e. Melanoma, here I come! So to begin with: The Tale of the Goat. For those to whom I've already told this, just bear with me.The other morning I awoke to what sounded like a goat bleating outside. This was strange as my host family does not own any animals, farm-type or otherwise. But then it changed to a terrible sound which I can only describe as screaming. However, the sound soon reverted to its previous timbre, so I didn't go investigate. Why not, you may ask? Any kind-hearted, animal loving soul like myself should have done so. Here's the thing--in preparation for the World Cup, everyone is always going around blowing these plastic horns called vuvuzelas, the South African equivalent of noise-makers at a hockey game. But these in general sound like some sort of large animal dying. I'd finally gotten used to these sounding off at all hours of the day and night when little baby vuvuzelas came out which seem to perfectly mimic the sound of a six-year old screaming as his mother strangles him to death in Wal-Mart once she's finally lost it due to his incessant begging for more candy.
So anyway, I wasn't sure if this screaming goat sound was just another attempt at good 'ole fashioned South African fun. However, when I left for work that morning, sure enough there was a goat tied to a small tree in the yard. The screaming sound seemed to be the result of its rope being tangled in some nearby bushes, and it was
trying to get free. This is where my kind-hearted soul bit kicked in and, although I knew what would be the eventual outcome for the goat, I proceeded to untangle it. It looked at me with its big goat eyes and stopped struggling as if to thank me for my good deed. All the children, however, looked at me like, "Why are you messing with our food?" However, as much as I wanted to, I didn't just untie it and let it free--it wasn't mine, and I can't afford to pay my family back for a goat.An hour and a half later, I walked home from work to get something, and there was the goat, hanging from a tree with its head and pelt on the ground. Host brother Sizwe was cleaning it, and kind of looked at me and laughed like, "Crap, she wasn't supposed to see," as I've told them several times I didn't want to watch the animals being slaughtered. (On a side note, you may think this is strange given by background. But no, give me a human body in an autopsy room any day. I just don't want to watch it being done to poor little baby animals). I asked if there was going to be a wedding/funeral/ceremony of some kind, but no, apparently it was just time to eat goat. So the goat I'd rescued from the torment of the bushes was now slaughtered. I thought that was the end of it.
A few hours later, I returned to the house again, this time to show a visiting friend, also a PCV, my new house which is being built. The goat was now just hanging forlornly from its tree. We went into the new house (which still had unsealed concrete floors) only to find that they'd obviously been keeping the goat in there over the weekend. Let's just say the house was a mess. Now, someone asked me, "Are they just that unclean?" The answer is, No. In fact, they're pretty anal when it comes to keeping the main house clean--you can't we
ar your shoes inside, constantlysweeping out the door, have a maid that comes every day, etc, etc. But I assume they just figured that the new house wasn't finished, and it would get cleaned out, so it didn't really matter. I did not ask why they'd kept the goat in there; I assume it was without food or water so that after a few days, the process of cleaning it would be, well, cleaner, if you get my drift. Anyway, I showed my friend the now dirty new house, and she was appropriately impressed.Finally, I return again at the end of the day, this time to find that the goat is no longer hanging from the tree. Sweet, sweet mercy! But no, I then looked up through the window of my new house, and there it was, hanging inside! I have no idea why they hung it in there--it'd already ben hanging outside all day. But so now my Pretty, Pretty Princess house is going to be haunted by the spirit of the goat I failed to save. What am I to do?
After all that, again as I was settling in to thinking it was all over, my host dad scared the crap out of me accidentally. My back was turned, I heard him coming in the room behind me, I turned around and he had the damn skinned thing right there. I jumped and shrieked like a girl, God forbid. My current room has their deep freeze in it,so now I'm also sleeping in the room with the goat. It just won't go away.
Another little interesting nugget to the story--no one in my host family really eats goat much. As I may have mentioned in a previous post, according to my host mom JZ, 80% of South Africans get the dreaded 'runny tummy' when eating goat (and just be
cause they have a cute name for it doesn't make it any more pleasant). Speaking from experience, I fall into that 80%. I asked JZ about this, and she said, oh no, it's fine, this was a goat/sheep hybrid apparently, kind of like a mule or a liger, which I didn't even know existed but apparently has all the tasty aof goat without the gastrointestinal side effects (I'd wondered why it had long hair). Anyway, so the shoat, as I'll now refer to it, is no more, except that I assume we'll be eating it for the next few weeks.Other things: You probably wonder why I haven't written much about my actual work here yet. This is because, to be honest, I haven't done much that is very interesting yet. At this point, I have basically become a glorified secretary for my NOAH organization, as the fact that I can actually type is considered quite the talent. If this were Victorian England, I would be called "accomplished" and people would actually mean it. But I am proud of the fact that since I've come here, the quality of the record keeping for the organization has gone up drastically. The previously questionable record keeping was not due to the fault of anyone here, but more to the combined effects of bare minimum staff, lack of computer skills all around, LOTS of children registered, and LOTS of record keeping required by funders, obviously. But until this point, it's all been done as everything here seems to be--you make the best you can out of limited resources, and keep going basically on sheer will.
So anyway, basically I've been doing computer work, although lately I have given some HIV presentations to teachers at events sponsored by NATU (National Teacher's Union), which were fun for me and made me feel like I was doing what I came here to do. As it stands, a good deal of people's education about HIV come from the national campaign to follow the ABCs: "Abstain, Be Faithful, and Condomize." An enterprising Peace Corps Volunteer has added D for "Do It Yourself." So far that hasn't gone over well in my talks, and I don't want to explain it any further to a group of strangers ("So, have you heard, the little mlungu from Am
erica is teaching about masturbation!" "Well, damn, even more reason for me to go check her out!" "Maybe she'll give a demonstration like with the condoms!").Despite the act that I'm generally doing computer work, it's not possible to escape the effects of HIV and what it's doing to the population here. The stigma is so great that people don't discuss it and instead talk around the issue, saying "oh, she was sick for a long time," as though not naming it AIDS means you're somehow safe from its effects. I suppose it's the same in the States, just not to the same extent, and people will do any number of things out of fear. Still, with an average of one funeral every week or two of someone at least tangentially connected to the average person, often of young to middle aged adults, it's hard to grasp the lasting effects of fear and denial.
Two siblings, one in sixth grade and one in kindergarten, lost their mother last week of "being sick." Their father died last year, I've heard due to cancer, although I don't know what kind. They are currently living with a grandmother who is extremely poor; when my supervisor went to visit them the other day, she said there was absolutely no food in the house. And so, everyone came together, my organization as well, to donate food and help with the funeral. I and some of the other volunteers from my org went to do the cooking for the funeral.
A word on funerals: as this was the only one I've been to so far since being here, I can't generalize and say that this is what the average funeral is like in rural South Africa, but I will describe this one. I was rath
er surprised at how ordinary the situation seemed to me, as rituals generally are what highlight the traditional culture of a community best. Instead, someone had set up a large tent in the yard, under which chairs were placed. The family was all gathered in the house, sitting with the coffin which was covered with a blanket. I and some other women were outside, cooking for the large group which was expected. The men were gathered together in the yard, taking turns digging the grave there on the property. I was told that men with cattle (a symbol ofyour prosperity) are buried within the grounds where the cattle are kept so that he may watch over them even after death; men without cattle and women are buried anywhere on the property (no comment). When it came time for the service, the coffin was carried out underneath the tent, everyone gathered, songs were sung and a religious service given, then they all moved out to the actual gravesite for more singing during the burial. Except for the fact that this took place at a home rather than a cemetery, it was all in essence very similar to something you would see in the States.One thing dfferent that I did notice was that there was not the overwhelming sense of sadness and heartbreak that is generally found at our funerals. People were not
speaking in muted whispers, they were not dabbing their eyes, and they did not seem ashamed if they happened to laugh. They seemed, in fact, to be enjoying themselves just as they would at any other function, although perhaps slightly more reservedly. Whether this is due to a kind of sterilization of feeling because of the sheer number of relatively young people dying, or a difference in culture due to the very firm belief that ancestors are still amongst us and can be called upon for guidance, or some other reason altogether, I do not know.Some other stories have come to my attention lately which put more of a face on what people face here daily. I recently found out that one little boy I see every day is HIV+ and currently on an ARV regimen. Here again is another case showing that children can overcome most anything (it seems to be only in adulthood that our true psychological pathologies make themselves blindingly obvious). He is a happy kid, and I see him running around and playing with the other children every day. Of course, I don't know how much he is aware of his illness or its long term prospects, but for the time being he's just a normal kid. I wonder how many other children that I see and work with every day are HIV+, but of course no one is giving up that information.
I suppose I feel differently about this type of illness in kids. I've (briefly) worked with sick and dying kids in the past, and it's always a terrible thng, most especially for the families. Yet this is not cancer, or cerebral palsy, or a heart defect, all of which are due to some chance disruption in the normal process of vents, terrible but blameless. HIV is preventable, and if a child has it, it's because he or she was raped in the erroneous belief that this would cure an infected adult, or that one or both of his parents were sleeping around and had no concern for the livelihood of those nearest and dearest (such as possible unborn children, or spouses, or lovers), or (extremely unlikely today) he'd had a transfusion of infected blood products, or that ritualistic mutilation was performed without strilization of tools. Yes, there are other ways for a child to have contracted HIV, but no matter what the cause, you can bet there was an uneducated adult behind it, and behind him, a
nother adult who was just careless, insensitve, or stupid.Not every sad case is a result of HIV, however. Recently, I registered two brothers for our organization. Several years ago, their mother was killed and father went missing (presumably killed) during some inter-family conflict (the best description I could get of what was going on). The two boys moved in with an uncle, who, after a time, was also killed in the ensuing fighting. They then moved in with another uncle, and apparently spent quite a time themselves hiding out for fear of being murdered because they closely resemble in appearance those other family members already killed. These are children. And all I could think was that the older boy, probably fifteen, had such a sweet, gentle face, no anger or hatred or I'm-pissed-off-at-the-world-because-I'm-a-self-indulgent-American-teenager. Just a bit of sadness. But I suppose shitty things happen to people every day in every country of the world, and people everywhere are just trying their damndest to get through their days with a little less pain and suffering and self-doubt, in whatever form that may be. But I also have to wonder if there are now children without parents in the other family, and if they were also hiding for fear of misguided adult retribution.
Anyway, that's my sad spiel for the day. On to brighter topics. I'm introducing a new portion of the blog today entitled "Things I've Learned in South Africa," and will be adding to it as appropriate.
1. How to open a tin can with a big-ass butcher knife. All ten fingers not required.
2. How to use my bra as a purse, concealing money, ID, credit cards, cell phone, USB drive and a collection of small teacups all at once. Even if it's obvious you're carrying lots of stuff in your bra, no one cares b
ecause everyone does it and they realize that, after all, you're just carying stuff in your bra. You don't actually have a cell phone shaped boob.3. Rice Crispy Treats have international appeal.
4. Going topless is optional, but never show your thighs--that's where the real appeal is.
5. Getting fat is considered a good thing. If you lose weight, they suspect you of having AIDS.
6. "Meat is meat."
That's it for today's post. As for the pictures. The first is me holding a tiny chameleon. Next is me and friend Katie getting ready to go to Race For The Cure. Next is me with a group of kids from my school at their cultural dance competition. The fourth is the principal of my school, Mrs. Matenjwa, dressed to support Bafana Bafana for the World Cup. After this is a pic of the kids at school blowing celebrating and blowing the ever-present vuvuzelas. The following is me with several of my coworkers cooking at the funeral for the OVC's mother. Yes, I know, the outfit is super sexy. Next is the "shoat" hanging in my new house (at least it no longer had a head to stare at me with its little shoat eyes). I took a picture of this candle lying on the beach because I've seen a few since going. The beach apparently has a great deal of spiritual significance in Zulu culture. The first time I went with friends, I thought one of them must have dropped the candle out of their bag, and bent to pick it up. Suddenly they all yelled at me to put it down, and then finally explained that people use candles to lure bad spirits out to the beach; the candle's are then thrown into the water to rid themselves of the evil spirits. Others believe the ocean is a holy place, and so they are bringing the spirits there to be cleansed, as it were. People feel they can go to the beach to commume with God directly or with their ancestors, and several times I've seen people collecting the water from the ocean to bring back and use in traditional medicines (umuthi). Apparently, you can also make wishes at the beach; if you throw a candle in and it comes back to shore, that means your wish will come true. If it gets washed away, bad luck for you. Not everyone believes these superstitions, but I have to say, it's a much prettier story than throwing a penny into the fountain at the mall.
