause I always smiling. I don't let anything bother me, some say I just let it roll off my back like anything.

I have 24 years and in Grade 10. I cannot even say how long I been Grade 10 ler-nuh. I could stop school but I stay because it give me something to be doing. Sometime it got really hard to go because of hiking. But Miss Shah-non, she changed these thing.

Miss Shah-non, she's a mlungu. That means whitey. He's the only white person I ever knew up close. She's from America he say but I don't really understand why she's here. She teaches me a English and every day she gives me a lift to school. She drives a big bakkie and he looks so funny, this tiny woman in this big car. In cold mornings it warms me up because the car is warm and I don't have a jacket. Sometimes he is late to school and I wait a long time. I could even hike with other cars, but I wait for Miss Shah-non. He listens to funny music that I never before knew.

I don't speak English very much and his Zulu is missing so we don't talk. Miss Shah-non she tries to learn some Zulu but he has a bad memory and says the words in funny ways. I'm the same at English, I always forget. We work for a long time on the difference between who, where, what, why and when because she wants to get to learn about me more. Sometimes we don't understand eachother at all. I try to teach him Nkosi Sikele i'Africa because she likes hearing it at our school in the morning. I was very afraid to sing for her alone and my voice shake!

I try to clean the bakkie for Miss Shah-non sometimes and make it really nice. He likes that a lot. It's my way to say thank you for hiking me. Miss Shah-non says it's not hiking, it's hitching. Hiking is supposed to be up a mountain? Strange.

Miss Shah-non gives me things sometimes and I tell other children in Zulu. They are a bit jealous that I have a mlungu driving me who gives me things. No one else knows a mlungu either. For no reason she gives me a Steer's chips or a ice cream. She gave me Coke one time and I threw the bottle out the window. He said it's bad to throw out things, that I should burn it instead. I didn't really understand, but I know mlungu people, they like things clean a certain way.

But Miss Shah-non, before World Cup, she gave me a vuvuzela that came for free with her vodka. I think she heard me blow it from all the way on her farm! I hope so. I love Miss Shannon.

He gave me a Zulu-English dictionary for present. I never had one before because they cost a hundred rand. After I got the dictionary I never saw Miss Shannon again. I don't know what happened. She didn't show up when the term started after World Cup ends. I had to hike to school again. When I got there I found out she left for a different job. I wonder was she without happiness? He didn't say goodbye. I hope I know more English the next time we meet. I miss her. She's the only mlungu I ever knew and I don't think I'll ever know another one unless I get a gardening job. Miss Shah-non, I tell him Sawbona when we meet again and I hope she remembers!

Poetry in Motion

2010-09-04T16:08:00.002+02:00

On the horizon you are nothing but a sliver.
You surprise me with your curves
your bounty.
As I catch on your wide, toothy lips
you make me falter.
I swerve to caress your contour
but you still catch my rim.
You make me hesitate.
At times you are so vast, you grip my entirety.
At times you are so fruitful, you shake my mentality.
I wish you to be filled, for the road ahead
to be vacant,
And yet you smile every time you cause me
to bite my lip and stutter.
Africa might move ahead in its economy
were it not for you.
Potholes.

Forward to the Past

2010-08-15T22:56:00.002+02:00

: : : Forward : : :

i KNOW. I disappeared again. I have been writing. To myself. About the beginning. It seems, as my geographic circle has come together, and while other sections of my life fray apart, it has made the most sense to stop writing about the "now" and to place my focus on the "origin".

My two year anniversary in South Africa is one month away. My accent has changed dramatically and I constantly pepper my English with fragments of Afrikaans, Zulu, and recently, Sesotho: lekker, is reg, dankie, dumella, yebo, eish, ee, morra. Sometimes I catch the sing-songy lilt in my vowels that is so essentially South African.

Some things don't flow over my tongue so naturally. Saying toe-mah-toe still feels funny compared to toe-may-toe. And I don't think I will ever be comfortable saying b-ah-th over baaaa-th.

My skin has certainly been tested with the dangers of the sun and I've become more hyper-vigilant about sunscreen since I've detected slight blotches in my colouring....I wish I'd cared more a year ago, because African sun is brutal! And lookey there - I wrote colouring, instead of coloring. I have a collection of giraffe teeth and antelope skulls. I know many of the local birds. Daily, I become better acquainted with certain terms here, but always find myself struggling with some quintessential American difference or conversion (like metres to feet). I'm on a fence with one leg dangling happily on either side without enforcing allegiance to one nationality more than another.

It's natural that with time I will meld more into my surroundings and local culture, however. And while I've had a lot to say about my surroundings in the past (because it was new), I have less and less to say about the things around me because they're becoming my normal. Which is why I scratch back into the past. Into these so-called "origins." Because, still, after all this time here, I struggle to make meaning of the bigger picture, of my being and my purpose and my pro-longed residency here in South Africa. So bear with me, now and again, while I flash back:

: : : to the Past : : :

Rape crisis must seem like a deep abyss for those who have never experienced it first hand. After graduation from university in 2005, I decided to join a troupe of amazing, fierce women to volunteer counseling services to survivors of rape. I went through an earth shattering training with the Chicago Rape Crisis Hotline. It was an education that had my head moving in multiple directions, for the first time teaching me a tangible form of feminism. I was given the chance to see the structures of race, gender, sexuality, religion, class, age and ability and how they impact one’s experience with assault.

Once I began working at the hotline as a counselor, I realized I was really good at what I was doing. My job was simply talking to people and helping them process the assaults they, or a loved one, had endured. I found patience and I found the capacity to offer a little light at the end of the tunnel, without being naïve, but by offering compassion. The members of the hotline were blazoned warriors and their shared support were what made the hotline room one of safety.

After the first call I took about a gang rape executed by a bunch of ten-year old boys, an overwhelming feeling came over me. I became aware that a solid handful of people in the world hold the secrets and pain of others. It is this that lightens one’s load, but the diffusion of others’ pain is not easy to bear. Sometimes it felt like no one else in the world knew of this boundless pain. Sworn to confidentiality, I could not share what I heard. I would step outside of the YWCA building on Michigan Avenue, look up at the beautiful Wrigley Buildings and the winding pathway of the Chicago River. I would see masses of downtown people, donning their coats, their pearls and briefcases, their business smiles and frowns; all of them going about their daily life oblivious to the pain and suffering faced by these rape survivors. Gang rapes, incestuous fondling, date rape, statutory assault, children raping children, prostitution of step kids.

I got even deeper into my work with sexual assault. Another group, the Rape Victims Advocates, delivered services to victims who enter the emergency rooms for medical attention after an assault. I started going on call twice a month, waiting in 12-hour blocks for a page eliciting my support at a local ER. Going from the faceless survivors on the phone to the delicate, vulnerable faces in the fluorescent ER became, admittedly, too much.

When it became time for me to formulate my Fulbright proposal, I was taking into account all of these experiences. I knew it was time for me to help others process their sexual assaults into a more visible form, something that could eventually signal to the rest of the world what the hell was going on.

: : : :

For what must have seemed like an eternity to my friends, all I could talk about was rape crisis and South Africa. Sexual assault and racism. Gender inequality and squatter camps. All of these in the constant form of hypotheses.

Still in the deep of winter, I remember walking down California Avenue with my roommates, Kim and Grace, to attend some obnoxious gathering of artists at a house-run art gallery. The latest snow had been reduced to small ridges along the edges of sidewalks and walls, burned black with the soot of traffic. Large, old clapboard houses lined the streets, re-covered with fake tarpaper painted with brick designs, the houses' chain link fences gleaming in the peachy mercury light of the city. Buses rushed by in the ice chill of the street and the silence reverberated off its noise. A typical February night.

Two important things came up that night. Number one, Grace and Kim informed me that I needed to develop new topics to discuss because the same old rigmarole about rape and South Africa had become a monopoly and had left them with little to contribute. Secondly, at the gallery, I slammed face to face with an old college peer, Bonnie. She inquired about life, how are things, and I told her about my doomed Fulbright proposal. Armed with cheer, she told me, “A Fulbright rejection is a rite of passage.” Since that night, I have learned she’s very correct.

: : : :

My Plan B formed out of not wanting to lose all the planning and contact building that had gone into my initial proposal. I believed quite solidly in my ideas and in my workshops, but most importantly in my gut, which was still telling me to go for it.

What I realized was that my time in Chicago was coming to an end. My salary at the time measured up against a busy social life and an expensive, urban cost of living. My monthly savings were paltry. I had done enough research to realize that my plans would not be easily funded as I was a mere individual and not an organization. I decided I would have to fund my own way. I would move back with my family.

: : : :

French Drains and Ankle Sprains

2010-07-28T18:46:00.005+02:00

With a right calf that's inches smaller in diameter than the opposing leg, I'm balancing life fairly well. My poor little swollen ankle has given me 5 weeks respite from steering a car and from enjoying the outdoors of winter (be that healthy or not).

Meanwhile, with my Moon Boot on, my electric blue crutch in hand and a steady limp, I'm taking Viljoenskroon on! I am here. O.F.F.I.C.I.A.L.L.Y. I even have a PO Box registered in my name if that makes my experience more legit.

I have been relatively subdued and quiet since my landfall with twisted ankle and mother earth and my departure from KZN. Please excuse my blogger absence as the amount of downtime I've been given delivers no excuse except TOO much time to sort out my head. Weeks spent in friends Christa and Ardine's flat gave me a private room, a stellar 12 Apostles view, a hot pink duvet, a smelly barley bed warmer, a daily dose of good bathing in a tub, and many shoulders on which to cry about my confused head and heart. Sigh. Grey areas have never been my thing and it seems I'm in a relationship fog right now.

Alas, my life has rotated 197 degrees, or so, and now I'm in the Free State. With cousin Robyn to drive my sturdy Twinkie stick-shift, we mastered 60 km/hr uphill and managed to even hit the speed limit of 120 when on even territory. That car has never been so well-stroked or loved in all its days and after 14 hours of N1 travails, we made it to my new dorpie (little town).

Alice (Oumaki) and Papi Lekgetho have opened their home and arms for me, gracing me with generosity. They are two of the most dedicated government school teachers I have witnessed in SA, working late hours, and on Saturdays and Sundays to refine the education of their learners. On top of that, they haven't let me lift a finger because of my sprain. Papi brought me breakfast in bed on Sunday and today he washed Twinkie to a brilliant, pearly glean. Alice cooks great dinners of meat and pap every night. I look forward to regaining my mobility and the ability to stand for long periods so I can repay their kindness with some of my own tasty treats.

As my move to Viljoenskroon launched the start of my new job with Dramatic Need, I have struggled a bit with not having access to a driver. I spent the last several days house bound, but managed to get out today to liaise with the local schools. It is exciting to get back out onto the open road and to this part of the country that opened my eyes to the devastating issues rural South Africans face.

Last week I met with the contractor, a tubby grand-pop Afrikaaner named Wessel. He immediately welcomed me into my project management role and I look forward to seeing how my work with him unfolds. At the time, I stood amongst four men loaded with surveying equipment, all speaking in Afrikaans and what also seemed like a foreign language - french drains! Basically, where to run the pipes and to store the septic tanks for the sewage systems. Oh boy, am I in for it! Just imagine, little crippled Shan, being followed around by gents who are so well-mannered they let me set the pace. And then they look to me for my opinions and suggestions! Strange and fascinating. I feel incredibly short and petite against my Afrikaaner male colleagues, as well.

With a new job that means wearing many different hats, I really am enjoying what I'm up to. Even the admin. I think it's time I face the fact that when it comes to calendars - I am anal-retentive; when it comes to filing my documents - incredibly perfectionist; and when it comes to color-coordinating my closet ridiculously organized, all to the extent that I should LOVE these parts of myself. In the embrace, I manage to be quite productive and surprisingly flexible in what I'm capable of. So let's see if I can't take the white glove test to that of construction...bombs away!

: : :

Oh, and by the way, this is my 101st posting! It's very interesting that my last post, which is a reflection on the seeds of my trip to South Africa, was my 100th posting in my 1 year and 11 months here.

The Beginning: Starting May 2006

2010-07-24T14:21:00.002+02:00

The domed orthodox-churches of Ukrainian Village, spread below the balcony, sparkled in tones of dusty pink as dusk turned to night. I was swooned by the lemon-garlic mussels Scott prepared after a day of us cycling through the various Saturday markets of Chicago. By the time he gave me a solo performance of the ballad “Wildflower,” on his banjo, I was knocked into a silly stupor. It was a first date that soon had me rolling into a romance that consumed my head. I was on my way to the moon so fast, that I found myself splattered when Scott announced his move to Philadelphia after a mere six weeks of dating.

Thus it began. In eager Shannon-style, I would not be down-trod by the man who didn’t need me. No, I would stop holding out for romance fantasies and take myself on board to do the things I’d been waiting for. Travel. And not just any travel. To South Africa. My mother’s land.

I seem to have a lucky knack of figuring out what it is I want and then doing whatever it takes to get there. Sometimes it starts small. It usually has nothing to do with people, but everything to do with goals. In sixth grade I learned about the Peace Corps and grew large dreams in my heart to one day dedicate myself to people less fortunate. By the time I was 22, I’d made it to my dream art schools and was successfully pursuing community organizing instead of art. It was time to go after the next goal, a Fulbright Scholarship to take me to South Africa.

My university papermaking professor drilled it into my head that there is no need to go into debt for education and travel. The money is there but it’s just a matter of finding it. A Fulbright Scholarship would give me the resources to plan a trip to South Africa and at the same time would provide me the flexibility to design my own course, rather than taking chances with the Peace Corps. And, I must admit, the prestige of the award was something of great appeal.

In the month of June I had four months to radically prepare a valid reason for going, to find structural support from South Africa, and to carefully craft an application that would win the hearts of every panel member of the Fulbright Committee. At the time, I was chest deep in a couple of different rape crisis projects and knew that this was the area I wanted to target. Combining my art background, I came up with a series of art workshops to guide survivors of sexual assault through their experiences in a way that would empower them to move forward in the world.

In my application, I boldly wrote that I wanted to uncover how the act of creating could be used to counter the violence the country faces daily. Specifically I stated that, “My time in South Africa will challenge what I perceive about how creating can be the antithesis to social destruction and a stimulus for social change.” I wrote about how my few visits to South Africa as a child had been pivotal to my life and my art. I discussed how the patchwork of metal wrestling cardboard, plywood supporting tarps and fabric stuffing holes moved the visual artist in me. Ultimately, my point was to suggest that South Africa has a need for an art that becomes inclusive, not exclusive, and that has the power to inform, challenge, and strengthen communities.

I poured hours and dollars at Kinko’s faxing late night letters to the internet-defunct SA and spent frantic days at the office networking for relevant overseas contacts. I forfeited several hot dates to focus on my application and was weary by September 29th. After submitting my application, life became a game of waiting and of mentally balancing the prospect of not getting what I so desired.

: : : :

In January 2007, my grandfather’s Alzheimer’s had matured, leaving his body and his mind helpless in a dark room in the Karoo. Yearning to see this great man one last time, my mother and I trekked to SA to help out with the nursing of his final days on my uncle’s farm. I had no experience with death. The double entendre was getting to be in South Africa again after 5 years, with the knowing that I would soon return to live there, all the while grieving the potential loss of Grampie.

It was my first visit to the Groot Karoo and to my uncle’s new farm, Riverdene. By the time we reached the farm, the sky was pitch black and the low-lying mountains could be seen as dark shadows against the backdrop of stars. We crept into the old farmhouse, creaking along the thick, wooden-planked floors in a state of deep sobriety, preparing ourselves for the shock of seeing Gramps on his back. In a darkened room, there he was, in his hospital bed, the distinctive little mole peering at the ceiling from his chin. His skin was scaly and rough from years at sea and farming a multitude of unsuccessful crops.

But he was slightly lucid. After Aunt Patty’s urgings, he grunted and turned his head to see my mother’s shining face, wet with tears. “Hello my pa,” mom said chokingly. Patty asked him if he knew who had come to visit. After looking at me, he said, “Shenandoah and Andes Mountains.” His humor had not been lost! My name being similar to the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia and my mom being named Andrea, I was shocked his crippled brain still knew us. That was a lucky hour and the only one like it we had for the next 3 weeks.

: : : :

Three weeks of sweat inducing work. The deep heat of the semi-desert summer brought with it red roman ants, scorpions, poisonous boomslaangs (tree snakes), mosquitoes, but worst of all, flies. Each day as my grandfather worsened, the flies would land on him like an old horse. It would take three women, Patty, my mom, and myself, to turn my grandfather every two hours. We would vigorously massage his skin with ointment to prevent bedsores. At first we could still feed him with a spoon, but eventually we had to move to a liquid diet and feed him with a syringe down the back of his throat.

Those days were heavy. We felt so much disgust with the state of this man’s decline, the loss of dignity and the lack of control. It was if death had already descended and we were preventing it from taking its course. I remember mom brushing his teeth and the black decay that had already begun to form in his mouth. His moaning swept the house and his last days felt like a prison of sorrow.

I had to return to Chicago two days before Gramps passed away. The aching chills of Chicago’s endless snowdrifts, brought on heaps of depression. Within a week, my Fulbright rejection letter arrived. Things couldn’t have felt worse. I knew that I would make it to South Africa, that it wasn’t just a folly for a prestigious award that would lead me there. But with the absence of the patriarch of my mom’s family, having such distance from the loss and suddenly trying to imagine myself “there” doing these ridiculously ambitious projects, I slumped. What exactly was it that I was trying to do and who was I, really, to embark on such an overwhelming project? The Chicago winter continued to bite me through the soles of my shoes and I rejected the environment for my bed and hours of unrealistic TV series on countless DVDs.

Many hours, antidepressants and sick days later, I emerged with my Plan B.

: : : :

Photo borrowed from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/14252535@N06/1818193540

Cycles and Kindness

2010-07-01T14:00:00.003+02:00

Speaking of cycles, how about going full circle? I am en-route to the beginnings of my South African journey -- Viljoenskroon. Not only that, but I've found myself in a bit of bind, with a sprained foot which will enable a hobbledy hobble to Viljoenskroon at best!

From what seems to be one of the most untimely of accidents, I had one of the kindest days of my life on Monday. Two dear cousins, Paige and Leigh, were in Johannesburg to see to my wounds of Saturday and take me to a doctor. The doctor gave me discounted prices on my accoutrements and the physiotherapist saw me free of charge. The airport was stellar in seeing to it that I got twirled around in wheelchair style. And the very hot Argentinian foreigner sitting next to me patiently waited with me to be wheeled off the plane and to help me with my bags. Then, my stellar friend Adrian was unexpectedly there waiting for me to take me home to his flat.

It is a rare and amazing thing to be given a glimpse into the honors and decencies that remain in humanity. In fact, I can see that they abound from the treatment and service I have been given by the random strangers I've happened upon this week. Not to mention the kindness of my friends, who have walked slowly with me, carried me and my bags, driven my car, brought me tea, and fixed my breakfast. So simple. Such a good vision into the lighter side of the world after a rather dramatic spell in Kwa-Zulu Natal.

My newfound patience and other last-minute farm remnants

2010-06-20T17:36:00.009+02:00

All the time I've been on the farm, I've been complaining that I haven't been seeing enough birds. Our yard, the former grounds for a cattle-dip against ticks, has only one small paw-paw (papaya) tree and the shell of a long-dead tree, providing very few branches for the birds of our territory. However, this week, amongst my marking of 400 term papers (including a grim 200 essays), I had many wistful moments staring out the windows at the cold morning beyond. The procrastination achieved from avoiding marking gave birth to the fiercest of bird-watching patience. A patience, I might add, that would have saved all my complaints from the start had I really given their winged flight the time of day. My old, telephoto lens in hand, I managed a number of identifications of some of the birds hopping about our yard. Since Johannes and I have spent our days at work, I almost missed out on these early morning sightings entirely.

There has been one other very important photographic capture: that of the warthogs. They march, they chomp, they rustle, they grunt, they crunch, they scurry, they bury, they grovel, they trot, they meander, they scamper. They are so quick to scatter at the slightest noise and so, I have never managed a photo. While far from brilliant, I have some evidence that they have been trimming the outside hedges of our yard quite sweetly.

Several months ago I found a felled giraffe on my road off the farm en route to school. It was devastating to see the great beast in stiff rigor mortise, as though it had been frozen in time and simply knocked over. Later I found out it had walked into an electric wire and toppled from electrocution. The body was removed and the wires have since been raised. Meanwhile, the giraffes stayed far from our quadrant of the farm but in the last months have begun to return. Now, we have a family of 5 that frequently visits with a loud munching on the branches just beyond our fence. We have even seen the male-head visiting the burial sight of the dead giraffe. Incidentally, Johannes and I happened upon part of that particular giraffe's lower jaw and now have in our possession 12 miraculously huge and well-formed tree-munching molars.

A few other notes for this section of photos:
** Some alarmed female nyala visited Johannes and I on our braai yesterday and actually grunted us!

** Kingfishers are some of the loveliest birds I've come across in South Africa. They mate for life and always travel in pairs. The Woodland Kingfisher male in this instance is blue and the female, as usual, brown and dull -- although she's quite sweet and yellow!

** Warthog males travel together while the females travel with the babes, as do most of the animal families. Warthogs live in dens, usually dug conveniently into the roads which create some interesting texture to the driving surfaces of the farm. When they run they scatter to the winds in a flurry, but always with what we call their "aerials" (aka tails) in upright position. An aerial here is what is known in the USA as an antenna.

**I've always noticed yellow birds visiting our fences and just mistook them for the very common weaver birds throughout the country. I was amazed to notice them right outside my window in the grass and could finally identify them as Yellow-fronted Canaries. Now I know why it always sounds so lekker (nice) outside our house!

Shannon Kelly has an ellie in her belly

2010-06-11T10:20:00.003+02:00

Firstly, I have to give credit to my mother for the title of this blog!

Secondly, an explanation. What?! An ellie in my belly? Yes, it is true. How do I even begin to explain? Did I not become a vegetarian 5 years ago from a story I read about elephants?! MY WORD. I was vegetarian for 2 years, only to give it up upon coming to South Africa and henceforth bought/ate as little meat as I could get away with. Until I came to this farm. Now, almost all I eat is venison (and thanks to Mozambique, prawns).

Two nights ago we became the recipients of a 20kg bag of elephant meat. Some foreign hunter came to the next door farm to hunt an elephant for approx a million rand -- and no, he didn't want to take the meat home with him. Thus, it appears the meat is being healthily distributed amongst the community.

So last night, in celebration of my last day at school Wednesday and watching the Opening Ceremonies for the World Cup, Johannes and I supped on rice, elephant stew & J.C. Le Roux bubbly to the sounds of cheering & Vusi Mahlasela (one of the South African treasures who sang at the opening last night).

I have to share, that in preparation of making elephant stew, I decided to peruse the internet for recipes. Ha, ha, ha! All I could find, on multiple sites:

******
Ingredients:
1 Elephant, 10 Warthog, 100 kilogram tomatoes, half ton potatoes, 100 kilogram salt, 1 wheelbarrow onions (heaped), 10 liter vinegar, 20 liter chutney, 4 Guineafowl

Method:
Hunt the elephant, warthog and guineafowl. Hang guineafowl to ripen. Cut elephant into edible chunks, (will take about a month). Boil the warthog with other ingredients (except guineafowl) till nice and juicy. Now boil elephant chunks over high flames till tender. (will take about 4 weeks) and add everything together. Boil for another 5 to 7 days.

Produces about 3,500 helpings.
Note: If the above isn't enough, add the guineafowl as well.
******

Although I would never buy elephant meat or kill an elephant or want to watch one die, because we were given meat that would have been a sin to throw away, we had to do SOMETHING productive with it. I ended up adapting a Jamie Oliver recipe and thought I should be the first to produce a legitimate Elephant Stew Recipe, for the masses that might be interested. It was incredibly tasty, actually, though the meat was still a might bit tough.

*******
Hearty Elephant Stew Recipe

ingredients
• 4 tablespoons plain flour
• sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
• 800g stewing elephant (or any other type of venison), cut into 2cm chunks
• olive oil
• 2 onions, peeled and roughly chopped
• 3 carrots, peeled and roughly chopped
• 2 sticks of fennel, trimmed and roughly chopped
• 2 sprigs of rosemary, leaves picked and chopped
• 4 sprigs of thyme, leaves picked and chopped
• a knob of butter
• 6 sprigs of fresh parsley
• 2 vegetable stock cubes
• 1 steak bone
• 600g quartered potatoes
• 2 cloves of garlic, peeled and finely chopped

First, make a broth with the stock cubes + any leftover bones if you have them handy. Since I didn't have any beef stock cubes as Jamie suggested, I used a left-over beef-chop bone to make a broth. Boil in 3 cups of water, along with 2 veggie stock cubes for approx 2 hours. Set aside.

Dust a chopping board with 2 tablespoons of flour and a good pinch of salt and pepper, and toss your chunks of meat through this mixture until well coated. Heat a large pan on a high heat, add a few lugs of olive oil and fry your meat for 5 minutes to brown it. Add your chopped onions, carrots, fennel, rosemary, thyme and the knob of butter. Add a few tablespoons of the broth, give everything a good stir, then pop the lid on the pan and let everything steam for 4 to 5 minutes so the flavours really mingle together.

Take the lid off so your meat and veg start to fry, and stir every so often for 5 to 10 minutes. Chop your parsley stalks finely, and once the onions start to caramelize, add them to the pan with your remaining 2 tablespoons of flour. Stir, and pour in enough broth to cover the mixture by a couple of inches. Put the parsley leaves aside for later.

Bring to the boil, then turn the heat down to medium low so that the stew is just simmering. Add your potatoes and slow cook for at least 2 hours with the lid slightly askew, or until the meat falls apart easily. Keep an eye on it as it cooks, and add splashes of water if you think it looks too dry.

Put your chopped garlic in the middle of a chopping board. Add most of your parsley leaves with a teaspoon of sea salt and ½ a teaspoon of black pepper. Chop everything together so you get a kinda chunky paste. Add this to the stew and stir through. Chop the last of your parsley leaves and sprinkle over before serving.

Adapted from http://www.jamieoliver.com/recipes/venison-recipes/venison-aamp-juniper-stew
*******

Moz, Part 4: Driving from North to South

2010-06-11T07:19:00.006+02:00

The road from Pebane back to Kwa-Zulu Natal is long. The roads are poorly maintained with enough pot-holes to kill a normal rim in an hour. Lucky for us, in our big-manned Land Cruiser (vehicle of Africa) we only had rattled bellies and brains, but the vehicle was fine! We traveled from Pebane to Inchope the first night. From there we drove solidly to Vilankulos and then on to Praia de Tofo (near Inhambane). Our last long drive was to Maputo and from there back to Pongola. All in all, 5.5 days of driving, sleeping, and swimming.

We saw stacks of people all the way down -- there is nothing such as the "wilderness" in Africa, truly there are people everywhere. My photos are poor because of the road conditions & my difficulty to focus through the windscreen. However, take them for what they're worth! The last two photos I co-opted from another website, as I ran out of camera battery 1/2 way down!

I took notes on the drive down. They are as follows:

Pebane to Inchope:
* crippled man with a rock tied to his write to keep spasms in his hand still; big smile on his face; always walks up and down the road, the happiest guy, Johannes says

* kids selling live chickens - holding legs, flapping wings, struggling for freedom whilst being held out over the road.

* bikes laden, used as modern day wheelbarrows with racks full of: pineapples, sacks of charcoal, sides flanked with wooden planks

* African women walking an extra head tall with the following atop: sticks, sacks of maizemeal, bundles of mandioca/cassava - wrapped in patterned cloth, bundles of firewood, plastic jugs of water, plastic bins with fresh laundry (washed in the river)

* bikes with 2 or 3 passengers, often a mamma with child side-saddled on the back.

* streets littered with rows of children, girls in dresses -- no uniforms here, too poor, tattered school books carried in one hand; can see that there aren't enough schools in rural areas by the #s of children you see during the school day.

driving to Maputo from Praia de Tofo:
* baobab groves, magical; planted fields where they've left the large trees to stand in the middle; towns that have grown up around the baobabs, much like in that new film Avatar

* goats & rooster tied to wood-laden trick, cowering as nestled close to wood, bodies quivering/trapped.

* old school buses over-loaded, sometimes almost twice as tall with loads of luggage & coconuts mounted in bundles on top. major safety hazard!

* Johannes speaking Portuguese, feels like a remarkably familiar language because of my French/Spanish: mar, por favor, senora, etc.

* for sale on the sides of the roads, north to south: reed mats, baskets all shapes and sizes, charcoal, honey, diesel, coconuts + scraper tools, fabric, clay pots + urns + bowls, guavas, traditional beer, maize mortar & pestles made from large wood pieces, cashew nuts being flown from trees in clear plastic bags, charcoal burners, chickens live, exotic birds, thatch chicken houses -cute, wooden planks, reed bundles, hats, wooden sculpted fish, doors, chairs, stick bundles for building, live goats, metal buckets, concrete tiles with holes to be used as windows, second-hand clothes

* Maputo - throngs of people; markets, ladies sitting with spreads of lemons & tomatoes on blankets and what looks like collard greens -- me sitting on the back of bakkie to protect our worldly goods from quick-handed theft

* mosques up north; old-style Portuguese churches in south

* prawns, prawns, prawns

* women becoming more modern as we drive south, some with jeans and fancy hairstyles & contemporary fashions; compared to north where they wear traditional patterned cloth, often 3 pieces, one wrap for skirt, one wrap for torso, one wrap for head.

* fabric traditional women wear changes as we go south, too -- less of the blue/green/white/black patterns from Malawi; more 2-toned plaids

Images from Vilankulos & Praia de Tofo will be removed at the request of the owners:
http://mocambique3.blogs.sapo.pt/arquivo/VILANKULOS%20-%20vista%203_resize.jpg
http://macua.blogs.com/photos/turismo/tofo1.jpg