Yebo

JoeySee.com Launched!

2009-03-18T01:19:00.007-04:00

Since returning home, I've been figuring out how to put up an online portfolio of my photography. Three and a half months later, I've finally got it up.

Please go feast your eyes and visit:

www.joeysee.com

In a few weeks I will be retiring from this blog address and starting up a new one. I will post more details on that as it arises.

For now, please enjoy the photos [and music] at:

www.joeysee.com

Ciao...

-Joey

January Catch Up - Inauguration

2009-02-27T23:23:00.006-05:00

If my days were a magic trick, they would be the disappearing coin trick.

If my days were a stain on a shirt, someone must be washing them with tide ultra max laundry detergent.

If my days were a celestial object, they would be shooting stars. Here, then gone, before I even realized it was here to begin with, and then having someone say "WHOA, DID YOU SEE THAT ONE?" only to have me answer, "See what one?"

My days, as you can see, have been disappearing before my very eyes, leaving me at the end of them, trodding up to bed to wait for a routine process that repeats all too quickly. At times, it almost feels like I'm back in South Africa, only technically, here at home, I have a million and a half more things to keep me occupied. This is nothing like my life in South Africa, but I still feel feelings of being trapped and scatterbrained, unable to focus on simple tasks at hand.

But only when I'm home. That's why I've been traveling so much.

Back to January....

Inauguration!

The walk to the mall

Since the tears first ran down my face at 6am (South Africa time) on the day after election day, I made a promise to myself: If I was home in January, I was going to the inauguration. No bones about it. I had missed out on enough history and happenings since being away, and if I was home, there was no excuse for me not to be present with millions of other people witnessing such an event.

See, I've been an Obama guy since 2004. I think it's safe to say that he won over a lot of young starry-eyed folk such as myself [and more seasoned older folk as well] with his DNC speech back all those years ago. In the fall of 2006 when he was toying around with the idea of running for president, no one gave him a snowball's chance. But I kept telling people close to me to just wait. I knew he was exactly the type of leader the country was pining for after such a dismal past 8 years. The rest of the country just didn't know it yet. I felt something telling me that this was entirely possible, when everyone else was saying no.

I wish I had been home for events pre-election time. I wanted to hit the streets and do what I could to campaign for the man, but I accepted that I made a choice to be abroad and spend my time, energies and efforts working with our brothers and sisters in Africa.

Anyway, the time for swearing in came, and I found myself in DC on inauguration day.

How was that day? For starters, the word "cold" doesn't come near to describing the temperature outside.

I was staying at my wonderful friend Rachel's apartment. We woke up at ass o'clock in the morning on Tuesday, the darkness outside penetrating my brain, telling it "GO BACK TO SLEEP MORON."

I would not go back to sleep. We had to hit the road. No one really knew what to expect at any point during the day.

I began dressing.

Boxers.

Pants.

Thick socks.

Hiking boots.

Thermals.

T-Shirt.

Turtle neck.

Light fleece.

Fleece vest.

Thick fleece.

Scarf.

Gloves.

Jacket.

Hat.

I had 7 layers up on my torso. I was good and toasty up in the chestular region. I thought that would be enough.

The crowds were massive. The security was everywhere. You could buy anything Obama-themed you wanted. People were selling everything in existence from buttons, to bandanas, to hats and gloves, to framed photos of Obama next to Jesus (a bit much, if I do say so myself), and my personal favourite, Michelle Obama monthly wall calendars.

We managed to get a spot about 4 mall sections back from the Capitol reflecting pool, right by the Art Museum. We parked ourselves around 7:30 am in view uf a jumbo-tron, and had a surprising amount of space around us. We had hand and toe warmers with us, but in my opinion, they should be renamed hand luke-warmers, because they did jack for my outermost appendages.

I was with Rachel and two of her friends from college. To pass the time, we played games like, "Guess Which Finger Isn't In My Glove" as well as, "You Hold This Hand Warmer Against My Face Then I'll Do The Same To You" and my personal favourite, "Can You Check To See If My Feet Are Still Attached To My Body? I Feel As If Someone May Have Amputated Them Due To Severe Frostbite From This Face Numbing Cold Weather".

My feet felt like they were soaking in buckets of ice for the entire length of the morning. It actually drove me a little bonkers.

The morning view

Though the weather was frigid, the people were many, and the waiting time long, there was an air of contentment all around that could not be denied by anyone. I noticed it throughout the entire day. No matter how crowded a section of people would get, no matter how slow moving a mass of bodies was progressing, no matter how many accidental bumps, knocks or mishaps occurred, everyone was amazingly calm, cool and collected. It's difficult to describe accurately - being from NY and having spent lots of time among masses of people, I never expected a crowd this large to be so docile. It was unreal.

I brought my camera along with me for the day, but it was so cold and I was so miserable throughout the morning, that I took it out very little. Cold temperatures zap the battery life down to nothing as well, and in addition, Obama was about a mile away at the Capitol, so I couldn't exactly snap a photo of him with his hand on Lincoln's bible.

I did manage to get some crowd shots. Being 5' 9" is not an ideal height for taking crowd shots when you're stuck smack dab in the middle of it all. But I had an idea to solve the problem posed by my vertically challenged stature. I braved the cold, took off my gloves and got to work - I painstakingly attached my camera to my tripod, expanded the legs as far as they would go, set the auto focus on the camera, shrunk the aperture to f22, set the timer for 10 seconds, pressed the shutter, hoisted up the unit, aimed, and waited for the shutter to click. I felt like Macguyver. With better hair. Even though I'm losing it.

The Crowd

The day was exhausting, but it was worth every ounce of energy spent getting thru it. I felt most alive during certain parts of the day when the words of those speaking at the Capitol melted into me like butter on freshly made pancakes.

I would savour the sensation of those moments when the tears slid down my face and froze on my cheek. Those moments when I would well up with pride, hope and optimism for the days ahead.

It was a day I needed very much for myself. It was a day the country needed for itself.

The day delivered.

Let's hope my man can too.

Hiatus

2009-02-05T12:02:00.007-05:00

There have been a few instances over the last few months that I've wanted to write about here, but I just haven't. (Inauguration, Godfathering, Pirate Festivals... the usual)

My head has been in a million different spaces, and I've been trying desperately to get some sort of focus and direction. My apologies for the extreme lack of posting the past 2 months.

I am still mostly unemployed - "mostly" meaning "completely" - but I have been busy (a little) networking and trying to find work as a photographer and or writer... ANYWHERE. I've followed up on a few leads here and there to do freelance work, but nothing has come to fruition just yet. I will keep at this for a long time because I realized definitively that this is the course I want to follow for myself.

That said, I have a few projects lined up for myself over the course of the next few weeks/months:

1- My own website

It will be a comprehensive collection of my photos from the last 4 years, as well as be the new space for my blog. Once that site is up and running, I will stop posting to this address. It is extremely difficult to design a [good-looking and interesting] website from scratch, especially for someone with very little web design in their past. I have contacted a few friends for assistance, and they have been more than helpful in referring me to resources I can use. If any of you out there would looooove to help me get this thing under way any faster, please do contact me. I'd love some help.

2- My Album

As in, a musical album. It will be a collection of songs I'd written since being in South Africa, plus one or two since my return home to the States. At last count, I had 22 complete songs. That may be too many for one album, so maybe I'll just have to do two. I start the recording process in March. I expect the project to take a few months.

My album won't be so hardcore

3- My First Book

This first book will be a collection of all the blog posts and mass emails (plus a few long personal emails to friends) I had written during my time in Peace Corps. For any avid followers of my online life for the past 2 years, it will be things you've most likely come across before. But now it will be in book form, with all the pictures to go with the stories, plus a few extras that I may not have included before. I intend to use a self-publisher for this book.

Sadly, neither one of my books will be about Gnomes

4- My Second Book

This aptly titled bullet point means just as it reads. My second book will take [by a conservative estimate] a few years. It will be everything and more from my time abroad. That's all I have to say about that.

I write about these projects here now for two reasons. The first is that some people have been asking me what I've been up to lately. Besides working out, getting huge (141 lbs! First time breaking 140 ever!), eating a million pounds of dad's home cooking, being a pirate and buying guitars, these are the goals I have set for myself.

The second reason I am writing about all this is so I can hold myself responsible for reaching them. It's one thing to say I will do something, another thing to follow thru. I also hope that anyone reading this will hold me to my word and help me reach these goals.

If any one out there has any input, advice, or may be able to assist in any way, please do contact me. We can share our goals and help each other to reach them. It's nice to be back in a life situation where communication flows freely (or at least inexpensively) and human contact is considered to be more the norm, rather than the exception.

Until then, keep your eyes peeled.

Ciao...

How to End the Year Correctly

2008-12-31T14:44:00.008-05:00

The cat, I believe, is now totally out of the bag.

I have been at home on Long Island since December 6th. I announced my return home to no one, save my buddy Lou who was kind enough to pick me up at the airport early that morning. I rang the bell of my childhood home in the morning twilight as the sun cast a golden hue over the skeletons of bare trees and houses I've known since I was born.

The air was crisp and cold - something I hadn't felt in almost 2 years.

The door opened, and I saw standing on the other side of it, my old man, dressed to the tee in his grey pajamas, his hair matted from the nite's sleep before, and a look of absolute surprise and joy covering his face. My mom came slinking down the stairs soon after - still half-asleep, wrapped up in her fluffy pink robe, and smiling a dreary smile that conveyed her sense of happiness and exhaustion all at once.

We had waffles that morning.

Being home thus far has been as one could expect it to be...

1- Good
2- Weird
3- Kind of boring
4- Strange
5- Homey
6- Familiar

There are a number of reasons my planned itinerary (South Africa -> Mozambique -> South Africa -> Italy -> Switzerland -> Sweden -> Italy -> USA) did not come to fruition. I won't get into the reasons why here. I had a number of pretty obvious signs from the Universe that it was time to pack up and go straight home.

I've learned to listen to the Universe when it speaks.

I'm happy I came home when I did. It allowed me to go see (and surprise) many of my friends from home and college before the holiday crush, and I was able to see pretty much my entire family for the actual holiday of Christmas.

Cousins!!! - Luke, Mal, Claire, Gramps, me

More cousins!! - Matt, me, Derek

Christmas was strange this year, mainly for the fact that my brother wasn't here. He's prancing around Europe, pretending he's Italian or French or a mountain Yeti. I'm a little bit jealous.

Andrew missed out on Aunt Maria's baked pasta, venison meatballs, and the next nite, venison spiedina. Sucks to be him. Not really.

To state the obvious, it was great to see my whole extended family, and just BE together. By far, the coolest thing since being home, has been visiting my two youngest cousins, Sean, now 2 1/2 years, and Ryan, only 3 months old. I love getting new members of the family.

The cool thing about it, besides the obvious fact that there is a new baby where there previously was none, was to see how much Sean had grown since I left.

EVEN MORE COUSINS!! - Me, Brian, and Sean

Sean now speaks mostly coherent English, runs around pretending he's Spider Man, names all his super heroes flawlessly, remembers peoples' names, sings the words to Beatles and Genesis tunes, and now, unlike before, he actually looks human. The last time I saw him, he was still more or less a lump of baby-ness - as all young children seem to be before the age of 2. To me, that is the biggest reminder of how long it has been since I've been home. I've gotten to spend some time with him the past few weeks, and I love that kid to no end.

This past year, 2008, was one of the toughest ones I've ever lived through. Last year, 2007, comes in a very very close second. After all the shite I've gone thru the last 12 months, I realized that this is the only way I would want to end this past year - with family, in familiar settings, eating massive amounts of delicious food, and feeling connected to something bigger, once again.

I hope 2009 takes us all to the sky. I'm trying again to learn how to fly.

When Finally Set Free...

2008-11-25T11:44:00.005-05:00

Copeland - When Finally Set Free

I've always liked this song. It seems especially meaningful and important to me now.

Rain Shower

2008-11-23T10:38:00.001-05:00

When we looked back behind us, the western sky had turned into a towering wall of cobalt blue and grey. All around us it seemed as if the cloud ceiling was getting lower and lower. But we weren't very concerned. Home base was at most a 10 minute walk from where we were. A little bit of rain wouldn't be a big deal, especially after the intense heat of the past few days.

Two fellow PCVs, Susie and Ben were taking me around the eastern part of their village of Abbots Poort, or Majadibodu. We were at the high school, and Ben was showing me the shells of classrooms that still semi-existed there. I could see the disappointment on his face as he strolled aimlessly around the empty room - walking amongst disassembled plastic chairs, moving wooden desks that had been broken in half, and side-stepping the goat droppings that littered the floor. The wind blowing in from the half dozen broken windows moved the garbage in circles at his feet.

"The weird thing," he said, "is that, when the kids write graffiti on the walls of classrooms, it almost always has positive message..."

He pointed out some writings near the front of the class - "Stay in School!" or "Education is the key to your future!"

I wondered if the kids who wrote it really knew what they were writing, or if they just copied phrases they had seen written in an old torn apart textbook they came across once. The graffiti messages certainly seemed antithetical to the reality of the situation all around us in that room.

We left the high school and headed back towards the tar road, the whole time observing the massive wall of thunder clouds in the distance. They were threatening, but seemed to be moving south, so we weren't too hopeful for rain.

Still, the clouds were mesmerizing. We looked upon these vibrant grey clouds (if there is such a colour as vibrant grey, this was it) with nothing less than a sense of true awe. They stretched on for miles upon miles from north to south, and were separated rather cleanly by a curving line-break, formed due to what I could only assume was a strange pressure difference among them. (I'll admit, my knowledge of weather and what causes anything related to it is virtually zero.)

The clean, curving separation in the sky left a dark grey ceiling of clouds above us, and in front of us, a monstrous tidal wave of an imposing nature that looked like it would come crashing down on us at any minute. I might have liked to surf it, if I only knew how to surf, if it were made out of actual water, and if I had any balls.

We stopped at the post office to try and pick up some parcels that relatives had sent Susie and Ben, and as they were working that out, I sat out front near the road, watching streaks of lightning flash down from the sky in the not too far off distance.

I took out my camera, and tested out my reaction time, hitting the shutter button as soon as I saw a flash of light in the sky. I don't know if it was luck or if I'm just that awesome, (probably the latter), but I caught some really nice lightning strikes. This guess and check method is not the preferred way to take pictures of lightning, but it is more rewarding.

Susie and Ben waited patiently behind me as I was trying to capture one or two last strikes. After missing about 8 times in a row, we felt the wind suddenly change direction, and the storm started blowing directly towards us.

I packed up my camera and we started the walk to their humble abode, a quaint two room structure adjacent to their host family's house. A herd of goats scurried frantically past us, losing their footing, stumbling and crashing into each other as they tried to escape some unseen force coming from behind them. An older woman waddled behind them, holding her head scarf in place as she gently threatened them with a makeshift walking stick.

The first drops of rain came.

They were small and cold, but consistent. We were 50 yards from the door at this point, and upon entering Susie and Ben's place, we were considerably wet. Thirty seconds later, it sounded like a drum line had perched on the tin roof of the house and was pounding away at a Big 10 football game at half-time. We looked out the windows to see that visibility had been cut down to only 20 yards or so. Everything was grey, the wind was howling, and their were flashes of lightning and booming thunder every so often.

At that point in time, I hadn't officially bathed in about a week, due to my travel schedule, the lack of showers in rural South Africa, and my utter disdain for bucket baths. As I looked outside at the downpour, I dreamily said aloud, "I wish I could shower in that."

Ben and Susie turned to me and responded with a resounding "Yea!!! Go for it! We've done it before, and it's awesome!"

I wasn't surprised to hear this from them. I mean, for anyone who knows even a little bit about Ben and Susie, this made perfect sense. They are outdoorsy, carefree, grab-life-by-the-horns type of people. Of course they would have showered in the rain before. At home, and in Africa.

The wonderful thing about the rain storms that blow in here is that when the rain falls, it falls HARD. It's difficult to keep your eyes open when caught outside in those type of storms.

Encouraged by my raucous supporters, I grabbed my green bar of soap and little travel shampoo bottle that smells like vanilla, stripped off my clothes, ditched my shoes, slipped into my bathing suit (I still have some sense of decency it seems), and ran out into the storm.

Oh boy was the rain cold.

But it was such a refreshing and energizing cold! The kind of cold rain that stimulates your senses as each drop hits every inch of your body. It was the type of cold rain where you would force your body to shiver and let out gasps of nonsensical mumblings until your skin adjusted to the temperature and after a while it felt like a full body aqua-massage conducted by mother nature herself.

I hopped over to the corner of the family's house, where the rain gutter spilled out onto the stone patio. I stepped into a shin-deep rain collection bucket that was now constantly overflowing, and let the water from the gutter pound my body with the force of a small waterfall.

I took out my soap, washed my face, arms, chest, back, unmentionables, legs and feet, and decided I didn't feel clean enough (it had been a week after all), so I did it again. After that, I squeezed out some fragrant but cheap vanilla shampoo and attempted to wash my hair. Three times I did so just because it felt so good.

I took forever to rinse off, mainly because I didn't want my rain shower to end. As I tilted my head sideways to rinse out some more shampoo, I felt the sudden and uncomfortable feeling of 100 gallons worth of water instantly flooding my right ear. Not a fun feeling. I stepped away from the gutter, back into the rain, and began the necessary process of hopping up and down on one leg with my right ear facing the ground to try and release some water from my imploding ear drum. It got clear eventually and I was happy for it.

I remained standing in the still pouring rain for another 10 minutes. As the rain continued to pepper me with it's big, numbing droplets, I looked up and noticed a bright white break in the dark clouds to the west.

The sun didn't quite come out, but the bright spot shone white as angel stone, and it gave the world I was living in an unearthly and beautiful glow. I didn't want to dry off, so I continued to stand in the retreating rain, staring skyward at this revelatory and inspiring view.

I had this fleeting and unfortunately uncommon feeling of pride, joy, and contentment that I was truly in AFRICA - a place where you can experience natural beauty, wonder and joys that are unfamiliar or non-existent at home in every day life. Like a bus load of kids running up to you flashing their bright white smiles, wanting only to give you a high five; like being given a ride to a distant destination by someone interested in you and your story, not accepting payment, but only wanted good conversation; or like showering in the rain in a small village near the Botswana border, with not a care in the world.

I stood outside until the rain ceased completely, and let myself air-dry in the cool, moist air. My nipples certainly felt the chill - they got to that "could cut diamonds" stature, so I had to cover them up with my hands like a beauty queen whose top accidentally falls off during the swimsuit part of the competition.

Looking like a damp, shy, flat-chested school girl, I turned to Ben and Susie, who were watching the sky open up from their window and I tried to express to them how magnificent I felt.

It was the best shower I've ever had.

Two days later we had another powerful rainstorm. The wind was much more fierce this time around, and the whole lightning situation maybe slightly less stable. I had wanted to repeat the experience of two days before, but I had already committed myself to the notion of getting my hair braided by a friend of Ben and Susie's - a local 9th grade girl named Happy. She did a fabulous job (I paid her R10 for her tireless efforts too), though the whole time, I really did desire to be frolicking outside in the rain and mud like a kid with the world at his fingertips.

As my hair appointment was coming to a close in the candlelit kitchen space of Ben and Susie's, the rain stopped, and again, the clouds broke open in the west. It was much later when the rain stopped that second day, and the sun had already began to set. All of us taking shelter at Susie and Ben's walked outside to behold the endlessly colourful artist's canvas of an African Sunset. Pictures of these events are ok, but they will never do justice to the magnificence of what seems to never be anything less than a "perfect" sunset here.

Not only did the westward sky leave us breathless, but when we looked east to watch the storm moving on, we were treated to the most spectacular lightning show we had ever seen in our lives. The flash of light would start low in the sky and then the streak would splinter and crawl out in a million different directions directly above us, ending with booming thunder that we felt in our chests more than we heard with our ears. The entire evening sky left me in staring endlessly in awe at the beauty all around us, feeling overwhelmed and completely content.

I wrote a brief description of the sky in my journal after that second rain storm:

"Crimson red and orange lava-like coals from an ancient bonfire settled on the horizon, giving way to golden hues like angels' hair. Blue as bright as a child's eyes and as deep as the ocean trenches hovered just above. Purple clouds as black as nite covered the eastern sky with flashes of lightning spreading like electric spiderwebs across the entire magnificent sky."

These are two storms I will never forget, and hope I experience again, someday.

If not, I hope to always be able to paint a picture in my mind.

Oh also, we killed a scorpion that day that was hanging out right next to my head where I was sleeping.

Yikes.

Living in a Tsotsi Paradise

2008-11-08T09:30:00.001-05:00

Tsotsi (noun) TSO-tsee
def:
1- Thug or criminal
2- Oscar winning 2005 film directed by Gavin Hood
3- Asshole South African who violates your space and security with his asshole friends by using threats of violence against you and takes your possessions because they like being assholes to people
4- Really, they're just huge assholes

Maybe this isn't the current accepted definition of what a "Tsotsi" is, but I've put a request into Merriam-Webster to get my definition included in the 2009 updated dictionary. Because I think my definition is way more accurate.

I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later. And now that it did, I feel officially initiated into life in South Africa.

About 3 weeks ago, while en route to Pretoria for medical appointments and then to meet my parents for vacation, I was mugged by some fellow South Africans who it seems had nothing better to do than to seriously inconvenience me by taking shit that did not belong to them.

The story is as follows...

I hopped on a taxi from Tzaneen to Pretoria early-ish in the day, around 9:30 am or so. The ride was typically uncomfortable for a plethora of reasons: I had no leg room, it was hot and humid like the jungle of a fat guy's armpit, people were sweaty and smelly (myself included), and the chubby guy next to me obviously had something wrong with him because the whole ride, he wouldn't stop jiggling in his seat, bobbing his head around in circles, talking aloud to himself in siPedi, and spreading his fat legs out as wide as possible, thus eliminating the minimal seat space I had for my small ass to begin with.

I managed to sort-of fall asleep after the break in the ride (on a 4-hour ride to Pretoria, taxi's take a short bathroom and food break about 2 hours in), but I was woken up from the feeling of warm, greasy beef broth being dribbled on my leg, courtesy of Fat Bobby next to me. During the break he had decided to get a dish of pap, beef and gravy which he couldn't eat during the break, so he took the plate on the taxi with him to eat on the ride. Because of the bumpy nature of the ride and the obvious dim-wittedness and completely uncoordinated nature of my seat mate, about half the gravy ended up on my leg - an event which caused my friend to simply look at me and smile a dumb smile, just before he decided to throw the entire meal, pap, beef, plate and all, out the taxi's open window, splashing the remains on the glass of the taxi doors so the people in the seats behind us could enjoy the greasy streaks they left upon the clear surface.

Upon arriving in Pretoria, tired, anxious, angry and more than frustrated, I noticed that the taxi was pulling into a part of town that I hadn't been before. I had recognized it as being in the vicinity of the taxi rank I usually go to, but not quite where I'd end up normally. As the door opened, I asked a man outside if there were taxis going to Hatfield, my destination.

"Hatfield, yes. Follow me my friend."

I got out of the taxi clutching my duffel bag and day pack in either hand, the bags hanging low, and my Canon 10D DSLR camera backpack on my back. I expected to follow the guy to one of the taxis just on the side of the road in front of me, but I saw he turned the corner and was leading me down another block.

As I picked up my pace, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a short, stumpy looking black South African in a dirty green jacket abruptly turn around and start following me with an obvious purpose in his step.

Instantly, a warning light went off in my head. Something wasn't right. I could feel it.

The man I was following to the Hatfield taxi was about 5 or 6 paces ahead of me, and the sidewalk was crowded enough with people so that I couldn't catch up to him as quickly as I would have liked. There was a solid wall to my right, garbage, parked cars and people selling things on my left, and two ladies walking very slowly in front of me. Though I felt something wasn't right, I tried to tell myself I was just being paranoid and that things were probably completely normal.

Still, I picked up my pace as best I could, and I kept glancing behind me to see if I was putting any distance between myself and the man in the green jacket.

I wasn't.

I decided that things were actually not at all normal, and that I should quickly make a move to get the hell out of the situation.

I was about to start jogging ahead, but the instant I was about to take my first step, my heart stopped as I felt an arm come from behind me, swing around my neck, and I felt something blunt pushing against my lower back.

"GIVE! GIVE!" was all the man said.

I stood like a scarecrow, my arms out to the side, not moving, saying "Take what you want. Just take it..."

It was then that I felt 3 pairs of hands going thru all my pockets, and I heard the sound of the zippers on my bags being opened and the contents searched. I knew they'd take my phone. I knew they'd take my wallet, and I knew they'd take my small Pentax camera, because I always kept it in my pocket. Having people go thru your pockets makes you feel violated in such an awkward way. It's a hard feeling to describe. It isn't the worst thing in the world, but it just feels so wrong.

As they were searching me, I decided I could be ok with all that being taken, but I was absolutely terrified that they would take my Canon DSLR camera.

I began panicking slightly at the thought of them taking it, and so I started trying to plead with them to not take "it" without mentioning the item directly.

I thought to myself, "Don't take my nice camera" probably isn't the best thing to say to a group of criminals searching you, if you indeed want to keep your camera. I don't remember exactly what was coming out of my mouth, but I quickly realized it was useless and stupid. They weren't going to listen to me. They probably didn't even understand me.

I felt like I was being held for minutes on end while they searched me, in broad daylight, with people all around, watching the event go down.

At some point I looked ahead to the guy taking me to the taxi. He was looking at me with a desperate and apologetic face, his arms held out in an "I don't know what to say or do" manner, and he was shaking his head. I was mouthing the word "Help" to him, and then I actually began saying it aloud quite loudly as I saw more and more people pass by, look at me, then continue walking.

"Help?!?" I was practically shouting to the people who passed by. I said it in a disbelieving manner, like, "Is anyone going to do ANYTHING? Are you really just going to keep walking away? I'm getting mugged here jackass!"

No one did anything. No one acted as if anything was wrong. Everyone just went about as if it was part of the daily routine. And I suppose in that part of town, it really is part of the daily routine.

Eventually, after what felt like 15 minutes but was probably more like 15 seconds, the 5 or 6 men let me go, gave me a small shove, and began slowly walking the other way down the street.

I was overwhelmed, pissed off, and panicked that all my shit was gone.

I was quite surprised when I turned around and noticed that my duffel bag and day pack had not had anything taken out of them, and I was about to check if my Canon camera was gone until I thought to myself, "PSST! GET THE HELL AWAY FROM WHERE YOU ARE. IF YOUR CAMERA WASN'T TAKEN, DON'T TAKE IT OUT TO SHOW THEM THEY MISSED SOMETHING."

I ran up the block to where the taxi was waiting and started yelling at the guy who was leading me there.

"Why wouldn't you do anything?!? Why doesn't ANYONE do anything? That's the problem with this damn country. Everyone is too scared to stand up for anyone else. Everyone looks after themselves and who the hell cares if someone else is a victim? What the hell man?!"

The guy didn't argue. He agreed with everything I said.

"Yes. You're right! I don't do anything because they all had knives. They would kill me if I did anything. That is why I don't do anything."

I was still pissed at him, and also for a brief moment thought he might have been in on the whole thing, but after some thought, that didn't seem justifiable. I put myself in his shoes. If I saw someone getting mugged by 6 men with knives, would I do anything? Could I do anything?

I probably could if I wanted to get stabbed.

It's a fucked up situation, but the rules you follow as a potential victim or onlooker are generally the same: Don't resist, don't intervene. If the situation is non-violent, let them take what they want and they'll be on their way. Stuff can be replaced. That's really the best and only thing you can do.

When I was being held there, I had thoughts of "Ok... If I was Jackie Chan, how would I get out of this?"

My mind was racing, but I came to the conclusion that even Jackie Chan couldn't have done anything. I was in a vulnerable position, off balance, and outnumbered 6 to 1 by guys with sharp objects intended to cause pretty severe bodily harm.

I decided that if I was Jackie Chan, I would have to have waited for the incident to be over with. Then when the assholes turned around to leave, I would have drop kicked their sorry asses all the way to the Indian Ocean, tied them up, pierced their ears and noses with big hoop rings, hang them over the side of a rickety boat, tied to the boat only by thin fishing line I attached to their newly pierced appendages, and make them apologize to me repeatedly while dangling their testicles just above the Great White shark infested waters.

But alas, I am not Jackie Chan, or any variation thereof.

I got on the taxi to Hatfield, accepted the expressions of "Oh, shame." from the people riding with me, and inspected my belongings.

The only things missing were my phone, my Pentax camera, 150 rand, a few random items not important enough to remember, and my polarizing lens for my camera.

I felt a bulge in my pocket and realized that they had even given me back my wallet after they took the cash out. All my bank cards and IDs were still in there.

What the hell?

I was extremely lucky. These guys must have been professionals. Amateurs would have been much more uncoordinated and possibly much more violent. These guys knew what they were after, and knew the most efficient way to get it.

The biggest relief was to find that the assholes didn't even touch my Canon. Upon visual inspection, I realized that to the untrained eye, you can't even tell there is a zipper or a separate compartment to my backpack where my camera sits in rest. The compartment was flanked by two full water bottles as well, and those weren't touched, so I knew they had no clue that there was something of much more value in my possession than a crappy cell phone and 2 year old digital camera.

The fact that I did not lose my Canon took so much weight off of my shoulders that it made the whole incident seem petty. Still, I had a bit of trouble staying asleep the next few nites.

I really don't know how I ended up being so lucky. I realize that the whole situation could have been infinitely worse.

I've replaced my phone already, and 150 rand isn't a huge deal to lose, considering the circumstances. I'm pissed I don't have my small camera anymore though. I always have it on me, for pictures, videos, or even recording sound clips for song ideas. I'll wait a while until I get a new one. I didn't like that one so much anymore anyway.

Other stories from volunteers are more hair-raising than mine, and some have ended up much worse. It's a frustrating thing to deal with in this country. Crimes like this happen in the middle of the day, in broad daylight, with hundreds of people around to witness it. Most of them happen in the cities, though some in the more rural areas. Generally at our sites, volunteers feel safe. Elsewhere, volunteers are obvious targets, and they can't always avoid areas of town where the crime rate is high. Sometimes it's just bad luck that makes us end up there, and shit luck if something happens. We are all very wary of our surroundings, but there will always be times where you just can't do anything.

I found myself in that situation and am so thankful that nothing worse happened.

I just wish there was more of a desire to stop these guys. The police are useless. One of my friends, upon reporting a mugging to the local police station was told by the policemen that they wouldn't pursue the case. Why? Their reason:

"If we go after these guys, then they come after us and our families."

I'm sorry... what? Where I come from, [the majority of] cops sign up to be a cop because they want to make a difference and want to make our streets safer. Where I come from, it's the cops who call the shots and who willingly put themselves in the face of danger to keep others safe. Where I come from it's the cops who are to be feared by the criminals. Not the other way around.

But I guess I'm not living in NY now.

Here in South Africa, criminals truly do live in a "Tsotsi Paradise". It seems that for most of the policemen I've come across since being here, being a cop means nothing more than getting a paycheck and laying low if any real shite goes down.

Thankfully, I didn't need them. I hope I never do.

For Some Visual Stimulation...

2008-10-22T04:24:00.000-04:00

I'm just about to go on vacation for a few weeks with my mom and pops, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to share some of these. I came across them recently, and had a good laugh at a bunch. Here are some of my favourites...

My absentee ballot is in.

Please don't forget to vote on November 4.

Yes, Barack Obama

2008-10-12T01:44:00.001-04:00

Since the Democratic Convention in 2004, I couldn't wait for the day that Barack Obama would run for president. I think like many other people, I didn't expect that day to come so swiftly.

However, I'm glad it has come now. You won't find the reasons why, in this entry. I am trying to curb any actions that would have this blog become one with a political bent. For reasons why, we can talk separately.

Briefly...

I describe myself as a "progressive", and it's no secret my views fall left of the political center. During the past presidential election however, I realized I was a little too far left, which tended to cloud any clear thought processes (as any sort of extreme does) and made me pretty obnoxious from an objective standpoint... Kinda like the people who stand on the street corner and tell you you're going to Hell if you don't accept Jesus.

Nobody likes those people.

Ayway, after the huge slap in the face that was W's re-election, I stepped away from politics for a long while. During that time away, I developed a bigger picture view of much of life, and realized that while politics still plays a significant role in our lives, the partisan back and forth nonsense does nothing to better anyone.

I could expand on this entry to explain how I came about my mental transformation, but again, I feel it's something better to be conversed about, rather than described in this format. Also, I don't have a lot of time on my hands at the moment, and I have to pack my bag to go start a self-imposed 5 day photo assignment.

The point of this entry is simply to state my support, faith and belief in Barack Obama. I've been inspired by him ever since I first saw him speak, and I strongly believe he will be an excellent president.

Most importantly, I truly believe he will not purposely divide our country (or the rest of the world) into "with us or against us" groups, but he will attempt to make us once again feel we are indeed the "United" States of America.

It takes a true leader to do that. I believe Barack Obama is that leader.

I guess we'll just have to wait and see...

Kids... and Me... and sometimes their moms.

2008-09-20T11:13:00.000-04:00

"Yes, it's true. I am signing up for an online dating service. Thousands of people have done it, and I am going to do it. I need a user name. And... Ah. I have a great one. "LittleKidLover". That way, people will know exactly where my priorities are at."

Seriously.

No. Not seriously.

People barely use the internet here. It wouldn't be worth my time.

Kudos to you "Office" fans who caught the first paragraph above. That show always makes me laugh.

I am not signing up for a dating service, and even if I did, the baggage that comes with a name like "LittleKidLover" is, I think, pretty obvious. However, clueless as Michael Scott may be to the duality of such a username, one can understand his true intentions are not pedophilic of any sort. Kids are just great company to be around. Ask anyone who has volunteered at camps, who has little cousins running around or anyone who has spent any time in the company of a few curious young souls exploring the world around them.

They're like adorable 3 month old puppies, but with a more expansive vocabulary.

Myself, I've always loved working and playing with kids. They seem to react very positively to me (most of the time - especially I'm not their older cousin) and I get along with them extremely well. I could speculate on the reasons for this, but I won't.

No, I lied, I will speculate. It's probably because, not only am I pretty awesome in general, but I don't think I ever truly grew up or grew out of that "kid" mindset. The things that make them laugh, make me laugh. The things that make them sad, make me sad. (Even if it is something as seemingly insignificant as someone putting the wrong type of jelly on your PB 'n' J sandwich)

Since growing older (but not up), I've tried to surround myself with people of a similar nature.

During my now 14 months in South Africa, I've had numerous encounters with those of a tinier stature who are age-ly challenged. Each time I spend time with kids here, whether they speak anything from Zulu, to Afrikaans or English, I'm reminded quite forcefully of why I enjoy being around them so much, and most of the reason why I got involved in this line of work in the first place.

Take my time at the farm (my first site) with Cassandra and Amanda. Both are now 5 years old. One is the third child from an Afrikaans family, the other is a Swati orphan. They have grown up together, and have been inseparable for as long as anyone can remember. They speak both Afrikaans and Swati. They have learned the languages from each other, piecing bits together here and there as the months move on. They do everything together every day. They even end their todays and begin their tomorrows together by sharing the same bed.

Cassandra and Amanda with the teddy bears I gave them

Their friendship is something truly remarkable and special.

One otherwise typically uneventful day at the farm, I was sitting against a wall, wondering with frustration how the days could possibly pass by as slowly as they were, when I overheard someone ask young Cassandra a question.

"Cassandra, what colour is Amanda?"

Despite the fact that apartheid has been officially ended since 1994, the concept of peoples' race and colour is still quite prominent. Conclusions are made immediately upon sight of another person based on whether they are "black, white, indian or coloured". Though it may frequently be the case, is is not always meant to carry negative connotations. It seems so ingrained into people's minds in this society that it is accepted as normal. I find myself falling into that mindset at times as well. If someone's telling a story about an encounter with another person, in order to get some immediate background information, I want to interrupt and ask, "Are they black or white?"

I catch myself all the time doing this, and I can't stand it. I imagine this tendency of mine partly existed before I came over to South Africa due to the racial issues that still exist in the US, but they are not nearly as prominent in every day life as they are here. Being here has exacerbated those tendencies of mine, and I've only been here a little over a year. I can only imagine what it's like to have grown up in this type of environment.

To bring all this back to the story, in response to the question "What colour is Amanda?", one could be forgiven for expecting Cassandra to simply answer, "Black". But she didn't respond with that.

After some though and a brief pause, Cassandra answered, "Pink."

I could tell the person asking the question was about as shocked as I was, if not more so.

"Why do you say she is pink?"

"Because she is pink. Everything about her is pink. That's her favourite colour."

I want to be clear that Cassandra did in fact understand the question. She knew she wasn't being asked what Amanda's favourite colour was. The question that was posed to her was simply perceived differently than we many, if not all of us may have interpreted it.

The whole rest of the day, I wore a huge smile on my face. It was amazing to me to have a glimpse into the way Cassandra viewed her best friend in the world. She didn't see Amanda as being of a specific race or colour. She was simply her best friend. As close as a sister.

One could quite possibly write a book about the brilliance of the friendship between Cassandra and Amanda, about how perplexingly strange and entirely normal it is at the same time. What made it so amazing for me to be with them, was to remember again how care free, honest, and non-judgmental kids are. They don't see the world in black and white, and they don't settle for seeing it with shades of grey. They view their world in an explosion of bright and beautiful colours, without ever being constrained by the symbolic uses the adult world has put them to. Kids aren't bothered by trivial issues like race or class. They view each other and everyone else as human, above and beyond anything else.

I wonder when that outlook is lost amongst so many?

I have made very close connections with so many kids in South Africa. As it turns out, I also have frightened many kids to the point of tears.

Some say it's my appearance. I say it's talent.

This was particularly true when I had my beard growing in full force on my face. I found that some kids didn't mind my beard - some actually really liked it and wanted to touch it and run their fingers thru it. But many kids viewed me as (what I imagine in their minds to be) some sort of mountain Yeti, unkempt, insane, and ready to bite their fingers and toes off at the drop of a hat.

To be fair, I have been known to bite, but I would never remove any bodily appendages with my teeth.

I think it wasn't only the beard that frightened the kids, but it was also the fact that I was the first and only white person that some of them had ever seen. I know I just said that I don't believe that kids see things like race, but I view this situation as a bit different.

I equate them seeing me, this funny-looking, bearded, skinny white guy speaking a strange language in their presence, with any of us coming across a massive, green-skinned Flordic speaking individual with long teeth sprouting up and down his arms, legs and chest. It's something we've never seen before, but if we knew they existed, and had even met a few ourselves, we wouldn't be quite as wary of them.

What the hell was my point?

I'm not asking rhetorically, I actually forgot.

Ah right. Me scaring kids.

Back in May, I had gotten used to the idea that I was a scary sight to some youngins. However, I always did my best to make a good first impression whenever kids were around I didn't know.

In this type of scenario, a little magic goes a long way. :-)

In May, I was at the backpackers in Pretoria awaiting my sight change. The second day I was there, I was writing in my journal, when I saw three young girls com running out to the lawn near where I was sitting, and they started talking to each other in an Afrikaans/English mix, and started doing splits, hand-stands, and back handsprings.

I didn't know the circus was in town, but if it was, I was sure they were worried sick about the whereabouts of their acrobatic midgets.

One of the girls - a short haired blonde with an excess of energy - saw me observing them doing their... well, whatever it was they were doing, and skipped over to where I was lounging. She began to speak to me in a sort of, out of breath, South African-English accent, and unable to keep her small self still, she put her hands on my knee and began hopping up and down.

"What are you writing?"

"Umm... I'm writing in my journal."

"A journal? ...Is that like a diary?"

"It is like a diary. What are you girls doing?"

"We're just practicing for... our, um... gymnastics camp."

And with that she was gone.

Story of my life.

Anyway, later that evening, I saw the girls sitting down at the outside table, playing Uno. I sat just down the bench from them, half doing brain teasers from a book and half laughing hysterically to myself at the conversation the girls were having.

Girl 1: "You can't put that card there!"
Girl 2: "Yes I can, we switched directions!"
Girl 3: "We did change directions."
Girl 1: "Oh... where's my juice?"
Girl 3 to Girl 2: "She's out to lunch..."

When their game was done, I asked them if they wanted to see a card trick. They answered in a sort of explosive jumble of words - a manner usually reserved for the floor of the NY stock exchange.

"YES! YES!"
"You do magic??"
"Let me see! Let me see!"
"I loooooove magic!"

I sat across the table from them and they immediately stuck their heads as close to the cards and my hands as possible, causing two of them to bump their heads.

"Owww! Sam!"
"It's not my fault!"

I asked the girls some basic questions while I shuffled the cards.

Turns out the three of them were only part of a larger group of school age gymnasts from Namibia who had come to South Africa to attend a training camp.

There was Samantha, age 9, Manuela, age 12, and Tanita, age 9. They said to call them Sam, Manu, and T. So I did.

I showed the girls a few magic tricks, and they invited me to keep playing Uno with them. We played Uno for 2 hours until they had to go to bed. Before they left, they made me promise to show them more magic the next day, and they wanted to be sure I would play more card games with them. That was a really nice thing to hear.

Sam and T

Manu

For the next few days, when I was around the backpackers, the girls would actively seek me out to talk and play cards and board games. They loved the magic tricks I did for them, they always offered me bits and pieces of their dinners (a sure way to win my heart), and they kept me entertained for hours with the things they would say.

I asked them what some of their fears are, or what they're afraid of. T was quick to point out that Sam was afraid of sleeping alone, so she sleeps with her mom. To which Sam took a pause, made a slight face, and said gravely:

"Too much information..."

Another time, after they had gotten back from gymnastics practice, Sam came run-skipping over to where I was hanging out and said:

"Hi Joey... My mom thinks you're cute."

Oh moms.

It seems to be a strange running theme in my life... Throughout my young adult life, mostly as a busboy or innocent bystander, I've had a lot of middle aged women pull me aside and tell me I'm cute and ask me if I had a girlfriend. This would often alarm me until they made it clear that they had a daughter they wanted to hook me up with. None of them ever did follow thru unfortunately. Still I can't help but wonder if I wasn't born 20 - 30 years late. If I was born earlier on in the 1960s, I feel like during my young adult life, I would have a whole bus load of young women (now middle aged, married and with single daughters) around who thought I was a catch. I'm gonna have to bring this up with the big man upstairs in due time.

Middle-aged crushes aside, one of the nicest exchanges I had with the girls was during their second to last day in Pretoria. I was curious to know why they hadn't been frightened of me when they first saw me and met me.

Me: "Weren't you even just a little bit frightened of me because of my giant beard?"

The girls, in unison: "Nooooo."

Me: "No? I think I scare a lot of people away."

T: "Not for us."

Me: "Why not? Why weren't you scared?"

Sam: "Because you were nice."

Me: "I was nice?"

T: "You were nice to us the first time and then we know you're a good guy."

Me: "How did you know I was nice?"

Sam: "Because.... you were nice."

T: "We just saw you... and we asked you to play with, and..... you were nice!"

Sam: "I wouldn't know because I was in the shower."

T: "And then you did the magic!"

So, the exchange may have been lacking in details, but I think they may be unnecessary. Regardless, it felt good to know that kids can often see past another's (read: my own) appearance and look to find out who that person really is.

My favourite exchange was with Sam, only a few minutes after the above conversation took place. We had moved on from playing Uno to a game called "Donkey", which I have no recollection of whatsoever.

There was a slight lull in the conversation, and Sam says to me:

Sam: "Where's your toothbrush?"

An odd question, I thought.

Me: "In my tent... why? Are my teeth dirty?"

Sam: "No. Your breath stinks."

Damn kids.

I was actually pretty sad to see them have to leave after a few days. They gave me some great laughs though, and I'm happier to have been able to spend time with them.

I hope they don't grow up too much as they get older.

The Bad News: Death isn't Fair

2008-08-28T06:07:00.003-04:00

It's a well known fact that life is not fair.

We all have our own stories and examples to illustrate this universal trait.

In the past few months in particular, what I've come to realize is that death, like life, is just as unfair, if not more so.

Death is as impartial, unbiased, unprejudiced, unjust, inconsiderate and infuriating as anything on this earth. And recently, it has stepped on one of my few remaining nerves, igniting an anger inside me that makes me want to pummel death back to life. I am unable to truly put into words how much the "unfairness" of death has affected me. I suppose it's something we all have to get used to, but just because we all have to do it, doesn't make it any easier to deal with.

The back story...

I don't keep in touch with many people from Vorova, but I still maintain contact with a few friends who I felt very close to. As is the case in many small rural villages, many people within a community are members of only a few extended families. From what I could gather, there were only about 2 or 3 groups of families in Vorova. My good friend, Jealous, is part of the rather large Mhlongo family. Jealous is in his 30s, has three children and a wife. They are a close-knit nuclear family - the closest I had met in the entire village. Jealous has had a job as a farm manager at a nearby farm for the past 10 years, but despite his length of time on the job, the 10 to 12 hour days he works, and the number of responsibilities and skills he has acquired, he still gets paid less than 900 rand per month (about $120). That is not very good even by rural South African standards.

Jealous had always struck me as a family man. Don't let his uncommon name fool you (I think it's actually a variation on "Julius"). He is a gentle, mellow soul, and a man of intelligence, even though he only finished school up to 5th grade. He is reasonable, good-natured and kind hearted. He is proud of his achievements, frustrated at the system he lives in, but very optimistic for his childrens' future.

Jealous

I left Jealous a message about a month and a half ago. I wanted to see how he was doing and how life was being lived in Vorova. Two weeks ago, he sent me a text message back. While it was good to hear from him, he had sad news to report. His text read:

"Hi joey igreatyou,ihaverecive yourmessage.W e are still alivebutnot allofus.Surprise,died onthe 20.06.2008.So weburriedhim isthat all by .Jealous"

The message, though somewhat cryptic, left me speechless and feeling like I had been shocked by an electric fence. There was confusion and doubt at first, then all of a sudden, a stinging pain coming from somewhere inside of me. I understood the message loud and clear, and it hurt me to do so.

Surprise, not yet 3 years old, was the youngest member of the Mhlongo family. He was Jealous' nephew, and brother to my closest companion in the village, Selby, who is 12.

Surprise

Selby and Surprise lost both of their parents 2 years ago (the assumption is that they died of AIDS, but virtually no one talks about it the disease openly, so I could never get the full story). The two brothers were being raised by their aging grandparents and older aunts and uncles who live nearby. Selby stood out from most of the other young boys in the village in my eyes, because he was more reserved, a bit shy, but most of all, was the most respectful of them all. It's hard to really describe why one may become attached to one kid over another in this type of situation, but there are reasons for it, even if they can't be explained or justified. Selby was that kid for me. I felt like he was the much younger brother I never had. (My actual younger brother is only two years younger than me, which isn't that much younger, but he's stronger than me and could very likely beat me up, so it's not quite the same. Shout out to him now: Love you Brother)

It was pretty obvious by his behaviour and demeanor that Selby had been strongly affected by the loss of both his parents, and he was probably in the same mental state as any 12 year old would be who had gone thru such an ordeal. In our time together, Selby reminded me a lot of myself when I was younger (or what I think I was like back then - Mom and Dad would have to verify). He was a smart kid, but made silly mistakes, and didn't seem to have the same level of street smarts as the other boys. Selby wasn't the strongest kid, and he didn't take being made fun of by the other boys very well. He looked up to me a lot and was the only kid who respected what I had asked of the group of boys.

Often times I would have a group of boys over to where I was staying, and they would help me water my garden or I'd show them some magic tricks or let them play my guitar. Being 12 year old boys, they would often get rowdy and would begin doing things they weren't supposed to do - things like fighting over insignificant objects, hitting each other, handling my breakable possessions as if they were designed to play tug-of-war with, etc. I would always ask them nicely to change their behaviour and to essentially "chill out". They didn't always listen to me. When it came down to it, Selby would see that I was getting annoyed and angry with the boys, and he would tell them in siSwati that it was time to go because they were being disrespectful and I was getting fed up with them... all without me saying anything. Selby was very conscious of me and my frame of mind. He could read me very well.

Selby and I (being awesome)

Selby understood and spoke very little English, which was the same for me with regards to siSwati. Although we were able to verbally communicate effectively only about 40% of the time, we were able to communicate on a different, non-verbal level. I tried not to play favourites with the young boys, and I succeeded outwardly in that regard I suppose, but Selby was always different from the rest, and he always will be. I want so badly for him to break out of the cycle of poverty and hopelessness that surrounds him. I don't want you to think I'm heartless - I want that for all the young boys, obviously - but I didn't see the desire for that to happen within them like I did in Selby.

Another thing I noticed about Selby was that he cared deeply for his younger brother, Surprise. I didn't get to know Surprise very well - he was extremely shy, uncomfortable, and seemed very untrusting of anyone who didn't live within the makeshift mud and reed gates and walls that made up his world. What always struck me most about Surprise though, was the perpetual sadness that emanated from his small dark eyes. I rarely saw him playing with other kids, and I only saw him smile once in the 8 months I knew him. I never saw or heard him laugh. I would talk to him in siSwati with Selby next to me, but he always turned away. When I would greet him and try to give him a high-five or shake his hand, he let me take his hand but made no effort to comply with the gesture. He just looked at me with a skeptical and disinterested gaze.

Side note: Surprise also rarely ever wore pants.

I called Jealous after I received his message because I was curious to know what had happened.

Why had Surprise died?

It turns out that there had been an outbreak of cholera in Revolver Creek. Jealous told me that Surprise had died soon after he got sick, as did 3 older people in the village. A number of other people had contracted the disease, but had not died. I don't know if Surprise was HIV positive. But it wouldn't really have mattered if he was or wasn't. Almost any child under the age of 5 wouldn't stand much of a chance in a fight against cholera.

I tried asking Jealous how Surprise had contracted the disease. He didn't know how it happened, and he was rightly skeptical of the shady reasoning given to them by the Dept. of Health, whose explanation was that "people from the mines brought it in". Whatever that means. No one works in the mines in Vorova. To my limited yet constantly increasing knowledge base, cholera is transmitted most often thru contaminated water. I checked up on the disease on Wikipedia and got schooled on just how vicious the disease is. An excerpt on how it's transmitted...

"Cholera is transmitted from person to person through ingestion of water contaminated with the cholera bacterium, usually from feces or other effluent. The source of the contamination is typically other cholera patients when their untreated diarrhoea discharge is allowed to get into waterways or into groundwater or drinking water supply. Any infected water and any foods washed in the water, can cause an infection."

No one was sure how exactly how the disease spread thru the village. Cholera used to be a common problem in the area that resurfaced frequently before the neighbouring farm allowed the community to take water from the taps on its property. But it had been years since the last outbreak.

My thoughts went immediately to the canal water that runs thru the Vorova. I believe it most likely had originated there. I had been trying to get the people of Revolver Creek access to clean water for months because the situation was so dire. I would have been furious if the cause of the outbreak was the canal.

As was told in my previous blog post, Vorova had a functional water system at the time of this outbreak. That's encouraging, but... the canal was still there, and it's not going anywhere in the future. Maybe people were still washing their pots and pans and food with the canal water. I imagine that old habits die hard, even in desperate circumstances. I can only speculate that the combination of the canal water and overall poor hygienic conditions in the village lead to an outbreak that claimed the lives of those whose bodies were too weak to fight it. I don't know what else to think. I can't help but have my mind wander and wonder.

The good news of the clean water system was for the time being, overshadowed immensely by Surprise's death.

The way events have played out over the past few months has been a hard thing for me to come to peace with. I am thrilled that there is a clean water system in place now, and I do celebrate this success. However, a larger picture emerges from recent events. Despite the fact that there was a functional water system in the village, there was still an outbreak of a water borne disease. This shows that although clean water is a huge step in the right direction in terms of development, it is not a silver bullet in terms of solving the plethora of problems faced by poverty stricken communities every day. Sanitation and hygiene issues must also be emphasized when working in community development.

People will be happy to have access to pit toilets as opposed to having to shit in the bush, but germs and disease will still spread if people don't think to wash their hands after using the latrine. Infrastructure is not the only thing that must be developed - people must be educated about how to maintain healthy lives for themselves and their children.

At the risk of sounding preachy, please allow me to ascend onto my temporary soap box...

I am much more angry than sad at the thought of Surprise's early death. There is nothing normal or natural about a 3 year old child dying... at least it shouldn't be considered normal. And it's not - in the first world at least. The maddening thing is that it is accepted as a fact of life in the developing world. The death of children in the third world is so widespread that you have no choice but to numb yourself to the idea that these kids never got a chance at living their lives.

Even more maddening is the fact that the way in which the majority of children in developing countries around the world meet their premature end, is due to completely preventable problems, such as a lack of access to clean water, malnutrition, poor hygienic conditions, and locally unavailable inoculations and vaccinations - some that cost less than 10 cents to administer.

As I mentioned before, I wasn't very close to Surprise. However, I was [and still am, in my heart] very close to Selby. How would I have reacted if I heard that it was Selby who fell ill and died in this fashion? I don't like to ponder that thought. I fear for him and all the other kids in similar living situations throughout Africa and the world. There is so much that needs to be done to try and offer them a fair shot at life. But where does one even begin? Selby is now the only person left in his nuclear family. He lost both his parents, and his younger brother, all within a time span of 2 years. How does one expect him to cope? Who will be there for him to support him emotionally as he grows up? Will he ever have a chance to come to peace with all that has happened around him?

Selby is one of many in this situation. I can't be there for all the kids in his situation. No one can be there for everyone. Hell, I can't even be there for him for more than a few months of his young life.

But what I can do, is be there for him when I am nearby. I can let him know that there are still people in the world who care about him, who love and support him, no matter how far away they live. I'd like to think that I've let him know that already, since before I left.

Being in Peace Corps and/or working in development in any regard is so much more than helping people to help themselves, to lift themselves up... it's so much more than advancing social causes and organizations, improving education systems, etc.

At the core of all the work we do and the lives we live both abroad and at home, is a passion and motivation that cannot be accurately portrayed in words. It can only be felt. That motivation and passion, as best I can try and explain it, is what is most precious to all of us - it is that sense of connection - pure human connection that is at the foundation of all the emotions we are capable of feeling. It is this connection that transcends every other reason and detail of why we do what we do.

Gontse and I - January 2005

When people ask me if I ever regret coming here and doing what I'm doing, given my less than stellar experience over the past year, at times I am tempted to say "maybe a little bit". But I never do. All I do is think about Selby, and Rafilwe, and Gontse, and about all the other kids that have touched my life so deeply, and it doesn't take long for me to answer the question with a resounding and whole-hearted "No."

The bad news hurts and the effect still lingers. And I'm sure that there will be more bad news to come in the future as well. Some things we cannot fix right away. But there is light and hope that shines thru here too. There will always be good news to counter the bad, if we want it badly enough and work to see it thru.

I don't regret any of this. How could I? Just look at all the beautiful people who have changed me and my life forever...

I only hope that I can do the same for them in return.

The Good News

2008-08-21T12:08:00.003-04:00

I'm pregnant.

Ha! Just kidding. Or am I?

No, I am. I think.

Kidding, that is.

I wanted to take this opportunity to share with any readers who still read this, a relatively big success story for me.

As many of you may or may not know, my focus over the past 8 months has been getting communities access to clean water. I started down this path after witnessing the desperate conditions in the community near my first site in Mpumalanga called, Revolver Creek.

Revolver Creek was [and still is] to put it lightly, extremely poor. The people living there are on the bottom rung of the ladder of development, and yet only 40 km in any direction, there are affluent suburbs and growing cities - people are living no less comfortably there than many do back in upper and middle class American towns.

The village of Revolver Creek (called Vorova by those who live there) consists of approximately 60 households, home to about 250 people. The houses are made of dried reeds and mud, usually topped off with scavenged pieces of corrugated tin. Despite the very basic structure and architecture, the houses are very weatherproof. I can attest to this fact after my experience when I took shelter in one during a freak rainstorm back in January. The humble abode that kept me and 12 others dry, had two beds inside - one full size, one twin - a small counter top and a plethora of milk crates which served as seats, storage, tables, step stools and even as cat traps if there was a mischievous boy in the house. It is dark in the houses because there are no windows. Ventilation is poor, but for nothing more than mud and sticks, it is a reliable shelter.

A view of Vorova

As could be expected, there is no running water and no electricity in Vorova. This description sounds like a cliche of much of the third world, but the meaning and significance of "no running water" and "no electricity" varies greatly from one place to the next. It is one thing to live without these luxuries if you live in a climate zone where the rain comes often and the temperature never becomes uncomfortably or unbearably cold. It is a completely different story if you live where the rain is seasonal, sporadic and unpredictable, and during winters the nites can drop to almost freezing. Vorova falls into the latter category.

Unemployment is not just high, but it is accepted as a fact of life. There is very little work around, and the work that is available can be dangerous and doesn't pay very well - such as working at the nearby timbermill, chemical yard, or neighbouring farms picking tomatoes and other fruits. Money is tight, resources are scarce and most people don't have space to even grow a garden for themselves.

I could go on about the problems that plague Vorova and other small villages just like it nearby, but this post is meant to share the latest good news from the village.

I'm getting to it, I promise.

Back in January, I noticed that many kids in Vorova had developed some really nasty looking sores on their arms and legs. It looked like a mosquito had bitten them - but it looked like the mosquito was the size of a small hawk and had a proboscus the size of a 1/4 inch drill bit. There was something not quite right about the bites...

After doing some light research, I found out that what had been happening, was that the kids would scratch the mosquito bites so much that they would open up. Then, when they would play or bathe in the filthy canal water running thru the village, the water would get into the open wounds and the wounds would get infected.

Seeing this condition spread so rapidly lead me to really think hard about the myriad of problems that face communities throughout Africa and the rest of the developing world. It made me rethink my "assignment" of HIV/AIDS education, and question what it was I wanted to and what I could actually focus on during my time here.

The more I talked to people, the more I began to realize that very few people actually cared about HIV/AIDS. Yes, it's a problem, and a number of people were even infected in Vorova (though no one talked about it). But the reason no one cared about HIV/AIDS was because everyone was [and still is] more concerned about what they were going to eat that nite and the day after.

When people live in conditions of extreme poverty, everyone lives in survival mode. They think in terms of day to day, not month to month, and very few people seem to have dreams for their long term future, which is completely opposite from the mindset we have at home in the US.

Besides food issues, the other main problem facing Vorova and other communities nearby is the relatively obvious lack of access to clean water. The only water source close by is the dirty, polluted and bacteria infested canal water, which is by no means safe to drink, and as illustrated by the example above, isn't really safe to wash with or play in either.

With all this in mind, I set my mind to finding a way to get the people of Vorova access to clean and safe drinking water.

The next 4 months at site were fraught with extreme frustration, dead ends, chasing down government officials, no one returning emails or phone calls, and seemingly nothing getting done, despite my best efforts.

In the weeks before I left my first site, I decided I no longer had much to lose, and decided to step up my efforts to get someone to recognize the water situation out in Revolver Creek. I went into town and walked directly into the Municipal Manager's office in the Barberton Municipality and made my case for bringing clean water to Revolver Creek. The man I spoke to had only had his position for a few months, and told me he was aware there were a number of villages in my area that needed clean water, but that they didn't fall into the municipality lines. Essentially, they were someone else's responsibility.

I knew this wasn't the case, but I didn't think this man was being dishonest. He obviously just didn't know he was wrong. So I stood up and punched him in the face.

I'm just kidding.

I would never do that. Besides, this guy seemed like a genuinely decent person.

I stood up and walked over to the big municipal map hanging on his office wall with all the borders precisely laid out, and pointed to Revolver Creek and all the small villages in that area. They clearly fell within the municipal borders, though they were close to the edge.

With this new insight, the man promised me he would make a personal to the site the next week.

Now, no matter how genuine a person is, I never take them at their word when they make an appointment to meet. True to form, my man didn't make it out the next week, but he did make it out the week after, which happened to be my last week at site. He brought a high ranking counselor with him to survey the area. They were an hour and a half late meeting me, which I normally wouldn't be happy about, but this time, it was excusable because during that hour and a half, they were visiting all the small villages buried in the landscape behind Vorova, which were even more isolated, but affected by the same issues.

Inspecting the old bore hole pump

I took my guests for a short tour of Vorova (the village is only so big), and introduced some of the older members of the community to them. They conversed for a while, and were shown the old broken bore hole that needed to be repaired, and they were shown the canal which people relied on for their water. Upon seeing the canal for the first time, the two government officials both recoiled unintentionally and let out an expression which in one syllable suggested the phrase, "Holy crap this is disgusting. I can't believe people even think to use this water."

Sensing this, I commented, "You can see why I was so pushy to get someone out here. The situation is pretty dire."

"Yes, we see now." was the somewhat sheepish reply.

For a number of months following, I heard nothing more of the situation.

Fast forward (or now, I guess it would be rewind) to three weeks ago. I was notified that since I left back in early May, the municipality had provided Vorova with a functional bore hole, water storage tanks, and even a couple of outdoor toilets.

..........

I don't think I can really express how good this news was to hear, and how important it really is for the people who live there. This news signified a huge success for me personally, and of course, for the people of Vorova as well.

So why didn't I feel any sense of relief? Of accomplishment? Of satisfaction? Why didn't I feel any different?

Why didn't I feel as happy as I thought I should be?

I had worked my ass off for months trying to get to the very end result that ended up happening. That's amazing and wonderful that it actually happened! It's honestly more than I expected to happen. I thought at best, Vorova would get looked at, put on the back burner, and eventually forgotten about. But the municipality went the extra mile and even installed pit latrines in the village. In reality, you can't really ask for more than that. I must applaud the people at the Barberton Municipality for following thru as they did.

I haven't been back myself to see the "new" situation yet. I hope to get there sometime over the next few months. When I do, I'll be sure to include pictures.

The real test will be to see how long the system is operational for. Working with Tsogang, I've heard many stories of government water systems working great for a month or two, then breaking down, and having no one go to fix them for weeks on end. This forces the people of a community to return to their contaminated water source, and it breeds contempt for government systems that are seen as unreliable.

That could be one reason I'm not as happy as I thought I'd be.

Another plausible reason is purely mental.

It's great that there is a functional water system in place. But there's still SO MUCH more that needs to be done. And not just in Vorova, but everywhere across this earth.

I've begun to get past this way of thinking though. It's a demoralizing, depressing, warm vat of spoiled milk and rotten eggs that serves as a breeding ground for pessimism and negativity. It's not a good place to be mentally.

It is my belief that anyone working in development must savour all the successes we rack up, no matter how small. The bigger picture is absolutely daunting - like climbing a mountain where the summit grows just as fast as you ascend. But even though you can't see the top, when you look back, you can marvel at just how far you, and everyone else has come.

The success story in Vorova was more than one step forward - it was a huge leap. Now, instead of worrying all at once about all the other problems that we must face, the focus must be on making sure we don't start slipping backwards from our recently acquired progression forward. The people of Vorova must be provided with the knowledge of how to fix the water system if it breaks down - they must know how to maintain it correctly. Most importantly though, the people of Vorova must feel that they have ownership over the new water system. They must view it as explicitly theirs.

It is at that point that we all can view this project as a true success, and begin tackling the next issue.

So let's keep moving forward.

Some of the kids from Vorova (with tree flowers, of course)

BDTJF: Part 2 - No Lettuce

2008-08-08T08:41:00.000-04:00

When Phil didn't show up to collect me on Monday (or Tuesday), I went to go see Tom at his organization, Sekhukhune Educare Project (SEP). Tom was busy doing what he does, and I settled in to help my friend Shadrack order some books on theatre games and improv ideas for the children's drama group at SEP. Lunch time came around, and as is usually the case, I was hungry, and wanted to fill my belly with delicious food stuffs.

The Good Doctor

The good Doctor Tom Barker (he's holds a PhD in Awesome) decided we should go out for a bit, and do a little walkabout of BDTJF, so I could see it as he see's it in all it's glory and magnificence. After a small tour of the town, including houses where previous PCVs had stayed, and the stone patio beer shacks at the crossroads which carry the heavily potent stench of urine to any noses within a 100 meter radius, (we even casually observed an older man who had whipped it out and began relieving himself in plain view of anyone within eyeshot) we stopped at a small corner restaurant that Tom enjoys, expecting a decent lunch of burgers, fries, or something similar. We suspected something wasn't quite right when he noticed that the two usual people behind the counter, who are from Zimbabwe, were no longer there. There was a woman in her mid-20s sitting lazily in a stool who didn't even acknowledge us as we walked up to the counter.

Tom asked aloud for 2 menus, and [correctly] assuming that the girl didn't really understand English, he made the motions of opening up his hands like a book and holding up 2 fingers. Blankly, she reached for a napkin, and Tom said, "No no, 2 menus" and made the hand signals again. I saw this girl wasn't quite getting it, and so I grabbed the corner of what I saw was a menu behind the counter, and held it up. "Can we have one more of these?" I asked, holding up one finger and pointing to the menu. She got the visual reference, and found another one.

Tom and I stayed at the counter and made our lunch choices quickly, not wanting to lose the girl's attention. I ordered a burger with bacon, cheese, and fries on the side. Tom ordered a chicken burger with fries. We both pointed to our choices on our menus to be perfectly clear as to what we desired to ingest that afternoon.

This girl - we'll call her Lazi - half turned around and said something in siPedi to a man standing at the door to the "kitchen" behind her, accentuating our orders in English. The man answered something back and didn't move. Lazi kept her eyes lowered and said "No chicken." Tom reordered a Vienna (which is like a large hot dog) with fries on the side. The man disappeared thru the doorway, and Tom and I sat at a table and began to talk about the advantages of rocket boots over salami sandwiches.

Ok, so I don't really remember exactly what we spoke about initially, but our conversation eventually turned into just the type of venting and bonding session that is often needed between PCVs. And Tom is a great guy to talk to about all that stuff. This is is second time around doing Peace Corps.

About 15 minutes later, Lazi brought Tom's plate of food to the counter. Tom took it and asked for some ketchup. Lazi shook her head and said there was none. "No ketchup? ...Tomato sauce?" (the preferred name for ketchup here). Lazi shook her head again. That didn't make sense. Curious as to what the red plastic bottle standing amongst 3 yellow bottles was, I walked up to the counter, grabbed it, took it back to Tom, who poured some out, tasted it and said, "It's ketchup."

Huh. Go figure.

I understood that getting our food at the same time at a place like this was highly unlikely, so I was prepared to wait a bit longer for my burger. Fifteen minutes after Tom began eating, Lazi reemerged from the kitchen door, laughing at something inside. Tom raised his hands and pointed to the blank spot on the table in front of me. "Where's his food?" he asked.

Lazi stopped dead in her tracks and looked at Tom like he had 6 heads and something growing out of the ears in all of them. "I'm still waiting for my food", I said. Lazi backtracked into the kitchen.

Another fifteen minutes passed with no sign of Lazi. She reemerged in the same fashion as before and didn't acknowledge us until Tom and I repeated our gestures of confusion and inquiry. Again, Lazi froze up and looked as if she had been slapped in the face by a 40 year old hunchback in diapers, and stumbled back into the kitchen, more slowly than I thought was humanly possible.

She came out 5 minutes later and as she sat back down in her stool, without looking at us, she said very matter of factly, and in a conclusive tone,

"No lettuce."

.....

Now, for a few brief seconds, Tom and I were both utterly confused and a bit speechless. Then we seemed to snap out of it at the same time and started half-chuckling half-protesting the insanity of what she had just said. We quickly realized this course of action was not going to work or benefit anyone, so very calmly, I looked at her and said, still somewhat unbelievingly, "You can make a burger without lettuce, right? You can still make it with the beef, the cheese, the bacon, the bun, the fries... right? You don't have to put on any lettuce."

I'm running out of ways to describe the looks that this girl was giving us. It was as if she was saying with her eyes, how dare we come in to the restaurant and make her do the most minimal amount of work required for her to earn the few rands that she gets paid - which would be the same amount as if she was doing nothing at all.

So yea. How dare we.

At our latest request that they still make my burger without the lettuce, Lazi dejectedly walked back to the kitchen with a look of utter disbelief on her face and did what her job entails, which was telling the guy back there what to cook. It was at this point that it dawned on Tom and me that they hadn't even begun to cook my burger.

"Four minutes" Lazi said as she walked back to her stool.

It shouldn't have to be said that there was no way in hell we believed it would be four minutes until my burger was ready. I think Lazi ran out of words and actions (or never had them to begin with) to tell us to get off her back, so she picked the first number that popped into her head and added "minutes" to the end of it.

Another 15 minutes passed and Tom and I made the decision to split. I'd pick up something elsewhere. We stood up, Tom paid his bill, and even left a tip for Lazi despite the complete lack of service. As we were paying, she looked at us with a confused expression and said, "But it's ready."

"No thanks. We're going somewhere else. It's too long to wait." And with that we left. I got some delicious chicken a few stores away, and it only took literally, 6 minutes to order, pay, and start eating. I recommend Sebs chicken to anyone passing thru the BDTJF area.

The best part about it? It doesn't even come with lettuce.

BDTJF: Part 1 - Introduction and Nightly Excursions

2008-08-07T16:49:00.000-04:00

I recently spent the past 2 1/2 weeks down in what my good friend Tom Barker refers to as "Beautiful Downtown Jane Furse" aka "BDTJF". Jane Furse is a somewhat large rural shopping town in the Sekhukhune district of Limpopo. I unexpectedly ended up in the BDTJF area [temporarily] after being tasked to join one of Tsogang's project managers, Phil, to learn about and take part in some hands on field work. Our work was to be stripping old non-functional hand pumps, and installing new ones in rural villages.

I arrived in BDTJF on July 22. After spending the afternoon out in some rural areas while our team took out an old hand pump, I was dropped off at what would be my humble abode for the next 2 weeks. I was told before coming here to bring mostly everything that I would need to live comfortably. The house I would be living in was extremely bare, I was told. Preparing for the unknown, I brought my sleeping bag, 5 days worth of clothes, some Nat'l Geographic and Outside magazines to catch up on, my laptop, all the food I had stored at my Tzaneen residence, my stovetop/oven, cutlery, my journal and my guitar. I was glad a grabbed a roll of TP before I left as well, because otherwise, I would have been in a very awkward predicament those first few days.

The house I was to stay in was actually a very nice place... or it looked like it would be nice if it was taken care of by someone at some point. There was a big open space living area, red-orange tiles covering the floorspace throughout, a sizable kitchen, 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. It also had spiderwebs everywhere as I realized when I first entered the door and spent the next minute wiping cobwebs from my face and hair, praying I had no 8-legged critters crawling amongst my cranial area. Though the house looked like it hadn't been lived in in quite sometime, it didn't take too long for me to settle in. There was electricity and running water, but no hot water. It was a step above camping, and I've lived in much dirtier environments, and much worse. My favourite part of the house was the bedroom I chose to stay in - a very small space with a single bed, but it smelled like the upstairs bedrooms in my Grandma's house, which made me feel very at home.

I had no idea until the second day that my living space was in such close proximity to two other PCVs who I hadn't seen since December. Tom and Jami are both NGO volunteers that came over with me last year. I got to check out their digs, see where each of them lived and worked, and began remembering what it was like to socialize with other people again. We even got to share a number of meals (pasta, instant pacakes and egg baked brunch, homemade potato leak soup, homemade Indian food etc.) and watch some DSTV that Tom recently acquired. That was certainly a strange experience. But familiar...?

I had a great time with both Tom and Jami, together and separately, and as a result, I often found myself out well past sundown. This is not ideal in most parts of South Africa, but the "not-idealness" is determined and decided by the individual on a case by case basis. The walk back from Tom's trailer-home-turned-"Love Shack" is about 20 minutes. The path goes up a dark dirt road, past some houses on the left and a primary school on the right. I then turn in to the private high school campus, walk up past Jami's place, and if I'm lucky, walk thru the gate, around the old hospital, down some more dark dirt paths, tripping on rocks and the uneven surface, and continue on to the phosphorescent globe lit grounds of Operation Hunger, whose property I was living on.

This journey "home" took on a new and exciting form each nite, until only a few nites in when I decided I had had enough excitement for a while.

The first nite out, not really knowing the area very well, I walked home with clenched fists and a constantly swiveling head, my ears sharp and my eyes narrowed to pick out any figures lurking in the shadows. There were none. The streets were empty and I realized I had been making myself more scared than necessary. It happens.

The gate behind Jami's residence is a large one, and "if I'm lucky" I walk thru it and go on straight home. However, I was only "lucky", once. When my luck is non-existent, I am forced to climb thru what Jami and I have dubbed the "Rabbit Hole", which is a small hole at the top corner of the fence, no bigger than 2 feet in diameter. The hole is about 6 feet up, and requires minimal strength to climb up to reach, but it requires masterful skill and agility to squeeze thru without getting your clothes (or skin) torn by the barbed wire above and below said hole.

I had seen Jami do it once in the daylight (I must say she surprised me - I didn't peg her as a climber) and had tried it once on my own. It wasn't too bad during the day. At nite it was a different story. There was no moon out the nites I went this route, and maneuvering one's body in the dark thru such a small opening proved a bit more difficult and ensnaring. Most of the times passing thru the Rabbit Hole I escaped unharmed, though I ended up ripping a hole in my jeans near my underside (free show for anyone watching me from behind) and I made a nice deep incision on my hand my last time thru. Stupid barbed wire. Anyway, it felt good to feel like a kid again. It was kinda like playing man-hunt, only I wasn't hiding from anyone and no one was looking for me. So, I guess it was actually only like man-hunt in the sense that it was dark outside.

The second nite going home, it was very chilly out, so I decided to jog up the dark street to cut some time off the trek and to warm my scantily clad body up (I only had a t-shirt and jeans on). I started jogging past the first few houses, with dogs behind fences barking their heads off and charging at me, stopping when the metal mesh prevented them from advancing any further. "Dogs are so silly" I thought to myself. "They know there's a fence there, why do they always run up as if they can get past it?"

It was at this point that I sensed something had gone awry. I looked to my left to watch another viciously barking dog run up to his fence, obviously annoyed at my presence. Only this time, there was no fence between his teeth and my cold bones.

The dog was running so fast that he left a trail of dust rising slowly in the electric light of the homes behind me, his big frame charging me like a dark curving bullet, obviously intent on sinking his teeth into something. Slightly panicked (or very panicked) and with nothing to defend myself against the oncoming attack which was only 3 feet behind me, I did the only thing I could think to do. I turned around and started barking and yelling at the beast in the most vicious tone I could muster up. To my surprise, the dog was caught off guard, put on his brakes and tripped a bit over himself, and backed off momentarily, obviously confused. But then to my dismay, the werewolf-esque black shadow resumed his attack, at which point I instinctively let my foot fly and kicked him in the face. Twice.

Thankfully, instead of shaking it off and pursuing me, tackling me to the ground and devouring my soul, the creature of the night ran off, back to where he came from, like a ghost from the darkness. He probably ran back to tell his friends that they wouldn't believe that a skinny white guy from suburban Long Island just scared the crap out of him and kicked him in the face. Twice.

My heart was beating hard and my lungs hurt from the cold air I was breathing too hard. Dizzy, exhausted, shaken, but relieved I rhetorically asked myself, "Why don't more people have guard cats?"

The last few times I walked home, I had no heart pounding incidents. I did however, have some interesting exchanges with some people I met on the way back, including a security guard who tried to make me pay him to walk thru the campus, and a bunch of students who were busy scarfing down cold french fries and asking me a thousand questions about where I'm from what I'm doing etc. But the most "South African" exchange I had on my way back went as follows:

The fourth or fifth nite, when I was about halfway up the dirt road, I saw two pairs of headlights coming down the lane. I have always been uneasy at the thought of close proximity drivebys due to past experiences in the US involving bottles being thrown at me (more than a few times) and for some reason, getting shot with a paint ball gun (thankfully, only once). I never feel right when a car passes close by - especially not at nite. To my relief, the first one passed by, like most usually do. I was keeping a close eye on the second pair of lights when all of a sudden, the car veered towards me, and as I side stepped getting hit and was about to throw a fist into the open passenger window, I saw it was actually a police car, patrolling the streets.

Jackasses almost ran me over.

The cops spoke English, and seeing that I obviously wasn't from the area, asked where I was from. "New York? Ah, it's too far." they would say.

Thanks for stating the obvious, guys. Next time try not mowing me down.

"What are you doing? Why are you walking alone around here?" they wanted to know.

I explained I was on my way home from a friend's place - walking because I had no other option, and I was alone because I don't have a Siamese twin. They didn't get the Siamese twin joke, and I didn't know the siPedi translation for it. The moment was lost.

Shame.

All joking aside, I was hoping they would get the hint and maybe give me a ride back to my place when I said, "I don't like walking around here at nite. But I don't have a car, so I have to walk. I wish I had someone to drive me back."

They didn't get the hint, and replied with characteristic cluelessness and carelessness, "Yes. Jane Furse is very very dangerous. You shouldn't be walking at nite." At which point they said goodbye and drove off.

It's no surprise people don't bother calling the cops here when there's a serious problem that needs to be dealt with.

Anyway, I got back safe after my passage thru the Rabbit hole. Shortly thereafter, I decided that enough was enough. No more walking around Jane Furst at nite for me.

Except for maybe next time if I have to. {Shakes head}

Eh...

2008-07-21T09:28:00.000-04:00

I'm aware it's been a long while since I've last written. Truth is, there hasn't been much to write about in the past 2 months. I'll do my best to fill you in.

I was immensely relieved upon first arriving at my new site, back in early June. It was a welcome change, and extremely necessary for my sanity. Currently I am living in the office that I am working from - which is ok. Obviously it's not ideal, but it's only temporary. The plan was for me to get caught up on the projects we are involved with, do a lot of learning about water and sanitation technologies, and eventually, be placed out at a site with a project to work on.

In my current living situation, I have electricity, a shower with hot running water, and even ADSL internet. But I didn't come to Africa to live with all the things I could have at home. I appreciate those luxuries (who doesn't?), but I was also hoping to escape from that lifestyle while living here.

I have no complaints about my organization, Tsogang. They are a strong, dedicated organization with a very accomplished history, full of successful and long running projects. My supervisors are incredible people, and have extensive experience in development work over the past 25 years. Tsogang is a great organization to work for.

However, it seems that once again, my timing in life is pretty awful. Bad timing has been a recurring theme in my life that I can't seem to shake no matter what I try. If anyone knows any tricks to kick the habit, I'm all ears.

I seem to have arrived at Tsogang during a lull in operations - a transitional period, where nothing is happening. Before I arrived, Tsogang had just finished up some major projects that they had been working on for a number of months. As I arrived (and still to this day) they have been waiting to hear back from local governments and funders to find out about the next projects we will be working on.

My supervisors are well aware that I'm anxious to get out into the field, into the communities, and start doing hands on work. The also realize the sense of urgency I have about it all because time is running out for me in SA - as of today, I am officially one year into my Peace Corps service.

Hooray...?

Unfortunately, things are out of the control of anyone here now. My supervisors are waiting on the requested information and have been waiting for it for months now. They told me about an agricultural project they applied for in Kwa-Zulu Natal which focuses on household gardens - they applied back in April, and were supposed to hear if they got the job last week. It was to be announced in an official government gazette produced in KZN, and we were supposed to get an email the day after, confirming the project. Five days later, we have gotten no email, and in true Africa fashion, when getting our hands on a copy of the government gazette (for which we had to pay 20 rand) there was no information in there about any agricultural projects. I hope we hear soon because I would like to try to get involved in the project myself.

So what have I been doing for the past two months? That is a super question. I wish I had an answer I could be proud of, but I don't. I've been killing time. And time, funny enough, has been killing me in return.

Initially upon my arrival, I was painting four big rooms in the office here. It was a huge job that I did mostly by myself, with some help from the other PCV here, Oliver, and some help from the day worker here, Sam. Unfortunately, in the beginning, Sam and I had some major communication issues, which set us back a good bit. For example, he insisted that we pour the entire 5 liter can of red paint into our work bucket, and then fill the rest of the bucket with water. Just so everyone knows - this is not a good idea, because it renders the paint absolutely useless. Sam didn't believe me when I told him that's not the preferred method of using paint. He tried rolling the water/paint mix on the walls, and it looked like a child with 26 arms had found a pink highlighter and scribbled and dribbled on the wall to its heart's content. I finally showed Sam where on the paint can it said not to mix it with water, and after he still didn't believe me, I simply had to dump the bucket and start fresh, and show him the difference.

So, 5 liters of red paint wasted, but a valuable lesson was learned from what would be a recurring theme: When Sam is left to do things his way, they usually don't end up being done right, and end up creating more work to be fixed - by me. Eventually, Sam and I came to an understanding of how we would work together, (though I couldn't tell you what that understanding was) and we got the rooms done much faster than I could have done on my own. We went thru 12 rolls of masking tape, 20 gallons of red paint (including the wasted 5), 30 liters of "Gaucho" coloured paint (kinda orange-ish), four paintbrushes, two rollers, and countless hours of me biting my tongue. If I never have to pick up a paintbrush or roller or do a project with Sam for the rest of my life, I wouldn't complain.

Sam's a nice guy. We just have communication issues that need to be resolved. I haven't seen him since we finished painting.

The rooms we painted look much better now than they did before, and it was really nice to see a finished product after so many hours of work. I was happy to help, but of course, this isn't the type of work I was hoping to fill my time with in Peace Corps. But I knew it wouldn't be like that forever.

Since those first two weeks, and after a short trip to observe some communal gardens in another part of the province (sorry I haven't written about that - I haven't been in the mood to put it all down coherently), the only other thing that has really happened was when I went out with a nearby organization - called Khutso Kurhula - who did an HIV/AIDS outreach event in some rural villages about an hour from here. The event was held in three different villages and each event had dance contests, free testing, music, a theatre group performing, and free cups of Coca-Cola. I mean, it went deeper than that, but those were the main attractions.

I didn't have much to contribute myself at the events - I went mainly to observe how everything would happen, and to meet the people who worked for KK and for the local governments and clinics. I had a really nice day there though. The theatre group was fifteen high school aged kids (aged 14 - 21). After doing a bit of singing and dancing to warm up at the beginning of the day, a few of them ran up to me and started talking with me. The usual, "Where are you from? What are you doing here? Where do you live now? What do you think of South Africa?" type of questions.

All the kids spoke very good English, and had a very easy sense of humour. They were also great performers on stage. I hung out with them for pretty much the whole day, and made some good friends. I was even kind of proposed to in a round-about sort of way by a 14 year old from the group. Our conversation went like this:

Her: So... you're really from New York?
Me: Yep.
Her: I want to get married in NY.

--careful here Joey--

Me: ...Oh really? Who do you want to marry in NY?

--silence--

Me: You want to marry someone from South Africa in NY?
Her: No, I want to marry someone FROM New York.

--CAREFUL here Joey--

Me: Oh... Ok... Well, first you have to know someone from NY...
Her: Uh huh.
Me: ... and then you have to fall in love with them before you can get married to them.

--She batted her eye-lashes at me and said--

Her: You can take me to NY.

--I looked back at her and said, simply--

Me: You're 15.
Her: I'm 14.
Me: Ah. Right. I have to go.

Talk about being forward. I wish 14 year old girls hit on me like that when I was 14.

So, besides painting the office, and the one day HIV/AIDS event, there really has been nothing going on. My days in the office have been spent working on designing an Appropriate Technology manual to distribute to NGOs around South Africa working in water and sanitation. It will be a very useful manual when it is completed, and I am learning a lot from putting it together. But I can only be at my computer for so long during the days.

For the first time in my life I've had to rely solely on myself to cook for... myself. It was easy to get by in college not cooking because I had the dining hall, friends who would sometimes cook, and a bajillion restaurants and other quick food options running up and down Main St. At my first site in SA, the older girls at the farm would cook dinner each nite for 25 - 30 people, and I was always included in that group (I often helped prepare the food there, but never was in charge of actually cooking it). Now, at my current site, I must be completely reliant on my own cooking abilities.

My dad has been a fabulous cook for more years than I have fingers and toes and ears and nose, and you'd think that by this point in my life I would have picked up some super-awesome cooking tips from him. If I did pick up any, I can't seem to tap into them. It feels like I'm starting from scratch in terms of my cooking knowledge - I sometimes feel a caveman who is finally beginning to understand the potential of using fire to cook. I've seen people do it before, but how do I do it?

I improvise mostly, pretending I know what I'm doing, and I must say I've improvised and pretended surprisingly well. My timing is still off - my veggies are cold by the time my chicken is done, or my pasta has stuck together by the time my sauce is ready, but I'm learning to adapt and adjust. I almost always make way too much food for one person, but I find that I always end up cleaning my plate anyway. My mom is always concerned that I'm not eating well enough and that I'm losing weight, so I figure that eating my meal portion plus my invisible guest's portion is a good way to keep what little weight I have, on me.

I eat my dinner while watching TV episodes on my laptop. I try to spread out the shows I watch so I don't go thru seasons too quickly. My current crop of TV shows includes:

Scrubs (all seasons)
My Name Is Earl (season 3)
Entourage (seasons 1 - 3)
The Office (seasons 1 - 3)
Samurai Champloo (first 24 episodes)
Family Guy (all seasons)

I treat myself on weekends to the occasional movie. The latest batch has included:

Singing in the Rain (loved it)
Little Miss Sunshine (loved it)
Trainspotting (was ok)
Sweeney Todd (meh)
Beowulf (kinda ok)
The Fountain (pretty ok)
Super Troopers (meh)
Secondhand Lions (pretty ok)
The Big Lebowski (loved it)

Then I go to sleep and wake up the next morning... or at least, I've woken up every day so far since being here. I don't think I've missed or slept thru any days.

The weekends are a pretty torturous affair. "Oh great. A full day off. What the hell am I going to do for a full 48 hours?" is often the thought that runs thru my head. My current location does not contain many/any things to entertain oneself with. No theatres, book stores, one coffee shop, no sports fields, communal grounds, no places to meet people or easy access to nature.

My Saturdays and Sundays have consisted of me leaving the office at 10 am, walking around town for 4 - 5 hours, and returning home to kill time before the next day. I've walked just about every inch of this town that I can think of, and really, I promise you, there's nothing to do. The most interesting thing I've seen on my walks (which granted was pretty interesting) was one person's backyard which contained, 2 adult and 1 baby ostriches, 7 peacocks, 3 swans, 9 ducks, a turkey, and a partridge in a pear tree. I'm just kidding. There are no pear trees here. Only mango trees.

But seriously, things just don't happen here on the social front. I've approached any and every young looking person I could find to ask them what there is to do around town, either during the weekends or at nite, and all of them have the same expression "This is a shit place to be in to meet people. There's nothing to do here."

So it seems that, temporarily, I'm out of luck socially. There are other PCVs around who I see and hang out with every now and then, but I'm also looking to meet new people, to expand my horizons, and to keep busy in other ways.

I've been very anxious to get back into the villages. It's great to hear other volunteers talk about their friends in the villages, the sense of community, how they've integrated, the stories they tell about every day life, how they've used their local language, what they do with the kids in the villages and schools... I feel like my whole experience for the past year (except my first two months during training) has been severely lacking in many of these aspects - especially the sense of community and family that many volunteers cite as being the bedrock of their experience.

Obviously my current situation was not the Africa I was hoping for. But I accepted this new post because I believe strongly in the work that my organization is doing, and because I expect to be living in a village setting and working to help change things for the better in the near future.

I've had a string of disappointments lately as well - nothing too major, but enough of them added up to knock me down a few levels. I'm still trying to find my way past all this.

To sum up, my life has been very bland, basic, boring, uneventful, and lonely lately. I've been more than frustrated with how things have been working out for me throughout the majority of my service. Many things are out of my control - which is difficult to accept - and I've been trying to change the things that are in my power to do so. Yes, it sucks a lot at times, but I wouldn't still be here if I didn't believe that better things were just over the horizon.

Now it's just a matter of getting to the horizon.

Face Off

2008-06-14T13:57:00.003-04:00

Oh.... So THAT'S what my face looks like.*

*Actual conversation had with myself.

To my dear readers, the time has come. Well, actually, the time has passed, but the time has come that I am writing about the time that has passed.

After 8 solid months of growing my beard, I have removed the mane from my face, allowing the world to once again see the man behind the fur.

What brought me to this monumental decision?

Well, it wasn't really my decision to shave. I think, in my heart, I was looking to go for a year, which would have brought me to the beginning of October. It just wasn't in the cards for me.

Upon hearing the news that I had a new site which I would depart for in the next few days, it was uncomfortably suggested to me by my bosses that I may want to consider shaving my beard - or at least consider trimming it massively.

I was more than a bit bummed, but I understood where they were coming from. One of the major points drilled home to us during our initial few weeks of training, was that first impressions are a big deal to many South Africans. And from my experiences over the last few months with a giant mass of fur on my face, I can see why some people would be a bit hesitant to embrace such a sight.

If I were to be heading into Zulu-land, the story might be different. I've been told that many Zulu chiefs and the men of the village sport beards to show that they are "real" men. I think my beard might have been welcomed upon my arrival there, and I may have been treated as more of a man than maybe I feel I am. (Kid's got a great beard, but what a joke - I mean, he's never even ridden a lion...)

But alas, I am not in Kwa-Zulu Natal.

I sadly and uneasily took my bosses advice. I would shave my beard the day before I left for my new site. I had a dilemma though. The boys at my last site had burnt out my electric trimmer when they were shaving their heads. My shaver only worked when it was plugged in. When I went to trim my mustache a bit in April, I dropped and broke my plug, rendering my electric shaver useless except as maybe a paperweight. I thought it was a sign for me to go the long haul with my beard.

It wasn't.

My dilemma was I had no shaving apparatus with me. With the sun setting, and the stores around Pretoria closing down, I ran out to the Clicks nearby, and bought a new electric shaver, just before they started locking up for the nite. I returned to my humble abode that was 1322 International Backpackers, closed the door to the bathroom, and went to work on my mane.

I had been thru the long beard shaving process before. Twice before actually. It was a whole new ballgame this time around because I had surpassed my previous 6 month growing record.

The shaving process is a lengthy one. It is made longer by the game I play called:

"How Ridiculous and Awesome Can I Make Myself Look While Shaving Different Beard Patterns On My Face?"

The answer(s): Quite Ridiculous, and Way Awesome.

The process this time around took 1 hour and 10 minutes (not including the shower afterwards, during which my face felt the sensation of hot, cold, and wet, for the first time in 8 months).

For an intensive and exclusive peek into my ludicrous "HRAACIMMLWSDBPOMF" ritual, please view the gallery here after reading the following disclaimer:

***The photo album you are about to witness will most likely weird some of you out... In fact, I'm nearly positive that it will undoubtedly weird you out. Unless of course, you know me well... then you might expect nothing less from me. Ok. You have been warned.***

The Shaving Process Photo Album

You can tell me which is your favourite variation after viewing them all...

Fortunately, during the shaving process, I found no wildlife of any sort hiding out or nesting in my beard. I credit this to my frequent shampooing methodology, which rendered it lice, insect, and bird free.

Things I will miss about my beard:

1- The surprised reactions from people I haven't seen in a while ("Holy crap - Look at you! Are you in there?? What happened to your face?")
2-The positive reinforcement from good friends ("Dude, you have one of the manliest and best beards I've ever seen.")
3- The feeling of grabbing a handful of it to hang on to just because I could
4- Brushing my beard
5- Unintentionally scaring people away who I don't wish to interact with (tsotsis, thugs, this British guy Dave I met at the backpackers, etc.)
6- Little kids running their fingers thru my beard
7- Leftover ice cream in my beard
8- Random shouts of "Yebo Njebe!" from people who have no idea who I am, but obviously appreciate my beard

Things I will not miss about my beard:

1- People asking me "Aren't you hot with that thing?" (No.)
2- People asking me "Isn't it hard to eat with that thing?" (Ok, a little, but who cares?)
3- People asking me "Why don't you shave that thing?" (Why don't you shut your face?)
4- People referring to my beard as "that thing". (What do they think it is, a chinchilla wrap?)
5- Having to maneuver my mustache to make way for sandwiches
6- Checking for leftover crumbs and splashes from dinner
7- Unintentionally scaring people away who I DO want to interact with (children under the age of 3, new people to meet in the village, Peace Corps friends who haven't seen me in 8 months, don't recognize who I am and think I'm a homeless guy running up to them to mug them, pretty girls anywhere, etc.)
8- The name calling*

*Ah. The name calling. I would like to take this moment to ask this burning question that has been on my mind for the last 8 months.

Why is it, that when I have a beard of any length, coupled with hair that is of any length, do people find it amusing to call out "Hey, you look like Jesus!" and proceed to think they are the funniest and most clever person alive? I can't possibly look like Jesus all the time no matter what length my hair and beard. It must be within a certain ratio - long hair, well kept beard. I mean, even if my hair and beard were at the correct assumed length that Jesus' hair and beard were, based on all the Anglo-biased photos floating around the world of the man, why does anyone think they're being clever, original or funny with a Jesus comment?

I mean, come on people, think of something a little more original.

Other names I've gotten besides Jesus:

- Moses
- Osama bin Laden
- Charles Manson
- Che Guevera

- Tommy Chong

- Castaway

- John Lennon

- Caveman (Kronk)

Myself, I always preferred Joey. (Or Njebe, if you feel so inclined)

Well, the past is the past. We'll see what the future holds for my face. I can never bare to keep my face clean shaven for too long. It's too much effort to keep up.

I think my next challenge will be directed at my brother Andrew, who has recently decided to sport the old school handle-bar mustache. I'll grow mine, he'll grow his, and we'll see who can be the creepier one between the two of us.

We're taking bets on me or Andrew, and we're starting now...

Which raises the question - which is creepier... me with a giant beard, or with a handlebar mustache? The world may never know... or at least never agree.

Maybe a more important question...

Do you think I ever have a chance at this? http://www.worldbeardchampionships.com/

Xenophobia over Xola's Story

2008-05-27T09:10:00.001-04:00

Xola's story

In light of the recent very sad news regarding the xenophobic riots happening around South Africa, I have decided to post a blog entry that I had previously decided to keep to myself. For those of you not up to date, the violence occurring around the country is primarily aimed at African nationals living within South Africa, both legally and illegally.

You can read any theory you want as to why this is going on, but the reality seems to be very plain - South Africans living in poverty in the cities are fed up and frustrated with the fact that most of their lives have not improved since the end of apartheid some 14 years ago. The government has done some to help uplift the poor black population, but not nearly enough. It is both overwhelmed and incapable of providing for such a large under privileged population.

Now, in a very sad turn of events, many poor South Africans within townships around Gauteng, have turned against neighbours and strangers living amongst them from different countries. Their claim is that the immigrants to South Africa are here to take their jobs, and their wives or husbands. They seem to be blaming the immigrants for the lot of their troubles. I just heard on the radio yesterday that the violence has begun spreading to parts of Kwa-Zulu Natal and the Western Cape.

Just so everyone knows, the volunteers with Peace Corps in this country for the most part, do not feel in danger from these recent events. However, we are being smart about all this, and we are being extra-cautious to stay away from affected areas. We don't feel as threatened by the violence mainly because we are not the "foreigners" being targeted. The spread of this violence and the reasons for it all has affected many of us however, because we have made many friends among South Africans, as well as Africans from other countries who have been major players in our lives. We are concerned about them and their safety.

I wanted to take the time to share the story of one of my friends from Zimbabwe. Hopefully it will give you a better picture of why there are so many immigrants coming into SA, and also, it will attest to the incredibly brave and strong character of so many people simply trying to make better lives for themselves here.

During a recent experience here at the southern tip of Africa, I had the opportunity to meet a large number of young, motivated and compassionate South Africans, volunteering their time at a camp to work with children infected or affected by HIV/AIDS. I got to know many of them very well - their backgrounds, their current situation, their goals for the future etc.

Of all the of the stories I heard at camp, one stood out amongst all the others. It was the story not of one of the young South African counselors, but rather of my friend Xola, who had recently fled his native country of Zimbabwe to find refuge and seek out further education here in SA.

With his permission given and his name changed, this is his story:

***Back in Zimbabwe, Xola had been working for Masiye Camp for the past 4 years. Masiye is an NGO that runs different types of camps for children. Xola was in charge of coordinating and setting up different activities and programs that would be used throughout the camps run in Zimbabwe. He had always loved working with children, and this job provided him the perfect opportunity to work closely with so many of them, helping to give them a sense of purpose, strength, and direction, in a country where the population is deemed to be virtually powerless under the tyrannical rule of "Uncle Bob" Mugabe.

Xola had described to me some of the initiatives he had started up before his time working for this specific NGO. Because he had always had a passion for working with kids, during his teen years, he would go door to door in his neighbourhood and talk to the families living nearby. From these house visits, he would gather information about the living situation of many of the children in the area. Zimbabwe, like much of the rest of Sub-Saharan Africa, is hard hit by HIV/AIDS. What Xola found was that there were many instances of young children who had become the head of the household after one or both of their parents were left incapacitated or dead from AIDS.

Xola would organize group meetings after school for the kids to have some free and creative time, and then worked out a rotating schedule, whereby the group of children who had assembled, would take turns visiting each other's house to help with everyday chores. They would help clean the house, wash dishes, help cook meals, look after younger siblings and more. The next day, they would all visit another person's house, and so everyone had at least some help during the week doing what they must do.

Xola had been working with his NGO for about 3 years under the disapproving eye of Zimbabwe's government. It was explained to me that Mugabe's government sees NGO's as a nuisance and threat to their rule, and often does what they can to dismantle local NGO's or put extreme constraints upon them whereby they would essentially have to operate and perform according to the government's own bidding.

Unfortunately for Xola and many other young Zimbabweans, the government had much worse plans in store for them, besides putting them out of their jobs. For many years now, Mugabe's government has been actively abducting young men and women from their jobs or homes and forcing them to serve in the military.

Xola was abducted in mid-2007 with a number of other people both from his NGO and from the area near where he lived. Once in the military, he and everyone else were beaten every day to "toughen them up". They awoke early in the mornings and went to bed late at nite, carrying out tasks during the day that no one wished to do.

They were given assignments to carry out such as locating and capturing leaders of rebel groups. They would go into communities where such leaders would be thought to be hiding, and were forced to beat and assault the locals in order to extract information from them. If they did not do as they were told, they would be beaten themselves, and sometimes much worse.

Xola told of instances where disciplinary action would be taken on one of the other members of his group. He or she would disappear with more senior members of the military and soon enough, a week had passed and that person was no longer coming back. Execution was one of the most extreme persuasive actions taken to ensure obedience.

Out on assignment one day, Xola and others were not looking forward to what they were tasked to do - more search and seizure, assaulting innocent people etc. Upon arriving at location, the driver of the truck who had been with the military for a few years, had said to Xola and a few others, "If you don't like it here and want to get out, just do exactly what they say for the next few weeks. Make sure they have no idea you wish to leave, and I will let you know when and how you will have your chance to escape."

Hopeful for the chance to leave the horrors of the life they were living now, they did exactly as the driver said, and obeyed all orders from their commanders as if nothing was wrong. A few weeks later, on Christmas Day, after 3 1/2 months in the army, while tasked for another assignment, their opportunity came.

The driver had driven them to their drop off point in the thick of the woods. He said to them, "Now is your chance to escape. I am supposed to pick you up here tomorrow. When I come back and find you not here, I will have to report it. So run fast, gather what you can, and head for one of the borders."

With that, the driver left. About eight of them ran off in different directions, Xola with another friend. They ran for hours to the nearest town. Xola then contacted his family to tell them what was happening. He asked them to meet him and his friend somewhere to drop off supplies. His family brought him South African rand (Zimbabwe's money is worthless at this point in time), food, his passport, and a few other things to help him on his way. His friend was unable to get in touch with her family or get any thing she needed, so Xola shared everything he had with her.

The next day, Xola hopped on a bus headed for Jo'burg, South Africa. He was extremely nervous as the bus approached the border, but was hugely relieved when they encountered no delays. Apparently, word had not gotten out yet about their escape.

Xola has since joined thousands upon thousands (some say millions) of Zimbabwean refugees residing in South Africa. Since he had missed the deadline to apply to study at one of the universities nearby, he began looking for other things to keep him busy. While online one day, he came across the website for the camp that we were to eventualy meet at, and applied for a counselor position. Though it was only a temporary position, everyone could tell how happy Xola was to finally be back working with kids again.

His energy and laugh were absolutely infectious, and the kids took to him like bears to honey. They loved him and couldn't get enough. He always made the extra effort to understand more about each of his campers and would often talk to them one on one to connect with them and make them feel safe and comfortable. His actions were a very big influence on not just me, but many other of the counselors there as well.

Now, Xola is waiting for his turn to apply again for further study. In the meantime, I'm sure he will be looking for other opportunities to continue to help improve the lives of the children in his life. He hopes one day soon to go back to Zimbabwe, once Mugabe is no longer in power (which may be sooner than later if the international community exerts enough pressure for the most recent elections to be considered valid), and to start up more camps to reach more children across the country.

Xola has made such a huge impact on my life, and I hope that one day, I will be able to repay him and go assist at one of his camps in his home country.

But for now, we wait, and do what we can, with what we have, where we are.***

After I heard the news about the riots in Jo'burg, I called Xola to check on him, and he assured me he was doing ok. I was hugely relieved, and I have been sure to keep tabs on him and will continue to do so until this violence dies down. He's an extremely strong person though - he will shine thru all of this and come out on top in the end.

Models in Advertising - an Acute/Not-so-cute Observation

2008-05-25T08:35:00.002-04:00

I suppose it's safe to say that the standard of beauty in the US is pretty high. I would venture to say that most of you would agree - based on the models seen on giant billboards throughout NYC, the super models that grace magazine covers from Glamour, to Cosmopolitan, Vogue, Maxim, and from the plethora of drool-worthy pages in the Victoria's Secret catalog that comes out every so often.

It has been a bit strange therefore, coming from an environment dominated by this sort of idea of beauty, to South Africa, where, in advertising, the standard of beauty is in my opinion... well.... lower.

I have been continuously surprised by the choice of models used for various magazine covers and billboards here. In my own opinion, they are somewhat.... hmmm... how do I say.... lacking? In attractiveness? It's been very sad. I mean, even the babies used on advertisements to sell baby products at certain baby stores are lacking a significant amount of "cuteness" that one would think comes automatic with being under 2 years of age. I have found this to be rather odd. (For previous musings on babies and cuteness, please see last year's entry on the subject here.)

Now, I am not saying that Americans are better looking that South Africans. I am simply pointing out that it seems the public in each country has different standards of beauty in some respects.

For an example of a common comparison between the types of models publications in the US chooses to use, and the models many SA publications choose to use, I have included this picture below to help illustrate. These two magazines were found side by side on the same rack in one grocery store.

Now, maybe it's just me, but I think, personally, I would 99.99999% of the time buy the magazine with Eva Longoria on the cover, over the mag with Olga the tubby biker chick showing some flab. But then again, I'm not a biker. But I mean, come on... she's still got her biker gloves on.

Really? Biker gloves?

I have also had a good laugh at many of the adverts I have come across such as this one, that I couldn't help but photograph to keep a reminder of...

And lastly, I often wonder if some advertisements are actually meant to detract people from buying the product in question. This example should illustrate my point.

Mmm... Very attractive.

Anyway, you can decide whether you are now more or less likely to buy Maria's boerewors.

As for myself, I'd rather go to the above mentioned Juice bar.

One Among Many

2008-05-15T03:51:00.000-04:00

This entry will be short. It is merely meant to put a face to the stories in my previous entries.

I found out a few days ago, that Jabu, whose real name was Zodwa, passed away on Sunday. She was 21 years old.

She leaves behind two children, aged 5 and 1 years, a foster family who she grew up with, and one asshole "boyfriend".

Though this is just one more death among the many thousands per year in South Africa because of HIV/AIDS, it has certainly made the disease much more real and personal for me.

I won't pretend to have any lessons to teach or claim I have learned from this. Most likely, my thoughts and feelings are running along the same vein as yours.

I will say that Zodwa's death shocked me because I didn't expect it to happen so soon. We don't know exactly what her last days were like, if she was looked after, or if she was neglected and left to wither away by herself. The speed at which she had gone downhill suggets the latter.

This whole episode has made me understand on another level, how helpless we can feel trying to battle this epidemic - however, in the same breath, I can't find any justification for not continuing the fight. We are fighting what sometimes seems to be a losing battle, but only because people we are targetting, to a large degree (though certainly not all), decide their own fate. They are for the most part, armed with the knowledge to prevent themselves from getting infected, and if they are lucky, have support systems to help them cope and live with the disease.

But as I've said before, the choices people make are wholly up to themselves. Until people's behaviour and mindset changes towards HIV/AIDS, until they view their lives as worth living and until they are able to view their future in a positive light, I fear we will continue to fight an uphill battle, and risk having things get worse.

In the meantime, we'll just keep doing what we're doing, in hopes that our efforts do eventually help turn the tide against this disease. Though I think what we really need is to get some fresh ideas about how to go about it all.

If you do feel up for it, do what you can, where you are. We could all use the help.

Jabu's Choice

2008-04-24T08:46:00.000-04:00

For context, please see the first part of this story below.

Jabu had been to the free clinic. Jabu had received medication for her illnesses. Jabu had been surrounded by supportive friends and loving family since the moment she walked back onto the farm. Then came the phone call that threw a monkey (not a monkey wrench) into the whole operation and screwed everything up.

Jabu's boyfriend, Judas (father of her second child) called her and demanded to know why she had not returned yet. After not listening to her reasons, he told her that if she didn't come home in 2 days, then it was over between them.

To any outsider, the situation seems easy to handle. This boyfriend was the one who infected Jabu. This boyfriend was the one who never took care of Jabu as she was getting ill. This boyfriend never visited Jabu at the farm to see how she was feeling. This boyfriend has had other affairs while together with Jabu. This boyfriend was the same boyfriend who to this day refuses to get tested for HIV or allow their child to go receive medical attention even though the young boy is HIV positive.

Why on earth should Jabu care to go back to him?

"Because he loves me.... and I love him."

For hours, her sisters on the farm talked to her. They made their case telling her that she was surrounded by people who loved her on the farm. They would take care of her, get her food and water, help her get around, make sure she's taking her medication and eating healthy. They would stay by her side and love and care for her until she was healthy again, or until the day she died. They were only met with empty, sad, and troubled eyes staring into nothingness.

They tried to make her understand that they would do anything for her, no matter what, and if she did get back, there was no one that would look after her - and she knew that. But ultimately, they admitted, it was her choice.

Many of the kids on the farm came to talk to Jabu separately that nite - each telling her that they loved her and wanted her to stay. Even Jen, who had taken days off from work, driven in from Jo'burg, spent her own gas money and paid for other expenses on the way, who had gone thru such lengths just to get Jabu proper medical attention, and give her a fighting chance to get healthy again and stay alive to watch her kids grow up, tried talking to Jabu for a long time, seemingly in vain.

The next day was a long day for many people here. Jabu was deciding what to do. Feeling that she might actually leave, her older sister Ellen decided that our last hope was to call on Jabu's boyfriend, Judas, to come to the farm and talk to the family to try and work something out.
Ellen walked the 3km to where Jabu's boyfriend lived. She found him at the house, sitting outside, drinking with other people, a young woman laughing as she sat on his lap. Ellen contained herself as she watched Judas caressing the young woman's back, endlessly flirting with her as he dodged questions she was asking him.

Ellen made the request that he come to the farm to talk to the family to work something out. He finally got fed up and responded, "If the soccer game ends before 5:00, I'll come over. If it ends at 6:00, I'm not coming over." Ellen didn't expect to get any further, and so returned home.

Needless to say, Judas never showed up. Ellen reported all that she saw to Jabu, who was unmoved by anything she heard. Judas called again that evening telling Jabu that if she wasn't home by the end of the day tomorrow, it was over between them.

Jabu's 5 year old daughter, Ayanda, has lived here on the farm with the other kids for most of her young life. She would occasionally go stay by her mother, but often preferred the company of the other kids on the farm. Ayanda absolutely loves her mother to bits and pieces. She stayed by her for a few hours that nite, aware her mother was ill, but clueless about the decision she was about to make. My heart was bleeding for Ayanda. Her mother grew up without ever knowing her parents, and she would now be faced with the same fate, if her mother decided to leave.

I checked on Jabu the next morning. She was sleeping soundly even at 10 am. When I came back that evening, Ellen informed me that Jabu left that afternoon.

Jabu had told Ellen her reason for leaving and going back to Judas. She said:

"I'd rather die with him than die alone."

After Ellen related to me Jabu's rationale for leaving, I don't know why, but I was unable to suppress an audible chuckle. Ellen did the same. How could we laugh or find anything funny after what just happened? Jabu's health would again start to rapidly deteriorate, her one year old son had no chance of surviving very long without seeing a doctor, and her boyfriend was already busy spreading the virus to other women in the village. Jabu was fully aware of this, but still was convinced that it didn't matter, because he loved her.

I wasn't sure how to react. Maybe that's why I laughed.

Jabu apparently didn't understand or chose to ignore the fact that family can love someone just as much and more so than a boyfriend can (especially when that boyfriend is busy fooling around with other women). She also seemed to have forgotten what it meant to be part of and surrounded by, a loving family. She had thought herself to be alone, even in the company of all her sisters and brothers and friends. She put her boyfriend before anyone else in her life, including herself, and her own children.

Myself, I cannot fathom the thought process there. And that's a lot of the reason why this disease has been able to spread as much as it has, in my view. Nothing seems logical or to make sense in this decision making process. Jabu's thoughts and feelings were her own, she knew how her actions would affect others, and she knew the consequences of her decisions. We all knew which decision she would make in the end, we all could have predicted it. We don't know why or how she arrived at that decision, but we do know that it is an all too common thought process among so many young women around South Africa.

Death does not seem to be a concern or worry to so many people out here. And quite often as well, they don't seem to take others into consideration when making certain choices in their lives.
The reasons for this may be many, may be complicated, or may be very simple. I will not risk putting in writing my own thoughts and opinions as to why this seems to be common place here in South Africa. However, this is an open forum for discussion for those who do wish to talk about it.

As for Ellen, her other sisters, myself, Jen, and everyone else here on the farm who was involved with Jabu the past week, we are able to find comfort in the fact that we did everything we could to help Jabu, and we know we would have done more if it was within our power.

But ultimately, you cannot help someone who does not wish to be helped.

I am always open for conversation, and hearing what you have to say.

There's Something About Jabu

2008-04-22T05:03:00.000-04:00

The following story is a true story, though names have been changed during the writing process.

I don't think anyone would wish to have their obituary read as cause of death - "Death by Bureaucracy" - but that is precisely the reason why countless people in South Africa have met and will meet their end in the years to come.

Everyone knows that HIV/AIDS is an unforgiving, indifferent, treatable though incurable disease. With the knowledge we have amassed over the past 20 - 30 years researching the disease, it has become quite manageable, and people are able to live much longer and healthier lives if they have access to the information, medical attention, and drugs that they need.

The SA govt., to put it plainly, is overwhelmed. They have problems from A to Z ranging from high crime rates across the country, massive unemployment, land redistribution, race issues, affirmative action, poverty issues, lack of infrastructure and resources in rural parts of the country, energy and electrical issues, a broken education system... the list goes on and on. Add to the top of that list is the fact that according to one study, as of 2006, over 6 million people out of a population of 46 million, had been documented as being HIV positive, with over 1000 more people being infected every day. And that's just the information gathered by those who have been tested, not including the countless number of people who are HIV positive but have not gotten tested.

I don't wish to get into a full length essay about American misconceptions about the disease here, and what is learned by actually living amongst the people of SA, but please know that the issue of HIV/AIDS goes infinitely deeper than many of us can imagine. Myself included. Everyday it seems I learn about a different aspect of the disease and/or the culture surrounding me that brings me closer to understanding the depth of the issue, but still no closer to having any sort of solid approach to addressing it.

One thing that I have realized is that the disease takes on entirely new dimensions in one's mind when you personally know someone with it. The idea morphs again when you see that person progressing into the later stages of AIDS.

Here at site, only two adults and one infant have passed away in the last few months due to HIV/AIDS. That's a relatively small number of deaths, but then again, the community consists of only about 200 people. Others within the community, old, young, and middle-aged, are positive, though no one ever talks about it, and they continue on with their lives as if there is nothing wrong with them.

We recently had a young 21 year old woman come back to the farm here where she was raised along with the 15 - 20 other orphans that have come thru this home over the years. Jabu has had two children already - one 5 years old, one just about a year old. Both children have different fathers. The reason Jabu returned to the farm after many years of being absent, was because she was HIV positive, and has progressed into much later stages of AIDS. Now she is unable to walk without extreme pain, she has virtually no energy, she runs a constant high fever, and upon a recent visit to a doctor, was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Her CD4 count as measured few weeks ago, was 240.

Jabu, as mentioned before, was raised as an orphan. Though a few attempts had been made to get her proper identification documents such as a birth certificate and ID book, to this day she is waiting for her ID number, along with millions of other South Africans.

We would like very much to get Jabu on ARV drugs, which the government does supply at most local clinics. However, to receive ARVs, your CD4 count must be below 200, and you must have proof that you are a South African citizen, in the form of either a birth certificate or and ID book. Jabu meets neither of these criteria. However, any way you look at it, it is obvious that she is in desperate need of ARV treatment. Though her CD4 count was above 200, she has already progressed to the later stages of the disease, so technically, she is eligible to receive them. But govt. clinics will not give out ARVs to people without proper documentation.

Facing this dilemma, we called for some outside help. Jen has been a friend of the family here for many years, and is currently working for an NGO in Jo'burg that is very involved with issues surrounding orphans and HIV/AIDS. Jen confirmed that technically, Jabu is eligible for ARVs. She told us that because she knows the family and Jabu quite well, she would make a personal trip out here to see if she could help.

I went with Jen early one morning to the Dept. of Home Affairs at the local municipality to check on the status of Jabu's application for an ID. The people at Home Affairs all confirmed that it was "stuck" in Pretoria as of 2 weeks ago, and could tell us no more. The computer systems had recently been switched over which caused delays in the processing, and the employees did not know how to investigate as to why the application was "stuck". We asked when it might be resolved and we might have a more definitive answer. They responded it might be about a month before it was ready. Of course, TIA (This is Africa) so one month could mean anything. We asked in vain if there was any way to speed the process up, and received the expected answer of "no". We explained the situation, that our friend was very sick with HIV, and needed ARV treatment but couldn't get it because she had no ID. They were sorry, but they couldn't do anything.

So here is the case of a legitimate South African citizen, raised as an orphan, who has lived in rural South Africa for the entirety of her life, who now is essentially being told that her life is being weighed against the government's willingness to free its hands of the red tape binding them together. The government, by making no exceptions to their rules, are saying that they would rather keep their hands tied as so, as opposed to risking giving out life saving medication to someone who might not be a legitimate citizen of this country.

That, dear readers, is called Death By Bureaucracy.

Our only chance at getting Jabu ARV treatment is to take her to a private clinic (which we cannot readily or sustainably afford) or to take her to an NGO site where they can give out ARVs to those in need for free. We found only one NGO clinic that was within driving range which we could take Jabu to.

After an hour and a half drive, we arrived at the clinic where the doctor looked at Jabu, diagnosed her with TB, gave her medication, and instructed those of us with her to make sure she returns within a few days for further examination, followed by visits once a month. They are unable to give out ARVs until her TB is under control.

Now the issue is transport back and forth for Jabu and her "treatment partner" who is supposed to make sure she understands what the doctor is telling her, and to make sure she is taking her medication as scheduled. Transport is expensive (doubly so when including the treatment partner's transport expenses) and notoriously unreliable out here where we live. (I once waited over 2 hours on the road for a ride only 40 km away – the ride then took 1 1/2 hours to complete due to the poor condition of the vehicle) We are making a plan to solve this issue, but it will prove to be more difficult than should be.

Part 2 of this story "Jabu's Choice" will follow in a separate post.

The No Hands Meal

2008-04-17T08:39:00.000-04:00

Right hand? Check.

Left hand? Check.

Ten fingers? {Wiggles fingers} Check.

Oh thank God. It must've all just been a bad dream.

So, I like to eat. A lot. You wouldn't think it because of my size, but it's true. Many people often comment to me "I can't believe how much you eat. Why are you so skinny?" For which I usually respond, "I don't know, but thanks... are you done with that pork chop?".

Eating, besides being one of my favourite past times, is also a necessity in life, if one wants to... well, live. Different cultures around the world use different means to transfer food to their mouths. There's the good ol' Western way of using a fork, knife and spoon to get the job done, there's the Eastern method of chopsticks, and there's the poor man's way of simply using one's hands - a method also made popular by babies and small children worldwide.

Each of these ways is effective in its own right. Myself, I enjoy using silverware, after 10 years of seriously trying, I swear I've almost got the chopstick method down, and my hands are acceptable feeding tools when the food is burgers or pizza or something of the sort.

But recently, I was faced with a major challenge... Something I don't think I had ever seriously attempted before - Eating with out using my hands. At all.

I got back recently from a week volunteering at Camp Sizanani (Helping Each Other) which is a camp for children infected or affected by HIV/AIDS. It was a wonderful overall experience. However, one of the "fun" activities they had us do at camp was a "No Hands Meal". The rules were simple. You couldn't use your hands to eat. We asked about using closed fists or elbows, and they said no - "Put your hands behind your back".

Damn it.

The meal was burgers, fries, and some sort of onion soup. How the hell was this going to work? Immediately, the thought came to mind of giant human chickens, pecking away inefficiently at the bits of food on the plate in front of them. What followed was not too far off from that...

People began the meal by looking quizzically at their food (which they were allowed to set up and dress up before the meal started) thinking, "Ok, what's my first move?" After realizing their was no good option for a first move (or second or third or fourth move), I think most people gave up pretty quickly on planning, and just started face diving into their plate, coming up with whatever their teeth could grasp onto. Kinda like bobbing for apples.

I had similar thoughts prior to diving in (i.e. WTF mate?), though I had a very separate concern in the form of a large mane of hair sprouting from all angles of my face. Did I really want to dive into my food like this and get my beard covered in ketchup, chutney and soup? Did I really want to risk shedding bits of my beard into my burger throughout the course of the meal? The short answer was no. It seemed I had two options:

1- Don't participate in the sillyness of the meal. Result: I'd be "that guy" who doesn't know how to have fun at camp.

2- Shave my beard. Result: All my hard work for the last 6 months would have gone out the window. Also, I would have no beard.

I chose option number 3 (not listed), which was tying my beard into a pony tail at the bottom - a style I thought would help minimize the damage done to my beard during the meal, which in actuality did little more than make me look like an absolute tool.

You see, the problem wasn't the bottom of my beard where my pony tail hung, the problem spots were the part right in front of my chin, and my moustahce - essentially, anything on the same plane as my face, which was constantly dipping itself into the mess of food in front of me.

Some people made incredible progress, finishing their food with seemingly little effort. Others tried to be more [un?]conventional and attempted cutting up their food into little bits by grasping the knife with their teeth and shaking their head "No" as the blade slowly made its way thru the red meat of the burger. (This seemed the dumbest approach in my humble opinion)

As for myself, it was hard enough to grab the burger or the bread between my teeth, jerk my head to pull off a chunk to chew on as I imagine a lioness or a velociraptor might do when feasting on its prey. I didn't like going in for my fries. I had unwisely covered them with some chutney, and every time I got too close, I would breathe in, and my nose would be filled with the strong scent of vinegar and fruit and my eyes would tear up instantly. Tears are not delicious on fries. They just make them wet.

What really concerned me was my soup. It was just sitting on my plate, (we had no bowls) soaking all the fries and bottom of the burger with it's liquid onion-ness. I decided to throw caution to the wind and attempt to start slurping. Face down, lips puckered, sucking in.... And lo and behold, it worked. Of course, my beard was now onion flavoured and I had soup dripping from the point of my nose (I think because I have a slightly larger and more oddly shaped nose than most), but the soup made its way to my belly eventually. Hooray.

Drinking was pretty cake (aka "easy" for those of you not down with my lingo) - the teeth do most of the work clamping down on the plastic cup, then it was just a matter of tilting your head back a bit. But you had to be careful and drink in small bits. If you tilted your head back too far, massive amounts of juice would try to descend down your throat, causing you to cough and choke, thus opening your mouth too much, causing you to drop the entire glass of juice onto your unsuspecting private parts.

Not that I'd know of course....

By the time you'd stand up, you'd look a complete and total fool - pony tailed beard-face, soup dripping from nose, your pants looking like they belonged to an un-housebroken race horse...

In other words, it was the perfect activity for a camp.

Other themed meals were the "No Spoons Meal" (aka no silverware, use your hands), "No Chairs Meal", and "No Table Manners Meal". We decided not to try that one out when the kids were present. That was a counselors-only experience.

So next time any of you decide to have a dinner party, I would highly recommend you consider the endless laughs and massive clean up job of the "No Hands Meal". But please, have pity on your bearded guests, and get them a hair tie for their face.

I know it doesn't do anything, but I promise, they'll look ridiculous.

Armed and Dangerous

2008-03-03T07:06:00.002-05:00

It's amazing how heavy a human arm is.

Fortunately, for me, I haven't come across any severed limbs in my almost 24 years on this planet. Yet, I comment on the weight of a human arm because of the shock I got when I was unexpectedly and repeatedly hammered by one on my most recent ride into town.

The buses going to town are double buses. They are not double decker buses like you see in London or sometimes in NYC, but rather, double in length like the ones you see going around Boston, unless of course, I have my cities confused. They seat a large number of people, but still, every time they go to town during the week, they are filled beyond capacity, and people are left standing for the 40 minute ride.

Myself and a few friends boarded the bus before it was filled up, and we settled into a few vacant seats apart from each other. I sat down in the aisle chair of a row of three seats, with a slightly large-ish woman taking up the window seat, the chair between us, reserved for my bag. After a few stops, the bus was almost filled up, and I was thankful I still had my aisle seat, and a place for my bag so I didn't have to carry it on my lap.

With only 2 stops to go, I noticed an absurd amount of people outside attempting to board the bus. The first three people walked past me to some seats beyond. The bus must have been full by that point with many more people to go, and as I looked up, I saw what was probably one of the largest women I have ever seen in my life, coming down the aisle with her eyes directly on me.

Well, her eyes weren't on me exactly, but rather, on the vacant seat next to me. She asked politely in siSwati if she could sit, and outwardly friendly but internally grudgingly, I scooted over to the middle seat, put my bag on my lap, and then just barely dodged this woman's giant leg as she blindly sat down in not only her seat but in half of mine as well. I'm not even kidding. She took up a seat and a half, plus was spilling out into the aisle. I say none of this to be mean, only to recount the facts of the the events of the day. She was a very large woman.

I could tell she was a nice woman though, because as I adjusted my butt, legs, body, and family jewels so nothing would be crushed during the ride, I found that my ass no longer was touching my seat. Instead, it was resting on the right leg of the giant woman to my left, and the left leg of the half-sleeping not so giant woman to my right. It was incredibly awkard at first, but after gently squirming a bit to see if I could maybe slide in between them, I decided it wasn't worth it and accepted my center seat for the ride to town.

My friends were behind me, so I couldn't turn around to talk with them during the ride, so I sent out some text messages to other people around. Some were just "hi" type of notes, others were, "You wouldn't believe how uncomfortable I am right now" type of notes, and others stated simply that at that moment in time, I wanted nothing more than hot and somewhat flattened Krispy Kreme donuts.
As I was writing out my text messages I felt an unexpected dead weight fall into my chest. Thinking someone's bag had fallen from the overhead rack, I looked up, only to remember that there was no overhead rack on this bus. I looked at my chest and saw nothing on there, and had fleeting thoughts that maybe someone threw a really dense sandwich at me and it was on the floor. I looked to the floor.

Nothing.

I looked next to me at the giant woman, who was now somewhat sleeping, just like the woman on my right. The giant woman had her hands on the seat in front of her, loosely hanging onto the bar at the top. I went back to finish my text when I felt ::WHAM!!!!:: again. I dropped my phone as I realized that the giant woman's arm had loosened its grip on the bar in front of her and had dropped directly onto my fragile little chest and arms.

Like a schoolkid who is falling asleep in class, she quickly jerked her arm back to its resting position on the bar and opened her eyes in a dazed fashion. I didn't say anything. I just awkwardly bent over like a Chinese acrobat and somehow managed to pick up my phone from between my feet on the floor. Before I got fully up again, ::WHAM:: the arm knocked me on my shoulder, and quick as a bunny, was replaced back on the resting bar.

I sat up, tilted my head slightly to the left, and looked thru my dark sunglasses at the giant woman next to me. Was she flirting with me? I don't like people who flirt by leaving meblack and blue. Was she awake? Conscious? Mostly alive?

She had her eyes closed, her head tilted slightly back, and both her arms resting on the seat in front of her. I went back to texting, and again ::WHAM::. She picked her arm up. I looked down at my phone.... ::WHAM:: I looked up. She picked her arm up. I looked down. ::WHAM:: I didn't look up. ::WHAM:: I didn't look up. ::WHAM:: I looked up, and to my left. It felt like someone was throwing recently shaven baby pigs at me every time I lowered my eyes. This arm was heeeaaavvvvvyyyyyyyy. However, after this latest series of subcounscious beatings, I imagine she must've felt slightly embarrassed, because she adjusted herself slightly, took her arms down from the chair in front of her, and put her arms at her side.

Now, when this woman put her arms at her side, it was actually as if she had decided to use my shoulder and half my face as an arm rest, because that's exactly where her arm came to rest. I suppose she didn't mind the beard on my face or the bony body structure of mine that must have been stabbing into her somewhere.

I didn't really move much. I stopped texting because I couldn't look down at my phone. All I could see was her giant arm, and all I could feel was the sweat accumulating on my face from the never ending skin to face contact. It got really really hot. And really really sweaty. I thought I might panic after a few endless minutes in that position, so eventually I decided it was time to make a noise or big movement to wake her up. I did just that, and as she stirred to life, she lifted up her arms, I felt the breath of life come back into me, and I saw that she put her hands... back on the seat in front of her.

Wishing I could share this horrific irony with someone else, I began to text another friend, when all of a sudden ::WHAM::. The shaved baby pig. I mean, the arm. Again. What was so amazing, besides the sheer weight of this arm, was that it seemingly had no effect on this woman, that every second and a half, her arm would mercilessly pound me like a raw piece of meat. If it did affect her at all, she might, oh I don't know, WAKE UP.

The whole situation was hysterical to me, and it reminded me of another volunteer's story about riding in close proximity in a taxi with a large breastfeeding mother, and her child. Many women in rural South Africa have no shame about whipping out a boob, and feeding their little ones wherever they happen to be. That's exactly what this woman did. Only as she took out her one breast to feed her little boy, she rested it on the volunteers arm nest to her in the cramped space. The volunteer described the boob as being something like "ridiculously sweaty" and he could "feel the milk pulsing thru the breast" as the feeding went on. You'd be hard pressed to experience that back home.

Anyway, I couldn't help but laugh and laugh and laugh to myself, each time this woman's giant arm came barreling down on me like a dull guillotine. It didn't hurt at all though... in fact, it was just like having a pillowfight.... a pillowfight with a fat woman's arm.

How could you not laugh at yourself in that situation?

Eventually, the bus arrived at town, and we all got off. As I stood up, covered in this woman's body sweat, and nothing really bruised except maybe my sense of pride, I made up my mind that the next time I take the bus, I'm just gonna stand.

Jumping Off High Things

2008-01-16T03:27:00.000-05:00

We've all had the dream - you jump or fall off something very high - a building, a cliff, a bridge etc., and you feel yourself falling... falling... falling... falling... and before you hit the ground, you wake up. That feeling of falling endlessly is something very few of us experience in real life due to the fact that many of us are not adventure seekers at heart, or maybe we can't afford the skydiving or bungee jump experience, and also because the highest thing we've ever jumped off is the high dive at the pool, which is about 3 meters tall, and even there, we land in the water, not on land.

I've always wanted to do things like skydive and bungee jump and other such things. But I've never had the money or the opportunity to afford such activities. Until now. Living on a government stipend, as little as it is, does have its upsides.

I've still not actually gone bungee jumping or skydiving. Yet. Someday maybe.

BUT. I did just return from a much needed and very eventful vacation, touring the south eastern part of South Africa. During this vacation, I found myself jumping off high things more than a few times. I'm not sure why. It just kinda happened.

The first few jumps I took were in Coffee Bay, during a day hike. A group of us were hiking along the coast, up and down massive and very steep hills, amongst traditional Xhosa villages, exploring the area right next to where the ocean meets the rocks on shore. We came to the halfway point of the hike - far out in the hills where afterwards, we had no choice but to turn back due to the fact that the land drops off into the sea, and we can't walk on air.

But instead of turning back, we were offered another option - jump from the 8 meter cliff into the ocean below. It was a cold, windy, and very grey day - the rocks were slippery, wet, and very hard to climb up. You had to watch your step, and time your movements so you wouldn't get prematurely soaked by incoming waves splashing whitewater up against the sides of the rocks. The guide asked who wanted to do the jump, and only three people among the 30 or so of us raised their hands. My friend Adam, myself, and some big muscular guy from Sweden (who I found out later was one of those fire twirlers, and a rather impressive one at that).

As we were stripping off our clothes, other people decided to join us in the jump as well. Standing at the edge of the 8 meter drop, I was a bit nervous. It wasn't the distance that got to me. It was the thought of the shock I would get when I finally hit the cold ocean water that made me uneasy. I get cold very fast. We had about a 3 meter square target area to land in - outside that area we were told the rocks jutted out a bit, and it wasn't smart to land on them.... mainly because of the severe pain, discomfort, and broken bones it would leave us with. Right. So go for the bullseye.

After some second thoughts, I was ready to jump. Our guide stopped me before I hesitantly took off and said that after I surface, I should not to get out right away. He said he would tell me when it was safe to get out of the water. Why didd I have to wait for him to tell me to get out? The waves were very strong, and crashing very high and rather violently in this little cove area where we were to jump. He said if I timed my exit wrong, and tried to get out too early, a wave would knock me off the escape rock, and drag me along the many tiny razor sharp barnacles located on top of it, leaving me looking like I had an unfortunate accident with a cheese grater. Good to know.

The Swedish guy and his friend decided they didn't mind going first. Cool by me. The jump didn't look so bad when they did it - they waited about 10 seconds in the water before they swam to the barnacle covered rock, and exited nice and easy. Awesome. Definitely not as bad as I imagined.

My turn. Again, I hesitantly stepped to the edge, then temporarily lost all my cares, and jumped. Hitting the water wasn't bad at all. For the first half a second. The second half of that second my mind went, "WAY TOO COLD IN HERE. GET ME OUT NOW!" I would have loved to listen to my mind, but upon surfacing, I looked up to our guide who held his hand up, telling me to wait - the waves were coming in too strong. He waved me to swim backwards a bit to make way for the next person to jump.

I swam back a bit, and watched as Adam came down with relative grace as compared to me (I still hold my nose when I jump into water - I'm kind of a baby like that). Adam was not allowed to exit yet either. He backed up and in came our friend Jeff. After Jeff came someone else. None of us were allowed to exit until after the fourth guy came in.

The whole process took over 4 minutes from the time I hit the water. I'm not a very strong swimmer in the first place. Bobbing up and down in rough ocean waters like a float on a fishing line so close to big hurtful looking rocks is not my idea of a good time. Especially not when I felt my arms getting exhausted from treading water, propelling me away from the sides of the cliffs, unexpectedly swallowing most of the Indian Ocean in a few gulps, and feeling like my nipples had shrunk about four sizes and were hard enough to cut diamonds.

We finally got the signal to exit. Sweet. I started to make my way to the barnacle infested exit rock, and realized with a tinge of fear that despite my best efforts, I could swim no closer than I already was. I wasn't moving forward an inch. Starting to worry a little bit, I watched as everyone else made strides to exit. I decided I wasn't going to stay in the water any longer. With the last bit of energy I had left, I threw myself forward, with a little/a lot of help from an outgoing wave that pushed me forward, and surprisingly quickly and gracefully, made my exit, only managing to get a few small, insignificant slices on my arm.

Climbing the cliffs eight meters relatively straight back up from there proved to be another challenge which I also managed, thanks to many hand assists from Jeff who pushed me up the rocks I couldn't quite pull myself onto.

I felt good. Like I accomplished something, or maybe just proved to my body that it wasn't going to hold me back. I guess I didn't actually accomplish anything, and if anything it was my body which sent me a clear message saying not to push it too far, or it would leave me floating endlessly in the Indian Ocean. What a bitch. Regardless, I was happy.

At the end of the hike, after some grilled cheese sandwiches, we were given the option to do another "cliff jump", this time into the nearby stream/river. I had no intentions of jumping again. But after watching two people take the plunge, and hearing the water was actually warm, and seeing there were no waves or scary rocks nearby, I decided to jump. This jump was about 10 meters or so. It doesn't sound much higher, but those 2 meters feel like a lifetime of difference on the way down.

I felt like I was falling, should have stopped, but instead went right thru the ground to continue falling those last 2 meters, to then finally enter the refreshingly warm water. It was a lot of fun - I made the jump twice just to make sure that it was as fun as I thought it was. It was. Hooray for me.

The real trip for me was a few days later. We had been traveling up the Wild Coast of South Africa, and had come to Umzumbe - a coastal town near the Oribi Gorge national park. We had heard there was a gorge swing in this park, where you get to jump off the egde of the gorge, into the abyss below, saved [hopefully] by a harness and a beatly metal cable that lets you fall with relative safety. The same thing went thru my head like at the ocean jump... "I'm here now, so why not?"

The gorge is absolutely beautiful. Sad thing is, the idea of this gorge swing takes attention away from how stunning the view actually is from the top. The take off spot is next to a 200 meter waterfall with not a very strong flow, so when the wind picks up, it makes the water droplets swirl and dance around like snow in a snow globe, forming little water twisters, moving like a Moroccan belly dancer. It's mesmerizing.

The jump was prepaid - no refunds, and a bit expensive. So once you paid, you kinda have no choice but to make the jump. Smart business people they are. Facts about the gorge swing - 160 meters to the bottom of the rope, 75 meter free fall, and your body reaches 120 km/h (about 72 mph) in 2.3 seconds. At least, that's what the sign says next to their office.

Truth be told, I wasn't as nervous for this jump as I was about the one into the ocean. I had no control over what was to happen to me after I made the leap, as opposed to knowing I'd have to battle the Indian Ocean to stay afloat in my past jump. It was nice to put the responsibility of keeping myself alive into someone else's hands for the time being.

There are two ways to jump/fall. Most people hold onto the giant cable they are attached to and hang on to it the whole way down. The other more fun way to jump, is to throw caution to the wind and jump head first out into the gorge, like a skydive.

My friend Adam made the leap before me. Good form on the take off - arms spread, feet together, free falling like a skydive. About 7 minutes after he left the edge and was safely back at the top, it was my turn to make the leap. The guy working next to the take off spot hooked me up to the giant cable and told me to lean back. As he let go of his end of the rope, I understood why I had to lean back. The weight of this giant cable actually pulls you forward, so even at this point, if you had second thoughts about jumping, the cable worked to actually pull you off the ledge. A funny thing I saw later in the day was that if the cable didn't move you to jump, the guys at the edge gave you a nice push to get you going - right off the ledge. I laughed.

But back to me.

I decided I would take a first person perspective video on the way down. I had my camera pointing out over the ledge, and would hold it that way throughout the whole way down. After a video farewell address to my mom (you'll see that soon mama, but it basically says I'm not crazy, just having a good time) I started filming the seconds before the leap. The guy next to me counted down, "THREE!! TWO!! ONE!! GO!!"

Take off.

Good form Joey - head first, diving out into nothingness. A little too ambitious I was, I realized after I was no longer facing the ground, but flipping over halfway down the free fall. But there was that feeling again - falling, falling, falling, falling - it's such a rush. The flip was unexpected but appreciated, the main jolt I got was from the harness jerking my legs at the point where the free fall ended and the swing began. I was giddy by the time I reached the bottom, the camera still rolling, I couldn't stop smiling. The ride was over very fast, to the point where I almost didn't remember that I just fell 160 meters, but it was well worth everything. I was happy I had my camera with me, dangling above the canyon below. I got some nice pictures from that vantage point of the waterfall and the views around. The funniest thing I saw, hanging like a worm on a fishing line was a white chalk line on the rocks below, outlining a supposed body splat, arms and legs splayed out like a cartoon character.

My friend Kristy went after me - good form again on the way down. On the way up for her, the wind changed direction, and she got a full body shower from the waterfall. Drenched from head to toe. I was pretty jealous. My friend Craig took a few hours to face his fear of heights, but eventually made the leap as well later in the day.

The gorge swing was a full day event for us, but it was well worth all the money and the waiting. They claim it's the highest gorge swing in the world. As far as I know, it's the only gorge swing I've ever heard of. But maybe there are more.

Cape Town claims to have the world's tallest bungee jump. Before I'm done with my service in South Africa, you can be sure I'll be heading down that way as well to make the leap.

Because why settle for less when you can make the leap from the top of the world?

Pigs - I'd Rather Eat Them Than Catch Them

2007-11-29T04:50:00.000-05:00

Raise your hand if you've ever been peed on by a 2 day old piglet while being chased thru tall grass and thorn bushes, running over logs, rocks, and small children who couldn't keep their footing, by a larger than you ever imagined mama pig who is intent on taking a big bite out of any piece of flesh she can get her teeth close enough to latch on to of yours.

I guess I should set up the scenario first.

It was a slow day at the farm a few days ago, and I was coming out of the kitchen looking for a tomato to eat. I didn't find any. Tomato picking season has just ended here.

As I came outside, I saw Lindy, 13, carrying a baby pig to the stoop to show Sophie that one of the pigs just popped out a few piglets. It still had the umbilical cord dangling from its underside.

Very attractive.

Lindy was sweating a good bit. I asked her why. She said she had been running. Odd, I thought. Her friends weren't around, just a few young boys from the compound next to the farm. She doesn't usually play with them. I wonder why she was running?

Lindy asked me to come with her to get the rest of the pigs on "that side". I agreed to go with her. I assumed the pigs were all laying
around in the pig cages on "that side" of the farm, where the pig cages are. I assumed she just wanted an extra hand to put them in a different cage.

Well, off we went - me, Lindy, and 4 or 5 younger boys to "that side", past the pigs cages, over the railroad tracks, across the sugar cane fields of the farm next to us, and into the thicket of reeds and thorns and tall grass where I soon found out mama pig was hiding out with her 6 remaining piglets.

You may be wondering, why do we have to get the piglets anyway? A few reasons. One being that anyone can steal them when they're out there, also, mama pig and her youngins can't get fed out there, and I was told a few others that I don't remember. Whatever. Two reasons are enough, right?

We were supposed to get all the piglets, then get mama pig, then put them in an isolated cage on our property, where mama can take care of them without worrying about the bigger pigs eating the young ones. Because that does happen. Quite often I'm told.

Back to the story.

As we approached the thicket, all the boys and Lindy began picking up stones and holding them in their shirts. Lindy told me to pick up a stick. So I found a small stick about the size of my forearm and continued walking. "No! You must get a big stick!" Lindy said. Somewhat confused, I blindly followed her directions and found a stick about a meter long. I also found a piece of rubber pipe about the same size and thought it might do the trick. What trick? I wasn't really sure.

I felt left out though that everyone else had stones and I didn't, so I retired my rubber pipe and stick before I got to use them, and picked up about 3 or 4 stones and walked into the thicket with the kids towards mama pig.

First thing I noticed was that the kids were just guessing where to throw their stones, hoping to hit mama pig and get her moving a bit. Second thing I noticed was that once mama pig started grunting, none of the kids got closer than 20 feet from her. It was soon told to me that it would be my job to grab any baby pig I could reach while the kids threw stones at mama. Ok, I thought, doesn't seem too hard.

Famous last words, right?

I entered the thicket. The baby pigs didn't seem to be moving too fast, and mama was about 15 feet away from me and them. So I dropped my stones, reached down, wrapped my right hand around the closest baby pig, and everything went white momentarily. The next thing I knew, both me and the baby pig were having a panic attack.

The baby pig's panic attack started because it was being stolen by a scary looking white man with a beard, and the attack took the form of it squealing its head off (the most god awful sound I've ever heard in my life - it sounds like demons escaping from the depths of hell, the whole way up, scratching their nails on an infinitely long chalkboard, yelling obscenities at each other in a language more harsh than anything that my ears have beheld on this earth) and writhing around in my hand like it was spinning around in a blender. My panic attack began when my eyes and ears honed in on the sight of mama pig dashing towards me like an over sized dark orange/pink cannonball, grunting loudly and persistently, breaking branches and hurdling stones in her path. My attack took the form of me yelling, "SHIT!"

I froze momentarily to grasp what the hell was happening, and the next moment, all I remember was dashing out of the thicket by the clearest path possible, hurdling logs, rocks and kids who couldn't run as fast as me, the baby pig over turned in my right hand, still writhing, while I yelled at the kids "GIJIMIA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!GIJIMA!"

English translation = "RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!RUN!"

I've never spoken siSwati so fluently since I've been here such as I did that moment.

Mama pig eventually gave up on her chase about 50 yards from the start. I was out of breath from my sprint, as were the kids, and we were all laughing. The kids were laughing because of the sight of me running away with the pig in hand, yelling siSwati to them to run the hell away. I was laughing because of the hilarity of the situation, the adrenaline rush I got, and due to the relief that it was all over.

Sike.

"No!" Lindy said. "We must get the others too!"

I handed my pig off to one of the kids, asked them to take it back to the farm, and then gave Lindy a quizzical look. I thought we only had to get one. But no. Ok, so we have to get the others. Silly me. I hatched a plan to get the process over and done with as quickly as possible.
I asked Lindy to translate to the younger boys for me. The plan was, the kids would again throw rocks at mama, getting her away from her piglets, I would swoop in, and pick one up. Mama would then chase me as I ran away, and as I took her further away from the rest of the piglets, the rest of the kids would go in and get the remaining 4 pigs, and we'd be done.

I thought it sounded like a great plan.

We sprung into action, though this time I picked up the big stick I had thought unnecessary during my first run. I considered briefly the rubber pipe, but then thought better of it as I picked it up and it flopped over in my hand. All I could think was, I don't need my tool going limp on me when I need it most.

I looked at the kids, shook my head and decided that no one would get the joke there, so I dropped the subject and the rubber pipe and went on with the mission.

So here I went again, into the thicket, armed with a thick branch (my "pig stick") in one hand, my heart pumping harder and harder, and my right hand ready to do some pig snatching. The kids started throwing stones, and I kept my eyes on mama pig as she began grunting and moving away. I noticed that this time around, the piglets were moving with mama. I wanted to get mama further and further away, so I picked up some of my own stones and started throwing them at her. Hard. They bounced right off her, as if they were nothing more than spitballs. Eventually she turned her back long enough for me to bend down and get my hand around a piglet. Again, the squeals were deafening, and my heart started pounding as I saw and heard mama pig start to charge.

There was no clear exit this time, I was too deep in the thicket. And mama pig was only about 10 feet from me. So instead of a clean get away, I found myself running thru sharp grass as tall as me, breaking clean thru thorn branches and tall reeds, getting swatted in the face by thin tree branches, stepping into divets, nearly tripping on hidden stones, getting my foot briefly stuck in mud, all the while mama pig gaining on me, and little piglet peeing down my arm. I was hoping to lose mama thru the thicket, but she proved much more arrow-like and agile than me, and as I emerged into the clearing, I turned around to see if the kids were getting the other piglets.

To my horror, I saw two things that I did not want to see. The first thing I saw was all the kids running the complete opposite direction as me, empty handed, piglets nowhere to be seen, pointing directly towards me as they ran. The second thing that horrified me turned out to be what the kids were pointing at - mama pig right on my heel, no more than a foot away, mouth engaged to start chomping.

My eyes were as big as dinner plates. I managed to narrow them enough and I let out what I was the most vicious and aggressive yell I've ever managed in my life. At the same exact moment, I swung the stick in my left hand as hard as possible, and clocked mama pig right across the face as she opened her mouth to take a nice size chunk out of my balls.

It stunned her enough for me to get a few steps on her, and I was gone like the wind.

I regrouped with the kids, half angry that they didn't get their share of the pigs, half ecstatic that my balls were intact, and half feeling like a hardened outdoorsman for clocking mama pig at the most crucial moment of our previous engagement. That's a whole person and a half worth of emotions.

I started pointing at each of the kids individually and saying half-seriously and half-mockingly, "Uyasaba, uyasaba, uyasaba.... etc." Translation "You're scared, you're afraid, you're a scaredy-cat etc." "Angisabi!" (I'm not scared!) each of them answered. "Bamba tingulube!" I fired back. (Then grab the pigs!)

Three pigs left.

Same process. Rock throwing, me approaching, stepping thru mud and getting cut up by sharp tall grass, searching in vain for the remaining 3 pigs who were surprisingly mobile and staying very close to mama.

This time around, me being newly emboldened by our last encounter, and mama pig being angrier than ever, we had a short game of chicken. We faced each other, looking each other square in the eyes. She would not budge, despite the barrage of rocks being thrown at her, and I would not leave without another piglet. She made a few mock charges, and I countered with my war cry and by whacking everything around me with my pig stick, almost daring her to try something.

Again, she foolishly turned her back for just a second, and I grabbed the closest piglet. Again, over the river and thru the woods, mama close on my tail. My footing stalled in a mud patch again, thus giving mama a chance to chomp my calf, but fortunately I was in too much of a hurry not to get bit to let that happen. I regained my footing, got out of the mud patch, turned slightly to my left, let my stick fly, gave mama a good whack across the noggin, stunned her, and again I was gone, and mama was left behind feeling beaten and embarrassed for the third time in a row.

The kids again were empty handed, and I gave them a lot of crap for being scared again. Not that I blame them - mama pig is the scariest creature I've come across in a long time - much scarier than any snakes or spiders I've met up with here.

Two pigs left.

Same process, although now three kids were gone with the three pigs we had taken up to that point, so it was only me, Lindy, and one other boy. They threw rocks like they meant it. I told them to try and chase mama out to the clearing so I could grab the last two pigs with relative ease. That didn't happen.

Face off again.

This time, I could see the two piglets standing side by side, halfway between me and mama. I decided to take a risk. I didn't yell or hit anything around me with my pig stick. Instead, I dropped the stick to my left, and like something out of an old western, I readied my hands to spring into action. I could feel my heart pounding... my veins throbbing, swollen with adrenaline, my pulse making its presence known thru my arms, hands, feet and neck. Instead of grabbing a six-shooter and firing off a couple rounds (I don't own a six-shooter), I leapt forward, grabbed the two remaining pigs with both hands, jetted out of the bush, and was treated to their squealing in full surround sound as I carried them above my head, half in a declaration of victory, half in avoidance of the sharp grass and thorns leaving their traces on my exposed torso. (I don't wear shirts most days here - those of you who know me probably aren't very surprised) I must've looked like the Flash thru this whole process, because mama pig didn't have the slightest chance to catch me. I left her so far behind, eating my dust that I half wanted to go back and lap her again. Kinda like the Tortoise and the Hare. (I'm aware the Tortoise eventually gets the upper hand on the Hare, but this Hare had more brains than the one in the fable)

I handed the last 2 pigs off to the two kids and started walking back.

"No! There are more!" Lindy said.

After a small exchange of me saying no their weren't, and Lindy saying there were actually three more I told her I'd suck it up and go back and check.

I wanted to leave on this high note, but I decided to swallow my pride and fear, and face off with mama one more time. I picked up my recently discarded pig stick, as well as an 8 foot hardened reed that I would use like a lance to keep mama at a safe distance from me. As I looked around the ground for more piglets, yelling at mama, trying to keep her away with my reed-lance, I found nothing but a mother pig with nothing left to lose. She charged me not once, but TWICE within the 30 seconds I was there. This time, it was mama pig who was like the Flash, because both times she charged, I barely had time to react. My reed-lance proved useless as I couldn't move it effectively once mama got around it, so again and again, my pig stick saved my balls from certain destruction and a life without children, as I knocked mama clean across her snout when she was right on top of me.

Mama turned around, dejected, I and walked away victorious.

Chasing mama back to the farm was a simple process being that she had no more babies to protect. Only after I returned to the farm did I find out that normally, the baby pigs are put into a burlap sack immediately after capture which makes them stop squealing practically instantly, thus confusing the hell out of mama, and making the process so much easier. It would've been nice to know that beforehand.

Getting mama pig back into the cage with the piglets is a whole other story all-together involving transferring skittish chickens from here to there, baiting mama pig around the yard with her piglets, keeping the alpha male pig, Boss, in his cage, and holding cage doors shut with all my body weight as mama slammed her self against it, much like the scene from Jurassic Park when the Velociraptors are trying to get into the main control room when the auto locks aren't working and no one can reach the gun because it's just 2 inches too far away.

I emerged from the whole experience covered in baby pig urine, my feet caked in mud, my torso, arms and hands scratched up from all the sharp grass and thorns I tore thru, and my entire body head to toe, itchier than I have ever felt in my life.

But I was victorious, and all the pigs are where they're supposed to be.

I kept my pig stick and intend to take it on all dangerous missions from this point on.

Though, to be honest, I hope there are none. :)

So Hot Right Now part. 1.

2007-11-15T08:34:00.000-05:00

As my hands lay on my laptop at this moment, my palms are dripping with sweat, which I am feverishly wiping away from the key pad as it puddles beneath my wrists. Anyone who owns a laptop knows that laptops get very hot when left on for a long time - that's why you don't actually put them on your lap. In fact, my mother's biggest fear is that my brother and I will forget this rule, overheat our family jewels, and she will be cursed with no grandkids forever, thanks to portable technology.

My laptop is hot enough at the moment, but add that to the 43 degree plus (celcius - we do the metric system here) cloudless weather, and you've got a recipe for sweaty palms like only a skinny junior high boy with a shade of a mustache at the homecoming dance can compete with. The pillow I'm sitting on is becoming increasingly damp, the longer I sit here, and I can feel the start of a heat headache coming on. So I've been drinking H2O mixed with an electrolyte mix called Energade like a fiend. Also, I'm as close to fully nude as possible, without actually being so. I just don't want to make any surprise visitors uncomfortable. Or the cats. They look at me with such judgmental eyes.

There is an obvious haze hanging throughout the air - you can see it on the edges of the mountains, and it filters the sunlight a bit, making it appear whiter and hotter than normal. I've come back to my house mid-day - no one does anything during the day on days like this I'm told, and I can completely understand why. This is the 4th very hot day in a row, and we're all hoping for a spell of rain to break it up a bit. But as I look out the window here, it doesn't look promising. The weather can change in a heartbeat though, so we can hold on to hope for a bit.

To get anything done on a hot day here, you must wake up before sunrise. Because even as the sun comes over the mountains at 5:15 am, it has a nasty tinge of hotness to it. Waking up before 5:15 am is nothing I'm used to, and to be honest, I don't see myself getting into the habit of getting out of bed that early. So, I must make a plan for days like these, because apparently, this ain't nothin' yet. Everyone keeps saying, "Wait till January/February. You'll shit, it's so hot." Why the heat would induce any sort of bowel movement, I'm not quite sure, so I'm guessing it's just an expression they use here. But I'll let you know if there's any truth to the expression come February.

Nothing helps to cool down on a hot as balls day, like a cold cold cold shower. Take one in the morning, maybe midday, and then before you head to bed. Three showers in a day may seem excessive, but I think on days like this, I wouldn't mind even 4. However, as there is usually some sort of twist to "would be nice" situations I bring up here, I will say that all the water that comes to my house is pumped from an exposed water tank on a hill, carried thru black pipes laying on top of the ground, to the intake hose at the back. The water in that tank is just basking every minute of the day, soaking up every degree of heat the sun throws at it, which is then made even hotter when carried thru the black as nite pipes to the house. Technically, you could still shower in these conditions, but I personally think the situation is better cut out for a more daring experiment. I would create a life size replica of myself, made entirely of uncooked pasta, stand it up in my shower, turn the water on, and see how long it would take to get just past al dente. I'll be taking bets starting from now. I'm putting money on between 4 and 5 minutes.

Seriously, the water = very very very hot. Cooling down in the shower is not an option.

So instead, I'm sitting inside, with all the doors and windows in the house wide open, with my oscillating fan fanning me as it oscillates. That's actually a lie. I have it standing stationary right next to me on full blast. I won't let it oscillate. I want the full breeze. All the time. I can tell my beard is getting a bit bushy because I can feel the breeze coming thru it, tickling my face slightly. I should probably take care of that and take the bushiness down a bit.

So what have we learned today?

1- It's too hot
2- Drink H20 with Energade
3- Get naked (if you don't own judgmental cats)
4- Sit next to a window
5- Don't try to shower
6- Do try to make life size replica of yourself out of pasta
7- Get an oscillating fan, but don't let it oscillate
8- Shave your beard if you have one
9- Shave the cats if you don't have a beard

I'm sure at some point I'll have more commentary on the heat here, which is why this entry is labeled with "part. 1.".

For now, all of you back home, please enjoy the fall weather, the leaves changing colour, and of course, the cold water in your shower.

What a Difference a Day Makes

2007-11-06T04:18:00.000-05:00

This past weekend, I went shopping to get some things for my house/room that I have been looking to get since... well, since I first got here. I'd just like to take a moment to explain how much of a difference certain items can make in one's daily activities.

I like to think that I'm somewhat of a minimalist. That's not actually true. But I'd like to think it. If I had my choice, I'd own a lot of little things that make life easier/more enjoyable, like a grilled panini press. They make sandwiches so much more delicious, it really blows my mind as to how it's physically possible. But of course, being broke on top of the fact that I live in Africa, limits the amount of things I can actually buy or own to make up a somewhat luxurious lifestyle.

Being a minimalist here, then, means simply that you can get by just fine without much of anything. That more accurately describes me. I can get by without much, I just don't prefer it.

My living situation is relatively cozy. Before this weekend, my room consisted of a single bed with a thin, soft mattress (though I prefer harder ones), a white wooden chair (not quite sure why it's in here), a very small dresser, one bag of luggage with my warm clothes packed away, a lockbox to store expensive items in, two boxes of books and Peace Corps bound informational packets (a lot of them), the small Peace Corps medical kit, a flyswatter (best investment ever), and a one square foot cardboard box that I keep my snack food in. The walls are decorated with a map of the world, a map of Africa, small holes where someone tried to hang up pictures, and the remains of formerly high pitched buzzing mosquitoes.

As of this weekend, I introduced 3 items to my room which have made all the difference in the world - especially when it comes to nitely activities. The three items include:

1- A CFL bulb where there formerly was just an empty light socket.

2- An oscillating stand up fan.

3- A screen for the one window that opens.

Previously, when coming home at nite, if I wanted to read, or write in my journal, or kill crawling insects, I had to keep my headlamp on for the entirety of the process. It was doable, but it eats up batteries like whoa, it makes my forehead sweat and get itchy after lengthy wearing periods, mosquitoes have learned to avoid the light's glare, hiding in the shadows of the room, and it attracts moths directly to my face - exactly the spot where I don't want them.

To sleep in my room, I would close my curtains to prevent very big bugs from flying in at nite (not always a successful endeavour), and close my door to keep the cats out, thus creating a stagnant, overheated cave to sleep in/lose weight in from all the sweating that occurs throughout the nite. Again, it was doable, but not ideal.

Well my goodness, the afforementioned 3 items have truly made all the difference in the world. I cut the portion of steel screen for my window with kid scissors from a large sheet that was borrowed to me, and luckily I had my straight eyes on, and managed to cut it relatively square and accurate. I attached it to my window using all purpose Prestik, or Sticky Tac, for those of you playing the home game. It works for now.

The combination of the screen, fan and light, made for an incredibly enjoyable first evening with all three. I wrote in my journal, with my room light glowing, a cool breeze coming to and fro across my body from the oscillating nature of the fan, all the while listening to the {tik.... tik..... TAK...} of bugs both large and small attempting to fly thru my screen, much to their dismay, and to my immense enjoyment. I smiled every time I heard one of their failed attempts. The best part was that I managed to sleep thru the entire nite without waking up to kill any mosquitoes, thanks to the tag team of the fan and screen.

I bought a shower head to screw in so my showers don't feel like someone is peeing on my head, but unfortunately, I haven't had a chance to try it out, because we've been out of water this side for the past few days. I'm anxious to try things out when the situation rectifies itself/we decide to fix it.

Next up is fashioning a screen door from reeds - luckily I have some contacts stateside who can walk me thru the construction process. Then I can simultaneously keep the cats out, and have a cross breeze coming thru the room. Just like heaven should be.

Catless and breezy.

Just kidding.

Only kinda.

The Joys of Being Sick

2007-10-26T11:48:00.000-04:00

None.

Did you really think there were joys to being sick? Catching up on your DVDs you haven't seen doesn't really count as a joy. More like a "Well, what else is there to do?" type activity. But I suppose I can't exactly leave it there. This would be too short of an entry. Those of you who were expecting a sort of enlightened, optimistic outlook on time spent being sick, I am sorry to disappoint. But you should know better.

I have now been relatively unhealthy for the past week or so with various ailments - nothing serious or deadly, but my goodness is it a pain in the ass/neck. (Well, throat really)

Any time you travel abroad, especially to countries considered to be in the third world, you must half expect to get sick. It doesn't seem to be an option, it rather seems like an inevitability. It could come from drinking bad water, from not being used to the food, from being in overly crowded public areas where the vast majority of folk don't understand the concept of "private space" and proceed to cough and hock up a lung not next to you, but on to you, or it could even come from from jumping into a pond or lake you assume is fine to swim in, only to realize afterwards that parasitic snail lavae has seeped thru your skin and you have contracted bilhazia. you can google that for an explanation. Fortunately, I personally have not gotten sick directly from any of the afforementioned experiences. Yet.

I don't know exactly why I've gotten sick. One of the kids probably just passed something on to me last week. That's the most obvious way to get sick I suppose. Someone you know (most likely a small, somewhat adorable yet awfully dirty child with no sanitary sense) passes some godforsaken bacteria your way thru breathing on you, shaking your hand, or slobbering all over you after a nice big sneeze when they've forgotten to cover their mouth. As I'm sure we're all aware, children escalate this situation when they proceed to wipe the snot that recently emerged from their nasal cavity onto the nearest cloth, which is usually your shirt. There's no way to avoid these common situations, and by the time you realize what's happening, it's too late to do anything. Life. It's a four letter word.

The majority of my week was spent finding my voice again after I had lost it for 2 days (I found it under my bed after I cleaned my room - the spiders were holding it hostage), as well as coughing, coughing, coughing, coughing, COUGHING so much and so hard that I actually developed a giant knot in my back that felt and still feels like a gremlin is trying to escape from between my spine and shoulder blade. I've taken electrolyte supplements, drank vitamin C super energy booster drinks with literally 1111% of your daily recommended vitamin C intake based on a 2,000 calorie per day diet (it says so on the packet), sucked on lozenges and cough drops, taken both ibuprofen and non-aspirin painkillers, and eaten about a dozen cappucino flavoured muffins with chocolate chips in them. ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

Not really at the same time. But over the course of the week, that is how I've self-medicated. All I really wanted was some heavy duty cough syrup, some Tylenol PM to knock me out at nite, and a slingshot with pebbles to keep the cats away from my muffins.

Getting sick really messes with your psyche. This is especially true in a far off land where mom isn't there to pamper you and bring you tea and soup, tell you what pills to swallow and when, give you endless hugs, wait on you hand and foot, and bring you anything you want while you watch your favourite childhood Disney movies that are still on VHS tape. Not that my mom ever did that. (She totally did - she's the best) This week, now that I'm all grown up and still getting sick, I found that all negative thoughts were entering my head as I lay in bed, watching my Scrubs episodes and a pirated version of Pirates of the Carribean 3 (no pun intended). I was upset I couldn't match the progress we made last week with the vegetable garden project we started, and then I started thinking that we'll never get diesel for the tractor at this rate. If we don't get diesel, we can't plow the land again, if we can't plow the land again, we can't make our furrows, if we can't make our furrows, we can't start planting, if we can't start planting, nothing will start growing, if nothing starts growing, WE CAN NEVER EAT VEGETABLES FROM OUR GARDEN.

I found that when I felt ultra-bad, I was getting fleeting thoughts of "I'd rather be sick at home on my own couch"... "WTF am I actually doing out here? Do they really need me? What good am I doing here? I can't even understand what's being said half the time..." Blah Blah Blah.

I then began thinking of all the projects we have in mind here on the farm and how there's so much to do and we'll never actually get to do any of it and blah blah blah blah whine whine whine. I'm fully aware that all these sentiments are completely unfounded, and whereas normally I would think and approach these situations one step at a time, and more importantly, optimistically, I found myself having such a negative attitude towards everything. Then this morning I woke up feeing about 70% as opposed to 25% (so still not 100%) and just like that, I started thinking about how many things we will get done next week if I just keep getting a little bit better each day. My sense of optimism was back overnite and all it took was me not feeling devil claws inside my throat and chest ripping me apart every time I coughed. The three letters and package from home I received yesterday made me smile quite largely, and I credit them with speeding up my recovery as well.

Before coming over to this side of the planet, I received a very uplifting and supportive email from a friend of mine who I've never actually met (I don't even know what she looks like!), yet she has been an invaluable resource to me. Robyn has worked/volunteered around the world with various international development and outreach projects for a number of years now, so she knows a thing or two about what volunteers abroad go thru. She wrote one thing in her email that stuck with me, and I'd like to just copy and paste it here to share with you, because it has done a lot to keep my spirits up when I go thru a rough patch...

***not much i can say that you don,t already know, but would love to send my support by saying-- freaking out is normal just go awith it, when times get rough remember that home will ALWAYS be there and just as college or something goes by and life continues all of this will also go by and you will marvel at how you continue your joey life having completed peace corps, that said though_ take it one step at a time and dont let your thoughts get ahead of you, you will probably get sick after 3 weeks- it will only make you stronger, you will probably come out with more questions than answers which means you really get it, use support when you need it (write me anytime!), and know that this doesn,t have to be a phase or lifequest or something but can just be a very real career; part of your life; part of the life of others if you want OR it can just be a fantastic experience that makes you better in any field. safe journey and be well, safe, happy and inquisitive***

If there is any joy to being sick, I've found that it is realizing that you are strong enough to take on and overcome your illness, and when you do get better, you emerge stronger than before and with a more optimistic view of your own life.

That said, next week, I'm heading back to the vegetable garden.

Time. Or the lack/abundance thereof.

2007-10-20T05:09:00.000-04:00

Hootie and the Blowfish wrote a song about time. And if you were even half conscious during the mid-90s, you have heard it before. It was an ok song. He sang something like:

TIME's a wasting
TIME's a something
TIME you ain't no friend of miiiine...

I think he was hinting that time seemed to be always running against him, or going too fast. But who really knows? Hootie was a funny guy. So cryptic in his lyrics. Anyway, point is, I don't believe Hootie (or his Blowfish) had ever been to Africa. If he had been, he would have had a very different concept and maybe even written an entirely different song about time. I don't blame Hootie for not being to Africa. But I'm here to explain why thing's might have changed so drastically had he been a visitor to the motherland.

Side note before we get started: For those of you keeping count, my mosquito kill count is currently at 132. And somehow the pests become more and more invisible as the nites go on. I'm getting very good at killing them once they've entered my ear cavity at nite, though it's not a pleasant clean up job.

It's now just before 6 am. Though you'd never know it by checking the wall clock in my house. It has been stuck at 12:47 and 46 seconds for months. I see it as a perfect symbol and a daily reminder that I am now running on Africa time. I have been up for 45 minutes, as has the sun. Now, maybe it's just me, but 5:15 seems a wee bit early for the sun to rise. It really doesn't matter. People start mulling about any time they please. Sunrise means rise and shine for kids going to school that day, 8-10 am for those with nothing better to do with their day, and some as early as 3 am to get a head start on the people they intend to steal from. Sadly, this does happen quite frequently. Poverty + Unemployment = Crime.

But this isn't about crime in SA. This entry is to attempt to shed some light on the issue of time in this country, if not this entire continent.

I will start out by stating that all of South Africa is on the same time zone, even though technically, the country should fall under 2 time zones. I imagine that this makes things easier on a national scale, though I'm not quite sure how, but it confused the hell out of me the first time I came out east to my site and it got dark a whole hour earlier than it was supposed to. I honestly thought my watch had been screwed up overnite, or that I had been completely delusional about what time the sun actually set every evening for the first 7 weeks of my stay. I was soon informed of the time zone situation. Hooray for not being delusional.

I am currrently writing up a proposal to the government here to further reduce the number of time zones in Soth Africa to zero. You see, people don't abide by time constraints like we're used to in the US. Times set to meet, to start something, to arrive somewhere, are all taken as guidelines rather than concrete agreements. (Just like Deltones practice, as I recall) Unless of course it's 8:00 pm. Generations (the most popular soap opera here, which is in Zulu) comes on then, and whole families and most often their American Peace Corps volunteers who stay with them, come together to watch it. But regardless. The attitude towards time here can be very convenient and sometimes relaxing when you don't feel like rushing to get something done or when you can't get to a meeting on time because you have no mode of transport, or something similar. However, as Americans, we often like to get things done or have things done now now now. When this doesn't happen as fast as we would like, we get mad mad mad. Or just irked off a bit at first. But give it some time. It grates on you after a while.

Take fast food for instance. There actually is no such thing as fast food here. If you go to a fast food place like a Chicken Licken, or a Steers, expecting to put an order in, wait 3 minutes, get your food, get in the car and go, you must be reminded that these places do not exist in America, you are in fact in South Africa, and you will wait 15 sometimes 20 minutes for a single chicken burger with nothing on it but mayo. (Mayo is put on a lot of things here I've realized) Our first restaurant experience in SA was touched on earlier in my blog. We waited almost 2 full hours to see our food. The first hour and a half was just waiting to get a waitress.

We have all learned some key terms when it comes to South Africans' concept of time. Here below are short sayings, which I translated into english for your convenience.

1- Just Now - used as in "We're going just now."
American translation = anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour, depending on who said it. Sometimes used when referring to past tense as well. "I got back just now." - also alludes to anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour ago.

2- Now Now - used as in "I'll be back now now."
American translation = about 5 minutes or sooner. "Now now" is supposed to mean immediately, or at this very second. You'll find it's misused often, or maybe confused somewhat intentionally with "just now".

3- Tomorrow - as in "I'll get back to you tomorrow."
American translation = well... there are two. 1- Never 2- Fuck off.

The first time it was really made obvious to me that there was an entire culture of not caring about time (for better or worse) was during my overnite stay in Soweto in 2005. After staying out rather late with my hosts (who were all in their mid-20s) going to various house parties and shebeens and feeling completely awkward as I was rubbed up against by every passing person who was overly sweaty, smelly and drunk and wanted to be near the strange bearded white guy, we were supposed to meet up with the rest of the group at a big church in Soweto the next morning, around 9:00 am. I woke up the next morning around 7:30, feeling very tired and strange about the events from the previous nite, but got dressed, gathered my things, and headed to the main house to meet my host brother and his gogo for breakfast. I get there, and there is no host brother and no breakfast. Just gogo, who didn't speak any English, sitting with a cup og tea, watching her TV. Fifteen minutes later, host brother enters. We then go for a walk to find breakfast. The walk takes about 35 minutes round trip. Eating breakfast slowly with gogo takes another half hour. Walking to find host brother's friends takes 20 minutes. Waking friends up takes 10. Getting one of them ready to come with us takes 25. Walking to pick up a kombi takes 10. Waiting for a kombi takes 10 (though I was assured it never takes that long to find a kombi in Soweto). Kombi ride takes 15. By the time we arrived, the church service was ending - and for those of you who don't know, church services here are very long. Usually over 2 hours.

What stuck out more than anything about this whole experience was not so much the process or amount of time it took to accomplish the simple task of going to church, and getting there on time. While on the way to the kombi, I asked my host brother and his friend if they were concerned at all about getting to where we had to be on time. His friend responded with something that shocked me a little bit. He said, "Pshh, man... as a black man it doesn't matter what time I get somewhere... As long as I'm there." That small comment opened up worlds of understanding about the mindset here.

I have to admit - on the whole, I rather enjoy this change of pace from the

"Crap, I've only got 3 hours until my paper's due and I haven't even started research yet."

Or

"Rehearal is starting - where the hell is Colin?"

Or the ever hectic

"Today I've got class at 9 and 10:15, meeting at 11:30, I want to eat lunch sometime, class at 1, work from 2 - 5, I'm meeting this person for dinner at 5:30, then I have rehearsal 7 - 10 then I have to meet with 2 peope to study for a philosophy test tomorrow, which is actually at the same time as part testing, so after the test I have to run to the music building and hope I'll be allowed to part test later, then I have to go and pick up this person from the train, and then I have a music lesson and then I'm the lead dancer in my dance show which is actually happening OH CRAP THE SHOW STARTED 20 MINUTES AGO."

The good side of African time includes not worrying when our kombi breaks down X number or times, thus putting us massively behind schedule to get where we're supposed to be. You know that when you arrive a few hours (or days) late, you can explain - kombi broke down - or you can at least expect not to be grilled on why you've come so late.

The other day, I started my 10 minute walk to the farm after numerous unsuccessful attempts at trying to find a trail that leads to the other side of the stream here. I got about half way to the main house, until I met "Uncle Leo" and his dog Zeus (a small daschund), who were on their way to check on Leo's herb garden, which is on my side of the road. We talked for a minute or two, and then I asked to join him. He was glad for the company, and eager to show off how well his herbs were coming in. Leo walks incredibly slow, which can be frustrating when trying to rush somewhere, but in the case of that day, we didn't need to walk any faster than Leo's walking stick reccomended. We were out on our errand for a long while, and I arrived at the farm an entire hour and a half after I had originally intended to. In my excursion, I was able to talk to Leo on a more personal level than when we are at the farm, and I learned a bit more about his past, his passions, and the depth of his knowledge on various subjects from herbal gardening, to world history. It made me understand why it's not important to be rushing to a destination all the time, especially here in South Africa. It works to my advantage to just let things happen, and not be hesitant to do something that hasn't been planned ahead of time.

These types of events are what make so many memorable life experiences. Unexpected and spontaneous detours, saying "Ah, what the hell? Why not?" and just going and letting things happen. We seem unable to do that many times in our lives in the US, because we are always expected to be somewhere, to be doing something specific, to be abiding by our planned out day schedule.

Here, we can definitely set our own schedule, and then, if we find it's not working for us, we can just change it or disregard it altogether.

Do I have a point in all this rambling? Or any type of conslusion? Probably not. I can get you one by next week though. Just be prepared to wait a month.

The Infamous Bucket Bath

2007-09-18T04:21:00.000-04:00

Did you ever go bobbing for apples? I always thought it was a rather silly concept - one is expected to unlock their jaws as much as possible to wrap his or her teeth around not a delicious piece of candy or chocolate, but rather around a spherical medium sized piece of fruit, without the use of one's hands, and on top of all this, you are supposed to be blindfolded during the process.

I'll take things that are a waste of time and hurt my jaw and frustrate me to no end and leave me hungry for 200, Alex.

Now, imagine that same small bobbing for apples bucket, fill it up only half as much as you would to bob for apples, and bathe your entire body in it. Serious. This is the method of bathing used in rural South Africa, as well as in not so rural South Africa. But before I go on to what a pain it is for us shower-addicted foreigners to get used to, I will say that the bucket bath is rather effective in it's own endearing and frustrating little way.

When I first arrived at my homestay, I was actually very surprised to see that my host family had in their bathroom a medium sized bath that I was to use for my own bodily cleansing. At first I breathed a sigh of relief, but the relief didn't last too long. My host father showed me outside where I was to fill a large metal bucket with water, and start a fire to heat up the water. The process to bring such a large quantity of water (probably about 8 gallons or so) to a boil takes considerably long - about an hour to an hour and a half, during which time you can't just leave to do other things, but have to tend to the fire and keep the flames high and the coals hot. There was a lack of dry wood in the yard, and so many times I had to burn old and dried out cowpies, which do not have a pleasant smell when burned, especially not in large quantities. The metal bucket is ashy black, and if you touch any part of it with your hands or clothes, they turn instantly black. So in actuality, no matter how dirty you are before you bathe, you get twice as dirty just preparing the water for your bath.

This boiled water is poured into the tub (don't forget to stop up the drain as I had to be reminded, or you lose all your hot water - that was dumb of me), and then you get another large bucket of cold water from the tap to give your self a warm bath. The problem with having a medium sized tub to bathe in is that even with 2 large buckets of water, in the end, you only have about 2 inches of water to actually bathe in.

It was still winter time during my first bathing experience, and because the houses are made of mostly cement here, there is no heat and no insulation, so it's COLD in the house in the mornings, evenings and nite. I shivered as I climbed into the tub and soon realized I'm about 10 inches to big to lay down in the tub flat. That's ok. I crunched up a bit and started rolling around on my back and stomach as best I could to wet my body.

I was instantly frozen.

My hands were shaking as I reached for the shampoo - everyone suggets to wash your hair first - this was something I should have done before I soaked myself from head to toe. Rinsing my hair out was ripe with difficulties - I was so glad I didn't have my long hair anymore. Many girls got sick of their long hair too, and about 4 or 5 of them have since shaved their heads.

I soaped up as best I could, and repeated the rolling process, which is extremely uncomfortable in such a small space, and is a very humiliating process, even when by yourself - having body parts flopping around, getting caught behind your back or under your body, knocking your head against the side of the tub, having your ass up in the air, and all the while shivering and freezing in the cold winter air.

I used this medium sized tub method for about 3 or 4 weeks, and then got sick of the process. I gave up bathing for about a 10 day stretch, and then found my family had a small bucket I could use to have my first official "bucket bath". I also gave up the medium sized bath after what I thought was an obvious sign: one evening I poured the water into the tub and left for 10 seconds to get undressed and I came back to find a rather large cockroach had dropped from the ceiling into my bath water, and drowned instantly. I removed the cockroach, bathed, and told myself, "I think I'll stop here."

For my first official bucket bath, there was no outside fire involved. I boiled water in the kettle, and filled the bucket about halfway with cold water fro the tap, so I now had warm water again, but now it was about 5 or 6 inches deep instead of 2. I then had to think back to our first week here when current volunteers described different methods used for the bucket bath. Some buckets are big enough to kind of sit in. Mine is not. Therefore, the following methods seem to be the most commonly used.

There is the lean method, where you kneel on the floor next to your bucket and splash your body with water, soap up, and splash to rinse off as best you could. There is the stand-up method, where you use a wash cloth to wet yourself, soap up, and then use a cup or some such device to pour the water over your body to rinse off, trying your best not to spill too much water outside the tiny bucket. Then there's the dip and dangle method which is just as much fun as it sounds. You put your feet in the bucket, squat down, dip and dangle, and wash as best you can.

I have found that a combination of the lean method and the dip and dangle method works best for me. Although with these methods, I am only able to wash the main problem spots - hair, face, feet, crotch, and armpits. After those areas, the water is pretty much filthy beyond filthy, especially if you haven't bathed in 2 or 3 days, as is often the case with myself.

As I've mentioned before, as frustrating and annoying as this whole process is, it is effective enough to get clean.

But I have already made up my mind to build a shower in my next home.

Lack of info, lack of burgers

2007-09-01T04:07:00.000-04:00

We have all been very busy the last few weeks. Most everything for us had been leading to yesterday, when our site assignments were finally revealed to us. In short, I am very happy with my site description, and I will have the chance to explore my site starting next week. So how does one keep busy for weeks on end with no access to the information super highway or a cell phone? I found out it is possible, and many times it is preferable. Radio has been heard rather infrequently in my experience here so far. Another obvious entertainment option is he good ol' Television set.

In my home here, there are two TVs. One is in the parent's room. I don't go in there. The other is in the lounge, but the only programming it receives is all-Jesus-all-the-time type programs. Pat Roberts, faith healers, pastors in Africa yelling at the top of their lungs about this and that. My host father loves it, and when he is home, he will watch that TV for hours on end. If you know me at all, you know that is something I don't choose to surround myself with, and so as a result, I don't watch TV here. Many other trainees have settled into a nice evening routine with their families. They eat dinner in front of the TV maybe around 7:00 or so, watch the news, and then at 8:00, the South African Soap Opera comes on - "Generations" it is called. I have not seen any of it, but many people seem to be getting quite addicted to it.

Because I haven't been settling down in front of the TV or Radio, I truly have no idea at all as to what on earth is happening on earth. This more than anything has been a tough thing to deal with - the complete lack of access to information and news from around the world. However, it is not something I notice all the time. It comes in spurts - maybe I'll hear a soundbyte about an American popstar and I'll think back to home when I would open the paper in the morning, and skip past that whole celebrity section in Newsday, looking for a headline and story I actually want to read. Or I'll come across a picture of my cousins currently serving in Iraq, and ask myself, "What has happened in the past month and a half since I've left?" The whole idea of being isolated and cut off from all sorts of news is completely foreign to those of us who live in the developed world. If the TV or Radio isn't turned on somewhere, then we're usually on the internet where there are updates my the minute on countless sites about all sorts of things you both want to and never want to hear about. If we skip the internet for a day, the next morning, most of us will wake up and one of the first things we will do is ge the paper and catch ourselves up on anything we may have missed.

So what's better or worse? No information coming in? Or what can be viewed by some to be a complete overload of information? In my own personal experience, I like the overload. But I can easily see how in places like rural South Africa, news is something that is not considered to be a priority, or even a necessity. Despite the fact that I have wanted to know what has been going on every now and then, it has been wonderful for my mental health to not be concerned about all the major happenings in America and around the world. I have been able to focus completely on myself, my surroundings, my short and long term goals, and most importantly, my attitude and my feelings as they develop and changed each day here. Things will only get more intense as I get to site, and start the whole adjustment process over again, and so it's great to be able to reflect appropriately on the day's events rather than getting distracted by or getting lost on the internet or TV.

As was mentioned in my last entry, the food that we've had access to here has left much to be desired. We do have some very good meals every now and then, but for the most part, it is a struggle to feel satisfied after eating. This is especially true at lunch time.

It was for this reason, that we were all very happy to have the opportunity to go out for lunch one afternoon at the only local restaurant in our town. We had seen the menu on a Thursday, and planned on dining out on the following Tuesday afternoon. On the whole, the menu looked very good, and we were all very excited to be a) not eating ANOTHER peanut butter sandwich for lunch and b) supporting the local restaurant by dining within their four walls.

I was excited because this would be the second time in three days that I would have the chance to eat a cheeseburger. The first burger was very much a let down. We had put together an American style BBQ and cooked burgers, hot dogs and sausages. Now, my burger was a let down because it tasted like a hot dog. If I had wanted to eat something that tasted like a hot dog, I would have had a hot dog. I was disappointed. So here was my chance to have a decent cheeseburger, to make up for the one that tasted like a hot dog. I was one of many who ordered a cheeseburger. After waiting about a half hour for the small restaurant to get everything out to us, we began to dive in to our cheeseburgers (some with bacon!) only to realize that every single cheeseburger was lacking the actual burger.

The roll looked very nice with the lettuce and tomatoes and cheese... but not as nice as it would have looked with a burger. Apparently the restaurant thought that everyone who ordered a cheeseburger had meant they wanted a cheese sandwich. A cheese sandwich, we all noticed, was on the menu in addition to the cheeseburger. So we didn't really know what to think. I imagine most of us were glad we didn't order the hamburger. What would they have given us? A ham sandwich? Just bread? It really is anyone's guess. They threw us all a small piece of steak to try and correct the situation - they didn't have any ground beef at the time. I watched as my friend John took his first bite into his steakcheeseburger. He clamped his jaw down on the small mass of miscellaneous items and went to bite thru and pull away...... and actually got stuck. His first bite lasted about 12 seconds, until he could finally get his teeth all the way thru the meat. I don't know how long he chewed on the wad in his mouth until he could actually swallow it, but it made for a good hoot.

That's about all for now. I really appreciate your comments. They make me smile a good bit.

I'll be back later on. Take care....

Ngilamba njalo

2007-08-18T06:44:00.000-04:00

I have peanut butter permanently stuck to the roof of my mouth.

Now, if the above statement were accurate, I would probably be the happiest half italian/irish boy in South Africa. (see picture for visual aid) I realize that may not be saying much, but the point remains - it would make me very happy. The rough translation of the title of this entry is "I'm always hungry." I'm not quite sure the reason for this, but it certainly is true. Everyday is a new opportunity to find ways to fill my belly in satisfying ways... the variety of which I must say is not very wide. I've come to rely on some very basic food groups...

1- Peanut butter
2- Bread
3- Apples
4- Cornflakes
5- Grilled Cheese
6- Dark Chocolate (a rarity for sure, but I include it because I love it so)

That's about it. My dinner's vary slightly because most nites my host mother cooks - usually chicken or a delicious potato and baked bean type stew accompanied by the South Africa staple dish, pap. (pronounced "pop") A little info on pap... It looks like mashed potatoes, but clumps together and has the texture of extremely dense couscous. It is also very very filling, and is usually eaten in large quantities to convince the body that it is indeed getting enough food. This may or may not be the case, but it does leave one feeling full. But as I mentioned before, I am always hungry here, and the time between dinners is approximately 24 hours (1 day for those of you doing the math) and with so much time in between big meals, I am always trying to pin down my craving so as to satisfy (temporarily) my hunger.

In the beginning of my time here, my cravings have ranged from Turkey Hill's Tin Roof Sundae ice cream with chocolate syrup (lots of it), to buffalo chicken wings, to homemade meatballs and sauce. Actually, those are the only 3 things I craved. I have since managed to direct my cravings (most of the time) to the above mentioned 6 food groups. Mainly because that's all I have to work with for most of the day.

Some here consider me very fortunate because my family owns not only a grilled cheese sandwich maker, but also has in the fridge, a large block of cheddar-type cheese. I don't really know what type of cheese it is, but it is cheese. I think. It's really good when melted. At lunch time at our training, many will venture out to the closest shop and buy for 25 cents each (in rand - very cheap) "fat cakes". Fat cakes are fried dough type creations. They are about the size of a lemon, and are served plain. This doesn't work for my taste buds, so when I splurge the 25 cents to have one, I use all my mind power to imagine that is is dripping with maple syrup and powdered sugar, and I am happy.

I have come to appreciate the boneless chicken breasts that are served in the US at all the major food stores, because eating chicken is definitely a project here, and all of us foreigners (well, maybe just myself) must learn to re-enjoy the process off sucking all the meat off the bone and getting our fingers all sticky and slimy with chicken grease.

Which brings me with no appropriate transition to our first experience in a restaurant in town. After I posted my last entry, I went with a few friends to a restaurant next door called "Spur". Spur is a Native American themed South African family restaurant. Kind of like a Friendly's if Friendly's had a giant Native American statue at the entrance to the restaurant and a menu telling of the legend of the giant burger which weighed over 6000 lbs and took an entire forest burning to cook it. To make a long story short, it took over 2 hours to get our food. The first hour to even be recognized that we were in the restaurant. And the food was just ok. We saw the manager running in and out of the restaurant multiple times, always returning with a big hunk of meat under his arm, which may have added to the lengthy process.

One final note on the topic of food here - I have been fortunate because I have been asked to cook only twice so far for my family. Others here have had to cook much more frequently with not many food stuffs to work with. My two dinners were success stories though. The first dinner was chicken with pasta. The pasta sauce was a Tomato and Onion mix with carrots, and that's really it. It was pretty easy and very much enjoyed by the family. The second dinner was scrambled eggs with cheese, baked beans mixed with fruit chutney and mayo, plain bread, and sour pap. I made the eggs very cheesy - almost too delicious I would say, because my 9 year old sister ate about 1/3rd of the eggs while they were still in the pan waiting to be served.

Pako has been instrumental in helping me prepare dinners - showing me where things are, then hiding them on me while my back is turned, she does most of the slicing and dicing of vegetables, gets out all of the flavouring and spices whether I want to use them or not, and she is great at laughing at me and overriding all of my decisions and actions made in the kitchen. Half pound of pasta. NO. Pound and a half of pasta. Add Salt. NO. Add other curry and acha. Add veggies to boiling water. NO. Add veggies to cold water. One sandwich each for lunch. NO. Two sandwiches each. Four eggs. NO. Six eggs.

It's been a lot of fun - especially when we make grilled cheese for school the next day and we "accidentally" add too much cheese to the bread and it starts melting out the sides and cooking all over the surface and when we open the grilled cheese maker we have to scrape off and eat the cooked cheese which is ridiculously delicious and we fight over the biggest pieces and the brownest pieces.

The only thing that would make it more delicious would be if I had peanut butter permanently stuck to the roof of my mouth.

South African Mornings - a quick note

2007-08-11T05:46:00.000-04:00

It's only 6:14 am here - I woke up extremely early this morn. Actually, that's a lie. I'm sorry to start out my first entry in Africa with a lie. It just happened. The truth is, I wake up this early every morning, which might be more surprising if I didn't tel you that I go to bed by 8:30 every nite. The days are long days here - full of language lessons, HIV/AIIDS information, cultural sessions, and learning about how CBO's (community based organizations) and other related organizations operate in South Africa. That's the short version. The long version is longer and not nearly as interesting.

I'm able to compose this entry because I have access to my laptop at my homestay - which I haven't used much up to this point, except to show my family some pictures of back home. So now, whenever I do get to the internet, I will have written this up already, and will simply cut and paste on the computers at some internet cafe, thanks to a super idea by my brotha Dizzy, who got me a nice little flash drive which I expect will come in super handy throughout my time here.

By the way Nathan/Dizzy/Promise/SBG, your damn songs were stuck in my head for the entire first week and a half in South Africa, and for any of you reading this who hasn't heard the music, do it. www.myspace.com/promisesmusic - check back often for new songs, and marvel and the excellent photos of the artist. There Diz. Now you have to put up all your best songs because you now have a wider audience.

Back to South Africa. My homestay situation is great. I'm living in the Northwest Province near the Botswana border. My family is wonderful. Dineo (host mom), Titus (host dad) and their three daughters (my sisters) Pako, 9, Thato, 4, and Thumelo 9 months. Mom, Pops, and Pako all speak English, Thato and Thumelo, not so much - as should be expected by a 4 year old and 9 month old. Everyone here speaks Setswana, which is tough, because I'm not learning Setswana officially anymore. More on that in a sec. My family has the only 2 story house around, and it's a very nice house with an orchard on the property where Titus grows oranges, lemons, peaches, apples, guava, grapes and more according to the season. He grows a few different types of oranges - my favourite of which he called a minala - which is the size of a small grapefruit, extremely dense, and deliciously juicy to the point that if you bite into a slice and you're lucky, you can shoot a stream of orange juice about 4 feet away, completely unintentionally - I've done it twice already. Just ask the people I accidentally squirted. My room is on the second floor here, and one of the walls is all windows and faces east. So while I wake up in the dark, after about 15 minutes, the sun rises and paints a beautiful picture right in front of my eyes that even Bob Ross would envy.

I want to take you all back to kindergarten for a moment, and recall the times when we all read short stories about Old MacDonald and Charlotte's Web and other books about life on the farm. Books such as this usually reference a rooster cock-a-doodle-dooing just as the sun rises, giving the call for all to wake up. I'd like to take this opportunity to slander all the children's books authors who ever put that stupid idea in our heads because as anyone currently in the general presence of roosters, including all of us here can attest to, the roosters around here cock-a-doodle-doo whenever they cock-a-doodle-damn-well-please. Which means AT ALL HOURS OF THE NITE. I've become very upset with the roosters here, and so when I come across one during the day that is cock-a-doodle-dooing, I yell something like, "SHUT UP! YOU'RE 6 HOURS LATE! IT'S ALREADY DAYTIME! ARE YOU FREAKING BLIND?!? I JUST ATE YOUR COUSIN FOR DINNER LAST NITE!" or something to that effect. I think they get the point because they walk away like chickens.

The language situation is a bit tough at the moment. The reason for this is that the area we are in is a dominant Setswana speaking area. I know the basic greetings and a few side comments and questions in Setswana. But for my permanent site placement, I will be speaking Zulu, and therefore have daily lessons in the Zulu language. No one here speaks Zulu, and everyone expects me (and other volunteers here) to learn Setswana. It doesn't bother me very much, but it would make the learning process go much faster if I was living in an area where I had the chance to use the language I'm learning everyday. Such is not the case, and I am over it by now. I am very excited to be learning Zulu.

I will find out about my site placement most likely in about 4 weeks. I expect to be placed either in Mpumalanga or Kwa-Zulu Natal, which would make sense since me and a few other volunteers are learning Zulu, and Zulu is spoken predominantly in the afforementioned provinces.

I don't expect to have regular access to the information super-highway for a while yet. But when things are up and running here, I will be sure to give you a full account of happenings. That includes bath time, which is an experience that words will never do justice describing, but I will try, and I won't even include any graphic details. Trust me, it's for the best.

Don't forget to be awesome. Be back in a few weeks...

P.S. - If all my picture uploads have been successful, you will see that I was the most recent winner in the local Elvis Costello Look-A-Like Contest. In fact, I was the only entry, because no one here knows who the hell Elvis Costello is. It was an easy victory. One which I savour.

The Future, Here and Now

2007-07-16T10:35:00.001-04:00

The future exists so we can see how we have contributed to changing our world for the better.

Or at least that's the mindset we should have.

Tomorrow is the day. I realize I've been ridiculously occupied and so haven't written much in the past week, while way too much has happened. I posted a blog earlier today below this one that was supposed to go up 6 days ago. Oh well. If you're reading this then that means you get 2 for 1 this time around. Because I think you're lovely. Also, this will probably be the last blog entry for a month or two because access to the internet our first two months abroad will be just about zero. The first two months is strictly program and language training and adjusting to the culture and country. The idea is not to have any distractions such as cell phones or email.

So to start, I think I've lost my mind. I told everyone who asked "How are you feeling?" that I was fine at that point but a day before I would leave I would be a mess. Well, I'm pretty close to that at the moment. Thankfully, I got most of my packing shite together a few days ago, but I still have a decent bit to do before I depart tomorrow. Everything is a wee bit too real. I have to do things I didn't even think of a few months ago.

For example. Tomorrow morning, before I leave, I will shut off my cell phone, and leave it home, and not have it for 2 years. That's fine, but it's just something I didn't even think about. I don't even know if I'll have the same number upon my return - my guess is probably not. Also, the things in my room that are mine. They will not be exactly where they are upon my return in 2 years - unless my mother decides to dust the toy chest I guess. So maybe I should have made things look a little neater. There are books and toys and little things that have been part of my daily life for 23 years that I will temporarily leave behind, but all of which offer some degree of comfort, and sanctuary to me.

It doesn't matter. I did a lot of thinking this weekend. My good friends from college (you know, back in "the day") came up this weekend and spent the nite. We went out on the boat up in Cold Spring Harbor and got back and had delicious pizza and mom's homemade cookies, and on top of that, we helped my dad solve a major dilemma involving a 5 liter bottle of wine. The dilemma in case you haven't guessed it yet, was that he could not finish it by himself. Wine all around, a fire in the backyard, a beautiful nite to veg to - it was all wonderful. I also got to go to the beach on Sunday for a few hours. The beach wasn't too crowded - the water was cold enough so I didn't feel the urge to go in, and the sun was shining brightly. The best part for me was the constant wind blowing off the water. It was cool enough to be refreshing, but warm enough to be tolerable. It filled my nostrils and lungs with the specific smell of the ocean during summertime. I was able to look as far out as I could and see little dots that were boats out in the distance. I got thinking about how physically far away South Africa is. I tried to look down the beach and picture one person flying like a bird to SA. The distance seems impossible. Yet it is anything but. It seems all that much closer not only because of airplanes but because of the ease of communication across continents.

But damn. I sure couldn't see South Africa from where I was.

As I started feeling the knots in my stomach and as I got noticeably quiet around my friends (something I try not to do, but seem not to be able to overcome it when something big is looming) I had somewhat of an epiphany. Well.... ok, maybe an epiphany. More like a grand realization. Whatever it was, it happened.

I get this anxious, nervous, freaking out feeling the day before I do any big traveling because in the back of my mind, I'm thinking only about what I'm leaving behind when I step out the door. The grand realization I had was that that was stupid.

Of course I will always be thinking about what I'm leaving behind, but the point is I have to change the way I think about it. I can't think about how much I will miss this or that or how much I wish I could take X, Y or Z with me. I have to think about how everything from home and my past will benefit me and my work in the future. I have to focus on the incredible adventure I am about to undertake. I have to get into the mindset that allows me to focus on the future - the next two years - in Africa - volunteering - meeting countless people - learning new languages - eating new foods - laying my eyes upon the beauty of the world. This is what I've been looking forward to for years now. I will miss everything here very much. But I can't dwell on the comforts of home anymore. It's not good for my morale or for my stomach. What I will take from home is the strength that everyone of my friends and family has given me, and the love that has been shown to me. I will share that with South Africa.

I've been put in a position that allows me to contribute to changing the world. Many of you have told me that I can in fact change the world. Truth is, anyone and everyone can, if they want it enough. My promise to you is to do my part, and prove you right.

I'll be back in two months.

Sala Sentle. (Setswana - Stay well)
Sala Kahle. (Zulu - Stay well)

-Joey

Great Expectations - not the movie

2007-07-16T09:20:00.000-04:00

Bottom line. I don't really know what to expect. I've already decided to just let things happen.

Now that I've come to my conclusion, I'll try to figure out how I got there.

I talked to my brother the other nite about some of what was going thru my mind. Andrew had paid me a surprise visit at home - something unexpected - I thought he was stuck out in Colorado taking classes all summer with no more than a few days off. Turns out, I was wrong. Not only was I wrong, but I was blatantly uninformed. It's amazing the length a secret can go without being divulged to the party it's designed to be kept from. Usually someone blows it all up with an absent-minded comment, or maybe they just didn't know that person A was the person who as supposed to be left in the dark, and so tells person A, said secret. Well, that didn't happen, and everyone from my cousins from upstate, to my neighbors, to friends who were living in different states at the time kept mum. It was a wonderful surprise.

But. Back to my thought process. Andrew (my brother, for those of you playing the home game) and I took a ride to Jones Beach late on Monday nite to just spit a bit about everything we hadn't really had the chance to do. He got me talking about Peace Corps after a lengthy conversation about our own thoughts on "the afterlife" or the lack thereof, depending on the party. I realize reading that back that it sounds like something fourth graders also might have a conversation about... "Do you think there's really a heaven?" "Definitely." "How do you know?" "My sister's best friend has a brother who knows a guy who goes there on vacation in the summer." "No he doesn't." "Yea, he does. I saw him there." Well, maybe not, but I found myself answering questions or at least trying to answer questions I had never tried to put into words before.

It got me thinking about religion and what role that will play during my time overseas. South Africans are a rather religious people and often people will ask you to come to their church on Sundays. I realized I may be in situations where it is expected that I share my religious beliefs, or ideas about God. I'm very comfortable in my own mind with my beliefs, but expressing them coherently to another person proved to be very difficult, as my conversation with Andrew illustrated. What those beliefs are is not necessarily the point at this time, but rather how to express them so others may understand them. It would be easy if they fit into a schematic of an established religious faith, but for myself, it's not that simple. Anyway, that's a conversation to be had with myself at another time.

All this led to expectations from the Peace Corps. Someone had been talking to my brother a few days earlier and had asked him something along the lines of, "What's Joey going to do after he gets back from the Peace Corps? Has he thought about a real job yet?"

Ouch.

This brought up two issues.

#1 - It seems that some people don't fully understand the scope or reach of the Peace Corps, or anything that it actually does. This is not their fault at all - but the above example illustrates the problem of unawareness. I'll be honest - I have no idea of the scope or reach of the PC myself, but I would certainly stop short of belittling it by indicating one must move on to a "real job" afterwards. It's not just a two year vacation, as some may imagine it resembles.

#2 - I have no freaking clue what I'm going to do after Peace Corps, and to be honest, it's more or less the last thing on my mind right now. I have to get started before I think about wrapping everything up and moving on. It's like walking into a restaurant and having the obviously attractive hostess ask you if you've thought about dessert yet, or what your breakfast plans are for tomorrow. You don't have an answer yet, and you shouldn't be expected to. Although, a little word of advice - if an attractive hostess ever asks you what your breakfast plans are for the next morning, especially if she does it before seating you, you had better think of a witty answer rather quickly, and pray that you have a pen on you to get her number.

After Peace Corps... Already? Well, I've always had the idea that Peace Corps would be the key that would unlock countless doors, leading down many paths for the future. Peace Corps will highlight what I'm good at, where my strengths and weaknesses are, will hopefully help me realize where my passions are, and allow me to network with countless individuals - most likely all with similar goals and life plans as my own. At this point, I don't plan on staying around in South Africa for too much longer than my service allows. I expect to come back to the US, maybe go to grad school for XXXXXXXX. That's not meant to indicate my entry into adult entertainment, but rather just something to be filled in at a later date. I expect that my experiences will be something I can bring back with me to an academic environment, and continue learning from them, and share stories with others in school. Sustainable development, global health issues, international development and relations, poverty issues - all are possibilities for a grad school focus, but the list is by no means exclusive.

I guess I'll head back to Long Island for a while when I return to get my bearings straight. I'm sure I'll be in the mindset to get my own place - but I don't think I will be able to jump right into it, being that the readjustment allowance the PC gives to returning volunteers is currently under $7G. Maybe by that point some of my friends will have become rather well off, and will let me stay in their pool house, so long as I don't hog the courvoisier (does anyone actually drink that stuff?), or set the place on fire with an overabundance of Tiki torches that I set up for ambience, or scare the neighbors with my affinity for magic.

I'll need a job. Maybe a job doing research for a development organization, or working with HIV/AIDS issues domestically. Maybe bartending or painting houses for a few months. I'd be a great babysitter because I adore kids - even if I think they look funny. But I don't think many people would hire a 25 year-old long haired, bearded, Setswana speaking babysitter. At least, no one that I've come across. Ah - I guess that means I expect my beard and hair to grow long... That is, if I have much hair left by the time I get back. Yea, the hair gene in my family is not so strong, so I expect to lose a good bit of it. I've always been rather vain about my hair in my younger days, and I guess I still kind of am, but I promise, no hair pieces. Only combovers and spraypainted hair.

What about immediate expectations? Expectations of my service? To understand somewhat what it is I expect, you must understand that my whole life I've had a rather optimistic view of the world and the challenges it faces. I do express my fair share of disappointment and go thru periods where I think everything has gone to shite, but overall, it is my mindset that any problem can be addressed and dealt with as long as there is the dedication to solve it. Not just a "We should do something about this because it's the right thing to do." But rather, "We can do this because there's no reason we can't. You say there is a reason we can't? Well, we'll start there."

I'm not sure how informative this entry was overall about my expectations, but I'm sure I'll be posting more in the future here and there about what it is I will expect. For now, it's difficult. As I said at the beginning of this entry:

Bottom line, I don't really know what to expect. I've decided to just let things happen.

Events That Have Led Me Here

2007-07-06T00:24:00.000-04:00

It's amazing I'm less than two weeks away from departing for South Africa with the Peace Corps. I suppose somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I'd end up here at some point. I just didn't know when. Because I've been waiting so long, and all of a sudden it's here, it kinda feels at random times like I'm being punched in the face.

I'm going to take some time to reflect back on how I came to this point, and then maybe talk a bit about where I may end up. Maybe mull over some possible goals for myself. I have them in my head, though nothing concrete yet. Anyway. Let's go back to the beginning.

Sophomore Year. It's March or April of 2004, and some friends of mine had just returned from South Africa, where they spent a month doing service work at the Mohau AIDS orphange. An hour of story telling and pictures flowing by on a projector screen had mesmerized me. My friends were up there speaking to a couple fellow students, a handful of faculty, and maybe one or two higher ups in the ranks of the University of Delaware system about the specific jobs they had done, ranging from administering medicine to young children, changing dipers, assisting with record keeping in the offices, or pushing kids on the swingset outside. The goal was to convince the University to establish a service trip as the main proponent of future study abroad trips to South Africa. I don't know who else they sold on the idea that day, but I knew I was in.

There have been times in my young life where I had determined "I will do X" and in fact I do X. Up to that point in my life, "X" may have been anything from eating a cookie, to finishing that paper that is actually due in four hours, to commiting myself to exercise for longer than a half hour. "X" as you may have inferred, almost always referred to small goals of mine.

So imagine my surprise when I heard myself telling my friends "I am doing this trip next year, no matter what it takes." It could have just been bullshit coming out of a very emotionally charged Joey, and I can see why some people would think that. Hell, I thought it at first. But then as I repeated the statement over and over again to different friends of mine, I felt the strangest thing... I knew deep down that I was fully committed to what I was saying. No matter what it would cost, no matter what I had to do, I knew I was going to do this.

At this point I would like to thank my mom and dad outright for supporting me and actually paying for my trip. They certainly made the process a billion times easier.

South Africa captivated me from the moment I stepped out of the mini-bus taxi that had taken us to our home base the day we arrived. As I stepped out of the car, I breathed in slightly and my lungs were instantly saturated with a richness they had never felt before. There was something about the air quality in Waterkloof Ridge that snagged me at the first possible instant. My experience only got better from that point on.

The month of January 2005 was spent traveling around the Gauteng province and just beyond, volunteering in one of three places. The Mohau AIDS Orphange in Atteridgeville, Motheong Primary School also in Atteridgeville, and the Tumelong Project, which for us was a day care center and primary school in one for children in the Wintervedt region of South Africa. We also spent a good amount of time visiting local sites such as the Apartheid Museum, Lesedi Cultural Village, a Cheetah Reserve, and the Madikwe Game Reserve on the Botswana border, which also happens to be the place where a handful of us had a VERY close encounter with a bull elephant while on safari. It was a very exciting and fulfilling month.

Despite everything we were involved with, very few instances stand out in my mind as life changing, and I think that's a good thing. It's good to recognize stand out moments when you are overwhelmed with new experiences, because the stand out moments put everything else in perspective. For example, while at Mohau, I had interacted with every single one of the children who were healthy enough to be with. I felt I had made somewhat of a connection with a few of them, and of the few, some stronger than the others. I felt needed by many children in the respect that they needed me to push them on the swings, or they needed me to reach a toy they weren't supposed to have that was on a high shelf somewhere, or they needed me to turn on the tv that was up too high for them. They were using me for my size and strength!!!! Well, who wouldn't?

One of my "Whoa" moments came about a week into my volunteer service. A young girl, Rafilwe, had been sick the last few days and was just now starting to reintegrate with the rest of the kids, but she was still not well. She cried all the time and would stop only when she came to me, and grabbed my shirt or beard as she sat down on my lap. For some reason, she didn't want to go to anyone else but me, and for a few hours, I was the only one who could comfort her. I felt needed, but in a whole different respect. I was only needed temporarily, yes, and she eventually would have been fine even if I wasn't there at all, but that's not the point. I realized that my presence could comfort a lonely child halfway across the world, despite having nothing in common, not even a language.

The other child who changed my life immeasurably is Gontse. Gontse was three years old when I met him for the first time. He spoke very little English, and for the first few days, we communicated via his best friend, Given, who seemed to be the head honcho and communicator amongst the younger children. My relationship with Gontse began innocently on the swingset, we moved on to the point where he was able to climb up my legs and into my arms, and eventually developed to the point where he seemed to be my own personal sidekick, my right hand man - thought mostly he wanted to be carried everywhere. From the moment I walked in at 8 am, until the moment I left at 4 pm, he was with me. His favourite thing to do was put his arms up (indicating "pick me up") and once he was in my arms, he would bend over backwards, wanting to be hung upside down and walked around the yard, viewing the world from a completely inverted perspective. I only grew tired of this after the 117th time in a row, but even then I couldn't help but keep doing it.

I'm not sure how this will sound, but it doesn't matter. I felt like a father figure to Gontse for the entire time I was there. It made me realize on a limited level, the feelings one must have from starting a family, and having children of one's own. What destroyed me inside was the knowledge that I would only be part of Gontse's life for three weeks, after which I would return to the States, and he would have a whole host of other volunteers who he could hang off of and have push him on the swings. He was only three years old, I had known him only three weeks, but he changed my life forever. I now had to deal with the feelings I had of him most likely not remembering who I was, despite my never in a million years forgetting him.

A third major "Whoa" event happened unexpectedly on our day off. To understand the scope of this day, I must first do my best to explain the company I kept while in South Africa. My four main amigos at the time consisted of:

1- Jordan Leitner - 21 year old singer-songwriter with an open mind and vicious appetite for new experiences and learning about the unknown. Immerses himself in a situation to get the most out of it as humanly possible.

2- Jeremy Whiteman - 19 year old with a passion for social justice, equality, an open mind and ever-ready sense of humor. Also has ice blue eyes and a huge smile.

3- Kwasi Agbottah - 23 year old transfer student originally from Texas. Actively involved in educational pursuits and examining how race and culture affects his everyday life.

4- Eugene Matusov - Our "professor". Actually is a professor of Education, also has a degree in Physics. (Eugene will have to correct me if I am mistaken) Emigrated from Russia in the 1980s after numerous run-ins with the KGB over such incidents as holding rock concerts in household basements and helping a drunk German man get back on his feet after he somehow crossed the border by train from China. Usually is seen wearing a fanny pack or holding a cup of iced coffee from local coffee shops. Also is the most brilliant man I have met in my life, as well as one of the most innovative and inquisitive. His thirst for knowledge is only outdone by his ability to think up new ways to approach this task.

Our unexpected journey ocurred after Eugene made contact with a friend of his (Lebo - notice Delaware shirt) from Soweto - a collection of black townships near Jo'burg. The plan was to spend the day in Soweto helping Lebo beautify and clean up the park area near his home. The park had had major work done to it after Lebo enlisted the help of community members who turned it into a soccer field for kids to play on when they came home from school. "If the kids don't keep busy, they get in trouble - either with gangs or fooling around with girls." In other words, a simple thing like a soccer field could keep kids busy enough not to get involved with violent activities and keep them away from the temptations sexual activity has to offer your average 12 - 18 year old.

We arrived with a bag of 10 new soccer balls which had been given to us by the folks at Mohau who had no need for them. We spent the first part of the day buying painting materials to whitewash a stone wall on the border of the park. The goal was to paint the wall white to make the park look more appealing, and to give local artists a canvas to exhibit their artwork. Throughout the day, local people would stop by to talk to us - ask us where we were from, why we were here, what were we doing etc. More often than not, after talking for a short while, the passerby would pick up a spare roller and help us paint while we conversed. I'm sure the sight of this many white people in the heart of Soweto is not a common one, and we invited more attention than I ever previously thought we would. It turned out to be an amazing day. People would talk to us simply to practice their English speaking skills, the kids would tear us away from painting to play soccer with them, and more and more people came to help out with painting than we ever expected. By the end of daylight, a six foot square portrait of a young Nelson Mandela had been painted on the wall, we were all covered in white paint, sweat, grass stains, apple pieces, and probably more bugs than we cared to admit. We were beyond happy.

The day didn't end when the sun went down. Lebo and his friends brought over about six or seven different djembes and other shakers and percussion instruments, and within minutes the sounds of a giant drum circle filled the air, complete with whistles and yells and Lebo and kids dancing - swinging their legs over their heads, stomping the ground, clapping their hands. Their was an energy in the air that was so invigorating you literally felt like your feet might leave the ground at any moment.

As the drum circle dwindled, a BBQ feast was being prepared. Sausages, chickens and the staple food - pap, was available to us, the guests, after being cooked over a wood burning grill. This was followed by a generous handing out of giant pineapple slices - so potent and delicious they felt like they burned my tongue as I bit into each piece. This was no small matter. Poverty is an issue in Soweto like many parts of South Africa. So for Lebo and friends to pool together and put together a meal for myself and my friends was an incredible gift. All of us konked out on the ride home - a testament to the energy spent and the fullness of the day.

It was one of the most incredible days of my life - one which will never leave my memory. What we accomplished that day pales in comparison to the friendships we made, and the level of communication we were able to achieve with our new friends. The most important experience of that Friday in Soweto was that of the connection made between strangers, brothers, friends, all ultimately human.

I needed to go back to South Africa. Not solely to see Gontse and Rafilwe and try to replicate the relationships we had, or to try and recreate the atmosphere of that day in Soweto, but to see if the entire experience in South Africa was a wonderful one-time deal, or if the emotions and feelings the country elicited in me could progress even further, and to see if I could make a lasting contribution to the country and the people that had helped shape my life.

Next up will be future predictions and goals. For tonite, I'm spent.

Robala sentle. (Good nite)

An Introduction to Setswana

2007-06-23T18:36:00.000-04:00

I received an email a few days ago from the Peace Corps informing me that for the first two months of training, myself and the 90 or so other volunteers will be learning the language of Setswana. Setswana is a Bantu language - spoken primarily in Southern Africa, including Botswana, Namibia and South Africa. Though it is only one of 11 official langauges of South Africa, it is the national language of Botswana. The PC said we should get lessons 1 - 4 under our belts before we arrive. So far it hasn't been too bad. I am posting some basics of the lessons below not only so you may get a sense of this new language, but also because it will probably help me to write it down and say it as I type.

Lesson 1: Pronunciation

The basics are as follows - there is no such thing as letters Q, V or Z.
R's are rolled.
T's and P's are usually said with aspiration.
G's are pronounced as if you are hocking a lougie. (Actually written in the language booklet)
And the most interesting for those of us who have never been exposed to Bantu languages - there are approximately 4 different click noises, all indicated in different ways.

tl = cluck (like calling for a dog to come)
tlh = almost sounding like "Kuh" (scleroisis)
ts = as in mats
x = click that is laterally released (between tongue and cheek) I think this is usually accompanied by a pronounced N in front of it, but that's probably too big of an assumption to make at this point.

Lesson 2: Greetings

Dumela rra/mma = Good day/evening/nite sir/ma'am
(doo-MAY-lah rrah/mmah)
O tsogile jang? = How are you? (formal)
- literal translation = How have you risen?
(oh TSO-gee-lay jahng)
Ke tsogile sentle wena o tsogile jang = I am fine, and how are you?
(kay TSO-gee-lay SEN-tle, WAY-nah, oh TSO-gee-lay jahng)
Ke tsogile sentle = I am fine.
Ke a le boga = Thank you
(kay AH lay BO-gha)

Informal greeting
Le kae? = How are you?
(lay KAHI) (like tie with a K)
Re teng a lona le teng? = I'm fine and how are you?
(rred TEHNG ah LO-nah lay TEHNG)
Re teng = I am fine.

Lesson 3: Introductions

Leina lame ke Joey = My name is Joey
(LEE-na LAH-me KAY)
Sefane same ke Cardella = My last name is Cardella.
(se-FA-nay SA-may KAY)
Leina le gago ke mang? = What is your name?
(LEE-na le GHa-gho ke mahng)
O tswa kae? = Where are you from?
(Oh tswah kahi)
Ke tswa kwa New York = I am from New York.
(KAY tswah KWAH)
Leina le gagwe ke Aaron = His name is Aaron.
(LEE-na le GHAU-way KAY)
a o tswa kwa Botswana? = Are you from Botswana?
(ah oh tswah KWAH)
Ke moithaopi = I am a volunteer.
(keh MWEH-tie-OH-pee)

Lesson 4: Saying Goodbye

Go siame = Good-bye
(gho si-AH-mee)
Ke tla go bona = See ya
(kay TLA gho BO-nah)
Tlhola sentle = Have a good day
(KAH-lah SEHN-kle) (with click number 2 on first syllable, click 1 on last)
Robala sentle / boroko = Good night
(rrroh-BA-la SEHN-kle / bo-RO-ko)
Ke tla go bona kamoso = See you tomorrow
(kay TLA gho BO-nah kah-MO-so)
Ke tla go bona kgantele = See you later
(kay TLA gho BO-nah kan-TAY-leh)

Those are the basics. I'm going to get that under my belt and then write an entire entry in Setswana.

In about a year.

Tlhola sentle.
Ke tla go bona kgantele.

Gramps (again) and a laptop

2007-06-21T21:59:00.000-04:00

At this juncture, I am officially dedicating this blog to my Grandpa JoJo.

I’m writing this current entry on my new laptop. And let me tell you, it’s a doozy. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or bad thing yet…. Actually, yes I do. It’s a good thing. I have been saving up some bucks for a laptop for about a month or two now, not really knowing exactly how much I would spring for. Turns out that I had a stroke of good luck, and a whole lotta love shining my way from my Grandpa. For those of you not familiar with Gramps, I wrote a short post on him a few weeks ago. You can find that post here.

Gramps decided he wanted to contribute to something before I left for South Africa, he heard I was saving up for a laptop, and so told me that he was going to pay for it. The only restriction was that it had to be a really good one, and one which I would be happy with.

Damn you and your kind heart Gramps!

In light of recent developments, I have decided to extrapolate a bit on Grandpa JoJo. Gramps was down for about 5 or 6 days. He had come a few days before Father’s Day and spent Father’s Day at a big family picnic we had with the other side of the family. The rest of the time here, he spends reading whatever material is in front of him. In the mornings, after taking an hour to eat one egg, a piece of toast, 5 and a half pills, and a cup of coffee with one sugar and half and half, he’ll read the paper. But when Gramps reads the paper, he reads the entire paper. Every headline, every tagline, every article, and I believe most of the advertisements that find their way into his line of vision. Cover to cover. It’s a daunting task, but he says he’s got nothing else to do.

Grandpa has been living on his own now for 21 years. My Grandma Edy died early in my life. I was just about 2 at the time, and she had died of ovarian cancer, on Mother’s Day 1986. Gramps always kept busy after that - mainly through travel. Grandma Edy was a social butterfly like no other, and a lot of that wore off on Grandpa in his later years. He would take trips anywhere, from Africa, to India, to Italy and Antartica. He would go with a travel group and meet people thru there, or he would go on his own and make the effort to befriend another adventurous spirit.

At 91 years old, you can imagine life gets pretty lonely. That’s why he comes down about once a month, and we go up to see him every so often. It’s tough because for him, there is no rush at ALL for ANYTHING. He doesn’t care if it takes 4 hours to complete dinner with other people. He doesn’t care if totty time goes from 5:00 to 7:30 and he’s still only on his second drink. He doesn’t like to be rushed, and you can tell that he’s soaking up everything around him. The way he delicately forms a forkful of food, combining tattered broccoli pieces with scattered onions, a small piece of meat and that little bit of gravy that has collected in one corner of the plate. It’s as if he knows exactly what flavour combination he wants to experience at the moment, or just the opposite, he thinks, “Now what other delights can I form with this generous palate in front of me?”.

Gramps loves the outdoors, and always has. This past week he sat outside on the swing in the backyard, tilted on his right side, and was just staring at the trees. He wanted nothing. He was content to let his eyes wander, and take in sights that he probably had seen many times before, but never grew tired of looking at.

Anything we ever needed as a family, Grandpa would not hesitate to do for us. Nothing is as important to him as his family. It’s obvious from the pictures we have watched together - always as slides, almost never as print. Why? “This way many people can view the pictures at once.” His slides show how much he valued family. Camping trips, boating and fishing, birthday parties, communions, graduations - all standard topics for family photos. But it’s in the way he posed everyone - waiting for the right smile, the right feel, the right time. It’s also in the way he organized his photos that shows how much he cherished these memories. Every photograph he’s taken since 1947 is organized by year in tidy rectangular boxes made for slides. These rectangular boxes are in larger boxes and each large box is accompanied by a black and white composition notebook that has a description of every single slide in the order they appear. It’s pretty incredible.

I’ll get to the point. I could probably write pages and pages if not a book on my Gramps. But I’ve been in a funk the last few days and you may be able to understand why if you do the math. Gramps = 91, Joey = South Africa 2+ years, Gramps - hearing - health - energy = unknown. I hadn’t thought about the drastic changes I will come back to after 2 years of service abroad. I can only hope upon hope that Gramps will still be ok until I come back, but I can only afford to be cautiously optimistic, and nothing more.

The best thing I can do for Grandpa JoJo is to update him frequently on what it is I’m doing, and to have him read not just the newspaper, but blog entries and emails that I send out. If he knows I’m doing what makes me happy, it gives him cause to smile. On top of it all, I will update him via the internet, the complexity of which and the ease of which information can be passed along absolutely boggles his mind.

I will be able to do this with ease when I arrive thanks to Gramps. After all, he was the one who bought me this laptop.

Cheers Gramps….

Toned Down and Reserved Lefty Musings

2007-06-07T18:36:00.001-04:00

A few years ago I found myself absolutely absorbed with politics, the 2004 election, the Iraq War, and anything related to these topics. It's no secret that I'm a bit of a lefty in my political beliefs, but I realized that how I defined myself politically came to be who I was to the outside world. Some people are proud of the fact that they are die hard Republicans or Democrats, and I can understand the feelings they have about their positions. But after John Kerry [somehow] lost the 2004 election, I shut down for a long while, and months later, emerged a bit wiser and more mature in how I handled and expressed my political beliefs.

I still believe I was right in voting for Kerry at the time, and given W's approval ratings currently, I'm sure many people wish they hadn't voted for W the second time around, or at least had someone else to choose from. Let's be honest, neither man was the BEST man to lead this country. But while W ranks among the lower primates in governing efficiently, honestly, truthfully and according to his party's principles, at least Kerry was among the people who ranked among humans.

And it's not that I don't like W because he's a Republican. It's because he's divisive, secretive, foolish, immature and acts like a 12 year old spoiled rich kid who always gets what he wants - which is probably exactly what he was like when he was 12. More than that it's because of this war. Our maybe more appropriately, his own personal vendetta.

If you still believe the war in Iraq was a good idea, I still respect you as a person, but please please please wake up. There is too much evidence out there that all points to the same conclusion - that war was not inevitable, it could have been avoided, and there was no legitimate reason to go to war besides the fact that W and his neo-con buddies had an agenda. Even if you supported his actions going to war, virtually no one believes the way the war was handled is something to brag about.

Ok, enough lefty musings.

Two of my cousins, Corporal Matthew Currao - 3rd Battalion 5th Marines Weapons Company, and Lance Corporal Thomas Niemczyk - 3rd Battalion 3rd Marines India Company Weapons Platoon, are serving with the Marines, and another cousin of mine, Private Daniel O'Connor - 184 Military Intelligence Co. is serving in the Army. All of them signed up after the war had been going on, but all joined for different reasons.

Matt and Tommy have both completed one tour of duty in Iraq, and both are scheduled to go back in July. Just about the same time I am heading out for Africa. Matt is now a Vehicle Commander - meaning he will be in charge of all the men in his Humvee when they go out on patrol, diffusing IED's by day and nite. Tommy is a Mortarman - shooting off rockets from wherever he is, and lugging around 150 lbs of heavy machinery wherever he goes. Danny has not been to Iraq yet, but will most likely be scheduled to leave early next year, unless we start phasing down the US presence there.

The war is more than just a concept to me and my family, and this is as it should be. War should never be thought of as a concept. It should always be grounded in reality. Though there are thousands of our brothers and sisters serving in the military throughout the world, we are not all invested in war equally. Some of us will feel the loss if our brothers and sisters don't come back, some can only sympathize, but the tragedy in all of this is that some of us will not lose a wink of sleep over it. I don't want you to think that I believe everyone should have a family member involved in the war. Quite the opposite. I believe that NO ONE should have a family member involved in this war.

Tommy and Matt both do not mind being asked to go back to Iraq and serve their 8 months tours of duty. I'm sure they would go back as many times as they were asked if it came down to that. But that doesn't mean that we should ask them and every other member of the military to do so. Not in this war. Not with this "leadership".

War is viewed primarily as a national security issue, and not as a moral issue. War should always be viewed as a moral issue. One source says there have been over half a million Iraqi civilian deaths, and another, less than 100,000. You could probably find any number you wanted. The tragedy is three fold here.

1- The death toll may actually be over 650,00 civilians
2- No one cared enough to keep an accurate account of how many Iraqi civilians have been killed
3- When civilans are killed by US military operations they are not labeled as "innocent civilians killed" but rather they are labeled as "collateral damage".

This is a moral issue. It is a much more important and pressing moral issue than gay marriage. The difference being real people both American and non-American being killed everyday versus two people getting married and making homophobic people extremely uncomfortable, but otherwise, not causing any deaths that I know of.

I apologize for this being a political entry. There won't be too many of these. Sometimes there's too much going on to not say anything, and this is as good a forum (both private and public) that I have at the moment to say what's on my mind and not have to worry about being very centrist in my comments.

I didn't anticipate going down this road when I started this either. My next entry will more appropriately address what I was intending to get at. But at least this served as a starting block for you to understand how I feel (to a limited extent) about some issues.

That's all for now.

Countdowns and the What's Next

2007-06-05T22:18:00.000-04:00

I don't do countdowns anymore. I haven't really payed much attention to countdowns since the last day of classes in high school. Y'see, there's always supposed to be this big hurrah about "Senior Countdown" where all the seniors who are still eligible by that point in high school (usually only about half the honors kids) get together in the cafeteria for 9th period the last day of class and share in some tasteless cake, snack foods, and some red coloured beverage, and we all count down the seconds until the clock struck 2:57 pm the last time for us in that memorable yet soon forgettable place. My senior countdown did not involve myself or my good friends because by that point in time, we had had enough of high school rules and BS, and decided to skip out on some of our less enjoyable classes the last few weeks. So we were told we would be given the ever dreaded "cut" on our attendance record and if we had... I don't know, I guess 4 or 5 cuts, we would be ineligible for Senior Countdown.

Oh the horror. So instead, the high school Commons was buzzing with about 92% of the 12th grade class and those few weird kids form lower grades who thought they were just as cool as the seniors because they had friends who were there. (Newsflash to those kids - seniors aren't really all that cool, and so you hanging out with them on their moment to shine doesn't really make you all that awesome either.) The 92% of us were floating around and jibberjabbering and had our own senior countdown in plain sight of all the school authorities who would soon mean nothing to us. We felt pretty awesome at life by that point and as we said aloud "3...2...1" and then whooped and hollered I realized that I felt absolutely no different than I did just 5 seconds beforehand. I knew for the entire school year that this was the last bit of high school for me, and it was cemented in my head long beforehand with college applications and my acceptance into the school I would eventually choose to attend, the University of Delaware. So this whole Senior Countdown ordeal really had no effect on me.

Someone the other day asked me how many days until I leave for South Africa. I have no idea. I could count them, buuuutttt that wouldn't do me any good. I know I have approximately 6 weeks until I depart. Again, I could do the math and figure it out but I see no reason to. There's way too much to be concerned with at present.

I have been collecting thoughts of what I would like to bring. Certain books, pictures, memory items, electronics (if they're even usable), widgets, gidgets and gadgets, outdoor gear, clothes etc. But that's just about as far as I have gotten. Collecting thoughts. I haven't taken any definite steps towards packing because I know that when it comes down to it, it will all get done. There was a great Calvin and Hobbes cartoon that alluded to having to be in the right mindset to get something accomplished, whether it's a homework assignment, creative project, or packing up to live in a foreign country for the next 2 years of your life. You can enjoy the comic here.

So what am I doing with my time until then? The most important thing to me is tying up loose ends here. I want to see as many of my friends as I can at least once more before I ship out. For some, I've said my "See you later"s already. (We don't say good-bye, only See You Later). Mentally it's tough to grasp the concept that your friends who you've lived close to your entire life are now all of a sudden in the span of one or two years living all over the country and all over the world, and realistically, things will never go back to the way they were just a short while ago. Wow, that was hard to write. Things won't go back to how they were, and things won't be the same as your fondest memories and most wishful thinking would have you hope for. I've struggled with this for a long while - we all do, especially right after college. But I realized (with the help of a very good friend or six) that that's kind of what we should want.

Undoubtedly, if you have amazing memories of your life experiences with your friends at a certain point in your life, you would love to go back and relive those experiences. That sounds great, but looking at it from a larger perspective, it seems that to do such a thing means that that is where our friendships and fun have peaked, and if we live in that mindset, we block out opportunities to outdo ourselves.

College was beyond words amazing for me. It took me a while to realize such a thing, but it absolutely was. For most people this is the case. But I finally let go of the firm grasp I had on wanting to go back to college as it was and started getting into the mindset that "I can do more, and there is so much more out there for me".

There are better things than college waiting for me, and of course for whoever you are as well. To peak at college would be a tragedy. No one wants to end up like the "Trip McNeely" types - high school star athletes whose time came and went before they could legally buy beer to celebrate.

The next step is huge. Beyond that, the possibilities are seemingly endless.

But no more countdowns to the next stage. I'll just take it as it comes.

My front lawn

2007-05-29T18:36:00.000-04:00

I just had a vision... or maybe it would be more appropriately titled a flashback, to hen I was around 6 or 7 years old, and my Dad's English friend Nick Lawson had come to visit us here in the states. Dad took Nick, myself and my cousin Brian to a Planetarium somewhere and it was absolutely fascinating. When we left the planetarium, the sun was about setting, and we stopped at a large water fountain which was spurting water up and was located beneath big oak and maple trees, whose green leaves were illuminated a light yellow color as the sun filtered through them. I am no where near a planetarium right now, nor am I accompanied by my cousin, father or an Englishman named Nick.

I was just wallowing on the front lawn of my house with my dog Hobbes. The sun is reaching it's golden hour, the air is slightly warm and still, and perfect long shadows are being cast along the newly fertilized and therefore exceptionally vibrant green and comfortable lawn. You see, it was damn near perfection. For some reason it made me think about that trip to the planetarium, though the two experiences have very little in common. More importantly, I realized that I couldn't shake this overwhelming feeling of boredom. The whole day (well, actually, the past many months fall into this category as well for the most part) has gone by where seemingly nothing has happened, yet somehow it's a quarter to seven and I face the prospect of a repeat of this experience tomorrow. Part of it is that not too many folks are home on Long Island to spend the days with. We're mostly nite folk out here it seems. It seems no one wants to do much during the day, especially if it involves doing nothing. But please correct me if I'm wrong.

My dad just gave me a cucumber to eat. I'm pretty sure it's one of my most favourite foods in the world. It can be eaten plain, pickled (which means it has then become a pickle), or one of my personal favourite ways, in a cucumber salad with some shredded onions and white vinegar. Cucumbers remind me of summer in all its forms. So does picking blueberries and raspberries, eating snow peas from the vine, giant sunflowers, mesh shorts, the taste of tap water from my kitchen sink, the smell of campfires and dried pine needles, Calvin and Hobbes, climbing trees, low tide, high tide, saltwater and exhaust from boat engines, just to name a few. Point is, it's summer. If you're not happy about that fact it can only mean one of two things:

#1- You have no soul

#2- You have a job that requires you to work during these, the most precious and beautiful few months of the year. Excluding the week and a half in autumn when all the trees change colour.

In other news, I've been meeting a lot of folks online who are heading over to South Africa with me in July, and we've all been in contact with people who are currently volunteering in SA, and they have been giving us many helpful hints as far as what to bring, what to expect, what the weather is like etc. I'm sure I'll write something more detailed about all this in a future post.

For now, my overwhelming boredom has subsided because at least I got something accomplished, which is writing an entry in this blog-thing here.

Of course, this would have been infinitely better if I could have written all of this on my front lawn.

The Attic Fan

2007-05-27T00:54:00.000-04:00

It's humid outside. Humid to the point of me wanting to take off all my clothes and lay perfectly still in an armchair of my choosing... not a leather one though. Of course, most of my summers are spent with me wearing as few clothes as possible, which is nothing unusual for those who have known me for any warm part of the year. But that's not the point.

A quick note I just wanted to write down which amused me is the following:

Last nite around 4 am my mother came into my room, stood by the side of my bed and with her eyes still mostly closed she said in a very delirious tone,

"Joey.... Joey..."

"What?" I responded.

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm turning on the attic fan - I didn't want it to wake you up."

I'll let that sink in for a second.....

You may be wondering - was he dreaming this? Well, that's exactly what I was wondering. But sure enough, I confronted my mother about this encounter today, and she got a kick out of it, because she does remember it happening, and I think only after I confronted her about it, did she realize the silliness of the entire situation. Then again, it took me about that long to process it as well. We make a good team.

I recently got sponge balls from a magic shop and they are my new favourite things in the world. They are green. I should probably get some more.

My eyes are tired. It's time to hit "the sack" as they say.

Oh, actually, before I go, if anyone is reading this, have you seen the movie "Waterworld" with Kevin Costner? It was on Bravo last nite and I only saw a little of it, and I don't remember if it was really really awesome, or really really terrible. Can anyone refresh my memory?

Goodnire.

...Means "Goodnite" if you can't say your T's.

Sorry, lost my train of thought towards the end of this entry.

2007-05-23T23:28:00.000-04:00

It's 11:30 pm, and to be perfectly frank, I'm very tired. I'm at the tipping point where if you layed me down on any horizontal surface, I would fall asleep instantly, but because I am still sitting upright, I don't want to go to bed yet. If this entry doesn't go anywhere, you now know the reason why.

The last entry I wrote in here was about babies. It mentioned that I had obtained a job taking pictures of babies in their homes, with overzealous mothers, and more often than not, a language barrier that I couldn't cross because I don't know any Spanish, and it seemed that certain mothers never bothered to learn English. So what happened was I stopped working. It had nothing to do with language barriers or overzealous moms. It had to do with the fact that I was driving anywhere from 55 to 100 miles per day, in rush hour traffic, amongst asshole Long Island/NY drivers, in the middle of beautiful Spring days, only to have to try to get 2 month old babies to stop crying for an instant to snap a picture of them at their most clueless... excluding their high school years of course.

I had to fill up my gas tank in my Explorer twice in 5 days while working this job, and when a fill up costs over $50, suddenly $400 a week doesn't seem like it's worth it. Especially not when I was technically working from 8 am till 7 pm or later because of traffic. I would LOVE it if someone could explain to me why traffic exists at all hours of the day on all major roads on Long Island whether it's rush hour in or out of the city. And I would also LOVE it if someone could explain to me why people insist on blasting their car horns when sitting in traffic, as if it does ANYTHING to help alleviate the situation. Flounder often preaches that those people believe by beeping their horns in such a fashion, a magical rainbow bridge appears and they can drive over everyone else's car and be whisked away to any location of their choosing.

The real reason I quit this job though was because I realized that I'll be leaving the country to go into the Peace Corps on July 16, and there was no way in hell I was going to spend the better part of my last spring home driving around Long Island all day, taking pictures of babies. There's wayyy too much to get done. It actually blows my mind. I shan't bore you with all the things I have to do before I leave, but you can begin to imagine some of the things that have been going thru my mind lately.

#1 - How the hell do you pack for 2 years? I haven't a clue. 2 pairs of jeans, 5 t-shirts, khakis, shirt and tie, sneakers sandals a sweater and raincoat. Seems pretty basic. I will take much more than that. I can live as a minimalist. Mentally I am capable of it, but the thing is, I never found it all that much fun to be a minimalist. There's way too many awesome things to take on an adventure abroad. Like a pocket knife and compass! Playing cards! Headlamp! Backpack and tent! Crazy hats! Sponge balls! To name a few. But I'm not worried about packing at this point.

#2 - How do you say goodbye to everyone for 2 years? Study abroad trips are great. You have your month or 4 abroad (if it's a semester abroad), you take classes, see the sites, get drunk at your favourite bar, put pictures up on facebook, title the album "Crazy times in London with some Crazy People" but really mean "It was so great to not be at my college for the past 4 weeks and get drunk in a different country and talk to the young foreigners who speak with accents and hang out with all these kids who I won't be as close with once we get back stateside" and while some will revel in all of this and some will get homesick, everyone knows they're coming back at the latest in a couple of months.

I never thought that going away for two years would bother me. An truth be told, it's not the length of time away that bothers me. It's the fact that so many relationships here have to be suspended temporarily and put on hold, and when my 2 years is up and I do get back, everyone knows that everything will be different. How could it not be? Change such as this is meant to be good and of course it's all part of growing up and getting past college. We go thru the same process in high school. By sophomore year of college, nothing in high school seems like it was ever really all that important. I've willingly taken this next step, knowing full well that this was something I would have to face, and I'm ready to face it, but it doesn't change the fact that there is a certain "this sucks" factor to it. But shite - things could be a lot worse. I might not have any arms or legs, and W might be up for a third term. Luckily these worse scenarios are not the case.

I know I only numbered 2 things that were going thru my mind, but I don't feel like numbering any more ideas, so I'm just going to keep writing till I get tired.

A lot of people have said such nice things when they heard I was joining the Peace Corps. A lot of people want to know why I decided to do it, what got me interested in it - they ask what do I think I will do when my 2 years are up, they ask this, they ask that, and I always answer them the best I can, as truthfully as I can, unless I know that they really don't care all that much. It's easy to tell when someone is genuinely interested in what you have to say, or whether they're just being polite and aren't really on the same page as you. When I come across this second group of people, I find it easier just to tell them what they want to hear, in short sound bytes and then we both move on.

I've just lost my train of thought. That's ok. I think the train left the station a long time ago. I'm tempted to delete everything I just wrote tonite, but I won't.

For posterity.

G'ahead.

Babies... Monkeys? Raisins? Or just plain ugly?

2007-05-03T20:25:00.000-04:00

Of course, the title of this entry is silly. Babies don't look like monkeys or raisins or are just plain ugly. Truth is you can't choose one from the list. In reality, they are a combination of all three at once. I know it sounds a little harsh to hear that said... or in this case, see that typed. But I have to hold my ground here. For those who say babies are absolutely adorable, they are right - but only so far as monkeys are adorable, giant raisins that can move are adorable, and that this thing is adorable. Whatever that thing was supposed to turn out to be in life, it doesn't matter, because it does have a certain cute-factor to it.

But back to babies.

Some of us have been around newborn babies recently. Some of us haven't seen a newborn baby in real life probably in many years. Like when our younger brothers or sisters were born. And for most of anyone who decides to read this, that's probably 16 - 20 years ago. For those of us who have seen newborn babies recently, and have seen them grow to be about 3 or 4 months old, I'm sure you can understand my point if you take a purely objective point of view towards the little rascal. Look at how the fat on their arms and legs forms rolls all up and down their appendages. It looks like the Michelin Man. But the Michelin Man is cute, right? Right. He's cute because technically he's a cartoon, brought to life just like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were in their movies in the early 1990s. He's not real. If you saw a life size non-baby person with rolls like that up and down their body, you would be somewhat repulsed, no? Think carefully before you answer... The first thing that pops into my head here is not "cute".

We must be hardwired to find baby fat and monkey like appearance to be cute. Now, I briefly looked for an example of babies looking like monkeys from the plethora of images on the information super highway. I couldn't find one that adequately showed the comparison. I did see some pictures earlier today though. I just took a job doing in home photography for a photo company out here. We take pictures of kids aged 4 months to 6 years. Sometimes with the mama, sometimes without. We travel to their homes, set up everything, take the photos, and go on to the next assignment. Now, despite my notions that newborns up to about a year old share these oddly charming yet ultimately ugly characteristics, I found these giant moving raisins to have an overwhelming warming effect over my innards. They were terribly, terribly cute. And I was really happy I was able to take pictures of them at this, the most awkward looking period of their life, second to none, not even 7th grade.

But again. The monkey like quality in humans diminishes in cuteness as the monkey looking thing gets older, as I'm sure many of us have seen at some point on the web. For those of us that haven't seen examples, here's a cheap shot example, but very well illustrated nevertheless...

Truth is, I love babies up until about 3 years old when they start catching on that their cuteness still lets them get away with things they shouldn't. Then I don't like them until they are 24 and have a job. I'm just kidding. They should be closer to 30.

My baby cousin Sean just turned 1 year old in April, and it's been awesome to see him grow to this point. When he was only a few months old, I would take many pictures of him at family gatherings, or just when I went over to visit, and he reminded me of cartoon characters because of all the shapes he could contort his face into. I think he most resembled Popeye. See picture for reference.

I think I've gone on long enough about babies. Originally I was going to write about something more serious, about something I had heard on the news today that pissed me off a good bit at first, but I mulled it over in my head, and decided to instead just laugh to myself, debate myself about the issue, then forget the details I had just committed to memory to make room for something more uplifting.

Like babies.

Gramps. Wine, and Hobbes

2007-04-23T18:48:00.000-04:00

In the year 2075 I will be as old as my Grandpa JoJo is right now. For those of you doing the math and know what year I was born (1984) that would make me 91 years old. I consider myself and my dad's side of the family extremely fortunate because even at 91 years old, my Gramps is still pretty sharp mentally. He hasn't gone off the deep end with dementia, or forgetfulness, or daydreaming he's somewhere else. He hasn't gotten tired of life yet, which to me is pretty astounding for someone 91 years old. Gramps is slowing down in other ways - can't walk in a straight line, moves slowly in all aspects, has trouble getting up from the couch... well, except when it's 5:00 and someone calls out "Manhattans are up!". He springs up like he was ejected from an F-14 that had just been hit by ze Germans.

I guess overall, he's still doing pretty ok. He's down to stay with us for a couple of days now. He'll spend most of the mornings here taking an hour and a half to eat 2 pancakes and drink 2 cups of coffee. When he's done he'll pick up the paper, (Newsday, in our house) and read every single article in it, whether interesting or not. He'll then read some of the comics and turn to the crossword and start the puzzle but will realize that in the time it took him to switch from the main paper to the comic section, he put his glasses away somewhere and cannot read the infinitesimally small print that they make you read to do the crossword. I'll locate his glasses then sit with him while we do the crossword, all the while astounded that he will never believe that I read him the clue accurately.
"17 across... Poet Whitman" I'll say.

"Huh? Where are you looking?"

"17 across Gramps."

"17... What's it say?"

"Poet Whitman."

"Where is it?"

At which point I'll point to the 17 across clue and he'll crane over the paper, squint his eyes and say aloud, "Poet Whitman...."

He'll look to the puzzle and finish, "Walt. Yea. It's gotta be Walt."

It's a long and tedious process, but I actually get a kick out of it, tallying how many times we have this conversation.

Gramps is terribly slow when it comes to eating meals. It truly is incredible. Hell, he's got nothing to rush for, so he really really reaaallllly takes his time. In real time, if we sat down at the dinner table together and both started eating at the same time, I could finish my meal, have seconds, unbutton my pants button, digest, get a piece of cake, make tea, eat the cake while my tea cools down to drinking temperature, drink my tea, take the dog around the block, write an email, have a bowl of ice cream, play a round of darts, take a nap and come back to the table only to find that Gramps still has half a piece of pork and some vegetables left to eat. I'm exaggerating of course. He'd probably have finished the pork.

After dinner he'd still have his glass of wine half full (I'm an optimist you see) and I'd come downstairs and whip out my camera and take some photos and then show him some of my newest card magic tricks. Gramps gets a kick out of the tricks, and I like performing for him because even when I fumble cards or do something completely wrong, I can usually recover before he catches me. It's good practice for me, and he's always astounded and laughs when the trick comes to a conclusion. He's the perfect audience. Gramps usually has a good grasp of how the trick is done, even if he can't explain the execution of it all. And because he's 91 years old, I allow myself to break the cardinal rule of magic and I explain everything to him. He usually forgets how it's done the next time I do it for him anyway.

In pop culture news, "Heroes" returns tonite and everyone in my house is excited about it. If you don't watch the show, or don't love the show, I forgive you, but secretly, you're a loser.

In dog news, Hobbes got a new bone yesterday and he chewed off the end of it last nite, then left it right next to me bed so I actually fell to the ground and nearly sliced my foot open when I woke up this morning. But then when I came downstairs, he got up and came over to me with his tail wagging so much that his whole butt shook him off balance, and he smiled at me and gave me a nice big kiss, so all was forgotten.... He does this often, so I know it's just part of his mischief, but I can't help but fall for it every time. It's so very endearing.

In weather news, it was hot today, windy at the beach, and tomorrow looks like Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.

Hooray for post number two.

Love,
Joey

(and Grandpa JoJo)

What is a blog?

2007-04-20T19:11:00.000-04:00

I haven't the slightest idea, to be honest. However, a number of people have approached me, asking if I was going to set one up before I blast off for my 2 year stint over in Africa.

This "blog" is an attempt at keeping those of you who actually read blogs informed about some of what will be going on in my life for the next 2 years. How long it will last is anyone's guess.

To catch anyone/everyone up, starting July 16, 2007, I will be heading off for South Africa for 27 months to start my training to be a Peace Corps Volunteer. One of the biggest reasons I decided to apply for the Peace Corps can be seen in the picture nearby.

Really, that's all I have to say about that right now. I'm going to be experimenting with how this "blog" works.

I actually very strongly dislike the word "blog". It just sounds pretentious.

Anyway.

See a.

-Joey