BDTJF: Part 2 - No Lettuce

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

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...

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

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

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.