“You do the hokey pokey/ And you turn yourself around/ That’s what it’s all about!”

Without a doubt, my legacy at Siyazama Preschool will be . . . the Hokey Pokey. What can I say? It was a smashing success! Did the kids know the difference between their right and left? Definitely not! They don’t even speak English! But, did they have a blast and a half “shak[-ing] it all about”? HECK YES! As a matter of fact, their very favourite part was the clapping at the end, particularly the part of “a-bout” where I taught them to clap under their leg like I used to do at roller rink birthday parties in the third grade. Good times . . .

But I digress. The last month of my life was spent at Siyazama Preschool in the township of Imizamo Yethu (ee-mee-zah-moe yeh-too, or Mandela Park as the white people call it). It’s a small building with three rooms. One room is used for nothing other than putting kiddies in time out, the middle room is where they eat and hang their backpacks, and the back room is where they spend most of the day playing, watching videos, or (occasionally) learning! In this one tiny room, there is usually one teacher, every once in a while there’s the principal, and about 60 children between the ages of 2 and 6.

Oh, and me.

Did I mention that only the principal speaks English? YEA. That meant that on days she was there, I could communicate with her. And if she wasn’t (and she often wasn’t) . . . OH WELL! Put it this way: Janie got pretty damn good at international sign language, smiling and nodding, and other forms of non-verbal communication.

My main responsibility was creating and teaching workbook exercises to teach the children how to write the letters of the alphabet. Now, when I say “workbook,” I’m perhaps being a little generous. They became workbooks. In fact, they were actually blank notebooks that I had to individually write in daily exercises . . . for approximately 26 children. There were many days when these workbooks were the absolute bane of my existence. I tell you what, there are only so many times you can write “l is for lion” and it’s corresponding page of exercises before you go cross-eyed and the word “lion” begins to look like Sanskrit. BUT, it was the most productive I ever felt at Siyazama, so I wasn’t going to let a pesky little thing like not enjoying writing out 26 identical exercises every day stop me!

There are other reasons why the workbooks were a constant cause of inner conflict. On the one hand, it felt SO amazing to help a child work through their mistakes until they could write a perfectly acceptable “g,” especially when you consider that I couldn’t effectively just tell them how to do it. However, the teacher and the principal have little, if any, training on teaching young children, so when a child does something wrong, they’ll probably just get yelled at in a tone that suggests that it’s ridiculous that they (a 5-year-old) doesn’t know how to write a proper “g.” Rather, these teachers prefer to take the child’s hand in theirs and do the worksheet for them . . . SUPER! Now what has the child learned? Nothing. If the teacher does the worksheet, the kid doesn’t even have to be looking at it. It’s just magically done and magically the teacher is pleased with the child . . .

I saw this happen for about a week and a half before I plucked up the courage to mention it. After watching Viola, the principal, do the ENTIRE page for the letter “k” in about 10 seconds after I had spent an hour and a half the night before making sure that each child had at least one letter to do for worksheet time that day, I gently got her attention and said something tactful like, “Actually, Viola, I’d really like it if the kids would do the worksheets on their own. Obivously, it’s fine to help them out when they need it, but it’s important to me that they do it themselves.” She nodded and smiled and didn’t seem offended, so I guess it worked. Kind of. They still did worksheets for the kids sometimes, but it happened less frequently, sooooo I’ll call that a victory!

Teaching and interaction styles and customs were often surprising to me, as a matter of fact. The way children are treated here is much less gentle than at home. Not saying that our way is absolutely right and theirs is absolutely wrong, just that they are different. For example, when I say “less gentle,” I mean that milder forms of corporeal punishment are more than acceptable here. Things that I found shocking at first were standard practice. For example, when the children were a little slow to form a circle around the room, one of the teachers would often roughly grab them by the shirt or shoulders and shove them into place. The teacher also often used a stick to get the children’s attention. Don’t worry, she wasn’t hitting kids with it, but she would strike the ground in front of them or on the table top to make a lot of noise and get them to pay attention or back up. Yes, it made me nervous and even uncomfortable sometimes, but it certainly was not my place to intervene, especially since no child was really being harmed.

A side effect of this norm of rougher handling and yelling was that I had little, if any power to get the kids to be quiet. Between that and the language barrier, I was little more than a spectator or unintentional instigator when left in the room by myself. Knowing the kids knew the word “quiet,” I would sometimes shout it out and then shush them. This would either be ignored, or several of the kids would echo, “QUIET!” to the rest of the class. I never knew if they were sincerely trying to help me, just repeating a funny English word because I said it, or mocking me. I suppose it didn’t matter. It never worked anyway!

This lack of authority also spilled over into conflicts between the kids. Usually, thankfully, issues could be sorted out quickly and easily just by separating kids who were fighting or cuddling a child who was crying. Unfortunately, though, sometimes things weren’t that easy. Take the swings on the playground, for example: after my first week, I never went near them again! A child would be on the swing, having a ball, and then suddenly, another child would stop the swing and sit directly on top of the first child telling them to move. Then, three more children would descend upon the exact same swing, all grabbing and pushing and squirming and shouting. At first, I thought, “Oh no! I have to do something to keep these kids in order and teach them that they have to share and wait their turn!” However, I only speak English, they only speak Xhosa, and they have learned from experience that the most persistent and outrageously stubborn one will be the one to get the swing. I would start with talking, asking them nicely to stop standing on their friend’s kneecaps. When that didn’t work, I tried a more firm verbal approach. When that failed, I had to resort to physically prying the children off of the swing. You’d think that might work, right? WRONG! Just as soon as you had managed to pull an uncooperative child off the swing (after considerable physical effort to get them off the swing without actually hurting them) and set them off to the side, they’d dart between your legs and latch on in an even more impossible grip. In case you don’t buy how ridiculous it was at the swings, even the janitor who speaks ONLY Xhosa and is absolutely adored by the children there couldn’t wrangle them. We tried everything. Nothing worked. I never even looked at the swings again.

As this tale may indicate, sometimes these kids could be . . . difficult. But that was the challenge. I couldn’t be afraid to break up a fight or to be stern or to punish a child. They had to learn that such behaviour was not allowed. And I just had to learn how to handle things without communication. There were so many times that a child would come up to me crying, speaking spit-fire Xhosa, and pointing at another child. What could I do? At best, I could assume that the other child had done something to the one who was crying. But what? Did they punch them in the face or did they refuse to share their lollipop? Thankfully, my extensive experience with children has taught me that 9 times out of 10, a crying child just wants a little attention. Even if something was actually wrong, if I just gave them a hug, wiped away their tears, and tickled them, all was well again. This actually led to children preferring to talk to me about their problems since the teacher would probably just tell them to suck it up.

I was also unofficially put in charge of first aid for the same reason. Thankfully, it wasn’t needed but three times, but children would come to me with their “wounds” or nosebleeds, and I’d patch ‘em up! Interestingly enough, this was an interesting experience unto itself. South Africa has a serious HIV/AIDS problem, particularly among poor populations like the one I was working in. It’s estimated that close to half of people living in the township I worked in are HIV+, whether they know it yet or not. That meant that I couldn’t treat blood or open cuts as nothing. Even just to put on a bandaid, I had to don my latex gloves. I’ve never had to be careful about the possibility of exposure to HIV while working with children before I came to Africa. It was a strange thing to get used to. I also had to make sure that if I had any cuts or abrasions that they were covered by a bandaid ASAP. Even IF I’d somehow got an HIV+ child’s blood on an open wound on myself, chances are still astronomically small that I could become HIV+, but it was weird and kind of scary to think about.

Anyway, back to the kids: Even though they sometimes gave me headaches, I came to love those kids. All the little monsters usually made it up to me in the end and of course my star students were always perfect. The first name I learned was Sisipho (see-see-poe) and from that first day on, she was one of my favourites. She is one of the brightest, sweetest, and most mature children there. I love her! I also acquired a son and a daughter while there. My son is a 4-year-old boy named Oyama (oh-yah-mah) who latched on to me in my first week. I’m not sure why, but he just liked to be near me. Didn’t matter where we were, he wanted to either be wrapped around my leg, face buried in my pant leg, or in my arms, had resting on my shoulder. He’s missing his four front teeth. He’s adorable. My daughter is 3 (I think) and her name is Aftin. She’s one of the smallest people I’ve ever seen and her throne was sitting on my lap. She was a mischievous little bugger, but she could be very sweet. She even came in with a sneak-attack kiss on the lips at the beginning of my second week, which may have been part of what led to my string of sickness throughout the month . . . Regardless, it was sweet.

The kids also finally learned my name after four weeks! They started out, as with every new volunteer, calling me “umlungu” which is Xhosa for “white person.” I was not going to tolerate being called “White lady! White lady!” by 60 children, on top of which I wanted them to learn that, just like they are not all “black child,” I am an individual and I have a name. It’s “Jane.” Anyway, every time they called me “umlungu,” I would just look at them and say “Jane” until they said it back, and then I would respond. Some of them even loved just saying my name out loud. Just cuz. Or just cuz they wanted me to look at them. Whatever.

All the kids loved getting attention. Even more so than children at home, I think. For one thing, at school, they were one of sixty all vying for the attention of one to three adults, one of whom was usually a white foreigner (how exciting!). It was always so simple to make them smile. That’s one of the things I loved most about them. Even if I couldn’t carry on a conversation, or even ask them a simple question, I could make them laugh.

Some days were more difficult than others to organize activities for the kids to fill time. I’d want to teach them something or play a game, but wouldn’t be able to teach it since I didn’t speak the language and the one bilingual person on the staff was so rarely there. Some days, especially when the weather wouldn’t permit outside play time, the teacher would just pop in a VHS tape and let it run all morning. Then, when it was finished, she would rewind it . . . and play it again from the beginning. I don’t care to share with you how many times I watched the same damn Barney video. Those songs will never be out of my head. And no, I don’t mean the “I love you, You love me” gem. I’m talking about songs about brushing your teeth and the season called “fall.” (Kill me now.)

Thankfully, though, the teacher and I formed a really wonderful and inexplicable bond. We only really spoke to each other when she asked me the time, but somehow we became friends. She impressed me. When Viola was gone, she was much more fun and engaging with the kids. She was creative. She was lively. The children loved it and it was adorable. Sometimes, a child would do something funny, in the way that only children who just don’t have the sense of embarrassment that comes with adulthood do, and we would just look at each other and start laughing. I loved that. I’ll miss that.

Well, I only have four more days in Cape Town! Tomorrow I move from my home away from home here in Hout Bay to a hostel/backpackers in the city bowl. I’ve got some big plans for my last few days, so I’m pretty excited! I just know how much I’ll miss this place and these people.

To Shelby, Hanna, Karoline, Vanessa, Micha, Sisipho, Oyama, Aftin, Brian, Ibenathi, Yibanathi, Mziwonke, Khanya, Asivile, and the countless other people I’ve had the absolute pleasure of meeting: Thank you. I am truly a person changed for the better from this experience and from the things you’ve taught me.

(Not that they’ll EVER see this, but) I’d also like to send a special shout out to Afrika and Bridget. The things you taught me are too numerous and personal to recount here, but more than anyone or anything else, you both taught me more about real life in Africa and the strength of the human spirit than I could have ever asked for. In the short time that I’ve known you, I’ve not only become closer to the Africa I came to see, but I’ve also found a new direction in life: social work. The future has never seemed so clear to me, and that is in large part thanks to you both. Thank you. I’ll miss you.

Observations of Africa . . . So Far.

I haven’t posted on my blog in a while (oops), so I thought I’d go for a teaser/mini update for this one. The following are just some things that I’ve seen and/or noticed that either surprised me or just things I’d never seen before.

1)     There are 11 official languages in South Africa, and even more unofficial ones. Thankfully, almost everyone speaks English, though often as a second language. Also thankfully, since I’m white and am usually dressed in cargo pants and performance fleece, I am correctly assumed to be a tourist, and therefore people start with English when talking to me. However, if I’m dressed more ambiguously, some people may start in with Afrikaans. Better still, if I were black, I’d probably be approached first with iziXhosa or isiZulu and if I didn’t understand, I may be judged by the people talking to me. Language here is a complex issue, but one that I haven’t come into much negative contact with. For me, I just end up being unable to communicate verbally if the other person just doesn’t speak English. International sign language, anyone?

2)     Pedestrians as I know them from home, even in Memphis, are no comparison whatsoever to pedestrians here. I was completely unprepared for this aspect of life in Africa. Often there are no sidewalks and often people walk everywhere who cannot afford a car. Therefore, people are walking in the shoulder on the highway, literally only inches from the traffic barrelling past them. This includes children, too. At first, I was shocked that no one else was shocked when a huge truck tore past them, but now that I’ve also been walking on the shoulder with traffic speeding past, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I’m still nervous when I’m in a vehicle that appears to get uncomfortably close to a woman carrying an infant, but . . . Anyway, it’s something I’ve noticed.

3)     Cadbury is the big chocolate tycoon here, instead of Hershey’s. Most of their stuff I could take or leave, but . . . the Tempo bar . . . it is something else. It is something sent from Heaven. It’s irresistible. In fact, it’s come to the point that I have a Tempo bar approximately once a DAY. I don’t even really eat chocolate at home! What’s happening to me?! But really, if you get the chance to try one, DO NOT pass it up. It’s the perfect balance of caramel, biscuit (AKA cookie bits), and milk chocolate. PERFECTION.

4)     Seeing wildlife just wandering around has not yet lost its novelty and excitement. I hope it never does.

5)     Things are still very segregated in South Africa. Hout Bay, where I’ve been staying and volunteering, is actually something like a little petri dish of South Africa: on one side of the bay, there’s the township of Imizamo Yethu (AKA Mandela Park to the white people who cannot pronounce it’s real name) where all of the black people live, mostly still in a squalor of shacks and unsanitary conditions; on the other side of the bay, above the harbour, lives the “coloured” community (another leftover category from the apartheid regime) who has a little bit of money, and therefore, a drug problem; then, in the middle of it all, only a stone’s throw from the black and coloured communities living in poverty, you’ll find the roomy homes and manicured lawns of the rich white people. It’s startling. And Hout Bay is no exception to the rule. The very rich rub up against the very poor all over the country.

6)     Somewhat as a result of the issue from #6, I’ve noticed that many white South Africans appear to be ashamed of their nationality. I certainly understand why. After all, apartheid was only 20 years ago, so I can only imagine how it would feel to be a white South African right now.

7)     People here are freakin’ friendly! Walking to and from my volunteer placement, or just out and about, I say hello/smile/nod/all of the above to almost everyone I pass. It’s a fantastic way to start the morning, and it reminds me of southern hospitality, and I like that.

8)     Many women carry their babies on their backs, tied up with a towel to keep them in place. Baby’s secure and out of the way and always seems oddly comfortable. I love the way it looks and it’s a lot cheaper than a Baby Bjorn!

9)     African taxis (AKA a “kombi”) are one of my favourite things about Africa. Rather than calling a cab to come and pick you up, or waiting at a stop for a bus, you just kind of . . . wait by the road for a big van to drive by. Usually they are certified to carry 16 passengers, but they’ll pack in around 19 if they can, or even if they can’t, to maximize their money. As they drive by, you wave them down and climb in! You can get bargain rates to anywhere in the area. There isn’t really a route they take, nor are there specific “kombi” stops. You just ask the driver to stop when it’s time to stop, or wait until he kicks everyone out before he turns around to go back! Some people worry about safety on these things, but I used them every day to get to my placement in Swaziland and have used them countless times here to get into Cape Town and back to Hout Bay. Drivers are usually friendly and helpful, as are the other passengers, they only run while it’s light out, and people tend to just keep to themselves and ride it out! And, as I mentioned, they’re CHEAP! Whereas a taxi from Hout Bay to Cape Town city center may cost around R250, I can take a kombi and pay only R9! I love it. LOVE IT.

Did I mention I went bungee jumping?

Made it to Cape Town, folks! I’m all settled in Hout Bay, a suburb of Cape Town that is only a very scenic 20-minute drive from the City Bowl, and have survived my first week of volunteering at a preschool in the nearby township of Imizamo Yethu! But I’ll get into all of that in my next post. First of all, I’ll catch you all up on my last week of travelling along the South African coast!

Port Elizabeth was basically a bed to sleep in for the night. We arrived around 10pm and left around 7am the next morning. This unfortunately also meant that I couldn’t see my friends who live there, since we had no time. However, Port Elizabeth was the first time I spoke to my family on the phone since my first day in South Africa a week beforehand, and my first time to talk to Skylar on the phone since my layover in London THREE weeks beforehand! It felt SO great to hear his voice and, to top it all off, he got his NREMT results while we were on the phone and, of course, he PASSED! I’m so proud of him. And it felt really good to be with him in any way when he got the news.

The next morning was spent on the Baz Bus again. About 4 hours with the single most talkative bus driver I have ever seen in my life and, no, not in a good way (particularly for that early in the morning). But, we were thankfully rid of him once we arrived in Tsitsikamma, our next destination.

Once we got settled in our new backpackers lodge, we decided to go ahead and do our included canopy tour that day. We left around noon, and spent the early afternoon zip-lining between the canopies of different forest trees. It was lovely up there and some of the slides were pretty long and pretty fast. We had a great time and even the girls who were nervous at first were really mastering it by the end! But, just as it was in Swaziland, it was fun, but certainly not as thrilling as you might think.

However, after our included lunch, I and the other girls piled into the shuttle to visit a place with plenty of thrills and, admittedly, a place I was all but certain I’d never see: Bloukrans Bungy, the highest commercial bungee bridge in the world . . . Ok ok ok, I have spent much of my life slowly whittling away at my fear of heights, working up to skydiving, but the ONE and ONLY thing I knew that I would NEVER do was a bungee jump . . . But here’s where things went terribly and wonderfully wrong and something changed. I don’t know exactly what changed or how it changed, but change it did. All I had heard about for the past two days was this damn bungee jump, over and over again, and for one reason or another, I started to think, “Well, maybe I could do that . . .” But first, as always, I had to talk to people, ask lots of questions, and, if possible, see it for myself first. I messaged my friends Tracy and Megan and learned that the snap at the end wasn’t that bad and that Tracy was glad she did it, but would never to it again. I learned that most people’s scariest moment, other than the initial jump, is the first rebound when you are briefly back in a freefall. I learned that you’re not left hanging upside down for a really long time after your jump. I also had seen a promotional video on the Baz Bus that morning that showed a little more of how it actually looked and that it could even be fun! All of this information made it feel more real and more possible.

Joanne was also interested, which was another boost of confidence. I mean, I wouldn’t necessarily be alone out there . . . Kene, the only guy with us on the trip, had been excited about it the whole trip, but a day or two before we got to Tsitsikamma he decided that “it didn’t interest him” and if he spent the money, he’d rather spend it on skydiving . . . suuuuuuure. We’ll see about that here in Cape Town. He maintains that he didn’t chicken out, but I think that’s exactly what happened. Regardless, Joanne and I were ready to check this nonsense out and see if we had a shot in hell at actually going through with it.

We arrived at the site and made a beeline for the viewing platforms to get our first real look at this beast. I have to my honest, upon first sight my thought was something like, “Hooooolyyyyyyyy SHIT.” The bridge spanned a massive and deep ravine and from where we were standing, the ropes and platform were miniscule in comparison. My stomach was instantly full of butterflies. But then, something unexpected happened. The more Joanne and I looked at it, the more confident we started to feel! It was like my brain just said, “Aw, fuck it. You’re already here. Why not?!” Joanne and I looked at one another and decided: GAME ON.

After a quick bathroom break to avoid any embarrassing incidents, we were suddenly at the registration desk getting weighed and signing our lives away and handing over money. We were in it to win it, now! We had to rush a little bit because there was a group leaving in five minutes. Perfect: less time to think or chicken out. Once we were fitted with our harnesses, we met our fellow jumpers: Jack, a teenager from Britain whose parents brought him, and billy, an older man from the States, ex-Air Force, along with his wife who had done the jump 7 years earlier and was no present to offer moral support. With barely a pause, we were off down the path to the bridge! Our main guide for the next half hour or so, another Joanne, told us that our jump could reach speeds of 90mph, our rope would stretch out to about 180m (or about 590ft) of the 216m (or about 710ft) from the bridge to the ground below, and that we were going to have a great time . . . oh my GOD, we were really doing it! Joanne and I joked that he shouldn’t have told us all that until after our jumps, but honestly, I didn’t really know exactly how high it was until I did the conversion from meters to feet later that evening! I mean, shit! I’m glad I was blissfully ignorant at the time! But, man did I feel good! I was ready and I was excited.

Our first challenge was to make it to the jumping platform by way of a footbridge underneath the road with a floor made of a slightly heavier chainlink design, making it see-through to the ravine below. It also gave a little bit with every step. Thankfully, I was so pumped up for the jump that I made it across easily. I kept my eyes forward (except for one look out at the ocean and one glance straight down), walked quickly, and kept one hand on the railing. Once we were on the platform, I started to get even more excited. There were guys running around everywhere: taking pictures, setting gear, pulling ropes, and God only knows what else. But at the same time, they were all smiling, chatty, and striving to help us all relax and enjoy the experience. It was very comforting without bringing the energy down.

The order was decided (we think by weight) and it was to be Billy, Jack, ME, and finally Joanne. I tell you what, these guys were NOT messing around once it was time to jump. The jumper was sat down, strapped in, told one or two things about how safe it was, and they were off . . . off a bridge . . . In a flash, Billy and Jack had jumped and it was my turn. I at least got to see Billy come back up, so I knew that at least he had survived!

They sat me down on a block next to the platform and got to work. Securing padding on my ankles, tying a strap around the padding around my ankles (using a knot that he assured me would get stronger and tighter the more weight was on it) that could support a weight of more than three tons, and comforting me by saying that this was “100% safe.”

Suddenly, I was up, bunny hopping to the safety rail (since my ankles were secured together), they hooked and unhooked a bunch of stuff, they put their arms under mine, carried me to the edge with my toes hanging over, I lifted my head up, held my arms out, heard them shout “12345BUNGEE!!!” and I jumped.

I felt and thought so many different things over the next 30 seconds, but in the moment, my mind was completely blank. The first thing to set in was absolute TERROR. I wish my DVD had sound, because I hit an octive and decibel I thought impossible. I was in freefall more than 700ft from the rocky stream at the bottom of the ravine . . . What in the FUCK am I doing?!?!?!? And then, even before all the slack in the rope was gone, the beauty of what I was looking at and how I was looking at it struck me like a bolt of lightening. Billy’s wife, before our jump, had said that you feel like an angel in flight, seeing the world the way God sees it from heaven. And as stupid as I thought that sounded when she said it, that was exactly it. My screaming stopped. All I could hear was the wind rushing in my ears. And I gasped. Not from fear, but from wonder . . . Now, that is a feeling I will never forget, and although it felt like it happened in slow motion at the time, it probably lasted less than a second.

Then came the next bit of terror: the first rebound. Just like everyone had said, I bounced back up, my body rotated back to horizontal, and I was back in freefall. I think it’s only as scary as it is because you’ve already felt the relief of the rope catching you, so when that’s suddenly gone again, you do not like it.

After that, I just bounced up and down several more times, all the while feeling the rope tight around my ankles. At one point, I finally relaxed. You can see it in my video: my hands and arms have been out the whole time, but they suddenly just drop and hang over my head. It was then that I started to feel an intense self-pride. I was all alone, on the other side of the world, hanging from a rope, dangling upside down from a bridge. WOW. And all this from the girl who, less than a month ago, had said “NEVER” to the bungee.

I pulled my hands up to my head and face out of disbelief (and possibly thanking God for my survival). I could feel the blood rushing to my head and unable to escape my feet. Then, my savior arrived, introducing himself as Spider Man, turned me upright, and we were pulled back up to the platform. I was grinning like a damn fool when I was finally gently placed back on the platform. I did it. I made it. And it felt incredible.

The remaining two days of the bus trip paled in comparison to the bungee experience. I felt like I’d been admitted into a secret society. Now, when everyone asked if I did the bungee . . . I could say yes! But, our next stop was Cape Town, which would mark the beginning of the next chapter of my trip. We celebrated our last night together at the famous Mama Africa restaurant on Long Street. Everyone ordered something different so we could all try everything: I had the crocodile kebabs (sort of like a chewier, seafood version of chicken), but I also got to try a traditional beef dish, warthog, and ostrich!

The next morning I was picked up by my new volunteer coordinator, Shelby, and was whisked off to my new home away from home in Hout Bay, Cape Town, South Africa. It’s been a week and a half now, and I’ve seen and learned SO much already.

. . . But that’ll have to wait until my next blog post. Look out for it this weekend!