Whitesands…

We arrived in Mombasa an hour early, at 5am, and were picked up by one of Humphrey’s friends – a cab driver in Mombasa. He drove us to the Sarova Whitesands Resort on Bamburi Beach. When we arrived at 5:30 am to this ridiculously beautiful resort, stowed our luggage with the concierge and sat out by the beach watching the sunrise. This entire trip has been an amazing adventure, but also a hectic one. We have been on the move for over a month now, and it was nice to be able to take a deep breath and just relax. The palacial hotel boasts of 4 restaurants, 3 bars, 5 pools, a waterslide, a spa, and a host of beachside activies. The Hotel was architecturally eclectic - the main restaurant had distictly Arab / Persian features. Beside the open air lounges was a huge Japanse Pond and two traditional Chinese Wedding Beds facing the beachfront. The bedrooms were modern, and relatively unadorned, as the true treat was the amazing view from the wall to wall sliding glass doors. Each room either had a direct view of the beach or of the beautiful gardens.

Over the next three days we just enjoyed being together in a Kenyan Paradise. We took most of the pictures in Mombasa on the underwater camera, so I will update this entry with images after we have the pics developed. We rode camels on the beach, rode on a glass bottom boat and went snorkeling at the Reef and Marine park, we stood in shallow center in the middle of the ocean, played on the waterslides and swam in one of the quieter pools, had massages at the spa, and jet skied in the Indian Ocean, the food was great – thematically linked Caribbean, Arabian, Parisian, and there was live music and dancing each night. Marcus and I are both sporting great tans and were a little sad to check out of the Sarova this morning.

We are staying in Mombasa another day {but had to check into another hotel because the Sarova is booked to capacity with two conferences this weekend – though it would have been nice to extend the stay one more day} and moved a few kilometers north to the Indiana Beach Hotel. Which in all fairness didn’t have a chance at winning my heart after the majestic stay at the Whitesands. This hotel is undergoing renovations, so there were work crews, construction noise, and stretches without electricity or air conditioning. I also was ill the entire day at the Indiana Hotel, so we never went down to the beach. This was a fairly unremarkable hotel, with the exception of a very good 5 course dinner served in a regency era dining room, at the front of the Horel's property.

The Road to Mombasa…

We were scheduled to take the 6:30 train from Nairobi to Mombasa, which travels overnight and arrives at 10 am Tuesday morning. However, when we arrived at the train station the agents said the train was “delayed” and would not be departing on time. How delayed you might ask? One agent estimated the train’s arrival at the Nairobi station for 9 pm, another agent said 10 pm, and a third agent said 11pm. When we asked for an explanation for the delay we were told there was an accident on the track, but everything was fine. Humphrey had warned us previously about unreliability of transportation in Kenya and the train is by far the slowest way to travel overland. The train trip from Nairobi to Mombasa takes 13 hours, the bus takes 8 hours, and traveling by car takes 6.5 hours. We were booked at an expensive 5 star resort on the North Beach of Mombasa and if we waited on the delayed train we would essentially arrive at sunset and have missed a full day on a beach resort, which would have been a huge waste of money. The railroad does not generally issue refunds, but there was a couple in line wanting to purchase tickets for the overbooked train so Marcus convinced the agent to refund us our money and sell the couple our seats on the train. Humphrey took us to the bus station and we hopped on the next available bus to Mombasa.

A word about bus service in Kenya. The bus is the most popular way to travel overland with Kenyans, because it is relatively inexpensive and fast. In sharp contrast to our greyhound experience in South Africa, the long distance buses in Kenya to not have bathrooms, hostesses offering coffee, tea, and cookies onboard. The reading lights did not work on the bus we were on and the gas stations we stopped at did not have attendants or granite trough sinks. That being said for $15 usd you can travel across the country on a reasonably clean quiet bus, leaving at just about any hour you like. The one disappointment was the horrendous bathrooms we stopped at along the way. I wasn’t expecting the beautiful slate floors like the shell stations on the garden route to cape town, but I also wasn’t expecting to have to roll up my pants to avoid soaking the bottoms in the four inches of standing liquid {which I really hope was water} on the floor or Turkish toilets without toilet paper, sinks, or soap.

July 22, 2007

Traditionally each year on our anniversary we check out some live music. The first anniversary we flew to Charlotte to see Erykah Badu, Jill Scott, and Floetry in concert. The second year we drove to Atlantic City to see Earth, Wind, & Fire. This third anniversary, the live music came in the form of the small gospel choir at the Ridgeway Baptist Church in Nairobi Kenya. We attended the 11:00 service as guests of Humphrey’s, which was interesting because the church had missionary visitors from Houston Texas, and the guest pastor delivered the word. While the guest minister was relatively unremarkable in his message, the pastor of the church and the congregation were incredibly warm.

For the record nothing is open in Nairobi on a Sunday afternoon or evening.
Nothing.

So we spent the rest of the day packing for our trip to the coast, where we really celebrating this moment in our marriage. As some of you know, this is a transitional time for both of us. My fellowship is ending and I have just accepted a new position with the theatre; Marcus is leaving the army and going to graduate school to get his MBA; and we are finally moving full time into the same house (no more long weekend commutes!). There have been many sacrifices on both of our parts to make the life we have chosen work and today I feel so blessed that we have arrived in this space together.

To quote the pastor “God is good all the time. And all the time God is good.”
Let the church say Amen.

Nyama Choma…

Humphrey took us to the Kenyatta Market after the haircut. The Kenyatta market is not a tourist market, it is a shopping center almost exclusively for local Kenyans. The road leading to the market was filled with small booths selling fresh bananas, oranges, tangerines, watermelon, and other indigenous fruits. You could purchase fresh greens, second hand clothes, new sneakers, sandals, dress shoes, cds, dvds, and more. As you pull up to the gravel parking area there are groups of teenage men directing where you park. While you are shopping the young men wash, wax, and dry your car for you.

We slipped into the main market where there are rows and rows of Nyama Choma vendors. We entered Humphrey’s favorite vendors store, which is an open front shack. Before you enter there is a large metal tank filled with water (that looks like a huge smoker) and with a spout at the end. There is a bucket under the spout to catch the water after you wash your hands with the attached bar of soap. There is a small glass area in the front that protects {at least from the front} the freshly butchered, uncooked meat. Giant slabs of beef, a whole hind leg of a cow waiting to be butchered and smoked. You go in and grab a seat at one of the picnic tables and wait as one of the butchers brings over a cutting board, a bowl of an avocado mix and a bag of cooked meat. The cutting board has two piles of salt on either corner. The butcher splits open the bag and deftly slices the meat into bitable portions and leaves you to it. We also ordered Ugali, which is essentially congealed grits. So you can break off a large chuck and the grits stay whole. These shops would never pass any American health and sanitation requirements but the meat was amazing. The booth was inundated with flies and part of the process of eating was constantly shooing them away from your meat. As is traditional you eat with your fingers and the napkins were not brought out until the meal was finished for you wipe your hands after you wash them again. The three of us had two bags of meat, Ugali, and three drinks for about $10.50. This was by far my favorite meal since we’ve been in Kenya.

One Stop Barbershop…

Humphrey took us to a Barbershop he frequents in the city center so that Marcus could get a cut. The shop was on the second floor on a shopping strip and seemed to be a social hub for Nairobi men. There were about eight barbers and during the time we were present no less than ten men waiting in line to get a cut.

The service at this place was excellent.

It is definitely pampering for men – first you get you cut. Then one of the ladies takes you to the back row of sinks and washes and conditions your scalp. Included in your haircut is a face steaming, hot towels, a shave, and if you are interested a man’s manicure. After your wash there is a final spritz of scalp conditioner and you are ready to go. Even though there was a clear line of men waiting, there was the same level of attention, care and detail given to each customer.

And this service cost a whopping $2.14 USD.

The Mathare Valley...

Friday morning we were planning to head out early to Mathare to volunteer with the mission’s soup kitchen, but because of new plumbing piping being laid as part of the missions renovations, they were unable to prepare food to serve. So Curt came by to pick us up at ten am and take us for a tour of Nairobi. We journeyed out of the city center to the Westland suburbs, where the rich live. We drove past beautiful sprawling estates, large American style shopping malls, and lots of common laborers working the wealthy Kenyans’ land. We drove past the United Nations offices, a private international school, and through the wealthiest section of Nairobi, where the even servants quarters were plush. This was in stark contrast to the slums that Father Curtis and his fellow priests serve. On the way to Mathare, we pass a large country club and golf course. Large walls of trees block the view of the slums just across the street.

There is an unpaved road full of bumps and potholes that lead you into the slums. This main road is littered on both sides with tiny shops offering fruit, drinks, roasted corn and barbershops. Tiny storefronts that serve the community in the valley. About half way down the road there is a small turnoff road that leads to the entrance of the mission. The mission has grey stone and metal gates surrounding it. Once we entered the compound you could see the progress, as the mission is undergoing a major addition. We walked through a new chapel that is close to completion and toured the additional apartments that are being added as a second and third story to the building that currently houses the soup kitchen. The main house has a small entryway that leads to a hall with a prayer room, library, and offices. As we toured the main building we had an opportunity to meet the other priests working at the mission with Curt as well as several of the men on their journey to be part of the order of the Missionaries of Charity.

I feel incredibly fortunate to have had the opportunity to spend the day with Curt in his community. After we met the other members of the mission, Curt took us into the valley to meet the people they serve. The slums are a place of almost unimaginable poverty. The main unpaved road leads you into an entire shantytown of tiny houses made of scraps of tin, wood and metal. Doors were covered with scraps of cloth and held on the house by metal soda bottle caps. As we walked down the street, women and children lined both sides of the street cooking, washing clothes, watching children, or resting. There were chickens and roosters and goats roaming freely on the main road as well as groups of men. Curt had spent the past few months in Tanzania, and there was real joy from people to see him return. He is a little like the pied piper, as he walks down the main road all around him you hear the children calling “Father! Father!” running to touch his hand. The children’s eyes would light up when talking to him and there was such a sense of joy for both Curt and the kids in their exchanges. Curt is both gentle and firm with the kids, asking those that normally attend school why they are at home today or taking the time to ask them how they are feeling. It seems like such a small offering, but because of the sincerity with which it is given you can tell that it is treasured.

Once you turn off of the main road you are on a very narrow footpath with a flowing stream of sewage that cuts through the center. The footpath leads down hill further into a sea of shacks connected by other equally slender, sewage riddled walkthroughs. These tiny connected paths form a maze that leads you through the shanty community. It is easy to get lost maneuvering the tiny trails, and there were times in our journey where the sewage cut off the pathway and so we were forced to turn around and head back up to try another side street. Maneuvering the pathways was a feat itself, as you had to constantly watch your step, lest you end up ankle deep in human waste. There were places where the stones were wet and slippery or so narrow you needed to brace yourself against the tin walls of the shacks. Laundry hung on lines across the rooftops and part of the maze was ducking under and around the hanging wash.

We walked through the shacks to the Mathare River, which was essentially the output for the sewage streams that flow through the walkways of the slums. There were so many young children in the streets, many barefoot, passing the day away playing. My heart broke for the families that deserve so much more from the government.

We met Emme on the main road after we walked to the river. She is a smart and sweet woman who invited us to visit with her in her home. The shack was small and dark. It was one room with two couches on adjoined walls and a small coffee table. A sheet separated the bed from the sitting area. When we first arrived there was a small round pot that held hot coals on the floor between the bed and the coffee table. She had a plate of Ugali (hard grits) and bowl of guacamole prepared for her grandchildren to eat when they came home for lunch. Her eldest was home when we arrived. Nelson was quiet and reserved, I’m not sure if it was because of the strange unexpected company or if it is just his nature. His parents have both passed away from Aids and he and his sister now live with his grandmother along with a young cousin. Emme is a widow who gave birth to seven children and worked for most of her adult life with an educational organization. During our visit Emme spoke of her village in western Kenya where she owns a home and acres of tea and of her desire to take her grandchildren and leave the city for her village. In her village she has a network of family and it seems like a more peaceful existence. She shared with us a news clipping from a month ago that highlights Emme speaking out about the police attack in the slums that killed 22 innocent people. A gang called the Mungiki, who extort money from the shopkeepers, matatus, and people of the Mathare, rules the slums. The police needing to appear in control swept through the slums accusing people of being Mungiki. Emme said the police beat even grandmothers like her during this raid. During our visit her younger grandson came home for lunch. She told us that after all of the children have eaten their fill she will eat what is left. Emme took off his good school shoes, helped him unzip his jacket and made his plate. Watching her you could see the love and time she is investing in really raising her grandchildren. Listening to her I was touched by her quiet dignity and pride. There are times when you meet someone and you just know that in meeting them, you have been blessed. I feel that way about Emma. There is such honesty to her… I feel like I have been given a gift by spending time with her. I hold her family in my prayers and hope she is able to take her family away from sewage filled slums to her home and extended family in Western Kenya.

There is no excuse for that extent of poverty to exist in a country whose economy is growing. These are working people, laborers scraping to get by and pay rent for the shanty tin shacks they have built in the valley. Seeing the conditions it is hard not to be angry at the politicians whose campaign sign are tacked on tin walls with metal soda bottle caps.

There is so much work to be done for humanity.

Wednesday in Nairobi's City Center

Wednesday we headed into the city center so I could meet with the artistic director of the Phoenix Players, the largest producing theatre in Nairobi. The theatre has a long and interesting history built on the ashes of the Donovan Maule Theatre, which was Nairobi’s first professional producing theatre in 1948. While I was in my meeting Marcus and Humphrey, our taxi driver and tour guide, hopped on the matatus and headed to a couple of large markets. He described them as large farmers markets that also sold clothes and toys, but were dominantly fresh fruits, vegetables, fish, and meat.

We reconnected at little before 1 pm and headed to the large cathedral to meet up with my cousin, Father Curtis, a priest with the order of the Missionaries of Charity, who is currently appointed to the Nairobi mission. I slipped into the cathedral’s bathroom, which required a five shilling maintenance fee, but decided after viewing the Turkish toilets (a porcelain covered hole in the ground) that I could in fact hold it until we got to a coffee house or restaurant. There was also no soap in the bathroom, which makes me wonder what the maintenance fee is used for.

Outside of the Cathedral we met up with Curt and headed to a coffee shop in the city center to chat. They generously let us occupy a table for a couple of hours and then we all walked back to our hotel together and spent the rest of the afternoon into early evening together.

My handsome cousin Curt

Humphrey took us to Pugani to drop off Curt and then we headed to restaurant in the city center. A famous Nairobi businessman that started as a street peanut salesman owns this restaurant. He moved on to a snack shack and now owns a hotel, restaurant, and bar. The restaurant did not have a set menu, but rather four main course dishes that changed daily. You would pick your meat, and either rice or greens from the cashier and a waiter would bring you a plate and take your drink orders. There was live music and dancing directly across from the open dining area. This was a pretty popular place and the beef stew was excellent.

Maasai Market…

Tuesday morning we showered with a couple of mosquitoes at the YMCA and then headed down the road to the Maasai Market. Every Tuesday the Maasai vendors, mainly female, travel to Nairobi from upcountry to sell their wares. As you turn the main corner near the police station there is a large hill with three levels of footpaths. Hundreds of vendors are set up, some have tables, most have their wares on sheets on the ground. There is no sidewalk as you turn the corner and you have to constantly watch for the out of control matatus and cars. The market was PACKED with people, shoppers, vendors, children, women with small babies walked the aisles begging for change. Soda and street food vendors lined the streets around the market. There were young men sniffing glue, old men preaching the gospel up down the tight aisles of the hill and crazy men being hauled away by the police. The market was indeed a great place to people watch.

As soon as we reached the second table a man offered to be our guide at the market. Now I am naturally skeptical, as he explained they work as a community. He would take us through the market an every time we saw something that was a “maybe” one of his partners would carry it with us. At the end of the day we would sit down and negotiate the prices of the things we wanted to keep with him. 10% of the money would go to the community and the rest would go back to the individual vendor.

We warily accompanied him, but the vendors seemed happy and open to see him. He clearly had vendors that he favored in pointing us towards their booths, but on the whole, we had free reign of the market, which featured everything under the sun. Most prominent were the bright beadwork that the Maasai are famous for and many gifts made of limestone and soapstone. After about 3 or 4 hours of shopping we headed across the street to sit down and begin the process of haggling. Now Marcus doesn’t particularly like to shop and he certainly doesn’t like to bargain so I knew this was going to be a test of his patience. Haggling over the price was, of course, my favorite part of the day and our guide was a worthy opponent. He brilliantly steered me to haggle the smaller items first, leaving the dresses until the end (I’m sure if we had started with the dresses I would have left behind half of the smaller items.). His job is to get the highest price for the goods, and mine is to get the best deal, certainly not paying more that what the products are worth. So for another hour and half we argued, laughed at each other’s initial offers and bandied the prices back and forth. Occasionally he would ask one of his partners questions I figured were “which vendor did this come from? What is the bottom line price for this.”

Our guide made the tactical mistake a couple of times of asking Marcus what he thought. Marcus replied, “ as far as I’m concerned we can leave all of it. If you can’t give me what I’ll pay for it there is nothing to discuss. I can take a picture of the stuff I would have bought and be happy with that.”

Well, now.

He turned back to me, “you are the bargainer.”

In the end, I think our guide got the better end of the stick and I went over my self-imposed budget, but thoroughly enjoyed the experience. After we settled on prices, the guide gathered up the items we agreed upon, and walked with us into the city center to the ATM. There was a beautiful Tiger Eye necklace that had caught my eye, but ultimately was too expensive considering how much stuff we had purchased that day. The guide and I haggled for a while over the necklace before we headed to the ATM and then I ultimately let it go. The Guide however really liked my light weatherproof jacket and had commented on it repeatedly throughout the day, so in a last ditch effort he sold me the necklace, which had an initial starting price of 18,000 shillings and was probably worth about 8,000 shillings, for my jacket and 3,000 shillings. Which I think probably evened out the playing field for the day.

Mount Kilimanjaro

Mount Kilimanjaro from our airplane window...

YMCA...

Monday July 16th we arrived in Nairobi and checked into a double room at the YMCA {which was a recommended by the Rough Guide to Kenya book.} The YMCA did offer an array of conveniences including a pool, workout room, internet café, restaurant, two tv rooms and safety deposit boxes, which was great. The accommodations were not so great. Now maybe it is good for hostels, as we have not actually stayed in hostels on our trip thus far, but the living accommodations were very sketchy.

There were two twin beds on opposite walls with mosquito nets hanging above them and a desk between the twin beds.

Most of the walls had long crack either vertical or horizontal and the doors to the closet, bathroom, and exit were scraped in sections.

The bathroom had a sink, toilet and European shower without a curtain.

There was a bucket on the shower floor, which I never quite figured out what to do with. The piping for the shower was water damaged and had broken through the tile, which was stained.

They service the rooms daily, so I have no doubt that the rooms have been cleaned. But the rooms are in such a state of disrepair that despite cleaning looking at the walls makes you itch. I’ve included a few pictures for your viewing pleasure. Marcus and I slept together on a twin bed in our traveling clothes and decided to pursue new accommodations in the morning.

Shaka Land...

We decided to the best way to take in the history and culture of Shaka Zulu with our limited time in Durban was to visit Shaka Land. Which I suppose is a cross between Disneyland and a Pioneer Theme Park. If you can get past the kitchiness - the time was thouroughly entertaining.

Shaka Land was built originally as the set for the epic tv film Shaka Zulu, and then acted as the set for the another television series set during the Zulu rule.

A large hotel chain took over management and turned the set into an all inclusive resort, which includes a brief introduction to the legend of Shaka Zulu and tour of a replicated Zulu Tribe, complete with an NkoZi (ruler) and his followers.

Here our tour guide introduces us to the different Zulu spears.

The Chieftainness makes Zulu beer.

The View from outside the dining hall was breathtaking.

After dinner you were led to a hut for traditional dancing...

The female dancers were the most pitiful, underachieving, aloof performers I have ever seen. They CLEARLY were uninterested in just about every part of the tour. Every woman was late getting to her exhibit during the village tour. During the dancing it was difficult not to laugh as the women marked their way through really exciting dances with limp wrists and kicks that never really got off the ground.

Durban

Marcus and I were VERY excited to get away from the cold of Johannesburg and relax in the Coastal Durban.

This is the view of South Beach from our hotel window on the 22nd floor. It was lovely!

We drove from Durban to Eshowe which is the terretory where Shaka Zulu lived for the longest period his reign. On the way we stopped to play in the Indian Ocean on the North Beach of Durban.

Sambo Security

We Are Family...

During our travels I have seen the many people that remind me of friends back home. During our tour of Soweto there was a young woman that I swear belongs to the Brackeen family. These images don't really do her resemblance justice, but QQualls - she reminds me so much of your mother it was startlingly.

Can you see it?

Freedom Charter

In the Walter Sisulu center there is a momument to the Freedom Charter, which is the foundation of the New South African Constitution.

Soweto

Soweto was not what I expected ... this land that is historic for its role in the apartheid struggle is a developing bustling area with the construction of a new stadium and other touristy amenities for the World Cup 2010.

The two water towers are landmarks in Soweto. The first mural displays the culture and heritage of the residents of Soweto. The second pays homage to the bank that financed the power plant these towers service.

The township is divided into class sections. All along the road there are new houses being built for citizens who make less than 4,000 rand annually. These homes are given for free from the government.

The disparity is that directly across the street from the new houses is a shantytown with no electricity or running water. I asked the driver why the government didn't install electricity and water in the shantytown as they are developing the other side of the road. The waiting list for free housing is years long, why doesn't the government offer some relief during this period. He replied that the people in the shantytown are squatters on the government's land.

The houses are made with scrap metal and have tin walls and roofs. The line of porta- potties line the hill of the shanty town.

Soweto is famous for Vilakazi Street - the only street that was home to two Nobel Peace Prize winners. We drove by Bishop Desmond Tutu's family home {though he resides primarily in Capetown now} and we went on a tour of Nelson Mandela family home, which is now a museum.

We also drove by Winnie Mandela's home. Winnie Mandela is an unequivocal hero the South African people. The tour guide as well as the museum guide spoke to her valor and universal respect to the people and the ANC (african national congress). Our tour guide said, "the people of South Africa understand why she had the boy killed. He was a spy for the National Party (apartheid government) and because she was a public figure she had him killed quietly. But normally he would have been killed in the street. Other people may not understand the way this war was fought.... But Winnie Mandela earned her name and respect."

The palatial house she currently lives in was built before the divorce and was supposed to be a grand place to host international visitors, The home has high security gates and is by far the largest we saw in Soweto.

Winnie Mandela has a beautiful garden that is open to the community.

On June 16, 1976 thousands of black South African Students gathered at Orlando West Junior School for a mass rally organized by the Soweto Students' Representative Council’s Action Committee. The SSRC was formed as students went on strike from public school, protesting the Afrikaans Medium Decree of 1974 which forced all black schools to use Afrikaans in instruction. The students rebelled against being taught in the "language of oppression."

On June 16th a crowd of between 3,000 and 10,000 students began the march from Morris Isaacson High School and Naledi High School to join other students in protest at Orlando High.

The students began the march only to find out that police had barricaded the road along their intended route. The leader of the action committee asked the crowd not to provoke the police and the march continued on another route, eventually ending up near Orlando High School.

The police opened fire on the children, causing a stampede and full out riot. One survivor account describes the scene, "They opened fire. They did not give any warning. They simply opened fire. Just like that. Just like that. And small children, small defenseless children, dropped down to the ground like swatted flies. This is murder, cold-blooded murder."

In an attempt to protect themselves, the children began throwing sticks, rocks, bricks, schoolbags, or whatever they could pick up off the ground. The fighting continued for hours and when the smoke cleared there were more than 500 fatalities, though the original government count was 23, and an estimated 1,000+ injured.

The image below is the immortalized picture of Hector Pieterson's dead body, being carried by Mbuyisa Makhubu and Antoinette Pieterson. This image became the international face of the Soweto Uprising and was taken on our visit to the Hector Piertson Memorial.

The everflowing waterfall at the memorial is symbolic of the children of the Soweto Uprising's tears.

Melville Grill…

The first night in Johannesburg, Victoria was our little guardian angel, who made the most delicious hummus and homemade pita bread. For dinner she made a tender beef stew filled with potatoes and carrots and couscous. Marcus and I slept most of the afternoon, trying to fight off the cold.

The second night we all ventured into Melville, which is a very cute, trendy suburb filled with restaurants, small spas, and mom & pop shops selling clothes, music, souvenirs. We decided to dine at the Melville Grill, which was a posh restaurant with beautiful stonework, dark rich woods, and a large fireplace. The service was excellent and the food was really good {which is not often the case in many restaurants we’ve gone to in South Africa.} At the end of the evening the owner of the restaurant came over to say hello and ask how we enjoyed the meal. He is an Ethiopian American, who intriguingly, is a former journalist turned restaurateur. He offers a lively evening of Salsa dancing at The Melville Grill and if you happen to be in Johannesburg I would definitely recommend stopping by for some excellent hospitality and interesting company.

Veronica…

We met a woman who has such amazing warmth, that being in her presence feels like coming home. Veronica is an elder from Swaziland that works for the family whose house we were staying in. She speaks many languages and took the time each day to teach Marcus elementary Zulu. Among her cadre of languages are, Swazi, Zulu, Xhosa, English, Afrikaans, and at one time Italian, Greek, and French. She lost much of the European languages because she had no one to converse with. I look at her and think in another life she would be an amazing asset to the UN.

She understands people, and has a spirit that draws you in and wraps around like a blanket. She is the consummate grandmother and adopted Marcus and I as her own. I got very sick the first night in Johannesburg and spent the first two days in bed. During that time she encouraged me to rest and Marcus spent his time in the kitchen with Veronica, soaking up as much from her as he could.

Before we left Johannesburg she spoke to us and encouraged us to remember that we are committed to each other for life. “He is yours forever. She is yours forever. Don’t forget this yours until God carries both of you home. Together.” We hugged for a very long time. The kind of hug that feels like you are releasing your burdens and being filled simultaneously.

It was hard to let go. It was hard to say good-bye.

JoBurg

The upside to our scenic tour was we got to see the urban economically depressed sections Johannesburg and the more affluent suburbs. The first thing I noticed as the line of houses, business, and parks flew by my window, was that everything is gated and walled off, and covered with barbed wire.

There is little connectiveness in the city.

Once you enter the Melville, the homes have large brick walls that reach the base of the roof. Most of the homes also have laser alarm systems with built in panic buttons throughout the house, and large angry dogs rove fenced-in yards. There are roaming security guards in the subdivision in which we are staying. I don’t know if all of the security measures are supposed to make you feel safe, but it does underscore every stereotype of Johannesburg. It is apparently commonplace (or at least the story goes) for people to be murdered in their beds during a robbery attempt. There is a real terror in white South Africa, which many Black South Africans claim to be sensationalized and exaggerated. This fear, for whatever the root, is prevailing in the streets of Johannesburg, and most South Africans would say it is not completely unwarranted. As Marcus and I were researching lodges in the Zulu Battlefields, we came across the story of the death of a famous historian and lodge proprietor, David Rattray, which seems to be symbolic of the great white fear. Essentially, a gang of six broke into the lodge, asked for him by name and murdered him in front of his wife. They suspected it was a robbery attempt, but left empty – handed.

{Check think link at the bottom of the blog for an article}

There are factions, like the African Crisis, which is the trumpet piece for the South African version of the KKK that spews racist, bigoted opinions and tries to pass it off as hard news. Their website is filled with “facts” that rally the hypersensitive fear and hopes to gain financial support internationally to force Africa to return to the “glory of white domination.” Violent crimes are not simply a matter of white paranoia, as in all societies extreme poverty and desperation often strips people, regardless of race, of their fundamental humanity. The stories that make the headlines may be of famous white South African victims, but much of the art that came from the student and studio groups in Grahamstown speak of the dangers in the black townships that are basically ignored. There is no justification for the type of violence that is bandied in the headlines of the newspapers here. It is however incredibly disturbing that such acts of violence have become the acceptable norm. Murder, rape, and armed robbery is so much a part of the fabric of this city that it is no longer news.

http://hnn.us/roundup/entries/34674.html

Johannesburg Cab Driver….

I popped to nitequil before I got on the plane to JoBurg and slept the entire trip. I woke up feeling a little better {though that lasted about ten minutes before the beast was back roaring its ugly head.} We are on a plane with the South African Pumas, which I think is a national rugby union team. The night before we tried to book airport transport to the place Victoria is housesitting in the lovely suburb of Melville. We never received a confirmation from the company and indeed there was no one waiting at the airport with a sign that said Sharif or Jackson. So we head out to the taxi rank to try to catch a cab. We walk up to one cab driver and the guy managing the taxi rank, who whistles for a second cabbie to join the conversation (apparently his car is first in line so he is going to be our driver.) Now it’s time to negotiate the rate the lead man at the taxi rank.

“Oh, we go by a meter.”

“Well, this is kind of far, so can we do a flat rate?”

“You want a flat rate?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a lot.”

“What’s a lot?”

“280 rand.”

That’s on the high end of the range we were told it would probably cost, but still reasonable all things considered.

“Okay, let’s go.”

At this point our cab driver looks really excited, which makes me think we just overpaid for the cab, but we are tired, groggy, and sick and just want to get to the house to rest. The taxi rank manger asks the cabbie if he knows how to get to where we are going and he says “yeaboe, yeaboe.”

As soon as we pull out of the airport the cab driver is on the cell phone calling someone to ask for directions. He was speaking in Zulu, so originally I wasn’t sure what he was saying until he clearly said the street name. Marcus and I looked at each other like “this Joker doesn’t know where he’s going!” Next thing we know we are on the highway headed towards Pretoria, which is a completely different city. He eventually swings around and calls again for directions. Now I’m not sure what the confusion is, but next thing I know he’s handing us the phone. I’m so over this cab ride, so Marcus takes the phone and explains again the address and which suburb it’s near. We settle back in our seats, thinking falsely that we are now headed in the right direction. We took a nice thirty-minute scenic tour of Johannesburg before the cab driver pulled over and asked a man selling flowers in the street for directions. About ten minutes later, after I ask him to please call someone to look up directions, he pulls over and asks another guy on the street for directions. Finally, we are on the right street! Almost there. Oh wait ! a major thoroughfare bisects wait the street. We only had the option of going left. Now it is obvious we need to make the first u-turn and pick up the street on the opposite side of the thoroughfare. But what fun would that be? Next thing we know we are headed three blocks past the first u-turn and then I feel myself losing my patience. I say, “I think you need to turn around. We need to be headed in the other direction to get back on the street.”

“What? Where?”

Marcus says, “You need to turn around. You were on the right street, you just need to get back to the other side of it.”

“I don’t know. Which way? You need to help me. You have to tell me where to go.”

“Stop Here. Turn Around.”

He pulls over to and starts to turn around. “You have to tell me where to go.”

My patience has run its course and I am done. “What! This is ridiculous. You should not have taken us in your cab if you couldn’t get us where we needed to go. You should not have told the other cab drivers you knew where you were going when you didn’t. We’re not from here – how are we supposed to know how to direct you to a place we’ve never been to before?”

“If I didn’t take you in my cab then I wouldn’t be working. You have a flat rate so it’s no problem if we get a little confused. You are not paying a meter – I gave you flat rate. It is only costing me petrol. You have to help me.”

“Turn Around.”

And therein lies the problem. He had no idea that his service was unacceptable. He needs the work and would rather scramble around the city with angry passengers than let another driver take the fare. I can’t even imagine how quickly things would have gone downhill if we hadn’t negotiated a flat rate.

{Sigh}

5 am…

Saturday night my sniffle became a full blown beast of a cold and I was up every 10 or 15 minutes, which ended up being just as well because we had to wake up at 4 am to catch our airport shuttle at 5 am. Stumbling around in the cold, trying to make sure we haven’t left anything behind, was not fun. Marcus took the bags out to the curb and I went down to the lobby to say good-bye to Zuki and to give her the special edition Ebony Magazine I had picked up before we left the states. This issue was dedicated to the use of degrading and misogynistic language in the black community – the fall out from the Don Imus situation that we had talked about earlier in the week. While we were saying goodbye I heard a familiar voice on South African television.

Certain that I was mistaken, I slipped into the TV room and sure enough Creflo Dollar was preaching from the World Changers Church in ATL Georgia at 5 am. His lesson for the morning… what else... the gospel of prosperity. I fell out laughing (I’m sure partially from being tired / loopy and particularly because that TV gets very few and spotty American TV programs.) But Reverend Dollar came in loud and clear. There were two black South African men in the lounge watching the show and they asked me if I knew of Creflo and his wife, Taffi. Indeed, which launched a mini conversation about the mega church phenomenon in the USA. In South Africa, Zuki explained, there is a surgence of “charismatic churches” that are not as large as the mega conglomerate churches of Osteen, Dollar, and Jakes, but in the same vein of evangelical message. She said people were flocking to these new churches based on the American model. In land with such poverty, a charismatic message of prosperity would definitely be appealing to me. {And please don’t get me wrong I enjoy Joey Osteen’s sermons tremendously.} The two gentlemen were former Rhodes University students, who grew up in the Eastern Cape and were in town for the festival.

One asked me, “why are you here?”

It’s a complicated question, which sent us down the long and winding conversational road of what I think about South Africa.

The same gentleman said, “people come to South Africa and they think it is urban because that is what the media shows, that’s what the tourist see. You go to Cape Town, Durban, Johannesburg, and you think that is South Africa. South Africa is predominantly rural and very poor. No one addresses that, not even the government. I grew up herding sheep and milking cows. If you don’t milk the cow where I grew up you have no milk. If you don’t get eggs from the chickens, then you have no eggs.”

Indeed that is the South Africa that hasn’t been helped yet by the ANC’s economic policy and are still in short supply of electricity and water. I knew Marcus would be coming for me soon, and there were too many questions to begin a meaningful conversation with these men about the issues of rural South Africa.

Just as Marcus reached my side one of the gentlemen asked, “Do you believe in the African Diaspora?”

Coming from Spelman, {all those ADW classes} I said, “of course.”

“But do you believe that Africa, the continent, will find stability and flourish?”

As I took Marcus’s hand to leave the room I said, “I believe the future of the world depends very much on what happens on this continent.”

Uhadi…

Today we woke up late and were racing to make it to our first performance at the Beethoven Music Theatre. Our tickets were for Uhadi, which is a large group of Eastern Cape musicians that perform the almost extinct ancient Xhosa musical traditions. It is astounding that these musicians came together to rehearse for the first time on June 22, 2007. The group is named after one of the Xhosa instruments, a bow attached to a calabash. A few other handmade instruments included inking (a bow with a string), Umrubhe (bow w/out a calabash), Isitolotolo (harmonica), uMasengwene (a percussion instrument played by rubbing the strings with wet fingers) and the Igube (drum).

The group of about 60 {largely female}, filled the stage dressed in brightly colored large hand embroidered “A” line wrap skirts, and elaborately wrapped scarves in designs that reflected their varied tribal/ clan heritage. The tops were a long single piece of fabric that matched the skirt. Each top had two thin strips of cloth attached at the top, which were tied at the back, leaving the women’s shoulders, arms, back, and sides exposed. There were three young women performing and their tops were attached to waist length black tub tops, leaving only their arms and shoulders bare. {My assumption, based on the age and clear hierarchy with the women, is that the ladies with the black undershirts were unmarried.} Most of the women were covered from head to toe in a light green dust, and those that were not had distinct dot and line designs on their faces. There were two rows of male musicians that lined the back of the stage. They each carried long wooden canes / sticks and were dressed in either red Dashikis with ANC embroidered on the back and black pants or white shirts and white pants.

They performed working songs, prayers, celebration songs, initiation songs and lullabies. The elder women were clearly the leaders of the concert, taking center stage in groups of six or so the women would dance forward and throw themselves both vocally and physically into the moment. There was a dance I call the “challenge” where the woman at the front of the line would suddenly do a side step, pivot and face the woman behind her with a loud guttural sound clearly expressing a challenge. Every time that would happen the Xhosa people in the audience would begin to shout at the stage and the energy of the room would heighten. The female initiation song and dance was my favorite. It began with a fight between two of the young men where they essentially fenced with two sticks, dramatically leaping in the air and diving to the ground, warding off the attack. In elaborately graceful moves, the two men battled while the drums, strings, and voices crescendo. The men split apart and the first line of women step forward to dance, swinging their arms and hips in unison.

I had a rare epiphanal moment watching the Uhadi women perform. These thick voluptuous women lived completely rooted in their bodies. There hips, arms, waists, and breasts were used to communicate the passing of time, birth, death, evolution. You could read the story of life through their bodies. Triumph coursing through their fingertips…. I have spent my life living in language - allowing my thoughts to float between words. My mother claims I walked out of the womb talking. But so much of my life is spent trying to find the words to articulate, more often than not, questions rather than answers. I think I like the fact that sound can not be destroyed, but rather dissipates moving further and further into the atmosphere. It is releasing part of youself into the universe. But what then do I hold onto for me? There is a depth and ease to the way these women move that has nothing to do with seduction and everything to do with centering yourself in the physical world. I felt surrounded and challenged by the freedom to live with out fear or shame, wholly embedded in the vessel I was given to experience this life.

Eve Ensler would call these women “vagina warriors,” women who have experienced pain and devastation but have internalized it to heal themselves and then used the power and awareness that pain created to teach and protect others.

My goal in the coming year is to live more fully in my body, befriending the best and worst of me, appreciating the stories my body is capable of telling. As simple as it sounds I have no doubt that it will be an incredibly difficult journey. Because despite how conscious and confident I may be as a woman, I am a child of the West. And I, like every other woman I know, spend far too much time and energy deconstructing my body. Time and energy wasted fighting myself when I should be investing in the celebration of my own survival.

By the time the last song ended, the Xhosa women in the audience around us were dancing on their feet. Sitting in the audience I felt like I was watching a prayer being answered.

Ashe.

Zuki and Her Sister

One of my favorite people we’ve met thus far on our journey is a young woman from Swaziland named Zuki. She is a student at the University and was sub warden of our dorm. One evening Marcus and I came in and sat down in the community room with Zuki and her sister, Nguada (a student at the university in Pretoria). We talked for three or four hours about South Africa, America, Swaziland, the state of the developing world, MTV, war, and more. I wish I could share the conversation with you, because it was really engaging and at times surprising. Alas, that would take hours, but I will share a few observations. We asked Zuki and her sister what were some of the common stereotypical perceptions of Americans are South Africa. Interestingly enough, they didn’t pause before speaking in unison to say:

1.)God Save the United States, and No Place Else!

Which Marcus and I had to laugh at because it is unfortunately not so incredibly far from the truth. Just watch Fox News.

2.)Americans think Africa is one big country.

3.) African Americans don’t speak proper English

4.) There is no such thing as AIDS in the USA

5.) The US is the happiest most perfect place to be, everyone is rich

6.) Americans don’t care about the rest of the world

7.)African American men are bling, guns, hardcore, rough, scary, violent, aggressive – but in a cool heroic sort of way.

This is my personal favorite perception because it highlights the unfortunate responsibility African American artists have to the rest of the world. Black American music, and the culture that surrounds it is the universally coveted throughout the world. Bootleg rap cds can be bought on the streets of Bagdad and Soweto. Every store in the mall in Port Elizabeth was playing American music from Jay Z to Beyonce to Little Wayne to techno funk (think C + C Music Factory). Akon is playing everywhere we go… nobody wants to see us together – you would that song is stalking us. Even with the older South Africans we are listening to Gerald Levert, Mariah Carey, and Anita Baker. It’s not surprising that the images people internalize and emulate are those that come from music videos. The satellite television transports American early nineties soap operas, church shows, and music videos. Just yesterday Marcus and I were in a restaurant and all of the TV’s were playing an R Kelly / Young Jeezy video, with the sound turned off. Over the speakers we were listening to nineties r& b, but we were watching black men rocking bling, gesture aggressively with violent tendencies and ferocious expressions- let the images seep through. This is the Great Western Influence – The Impossible.

There was one point in the conversation when Zuki asked if I would want to live in another country. I told her I love to travel and could see myself living aboard for a few years, but despite all of the issues our country is plagued with - it is a place where given the right set of circumstances anything is possible.

That is an invaluable gift - to live in the realm of possibility.

In The Continuum

Our first show on Thursday was a play written and performed by two American actors, Danai Gurira and Nikkole Salter. This is a brilliantly performed play that addresses the humanity behind the skyrocketing statistics of African and African American females infected with HIV. The play pairs Abigail, a married professional Zimbabwean woman, and Nia, a young talented poet /working retain from Los Angeles, CA. The play weaves the two lives on parallel tracks as each woman discovers first, the joy of their new pregnancies and secondly, the emotionally devastating reality of their HIV status. We journey with these women through the betrayal, denial, desperation, awareness and fear. We pray for their triumph and ache for their inevitable excruciating pain. Robert O’Hara masterfully directed the world premiere of this production, which has garnered both national and international acclaim over the past two years. If you have the opportunity to see this production, don’t let it slip by.

To quote Marcus as we exited the theatre... "Damn that was EXCELLENT."

Do your thang ladies!

365 in South Africa

At the Market Theatre’s production of Dream of the Dog, we linked up with the Yale Crew, led by Rebecca Rugg, that was teaching in Swaziland, American Artists: Danai Gurira, Nikkole Salter, and Robert O'Hara from In the Continuum, and Bonnie Metzger, Producer of Suzan- Lori Parks' 365 Days 365 Plays national movement. Later that afternoon on the Rhodes University Campus Green the collective of artists performed the week's worth of plays for an audience of young artists and festival goers. It was really exciting to see a piece of this theatrical movement take place at this international festival in South Africa. I directed Hartford Stage's week of 365, which was a really wonderful experience. Shout out to everyone reading the blot that participated! I don't care where you are in the states, on any given week you can go to a theatre in your metro area and experience 365. You can find additional information and regional calendars at http://www.365days365plays.com/

365 performed after a local youth group of child mimes. Many of the mimes on the streets of Grahamstown are part of this organization for street kids. There are an increasingly devastating number of children orphaned every year because of inadequate education and treatment HIV in South Africa.

Crazy Fire Dancers…

Wednesday night we were walking back towards the dorm after Tucan Tucan and noticed a large crowd around a few street performers. There was a group of white South African Fire Dancers accompanied by a group of black South African drummers. There was one dude in particular with long blond stringy dreadlocks and baggy clothing doing Capoeira with double fireballs attached to a chain in each hand. He was by far the craziest fire dancer; you could literally see the ends of his hair being singed while he performed {although I’m pretty sure he was high at the time} and he just kept going. The balls are dipped in a fuel that burns clean, so it doesn’t hurt your flesh; but fire is fire. Hair, cotton, and other highly flammable materials will go up in a blaze of fury.

My favorite fire dancer juggled fire sticks while riding a tall unicycle. When he would ride near the edge of the circle, the crowd would shift backwards away from him with a gasp. He was followed by an Asian fire dancer, who did handless cartwheels while twirling six prong flaming batons. Insanity, but very entertaining for 11 pm on the street corner.

Like most street performers there is a bucket or bowl in the center of the performance circle for crowd to tip the performers. Occasionally someone from the group will grab the bucket or bowl and walk the circle to collect money. During the performance one of the drummers picked up the bowl and walked the circle. We were on the outer rim and after Marcus reached across the crowd to put money in the bowl, the drummer stepped out of the center circle, past me, to allow the couple next to us to put money in the bowl as well before returning to his drum. A few minutes pass and one of the female fire dancers empties the money from the bowl into her hand and then crosses over to the drummer and begins to speak very sternly to him, which immediately grabs my attention. She is accusing him of stealing money from the bowl and he is trying to explain that he didn’t take it. Her tone and gestures are extremely condescending and I can see how helpless and frustrated the drummer is feeling by the accusations. He tries to explain that before he had the bucket a small black boy had walked around the circle collecting money with one of the white fire dancers and that when the child brought the bowl back to the center it was empty. I tried to go back to watching the fire dancers but I couldn’t stop watching this woman attack the drummer. She called over several other fire dancers, as she knelt before him screaming in his face. One of the unfortunate remnants of apartheid is a level of disdain, and an unspoken barrier {especially} between lower class blacks and whites in South Africa. Nothing he said was being heard. None of the other drummers were willing to get involved in a public dispute with these white dancers. After about five minutes more of watching the little drama unfold, with the woman walking away (repeatedly) in frustration, then coming back to yell some more, I decided to pull the woman aside and speak to her. (One clear experience I’ve had in South Africa is once Afrikaners hear you speak and recognize you are American, you are magically no longer Black and therefore a respectable peer. I’m going to have to do a whole blog post on the many different experiences Marcus and I’ve had with White South Africans being a little to free with the way that they speak about Black South Africans in front of us.)

I pull the woman to the side of the crowd and explained. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but hear you speaking to the drummer about stepping out of the circle with the bowl of money. My husband and I were on the outer rim of the circle and we put money in the bowl. He then stepped out of the circle and stood in front of me while the couple next to us put money in the bowl and then went back into the circle. I certainly did not see him take any money from the bowl. There was a small black boy that walked around the circle with the bowl of money about 10 or 15 minutes before the drummer , but he was holding hands with one of your companions. Perhaps you should check with her to see if she emptied the bowl before putting in back in the circle.”

“Oh. Well these people have stolen from us before. Last week they stole $200 and we need the money for our fuel, which is very expensive.”

“I understand that… did you let the same people who stole from you last week come back and drum again for you again this week?”

“The drummers are different all the time. Do you see the boy now that had the bowl?”

“No. But you should check with your companions.”


GRRRRRR… Woooo Saaaaa.

Okay explain it to me again, how you have different drummers every week, but “they” stole money from you last week. Who the %$@# is They? The accused drummer nodded to me as Marcus and I walked away. I’m sure he didn’t collect the apology he deserved.

Tucan Tucan

Wednesday night after a couple of disappointing events we went to the evening jazz festival show featuring a band based in Cape Town called Tucan Tucan. This Afro- Caribbean Jazz Fusion band was the baddest group I’ve seen in a long time. The group founded by Drummer / Vocalist Frank Paco, includes Helder Gonzaga-Bass; Texito Langa-Drums/Percussions; Muriel Marco-Piano & Keyboards; Angelo Syster-Guitar; Chantal Wilkinson-Vocals; Xixel Langa-vocals. The group creates music reflective of their varied cultural and ethnic cultures. Latino rhythms like salsa, samba and bossa nova, and African elements lift and soar when melded together. The lyrics are performed in Spanish, Portuguese, English and African languages (including Sesotho, Xhosa, Zulu, Ronga and Shangaan).

Now, throughout the evening they had the entire packed house grooving. There were two vocalists, a Brazilian woman, Chantal, and Xixel Langa, a petite fireball from Mozambique (who reminds me in the most beautiful ways of Tiffany J). Xixel had this beautiful grace and fluidity when she danced as well as the unique ability to move her hips as if they were separated from the rest of her body. There was one particular dance she did that I have since dubbed “the invitation,” which is a mix between African and belly dancing, that I am determined to learn. I have already warned Marcus, he better watch out once I master it.

Towards the end of the night Xixel asked the audience if there were any men that wanted to show her how they can “shake what their mama gave them.” One guy, who had to be in his late 50’s, got on stage and started doing an enthusiastic dance that was a mix between The Humpty Dance and The Butt. The band and the crowd went crazy! She then called for a lady to come to stage and shake it. Now Xixel had been putting on a show all evening, so whichever woman came to the stage was going to have to bring it in order to compete. An Indian woman climbed on stage and put Shakira to shame with exuberant belly dancing. At this point the energy is just rolling through the crowd, and the harder she danced, the louder the band played. She had the crowd so hyped that Xixel asked if there were any other ladies that wanted to join the band on stage to dance. Now a young black South African woman from the row directly in front of us climbed onstage, threw off her jacket and started to do freak down the African Drummer, who had earlier in the evening performed a really beautiful solo about Ja Rastafari. I thought her friends were going to have to pull her off the stage. It was a truly wonderful way to end the evening {we copped a couple of their albums, which you can peep online or at your local serious music store.}

More Street Performers

In Capetown, we saw the bronze mime, who reminded me of the mimes in New Orlean's French Quarter.

This is another group of African dancers that performed at the entrance of the Rhodes University Campus Green.