A Blurred Brush Stroke

          

Norris, yawning.
Big Cat Sanctuary, Addo, South Africa

TBB East
Coast Sand Dunes.  Addo

River Valley looking north to the Dhauladar Mountain Range
Palampur, India

Garden Terrace
Palampur, India

Girls in mandala competition.
MCS School.  Palampur, India

          

 Plettenberg Bay to Addo; Addo to Port Elizabeth; Port Elizabeth to Johannesburg; Johannesburg to Mumbai; Mumbai to Delhi; Delhi to Palampur. 

In just one week, we have traveled over the subtropical thicket and never-ending coastal sand dunes of the Eastern Cape of South Africa to the pine and garden terrace-covered Himalayan foothills of Himachal Pradesh in India. 

We have gone from comfortable homes with all the luxurious amenities one could ask of a kitchen, bathroom and bedroom to the awkward complexities of an Indian home: squat toilets where bidets are more prevalent than toilet paper, different food with vibrant tastes that don’t always settle well in our stomachs, new guests in the midst of a seemingly chaotic ten-person Indian family. 

A little over a week ago, we were walking through townships with hospice caregivers visiting patients with chronic infectious diseases; today the students set out to five different primary and secondary schools, and will be teaching math, science and English to the Indian children in attendance there. 

A little over a week ago, we were on safari in South African bush, seeing the largest land mammal, the African elephant, rip thorny branches (we dare not touch) off of the bush with its trunk and feed it into its mouth just feet from our van window.  We were at big cat sanctuary, sitting just feet away from 2 year old lion brothers - the power and energy felt staring into a lion’s eyes in that close of proximity is indescribable.  If there is such a thing as an aura, I definitely felt the lion’s.  Today, we see cows dodging traffic as they walk up the main road, scrappy dogs nursing sickly wounds, intimidating red-faced monkeys leaping from building to building looking for any food they can scavenge, and all sorts of interesting birds:  green parrots; long, thin-tailed birds with yellow bellies, orange beaks and black backs; brown hawks en masse soaring over the river valley searching the landscape below for small prey. 

The thick South African English accent, somewhere between a mix of British and Australian, and the clicks of the Khosa language, have transformed into Hindi and the local Kangra dialect. 

We are situated in northern India, 32 degrees of latitude north, nestled between Pakistan and Nepal.  We have flipped somewhat equidistantly to the other side of the equator.  In South Africa, the cool, overcast, drizzly days were becoming longer, hotter and sunnier as we moved from spring into summer.  In India, the days are becoming shorter, as the heat and light of summer transition into what will be a cold and rainy winter.

Palampur stands in somewhat of a striking contrast to Jaipur, where we were for our Indian unit last December and January.  Jaipur was a large city, with upwards of 2.5 million people living in a dusty cement jungle in the middle of the Rajasthani desert.  Old castles and forts adorned the peaks of the blurry, fog/smog-filled hills surrounding the city.  Palampur sits at 4000 feet, nestled at the foothills of the Himalayas.  Behind the town, jagged, snow-capped stone mountains rise above the tree line and stand like cold, unemotional sentinels guarding the town to its north. To the south, smaller rolling hills disappear into the blurred horizons of the sweeping Kangra Valley below.  A large, boulder-lined river valley cuts its way from the mountains through the foothills creating a western border to the town.  Dirt and cement-lined irrigation ditches bring the fresh mountain water to the terraced gardens, canopy covered tea fields, and homes of the 40,000 some odd Indians that call this small mountain outpost their home. 

In downtown Palampur, the senses are overcome with the same infusions as one might find in Jaipur, but to a tenth of the degree. One, main, one-lane road cuts its way through the downtown area, easy to walk through in ten minutes.  Pop-up vending stands selling fried food and fresh vegetables post outside the shops that sell brightly colored cloths and trinkets and goods for everyday living.   The eyes take in the movement and miraculous passings of the cars, tuk-tuks, buses, and motorbikes, the constant movement of people snaking their way up the sides of the streets, avoiding getting hit, ducking into and out of shops, hands filled with food or colorful cloth.  There is the constant honking of horns, revving of engines, conversations loud and quiet, the occasional music of worship and praise.  One feels the density of things: people, vehicles, shops, trinkets and animals – you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you’re out of the apparent chaos.  There are smells of sweets, fresh baked bread, urine, feces, incense, and the paradoxical naturally fresh rankness of the tea fields nearby.  You can taste the unfiltered exhaust, the delights of the sweet shops, the evolutionary draw toward the caloric, frying samosas. 

Though on a much smaller scale, as in Jaipur, the stimulation is exhausting for this suburbanite.  Retreating to the outskirts of town provides sensory relief.  Here, among the gold of former corn terraces, water rushes from a ditch to flood a terrace.  Once the soil is adequately softened, a cow will help till the soil, and beets will soon be planted.  The corn that was previously harvested from the terrace now lays strewn out on the front porch of the farmer’s nearby home, the red, yellow and orange husks drying in the sun.  Here on the outskirts of town, where the stray dogs scrap with local monkey troops and women dressed in brightly colored saris collect grass from the hillsides, I am whisked away to another era.  Just outside of the chaos of the downtown, time seems to have stood still for the farmers who support the growth of the county municipal seat. 

Beyond the outskirts, following the creeks and irrigation canals deeper north and higher into the mountains, I find the even deeper serenity that the wild brings.  Here, amidst the boulders, bushes and trees, I am transported to a place devoid of culture.  Humans have made no significant mark here, and the lack of sensory input from any human or human-made thing makes it possible for me to transport myself to the Sierras or the Rockies.  Were it not for the obvious ecological differences, I might forget where I am all together. 

 During the first several days walking around the rural fringes of the town, I noticed things that reminded me of my time in Yunnan, China.   Terraces carved into the hillsides with constant use over centuries have created the appearance of strong, sturdy earthen steps naturally carved onto the steep slopes.  The dirt paths that line the edges of the terraces, used to move between plots and to and from houses and town.  Corn, spread out in a single layer over cement porches, drying in the sun.  Small shrines scattered about the hillsides, constant reminders of the ties here between spiritual and physical labors.  Overall, I notice both agricultural and spiritual activities and a pace of life that, if not for the clothing and language and types of deities, would make me think I was in China.  After looking at a map and realizing that here in Palampur I’m actually further north than I was in Yunnan, I recognize just how much geography helps shape culture.  Despite the borders that separate China from India, there is an overwhelming sense that the these peoples’ connection to the land and to the seasonal cycles in these hilly and mountainous parts of the southern Asian continent ties them closer together than any political border keeps them apart. 

As for me, it is hard to internally track the seasons, travelling across oceans and many degrees of latitude over a short period of time.  My body, slowly tuning itself to the lengthening of days and the energy of summer suddenly must adapt to the early darkening and closing in of winter.  An internal cycle of life and death and the associated movements within us, something all animals have evolved with and adapted to as part of the natural rhythm of life, is disrupted.  This creates an uneasiness within during these very unnatural transitions.  My thoughts, emotions, and body fall out of sync. 

However, we are resilient creatures.  Time heals.  Routines set in.  With the help of chai tea and new friends, I slowly become present to my new place.

Confronting My Storybook Africa

In the spring of 2011, in a foundational Peace and Justice course, my Human Rights professor included a reading in our syllabus titled, How to Write About Africa.  The short essay, which first appeared in the journal Granta in the winter of 2005, was written by a Kenyan-born novelist and short-story writer, Binyavanga Wainaina.  The following is a short excerpt from that original essay:

“In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don’t get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn’t care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.”

Many times since I first set foot on African soil last February, I have thought of this satirical essay.  Now, as I reflect on my recent vacation experiences that in many ways dealt with the very issues Binyavanga satirizes, his criticisms are even more pungent. 

I recently had the pleasure of breaking from my work as a gap year program leader for a week-long vacation in a region of South Africa known as the Transkei, or alternatively, the Wild Coast (I much prefer this term, as it allows me to tack this descriptor onto the list of exotic ‘coasts’ I’ve visited the likes of which range from the ‘Lost Coast’ to the ‘Slow Coast’ of northern California).  I chose this part of South Africa to explore based on the recommendation of Blue, the owner of the local Surf Café here in Plettenberg Bay.  Having spent the entirety of my six weeks last February and March wading through the stark socio-economic disparity between the comfortable resort town of Plettenberg Bay and the seeming disease-ridden townships surrounding it, I’d convinced myself that there had to be something more to South Africa. 

Blue’s tip that the Transkei ‘is a piece of Africa as it used to be’ found a home in my subconscious and struck a chord with my naïve images and expectations of an Africa the likes of which Binyavanga satirically warns one from writing about.  Even though I’ve been informed, through studies and conversations with native Africans, that Africa is a huge continent filled with numerous races, ethnicities, ecosystems and cultures, with conflicts, stories and people too numerous to generalize about, it would be dishonest of me not to admit that there is also an image in my head, bred into me since I first began hearing about Africa, of a place where black people live in the savannah alongside rhinos and lions, shepherding oxen and sheep with long sticks, covered by simple pieces of colored cloth, by night dancing in trance-like states around a fire to the rhythm of djembe drums.  I call this Africa my children’s book Africa.  Despite the knowledge I have gained of a mixed and varied Africa, and despite my most recent experiences in Plett seeing an ‘Africa’ very different than my internal storybook image, I must admit that a part of me still yearns to see this Africa of my youth.  Here in South Africa now for the second time, I went to the Transkei in search of this ‘Africa’. 

I spent the majority of the last week hiking southwest along the Wild Coast, from one lonely backpackers lodge to the next, passing through rural !Khosa settlements represented by pin pricks of colorful round huts scattered on endless green hilltops.  The wind ripped strongly off the ocean and over the hills, varying daily from my back to my front as I made my way, sometimes on a single-trek dirt path, sometimes on the sandy and rocky beaches below.  Humpback whales made dazzling displays consistently throughout each day, sometimes spouting, sometimes breaching with a huge corkscrew jump and splash.  The sunrises over the Southern Indian Ocean never failed to wake me from my sleep and lull me in a dream state to the cliffs to witness that celestial art display. 

Sunrise in Coffee Bay

Of the indigenous forest that used to cover these hills, adapted to the dry summers and wet winters of the Eastern Cape with succulent leaves and amazingly sharp thorns, all but the hardest to fetch in the steep ravines has been cut down for firewood and building material by the !Khosa people.  These traditional shepherds, who migrated south from the Great Lakes region of the Central-Eastern African continent, displaced the indigenous Khoisan hunter-gatherers and had firmly established settlements by the mid 17^th century when the Dutch arrived in the area.  Confronted by white colonists to their west and the Zulu people behind them, and without more land south to continue their migration, the !Khosa’s traditionally temporary settlements turned into permanent settlements and the result has been of an extinctive kind for the original forest.  The cattle, sheep, goats, horses, and donkeys that graze freely on the hills keep the tall bunch grasses which have replaced the trees and shrubs the length of a well kept soccer field, giving the hills a well-manicured look.  Each village now consists of a vast landscape of these rolling hills, bounded on either end by a river that eventually snakes its way to the ocean. 

Sometimes these rivers were passable on foot; other times I waited at the river mouth for someone in a rowboat to eventually ferry me across.  On one occasion, with a river mouth unusually swollen, I had to backtrack to the nearest village and find some locals to help me find my way across.  Upstream, the river divided into more manageable creeks, and I was able to hop across on some rocks.  I spent most days wandering down the coast by myself, the ocean on my left as my guide, passing the occasional villager and futilely trying to make conversation.  Kids would run up to me asking for sweets or small change, two of the few words I was able to make out during these exchanges.  The nights were spent at backpackers along scattered along the coast – I was usually too tired to make much out of the night with the few other tourists that managed to find their way to these oases of white comfort along the Wild Coast. 

Much to my satisfaction, on my last day’s hike, I was invited to sit alongside a group of women and children gathered outside their huts.  Curious to know what was in my awkward black traveling case, they were thrilled to hear me play some songs on the guitar that came out of it.  Although the older women didn’t recognize it, the younger girls definitely knew some of the choruses to Bob Marley songs.  In the 45 minutes or so that I sat with them sharing music, I was reminded of the universal language that music is, its strong ability to break down language and other cultural barriers and to share a common human experience in what otherwise might look like a meeting of two very different worlds.

Kumbaya my Lord

As I made my way down the coast, I reflected back often on the images of Africa that I came in search of, comparing my current sights and experiences with those of the preconceived images formed in my head.  Not that my quick passing through these villages would give me a fair taste of what life is like there, but from outward appearances, my ideas were being challenged.  The only people I saw doing any kind of work were those few men constructing or refurbishing mud huts, women and children gathering mussels and clams, men fishing off the rocks that jutted out into the ocean, and the occasional farmer tending his or her home’s small garden.  I was happy to create my own visual scenery to the imagery I’d been reading about in the book Sizwe’s Test, set in the same area of this country.  Conversations I had at the lodges at night added depth and understanding to my visual journey through this land.  The government pays a small pension to women who have children.  Most families now live off of this payment, and instead of surviving on subsistence farming as they used to, many families survive on mealie (corn) that they buy at a local shop, supplemented with any seafood they can harvest.  Even the cows that graze on the hills and rest on the beach are seen for their value as a lobola, or dowry from the groom to the bride’s family.  In this way, the cow’s worth lies in its ability to provide a wife, mother, and caretaker rather than as potential food, or even just an animal companion.  With each new tidbit of information, my visions of hunter-gatherers in the bush and drums around late night fires were slowly vanishing, being replaced with the seemingly slow, sedated life of the !Khosa people.

My arrival at my final destination, Bulungula Lodge, was marked by the crossing of the Bulungula River.  Being the end of my trek down the coast from Mdumbi, my shoulders heavy with the weight of my backpack and guitar, I was ready to rest my body.  Although it was still early in the afternoon, the nearly full moon was creating especially high tides that flooded what would otherwise have been an easily crossable, knee high river mouth.  I dropped my stuff on the sandy spit, stripped down to my boxers, and without second thought began walking into the river.  I managed to get to the other side without my feet ever leaving the sandy bottom, although at times the rising water came up to my shoulders.  Happy enough with the crossing, I swam back across to retrieve my things.  I took my backpack, held high above my head on the first go, finding a higher ridge along the bottom to follow to the other side.  On the second go, I carried my guitar, again high above my head, this time having to wait out an incoming wave mid-river that almost picked me up off my feet.  I was not to get dragged into the surf this time around - I made it safely across, my things safe and dry on the other side, excited for the next two and a half days to explore the coastline and community surrounding the small lodge that sits atop the bluff overlooking the Bulungula River mouth, growing much fainter but still beating in my heart the pursuit of my children’s book Africa. 

Bulungula Lodge on the hillside.
     I stayed in the second pink hut from the right.

I spent three days and nights at Bulungula.  My time was mostly relaxing and uneventful: much of it was spent walking the shoreline, picking up shells, laying in the warm sand where the forest meets the dunes, and watching the whales play in the near distance.  I laughed at myself, recognizing my privilege of time spent picking up empty shells when those I passed by were carrying loads of mussels and clams on their head after a long morning of foraging the tidal reef.  

On my last night in Bulungula, I found myself watching the sun go down below the clouds that had gathered, casting it’s late afternoon glow on the huts that adorned the hillsides.  At the fire pit just outside the main lodge area, there was a group of maybe five to ten youth of varying ages that had gathered on the benches surrounding the pit, some drumming, some just watching.  I got my hands on a drum and began to join in.  One younger teen with his cap pulled low and a cocky air about him was setting the rhythm.  He was one of the most talented djembe players around it seemed, and the respect others gave him easily showed.  With three or four of us matching the rhythm behind him, he showcased his talent, soloing on top of all of us.  I felt ecstatic.  Closing my eyes, I let the sound of the drums, all in harmonious beat, fill my soul, lift me out of my head and into a place, somewhere in the moment, somewhere in the clouds.  As the sun continued to set, various kids took their turn on the drums, all in one way or another amazing drummers in their own right.  I was impressed by almost every single one of them, thinking about another speculation of mine that Africans in general have great rhythm.  As the sun eventually went down, the fire was lit.  A small crowd of backpackers gathered at the picnic table just outside the lodge door, looking on and enjoying the music from a short distance away.  I was the only one staying at the lodge that had included myself in the drum circle.  As darkness descended, some girls made their way to the circle and began to sing. I couldn’t recognize the song, or the words, but it was beautiful.  At one point I picked up my guitar and added what I could of some melody to the rhythm.  We sat like this around the smoky fire for four hours that night, drumming, singing, and enjoying what we could share together. 

It wasn’t until the next morning as the sun rose behind me and I made my way toward the dirt road where I’d catch a ride back to the closest city some three hours away that I made the realization:  in many ways the night before I’d found what I’d been looking for.  Although it wasn’t on the savannah but rather on a hill next to a backpackers overlooking the ocean, and although it wasn’t on the earth but rather on a large concrete circular slab with a metal fire pit in the middle, my vision of black Africans gathered around a fire beating methodically on djembe drums while women sang repetitious melodies had come true.  I had found my storybook Africa. 

I can't say for certain why I felt the need to satisfy my preconceived notions, undoubtedly as stereotypical as they are, of Africa as I'd grown up imagining it.  Reflecting on the concept of nature being a mirror for the soul - that we notice the things we do while outdoors because our soul calls us to those particular things - I can't help but think that my internal landscape shaped what I'd seen and the experiences that I'd had while on my vacation.  I wonder how often we do this as humans on a day to day basis: to what extent do we let our preconceived notions guide our experiences, looking for signs and clues in the people we interact with and the settings we're in that allow us to defend the judgments we'd already made. 

Now, back in Plett, I understand a little bit more about these people that I visit in the townships.  Images of the Transkei enter my head as I sit with a patient in her 8' x 8' cardboard shack, the caretaker cleaning out a wound in her behind.  My experience has filled me with more sights and experiences to which I can add to the story of South Africa.  I understand more than ever how complex this place is, how rich its history, how varied the story of so many different people.  I understand more than ever that Africa is not a place that I can write or talk about with such grand generalizations; and yet, my night of djembe playing around the fire on the Wild Coast will no doubt live on, imprinted on my soul forever.  

Solid-Dairy-Ity

            In my last post I pointed to a stark contrast between our living conditions in Plettenberg Bay, South Africa, and those who live in the surrounding townships.  This contrast has been rather easy for most of us on this gap year journey to notice.  Those students and program leaders who have noticed it, have to some degree had feelings about this contrast.

            Feelings have ranged between pity, sympathy, compassion, and guilt. 

Questions inevitably arise: 

            Why do I get to live in such comfort and health while they live apparent misery?   

            Why do I get to do such fun activities in this area when most of the people I work with won’t ever be able to afford those things?

            Why did TBB set up the trip this way?  What I am supposed to learn from this experience?

            How do I set the balance sheet right?

            What can I do so that I don’t feel so guilty about all of this?

            How do I show solidarity to these people? 

These questions have gotten me reflecting on my own journey, and the various examples I have been shown in my life by those living and non-living who have devoted their lives to closing this gap in inequality.

There are those that have chosen to give up some of their resources to be closer to, to be able to understand better, the plight of the poor.  Of these people I think of Giovanni di Pietro di Bernardone (better known as St. Francis), who in the 12th century turned away from the possibilities of a wealthy life as a silk merchant, giving it all up, even his clothes, to ‘rebuild the church.’  I think of Dorothy Day of the Catholic Worker movement, a socialist of middle-class descent living in New York who dedicated her life to helping the poorest of the poor during the Great Depression of the 1930s by opening up houses of hospitality where people could find shelter, a warm meal, and a bit of comfort.  It was her creed to ‘live simply,’ and I suppose that by doing this, she felt she was standing in solidarity with the poor and homeless whom she helped. 

There are those on the other end of the spectrum as well – those who don’t believe that giving up what you were born into or blessed with shows true solidarity.  I remember reading a book about ethnography of the homeless population during grad school.  It was a critique of those who choose to ‘go homeless’ for some period of time in order to chronicle the lives of homeless people and gain a better understanding of what it means to be homeless.  The author suggested that these undercover ethnographers will never truly know what it's like to be homeless when the first step taken is choosing to be homeless. 

            Similarly, I heard once from a homeless man’s mouth that he felt it was a “slap in the face” when people chose to give up what they had to live more humbly and be closer to the poor.  He felt that consciously choosing to give up your resource was a far cry from being a victim of structural injustice.  “They will never know what it is like, not to be able to choose a life of wealth and comfort.”  In this sense, ignoring one’s privilege, or one’s power, does not equalize the playing field.  The power imbalance is still there, despite whatever outwards appearances you have chosen to upkeep.

So then how do we show true solidarity? 

Is it choosing to stay back from a hike or a swimming-with-the-seals expedition, knowing that the sick in the townships can’t go? 

Is it inviting them along and paying their way?  The other day after a run along the beach about 15km east of Plett, I was confronted by a woman who had just finished her housecleaning duties for the day.  She was headed back home to one of the townships and was wondering if I’d seen the taxi headed back to Plett.  I told her no, but that I was headed that way, and was happy to give her a lift.  Meg, my running partner for the afternoon, and I had planned on stopping somewhere on the way back for some hot chocolate.  We asked our new carpool friend if she didn’t mind the stop.  She obliged, and we invited her in to join us for a drink.  As we drove home, each slurping our drinks through straws, I wondered what she thought of these two white foreigners who had the luxuries of a free day to run on the beach, the car to take them there and back, and the money to buy gas and groceries.  Were we helping this woman’s cause any?  Were we pitying her?  Were we just rubbing our wealth in her face? 

At this point, I’m not quite sure how to show true solidarity.  Personally, I lean toward a place where recognizing the power imbalance is the first step.  Recognizing my own privilege and power, and not ignoring it, not letting it slip away so that I remain in my bubble of ignorance and joy, is the second step.  Yes, the suffering is hard to think of, and my privilege might foster feelings of guilt, which, whether founded or unfounded might be harder to endure, but what’s that in comparison?  It seems then once I’m at this point that it becomes a bit of duty or responsibility, to not ignore or shun my privilege, but to use my resources to the best of my abilities to equalize the playing field and restore a bit of equality in the world.  And I have a feeling this has less to do with charity and money than it does to do with liberation (Freire's idea of humanitarianism vs. humanism applies here...).

p.s.

Is it even worth trying to define what true solidarity is?  Maybe solidarity means something different for everyone: maybe solidarity for each individual comes when their positive action to reduce inequality matches or outweighs the guilt they might have for being on the upper end of the unequal playing field.  For some people that might be giving some of their income tax return to charity.  For others, solidarity might mean refusing to buy certain products or standing in picket lines, and for others, it is giving up all that you own to be able to better relate to the poor.  I suppose that this means different things, for different people, at different times...

From My Pedestal (1 of 2)

            So here I stand, on my grand pedestal, quite literally.  I am on a newly built wooden deck, 10 feet above the grass lawn below, which slopes down toward the hedges, which slopes northward down the hill to the street below.  The street runs east/west from Plettenberg Bay to the N2, the highway that runs along the coast of S. Africa.  The walk from the main part of town, with all the nice restaurants, cafes, boutique and surf shops and the like, west toward the highway probably takes about 20-30 minutes, uphill.  Across and down the highway lay the townships.  The collection of temporary and semi-permanent settlements is where the ‘coloreds’ (those Africans who have lived in this area and mixed with the white colonists – similar to the ‘mestizos’ of Latin America) and newly settled of other African descent live. 

            So here I stand on my pedestal.  I gaze at the scene below me.  The tiled roofs of beautiful, modern homes pop out amidst the tips of trees, rolling downhill towards the bay below.  The river, coming from the ridge-toothed mountains at the very distant horizon, turning into softer rolling green hills, empties into the bay.  Rolling clouds about the hills reflect reds, oranges and yellows from the setting sun.  The waves create a never-ending break of white foam upon the shore.  

            Cars drive up and down the street that leads from town to the townships.  Groups of blacks, I don’t know if they’re coloreds or Africans, walk back up toward the highway, probably going home, probably coming from one of the many service jobs in town, or even possibly coming from an afternoon of playing in the ocean. 

            The physical positioning of myself, relaxing on a deck enjoying a drink and the view of the mountains and sea as the sun goes down, in contrast to those walking on the street below back home after a long day of work, quite literally reveals the contrast in our lives. 

            Monday through Thursday our group scatters into the various townships surrounding Plett, walking around with caretakers from the nonprofit Hospice Plett, which provides palliative care to patients with incurable diseases.  Each day we’ll visit anywhere from three to fifteen patients in their homes, often the size of one of our bedrooms.  We sit on the deteriorated second-hand couches and chairs, often covered by a blanket or sheet to hide the tears in the finishing, and watch and listen as our caretakers talk to the patients in !Khosa, gathering information since their last visit: Any new pains?  Did you take your medications today?  Blood pressure is recorded, along with blood-sugar levels.  Data jotted down.  Notes taken.  Gossip exchanged.  Next house. Next patient.

            These patients suffer from any number of the following diseases and conditions: hypertension, diabetes, TB, AIDS, cancer, paralysis due to stroke, mental illness, arthritis, elephantitis of some limb or organ, amputees, gun-shot victims, skin disease, ring worm – the list goes on and on.  Many of the patients are old; many are young.  There is one main clinic in one of the larger townships that serves three to four townships around.  Patients that go for one ailment or another when they don’t have a scheduled appointment will often be turned away.  There aren’t enough doctors.  There are 40,000 open nursing positions in S. Africa’s government run hospitals.  There aren’t enough rooms to carry the load. 

            The townships seem nice compared to the slums of India that we worked in.  The houses seem bigger; each house has its own lawn.  There are plants and trees around.  It is not crowded.  Mostly dirt roads and paths connect block after block of houses, from phase 1 (super temporary, built of mismatched wooden planks and plywood) through phase 4 (permanent, built of cement block and concrete).  The natural environment seems more incorporated into this living situation.  The sun shines.  The wind blows.  The openness of the layout seems healthier than the dark, dank squalor of some of the dwellings of families we visited in India. 

            Everyday there is a new story heard from one of the patients.  Four houses caught fire this morning.  There was a violent confrontation between two women at the clinic, one of whom was suspected of cheating with the other’s husband.  A boy across the street broke into the paralyzed woman’s house and stole her dvd player; he was on drugs and planned to sell it to get money for more drugs.  An older woman was raped by three men last week in the middle of the night.  The men were arrested and went to jail.  Bail was set at 100 rand each (about ten dollars); they were released the next day.  The police arrest some from drug use, and sell drugs to others.

            I don’t tell these stories or describe this scene to be sensational, or to paint a picture of a violent, poverty-stricken, substance-abusing people; these things happen in all cities in every country by and to every race and creed to some extent.  I tell these stories to show the contrast between these townships and the more affluent community of Plett just a stone’s throw away. 

            We spend our mornings during the week interacting with the sick in their small homes, hearing stories of violence, pain, and suffering throughout the community. 

            We spend our afternoons and weekends studying in a clubhouse overlooking the ocean, playing on the beach with the healthy and capable, taking hikes on breathtaking peninsulas, swimming with seals, visiting monkey sanctuaries, browsing the internet sipping tea at cafes, and finally retreating to our large, clean homes for a home-cooked meal and a comfortable bed to sleep on. 

            The contrast, I suppose, is easy to point out.  Most of us feel it to some degree or another.  The reasons for the contrast seem just as visible.  A brief overview of Africa’s past 500 years is pretty convincing:  a slave trade, colonization, natural resource exploitation, apartheid; all to some degree or another rooted in racism - a feeling that this world was/is for the taking by the superior races – which is itself to some degree or another rooted in the idea that our personal health and success, and that of our family and our country, must and can come before the well-being of another. 

            This contrast, which could I suppose be described as stark inequality, does not solely reside in Plettenberg Bay, or in Africa.  It resides in most communities, in most countries, where there is a mix of people of different races, some of which have power, some of which don’t.  The contrast is just as stark between San Francisco and Oakland in the Bay Area, between Russian Hill and the Tenderloin within San Francisco, between Fairfax and the Canal or Marin City in Marin County. 

            It seems that in our normal, everyday lives, we make a choice to cross the lines of that inequality or stay within the bounds of our own privilege.  Staying within the bounds of our privilege, we may remain virtually unaware of the suffering of others.  Buffered by the comforts of our nice cars and paved highways, we move from home to work, in between stopping at cafes, restaurants and shops, all there to serve us and those like us.  Never needing to face the realities that exist in the in-between spaces, underneath bridges and in the busy streets, we remain unscathed, able to continue on in our existence without the slightest acknowledgement that something is not right in this world. 

            For those however that cross those lines, you are inevitably faced with a question:  what do I do now, knowing that I have, and they have not? 

(to be continued…)