Over the past few weeks, the population of Grahamstown has gradually left. First it was Emily (moved to Cape Town), then Kim (back to Canada), then most everyone I know that is/was associated with Rhodes University – some have moved on, some will come back when school reopens in February. Yoga lessons have stopped. I haven’t been running into people I know at Pick ‘n’ Pay. The Old Gaol bar is empty most nights. I’m anticipating a lonely January.
But for the moment, I’m leaving Grahamstown too. Tomorrow I fly off to Dar es Salaam to spend the holidays in Tanzania with two other CBA interns, Cristiano and Prasanna. We’ll spend a few days in Zanzibar, maybe visit a game park, and play the rest by ear. I’m looking forward to some real hot weather (which there hasn’t been much of in Grahamstown) and Christmas on the beach. It will be a different holiday and I will miss spending it with friends and family back home, but I am grateful to be travelling and meeting up with some fellow Canadians.
Merry Christmas & Happy New Year! See you in January.
Of all the places in South Africa, before coming here, I was most intimidated by Johannesburg. I had heard awful stories about rape (people sleep in anti-rape cages!), muggings (in broad daylight!), carjackings (people don’t stop at red lights!), and other violent crimes. I even routed my flights through Cape Town to avoid the Joburg airport.
But you can’t live in South Africa long without wanting to meet Jozi. The first time I passed through (on my way to Groot Marico), the Joburg native I met quickly dashed the myth of the anti-rape cage. I started to hear about Jozi as “the most cosmopolitan city in Africa” and “the great big beating heart of South Africa” (Lonely Planet), “the world’s largest man-made forest” and "an absolutely exquisite city” (Joburg native), and “a lively place where there’s always something to do” (CBA intern in Joburg).
I headed to Joburg for a long weekend including Reconciliation Day (December 16). What a shock to be in the big city again! City lights, traffic, shopping malls, smog, starless nights… But also things to do, food to eat, places to spend money, sights to see.
First stop for law nerds is Constitution Hill, which contains South Africa’s new Constitutional Court and is built on the site of an old prison that housed Mandela and Ghandi. Since Lonely Planet touts it as “one of the city’s – if not the country’s – chief tourist attractions”, I was surprised to find only two other tourists (who, interestingly enough, had come down from Zimbabwe for “provisions”). We were free to wander around the old Number Four prison and the Old Fort. The Constitutional Court, which is the highest court for constitutional matters in South Africa, is beautiful: built around the stairwells of the old Awaiting Trial Block, large windows, colourful artwork with metaphorical meaning.
I also visited the township of Soweto. A “township” is essentially a poor non-white (obviously) suburb – but Soweto is so much more, with a population of over 2 million and unparalleled historical importance (centre of the resistance, site of the Soweto Uprising and the adoption of the Freedom Charter, Mandela’s and Tutu’s homes). Nowadays both rich and poor live in Soweto. And the drinks aren’t always cheap – R15 for Savannah at Sakumzis!
A highlight was meeting George Bizos at the LRC Joburg office and Constitutional Litigation Unit. The CBA Joburg interns showed me around and we had lunch with Mr. Bizos and a Wits law student working personally with Mr. Bizos for a month. It was an honour to meet this extraordinary man and watch him work.
There is more to see in Jozi, but it was plenty for my first visit. And after a weekend in the city, I was again astounded by the stars in the big Eastern Cape sky as I rode the shuttle back to Grahamstown.
Yes, it’s a country! Lesotho is a small land-locked country in the middle of South Africa. Kim and I travelled there for a week at the end of November for her “farewell tour” to Africa…
Lesotho is the home of the Basotho people. Led by the King Moshoeshoe the Great, they sought safety in the Drakensburg and Maluti mountain ranges. They fought off Boer incursions, allying themselves with the British. Basotholand came under the direct control of the British imperial government in 1884. One unexpected benefit of this was that when South Africa was formed in 1910, Basotholand was a British protectorate and was not included in South Africa, so it never became a homeland under apartheid.
Kim and I rented a car in Grahamstown and drove up through Queenstown, Aliwal North, Zastron and Wepener to enter Van Rooyens Gate at Mafeteng. Lesotho’s freedom from an apartheid past was immediately apparent. The people are more friendly, open, and relaxed – and they still stare and wave at non-Blacks. After 3 months of the complexities of race in South Africa, the simplicity of the Basotho approach was refreshing.
We spent 5 nights under the auspices of Malealea Lodge. These included a 3-day pony trek with 2 nights in the Basotho huts in the villages of Ribaneng and Sekoting. Our Basotho ponies were long-suffering and sure-footed on the steep rocky trails. I could almost fall asleep to the rhythm of their hoofbeats on the remote mountain passes.
At Malealea, we befriended an Italian duo (imagine their surprise when I spoke Italian to them). They told us about “the world’s longest commercially operated single-drop abseil” at Semonkong Lodge. They headed there on their ponies and we asked them to book us lodging. For us, it was a rough 150km drive that took 5 hours, as the final 70km was a gravel road through the mountains. The last 100 metres was the worst – I inched our tiny VW Chico down a rocky pass as people and donkeys plodded by, easily passing us.
Finally, we reached Semonkong (“Place of Smoke”), a misty magical place amidst the mountains where we abseiled 204m down the cliff face of Maletsunyane Falls. A breathtaking, petrifying, 20-minute long total adrenaline rush!
Kombi, kombi, bakkie, eskepeni… then barefoot through the grass and cow dung across the hills. That’s how I made it to paradise on earth at Bulungula.
It was a long journey, sometimes daunting and often uncomfortable, but I finally felt like I touched the heart of South Africa. One of my favourite ways to travel in West Africa was public transport – bobbing to music, jolting down bad roads, chatting with strangers, crammed in like sweaty sardines – and it has been one of the things I've missed most in South Africa. I don’t need transport in Grahamstown, and my colleagues have discouraged me taking informal public transport. So when our workshop in Qunu ended early on Friday afternoon, I evaluated my options for getting to Bulungula Lodge. Either I could wait for 3 hours for the lodge’s shuttle at the petrol station in Mthatha, or I could start the journey on my own. I studied my printouts from the website. They provided detailed instructions for public transport, and also said: "Not only are minibuses and non-tourist buses much cheaper and quicker but they are also often the best way to meet interesting people and to learn about local culture. We recommend a crowded bakkie taxi filled with people, chickens, groceries and laughs over luxury transport any day. Coming by local transport is definitely the only way to appreciate the unique location of the lodge. In fact, anyone who arrives at the lodge by local transport from Mthatha gets the first night free." Surely they wouldn’t recommend it if it weren’t safe! I decided it was now or never for public transport.
A worried Rufus dropped me at the Coffee Bay turn off the N2 highway, where I caught a kombi taxi to Mqanduli, then changed cars for Elliotdale/Xhora. There I caught a bakkie taxi to Nkanya, making sure (in accordance with instructions) to ask the driver to drop me at the "eskepeni" (ferry). For my first time in South Africa, nobody spoke English and there were no white or coloured people in sight. People stared. I quickly latched onto anyone that I discovered spoke any English, hoping they would help me on my way.
It was crowded in the back of the bakkie jammed in with 9 Xhosa women and a whole lotta cargo. The canopy made awful ripping sounds and I could swear that it (and the cargo on top) was going to crash down on our heads at any moment. The women chatted loudly and drank sugary drinks and threw the packets out the window. Everyone stared but nobody spoke to me. I kind of wondered how the hell I would get there. After a while, I took out my map to try to decipher where we were. One of the girls said: "Where are you going? I don't know you speak English; I think you only speak Chi-na." I told her I needed to take the eskepeni to Bulungula, and she told me another women would also take the ferry.
After 2 hours, the bakkie started emptying and the driver offered me the front seat. I could see we were nearing the Xhora river. Suddenly, I saw a sign that said "Nkanya" and I noticed everyone disembarking; I was the only one left. I panicked and quickly got out of the car. The other woman taking the ferry was standing by the roadside. A crowd of local men and boys had gathered and were staring at me. I asked the driver, "Where are you taking me?!" He said "They get off here, I take you to the other side." I didn't believe him (how could I be the ONLY passenger left?!) and decided to follow this woman. I kept repeating to her "eskepeni, eskepeni."
Two Rasta men grabbed her packages and started walking. One of them spoke a little English and I tried to establish that we were headed for the eskepeni to Bulungula, but I still wasn’t sure. My biggest consolation was that we were headed downwards in the general direction I had seen the river. We walked for about 30 minutes through the mud and grass, then to my relief we reached the riverbank. A few women and children were there and I sat down to wait. A small canoe arrived, rowed by a young boy. The women motioned to me to take off my shoes and roll up my pants, and we waded out and boarded the ferry. I obsessively repeated to them "Bulungula, Bulungula." On the other side, I understood through various motions that I was to follow a certain small boy. Still barefoot, we walked through the rolling hills for about 30 minutes, then he pointed to a group of rondavels that looked like the picture on the Bulungula website. I gave him 15 rand and a juice box. I could see white people! I felt safe.
The irony is that I was safe all along. Arriving at the lodge, I met the owner Dave Martin and told him about my journey. He told me that the bakkie drivers take guests a little bit further as a favour to the lodge – that’s why I had to walk so long to the ferry. How sorry I felt that I had insulted that driver, but without knowing, there was nothing else I could have done in those circumstances.
I spent a heavenly weekend at Bulungula. Bulungula is an ethical backpackers lodge and community development organization in Nqileni village on the Wild Coast. It is 40% community owned, eco-friendly (with solar energy, compost toilets, and paraffin-powered "rocket" showers), and set in what may be the most beautiful place in South Africa. There are no fences and I slept in a rondavel with no lock on the door. The people from the village run tours and services for which they keep 100% of profits. I spent the morning with a village woman (she painted my face, we made a mud and dung brick, collected water and firewood, picked greens and ground maize then used them to make lunch), had a nap on the beach (where I was completely alone), went horseriding with a young boy along the coast and through the village, then finished the day with a private massage in my rondavel. True to their word, Bulungula gave me my first night free for making it on public transport.
However, Nqileni is also one of the poorest, most remote villages in South Africa. There are no roads, running water, clinic, schools or electricity. This was really brought home on Sunday morning when I spoke with Dave and learned that he had driven two people to the hospital during the night. Bulungula has the only vehicle (a 4x4) in the area. A third woman, in labour, had come at dawn, but he was too exhausted and asked her to wait until 8am. She hadn’t waited – and had set off on the long journey that I had come on. Water, education, and health care are enshrined rights under South Africa's Bill of Rights. Maybe there's a legal case (and another trip here) to be made…
I know – it’s been a long time. My only excuse is that I’ve been making the most of my time here and the past month has been full of interesting work and travels. Thanks to everyone who has continued checking the blog; I hope you enjoy these long overdue updates.
Last month, Rufus and I headed back on that same road to the Transkei that we took during my first week at the LRC. This time, however, our stop was in Qunu. Note that Qunu is pronounced with a violent click on the “Q” that (according to my Xhosa book) is produced by sucking the front of the tongue to the front of the palate and pulling it away rapidly to produce a loud popping sound (give it a try – I can’t do it!).
Qunu is the village where Nelson Mandela spent the “happiest days” of his childhood and traces his earliest memories. He describes it in his autobiography Long Walk to Freedom:
The village of Qunu was situated in a narrow, grassy valley crisscrossed by clear streams, and overlooked by green hills. It consisted of no more than a few hundred people who lived in huts, known as rondavels, which were beehive-shaped structures of mud walls, with a wooden pole in the center holding up a peaked, grass roof. The floor was made of crushed ant-heap, the hard dome of excavated earth above an ant colony, and was kept smooth by smearing it regularly with fresh cow dung. The smoke from the hearth escaped through the roof, and the only opening was a low doorway one had to stoop to walk through. The rondavels were generally grouped together in a residential area that was some distance away from the maize fields. There were no roads, only paths through the grass worn away by barefooted boys and women. The women and children of the village wore blankets dyed in ocher; only the few Christians in the village wore Western-style clothing. Cattle, sheep, goats, and horses grazed together in common pastures. The land around Qunu was mostly treeless except for a cluster of poplars on a hill overlooking the village. The land itself was owned by the state. With very few exceptions, Africans at the time did not enjoy private title to land in South Africa but were tenants paying rent annually to the government. In the area, there were two small primary schools, a general store, and a dipping tank to rid the cattle of ticks and diseases.
Much of Madiba’s description remains true. The village is a cluster of rondavels surrounded by the open veld and rolling hills of the Wild Coast.
Part of Madiba’s legacy in Qunu is the Nelson Mandela Youth and Heritage Centre, the second component of the Nelson Mandela Museum. There, the LRC (with the assistance of the Transkei Land Service Organisation – TRALSO) hosted women from surrounding rural communities in a workshop on the proposed Traditional Courts Bill. The Bill attempts to reform the law to support and enhance customary courts and align them with the Constitution. It was introduced to Parliament in March 2008, but withdrawn because there was not enough time to complete the legislative and consultative procedures required by the Constitution. There was also criticism by public interest groups that the Bill failed to consult rural people and to address the problems rural women face in customary courts. The Bill will be reintroduced in 2009. For this reason, the LRC is consulting with rural women and preparing submissions and recommendations for Parliament.
As is often the case, I played a very minor role in the workshop because it was 90% in Xhosa. However, it was a remarkable experience to see women from these rural communities debating and sharing about their experiences in traditional governance. Some of the issues that arose: What should be done when there is more than one system of customary law within a court’s boundaries? Should the customary courts have a prescribed quota of women? Should people should be able to opt out of customary courts? What can be done to improve access to justice, particularly for women and in rural areas?
Several people have asked me what it was like to be in Africa when Obama was elected. In Kenya, they declared a national holiday. Personally, I was excited and elated – I woke at 4am, checked the TV, heard "OBAMA OBAMA", and went back to bed feeling immensely relieved. To have a black man as the president of the United States! But his colour is only a very small part of it. It was incredible to see the long snaking lines of people queuing to vote (reminiscent of South Africa in 1994) and the worldwide emotion that followed his election. People still have hope for change.
Surprisingly, there seemed to be little reaction in South Africa. I was disappointed to find nobody to share my excitement with! My best guess is that South Africans are too caught up in their own complicated politics, which have been especially controversial lately with the resignation of President Thabo Mbeki and the deep divisions in the African National Congress (ANC). It is a common topic of conversation and headlines. I don't really know what to think about the split in the ANC. On the one hand, the ANC has enjoyed an overwhelming majority for so long and I think it must be good for democracy for people to have an alternative. On the other hand, the ANC has been the party of the people, which needed and harnessed that popular support to lead the country out of apartheid, and Mandela and Tutu have been quoted in the media as being unsupportive of the party split. When South African politics are so damn interesting, it’s no wonder that American politics remain on the periphery.
The other weekend, I headed out with Kim and two other lady friends to visit the handsome and rare mountain zebra (Equus zebra). Mountain Zebra National Park is situated in the Karoo, a bewitching semidesert area a few hours north of Grahamstown. Mountain zebras are distinguished from other zebra species by their small stature, narrower stripes, reddish-brown nose, and dewlap (a loose fold of skin hanging beneath the throat). They were nearly extinction in the 1930s with less than 100 zebra in the world and only 6 in the Park. A neighbouring farmer improved the Park’s breeding pool by trading 11 zebra for a blesbok. Since then, their numbers have steadily improved and today there are about 300 zebra in the Park.
Each time I visit a game park, I feel incredibly fortunate to be in the company of such astonishingly beautiful creatures. Imagine hiking through the hills, cresting a hill and suddenly seeing a mountain zebra staring straight at you, both of you surprised. Here are some of the remarkable animals and landscape we saw. (As usual, click on a photo to enlarge.)
With globalization comes Hallowe’en in Grahamstown! I made myself a bat costume by fashioning wings out of a black umbrella (courtesy of Martha Stewart) and sewing them onto a black top, tying my hair into makeshift ears, and drawing a black mask on my face. Painted the “A for anarchy” symbol on a South African friend’s face and headed off together to a party at a Dutch and a German friend’s place. Not exactly South African, but loads of fun!
Europeans first reached Southern Africa in the 15th century. However, no Europeans decided to settle here until the 17th century. These were the Afrikaners – the White Tribe of Africa.
The Afrikaners started out as a small group of employees of the Dutch East India Company who were released from their contracts to establish farms. Mainly Dutch and German, they were later joined by French Calvinists fleeing religious persecution. They also brought Indian and Malay slaves, who gradually mixed into the population to form today’s coloured people. Their numbers increased and they moved north and eastward into the heart of Africa. They took up a semi-nomadic farming lifestyle and became known as Trekboers (“wandering farmers”), later shortened to Boers. Extremely isolated and intensely religious, these were the first white people to develop a connection and loyalty to Africa, referring to themselves as “Afrikaners”. Over the next couple of centuries, the Afrikaners battled with the Khoekhoen, British, Zulu and other tribes. In 1948, the radical Afrikaner-led National Party was voted into government and began its methodical program of apartheid.
I think the history of South Africa must often make it difficult for Afrikaners to be proud of who they are. But as the years add distance between apartheid and the South Africa of today, some Afrikaners have told me that they are once again starting to feel proud of their culture.
To get a taste of Afrikaner culture, two weekends ago I headed off to a tiny locale called GrootMaricot. About two hours west of Johannesburg, GrootMaricot is the proud home of the rather obscure Herman Charles Bosman Festival. We would never have heard of the Bosman Festival if it weren’t for an Afrikaner friend named Ronelle (who you may remember from the farewell party in Bathurst), who called it “the best Afrikaner cultural experience that you can have in English.”
Kim and I flew to Joburg on Friday night, where we were picked up and transported to Balfour to sleep at Ronelle’s parents’ farm. On Saturday morning, we had a proper Afrikaner breakfast of pap topped with chopped onions and tomatoes, cheese, chillies, pineapple, and curry paste. Then we packed up the car with camping gear and hit the road to the Maricot.
Bosman is widely regarded as South Africa’s greatest short story writer. He wrote about Afrikaner characters and society in English. He fell in love with the Maricot and the region’s bushveld (savannah with bushes and small thorny trees). The festival was, well, intimate. In an audience of less than 50 participants, we were treated to readings and plays, food and drink (including mampoer, a horrid apricot brandy). The stories certainly reflect a different time, a hardy people, the Marico landscape, and the racial attitudes that reveal so much about the fabric of South African society. Here, for example, is the opening passage from “Starlight on the Veld”, the first story in Bosman’s famous collection Mafeking Road and other stories:
It was a cold night (OomSchalkLourens said), the stars shone with that frosty sort of light that you see on the wet grass some mornings, when you forget that it is winter, and you get up early, by mistake. The wind was like a girl sobbing out her story of betrayal to the stars.
Jan Ockerse and I had been to Derdepoort by donkey-cart. We came back in the evening. And Jan Ockerse told me of a road round the foot of a koppie that would be a short cut back to Drogevlei. Thus it was that we were sitting on the veld, close to the fire, waiting for the morning. We would then be able to ask a kaffir to tell us a short cut back to the foot of that koppie.
The real gem of the weekend was the thunderstorm on Saturday night that prompted me to seek out the festival organizer to ask for shelter. He seemed right out of a Bosman story as he stood there with his long grey hair and beard, clasped my hands and proclaimed, “Of course you cannot go camp in this rain, you must sleep in the Bosman school!” We had the immense privilege of sleeping in the one-roomed Bosman schoolhouse amidst bushveld paintings on warm cow dung floors. True Afrikaner hospitality.
South Africa's Constitution has a fantastic Bill of Rights. But sometimes a series of injustices, already transpired, cannot be completely cured.
The rule of primogeniture (Latin: primus, first + genitus, born) is the exclusive right of inheritance belonging to the eldest son. This was the system of intestate succession followed in African customary law before the Constitution. The rule was overturned by the South African Constitutional Court in a case called Bhe and Others v Khayelitsha Magistrate and Others, [2004] ZACC 17 as discriminatory against women. However, the law could only be declared unconstitutional retrospective to 27 April 1994, which was when the interim South African Constitution came into effect at the end of apartheid.
Enter our client, Mr. X, a black man. He was dealt one of the many injustices under apartheid when his land was expropriated by the state in the 1980s. The apartheid government implemented systematic racial segregation by declaring specified areas “Indian”, “White”, or “Coloured” areas and establishing Bantustans, or black homelands. The LRC was assisting Mr. X with his claim for restitution of the property to the Commission on Restitution of Land Rights, which was set up in the spirit of the new South African Constitution.
Mr. X inherited the land in the 1950s from his father under the rule of primogeniture. However, Mr. X has two sisters -- whose existence the LRC only learned of last year. The Commission has generally taken a firm position that it will not exclude women from the restitution of land. Thus our conundrum.
Legally, the Commission may have little basis for insisting that Mr. X share the property with his sisters since he inherited the land in the 1950s, long before women had equality rights under the Constitution. However, the LRC would be in an uncomfortable position if we had to argue in court against the Commission that his sisters should be excluded from sharing the land based on the archaic and unconstitutional rule of primogeniture. The spirit of the LRC is to work for the mistreated and excluded. That is why we took Mr. X’s case over 10 years ago. But that is also why we now had to give it up.
It was sad to give up Mr. X’s case after the LRC had spent over 10 years working on it and was just reaching the exciting stage of court application against the Commission. It is even sadder that Mr. X would rather pay a private lawyer rather than share the property with his sisters. But I can understand his position as the original dispossessed. And that is his legal right.
Living in a small place like Grahamstown, sometimes the weekend brings a longing for big city life. Late on a Friday night two weeks ago, I was drinking wine at my apartment with Emily and Paddy (a journalism professor at Rhodes) when – after plenty of wine – the crazy idea occurred to Emily and me to fly to Cape Town the next morning. We booked our flights just before midnight, and at 6am the next morning we were off!
It was a whirlwind trip that was an introduction to, rather than a tour of, Cape Town. Having lived in cities all my life, we set about satisfying all the big-city cravings I’ve been deprived of during a month of tiny Grahamstown – mainly food and shopping! We shopped at a few boutiques on Long and Kloof Streets and at the mega-mall at the Waterfront. I took the opportunity to buy a few warmer items as I have been surprised by the COLD COLD weather in the Eastern Cape. We stumbled upon a friendly Capetonian who told us about the Saturday market at the Old Biscuit Mill then kindly gave us a lift there in his glittering SUV. It was full of little boutiques, funky shops and galleries, and a huge organic and specialty foods market! The lovely thing about a visit to Cape Town is that you can actually do your grocery shopping there and bring it home to Grahamstown. I think I almost choked with excitement when I saw a table full of pâtés and specialty meats. We picked up an assortment of lovely things like olives, cheese, pestos, salami, and fresh artichokes that are not readily available in Grahamstown. We caught a minibus taxi and headed downtown to our hotel, a cool boutique called the Grand Daddy. On Saturday night, Emily and I celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving in style with oysters and sushi at the rather pretentious Beluga Restaurant.
My first impression of Cape Town is of a cool metropolis with a stunning natural setting between the ocean and Table Mountain – in some ways, it reminds me of Vancouver. What doesn’t remind me of Vancouver is the racial segregation. I don’t think I’ve been anywhere in Africa where I saw so few black Africans. I suppose that we also have a stark contrast between rich and poor in Vancouver – I think of clearly ill people begging for change on Robson Street – but it is just not on such racial lines.
The other day I did something very South African: I went for an HIV/AIDS test.
The place to go in Grahamstown is the Raphael Centre, a non-governmental organization for people living with HIV/AIDS. I decided to go check it out, and why not? Get tested.
The Raphael Centre is located on a quiet residential street. I entered and told the woman at reception, “I’d like to get tested.” I was immediately guided to the counsellor’s room, where the counsellor asked a few questions like: “Are you sexually active? How many partners have you had in the past month? Four months? Did you use a condom the last time you had sex?” I then went to see the nurse, who administered the test. She took a drop of my blood and put it into a notch on a small plastic slide, then added a drop of test solution. While waiting for the results, we chatted. She educated me on the “window period”, the three-month period immediately after contracting HIV/AIDS where it might not show up on a test because your body has not yet produced the antibodies. I could see my blood seeping across an open slot on the plastic slide, reach the other side, then come back. A small line appeared.
The strange thing was how nervous I felt while waiting for the results, even though I knew my chances of testing positive were virtually nil. I suppose this is the reason so many people who actually are at risk don’t get tested. HIV/AIDS is very much a part of the consciousness in South Africa. The statistics are frightening – about 20% of the population is infected, and rumour is that 1 of 6 students at Rhodes are positive. Advertisements encouraging people to practise safe sex and get tested are everywhere. And so is the fear.
I recently read this passage from Stephen Lewis’s book Race Against Time (pp. 53-54):
On the floor of the hut lies a young woman – always young – in her twenties or thirties, so wan and emaciated as to be unable to lift either hand or head. I bend down, painfully inadequate to the circumstance, and touch her brow, uttering some pointless banality which is intended to soothe, and then as I step back, looking around me, I see her children, all her children, standing in the darkened shadows, watching their mother die.
How do they ever recover? The death is long, agonizing, and filled with indignity. The children wash their mother, they clean her up when she’s incontinent (an experience of excruciating embarrassment for both mother and children), they search everywhere for an aspirin to relieve the pain of some opportunistic infection, and then, horrified, gaping, they stand in the darkened shadows, and watch their mother die.
Many of us know the pain of losing a loved one. Five months ago, I lost my mother to cancer. They were painful times but we were also surrounded by love and comfort. She passed away in a hospice, where nurses provided 24-hour care and gave us hugs and cookies. I realize how lucky we were and I cannot grasp how great the pain of these orphans.
I tested negative.
On my way out, I made a small donation and spoke to someone about volunteering for the Centre. I learned that the Raphael Centre – despite providing one of the most important services in South Africa – is not government-funded, and that everyone who works at the Centre is HIV positive. I will hopefully be assisting the Centre with throwing a children’s party in December.
Here are some pictures of the wildlife at Addo Elephant National Park, about one hour’s drive out of Grahamstown. We saw tons (literally) of elephants, plus warthogs, kudu (stunningly beautiful with their spiral horns), ostrich, tortoises, jackals, zebra, and lots of deer-like animals like the red hartebeest and bushbuck.
Kim and I rented a car to go there, and I took advantage of the traffic-less park to try driving on the left side of the road. It’s quite a twister as the steering wheel is on the right, but the stick shift are still in the middle and the clutch, brake and gas pedals and gears are all in the same relative position. What I found most challenging is remembering not to veer off the left shoulder of the road, since the driver’s seat is on the right sight of the car and I’m used to a perspective of the road from the left side of the car. I think it may be a while before I take a stab at navigating left turns and traffic circles and such!
Sorry for the delay in updates but there have been two film festivals in town at Rhodes University over the past couple of weeks -- which means that, for once, there has been something to do in Grahamstown! I've seen a number of films and documentaries including "Suffering and Smiling", "Thomas Sankara: The Upright Man", "The War on Democracy", "Four Wives, One Man", and "Bamboozled". One of the festivals with the catchy name FilmFest 08: More Zen, Less Phobia continues and next week will show "Up the Yangtzhe", a Canadian documentary about China that I missed at last year's Vancouver International Film Festival because it was sold out.
Last weekend, Kim and I headed out to Bathurst to stay with Sarah, our supervisor and director of the Grahamstown LRC. Sarah, Monty, and their beautiful blond son Dan live on a farm just outside Bathurst. Monty’s parents and brother have houses on the same big property. “Welcome to paradise”, said Sarah as we pulled up to the house – and it really was. You really miss family time when you’re living abroad, so it was extra lovely to pass the weekend at their house enjoying simple pleasures like cooking together, reading, picking salad greens from the “tunnel” (where Monty grows native and food plants), watching Tom and Jerry with Dan.
One reason for the trip was a farewell party for a girl named Ronelle to be held on Saturday night at the Bathurst Arms, the local pub. The Bathurst Arms is the drinking spot in town… well, the only one since the Pig & Whistle closed down. It’s a classic small town pub – everyone knows each other, dogs roam around, and if you’re lucky (like we were) you’ll be treated to an impromptu jam session by a few local boys. We had a grand time, and at one point I even got drunk enough to pick up the djembe and start playing with the boys.
Sunday was a quiet day troubled by a few hangovers. The main event of the day was a big fish braai that Monty cooked up on a fire outside. It was my first South African braai and Monty did it justice.
