Truth and Reconciliation

I mentioned the Truth and Reconciliation Commissions in my last post, and I wanted to post about this extraordinary process. While I have been here, I have read as many books as I could about South Africa, including novels and non-fiction. Two in particular that I want to recommend are No Future Without Forgiveness by Desmond Tutu, Nobel Laureate and retired Anglican Archbishop of Cape Town (pictured with South African PTS professor Wentzel Van Huyssteen); and Country of My Skull by Antjie Krog, an Afrikaaner journalist and poet who covered the Truth and Reconciliation Commissions.

As you might expect, Tutu's book is more theologically-minded, and his theology around the concept of ubuntu crops up in this book although he elaborates in much more detail in his other writings. The accounts of the victims are moving, profound, and terrible. Tutu's writing style is very approachable, and includes some of his personal reactions and insights as a person of faith acting as the chairperson of the Commissions. Krog's is a more challenging read, both because she brings her poetic sensibilities to bear (which may be the only way to really express the depth of human emotion and pain that came up in the Commissions) and because she is much more graphic and comprehensive in her reporting of what victims went through. If you are going to read both, I would read Tutu's first. I read them in the opposite order and found that Krog set the bar pretty high in terms of literary style, which may have dimished somewhat my appreciation of Tutu's simple and straightforward style. Krog also gushes with admiration for Tutu, while also giving an account of her observations of him during the Commissions process. That perspective too I might have appreciated more had I read the books in the opposite order. Both are excellent, however, and both deserve to be read. I was tempted to call this post "Required reading for being human," and I recommend these books over any others that I have read here. The applications of an undertaking like these Truth Commissions to other conflicts in the world (in particular I think of Israel/Palestine and possibly Iraq) kept coming to mind as I read. South Africa's were not the first such commissions, but they may have come closer than any others to meeting their objectives.

Now a further word about why these Truth Commissions came about. As I was saying in the last post, the country was basically in civil war in the 1970 and '80s, and a lot of people suffered terribly under police brutality and torture of the most grotesque and shocking variety. Mr. Mbatha, my tour guide from Robben Island, told our group that he had been tortured by the security police, although he did not go into details aside from saying that women who were taken in had it much worse. Affiliates of the ANC and other counter-regime forces had done their fair share of awful deeds too, including bombings and "necklacing" informers, which involved hanging a petrol-soaked tire around someone's neck and setting it (and the person) on fire. The only way democracy was able to come about in this context was by providing a forum where victims could come forward to tell their stories and ideally receive some form of restitution (although this almost never happened), and where perpetrators could confess to an Amnesty Commission (completely independent of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission) and be awarded legal amnesty for the actions they confessed.

This latter provision was obviously controversial. Among other notables the family of Steve Biko (http://africanhistory.about.com/library/biographies/blbio-stevebiko.htm or check wikipedia), a prominent black activist who was tortured and beaten to death by the security police in the late 1970s, publicly denounced and refused to recognize the authority of the Amnesty Commission. Understandably so. But without the provisions for an amnesty process, the National Party and the apartheid government would never have agreed to participate in forming a constitution that would hand power over to the black majority, and thereby open themselves up to legal prosecution without the benefits of their former influence. It is a matter of proximate justice being implemented, and one could obviously claim that is not enough. Then again, to have absolute legal or penal justice against perpetrators of attrocities from the regime itself would have required black victory in a civil war, with consequent Nuremburg-style victor's justice afterward. It is an open question which is preferable, particularly considering that in any case the lackeys and henchmen who did the dirty work are the ones who will take the heat, while the bosses calling the shots will be covered from evidence that could incriminate them. This is a comment I have heard from one former SADF soldier I spoke to at a bar, and one that Krog brings up in her book.

Although the racial groupings of those appearing before the Truth and the Amnesty Commissions were largely what one would expect, blacks and whites and coloureds all appeared before both commissions. Some whites, afterall, were victimized by bombings and other violence, and some black militants committed crimes against whites and fellow black South Africans. People in this country have suffered so much brutality and hardship. Despite the huge challenges that remain, especially crushing poverty and a rapidly expanding rate of HIV infection, it is extraordinary that democracy actually came about here.

Robben Island

Since I arrived in Cape Town, I have been wanting to go to Robben Island, which was the apartheid government's prison for political opponents of the regime. Nelson Mandela spent eighteen years on the island of his twenty-eight being incarcerated by the government, and most of the ANC leadership (including current President Thabo Mbeki, Walter Sisulu, and many others) were imprisoned here until 1990 and '91. Because they have been doing restorations on Mandela's cell and other parts of the tour, I waited until my last week in the country when these repairs were to be finished. Sadly, they still weren't done when I finally did go to the island last Saturday. It was still very worthwhile, however.

Robben Island ("robben" is "seal" in Dutch, and there are a lot of them there) was used off an on as a prison by the Dutch and British colonial governments in South Africa, but it was not until the 1960's after the infamous Rivonia Trial that Mandela and other political prisoners were first brought there by the apartheid government. If you have ever been to Alcatraz this is not too different, although Robben Island is quite big compared to "the Rock". At Robben Island, all of the tour guides were once prisoners (reversing the arrangement at Alcatraz, where the tour-guides were once guards - a la "Vicky", R.I.P. Phil Hartman). My tour guide was Michael Mbatha, pictured at right, who was locked up in the early '80s for a number of charges related to his being a member of Umkhonto we Sizwe ("Spear of the Nation") the military wing of the ANC founded after the Rivonia trial (http://www.anc.org.za/ancdocs/history/mk/).

South Africa fought a number of "bush wars" in the 1980s, which the government conducted (at least ostensibly) to fight ANC "terrorists" (like Mr. Mbatha) based in neighboring countries. South Africa invaded every single one of its neighbors (whose governments were all "going native" in the '70s and '80s), occupying what it called "South West Africa" (now Namibia) for a long time as part of its war in Angola, where the CIA, the Soviet Union, and about 300,000 Cuban soldiers (including Ché Guevarra) also got involved in the civil war between the Portuguese colonial government and revolutionary groups. White men were conscripted to fight in the South African Defense Forces, not all of whom necessarily supported the regime. I have had conversations in bars with a couple former soldiers. I don't want to make assumptions about all of these guys, but the ones I've met would get along splendidly with Leonardo DiCapprio's character in "Blood Diamond". Racial reconciliation (not to mention economic restitutuion) has a hell of a long way to go in the country, although given the history it is rather astounding that democracy came about without an all out civil war. The only way the democratic government could be formed was through the implementation of the Truth and Reconciliation Commissions and their provisions for amnesty for those who confessed their crimes. Since I have nothing better to do, I'll do another post on these before I scoot out of the country.

Back to Robben Island, prisoners were segregated within the walls of the prison in an effort to break prisoners' spirits and keep them divided. "Bantus" (black South Africans) were kept separately from "coloured" and Indian prisoners, given inferior rations (not that these were generous to begin with), and until the Red Cross intervened and provided beds in the mid-'80s everyone slept on roll out mats on the floor. The prisoners wore the same clothes in all seasons, regardless of the temperature, and many suffered chill in the winter. I was a bit disappointed with how blasé my tour group was. No good questions, which would have really improved the experience informationally. They also do the tour too quickly, and you drive all around the island in a bus before you finally get to the prison itself, by which point the tour is two-thirds over. While the tour itself could have been better for me, I still highly recommend the experience of going for anyone who comes to Cape Town. Above note the ironic sign welcoming everyone to the island, and below the stunning view of Table Mountain I had from the boat on the way out.

Travels

I considered naming my current car so I could call this "Travels with Charlie" (which has a nice ring to it), but then learned that name was already taken. Assuming I get a chance to travel around the Western Cape, I am likely to see a lot of breathtaking countryside and possibly some interesting wildlife. I made a precursory trip west last Saturday to Hermanus (that's "air-mon-us"), said to be the premier land-based whale-watching location in the entire world, and Cape Agulhas, the southernmost point of Africa.

As you can see from the photos, it was a beautiful drive through farmland, vineyards, mountains, and lovely coastline. Even photos taken out the window of the car look pretty. In Hermanus I had mostly clear skies and warm weather after a rainy drive, and I took a long walk along the coast. I saw the hyrax (or rock dassie) below rummaging in the trash, although no whales. Maybe they just weren't active that day, or maybe I just don't have the patience to stand around waiting for whales to pop up. Although the hyrax looks like a huge gerbil, it is not a rodent at all, but the closest relative of the elephant! Otherwise, the critters aren't particularly interesting.

I then went to Cape Agulhas and was dangerously close to running out of gas in the middle of nowhere. Fortunately I made it to a petrol station in time after driving half the speed limit for about forty kilometers. But I made it the southernmost point alright, and as you might notice in the photo ended up quite by accident dipping my toes (and shoes) in the Indian Ocean, which begins there. This photo is not the best, and it seems to confirm the effects on my body of the change to a heavily meat-laden, almost veggie-free diet. Otherwise it might not be noticable. I am straddling the divide between the Indian and Atlantic Oceans. I totally made the trip just to do that. I know, I am a geography nerd.

"Last Day" at JL Zwane

So officially today is my last day at JL Zwane. Unfortunately, things with my flooded rental car still have not been resolved, which means that I will be coming in tomorrow to use the fax machine, etc, and will remain in Cape Town until the matter is resolved. Whenever that happens, I will travel around the Western Cape province until I leave the country August 23rd. That's one week from today. Not much time.

I have been surprised this week at how many people have taken time to thank me, appreciate me, and even say I had made a big impact on their lives! Seriously, I feel I haven't done too much, and the people here have changed my life in a far more lasting way than I can have done for them. It is humbling to have people appreciate me when I have so much more often experienced what I do as a mere drop of difference in an ocean of need. And yet, people say they will remember me, and for how many times people have mentioned what Jevon did here last summer I don't doubt it. As I said above, everyone I have known here has taught me something about what it means to love, to be a friend and a neighbor, to display ubuntu and live as one existing with and because of others, to put the needs of others before your own, to give.

Here are some pictures from the past week, with people who have meant something special to me. To the left is Nomakwesi (back), Johanna (left), and Yvonne at the church in Nyanga where they have been training volunteer workers for the past month. I have been on visits to orphans, people sick with HIV/AIDS, and elderly men and women with these three ladies throughout my ten weeks here. They are the people I have probably gotten closest to and had the most interaction with. I am humbled that people I have depended on so much, who have taught me a great deal about the community and the townships, and who stepped up in situations where I wouldn't have known what to do on my own, have told me that I have taught them so mcuh and they don't know what they would do without me!

As far as the trainings, I only taught one session and came by infrequently aside from that. I didn't feel I did much. But this week the trainees insisted I come over so they could say goodbye and thanks and give me a proper send off! The ladies above are cooking the meal we ate in honor of my departure. Below is a picture of the trainees, who all signed a nice card and said words of appreciation that seemed out of proportion to the little I thought I had done for them. But they love me and they will miss me. It almost made me want to cry. And over a silly card! I would not have thought that sentimental things like that would get to me, but I guess you never know until you are in the situation. These people have been very well equipped by the trainings Yvonne organized, and they are already getting started offering pastoral counseling. Yvonne is trying to arrange internships for them to work as counselors in local hospitals. This is a big deal for people who are mostly unemployed, struggle with HIV, and may not even know where their next meal is coming from. In a place where jobs and job training are extremely scarce, this is an amazing opportunity for them. I feel like my little training session wasn't much, but on considering what they face every day I am starting to better see why it was so significant to them.

Finally, Nqo and Mama Katoni deserved my thanks for spoiling me and fattening me up with so much good food the past ten weeks. Call me a kiss-up, but I thought they might like some flowers. Nqo was just fascinated by the flowers for several minutes, and whether she was posing or just didn't want to look up she didn't peer up when I took this photo. Mama Katoni needed some help getting her sick husband to the clinic, which is how I spent the first half of the day today. I was glad to do it. Just another way to demonstrate how much she means to me, and how I am grateful for the love that she and everyone else here have shown to me. I am really going to miss all of the people I have gotten to know here. I hope that I can show as much love to the people I know at home.

Speaking of whom, thanks to all of you who have checked in with the blog and kept up with me. I love you and appreciate you, and I am looking foward to seeing you again. This may not be my final blog entry, so I'll stop before I get any more sentimental than I already have.

More township pictures

A few weeks ago Rachel and Elizabeth, two PTS students who are in Jo'burg for the summer, flew in to spend a few days in Cape Town. Because I have become the apostle of Xolani's township tours, I recommended we do that when the ladies' Robben Island trip was cancelled because of rough seas. Because there had been such heavy rains the previous week (which kind of spoiled the ladies' trip, although they did get half of a day with clear skies and views) the informal settlment areas were in rough shape. The house they are pictured in (Elizabeth left, Rachel middle, and Crawford) was the worst one I had been in. Water was leaking in from everywhere, dripping from the holey ceiling, through the wood and cardboard walls, and up from the ground. This was a week before the heavy rains that flooded my car, so I am sure it got worse. In the third picture we have the main resident talking with Xolani. He had been taken in by his neighbors when the rains got heavy and started leaking in. From the pictures, you can't imagine someone living here.

The next picture is of a loft bed constructed in one of the former hostels, which as you can see is probably not too safe, stacked three beds high. This is done because there are multiple families sharing this single room! This is particularly complicated because people rise at different times and have to bathe out in the outhouse and change in the room. No such thing as privacy.

Just by way of contrast, the last two pictures are of the interior of some newer places that have been built recently. It is rare that people are able to put money away in savings, but the fortunate ones who have good jobs and are able to do this are able to get in on new homes being built, which look very good on the inside. The fridge below is particularly nice looking.

"But you'll laugh about it later... Really."

Part of the reason I haven't posted much lately is because I had a crazybusy few days at the beginning of last week, while Thursday was a holiday (National Women's Day) and Friday was pretty much a day off too. By the way, it is pretty cool that National Women's Day is celebrated here, commemorating the efforts of women to combat apartheid on the date of one very notable demonstration in the 1950s (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Women).

As part of the Women's Day events going on, Yvonne was invited by the Department of Health to speak at a conference in Durban for women running grass-roots initiatives to address health crises in the country like HIV/AIDS. Yvonne said she would do it, and she was meant to leave last Monday. About noon that day (which had been proceeding quietly up to that point), Yvonnecalled me up and said the Dept. of Health had screwed up the tickets, and she had received a ticket with another woman's name on it. She called the Dept. of Health and had a lot of trouble getting through, but eventually found someone who apologized unsympathetically and suggested she take the other woman along to the airport to help her straighten things out.

Fortunately, Yvonne (left in picture) knows the woman, Miranda (right), a little bit. Miranda used to be a soap opera star based in Jo'burg but she left her career years ago when her ancestors started speaking to her in dreams and she became a traditional healer. I first met Miranda a couple weeks ago, when Yvonne and I took a group visiting from Bethel University in Minnesota to see Miranda (the picture of the two of them was taken that day). I had been to visit traditional healers before, who were proper sangomas with face paint, beaded dreadlocks, native costumes and discected chickens sitting on plates on the floor. They aren't witch-doctors exactly, which is really a pejorative term Westerners came up with to demean and demonize traditional healers. That said, they still struck me as a bit spooky. It was interesting from an anthropological perspective and all, and I don't believe there is any kind of magical power in that stuff, but I was still uncomfortable and a bit weirded out by those guys.

Miranda is more of a diviner, dealing with dreams rather than trying to conjure spirits and such, and she had a nice, normal, comfortable house without anything creepy laying around. Miranda gave her schpeil about what she does and how the ancestors talk to her and how she is able to help heal diseases in ways that Western medicine discounts. Now again, I went in with an open mind and tried to keep it that way. I do beleive that Western medicine hasn't cornered the market on treatment of disease, and there might be some merit to other healing methods even if they seem a bit kooky to us. Besides, even if it is weird to me, I need to take another person's religion seriously. It makes sense of the world for them, and knits the society together. There are many more traditional healers than Western doctors in South Africa, and most people still go to a traditional healer first, often because they are the only game in town in the rural areas. Herbalists, like the one pictured below with some of his wares whom I stopped in on a few weeks ago, are the most common people consulted for various ailments. And it is not only medicinal purposes that are filled by the herbs and supplements, but also providing good fortune or keeping bad spirits away in preparing for a job interview, or something like that. Looking at the bottles, a lot of the herbs are things that are sold over the counter as fad medicine or herbal remedies in the States, like echinacea. Others are barks, or ground up eagle's talons, or other things that the herbalists ancestors will often tell him in a dream where to go and dig up in the Eastern Cape. Because traditional healers of all varieties are so prevalent, the government has tried to include them in their health programs and medical research. Miranda actually has a job with the Medical Research Council.

So, open-minded, I sat and listened to Miranda speak about what she does, and the Bethel people ask carefully worded and inoffensive questions. I couldn't help feeling that Miranda was not quite coherent or logical in her presentation or in her answers. And sure, the ancestors speak to her in dreams, that's fine, but things of that sort sound a lot more reasonable when the person can at least describe them in a cogent narrative. It all seemed very hush-hush, like she didn't want to reveal her secrets, but ended up not really explaining anything. I started thinking this woman had some other issues going on psychologically, and the intensity of her gaze was a little bit unnerving. Then off and on Miranda would cough-wheeze, making a sound like a hyena trying to spit up a demon-possessed frog. Finally, a member of the group asked Miranda's views on allegations that traditional healers have contributed to the spread of HIV/AIDS by advising "remedies" that include sleeping with virgins (which is a factor in South Africa's high incidence of rape and child rape) and ritual cutting with razor blades. Miranda said she doesn't do any of that stuff, but said, brashly but vaguely, that there is a cure for HIV but she won't tell what it is. No, of course not. At that point, I would have just rolled my eyes if it weren't such a serious matter. But instead I focused on keeping inside the desire to scream at her for doing exactly what she had denied: helping to spread the disease and keep infected people sick by claiming a non-existent cure and deceiving sick people into believing they are well. At that point I stopped being charitable. "This woman is a bit crazy," I thought.

I have heard lots of stories about people getting "cured" of HIV by a sangoma, then infecting lots of other people. Christians ministers have done this too. Zethu, wife of the pastor, works at a health clinic here and had a woman come in some time ago and get a positive HIV test. She came back again the next day to be retested, not believing that she was infected. Positive again. The next Monday she came back again, but Zethu refused to retest her. But the woman insisted, saying that she had donated a huge sum of money to her church (20,000 rand or about $3,000!) when her minister said the Holy Spirit would heal anyone who gave generously to the ministry.

So, returning to last Monday, Yvonne and I have to drive out to east bufu to pick up Miranda at the Medical Research Council where she is working. Once we get there and find her, dressed normally and looking like a completely sane and ordinary person, she and Yvonne chat a few minutes and she non-chalantly says she will come along to the airport with us. But first she wants to heat up her lunch to eat it in the car, which takes about five minutes. "We have less than an hour," I want to say, "just eat it cold!" But I am trying not to make this my problem.

We drive to the airport, and I park the car while they go in to straighten things out. Cape Town International Airport is a mess, with lots of construction in preparation for the World Cup in 2010, and badly designed airport on top of that. No indoor passage between terminals and parking garages, so I have to walk in the rain. Once inside the terminal I find Yvonne and Miranda running around to different desks trying to straighten things out. Of course, a plan ticket is a legal document, and you can't travel under a ticket with someone else's name. But to change the name on the ticket, the person who purchased it must get invovled, and of course the Dept. of Health which had created this mess could not be reached. Yvonne was not the only one with this problem. Their group was about twenty-five, many of whom had their tickets screwed up in a similar fashion. More frustrating, there was no organization to this group, just a whole bunch of people showing up and random times and running around like chickens with their heads cut off (which I actually saw happen a couple weeks ago, so now I undertand the saying). It is an unkind way to put things, I know, but these people didn't seem to realize that planes don't run on "Africa time". "Plane departs at 2pm" does not mean "around 2pm". As Yvonne commented later, most of these ladies had problably never been on a plane and they just weren't familiar with when they needed to show up and all that. So here people were showing up fifteen minutes before departure. The security line looked pretty fast, however, so maybe they got through. It would have been really comical if I weren't stuck there.

So Miranda (carrying Yvonne's bag for some reason) and Yvonne are still running around, while I remain available in central location and watch the spectacle. At one point, Miranda drops Yvonne's bag in the middle of the floor and leaves it there for the crowd to walk around or step over while she runs over to the ticket counter. "What on earth is this woman thinking?" I wonder. Then thirty seconds later Miranda scoops up Yvonne's bag and walks toward security, boarding pass with her own name on it in hand. Yvonne tries to get her bag, but Miranda snatches it out of her hand, and some other people intervene thinking Yvonne is some crazy person trying to steal Miranda's bag! Miranda puts Yvonne's bag through the x-ray, walks through security and is off. Yvonne and I are standing outside security with our jaws agape expecting Miranda to come back any second. Fifteen minutes later, it is clear that she isn't coming back. Yvonne calls the "organizer" of this party to see what's happening. The woman is arguing with Miranda about something, and Yvonne tells her to send Miranda around with her bag. The woman hangs up and we wait around. Then the screen says the plane has left and still no Miranda and no bag.

We go back to the information counter, and Yvonne is a bit frantic, and the woman behind the counter seems very annoyed with her but we aren't going away. Since the woman is not getting rid of us she eventually starts to be a bit more understanding, and comments that this has been the most disorganized group she's ever seen, not only with the ticket snafu but the lack of planning and coordination with the group arriving at the airport. It shouldn't be hard to get the correct names on people's tickets and deliver them to the correct address when you have more than a week to take care of things. It shouldn't be too hard to contact everyone in the group and plan to meet at the airport an hour or two before departure. But things don't always happen the way that makes the most sense. As we continue talking to the woman at the counter, and we have no luck getting through to people at the Dept. of Health, Yvonne is frustrated that she is wasting her time when she has things to do. But she wants to get her bag back! I tell her that the only way she is getting her bag back today is if she flies to Durban and gets it from Miranda. Unless there is someone we can call who will buy her a ticket, we have no reason to hang around. At this point it has been over three hours since I picked Yvonne up for this wild goose chase. Finally, we give up and leave.

We cannot understand what was going on with Miranda. She had not even known about this trip, she left her things at work, and she has kids. What was she thinking flying to Durban, even if it was a free trip? And why did she take Yvonne's bag? Did she figure that since she hadn't packed she needed somebody's clothes, even if they didn't fit her? After that display, and my earlier impressions of Miranda, I have to conclude that she is not right. To top it off, Yvonne phoned me that night to tell me that she had heard from a cousin on the trip that Miranda had taken the first plane back to Cape Town upon arriving in Durban! That's like flying from LA to Portland, then just flying back. I asked Yvonne, delicately, if Miranda might not be just a little bit crazy. "Oh, she is not well," Yvonne replied. No, definitely not.

End of the story, Yvonne straightened things out with the Department of Health, and they booked her a ticket to Durban the next evening, although after all of that she was reluctant to have anything to do with those people, let alone go to their conference. The next day she had some friends try to contact Miranda, since Yvonne knew she would verbally bite the woman's head off is she spoke to her herself. No luck. So I suggest that we just drive to Miranda's house, since we do know where she lives. We show up, knock on the door, and no one answers. So Yvonne just lets herself in, which actually isn't as uncommon a thing to do here as it might be in the States. Miranda's sister and a male visitor are talking, and they get us out some chairs to sit. There on the floor are Yvonne's bags. "Miranda said you would probably come by for them" the sister tells us. So we are there five minutes and leave with Yvonne's bags. It ended up being pretty easy, which was a relief considering how things had gone up to that point. A frustrating experience, but as Kristina said when I told her about it on the phone that night, "You'll laugh about it later... Really."

Living with disabilities in the townships

A couple weeks ago Yvonne took me to visit Masincedane Home Care, a home for severely handicapped children. Nancy, the woman who runs the place has a disabled daughter, and opened the center after her mother, who had been the other primary carer for her granddaughter, died. "How many other disabled kids have lost a loved one and have no one to care for them?" she wondered. She checked around the neighborhood and found that there was a great need for a clean and safe facility with experienced carers, and decided to open her own center using her experience caring for her own daughter and working at another facility.

This is one side effect of the prevalence of HIV/AIDS here which I would not have anticipated. Lots of pregnant women are undernourished because of the disease, which weakens their bodies, steals their appetite, and robs them of the drive to take care of themselves. The result on a developing fetus is similar under-nourishment leading to a higer incidence of birth defects. Imagine what happens to AIDS orphans who are severely handicapped? Who takes care of them?

On my visit, there were about eighteen kids from the age of two to about thirteen, all living in two rooms of a small house. It was not a bad space, clean but very cramped, usually with two kids to a crib. Despite efforts to keep the place clean, there was a strong smell from having so many little kids living in one room and sharing the same air. Nancy seems to have been able to get some kind of funding assistance, as the facilities are in good shape; they have a stove, a fridge, and a new looking washing machine; but all the staff are volunteers, and half of the woman's own house is devoted to these children. Most of the children come from parents in the area, but some of them were simply abandoned, or brought here by a social worker although the government provides no funding.



As horrid as it is for a family to abandon their disabled child, in a place like Guguletu you can understand why this happens. It takes a lot of work and a lot of money to raise a severely handicapped child, who will always be dependent on care and never able to work or provide for herself. These children can be a tremendous burden on people who are already struggling to survive. The baby I did the funeral for a few weeks ago had been born with Down's Syndrome, and his grandmother was about to quit her part-time job to stay home and care for him. There is no excuse for abandoning a child, but it shows how deeply there is a need for places to care for these kids.



My friend Jevon had visited a similar place called Golden Girls when he was at JL Zwane (see the Golden Girls post on his blog using the link to the left), which by all accounts was pretty damned awful. Since Jevon was here, Golden Girls closed down for various reasons, including misuse of funds and allegations of abuse. Nancy had pulled her daughter out of Golden Girls because of suspicious bruises on her neck which the staff said were "ant bites". Children there were bitten by rats, and despite donations from JL Zwane the kids weren't even diapered, but were left to leave their filth on the floor! Golden Girls sounds like it was a horrendous, even criminally negligent place, and many of the children pictured came over when Golden Girls was shut down.


My mother works with children just like these back in the States, and I called her the evening after my visit. I was really affected by my visit, on the verge of tears, which has not happened even when I have seen some difficult and terrible things here. Because I have visited my mom at work in the past, and because I worked at a L'Arche community for people with disabilities, seeing these kids in particular moved me deeply, perhaps because I know how easily they are neglected or taken advantage of, and how helpless they are if no one cares for them.


Mom was deeply moved as well when I spoke to her. She had been thinking she wanted to get involved somehow, to donate some money to ministries JL Zwane is doing, but wasn't sure what she wanted to support. My mom's calling is to work with children like this, and she is my example of a person who loves her job and feels deeply that it is just what she is supposed to be doing. She pours her love into her work, and growing up I was always amazed that she would come home from work with a smile on her face even if she had been bitten, kicked, or spit-up, bled, peed, and pooped on.







There are lots of needy children in the townships, however, and at first Mom wasn't sure it was right to focus all of her attention on these particular children, even if they were the ones who really moved her. Afterall, I see kids every week who are in need of the necessities of life and who have no parents to care for them. But I said these were just the right kids to give to because they are the same ones she devotes herself to in the United States. The needs here are bigger than any one person or organization can meet. Every day working here we need to limited ourselves to helping those we can, rather than trying to take on needs that are bigger than what we can manage. We could either feed and clothe thirty kids so that they have a chance to go to school and focus their attention on something other than just merely surviving, or we could give a pair of socks and a piece of bread to three hundred children. As hard as it is to leave 90% to their own devices, it is better to provide adequately for some than inadequately for many. The real need is to find a way to expand operations, to parter with others in the community and in the world to meet bigger needs more effectively. But you have to start with what you can do now, and choosing the few you will help is usually a function of whom you have the greatest personal connection to or investment in. So I encouraged my mom not to feel bad about wanting to help these particular kids. Afterall, people with disabilities are usually one of the last groups in society to be cared for, and unless someone takes an interest they will continue to fall through the cracks in aid distribution.





Mom and I decided to see what we can do to provide assistance to this home for children, in terms of food, nappies, and whatever other tangible needs we can provide for. I was able to work things out with Spiwo, Yvonne, and Edwin so that Mom and I could raise money to be donated to these children which would go through JL Zwane's books. Yvonne and I will visit the home for the fourth time this week, and hopefully have a meeting to work out providing the funds for specific grocery items, and maybe also petrol and some stipends for the volunteer workers. The real need is for a larger facility, but again it is best to start with what we are prepared to commit to.





I am really excited to be putting this plan into action because I haven't gotten to do as many administrative tasks as I had hoped while I've been here. I want to work for an NGO in the future and the business and funding and admin is essential to running a non-profit. So although admin is not my gift, I want to gain greater competence in it, and have been a little disappointed with how few opportunities I have had to build those skills here. It has also been discouraging to know that I wasn't going to make a long-term difference here, even if that is an unreasonable expectation for a ten-week internship. So to take initiative in setting up a funding arrangement that will provide tangible long-term assistance to some of the neediest children in the townships really gives me a sense of accomplishment. Who knows, if it would be useful my mom and I may see about starting our own little non-profit to manage getting funds to these children. So it is my last week here, but I feel like I am getting to do something that is really going to help the people I have met here.

Cultural Hermeneutics

Last spring I took the a course with the above title at PTS, which has proved valuable as I am in a position where I need to do theology and interpret scripture from a much different context. Context matters, space and location matter, in how we read a text like the Bible, conceptualize beliefs about God and the holy, and implement the practices of the Christian faith in the particularity of our own communities and cultures. A text like the Bible has a wide range of possible meanings, and our particular cultural contexts bring to light different facets of that range of meaning. We often mistake our own cultural interpretive process (what we call "hermeneutics") for the difinitive, complete, and exhaustive meaning of the text when in fact other meanings that require a different setting to be unlocked are equally valid, or perhaps even more correct. Interaction with difference, with the other, helps us not only to know ourselves better but to gain a broader understanding of who God is. Interpreting from the particularity of a place makes God and the gospel look different.









The two pictures I have chosen are good examples of what it means to do theology, to be Christian, in a place like Guguletu. In the above picture we see a stained glass window in the church building at JL Zwane. We can see that the shape of the cross is made up of people involved in activities of everyday life in the Eastern Cape, from where Xhosa speakers mainly originate. A woman holds her children, carries water on her head, and sticks she has gathered for firewood across her breast. What it means to embody the cross, the symbol of the Christian life in this place is to do the things that define ordinary life here. The Christian life and the everydayness of life's activities are indistinguishable. To be Christian is to be ourselves as we are and doing what we must do to survive. Family, food and drink, work and toil are all integral to the Christian life. On either side of the woman are flames representing not only the presence of God, whether in the burning bush or the tongues of fire at Pentecost, but also the cookfires over which meals are prepared and the stuff of daily nourishment is made. God sustains us, Chrisitans always say, not just in some metaphysical and intangible way, but by our "daily bread". It is a theology of embodiment, earthiness, and God's presence in the stuff of ordinary life. The whole of life is sacramental, not just the things going on in the sacred space of the sanctuary. The line between sacred and profane is blurred, even broken down, so that God is everywhere present, not limited and confined within one building or area of activity.




The second is a banner hanging on the pulpit in church, which reveals that concern for HIV/AIDS is central to the identity of the church. It isn't just hanging outside the sanctuary, or

inside on the wall, but on the pulpit itself, the central location from which the kerygma, the proclamation of the word of God, comes. By welcoming and creating a supportive place for people with HIV in the early 1990s, JL Zwane was looked down upon by many churches and people in the community. People with AIDS were regarded as sinners who had no place in the church, and JL Zwane was doing something profane by inviting them in. Groups who used the church as a meeting space began to refuse to come, or find other churches for fear that by setting foot on the premises of this church people would assume they were "positive." Many people criticized Rev. Xapile and JL Zwane, many people left the church. It has been a costly decision for JL Zwane to accept people with the disease when no other church in South Africa (according to Spiwo) was doing so. Although things have improved, and HIV sufferers are reached out to and accepted much more widely in community and in the country, it has been a very hard road. By identifying with those who are shunned and excluded, the church was itself shunned and excluded by many in the denomination and in the neighborhood. By putting this banner on the pulpit, that struggle, that costly proclamation of a message of love acted out in acceptance is made central to the identity of the church. It is a part of the sacred space. By including a message from someone who has HIV in every worship service, the struggle against the disease is sacramentalized. It is sacred, it is worship.







Something I will take back with me is that theology is not something that can be done purely in the abstract, in the language of supposed universals. It is always done in a particular space, which is wrapped up in the language and concepts in which theology is articulated. Christianity is not just a religion of abstract beliefs about the cosmos. It is lived and embodied in the dirt, and bodies, and struggles of everyday life. If the Christian message is not "God is here too" it is not, in my estimation, of much value.

JL Zwane people

Perhaps it is overdue, but I wanted to show some pictures of people I work with here at JL Zwane, although a few faces are missing from the pictures I have on hand. First is Yvonne, who heads the programs assisting needy children, especially AIDS orphans; and also helps to provide counseling for members of the support group and gay and lesbian members of the community, both groups often being ostracized . Yvonne is very busy delivering food parcels and blankets, and training others to assist with the work. In this picture she is standing next to a woman who runs a care center and home for developmentally disabled children, one of whom is on Yvonne's back. I will post more about this place later.



Next are the two ladies who run the kitchen and cook meals everyday for staff, Siyaya, HIV/AIDS support group, and children from the Rainbow Afterschool Program. That is more than one hundred people a day. They are Nqo (right) and Mama Katoni (left), and they feed me very well and joke with me whenever I come into the kitchen. They will often treat me with baked goods like vetcoeks, which are contributing my gradually increasing weight since I have been in South Africa. I may have to become a vegetarian again when I return home, but I am enjoying myself now.

Next is Nonkguthalo (Nonki), the pastor's daughter, who is in her first year at Stellenbosch University. She was born in Scotland when my supervisor was a student there, which makes her eligible for dual-citizenship, and she grew up speaking Xhosa and English as more or less joint first languages. By her accent, I would have thought she was from London, and you only pick up that she's South African with certain phrases. She also speaks Afrikaans, which is the official language of instruction at Stellenbosch University. This university was the intellectual base of apartheid, and the language policy is a continuing source of animosity. However, Stellenbosch also handles all of JL Zwane's accounting, is active in other ventures to improve life in the townships, and has significantly diversified what was only fifteen years ago still a whites-opnly institution. Nonki chose Stellenbosch over University of Cape Town, in part because Stellenbosch gave her a fat bursary (scholarship). I have hung out with her and her brother Khlalumi (Loomi) a nuber of times, and am to hang out with her and her friends in Stellebosch sometime soon. She is pictured here with Mr. Mzoli himself last time a group of us went to the restaurant.

Next is Isaac, a young guy who works around the church on the weekends, and is studying to be an animator. We have hung out in Cape Town a few times, and he is very involved with the children at church. Recently he took a small group of them to town to see the new Harry Potter movie. This is a big deal for a township kid, who never goes into town, let alone goes to a movie. He really believes in doing fun things like that with the orphans, not just giving them food and things, but giving them a chance to just be a kid. He also does some DJing and is a budding producer, setting up gigs with Loomi for artists in the township. I offered my car and company if he wants to take kids out again while I am here.

This isn't "everybody" of course, but it's all the pictures I have for now. I will introduce more of my friends and coworkers soon.

We can always buy more bananas

I thought a section from Kevin Winge's book Never Give Up is worth quoting. This is the executive director of Open Arms of Minnesota, a US non-profit that has done a lot of work distributing food in Guguletu and other places in South Africa and throughout the continent. He visits JL Zwane twice a year, and has an ongoing relationship with Rev. Xapile. I have mentioned the book before, and it is a decent read if you want to learn more about the community here, and the challenges of providing assistance from the perspective of a North American. While living here for an extended period years ago, he stayed in Seapoint, a posh neighborhood on the Atlantic in Cape Town. The book's title is taken from a song that we sing in church every Sunday, usually after the message about HIV/AIDS. The words are "You must never give up", repeated several times. The picture at bottom is from one of the doorways out of the sanctuary. Here is the story:


"One day I went shopping and stocked up on food and supplies because a friend was arriving from the States for a visit. Later, after the housekeeper had been in to clean, half the fruit I had just purchased was gone, along with all but one roll of toilet paper. Now I knew that it wasn't my imagination. The housekeeper was -- I hate to use the word -- stealing.


"These are little things, petty things... I can deal with grinding poverty. I can handle the sickness and death that permeate life in the townships. I can make the necessary adjustments to daily life to protect myself as much as possible from violence and crime. But at the end of some days, a few missing bananas are more than I can take...


"I'm reluctant to talk about this side of living in South Africa. I'm afraid these experiences will reinforce existing stereotypes that people have about poor people, black people, people living in the developing world. I fear that donors will be reluctant to contribute to legitimate causes because of concern that they will just be asked to do more and more. Or that people won't help other people directly by giving a few rand or employing someone because their generosity won't be appreciated or the assistance won't be seen as enough.


"It's easy to relay success stories or stories that hopefully connect on an emotional level. It is much more difficult to show a less flattering side of people. But failing to acknowledge this part of life... is cowardly and presents an incomplete picture.


"Of course, the sketch... of my housekeeper is also incomplete. If I used an outhouse instead of a bathroom and newspaper instead of toilet paper, and I finally got a job working for a man who has three bathrooms and a linen closet full of toilet paper, maybe I would also put a roll or two in my bag at the end of the day.


"None of us can ever know what we would do in a given situation until we are in that situation. Fortunately for me and for many of us in the developed world, we will never know what it's like to be poor, uneducated, HIV-positive, and living in the townships of South Africa. Instead, we can dwell on our generosity not being properly acknowledged or appreciated. We can get irritated over the constant requests and demands for more of our money. We can complain about the untrustworthiness of employees when a few bananas go missing.


"And then we can go to the store and buy more bananas."

Car woes

In about my third week here the control panel on my first car literally fell apart, and I had to take it back to the rental agency and get a new one. The shiny red Kia Picanto was something of an upgrade from the VW Citi-Golf. That all seemed to be working out fine until Saturday night. I was set to preach the next day, but was tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Partly I guess I was anxious about the sermon, partly the storm outside was beating very hard against the windows, but mostly this group of kids was talking and playing music into the wee hours, despite my asking them repeatedly to stop.

So I was up late, and eventually decided to turn the light on and read. I had a peak out the window and was surprised to see that there was a lake in the back yard. It occured to me that this would also mean a lake in the parking lot. I went downstairs to look out the front windows, and water was streaming in under the doors from the flooding. I could see my car outside with water lapping against the headlights. At that point, it was a little late to do anything about it. I made a cup of rooibos and figured that at least I would be stuck the next morning and wouldn't have to preach. Eventually I fell asleep. I woke up to my alarm on about four hours of sleep so I could call my supervisor and let him know the situation. But the water had receded by then, although it was still above the tailpipe on my car. My supervisor came to pick me up, and I had to get ready in a hurry, since I had assumed I would be able to just go back to sleep after I phoned him and slept later than normal on a Sunday.

There had been some flooding in Guguletu as well, although not nearly as bad as in Athlone. The church had some water in the sanctuary, which gave the leadership a project to do in lieu of their meeting. The upshot of all of this was that I didn't have to preach, and my sermon can wait until next Sunday when I am hopefully better rested.

There was, however, still the issue of my car sitting in a foot of water. Two guys from the leadership team Thobela (left) and Zukile (right) drove me back to my place to help me move the car out of the water. We were still in our church clothes, so we put hefty bags on over our feet and legs and waded in to push the car out. That worked for about ten seconds before water started to leak into the bags, getting our good pants and shoes wet. But we were committed by then, so we pushed the car up out of the water onto the lawn, with help from a big guy from the neighborhood who saw our situation. The ladies at the Youth Centre had their hands full cleaning up all the water that had seeped in on the ground floor.

Needless to say the car didn't start. There was still water inside, and by the dirt stains we could see that it had gotten as high as the steering wheel. The way they do rental insurance here is basically designed to minimize expenses for the car agency rather than insure the driver, so this may cost me a lot of money. I phoned the rental company, who sent a tow truck, got my belongings out and drove with Thobela and Zukile to the airport to get another car from the rental agency: a Dihatsu Sirion, my third vehicle in seven weeks. Along the way, in Guguletu, we passed other people whose cars were stalled or stuck, and guys just walking by on the road came over to help them push. Ubuntu on a small scale, I guess. I thanked Thobela and Zukile profusely for driving, getting my car out, and messing up their good clothes when they could have been in the church service. "This is our service today", they both said. I offerred to take them out for a meal, but they said "Your thanks is thanks enough." I was deeply touched by their willingness to help me out, because I really would have been in a bind without their assistance.

It can be surprisingly hard to receive from someone who expects nothing in return. I heard a story that some of the flights to New York that were diverted on 9/11 went to a small airport in Newfoundland, where the passengers ended up being housed and fed by local families who volunteered to take them in for the few days until flights resumed again. A few weeks later, many of the Canadian families were surprised to get checks in the mail from the Americans they had housed. I am sure the Americans meant well but the Canadians were perplexed, and some were a bit hurt or even insulted by this, because they had given freely without expecting to be compensated. It is interesting that people are often so uncomfortable allowing someone else to do something for them out of pure grace. I think a reason for this, conscious or unconscious, is the fact that receiving, being in need, means I am not in a position of power. I might be very comfortable giving to others, which subltley reinforces my sense of control and powerfulness, but I want to pay them for what I receive. I don't want to be dependent upon another person. This seems like a typically American mentality, and perhaps we have taken Western individualism and independence to an extreme when we are so often ashamed of being dependent on other people. Our cultural ideal of a human being is someone who is completely independent of others, self-sufficient and capable on her own devices. This is very different from the African idea of ubuntu, "I am human because you are human." We are connected. Not that it is a bad thing to want to return the kindness others have shown to you. Maybe I'm a pushy American who doesn't want to be in another person's debt, but I would still like to take these Thobela and Zukhile to Mzoli's or something as a way of saying Thanks.

As a closing note, which sobers me up in the midst of being frustrated: as much of a challenge as all of this is, imagine how people living in informal settlements are affected by torrential downpours like the one that flooded my yard. An informal settlement I visited on Friday is right beside a marsh (see my earlier post on Xolani's township tour for more pictures of the same place). It reminded me of water damage from Hurricane Katrina that I saw when I went to Louisiana last September. The picture at left is of one shack that was already unlivable after the rains up to that point. Most of us First World people would probably consider it unliveable to begin with. Indeed, no one should have to live like that. It was probably the worst living conditions I have seen since I've been here. I can't imagine what it looks like after Saturday's storm. The people who were living there had been taken in by their neighbors, however -- seemingly indefinitely. I really hope they don't move back in when things dry out, as the mildew and mold will be extremely unhealthful. Then again, it probably isn't much better in any of the other shanties. So things may be tough for me, but they could be worse. My belongings weren't damaged, I still have shelter, and even if I have to pay the steep premium on the insurance (which is likely) I have resources to come up with the money. It may not be easy, and it will certainly entail some sacrifices, but it is by no means impossible. Not everyone can say the same.

Around JL Zwane

I realized this week that I have not shared any pictures of JL Zwane Centre itself, so I made sure to take a bunch on Sunday, which was a beautiful day. The last week has been mostly chilly and heavy rains, and wind that cuts right through your clothes. As I type it is like monsoon season outside, and you can hear the rain on the roof. I have said before that the climate here is not too different from California in the winter time, and that is generally true. But then a storm system from the Southern Ocean (i.e. around Antarctica) will blow up this way and all I want is to be someplace warm. The church is mostly made of concrete, which keeps things very cool in here. That must be nice when it is hot in the summer time, but now it is usually colder indoors than out.

JL Zwane is a beautiful building. In addition to the sanctuary, which seats about 400, it has offices, a few classrooms, and several larger meeting rooms, plus a performance room downstairs where Siyaya practices. The building is quite new, having been dedicated in 2003. The church formed partnerships with some investment firms who funded the building, which is an extremely nice facility, much better than any other church in the area. It was not always this way. Before the current structure was built there was just the sanctuary. The rest of the programs were housed in shipping containers. But this church's philosophy has been to start the programs first, then work on getting the buildings in order.

JL Zwane runs all of its programs through partnerships with businesses and churches, both in South Africa and abroad. Although the church has been able to organize some great fundraising initiatives in the community, the church and staff could not depend on the congregation to support it. Most of the pastors in Guguletu have another job, usually as a chaplain in the military or correctional facilities, to pay the bills during the week, and lead the service on Sundays. At JL Zwane a different partner pays for each aspect of the ministry. One pays the minister's salary, another pays for the cleaning staff, a grocery chain provides food to feed the afterschool program and HIV/AIDS support group, another pays for Siyaya, and so forth. Dr. Xapile is a very good fundraiser, and his efforts at developing these partnerships are what has allowed the ministry and facilities to become so well developed.

I would like to learn more about how these partnerships are formed, but it seems like a lot of it has been Spiwo making connections with people by good fortune and following up with them. While he had a vision for what the church could be, a lot of it's success has come with unexpected opportunities that he didn't plan for. The programs have become very developed now, and it is hard to believe that all of this was in shipping containers just five years ago. It is a wonderful place, and the resources JL Zwane has been blessed with are going back into the community, which is encouraged to have a sense of ownership and pride in the place. I will more more as time goes by.

Struggling with HIV

Things with the HIV/AIDS support group have been hard. Last week some members of the support group told me that Portia, a woman I visited a few weeks ago, is doing very badly. She hasn't been taking her ARVs (anti-retrovirals), or meds for TB. She hardly eats, and when she does it's cokes and junk food. She has given up. So we went to take her to the clinic. She was skinny when I saw her last time. Now she has wasted away even further. As we helped her into her shoes and out of bed I thought we were helping a child. She had the body of an eighty pound thirteen-year-old under her baggy clothes. Bukelwua, one of the women I have interacted with the most, told me that Portia wieghed 68 kilos (over 150 lbs.) before she got sick. When I visited her a few weeks ago she was not doing well, but it struck me that she was pretty and must have been beautiful when she was healthy. I am posting her picture again, at left. Last week, Portia looked like she had aged ten years since the first time I saw her and took the picture. She is my age, but looks forty-five.





Bukelwua and I took Portia to the clinic, filled out forms, and waited two hours before I went up and asked what was going on. They had only one doctor that day, and told us to come back in the afternoon. Bukelwua protested that if we left and came back we would only have to wait another two hours before being sent home and told to come back the next day. It was extremely frustrating, and we ended up taking Portia right back home to her bed, which is where she had complained all along she wanted to be. Fortunately, Bukelwua and Pumla, another woman in the support group, talked to the doctor who attends the group meeting, and made arrangements to have Portia put into the hospital. Pumla and I picked Portia up the next day and took her in, where she was put on a drip and would have nurses to ensure she takes her meds.





I drove Pumla home afterward. She was at the training I led last week, and has gone on visits like this one with me. I have interacted with her on a number of occassions, and know her as well as I do anyone at JL Zwane who is not on staff. I asked her whether she had ever wanted to give up like Portia seems to have done. She said, "Oh yes. When I was first diagnosed I had already had the disease a long time. Then I started getting sick. And weak. I just decided 'I am going to die.' I was ready to give up. But friends encouraged me, I took my ARVs and now my CD4 count [what Americans call T-cells] is very high." Pumla looks great now, and it's hard to believe that she was so sick only about a year ago. There are several people in the support group who, like Pumla, should be on promotional materials for ARVs. Some people have had the disease for 10 years, and with ARV treatment they are still more or less as healthy as the day they were diagnosed. One such woman told me that, like Magic Johnson, the HIV virus doesn't even show up in her blood-tests anymore (which doesn't mean she's cured, of course, but the disease is well under control for now).





But looks can be deceiving. Bukelwua came in yesterday afternoon, and asked how my weekend was. "Fine", I said. "And yours?" Bukelwua had had a hellish weekend. Portia is doing very badly. But what had really made the weekend terrible was the sudden death of another group member named Pumla on Sunday. She had gone out with friends on Friday, and came back with a chill. By Saturday she was shaking with cold and vomitting. Sunday she was gone. Just like that. I misunderstoond Bukelwua, and thought it was the Pumla that I knew. You can imagine my surprise when Pumla walked into the office where I was working a few minutes later! We took two other members of the support group to visit Portia at the hospital, although the security guard gave us a hard time because visiting hours were over. Bukelwua told him I was the umfundisi and we were there to give a prayer. I said that was right, and that we would only be a few minutes. The guy grudgingly let Bukelwua and I come in. The ward where Portia was staying was set up the way hospitals must have been years ago in the US, or in a military hospital, with all of the hundred patients in the same room. I wondered how many of them were there with complications of HIV. We found Portia, but she was completely knocked out and unresponsive, whether from medication or sickness I don't know. Her face looked fuller and her skin fresher, but her unresponsiveness was a bad sign. We planned to go back to visit on Thursday, but I learned today (Tuesday, contrary to the date at top) that Portia had died early this morning. Another sad casualty.





Yesterday I also paid a visit to another woman with AIDS whom I have seen many times. She is stuck in bed, and I have never seen her standing on her feet. We were just delivering clothes this time, but my first few visits to her in my early weeks here were some of the most emotional I have done. The first time I went with some women from staff, we had just heard about this woman's condition from someone in the congregation. We arrived to find her sleeping on a wet cardboard mat on the floor, one of her children also sick and sleeping under the blankets with her. Even when she is sick in bed herself the children want to crawl in with her when they fall ill. You can imagine how terrible it was to see a woman living like that. Her face was taught and thin, almost skeletal, and when she sat up you could tell that she had been a full-figured woman at one point. Now the flesh beneath her clothes drooped down weakly, like the body of a woman much older. And yet her teeth are perfect, so nice that one of the ladies with me asked whether they were false ones (I had been wondering myself, but would have felt rude to ask). We said a prayer, came back later with some food and blankets, and went back to the church.





The next Sunday, a member of Siyaya who also works on the grounds and does maintenance heard about our visit to this woman and told us there was a bedframe and mattress that had been sitting in the garage for months. Sure enough, there it was, and in great shape. We got a group together, found someone with a truck, and drove the bed to the house. We stayed over an hour, with a big group of church ladies praying outloud giving thanks for the bed and asking God's help. It was pretty emotional, and I wished there was more I could do. I dropped a 50 rand note on the floor by her bed while no one was looking. I was asked to pray on the spot at one point, which chaplaincy experience had helped me with, although I was still a little uncomfortable given the situation. I have had lots of experiences like that since then, and we have visited this woman many times to bring food, blankets, and clothes, and giving a few rides to church to her sisters and their kids. Most important, I think is that we show up and show that we care. Chaufering is actually a pretty frequent job for me here. Shaeffer the chauffer. Her English name is Rosie, and I am really moved by the gratitude she expresses when we visit. She has been moved to tears on a number of occasions. The expectation of gratitude was not a condition of my involvement in this work here. I don't feel it is something we are owed. So this makes it especially moving when someone is so thankful, especially when what we can provide seems so small compared to the size of the problems faced by those we visit. I feel like I get far more out of the visits that I am able to give. I only wish I could do more, somehow. But, at least for this one person, what we are doing is making a positive difference, and she takes every opportunity to let us know.

Friends and hikes

Last Saturday I went on a nice hike with my friends David and Crawford. David used to be the computer technician at JL Zwane, but left to pursue another opportunity. He is from China and is here with his daughter who is in high school ("matric"). I have gone hiking with him a couple of times now, and am making friends with his American neighbors with whom I went to the soccer match last Wednesday. Crawford, as I mentioned before, is from PTS, and we have hung out a few times now since we connected a couple weeks ago. Two more PTS students, Rachel and Elizabeth (lovely people) are flying in from Johannesburg this week and will stay until the weekend. I am considering whether it is worth the effort for me to go out to Jo'burg, and I will seek their advice, since they live there and all.

Back to David and Crawford, we took one of the many routes up to the top of Table Mountain, Skeleton Gorge, although we turned back at the waterfall pictured (you can see me at the top). At that point the climb was quite literally up the waterfall, and looked a little dicey. Crawford and I may try it again soon. The trail was through thick forests all the way up the gorge, and it looked like a North American forest for all you could tell. The climate in the Western Cape, as I have probably mentioned before, is temperate, ranging from a California to Pacific Northwest type landscape and weather pattern. South Africa is a very diverse country in terms of terrain, with desert, subtropical, tropical, veld (grassland), and mountains. I have really enjoyed being able to get out in nature on my days off. I do that so little back home in the States, and it is nice to live somewhere with city and nature both an easy drive away. By the way, as you can see, I got my camera fixed, and it's now working brilliantly. For pictures forthcoming.

Off to a meeting now!