Merry Christmas y’all!

It is Christmas Day, and for the first time in the 26 years of my existence, I am not spending it in Huntsville, Texas with my family.  This year there was no Christmas Eve dinner at Golden Corral, no candlelight service at Fellowship of Huntsville, and no driving around town looking at Christmas lights.  I had to go without a reading of the Christmas story by my Dad from the Bible, a recitation of “The Night Before Christmas” by my older brother, and the telling of “The Texas Night Before Christmas” by my little sister.  My skin did not feel the touch of a new set of pajamas given by my Mom as the first gift of Christmas, and I was not able to drink Christmas Coke nor savor red and green M&Ms as my siblings and I watched “The Santa Claus”.  This morning I did not awake to a stocking filled with Skittles and Dr. Pepper, I did not unwrap any presents, and I did not get to dine on my Mom’s delicious breakfast quiche. 

No, instead I am in Durban, South Africa, a coastal city with beautiful waters lying on the Indian Ocean.  I have just returned to my hostel, sunburnt after a day of relaxing on a sunny beach, where I read, chatted, and listened to the rhythmic sound of the crashing waves.  Despite such events, which normally should provide unqualified bliss, there was the strongly present emotion that something was amiss.  Even though Texas is not exactly known for its white Christmases and I had quite an enjoyable day seaside, it is still a distinctly odd feeling to be experiencing summer in the middle of summer – to be sweating instead of shivering.  After a lifetime of everything I know about Christmas being associated with winter, my body is telling me that there is something very wrong with this alternate summertime reality.  My mom told me that her brother, who grew up in the US, but has spent the better part of his life in Australia, loves most things about life Down Under yet has never been able to quite adjust himself to seeing people surfing on Christmas day.  Indeed, this hot Christmas is not something I’m sure I, myself, could ever get used to either.

Even more than the switching of seasons, the thing that most bothers me about Christmas in South Africa is that the holiday seems to be a non-event.  Here, in one of the biggest cities in South Africa, there is almost no evidence that today is a celebration.  Aside from a few Santa hats (he’s called Father Christmas here) and a Christmas tree here and there, there is no holiday spirit or regalia.  No wreaths, no lights, no Salvation Army people ringing bells, no holiday music in the stores or on the radios, no nothing.  Just to feel somewhat normal and remind ourselves that today is special, some of the other Peace Corps Volunteers and I last night went to the effort of singing Christmas carols in the lounge of where we are staying.  We invited the employee on duty to join us, which she did, but she, herself, said that she found the idea of caroling somewhat odd since it was something they only saw in movies.  For whatever reason, Christmas just does not appear to be a big deal in any way comparable to what Americans are used to.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am by no means depressed that I am here.  I am loving my time here in South Africa, and especially my current beachside vacation.  Regardless, though, I’m not sure that Christmas can ever really be Christmas without my family and the associated traditions which I hold dear. 

So even though not many people here are saying it, I would like to wish everyone a very merry and blessed Christmas.  For those of you who are lucky enough to be spending it with family, cherish it for those of us who were not quite as fortunate this year.  I, myself, will be having a phone call with my parents and siblings in T-minus 30 minutes while they ARE dining on mom’s delicious breakfast quiche.  Afterwards, I think I will have no other choice than to watch “It’s a Wonderful Life” on my friend’s computer.  Once again, merry Christmas y’all – all the way from South Africa.

Whose culture is it anyway?

I am now in Pretoria, South Africa’s executive capital (judicial and legislative functions are in other cities), and, while I am tempted to tell other stories of why nothing in South Africa is easy, I will hold off so as to prevent my blog from becoming a rant.  No, today, I am in a more philosophical mood, brought about by an experience I had this morning on my way to sightseeing activities around the city. 

My friend and I were trying to figure out how we could catch a bus to the main part of the city, so we decided to ask a Black lady who was sitting at one of the bus stops.  I approached and said “Excuse me.  We are trying to figure out how to get to Church Square.  Do you know if we can take a bus to get there?”  The lady looked at me, completely disregarded the question, and then said somewhat condescendingly, “Hello.  How are you?” 

I’m sure many of my readers can realize from such a response that this woman was indicating to me her offense that I had not greeted her before asking my question.  This actually is not the first time this has happened to me, so I knew immediately what she was getting at.  I said I was fine and inquired how she was that day.  She said she was also fine.  I then had to repeat my question, which was followed by about a minute and a half long discussion among the ladies at the stop, with the end conclusion being that we were told we needed to walk a block farther down to another bus stop.  Anyone who read my last post will not be shocked that a block farther on there was no bus stop, and we had to continue walking for a bit before coming to a place where we were finally able to catch a bus to Church Square.

As I mentioned before, though, this is not “Nothing is easy in South Africa: Part 2”.  What intrigued me, and to be quite honest, also angered me, was that the woman we asked for assistance felt that my act of not greeting her in the way she thought was proper, was a serious breach of behavior.  Such a serious breach even that she felt it appropriate to completely disregard my question until I carried on the conversation in the way she wanted.  We thus had a situation where she thought I was being rude for not greeting her, and I thought she was being rude by not answering my question.  That, ladies and gentleman, is what we call a culture clash.

Now, some will say that I am an American, and that we are naturally brash and rude in our delivery, which is what resulted in this.  That may be true to some extent, but I am an American from the southern United States.  Anyone familiar with America will tell you that people from the South have a reputation for being perhaps a bit friendlier, less cold, and more keen on conversation and relationships than our countrymen from the North.  I would like to believe that is more or less an accurate description of myself.  I did not simply walk up and blurt out my question, but rather, in what I considered to be a very polite fashion, approached slowly and said “Excuse me”, before actually phrasing my question.  In my mind, that was sufficient.  Anything more, such as being required to have a whole conversation with this person I have just come into contact with and will be leaving in a matter of seconds, especially when all I was asking for was a simple piece of information, is silly and a waste of time.

Of course, from the woman’s perspective, by me not carrying on all the formalities, I’m sure she thought that I was being brusque and not showing that I valued her.  As I said earlier, this has happened to me before, so I have come to know the great importance Black South Africans place on greeting (I have not found White South Africans to be as concerned about it).  It was not a great task for me to have to start over and greet her as she wished, yet at the same time, I still was a bit taken aback that she felt it necessary to not proceed until things had gone according to what she expected.  Would it really have been that difficult for HER to simply recognize I am a tourist not from her culture, and as such, just provide assistance without bringing in such conflict?

This made me begin to think about how one shows respect for another person’s culture, and even more importantly, how you decide whose culture to respect.  How do you decide in my situation, who is in the right - the Black lady or me?  After heated discussion with my friend, who was more on the side of the South African woman, we came to the general conclusion that it depends on whose cultural sphere you are in.  If a Black South African lady is in America, it is reasonable to expect that lady to behave more or less according to American norms (i.e. less emphasis on greeting) because she is in the American cultural sphere.  By the same token, if I am in a South African village, it is proper to expect me to conduct myself according to Black South African norms (i.e. more emphasis on greeting) because I am in the Black South African cultural sphere.  The problem lies in how you determine the cultural sphere you’re in.

Most times, the first thing people look to to assign cultural spheres is country.  Within even a country, though, as I mentioned above, you can find differing cultures, meaning further division of cultural spheres.  You would, therefore, assume that if a person was in the Northern United States they would follow the ways of the North, and if they were in the Southern United States, they would follow the ways of the North.  Equivalently, the same could be said for the different parts of South Africa where Tswana, Venda, Pedi, etc. predominate. 

Even those statements are not sufficient, however, because a person’s family and house provide yet another sphere.  Even if a Black South African family is living in America, if an American goes over to their house for dinner, I don’t think it is out of line to expect the American to generally follow the cultural rules in that house.  The same for a Black South African who goes to dine with an American family living in a South African village.  A person is entitled to their own cultural sphere within their home even if it is at odds with the country or area of that country in which that home is located.

Another exception would be if a person’s values were not only cultural but also moral.  For example, even if a Muslim Pakistani living in America came to dinner at an American family’s house, you would not expect the Pakistani to join the family in eating pork because it is against his religion.  Regardless of the cultural sphere one is in, if a cultural practice is considered WRONG to another person rather than just different, that person should not be required to partake in the activity.  Only if there is a conflict between both the parties, such that their morals actually conflict, with no middle ground, is there a true dilemma.  An example would be if an American were living in a radical Middle Eastern country where educating his daughter was thought to be wrong.  The Middle Easterner might say it is wrong to offer education to women, while the American would say it is wrong to NOT offer education to women.  In that instance, one would have to actually make a moral judgment of one view being superior to another and accept that which was found to be superior.

Such an exception is hopefully going to be few far and between.  A situation like the one I encountered today, however, is unfortunately probably going to be encountered more than one would like.  In that instance, you had two cultural spheres that were actually overlapping each other.  Given the juxtaposition of Blacks and Whites in South Africa, and the growing mixing of cultures and races as a result of globalization, this is something that will continually be an issue.  In this case, a Black South African woman on the street of a modern city founded by Afrikaners but with a majority Black population.  What is the cultural sphere?  Is it the Black South African’s because people with her culture predominate?  Is it the Afrikaner culture because it is a modern city originally founded on Afrikaner values?  It was this question that my friend and I could not agree on.  I felt that given we were not in a rural village but rather in a modern city, the values associated with modern cities, in which greeting in the traditional fashion is not stressed, should take priority.  My friend felt that because the Blacks were the majority, it was beholden to us to follow their cultural norms.

Admittedly, these are questions that I do not hold all the answers to, but ones I will continue asking.  I am interested to hear what others think.

Nothing is easy in South Africa (NESA)

The title of this post (and the clever acronym I have coined and intend to use in relevant situations) is a statement I have thought to myself many times since arriving in South Africa, but a few days ago when traveling provided example after shining example.  Growing up in a developed country, you have a general expectation that things should work a.k.a happen in a logical and easy-to-navigate progression.  From my travel experiences so far, that is simply not the case in developing countries.  In order to survive, you are forced to constantly solve problems that simply would not be an issue in a place like the United States.

There is no better illustration of this phenomenon than the travel experiences I had a few days ago.  At 8:25 in the morning, I left my house in Makapanstad, a village about 45 minutes drive from Pretoria.  The plan was to meet another American at 8:30 at the local gas/petrol station and catch a taxi from there to a nearby village called Hammanskraal.  Naturally, my friend was not there at 8:30 nor at 8:35 nor 8:40.  Nothing is easy in South Africa. 

By the time it got to 8:45, I started to get worried and tried to call her multiple times.  Of course, she did not pick up her phone.  After deliberating with my host brother who had accompanied me, we decided that we should go to her house to figure out what was the problem.  Given that her house was a good ways away, my host brother flagged down one of his friends who agreed to give us a ride.  Luckily, on our way to this girl’s house, I saw her standing on the side of the road at the village taxi rank.  We duly stopped and turned around to join her.  Come to find out, she thought that we had agreed to meet at the taxi rank, whereas I was under the impression we were meeting at the BP station.  We discovered that the reason for the misunderstanding was that I had sent her a message on Facebook the night before saying to meet at the BP, but because of bad internet connection, she never got it.  She, thus, proceeded with what had been casually discussed several days prior.  Nothing is easy in South Africa.

With the crisis averted, my friend and I boarded a taxi towards another, bigger village called Hamanskraal.  (Just for clarification, a taxi in South Africa consists of a van, known here as a kombi, in to which you pile with many other souls toward a common destination.  It is not a car with a meter.)  We had been told that from Hamanskraal we could take a taxi to our final destination.  Upon arrival, we naturally then began asking which taxi was going our needed direction.  What we soon realized was that there were indeed taxis going to our destination from Hamanskraal, but not from the taxi rank where we had been dropped off.  Instead, we would need to go to another taxi rank on the opposite side of town, a fact never mentioned by the people who had suggested we go to Hamanskraal in the first place.  Nothing is easy in South Africa.

With no other option, my friend and I picked up our luggage and trudged the few kilometers over to the other taxi rank.  The only problem was that there was no distinct rank, but rather a series of seemingly unending taxi lots.  After asking the first time where we could find a taxi heading in the required direction, we were pointed over to a taxi lot 100 meters away.  Once arriving at this location, we were informed that no, no, we would need to go to yet another taxi lot a little farther down.  This occurred probably five times before we finally found a taxi who said they could take us to where we needed to go.  Nothing is easy in South Africa.

With that problem solved, our taxi departed and, after a thankfully uneventful trip, arrived safely at our destination.  From there we needed to find a taxi that would take us to our hostel.  We asked our taxi driver where we could find one of these local taxis, so he drove us to a spot not too far away, and said that one of the kombis there could help us.  We thanked him and moved our luggage over to the indicated taxis.  Naturally, when we asked to go to our desired area, we were told that we actually needed to go several blocks down to another taxi rank where they could help us (sound familiar?)  Nothing is easy in South Africa.

To confirm this account, I called our hostel and was told that, yes, we could catch a taxi to the hostel from this specific taxi rank.  Consequently, we began wandering in the general direction to which we had been pointed.  By this time, we had discovered that South Africans, when asked where something is, will give you random instructions even if they do not have the slightest clue.  They rarely, if ever, will tell you they don’t know.  For this reason, it is good practice to ask at least 3 people.  If two of the directions are more or less similar, you follow those.  You also have to be careful about who you ask.  Old ladies and policeman tend to be relatively safe, and are not likely to exploit your obvious status as a tourist.  It was through the use of these guidelines, that we finally arrived at the aforementioned taxi rank.

Unfortunately, the rank was humongous with who knows how many different platforms.  My friend and I, thus, agreed to let a man lead us to the correct platform in exchange for 2 Rand.  The area we were heading to was rather large with an eastern and western part, so just as we were just about to get into one of the taxis, I instinctively asked if the taxi went to all parts of the area.  We were informed that the taxis at this rank only went to the eastern section, whereas we needed to get to the western section.  In order to catch a kombi going to the correct section, we were told we had to go to another taxi rank.  Nothing is easy in South Africa.

With frustration mounting but no other choice, my friend and I once again began hitting the pavement with our luggage.  We asked a local policeman how to get to this other taxi rank, and he told us we should head several blocks in the direction he was pointing.  As I headed that way, my friend stopped me, and said she thought we should ask someone else because the navigational instructions just didn’t seem right.  Considering that even policeman can be unreliable, I agreed, and we found some local municipal workers to ask.  They promptly directed our attention to the building caddy corner across the street, which turned out to be correct.  The policeman had pointed us in the exact opposite direction when the rank was right beside us.  Nothing is easy in South Africa.

Thinking our problems were finally over, I with some relief told the driver what the person at our hostel had told us to say.  Upon relating that we needed to go to the western part of our area, in a certain zone, and be dropped off at a certain store, I was informed that those were three separate places.  I tried to phone our hostel to get clarification, but naturally, no one answered.  Nothing is easy in South Africa.

After a bit of deliberation, we decided that, given the driver knew the store we were supposed to be dropped off, we could not go wrong getting off there.  Once we tried to get inside the van, though, I realized that my luggage and I could not fit in just one seat.  Since space is money for a taxi, I had to pay for an extra seat in which to put my bags (though at 8 Rand per seat, this hardly broke the bank).  I told the driver the store we needed to be dropped off once again, and asked that he let us know where we should get off.

My friend and I then settled down, still a bit on edge, since we were not altogether sure that we would get to where we needed to be.  I told myself that I had told the driver to tell us where we needed to get off, so there was nothing else I could do, right?  Well, sure enough, after about 20 minutes of driving, one of the passengers disembarking asked me again where I was going.  I told him the store we were supposed to be dropped off at, and he told us that we had already passed it about a kilometer back.  Of course, the driver had forgotten about our pleas and cruised right on past the desired spot.  Nothing is easy in South Africa.

After showering the good Samaritan with praise for preventing us from going many kilometers out of the way, we began to lug our bags uphill to the point already passed.  Once there, decidedly hot, sweaty, and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I phoned the hostel so they could direct us from there.  Thankfully, someone picked up this time and told us to take a left from the store, go down the hill, and that it would be on the same side of the street as the store we were currently at.  When I hung up, my friend and I started walking down one of the roads for several seconds before we realized that there were two roads to the left going downhill.  I called back and had my friend talk to them because I was about sick of deciphering South African directions.  My friend confirmed that we were on the correct road, so we proceeded with the faith that our odyssey was finally at an end.  When we got to the bottom of the hill, though, there was no sign of a hostel on the side we had been told.  Nothing is easy in South Africa.

We decided to continue walking, thinking that maybe it was a bit further up the road.  This produced no results, though, so after a few minutes, we decided to turn around and try to retrace our steps.  It was only then that we saw a road sign for the hostel facing only the direction we were coming back from (which is why we hadn’t seen it before), pointing us down another road that was on the exact opposite side of where we had been told to look.  At the end of this road was indeed and finally our hostel. 

As I entered the place, I thought to myself that this must be what Pheidippides felt like, when he collapsed and died immediately after running the 26 miles from the battlefield of Marathon to inform of the Greek victory.  Thankfully, I fared better and am obviously still alive to tell the tale (no ghostwriters for this guy).  Just please know that nothing, and I mean NOTHING, is easy in South Africa.

Your Tax Dollars Hard at Play

I recently completed a 10 day training from Dec. 5 – Dec. 15 at a hotel and conference center just outside of Pretoria.  The training consisted of two parts.  The first is what Peace Corps calls In Service Training (IST), which is basically a follow up and continuation of all things covered during Pre Service Training (PST), such as safety, health, language, etc. conducted roughly three months after the beginning of service.  And yes, if you were wondering, Peace Corps like any other government organization, is obsessed with acronyms in the quest to form a regular alphabet soup of different terms.

The second part of the training was what is termed Life Skills Training and involved bringing in a “counterpart”, basically someone from your community who you can work with on projects, to receive extensive training in HIV/AIDS education.  The idea is that you and your counterpart will take such knowledge back to your town and village and use it to educate others about the disease.

Overall, I found the training, both IST and Life Skills, to be quite enjoyable and relatively productive.  I learned a good deal of new information about HIV and AIDS, which helped to dispel some misinformation and myths at the same time.  I also made large improvements in Afrikaans language skills and came up with some concrete and realistic ideas for projects when I return to my site a.k.a. town.  Such progress was all very positive and is what is supposed to occur at training.

What I had not expected, however, and what constitutes the topic of this post, was the unbelievable luxury and expense of the entire event.  We were not put up in a Holiday Inn but rather a lush conference center complete with air-conditioned rooms, cable TV, pool, jacuzzi, sauna, gym, volleyball court, and Wi-Fi, all overlooking a gorgeous lake.  Every meal was an all-you-can-eat buffet provided by skilled chefs who cooked up all kinds of specialized delicacies and desserts.  Tea and coffee breaks were provided in both mid-morning and mid-afternoon along with pastries and various snacks. 

Naturally, having been deprived for several months of even small amenities like a hot shower, I, like all of my fellow Peace Corps volunteers, were in heaven and made ample use of all the food and facilities.  Amidst such delirium, though, I could not believe how fortunate we were, and decided to do some research in to how such a lavish event could have occurred given that we are supposed to be living simple lifestyles that mimic those of the people we work and live with.

Come to find out, our training was funded not just by the Peace Corps but also by something called the United States President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief (PEPFAR).  Just to provide a little background, PEPFAR was originally started by President George W. Bush in 2003 as an initiative to fight HIV/AIDS around the world by increasing access to Anti-Retroviral drugs (ARVs) that help to slow the disease in a person’s body, reducing new infections through education, and providing better care for those already with the disease.  $15 billion was pledged to be used over 5 years.

In 2008, the program was reauthorized with a commitment of up to $48 billion over the ensuing five years.  8 years since its inception, most seem to agree that the money has done some good.  Based on a report published in Annals of Internal Medicine (www.annals.org/content/150/10/688.full.pdf), PEPFAR so far has been responsible for the avoidance of 1.1 million deaths as well as a decline in AIDS-related deaths by 10% in countries that have received funding.  In my experience in the Peace Corps so far, President Bush is not a popular character neither among Americans nor South Africans, but even his harshest critics contend that the establishment of PEPFAR is to his credit and one of the few positives to come out of his administration.

As a person with a libertarian bent, I, personally, automatically question the use of taxpayer money for what basically amounts to foreign aid since I’m not sure that such assistance is the proper role of government (though I suppose one could make the same argument regarding the existence of the Peace Corps).  Regardless, I cannot argue the fact that lives seem to have been saved and some positive outcomes achieved.  What I can argue is whether such funding is being used efficiently and for its intended purposes.  Based on the PEPFAR-funded training that I just attended, I am seriously in doubt.

According to my calculations done based on rates obtained from the hotel and conference center’s website (http://www.roodevallei.co.za/docs/Tariff-Info-Sheet.pdf), 534,050 Rand ($66,756) was spent on the Peace Corps volunteers alone.  When you add in the cost for our counterparts, language and culture trainers, as well as other miscellaneous items, the total cost of the training comes out to 745,125 Rand ($93,141).  It is my opinion that even this is a conservative estimate given that it does not include the cost of meals or accommodation for any other Peace Corps staff (such as the Country Director, Director of Training & Programming, Assistant Peace Corps Directors, drivers, and Peace Corps Volunteer trainers from previous groups) nor does it capture the cost of the outside trainers such as the AIDS trainers or those from the South African Department of Education.  Additionally, dinner was catered as a separate event twice and more than one conference room was used almost every day of training.  All of the things just mentioned would have incurred costs over and above that included in my estimate.

It is my opinion that the use of such a lavish hotel and conference center was inappropriate and a waste of PEPFAR’s resources that could have been otherwise directed to actual HIV/AIDS treatment and prevention.  I feel that a much humbler venue with much humbler meals could have served the same purpose at a significantly lower cost.  Also, given that many of our counterparts from our communities still live very modest lives, they certainly did not expect such luxury and part of me is worried that the use of such facilities will engender the view that the Americans have unlimited funds which can be given to South Africans.  That type of dependency mindset is exactly the opposite of what we are trying to promote.

Based on what I observed it training, it was with very little surprise then that I found out that the Office of Inspector General for the Department of Health and Human Services published a report on June 15 of this year criticizing the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, which is responsible for administering PEPFAR dollars, for its sloppy handling of funds.  An extract from the report reads (http://oig.hhs.gov/oas/reports/region4/41004006.pdf):

“ Our review found that CDC did not always monitor recipients’ use of President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief (PEPFAR) funds in accordance with departmental and other Federal requirements…  [M]ost of the award files did not include all required documents or evidence to demonstrate that CDC performed required monitoring on all cooperative agreements.  Of the 30 cooperative agreements in our sample, the award file for only 1 agreement contained all required documents.  The remaining 29 award files were incomplete.  In addition, 14 of 21 files were missing audit reports…  The lack of required documentation demonstrates that CDC has not exercised proper stewardship over Federal PEPFAR funds because it did not consistently follow departmental and other Federal requirements in monitoring PEPFAR recipients.  “

In the end, I am not surprised as it is human nature to overspend when it is not one’s own money that is being consumed.  This applies whether it be corporations (eating at overly expensive restaurants and putting it on the company card), non-profits (administering grants without sufficient oversight), and most especially to government, as we can see in this instance.  Regardless of why it happens, waste of resources contributed by other people is wrong, and we should continue to try to take measures to limit its occurrence.  Finally, it is simply a reminder, especially for myself, of why a healthy skepticism of government, even when working for one, is always a good thing.

Note: If anyone would like to view or help fact check my calculations, let me know, and I can send you the Excel spreadsheet

South African English Word of the Day

dorp - a small rural town or village (often used to suggest that a place is backward or unimpressive)

I’m tired of this city life.  I want to go back to the dorp.

“Dallas” for the Nobel Peace Prize

Before going any further, allow me to state the obvious in that I have been woefully lacking in my blog posts over the last month.  For this I apologize, as it came about from a combination of traveling, training, partying, and general laziness.  To make up for this dereliction of duty, I am going to try to make daily posts for the next several days to update everyone on what has transpired and what will be transpiring during these days of South African vacation.

For today, though, I would like to address something that I noticed when I first went traveled to Germany this time last year, and has continually popped up during my time here in South Africa.  This realization is that during the 80s when it was on TV, the entire world, whether it be White, Black, Texan, German, or South African, pretty much everyone watched the soap opera “Dallas”.  I,unfortunately, am too young to have been party to this cultural phenomenon, though I do have vague recollections of my parents sending me out of the room when the show came on because they felt I was too young for that kind of material.  Whatever the case, I knew that the show had been popular, but I had no idea of its worldwide appeal until I began going outside American borders.

Last year as I spent New Year’s in Munich with a German friend who had been a foreign exchange student in my high school, I remember sitting at her dinner table talking with her mom about how much the mom had loved “Dallas”.  The mom related her memories of how she faithfully tuned in and still clearly remembers the episode “Who shot J.R.”, which as far as I know, is still one of the most watched TV episodes of all time.  That experience made me recall one of the textbooks I had in German class during high school.  The books were quite old, so naturally the content was of the late ‘80s variety and I distinctly remember one of the pictures of a billboard.  If I’m not incorrect, the advertisement said “Kaffee ohne Milch ist wie Dienstags ohne ‘Dallas’” which translates to “Coffee without milk is like Tuesdays without ‘Dallas’”.  My German friend’s mom simply confirmed that J.R. captured the imagination of the Teutonic people as much as he did that of his American counterparts.

That was a year ago, and I didn’t give it too much thought until I got here to South Africa and was spending an enjoyable Sunday with some Afrikaners in my town.  After showing me their farm, the Afrikaners suggested we go to the “local”, which happened to be the bar called “The Texas Lodge” I have mentioned in previous posts.  Being a Texan, drinking a beer in the Texas Lodge, the conversation naturally turned towards things Texan, and the Afrikaner couple mentioned how much they loved “Dallas” when it was on.  They, too, talked of the “Who Shot J.R.” episode, and how they tuned in every week to see what new intrigues there would be in the Lone Star State.  Another lady who was with us who grew up in Cape Town, said that when she was in that city, restaurants simply closed down on Tuesdays at 7:30, since there would be no business because they knew everyone would be at home watching “Dallas”.

Not more than two weeks later, somehow I also got to talking with the Black lady who I am currently living with about “Dallas”.  She informed me that her mom was the most dedicated viewer of the show, and that if you tried to disturb her when Larry Hagman was on, she would curtly tell you to come back after “Dallas” was over.  I simply cannot help but laughing at the comedy of that picture.  Despite the fact that apartheid was still in force, with Blacks being forcibly confined to the townships and the Whites enjoying their privilege in the town, both parties sat down at the same time every week to figure out what the oil barons from Texas were up to.

This makes me all the more sad that I do not have the cultural knowledge to fully appreciate this.  I, myself, have never seen the show, and only know bits and pieces of the plot.  I mean, what was it that made a soap opera about a Texan oil family, equally appealing to Germans, Afrikaners, and Black South Africans?  Is the myth of Texas really that strong and interesting to the rest of the world?  In the absence of Netflix, such education will have to wait until I return to the US.

Even with the paucity of such understanding, I think it serves to highlight the cliché of how much we all have in common.  It makes me wish that there was some technology from NASA, where the astronauts could have taken a picture from space that showed all the places where “Dallas” was being watched.  I can just imagine Germans sitting down to dinner with their Sauerkraut, Afrikaners with their Boerwors, and Black South Africans with their Pap, all watching the beloved Texas show.  If there is a better picture of world unity and peace, I can’t think of one. 

It is for that reason that I am hereby nominating “Dallas” for the Nobel Peace Prize since I’m pretty sure that if Nelson Mandela had had access to TV while he was imprisoned on Robben Island, he too would have tuned in.