You know you have been living in Quito for a while when...

You know you have been living in Quito for a while when…
Saturday, October 8, 2011

-You can breath when walking uphill at 9,200 feet

-You no longer need to follow an Ecuadorian across the street to avoid getting hit by a car



-You think a $7 dinner is carísimo (really expensive)

-You’ve learned a bit about Ecuadorian history, especially dates, via street names

-You eat soup at least once every day

-You know what chévere, chuca, and chuchaque mean



-Your response to cold is “¡Achachay!”

-You can accept pan, queso, and cafecito as complete dinner (bread, cheese, and coffee)

-You expect rain almost every afternoon

-You can identify the correct blue bus, flag it down, and get on without the bus stopping


Last weekend, the Duke in the Andes program took a trip to San Clemente, a small indigenous community in the mountains. Our program director is very well connected in this community, so we stayed with indigenous host families. We had lots of interesting talks about indigenous culture, got to participate in and observe some ceremonies, etc. I did all sorts of things I never would have expected, like: plowing a field (the old fashioned way with cows and a big wooden contraption), cooking food with hots rocks and a traditional oven that was literally a giant hole in the ground, and a spiritual cleansing ceremony, among other things. Stay tuned for a post with stories and pictures from San Clemente!

¡Viva Guapulo! - Videos

¡Viva Guapulo!

¡Viva Guapulo!
September 10, 2011



The first thing I noticed was people pushing me. Excited and nervous, the crowd oscillated, jostling each other, unsure if it was better to be on the edge or not. The vaca loca approached, leaving a wake of people screaming from excitement, fear, or both. This wooden creature was about the size of a small table, painted black and white to resemble a cow. It was on a small platform with protruding handles --carried by four men the way one often images emperors and kings to be carried: hoisted laboriously above the crowd. What made this vaca (cow) loca (crazy) were the fuegos artificiales: the fireworks. This wooden statue moved through the crowd emitting fireworks, followed by a tail of white hot sparks dancing maliciously. The vaca moved quickly through the crowd, as people scattered in its wake.

I felt the crowd shift as the vaca moved in my direction. A rush of adrenaline pumped through me as I protected my eyes with one hand and clutched my small purple purse to my chest with the other. I pushed persistently like everyone else, attempting to move safely out of reach of the vaca’s flaming tail.

A few people in our group screamed with a tantalizing mixture of giddy excitement and fear. Andrés shook his head, amused. Juanito, an eccentric character and self proclaimed proponent of “long hair, don’t care,” looked at the group. “Chicos, calm down.”

Kaitlyn gave him a skeptical look. “You know someone’s hair caught on fire last year,” she replied, justifying the mad rush out of the vaca’s reach.

As my heartbeat slowed, I noticed the music, which had briefly been drowned out by the commotion in the crowd. A very energetic singer lead a band of about 20 dark haired, Ecuadorian men with trumpets, guitars, drums, and other instruments. They wore matching white pants and flowing black shirts with golden sparkles that caught the light as the musicians moved to the beat. The three men at the front of the stage were there to dance, leading the band in choreographed movements, encouraging the crowd to join in. The people filling the square were more than happy to comply. It felt like the entire town of Guapulo was there, swaying their hips and moving in the rhythmic steps of salsa, bachata, and other Latin dances.

When the fervent energy of the crowd began to fade, the band leader held the microphone close to his lips, threw back his head, and with a deep booming voice yelled: “¡VI- -VA GUA – A – AP – U – LO!” Inspired by the festivities and a love for their proud little town, the crowd cried “¡VIVA!” raising fists for extra emphasis. Scattered amongst the crowd, the extranjeros joined in, swept up by the moment, happy to be immersed in Las Fiestas de Guapulo, yearly festivals in honor of Guapulo’s patron saint.

As the dancing continued, I pulled out my camera, trying to capture some of the lively insanity and the beautiful, uniquely Latin American chaos occurring around me.

“Tori,” Caroline moved close to me so I could hear her over the noise. “Take lots of pictures. I forgot my camera, so I am going to steal your pictures.” I nodded, happy to comply. “Ohh, and make sure you get pictures of that when it explodes!”

She pointed to the large wooden structure looming over the crowd, several stories high. This tower had been carefully decorated and constructed, a center piece to the festivities toped with a heart. I was intrigued by the tower but also weary, sure after the vaca loca that this giant wooden structure would erupt in fuegos artificiales.



The dancing continued, the tightly packed throng of people pulsated, and I slowly made my way through the crowd, trying to move safely away from the giant wooden structure.

Suddenly, the wooden tower began erupting, sprouting fireworks out of the top and an opening at the bottom, where a group of men pushed the tower in a circle. As the tower rotated, it released hot white sparks in a stream much bigger and more powerful than the tail of the vaca loca. People ran into one another with nervous excitement. I pushed against the chaos until someone bumped violently into my right shoulder, moving in the opposite direction. My small purple purse that I had been guarding so carefully all night fell behind me. Before I could reach for it, a powerful hand grabbed my left arm, holding it below my shoulder. My heart started racing. Out of the corned of my eye I saw an imposing figure behind me. As he held my arm tightly, an accomplice unzipped my bag.

My skin crawled. I knew exactly what was happening. These men were robbing me and amidst the chaotic crowd, the music, the fireworks, no one else noticed. My heart beat rapidly. I tried to calm it, tried not to move. I did not want to these men to think I was protesting. In orientations for every international program I have done, I have been taught to let people rob you. It is not worth the risk of fighting it – that is how you get hurt.

The crowd swelled like a giant wave, pushing me sideways. The grip on my arm slackened. I looked up. For a brief moment, I looked into the dark eyes of a man in a red warm up jacket with white stripes. We both knew that he had stolen my cell phone, and we both knew I was not going to do anything about it. If he wanted it that badly, he could have it.

“¡SHIT!” I swore violently, frustrated at what had just happened. The odds were against me. In my year of crazy international travel, I was bound to get robbed or pick pocketed at some point. But just because I was expecting to be robbed, didn’t mean I was happy about it.

I looked at the ground, hoping unrealistically that my phone would be there, that is had fallen out of my purse – all the while knowing that it has been taken in a carefully orchestrated, well practiced plan.

I was frustrated. More than anything I felt blonde, very aware how much I stood out, how easy it was to identify me as a foreigner. I moved away from the wooden tower, away from the crowd, away from the fireworks, disenchanted.

From the edge of the square, I watched the tower rotating. People in elaborate costumes jumped among the crowd. The tower blazed brilliantly, a heart lit up against the inky night sky. It really was beautiful. This was a moment of joy, of celebration, of community, and I was here, dropped into what felt like another world. I sighed, releasing my tension and frustration.

I heard the energetic music and people’s laughter. As the flaming tower finally began to die down, our group gathered, slightly breathless, unable to believe what we had just been a part of.

“¡Ahhh, that was incredible!” Caroline said, smiling broadly. She and the rest of our group glowed with happy excitement. “But there is no way anything like that would ever be allowed in the US.”

I laughed. That was certainly true.

New Names and New Places

New Names and New Places
Saturday, August 27, 2011


Enjoying a view of the mountains on my walk home from class

I bounce forward as a passenger pushed their way into the seat behind me. Its 9:06 on Saturday morning August 27th. I am seated in 19C, watching the other passengers board the plane around me. I’m surrounded by a mosaic of languages: Spanish, English, French, and Creole intertwining with each other as my fellow passengers file by.

“Mama,” a small girl with a head of cascading brown curls and mischievous smile tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Mama, ¿adondé vamos?”

“A Miami, mija.” Her mother looked down at her tenderly.

“Ohh,” the little girl crooned, comprehension dawning on her small face. “Me-am-ee.” She said the word slowly, over emphasizing each syllable – Miami, my first step before flying to Quito this afternoon.

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I am a jumble of emotions: excitement, nervousness, uncertainty, contentment, anticipation. What awaits me in Ecuador? I hardly know. I will meet Sofía at the airport and then… then the world will be in Spanish. Voy a vivir en el mundo hispano, en américa Latina. The words come rather quickly. All week I have been trying to move rusty cogs, coaxing my brain into remembering the many verb conjugations and vocabulary I have picked up over the years. I love Spanish. The language is so melodic and interesting with sounds that tickle my ears – the growling gre in tigre, the hopeful je in viaje. The pronunciation comes quite naturally now, although I distinctly remember plodding slowly through words in my sixth grade Spanish class, over pronouncing syllables, my tongue and brain working hard to create unfamiliar sounds.

My first Spanish class began as most do. Señor Torres greeted the class in his Columbian accent and walked around the room asking and repeating questions until we all started to understand the pattern. ¿Comó estás? ¿Comó se llama? People answered nervously. Es-toy bi-en. Me lla-mo Mea-ghan. Many English names seemed out of place in Spanish answers. The interplay between native and foreign, comfortable and unfamiliar confused minds and mouths, leading to pronunciation that was somewhere between the two languages. This gray area was not the place to learn. We had to dive into Spanish, enter a red river, the color of a burning sunset, flowing quickly and unpredictably. Students were transformed. Molly became Margarita, James became Jaime, and Harry with his strange combination of letters picked up another name entirely – Raúl, Hernesto, or another Spanish name that to Harry was quite new and exciting.
As for me, I switched from Tori to Victoria, saying the v with a Spanish softness that almost made it sounds like a b, bic-toria. I loved that my name translated so naturally. It bodes well for people with the travel bug like me. Victoria is like Maria. Both woman could be introducing themselves outside the snowy Kremlin in the cold streets of Moscow, at a decadent wine tasting in Tuscany, or at the feet of the giant Cristo Redentor in Río. The names work across continents, languages, and time, allowing the namesake to move smoothly across borders and find connections in new places.

Earlier in the flight, I had introduced myself to Eduardo, a friendly young Colombian, excited to be going to Bógota, home for his 29th birthday. When his mother arrived a few minutes later settled down between us in seat 18B, he introduced us.

“Mama, this is Tori.” She smiled but looked confused by his quick introduction. He repeated by name slowly, “Tor-ri.”

Grasping my name, she turned to me, “Mucho gusto.”

I thought about this introduction as out place rapidly approached Miami and made a decision. Me llamo Victoria. It makes sense. These four months, this semester in Ecuador is basically an extended Spanish class anyway. Why not translate my name?



Posing near the breath taking mountains at "La Mitad del Mundo" -- The Middle of the World

The Wild Life

We spent our last few days in South Africa in Kruger National Park or as South Africans call it "The Kruger." While on safari in "The Kruger," we saw many incredible animals. Here are some photos from our safari adventures.






















This elephant was in musk and annoyed by the car that had come to watch him. Another little pink car drove quite close to him and made him angry. Thinking our large, white minibus was another animal and a threat, the elephant started to charge at us. Zed made a quick decision and drove around him. We were all pretty nervous, but it turns out ok.
















This cheetah was not in Kruger. We met him at the Ann van Dyk Cheetah Center in De Wilt.

Shared Songs and Understanding

Hi everyone,

After two incredible months, countless adventures and new challenges, a tediously long plane ride, and a brief bout with gastric E-coli (from which I am now fully recovered), I am back in the US. I got back on Tuesday, July 5^th and am starting to settle back into life at home. I am sorry I did not post very many updates during my last few weeks in South Africa. The end of our stay in Manguzi was a whirlwind, and for most of our final week of travel with the rest of the Robertson group, I did not have internet access or time to write. But fear not, I still have lots more to share about my experiences in South Africa. I will continue to post creative writing pieces, pictures, stories, and reflections, so feel free to keep reading J

Ngiyabonga umgani! (Thank you friend in isiZulu)

Tori

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Shared Songs and Understanding

Thursday, June 16, 2011

The lights flickered and went out. I sighed and kept stirring the mashed potatoes. Lauren and I were at the stove, putting the finishing touches on the meal we were preparing for our host family.

The lights blinked on, starting the sounds of water boiling and the house humming with electric energy. Elizabeth started to cheer, “Yaa-ay..,” but before she could finish the power quickly went out again, throwing the house into darkness. The process continued several times before we decided the power really wasn’t coming back on.

“Ohh well. At least we finished cooking,” I said as I turned off the stove and took the potatoes off the hot burner. Elizabeth laughed, “Too bad we are missing Scandal! though.” We were all a little disappointed about that. Every night we tried to finish cooking by 7:30pm, so we could watch this South African soap opera together. It is our host family’s favorite show, and Elizabeth, Lauren, and I had grown quite fond of it. Soap operas here air Monday to Thursday in the evenings. The immensely popular shows are an interesting reflection of the diversity of South Africa. The shows have a variety of different story lines and characters who speak in English, isiZulu, and Afrikaans, catering to different South African ethnic groups. Luckily, the English subtitles throughout the show make it possible for me to understand everything.

“Phila,” Lauren called to our nine-year-old host brother. “Come here, boo. Bring the phone, and we can go find flash lights.” The two of them disappeared down the hall, followed by the glowing light of the cell phone. Armed with flash lights we began serving dinner. We had made chicken with chakalaka (a tasty South African sauce with spices and lots of vegetables), garlic mashed potatoes, and sautéed onions, peppers, carrots, and tomatoes. Our host sister Fanele had dug up a few candles, which cast a soft glow over the room. Nqobile and Lauren were seated on couches facing each other across the room, a candle on the table between them.

“Nqo,” she looked up as Lauren got her attention. “Its almost like we are on a date.” Everyone in the room laughed.

Nqobile’s name starts with one of the many Zulu clicks, which felt so foreign when I first arrived here. My tongue was unaccustomed to making noises like that. After considerable practice, I mastered Nqobile’s name, which was definitely one clicking word I needed to learn. It was a particularly good word to learn because Nqobile is the South African version my name, meaning victory in isiZulu. In Zulu culture, names are beautiful and full of meaning, having direct translations that many English names lack. The children in our house, Phila and Fanele, have names that mean “we have to live and be many” and “you have to thank God” respectively.

We lounged in the kitchen with Phila and Fanele. The meal was finished and dishes were cleared away in the kitchen. We didn’t have running water and used buckets of rainwater to wash the dishes by hand in the sink. The sink was divided in half, one dirty sink where dishes were sudzed up scrubbed and another clean sink where dishes were rinsed and put in the drying rack. We didn’t need power to do the dishes but had decided to wait to do them until the power came back on, and we could see better.

Phila had his face buried in the couch, muffling the sounds of the song he was humming. You could call Phila shy, but a man of few words would probably be a more appropriate description. The quick-footed soccer star rarely answered our questions with more than a word, if he answered them at all. It wasn’t until Fanele suggested it that we realized that his quietness with us was because he is not very comfortable speaking English, particularly in comparison with the talkative Fanele. Earlier in the evening during dinner Phila had made a comment that had everyone laughing.

Our host Mama turned to us. “Do you know what Phila said?” We shook our heads. “He said it is hard to eat your dinner with a fork.” Phila looked at her before turning his gaze back to his plate, giggling but a little self-conscious none the less.

“I’m sorry, Phila! Of course you can use a spoon. I’m sorry we did not think to get you one.” I looked at him apologetically, hoping he wasn’t too embarrassed.

“Here boo,” Lauren cooed. She walked purposefully out of the kitchen and handed Phila a spoon, which he happily accepted. The spoon was one of many examples of the countless cultural differences small and large we encountered every day. It was impossible to recognize and learn about all of them. That wasn’t the point anyway. Instead we needed to be willing to admit our cultural blunders and rectify them when we could. Luckily our utensil choice was an easy problem to fix.

After dinner was finished and the dishes cleared away, Elizabeth, Lauren, and I sat around the living room with Fanele, Phila, and Zodwa. Mama and Nqobile had gone outside, probably to check on the power and their mother who we affectionately called Ma Agnes. Ma Agnes was a tough, dignified older woman with wrinkled skin and thoughtful eyes. She was thin but by no means frail. On several occasions I had been shocked to see her walking home with a giant jug of water balanced nonchalantly on her head. It took me considerable effort to carry these jugs to the house, so sixty something year old Ma Agnes’s ability to carry these heavy jugs on her head baffled me. She certainly was a remarkable woman. She spent most of her days cooking and sitting on a straw mat outside of her house. She sat draped in mix matched cloth, chatting with the peg-legged Mr. Cross and her other friends while drinking beer or shucking peanuts for samp (a delicious Zulu dish with peanuts cooked to a soft consistency). Ma Agnes was a woman who had seen her country transformed. Born black under the strict, legislated inequality and injustice of apartheid, Ma Agnes had been barred from many opportunities. She had undoubtedly suffered considerably as a result of apartheid, a system designed and orchestrated by white people. Yet despite the tumultuous past she had endured, Ma Agnes welcomed Elizabeth and I, white Americans, into her home. Each day we walked by her on our way to and from the hospital. Neither of us spoke more than a few words of the other’s language, but we communicated none the less, smiling, giving each other hugs, searching our brains hopefully for words the other might know. Ma Agnes was the proud matriarch of a large and successful family. I respected her greatly and only wished we could have talked about her great multitude of life experiences.

“Hmm, hmmmm, hmm” Phila hummed into the couch, his face buried in a cushion.

“What are you singing, Phila?” Elizabeth asked. “That sounds familiar.” Phila did not answer, choosing instead to flash his usual bashful smile. I looked at Fanele. “Do you know the song he is singing?”

“Yes.”

“Can you sing it with him?” Fanele looked at me, her eyes gleaming with a bit of false modesty. Fanele was shy about it but was a great singer. Often when the house was quite or while she was chopping vegetables she would sing top American or South African hits or some of the gospel songs her Mama was so found of. When Lauren, Elizabeth, and I had come from work earlier that day, Fanele had organized a singing game for all of us. She made a numbered list of popular singers. Lauren, Zodwa, Phila, Elizabeth, and I had to pick numbers and then sing songs by those artists. Elizabeth and I quickly discovered that we didn’t actually know the words to many of the songs, but Lauren, who has a beautiful voice, helped us out. Fanele judged and scored the whole competition. My rendition of the Michael Jackson song “Billy Jean” earned me second place, behind Lauren.

“Tsamina mina eh eh” Fanele had overcome her hesitation and started singing. “Waka waka eh eh.” We all joined in. This Shakira song was one of the anthems of the 2010 FIFA World Cup and had been nearly as popular in the US as it was here in the cup’s host country South Africa. Armed with words that had traveled around the world, our voices joined together. “Tsamina mina zangalewa. This time for Africa!”

Zodwa, Fanele, and Phila in the backyard

Summer Snapshots

This past Thursday, June 16th was Youth Day, a South African national holiday in honor of the youth who died during anti apartied protests in Soweto in 1976. Our host family had the day off from school and work, and we were pleasantly surprised to wake up to breakfast for everyone.


On Youth Day, the whole family and some of our host family's friends from Manguzi went to Black Rock beach, a beautiful secluded beach about an hour from Manguzi down bumpy dirt roads.

Last weekend we met up with the rest of our group of Robtertson Scholars in Saint Lucia. This is a picture of all of us on a boat ride in the estuaries, where we saw lots of hippos. It was fantastic to be able to spend time together, reflect on our experiences at work and in homestays thus far, and refocus for our last two weeks of work.

A special thanks to Elizabeth for always taking group pictures, bringing her camera, and sharing images with me!

Lessons From Life and Work in Manguzi

June 6th and 12th, 2011

“Ikanda, amahlombe, isifuba, ukhalo, andolo, zinzwani, andolo, zinzwani.” The children sang together, happily pointing to the appropriate body parts. We were singing the Zulu version of head, shoulders, knees, and toes, which when literally translated is actually head, shoulders, chest, hips, knees, feet. I could now pronounce the words appropriately and had six new words to add to my gradually increasing Zulu vocabulary.

It was a sunny Monday afternoon and Kooli, one of the translators, and I were singing in a circle with a smiling group of pediatric patients. This stimulation or as we usually called it “stim group” took place most weekday afternoons. The group was designed to engage patients physically and intellectually, to practice fine and gross motor skills. My favorite part of the group, however, is that it allows the children not to be patients in a hospital. Instead, they get to be outside, spending time with other children, learning, being active, and having fun.

One of the challenging aspects of our work at the hospital is that we don’t have a specific assignment, department, or supervisor. We are here to learn and part of that learning is figuring out how we want to allocate our time and make meaning out of our experience here. This is a challenge for American college students. We are used to feeling useful, to having specific tasks and achieving them. At the hospital, we are foreign students who are unable to speak Zulu, have minimal medical training, and very limited (if any) professional skills applicable to this setting. Unlike last summer, this is not a summer of service. Although we very much want to help, there is very little we are qualified to do. Instead we are here to learn.

I think there is often a perception amongst American college students that if we go abroad, we will walk into a new situation and finds lots to do, many places where we can be helpful during our short international stay. We are coming into communities facing such daunting and overwhelming international challenges like HIV/AIDS, TB, poverty, rural isolation, lack of infrastructure, and limited education. Surely, we are needed somewhere, right?

Sometimes international volunteers are needed, and sometimes they are not. In our case, the hospital is not in dire need of the limited help we are qualified to offer. But Lauren, Elizabeth, and I have talked about how really that is a good thing. After all, how would we feel if the situation were different, we were really needed, and then we had to leave after 5 weeks, reopening a gap that we had briefly filed?

.Manguzi Hospital faces many challenges, particularly limited resources, but it is well organized with a dedicated staff. On our first day at work, I told one of the doctors that one of my goals for the summer was to get a sense for how rural hospitals like Manguzi work. The doctor smiled and chuckled at me, “Things are crazy around here, but things kind of just work. Somehow the hospital keeps functioning.”

During my time in Manguzi, I have been lucky to see many of the different ways the hospital works. Each morning, we attend the doctors’ meeting where doctors are brief on newly admitted patients and general hospital updates from the medical manager, matrons (senior nurses), and department heads. Several times a week different doctors will give professional development lectures on topics like diabetic emergencies or the co-infection of HIV and hepatitis B. After the morning meeting, doctors head off to do rounds in their assigned wards. I have shadowed doctors in the maternity, pediatrics, and female wards. I have also observed the nutritionist, shadowed doctors in the Out Patient Department (OPD), and watched surgeries.

But I have been spending most of my time in the Allied Therapy wing, which houses speech therapy, physio therapy (physical therapy), and occupational therapy. The speech and occupational therapists work with lots of children with special needs, intellectual impairment, disabilities, and developmental delays. It has been fascinating to learn about signs of physical and cognitive delays, strategies to overcome disabilities, etc. It can also be heart breaking at times. Many of the children’s families cannot afford to take their children to regular therapy or to provide resources to help them overcome their disabilities. Therapists here in Manguzi need to be creative and resourceful to overcome both systemic and individual challenges faced by the patients and health professionals throughout the local community.

I am learning by being here, observing, asking questions, talking with people, and making comparisons. I am very grateful to be here! The opportunities and experiences I am having here are incredible and unparalleled. I am trying to be a sponge and to really soak up this experience. This is an experience that is not only valuable now, but it will gain meaning as I reflect on it and process it in the future. I am sharpening a new lens with which to view challenges of health, poverty, disease, wealth disparities, race relations, language, cultural identities, and much more.

I am proud of the way I have adapted to be able to cope with adversity and situations beyond my control. At work I have had to balance a desire to learn with an understanding of where I fit in at the hospital. I have learned about personal relationships through managing work relationships at the hospital, relationships with our host family and community members, and my relationships with other Robertsons, my family, and people at home. I am learning to communicate in many different ways, notably when I do not speak Zulu and when I am a continent away from many of the people who are most important to me. I am learning about human connections and respect through the generosity and hospitality of my host family and new friends in Manguzi. I am learning about the unique mixture of cultures in South Africa and the ways that these cultures fit together (or sometimes don’t) to form the South African national identity. I am learning about the legacy of a brutally difficult past, something I was able to see domestically last summer in the Mississippi Delta. I am learning to live abroad, so far away (in so many ways) from the life I know.

Fire, Fish, Football, and Friends

Friday, June 3, 2011

Crack! I raised the axe to the height of my chest swinging it into the wood. My host brother, Phila, and his cousin, Skhylile, laughed at me. I looked up at them, smiling.

“I know you’re laughing. I’ve never done this before.”

Apparently that was obvious because they kept giggling. My eleven year old host sister Fanele had made the task seem quiet doable. But something was off with my technique. My aim was also fairly spotty as I had slammed the axe into the ground several times instead of the wood. I didn’t blame the children for laughing. Here was the foreign white girl trying somewhat unsuccessfully to help with chores. It was almost as funny as when I tried to speak Zulu.

Skhylile came up to me and took the axe.

“Ok, you’re going to show me?”

He nodded. With surprising speed and strength for a nine year old, he raised the axe above his head and brought it down in a swift, forceful motion. The wood cracked satisfyingly, beginning to splinter. He prepared for another swing.

“Wow, he’s good,” I muttered. Lauren, who had stopped arranging the other pieces of firewood, agreed. In a trademark Lauren-ism she cried,

“Work, Skhylile! Work!” He kept chopping. Making continual progress until with a final crack, the piece of wood broke in two. We all cheered. Elizabeth gave Skhylile a high five as he smiled triumphantly.

It was Friday afternoon, and we were making a fire in the backyard, a special occasion as we were preparing to cook fish for dinner. Most nights since arriving in Manguzi, Lauren, Elizabeth, and I had cooked for ourselves, as that was the agreement SIT had arranged with our host family. However, last nigh we had prepared dinner for our host family as a token of our appreciation for their hospitality. We had originally hoped to make traditional Southern macaroni and cheese, a very American dish. But after finding out that a small block of cheese costs a whopping 55 rand (almost $10), we decided to change plans. We made barbeque chicken, boiled cabbage, and Cajun rice with tomatoes, onions, and peppers. We were pleased with how the meal turned out, and the whole family enjoyed it, especially the chicken, which is a special treat.

Our host Mama also decided to cook for everyone. Friday morning when we woke up, she was chopping a giant fish that had been chilling in the freezer at the end of the hall for about a week. When I say giant, I mean it. This fish, which had been caught in nearby Kosi Bay, was over four feet long with substantial meat, glistening scales, and glazed over eyes that looked up from the edge of the cutting board, where Mama had chopped off its head.

The fire we were preparing would be used to cook the fish, adding a delicious smoky flavor to the herbs, peppers, tomatoes, and onions it would been cooked with. With the firewood chopped, Fanele, her cousin Zodwa, and Lauren arranged the firewood and coals, setting the pile ablaze with a carefully ignited plastic shopping bag, an apparently common way to get fires burning strongly.

When their task of chopping firewood had been completed successfully, the boys had grabbed a soccer ball and began running around the yard, shooting on the garage as a make shift goal. Elizabeth and I decided to join them, eager to play. Skhylile looked at me somewhat skeptically, no doubt wondering if I was better at playing soccer (or rather football as it is called here) than chopping firewood.

Our pick up football (soccer) game was substantially different than most I had played. Not only were the children barefoot and running around in the dust of the backyard, but we also had to several new obstacles to be aware of: the fire crackling under a nearby tree and the heap of trash dumped in a ditch boarding our “field.” (The trash is explained and photographed in my 5/28/11 post, A Taste of the Unknown). Lauren was watching the game from the steps of the porch and warned us not to mess with her fire.

The game began, a classic match up of girls against boys. Zodwa was in the goal with Fanele, Elizabeth, and I in the field. We out numbered the boys, who had Mongezi playing keeper and Phila and Skhylile in the field. We needed the advantage, for the young boys were fast with quick feet, fakes, and other moves they had practiced endlessly. Phila was especially fun to watch, showing agility and natural athleticism that impressed us.

After some intense play, we paused the game. At Mama’s request, Fanele and Zodwa headed into town for a quick trip to pick up more tomatoes and peppers for dinner. Elizabeth joined them, but I stayed behind to squeeze more soccer in to the limited daylight hours we had left. Phila had disappeared, so it was just Skhylile and I. He looked up at me excitedly, struck by a new idea.

“Penalty! Penalty!” he shouted.

“Ok. We can shoot penalty kicks,” I replied. As I moved the ball back into place, I joked with him. “Are you ready for this, Skhylile?” He answered with out hesitation.

“Yes!”

However as he responded he looked up at me and decided that I had set up too close to the goal. He positioned his back foot in line with the plastic crate we were using for a goal post and began walking towards me with slow, deliberate steps.

“12 feet,” he said, as he moved towards me, measuring out the distance between the goal and the penalty line. I chuckled, noticing that each step was getting progressively larger, pushing my shot further away from the goal. Skhylile reached what he deemed the appropriate position, used his barefoot to make a line in the dirt, and scampered back towards the goal.

I prepared to shoot. Although it had been four years since I had really played soccer, I had had many years of practices several nights a week and weekends filled with soccer games, among other sporting events. My body remembered what to do. I kicked through the ball. My shot went directly at Skhylile, who happily blocked it.

“Ohh wow, I shot that directly at you,” I said, aware of how rusty I was. ‘Let’s try again.”

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When the darkness had set in and the game was over, all of us gathered on the porch. Our host Mama’s favorite music flooded through the open door. The beat was catchy and uniquely South African.

“Work, Bandi, work,” Lauren cooed. “Dance for your life little man!”

Lauren happily swayed her hips, smiling broadly at Bandile as he bounced up and down. The little three year old was an adorable baby, our host mother’s nephew. He and Lauren were particularly fond of each other. When I had come home for lunch that day by myself, he had wandered about the house looking for her. Throughout the soccer game, he had sat on Lauren’s lap watching and cheering. At one point in the evening, the two of them had been counting stars in the indigo night sky and when he informed her: “Nasiyama isinguzi estibakabakeni,” which means that the stars were “mangoes in the sky.” Although they weren’t mangoes, the stars here are beautiful. In our rural town on the edge of South Africa, there is limited back light, so you can always see lots of stars, a refreshing change for those of us used to a limited view at home.

“I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab my camera.”

I ran inside to get it. Everyone was gathered on the porch, happily tired after the soccer game, a perfect photo opportunity.

“Everyone move closer and look at me.” They all turned, Fanele and Zodwa moved closer together… but Phila was moving away.

“Phila, stay in the picture.” Zodwa grabbed his hand to keep him from sneaking out of the photo. “Ok, smile everyone.”

As the flash went off, Bandile clapped his hands happily and yelled “Yayy!” During our two weeks in Manguzi, Bandi had heard Lauren, Elizabeth, and I excitedly say this when picking him up to give him a hug. Now it was his enthusiastic response to anything we did with him.

“I guess Bandi likes pictures.” People were starting to get up from their picture poses.
“Wait,” I called out, “Let’s take another one.”

After our photo shoot, we all gathered on the porch steps to look at the pictures. Bandile was especially thrilled to see everyone on my camera’s small screen.

“ Umgani “ he cried, pointing at the picture of us. “Namguyama umgani wami.”

Our host Mama translated. “He is saying, ‘There are my friends.’”

A Taste of the Unknown

A beautiful sunset over the back yard in Manguzi


Saturday, May 28, 2011

“Do you want to try some?”

In a show of good South African hospitality, my host Mama offered me the plate. It is a cardinal rule of homestays, international travel, and common courtesy that you say yes and graciously accept what you are offered. I smiled. “Yes, thank you for sharing.”

The plate she was holding towards me had a strange looking food that flopped over itself in folds, one side blackened from the open stove it had been cooked on in the house next door. I took a piece and with some effort bit a chunk off the corner. The food was completely unfamiliar to me with a rubbery texture and a somewhat unpleasant smell. My tongue recoiled from the taste. I took a big breath and swallowed the piece of food in my mouth preemptively before my gag reflex set in. An after taste like animal fat lingered in my mouth as I began cutting the remaining food in my hand into smaller pieces that were easier to swallow.

“This tastes like chitlins,” Lauren told our host Mama. “It’s hella good.” She eyed the plate. “Can I have another piece.”

Lauren happily took another piece as I struggled to swallow the small chunks I had chopped mine into. Elizabeth stood at the stove stirring our sautéing vegetables. Evidently she had turned down our host Mama’s offer – a smart move from her taste bud’s perspective, but she also knew the rules of courtesy. After all our first night in Manguzi she had her first pork meal ever because our host Mama had made it to welcome us. The former vegetarian was very wary of meat though, which was probably the cause of her refusal.

Only later that afternoon would I discover what I had eaten. “Why didn’t you eat that food Mama shared?” I asked Elizabeth. She made a squeamish face at me. “Mama came into the kitchen and asked if we eat the inside of cows, near the intestines.” Elizabeth put her hands over her own stomach to demonstrate. Although I half expected that at the time, especially when Lauren made the comparison to chitlins. I was glad I did not know at the time. Some information is best shared after the fact or left unknown.

An alternate view of the backyard. There is a garden where our host family and their neighbors grow some delicious vegetables. However, they also keep trash in the yard. This is the case with everyone here. I was surprised when during our bus ride here, people threw styrofoam food containers and other trash out the windows. The landscape is really beautiful, making the trash an unwanted addition.

Another surprise is that most people burn their trash. This practice is actually supported by the department of public health. Logistically, it is not feasible to collect and dispose of the trash, and standing trash can cause a major health threat in that it carries disease. So although I was surprised at first, it makes sense to burn trash.

¿Vocé fala português?

Sunday, May 29, 2011

¿Vocé fala português?
(You speak Portuguese?)

The tall black man looked at me inquisitively, somewhat dumbfounded that this sandy, t-shirt clad, blond haired girl sitting in the back of a rickety white truck had responded to him in Portuguese.

¿De ondé vocé é?
Eu sou dos estados unidos.
¿Mas, fala português?
Si, estou estudandou português na universidade com uma profesora brasiliera.
¡Que bom! Vocé fala como uma brasiliera. Aqui nos falamos mais como pessoas de Portugual.
(Where are you from?
I am from the US.
But, you speak Portuguese?
Yes, I am studying Portuguese at my university with a Brasilian professor.
Oh, good! You speak like a Brasilian. Here we speak more like people from Portugual.)

Ernesto, my new acquaintance laughed and smiled heartily. It was dusk and the sun was quickly disappearing behind the sparse trees and clumps of bushes. The open land around us was interupted by the dark tar of the loan road and several layers of barbed wire fence reaching about 12 feet high and cutting into the skyline. Between the layers of fence lay a brown wooden building with restrooms and a customs office. Uniformed men walked by with heavy boots. Some wore stearn faces to match their rifles, but others were more jovial, glad that it was nearly 5 o’clock and the end of their workday.

Our car was parked next to a small, rather delapitated wooden shack. It sat haphazardly 50 feet from the first fence, which marked the South African border with Mozambique. Our group, which consisted of our host Mama, her sister Ngoli, their uncle Lucky, two young men from Manguzi, Lauren, Elizabeth, and myself, were in and around the car, chatting with Mama and Ngoli’s friends from Mozambique, who had decided to spontaneously cross the border for the evening. The border crossing, which would have cost me about $450 rand (about $70 dollars) for a visa, is free for South African and Mozambiquen citizens, and both groups had evidently taken advantage of it. The friends spoke together enthusiastically in a mixture of English and Zulu, making plans for the rest of the evening.

The South African border with Mozambique

(Photo courtesy of Lauren)

Our host mama gathered the group’s attention.“Dinner is re-ady,” she announced, prompting our Mozambiquen friends to head towards their cars and our group to move in the direction of the small shack and appetizing smells. I got up slowley, ducking my head as I jumped out of the truck. The movement dislodged the sand that had lodged itself between my toes and in other parts of my body, remnants of our adventures in Kosi Bay.

I had been surprised earlier that morning when Mama informed us that we were spending the afternoon in Kosi Bay. Manguzi is quite close to the coast line, but I tend to forget that. Up until that point my knowledge of this rural city consisted mainly of our host family’s house, Manguzi hospital, the “Supatrade Spar” Grocery Store, the bustling market, and the winding dirt path ways connecting my points of reference. Driving north out of town, towards the coast, Elizabeth, Lauren, and I pointed excitedly to new sites that were new to us.

The beautiful view at an inlet in Kosi Bay

(Again, photo courtesy of Lauren)

“They have a Steers!” Elizabeth exclaimed. I turn to see the Steers tucked into the back of a gas station. Elizabeth is excited not about the fried chicken and South African fast food, but because they have vanilla frozen yogurt for 5 rand a cone (about 80 cents). Under Elizabeth’s disciplined tutelage, we have been trying to stick to a healthier diet here in Manguzi. Given the fact that we are grocery shopping and cooking for ourselves, this has been feasible while staying without our budget. Paired with our healthy diet, most days when getting home from work, Lauren, Elizabeth, and I do planks, sit-ups, squats, push-ups, dips, and other exercizes. We turn on ChanelO, our host family’s favorite TV channel which plays lots of American music videos, along with music from a variety of African countires. At some point, a Steers frozen yogurt would be a delicious treat and reward for our health conscious efforts. Driving out of Manguzi, we also noticed other interesting shops and decided next weekend, when we have some free time, we will need to explore the town more.

Today, however, was a chance to explore the natural beauty outside town...

(to be continued)

Ready, Set, Go: Start of Work and Homestays

After 5 days in Durban, Elizabeth, Lauren, and I set off for our placement in Manguzi, a rural town about 9km from the South African border with Mozambique. What we thought would be a 4 hour bus ride to get here actually took 7 hours. The bus was hot and crowded with people coming back from Durban to their rural communities. We drove through the beautiful South African countryside and saw small villages, mountains, lots and lots of sugar cane fields, a paper making factory, pineapple fields, a massive dam, one elephant, and lots of monkeys, chicken, cows, and goats.

Manguzi is a bigger town than I thought it would be. We were surprised when we got off the bus at all of the people milling about the market. Our host mama is very nice and friendly. She is a young, single mother with a daughter in middle school. She shares a house with her sister and her sister's young son, and most of the rest of her family lives in houses nearby. The family has been very welcoming and has been helping us with our very limited Zulu. We don't have running water at the house, which has been an adjustment. It is making us very aware of exactly how much water we use.

We started our work at the hospital this week. It is an interesting dynamic because we are coming in as foreigners without specific trainings or qualifications. Thus far, we have been shadowing doctors and trying to help out where we can. Sometimes it is hard not feeling very useful, but at a very base level we are trying to be respectful and (as Zed puts it) “affirm the humanity” of the people we are interacting.

Thursday, May 26, 2011
“We had out second day of work today. We all went to a meeting with all of the doctors this morning. Lauren spent the day in the female ward and got to see a C-section. Elizabeth was in the maternity wing, and I was in peads for the morning and then speech and occupational therapy for the afternoon. Overall, it went well. In peads, I observed a doctor making morning rounds of the ward. So many children were malnourished. After the round was finished, the doctor suggested that I go to the "allied health" wind, where they have speech & occupational therapy and physios, as well as dentists and some other services in another building. I helped one of the speech therapists monitor the infants in the neonatal unit. She was checking their vitals and if they can suck/latch for breast feeding. After that, I spent most of my time with one of the occupational therapists. I observed some of her treatment, helped her organize the office, and went to a "stim" session for children in the peads ward. We worked on their gross and fine motor skills by playing games. At there request, I taught them the hokey pokey and the macarena. It was great to see the kids so happy because I had been on wards when they were evaluated in the morning. Based on some suspicious injuries, several of the kids (who are as young as 8) have probably been sexually abused.

Overall, it was a good first day. The hardest part is feeling somewhat useless. We are all learning a lot, but we are unqualified and do not speak Zulu, so it is hard for us to be very useful. The nurses translate, but I would love to communicate with patients more.”

Friday, May 27, 2011
I spent the morning in the female ward. There are so many patients with advanced HIV, TB, meningitis, and other opportunistic infections. It is sad to see so many young women dying just as their lives should be getting started. There is a somber air around the ward as the patients wait with for the doctor to see them. Many labor with each breath and watch with gaunt eyes and timid smiles as the doctor approaches them. I follow quietly behind, trying my best to offer an encouraging smile through my face mask.

While rushing through rounds and setting up the hospital ward for the weekend, one of the doctors had to make a decision about allocating the last units of blood the hospital had left, as the hospital was about to run out of blood. The hospital is larger and more well equipped than I expected, but it is still limited by scarce resources and challenges in infrastructure. For example, I went to the lab to print test results for a patient who was supposed to be discharged that afternoon and referred to another hospital. The printer was broken when I went to the lad, delaying the process until it was fixed or someone was able to make official copies of the results. As is constantly the case, you make due with what you can.

Transportation is another huge challenge for patients. The hospital has a fantastic network of clinics nearby, so patients are able to get treated by busy clinic nurses on staff, and doctors when they visit the clinics periodically. However, reaching medical care at the hospital or a clinic is often a journey. The hospital does have a bus that picks patients up at the clinics, but it fills up quickly and often because of timing, patients can only ride it one way, needing to find and pay for alternative transportation to or from treatment.

In the afternoon, I was working with the pediatric “stim group” again. Several of the children remmebered me from yesterday and had called me back to visit them when I walked past the playground coming back from work. The "stim group" is such a nice break for the kids. They stop being patients and being sick and get a chance to play, which is not only fun but also important for their development and overall well being. I love hearing them laughing and seeing them enjoy some time outside of the ward.

While I was working with the "stim group," I got a call from Elizabeth. OPD (Out Patient Department) had a patient from Mozambique and needed a translator. I was trying to explain and ask him about a hernia in Portuguese, which was challenging. My Portuguese is so incredibly rusty after not taking it since the fall. He got the point though and it was nice to be able to put my foreign language skills to use.

"Stylin" in Cape Town

Cape Town is a beautiful city in the southwestern part of the country. During our three days there, we managed to visit many important places in and around the city.

I have been keeping a journal with reflections on our experiences. Here are a few highlights from my journaling about Cape Town:

On Robben Island

Monday, May 16, 2011
“The highlights of the day were learning from the tour guides at Robben Island and conversations the view on the ferry ride back to Cape Town. Our tour guides were fantastic! Craige, a self-described young “coloured” South African and member of the “lucky generation,” gave a unique perspective on apartheid and race relations in South Africa. He thinks that significant social profess has been made, but the difficulty is that apartheid played on common weaknesses in the human nature/condition. Through physically separating people and engraining discriminatory ideas in the education system, the system taught the children growing up in it to be racist. All four South African racial groups, white, black, coloured, and Indian/Asian, had perceived notions or prejudices against the other groups. Changes has been made and continues, but the process of healing and opening people’s minds takes time. Craige’s generation is “lucky” to have grown up as apartheid was ended and the New South Africa began. But (naturally) there is still much more that this young country needs to do to move forward from its painful and difficult past.
Our tour guide inside the prison itself was a former inmate, who was arrested as a young student leader during the Soweto uprisings. He served five years in prison on Robben Island. At the end of the tour, I asked him why he chooses to do this work. First, he said he wants to thank the international community who protested, sanctioned, and used outside pressure to help tear down the apartheid system. Second, he said his work is part of a healing process for him, his therapy. The prison and his stories were somber, inspiring, and moving. However, there were moments when I felt unsure, almost guilty about all of the foreign tourists snapping pictures as he talked at this deeply important place in South African history.
Since arriving, I have continually asked myself why I am here and what the implications are of my being here? What was my role today as an American tourist? What will my role be once I begin my work at the hospital? And, what will my role be in seven weeks once I leave South Africa? I am constantly ruminating on these questions in an attempt to keep challenging myself and pushing myself to fully engage in this experience. As I prepared to come to South Africa, I was continually aware of the need for humility, open mindedness, and a respect for the people I meet here. This respect was a lesson that Zed began to teach us the moment we arrived here. Loading our luggage into the van at Oliver Tambo airport in Johannesburg, several men said “high ladies” and moved to take our luggage and load it into the car for a fee (although it was unclear exactly what they were going to do with the luggage). Zed looked at them and firmly said, “No, thank you.” Regardless of the fact that they were (in the words of Zed) “trying to hustle us,” it is important that we acknowledge their humanity and understand that they have been pushed to do this by lack of resources and/or desperation. This does not mean that we should allow ourselves to be taken advantage of. However, we always need to understand the humanity of those around us.
The guides told us the purpose of Robben Island is to be a place of learning. It is there as a memorial to honor the great leaders and activists who suffered there. However, above all, it a place meant to pass of the lessons of apartheid, so these important and challenging lessons can be shared and remembered. They were clear to state that Robben Island is explicitly a place of learning and remembrance, not a place where hatred or anger is perpetuated…
…The views of Cape Town by boat were stunning. The fog lifted as we neared the harbor, and you could see the flat, green, majestic top of Table Mountain. The sun was also starting to set, illuminating the clouds and the water. Cape Town is really a breathtaking city!"

The view of Cape Town as we took the ferry back from Robben Island

May 18, 2011
Two other highlights stand out from our jam packed three days in Cape Town: visiting the Cape of Good Hope/Cape Point and climbing Table Mountain. Cape Point is the southern most point in Africa and the place where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet. It was a warm, clear day, and the view was absolutely spectacular! The currents of the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans met, forming a subtle white line in the water and clashing shades of blue as the waters of different oceans rushes into each other. Cape Point itself is strong and weathered, home to a lighthouse and a lonely little building perched far down on the cliff. Although the fog did not impeded our vision, it waited on the water and merged on the clouds with on the horizon.
Cape Point, like Table Mountain, is an interesting mixture of incredible natural beauty and a carefully designed experience with shops, restaurants, and over priced t-shirts and souvenirs. This rather touristy atmosphere was part of the reason I was really glad Tom, Elizabeth, and I were able to hike up Table Mountain.
Because of heavy fog on one side of the mountain, we took a longer path that zig zagged up the mountain. We hiked for about two hours from the cable car base station to reach the top of the mountain. It was a challenging hike up a well-worn path with steep stone steps. About half way up the mountain we took a long break during which we shared some of our fears about the summer and challenges we anticipate. In the end, the hike ended up being about a lot more than just a physical challenge. It was very rewarding to finally reach the top and great to be able to experience the mountain in such a genuine, natural way - with few other people and without the shops and restaurant at the top of the mountain which felt a little out of place.

Cape Point / The Cape of Good Hope - "Where Two Oceans Meet"

May 21, 2011
We are currently in Durban for our last few days together as a big group before we start our work. Durban is a large costal city in the province of KwaZulu-Natal. The city feels distinctly different from Johannesburg and Cape Town. We are also getting acclimated to South Africa and moving away from the role of just tourists. The trip is shifting as we begin to prepare for our internships with orientations, lectures, and Zulu lessons. Early Tuesday morning we are leaving Durban to go to the hospitals we are working in for the next five weeks. I will be working at a hospital in a very rural part of KwaZulu-Natal - very close to the border with Mozambique. I was very excited to realize upon arrival that I will have an opportunity to practice speaking Portuguese with doctors and patients from Mozambique. Given the fact that the majority of the patients at the hospital will be speaking Zulu and minimal English, it will be great to be able to communicate with some patients more easily.

Sawubona, South Africa!

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Today was our first real day in South Africa. We spent the day in Johannesburg, a large, lively city full of contradictions. Smoggy clouds coated the city in a haze, blocking the persistent sun. The seven of us piled into our white van to begin our exploration and were slightly unnerved when Zed, our program director, pulled out onto the right side of the road. Later in the day at our backpackers lodge, I mentioned that we all thought it was a little strange being on the opposite side of the road. Andy, a fellow traveler, quickly chimed in, “You mean you were driving on the correct side of the road.

We drove along the “golden highway” around Johannesburg towards Soweto. Along the way, we passed massive mine dumps, large piles of earth that had been left as the land around the city was combed for diamonds and gold. Some of these imposing masses were long untouched and over grown, a reminder of the region’s mining history.
Driving around Johannesburg, there were clear pockets of poverty – tiny overcrowded tin roofed shacks, people huddled around burning rubbish in a neglected lot. However, there were also tidy brick houses behind wrought iron gates and large industrial buildings for local companies as well as more familiar brands like Tuperware and FedEx.

Driving through the townships, Jocelyn pointed out a noticeable difference from the United States: despite apparent economic hardship, all the areas we visited were filled with people – older men bundled in winter jackets, children playing outside homes, and large groups of women dressed in neatly pressed “church uniforms” of white, green, or blue. I compared this vibrant scene to parts of downtown Durham, which are also economically depressed, yet largely boarded up, abandoned, and devoid of people.

Apart from touring the city, our goal for the day was to visit two significant sites in the Soweto Township: the Hector Pieterson Memorial and Mandela House. Hector Pieterrson was killed in the student uprisings in Soweto on June 16, 1976. In a monumental moment in the anti-apartheid movement, the black students of Soweto protested the mandated teaching in Afrikaans. Young students were shot by policemen in what many consider an unprovoked and unjust attack. In the period following June 16th, violence continued and Soweto was in lockdown. Hundreds of people, including many children, were killed during this time.

Hector Pieterson was the first student killed and became a symbol of the brutality of the apartheid system. As I went through the museum, my mind continually wandered back to the Mississippi Delta. Jessica and I had many similar experiences last summer working for the Delta Center for Culture and Learning, where we learned about the Civil Rights Movement and visited many important places in the movement. There are so many parallels between the movements in both countries.

Our next stop in Soweto was Mandela House, where Nelson Mandela lived with his first wife and later with his second wife Winnie. They had a modest brick house, which was recently restored and turned into a museum. Our friendly tour guide was a South African university student volunteering as a part of his degree in tourism. He shared stories about the Mandelas and explained the different artifacts in their house. Perhaps the most intriguing is a signed certificate from different officials in the state of Michigan who apologized to Mr. Mandela for any role the CIA may have played in his arrest that lead to his 27 year imprisonment on Robin Island. The CIA allegedly provided the South African government with important information that lead to his arrest. All the tour guides at Mandela House were sure to mention the fact that former President George H. W. Bush refused to sign this apology.

After Mandela House, we had a delicious lunch at a local restaurant called Wandies Place. We met the owner Wandie, as well as other staff members who were very welcoming and offered us a buffet of fantastic food. There were many familiar dishes with local twists. We had chicken, beef, potatoes, a fermented millet dish, pumpkin, a local type of sweet potatoes, pop (essentially grits) with tomato sauce or chili, liver, trite (chitlins/intestines), a special local sausage, and other dishes. During the meal, we chatted with Zed and watched a political rally for the African National Congress (ANC). This is the political party in power led by current South African President Jacob Zuma. He was trying to energize voters before municipal elections next week.

Our brief time in Johannesburg ends early tomorrow morning when we fly to Cape Town. Overall, it has been a fantastic start to the trip. Our first week here is pretty structured, allowing us a chance to get acclimated before starting our internships. We have a chance to visit local attractions and landmarks, learn about the history and culture, learn some Zulu, and importantly, learn how to get around and gain some street smarts in South Africa.


*Pictures and updates from our time in Cape Town are coming soon!

**For anyone who has been following this (aka my family), I apologize for not doing a better job chronicling my semester at UNC. Between overloading with classes, my job, and joining the water polo team, I did not have nearly as much free time as I thought. Overall, it was a great semester that challenged me socially, intellectually, and academically to step outside of my comfort zone and the type of things I usually do. At times it was difficult balancing life on both campuses, but I really enjoyed the opportunity to try something new.