Xenophobia over Xola's Story

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.