Looking Back

Distance and time offer a unique perspective into an event. With them, what may not have been fully understandable at first can be better comprehended. Distance provides a framework for comparison, while time allows for a full digestion of details. Information overloaded gives way to information understood. It is still difficult to look back on my experience in South Africa. Some stretches seemed to drag on forever while other moments drifted away into memories almost before they had a chance to occur. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully digest what happened on that continent or how I have been changed these past two months. I doubt my skills as a writer can do justice to what I discovered. Nevertheless, I have to try.

Before I even left for Cape Town I thought I had a fairly good grasp of what the city was like and how I was to function within it. However, foreshadowing one of the lessons I would repeatedly learn at Grassroot Soccer, the more you plan for something, the less likely it is those plans will be realized. I found out, soon after stepping off the plane, that different people would see the city in whatever way they wished to view it. While the social and economic injustices screaming against an advancing industrial nation rang loud in my ears, they would most likely fall deaf on others. It would have been easy to ignore the poverty and destitution breeding beneath the surface and instead focus on the celebration of decadence and commercialism quickly entrenching itself within the heart of the city.

However, straying from the popular tourist locales the harsh reality of the city began to take shape. I had heard crime was rampant in Cape Town but without experiencing that first hand I would not have known how to handle it. My first week in the city, I was the victim of two attempted muggings on my walk home from work. Granted, both attempts were quite weak, they still left a bitter taste in my mouth. From then on my natural instinct became not to trust people I was unfamiliar with. Due to this I avoided other detrimental encounters with the street life. However, it made it more difficult to meet locals and truly learn about what life was like in South Africa.

That is not to say my apprehension made it impossible to get out and take in the country. I have never considered myself a risk-averse individual and, regardless of previous negative encounters, the city was ripe with opportunities. I could not have lived in Cape Town for two month without noticing and reflecting on the race relations forged from the fall of an oppressive Apartheid regime. In the United States it’s almost as if we try to ignore race and its place in our lives. Instead of referring to someone as “black” it seems more politically correct to refer to some other defining characteristic about them (their clothes or personality, for instance). In South Africa race is brought out into the open much more frequently. Calling people black, white, or colored is very much acceptable. I never fully got used to this. I found it both uncomfortable and divisive to use this type of language. However, there was something strangely liberating about bringing race into the forefront of conversation. South Africans don’t try to ignore race. Indeed they cannot, the legacy of apartheid has engrained that in their culture. It surrounds virtually every issue and public debate. Its reach is inescapable and depth unimaginable. Understanding the role I played in this context occupied much of my time. Sadly to say, two months is not nearly long enough to figure out that answer, just long enough to provide me with many more unanswerable questions.

I am not so bold as to propose my reasons for traveling to South Africa were entirely altruistic. While one of my motivations was certainly to help bridge the disturbing gap between the have and the have-nots, another was gaining relevant work experience. I think, for the most part I accomplished both of these goals, although the lessons learned in this endeavor are perhaps more lasting. Grassroot Soccer is a large international NGO and it was sometimes difficult to see how my own role played into the overall goal of the organization. All of my projects were very novel and innovative. What I was doing was sometimes so new that there was not any example to look to. For instance, I was responsible for creating and designing a “passport” to use in a youth street soccer league which hadn’t yet even been formalized. The passport would simultaneously monitor and evaluate the program participants while providing an incentive structure for them to perform well. I couldn’t find anything similar for comparison. It felt like I spent countless hours on these passports sometimes without seeing any tangible result. Even when tangible signs of progress began to take shape it was hard to see how they would somehow prevent kids from contracting HIV and AIDS. This “crisis of purpose” is one which seems to continually plague the service lifestyle, and one which I did not want interfering with my work. I brought the issue up to my supervisor and he was able to offer me some lasting advice about my role in South Africa. He told me that while right now it’s hard to see how what I’m doing is effective, in six months time I will be surprised by how far along these projects that I’ve started have gone. Time moves differently in the NGO community, especially the African NGO community. The long-term success of the project was clouded by my short-term frustration with the details. Once, I learned to accept this it was much easier dealing with temporary setbacks.

One lesson which seemed to continually repeat itself that the more we planned for something, the less likely it seemed those plans were followed. That is not to say that planning was unimportant; it was crucial for what we did. It just seemed that planning from our office in downtown Cape Town was sometimes out of touch with what was actually happening in the field. GRS is committed to promoting grassroots change but I felt they could have given more control over to the actual coaches on the ground. Throughout the work I did I would constantly ask for information and be referred to the Master Coaches or people at the grassroots level. If planning and organizational work was all going to be done from the downtown office I think information should at least be more transparent. However, that is no small task and much of what I did involved tacking that very issue. The unpredictability of working in Africa required an open mind and an understanding that, despite my best planning, there would be plenty of opportunities for my best efforts to go haywire; all that could be done was to simply take what was given and adapt.

I mentioned earlier that time seemed to move differently. The combination of working in Africa and for an NGO seemed to slow time down to below what would have been acceptable in America. I had expected this cultural difference but it was still difficult to get used to. While frustrating, it gave me time to forge my own projects and create jobs that I thought were useful. In retrospect, I could have taken better advantage of that freedom. I sometimes fell into the trap of only doing the task I was assigned without reaching out for anything new. However, as with anything there was a learning curve. Towards the end of my stay my boss left for the United States on business, leaving me essentially leaderless the final few weeks of my internship. I was left with vague guidelines as to how my projects should end up, but no clear structure as to how to get there. With this freedom I began to take more initiative with my projects and apply new approaches to where I believed GRS could use the most help. This was a lesson I wish I could have learned earlier and one which I attribute a majority of my success.

I can’t help but feel incredibly grateful for the opportunity I have had working for GRS in Cape Town. I want to thank them, the Gigot Center at Notre Dame, the other Microventuring interns, and all the support of my friends and family to make this summer successful. While I have grown and learnt much as an individual over these past few months, I know my growth is not yet complete and that the experiences and lessons I’ve learned will continue to shape me down the road. Just like the work I did in combating HIV and AIDS, it may be difficult now to see how South Africa has affected me overall, but with time that change will be clearer. My mission this summer was to give hope to those at the bottom of the socioeconomic pyramid. I may not have immediately seen the merits of my work, but I look forward to learning about them down the road. On that day I’ll smile and know that halfway around the globe my efforts are making a difference in some kid’s life.

Namibia Pt 2: T.I.N.

Alright, so I left off last time with a cliffhanger to end all cliffhangers. What would happen to our little VW Polo? Would Marta find a job? How did Captain Barbossa come back from the dead? Unfortunately I’m only able to answer the first of those questions – I don’t think anyone really knows how Captain Barbossa figured that one out.

We left that gas station and immediately began our journey through unpaved, gravel roads into the deepest heart of Namibia. Our trek took us through wild game reserves, across barren plains, up mountains, and into what Matt described as, “What hell would look like if it were found on earth”. Navigating this wilderness was difficult for us outsiders. The roads seemed at times to seamlessly blend into the landscape. It was a long journey. It was a hard journey. Surely this is what Frodo and Sam must have gone through on their quest through Mordor. The only thing to do was to roll the windows down and turn Dragon Force on full blast as we tore through the gates of Hades to our eventual destination: the hot springs of Ai Ais.

As we pulled up to the gates of the fabled city we were asked to register our car with security. It turned out this blip on the map was not a small town but a resort, also the only evidence of civilization for hundreds of kilometers. Instead of staying in the posh R1300 rooms we opted to take our chances and camp outside underneath the Namibian sky. We had packed blankets and were both experienced campers (read: Eagle Scout nerds) so this was no problem. As we were setting up our site a cacophony of voices began to rise in the distance. 60 kids from a high school in Windhoek (capital of Namibia) had hiked 85k from Fish River Gorge to Ai Ais, taking 5 days. I can only imagine the violent chaos that would erupt within the PTA meeting if this type of trip were proposed in the American school system. But no, this is Africa. These kids were tough as nails. Their chaperones, though, were even tougher.

Our night kicked off at the outdoor resort bar – the only tavern within 200 kilometers. I can’t begin to explain the circus of characters this bar (and we) attracted. We began by talking with a death-metal guitarist construction worker who helped build Ai Ais. He was the easily the most normal of everyone we met: the eye of the hurricane. Pulling out my guitar we started jamming. The actual stereo at the bar was broken so, between the two of us, the guitar took court. A raucous sing-a-long of Hotel California attracted the travel-weary (an inebriated) parent chaperones of the school kids. A car screeched to a halt at the foot of the stairs and up walked a 300 pound New Zealander who oozed testosterone out of every pore: the owner of the construction company. Our party had reached the point of overflow. We had had enough of this bar. It was time to head to the hot springs. By now all the younger hikers had gone to bed so we had the whole of the springs to ourselves. Stories and laughter ensured and the party continued well into the night.

The next morning we woke and began mentally preparing for the eight hour drive back to the relative normalcy of the Garden Center apartments in Cape Town. On my way out I happened to pass by the bar. It was as if no one from the previous night had strayed from their earlier positions. The chaperones were all sitting down enjoying their morning beer and cigarettes (breakfast of champions), the construction workers were performing maintenance on the outdoor furniture, and the manly New Zealander was stringing together a torrent of cusses I didn’t know was possible. Another day in Namibia.

On the way home my thoughts continually drifted to the countryside surrounding me. Throughout the whole trip I had asked myself how people could live here. What would they do for fun? What is life like for the average Namibian? Do they have the same hopes, dreams, fears, ambitions, as I do? Although I am always weary of drawing rash generalizations, spending that evening with those parents and construction workers brought me face to face with some of those answers. They’re just like me, and the exact opposite. That’s not a contradiction. That’s African.

Namibia Pt 1: The Land God Made in Anger

I haven’t blogged in a while and honestly didn’t know how I would go about writing this post. This past weekend Matt and I drove up to Namibia on a spontaneous journey to the second most sparsely populated country in the world (only beaten by Mongolia).

While we had talked about the trip, I don’t think either Matt or I were confident it would actually happen. Instead of “planning” and “thinking about it” we pulled a line from the Nike handbook and “just did it”. On Saturday morning we hit the road like we were breaking out of from jail. We just wanted to get as far along as possible with only a vague idea of what lay ahead of us.

We drove 6 hours up the N7 to the border town of Noordoewer. After filling out a few forms and slipping the customs official R180 (for the car registration) we were allowed safe passage into the heart of the country. I don’t know if I can adequately convey the desolation. There were times when we drove an hour and half without seeing any sign of civilization besides the road lying in front of us. Cars would wave at each other simply for a chance at human interaction. With absolutely no light pollution the stars at night were some of the clearest and most visible I’ve ever seen. We would pull over to the side of the road (not that it mattered) just to experience the natural beauty of this part of the world.

That first night we drove two hours in to Keetmanshoop. We asked the gas station attendants where we could find lodging and they pointed us in the direction of an old German fort. The gate was closed, but after a few honks a security guard came running down the street towards us. After a brief conversation he ran to wake up the lady in charge of registration because it was so late. It was 8pm.

The next morning we visited the Quivertree Forest and Giant’s Playground (both ridiculous names, it felt like we were in Lord of the Rings or something). Quivertree Forest was not so much a forest but a field with some quivertrees growing. Giant’s playground was not so much a playground but a field with some balanced rocks in it. Coincidence or just Africa?

After exhausting the thrills of the above two attractions we headed West to the coast. An hour into the drive we saw a sign for wild horses, quickly followed by actual wild horses. We pulled over and approached the feral equines as closely as was comfortable. No one is really sure how these wild horses came to be in Namibia, although rumor has it they came off of some shipwreck. I was surprised by how close they allowed us to come; I guess they didn’t think we posed much of a threat. Continuing on our journey the tufts of grass and rocks gave way to sand dunes and cacti. We had made it to the Namib Desert. After pulling over to the side of the road I couldn’t help but notice how quiet it was. It was so quiet my ears actually hurt. A local later told us “This place is so quiet, even the deaf can feel it”.

To combat the uncomfortable silence we started exploring and climbing on the dunes. Noticing shiny stones we would pick some up, examine them, and throw them deep into the dunes. After a while a car approached and started to honk at us. At the time we couldn’t explain this behavior. Later on, as we drove into the coastal town of Luderitz we saw a sign for Namdeb (Namdeb = half Namibian government, half DeBeers) urging people to stay on the road. We had been trespassing on a restricted diamond area*. Perhaps my favorite part of this experience was seeing a sign that read, “Diamond theft hurts us all. Don’t do it”.

At Luderitz we checked into a backpackers (hostel) drove to the beach. The scene was unreal. The desert literally emptied right into the Atlantic. A desert is the extreme absence of water (specifically precipitation) and an ocean is, well, all water. That these two things could exist simultaneously was baffling. While we struggled with this contradiction, the locals didn’t seem to mind.

The next morning we drove to the ghost town of Kolmanskop and learned all about the diamond industry. Unfortunately we had to wait around for an hour and a half for the tour to start; apparently, despite being directly north of South Africa Namibia is in a different time zone…although I’m quite impressed it took us three days to figure this out.

Our next destination was Ai Ais – located approximately farthest from everywhere else in the world. Nearing the freeway we noticed a young woman about our age sitting on the side of the road. Hitchhiking is standard practice in this part of the world and the sight of her with her bags was nothing out of the ordinary. With a wave of Jack Kerouac-inspired adrenaline we pulled over and asked where she was going. It turns out she was heading to the only other city this road went to. We told her there was room in the back. Unfortunately not much exciting happened after that. She was very quiet and mostly just slept. What we did learn from her revealed a jumbled description of a troubled life. Although it’s one of my pet peeves when travelers attribute broad generalizations to a group of people based off a few select interactions with locals, it’s hard not to find some truth common to other Namibians in her situation. Her name was Marta; she was traveling home to live with her family; her father died; her uncle worked in the diamond mines; she failed out of matric (high school); and she didn’t have a job (Matt later admitted he was about to ask her how she made money but thought better of it. Good call, Matt; sometimes less is more). After dropping her off at a gas station, we hit the road again for what was to be the greatest test our little Polo had ever seen.

*If you’re reading this and happen to be an employee of either the Namibian government or DeBeers, consider this my formal apology…and you should probably invest in better signage, or a fence.

JAWS

Life to do list: swim with Great White Sharks – check. On Saturday Matt, Dag, and I drove two hours past Hermanus (famous for whale watching) to the town of Gansbaai to go face-to-face with the ocean’s deadliest predator. At Shark Diving Unlimited we were met with a light breakfast, a short safety talk, and a waiver signing our lives away. We then boated a short distance to Seal Island, which hosts a fur seal population of approximately 75,000 (75,000 tasty reasons why the sharks are so active in this area). The island looks dark in the distance, but up close you can see that it’s that densely packed with seals.

Once we were anchored and snug in our wetsuits it was time to attract the sharks. Since it’s illegal to use mammal products for chumming, the water soon turned murky as fish parts were dumped into the ocean. It was only a few minutes later that the first sharks were drawn to the scent of fish-blood soup. Much to the chagrin of my fellow passengers I couldn’t help but hum the Jaws theme song. We lowered ourselves into a small steel cage - the only protection from the hungry predators we were intruding upon. We were told not to try to touch the sharks. I thought this piece of instruction was somewhat unnecessary, but who knows, there might be someone just crazy enough to gamble away a limb or two. It wouldn’t have been hard either. The gaps in the cage were easily large enough for a hand or foot to get through.

Armed with a fish head fastened to the end of a rope, our guide (I never caught his name, Ahab perhaps?) perched himself on the side of the boat and started baiting the sharks. They would slowly approach the food and then with lighting speed chomp down on the bait. The guide, in return, would yank on the rope and wrestle the fish head out of the shark’s clenched jaws. This man might have one the craziest jobs I’ve ever seen. He literally had to balance unattached on top of a rocking boat and taunt the most dangerous fish in the ocean.

Since we didn’t have any diving equipment we held ourselves above water until the guide yelled “DOWN”, at which point we took a deep breath and dunked underwater to view the sharks. Although I’m sure I was safe, that did nothing to stop the flow of adrenaline as sharks rocked and rattled the cage. Luckily they didn’t take too much interest in us, although I could hear plenty of underwater screams as the sharks bumped into us during their struggle with our guide. We had some excellent views of these underwater beasts. At one point there were three all fighting for the same fish head. Their sizes ranged from 3 to 5 meters. 5 meters is a MASSIVE animal up close. Luckily he wasn’t too close.

I Predict a Riot

The townships around Cape Town are not suburbs like in other cities. They are lingering remnants of forced, racial segregation where the Apartheid government relocated non-whites to undesirable parts of the city. Working in these townships can be a sobering experience. It can jar you from you comfortable reality and bring you face-to-face with extreme poverty and inequality. You really get a feel for how those at the bottom of the pyramid live. Sometimes though, those at the bottom get envious of those at the top, especially in a country with some of the highest rates of inequality in the world.

Yesterday Luke and I had to drive to the township of Khayelitsha to do some work for a Holiday Camp that Grassroot Soccer is running. As soon as we had gotten off the freeway we were greeted by port-a-potties barricading the road, cows meandering about, a crowd of people shouting, and there were definitely some things set on fire. We had driven into a good ol’ fashioned township riot. It was about the time we were off-roading around the barricade of waste that we remembered every bit advice we were given had said not to travel around the townships by ourselves. All it would take would be one rock thrown at our car to entice a mob reaction against these foreign intruders. Noticing that the rioters were in the process of dragging more port-a-potties into the road, I made a mental note to get directions for an alternate way back.

Once at the Holiday Camp I asked Xolani and Gcina (in charge of the camp) about the riots. Xolani said they were most likely because of housing. Apparently, every so often the people in the townships will get so fed up with their deplorable living conditions they will riot and demand better houses. He didn’t understand why they always overturn port-a-potties in their own neighborhood. He suggested, instead of making their own neighborhood smell, they should drag the toilets to city hall and then overturn them. That would be more persuasive. Personally, I believe there have got to be better ways to protest than by destroying the little infrastructure you have. What would you use if you had to use the bathroom?

It seems the people in Khayalitsha agreed with me. Two hours later when we drove back all the port-a-potties were back to where they were, although there was still plenty of trash in the road and smoldering embers now lined the street. No sign of the cows.

On the radio today there was news of further road closures in Khayelitsha due to continued rioting.

Opposable Thumbs for the Win

Yesterday we decided to spend the day going to Cape Point/Cape of Good Hope. While the Cape itself consisted of picturesque landscapes and coastlines (along with a wee bit of historical intrigue), the real adventure took place on the journey there, just outside the park. Rolling in our newly-rented A-class Benz (we had to trade in the Hyundai), Mike, Will, Tara, and I busily bantered on about the usual nothing when we spotted a line of cars stopped in the middle of the road. Not knowing what to expect we pulled up and saw, camped out in the middle of the street, a baboon rummaging through a backpack. Our curiosity tickled, we pulled over and joined the crowd of onlookers viewing the spectacle. To my right I noticed a mama baboon nursing a small baby, on my left two baboons playfully chasing and slapping each other. We had found ourselves in the middle of a pack of monkeys.

Inquiring into why the baboon had taken such interest in the backpack, a fellow American told me they had pulled over because they saw baboons on the side of the road and wanted to get a better look. As they were distracted by an “adorable” baby, a crafty older one opened the door of their van and climbed into the passenger seat. After rummaging around a bit he found the backpack, climbed outside, and set up camp in the middle of the highway. There he proceeded to tear apart this poor kid’s bag in search of food. Textbooks, papers, and headphones laid sprawled around this solitary monkey.

Just as he began to tear into an orange, I heard an audible, “Uh oh!” from behind me. Will had spotted a large baboon sprawled out on our windshield. I immediately checked to make sure the doors were locked. Thank God they were. Unfortunately, just as Will was taking pictures of our new monkey friend, he realized the back right window was open. At that moment, Mr. Baboon must have noticed too, because he crawled along the side of the car and slipped right in. By this time, many onlookers had grown bored with the backpack scandal and our car was now the focus of attention.

Once inside our rented Mercedes Benz, the baboon needed no instruction. He proceeded to rip through the interior in search of something to consume. He must have tried to open the door because the alarm system was set off (only to aggravate him more). Eventually someone opened up the passenger door which allowed him to climb out. Unfortunately, another monkey saw this trick and immediately replicated it (one point for evolution). This time the door was left open and more monkeys started climbing inside. At one point there must have been four baboons scrambling around inside the car. Luckily for us we didn’t have much food, only a sandwich and some empty Coke cans. That being the case, they still didn’t seem all that interested in suppressing the level of damage to the car. Overcoming my fear of a rabies-induced premature flight home I threw open the trunk and quickly backed away. There was now nothing left to do. The ball was in their court, er, car. After what seemed like minutes, one by one, each monkey crawled out and went on its way. As soon as they were a safe distance away we ran to the car, locked ourselves inside (windows up), and drove away.

The damage is as follows (luckily we have full insurance on the car…sorry Avis):

1. Dirt/hair/monkey feces all over the upholstery
2. Claw marks on the ceiling/back of the seats
3. Sandwich eaten
4. Coke cans/cookie wrappers disappeared
5. Will’s anti-diarrhea medicine: child-proof container ripped open, only two pills remained. I don’t know what’s worse, that somewhere there’s a recently-fed constipated monkey out in the wild or that Will now only has two pills to last the rest of the trip.
6. Paw-marks all over the windshield
7. Right side-view mirror dangling (from when the first one climbed across to the open window)

That’s basically the end of the monkey disaster. We saw a few more wild baboons throughout the day but refused to pull over. We learned our lesson.

The Amerikaaner

Yesterday night we threw arguably the largest and most epic 3^rd of July Party ever experienced by the Garden Center Apartments. While most patriotic Americans choose the 4^th to celebrate our breaking of ties with Britain, we thought it fitting to celebrate on the 3^rd to commemorate the greatest All-Nighter in history. That’s right, Thomas Jefferson hopped up on Red Bull and Cheetos to cram out the Declaration of Independence in time for the 4^th of July deadline. As we found out, hiring kegs in South Africa is quite the ordeal and (from the crowd of locals drawn to our gathering) most likely doesn’t happen all that often. I am reminded of Ron Burgundy’s conversation with his buddies Champ and Brick after the famous news-anchor battle of San Diego, “Boy, that escalated quickly…I mean, that really got out of hand fast.” Not much photographic evidence remains of the night, which may or may not be a good thing. Email me if you want stories.