Two Year Blues and Dues

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

My mlungu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poetry in Motion

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

Forward to the Past

: : : Forward : : :

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

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

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

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

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

: : : to the Past : : :

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

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

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

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

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

: : : :

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

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

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

: : : :

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

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

: : : :

French Drains and Ankle Sprains

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

: : :

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

The Beginning: Starting May 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

: : : :

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

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

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

: : : :

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

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

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

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

: : : :

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

Cycles and Kindness

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.