Iziqaxaci and Djembes

09/28/11, 3:35 p.m.

                Molo! Hello! I swear I’m going to return insisting that I’ve lived in South Africa my whole life with how quickly I’m absorbing the culture. I think easily in 24-hour time (it’s actually 15:35), traffic lights are robots (and the one at the major intersection in Khayelitsha has been out for over a week now), I know how to do the South African handshake with grownups and affectionate thumb flick with children, and I eagerly drink up all the “Cultural and Learning Activities” that CCS plans for us.

Yesterday I had my second Xhosa lesson and we finally addressed everyone’s favorite subject: the clicks. The word for “clicks” in Xhosa is “iziqaxaci,” which actually has all three clicks in it—q, x, and c. To get the q sounds, you place the tip of your tongue at the front of your palate and raise your tongue into your palate. Then, withdraw your tongue with a sucking movement, producing a sound like the popping of a cork. Words like “ukuqubuda” (to worship) and “uqaqaqa” (grass) are especially fun to say. You get the c sound by placing the tip of the tongue behind your top front teeth. Now withdraw your tongue with a sucking movement, producing a “tutting” sound, like when your grandmother is disappointed in you. That’s used in words like “nceda” (please) or “ukucacisa” (to explain). And then there’s x. Raise your tongue so that its sides come into contact with your back teeth. Now withdraw your tongue with a sucking movement. That’s the sound you use in the word Xhosa, or “xakekile” (busy) or “Ndifuna ukuxukuxa” (I want to rinse my mouth). Try this q tongue twister: “Iqaqa laziqika-qika kuqaqaqa laqhawuka uqhoqhoqho.” It literally means, “The skunk rolled on the grass and broke its windpipe,” and according to 69-year-old Maggie, “For all I’m concerned the skunk gets all it deserves.” I know this mini-lesson is a bit (nay, a lot) like the blind leading the blind, but it’s a really fun language that’s unlike anything with which you come in contact in America. I was the first to get the clicks down, which I attribute to spending so much time focusing on and strengthening my tongue with flute.

Another area where music experience seemed to help was the African drumming lesson we had this afternoon after lunch. Our teacher, who learned from drumming masters in Mali, sat us all in a circle and gave us each a small djembe. We learned about the different “notes” (the bass and the higher tone are your two options) and she taught us several ostinato rhythm patterns, some calls that are used to start and end drumming phrases, and a couple variations on a drum break, which breaks up the basic beat. Usually the teacher has an assistant that keeps the beat going when she teaches the solo line, but she was by herself today so I got the honor of being the one person in the room doing something else for awhile. My hands were red and warm afterwards but it was invigorating. It’s no wonder that the Malian djembe masters live well into their 90s and beyond.

I feel totally at home in these customs and traditions, which is probably the reason why I actually haven’t felt much culture shock since arriving here. I can’t wait to eat lunch in Bo Kaap (formerly the Cape Malay quarter) tomorrow, where we’ll be touring the mostly Muslim section of the city because they are descendents of Southeast Asian slaves. The food here is great (I love me some samp and beans) but I’m ready to get my curry on. Next week we tour the District 6 museum with CCS and eat lunch in a township. I believe as side trips the volunteers are planning outings to a local winery and the prison where Nelson Mandela was kept for 18 of his 27-year imprisonment, Robben Island—both musts for the Cape Town experience. It’s a great combination of feeling like this is one long vacation, but at the same time I feel like I have a purpose here with my work and I’m not just a tourist. I’m accustomed to feeling like a nomad and living out of a suitcase all the time, but I definitely feel like this is somewhere I belong.

Alright, as the amaXhosa say, “Ixesha lixhatshwe yinja,” which literally translates to “Time has been lapped up by the dog,” or poetically to “Time’s up!” Sala kakuhle! Goodbye!

I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends

09/26/11, 5:13 p.m.

                I think that there’s a lot of merit to traveling by yourself because you have to be self-reliant and you learn about yourself. In some ways I’m doing this—after all, I did manage to get myself halfway around the world. On the other hand, traveling can also be entirely shaped by the people with whom you are sharing the adventure, whether they drop in for a couple of hours or are permanently woven in the fabric of the trip. That’s why I figured a post dedicated to the people who are making this trip the fantastic experience it’s been so far is due.

                I honestly can’t imagine this past week being quite the same without any one of the other 7 volunteers here. We’re the zaniest, dysfunctionally functional family ever, but everyone is so unique and I love all their company. Even in Heathrow, after possibly a minute and a half with Ariana and Jeff I was cracking up and totally at ease. Ariana is a junior at Wesleyan and has an easy smile and photographer’s eye. She has a warm, inviting air and is very articulate. Jeff, our token 20-year-old guy from Arizona, had to adjust to living with 7 ladies but is so gregarious we automatically have new friends wherever we go.  I am determined to learn lacrosse from him before I leave here. My roomie Sarah V. is also 18 and from Connecticut, and we have the best conversations about anything and everything. She’s super sarcastic (in an awesome way) and is my running buddy. Tynisa, a.k.a. “Mama T” is the 32-year-old from Oakland who looks like she’s 18 but she really is the mama of the group. In the dictionary under “wears their heart on their sleeve” is a picture of her and being around her just makes you feel like you’re wearing a blanket and sipping hot chocolate. You would think that Maggie, the 69-year-old from Scotland, would be alpha female but she has so much spunk sometimes I forget she isn’t a 20-something like the majority of the group. She generally explores the city independently, though, which is understandable. Melanie is 25 and from South Carolina, and we get to hang out during our 45-minute commutes to and from Khayelitsha each day. She’s really bubbly and talkative and a lot of fun. Sarah B. is 23 and from Chattanooga, and had actually never been on an airplane before coming here. As one could imagine, there has been a whole lot of culture shock and street smarts to quickly absorb but she is so sweetly honest and peppy that I feel this is going to be a really good first experience in the end.

                The staff members here at CCS are all great as well. Luann is the program manager for South Africa and is a total hippie and, as Ariana says, “sassy.” The cooks are so friendly and bustle around like the African grandmothers I never had. Wonga drives the van that takes Maggie, Melanie, and me out to Khayelitsha (everyone else is closer) and I swear he’s a mob boss because he seems to know everyone we pass. But he’s quite soft-hearted and even held my sheet music for me as I practiced flute outside in the yard. One day I drew a picture of him during one of our van rides and that afternoon I found out he had put it in a plastic sleeve and written my name on it. D’awwww. There are so many more people here that make sure we’re having a great time as well but this is already turning into a Russian novel.

                At the crèche I work alongside Nicholet, who is actually from Zimbabwe and had to learn Xhosa, but you wouldn’t be able to tell it’s a second or third language, as with everyone here. From what I could gather from our shouted conversations to each other over the din of youthful exuberance, she used to be a businesswoman back home and even lived in Dubai for awhile, but somehow her money lost a lot of its value (I’m guessing Zimbabwean currency is not the most stable) and she moved here and now works in the daycare. I don’t think she’s bitter though and she’s very good with the kids. Ellen and Ethelina are the other teachers, Fundiswa is the cook who told me she admired the miming I did to entertain my kids the other day, and Princess runs the daycare. Although generally I only interact with Nicholet it really is a great group of women who are doing something special for a rough community.

                This could go on forever. There’s Trudy, who had tea with us and discussed living with HIV. There’s Anderson, who works at our favorite haunt Boo Radley’s. There’s Mama Ivy, who took us on the township tour our second day of orientation. It’s odd—I never really considered myself a “people person” before coming here. I do like the people I know very much but I can get nervous around new faces, and now it seems like I can’t get enough of learning everyone’s life story. There’s something in the breeze here.

               

My name is Taylor, I am a girl, I'm 3 years old now, I live in Khayelitsha.

09/24/11, 9:23 a.m.

                Well, I have now officially been in Africa for a week and a little veneer of normality is starting to envelope this experience. I’m starting to go from feeling like a wide-eyed tourist to a genuine resident of the suburb of Rosebank. We can walk to the nearby shopping center of Rondebosch blindfolded (don’t worry—not like we would), calling cabs is easy, our placements make more sense every day, and all the volunteers are really starting to feel like family.

                I think in order to go from feeling like a tourist, or essentially an observer of a culture of a new place, to one who is actually a part of it, you must immerse yourself in the real side of it. You have to see and accept the Mother City without her makeup on. Driving in the van for 45 minutes each morning to get out to the township of Khayelitsha is definitely a sobering experience, but unlike in LA people wave back when you drive by and many seem happy to see you. Our driver explained that some shout out “umlungu,” which means white person, because I suppose we’re such a novelty that far away from the city, but it certainly never feels unwelcoming. The kids at the crèche (daycare) certainly make me feel welcome! It seems like every morning when I arrive at around 8:30 they link limbs and create a giant tidal wave that knocks me over at the door. I work with the classroom of around 15 2- and 3-year-olds with their teacher Nicholet, but the 4- and 5-year-olds are always there because their teacher arrives a little later. We sing morning prayers and various nursery rhymes (well, they sing and I attempt not to have my arms pulled off by several kids wanting my attention) and do counting to 20, the alphabet, and the day/date on the calendar in English. It’s quite amusing to watch one try to show off and say, “25, 26, 27, 80, 81, 82…” Then they usually color (or just stick the crayons up their nose like little Lelihle) or do an activity I brought. We made shakers out of dried rice and construction paper a couple days ago and I made number coloring worksheets for them to do yesterday since they exhausted their coloring book supply. Often by then it’s snack time and they all bring out their pieces of fruit or Nik Naks, which are the South African equivalent of Cheetos. Afterwards Nicholet dumps the cardboard box of worse-for-wear toys on the floor, much to their shrieking delight. I run around and try to play with as many kids as possible, which sometimes ends up with me conducting 2 or 3 games of catch at once, holding a puppet, and helping several girls wrap their dolls/teddy bears/what have you around them like babies. Heck, there are even some boys that want that, but I’m all for defying gender roles. Towards my departure time at 12:30, I help serve lunch and set up the mattresses for naptime before extricating myself when I hear the van honk. It’s always with a happy exhaustion that I plop down on the seat for the journey home.

                It’s hard to imagine that these children come to daycare each day from such rough backgrounds and that some are even the AIDS orphans from Home from Home, because youthful innocence and energy is indeed universal. The language barrier is not as difficult as I thought it would be, and I’m learning more and more Xhosa each day in order to keep them orderly. Therefore, most of my repertoire involves things like “Sit down!” and “Listen!” and “Get off!” I’m still waiting for, “No, Endinako, you cannot just grab Asive’s football because he had it first and you’ll get your turn. Why don’t we all play catch together?” Just as they are learning English from me, I’m also learning from them. I often hear chirps of “Jonga!” (Look!) and “Tay-la! Tay-la baleka! Tay-la baleka!” (Taylor, I am  forewarning you that 60 kids on the playground are about to start chasing you. RUN.) Luckily I know my conjugations and was able to say, “Hayi, hayi—balekani! RAWR!!” (No, YOU run. RAWR!!) There is still so much you can get across without language, though, be it tone of voice, body language, or otherwise. Of course I always go to the “otherwise,” and actually held their rapt attention for at least half an hour yesterday by miming, and the teacher in the next classroom even came in and said her kids were all watching me, too! This was a relief, because some of my activities are duds simply because they don’t understand, and I feel the teachers expect a lot of expertise out of the stream of untrained volunteers that come through. I’m glad I ended the week knowing I was contributing something in the classroom rather than burdening Nicholet, but I know during playtime my presence is welcome. Unlike the teachers, who are older women, I can run and chase and throw and swing and tickle and make funny faces indefinitely, which the children love and the teachers appreciate. I’m worming my way into some sort of role here at the crèche (the program director already wants my help in starting a reading club for boys to encourage them to enjoy reading) and discovering the city during our free time, and I can already tell that December 10^th is going to come all too soon.

Orientation

09/19/11 7:24 p.m. (Cape Town time)

                Over the past few days we’ve been taking in so much information it almost feels like drinking from a power hose. I arrived at the Cross-Cultural Solutions (CCS) “home base” Saturday morning with two other volunteers who were on the same Cape Town flight and we got the chance to explore the place before the other five volunteers arrived. We live in the suburban area of Rondebosch and it has the college town vibe because of our proximity to the University of Cape Town. This house is over 170 years and creaky, but it’s a quirky rabbit warren with a lot of hallways and the friendliest staff I’ve ever met. We were all here by Saturday night, and I can tell it’s going to be a really close-knit group. For the first time in CCS-South Africa’s 5-year history (it’s the newest site, India is the oldest at 15 years) there were no veteran volunteers here when we arrived, which means that they were able to do renovations while the house was empty, but we also will have to figure out everything for ourselves and rely on each other. Plus, in a house that holds 35 volunteers, we’re a pretty small group and many are staying for long periods of time. I’m really excited about the connections I’ll make with the local people, but I also know I’ll be bringing home some pretty meaningful friendships with the other volunteers.

                Yesterday, after an orientation on expectations and South African history all morning, we saw Cape Town in all its ritzy, beach-town splendor. Table Mountain looms over us and is brilliantly verdant in the sunshine, but looks like something out of a nightmare when the sky is dark and churning, like it was yesterday with the intermittent rain we had. “Night on Bald Mountain” wouldn’t stop playing in my head. We took a driving tour and got out every so often to take pictures of the glittering beaches with their cerulean waves. For dinner, we moseyed over to the V&A Waterfront, which seemed like a combination of the Santa Monica pier and Redondo Beach. I find it worthwhile to mention that I ordered prawns, and no, they weren’t 8-foot-tall aliens. Sorry if your proverbial bubble is burst.

                Today we turned Cape Town over and saw the darker underbelly. This year South Africa beat Brazil as the country with the most disparity between its rich and poor, and I believe it. We first went to District 6, which was established in the 1860s and was actually a multiracial community until the government decided they were going to have none of that in the early 1900s and forcibly relocated the black residents to the townships by demolishing their houses. Now only gutted foundations are left in a forlorn-looking green field. We then went out to the townships of Athlone, Guguleto, and Langa, which are shantytowns, or “shacklands.” What is politely called “informal housing” is in reality propped-up sheet metal with corrugated tin roofs patched up with cloth. Clotheslines bounce in the breeze. Children who probably should be in school play with boxes and empty bottles. Unemployed adults mingle or sit contemplatively. Coca-Cola advertisements seem to be ubiquitous here. (Apparently, Pepsi pulled out during apartheid due to sanctions and Coke stuck it out. Good one, guys.) We got the chance to get out in Langa and see the inside of one of the “new” hostels, meaning that it went up in the 1940s. They used to be occupied by male migrant workers who were from rural areas and would need to acquire permits to work in the city, and over 60 men would live in the 16 rooms. Now families live in them, with three in a room, each with one bed. What strikes me is that despite all the destitution in these areas, there seems to be more vibrancy and community here than in the more affluent sections of the Mother City. There is dignity here, from the man who kisses his three-legged dog Lucy to the serious little boy in Langa who smiles shyly when shown his picture on my friend’s camera.

                Seeing children today on our township tour was such a teaser for tomorrow. I absolutely cannot wait to start working in Home from Home’s Lizo Nobanda daycare. Home from Home keeps orphaned or abandoned kids in foster homes in small groups in their own communities, so it feels like a family. They work to either reconnect them with their real families or find adoptive parents. Young children from each of the six Home from Home houses go to this daycare, as well as other kids from the area—also in an effort to reabsorb them into their own community. They will all be under six years old and in need of attention and affection. I have the longest commute out to the Khayelitsha township, but it will be more than worth it when I finally arrive there after traversing continents and oceans.

In Transit

09/16/11 2:56 p.m. (London Time)

I like airports. Especially in a gargantuan complex like Heathrow, where the air literally hums with people’s anxiety and excitement mercifully punctuated by bouts of much-needed sleep on the chairs in this waiting area, innumerable stories are being told all around. I can’t help but wonder to where everyone is going, from where they are coming. Is it family? Work? Is anyone in this terminal on a spontaneous romantic adventure with their beloved? You wouldn’t think you’d find so many refreshing glimpses of humanity in a place where they also demand your shampoo doesn’t exceed 100 mL and they pat you down if you look at them cross-eyed, or if you don’t. Lives bustle on around me without noticing my idle observation. Next to me, a young girl attempts to soothe her baby brother by singing the most atonal version of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” I have ever heard, yet it seems comforting nonetheless. While I snoozed like a transient resident of the Third Street Promenade in a café booth, I would wake up every so often to hear a couple beside me animatedly planning side excursions during their upcoming business trip to Paris. The man knew more about Paris than the woman, or was at least acting like that to impress her. For both of them, their French pronunciation left much to be desired.

                I can humor my incorrigible imagination by filling in the details of all the life-bubbles I casually pass through, but it’s always nice to actually talk to someone. When I found my window seat on the plane to Heathrow, I bashfully told the lady already in the aisle seat that I would be sitting next to her. I was perfectly content to stare out the window or sleep the entire flight, but while I was rummaging through my behemoth backpack for my iPod, my stuffed hammerhead shark dropped out and she jokingly asked if he was an experienced traveler. That started a conversation that threaded itself throughout the entire flight, and I discovered she was seriously interesting. A metalworker by trade, she showed me the beautiful bracelet she had made herself. I showed her my camp friendship bracelets. (Seat neighbor: 1, Taylor: 0.) She lived in London for half her life and still had the accent, but had been living in America for quite some time and was returning to England for a cousin’s wedding. I told her about my gap year plans and my previous trips to England, which impressed her. We had both lived in Malvern, PA at one point and shared stories about art and music and the therapeutic nature of doing our respective crafts. As we parted in the terminal, she saw my nametag on my backpack and told me her name was Karen. She said she would eagerly await the day she would hear about Dr. Taylor the Piccolo Player. I’m positive Harvard prepares young academics for more than just careers in medicine, but her green-eyelinered eyes that matched her sweater crinkled and I couldn’t protest. She even hugged me.  I’ve never met a Karen I didn’t like.

                While I am capable of being extremely gregarious around strangers, I can also be painfully awkward. As I poked at my sushi lunch with chopsticks in a sleepy fog, a British man approached me and asked if he could sit in the same booth. I only looked up long enough to chirp, “Of course!” and didn’t even scan to see if there were really no other seats. After that we ate in silence. It was an almost comical silence, though, like we were an old couple supping at Olive Garden on a Wednesday evening before bingo, with our gruff gastronomic reverie broken only by our heavy elderly nose-breathing and clinking silverware. He left as suddenly as he came, and I realized I was thankful for whatever company he was. I don’t think I’ve ever been completely on my own without anyone I know for this long before. To pass the time until my next flight, sometimes I will lap the terminal just to see if there is a place of commerce or consumption I haven’t seen yet (there isn’t). The way I feel I’m always going against the stream of traffic regardless of my direction is reminiscent of Samohi’s walkways and it’s oddly nostalgic. I have just over 3 more hours to go before the humdinger flight to Cape Town, and I’m starting to seriously consider drumming up a game of Duck, Duck, Goose among my fellow cosmopolitans.

                I can’t wait to step off that next plane into an utterly new world. My only apprehension lies in the fact that I know this will the most important thing I’ve done in my life thus far and I will certainly be changed on the other side, but I don’t know how. It’s thrilling to be teetering on the edge of an abyss, especially when that abyss holds doing selfless things for others. For giving hope and laughter to those who need it most. To experience a more meaningful, saturated, colorful version of life. I’m prying my eyes away from the music stand and the book for once and it’s hard, but I like what I see.

6:00 p.m.

Hour 9 of my confinement here in Heathrow. I'm starting to lose my grip on reality, but don't worry--if Nam couldn't break me, neither can this. Wait, am I even allowed to hijack someone else's memories like that?