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.

He’s from Texas, you see

First off, I hope that all of my American compatriots had a wonderful and blessed Thanksgiving.  I obviously was not able to be physically present, but I did get to speak at length with each of my siblings and my parents.  Such conversations reinforced what an amazing thing family is and why Thanksgiving is such a great holiday.  I look forward to the time a couple years from now when I once again will sit down with my kin, watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, breakfast on my mom’s quiche, and sip Dr. Pepper over turkey, green bean casserole, and sweet potato pie.

In the face of such geographical distance, the Americans in my part of South Africa are actually gathering in one town to have our own expatriate celebration (though one day late due to work responsibilities and scheduling issues).  We will actually be conducting our own Turkey Day feast and offering of thanks today in a few hours.  Most likely there will be another blog post and pictures about this event as well.

The topic that concerns me today, though, is the time I recently spent on an Afrikaner farm and the close bond that there seems to be between Texan and Afrikaner culture.  Anyone who has read my previous posts will know that all of my encounters with Afrikaners to date have been incredibly positive.  I have found them to be a kind and incredibly hospitable people, and this most recent experience was no exception.

The Afrikaner wife agreed to pick two of my American friends and I up and drive us to their farm.  Upon arriving, the couple introduced us to a large and beautiful expanse of land with a well manicured lawn and very tastefully decorated house.  It was a portrait of rustic happiness.  The husband then took us to the local auction house where we dined on a kind of chicken fried steak (wienerschnitzel for those of you not from the Southern United States).  Upon finishing we proceeded to observe the auction of cattle in which the animals were brought in through one door into a central pen surrounded by stadium style seating.  The pen had a scale for a floor which automatically showed the weight of the cows on a kind of electronic scoreboard to help the bidders more accurately determine what price they were willing to pay.  The cattle were then directed out through a second door once the transaction had been completed.

Being from Texas, this was not the first livestock auction I had attended, and it was refreshing to see that the procedure and setup were almost identical to those in the Lone Star State.  Even the auctioneer intoned the latest bids in the same torrent  of unceasing syllables associated with auctioneers.  The fact that such syllables were in unintelligible Afrikaans rather than English did little to detract from this discovery that auctions are apparently conducted in much the same way the world over.

After a period of time, we returned to the farm, where we had some tea and coffee, and then laid down for a bit.  On rising, the Afrikaners took us to another section of land where they hold an annual Farmer’s Fest, where hundreds upon hundreds of people come for drinking, dancing, braaing, selling of their wares, and good times in general.   We then returned to the farm, where some friends of the family showed up and the Afrikaners proceeded to cook us a humongous and decidedly delicious dinner washed down by sumptuous South African wine.  The night was ended by talking about South Africa, its history, and its future.

The next morning breakfast rusks, a kind of hard, sweet granola bars, were prepared for us with coffee.  One of the Afrikaners then drove us something like 70 kilometers through countryside to the town where we would be meeting up with the other Americans for our Thanksgiving celebration.  From the initial picking us up to dropping us off with the other Americans, all of this was done at no cost to ourselves.  Despite our protestations, the Afrikaners would have none of it when we said we felt we should surely contribute something.  The whole experience was altogether charming, and further proved that Afrikaners have their own brand of Southern (very Southern) hospitality.

Throughout this whole delightful experience, it was made obvious to me again and again how much Texans have in common with Afrikaners, perhaps to a degree moreso than American from other states.  Afrikaners have a heritage very much connected with cattle and land, and I think this gives them a natural bond with people from my state.  While eating my chicken fried steak at the auction mentioned above, I talked with our Afrikaner host about auctions in Texas, and we discussed the different qualities of Santa Gertrudis, Brahman, and Longhorn breeds of cattle.  Afterwards, whenever we climbed the seats to watch the auction itself, the other Americans and I were introduced to other Afrikaner friends in the crowd.  However, when I was presented, our host said “And this is Josh.  He’s from Texas, you see.  He understands cattle.”  This was met with wide approval from the other farmers in the stand.

Similarly, the next day when we were being driven to the town to meet up with the other Americans, the Afrikaner man and I had a pleasant conversation for upwards of 45 minutes about Texas, its geography, agriculture, and history and how that compared to South Africa.  Given, I was sitting in the front seat, so it was only natural that I would have more conversation with the driver than the other Americans, but even so, it seemed that something about my connection with Texas provided something distinctly appealing to the South African.

I know that my Texas pride can get the best of me sometimes, and I might be overstating this point, but even one of the other American volunteers remarked how I many times seem to be regarded by Afrikaners slightly differently because of Texas.  Whatever the case, it is something I distinctly enjoy, and I look forward to two years of such interactions with my South African brethen. 

One of many ostriches roaming the land on the Afrikaner farm

South African English Word of the Day

retrench – to terminate the employment of a worker as a result of company re-organization, financial difficulties, or bad economic times; to lay off (US English); to make redundant (UK English)

A lot of people have been retrenched as a result of the recession.

I’ll Be at the Barber Shop

I know that I have already devoted a previous post to the issue of my hair and its difference from the majority of people I spend my days with here, but an incident this past Friday absolutely begs a write-up.

I last got a trim of my locks by a fellow Peace Corps Volunteer in early September shortly before finishing training and departing for my current setting of Warrenton. It has thus been more than two months since I got a cut, and it was a bit overdue judging by the 80s rock star that was staring back at me in the mirror. As a result, I began soliciting opinions from various people in town and the location as to where I could find a quality barber. I’ve found that you increase your chances of success in finding a quality good or service by asking for recommendations from multiple people and then seeing if there is any overlap amongst the preferences.

By this time, well aware of the softness of my hair in comparison to my Black colleagues, I asked some of the Whites I have come to know in town who they go to. There didn’t seem to be any consensus nor were any of the suggestions male barbers. Now I am sure I will catch some flak for this, but I really do usually prefer having a guy cut my hair for two reasons. The first is that in my experience, guys have been better able to understand what I am going for in my cut, and I have generally been more pleased with the outcome. The second is that I enjoy a haircut for the social experience just as much as for the skillful application of scissors and razor. In the same way that many ladies like going to the salon to chat and catch up on the latest gossip, I love the banter I have with my barber regarding sports, beer, and other topics that tend to be in greater abundance among guy conversations. Of course, that’s not to say that I haven’t had good cuts from women barbers nor that there are no females out there that can shoot the breeze about subjects traditionally considered more of male interest. It simply means that if I am in a new place looking for a new barber, I tend to gravitate towards a male because I feel I have a better chance of getting a cut I am happy with and having an enjoyable dialogue of a certain type at the same time.

Anyways, this last Friday, I decided that the deed needed to be completed that day as I had already been putting it off for several days because of one reason or another. I headed into town with the initial idea that I would move in the direction of one of the snippers recommended by my White acquaintances. But as I reached town, I had the thought that I would be interested to see what type of job a Black barber would do, not to mention that it would be an interesting experience, continue building my engagement with and credibility with the Black community as well as give me a better chance of finding a male haircutter.

I noticed one of my colleagues from school, a Black man, also in town, and asked him where he goes to get his haircut. A look crossed his face that was a combination of amusement, confusion, and embarrassment. He replied that he could tell me which barber he uses, but that he did not want to put the haircutter “in a tight spot” as the man of scissors probably had no idea how to cut White hair.

No matter, I soldiered on. I knew of a spot I had visited with one of my teacher friends where he had gotten his hair cut, so I headed to that salon and plopped myself down on one of the waiting couches. I did the best job I could to not be conspicuous, greeting people there that I knew, and trying to look as if nothing was out of the ordinary, though to be honest, a White man in a Black barber shop blends in about as well as a New England yuppie at a NASCAR event.

After about 15 minutes of patiently waiting for my turn in the barber’s chair, one of the lady hairdressers, who was in the middle of giving a haircut, came up to me and said, “Can I help you?” I replied that I needed a haircut and she responded by saying, “What do you mean?” I didn’t think that a man needing a haircut sitting in a barber shop would be such a confusing idea, so I asked “You do cut hair here, right?” The lady nodded her head but did not say anything else, so I awkwardly said, “Ok, well, can you cut MY hair?”

At this point, the mystery of the White man in the barber shop was finally solved, and the woman said in a very sweet and non-defensive manner, “Ohhhhh, you want us to cut YOUR hair. Well, we can’t do that. Who told you to come here?” I replied that I had been there several weeks earlier with my teacher friend when he had gotten his hair cut there, so I figured I would come to the same place. The lady stylist said “Oh, I see. Well, the people here don’t know how to cut your hair. There is a guy down the street that does, though. I will show you”. The woman then proceeded to call her friend, and told him to walk outside of his shop about a block down the street so that I could see where I needed to go.

I had never imagined that getting a haircut could be such a laborious process, but the whole episode was turning out to be quite amusing, so I headed, still in a good mood, on to the next place. The man, also Black, who was apparently reputed to be knowledgeable of White hair, sat me down in the chair, and asked me nervously how I wanted my hair cut. I tried to explain the different lengths I wanted taken off around my head, but I could tell that he did not completely understand. Thus, I made it a point of continuously guiding him throughout the duration of the cut as to what I was looking for.

Every haircut I have ever received in my lifetime has begun by the barber wetting my hair before any clipping occurred. Not this time. No water was ever applied until the very end when the man asked me if the hair was a good length, and I responded that I needed to apply some moisture to get an accurate idea. Despite this man being recommended as a cutter of White hair, I could tell that he had little experience with my kind of locks. With a little guidance, though, he did a pretty good job.

In the process of the cut, I got to hear from this man, Benjamin was his name, who turned out to not even be South African. He is actually from Accra, the capital of Ghana, a country in West Africa. I could not help but tell him good naturedly that I had an unending animosity for his country because Ghana’s national soccer team has defeated the American squad in both of the last World Cups. This seemed to put him more at ease, and he proceeded to tell me how a Ghanaian ends up in South Africa.

In his explanation appeared an irony I have continually noticed during my time in this land of Mandela. One of the most serious problems in South Africa today is the lack of jobs with unemployment sitting somewhere around 40%. Despite that dire statistic, though, Benjamin said that there are simply NO jobs to be found in Ghana, and he figured South Africa had more opportunity. This is a tale I have come across over and over again in my conversations, reading of the newspapers, and watching of TV. South Africa, for all its myriad problems, still seems to represent a shining light to many of the other countries of Africa. It is unfortunately a sad reflection of the state of development in the African continent in general. Whatever the case, emigration seems to have been a good decision for Benjamin, as he is now gainfully employed and has been for some time.

He finished up my cut, though I did have to tutor him again on how to do a block cut on the back of my head rather than allowing it to taper. I got up from the chair reasonably satisfied with the outcome and paid the quoted price of 20 Rand plus a 2 Rand tip to Benjamin (even though tipping is not common here). At current exchange rates, that comes out to a little under 3 US dollars. Now if that’s not good value for your money, I don’t know what is.

Everyone I encountered directly afterward, Black and White, were impressed with how good the cut looked (though this might have been because I had been so shaggy before), and were quite surprised when I told them it had been performed by a Black man. It seems that here in South Africa, Black people simply do not cut White people’s hair not only because of racial divisions but also because there is simply no way, at least in smaller areas for, them to receive training or experience in such an endeavor. I informed my interlocutors that there are plenty of Black barbers in America who cut White hair, so it is not like pan-racial knowledge of hairstyling is so unthinkable.

So to end, let me just say that I still pine for a cut in my beloved G&O Barber Shop in my hometown of Huntsville with its hot lather, straight razor shave, and the bubble gum one receives as a parting gift. In its absence, though, my hat is off to Benjamin, even if we all know that the Black Stars of Ghana are going to be annihilated by the US team the next time the two clash.

South African English Word of the Day

tsotsi – a young black urban criminal

If you go to Johannesburg, you’ve got to be alert so as not to get robbed by tsotsis.

Some may object to the fact that this word that is basically equivalent to “gangster” exclusively describes Blacks and no other races. The reason for such selectness is that, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, it originally denoted “a young black gangster belonging to a group prominent in the 1940s and 1950s, affecting a special language and flashy dress.” The word “tsotsi” is said to be a Sotho word (one of the 11 official languages of South Africa) which itself was a changing of the word “zoot suit”, the fashion style of this particular group. Given that the name comes from an African language and that the people associated with it were young Black men, to use it to describe someone of another race would be akin to an American describing a poor, non-Hispanic neighborhood, as the “barrio”. Both “barrio” and “tsotsi” are words inextricably tied to their racial origins.

Just Call Me Batman

It seems there is no shortage of interesting run-ins with animals here in South Africa.  Of course, in a country inhabited by monkeys, baboons, elephants, lions, rhinoceroses, leopards, and buffalo, not to mention a wide diversity of snakes, it would be decidedly uncommon if one did NOT develop their own Jungle Book stories after a period of time.

If you have been a faithful blog reader, then you caught my last installment regarding my experience of playing soccer with goats this past weekend.  Well, the wildlife of this country must have gotten together and decided that they enjoyed the publicity they were getting through the blog because no sooner had I finished yesterday’s blog post and lied down to sleep, than I was woken up by a movement in my bedroom.  The telltale sound of flapping wings accompanied by a small shadowy figure zooming in circles through the darkness meant there was no surprise when a flip of the switch revealed a bat to be making use of my real estate.  

This is not the first time I have encountered a bat here, which is why I immediately knew what was causing the nighttime disturbance.  Apparently,our flying mammal friends have a habit of getting in through ventilation shafts.  Whatever the case, I always imagined that bats would be swooping through the blackness outside, engaging in a lightless feast of the various and sundry bugs always present.  This one must have already supped for the night, though, and figured he would burn off the calories by conducting his own airshow in my sleeping chamber.

As you can imagine, it’s not exactly a pleasant experience to be jolted from your dreams to find Dracula’s kin dive-bombing all over the place.  Me, being the resourceful Texan I am, however, immediately snatched up my mosquito net as a catching device and began a gladiatorial feud with King Chiroptera worthy of anything ever seen in the Coliseum.

And don’t let anyone fool you.  Bats are a quick and crafty bunch with a flying ability that makes Maverick in “Top Gun” look like a mere dilettante.  Nevertheless, Texans are also a shrewd species, and after 10 minutes of sustained battle, I managed to capture my opponent beneath the aforementioned net.  Now, in the slim chance that there are some PETA folks reading this (which if there are I have REALLY expanded my reader base), I will merely say that I consider myself to be a quite compassionate and loving soul.  Even so, I do not appreciate having my slumber disrupted, and especially not by an animal associated with disease, death and evil.  Also, my current bedroom is on the second floor, and there was no window or door through which I could easily shoo the creature outside.  Provided that background, let’s just use the terminology my older brother used to use when recounting our almost daily fights, and say that I “took care of it”.

Cosmopolitan Texan 1 Bat 0.

South African English Word of the Day

kraal – an enclosure for cattle or sheep

We’ll have dinner just as soon as I put the cows in the kraal for the night.

“Kraal” offers an interesting lesson in linguistic history.  My American colleagues will probably notice the similarity of this word to our “corral”, which also denotes a pen for livestock.  Not surprisingly, the two share a common origin.  “Kraal” is an Afrikaans word, and, like many Afrikaans words, is derived from Dutch with the Dutch word coming from the Portuguese “curral”.  I would imagine that the Dutch settlers of South Africa, who would eventually become the Afrikaners, must have had contact with the Portuguese colonials in neighboring Mozambique, which led to the adoption of the usage.  Equivalently, the word “corral” comes from Spanish, which, as far as I know, is a result of contact between United States settlers of the American West and Mexicans.  Spanish and Portuguese both stem from Latin, and for this reason, it is supposed that both “kraal” and “corral” find a common origin in the Latin “currere”, meaning “to run”.

Of Goats and Economists

I sit here tonight in a rather good mood despite a mixture of both good and bad having come my way these past two days.  The bad concerns my soccer game this past Sunday, and we will start there so as to add more of a climax to my divulgence of the good news.

This past weekend I played in my 3^rd official game as a semi-professional soccer player in South Africa (has a nice alliterative ring to it, doesn’t it?), and for the third game in a row I scored a goal.  Three games, three goals.  Not bad statistics, and certainly not something to consider bad news.  Unfortunately, unlike my first two games, my goal did not serve as the game winner even though it should have.

Non-soccer fans may skip this next paragraph of slightly self-serving sports commentary (my tongue is on a roll today).  We went down a goal early off of poor defending on a counterattack, but soon equalized off a long range goal from one of our midfielders from about 25 yards out.  About midway through the second half, we earned a corner, and that’s where I earned my money (if I was actually earning any).  The ball came floating through the air about 8 yards from the goal line, but unfortunately, we were facing the sun and were blinded by another orb slightly larger and brighter than the one branded Adidas.  Nonetheless, I maintained my gaze into the glare, and at the last moment, I sighted the ball in time to head it past two defenders in the goal into the back of the net.  Regrettably, it would not end up being the last goal of the game as we almost immediately gave up a penalty kick at the other end, which was converted, only to be followed by a soft goal with 5 minutes to go caused by poor defending and goalkeeping.  I was, therefore, robbed of my game-winning glory, and Young Stars recorded their first defeat of the season by a scoreline of 3-2.

The most interesting thing about the game, however, had nothing to do with the players but rather some thirsty fans.  Three times during the match, just as the ball was about to be put back into play from a goal kick, free kick, or what have you, the referee summarily blew his whistle to stop all action until a very friendly-looking herd of goats cold be removed from the pitch.  It seems there was a puddle of water on one stretch of the dirt (this, like many fields in Africa, was a grassless field), and it, being a hot day, seemed like an ideal watering hole for this tribe of horned companions.  Now, I have had matches stopped before because of lightning, thunder, rain, darkness, and even out-of-control parents, but I can honestly say this was the first time I have experienced a goat-stoppage.  Makes me wonder how the referee records that in his official report (Stopped game at 74:15 to throw rocks at goats who were conducting an illegal pitch invasion in order to water near the corner flag).

I’m sure that most of you read that scintillating story with some amusement but really all the time were hoping I would get over with it and get to the big news.  Well, ladies and gentleman, the time has arrived.  When I arrived home after school today, there was a surprise waiting for me.  The woman who I am currently staying with, had picked up the mail from the school’s mailbox which I use to have things sent to me, and informed me that I had received something.  She jostled through her handbag, and finally opened it up to reveal none other than...the most recent edition of “The Economist”.  That’s right, my subscription has now been reactivated and is being sent to my address in South Africa.   

When I decided to join the Peace Corps, the idea of not being able to receive “The Economist” was one of my main concerns, as I’m sure you can imagine.  Alas, I was placed in a country with enough development and in an urban enough part of that country to still have access to this oh-so-quality publication.  I’m sure by now, you, like myself, are absolutely bursting with joy and perhaps shedding a few tears as well at this triumph, so I will leave you dear reader to further contemplate this reunion of two long-lost friends, and I will retire to read about Europe’s rescue plan.

South African English Word of the Day

bakke – pickup truck

In South Africa, like in most parts of the world, bakkes are multi-purpose vehicles just as useful for hauling hay as they are for large groups of people.