On the "road" again

That's right, folks. The day has come. Later this evening, I hop onto my first flight home. A swift 12 hours later (during which I'll probably sleep 0, because I don't know how to do that), I'll land in foggy London-town, spend a few hours of layover-time fumbling my way through security, and then make my way back State-side on an 8.5 hour flight to Chicago. See you soon? Yikes.

Oh, Africa. I have no words.

Thoughts from an African Hostel

As it turns out, girl cannot survive (happily) on peanut butter sandwich alone. After my forth, or maybe my fifth, I broke down and bought some apples to supplement what is arguably my otherwise nearly perfect diet. On my walk back to the hostel, with apples under arm, Table Mountain looming on my left and a slight drizzle falling from above, I started recounting the already innumerable hilarious international anecdotes my backpackers stay(s) have afforded me… as well as lessons in patience, common ground, and cultural sensitivity. There’s nothing like sleeping in a room with nine other people all living out of backpacks and hailing from all over the world. Ahh, the smells, the sounds, the stories. Yesterday, the medical student girls from Sweden and I cooked dinner together (if you could call what I’m doing “cooking”) and then picked each others brains over our various travels, research, and home lives. The well-traveled man from Bangladesh (who snores like a freight train from the moment his head hits the pillow) followed my recommendation to take the cheap train through False Bay to Simons Town and giddily came back with the greatest video of a papa penguin that nearly bit off the Bangladeshi’s finger in order to protect his young. To each his own! Who knows what (and who) today will bring.

In addition to having innumerable opportunities to practice my Swahili with staff, I also met some interesting internationals while staying at the hostel with Lucetta in Nairobi, Kenya. From the young California entrepreneurs on the bus to that other avid-traveler guy who followed us to our restaurant at dinnertime, we’ve chatted with some truly remarkable people. I’d tell you all about ‘em, but it would take 20 blog posts at least. In fact, every time I got into a cab in South Africa, Tanzania, Zanzibar and/or Kenya, it was a cross-cultural learning opportunity. I’ll never forget Paul from Nairobi (who drove Lucetta and I everywhere), or Samuel from Zanzibar (who befriended Randi and I every meal of the day), though I may very well never see them again. It’s amazing, truly, how many people there are in this world – so different from you, but all dreaming and working for the same noble things. It’s a diverse planet, but we all want to live long, comfortable lives, full of family, friendship, and basic accomplishment. There are few who really want to be bothered by wars and hate and greed. When you remove yourself from your comfort zone and really start talking to people, you come to find this.

I credit my ability to handle and appreciate these moments with any degree of grace and reception to that upbringing I mentioned in the post prior… but also to Cross-Cultural Solutions, the organization I’ve been working for the last six months. In all that they do, they strive to teach their volunteers and partners that while we come from many different countries, we are Global Citizens, and this is what binds us and holds us responsible for the fate and happiness of all human beings. So, yes, while I’m proud to be an American, I’m even more satisfied to say I am a citizen of the world at large.

I received an email from Josie (my teenage Tanzanian brother and artist-extraordinaire) this weekend – a delicious mixture of English and Swahili. He’s found the space and start-up funds for the art school he wants to open for street children like him. It’s a wonderful world.

Miss you already, CCS Staff

Officially…

1. I am no longer a CCS volunteer and intern. My last day of volunteering came and went on Friday to the tune of Kate and Will’s wedding on the hospital television in the baby ward of Sarah Fox. I had spent the morning (and prior mornings that week) learning all the babies names (and in some cases, their afflictions, which were usually malnutrition, HIV, and complications related to HIV such as TB, meningitis, and various other virus bummers). Other duties included feeding them porridge, rocking them to sleep, and getting them to giggle whenever possible. As I stated before… it was a great way to go out. My last ten minutes were spent cleaning up the carrot spit-up baby Charles had just spewed all over his crib and then chatting to him as he perched on my hip, tickling his belly and booping his nose until His Royal Cuteness calmed down. For the first time since I started there, he wasn’t crying when we left. Miracle.

2. I am still sleeping in a bunk bed, but have been “downgraded” to top-bunk status. Yesterday afternoon, I packed my bags and hopped a cab to my dowtown backpackers hostel. It’s pretty bomber, as far as hostels go – centrally located but not on Long Street, cheap as all get-out (hence my modest sleeping status in a ten-body dual-sex dorm room), friendly and relaxed in all respects. I’ll be staying here until I fly out on Friday.

3. I am proud to be an American. (I know. Gag me.) I just spent the first hour of my first morning eating a 2-dollar breakfast in the lobby, eyes glued to the BBC, where I watched President Obama tell the world that justice for 9/11 has been delivered – Osama Bin Laden is dead. Hollllllysmooookes. After watching 2001 footage of the Twin Towers falling, and then present-day clips of your average American flooding Times Square to chant “U-S-A!,” I realized my hand had traveled up to my heart; I was all kinds of choked up. Maybe I’ve been away too long, you know? (If that's possible.) After taking a quick language-poll of the room, I decided that at the moment, I was the only American present. What a weird feeling… to be surrounded by 20-something-year-olds from Sweden and Norway and France and South Africa, and be the only American taking in this “proudly American” moment.

During my travels these last six months, I’ve come across a lot of people who have been personally affected by the terrorist acts of 9/11. More often, I’ve also been surrounded by many incredible local injustices. I’ve meet people who have had to overcome the most abhorable personal histories of loss, abuse, and marginalization (often at the hands of their own communities or families), only to be met with more challenges and obstacles of disease and war and poverty, all of which thwart them from obtaining their basic human rights… life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, if you will. I’ve grown up with the incredible privilege of having a family who cares for and supports me in ALL that I do. I am entitled to a complete and equitable education, quality healthcare, and innumerable personal rights I am sure I take for granted on a daily basis. I mean, I am a young woman and I can vote and have my voice heard in the community any time I want, if the mood strikes me. I can practice (or not practice) any religion I choose. I can go out in public on my own, wear whatever I want to, marry nearly whomever I want to, and earn my own living in any career I want for my own personal use and fulfillment. I've long since reached puberty and not had my female parts mutilated and my freedom sold off to the highest bider, for goodness sake, and not every woman can say that in 2011. I was born and raised in America by loving parents who taught me to be humble, hard-working, and open-minded, and was given the most precious gift of choice. It’s not a perfect nation, and now having left it and lived other places I know it more than ever; we could learn a great deal from the rest of the world, just as the rest of the world could benefit from knowing the less arrogant, aggressive, and close-minded bits of America. Even with all the rights American citizens are granted, too, not everyone is able to access and benefit from them. With all that I’ve been given, I’ve had to work hard to earn many of the greatest opportunities I’ve been granted. This is the reality. But I’ve got to tell you… I’m proud to count my birth-right blessings and I’m looking forward to the 4th of July. Thanks to everyone who has made this possible.

4. Even still, I have Travel-Fever. I’m not even home yet from this six-month adventure and I already caught myself combing the travel-mag section of the local bookstore. Living in a house with dozens of other people suffering travel-bug (falling asleep to each other reminise about backpacking Australia and teaching English in Thailand) isn’t helping to heal the infection, either.

5. I AM ready to come home, however. I’m not ready to leave Africa, per se, but I could not be more thrilled to see friends and family. It’s the people I have missed, more than anything, that have aided me to envision myself cruising around Chicagoland again (on a bike, mind you, not in a car – I can’t afford those gas prices I’ve been reading about). Anyway, break out your datebooks, people, and make some room for me! I am so excited to see you lot again.

Happy Easter from Cypress. Don't mess.

The LAST WEEK

Ah, my last week. I can hardly believe it. Before I forget… happy belated Easter, everyone. And Family Day. And Good Friday. Tomorrow, meanwhile, is Freedom Day here in South Africa, marking the celebration of the first national democratic elections… which took place in 1994. But now for a shorter trip down memory lane.

Last Thursday marked my last day at Cypress Primary. The entire week was equal parts incredible kindness and subterranean sadness. I would actually prefer not to chat about it too much, because I have a feeling my words will fall short (just as I thought they did upon describing my last few days in Tanzania). Nothing cheapens real life’s best memories like a rotten summation. I’d write a haiku, but I’m rubbish at those, too.

Let’s just say there were a lot of tears, speeches, songs, and kisses. Not to mention the white-table-cloth health-food-spread I received from the staff in the break room, the Cypress Primary wine glasses I received from one parent (to which my first graders inquired, “Umm, Miss Sarah, do you drink alcohol?”) and the home-made leather earrings I received from another. I read “Green Eggs and Ham,” one final time. I spent the entire morning in a haze of hugs, traveling from classroom to classroom to say my final farewells, rounding all of it off by camping out in my own 1st grade dreamland, where each of my students came up and whispered they loved me, one at a time, before I made my way to the exit.

I climbed back in the van at the end of the morning still somehow believing I’d be back the next week… but Monday has come and gone and it just isn’t so. As sad as it is, though… that’s okay. The reality of the situation is that it was a nearly perfect three months, and now its time to move on. I had closure in spades. I mean… just look at this classroom library corner. And check out these smiles (and gang signals. And tomfoolery. Typical). It’s been a wonderful ride, and I won’t ever forget it. Thank you, Cypress School.

Later that very afternoon, I got a chance to cry a little bit more when I visited St. Georges Cathedral in downtown Cape Town. Currently, in the crypt below the cathedral, there is an amazing exhibit of photos and video taken during the major protest periods of Apartheid and, more specifically, the Peace March of 1989. It’s hard to believe that not so long ago, such a quiet, old building stood in the forefront of monumental rally cries for justice. If you get the chance, visit this place yourself… and get the cool chick with one million earrings to give you a tour. There’s nothing like her present-day passion and a solid clip of Desmond Tutu speaking about the “rainbow nation” to get me all choked up. The fact that I had just said goodbye to approximately 700 children earlier that day didn’t help either. But there’s really nothing like a good cry, is there? Not if you’re doing it for the right reasons.

I’m two days into my last week with Cross-Cultural Solutions (for now… ha). It’s been a terrific run – the quickest as well as the fullest six months of my life, I’d go so far to say. I’m blown away with all that’s come to pass… all of the people I’ve met, sites I’ve seen, and children I’ve high-fived. It’s incredible. As Cypress is closed for the holidays, I’m spending my last few days as a CCS volunteer hugging and feeding sick babies at a children’s hospital in Athlone. Not a bad way to go out, huh?

"Can-Village" Venture

The week before last, I volunteered in a township north of the city called Blikkesdorp ("can village," in Afrikaans) -- a far cry from the neighborhood I normally work in, which, quite honestly, isn't that nice to begin with. Picture a sea of shacks, all crowded against each other in rows upon rows upon rows. That's literally what it is. Blikkesdorp is a "temporary" housing area where the government has forced thousands of people to relocate, like refugees in their own country, while they endeavor to build cheap housing for them elsewhere. Around 14,000 people (men, women, and, unfortunately, incredible amounts of children) crowd into these tiny tin and plastic shacks under the pretense that they'll eventually receive a shoebox-sized house from the government on the "other side of the tracks"… but some of them have been on a waiting list for YEARS. Seriously, years… “temporary” years of squatting and waiting and wondering, sometimes patiently, sometimes not.

Every morning, Monday through Friday, two friendly, weather-beaten locals -- Oaty and Stanley -- sat and chatted with us before all the children of Blikkesdorp seemingly popped out of the sand like dessert daisies, ready to play. Oaty is fifty years old and a resident HIV/AIDS awareness volunteer in the Blikkesdorp community. He and his family have been on the waiting list for government housing for TWENTY-THREE YEARS. Can you imagine? Twenty-three years of being told your house is “on the way,” with no end in sight. The system is so corrupt, it's ridiculously sad.

The nearest library, shop, and/or community center is a kilometer’s walk away, so resources and jobs are slim. As you can imagine, there's a lot of unemployment, illness, addiction and crime issues in Blikkesdorp (Oaty’s own son was murdered by another Blikkesdorp resident… but Oaty decided to put his bitterness aside and forgive his son’s murderer, so as not to promote future hatred and violence)... so it's not a prime location to have a quality childhood, to say the least. Thus, an organization called Safeline (which fights to prevent child abuse), recruited myself and another relatively new CCS volunteer, DeAngelo, to help them do a week-long program with the kids during their week off from school (effectively making sure they got a solid meal and had something safe and fun to do, instead of being cooped up in their sad/dangerous homes all week, hungry and at risk for days on end).

It was a challenging week, to say the least -- mentally and emotionally more-so than physically. On any given morning, we were surrounded by 100-200 children, ages 0-12, some without shoes, some without shirts, and all with empty stomachs. We worked outside in the dirt, sand, and sun, the first half of the day devoted solely to Awareness lessons/games. This largely involved us discussing difficult (but necessary) topics like how to avoid and protect yourself from physical abuse (“What do you say if Uncle tries to touch your private parts?”), don't play with knives (“They’re meant for eating time, not for play time”), and what number to call if you are in danger (“1-0-7!”). Sad, sad, sad, but the kids seemed to get a lot out of it. After the awareness programming, we played sports and other games with them to get them moving and having a good time -- this was a challenge merely due to the huge population and age differences, but a blast just the same.

Afterward, we handed out pears and sandwiches in spades and sent them on their way. Ravenous little honey bees, swarming all over us. It makes my chest hurt to think of it now.

To see where these kids are coming from... the "homes" that they live in... that really hit my heart hard, you know? It broke a little more for them every day, and in the weirdest ways. One afternoon, I came home and deliberated endlessly about how much I wanted kids of my own someday, just so I could love the shit of out them (excuse my language). Many of these kids, if not all of them, have been robbed of what we know as a true childhood. You can see it in their attention-starved faces, their skinny arms, their blistering aggression. You can see it as the wind blows sand and garbage around their legs and into their eyes. You can see it when they dangle from the nearby dumpster, looking for extra food or things to play with. One afternoon, I finally gave way to tears upon finding out that one of my very own students from Cypress, a beautiful first grader who has 7 siblings, lives in Blikkesdorp/ Delft. That was too much for me. I see her every day, and I didn’t KNOW. What’s more, she’s talked about seeing me there, during holiday – the songs we sang and the games we played – every day at school since. Hell, I’m crying again now.

Anyway, it was a long but worthy week for me, and for DeAngelo, whose actually from West Chicago (holla, homeboy). He got here only the week before, but as he's volunteer teaching in a school, he had the week "off," as well. A quality guy with a terrific story – I’m honored I had the opportunity to volunteer with him. For all my readers who are people of faith… please give a little shout out to D, as he’s most definitely deserving. Due to some extremely unfortunate and terrifying medical issues, much to everyone’s surprise and chagrin, he and his lovely girlfriend Toy have gone home to the States early (just yesterday, in fact). My heart goes out to both of them.

From Oaty to Stanley, to the Blikkesdorp kids and DeAngelo… it’s been an epic week for models of perseverance, strength, patience and forgiveness. I’m a humbled and heartened buoy in the raging sea of injustice.