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…

Compassion to contempt

Before I begin this post, as with my Dr Pepper story in the last writing, I wish to briefly mention a recent occurrence.  Unfortunately, however, this one is no where near as positive.  Even before coming to South Africa, the welcome packet that we received from the Peace Corps informed us that, given the high rate of HIV infection, we would need to prepare ourselves for the inevitable deaths of some around us.  Since being here, there have been funerals every week, undoubtedly caused by AIDS, but I have up to this point, been lucky enough not to have really known any of the deceased.  This changed upon my arrival back in Warrenton from my vacation.  I soon discovered that one of the learners in my high school, who I actually knew, passed away last week.  He was 19.  As is usual here in South Africa, no one talks about the real cause of death, but the sad truth is that it cannot be as a result of anything other than this fatal disease.  To compound the sadness, he had just received his results that he had passed his final tests to qualify him for the South African equivalent of his high school diploma.  I cannot help but be saddened and angered by the passing of this young man and at the havoc that this disease is wreaking on this country – a havoc that is absolutely avoidable.  It simply reinforces the fact that even though my focus here is business and economics training, HIV/AIDS education must always remain a priority as well.

Regrettably, I now move from one lachrymose topic to another, as I switch from HIV to crime in South Africa.  In my last post, I said that during my time in Durban, there were two separate incidents of crime that occurred.  I dealt with the first one in my previous writing, where I said the treatment of the criminal had actually evoked a feeling of compassion in me.  Unfortunately, such compassion was short lived as a result of the second episode, which I will relate today.

Given that it happened about a week ago, I now cannot recall the date exactly, but I believe it was either New Year’s Eve or New Year’s day.  The streets were naturally filled with people caught up in different states of celebration.  A group of American girls were returning to the hostel (I don’t remember where from).  It was dark, which admittedly increases the danger level, but they were traveling in a group as we had been told to do in training.  Unfortunately, the presence of multiple people did not deter a man from still deciding that this was an opportune time for a mugging.

All of a sudden, a man from the dark approached one of the American girls, who is no taller than 5 feet, and grabbed her as he attempted to take her cell phone and other valuables.  She immediately began struggling, saying “let me go!”, and rocking back and forth to try to break the thug’s grip.  The other girls in the group saw what was going on, and yelled out to the people in the vicinity to help.  Despite there being several people also witnessing what was going on, this time none of the South Africans apparently batted an eyelash.  As luck would have it and also because of the presence of the other Americans, the girl being robbed was able to break free, and the entire group sprinted the two remaining blocks back to the hostel.  It was only by sheer luck that the lodging was so close because the attacker proceeded to follow them, so who knows what might have happened had they been in another area.

What the girl who had escaped the attempted robbery unscathed only later found out was that the man who had grabbed her had also had a knife.  Since the perpetrator approached from behind, she was unable to see this, but the other American girls were able to see the sharp object quite clearly.  Only God’s protection or just dumb luck kept it from piercing her as she rocked back and forth to free herself.

As you can imagine, this shook everyone up a bit, not the least, myself.  Since being here in South Africa, we have had it beaten into our heads that crime is real and an ever-present danger, but I think many had fallen into a kind of complacency – a kind of “it won’t happen to me” mentality.  After this experience, we were brought crashing back to earth.

The point I want to make, though, goes beyond the obvious - that crime is a big problem here in South Africa.  I realized that had a mob gotten a hold of this American girl’s assailant, as they did the thief on the beach mentioned in my last post, I’m pretty sure I would have very much approved seeing the snot beat out of that guy.  I doubt any sympathy would have crept in – heck, I might have been one of the people beating him, myself.  So what’s the difference?  How did I go from the Dalai Lama to Boondock Saints in such a short period of time?

First off, I think there is a difference in the severity of the crime.  An unarmed man trying to steal a backpack from another man in broad daylight is one thing.  The victim was of the same physical size as the assailant, and, call me sexist, but was also a man.  He thus was in little to no physical danger.  But a thug with a knife who grabs a petite girl in the dark and tries to steal her cell phone and valuables, and could have possibly stabbed her in the process, is in a whole other league in my opinion.  In that case, you’ve got someone who is bigger, stronger, and using a deadly weapon.  It is thus, without a doubt that the girl was in physical danger.

Secondly, I realized that the fact that it was a person I knew, and another American at that, really made my blood boil.  This was not just a random guy I saw on the beach, but someone from my country, who shares my culture, speaks with the same accent as I do, and who I have spent a decent amount of time with through our various trainings.  In short, she was one of my own, and that, I think, increased my anger to a level above what it otherwise would have been.

Now I’m not saying that I would have enjoyed watching the perpetrator die.  That would be a punishment out of proportion to the crime.  Yet, at the same time, I think I very much might have enjoyed witnessing a good ass-beating to teach him a lesson before the cops showed up.  And had some tall guy wearing Texas swim trunks tried to step in to stop it, I probably would have pushed him aside and told him to mind his own business.  I guess it just goes to show that maybe we are not always as civilized as we think we are.

Criminal Compassion

I try to mix up my posts between serious subjects and lighter fare, and I had today’s planned for the former.  However, something so momentous occurred today, something so stupendous, that I simply must at least mention it in passing, before moving on to subjects with a bit more gravitas.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, I am very proud to announce that today, for the first time since leaving the United States in July, a drought of approximately 6 months, I drank a can of delicious Dr Pepper.  For that, I would like to give a big shout out to my local Spar grocery store that, at my request, worked to locate a supplier in Cape Town, and then transport the product all the way back to our small town of Warrenton here in the Northern Cape.  Happily for them, the shipment proved to be so popular, that they actually had to reserve a 6-pack for me because the others sold out so quickly.  If any Dr Pepper executives are reading this, my service is over in September 2013, and I would be happy to serve as international brand manager at that time.

Alright, like I said, I was tempted to devote an entire post just to the Dr Pepper event, but I had already planned and promised to start moving backwards in time to my days in Durban.  While the experience of tanning/burning on the beach, surfing, and eating good Indian food, was overall an incredibly enjoyable one, it was unfortunately marred by something that sometimes seems to be ever present here in South Africa: crime.  There were two episodes that not only knocked me out of my complacency regarding our security here, but also made me seesaw back and forth on the ethics of treatment of criminals.  Today, I will only focus on the first one and the first incarnation of my thoughts on treatment of offenders.

The initial event occurred on Christmas day.  Some of the other Americans and I were lounging on the sand with different people reading, chatting, and dozing, when all of a sudden, we noticed a commotion taking place a bit farther up near the boardwalk.  It seemed there was a fight going on (and who doesn’t love a fight), so another guy and myself got up and walked over to investigate.  As we did so, we saw what basically amounted to a mob, dragging and pushing a man along the pavement.  They moved him a certain distance and then stopped so that a large circle of people formed around the detained person.  While this was going on, I managed to discover that the man being forced around had just tried to steal something from someone, but had been stopped and now people were taking out their anger on this would-be thief.  We later found out that the man had tried to rob some one’s backpack, but had been unsuccessful and so had retreated up a hill.  An onlooker atop the hill had seen what had happened, so he stretched out his arm and clotheslined the thief to stop him.  After that the people around managed to catch up and get their hands on the perpetrator.

What happened next was almost unbelievable.  In the circle that had formed around the criminal, I watched as people, many who had nothing to do with the situation, started indiscriminately punching and kicking the man, while others prevented him from moving.  Even more unbelievably, men and women in yellow vests who were responsible for security on the beach stood by and watched, with some even encouraging the attackers.  The thief eventually fell to the ground, where the kicking and beating continued with comments such as “That’s what you get for trying to rob people on Christmas!”  I finally ran over and shouted at the security guys to cuff the man and stop what was turning in to sheer insanity.  At first they did nothing, but after continually screaming at them for several seconds, they stepped in and did indeed put handcuffs on the man’s wrists.

With that accomplished, though, they continued to allow the crowd to lay kicks into the prone perpetrator, again sometimes with encouragement.  When I saw this, I stepped through the crowd so that I was standing over the thief, and stopped those kicking him saying “That’s enough!”  By this time, the thief had blood coming from his forehead and mouth that was spilling onto the sidewalk and a look on his face of absolute terror.  I asked the security men why they didn’t take him to jail to get the man out of there, and one of them feebly mentioned that the police had been called and were on their way.  Knowing that the security would do nothing until the cops showed up, I continued standing over the thief, basically providing him protection.  Some of the other Americans who witnessed the scene, said that even in the midst of such a serious situation, it was a bit comical to see me, a tall, pale, White man, shirtless, and in Texas flag swim trunks, standing there in the middle of the large group comprised mainly of Blacks and Indians.   After several minutes, a group of mounted police on horses finally showed up.  Even then, when they asked who made the arrest, none of the security men and women in yellow vests spoke up.  I had to point at them before they actually acknowledged to the cops that they had indeed put the cuffs on the man.

The police then inquired as to what had transpired regarding the crime such as who was the victim, what the thief had tried to take, etc.  Like I said before, the guilty man was absolutely petrified as a result of the vigilante mob, so much so that he enthusiastically confirmed to the police which person he had robbed, just so that they would take him away as quickly as possible.  At that point, I knew that with the criminal in police custody, the man was safe, and I retreated beachside again.

Afterwards, though, when I reflected upon the whole situation, I was very surprised at myself.  I mean, I grew up in Huntsville, Texas, which is the headquarters of the Texas state prison system.  My dad works for that prison system.  It is not that far to walk from my house to the building where all executions in Texas take place (more than any other state in America).  Anyone who is familiar with Texas, knows that it is a place where not much sympathy is held for criminals, to the point that the term “Texas justice” can actually be colloquially used to indicate harsh and quick punishment for those who behave badly.

Yet here I was, finding myself, almost without thinking, running into to try to protect a man who was undoubtedly guilty of the crime, on Christmas day no less.  It was very strange to find this stirring of compassion welling up within me, but there it was nonetheless.  South Africa continues to suffer from terrible crime, and I know that the people here are absolutely sick of it.  For that reason, I can understand why, when they are finally able to get a hold of one of the bad guys, they want to take out their rage on him and make an example. 

Yet one of the aspects of a civilized society is that it has respect for the law.  That means that the one to mete out punishment is the justice system, not a bunch of angry vigilantes.  Not to mention, it just did not seem that the punishment fit the crime.  The man tried to steal someone’s backpack, which, given, is wrong.  But does it really deserve being beaten to a pulp so much so that if continued unrestrained the man goes into a coma or dies?  I just didn’t think so.

That being said, I am not trying to make myself out as some kind of hero that is more sophisticated and civilized than the South Africans.  I am undoubtedly not.  I have only been here 6 months now, and had, up to that moment, still had relatively little experience with crime.  Had I been subjected to the muggings, hijackings, rapes, and other types of assaults that so many South Africans I have spoken to have, I am pretty positive I would feel different about the matter.  Unfortunately, it did not take too long for me to get an answer to that question, as only a few days later, we once again had the reality of crime in South Africa shoved in our faces, this time in a way that hit much closer to home.  That is the second incident that I mentioned earlier in the post, and one that I will deal with in my next entry.  Until then, I feel it is yet again time to and regrettably relevant to repeat that cherished refrain from “Hill Street Blues”: Let’s be careful out there.

Train Travels

I am currently typing on a cracked computer screen in which parts of the upper and middle right of my screen are black, and a substantial crack winds itself horizontally across the entire middle of the screen.  Such a defect is due to my own stupidity at leaving my laptop on the ground, which naturally led to some unassuming soul giving it a good stomp.  This is partially the reason for once again, my lack of posting, as every time I turn on the computer, I am forced to face my own dumb decision.

At least for the moment, though, the computer is still viewable and functional, so I am finally biting the bullet and typing amidst the cracks.  As some of you may be aware, I was recently vacationing in Durban for Christmas and New Year’s and there was a good bit of material I could post about there.  I would, however, like to write about the event I am currently experiencing, and in Quentin Tarantino-style will then revert to previous days in upcoming posts.

After 4 weeks of living out of a bag and eating non-home-cooked meals, I am quite anxious to get back to what has now become my home.  Serendipitously, such a return is being enhanced by an experience that unfortunately, many American people of my generation are woefully unaware of.  I am speaking of traveling by train.

I am currently typing from the dining car after having enjoyed a dinner of beef stew with rice, followed by a post-prandial coffee.  Night is falling as the South African countryside whisks by outside of my window.  My day has been spent sleeping in the bed placed in the upper part of my cabin, reading my book “Three Cups of Tea” by Greg Mortenson (blog post to follow on this great read), and watching the greenery of the eastern part of the country change to veld as we move west.  All in all, it has been one of the most enjoyable and relaxing rides I have ever experienced.  Truly, it is for times like this that I joined the Peace Corps.

I am in this situation because after having moved about by bus, taxi, and kombi over the past month, I was intrigued to try out another form of transportation.  To my great pleasure, I found that, while the train is a bit slower than other more direct options, the ticket is considerably cheaper, even when taking a sleeper car like I am.  When you are in the Peace Corps, cheap is a good thing.  That being said, after a day like today, I probably would have paid more money than a competing option like the bus.

The reasons are simple.  A bus does not have plenty of leg space.  A bus does not allow you to stretch out on a fully flat bed and take a nap.  A bus does not allow you go to a dining car and have an excellent meal.  A bus does not let you open the window and stand there with your head outside of the car as the country and wind fly by.  And a bus does not allow you to travel through countryside like I have and am currently doing.  Trains don’t need roads, only tracks, which many times go where no asphalt does.  All in all, I am now very much taken with train travel. 

I know that plane transportation has greatly improved efficiency and increased our mobility, but I feel that the experience of flying simply doesn’t compare to the method of moving in which our grandparents and great grandparents did.  There is a leisure and comfort involved in train travel that I don’t think even a first class plane ticket can offer.  I recognize that I would speak differently of such comfort if such a train ride were stretched over several days, such as one used to experience on a cross-country trip.  But at the same time, I do somewhat envy my grandparents and great-grandparents (as well as my European friends) for whom train travel was a chief mode of transportation.

I can envision my Granddad Spencer, in his roles as Agricultural Extension Officer and later as bank president, sitting in his three-piece suit, cruising across Texas and the United States in sleepers and dining cars just as I do now – taking the odd moment for a cigar and whiskey with the other gents.  In the same way, I can see the John Rockefellers and Cornelius Vanderbilts, criscrossing the nation, doing business deals in their private cars, as they built their empires.  Simply put, there is something romantic about a train ride that other types of transportation do not offer.

So with that said, may I recommend to all my readers that if they ever have a chance to travel by train (which will be more likely in Europe than the US), they should take it.  Lord knows that, in the future, if it is at all possible, I’m going to be cruising the tracks as well.