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.

Back in Action

I didn't realize how much I missed my kids at Cypress until I walked back into that classroom yesterday. Gosh, they're so beautiful and bright and hilarious.

In short, since I've returned, we've rolled out a donated piece of rug Mrs. P acquired (gray and stained, but still infinitely more cozy, I suppose) in my Library Corner, and hung up all the kids illustrations for Shel Silverstein's "Eight Balloons," making the back half of the classroom far less morose. I also got a lecture from some of the other teachers about why some of the students are acting out in certain ways (such as suddenly laughing like Damien at the top of their lungs) -- "They're meth babies." Oh, my god. Meanwhile, Israel drew a picture of me as "Superwoman," complete with a pink cape, so I'm feeling pretty fierce. This attitude became significantly more important when I had to address the fact that one of my students pooped his pants in dance class today. So yeah, bring on Term 2. I love 1st grade.

Cypress Happenings (and my 60th Post, who knew)

And now comes the end of another week; Week 9 in Cape Town, I can hardly believe it. As I sit here on my bunk bed, sipping hot coffee whilst wrapped up in my Masaai blanket early on a Sunday morning, I allow myself to reflect on the events of this week – and the week prior, come to think of it – and how eventful they were.

The week before this one was the last week of Term 1 for the public schools, meaning they had this entire week after off, so my time spent at Cypress Primary felt an awful lot like the last week of school before summer break in the States… i.e., very little academics were accomplished, haha. You could almost smell the discarded crayons melting in the sun. Each day held a new and different activity and an air of anxious prep and celebration. I spent almost all of that Monday helping count thousands upon thousands of Rand coins brought in by the students in tiny plastic bags, as their largest fundraiser of the term (and perhaps the year) was to be held on Tuesday. Fundraising is imperative at Cypress (and indeed many South African schools, not unlike in the States) as the government only gives them a small amount of money in order to pay its overworked staff, among other things. Thus, money acquired from junk-food and holiday-fun-crap sales during the week are used to pay an entire Cypress teacher’s salary every month… and she already accepts a reduced salary at that.

This particular fundraiser and school-spirit builder is called “Big Walk,” wherein every student who brought in the required amount of cash (a whopping R250) would walk a humongous lap around the neighborhood with their class Tuesday morning… getting a little more exercise into their routine and demonstrating Cypress’ presence to the Athlone/Bridgetown neighborhood (an important point to make in a crime-ridden area). Picture a hap-hazard parade of small children in green and yellow, walking in pairs (sometimes) and chanting songs (my class) about love, kindness, and fish (their favorites). It was certainly a sight to see, full of the standard repeated stops for shoe-tying, piggy-back rides (in my case, as one student was always “much too tired to go on”), and the emergency pee-break.

The walk itself was fun, but the whole thing was a little bit too much for me (too much what, I’m not quite sure, however, as I haven’t yet found an apt adjective). 250 Rand Bucks, as I like to call them, are kind of a big feat for many of these kids, meaning too many of them were excluded in the day’s festivities in some way. While many of the teachers bent the rules a bit, allowing students to walk as long as they brought in some money, however small, it didn’t change the fact that upon returning to the school, only children who had managed the full R250 were given a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken for lunch.

Yeah. I know what you’re thinking. First of all, yes, there are KFC’s in South Africa, and people think it’s legit delicious… and healthier for you than McDonald’s! And, yes, after a walk to promote exercise, among other things, they rewarded 5-13year-olds with a box of greasy fried chicken and French fries. That happened. But only for the ones who could shell out the “big [Rand] bucks.” Every other student had to sit at their desks and watch the rest of them eat it. SERIOUSLY? The kids who need food MOST are the ones who cannot afford Big Walk fundraiser. More than one of my kids cried that day, at any rate. How fun.

Anyway, after a short debate, Mrs. P and I decided that our first graders were kind and small enough that sharing our chicken and chips was entirely feasible, so everyone split and dried their tears. It was also Nikita’s 6th Birthday, so the fact that she brought in “party packs” for everyone (essentially a “goodie-bag” of sweets and plastic toys, and an obsession of all South Africa grade-schoolers, not unlike Dragon Ball Z) helped immensely in dissolving the gray cloud of chicken-induced-envy that had settled over Room 1B.

Wednesday I had the pleasure of doing something entirely different with the 5th and 6th graders, hopping on a bus and going on my first South African field trip. After a short ride to a Cape Town art school & gallery (or "the other side of the tracks"), students were broken up into groups and filed into art studios where they were taught various forms of art by different, engaging artists. It was amazing! As loud and disorganized as Tuesday had been, that’s how quiet and tame Wednesday became. Each student got so wrapped up in their artwork, utilizing materials they’d get at school only in their wildest dreams, they barely spoke to one another. They left that day with underwater watercolors, pastel radiating patterns, and humongous smiles, among other things. And then, of course, their bus broke down in the parking lot, so they were stuck there for a few more hours.

Thursday, meanwhile, was filled with an entirely different kind of art – marching band music! The principal of Cypress knows somebody who knows somebody, so suddenly the South African Army Marching Band, Cape Town division was setting up camp on the blacktop that morning. For a little over an hour, I was transported back to my middle-school-band days (how embarrassing) and the entire student body sang, clapped, and danced to rousing renditions of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” “Mama Mia,” “Waka Waka” and “Smooth Criminal”… no joke! Any chance I get to twirl one of students around or wildly march them up and down an aisle is a good one; even better when they start doing the moon walk or robot. These guys don’t get to act like kids with reckless abandon nearly enough. One of my students even answered a review question correctly and got to go up and play the tambourine with the percussion section – oh happy day!

Friday, in comparison, was largely uneventful. No one wanted to do anything since it was the last day before break, and my students were largely rotten, so it was sort of a wash. In retrospect, I think needed it, as the week to come (the one I just finished) was an emotional and mental drain, albeit valuable in every way. More on this later, however, as I’m certain it needs more time to simmer.

In other news, my internship research is going swimmingly, although I'm not even close to finished (in my own mind). The library corner in my classroom was finished the week before last (and it's pretty beautiful -- I ooze with pride over it), so the students have been utilizing it in spades. I'm still trying to find time to visit other classrooms and finish organizing all the unused books and teacher manuals that are stuffed into the dark nooks and crannies of Cypress, but it's looking like one of those jobs that will never come to complete fruition (at least not during my stay).

After a week volunteering in another township, I return to Cypress School tomorrow with the understanding that I only have two more weeks there. Inconceivable! After that, I have one more week of volunteering elsewhere (since the school closes again for Easter/Freedom Day/Family Day/Any Excuse), and then one more week in Cape Town being a bum (living on peanut butter sandwiches and getting my kicks walking around the city aimlessly with empty pockets) before hopping on a jet-plane for the States. Woah. See you soon?

This Time for Africa

Was leaving my last post with that political-march teaser and then neglecting to post for several days exactly the kind of theatrical tormentor I promised I didn’t like and wouldn’t do? Are you mildly annoyed with my run-on sentences and blatantly lame "Waka Waka reference" in the blog title? I’m sorry, that’s terrible.

Anyway, I can now cross off “Take part in a political rally and march to parliament with an indignant but passionate mob in Africa” from my Bucket List. Done and done. And what better cause to do it for than the basic human right to an equal and quality education? Or a campaign for school libraries and other essential school infrastructure, more specifically? Few things come to mind.

The campaign was a long time coming, organized by the local organization Equal Education (check them out on Facebook, they’re pretty terrific). Marching to demand that the Minister of Education finalize and sign the promised Minimum Norms and Standards for School Infrastructure policy by the deadline of April 1st, supporters hoped to finally take the first of many steps in ensuring that all schools in South Africa have every physical resource it needs to successfully reach and educate all learners. Can you believe that up until now, there hasn’t been an official national document outlining and demanding vital physical specifications for school buildings?

“Safe, secure schools with adequate resources must be the starting point” to attaining the goal of quality education for all, declares Equal Ed (in addition to hard-working learners, involved parents, and well-trained and supported teachers). Not that long ago (but long enough, for goodness sake), Apartheid dictated which schools received what resources, and what color people received what degree of quality education. The schools of today still reflect this dark and limiting history. According to a 2009 report by the SA Department of Education, of all public schools in South Africa, approximately 20% of them do not have proper access to water, or to electricity. 11% do not have fencing to keep out crime and violence and 17% do not have sports facilities to keep their kids active and off the street. Most striking, however, is that 90% of schools across the nation do not have stocked computer centres, 95% do not have stocked laboratories, and 92% do not have functional libraries. And the students are exceedingly and painfully aware of it.

Imagine a blazing hot Monday morning in urban southern Africa, a school holiday, the sun beating down on you as you stand among thousands of people (almost entirely school children, the majority of whom are wearing their various school uniforms) in the giant courtyard that is Cape Town’s historical Grand Parade. Not only is this the exact location where Nelson Mandela gave his first speech to the public after being released from prison; it’s now also the place where I watched learners of all colors and ages stand up, cheer, dance, and demand that their voices be heard… all to the tune of DJ Oskido and the band Freshlyground (think Waka Waka and the World Cup), who showed up that day to play and show their support.

After an hour or two of assembling our numbers, some educational rally cries, and the obligatory intense dance circles (in which it became painfully and anecdotally evident that we were the racial minority, and about as white-bread in the dancing world as one can get… not that Lucetta and I didn’t try, haha; I don’t think there’s anything as funny to African teenagers than watching two white girls “dance”), the time came to march to Parliament.

I was nearly brought to tears, readers, after overcoming my initial shock. Inconceivable numbers of marchers (over 20,000, I read later) surrounded me on all sides as we flooded the city streets, stopping traffic in every direction and spanning four lanes across. Hand-painted cardboard signs and banners flew up in students’ hands far and wide, demanding the eradication of mud schools and the right to libraries for study and safe haven. From rally cries to rousing renditions of the national anthem in three different languages, the voices of children, more than anyone else, filled the air with hope and a sense of common ground. I’ve never been more proud to be anywhere, it felt like. Who can ignore such an innocent and earnest crowd 20,000 strong? Hopefully not this government.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder? Yah?

Have you missed me, readers? (I'm still not convinced even five people read this... but in case I picked up any Afrikaaners, that "yah" was for you.)

I’ve been a terrible blogger, everyone, and it’s definitely not the first time. I really ought to post every evening after an interesting day, but it’s not a perfect world, and I’m not a perfect writer.

I’ve neglected my reporting for about three weeks or so (as you may or may not have noticed), leaving you all in the dark about my various adventures. There’s been a lot going on, too, all of which would make for really terrific blog stories. I’d like to pretend the delay was for dramatic effect, and thus totally purposeful… but I never really liked when TV did that cliffhanger malarkey at the end of an episode (Will Joey fall for Dawson or Pacey? Oh my gosh! This is terrible), so I’d never wittingly do that to my readers (and who am I kidding, I’m not nearly as fascinating as Dawson’s Creek). What’s my excuse, then? I’m just a lazy blogger.

Here’s a sub par summary of my free-time fabulousness:

Recently, a group of other volunteers and I managed a day trip down Cape Peninsula to take in the beautiful coastal views of Hout Bay, Cape Point, and Cape of Good Hope (Africa’s most southwesterly point). Picture the winding sea-cliff-side roads of car commercials: that’s where we were. The nature reserve is home to elands, baboons, and birds of all types, in addition to deserted, breath-taking beaches worthy of a Leonardo DiCaprio movie. We spent the afternoon hiking along cliffs between Cape Point and Good Hope, seizing the occasional break to rock climb here and there and frolic in the ridiculous surf --- all a warm-up for the epic ascent I rocked out (no pun intended) the very next day. Because you know how I roll.


Early the next morning, five of us rolled out of bed (mildly stiff from the day prior) to tackle Table Mountain on foot (instead of hopping the cable car like everyone else). Let me put it this way – the steep climb up was the most beautiful/scenic StairMaster I’ve ever committed to, and my thighs and hips haven’t felt the same since. My guide book refers to it as a sun-drenched “vertical slog,” if that gives you any indication. Long, rock-step lunges all…the way….up; but gosh, was it worth it. There’s no “safety precautions” to speak of around most of the mountain, so you can literally crawl out onto a hanging rock and be devoured by clouds on all sides, king or queen of the skies. After accomplishing the Platteklip Gorge trail on the city bowl side of the mountain, we hiked across the “table top” itself to ascend to the mountain’s highest point, passing truly phenomenal views of the ocean, bay, and city on all sides. After clamoring to the tip and claiming it all for beloved America (naturally), we turned back around and marched our way to the other end where a restaurant with cold African beer and food awaited us… not to mention the rotating cable car back down, haha.

The weekend before all of this, meanwhile, Dave and I took a one-dollar train trip down to False Bay (which runs along the ocean, literally… if the train tipped over, it’d splash right in like a giant metallic whale) to rent sea kayaks in Simons Town. With a small group of other paddlers, we set out from the local naval base into the wide-open Atlantic, where I became best friends with several sea lions (no joke, I think one waved at me), all of whom kept popping up to say ‘hello’ next to our kayaks. Later, after navigating the waves and taking in the best views of the coast I’ve seen yet (nothing like observing the cliffs, coves, and clouds from the water) we “parked” our boats amongst the rocks near Boulders Beach and mingled with dozens of African PENGUINS (capitalization to emphasis my enthusiasm for such things). Yeah, they just so happen to colonize there in all their endangered glory, no big deal. I walked away from that day with mildly increased arm definition, flora/fauna euphoria, and a bad case of sun-induced dehydration… so all-in-all, a victory in my book.

In case you were wondering, I do other things besides exercise. (I don’t know how I’ll stay in shape when I go back to the Midwest, come to think of it… even the word “gym” tastes sort of paltry when I say it out loud. Anyone want to sell me their bicycle this May?) I’ve demolished innumerable books since arriving in Africa, both academic and tasteless. I’m doing oodles of scholarly research in conjunction with my volunteer work, as well (anyone want to fund my Masters? Haha)… mostly centered on international/comparative education and literacy attainment in multilingual and/or disadvantaged communities. I’m bombing at Xhosa lessons (bring back the Swahili, tafadhali!), but I didn’t do poorly on the African drums, if I do say so myself. On Thursday and Friday nights, some friends and I like to frequent one or two local cafes/bars for free live folk, African fusion, or reggae bands.

Oh, and last Monday? I participated in a political rally and march to parliament. But more on that later.

Debbie Downer Day

Recently, I was having an epically bad day. To be honest with you, I can hardly remember why it was so terrible, but you know what I mean. I don’t have Bad Days very often, so this was the real deal. All the tiniest things kept going wrong, and more importantly, I had just discovered (via my online bank account) that I was broke as a joke. Not a humongous surprise, considering I’ve continued to pay my student loans, work without a paycheck, and had budgeted half-blind for six months on a foreign continent; bad exchange rates, cab fees, and porter tips unknown and thus unplanned for. I knew the day would come, but I had no idea how soon. Anyway, I was feeling a little terrified about money (to say the least) when I suddenly realized that I had also misplaced one of my many notebooks. This one in particular is near and dear to me, as it contains ALL my notes from teaching in Africa, from lesson plans to personal anecdotes, Tanzanian orphanages to South African schools. BUMMER.

Then it rained that morning, or something ridiculous. It almost NEVER rains here in Cape Town. We watch the local news every day during breakfast before we head to work, and without fail, the weather map will show the entire country covered in animated, angry little rain clouds – all but the very bottom left hand corner. That’s Cape Town. So, naturally, it rained that morning.

I arrived at school an hour later with a mild headache and slightly damp jeans, woe-is-me-ing over my newfound poverty and beloved-notebook predicament, among other things. A sorry sight, and I’m not proud. Nothing could prepare me for what was waiting in room 1B, however.

Never mind the onslaught of “Good Morning Miss Sarah” I received upon opening the front door. Never mind the bright, smiling faces of 40 first graders. I still wasn’t 100-percent. Within the first half hour, with even my best game face on (I always try to check my personal life and emotional silliness at the door), my students read me like a book – and they can’t even do that yet!

There I was, poking around the windowsill to see if I might have left my notebook there, when Chad-Lee ran up and kissed my elbow twice. Just like that. Ran right up and kissed my elbow, and then stood there smiling up at me like he knew something I didn’t. After my initial shock, I laughed at how ridiculous it was and then told him to get back to work before I tickled him to death.

Not five minutes later, during a class meeting, Hayden snuck over and presented me with a home-made gift (not his first – he’s a repeat offender/gift-giver) – two pieces of thin cardboard stapled together, with raggedly cut lined paper stuffed in the middle, his name neatly written three times on the first page.

THE BOY HAD MADE ME A NEW NOTEBOOK. Oh my god.

There’s no way he could have known I lost my original. I hadn’t told anyone. The World just told him I was hurting for one, and he fashioned it out of recycled homework and cereal boxes. I nearly started crying, it was so absurd. And amazing.

Not twenty minutes later, Keisha popped up next to me (they have nearly zero concept of raising their hands) as I knelt over another child and helped him to decipher the endlessly complex code that is the difference between “left” and “right,” when suddenly she pressed something into my palm, the most serious look upon her face. I opened my hand to discover about 10 Rand in coins. I looked up at her, surprised. That’s a decent amount of pocket money for a six year old. “Do you want me to watch this for you, Keisha? Are you afraid you’re going to lose it before lunch?” She shook her head no. “Did you find it?” No, again, like I’m a complete idiot. “What’s up, then, honey?”

It’s for Miss Sarah. (Insert long, pregnant pause.) “Sorry?” It’s for Miss Sarah. I want you to have it.

Naturally, I freaked out, refused the money, told her to keep it and buy herself something nice (“Like a book” -- shameless). She told me I should buy a biscuit or a dress. Sound advice, Keisha, but I prevailed in the end. After a bear hug, I told her to put her money in her backpack where she wouldn’t lose it.

Only later (after dinner, sitting at the home-base with both of my notebooks, as I found the original there – thank goodness, holy smokes) did I really reflect on how I had gotten everything I “needed” that day – a notebook, money, elbow kisses– all out of the kindness of my six-year-olds’ hearts. Six year olds who have NOTHING and live in impoverished South Africa. Ugh. Life is never as rotten as it seems.

I could not have made up the events of that day if I tried. The new notebook from Hayden now sits on the mantel in my bunkroom, next to the paper “heart” Lee pasted together and the “book” Jade “authored” for me over the weekend. Some souvenirs can’t be bought in stores.

Mission Not-Impossible

The mission being my classroom library corner, of course.

Right now, the plan is to set up the “bones” of the library corner this week and next, hunting down some sort of shelving and book baskets/bins (perhaps, in part, from other rooms in the school… not unlike an academic/thrifty Easter-egg hunt). I will fill this corner with the books my teacher currently has, as well as the ones my students have brought in to share (bless their sweet six-year-old souls). Then I’ll dive deeper into the heart of the operation, beginning with the borrowing of a South African’s library card and commencing the checking out of new books to share with my kids (I’d get my own card, but believe it or not, I already tried and got totally shut down. Un-cool. They don’t even know about my history of outstanding fines!). I may try to rally outside sources for support/used book donations, but I haven’t gotten that organized yet. Until then, I’m continuing my vicious battle against illiteracy in the classroom with regular read-alouds, book discussions, and the coloring of bookmarks. All my students became “authors” last week, too, when I “published” their writings and illustrations on “Love and Kindness” (after a particularly brutal week with toxic levels of teasing and tattling). Up next is “Super-Star Reader Awards,” literacy games, and magazine explorations. One step at a time, right?

On Friday, CCS set up a meeting for me with a local NGO called The Shine Centre, which works within several area schools (particularly those challenged with humongous class sizes, disadvantaged student backgrounds, and English language learners) to bring up student literacy levels. In essence, an amazing program I’d kill to work for. Needless to say, I walked away newly inspired and chock-full of ideas.

Meanwhile, I’ve also made two trips to the local Athlone library branch a few blocks from Cypress School – last week with the 7th graders, this week with the 5th graders. My 1st graders don’t get to go until April, but I talked a librarian into giving me extra bookmarks as incentives for them until then (but only after a different librarian denied me blank copies of the library card application form – BOO). Each grade gets to march down the street once this term (since Cypress has no library, as I’ve probably mentioned 200 times) to learn straight from a friendly librarian how to acquire a library card, use an encyclopedia, and find books that interest them or will help them on school projects, among other things. She then reads a story aloud to them, allows them to browse books on their own, and then gives them a rather disappointing speech about how “usually, boys don’t very much like books” (at which point half the audience then turned their attention out the window, darn it) and “not everyone is a good reader” (umm, shut up)… but then quickly followed up by saying it doesn’t matter how long it takes you to read a book, just so long as you can and enjoy it. Sigh.

There is a book for every kid/person out there, no matter what their interest or ability level… and plenty of cool comics, newspapers, and magazines, too! So much for fostering a “world of words” for these guys. Still, despite these slightly defeatist remarks (and my resulting mild frustration), the kids seemed to enjoy themselves… and at least now they know where the local library is.

Let me do it now

We’ve had a small scare/major bit of sadness at the home base today. After lunch, we were all informed that one of our fellow volunteers had to come home early from her placement this morning because a child at her preschool passed away over the weekend…from meningitis. Since the child was present at school on Friday, it would have had to have been a very quick-moving variety of the disease (if that is indeed the cause of death)… so everyone’s a little anxious, to say the least. More than anything, we’re deeply concerned for the child’s family and are mourning his/her early departure.

How precious and ridiculously short life is. We are reminded of it all the time. It seems a little morbid, sometimes, to think of our lives as numbered days… but it’s true of us all. Embrace every day, in every possible way. Eat cake. Climb mountains. Blow kisses. Give back. Do what you can, while you can – your impact matters, big or small.

I shall pass through this world but once. Any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any human being, let me do it now. Let me not defer it or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again. – Etienne de Grellet

Literacy Love

The week before last, I found out that the room labeled “Library” at Cypress -- the one I suspected may be a holding cell for past volunteers -- was most definitely neither. Early one morning, the principal, Mr. T, agreed to meet with Dave and I and discuss his hopes for Cypress, as well as the challenges it faces. During our chat (during which we got an impromptu tour of the “library”/storage room), it came out -– suddenly, like word vomit, to the point where I found myself so enthusiastically speaking on the subject, I surprised even myself -– that my foremost passion and interest under the education umbrella is literacy.

Nothing made me more happy than sharing beautiful and informative children’s books with my kiddos in Tanzania. Nothing pumped me up more than seeing their appreciative and excited faces every time they realized that they knew what was going on in the book, and/or recognized that the words on the page were telling a story. Now, standing before my students in Athlone, asking them to predict what will happen when the Cat in the Hat releases Thing 1 and Thing 2, or to show me their “roars” like the main character in Library Lion, I am filled with such animated pleasure at the sight of their enthusiasm, I can barely contain myself.

My 1st graders now beg for read-alouds, and angrily shush each other when someone else interrupts. Recently, Mrs. P began hunting down books for me to read to them before I head home every day, which is a wonderful, to say the least, but best and most exciting of all is this: ever since I started bringing in books to share with my students, one child after another now arrives at school in the morning with some sort of early-reader or dilapidated library book under his/her arm, which they then proudly march up to me and ask to share with the class. To see a love for books and reading developing right before my very eyes… well, it makes me sort of sick with satisfaction.

How difficult it is for these kids to get their hands on books, quality or otherwise! It’s incredible. It may not be rural Tanzania (where I had to travel all the way to Nairobi to find a store that sold anything but terrifying religious/moral texts and poorly translated paperbacks), but resources are still often scattered, scarce, expensive and/or inadequate. I read recently that 92% of public schools in South Africa don’t have a functioning library. NINETY-TWO PERCENT. Good lord. No wonder the literacy rate is so low (and by extension, employment rates and economic opportunity)! No wonder my kids thirst for literature!

Cypress Primary is no exception. While it may have recently acquired a privately donated, beautiful new computer lab, it has no library to speak of, and certainly no librarian. Children coming from neighborhoods and homes where print/lit is scarce (and where many parents are not so literate themselves) must rely on their teachers to provide them with this exposure, life skill, and academic opportunity (not to mention the pleasure) of books and reading. If the teachers’ school has no library to draw from as a resource, they must provide for it themselves… or simply ignore (and perpetuate) the problem altogether.

So, what can be done? Honestly, it’s a tall order. Some of the sinks in the bathrooms don’t work, the security cameras and metal drainage pieces were recently stolen, and many of the windows have only just recently been replaced after getting smashed in. How can a growing literacy problem be tackled when basic infrastructure can barely be kept up with? How can a national problem (and by “problem,” I mean “crisis”) be dealt with at the local level?

I’m starting small, myself. It’s time to get my hands dirty. The classroom in which I’m teaching doesn’t yet have a reading corner, or any organized children’s books to speak of… so I’m going to create one. By the end of my 3 months here, Cypress Primary 1B should have its own classroom library, from which both teacher and students can access print for curriculum enrichment, literacy attainment, and pure reading bliss. My hope is to have beautiful and engaging books in English, Afrikaans, and Xhosa, as well as various literacy games and resources, all organized and categorized according to my children’s interests, ability levels, and needs. My aim is something both functional and sustainable. Truthfully, I have no idea how I’ll acquire all these things (plans forthcoming), but man, nothing lights a fire under me more than bright, disadvantaged kids in need… and they are so completely deserving.

Student "A"

Student A, in my class of nearly 45 first graders, is a boy of no more than six years of age. More often than not, he’s in trouble for talking out of turn or not following directions. Imagine that, right? He’s incessantly getting up out of his seat to follow one of his teachers around the room, asking them to look at every other letter or color he adds to his work, persistently tugging on our shirts and tapping our arms, legs, and hips until he gets our attention. But even as you go to admonish his latest behavioral faux pas, you’ll turn around to find him smiling up at you with the warmest, widest grin, which, even still, doesn’t quite reach his vastly sad brown eyes. Why?

During my first week at Cypress several weeks ago, I found out that his mother had recently decided to “peace out” (whatever that means), leaving him in the care of the neighborhood and what I’ve come to find out are his semi-supportive grandparents, among other various family members. Grandpa is recently out of prison himself, naturally, while Grandma stated to Student A’s teacher that nearly all of the adults in A’s life are abusive drug addicts. Super. These brilliant role models, at their best, bully A and take his meals for themselves. Gosh, no wonder he asked for extra food last Friday. Meanwhile, when Mrs. Petersen and I asked Student A why he was coming in to school late all last week, he explained that he hadn’t been sleeping well. Turns out, he’d been wandering the streets until nine P.M., avoiding his own home like some sort of plague.

My fourth week has just come to a close, and not a day goes by now that I don’t get at least half a dozen “hit and run” hugs from Student A. Its protracted-sigh and heart-wrench inducing. Then yesterday, he told me he loved me.

Damn. Six years old. Every day, I bend down in front of him and have a private meeting. You’re not going to stay out late tonight, are you, A? And you’re coming to school tomorrow, right? And you know I love you, don’t you? Perfect. But here I am writing this, curled up in my bed, and all I can think is, “Oh man, where is Student A right now? Is that boy safe tonight?”

All I want for him, and all my students, is the chance to feel valued, cared for, and protected (at the very least well-fed)... and if his safe haven cannot and will not be home, it sure as hell is going to be school. If Miss Sarah has the last word, anyway.

Desmond Tutu

"My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together."

The Beautiful [Local] Game

On Friday of last week, I paid about $10 to see my first official African soccer match, and it was worth every penny and more.

South Africa has around a dozen national league teams, the most popular being the Pirates and Kaizer Chiefs (rumored to be Mandela’s fave, as well). The local Cape Town team, however, is the Ajax, which plays at a stadium recently renovated for last years’ World Cup. No, not the huge awesome one near the ocean that looks like a giant, futuristic donut and just hosted U2 (Cape Town Stadium)– the tiny, crappier one in Athlone, the township in which I teach and am generally told to watch my back in during even the sun-shiniest hours of the day. Didn’t stop me from attending, however, and watching Ajax defeat the Free State Stars in a 1-0 victory (jetting them up to first in the league), all to the deafening call of those ridiculous horns and the beautiful beat of traditional African drums (which people just plop down on the bleachers and beat until their hands go numb)… not to mention some customary ref-heckling.

With no major safety concerns (that one homeless guy who kept swearing at no one in particular and eventually got ballsy enough to grab my friend’s leg before wandering off being the only exception), I’d definitely attend another game in Athlone. (Don’t worry, Dad. We left all our valuables at home, called a private cab, and had him waiting for us outside of the Stadium when we left the game 10 minutes early to avoid the crowds and crazies.) There’s something really amazing about attending a local soccer game in the neighborhood where the kids I teach actually live, surrounded by people who themselves live, breathe, and die by soccer. I feel as one with the community as a blonde American could, and that’s saying an awful lot.

Every since I started playing “football” when I was seven, I’ve loved watching the Beautiful Game. Nothing compares to watching it live in the first African country to hold the World Cup (and only just last summer), however, as there’s still a buzz in the air about it. Except perhaps watching it in that country’s giant, futuristic donut… that might be even more marvelous. Sigh, some day.

Bleeding Green & Yellow

Kelly green and Sunshiney yellow – those are the school colors of Cypress Primary, and during my 2nd week, I got a chance to soak in (or ooze, if you will) some real school spirit. On 15 February, primary schools all around the Athlone area competed in an official Sports Championship, where their best tiny runners, jumpers, and throwers showed up at the local stadium in their schools’ official (and sometimes not-so-official) track/pt outfits to give each event their all… all in order to see which school could boast the most athletic achievement. Terrific, right? And everyone else gets the day off from school. This is truly a blessing, as it was in the dead-heat of summer, so even when sitting completely still in your classroom (which happens NEVER in 1st grade), you feel a bit like an egg cracked over a hot stove.

I find a lot of my best (or at least most memorable) mass-kid moments here in Africa always begin with us being crammed into a small space; under that umbrella, it’s usually aboard a bus not meant to transport dozens of children. When I was in Tanzania, for instance, I once found myself sandwiched into the front seat of a passenger bus so filled to the gills with preschoolers, they literally sat on each others laps, upon my feet, and in every inch of the aisles, all in the name of their “first and possibly last ever field trip” to the infamous “snake park,” which could be more aptly described as a dilapidated petting zoo for venomous snakes and mzungu-price camel rides. The entire day was such a liability nightmare (by Western and most generally excepted rational standards) my poor heart could barely take the stress of writing a mere blog about it even some time later. Upon reflecting on my Athlone Sports Day, however, I couldn’t help but draw some parallels.

The one that resonates most is that each morning began with volunteers and teachers attempting to organize all the children/athletes onto busses meant for other things, followed promptly by a far more organized attempt by the children to serenade us all with some spirited singing. In Tanzania, dozens of adorably-accented tiny people charmed me into a hot, crowded oblivion by crooning “In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lion sleeps tonight – Ahh-wooooooo! Wee-bum-bum-boo-way” at the top of their tiny lungs. This lasted five minutes straight. In Cape Town, meanwhile, the singing on the bus was more “chant” than “song;” a battle cry for Cypress victory. I have to tell you, being surrounded by children enthusiastically yelling “We-are-CYPRESS! AND-NO-ONE-CAN-DEFEAT-US! AND-IF-YOU-CAN-NOT-HEAR-US, WE’LL SHOUT A LITTLE LOUDER!” on an enclosed charter bus is nearly as infectious as it is ear-splitting. I’ve rarely felt more freaked out, pumped up, and naively optimistic.

Naïve we were, too. Cypress rarely competes well among its 11 other neighbors in sporting competitions, usually falling somewhere at the bottom of the athletic (and general resource) food-chain every year. This is actually rather telling, as several of the competitors have year-round physical education programs, while Cypress… well, I’m pretty sure they started training when Dave and I showed up on campus about one week earlier, and he was dubbed “Coach.” (Thus our inclusion on the bus and involvement in all things medical tape, finish line, and crowd-control that day.) I honestly think Dave’s daily hurdle, shot-put, and baton-passing crash-courses (not to mention boundless amounts of team-spirit) made a difference, however, as Cypress not only came in 8th (instead of 12th, out of 12, haha), but also had several runners and jumpers placing 1st in their age group… including one of my own students! (To whom I then obviously showed unyielding bias for, cheering ridiculously from the sidelines and giving copious amounts of high-fives to anyone nearby). Her name, naturally, is Robin Williams. Why not?

I spent most of my time at the finish line and in the long-jump pit, measuring the jumps and scratches of 3rd, 4th, and 5th grade boys whilst falling in love with all of the kids in green and gold, meanwhile obtaining the wickedest suntan/burn of my young life. All-in-all, a really good day for Cypress Primary, Coach Dave, Patch Adams, and myself. More Teacher & Athletic Adventures to follow.

Wonderful Workout's

Last weekend, I had the extraordinary opportunity to get my ass kicked by nature in Africa, and I absolutely loved it. God bless bravery, because I almost bailed twice.

After a relaxing Friday evening at home (I haven’t had a free night in weeks, so I kind of forgot what that’s like – i.e., terrific), several other volunteers and I rose early to begin Sandboarding Saturday. With a few obvious exceptions, sandboarding -- in case you were wondering -- is pretty similar to snowboarding… which, of course, I’ve never done. Midwestern girls like myself don’t have much mountain access, if you know what I mean. Thus, bring on the wipe-outs. In my mind, it wasn’t a matter of IF I would eat sand, but how MUCH. Still, it was time to leap out of my comfort zone again, redefining my mental and physical limits.

Becky, Dave, Stephanie and I arrived at the office of our adventure guide shortly after breakfast, and while waiting for our boards and boots to be loaded into the van so we could head north to Atlantis (no, seriously, the dunes are actually called that), we found out that the four of us would be joined by about two dozen leggy blondes from Norway – poor Dave, haha. Now enter our fantastic guide Lourens, a simultaneously ambitious and laid-back adventure-dude from South Africa, who was incredibly excited to have four Americans who would speak to him in English, not give up sandboarding after a handful of tries/climbs/falls, and would later follow him running into the Atlantic Ocean, fully clothed and covered in sand, only to be chased down by a ferocious, whistle-toting lifeguard who claimed we were quite obviously ruining a kite-surfing competition (and thus simultaneously risking our lives). Fantastic fellow. The Norwegians just watched.

Before all that happened, however, I actually learned to sandboard – and I wasn’t half bad! Climbing to the top of the dune, strapping on your board, and then being asked to “just jump up and turn” the first time was intensely intimidating, to be honest, as you do nothing but FLY down the dune at what feels like a ridiculous speed, like maybe you're Goose and Maverick. After giving up the whole “I think I’ll just sit up here another minute and look at this incredible view,” in addition to experiencing the first epic accidental barrel-roll, you suddenly realize that falling down is half the fun, and the adrenaline rush you get plummeting towards your friends at the bottom, literally zooming down the white-hot sands, makes every crash-landing and slow hike back up the dune totally worth it. By the end, I was able to board from top to bottom without completely biting it, and that, my friends, was an excellent feeling. We finished off the afternoon by climbing up and sliding down as a group, butts-to-boards like really sleek snow sleds, and hopping back in the van to cool and rinse off at Bloubergstrand beach (where we had our previously mentioned run-in with the kite-surfing fun-police).

While most of us returned to the home-base wind-whipped and ass-kicked, Dave and I decided our day wasn’t finished. Within a half hour (because if we had waited any longer, I would have said “forget it”), we had showered, changed, and thrown back a peanut butter sandwich, so it was time to head out again and tackle Lions Head. Part of the Table Mountain chain surrounding Cape Town, Lions Head towers over Clifton Beach, Camps Bay, Signal Hill, and the entire city center, providing an excellent view of just about everything and anything as the sun sets on the horizon. Why on Earth did we NEED to go that particular evening, following a full day of extreme sport? Good question, rafiki, but I have an even better answer. The night prior was a full moon, of course, and we didn’t want to miss the chance to see the sun set and moon rise simultaneously from either side of the impressive and daunting rocky peak.

Let me tell you… it was worth the achy limbs and tank of sweat lost hustling up that thing (and by “hustling,” I mean marathoning, as we kept an incredibly brisk pace the entire way up, finishing in under an hour, so as not to miss the day’s “big finale”) – I honestly don’t think there’s a better ocean, sky, and cityscape view in all the world. To reach the top, you follow a dirt and rock foot path which coils around and around the mountain, giving you spectacular views of the city and ocean with each new encircling. This proceeds the real challenge that awaits you twenty minutes from the top – an absurd obstacle course of rocks, metal ladders, and chains which you must drag yourself up in order to ascend to the crown. It’s all glory from then on, however – as you glance around at the other crazy people who braved the climb, resting a minute to catch your breathe, you suddenly take in the glittering sea, hazy Robben Island, and billowing clouds washing over the mountain around you. That breath you just caught is now trapped in your chest, the view is so amazing. Only a few minutes after we reached the top, the sun sank into the ocean to our left, while the tiny lights of the city began blinking on to our right.

I’d put up pictures, but in addition to it not doing justice to the spectacles described, each minute on the internet here is charged by the megabytes used, so… it’s going to cost me one zillion Rand. Perhaps some other time, ja?

Other hikers popped bottles of champagne as we marveled at the huge, lazy orange moon that rose to the left of Table Mountain. I couldn’t help but notice that it climbed the night sky at a far more lethargic rate than we had just scaled Lions Head, but at the moment, I really couldn’t blame it. It had been a long day, and I haven’t been more exhausted in a long, long time. The climb down was slow and steady, lit by dozens of tiny twinkling head lamps, and followed by a humongous helping of home-cooked macaroni and cheese. Just what the doctor ordered.

On Sunday, we did nothing but hang out at Muizenberg beach and meet up with friends for a light picnic and live music at the beautiful Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens (the Cape Town “Ravinia”). It was a nice way to round-out the weekend and recharge our batteries for the week, and holy smokes did we need it. That Saturday beat my day-hike of Kilimanjaro, for sure… but not the Monday that awaited me. Little did I know, Miss Sarah was to become the substitute teacher for 40 South African kindergarteners… and oh yeah, she lost her voice five minutes in. Now that's a workout.

I’ll leave you now to imagine me wildly directing miniature Afrikaans- and Xhosa-speaking children with nothing but hand-signals and meaningful teacher-faces… for four straight hours. I am invincible. Oh, and exhausted.

Week Two as "Miss Sarah" at Cypress complete!

My Classroom: Miniature desks and chairs, a quarter of them broken, are pushed together into small groups across the floor, although there aren't enough for each of our nearly 45 students. The only door leads out to the elements -- a large open air courtyard filled with dirt and rubbish where the children eat and play during break ("interval"). Several of our glass windows are shattered, while all of them are covered in bars to keep the world out.

The School: Cypress Primary holds grades R (Kindergarten) through 7. The property is surrounded by an iron fence and barbed wire. Looming in the not-so-distant distance, over the roofs of the ramshackle projects that surround the school on all sides, is the literally breathtaking Table Mountain, often covered with it's "tablecloth" of clouds when I pull up in the morning. While the school has recently acquired a new computer lab, I've never once seen the door to the room marked "Library" opened... nor even ajar. In fact, I've never even heard it mentioned in conversation, and for all I know, past volunteers may be imprisoned inside.

Meanwhile, when compared with other countries Western and African, South Africa ranks near rock bottom in literacy attainment and reading test scores. Riddle me THAT.

Thus far, however, I've got nothing but love for the staff and students at Cypress Primary. The few teachers I've really gotten to sit down and talk with are completely committed to working with these kids, going above and beyond the regular school-hour call-of-duty. You know the kind of educators I'm talking about -- the ones who get there early, stay there late, drive kids home, give out extra food, know every child's story, and buy the majority of their teaching resources with mad cash from their own humble pockets. Of course, not every teacher is this way, and Cypress is no exception to that rule. After studying staff photos hanging in the halls, however, I can see several of the people I joke around with in the break room every morning at ten have been at Cypress for YEARS, and that's saying something.

What's the big deal, you might be wondering. Many teachers hang out in one place for ages, haunting the same paste-smelling halls school year after school year. But Cypress is definitely a "have-not" kind of school, and most certainly a burn-out environment, even for the most persistent of earnest academic flames. Athlone, the township in which it is located, is better known for its gangsters, violent crime, and drugs (particularly heroine and 'tik') than anything else... except for perhaps it's depressingly apparent recent history, as well.

As we all know, it wasn't until the mid-90s that Apartheid finally bit the dust... which was, what, five seconds ago? I was in primary school myself, so what happened next would have directly affected me, had I lived in South Africa (this, specifically, blows my mind). Under Apartheid, race (as defined by the ruling white minority party) dictated everything -- where you were and weren't allowed to live, work, travel... and yes, where you were allowed to go to school. Not only that, if you were white, you went to the prettiest, pimpest, ballin' schools with all the resources, room, and educators money could buy. If you were classified Black, meanwhile, your schools were in the worst areas, under the worst conditions, and of the poorest quality curriculum you could find. If you were Coloured, your school sucked only a little less. Everyone lived separately from each other, pigeon-holed into their predetermined destiny, and grew up knowing their own neighbor as someone "different" and unapproachable. That was the reality, and now South Africa is working desperately to overcome it. It's slow and painful, let me tell you, and wildly interesting to see firsthand. The sea of shanty-houses just outside the city center in neighborhoods even worse off than the one my school is in is a testimony to how some parts of Cape Town and South Africa at large have not changed enough.

Cypress Primary falls in what was once strictly a Coloured township. Thus, many of the children live in "project" style housing (or even shipping containers, which are EVERYWHERE) and come from Afrikaans speaking families (although largely a less formal version of the language than that spoken by the former oppressors), The condition and resources within the school itself, as well as the demographics, are only just beginning to evolve. English is now the main language of instruction, although Afrikaans is also widely used, and many students travel from outside the immediate township from places like Langa, which is largely Black and Xhousa speaking.

I haven't been here long enough to give an accurate observation about whether or not much evolution has taken place, and if it's all been progressive and positive. What I do know is, according to the legislation, any student is now welcome there, as long as they can pay the fee. Still, I haven't seen a single "white" kid, and there isn't a single "white" teacher... except, of course, Me, as well as my fellow CCS Cypress volunteer/ partner in crime, Dave (who is now the unofficial Physical Education teacher... since they no longer have one). When Dave leaves in four weeks, it'll just be me (unless CCS puts another volunteer there).

Luckily, as I've said before, Dave and I have been most warmly welcomed at Cypress, so as of yet, there's been very little room for awkwardness or uncomfortable situations. Children continue to stroke my hair and arms, fascinated by the blondness, and most of them have endless questions for us about America (Have we ever met Obama? No? Surely Jay-Z?), but other than that, I feel more like a part of a community than a complete outsider. All of them call us "Sir" and "Miss," which I quite like, as it makes me feel less like a hot mess when I'm sweating in the heat and getting my curly hair pushed out of my face by a six-year-old boy as I bend over tiny desks and try to explain the plot of "Green Eggs and Ham."

Surprise, surprise, I'm starting to fall in love all over again. Just when I thought I had no room left in my bursting heart, not even for one more beautiful African child, I arrived at Cypress Primary. More information about specific children in my posts to follow, of course.

Just last night, I had yet another dream about my kiddos in Tanzania. Their faces won't leave my subconscious, and I'm not sure that they ever will. I wonder how long it will be before I start dreaming of Chad-lee and Lilitha and Alonzio of Athlone...

een duisend nege honderd agt-en-tagtig grondboontjiebotter toebroodjies

Don't ask me what that means, because I have no idea.

Actually, that's a lie. I know what it means: 1988 peanut butter sandwiches. Just don't ask me to pronounce it. I most definitely cannot.

This, essentially, is how my Afrikaans lessons are progressing here in Cape Town. It's impossible, and I will never master the throat-hacking "g" noise. I think I'll stick with KiSwahili, thanks very much. Too bad the most widely spoken language at my primary school, in addition to English, is Afrikaans. At this point, I think I'd have better luck with Xhousa... and that one has about three DIFFERENT "click" noises in its pronunciation.

Naturally, at least 5 of my first graders speak almost exclusively Xhousa.

Solution: Begin speaking like Linus' teacher in Peanuts.

South Africa, Country of Contrasts

Molo! Greetings from Cape Town, South Africa! Finally, right?

Now, more than ever, I'm reminded of how busy one's first three weeks are when you arrive in country and volunteer with Cross-Cultural Solutions. My first week has been jam-packed with cultural classes, tours of the city, history and language lessons, and (most significantly) my work placement... not to mention the all-important trips to the beach. Hello summertime in Africa!

Cape Town itself amazes me -- full of extremes and contrasts. Everything from the most beautiful sights (like a cityscape cradled inside an epic Table Mountain and Atlantic Ocean) to the most depressing views (like the former jail cell of Nelson Mandela on Robben Island, which I visited on Saturday, and the shack-style housing twenty minutes away, as far as the eye can see, which I pass every day) surround me on a daily basis, to the point where it's really hard to reconcile. Every weekday morning, I hop in a van in our slightly-suburban-but-crime-riddled neighborhood near University of Cape Town and then cruise to the outskirts of the city center where the townships (former Apartheid segregated neighborhoods which now, as it was only a few short years ago that democracy and the "long walk to freedom" and multiculturalism took place, look like a gangster's paradise, at best, and straight up shantytowns, at worst) are located. There, in the neighborhood of Bridgetown, in the township of Athlone, lies Cypress Primary School -- my professional "home away from home" whilst in South Africa. And I gotta tell you, it already feels like home.

On Day One of placement a week ago today, I walked into the 1st Grade classroom 1B and have never felt more simultaneously welcomed and overwhelmed in all my life. Picture a room with minimal resources (and I mean MINIMAL, for an urban school, though it IS an actual room, unlike my former placement in Tanzania, as you might recall), a rising heat index, and nearly fifty 6-7 year olds, all with beautiful golden or dark brown skin -- and that's my class/personal heaven. Luckily, I am also blessed with a terrific partner in crime -- the teacher-extraordinaire Mrs. Peterson, who seems to have boundless amounts of energy and a keen sense of humor. Thus, all is well and good in South-Africa-Sarah-Land so far. I'm getting back into my "Teacher Sarah" mindset and quickly figuring how my limited knowledge and expertise could be utilized best. More on my teaching adventures ASAP, however.

In the meantime, I've started dropping Swahili bombs less and less (bittersweet) and am TOTALLY getting used to the idea of not having to use a bed net (no malaria threat -- hooray), having cool nights for sleeping, and sending my laundry out to a laundromat instead of using a bucket and line, weather permitting. Life is good.

Happy Valentines Day to all you lovebirds out there. I received a silk rose, a coffee mug, and an avalanche of hugs and kisses from MY six-year-old valentines -- what did you get?

With love, Sarah

Dirty Dar (and other Less Dirty Travels)

Picture the most pristine white sand, aquamarine-water-type beach of your wildest dreams. Now visualize snorkeling over epic coral reefs in the Indian Ocean, sipping sundowners next to a bonfire on the beach, and smelling fresh nutmeg and cinnamon on a farm in one of the spice capitals of the world. Imagine watching the sun set behind a deteriorating sultan's palace made of coral, falling asleep on the top of a traditional dhow boat, and losing yourself in the maze-like backstreets of a chaotic island port-town.

Throw in some hookah, a few hammocks, and some sobering exploration of the history of slave trade in East Africa, and you have a pretty decent summary of my short holiday in Zanzibar this past week. That place is INCREDIBLE, to say the least, and my pictures (which I cannot post, presently, as I'm held up in another, far crappier hostel) barely do it justice... though not for lack of trying; I think I took 300 photos while I was there.

Compare that to the 3 shots I've taken since I took the two hour ferry across the water to mainland Tanzania and arrived in Dar es Salaam two and a half days ago... and yikes, that doesn't say much for Dirty Dar. That's not to say I haven't enjoyed my time here, or that I'm not glad I made the trek to check it out. Dar is an interesting place in it's own right and deserves (like Zanzibar) a more lengthy blog post devoted to it alone... but I simply don't have that luxury (i.e. internet capabilities). Further, in comparison to Stone Town, Dar is a hectic pit of hot, dirty despair. Picture the worst part of the city closest to your home -- yeah, that's Dar. Only you need to factor in that it's in Africa, so things are going to be a little bit different. And by that I mean you can park your car on the sidewalk (if the sidewalk even exists), electricity appears to be optional, and you are the minority in every single way, among other things.

If I'm being honest, I'd have to say I liked Nairobi far better, as far as African cities go. The roads were wider and cleaner, and I didn't feel like carrying all my valuables with me at all times was equally as risky as leaving them locked in my hostel bedroom. Still, the more I ventured out into the city yesterday, the more comfortable I became being in it... although I'd NEVER want to live here. Give me Moshi any day of the week -- I don't care if we were at a greater risk for malaria. Bring it on.

It really wouldn't be fair to try to compare Dar to Stone Town, either. Although both harbor towns heavy into Muslim culture (I'm nearly immune to the call to prayer these days, even though it goes off every couple of hours and is largely a source of comfort to me now), Stone Town glows whereas Dar is dark and dreary. Sunsets over fishing boats and local Zanzibarians playing soccer on the grubby beach were idyllic; sunsets over the guys without shoes trying to pickpocket people the moment they climbed off the ferry in Dar, meanwhile, leaves you wanting something more.

Anyway, with that mediocre update of some pretty awesome solo adventures (as well as great memories/mini-adventures with rafikis Randi and Lucetta), it's time for me to go pack my bags and stand under the fan in my bedroom (so as to put off melting a little bit longer) before hopping a taxi to the airport at 4:30am -- Cape Town calls! As sad as I am to bid beloved Tanzania adieu, I'm ridiculously excited for settling down somewhere again (especially somewhere as awesome as Cape Town, which by all accounts is as beautiful and culture-rich as could be desired).

By this time next week, I will have started my new teaching job at a primary school, butchered at least two new African languages, and figured out how to navigate a brand new city... all, ideally, without losing my luggage. Fingers crossed. Wish me luck!

Moshi Reflections-- The Rambling Continues

I left off my last post describing my last days at Amka School... even now, a few days later, I am avoiding the subject and neglecting to post because it's reminds me that I'm not going back. The faces of my students -- Ansila, Prosper, Ally, all of them -- swim through my head in a river of dreams even here in my crappy hostel bed in Dar Es Salaam. Irene's goofy grin and Sunda's crocodile tears follow me like shadows everywhere I go, while endless records of which students can add and which can only trace shapes, etc., race through my brain at all hours of the day. To what end! It feels like I'll never shake them. But, of course, I don't really want to. My only regret is not putting Irene in my backpack as her father suggested.

In order to capture and share with any success what these children really mean to me, I think I have to describe to you what the people of Tanzania and this whole experience has taught me in its entirety.

As a teacher (or "budding teacher," which I think is more accurate), I have faced many challenges big and small -- serious lack of resources, serious culture shock, and serious language barriers, but that's only the beginning. Patience, creativity, and the will to learn and forgive oneself became my personal, epic education survival kit... and it took me at least a few weeks to assemble it. At the end of each workday, I sat back in the volunteer van as it chugged its way through the hot, shadowy, and poverty-stricken dirt roads of greater Moshi and reflected on my morning as a teacher in Africa. Any day that I could recall my children sharing a book together, or receiving a high-five after finishing their assignment, and/or smiling at me when we finished singing a song together could be counted as a Great Success. Truthfully, any day that my students showed up and clearly enjoyed learning was a good day, and my mission as an educator was complete. Not only did I leave my mark there physically (in the form of a fabulously cheery classroom paint-job), but emotionally, too, I think: I felt true warmth and happiness in that classroom when I entered and exited to the chorus of "Good morning, Teacher!" and "See you tomorrow, Teacher!" ... even if they won't. I feel good, and that's closure.


I tried to explain to Georges -- my stellar boyfriend back in the States (talk about Patience) -- in an email recently about how it felt to be leaving Tanzania, and what I thought I was taking away from living here as long as I did. It's extremely difficult to verbalize all that has come to change within me, because I'm certain I'm not even aware of the half of it... but I'll try here, again. It's worth it, I think, to muse on what I've seen and try to reconcile it with all that I know. It all starts by asking yourself a lot of questions. How can such poverty still exist? How can children still fall through the cracks? How can the rest of the world live every day of their lives without knowing or doing something about it? When did we of the Western world put our blinders on and allow ourselves to get so distracted by petty wants and popular garbage in the media? Have we always operated that way? It's incredible!

Further, how can children so beautiful and innocent, like the ones I see and pass and work with here everyday, be left on the streets like someone taking their trash out at the end of the week? How can men be so oppressive and hurtful to their loving, gentle, and wise other halves? (Ask me sometime about the visit I paid last week to the local NGO N.A.F.G.E.M., which fights to aid girls and women, as well educate local populations, in the arena of Female Genital Mutilation... few hours in my life have been more difficult and important than the one I spent in that office, let me tell you.) How can governments with such humble, hard-working constituents be so corrupt? How can countries so rich in resources turn a blind eye to the undeniable poverty of our brothers and sisters? There's no answer to it, either... not to any of it. I certainly cannot reason it out, and won't begin trying. It seems silly to even ask these questions, most of the time. And yet they keep bubbling up angrily in my heart and mind.

My close friends and I, on several separate occasions, have found ourselves literally crying about the ridiculous generosity we have been shown by the people here in Moshi and in greater Tanzania. Seriously, there's nothing more weep-fest-inducing than being given gifts from people who don't even have running water. At first, it just makes you feel like complete rubbish, really... like I'd rather go sit in a dark corner and think about what a selfish a-hole I am than receive this token of kindness. But you cannot really do that, see -- it's considered rude. Even still, how am I supposed to accept that gift, however small or big it may be? How does one accept a gift from someone so poor, it makes one's chest ache to see it?

The week before my last in Moshi, Josie invited me over to his ghetto in Rau for lunch... and by that, I mean he went to the market himself, bought all the food, and then proceeded to cook me, a handful of his male friends, and two of his younger brothers a feast of ugali, spiced spinach, fresh cucumber and bananas -- all of which he prepared himself on a camping "stove" in the corner of his one-room, concrete home. We passed around each of the bowls and ate every last bit of it with our hands. Truthfully? I've never consumed a better meal in all my life, and nowhere have I felt more like a welcomed and honored guest. I have no idea how he paid for that food, either, because it probably cost him an arm and a leg. All of those boys live in that one room, all of them sleep on that one bunk bed, and all of them drew and painted the beautiful art that is plastered all over the walls of that grey jail-cell of a home (there one source of income, artwork)... but a home it most certainly is. Before I left, they asked me to sign my name on a piece of paper they had taped on the wall which read, if I remember correctly, "Guests and Blessings in 2011." Kill me, I thought. Just kill me now.

These people welcome us into their schools and homes and villages and offer us home-cooked meals and parting gifts, like we earned it or something, and it's just plain ridiculous. It's not easy to accept these things and continue to sleep at night. Truly, how am I supposed to sleep at night? The correct question, the one I should be asking, of course, is "Where did they learn such kindness?" Better yet, "What can I learn from this selfless kindness?"

What I've come to see, to understand, is that the only thing I can do in the face of this generosity is to be graciously and wholeheartedly grateful... and really show it. Appreciate every minute and every small bit of the blessings I've been given. And, most importantly, pass that kindness on. Pay it forward in spades. And live my WHOLE LIFE that way. That's the only thing that makes sense to me, the only sense I can make out of this whole new world of selflessness and blind generosity. Just give openly, and in abundance... whether it be food or shelter or materials or love.

Plus, none of my material possessions will mean anything to me when I die, and Lord knows when that will be, so its better to be at peace with the fact that the things I have today may not be mine tomorrow.... and that's okay. (This very thought ran through my head two days ago when I watched my huge backpackers backpack, filled with all my clothes and few worldly possessions, get dragged away from me and tossed onto the top of a ferry that I was then unceremoniously shoved into the belly off for my transit across the small stretch of Indian Ocean between the island of Zanzibar and Dar Es Salaam... that backpack and all of it's contents? Yeah. I might not see it ever again. And I had to be okay with that. Luckily, we were reunited later after I paid a ridiculous fee, so in the end, that was not the case. But you just never know.) Better to give what few things I have (and they are few, it feels like, at this point... one look at my bank account and my dirtied backpack could tell you that), because I can probably pick up another one later... if I decide I still need it, whatever it may be.

It's hard to remember, you know? It's incredibly easy to forget how lucky we are, sometimes, and how much we really do have to give. Often, as I've written before, I find myself sitting around and wishing I had this, that, and the other thing... and wouldn't life be so much better if I could just acquire it, and of course I would give so much more if I just had more money, or a better job (or ANY paying job, in my case, haha), or more time. And I think it's human nature to want to take care of yourself first (and if not you, than your family). I want more than anything now to remember what I've just rambled on about -- that I want to live my whole life graciously, giving every chance that I get -- but I know myself, and I'm willing to bet I'll forget, sometimes, just how lucky and able I am. Still... as long as I'm able to forgive myself, recover from my mistakes, and get back on track... it'll never be too late to regroup and start giving of myself again. I'll just need another little push from Miss Perspective, most likely. Thank goodness she's so pushy.

Thus, in review (bless you for even just skimming this thoughtful rampage so many paragraphs down), I think this is the heart of what I've learned in Tanzania: to live humbly and with grace, of course, but also to appreciate everything that I already have; to be patient with myself, because while my profession may be teaching, I am forever a student; and, most importantly, to give from the heart in all that I do. It's a tall order, but a worthy one. That's how I want to live my life.

Asante sana, Tanzania