Home Away From Home

It’s good to know if I ever start to feel homesick, I can hop in a cab and be there in 10 minutes. While not forgetting about my own, I have a new family in Africa. This past weekend, we had home stays. Fifteen of us went to a black township, and the other fifteen spent the weekend in a colored township. For clarification, townships are parts areas where the apartheid 

government placed blacks, coloreds, Indians, etc. to shove them out of the cities. Some are more developed than others, and there are all different homes within townships. Some people live in shacks and trailers while others live in houses with electricity and running water. 

When we arrived by bus to the (black) township of Langa, children ran toward our bus, screaming and smiling. At the welcome dinner with marimba band playing, our mothers and fathers wore their biggest smiles, wondering which American they would host for the weekend. I spotted a hyper little girl and she immediately came to sit on my lap and play with me. I had a feeling she was my sister (sissy) , and I was right. After dinner, my new momma Phumla, poppa Sabu and little sister Zonka got in the car to drive home. 

Before my poppa could even turn off the car, my 8-year-old brother (butti), Lizo, threw open the door and gave me the biggest/best hug I have ever received. The house was very nice: 3 bed, 1.5 bath, kitchen, back yard, living room with television. My sissy and butti crawled all over me the entire weekend, crawling in my bed before I went to sleep and the second they woke up, which was usually 7:00 AM. 

There was only one problem with the weekend: I think I was the first vegetarian to ever enter the township. Trying to explain what a veg was, my family asked me, “Can you still eat viennas?” and “Can you still eat burgers?” “Pasta with no meat?” They were as puzzled as I felt awful. I ate a little meat on Friday in a pizza pocket type thing – I don’t know what kind it was and I never want to find out; I just swallowed as much as I could. I was their guest and didn’t want to offend them, even though I had severe stomach pains later that night from the first meat I’ve consumed in five years. 

The next morning was exciting: Jacob Zuma, presidential candidate for the ANC (Mandela’s) party, spoke in the township. There were rallies and parades by the ANC and the PAC. Perhaps I’ll write about the politics and upcoming (April) presidential election another time; it is too complicated to write about now. That afternoon, my other sissy who is my age, Fica, took me to Mzoli’s. It is an outdoor place in the next black township, Guguletu, where people come to get drunk and consume absurd amounts of barbecue. It was really fun to hang out with and get to know my sissy and her friends Even post-apartheid, place

s are very segregated. Mostly black people go to Mzoli’s, but feeling out of place never crossed my mind. There’s a DJ and buckets of meat, coolers and lawn chairs: everyone comes to have a great time. We stayed there for several hours and by the end, I was breaking it down with the best of them with my dance moves.After Mzoli’s, we went to a fish braai (bbq) that one of the host brothers was hosting for the Americans and our similarly aged siblings. I made a ton of new friends there and we partied until late into the night. I was concerned about getting home at a decent hour, but when I arrived home, my family was just pulling into the driveway. I met momma’s sister and her children, as they all just arrived from a wild party themselves!

The next morning I woke up to what I thought was another parade. I went outside and saw nothing, but realized all the noise was coming from the church on the corner. The drumming and other instruments, the singing and beautiful harmonies: I wanted so badly to sneak in the back and watch. Momma had planned on taking me to Church, but I think everyone had partied a little too hard the night before. Nevertheless I laid in bed and listen to the sounds for the next 4 hours.

Saying goodbye to my new family was a little sad, as my little siblings were fighting my backpack off of me. I can’t wait to come back and spend more time with them. Momma wants me to go back to Chicago, graduate and then come back to work in SA, since I have a family here. While that sounds tempting, for now I’ll just have to settle for visits. 

sexism, feminism and falling from the sky

It has been too long since my last post; this is partly due to long hours at the music school and partly due to the fact that I have been trying to figure the best way to write about my field trip. Last week, our history prof took us two hours from Cape Town to a Moravian Church mission site. Feeling more hungover than enthusiastic about the day, we were as positive as we knew at 7:30 AM on a Saturday morning. Upon arrival, we were taken to the first museum, where tea and coffee sat awaiting consumption. In the museum was an exhibit dedicated entirely to women. Wonderful! So I thought before I read the blasphemy covering the walls. 

As (hopefully) you know, I am a Gannon Scholar and the focus of the Gannon program at Loyola is to empower and help develop strong women leaders on campus. Leaving that environment and coming to a place in this world where women have entirely different roles, I had to prepare myself to be an active learner, all the while being respectful of the new cultures to which I was going to be exposed. 

Looking at the exhibit, my stomach turned. Museum guests are greeted by a cardboard cutout of a Barbie-like figure churning butter with a sign that read “Welcome to my kitchen.” Taking a deep breath, I continued to explore the room. I came across a poster of what the Christian Bible says: “Let women learn in silence with all submissiveness. Permit no woman to teach or have authority over men; she is to keep silent, “ 1 TIM 2: 11-12. “Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is a shame for women to speak in the church,” 1 COR 14:34-35. These were just two of ten displayed. I didn’t think much of this because I learned of this years ago. What I was extremely offended by was the exhibit on feminism and the modern woman. It read:

“The feminist movement of the twentieth century assaulted traditional Christian values for women. Whereas women traditionally fulfilled support roles and gained their greatest joy and sense of accomplishment from being wives and mothers, today many have abandoned their homes for the higher-paying and supposedly more prestigious jobs of the work force outside the home. Traditional sexual morality has given way to promiscuity with women often in the role of the aggressor. Gentle, quiet women have become self-assertive and hostile, boldly demanding their “rights.” Divorce is rampant, with women frequently initiating separation and divorces…”

The images of “the modern woman” were thin, but hour-glass shaped women in flashy gowns with idiotic captions. “I can make a dress out of my traffic tickets,” one read. And another, “Too much socializing left me feeling like a hangover queen.” Some more offended than others, all of my classmates were shocked. This was the beginning of my longest day in what I conceptualized as my hell.

After an hour or so, I broke my silence and respectively attempted to engage in intelligent discourse with the museum manager. I thought perhaps we could learn from one another. False. I was getting nowhere with him and he couldn’t understand why any woman could ever be offended, assuming she knew her true role. As our discussion continued, I felt him concentrating his misogynist eyes into mine so deeply that he might burst me into flames and ash. During and after our lunch, he made several condescending remarks to my female peers and myself. Two o’clock didn’t come fast enough for us to embark on our journey home and never turn back.  

While not my ideal Saturday, I think it was important for me as a Women & Gender Studies student and Gannon scholar to experience this. I did learn a lot that day, and it was actually humbling. I still think about how that man made me feel, and put that into context when examining race relations in South Africa post apartheid. While I have learned of South Africa’s progress since 1994, racism is everywhere you turn. The townships, the night clubs, the schools: segregation seems almost natural to a lot of people here. What I felt that day was not even 1/10 of what people here experience on a daily basis. I believe it is important to remind ourselves of issues like these to put things into perspective. 

On a lighter note, that weekend capped off better than it started. A group of us went skydiving on the most beautiful of days. My friend Diana and I went together with our instructors in the tiniest plane I’ve ever seen. It must have been one of those “laugh at funeral” nervous days because I was hysterical the entire 20 minute plane ride up to the drop point. I couldn’t stop laughing for the life of me for absolutely no reason. My instructor kept asking me if I was nervous, but I wasn’t. I just couldn’t believe what I was about to do: and I found it hilarious. The door opened and he whispered in my ear, “I bet you’re nervous now…” We did a flip out of the plane and even more flips and twirls after. Falling from the sky was as incredible as the view: the mountains, the ocean, Robben Island, the sand dunes…I can’t wait to do it again. 

Villages, Markets, and the Indian Ocean: Welcome to Durban!

After a grueling week of rehearsals, lessons, sectionals, lectures and temperatures over 95 degrees, five of my friends and I flew to Durban for the weekend last Friday. Durban is on the other side of the country, on the Indian Ocean and near the country of Lesotho,. The climate is extremely humid, and the land is very green. I felt like I was in what I imaged as a tropical Ireland, miles of green hills and valleys – only in Africa.  

The first thing we did was go to the aquarium, which is near the beach, surrounded by surf and snorkel shops, restaurants and other boutiques. Think Shedd aquarium x1000. Afterward we had dinner reservations to eat on this ship that had a MASSIVE tank with sharks and other fish in it. As we approached the walkway, an employee stopped me and demanded to know where my parents were. After explaining they were in America and showing her our IDs, she agreed to allow us in. “I don’t believe you, but since you are from another country I’ll let you in. Next time, bring your parents,” she said. Exiting after dinner, I noticed a sigh that read: No one under the age of 16…ok, seriously?! 

The next day we took a private tour of a village in Zululand, far from the city and not westernized. The Zulu people were so friendly and enthusiastic to share their culture with us. We visited a traditional Zulu healer, ate a traditional meal (with our hands) and spent the afternoon dancing with the children. It is excursions like these that allow me to experience the real Africa. I was in a different world: cows and goats roaming all over the place, no one stealing from one another. Self-induced scars to pay tribute to their ancestors and ancient songs, houses made of mud and water pumped from the ground: this is simple living. When it was time to leave, we threw the children on our shoulders and waved goodbye to their parents. We didn’t get too far…

The following morning we went to Victoria Street Market, which I thought was going to be like Green Market Square in Cape Town (lots of tourists). We were the only white people I saw all morning in the entire market and surrounding neighborhoods, which was pretty cool. I’m a big fan of the markets, but am a horrible bargainer. I spotted tons of beautiful Zulu instruments, including the mbira, marimba, drums and this really awesome string instrument. At each stand I immediately searched for the instruments. I just couldn’t help myself: I bought 9 instruments, a painting, and some jewelry – all for $40 US. 

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the beach surfing the Indian Ocean. We grabbed lunch and made friends with the Rastafarian men who were playing live music. Durban’s nightlife is nice, but not as exciting as Cape Town’s. We arrived in CPT Monday just in time for my drag of a history class. I can’t wait to travel to the surrounding countries to experience more of what makes up this continent. 

Dangling Live Bait

Last Saturday a small group of us went to the great white shark capital of the world, Gansbaai. I must have woken up with a death wish that morning because I thought that if the sharks wouldn’t kill me, surely my mother or grandmother would when they found out what I did. Once we were picked up at 5:00 AM, we were driven two hours away and fed breakfast. Our group (a total of 27 people) was then given a pep talk and then we signed our lives away, literally. The shark dive company took us near Seal Island, which is a five star resort for great whites. I was the first one in line to get a wet suit, but wasn’t the first in the water due to my clumsiness and inability to put on my suit. 

Because it’s off season, we were concerned we would not see any sharks, but it only took about five minutes to attract the first one. Once in the water it was hard to stay under; I kept floating to the top and getting slammed into my friends. I hit my head on the bars several times and somehow switched places with Phil under water. The one thing the skipper stressed the most was to NOT PUT ARMS/LEGS on the outside of the cage. This was extremely difficult to do and I didn’t even realize I was out of the cage until I would go underwater to catch a glimpse of the killing machines. 

My friends Louise, Colin, Phil and I were in the third group to go, which was lucky because we attracted the largest shark of the day, an estimated twenty feet long. My friend Pat (who was on the boat) told me he saw the shark and thought, “Oh ****, that’s Jaws.”

I think it was a combination of the scrambled eggs for breakfast, the choppy waves, and the chum /fish guts that made everyone so sick. Out of the 27 people, I am willing to bet at least 15 threw up. There was a cornucopia of puke all over the boat, and it got funnier and funnier every time another one of our friends projectile vomited. Since I have never been sea sick, I thought I was fine, but on the boat ride back I felt a little action going on in my stomach. I refused to throw up on a speeding boat, but once my friends realized I was feeling it, they surrounded me, capitalizing on my weakness. Their laughter and chanting made me think, “Well, now I have to deliver…” It’s just unfortunate that my vomit leaked down the side of the boat into the window to the first floor (whoops). 

We were given lunch and a ride back home. Despite puking, diving with sharks was one of the coolest things I have ever done, and I have planned more adventurous activities for the next few months, all of which I will write about once I make it back. I need to let my unsuspecting mother sleep at night, you know…