French Drains and Ankle Sprains

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Beginning: Starting May 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cycles and Kindness

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

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

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