Learning to Chill

OR The "This is Africa" Concept Part II: Learning to "Chill"

Part I: The Kids
A few weeks ago, right after my last blog entry, it was requested that I write a bit about the kids I'm working with once a week. I've been trying to think of a coherent way to do this, as our sessions there are only once a week and feel as scattered as anything else in this country. TIA, right? Well, when it comes to the kids in the ISOS Kayamandi after school program (run by the International Student Organization), TIA to the max. Most stereotypes--okay, so they don't have flies in their eyes and I haven't spotted a rib yet, but many stereotypes--about African poverty is fleshed out in the black township (the pc term is an "informal settlement", I believe) of Kayamandi. Kayamandi literally (and ironically) means "nice home"--from the Xhosa "khaya" (home) and "mnandi" (nice). It's a fairly small settlement (as far as townships go) of about 30,000 black South Africans who live on the hill above Stellenbosch, across a bridge and on your way towards Cape Town. Kayamandi is curiously developed, in fact, since about half of the homes there were built in the 40's (and they *are* actual homes) and about half are nothing more than cardboard-and-corrugated tin boxes that may or may not last the next rainstorm. There are also sections of Kayamandi devoted to mass communal living--boarding "houses" originally built to house miners who migrated during apartheid to find work, leaving their families behind. Since the abolition of the pass laws that forbid women and children to join their husbands in such places, buildings that used to house 100-200 miners now house the miners AND their families. A bed two grown men used to share uncomfortably now is used for an entire family. A few toilets are shared by an entire building full of these families. The chief problem with these former boarding houses (really, long shelters with rooms off either side and one pitiful kitchen at the end) was that they were built during the height of mining--and haven't been updated or touched by the government (other than the addition of electricity, in the bare minimum). These are the homes the kids I work with live in--it's impossible to talk about them without describing their circumstances.

We work every Tuesday, Wednesday & Thursday (I work Thurs.) at the iKhaya Primary School with four classrooms of 6th and 7th graders (two of each). The 6th graders were added to the program this year because of the overwhelming turn-out of international students who applied to volunteer. Since the 7th graders have the more established program, their daily activities vary by week--these last two weeks they've been talking about/writing poetry and performing it in a slam style. The 6th graders, with whom I work, work on maths or other homework. Both groups receive a snack (if it's available--usually just half a slice of bread with peanut butter or a small apple) and then participate in a game outside, weather permitting. They love playing kickball (which we taught them last week) and foursquare (which was taught to them last term by the other group). They've taught us some of their games, too: they have crazy hand slapping games that all have songs (although, when we asked them to teach us the songs we found that they didn't even know all the right words) and the girls adore playing handball (while the boys prefer soccer). It's a pretty easy program, really. Fairly simple. Help the kid to maths and practice his/her English. We have almost a one-on-one ratio in my classroom, which is exciting.
And then there are the little details that make it frustrating, the moments when I have to remind myself to relax. We volunteers appear at the International Office at 13:30 every Thursday afternoon, not knowing what we're doing that day with the kids or how we're going to get to the school (sometimes we take multiple trips in a 10-11 seat Kombi van, sometimes the 30+ of us cram into 1 Kombi and a smaller car). When we get to the school, the iKhaya kids are usually not out of school yet--half the kids in our program have to walk 1/2 a mile from their school uphill to get to the program, so we still have to wait for them to arrive. In the meantime, the classroom we will occupy for homework help is completely trashed and usually full of milling kids.

Now, it's a given that kids are messy; I've worked with them long enough to know that and accept it. But I have yet to figure out how one classroom of kids so completely destroys a room like the iKhaya kids. The room is in disarray even when it is clean, which doesn't help. There's a permanent stack of random teacher's books and posters in one corner, broken desks and chairs in two others. Behind the door is the temporary garbage pile from the day, usually about 1/10 the size of the final pile that gets scraped together. The room itself is filled with bigger metal desk frames laid across with wooden boards, smaller individual desks, and various chairs of all sorts of materials and states of disrepair. The wooden slabs that make "tables" are mostly broken into 6-8 in. wide strips and, as they are not bolted to the metal frames, usually are on the floor by the time we arrive. The first task (which is the kids', not ours, although we try to help a bit) is to stack all the chairs so the floor is clear for sweeping. Then they sweep, taking turns by some undefined system and chattering to each other in Xhosa. Sometimes the boys look sullen and throw the broom at the girls and a small fight ensues, but it's usually resolved without our help and the room slowly gets clean. There's no way to describe the mess of papers, posters and just DIRT on the floor. The posters on the wall change daily because they're continually ripped off and end up on the floor. Last Thursday we threw away the multiplication tables that were on the wall the weeks before. The kids seem unbothered by the mess; they just go about their business cleaning it up as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Finally, all the trash is swept out the door into a giant black trash bag which someone lugs from room to room down the corridor outside, and it's gone. We then set up chairs and desks and within a few minutes the room is (finally) full of quietly working kids. The day is pretty smooth from there. Their English is relatively good, considering most of them have only been speaking it for a couple years. Like any kids their age, some of them have attitudes the size of the mountains that surround our town. But they're good kids, for the most part. They have a very strange system of multiplying and dividing by drawing lines on scratch paper that comes from a lack of understanding (I think), but they get the right answers. They love tricking us in Hangman when their homework is done. They're very tiring, but they're crazy, and they love to laugh.

Part II: Trippin'

The last few weeks have been full of trips, spontaneous and planned, to Cape Town, Cape Point and Simon's Town, home of the Boulders Beach Penguin Colony. Two weeks ago I had my first real clubbing experience, and spent a couple nights out dancing with some friends until the wee hours of the morning, first in Stellenbosch and the next night in Cape Town. Dancing in clubs/bars is refreshingly un-American--people seem to care very little what they look like, and the hours fly by singing along to bad 80's dance-techno (think Bob Sinclair) and 90's favorites (from Sublime to Nirvana to the Beastie Boys) that were popular when I was in Junior High-mostly American, which is unfortunate, but not particularly current. Travel to Cape Town (except for an evening out where we were transported by the International Student Organization) is an adventure in itself--it requires riding the train from Stellenbosch, a trip most white South Africans would NEVER take. We receive surprised looks on both ends of the line when we ask for regular tickets and not first class, and always have a police officer or security official asking if we're alright in the train station at Cape Town (just to be sure we're not lost). Having spent so much time riding Tacoma's public transport system, it doesn't bother me much either way. I wouldn't go alone and I wouldn't go after dark, and I don't flaunt my money--no iPod, no phone, keep the camera away. But other than that, what is there to do? We have yet to have any problems and we've ridden both directions twice. We can't stay stuck in Stellenbosch, nor do we have the money to rent cars or hire a taxi. My friends, despite their verbal acceptance of our chosen method of transportation, still freak out a little every time we board the train. Hearing stories has got to have an effect on a person, I guess.

Last weekend I and two other girls from my program (Katie and Robin) practiced our go-with-the-flow attitudes by spontaneously hopping on the train Friday afternoon to go to Cape Town. We had called when we decided to go, Friday morning, and made reservations at the Cat and Moose Backpackers on Long Street, one of the restaurant and nightlife hubs of Cape Town. Two hours after making reservations, we were in the train station, ready to go. It was, altogether, 24 hours of relaxing, good food, and wandering around a beautiful city with much to explore. Like any backpacking place, Cat and Moose was small but somewhat sprawling, eclectic and full of the go-with-the-flow vibe. South African reggae-ish music full of drums and marimbas played in the background as we were let through the locked gate. Backpacking places (hostels in other countries) in South Africa radiate chill-a word not foreign to me before coming here but one which is used frequently among both Americans describing South Africans and South Africans about everything else. If registration doesn't work out, just "chill". If we don't get that transportation to Kayamandi until a half hour later, just "chill" (conversely, if there is only one method of transportation and that means 30 of us have to cram into one vehicle, just "chill"). If your driver on that excursion makes your stomach churn more with his driving technique than the last time you rode the Gravitron at the fair, just "chill". The key is that the method doesn't matter: if the outcome is important, it will happen. You will survive. 30+ people in one car means no one is going anywhere even though the driver maneuvers like a bat out of hell (on crack). TIA, folks. The crazy, spontaneous, safari-going, ostrich-riding, cheetah touching Africa that emanates practiced calm in the face of ridiculous amounts of stress and such glorious statistics as the highest rape rate in the world and one of the highest crime rates.

Before I came to Africa, I was slightly nervous about the fact that the majority of our group of Americans are from the East Coast. As my brother reminded me, it’s good to mix it up and meet new people. But the simple fact is, the west coast of America has a specific kind of vibe that the east coast does not—a hippie, majority liberal, organic food eating, Birkenstock wearing, coffee gulping kind of nature that doesn’t seem to contrast well with the hurried nature of the American city. Seattle and Portland and everything in between have a particular reputation, deserved or not, for this nature. Maybe it’s a movement that turned into a label people felt they needed to become in order to fit in; maybe the lack of sun in the west has damaged our brains. Maybe it’s the mountains or the trees so close to the I-5 corridor. Maybe it’s just a student movement that thrives in the 20-somethings and dies with entrance to the “real” world. Whatever it is, it’s there. It’s that nature that produced our amazing music scene. It’s that nature that produced the coffeehouse eclecticism for which Seattle is so famous. This nature, I would venture, is America’s version of African “chill”—a nature which approximates but which in some ways cannot come close to the raw naturalism of Africa. Our chill doesn’t involve life-threatening animals and desert safaris—we have a spoiled yuppy kind of chill involving caramel macchiatos and locally grown, farm-share veggies. I never saw myself as fitting into this scene very much until this trip, but it’s now hard to avoid: I drink 99% more coffee than the girls with whom I spend time; I ride the train to Cape Town without freaking out. I hate shoes and would rather go barefoot anywhere; my idea of a relaxing evening may involve a movie and pj’s, but it just as likely might involve smoking hookah and listening to music. One of the things I miss most about my room is the ability to burn incense and candles. This isn’t to say that East Coast-ers as a whole dislike these things. I know some very relaxed folks who don’t do any of those things. But as a whole, it’s interesting to see the differences between east and west coast, between this African “chill” and my own place in Washington.

The content of our weekend is actually fairly unimportant in this discussion. We had fun; we wandered around the city, went out to a nice dinner, went to a Kurdish restaurant for dessert and saw a belly dancer there. We went to the South African Museum and Planetarium (which was *amazing*, actually). We met up with some friends and rode home to Stellenbosch. It was a good weekend, overall. All of them have been lately.

Little brag about seeing the penguins. They're not particularly cute, but they're PENGUINS. Hundreds of them, in BUSHES. Which is weird, but that is where they orginate. We saw a lot of babies just shedding their gray baby fuzz. The beach was beautiful, and we had a nice sunny day for our trip. At one point during the day (up at Cape Point) some members of our group had an altercation with some baboons, which ended in lots of pictures and a frantic park ranger. The girls and I went on a hike down to the Cape of Good Hope and met some baboons on our way back to the parking lot, but they walked by us without a problem and the only one that even looked at us was a baby less than a foot tall.

This was a bit longer than planned; sorry! There's so much more I wish I could say, but there simply isn't time. I hope the end of summer finds you all well!

Food, tree-killing and trains

Seven of us Stellenbosch students--6 AIFS and 1 South African--are sitting around the dinner table. My roommate and I have borrowed our neighbor's table to enlarge our own and across the brown-and-red patterned cloth covering both tables is spread the remains of the stir-fry dinner we've just shared between us. We're conversing easily, bantering such light subjects as the African National Congress(SA's ruling gov't party since 1994) president's denial of the fact that HIV leads to AIDS and whether or not men should be allowed to (let alone be responsible to) look after their children in order to let their wives work. Peter, our saucy and often pessimistic neighbor from upstairs, leads the opposition on any newly broached topic. As the only South African in the crowd and a veteran of the changing American students in his building (AIFS consistently uses the same rooms for students, semester after semester) he enjoys playing devil's advocate and testing the waters of conversation. Despite the gentle arguments that ensue in his presence, however, he has proved the most friendly of our block-mates, and the most willing by far to give us advice about everything and anything South African: where to go out(and where NOT to go out, under any circumstances), where to get the best deals on a Tuesday night without getting mugged, what the general view of the current economic situation is (at least, among the sons of white Afrikaans farmers, that is), how hard white South African engineers have it, whether or not Cape Town is going to be ready for the 2010 Soccer World Cup, and, most importantly, where we can possibly find tortilla chips in this backwards little town.

To say the least, our conversations with Peter are both entertaining and enlightening. :-)

Dinner has become a weekly ritual, trading locations in the block every Thursday. This week was Andrea's and my turn--next week we move to the first-floor apartment of our AIFS compatriots Frances and Jace. Last week we dined next door to my apartment on the second floor, sharing the home of Katie and Karen, also here with AIFS.

Food, in our short month here, has been transformed from a treat to a bane to a necessarily communal experience. After two weeks of alternately eating yoghurt with granola and PB&J, the four of us second floor girls (Karen, Katie, Andrea and I) gathered together in search of something more....substantial. Lo and behold, in a dinner party we found the excuse to make such delicacies as chicken tacos (of a sort) and sweet-and-sour chicken stir-fry over rice, balancing this fine cuisine with some of the new wines we were introduced to at the recent Stellenbosch Wine Festival. All four of us girls (the boys conceded to liking it as well) have become partial to a sweet sparkling rose wine made by the House of JC Le Roux, which not only tastes amazing but makes us feel sophisticated as well....and it's only about $4 a bottle! Good deal all around.

People aside, the thing I miss most being here is access to a full kitchen. In order to save our money for adventures later in the semester, it's imperative that we buy our own food and cook at home. But it's simply not practical to purchase all the spices and baking supplies I'm used to having at hand to use for cooking. Simplicity is the name of the game, when it comes to food. Peppered chicken breasts, potatoes, and feta cheese have become staples, along with the aforementioned yoghurt with granola and, of course, peanut butter and jelly. Last week (yes, it took me three weeks) I gave in to a craving and rediscovered how absolutely amazing green salad is. Somehow it had slipped my mind all this time, though I don't quite know how (I doubt I will forget again, at least not this trip). Nothing very exciting in our diet, to be sure. The only real "South African" food we've had was purchased or prepared on our prepaid AIFS excursions. Hopefully we'll be introduced to some more authentic South African foods or meals before too long.

While I've not been eating (which has been a majority of the time, incidentally) I've dutifully attended classes and read boatloads. I've printed enough articles and stories between my three English classes to re-compose at least one small tree, which is slightly frustrating as one, who, on the whole, appreciates trees in tree-form. My homework this weekend is to read the original fairy tale Bluebeard (written down by Charles Perrault) and two re-visioned versions of it (Margaret Atwood's "Bluebeard's Egg" and Angela Carter's "The Bloody Chamber"). Interesting tales, at least, if I have to kill trees to read them.

Saturday a group of us spent the day in Cape Town--riding the train to and from and visiting the Castle of Good Hope (a former military fort and the oldest building in South Africa) and a museum known as the Slave Lodge (so-called because the museum is housed in the building where the cape slaves, chiefly imported from other African countries, were kept during the colonization of the province). It was a sunny, relaxing and informative day, and we all found it freeing to be exploring at our own pace and not following the watch of an impatient tho' well-meaning tour guide.

I sign off, happier (and warmer!) than I've been yet. I hope this blog finds you the same!!
Sala kakuhle!