What is a Texan doing in South Africa?

When making a call to a printer company today regarding service for one of my school’s machines, before having given any information about myself or my background, the receptionist on the other line stopped me and asked, “What is a Texan doing in South Africa?”  I was shocked and pleased all at the same time that an Afrikaner woman had been able to detect my Texan origins simply from a few seconds of my speaking on the telephone.  Anyone who has heard me speak will tell you that I do not have much of a Texas accent (as much as I wish I did), and a common disappointment I hear from foreigners whenever I am abroad is that I do not speak with the distinctive drawl that Hollywood and George W. have made so famous (or notorious).  I’m not sure whether it was my use of “y’all” or that this lady was just uber-discerning, but whatever the case, it was enough for her to immediately recognize a son of the Lone Star state.  Come to find out, the lady had never been to Texas, but apparently many Texas evangelists HAVE been to South Africa.  So much so that several had made trips to this lady’s church, which is why she was quite familiar with that particular lilt.

Now, to be quite honest, there are many times I ask myself the same question, namely, what the hell I am doing thousands of miles from home working for free while my friends are drinking Shiner Bock beer at the BBQ Cookoff in the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo.  Such inquiries can naturally lead to quite ponderous reflections, but given my last post was something of that sort, I’ll delay the existential response for a later entry.  No, for today, suffice it for the title to serve as a segue for me to tell you, literally, what I am doing.  Some of the most interesting moments from a day in the Life of Peace Corps Volunteer Josh “Lesego” Spencer:

Monday, February 27, 2012

5:00 – Alarm clock sounds.  Turn it off and drowsily try to regain enough consciousness to get out of bed, while reminding myself that I am indeed in Africa.

5:30 – Open mosquito net, get up, and begin ironing clothes.

5:45 – Take cold shower, confirming that I am not dreaming and am in fact in Africa.  Right now, this doesn’t quite send me over the edge of hypothermia, but as winter approaches, I will have to begin heating water and switch to taking bucket baths.

6:15 – Eat breakfast, usually consisting of boiled eggs and cereal

6:30 – Drink a cup of instant coffee (not too many coffee pots here) while writing down reflections on what I can learn from the previous school day as well as ideas for what can be done to improve overall school operations.  One thing you realize in Africa, is that NOTHING moves quickly.  You have to focus on making incremental changes every day that will eventually add up to something big.  If you expect things to happen efficiently and according to plan, you are going to get frustrated and get burnt out pretty fast.

6:50 – Get bicycle and cycle to school making sure to greet every man, woman, child, and goat.  Black South Africans take greeting very seriously, and if you do not greet them, they many times become quite offended.

7:00 – Arrive at school, set book bag down, and take up position at the school gate to make sure the students are in uniform.  That means shirts are tucked in, collars are not popped, boys are not wearing earrings, etc.  This has become such a motif of mine, that the learners get great fun out of saying “Tuck in!” in their best American accent.

7:30 – School bell rings.  That means the official bell ringer actually walks around the entire school ringing a handbell.  I begin yelling at students still walking to school to hurry up since they are already late.  My students do not seem to grasp the concept that when you are late, you need to speed up.  Barking like a drill sergeant seems to help, though.

7:40 – Close gate and begin documenting students who are tardy.  Once students have accumulated three latenesses, they receive after-school detention.  One learner I have come to know, racks up his thirteenth lateness even though school has only been in session 6 weeks!  Like it or not, “African time” is the norm here.

8:30 – Principal asks me to join him for a meeting in his office with one of the teachers.  One of my projects this year has been working to set up a structured disciplinary system at the school such that whenever there is something related to discipline in the school, I am usually consulted.  That morning several students apparently came and complained to the principal about this teacher’s use of corporal punishment i.e. hitting of the children for bad behavior.  We tell the teacher we understand his frustration with the students, many of who have serious attitude problems, but remind him that corporal punishment is illegal and could get him and the school in serious trouble.  Despite the fact that corporal punishment was outlawed in South Africa in 1996, it continues to be widely, and violently, used to the point that there are students that are hospitalized every year as a result of teacher beatings.  I ask this teacher to send the troublesome students to me if he continues to have problems.

9:00 – Principal asks me to document that the maintenance men cannot be found, meaning that again they have left the school during working hours without permission.  He also requests that I note that the deputy principal showed up to school drunk, again, and then left to go home without informing or asking permission from the principal.  You read that right.  The deputy principal was drunk at school.  Unfortunately, because people are very hesitant to criticize each other and because the teacher’s union makes dismissing someone almost impossible, such behavior is not at all uncommon in South Africa.  Lack of professionalism is one of the biggest problems in the educational system here.

10:10 – Feast on lunch prepared by one of the cleaning ladies of rice and lung – yes, lung.  It is delicious, though perhaps a bit chewy.  Perhaps the animal was a smoker.

2:00 – Demonstrate correct typing technique to a 12th grader who has never touched a computer keyboard before and then issue her a machine that works on her typing.  My mom actually found the machine, called a “Type-Right”, on EBay and then shipped them to me here.  They are like a computer keyboard, but with a small gray screen at the top that helps teach typing.  They stopped being produced in the 90’s with the advent of computers, but work great here in South Africa because students can practice anywhere, since it’s highly portable, and one doesn’t need to have access to a computer (which few do).

2:20 – Meet with students that I am helping to establish a school newspaper.  They too have little to no experience with computers, so I show them how to open Microsoft Word and those who have been practicing using the Type-Rights, begin typing the articles they have already written by hand.

2:30 – Attend a committee meeting to discuss the development of youth sports programs in my township.  Currently there are almost no activities for young people after school, which means many of them spend their time smoking marijuana, drinking, and having unprotected sex.  We discuss starting after-school soccer, basketball, netball^*, and volleyball programs that will give the students something more positive to be involved in.

*Netball is a variation of basketball played mostly by girls, where there are hoops without backboards at opposite ends of the court.  Dribbling is not allowed and the ball must be passed in order to move towards your basket.

4:00 – Take a look at a computer center that has been opened in town.  The setup is fantastic with brand new computers, and the founders have a great idea of trying to offer computer access to the community.  Unfortunately, they have little business knowledge and experience.  They have been open two months already, yet no one knows about them because they have done almost no advertising.  They have not yet created any business structure such as a partnership to determine what percentage of the business is owned by each of the 7 founders.  The building and computers are uninsured, and they have no plan for how the business is going to make money (they used funds from a government program to start the operation).  Without trying to take over, a local business owner, another humanitarian worker, and myself, offer some ideas for things that should be done to make the business profitable and thus, make the service sustainable.

6:30 – Have dinner at my Afrikaner friend’s house with his family while watching “The Apprentice: Celebrity Edition”, “Friends”, and “Survivor”.  They really love American TV programs over here.  As you can probably tell, the economic realities for most Whites in South Africa are far different from those for most Blacks.  Despite the fact that apartheid ended 18 years ago, this country continues to suffer some of the largest inequality in the world.

8:00 – Return to my house and prepare myself another cup of instant  coffee.  I then peruse “Texas Monthly” or “The Economist”, all the while, wondering why the mosquito family which seems to have taken up residence in my area, finds my flesh so appealing.

9:00 – Begin work on blog post.  Contrary to some opinions, the business of a blog post, at least for me, is actually somewhat time-consuming.  It’s not something that I just pop out in 15 or 20 minutes.  While I don’t do outlines or anything like that, I do do a considerable amount of thinking beforehand, then re-reading and re-writing afterwards, before actually uploading to the internet.  Hopefully this results in some somewhat decent writing and a not altogether somniferous experience for the reader.

11:00 – Go to sleep to the strains of country music coming from my I-Pod.  I’ve found that “Texas” by George Strait never fails to put a smile on my face as thoughts become dreams of that land I will never cease to call my home.

And that, ladies and gentleman, aside from killing 12 mosquitoes during the course of writing this post, is what a Texas is doing in South Africa.

South African English Word of the Day

lapa – a courtyard or similar enclosure, especially the first of two courtyards in a traditional Sotho homestead.

Oxford English Dictionary

Why don’t we take our tea out in the lapa?

Boulevard of Broken Teens

I have had a few requests recently for information on my daily life in the school and what specific work I am doing.  I fully plan on gratifying such petitions in future posts, possibly beginning with the one after today’s.  For right now, though, recent events have made me feel compelled to offer some background on the lives and situations that many of my students come from. 

Since the beginning of this school year, which began in the middle of January, I have been embarking on a program to increase the discipline of the high school I work at.  Reason being that results from last year showed that only 34.9% of our students passed their matriculation exams.  That basically means that 2 out of every 3 of our 12th graders failed and did not receive the South African equivalent of a high school diploma.  Not a good outcome, obviously.

For this reason, I sat down with the management of the school, and we agreed that one of the key reasons for such poor performance was a general lack of discipline.  I have, thus, been determinedly implementing new procedures to increase things such as student punctuality, adherence to dress code, loitering outside the classroom, etc. – things that I’m sure seem trivial to many, not least the students, but which I know have and already are having a positive impact on the school.

A side effect of such disciplinary procedures is that I have really started to get to know about the students I deal with since documenting and dealing with bad behavior requires one to interact with the offending child, sometimes on a very personal level.  Not only have I become increasingly adept at remembering and pronouncing African names, but I have also begun to learn just exactly what types of environments each one of them are leaving in the mornings and going home to in the afternoons.  Such knowledge is vital, since discipline is not a one-size-fits-all scheme, but rather something that has to be tailored to each student based on what is going to achieve the desired effect.  The way I speak with and deal with a young man with an attitude problem is going to be entirely different from the way I treat a young girl who constantly shows up late.  If I, also, then find that that young man was abandoned by his father at a young age, and he has never had a strong male role model in his life, I have to alter my approach accordingly.

Just to give my readers a general idea of things, I would estimate that only 10% of my students, if not less, live in a household in which their mother and father are both present and still married to each other.  The majority of the children have had either one or both of their parents pass away – largely as a result of AIDS.  Many of those whose parents are still alive, the parents have either abandoned them or work in another city and only return every so often.  For this reason, most of my learners live with a grandmother or aunt.  A significant amount don’t live with anyone, and are literally on their own – all at the ripe old age of 16 and 17.  In short, I work with a group of children who have been forced to grow up too fast and deal with things a child should never have to face at their age.

This was brought home to me last Friday when I had a chat with a student in our school, a grade 9, who is the sweetest little girl that you will ever encounter in your life.  She is always respectful to me and the other educators, and we never encounter any problems with her while at school.  Unfortunately, this same precious girl is a serial late-comer.  Since school began on January 11, she has been late no less than 10 times. 

Those of you who have read my previous posts, know how I feel about “African time” and that I regard it as inimical to development, especially in an educational context.  If you are late to class, you are missing out on information you need, not to mention that you disrupt the lesson, teacher, and the rest of the class by coming in at a later time than the one scheduled.  For that reason, punctuality has been the disciplinary point I have stressed most since the beginning of the year.  (Given my acknowledged lack of punctuality throughout my life, I know that this will come as a great shock and laugh-inducing irony to those who know me.  Peace Corps has a funny way of putting things in perspective.)

Because of this young girl’s perpetual tardiness, I originally thought that I needed to take a hard-line with her to correct the behavior.  As I mentioned before, though, I have slowly been coming to the realization, that the best kind of punishment is the one that works, which means it has to be based on on understanding of what is causing the behavior.  Consequently, whenever this angelic girl came late this last Friday, I sat with her in the principal’s office and asked her (delicately) if there was a situation at home that was causing her to be tardy so often.  She sat silently with her head down for about 30 seconds, before telling me, almost in tears, that she and her mother did not have a good relationship because of the mother’s addiction to alcohol.

Two years ago, the mother embarked on a period of continual drunkenness such that the woman no longer takes any interest in her daughter’s life.  The mother is drunk whenever the girl leaves in the morning and is still drunk whenever the girl comes home in the afternoon.  The girl wakes up in the mornings at 5:30 and then has to proceed to not only prepare herself and cook her own breakfast, she then has to do the same for her younger sister because the mother is passed out.  The reason why this young girl is late everyday is because she has to take her younger sister all the way to the other side of the township to drop the toddler off at what amounts to a pre-school and then walk all the way back to the high school. 

As this sweet young girl was relating this to me (with great difficulty as I’m sure you can imagine), I almost began tearing up myself, because the pain in her eyes was evident.  I soon realized that harsh talking-tos and detention would have no effect on this girl’s punctuality.  Instead, I am now trying to speak with a social worker to see if something can be done to relieve this girl of responsibilities that should not be hers, so that she can focus on being a 15 year old high school student and not a mother and substance abuse care worker.

Such stark awareness of the difficulties my students face was further reinforced this past Monday as I was attempting to get the students to hurry up as they were already late for school.  One young man, despite being told 3 times to begin rushing, continued walking.  Whenever I went up to him and ordered him to begin jogging, he refused, and told me, quite defiantly, that he would not jog because he was tired.  I immediately marched him to the principal, and we sent him home for the day with a letter requesting a meeting with his guardian.  The boy arrived the next day with a man, who identified himself as the boy’s neighbor.  After speaking with the neighbor, I discovered that both the boy’s parents are dead, and that his current guardian works in a town 300 kilometers away, which only allows the guardian to return perhaps twice a month.

With this knowledge, I spoke with the boy, telling him that I am sorry for the situation that has been forced upon him, but that I also know that making excuses is going to do nothing to improve that situation.  I told him that the reason I go so hard on my students is because I expect the best out of them.  I told him that I have high standards for him, and that I know that he is strong enough to overcome adversity and be successful regardless.  One of the ways that he can do that is by being on time to school despite the lack of parental support.  I told him I do not think he is a bad kid (which he really is not), and said that all I am asking of him is to leave the house earlier so that he doesn’t miss out on any of the lesson.  I asked him if he could do this, and he replied “Yes”.  He was quite early to school both yesterday and today, so we will see if such positive behavior continues.

One of my reference points during my time here in South Africa is a movie called “Lean On Me”, starring Morgan Freeman, about a principal who comes in and turns around a failing school with primarily black students, largely through the imposition of high standards and strict discipline.  If you have not seen it, I would highly recommend it.  One of the continual refrains from Morgan Freeman’s character is that people will perform based on what you expect of them, such that making excuses for someone because they are black, from the ghetto, without a Dad, etc. does them a disservice because then underachievement becomes acceptable due to such difficult circumstances.  His theory is that only by holding people to the same standards, will they learn to perform well regardless, and by doing so, make sure that they are able to change those circumstances in their own life.

When you work in an environment like mine, you are constantly torn between wanting to make exceptions for people because of difficult circumstances and recognizing that always allowing people to perform below expectations is not doing them any favors.  I usually tend toward the side of Morgan Freeman’s character; however, as you can see, I took very different tacks with the boy and the girl based on how I thought each would respond.  Based on my experience so far, it seems that many times girls need understanding, whereas boys, especially when the father is not present, need and even crave authority, despite what they might project on the exterior.  Even that, though, does not always apply and every case has its own nuances.  It is a judgment call that I hope I will continue to get better at, the more that I work with and learn about my students.

Whatever the case, what I know for sure is that I have never been more appreciative that I DID grow up in a loving, stable home in which both my mom and dad were around and married.  While I do take great pride in my achievements, I also recognize that I owe a lot of it to the incredible support I received in all areas from my parents.  Had I not had such positive influences, I cannot honestly say I would be where I am today.  Like I mentioned above, that does not mean that excuses  should always be made for those who do not benefit from such a healthy household environment.  It should, however, moderate our hubris when we congratulate ourselves on our achieved station in life, while simultaneously tempering our judgment of the behavior of those who we consider to be less than successful.  It is only with such perspective that we can adequately tackle the ills society is facing and break the cycle, so that the children of today do not become the irresponsible, hurtful parents of tomorrow.

South African English Word of the Day

pitch – to show up, to come

The clothes are not washed because the maid didn’t pitch today.

The times, they are a-changin’

I am currently putting in 11 and 12 hour days as we continue to make progress slowly but surely at my high school.  Unfortunately, this leaves me with little energy to do detailed blog posts at night.  I will work to rectify this situation in the future, if by no other means than by consuming massive amounts of the Starbucks instant coffee that was sent to me by my Dad (By the way, thanks, Dad).  For tonight, though, I just wanted to post an excerpt from a book I have recently been reading called “The Mind of South Africa: The Story of the Rise and Fall of Apartheid” by Allister Sparks.  It is a fascinating tale of just how the battle played out in South Africa. 

The book was published in 1990 before Nelson Mandela had been released and before the transition when Blacks first received the vote.  This makes some of the comments a bit dated, but also fantastically interesting as one can compare Spark’s thoughts and predictions against what actually happened in the succeeding years.  The most poignant example of this was a passage describing Robert Mugabe, the prime minister and then president of neighboring Zimbabwe.  For those not familiar, Mugabe is now an oppressive dictator that has brutalized his people, destroyed his nation’s once prosperous economy, brought about the second-highest inflation in history, caused famine, intimidated his political opponents with merciless violence, and declared what basically amounts to open war against all Whites, just to mention a few of his accolades.

It was not always so, however.  Mugabe was actually originally the leader of the liberation movement in Zimbabwe and immediately afterwards served as prime minister, speaking in Mandela-esque fashion of the need for reconciliation with Whites and the need to come together as one nation.  He was widely lauded both at home and abroad for his job in sensibly governing the new Zimbabwe.  All of this is reflected in Sparks’ description of Mugabe and Zimbabwe:

Zimbabwe, of course, has been the most remarkable of all.  A terrible war was fought, great suffering endured, to stave off this fate worse than death in what was Rhodesia.  And when finally in 1980 it was over and the unthinkable happened and that extremist Robert Mugabe, the worst of them all, took over, he offered – reconciliation!  Thirty-five thousand people died in the Zimbabwean war, black Africa’s ugliest, with fearful atrocities committed on both sides, yet today, a handful of years later, black and white live together harmoniously and with no sign of vengeance or retribution.  The tables have not been turned.  The former prime minister, Ian Smith, who imprisoned Mugabe for ten years and refused even to let him attend his only child’s funeral when the boy died tragically during that time, who inflamed the white resistance with his horror stories of what black rule would mean, lives unmolested in retirement on his farm and until recently had a seat in Parliament.  Other white farmers, who were Smith’s most ardent supporters, who financed his party, supported his repressive policies, and fought in his war are prospering today and thanking God that that good chap Mugabe is there to stabilize the country and keep the extremists in check.

Fast forward to today, where the Whites, if they have not been murdered, have all but been chased out of the country and the Zimbabwean people are flocking to South Africa by the thousands (we have a Zimbabwean teacher in my school) as they try to escape suffering that far exceeds anything experienced under White rule.  Many times, I think there is a complacency that sets in in which it is believed that progress is inevitable and that the natural course of things is towards improvement.  The example of Zimbabwe proves this notion to be hopelessly in error.  It is for this reason that in Zimbabwe, South Africa, or any other country, we must be constantly aware that the creation of a better life is not a magical process that occurs inexorably but rather something borne of good management and the continual labor of men and women focused on a better tomorrow.  Let us hope that the early promise of reconciliation preached in South Africa by Mandela and the ANC never turns into a similar nightmare as the one Mugabe is currently wreaking on his country.

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire - but no fire department

First off, I apologize for the long hiatus from posting.  I have been battling a chest cold for what seems to have been a week and half, not to mention I have of course been taking care of my ever present responsibilities at school.  The illness appears to have been vanquished now, though, so J. Spence should be back and better than ever.

The topic of my Comeback Post has to do with a quite harrowing experience I underwent two nights ago that should also give my developed-world readers an idea of exactly what I deal with sometimes here.  One of my goals since the beginning of 2012, if not a fully fledged resolution, is to begin branching out in culinary consumption.  In typical guy fashion, I found myself surviving on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and other fast meals that did not require much time, effort, or provident thinking.  Quick and easy was the order of the day.

I realized, though, that even though I am in the Peace Corps, I might as well build my cooking connoisseurship while here in Africa, so as to spice things up a bit (hope you enjoyed that one Mom) and make things a bit more interesting.  Plus, I can’t honestly carry the moniker Cosmopolitan, if my diet resembles that of a hobo.

It was with that ethos that I have been venturing out recently, creating concoctions such as huevos rancheros, guacamole, homemade tortillas, tacos, and Chinese rice - all with quite reasonable success if I do say so myself.  Having confined my cooking mostly to the Tex-Mex I know and love, however, I figured it was high time that I make a culinary ode to that Southern influence that also informs Texas culture.  That’s right, I committed to taking on Colonel Sanders himself by making up a batch of fried chicken.

It all began well enough, with the mixing of ingredients and dredging of the various chicken parts.  I also found a deep pot, filled it about 1/3 of the way with sunflower oil, and turned the burner on high so as to heat the oil.  Now the recipe said nothing about what temperature to bring the oil to, and having never heated such large quantities of oil before, I figured I should leave it on for a good while before throwing my now de-feathered friends in.  Now, I’m not a complete ignoramus, so I stayed close by just to keep any eye on things.  Very quickly, the oil began popping such that globs of it were leaping up into the air, but given this was so early, I figured that surely it was not yet time to begin cooking.  Sure enough, the eruptions subsided after about 3 minutes and the oil continued to heat in peace.

I made a point of waving my hand over the pot every so often to try to get a rough estimate of the temperature, but again, I really had no idea what that temperature was supposed to be.  I guess I figured that when the oil got to a good boil would be go-time.  Unfortunately, that moment never arrived.  All of a sudden, as I was standing next to the stove, the oil burst into flames, as if someone had just opened a cigarette lighter next to an open gas line.  The result was a quite significant flame. 

My immediate reaction was to turn off the stove, which I realized later was quite superfluous, given that the breaker switch flipped as soon as the fire started.  I had hoped that simply turning off the stove would be enough for the flame to die down, but it instead continued to grow and reach higher and higher.   At that point, my thought was to get the fire extinguisher – which would have been all well and good, had we actually had one.  I was then rudely jolted back into the reality that I am in South Africa where fire extinguishers are not standard components of every household. 

Having no professional means of putting out the fire myself, I started to go over alternatives.  I knew from having it beaten into my head in primary school, that pouring water on grease fires only makes it worse, so luckily I never even considered that option.  I did however realize that despite the stove being off, the burner was still quite hot and would be for some time, which would fuel the fire for a good while.  By this time, the flames were bordering on inferno-status, so I just barely, with pot holders, managed to move the pot to one of the other burners to reduce the heat being supplied.  It was this act that probably prevented the rest of the house from eventually catching on fire.

Like I said before, despite my best efforts, the flames continued to rise until the flames were licking the ceiling.  The heat was so intense that the glass on the wall clock above the stove actually broke apart and fell down.  Now, normally in the case of a fire, one of the things they tell you is to try to smother it so as to prevent air from feeding it.  Because the fire was so big, though, I was unable to just place the top of the pot over it to extinguish the flames.  The best I could do was gingerly toss the cover on to the pot, making sure that I didn’t knock over the pot and spread the fire wherever the oil spilled.  As it happened, the top came to rest upside down on the pot, not completely sealing the oil off, but at least serving to limit the fire’s oxygen supply somewhat. 

It was at this point that I realized that I was having trouble breathing because of smoke, so I managed to get a rag, dampen it with water, and put it over my mouth to guard from the fumes.  I also kept low to the ground, remembering that that’s where the oxygen is since smoke rises.  I can’t tell you how appreciative I was and am for the basic fire education that is an integral component of any American schoolchild’s upbringing.  Had I not had that, things probably would have turned out a whole lot differently.

At around this time, I was beginning to think that the house really was going to burn, so I got outside and did the only thing I knew in the situation – dial 9-1-1.  I remembered that during our training they told us that emergency numbers were different in South Africa, but I had no idea what those numbers were at this moment, and I was not about to go rummaging through my room to try to find them.  Miraculously, when I dialed 9-1-1 on my BlackBerry, the call was immediately listed on the screen as “Emergency Call”.  When I related the whole ordeal later on to some local friends, they were also shocked that 9-1-1 had worked as they had no idea there was that functionality here. (Apparently, the new cell phone networks have adopted international standards.  Had I used a landline, I wouldn’t have had the same success).

Unfortunately, the small comfort I was hoping to gain from getting in touch with some emergency professionals was not to be.  After dialing 9-1-1, it took a good 30 seconds of ringing before an operator picked up.  I told the young woman on the line what was going on, and her response was “Umm, so what is happening again?”  I repeated myself, doing the best I could to remain calm, as I saw the light from the fire streaming through my kitchen windows.  Upon retelling the crisis, the operator said that she would contact the fire brigade for me. 

I was then put on hold for a good 3 minutes.  Let me tell you right now, Kenny G is not that soothing when his saxophone attempts to make harmony with the crackle of burning oil.   Finally, the elevator music stopped, only for the operator to come back on the line and tell me that the fire brigade in Warrenton wasn’t picking up, nor was the one in the other town closest to me.

To my South African readers, this might seem par for the course, but as many of my non-jaded followers can imagine, I was in disbelief.  I knew that South African services left something to be desired, but I could not believe that the fire department just couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone.  It was at this moment, that I began contemplating how I was going to break the news to the lady I was living with (who was out of town by the way) that I had burned down her house in pursuit of fried chicken. 

Snap back to the operator, who informed me that in the absence of the fire brigade, she would send a police car.  I’m sure she thought she was being very diligent by at least sending some emergency personnel.  I, however, was not as impressed, thinking, “Great.  Maybe they can handcuff the fire into submission.”  Giving myself over to an unpleasant fatalism, I went far enough back into the house to take one last look at the fire, and to my relief, it seemed that the flames were finally starting to die down a bit.  Not completely out of the woods, though, I waited painfully for the police to arrive, hoping that maybe just maybe, they could offer some other advice on how to prevent the house from becoming an ash heap.

After 10 minutes, the police had still not arrived, so I dialed 9-1-1 again to see just what the hell was going on.  When the operator answered, and I angrily told her the police had still not arrived, her response was “Sir, it is a busy time of the year and there are other people with emergencies, too.  Please be patient.”  To which, I responded, “Ma’am, my house is on fire.  Please do not tell me to be patient!”  Again, I could not believe that an emergency operator, would actually tell someone to be patient while their house burned.  I can just imagine the dialogue when someone calls to report their house is being broken into:

OPERATOR (picking the phone up on the 20th ring after taking time to finish her tea): “Hello, what is your emergency?”

CALLER: “A burglar just broke through my window and is now in my house!”

OPERATOR: “Oh, shame, but no need to be hysterical, ma’am.  There’s a lot of crime in South Africa, you know.  But, I’ll tell you what. I’ll see if I can’t get someone to stop by in about 30 minutes.  Of course, that’s if the police are not on break.  If they are, you might just want to politely ask the burglar to leave.  I’m sure he’ll be reasonable.”

Anyways, the police finally arrived and Constable Groenwald came in to take a look at things.  By that time, thank God, the fire had gone out.  In its wake it had left a burned pot, a broken clock, a scorched wall, and several rooms blackened with soot as a result of the smoke (which is going to take me days to clean).  The constable understood my concern at the services, or rather lack thereof, but said there was not really much more he could do except say he was glad that it didn’t turn out worse.  He confirmed that many times when a house catches on fire, the people just have to watch it burn to the ground.

In conclusion, while I many times jokingly display a Texas and American chauvinism, I really do enjoy and appreciate other countries (I mean, I AM in the Peace Corps).  But that being said, this issue of safety services is one area where I can honestly say that America is just plain better.  Even in Texas, which is not a state known for its vast array of government services, it would be unthinkable for a town the size of Warrenton to have no fire support, and certainly not a fire brigade that just chooses not to pick up the phone.  Even in the most podunk of areas, there is a volunteer fire department, organized by concerned citizens, that at least offers some assistance.  It is difficult to describe the fear and frustration I felt watching the fire, knowing that there was no one to help and that I was completely on my own.  It also saddens me to think of the people here in South Africa that are hurt and killed, and the property that is destroyed, because of this lack of what we in America consider to be basic services.  TIA, I guess.

So the next time you dial 9-1-1 from your landline and the operator comes on immediately, then instantaneously sends a fire truck, police car, and ambulance, all of which arrive within 5 minutes, meanwhile the trained operator is calming you and telling you what to do in the situation, just please sing a Te Deum that you live in a country where someone is looking out for you.  (If you are a United States citizen, you are free to play Lee Greenwood’s “I’m Proud to Be an American”.)

South African Word of the Day

spoor – the track of a wagon or motor vehicle

There’s no spoor in the dirt road, so it’s obvious that the fire brigade has not been here to put out the fire.

Police? What Police?

If you will remember from my last post regarding renting a car in South Africa, my story had only taken us as far as getting the rental car back to our hostel in Pretoria without any mention of the actual drive to Durban.  Today will be the continuation of the tale, with details as to how we started heading seaside.

Just to refresh your memory, because of bad directional sense, my friend and I who picked up the rental car at the rental agency, got a bit lost, and only arrived back at our hostel a full hour after having been dropped off at the Thrifty.  When we walked back in, we admitted that, yes, we had taken a slight detour, but we had arrived back safely and none the worse for wear.  The hostel owner who had dropped us off still had quite a good laugh at our so-called “scenic route”.

Whatever the case, we had gotten the car back to the hostel without having been involved in any head-on collisions as a result of driving on the wrong side of the road, which I, personally, considered a major accomplishment.  We, thus, sat down to the incredible breakfast included with your stay at Khayalethu including real bacon (most times what they call bacon here in South Africa is more like ham), made to order eggs cooked by the same hostel owner mentioned above, beans, toast, cereal, and yogurt.  Perhaps the most satisfying thing about the whole meal was that it was washed down with (gasp!) filter coffee.  For whatever reason, South Africans, Blacks and Whites alike, do not drink filtered coffee.  Instant is the name of the game here, and this was one of the only times during my 6 months in Africa that I witnessed an actual coffee pot.  Sweet, indeed.

Also sweet was that the boys taking part in this trip and myself were able to have a leisurely breakfast and fully enjoy the whole experience.  Contrast that with the rest of the Americans who woke up at the ungodly hour of 4 am in order to catch a bus.  When you rent a car, you set your own schedule, and we thoroughly enjoyed basking in our obvious intelligence while smirking disdainfully at the thought of our friends stumbling along with their bags half asleep.  Given, this was quite a bit of hubris coming from some guys who had just managed to make a 3 kilometer trip into an hour long joyride, but hey, we weren’t worried about it.

Once having finished our meal, we set about loading up our luggage.  It was at this point, we realized we had a problem.  All 4 of us had to fit all of our luggage into a 4-seater that was not altogether spacious and did not have a lot of trunk space.  After trying and failing horribly to fit everything, we realized that the only way to fit a guitar, a humongous backpacking pack, a ginormous rolling suitcase, 3 backpacks, 3 smaller bags as well as our not insignificant supply of alcohol was to draw straws and strap the loser onto the top of the car.  As fun as I thought that might have been, the idea was vetoed, and it was decided that some luggage would simply have to be left at the hostel, to be picked up on the way back from Durban.  We thus duly jettisoned the guitar and two other bags, which allowed us to squeeze the remaining luggage in – barely. 

With that, we paid for our stay, thanked the hostel owner once again for his hospitality and got on the road.  I was driving first, and I naturally immediately began driving on the wrong side of the road for the first 5 seconds of the trip.  Luckily our current piece of tarmac was relatively uninhabited except for a small car a few blocks away, who must have thought I was a drunk trying to make my way home after a long night.  The problem was quickly corrected, however, and we started on our way.

It was at this point that someone asked the quite relevant question as to whether we had a map.  We realized that no, no we didn’t.  GPS?  Nope, not that either.  Any idea how to get to Durban?  Not a clue.  Considering that this did not bode well for our trip, we consulted and arrived at the conclusion that we should probably stop at a service station and ask for some guidance.  To our relief, after pulling into a local place of petrol, we were informed that the way to get to Durban was quite simple.  You just get on one of the main highways going from Pretoria to Johannesburg, which connects to another major highway that takes you all the way to Durban.

With yet another problem solved, I headed in the indicated direction, and passed my old friend, the McDonald’s, again, which you might remember from the previous post.  One of my friends in the backseat was serving as navigator and he told me that I needed to get into one of the lanes on the right, which, me being a trusting soul, dutifully did.  I continued this way until I noticed a sign indicating the highway to Johannesburg was in the lanes on the LEFT.  I thus had to swerve across two lanes (don’t worry, Mom.  Traffic was light, and I checked my blind spot) in order to only just avoid taking the wrong road.  My friend apologized, but I assured him it was no problem.  I was on this day not really in a position to be criticizing about giving bad directions.

Crisis averted, we continued on our 600 some-odd kilometer journey to the sea.  Now, before I go any further, I need to say that there are a lot of problems with South Africa, but at least on this stretch of highway, the roads were really, really good.  Most of it looked like it had been paved quite recently, and all the signage was excellent.  The South African engineers do seem to have an affection for spaghetti-bowl style intersections of major thoroughfares, but even these are easily navigable if one follows the directions painted on the road and indicated on the signs.

The only other thing of note that occurred on my first turn of driving was when I was cruising along and vaguely noticed a person standing on the tar not too far ahead, pointing to the side of the road.  I wasn’t speeding, but I was going at the maximum allowable velocity, and I noticed the person too late to really do anything about it.  It was then that the guy sitting in the passenger seat said, “Uh, Josh, that was the police.”  I said, “Police?  What police?”  to which my friend responded, “I think we just drove past a police checkpoint".  At that moment, I remembered having pulled over previously when traveling with my soccer team, when our coach who was driving, saw a police officer motioning cars to the side.  Why they just stand on the road outside of the car without any lights flashing, I don’t know. 

By this time, though, I couldn’t exactly turn around, and be like, “Sorry officer for just blowing past you.  I wasn’t paying attention to your dumb way of setting up a checkpoint and completely missed you.  But I realized my mistake, and I’m back.  What is it that you need?” 

Considering that, we conveniently decided that we needed some gas, so I pulled off after about another kilometer, in order to get to a station that one could only reach by driving another 2 kilometers over pot-holed and muddy roads.  As far as we were concerned, though, that was fine by us.  The farther away from the highway we could get, the better.  (Just to be clear, I’m still not exactly sure whether the officer actually pointed to me as I don’t think that they have everyone pull over – only cars they thing might be in violation of something.  So in case the South African Police Service ever does some trolling of the internet, we’re not actually sure whether we ignored a police officer or not.)

We finally pulled in to a dinky, old service station that looked like it had seen better days, with those better days probably taking place back in the 1950s.  We figured we should probably make this a full rest stop, so we all took the time to use the restroom and purchase some snacks from inside.  If the police were on the lookout for a Hyundai Atos overloaded with luggage and 4 American males, best that we let the heat die down a bit.

After relieving and nourishing ourselves, one of the other guys elected to take the wheel, and I took up residence in the passenger seat.  We bounced back over the pot-holes to the highway still half-expecting there to be a posse waiting to cuff us and take us to jail.  To our relief, there was no party in pursuit, so after a reminder to my friend as to which side of the road he should locate himself on, we were soon on the road again. (Cue Willie Nelson song)

To be concluded…

Here I am, Lord, send me

I know I still need to do the second installment of my “driving in South Africa” tale, but I recently received a letter from my aunt that contained such a powerful story, I just could not wait to reprint it here in my blog.  45 years ago last year, my aunt joined VISTA (Volunteers In Service To America), which is now a part of AmeriCorps.  It was and is essentially a domestic version of the Peace Corps.  The letter I received from her relates a story from when she was just about to leave for VISTA service regarding an interaction with her dad, my grandfather, who I unfortunately never got the chance to meet (he passed away a few years before I was born).  The story really speaks to me because, not only does it give me insight into a great man I have always wished I could have known, but it also tells of a time in my aunt’s life that was very similar to mine.  Regardless of whether you are religious or not, I think the story adequately conveys the attitude we should take towards service, and I would say it does a pretty good job at explaining my take on things in that regard.  I have included the excerpt from the letter, unedited, below:

Before leaving for VISTA training in Cincinnati in 1966 (wow, 45 years ago next week, October 30!), I had a memorable conversation with my Dad in the west room at Lone Oak.  A couple of years before that, I had become (very tamely) involved with civil rights efforts, through my activism in ecumenical conferences, where there were a few black students and some activist ministers.  I was at such a conference at Mo-Ranch in the Texas Hill Country on the day of the August 28, 1963 March on Washington.  People went around with transistor radios (high tech!) listening to what was happening and to MLK’s speech.  Dad had complained to me, as was usual at that time, that “those people are trying to move too fast.”

Some time after that, he repeated his remark, saying “Those people are a hundred years behind us.”  Without getting into slavery and Jim Crow, I said, “You’re right, Dad.  That’s why it’s so important to move as fast as possible.”  He appeared startled, then said, “you know, I never thought of it that way.”

At the time I went into VISTA, I had finished a year of a largely unsatisfying job in Dallas after graduating from college, and I was in Huntsville getting ready to leave for training in Cincinnati.

Dad, as you may have heard, was a very traditional male.  Womenfolks were to make the coffee and bring it to him.  But on the day I was to leave, he woke me up early, bringing me (and himself) coffee that he had made.  And he said, in his inimitable Texas accent, “Ol’ Nance, my Sunday school lesson this week was about Isaiah.  And when there was something that was hard to do, that nobody else wanted to do, Isaiah said, ‘Here I am, Lord, send me.’  And I thought of you and Isaiah, Nance.  You just said ‘Here I am Lord, send me.’”  I still get teary (like I am now) thinking of that conversation.  He had come to an understanding of what I was doing, on his own terms.

So thank you Aunt Nancy for that, and thank you Granddad Spencer for continuing to remind us, so many years after your death, what service is all about.

Riding a-wrong in my automobile

After two decidedly depressing posts, I made the executive decision that I simply must offer up something a bit lighter for today.  So even though I know I am skipping around chronologically, I think it is high time that I talk about the time that 4 American males attempted to drive 600 km on the opposite side of the road.

That’s right, instead of being sensible like the rest of my compatriots, I decided that I wanted to take a walk, or drive rather, on the wild side.  I, thus, in true finance-nerd fashion, researched all of the rental car companies, found the cheapest quote, and then created an Excel spreadsheet to calculate total costs for the trip (adding in things like cost of gas, tolls, etc.)  To my delight, I found that if we split the cost between 4 people, we would actually spend less money than a bus ticket.

With that knowledge in hand, I recruited 3 colleagues, and we all agreed to put our lives on the line in typical masculine fashion just so we could say that yes, we did indeed drive in South Africa.  With all the victims lined up, we awoke on Christmas Eve in our hostel in Pretoria, shared a cup of coffee, and then began plotting how we would make our way to the Thrifty office on the other side of town.  Lucky for us, as we discussed various bus options, the owner of the hostel offered to drop us off.  (By the way, if you are ever in Pretoria and looking for a place to stay, Khayalethu Backpackers at 357 Richard Street is the place to go.  Nicest people ever.)

The owner said for us to go outside and walk towards his house, which was adjacent to the hostel, and he would meet us on the street with his car.  Us, with our keen sense of direction, naturally proceeded to walk out the hostel gate’s and walk the exact opposite direction from the man’s house, such that he had to drive a bit down the block to come get us.  Given we couldn’t even find a house that was right next door, you would have thought that would have given us pause before actually attempting to operate a motor vehicle - but no, we soldiered on.

We hopped in the man’s car and began thanking him profusely for his courtesy as he cruised across town to the Thrifty.  He dropped us off, we again offered our thanks, and assured him that we would be back at the backpackers shortly.  Or so we thought.  We went in to the office, signed all the paperwork, and I put down my card for the deposit (which incidentally, the hold on my account has still not been cleared if there are any Thrifty employees reading my blog instead of working).  In our morning banter with the lady attendant, my American friend also managed to make reference to a fanny pack, which seemed to amuse this South African girl to no end.  Apparently, “fanny” means something a bit different here than it does in the US (and because my mom is reading this, I am NOT going to explain my point).  Whatever the case, we obtained our 4-seater Hyndai Atos and were ready to roll.

Unfortunately, in our efforts to express our appreciation to the hostel owner on our way over, we neglected to pay attention to how exactly he got us there.  We, thus, sat curbside for a minute or so, discussing our options and then, having presumably figured it out, set off on our way back home.  As I looked at the passing landmarks, I assured my friend that, yes, this was the right way, because I remembered these passing streets from the other day, so we were most assuredly heading in the right direction.  I continued saying this until we dead ended into the square that was on the exact opposite side of town.  At this point, we realized that perhaps our calculations had not been quite as precise or reliable as we had presumed.  Simple enough mistake, though.  We would just turn around and head the opposite direction, right?

Well, that’s what we did, cruising all the way across town, until we noticed signs seeming to indicate that we were about to get on the highway.  There was a McDonald’s that was approaching on our left, and my friend offered that perhaps we should pull into the parking lot to get our bearings.  I considered the idea, unfortunately the Mickey D’s was too close to allow for much deliberation, and in my dithering, we passed it by.  No problem, I said.  We’ll just exit and turn around.  Well, I don’t know if anyone has ever been on South African highways, but they don’t exactly have exit ramps conveniently placed every kilometer or so.  We drove…and drove…and then drove some more – all the while looking for some kind of way of turning around.  This continued until signs informed us we were about to get on a toll road.  Great.

We pulled up to the toll road booth, and my friend gave me a 20 to pay the 6 Rand toll to the attendant.  At the very least, I figured, we could ask the woman how the hell we get headed back to Pretoria.  I could see the lady had to stifle her laugh as she told us we needed to immediately go right (naturally the first exit of the day), and then go right again so we could pay another toll that would take us back in to the city.  Well, I did just that, both annoyed and amused at the unfolding saga, and we soon pulled up at the opposing toll booth taking us in the direction we had just come from.  Amazingly, though, in the 3 minutes it had taken us to turn around, my American friend had somehow managed to misplace the change we had just received from paying the last toll.  He checked all of his pockets and all around the car only to find exceeding supplies of lint.  We finally had to resort to me finding my own wallet, so we could get the 6 Rand.  I’m sure the drivers behind us were very impressed with the whole charade.

Regardless, we eventually got on the road heading back to Pretoria, relaxed that we were actually headed in a somewhat familiar direction but still with no earthly idea how to get back to the hostel.  We passed the aforementioned McDonald’s and decided that the place had to be somewhere to the left.  We thus turned and began driving past a bunch of streets that we thought we may have known but weren’t exactly sure (as you can imagine, our confidence in our navigational expertise was not very high at the moment).  Alas, just as we had given up all hope of ever locating the hostel again, we saw a road sign for it, indicating we should take a left at the next intersection.  My guess is that God had had his laugh for the morning watching us ramble around, and having gotten his chuckles in, decided he would at last give us a little help.

It was with that then, that we finally arrived back at our lodging, 12 Rand poorer, a few liters of gas lighter, and ONE COMPLETE HOUR after having been dropped off.  Keep in mind that this was just to pick up the car.  We hadn’t even left on the actual 600 km trip yet.  And who says men are bad at directions?  To be continued…