Green Acres No More

Being in South Africa is sometimes like riding an emotional roller coaster.  One minute, you are looking at the South African landscape amidst indescribable bliss thinking to yourself “Man, I am in Africa” and the next you are cursing this country and its people while also thinking “Damn, I am in Africa”.  This juxtaposition of experiences and feelings is perhaps one thing that makes this country so intriguing and frustrating all at the same time.

Recently I have amassed a series of stories of corruption and mismanagement which I originally considered trying to cram all into one post.  Upon careful consideration, though, I will save some of the other egregious examples for a separate entry to focus on the one experience I had on Sunday.

In recent weeks, I have become friends with the local librarian, something I know will shock no one who knows me, and she invited me to join her when she went to her cousins’ farm this weekend.  Not being one to turn down picturesque rides through the country, I duly jumped in the librarian’s pickup truck on Sunday morning, and we cruised to the outskirts of town where the farm was located.  I truly felt like I was back in Texas as we bumped across the pasture, periodically stopping to open gates, while now and again seeing groups of Brahman cattle grazing here and there (fun fact: in South African English they are pronounced Brah-MAHN with the stress on the last syllable).   The librarian, her two cousins, and I then proceeded down to the Vaal River, where they showed me a more than 100 year old damlike structure that had been constructed to divert water for irrigation purposes.  The family has lived in Warrenton for more than 100 years now, and one of the cousins had appropriately enough brought an old photo album showing his  ancestors dressed in their turn of the century bonnets, dresses, and suits posing in all of the same places we were now traversing.  Me being a history buff, I enjoyed this immensely.

The group then showed me to one area of the farm where British soldiers had camped during the Anglo-Boer war between the British and the Afrikaners at the end of the 19^th century.  As a result, you can still find old bullet casings, trinkets, and other remnants of the British Empire.  The history continued to rain down as we moved to another piece of land, where my friends pointed out inscriptions of animals on various rock faces carved there by the San, some of the earliest inhabitants of the land that is now South Africa.

I soon came to find out that this piece of land was actually a farm, which one of the men guiding me around had grown up on, and which he and his wife had lived on for the first 15 years of their marriage.  The man blissfully recounted memory after memory of how he had spent his childhood roaming about this ground, helping tend to the animals, and getting into the kind of mischief that children are prone to do.

All of this was tinged with sadness, however, as the place was a shell of its former self.  The farmhouse which served as this man and wife’s first post-nuptial home, was no longer being used with the windows broken and trash lying on the floor inside.  The small dairy in which the family had once milked cows by hand and delivered milk in bottles to people in town just like the milkman of yore, was now in complete disuse.  The silos that had once stored surpluses of the maize grown on the farm are now filled with rubbish and beer bottles.  The old cattle pens are falling apart and the entire farm is in a state of general neglect and disrepair.

All of this was viewed with visible sadness and pain by the husband and wife who had once occupied the premises.  When I inquired as to what had happened, I found that once the farm had been sold, it had eventually ended up under government ownership.  The state had decided it would be a communal farm for use by all the inhabitants in the surrounding area.  The idea sounds nice, but the result has been poor pastures from overgrazing and none of the facilities being cared for or maintained.

The observation of such degradation naturally led to a discussion about government policies since the end of apartheid.  Since 1994 when Nelson Mandela was elected president, the African National Congress (ANC), the ruling party, has engaged in land reform in an effort to redistribute land that was grossly misapportioned to whites under the former regime.  The government has strived to promote Black ownership through generally non-coercive processes in which title is transferred legally, with payment, and with the approval of the owners.  Unfortunately, those who have ended up as new landlords have many times had neither the skill nor discipline to operate the land with the efficiency it was by the former White inhabitants.  One debatable criticism that has been aimed at the ANC is that the land was transferred without any attempt to provide training or assistance to the new owners in the maintenance of successful cultivation.  The result is that more than 50% of farms that have been reallocated to Blacks have failed.

In my short experience here, this has seemed to be the case with many things that were transferred to Black ownership and management following the end of apartheid.  The disturbing thing is that, in my opinion, some of the failure cannot be attributed to the previous discrimination but rather to a lack of responsibility.  This is not a comfortable conclusion for me to have arrived at, believe me, as one could obviously misinterpret it as carrying racist overtones.  That being said, I have to honestly attest to what I have seen.  Despite the access to the newly communal farm discussed, people opted to trash the place and let it become rundown instead of taking pride in what could have been viewed as a community project with collective effort.  This is one thing that I still do not understand.  For a people whose history has been so connected with the land many times to the point of it forming a part of religious belief, I do not see how or why litter is thrown on the ground so casually and in so many places.

The husband told me that he also wondered why none of the new “owners” had bothered to use any of the preexisting facilities in the way they had formerly been employed.  The dairy building was rotting away even though such small-scale dairy farming which was previously conducted was not, according to the husband, overly complex and could provide a nice little extra income.  None of the cattle pens were being taken advantage of, and the pit that had been made specifically for the dipping of the cows (a process similar to the one that removes fleas from pets) had obviously not been used in a very long time.  The husband specifically tried to do his part for two years after the sale of the land by trying to train the new occupants in farming techniques but to no avail.  The advice seemed to fall on deaf ears and sometimes a good deal of laziness.

These are of course harsh words, which I must confess I find very difficult to type as they sound too much like those of people with racist beliefs and attitudes with whom I do not want to be associated.  My readers might also be thinking that the husband and wife I have spoken of are just one more couple in a line of prejudiced Afrikaners who won’t join the twenty first century.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  When the husband first found out I was from America, he told me quite bluntly, “I hope you know that I have never been too fond of America because it seems wherever Americans have been, the indigenous people have fared badly.”  This same man speaks fluent Setswana as a result of spending his childhood playing with the children of Black farm workers, who he quite sincerely told me, he considered his “mates”.  I am sure that there are those reading this that are still skeptical, and I am sorry my ability to convey this man’s genuiness is so limited.  Just please take it from me that this man, like myself, wants Black South Africans to succeed, and that makes it all the harder when one sees opportunities wasted.

As I often say, though, the positives in South Africa continue to outweigh the negatives, so I do not want to end this piece on such a dreary note.  For that reason, I must mention that after having viewed Paradise Lost, the librarian and cousins asked if I wanted to go to the “local” for a drink.  I said why not, and five minutes later we pulled up outside of none other than…the Texas Lodge.  I figured that surely a bonafide Texan like myself would merit a free beer, so I duly produced my Texas driver’s license and asked what rewards a Lone Star Stater might receive at the Texas Lodge.  Alas, all my document got was a smile and a shake of the head from the bartender.  Oh well.  Better luck next time.

South African English Word of the Day

sangoma – a traditional healer or diviner sometimes referred to by foreigners as a “medicine man” or “witch doctor”.

Mpho insists on seeing the sangoma instead of the regular doctor for treatment of his back pain.

Headers and Hospitals

I casually mentioned in a previous post that I was currently training with a soccer team here in South Africa and that I would devote a later entry to that topic alone.  Well, much time has passed, and given that I played in my first official game this past Saturday, I figured now would be the appropriate moment.

As soon as I moved to Warrenton and the local teacher who serves as my quasi-chaperone discovered I was a soccer player, he began doing research regarding the local teams.  Apparently, one was ill-disciplined with players not showing up to training yet still getting playing time whereas the other one was more of a no-nonsense professionalism with a strict no-train, no-play policy.  The teacher recommended the latter to me and considering that I have some annoying experience with teams where players not at practice are in the starting lineup, I accepted the teacher’s advice.  

That was more than 4 weeks ago.  Since then I have been training Mondays through Thursdays from 4:00 to 6:00 pm.  After my initial practice, the coach decided he wanted to register me, which for most players is no more than a two or three day process.  Unfortunately, though, because I am not a South African citizen, my application got held up for a month.  The South African Football Association (SAFA) official wanted a work permit (even though the league is semi-professional and the players are not paid), which given I am a Peace Corps volunteer, I do not have.  We went back and forth with my coach and I giving the bureaucrat numbers of people at Peace Corps in Pretoria to call to explain my “job” and permission to be here but to no avail. 

When the man found out I did not have a work permit, he said that I would have to go to the Department of Home Affairs to get a document stating my reason for being here even though my visa says it, and I had given him another paper attesting to my role.  In South Africa, perhaps more so than other places, it is all about whom you know.  My teacher chaperone has a friend who is also a SAFA official, and the teacher mentioned the situation to his friend.  The SAFA friend promptly spoke with the official who had been holding up my registration, and basically told him to stop dicking around and register me.  Wouldn’t you know it, only a few days later, my registration was approved, and I got to compete in my first official match this past Saturday.

The league I play in is semi-professional and regional, kind of like the 4^th division of South African soccer.  The top league is the Premier Soccer League, followed by the National First Division, followed by the Vodacom League, followed by my league, the Castle League.  Anyways, I finally got my registration card and got to lace up the boots for my first official game playing for the Young Stars, my team.  We traveled to the closest big town, Kimberley, for the match.  Having arrived, there were dressing rooms, a team sheet listing the starting 11 as well as the substitution bench that had to be submitted to the referees several minutes prior to kickoff among other trappings of athletic professionalism or semi-professionalism.  I could tell the crowd was somewhat intrigued to see a tall White guy come out of the dressing room tunnel and line up on the field as starting center forward.

As luck would have it though, in only the 7^th minute, I went up for a header on a corner and knocked noggins with a defender from the opposing side.  Immediately afterwards, I felt something dripping and looked down at my hand to see that I was making a generous blood donation to the soil.  I went off to my team bench, where my coach started applying water and talking about substituting me.  I told him that there was no way in Hell I had just waited 4 weeks to be able to play, only to come off in the first 10 minutes.  He remonstrated with me, but I would have none of it.  I had them tie a bandage around the wound, and I re-entered the field.

Soon after, there was another corner kick, which I headed, and in the process caused myself to start bleeding again.  I was once again sent off the field, and this time I told the athletic trainer to make sure he wrapped the bandage nice and tight to prevent this from happening again.  Such wrapping was duly applied, and I played the rest of the game without further problems.  To top it all off, I scored the only goal of the game in the second half off of, what else?, a header.

It was only after the game had finished and we had made the 45 minute trip back to Warrenton that I finally made it to the hospital.  The nurses there took one look at my war-torn body and promptly had me lie down so they could apply several stitches.  I’m still not exactly sure how the health system works, but apparently the hospital I went to is a public hospital because no payment was ever asked for or required (which for an American, believe me, is quite strange).

So all in the course of one day, I embarked on my South African semi-professional career, scored the game-winner in my first game, and got to experience the South African healthcare system.  I guess the only question then, reader, is, What did YOU do today?

Also, some readers have expressed complaints that I have not been providing any photos of my African experiences, so as a somewhat gruesomely humorous response, I have included, for your enjoyment and disgust, a picture of my new battle scar.

 

South African English Word of the Day (definition and word origin courtesy of Oxford English Dictionary)

As you may have already noticed, many of the South African English words I have defined sound quite Dutch since they are either derived from Afrikaans or are the Afrikaans word itself (Afrikaans started out as a Dutch dialect).  Today’s example is no exception:

Stoep – a veranda in front of a house

Example: Let's have our tea out on the stoep.

Stoep is related to the current English word “step” given that “step” traces its origins to the Old English word “stœpe”.

What’s a space bar?

First off, before I begin discussion of anything South African, I would like to extend my heartfelt congratulations to the Libyan people in their final triumph over Moammar Gaddhafi.  Regardless of where people stood on the intervention of the US and NATO in that conflict, I think most of us can agree that this is the Libyan people’s moment, and we hope that they make the most of this new opportunity for democracy.  Now for things on the more southern end of the African continent.

For those who read my last post, I hope that the emotion and stress I experienced as a result of the whole housing situation was palpable.  Up to this point in my South African tenure, I have felt comfortable enough here and enjoyed my work sufficiently that I have not really experienced much intense homesickness.  Of course I miss my family, friends, and country, but it is not a feeling that had ever become so acute to the point of pain.  I experienced such an emotion, however, the day that I was forced from my house.  It represented the first time during my South African stay that I legitimately thought that it would be preferable to be back home.  That feeling has now passed as the ordeal is at least over, and I am able to focus on the future and the ideas and projects I have for my students and schools.

The reason I wanted to highlight that is to mark the contrast between that feeling and the one I experienced today as I worked with my learners.  They say that after a storm comes a rainbow, and I think such an expression is many times apt in the realm of human emotion.  To give a bit more backdrop, let me say that one of the things I am working on in my high school here is to set up a career center and counseling for the students as they approach the end of their secondary schooling and transition to university or work life.  I think most of my readers from developed countries probably benefited in high school from some type of counselor they were able to talk about their options with as well as at least a place where they could get information about different careers and universities.  Such is not the case here in the location.  For kids that have little to no experience of the outside world, this severely limits their ability to strive for a job path greater than that of a municipality worker.

For that reason, a few weeks ago whenever there was a 10 year high school reunion, I got the contact information from some of the successful alumni who are successful young professionals in Johannesburg and Pretoria.  They have been sending me various opportunities that the learners can apply for as well as helping to educate me on how the South African system of higher education and financing works.  Last week I got a chance to speak to the Grade 12s who will be graduating in December about a program set up by several corporations to help youth from disadvantaged areas study information technology and communications.  As a result, on Monday I was approached by some students who asked if I would help them create a CV (South African lingo for resume) in order to apply for the program.  I duly did so on, and then met with them again yesterday and today to draft an email to the program to which we would attach their CV.  The exercise was as much about giving them computer experience as it was about submitting their applications.

I first had them write on paper what they wanted to say, which I edited, and then had them sit down at the computer so that they could type it themselves.  Whenever the first girl got in front of the monitor to begin typing, I could tell that this was probably the first time in her life that she had ever sat down at a computer and keyboard.  Keep in mind this is a girl that is 19 years of age.  It took her on average probably 5 seconds to find each succeeding letter in the word she was typing.  When she came to the end of the first word, she asked me how you enter a space on the computer.  I told her to hit the space bar, and despite her searching for 30 seconds, she did not know where it was.  I had to explain how backspace, delete, and the shift key work, not to mention the operations of a mouse.  We actually spent about 5 minutes practicing a double click.  Over the course of our two days’ work typing the email, the two girls and I spent about three days typing up two emails that probably would have taken me five minutes to type myself.

As you would expect, though, how fast I could have done it was not the point.  By the end of today, the two learners were able to open Microsoft Word, create a new document, and functionally use the shift key, space bar, delete key, backspace, and arrows.  Not to mention that their key recognition improved markedly so that they are now able to find the appropriate key in less than two seconds.  In our most recent session, my involvement was actually quite limited because one girl read the written letter to the other one who was typing.  Whenever one experienced a problem typing something on the computer, I hardly ever had to help because, if given several seconds, the two together figured it out.  These were learners who two days ago did not know what a space bar was.  Such self-sufficiency is exactly what I am trying to develop in my learners, schools, and community.

The moral of the story is that if there is such a thing as a “runner’s high” one gets from intense jogging, there is equally a “teaching high” one gets from dedicated instruction -  and I got it today.  Transmitting knowledge and then seeing confirmation that others have truly understood and internalized it is an amazing feeling.  It also confirms what I already believed, that so many of my students are not so much lacking in intelligence as they are exposure.  If I can get them the experience, such as with the computer, and hopefully also instill a deep desire to learn along with a good work ethic, I have no doubt that they are capable of more than a life of poverty in the location.

South African English Word of the Day

Coloured - a multi-racial person, though usually some combination of Black and White ancestry.  In America, this term (without the “u”) used to be an accepted way to refer to a Black person, but is now considered offensive.  In South Africa, it is the standard way of referring to one of the four major racial groups.

Example: In this new South Africa, it doesn't matter whether you're Black, White, Coloured, or Asian.  We are all South African.

We’re not gonna take it

Beware all who enter (or at least start reading).  The recent event I’m about to describe involved and still does involve, a lot of emotion, and for that reason, I found it quite cathartic to describe almost point-by-point what happened with my own commentary thrown in for good measure.  Consequently, I think it is easily my longest blog post yet.  You might want to cancel the afternoon appointments before beginning.

Well, unfortunately the saga of the house removal continues and has taken a decidedly drastic and inconvenient turn.  Yesterday at 7:00 in the morning as I had just recently finished bathing, I thought I heard a noise at my front door.  Given that I was in the midst of my morning preparations and it was so early, I gave it no notice until it repeated in the sound of definite knocking.  I had no idea who would be knocking at my house so early in the a.m., and opened the door in a state of confusion.  As soon as I had opened it, the woman from who the house is being rented, the same one who recently decided after a month that she now wants to move back in, immediately steps into the house past me and heads to the back room to begin rummaging through her stuff.  No “Good morning”, no “How are you”, and certainly no “Can I come in?” or maybe an explanation of why she was showing up unannounced at 7:00 in the morning.  As I mentioned in my last post, this lady (and I use that term lightly) has made a habit of just coming to my house to go through her clothes and things which she inexplicably decided to leave in the house.  I had simply dealt with it in the past, but this, I could not believe nor tolerate.  Showing up at my door early in the morning, no phone call, no notice, no nothing; stepping past me as soon as I opened the door without even a word of greeting or asking permission to come in; and interrupting me as I was getting myself ready for school without a word of apology.  I was absolutely flabbergasted, and knew that I could not simply sit by, smile, and say nothing.

To top things off, she accused me of having moved one of her bags, which I promptly told her I had not touched, which she then confirmed upon finding the bag several seconds later.  As she went through her things in the house, I stood silently not saying a word and waited for her to finish.  Once she began to make her way towards the front door, I calmly said, “J****, this is the last time that this happens.  It is inappropriate for you to come over unannounced, without calling.”  Her response was “I didn’t have airtime” (which happens to be a quite common excuse in South Africa).  I said “Regardless of that, it is not appropriate for you to show up without calling or scheduling a time to stop by.  I have been very reasonable up to this point, but if this happens again, I am not going to agree to let you in to get your things.”  To which she said, “You have a problem with me coming over to get my things?”.  I replied, “when it is unannounced, yes, yes, I do.  It is simply not appropriate”.  Her only comment was “I’m not going to talk to you.”

She then left, and I finally was able to continue getting ready though I ultimately ended up being late leaving as a result.  Like I said before, such behavior on this woman’s part was something I simply could not tolerate, so I went directly to the high school I work at to have a word with the principal there.  On my way in, I ran into the principal from the other school where I am involved.  I asked her if I could speak to her for a moment, and then related what had just happened.  She said she had just been with J****, and was there to speak with the other principal about it.  At that point, the principal of the high school came out of his office, and I briefly recounted to him what had occurred.  He said that they were going to meet about it, and that he would call me afterwards.  I, thus, proceeded to the primary school where I was supposed to be working that day.  I hadn’t been at the school more than 5 minutes, however, when I got a call from the high school principal telling me to tell the others I had to leave for the day and could I please come back to the high school to get this situation sorted.

Upon arriving back at the high school I went in to the principal’s office to find a group of several teachers who had also been informed of what was going on.  Come to find out, this lady who decided it was cool to just walk into my house at 7:00 in the morning, who also happens to be a teacher at the primary school I work at, had gone almost immediately from my house to the primary school principal and told her that I needed to move out of the house that day.

Now I am not a person who likes to be pushed around (though I suppose, who really does?), and I certainly am not one to take things lying down.  My first thought was that there was no way I was going to move out of that house.  The principals had made an agreement with J**** only the week before that I would be able to remain at the house until Peace Corps-approved alternative housing was secured.  She had already broken the agreement that I would be able to stay there for two years, and was now breaking the agreement made only several days prior. Not to mention I was pretty sure that South African law couldn’t be that different from American law regarding the amount of advance notice that has to be given in the event of an eviction.

I feel quite confident that the high school principal was and is on my side in this whole affair, however, I could see just how uncomfortable this was making him and what an awkward situation it was.  I also realized that I had no idea what position my other principal was taking given that she had immediately relayed J****’s demand instead of telling J**** that the agreement was for me to stay in the house until other lodging was found.  I realized that it was a distinct possibility that such an event could cause people to choose sides, so that even if I did win, it could damage my relationship with some of the other teachers not to mention one of my principals.  Such an outcome would unquestionably make it more difficult for me to do the work I came here to do, which is help and serve.   

So when my high school principal suggested that I move in with his ex-wife temporarily until a new arrangement could be sorted, in spite of the fighting side of me, I did not reject it and tell him that he needed to tell J**** to go to Hell because I wasn’t going anywhere.  I said that before making any decisions we needed to inform my Peace Corps director and see what he had to say.  We duly did, and he said that if I was okay with moving in with the principal’s former spouse, he was okay with it.   

As it ended up then, I swallowed my pride, went home, and packed up all my things.  Even though I wanted to trash the place and smear F*** Y** in ketchup on the walls, I decided that despite the actions of this woman, I could choose to take somewhat of a high ground without being a doormat.  So I re-arranged all the furniture and things to exactly as they had been when I moved in.  I then proceeded to clean, dust, sweep, and mop the entire place, so that it was as spic and span as could be.  This woman might not have deserved it, but I figured that it was a way of telling her that even though she was childish and irresponsible, I am not (though I must admit that doesn’t stop me from imagining what F*** Y** written in ketchup might have looked like all over the house).

In conclusion, I am now staying in a house that is much bigger and nicer than my house in America, has many modern conveniences I was previously lacking such as a shower, and is in a nice part of town.  I am doing my utmost best not to get used to it, since, if everything works out, I will be moving to another simpler house in the same general area as my original one within two weeks.  I figure, though, that given the whole stress of this situation, I deserve a few comforts at least for a few days.  I do know that when I move into my new (and hopefully final) place, it will only be after having a signed contract from the landlord specifying the rights and responsibilities of both parties in the rental relationship.  I am not going to have a repeat of this situation, and if someone tries to make such a thing happen, I am going to have an endorsed contract on which to stand my ground.

Afterword:

I do want to stay away from being petty, but I cannot help but share some information that I recently discovered.  The house I was staying in is what is called RDP housing.  It is free housing that was built by the government post-apartheid so as to give poor people their own house.  For that reason, it is supposed to only be available to people below a certain income.  The woman who was renting that house, as a teacher, does not fall in that low income range.  She apparently was renting it from its actual owner in violation of the housing standards, and then to compound the corruption, she then, presumably, subleased it to the Department of Education (for me) at a higher price and pocketed the difference.  Like I said, real classy gal.

South African English Word of the Day:

sjambok - a long, stiff whip, originally made of rhinocerous hide

Example: Man, you do not want to be around when the police start using sjamboks.