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 10th is going to come all too soon.
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