No cream, no sugar-- taking it straight.

27.08/2009

Ahh, full of vital energy, my kinetic potential of life here has risen to new levels. I cannot even describe how for once, I felt like I belonged here. It started off, kind of normal—with my usual wake up call at 7:15 am- snoozed a few times until 7:40, showered, and went off to call for 9am. From learning about Christianity- my baptized religion, for what seems like the first time, to learning about Print Production in FAM2010S from a jaded journalist who really could give a shit about a bunch of varsity students. My creative vibes got moving, nonetheless and my brain felt alive for the first time since Vermont. In Vermont, I always felt like my creative inhibitions were a sacred part of myself, somehow juxtaposed between the mountains, the cold and the stigma behind the naturalistic ideal of life out of the state. I felt like, you wanted to be a writer; Vermont was the place you found that part of yourself. So I did, for my first year and brought those fundamentals I learned in the small vicinity of Bennington, across the Atlantic, to Cape Town.

I had taken interest in Ubunye during O-Week, orientation my first week of settling in. They promoted themselves as a student run organization that used its resources to set up different schools of media for the townships that surrounded UCT. I immediately took interest in learning more- signed up and waited.

Time in South Africa is something of a lost arch. Somehow disoriented in Pandora’s box, time is paralleled between a maybe and sometime. By the time I heard back from Ubunye it was the 5th week into the term and I had to juggle so much out of the way in order to become involved, but deep down I knew it would be worth it. Or so I was hoping. As todays early morning evolved into the earlier parts of the afternoon, I got an SMS from Chrizane, the head director of the Media School telling me my tutor time is open and that we have a confirmed ride into the township- and to be ready at the Jammie stairs by ten past one. Excited I barreled through the meridian, the large amount of people that congregated at the Jammie stairs for the usual meridian performance of some MTN promotional band (somehow, commercialism never escapes any possible opportunity) and waited. Chrizane, against the South African time standard was ten minutes late of punctuality, but pretty much, on time. We ventured down Main Rd for Tracy, our ride into the township where we would be teaching. Tracy has been in Cape Town for 7 months, coming from the western coast of the states, San Fran, CA.

She drove Chrizane and I, along with a girl from Kansas, mhm, her name… is a blank, but we all ventured together. Since I only just joined and gotten involved, the three other girls seemed pretty involved about the project, talking about organization amongst the volunteers and the concept of responsibility, the concern for funding and the anxiety for writing our own exams before the Spring break. We finally arrived, at about half past 2. The townships that I saw on the way there were picturesque out of a slum movie. Coming for the idealistic, commercial being of the UCT region, the real, down to earth, hardships of places where our school was, it was like stepping into this space between the past and the present. A dividing line stood between myself, Cape Town and what was currently in front of my eyes. The houses were packed closer than any amount of hotels you ever owned on Baltic Avenue in your best game of Monopoly. Stray cats meowed to the chilly sun as they took homage to rooftops and garbage cans, just as desperate at the people that occupied the streets. Graffiti took major art form, in expression of struggle, the dark times of apartheid and the racial division that still stands strong in economical flows throughout the area. The division of white and black stands strong and proud, on both sides—and it was quite evident that I was the odd many out.

The four of us pulled into the Sophumelela Township School at the end of their day of school, as they stood in the courtyard, in full uniform and staring at us. Four white girls from the University step out of the transport taking eminence amongst their simplistic and almost archaic sense of being. Lost, as they were confused, we found the nearest teacher in order to find our learners for the afternoon. Chrizane found a kind woman dressed in jeans and a bright red sweater, her books and registers clustered and clutched tightly into her body. Her smile was as welcoming as American apple pie and her inquisition to our presence was as excited as a little boy who just discovered science in his backyard. She was eager and determined to help us find our learners. Some of the kids, aged in between 13-18 were already involved in the program, so the other volunteers has a better idea to what was going on than me.

Sophumelela carries that old schoolyard ambience that perhaps you see in good independent films that depict a 1960’s British school yard with a tetherball pole, lacking the tetherball and string while also having obsolete classrooms divided obscurely with a singular indication to room number only. They get straight to the point in lacking fancy education attaches (e.g. anything electronic, modern desks or titled floors…) This is raw education carries more of a close reality that is being instilled early on as opposed to 23-24-year old American college graduates that haven’t even seen any other than luxury, a sports utility Utopia of plastic overconsumption an a constitution of ignorance is bliss.

As soon as we were settled in a classroom, we stood before a room full of learners who sat in their dark blue uniforms, the sun shining through the windows and what stood between us and them was a gregarious sense of class, preponderance and titillating speculation. Chrizane is a local South African, relating more to the learners than myself. As she began the lesson plan, I stood before these 20-25 learners totally dumbfounded that I was were I was. The dirty wooden floors, the faded green chalkboards and the clusters of bland wooden tables that had their accompanying scattered chairs around was my audience in stead of being on the other side, looking at the speaker.

Teaching is flipping scary. It’s intimidating and it’s not easy. On the other hand, I’ve been in their shoes in terms of being a student looking at the teacher to run things, to hold structure and to be the source of stability—this was not my time to buckle and feel like my shy, introverted self. Hell, I am in their shoes every single day at varsity, staring blankly at my Professor with the eyes of a bad hangover and the weight of my brain holding me back from any defining ideal of participation. It wasn’t a time where I could really think about what I was going to say- it was a time to just let the punches roll. We introduced the learners into the very basics of journalism, the inverted pyramid of information (Who, What, Where, When, How) and what the purpose of having news is. Most learners source of news was limited to what they had at home, what their parents exposed or not exposed them to and what their friends talked about. As a final project, we want the kids to produce their own newspaper, with our guidance and advice we want them to be able to hold onto something tangible, to bring home and to hopefully cherish as a piece of themselves for their rest of their lives—or at least for the time being. We broke them off into the various sections of their paper. 4 groups divided into Business, Politics, Scandal/Gossip, and Sports. With 4 volunteers, our plans next week are to take our own section, have our group produced 2-3 articles and then publish them in the paper. We guide them into basic news writing, how to write in proper English and how to captivate a reader while building trust with society. They seemed so excited. And motivated. And amazing.

At another townships a few over from where we were, the headmistress was shot in the head last week, due to student rebellion. She was killed. You never get too comfortable here, ever.

“Nice tattoo!” one of the older girls said as she grabbed my wrist and gazed at my tiger lily as if it were sitting her own garden. She is doing a story about crime and her interview—or main source was her friend, who sat alongside her and was mugged last week on her way home from the township. To these children, it seems like a way of life where they don’t fret over it, they accept it as an aspect of how they live but they still carry that sense of hope of making a difference or at least for someone to make a difference for them.

Since I am away for the semester I cannot contribute actively to our school paper at SUNY but another volunteer in Ubunye had a brilliant idea to have our contribution to our home paper, be their contribution. And this idea excited the learners past belief. Their faces lit up brighter than Las Vegas from space and their glee glowed through their veins faster than they could even handle.

“When you guys write up your stories we’re going to give you disposable cameras so you can have pictures that help tell your story,” Chrizane said to a group of quite and absorbent girls. When she said that we would give them cameras, their reaction reached the excitement of a 13-year-old American girl seeing Britney Spears or the latest boy band for the first time. Covering their dropped jaws, their white teeth dazzled against their espresso skin- their eyes widened like the parting of the Red Sea, an unexplainable divine phenomenon. Their excitement was about how they could change their lives instead of being excited over the admiration of a corporate entity. The difference and culture clash begins to really take the main stage here.

“Melissa comes all the way from New York! And she is going to help you guys write the best stories you can so that you can see them in print and take them home and have your very own paper,” Chrizane motioned towards me as the entire group of learners now looked at me as they were meeting their face of America, in real life, for the first time.

I never felt such a yielding to my intelligence or my purpose, or even of my defining elements—and for once, someone looked up to me.

The feeling is actually pretty blank- speechless—liberating. I will never trade that feeling for anything material, any amount of money or any benign article, it was the realist moment about living in the present, living in the moment and sucking hard on the juices of the now.

One of the best moments of our session today was at the end, when two shy girls with their blue overcoats and side bags approached us as we gathered our own bags. She handed us this stationary that had bright colored and poignant red strawberries in the corners. Folded over and neatly written were lines of poetry, a personal emancipation of her inner-self, her confession of her emotions stood before us, complete strangers to her. Skimming quickly, I looked up, “this is beautiful. Did you write this yourself?” She nodded and kind of bowed in embarrassment. I flipped the next page backward to find only more of her poetry and as I keep flipping, I found her notes to our session, my words of advice on her small notepad.

Her eyes told me so much. They held a conviction, a truth, a story of struggle and sadness but a pair of glimmering hope that was exemplified by the ink that sat before me on the lined pages of these pieces of parchment. “Can this go in?” Her dark colored hands motioned towards her words and her eyes locked with mine.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Nothing is more perfect.”

The afternoon sun was hiding behind the mountain, as the parted in new directions with new destinations for the next seven days until our next meeting. Their assignment was to think about why type of articles they want to write for their section and to think of a title for their paper. Our assignment is a big more challenging, finding enough funding for the printing, the ability to bring the learners some pencils and paper (most of them had nothing to write with or on) and an afternoon snack—along with getting more organization going amongst ourselves. While this can be very stressful and make it seem like things aren’t worth all the strife and struggle, it’s moment of poetry that make things slow down and make the bureaucratic semantics feel like a needle in the hay.

Alive in Cape Town

First few days here....

So being in South Africa so far, the past… three days has been terrifying, creative, awesome, elite, idealistic, earth shattering, fantastic. Really there are not enough adjectives to sit down with and really pinpoint. I’ve learned a lot in the last few days on a lot of levels, for sure.

Coffee, first off, kicks ass. It’s espresso coffee so it’s really just like having a lot of espresso, super strong and New York bitter. It’s great. The food on the other hand, heh. It’s a hit or miss really. The produce is great, it’s cheap and fresh. Ceres juice, in the States it costs about $8, the same size here costs about $2. We’ll touch on groceries later though, I really don’t want to get ahead of myself.

The plane ride was better than expected. Very long and extensive, with crappy food and poor service and tinier bathrooms than Southwest offers. When I arrived in Johannesburg, I was barricaded with a porter, who I was later informed helps you with your bags and hurries you to your next location. We got off the plane and there were a sea of people holding signs and screaming in tons of different dialects, none of which were English. I was confused and that was when the porter came by and ripped my luggage from my hand and screamed, “You go SAA, jaa?” He shook his hed and rushed forward. “We take you there, come weth me.” He scurried past the crowd and ushered us upstairs. I felt in a lot of ways like a celebrity, but in others like something bad was going to happen already. Andrew and I were exchanging looks as confused as confused can be—we were brought to the check-in and he spitted, “Tiep generously, mah sista!”

“What?” I was taken back.

The two porters spoke in some language and he repeated, “Tiep generously, mah sista, 50/50 credit,” he motioned towards his partner who helped Andrew with his luggage. He rubbed his fingers together and he gave me the deepest and scariest look I’ve seen in my life. I handed over R100 = $10 and screamed, I need R20 in change,” I handed him my sparkly new R100 and prayed for the return demand. That would leave both of them with about R40 each = $4 in tip. He spitted at the floor, handed me my change and dropped the bag on the floor. They were never seen again.

Other than luggage issues, the terminal was filled with other international students that were overtired and just as eager as I was. I met a lot of people there waiting for our two hour flight. Which wasn’t a bad one.
We landed in Cape Town around 1pm here. Don’t forget the six-hour time difference! So about 7 am in the States. The sky was clear and the atmosphere was chilly. I was exhausted. I didn’t eat much on the plane or sleep that much so I was completely as jet lagged as it can get. We were met by orientation leaders after we claimed our luggage and rushed into a Cape Town Shuttle, that was illegally parked and being honked at and now had about 30 kids loading their baggage and themselves on it. Not very happy people were surrounding us.

Welcome to Cape Town.

We sat on the bus waiting for others to get off their flights, others coming from all over. I’ve met people from Germany, Norway, all over the States, France, Denmark…etc. We were driven into town where we passed shanties and slums and then mansions and the great Table Mountain that the tour guides give it NO justice. That mountain gives every other mountain I have ever seen to shame. It’s amazing.

This part of the trip gets boring because the orientation students didn’t really know what they were exactly doing so we were as lost as they were and we really just didn’t know a lot about where we were and most of us were exhausted. I slept in my temp dorm and just ate whatever Special K bars I had left over from the plane ride, thanks Jen! They really did save my life.
The fun didn’t really start until yesterday. A bunch of us went to walk around on Main St. where we found an Internet Café that has amazing java and biscotti for only about $1.50. You can use the Internet for about 2 hours or 40 mb. So if you go on Facebook or Skype it eats through your usage and your time. I was kicked off after about an hour, so that’s not too bad.
We went out to Long St. last night. We met up with a girl who has lived in South Africa before, but from Denmark and she kind of cradled us through things. Long St is the nightlife and where all the bars are and most of the University students. If you say college, they think you’re high school. So we called a taxi and went to The Waiting Room on Long. It was packed with locals, malls, shops, vendors, bars, clubs, record shops—SO MUCH FUN! The Waiting Room was nice, kind of like Bombers in Albany, but just a bar. They had a 3 floor balcony you can see a lot of Long st from and drinks were pretty cheap. A vodka/Redbull was R37 = $4.50. A vodka tonic was a bit less. And yes, I only had two drinks.

They play mostly American music, but from like 1996, so N’SYNC is the shit over here. They put deep African beats to it though, so it’s the same but much cooler. Dancing is big. Very big and amazing to watch people really get into Justin Timberlake in his limelight.

We came home early, around midnight. We had to wake up early to check out and get shuttled to our individual apts. On the lift up to my dorm, my friend Brittany from North Carolina and I stumbled upon two guys from Northern Africa that are UCT engineering students, Tsepo, Iileka. We ended up talking to them until 3am. We were so interested in each other’s culture that it did not feel that late at all. I learned so much. Their reputation of Americans is that we party and that’s why we come to UCT for the cheap drinks the nightlife. They found that Brittany and I were very chill and very not like what they had met before. So it was good to change a perspective on someone for once into a more positive light or at least a different light.
They told us some interesting things. UCT is equivalent and taken as seriously as Harvard or top Ivy League schools in the US. It’s 152 ranked on the worlds best University’s. So many little things and great differences. The average SA makes about $17,000 and they are well off. They get paid monthly and were shocked that I said I got paid weekly. The telecommunications is obviously aged around 1992 in the US, with the pre-pay system and the slow connections. It’s just a matter of time for upgrades; I can see it coming already. South Africa is very technological aware. Tsepo said that the science buildings have plasma screen computers and very high tech lab work. Once he graduates with his equivalent of a B.A. in America, he will be making close to $50,000. And he said he will be rich. He had no idea or had never known anyone except his professors to receive anything higher than a B.A. A masters or doctrine was unthinkable. Also, as an engineering major he is sponsored by an engineering company to attend school, they pay his tuition and train him to work for them. When he gets out of school, he has a job and is trained for it already. Makes SO MUCH SENSE.

Meeting them was fun! We exchanged phone numbers and all of us plan on going to see a movie sometime. Oh and they almost fell over when I told them that a movie ticket is around $10-$15 = R87-R110. That’s a lot of money!
This morning when we got shuttled over and met our landlords. They were extremely nice and welcoming. They brought us to Groveneveld, don’t pronounce the G and replace it with an H and squeeze the “ve” together, say it super fast. It almost sounds German. Although when I told Ben that, he laughed and said yea, sure!

After we got settled in Ben and I along with our friends down the road in Cobbles, walked into Main St for lunch and groceries. The flat is gorgeous. Around 100 years old. So imagine walking into a hours from the 1900’s, but in South Africa. The bathrooms are tiny and we have an exclusive water head with hot water out backing the yard for some beautiful outside bathing. My room is good sized but COLD. There is no heat and not air conditioning. The windows have a “winter” setting that means they are cracked open at the top instead of the bottom so the rooms have a great cross breeze. After 4:30pm you get chilly though and you bundle up like you would in late November. Yikes, I think I may cave in by next week and buy a heater at the Pick N Pay.

Getting groceries gave me a headache. All the conversions and what I actually was buying was intense. I also had to buy electricity at the market, airtime for my phone and figure out how to access the Internet. Luckily the walk is only about 10 minutes. After buying necessities, like juice, fruit, tea, bread, peanut butter, nuttella, salt, butter, etc, it wound up costing about R250 = 30. I put R100 towards electric and loaded R100 on my airtime. The trip cost me about $54. We ate lunch at a Elmo’s pizza that is wood fried and DELCIOUS. We got garlic pita on the side and life became ok. It’s getting easier to see myself being here for a while but still nothing beats home.

Tomorrow we go to the Peninsula Tour where I meet my penguin friends and take LOTS of pictures. My camera is in overload. I don’t like to take a lot out in public though… looking like a tourist is easy amongst locals. And that is very bad thing you learn very quickly! Walking down the street you think all the buses passing by are hitting on you, as they whistle extremely loud and yell in some dialect unknown to me. It’s really just a taxi service and whistling is their marketing tool. There are only a few taxi places you can trust here and trust that you’re not getting ripped off but that they are going to bring you to where you want. I got the ones I like so far in my phone and it’s much easier.

Bah, I’ve talked SO much. I’m starting to talk in my head in an accent because everyone around me has one and I am starting to say a few words like SAs, which isn’t a bad thing. Assimilation is a good thing, but I also feel like a phony—but I can’t help it! When everyone around you says different terms and different pronunciations for things, you have to say it like they do or they don’t know what you’re talking about. And like the Canadians, saying aye after things, they say, jah. And everyone seems like a question, yeah? (Ignore the “y” replace with a long a)

I can’t write about everything, it would take me all night.

All for now, it’s naptime. Miss and love everyone!
-Mel