Foible, gaffe, blunder

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Pulled strings

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

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

: : : :

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have a seat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday Morning View

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

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

: : : :

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

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

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

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

From this....

Parisian chocolate displays at killer prices

New Year's glamour queens

NC snow on Boxing Day

Johannesie in Paris

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

....to this:

Klein huisie on the long-grassed prairie

A lot of color to view from my desk chair

First I got stuck ...

Dusk from the stoep at the arts centre

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

My first enemy

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

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

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

“You want to go back home.” Statement.

“No, I’ve lived here two years.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breaking Ground

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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