A Thanksgiving Debrief

Firstly, I'd just like to wish one and all a very Happy Thanksgiving! So sad I'm missing it, and we can't even improvise that well here, as South African supermarket shelves lack whole turkeys. My group DID find tortillas and Old El Paso salsa, however...so there is a possibility of a "Mexi-Giving?" I have no idea, we're still working out the details.

In the meantime, here are pictures from our visit to the Drakensberg mountain range from two weekends ago (woah, how time flies by). The Drakensberg borders Lesotho (Les-sue-too), that little country surrounded entirely by South Africa. The mountains aren't very high, but they are an intense luminous green that lends itself very well to picture-taking. Seriously, probably the greenest grass I've ever seen. My group of four hiked all around (myself hobbling along and brining up the rear, as I had sprained my ankle on a run the day before). The Drakensberg has these enormous rock formations reminiscent of the western United States, some with 5,000 year-old cave paintings, the oldest known artwork in the sub-Sahara, if I remember correctly.

Reppin' Fordham in Lesotho.

Thea and I in front of Giant's Castle peak.

It's crazy to think I have only ONE WEEK left in KwaZulu-Natal. My flight to Frankfurt leaves around this time next Wednesday, and I will spend 10 days bouncing around Europe visiting friends who are also studying abroad, before hitting home. I fluctuate between excited and scared to leave, scared because I am daunted by the massive amount of work I have to do this weekend that I've been successfully putting off by playing tourist in the Drakensberg and elsewhere. Also returning to the United States seems like a daunting task in itself, for reasons I'm still trying to articulate. More reflection to come later.

On Sunday, we accompanied Mrs. Gule, one of the administrators at our university and now someone I'm happy to call a friend, to a fundraiser at her Catholic church within one of the nearby townships, Esikaweni. Historically, the word "township" referred to any urban, in reality underdeveloped, settlement within the country to which non-whites (Black African, Indian, and "coloured" [a combination of Indian and Black]) were assigned. However, I think "township" has come to refer informally to anyone's city or town, as people often ask me, "What township?" when I say I'm from America. Esikaweni is one such historically Zulu black township, but is not the shantytown that many townships, especially those outside big cities like Cape Town or Jo'burg, are. In fact, Esikaweni is pretty darn nice. There are medium-sized, colorful, fenced-in stucco houses, with decent roads and front yards.

I had been to Catholic South Africa mass before, with my host family at their own church, but this church function was a lot more boisterous, as it was a fundraiser. My small group of 3 American students comprised the only white people in the place (a fact I'm used to now), and we hovered near the back and watched the scene unfold. Basically, there was a lot of marching, a lot of chanting, and a lot of throwing of 10-Rand bills into several huge baskets being carried by the boys of the parish. It was a sight to behold. I spent a good portion of my time chatting with a priest who knew Father Pflager from St. Sabina. A small world if there ever was one. Mrs. Gule eventually grabbed my hand and dragged me into the women's group march that was making its round around the church, so I even got in on the fun.

There are WAY more Catholics here than I ever thought there would be, sidenote. Through my studies on South Africa last semester I got the impression that everyone, at least in KwaZulu-Natal, was Baptist or Evangelical, but that doesn't seem to be the case. Churches dot the area: St. Patrick's, St. Martin de Porres, Holy Family Catholic Church. I have been taking an African Theology class, called African Independent Churches, which is all about how black Africans broke away from traditional missionary churches during the early 20th century, when apartheid was just getting started. It was one of the earliest forms of African resistance and social protest, and the apartheid government tried fairly hard to suppress the formation of all these independent Christian churches that were run by Africans themselves. Though people left their white-run Methodist, Anglican, Zionist, and Baptist churches in droves, I have yet to hear about any sort of break from a Catholic church. Maybe I just haven't been looking, but it's something to investigate.

Monkeys in the Front Yard

Monkeys around our house is a common occurrence. They are the raccoons of South Africa, it seems, and often go through peoples' garbage . Last Thursday afternoon, however, we were surprised to discover 10-15 of them hanging out in our front yard, and many of them had babies clinging to them as they ambled around. I ran inside to grab my camera, lest any of you not believe me, and managed to get some (albeit blurry) action shots. They run fast!

Hungry Hungry Hippos

Did you know hippos have killed more people than any other animal in Africa? And even after learning that little factoid, I still agreed to go kayaking with them. Sorry, Mom.

We went to St. Lucia Wetland Park for the weekend, a statuary whose waters boast more than 1,000 hippos and 2,000 crocodiles. The highlight of our kayaking trip was stumbling upon a "pod" of hippos, just floating there and glaring at us. They aren't very cute in real life. Actually, they look really mean. Apparently they can get really aggressive really fast, so we kept our distance. Still not a huge comfort, as they would disappear under the water and resurface somewhere completely unexpected (Hello, what if it's under my kayak?). It only got crazier as I looked to my right and saw a crocodile floating in the water. Needless to say I was in a nervous giggle fit the whole time. But hippos? So. Cool.

Count 'em.

Behind the High School

Besides Sunday mass, running is the only habit I’ve carried over—in its pure, unaltered form—into Life in South Africa. In a place where unfamiliarity is oftentimes the only constant, I have sought refuge in the snugness of running shoes, the security of rhythmic steps, the stability of measured breathing. I crave, more than ever, the infallibility of The Truths of Running, truths like “The big tree with the purple flowers at the top of this hill is my half-hour mark.” As it was yesterday, so it will be tomorrow.

I’ve scoped out a few varied running spots in my little corner of South Africa, including:

1) A rocky beach populated with hundreds of blue crabs, which was interesting to navigate with bare feet;

2) A self-forged course lapping the neighborhood convenience store, much to the bemusement of the construction workers that hang out in its parking lot;

3) A torturously steep hill down the street from my house, the reward being a front-row seat to a South African sunset;

4) An unpaved road right outside campus cutting through a rural settlement, where the red dirt quickly becomes choked with litter. It was here, this past week, where I had a very good, very cliché “American in Africa” moment, as the settlement kids helped me through my last leg by sprinting alongside me, giddy, their bare heels kicking up clouds of crimson dust.

My favorite running spot, however, is a recent discovery: the track of the local high school. Not very exciting, but I think I’m drawn to the tedium. It’s a setting I associate distinctly with Middle America, after all. The sight of dads in shirtsleeves picking up their 10-year-olds and of coaches barking at their gangly teenage soccer players is an amusingly proverbial one. The track is grassy, unpaved and strewn with potholes, but it delivers what I ask of it. I circle like clockwork, breathing in the smell of freshly mown grass, and listening to the squeals of kids in after-school sports. It’s enough to conjure up a significant amount of nostalgia for my high school cross-country days.

I think it’s my favorite spot, though, because I blend in. I live in an environment where I am stared at in black areas for being white and I am stared at by white people for walking around with my black host brother. But behind the high school, I can be wonderfully anonymous. There, people just seem more relaxed. Parents chat amicably with each other in a lively mix of English, Afrikaans, and Zulu, arms crossed, keeping one eye fixed on the field. South Africans of all ages and races (and at least one American) trudge with a communal unenthusiasm through their 5 o’clock workouts. Students in proper school uniform and droopy knee socks gather in knots in the bleachers, gossiping and flirting. I can do my laps and watch little kids in adult-size T-shirts attempt peewee rugby, or quietly spy on the pickup soccer game. Or I can be immune to my surroundings; a steady stream of thoughts interrupted only by the occasional burst of girlish laughter from the bleachers. I can smile and wave at the security guards, but only if I feel like it. I can observe without being observed. In an area where I have a near-constant feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb, it’s a relief to go unnoticed.

Hangin' with some Zulus...and, more Safari.

Over one of the first weekends we were here, we visited an apartheid museum in Durban, and then a traditional Zulu homestead. To my surprise, at least, the homestead was run by two middle-aged white guys who had been fascinated with Zulu culture since high school , and had quit 9-5 office jobs in order to open up a small farm where they could teach others about this most famous of African tribes. As per usual, the Zulus who hosted us were incredibly warm and welcoming, and eager to teach us anything and everything. After a delicious lunch and tea, followed by a short drums-and-dance performance, we embarked on our guided tour. We got to pet some cattle, help weave grass mats, and even spread a dung floor (eek!). I also got charged by a rather territorial goat, but that's for a different post.

A traditional Zulu thatched hut

He was posing for us.

The coolest thing, for me, was learning about the ingenious way the Zulus get their electricity--with methane gas from cattle dung. Basically, every morning they collect the dung from the cattle corral and pipe it through to a pit situated in a special hut built only for the purpose of accumulating methane gas. Then they filter the methane gas through underground pipes to stoves in the rest of the homes, and voila! Free, eco-friendly energy. Our guide told us this would be a great way to get electricity in rural areas in the region, as then the women wouldn't have to walk 1.5 hours each way to the gas station in order to cook dinner. So if anyone is interested in rural development in sub-Saharan Africa, there's an idea to get you started. Also, if someone could tell the gross CO2 producing factory farms in the United States about this, I would be very appreciative.

He was an INSANE dancer.

Just bein' domestic...learning how to weave a grass mat from a loom.

This weekend, though, I embarked on the third safari of my life, and possibly the last of our trip! More details/pictures to come later!