Dinner at Moyo in Stellenbosch.

Stories.

The past 13 days have been somewhat of an extended story time. I’ve been asking questions and engaging in conversations with various people I meet, making an effort to get to know and spend time with local South Africans. Most of the time, I find myself listening to clips of autobiographies, stories of people’s perspectives and opinions of the change in this country over the past several years. Here are three stories I’ve heard:

• I was in a restaurant this past week, sitting near a table of older white folks that were celebrating a 75th birthday. When one of the men came over to our table and asked us about our American accents/ why we were in Cape Town, I took the opportunity to ask this man a little about his time in this country. It is almost impossible to imagine what it would be like to live through the past 70 years of South Africa’s development, and I was fascinated by this man’s response to the question, “What would you like to see in Cape Town over the next 10 years? What would you like to happen politically, economically, culturally during the next decade?” He thoughtfully paused, wrinkling his forehead, and responded passionately, “Helping people. No one helps each other, and everyone only cares about themselves. No one reaches out of their own way—even whites to whites or blacks to blacks in their own communities—and people need to go beyond themselves.”

• One of my housemates made a local friend who came over for dinner last night. He was born in Rhodesia, but had lived in South Africa since he was a child, and he experienced the end of apartheid when he was 12. I asked him about his family, his past, his thoughts on the country, and he talked for half an hour about the problems with gang and crimes. “Specifically in the black communities, gangs rule and run the show. Five and six year old children grow up aspiring in be gang members because it is the only source of hope or power that they can reach, the only future that they know. Most of the gangs have initiation tasks that range from rape to murder to assault to armed robbery, and the young members are trained to see these acts as a way of life and needed for survival.” Though Cape Town is known as the gay capital of Africa, he added, “Corrective rape is a common act used on lesbians, where groups of men violently rape homosexual women in order to ‘correct’ their sexual orientation. Traumatized and abused, the victims can get STIs and sometimes become pregnant, and they are stigmatized by their communities.” When I asked him how the problem of gangs could be addressed he replied, “With feeding programs, education programs, and jobs. These people are hungry—so they steal for food. They don’t have an education and can’t get a job, so they are ushered into gangs where their basic needs are met through crime and terror. Sometimes they are arrested and sent to Pollsmoor Prison, but they leave a better criminal than when they first arrived, and they are sent back to the same gang power structure that runs their communities.”

• I met a young black girl in Pick n’ Pay (the grocery store) last week and found out that she attends the University of Cape Town. She grew up in Pretoria (in a fairly well-off community) and is a ballerina, planning on pursuing her ballet through a full scholarship program in Canada next year. She asked me what I was studying, and so I told her about my plans to go to nursing school and work with healthcare programs developing nations and she smirked a little bit. “Okay, Emily. I’ve got a question for you. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I met a girl earlier who wants to do something like you, and I just don’t understand. Why do so many people in your country want to come ‘save us’ as their career? I don’t view the people in the townships as any different from me. They chose to live in the slum; I chose to live in a different neighborhood. They are happy and like it there. South Africa doesn’t need helping or saving.” I carefully paused, replaying images of hungry children in rags, exhausted mothers, and drunk teenage boys that I had seen in a township just a few days before…and so I asked her if she had ever been to a township. “Me? No, I do not go to the townships.” I replied by telling her that I want to work with people in the townships, develop relationships with them as partners and friends, not save them. We exchanged phone numbers and are planning on hanging out this week at school, so I’m hoping to grow our friendship. I’ve found that her response to the townships though is a common belief here—even when talking to some volunteer organizations on the UCT campus, the ones I interacted with said that the majority of their volunteers are international students and that the idea of community service is not very common here. However, the local people I’ve met so far are very friendly and warm, and so I’m interested in engaging in more conversations about their thoughts on ‘giving back’ and spending more time with my new friends.

Lion's Head: a mountain by the sea

Over the mountains and the seas,
Your river runs with love for me.
I will open up my heart,
And let the Healer set me free.
I'm happy to be in the truth,
And I will daily lift my hands,
For I will always sing,
Of when Your love came down.

Views from the top of Signal Hill.

Sunset on the Atlantic Ocean.

“The only ones among you who will truly be happy are those who have sought and found how to serve.” –Albert Einstein

A day has passed since the Peninsula Tour, since our visit to the township at Oceanview, and my heart has been wrestling with my purpose here. How do I reconcile the wealth and poverty, the gaping disconnection between the rich and poor, the contrasting beauty of the land and brokenness of the people? My heart still aching for that young slum girl in the blue-longsleeved shirt, I am reminded that I came to this country to learn and to serve. While simply craving once-in-a-lifetime experiences is fun, loving and serving others is fulfilling. I’ve been reminded that my purpose here is so much deeper than just fun, and even found myself struggling to “enjoy” myself in restaurants and cafes as I watch homeless beggars scrounge around the street outside for food. Just in this first week, I’ve been challenged to see adventure and exploration differently—looking at risks and opportunities as times to be out of my comfort zone in order to serve people I come into contact with, not just times to have an adrenaline rush from shark-caging or bungee-jumping.

When I fast-forward to the end of November and imagine looking back on my semester in Cape Town, I wonder what stories I’ll be able to tell, what experiences I’ll be able to share. I could tell of the great wine, the wild parties, the incredible wildlife, the crazy experiences…or I could tell of the adventures of serving others, the relationships I had, the people that I shared life with, the opportunities I had to give some of myself and my resources to others. I don’t believe that these types of stories are mutually exclusive, or that one is better than the other. However, I do believe that my intentions in these adventures will determine their greater value in my life—and that each interaction I have with other people is chance to share Christ’s love and light with them…I long to be honest and real about the way I use my time and relationships and resources here, hoping to live in the reality that my life is not about me, but about being a humble part of something bigger…asking myself that at the end of the day, what really matters?

Oceanview-Through a Glass Window.

We drove along the coast of South Africa for 9 hours today, teetering on the edge of mountains and hills that overlook the Atlantic and Indian Oceans. Peering through the tinted bus window, I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and watched the seemingly unreal landscape unfurl before my eyes…rocky ledges jutted out from the untamed and untouched overgrowth that coated the sides of the cliffs…the green blanket sweeping down the hills to some lower neighborhoods where houses nestled into the bay, facing an expanse of blue water that faded into…nowhere it seemed, the clouds and the water meeting at the horizon in the distance, and little waves that broke into white surf flirted with the sandy beaches that were occasionally speckled with brave surfers. We started the tour at the University of Cape town, weaved through the V&A Waterfront, Camp’s Bay, and traveled to the Cape of Good Hope.

Halfway to the Cape of Good Hope, we stopped in a little town called Oceanview for “entertainment” and lunch. The heavenly landscape was in stark contrast with the broken homes in the area…children cloaked in rags, men hunched over on street corners with beer bottles in hand, cracked windows and barbed wire fences distorting faces of women inside the cinderblock buildings, clothes lines stretching across alleyways. Our buses pulled into a guarded compound with security agents that held scrambling children outside the wall until the “guests” were safely inside. We unloaded the buses and then filed into an auditorium where a local woman told us about the neighborhood. Oceanview was a township with over 40,000 residents, and almost all of them are coloureds who were relocated to the area during apartheid. (In South Africa, “coloured” is not a negative term at all, but is used to describe the people whose skin color is in between white and black Africans) The woman told us that the township was purposefully made with one exit/entrance so that the police could shut down the compound if the people tried to initiate an uprising against their oppressors. Liquor stores fueled the alcoholism that resulted from depression, poverty, and hopelessness, gangs were created, families terrorized…women are still terrified to leave their homes after 6pm each night. Just 20 years ago, if a white person wanted to come visit someone in the township, the local “coloured” person would have to apply for a permit to have a white guest, as well as provide separate utensils and table for meals. Though much has changed since the end of apartheid in 1994, the scars and pain of the suffering.

A few women in the township had prepared a meal for us, and so we ate rice and meat, along with some fruit and desserts. A little into the meal, another announcer stepped up to the microphone and introduced several children that would be dancing for us for entertainment. She thanked us repeatedly for “sharing this experience with them” and for coming to Oceanview. For the next hour, coloured youth of all ages danced to hip-hop music, belly danced, and sung songs…while white Americans complained about the “weird ethnic food” and then snapped pictures and laughed as the children performed. Sitting on the floor in the front row, it was apparent that these youth had not showered in days, and their lack of nourishment was evident in their baggy clothes that seemed to fall off their bodies as they shook and turned across the floor.

A wave of nausea swept over me, and my eyes began to fill with tears. I watched the precious children gaze across the room with empty eyes, watching the flashing cameras capture moments of promiscuous dancing. There was one girl in particular, dressed in a blue longsleeve shirt, that caught my eye. She seemed numb and tired, looking up at the performers from her seat on the floor…and she never smiled—her face marked by a distant gaze. Her eyes were glued to her older peer who belly danced across the floor, egged on by cat calls and applause from the audience…and my heart cringed as tears rolled down my cheeks. This poverty, this pain, this darkness was her home, and now these guests had come to take pictures of her hell for their facebook albums…and this older girl who seduced the crowd was her example—for making money and for a future. I longed to hold her and hug her and tell her of her Father’s love for her, to protect her from the dark future that beckoned her from the dance floor… but our group left the old auditorium and got immediately back on the buses, drove out of the guarded compound, and watched the faces of poverty race by through a glass window.

Cape of Good Hope.

Poverty and Development in South Africa:

Statistics from a lecture we heard this morning:
"1 out of 7 people are starving
Poverty Line: 47.1% live on R322($48USD)/person/month
5.8 million people are living with HIV/AIDS
1 in 4 men admitted to rape (study done in 2009)
120 rape cases are reported every day
About 25% of the population is unemployed
Life expectancy: 49.3 years
Infant Mortality Rate: 44.8 deaths per 1000 births (The U.S. is 6.3 per 1000)

Interesting quote from a grassroots women’s movement for clean water sanitation: “Women without water and sanitation are as good as dead…and have no dignity.” "

Days 1 and 2.

Within just a few hours of arriving in Cape Town, (after living on airplanes and in airports for the past 48 hours, functioning on total of 5ish hours of sleep) the CIEE program staff had us hiking up Lion's Head Mountain--climbing up rocky ledges on all fours, grabbing onto chains and metal hooks during the 2 hourish hike...nothing like jumping straight into an adventure!

During the hike, many people were discussing our housing assignments (that we hadn’t found out yet), and rumor had it that the letters written on our nametags were initials of the place we were living. I glanced down at my nametag to find an “HS”…and my jaw dropped. Home-Stay??? Uh oh…NOT what I where I was expecting to live. Students around me continued to gossip about the homestay houses being really far away from the campus, that most houses did not have internet access, how some of the families didn’t speak English very well, and that the parents were often super strict and controlling. Yikes. I could feel my blood pressure rising as we hiked up the mountain, and people made jokes about my nametag, but I tried to stay calm and collected. Stress wasn’t going to help anything, and there was NO WAY I was given a homestay, especially since I ranked it last on my housing application, and the program director assured us that all students received their first choice…

Well, Wednesday afternoon when the housing assignments were revealed, the housing director flipped on the microphone and announced, “All students with an ‘HS’ on your nametag, you will be doing a homestay. Please follow your advisor outside to receive your family information packet.” Shocked and in denial, my feet somehow managed to carry me out to the patio with the other homestay students, most of whom were grinning with excitement because homestay had been their first choice. The advisor read off the list of families and student pairings, but 6 of us were not on the list. Puzzled, she told us to stand over to the side and that someone would be coming to help us. The 6 of us sat on the ground for 5, 10, 25 minutes without anyone addressing our homelessness, so we planned out places to pitch tents around the University of Cape Town (UCT) campus, nervously laughing because we were all half joking but half serious. Finally, the housing director came over and looked over her notes with a confused expression, while the 6 of us shot worried looks at each other across the circle, wondering what our housing fate would be. “Oh!” The director exclaimed. “You’re all in Highstead House. Someone must’ve written your nametags wrong. No worries!” Relieved, we walked over to the rest of our housemates and were welcomed to the group. Phew.

Next, the cell phone company came to sell us South African phones, and so all 140 students lined up to get our new sim cards and cell phones. After I received mine, a black brick of a phone, I tried to turn it on, but the screen remained black. The cell phone seller responded, “Just plug in. After charge, it work fine.” Hm, okay sounds good. I looked over at the outlets on the wall and then back to my phone plug, and realized the two would definitely not fit together. The seller looked at me like I was dumb and said, “You need to buy adapter for phone. Then put in the wall. No worries.” Alrighty. So I walked down to the drugstore, bought an adapter, and then plugged my phone into the wall…and nothing happened. At all. It was definitely broken. By the time I went back, the sellers were gone, and I found an advisor who looked at my phone and said, “Wow. Your phone is sick. Not good.” Awesome. My phone is sick. Even though I paid $175 dollars for it haha. Plan B? Didn’t have one. Once again, I reminded myself that stressing out wouldn’t change my situation at all, so I just took a deep breath and decided I would just be out of contact for a while, hopeful that I could find someone to fix my phone later this week. After asking another advisor, I was told that the cell phone sellers would be back tomorrow, so I’m hopeful to get another phone…? At this point though, I’m not stressing about it…Hakuna Matata , right? It will be nice to have a break from my cell phone, so no worries at all!