smooth criminals.

St. Theresa's often has little assemblies for parents, foster parents, and caregivers who come to collect the boys when it's time for holidays.  Back in March, before the beginning of Easter break, my boys in Cottage 4 prepared this little number for a rapt audience.  After lots of rehearsing and covering their left hands in glitter to look like a glove, they took to the stage.
From left to right: Bheki, Sihle, Khumbulani, Philani, Llewellyn, and Eugene... and Michael Jackson of course.









It may not be Thriller, but it's as close to a Halloween post as I could come-- springtime in South Africa is not exactly festive for today's celebrations.  Happy Halloween, ghouls and goblins!


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pineapples in heaven.

Mlungisi Mzobe was buried on a Saturday in October, in between the morning sunshine and afternoon storms of springtime in South Africa.  He was just eighteen years old.
I only spent a few scattered hours with him here and there; the funeral was the most time Mlungisi and I ever spent together.  During the strike, when Becky was visiting, we helped Mary-Kate bring a few of the healthier patients from the Respite Centre to the shopping centre for ice cream.  Becky and I sat with two guys, both named Mlungisi- one older and one younger.  They both insisted on large plain vanilla soft-serve but with the chilly August wind blowing in through the door of the shop, were too cold to finish.  We got lids and they brought their ice creams back to put in the fridge for later.  Mlungisi was happy to answer the simple questions we asked him about where he came from and his family, and when he asked about my life, he could not for the life of him understand why I would want to be a teacher in Molweni.
The next few times I saw Mlungisi, he was in bed at the Respite.  I remember he had the most graceful, slender fingers that would rest on the blanket of his bed.
When he got moved to a private room, he knew the outlook wasn't good; patients didn't just get moved to private rooms for increased privacy.
I would run in to pick up Mary-Kate or Meg from work and go to say hello.  Once we had to run out to Spar to pick up some Sprite for him.  He never failed to request food or drink from the careworkers-- there was the time he asked for a pineapple and just kept it by his bedside.  I don't think he ever ate it.  Or when someone would make a run to KFC; he couldn't eat fried chicken, but he'd order something and just have it next to him on the bed.  It always reminded me of a book I read as a child, where a man who couldn't afford food would satiate his hunger on the smell of dinners being prepared in the alleys behind restaurants.
A couple of weeks ago, after he'd been moved out of the private room and back into a regular bed, Mlungisi was discharged from the Respite and transferred to St. Mary's Hospital.  I was sad that I wouldn't get to see him anymore, but hopeful that the transfer meant that all his hard work was paying off; that his CDC count was climbing, that his TB wasn't the dreaded MDR variety and that he was finally back in control of his own body.
He died on October 14th.
All the other people who had come to say goodbye were doing so to a body they no longer recognized.  Though his smile and those long, slender fingers were the same, the sickness had sunken his eyes, shrunken his skin, and worst of all, frightened such a kind, caring young man.  That's what upset me the most-- Mlungisi was terrified of dying.  I think that's what kept him fighting and hanging on.
In the photo that his family placed on his beautiful coffin, I hardly recognized Mlungisi's face.  I'd never seen him look so healthy.  But it served as a reminder that no matter how sad I felt at Mlungisi's funeral, my grief was minor in comparison to that of his gogos and siblings, the friends he grew up with, his fellow students who came in their uniforms.  School uniforms don't belong at a funeral.
Mlungisi Mzobe will never be a father, never watch another soccer match, never run around causing trouble with his friends again.  And he never did eat his pineapple... but I'm pretty sure that they have pineapples in heaven.

Phumula no thula, Mlungisi.



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overheard in south africa.

We've been working on Alphabet Books with Grade 4 for the past few weeks, and today we tackled the letters L, M, and N.  First we brainstorm a list of words that start with each letter, then each table chooses one to write a sentence about and illustrate.


Teacher: Ok, so what starts with the letter N?
Learner: Nice... noisy... ninja!
Teacher: Yes, ninja starts with N.  Good.  Now think of a sentence using the word "ninja".
Learner (without missing a beat): Bruce Lee is a ninja.


I will never, ever understand the way in which Bruce Lee and Jean Claud Van Damme have infiltrated Zulu culture.


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a note on hope.

I know I'm guilty of complaining a lot on this blog about the struggles I face as a volunteer, and the bad days that accompany my work.. but Monday of last week took the cake.  It was a can't-hold-myself-together, crying-in-front-of-students, sobbing-on-skype-to-mum kind of day.
Sinead and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

Fast forward to Wednesday, and wine and cheese with the friars at Kloof, and scenes of the Chilean miners' rescue being played out on the TV.  I was absolutely glued to the screen as Number 16 and Number 17 stumbled to the surface, into the arms of the people they thought they'd never see again.  The last time the news was so saturated with one story was on September 11th we murmured to each other.  I couldn't believe my eyes, nor my ears the next morning on our drive to work, as the deejay congratulated Chile on the rescue of all thirty-three men.  I think I've become skeptical... pessimistic even.  I didn't think they could do it.

It was nice to see some good news for a change.  Stories like the successful rescue give me a renewed sense of hope, which, more often of late, I need more than I need air to breathe.

warm fuzzies.

1.  discovering that some of the Koki pens (markers) we've been using at school are smelly ones!

2.  chick lit set in philadelphia

3.  cheese & wine before wednesday dinners with the augustinians next door

4.  being a robot sister with niamh and meg

5.  mrs h.s. balls chutney

6.  playing dress-up with the babies at st theresa's (especially sfiso, pictured above)

7.  the moment every day when philane in grade 6 asks me to "have a dinner" with him on friday

8.  FINALLY hearing grade 4 ask "please may i borrow" instead of "please borrow me a pencil"

9.  (big) sfiso's pencil sketches

10.  unexpected letters in the mail

Today, I'm happy.  I told you South Africa makes me mental.



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schizophrenia.

All I've been asking is to work.  I came to South Africa to forge relationships with people across racial, cultural, and economic boundaries.  I came to work, to be a teacher and attempt to teach vowel sounds and strengthen English speaking skills.
And with the World Cup, and strikes, and holidays, and the laziness of the government, I've been sitting at home far more often than I'd imagined, writing letters and applying for jobs.
Then school reopens, and instead of brimming with joy to be back in the saddle again, I find out that someone attempted to break into the library over holidays and spend half the morning being deafened by the sounds of Sir Sibisi and some of the Grade 6 boys (who should have been in class) busting open the locks so we could get inside our classroom.  Then three-fourths of Grade 6 didn't show up for class and Bec was feeling really sick, poor thing, and the whole day was such a disaster.

And, to top it off, it's been raining since I woke up.

I am aware that this blog makes me sound like a textbook schizophrenic-- elated to be here one moment, depressed the next, and flitting from emotion to emotion day after day, minute after minute.  But I might be a schizo at this point.  To feel "get me outta here" mixed with "ohmygod two months left" and "i can't believe i actually have to say goodbye", with a generous splash of "hanging out with my family and friends is going to be paradise", I just feel so mixed-up and over saturated with every sort of feeling that I'm completely exhausted.

I'm going to bed.  Goodnight.


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springtime.

Another early morning, another month begins... the first of October is here and with it, Durban's signature humidity and the gorgeous purple, yellow, and magenta blooms on the otherwise bare trees all around.  Spring is in the air and though it gets up to almost ninety degrees during the day, I'm enjoying the heat at the moment.  It allows for Sundays spent reading at the beach, gives enough light for running after our return from St. Theresa's in the evenings, and now that the nine-month mark is approaching, emotions are running high at 8 Warwickshire Crescent.

Two weeks ago, we had our final site visit from the office back home; April, our esteemed director arrived and after a brief stay here in Bothas Hill, we packed up the car, awoke at an ungodly hour, and drove north for twelve hours until we were 20 kilometers from the border of Botswana, at the Madikwe Game Reserve.  We stayed at Mosetlha, a bush camp and eco-lodge inside the park, at Becca's recommendation-- she had stayed there as part of her six-week study abroad experience in Pretoria during college.  Though some might have found the idea of no running water and no electricity daunting, the four of us have stuck to a low-maintenance regimen since beginning our year in South Africa, so heating our water in a donkey boiler and using paraffin lamps at night was lots of fun.  We had two game drives a day with our guide Sam, and my favourite part of the program involved a cooler full of beer and cider, snacks, and beautiful sunsets halfway through our evening drives.

We saw tons of animals, even a handful of lions which I'd missed on my safari with my family in Hluhluwe-Umfolozi back in April.  I think the highlight of the safari was our evening drive on Saturday; we spotted a baby rhino and his mother racing through the bush, with two young male lions following closely behind.  After two minutes, the lions gave up and settled down for yet another nap... proof that big cats and small cats are all the same: lazy!

Otherwise, we had a lot of rest and relaxation time.  On the way home, we had to drop April off at the Johannesburg airport, and decided to make a stopover in Jozi before driving back to Durban.  On Sunday afternoon, we paid a visit to the famed Apartheid Museum, built in 2000.  Each visitor to the museum is assigned either White or Non-White upon purchasing a ticket, and must enter using the appropriate entrance.

Unfortunately, that was the beginning and end of the segregation simulation; the rest of the museum was laid out for us to peruse as we wished.  It was enlightening, but I found the exhibits a bit confusing and the layout was not exactly chronological.

The most interesting insight for me was being in the city where my parents spent the first few years of their marriage back in the early Eighties.  The city has changed a lot since then, as has South Africa itself.  I wrote my high school research paper on apartheid, but to look out over the Johannesburg skyline and feel connected through family and history and my present experience was a really powerful and moving feeling.

Meg has some family that stay in Sandton, a suburb of the city, and they graciously hosted us on Sunday night.  After a delicious breakfast of fruit and yogurt and muesli on Monday morning, the four of us, armed with our AA Road Atlas and recommendations from friends and family, explored Parkhurst and Melville.  We only spent a few hours walking around, then had a bite to eat before our drive home... but I really enjoyed Johannesburg and I hope I get to go back and spend more time someday.

Meg and I also made it a real South African roadtrip by investing in some biltong to chew on.  South Africans are awfully proud of their version of beef jerky, and though I was thirsty for about eight hours after devouring a packet, I think I'm hooked!

It was a great trip-- especially with the addition of my new camera to the family.  I still have a lot to learn, and I'm nervous when it's around sticky children and the dusty wind, but I'm still very excited.

We're on school holidays again; this time it's spring midterm break, which seems like a funny way to describe the three weeks that we had school since the World Cup.  But I've busied myself with job applications in the hopes that someone will hire me come December.  I've discovered lots of education non-profits on the East Coast that have openings, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed for some sort of sign... and trying to remain in-the-moment about my last two months here in South Africa.

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