Full Circle
As I hovered near the doorway of the expansive room, I was very aware of the people around me. Overhead, colorful flags boldly emblazoned with various symbols and seals hung idly from great wooden beams. Light flooded through long, stately windows wrapping the room in its muted glow. It was snowing again, just as it had been for weeks, but inside of the Memorial Room, most of us were oblivious.
The room buzzed with subdued excitement. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were trained on the screen that was located off to one side of the room. Most of us were still donning our thick winter coats and padded boots, myself included. I had walked briskly, coming all the way from the Ag quad to get here on time; but as it turned out, everything was running late. It was about lunch time, but I decided to pass on eating, for fear that I would lose my place in the growing sea of onlookers.
It took some waiting, but finally, Obama emerged. A look of purpose etched on his caramel features, he strode forward to assume the highest position in the nation.
As I watched history unfold before me, tears blurred my vision. Embarrassed, I tried to discreetly wipe away the evidence of my emotion. Luckily, no one seemed to pay me much attention, so focused were they on CNN. This moment was heavy for me; the feelings I was experiencing ran so much deeper than any interests I might have in politics.
I was back.
I’d had weeks to get use to the idea; weeks of driving on the right side, weeks of TiVo and Netflix, weeks of reliable electricity. The houses and the faces were familiar. I was back to a land where I knew the rules. And yet, I had been remarkably off balance for several weeks. “Re-entry” as all the abroad handbooks called it, had been difficult for me.
I’d never seen it coming.
As time passed, though, I began to settle into my old way of life by slow degrees. My friends eventually gave up on trying to learn more about my time in Africa. That inevitable question (”So how was it?”), asked so benignly, inevitably triggered a wave of emotion about events I could never quite articulate. Three in a half months isn’t something you summarize in a few lines; and if my descriptions got any longer than that, the eyes of the listener would almost always glaze over and go distant. And so, I’d stopped trying to explain the whole thing some time back. I learned to keep it surface for people, to tell them what they wanted to hear–I talked about the food and the safari, and even threw in the fact that a few of us had been mugged. I didn’t like telling the watered down version–hated it actually–but that’s what’ was comfortable for them. And so I went with it. I hadn’t even sorted through everything for myself yet, so at least it bought me time in the beginning.
As I watched Obama repeat the oath, my mind went back to where I’d been when I’d heard of his victory in the election. It seemed so far away. Another world. Thinking back to that world, I realized then and there how full circle I’d come.
Our country was entering a new era. There were new ideas and new voices, waiting for their chance to be heard. The road was not going to be easy, but it will be worth traveling.
Returning to the present, I checked my phone and realized that in a few short minutes, I would be late for Biochemistry–not the best impression to make on the first day. Taking one last deep breath, I shrugged on my bookbag and turned to leave.
Although my feet fell in the same way they did five months ago, they had now carried me around the other side of the world. And I am the wiser for it; and the stronger too.
There was nothing left now but to go forward. Pushing on one of the double doors, I stepped out onto the freshly fallen snow, looking ahead–fully ready to make a set of tracks of my own.
Migration
We awoke to an unexpected message pinned to our door, submitted to us by our landlady, Mrs. Wallace (an elderly woman to whom, due to her cantankerous disposition, we jokingly refer as Mrs. Walrus). The curt memo read as follows:
Dear Ladies,
The owner of 128 (our apartment) has come down unexpectedly from Zimbabwe for the Christmas holidays and wishes to stay in his flat, 128. It can only be done with your consent.
Should you be agreeable, it is linen change to-day, so the maids can help you move to Flat 117.
Mrs. Wallace
And that was it. We were all a bit shocked, and confused to say the least. Who was the Zimbabwean man, and what made him so sure that this was his apartment?
The debate was long. On principle, we didn’t want to move. Why should this man expect to suddenly have his place back when he was arriving out of nowhere? We had less than 2 weeks left in Durban at this point—couldn’t he wait? And furthermore, what about the effort it would take to move all of our stuff to 117? (Literally a floor below us, less than a 30 second walk away, but still…principle!). On the other hand, we were not being forced to do anything against our will.
But what sealed the deal for us was walking down a floor and touring 117. Despite its shortcomings (a bedroom with a curtain instead of a real door, and its light switch not actually in the room but on the other side of the apartment; a oven that didn’t close; a toilet that would only flush after the handle was jiggled three times consecutively), it was still an upgrade from our current flat—more spacious and open and…clean. We decided to take the deal.
All day we were scrambling to work on the final write-up of our Independent Study Projects. We postponed moving to the last moment, after we’d already squeezed every ounce of productivity out of the day as we could. Night had fallen before we got around to it. As for the actual moving process, it took each of us between 15 and 20 minutes to get all of our stuff from 128 to 117. All of us except Katy…
Once I realized that she was absent, I ran back upstairs to see if she needed any help moving the rest of her stuff. When I arrived in the room we used to share, she was sprawled out on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, deep in thought. Her eyes were moist.
“What’s wrong?” I was so confused. Hadn’t we all agreed to this move? When I asked her about this, she shook her head.
“It’s not about that. I mean it is, but it’s not.”
Now I was thoroughly befuddled. I could feel my brow furrowing, the result of worry. “Then what is it?”
She didn’t answer for a moment. When she did, she looked into my eyes solemnly. “In two weeks, we will be packing for real.”
Two weeks; we were nearly done. It was so hard to believe. It was a lot to take in at once and my mind reeled. My mood suddenly changed. I immediately went deep into thought, reflected on all that I had experienced so far; wondering if anyone back home would ever understand. I realized that there was a good chance that the 22 of us who were here, living this life for months on end, would be the only ones to fully “get” this experience. My life seemed like it was on hold here; and in two weeks, I’d return and press play on a life previously suspended. That world might be the same around me, but I would be different. How was I going to deal with that?
“Scoot over.” I said to Katy. She moved over to give me room. Excitement and dread now warred in my belly. I’d never expected to feel this way at the thought of going back. But there it was, and as I stared up at the ceiling, I allowed the feelings to wash over me—and there we lay, staring up at the white ceiling, both of heads a million miles away.
There was a quiet knock on the door. When I looked over, I saw that it was Jasmine, another one of our roommates. She had already finished moving downstairs herself, but had probably come to look for us, noticing our absence. When she saw the two of us sprawled out on the bed, pensive, worry furrowed her brow.
“Hey, what’s wrong with you guys?”
Stolen
Evening was slowly descending as I lounged around the flat. It was Sunday—I’d have work the next day. The thought of 8 ½ hours of editing paperwork and stapling endlessly loomed, and with it a glum view of the day. Chatting with one of my friends I forced the thoughts of tomorrow out of my head.
Glancing up, I noticed one of my roommates standing near the door; she must have just came into the room. She stood completely still, seemingly in a daze. It took me a beat to realize that something wasn’t right. Looking into her eyes, usually bright and lively, I saw something in their pale depths.
Shock.
“What happened?”
We all turned to her, seemingly realizing that something was awry at the same moment. My gentle inquiry seemed to open the floodgates. Her face was crumpled, reddening. The few of us in the apartment swarmed to comfort her. After several minutes of coaxing, she finally calmed enough to tell us what had happened:
Three of them had been Cato Manor, (the township we’d stayed in for a little over a month). All of them had been conducting interviews for their Independent Study projects there. When they finished, they’d taken a minibus taxi to Chesterville Rank. The Rank is notoriously sketchy—but then again, so was the whole of Durban. In addition, it is impossible to get back to North Beach from Cato without going through the Rank. The three of them had taken the route a dozen times before. But this time was different.
This time, as they were walking across the Rank to transfer to a second taxi, they were set upon by a group of about seven men. They came out of nowhere, my roommate said. Before she knew it, 3 of them came at her; as for what happened to the others she was with, she couldn’t tell at the moment—she’d already been pushed to the ground. The greedy hands of the thieves had clawed at her clothes and ripped at her bag. The whole ordeal sounded horrendous; I couldn’t imagine being there. I was at a total loss for words; we all were.
I thought back to earlier in the day; thought back to fact that as I dressed that morning, I planned to be with the 3 of them in Cato. I was going to go back to visit Mama Zo. A last minute decision had changed my plans about a half hour before we were set to leave. I remembered that I was out of sandwich meat for lunch the next day. So I changed my plans, and went with another group to the grocery store.
Too close.
It hit me hard. Thinking how close it had been, my already tenuous grip on my composure vanished. I made my way to the bathroom, avoiding the eyes of my friends who, luckily were completely focused on soothing my roommate. It was for the best; I’m sure she needed the comforting more than me at the moment.
Still, sitting on the lid of the toilet, my bare feet sticking to the dirty tiles below, hot tears began a slow descent down my cheeks. I hadn’t cried in awhile; not since Impendle. Suddenly, weeks and months worth of frustrations bubbled up—all the hidden fears and stresses, long suppressed for the sake of making it through the day, came to the surface with a vengeance. Now that I’d let it come out, the emotion couldn’t be stemmed. I hated this place. The trash-lined roads, the crowds, the heat. The people—their hands always outstretched, the men and their cat calls, treating the women like trophies to collect for display, the children running the street in rags, with hardened eyes, quick to slip a nimble hand into your pocket should you turn your head the wrong way. The death, the poverty, and the disparity—in that moment, I hated it all.
As quickly as that hatred has arrived, it subsided. And when it was gone, all that was left was the feeling that I thought I’d left in Impendle. Helplessness–hard and crushing.
When I regained some measure of composure, some minutes later, I came out of the small bathroom. Everyone was in the same position they had been in when I left, comforting and soothing my roommate who had been stolen from. As for me, I took my place beside her on her rumpled bed, and began to woodenly comfort her too.
The Results Heard ‘Round the World
I imagine that the Election of 2008 will be one of those events that define our generation; It will be yet another one of those instances in which, years later, people will ask you, “where were you when Barack won the election?”
And I will say to those people, “Well, I was in my bed sleeping.”
I imagine the jaw of the asker might sag a little at my decidedly lackluster response, but P.C. or not, that is the way of things; time zones and daylight savings saw to that. But that morning, after my alarm buzzed loudly and pulled me from some dreamless slumber, instead of stumbling out of bed with one foot still in Dreamworld, I sat up straight in my bed…nervousness and excitement warred in my stomach. Picking up the time from my cell phone and doing some quick math to figure out what time it was in the states, I realized that the results of the election should now be known (barring any 2000-esque hiccups). I sprinted in the living room where Mary, one of my roommates, was lounging on the couch and eating her usual breakfast of corn flakes and yogurt. When it registered that the TV she was watching was tuned in to the SABC news, I again felt a surge of nervousness.
“Did he win?” I asked.
She turned around, momentary surprise on her face at seeing me up so much earlier than I had to be. Then her faced cleared and she smiled ear to ear. Her face gave away the answer before he words could.
“It was a landslide.”
From there, it was chaos in our small little flat. The two who had been sleeping woke up at the noise in the living room and joined Mary and I around the small television. We watched a clip of McCain’s conscession speech, touched by his sincerity, and also a clip of Barack’s acceptance speech. So stirred were we by his words that there was a stretch of time where the majority of us were in tears.
It was a good morning. As the initial shock of the news began to dissipate, my mind went in other directions. What would have it been like to be in the states today? I’d never missed home so much. I was sharply reminded that even as I live my life here, life marches on back home. It seems silly, but it’s easy to that forget when you’re so far away.
The Office
I was running late.
After two months of lectures, Zulu homestays, and arranged excursions, now came the part of the program in which we finally gained some freedom. Today was the first day of Independent Study. In the weeks leading up to this day, we had all been painstakingly trying to figure out what we were going to do for this month. It was chaos; no longer would we all be together in one big group—we were splitting up, and heading to different parts of the country to do our research. As for me, I’d found a spot at the Reproductive Health and HIV Research Unit, a research center in Hillbrow. For my Independent Study Project, I was determined to delve deeper into the HIV epidemic—and to do that, it made sense for me to stay in the KwaZulu-Natal province, the province with the highest HIV/AIDS rates in the country (in a country with the highest HIV/AIDS rates in the entire world). At present, I was getting ready for my first day.
Nervousness bubbled inside of me as I got down on all fours to look under the couch, in search of my second shoe. The cab would be here any minute…Finding the shoe, I headed out of the flat and down the elevator.
“Sawubona. Unjani?” I said to the security man as I brushed by, my shoes clanking against the smooth floor of the lobby. I barely registered his low reply; I was already pass through the sliding glass doors in front of me and stepping out onto the pavement outside. Peering around the parking lot, I looked for the cab I’d called earlier. Once I’d spotted it, I walked toward it briskly, automatically moving a hand to my ears to remove each earring (a habit I’ve picked up—no wearing jewelry on the streets).
The ride to the RHRU cost an arm and a leg at 70 rand; I immediately made it a goal to ask around and find a way to get to the out-of-the way West Ridge Medical Center more economically. Standing outside the imposing brick building, I glanced down at the small square of paper I clutched in my hand with the words “RHRU, 3rd floor, Jenni” scrawled on it, along with a phone number. Stepping through glass doors and into the building, I called the elevator and waited for it with a renewed sense of nervousness.
There’s nothing worse than being the new person.
I mentally sighed. I was in no way ready for all the pomp and pageantry associated with being the outsider brought into an established space—the smile you had to plaster on your face, introductions to more people than you could possibly attach names to, the awkwardness of not having carved out your own niche. True to form, after arriving on the third floor, home of the Reproductive Health and HIV Research Unit, and meeting Jenni, head of the unit, I was swiftly guided through the usual motions. As I smiled up at unfamiliar face after unfamiliar face, names flew in one of my ears and out of the other. I tried to hang on to a few that I thought would come in handy–like Cecilia, a senior researcher, and Mbali and Prenola, co-workers who shared an office at the end of the second floor, and whose office I currently sat in. Though younger than Mbali, Prenola, a cheeky Indian woman in her late 20s, was her supervisor. I immediately got along well with Mbali; it’s my estimation that upon our first meeting, she took in my youth and newness and made a decision then and there to take me under her wing. Her motherly air was not unlike those I’d experienced in Cato Manor and I wondered absently if the characteristic had its foundation in Zulu culture.
Cecilia had disappeared from the scene a long time ago, trying to find me a suitable working space to call me own for the next few weeks, and to put out “a few fires” amongst the research team along the way. Hence, I spent a good portion of that first morning in Mbali in Prenola’s office. They were excited to have “new blood” in the unit, and an American to boot. They asked me about my experiences in South Africa so far. In response, I recounted a few of my adventures stemming from living in a government township and staying with rural familes.
“Was there anything you didn’t like very much,” Prenola asked, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
I paused, unsure about the politeness of my natural response. In the end, I decided to be honest.
“The food.”
Both of them burst out, full of mirth. They laughingly demanded an explanation.
“I just can’t turn down food that’s being offered to me here…I just try my best to get it down and deal with the consequences later.” I had a vivid flashback of my first meal in Cato Manor, the Longest Meal, and the aftereffects I felt during the night. I didn’t tell the reason why I never turn down food, though (because you never know what someone has gone through to get the food they are serving you. That is especially true in this place, where poverty is the rule and not the exception).
My comment seemed to break the ice. After that, conversation flowed generously between us. Mbali took up my transportation problem and began to give me detailed instructions on how to get to the Westridge Medical Center via a series of buses. I must have looked as confused as I felt as she explained, because she quickly changed tactics and offered to pick me up a little early the next morning to point out the stops I would need to go to. I was beyond grateful for her kindness.
Our “meeting” was broken up by the reappearance of Cecilia, who looked exhausted even though it was still early in the morning.
“Would you like to help me now?” she asked me. I nodded, and arose from my seat. On my way out, I mouthed “thanks” and cast a warm smile over my shoulder at Mbali and Prenola. They smiled back, and I was hopeful that, perhaps, on my second day here, I wouldn’t feel as out of place as I had on my first.
The Healer
Saying sala kahle to Mama Slindile and Muzi had been difficult. What my experience in Amatikulu lacked in length, it made up for in depth. My once blurry conception of African rural life was slowly yet surely coming into focus. This vision would only become sharper in the coming hours as we journeyed deep into the village of Wangu. It was here that we would meet a traditional healer.
Jostling along in my seat, I tried to imagine what awaited us. I pictured an animated Zulu woman, old and stooped over. Her eyes would be watchful and her manner, unpredictable. All around her home, arranged on endless shelves would be endless bowls, vials, powders, leaves, and jars; there would no doubt be bones around (to be thrown down to allow for the telling of the future). Her garb would be traditional; a headdress with feathers and beads and a leather skirt perhaps. A heavy cloth shawl would grace her shoulders. I pictured her, after our arrival, stretching out a long, gnarled finger at me or one of my classmates and making some chilling prediction of fates soon to pass.
And so, to say I was unsure what to expect that day is to be untruthful; I went in having it all figured out—I had perfectly formulated what I would see upon my arrival at the home of the sangoma. It’s sad—despite all I’ve seen in Africa so far, I still held confidence that I knew what I was set to behold.
But all my ill-supported suppositions evaporated the second we arrived at the home of the sangoma—or was it?
“Is this it?”
We whispered amongst ourselves trying to understand the situation we were in at present. The building we approached was nothing like the cramped rondavel I’d imagined. In fact, it wasn’t a house at all. The square building, with its foundation of cinder blocks, looked more like a school than a home. By the time I walked inside and saw the slew of benches and chairs arranged around the room in a neat circle, I was sure that it was not the actual dwelling of the sangoma we were in. My preconceived notions began their demise at this realization, and by the time my eyes fell to the quiet man sitting at his place at the front of the room, my prejudices gasped their last breath outright.
There were no beads, or feathers, or jewelry. The man sitting at the front of the room appeared quite serene. As we filed in, finding our places, his eyes looked out at the sea of unfamiliar faces kindly. His clothes were modern—a simple black button-up shirt and dark slacks. He sat with both feet planted surely on the ground, and his hands sat in his lap comfortably.
Once everyone was comfortable, the healer finally spoke. He did not know English, so Thula sat beside him and acted as the translator. Traditional healing, he said, is not a career, but a “calling”. Not just any person can do it; instead you are chosen. It was the elders who realized he had been picked by the ancestors to be a sangoma when, as a young boy, he’d often sit in the river and drink, unharmed, by snakes. The healer was raised a Christian, so when he was “called” he fought it, because many of the traditional beliefs clashed with his Christian faith. Someone asked him how he eventually coped with this conflict.
“I went out of my mind 5 years as a result” he replied. But in the end, although he participates in traditional healing, he still holds a strong belief in God. According to him, if he’d ignored the call to be a traditional healer, he would have died.
He spoke to us for several hours. The whole time, we sat transfixed. The whole scene took on a surreal quality; it took all I had to stay open-minded to a concept so different from anything I’d ever heard of.
And it seems I wasn’t alone. Many of us would question the things we’d seen and heard in Wangu. The sangoma and traditional healing in general was at the heart of a heated discussion most of the way home. As for me, I realized that whether or not you believe in the power of the sangoma, you have to deal with the reality that, for a group of people, he will always be real. Culture will always be real. It’s real everytime people choose to see a traditional healer instead of a Western doctor. Its real with every muthi (medicine) he formulates and every prediction he makes. Its real every time someone dies of AIDS because they trust the word of a “fake” healer (as this healer calls them) who promises a quick cure. Whether or not you believe what the Zulu people believe, you must respect it.
The Woman in Blue
It’s everywhere.
If I somehow doubted it before, the emaciated woman perched sullenly on the bench in front of me drove the realization home. AIDS. The weight of the disease stooped her back and had long ago stolen the light from her eyes. As she stared out absently at the stretch of littered land that had her name on it, I could only imagine what was going through her head. Was she considering the three kids playing at her feet, grappling with how her death would leave them motherless? Was she thinking about the fact that she would most likely die here, in this forgotten corner of the globe, born and bred in squalor and passing out of the world in similar kind?
The woman in blue, now known to us as Mama Slindile, along with her younger brother Muzi (who’d asked for my hand in marriage shortly after meeting me the night before) acted as translators. From them Marta and I were told more about the woman’s situation. She is a mother of four, 35 years in age. She has both HIV and TB (or “TB plus” as it’s called for short). The father of the children is gone–“he was sick” she told us, through Mama Slindile–a euphemism I’m used to hearing. As for the her, she has yet to start taking ARVs to combat her HIV. Her CD4 count, 201, is one point shy of the 200 count needed to qualify for the government issued drugs (CD4 count drops as the disease gets worse). But staring at her face, it is the woman’s sunken features, and not her CD4 count which I discern.
One point—an imaginary line separating the seen and the forgotten. A line which, at least in my mind, was drawn by some high-ranking bureaucrat closeted away from the people struggling for life just outside his lavishly appointed office. A man who, remorseless, whipped his expensive pen across paper and in doing so, separated the sick from the sick enough. Accurate or not, this was the image conjured by the current circumstance.
There was no toilet on the homestead; not even the long-drop one Marta and I had a Mama Slindile’s. When asked where she and her family got water, the woman pointed a boney finger to the river snaking across the land a short distance away—a river we’d pass over on our way to the next home; a river which danced with insects.
It’s been my experience that time runs differently here. It had been almost two full days since that faithful moment when I came face to face with Mama Slindile, and the subsequent flurry of events that would lead me to this moment, and this place, in the middle of the African countryside.
***
48 hours ago:
After meeting our homestay mothers, we’d been swiftly torn away from the comfort of the group. With the mommas in tow, there was no longer enough room in the vans we’d arrived in. This meant that around 3 groups had to find their own way back to their homes, without Thula or Sdu driving them. Although I crossed my fingers, (and, more so, the fact that simple odds were in my favor) in the end, Marta and I and our mama were one of the few groups to be set out on our own. Before we departed, Thula stopped us to give us each two huge jugs of water (6 liters each and quite weighty) to cover us the three days we’d be out of contact. If the woman in blue hadn’t filled me with trepidation, the appearance of these bottles (and their implications) surely did the job!
I watched the two program vans pull away, stirring dust under their massive tires as they went. A few of my classmates peered out, some sticking their arms out of the noisy interior to wave a last goodbye. I imagined they were smiling both in pity and in glee–that they had been lucky enough to avoid early abandonment, unlike us—but it was impossible to tell for sure, concealed as they were by the thick set of tinted windows. Soon, the groups on foot were the only ones left in the wide parking lot.
After walking down the driveway we stopped at the road. More tan dust drifted up as the occasional minibus drove by. Beyond it was miles and miles of rolling green, dotted with thick patches of dehydrated tall grass. My back began to sag under the weight of my pack, much the same way it had just this morning when I waited for my ride with Mama Zo. Had that been so recent? The memory of Cato already seemed so far away, diminished by the reality of my current circumstances.
Another mini-van taxi approached and eventually slowed as it came to us. The door was pulled open from the inside, revealing the faces of over half a dozen staring passengers. Mama Slindile stepped up to the door, making her way inside, but not before she turned and motioned me and Marta to follow her.
We were in that taxi for almost an hour. I had no idea where we were headed. There was no hint of life on the plains surrounding us. Out of nowhere it seemed, we came to a crowded marketplace. Before I knew what was happening, we were dropped squarely in the middle of the action. Bookbag laden, Marta and I followed Mama Slindile toward a small stand tucked between fruit tables. I discreetly stuffed my money into one side of my bra, careful to keep my face expressionless, and appear calm. Beside me, though, Marta was hyperventilating.
“We’re gonna be mugged!” she squeezed my arm, all dramatics, her short frame shaking nervously against my tall and lanky one. I didn’t respond, feeling uncomfortable myself but trying to keep my wits about me. It certainly wouldn’t help matters to look terrified!
Reaching the wooden stall, Mama Slindile began speaking rapid Zulu to the woman sitting behind the counter. Something Mama Slindile said caused the woman to swing her eyes to us and scan us head to toe. She uttered something else in Zulu, then stood up and reached out her hands for our bags.
I hesitated; but in the end, carrying our bags around the crowded marketplace would draw too much attention. We’d literally be asking for trouble. Choosing the lesser of two evils, I was the first to take off my pack and pass it to her across the counter. She disappeared momentarily into the dark confines of stall and reappeared a little while later, back to collect more.
We spent the next hour or so shopping for food. Mama Slindile turned out to be very kind—she even went so far as to ask us personally which foods we found palatable and then she shopped accordingly (it seems my original estimation of her was off by a mile—there wasn’t so much a suggestion of liver). Afterwards, we went to her home, a modest homestead brimming with children of ages. After chatting with them, and Muzi, I was exhausted.
As Marta and I prepared for bed that night (at an embarrassingly early hour) we did our best to ignore the mosquitoes and roaches flying around the room, and the lizards creeping through the cracks in the walls (yes, lizards). It wasn’t very difficult; the shock of such thing has long since faded. Mama Slindile, a community health worker, came in to tell us what time we should be up for rounds tomorrow. She ended by reminding us to wear good shoes.
Usually a bad sign.
***
And now, here I was. This woman, nameless, was the latest in a string of homesteads we visited in rural Amatikulu. We’d been to so many like hers over the last few days: a gogo (supporting 5 kids on her own) who contracted HIV helping a sick neighbor who had AIDS; an AIDS positive, TB positive, stroke victim living alone in a one room hut who’d lost her entire family to AIDS; a man immobilized by sickness and lying on a filthy pallet on the floor of his home, waited on by his wife, positive herself…
It was a lot to deal with. But I was stronger now than I had been in Impendle. Although overcome with sadness, I did not cry. I didn’t even have the urge to. Maybe it was desensitization—I’d seen more sickness and death in this few months than I’ve seen in the whole of my life. Or maybe it was the realization that crying just doesn’t change things. Either way, somewhere along the line, the old strings of helplessness and uncertainty within me had been replaced by a steely cord of determination–A determination to remember the things I have seen; to carry them with me, and to share them with those who may never get a chance to tread in my shoes.
Goodbye and Hello
What had once seemed so distant was now upon us. The time had finally come to say goodbye to our lives in Cato Manor. Like so many times since arrival, that rug of the familiarity had been unceremoniously ripped from beneath our feet–a mere seconds after our toes had sunk into its fuzzy comfort–and we were forcefully thrust back into the land of the Unknown. As I folded and stuffed my belongings into my duffel that morning and prepared a separate bookbag for Amatikulu, I couldn’t help but notice my lack of anxiety for the coming excursion. I was not overly excited either. I was someplace between the two. My mind drifted back, of its own accord, to the last time I’d gone rural. Flashbacks of Impendle flooded me, and with the mental pictures of my energetic host family the hopeful health workers we encountered and the lush countryside, images of the sick and dying, the desperate and the forgotten, came into focus as well. Would I be stronger this time around?
Mama Zo, letting me know in her gentle way that I was running late, was the thing that snapped me out of my reverie. Lugging my heavy rolling bag out the narrow door of 6 Dromore, I recalled the last time my bags had crossed that threshold. I’d been a nervous wreck then, just trying to make it through dinner without embarrassing myself, or worse, offending my host.
Usually, Mama Zo says her morning goodbyes to me at the split door of her home, the steep slope leading up to the street too much for her to traverse in the face of her arthritis. But today, she walked with me. I moved up the dirt path slowly, glancing back several times to make sure she was making it okay (she would have bristled had I reached back a hand to help her—I now knew her well enough to know that). Finally, we arrived at the corner, and together we waited for Thula to arrive–me, with arms akimbo, my back straining under the weight of my pack, and her standing stoically with her arms crossed into the folds of her long skirt. Together, we watched for the minivan, silent. I cannot guess what she was thinking just then, but whatever it was, she snapped out of her trance when Thula arrived for me. We moved my bags into the van, and then said our goodbyes.
If she teared up, I didn’t see it—but the note of sadness in her voice as we exchanged words of thanks and gratitude was unmistakable. For her, this was a rare show of emotion—perhaps it is because of its rarity that that particular moment stayed with me.
I got into the van and focused my attention on putting on my seat belt. Distraction. As Thula pulled away, I faced forward in my seat. I didn’t want to see if Mama Zo was still standing there—I have a hard enough time with goodbyes at it is. But as we rolled onward, toward the next home, I felt sadness wash over me—along with a truth I could barely admit so soon after my departure—that I would probably never see Mama Zodwa again.
***
We arrived in an Amatikulu training center (for community health workers) sometime around noon. When we arrived, eleven African women were sitting in seats arranged along one side of the wall. I guessed (correctly) that these women would be our homestay mothers. We would be paired off, 2 students to each family. I already knew that I was partnered with Marta, a short girl with dark glasses and a self-proclaimed dramatic and hypochondriac. As we anticipated finding out whom our mama would be, she leaned over and whispered to me in hushed tones.
“Which one do you think it is?”
I scanned the women, as if simply staring at them would reveal the answer. My eyes landed on a particularly intimidating-looking woman. She was dressed in a baby blue sweater and her arms were crossed idly over her generous bosom. She was staring blankly around the room, looking uninterested.“Anyone but her.” I motioned to the woman in blue. “She looks like she’ll make us eat liver.” (she really did!)
Marta immediately burst into laughter. The gazes of half of the room’s occupants were drawn to us–including that of the woman in blue.
Lovely.
After eating a quick lunch of sandwiches and fruit, we were formally welcomed by the head of the training center. A professional looking man dressed in a pressed button up shirt and tan slacks, he commenced to give us a talk about the dynamics between NGOs, rural citizens, community health workers, and the South African government. Essentially, community health workers, inhabitants of the village themselves, filled in the gaps in care that the government can’t. They are trained to go home to home, and provided basic health education and check up on people too poor or sick to make it to hospitals.
After his lecture, the man announced that it was time for us to meet our homestay mothers. Everyone began to stir. The room came alive with nervous energy.
Thula stepped to the center of the room and began making the announcements. One after one, students were matched with mamas. Most times, the mamas met their “children” in the center of the room and embraced them in welcome. As the number of mamas decreased, I knew our own time was getting near. Marta and I squeezed hands under the desk, hoping for the best (after all, a lot of horror stories came from the rural homestays, including the story of one girl who had to be taken away early as the result of a panic attack she suffered from shortly after arrival; or the tale of a girl who went outside to go to the bathroom one night and accidentally fell into one of the long-drop toilets). I tried to stay positive and hope things would turn out for the best.
Finally, our names were called, and we went up to meet our mama.
It was with a renewed sense of foreboding that I accepted a hug from the woman in blue.
PheZulu
After weeks and weeks of intensive language classes, endless health seminars and homestay living, it’s my estimation that our program coordinators realized that we were all beginning to suffer the strains of mental fatigue. At least, that is the only explanation I can concoct that would explain the particular reason for, and timing of, our latest excursion.
After being picked up in Cato, we began our journey into the Valley of a Thousand Hills. The scenery was literally the most breathtaking I’ve ever seen; all around me, hills rose up in smooth planes. The sky above us was bright and clear as it shone onto the tranquil greenery below. I struggled to take it all in and just…remember.
The morning began with a visit to the Valley Trust, a NGO which specializes in community empowerment. Afterward, we moved on to PheZulu. As the vans rolled to a stop in the gravely parking lot, a stocky man, donning short khaki shorts and a multi-pocketed matching khaki button-up saddled up to us. The man looked like he was straight off of Animal Planet; some long lost kin of Crocodile Dundee. He was beaming ear to ear by the time he reached us, an arm outstretched to our Academic Director.
As the rest of the class filed closer, one person accidentally walked into a particularly low hanging branch of a nearby tree. As if the situation was not awkward enough already, Mr. Dundee (I never did catch his name) chose this moment to address the rest of us for the first time.
“Ah, that’s why I wear these!”
He motioned downward, and all our eyes dropped to the thick brown boots laced halfway up his calf.
“That’s so the brush can’t scratch me!” he said, thick accented.
The majority of us mumbled in agreement, but still, a few exchanged glances. Who was this guy? And where, exactly, were we?
Our questions faded as “Dundee” led the way to a deserted on-site restaurant. We were the only ones sitting in the richly windowed room; painted vines and leopards snaked down the walls and the tables were draped in dark green tablecloths. I was begging to get the feeling that we were smack dab in the middle of some out-of-the way tourist trap—a feeling which was only intensified when we visited the gift shop after our meal. Passing by the bored-looking cashier, we broke up into small groups and examined the large shop’s various wares—drums, beads, necklaces, bracelets, candles, skirts, carved figures, and so on. Having been to several local stores and markets, I immediately realized how overpriced just about every item was. We all must have come to the same conclusion, because no one ended up buying anything, even though some of the items were quite appealing.
After we perused awhile, Nat motioned us to a narrow tunnel adjoined to one side of the gift shop. I hadn’t seen this when I first walked in. Now, my attention was drawn to the dimly lit passage, and the peculiarly dressed man at its terminus.
Shirtless, with a wrapping of leather stripes affixed around his waist, the African man greeted us all as we came to him. He was wearing traditional Zulu wear, complete with a headdress and thick beaded necklace. He seemed pleased when we were all able to exchange hellos with him in his native tongue.
The world beyond his shoulder was completely different from the one we’d just left. All of a sudden, we were back outside, the stunning landscape of the valley visible beyond the plateau we now stood on. Grass huts were everywhere. As I went further in to the “village”, I saw more and more Zulu people, all dressed traditionally. There was even a small child, no more than three years old, being held by one of villagers. The child did not seem fazed in the least by the presence of so many umlungu visitors, and barely batted an eye as we strolled pass her and into one of the bigger huts.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim insides of the round rondavel, a woman draped in lots of jewelry, and a beaded skirt and hat came into focus. In front of her were several bowls and tools, many of which I didn’t recognize. Soon, another man, dressed in street clothes (including a leather jacket) ducked under the low opening of the hut. He motioned for our attention.
The guide launched into a (very scripted) description of the various aspects of Zulu life. As he talked about common Zulu tools, the woman crouched on the floor, picked them up and pretended to use them. All the while, her face was flat and unenthused.
We were not alone in the hut; on the opposite side of the hut sat a line of German tourists. They snapped pictures at lightning speed, and hung on every word the guide uttered. Their fervor only intensified when we moved back outside to an outdoor theater, and the entire “village” performed ritual dances for us. As for our class, we were unimpressed. Instead of entertainment, I felt a twinge of indignation—we’d spent weeks studying Zulu culture, and here it was, reduced to an hour of monotone faces and lackluster high kicks. It just didn’t seem right.
After the conclusion of the dance, the spectators were invited to come down and interact with the performers. Now that their duties had been completed, several began to speak rapid English, and ask for our phone numbers. Cameras snapped away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the older German women go over to the African baby and pretend to play with her for the camera; as soon as the picture was taken, the woman abandoned the child and quickly moved on to posing with one of the dancers. All the while, the child stared at her, expressionless.
And as I watched the tourists, they became the other. I was not them; I couldn’t have ever been them…could I? What had I expected to see when I came to Africa? Huts? People in skirts? Lions? What assumptions had I made before my arrival? As I reflected on this, my distain for the antics of the tourists began to fade. It was hard to admit, but the truth of the matter is that I cannot say with certainty that 2 months ago, I would not have had the same reactions as them to the sights of PheZulu. And that knowledge chilled me in a way I had not anticipated.
Running of the Gogos
Saturday morning saw me rising before dawn. I dressed quickly, aiming to be at my destination just as it was opening. I and handful of my classmates had been invited by one of the homestay mothers, Mama Joyce, to go to a local flea market. Wagering that this would turn about to be a rich cultural experience, I opted not to miss out.
It turns out I was right!
The minivan (they call them taxis, but their completely different from the American versions) dropped us off at a particularly rundown section of sidewalk. All along its length was a thick crush of people. The vast majority were gogos (elderly women). Colorful scarves wrapped their braided tresses, and pairs of determined amber eyes were set back in faces creased with impatient lines. The air was thick, electric, with anticipation. A large metal door, not unlike those found on most American garages, seemed to be the focus. People were standing arm to arm, oblivious to their lack of person space. Many in the crowd weaved and ducked around each other in an effort to move ever closer to shiny metallic portal. But despite all their movement, the door did not budge.
It was around this time that I started to wonder what exactly all the excitement was about. This was just your everyday flea market, right? I turned to Momma Joyce and asked her what all the fuss was about.
“It’s only once a year,” she told me, laughing slightly as if was basic knowledge (and maybe it was—just not too a foreigner!). I learned that this was a fundraiser for the Highway Hospice, a local organization which served many AIDS victims. This was surprising news, and whereas before, I merely hoped to observe “culture in action”, I now had a new desire to make a few purchases.
The sound of the metal door being lifted snapped me out of my reverie. It was being raised slowly from the other side. Upward and upward it crept, until the torso of a man was exposed. It wasn’t even halfway up before the crowd surged forward and took charge of the doors ascent. In a rare show of cooperation, the hands worked together to force the door the rest of the way up. People squatted down to get underneath. The shouts of the guard were drowned out and he was forced aside forcefully. I wondered if he was alright, but concerns of him fled quickly, as I felt a strong push from behind. I was almost knocked over; I barely managed to find my footing. Bodies moved past me in a blur of color. I was being pushed and shoved. Left with little other choice, and swept up in the energy around me, I too burst into a sprint.
As I was running alongside the gogos (yes, gogos, NOT exactly a slew of spring chickens!) laughter bubbled up inside of me. This truly was a peculiar situation! I noticed too that a few of the gogos were laughing as well. They were having fun! I felt like I was in one of those bull runs that happen in Spain.
Once we arrived at the tables of goods, the chaos eventually cooled, as people got into the rhythm of buying, selling, and bargaining. As I walked around by myself (we’d all gotten separated during the running of the gogos) I marveled at how comfortable I felt. I was relaxed as I haggled and greeted passerby in my Zulu (much improved since my arrival).
My hair, now in braids, went very far helping me blend into the crowd. By the lack of stares I received, I figured I blended in quite well. This was not the case for my classmates who were amelungu. Many still feel out of place in Cato, even though we’ve been there for 5 weeks now and most people know us. “Do you feel like this in America?” one of my white friends asked once, referring to the fact that she constantly feels slightly on the outside because of her race is different from the majority. She was shocked at the affirmative response she received; I could literally see the understanding dawn on her face.
“I’m sorry,” she said simply, her words genuine.
It seems I’m not the only one learning a lot these days.
I ended up buy a few bracelets and a sweater (I’d lost the one hoodie I’d brought in Impendle somewhere). When I got home, I showed Mama Zo my purchases.
“It’s too big for you!” she said, of my sweater. “Let me try it on”. Hesitant, I handed it to her. She fit it over her stooped shoulders. “Oh! It fits me!” She was smiling excitedly, adjusting and readjusting the garment over her round body. “Can I have it?”
Oh boy.
The rest of the conversation went by quickly, but all I know is that by the end of the whole thing, I’d literally given my gogo the clothes off my back. I know she didn’t mean any harm. Their ways are simply different from our own; and anyway, I have a feeling that she’ll value the sweater a lot more than I ever would have.
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