The Final Post: On Orgasms, Older People and an Ode to South Africa

Ooooooook… now that I have your attention, let me preface this post by declaring that this is not about what you think if you think it’s about me having orgasms, about older people having orgasms, nor is this my way of spicing my blog up (ironically, however, I am currently listening to Norah Jones’ “Don’t Know Why I Didn’t Come”. Not the same, I know!). Let me just take you back…

This last month in Mzansi has undoubtedly been the zenith of my experience in South Africa. From the end of April until the beginning of May, my research team and I traversed the country, again, but this time we each went to different provinces to implement training of the new parent-child dialogue model. I was dispatched to the Free State, formerly known as the Orange Free State. It was my first time in this province and indeed, it is, well… orange! The veldts are vast and a dusty red like an old-fashioned wagon hidden in the deep recesses of a garage. I’ve never seen so much land between homes as well as commercial establishments. Going “next door” in the Free State can be likened to going to the next town over, in the urban context. I arrived at the airport in the capital city of the Free State, Bloemfontein, on a very chilly and rainy fall afternoon. Free State is right over the border from Lesotho; I could see the country through the mountain range which separates the two nations. A colleague picked me up from the airport and we drove to Thaba Nchu (TAA-BAAN-CHEW), to the Black Mountain Conference Centre. It was there that I met the most unconventional group of 60 or so trainees of the new dialogue model… Gogos! ‘Gogo’ is the affectionate Black South African term for “grandmother”, but it is used to address elder women as one would say “Miss”, “Ma’am”, or “Sisi” to younger women. The HIV prevention organization for which I work has a very unique program which recruits gogos who are recognized as community leaders. These women are trained to be like social workers in their respective townships. They advocate for and often personally take care of orphans and vulnerable children (OVCs) and they liaise families and social services. Often, the gogos are the only advocates that families and OVCs can access and their presence in the community is invaluable. Almost immediately after being introduced as the National Office representative by an interpreter to the gogos, most of whom were Sotho or Tswana and did not speak much English, I became “the American girl who would marry their son”! Oh boy…

Working with gogos whose primary language is not English is eye-opening, to say the least. Without a consistent and patient attitude, much can easily be lost in translation. This I learned in an initially awkward and retrospectively amusing way. So, as a public health and HIV prevention advocate, I talk, read, listen to everything pertaining to sex for a living, right? And I speak a language that practically has a word for everything and it is very tempting for me to assume that the same follows for other people and languages. But I have learned that in some South African languages, (namely seSotho and seTswana) the vocabulary does not support the entire range of human experience. During a slide presentation at a point of the training, it came to pass that the concept of an orgasm had to be discussed. (The slide was actually an organizational billboard that compared “climax” during unprotected sex, risking HIV, etc… to achieve the ultimate climax of a healthy, long life). What no one told me, initially, was that there is no word in either of the preferred languages which is meant to describe orgasm, the act of having an orgasm, or the sensation to describe an orgasm. If one desired to express the equivalent, one had to provide the biological ins and outs of body fluid emissions during sexual peak. Very graphic. HOW AWKWARD IT IS TO EXPLAIN THIS TO A ROOM FULL OF WOMEN WHO COULD BE MY GRANDMOM!!!! How would you talk to your grandmother about what it means to cum??!!!

“Uh, Grandmom? An orgasm is… well, you see, sometimes, um….toes tend to curl… um… yeah…”. NOT!

Uncomfortable is not the word! Anyway, after getting over that hump (I’m on a roll here, lol), I retreated to my room for the evening to think about the implications of what went down (hahahahhahahha!!!! I funny…). The very fact that there does not exist a word to describe what many people consider to be the greatest out-of-mind experience in this earthly realm is not only telling of the traditional view of sex (utility, not pleasure), but has greater inferences regarding the difficulties of affecting behavior change through sexual health and prevention communications. How can entities, such as the one I represent, galvanize internalization of protective sexual behavior if language limits perception and, thus, acceptance? Not only, then, are we fighting against external social health determinants which increase vulnerability, but our job is to also instigate a battle that starts within an individual, one which challenges cultural norms and the very way that one has lived their life, how their mother and grandmothers have lived theirs and so on. I find that this fight against HIV/AIDS is not just a battle against the present for the preservation of the future. It is also the fight against the past which is the more dominating factor.

After a week and countless more marriage proposals from gogos on behalf of their sons, I returned to Jozi with a renewed dedication to sexual health in South Africa. My research project concerning parent-child dialogue about sex and sexuality had ended and it was time to complete my second project on male circumcision (MC) as an HIV prevention strategy. My task was to complete a full analysis of male circumcision in the context of HIV prevention and to also provide a policy analysis to my organization as to whether or not they should advocate in favor of MC.

Quick History Lesson: The history of ritual male circumcision in traditional African contexts predates colonization and prevails as “one of the most resilient of all traditional African practices within the urban industrialized environment”. The prevalence of male circumcision varies from 15% in Eastern and Southern African countries to a rate greater than 70% in countries including Rwanda, Tanzania, Kenya, and Ethiopia. Irrespective of the location on the continent, male circumcision is traditionally tied to cultural and religious beliefs as well as to social initiation rites. For instance, among the Xhosa of South Africa, traditional circumcision of young men usually between the ages of 15-25 years is a part of rites of passage which signifies a male’s transition from boyhood, or ubukhwenkwe, to manhood, or ubudoda. In this manner, a male is then permitted to marry, begin a family, inherit material effects, and officiate in ritualistic ceremonies. Similarly, Zulu males of South Africa had traditionally incorporated male circumcision into their sacred, esoteric manhood training. However, the practice was abandoned in the 19th century when King Shaka Zulu declared that men of warrior-age, who were otherwise dedicated to carrying out initiation rites, were instead needed to fight in the Zulu wars. The effect of continuous warfare changed the view and practice of traditional MC among numerous South African ethnic groups including the Tswana, Sotho, and Shangaan-Tsonga. (Keeys, 2010).

Days and nights were spent studying university texts and online sources, hours were utilized engaging male colleagues and some state-side male friends on circumcision, eyes went blurry studying photos and charts of circumcised and uncircumcised penises (I’ve never used the plural form of ‘penis’ before. Kind of makes me giggle), and phone lines were busy while I reached out to stakeholders, traditional leaders and MC experts on the subject. I was determined to make my final product a complete success. I even had the opportunity of visiting one of only two MC clinics in South Africa to interview clinicians and staffers for a more medical perspective (this pic is of the surgical dressing which covers a male while he is circumcised. The doc felt it necessary to illustrate) . It was at this time that I received a much needed reprieve from my research and it came in the form of my crazy cool soror, Cleo!

Cleo came to visit for eight days in mid-May. I was so excited to have my friend in town that I embarked on a very brave mission. I learned how to drive stick shift… in South African traffic… on the opposite side of the road (Thank you, Aunt Lynn, for your impromptu lessons! And thank God for his grace. “Lawd a mercy!”). After three lessons during which I probably stalled out a good 50-11 times, I was finally comfortable enough to pick girlie up from the airport, drive home, and even drive out to rural Orange Farm, Gauteng, the site of the MC clinic. I’ll let the pic do the talking (me, driving, Cleo, laughing)…

With the literature and interviews out of the way, I could go play with Cleo! After a restful night in Jozi, we flew down to Cape Town for six days where we took a trip to Robben Island, the facility which imprisoned Mandela for 18 years, hiked the beautiful Table Mountain, attended an ear-gasmic poetry slam which featured national and international spoken word artists, paraded our “Milkshakes” on stage at a karaoke venue, stuffed our stomachs with Nando’s peri-peri meals and local fish and chips, tried to act like regular South Africans at a gift bazaar, lounge-hopped on the infamous Long Street, shot the breeze and chased baby penguins at Simon’s Town, got some Jesus at a local worship centre, perused the downtown open air market, gabbed about respective hotties and experienced local transport. I am so grateful to have had a bit of home in the form of my good friend. Those memories will last me a lifetime. Thanks, Cleo!

When Cleo returned home, it was back to the grind for me. After hovering over countless documents, sources, interview notes, and the like, I completed my final report and am officially done with my work in South Africa. Bittersweet, indeed. Before I go home tomorrow, there are just some things that I’ve really learned on which I’d like to reflect. Obviously, this is not an exhausted list:

• There are 11 official languages spoken in South Africa, but, more often than not, the language of Love in the form of silence and a smile is more profound than them all.

• True love endures all things… especially long distance :-)

• While I have learned so much about this beautiful country and its people, I have learned more about me that I ever knew… and I really like her.

• Living in Africa is not as romantic as people, especially African-American, tend to believe. The dichotomy of Black and White is too simplistic to explain this journey. It’s about more than “going back to the Motherland” or about “Overcoming The Man”. If one is to do it well and with as little frustration as possible, it means learning multiple spoken and unspoken languages, understanding the social structures larger than race, and letting go of all preconceived notions of “our people”. We are dynamic and Africa is an entire continent with differing cultures internationally, between provinces, regions, ethnic groups, townships, and households.

Here is a list of things that I didn’t have in South Africa:

1. Soft pretzels

2. Non-familial affection- Can’t wait for a TALL glass of home poured Crown Royal On Ice ;-)

3. Tolerance for misogynist and racist behavior

4. The right-away as a pedestrian- You know the feeling you feel when you’re not far from home and you have to go to the bathroom really bad? The urge becomes more persistent the closer you get, so you move with greater elacrity right? It’s the same feeling that South African drivers must feel when they see a pedestrian in the crosswalk. Unreal!

5. Carol’s Daughter Loc Butter- My locs are growing so very long in this South African sun. Need to maintain the mane!

6. The luxury of being an African-American- Among people who don’t know me and who just hear my accent, I am referred to as “The American” as the social significance of “African-American” is not perpetuated here.

7. The illusion of safety- Joburg is downright crazy. I take an ironic comfort in its honest nature.

8. CP Time- Here, the reference for consistent, stereotypical unpunctuality is BP Time. Coloureds and Blacks are “different”, remember? (Refer to my first post if you’re like “huh?”).

This past week has been especially difficult for me as I have had to say goodbye to co-workers (not without partying, of course! This is a pic before drinks set in.) who have become more like family and a country which feels like home. Again, I found myself bathed with tears. While elated, or when enduring my frustrations, and lonesome times, I have experienced a deep cleansing and revitalization. From my tears, I’ve derived a greater spiritual nearness to God and have gained a deeper understanding of who “Mia” is as a result of new, albeit jarring, experiences. My tears have carried me places my before knowledge would never fathom. Talking about is never more sufficient than being about. I think of E.E. Cummings who said “birds sing sweeter than books tell how”. The South African ibis’ song woke me every morning and now I more than know what Cummings meant. In retrospect, I will miss my tears and will even miss my moments of being lonely in an unfamiliar setting. A part of me died while here and the remains of my old self are floating in the winds of the valleys of Free State and the Eastern Cape. They are in the waters of Kwa-Zulu Natal. The old me can be found in the mountains of the Western Cape and among the elements of Gauteng Province. And so, a part of me has become a part of the ever life circle of South Africa. This time did what it was designed by God to do. He who is faithful and just has completed a perfect work in me…for now. Todo gracias a Dios. I would not have been able to accomplish this endeavor without the support of my parents and siblings, extended family and close friends (especially Brit Fox!), mentors, advisors of Cheyney University, former colleagues of the Philly Health Department, my family who let me call their house home while here, and the organization that enabled my fantastic start in international public health advocacy. Finally, special thanks goes out to CVP, whose fellowship has transcended time zones and continents :-). You are loved.

My weapons (my mind, my skills, my confidence, understanding and love) are sharpened and I am more prepared for a new battle front. That new battle front will be right on the equator with a face of another sun-kissed brown hue. The language will be different and so will I, for beginning in August 2010 until May 2011, I will embark on a new journey in Indonesia as an ambassador under the auspices of the prominent Fulbright Scholarship (thanks for your support Mayla H. and Dr. Kent!). I look forward to sharing more details with you as that time approaches, so stay tuned. For now, I say, “Sanibona”. I am going home.

Work Hard, Play Hard

I’m back! It’s been a long time comin’ since my last post, but I will do my best to remedy time lost with a thorough report on my activities. As I mentioned in the last post, the end of February found me conducting research in 3 of the 9 provinces of this vast country. I am one of a four-person research team who traveled to the provinces (we covered 6 of the 9 between the team) in order to determine whether or not parents are talking with their children or youth under their care about sex and sexuality, how frequently and openly, to learn what barriers to communication exist, as well as those aspects which affect the likelihood of communication. It is well established that children of parents who engage their child in age appropriate and frequent communication are less likely to engage in risky sexual behavior or to encounter an early sexual debut. Recognizing this, the HIV/AIDS advocacy youth campaign for which I work set out to scale up its parent-child dialogue model after intense qualitative field research in the form of parent/caregiver focus groups and interviews with community stakeholders with frequent family interaction, such as police, teachers, social workers, and the like.

 First stop, KZN, aka Zululand! After an hour flight from Johannesburg to Durban, the capital city of KZN, a colleague fetched (people use this term here often) me from the airport and gave me the brief-grand tour of the ever-tropical city. From the Florida Avenue strip, famous for its innumerable restaurants, (including a rather quaint and upscale joint where people can actually smoke their joints) to the newly constructed Moses Mahbida World Cup Soccer Stadium (absolutely gorgeous, but so costly against the impoverished backdrop of nearby cities… if only some of that money went to the townships…) to the white sandy beaches of Durban City Center (spelled “Centre” in South Africa). In Durban, I met up with a female colleague who is Zulu. We traveled up and down to cities and townships along the North and South Coast of KZN to areas with melodious-sounding names, like the beachy town of Amanzimtoti, which means “sweet waters” in isiZulu; Umlazi, a very inviting Black township bursting with the spirit of community not far from Durban; Inanda, a Black township in the lush hills of KZN; Emuthalani, a rural township 3 hours from the city, and about 20 years behind Durban without running water and electricity.

Quick History Lesson: The areas known as Black townships in South Africa are predominantly located on the outmost bounds of the city centers. Apartheid residential segregation allowed Whites uninhibited access to the cities and nearby suburbs, Indians not far from the city limits, Coloureds in between Indians and Blacks, who were confined to the out skirted lands. Most substantial work for Black heads of households would be found in the cities, but the only way a Black person could work there was if their passbook (which all Black adults had to carry as dictated by the Pass Book Laws of 1952) indicated that their occupation required them to travel to the city. Even then, Blacks were required to vacate the city premises before the curfew lights came on. To this day, one can see these illuminating lights atop tall silver poles erected on the fringes of the city.  The effects of de facto segregation are also still evident.

At each site, my colleague and I were met with warmth and welcomed by the parents and community stakeholders, all of whom were Black. Each group session was recorded, pre and post surveys allocated, and vigorous notes were taken to be evaluated later. More often than not, due to my lack of local language skill, we split the focus groups in order to conduct the parent groups in isiZulu and the stakeholder groups in English. Other times, we did not. I found that in situations when I did not understand the verbal language, I identified with the nonverbal communication by closely observing body language, picking up on voice inflection and hand gestures. Most of all, I am becoming fluent in the language of silence, of smiles, frowns, laughter and affection. It is here in South Africa that the universal human language takes on a deeper meaning for me. Below are pics from one of our focus group sessions...

Our objective question was, “As parents, what elements affect your ability and willingness to speak with your child about sex and sexuality?”. Our research design enabled us to capture each response into a predetermined category such as Sex and Sexuality, Social Determinants, Peer Pressure, HIV/AIDS, Sexual Abuse and Exploitation, Cultural Taboos, Stigma, and several other relevant themes. These themes were decided upon after a thorough literature review 2 weeks prior to our field research. Without fail, each group, whether parents or stakeholders, voiced that social determinants, namely poverty, lack of access to resources, opportunity and safe space for empowerment, disables the head of household from having the wherewithal and energy to successfully engage their child in open dialogue about sex. This directly impacts that child’s vulnerability to risky sexual habits, increasing their risk of contracting HIV. Coloured parent focus groups in Western Cape towns such as Wooster, Cape Winelands, and Denova echoed the same sentiments. The same in East London, George and Motherwell; towns of the Eastern Cape. Presently, the research team is evaluating our findings, completing our research report, preparing for a formal presentation at the National Office, and designing our training manuals for facilitators who will carry out the new Parent-Child Dialogue model informed by our research. After 5 airplane flights, 4 different hotels, traveling within 3 provinces, 2 weeks of travel, and 1 shot to gather a meaningful quantity of information, I was TI-RED. Some “Me” time was definitely in order…

     (These are the skies of the Western Cape and the Eastern Cape, respectively... )

 SOOOOOOOO….. I hopped on the Baz Bus! Baz Bus is a really cool and inexpensive way to travel the whole of South Africa. It goes from town to town, hostel to hostel. I chose a two week open ticket option which allowed me to literally wake up in Johannesburg one day and go to sleep in Durban the next. I did exactly that! I spent a WONDERFULLY relaxing 4 days on the bluffs of Durban, walking barefoot on the pink sands, enjoying the crashing of waves on the shores, contemplating sunsets, collecting seashells, writing CVP poetry (it’s this hot new kind of writing that only a couple people know about ;-) ) and, of course, SURFING!!!! I made friends with some Durban hotties who taught me to ride the waves! I definitely fell more times than not, but, overall, I’m a natural and I’ve found a new pastime! My photographer kept missing me while I was standing on the board 'cause I kept falling before he could take the pic, but you get the idea)

After my beach-bumming days, I hopped a Baz Bus to Port Elizabeth in the Eastern Cape, stayed the night, then back on the bus to the ultimate destination: Capetown. Unlike my accommodations in Durban, I decided to spend my 5 days at what is rated as one of the top party backpackers (hostel) spots in the WORLD. Carnival Court is CRAZY!. I arrived at the backpackers and was so surprised to discover that my hostel was a huge club! No way I was going to get any sleep there… oh well! First night, I met a motley crew of musicians who showed me an awesome time. From lounge-hopping, late night concerts and comedy shows, to picnics (I usually don’t use this word…) and playing soccer on the beach, visiting the Robben Island Museum, Capetown Aquarium, and visiting the most beautiful botanical gardens in Kirstenbosch, to chasing African penguins and other fun stuff that I won’t write about ‘cause my parents read this post (lol!!), I had an absolutely unforgettable time in Capetown!! Whew!! Spent and dreaming of my own bed, I made my way back to Jozi. For my life, I will never forget that trip.

   "Hey, lil' buddy!" I half excepted him to start dancing, like in Happy Feet :-)

Above: Me and my homie, Tyler, headed to the Botanical Gardens

Below: The beautiful Boulder Beach in Cape Town

Aside from the physical journey, I am truly experiencing a metaphysical process that tests my spiritual resolve. Residing in a country that is comparatively more recently liberated from legal racial divides (at least in name) conjures a range of very intense emotions. One that I have been grappling with, often, is that of anger. As a stubborn child, my mother reared me on the biblical scripture that says “be quick to listen, slow to anger, and slow to speak”. Over the years, this scripture has been my mantra and prayer. I’ve kept these admonishments in mind. In observing South Africa, my eyes have become ever acute to social conditions that anger me, slowly, but anger me nonetheless. For example, I found myself quite perturbed by the inhumane behavior of the rotund and balding middle-aged White supervisor at the local grocery store, who manhandled the slender Black maintenance man, vice-gripping his upper arm and pulling him to the spot where the supervisor demanded the worker continue his labor. I watched, appalled, from the till (cashier line), as the White man treated the Black man as a livid father would an insolent child. The Black man quietly acquiesced to the maltreatment with probable thoughts that if he did not, it would mean his job; a harder pill to swallow than humiliation and an affront to his manhood. No one else in the store seemed to notice…

I am angered by the undeniably racist attitudes of the residents of my aunt’s mostly White estate complex who continuously ask me, “Do you live here?”. What I want to say is:

“[INSERT CHOICE EXPLICATIVE HERE]! Do you?!” But then I have a brief “WOOO-SAAAAH” moment, remind myself to be slow in my anger and greet them as neighbor. Many still ignore me in passing as they do most the other Black South Africans on the estate grounds, who are mostly clad in the customary head scarf and apron of the domestic worker or nanny and the one piece jumper and matching bucket hat of the gardener.

My anger isn’t conjured on racial terms alone. Misogyny is alive and well. Most recently, I was inflamed and literally reduced to physical retaliation against a minibus driver (all of whom are Black males). The other day, I left work midday because I had become ill. It is always a feat to get home on these contraptions, but it is especially difficult to catch a minibus during off-peak hours because drivers will not leave the pick-up spot until there is a minimum of 7 riders. After 15 nauseating minutes (literally) of waiting alone on this minibus, I spotted another one headed in my direction. I summoned my waning energy and caught the attention of the minibus driver, whom I’ll call “B”. Before I could get on, Minibus Driver A barricaded the sliding door with his arm.

Me: Excuse me, brother, but I am getting on the bus.

Driver A: You will not. You are my costumer.

Me: Brotha (notice the quick drop of the proper “er”. The Philly jawn in me tends to come out when I’m being tested. I’m a Gemini, y’all!), I am not well today and have no time to argue. Please remove your arm…

Driver A: I do not care. (To Driver B: some words I cannot fully understand, but he was basically forbidding me to get onto the minibus because I was “his” fare).

At this point, Driver A attempts to steer me back to his minibus by grabbing my right wrist. I wrangle free and push him, hard. He recoils, obviously surprised, and then comes back at me. This time, I hit him in the face, open the door, and jump into minibus B and slam the door. At this point, all resolve goes out the back window of minibus B, “Philly Jawn Mia WhoseMamaWasRaisedInTheBronx” tells Driver A “what he can do where and how he can stick it” for putting his hands on me! The whole time, Driver B and the other passengers are lookin’ real dumbfounded, and it isn’t until we drive off that they seem all disgusted and concerned.

I am SO human!! So beautifully flawed and growing in my circumstances, but not without a couple setbacks. So, continue to pray for me. Another thing is that I am so very sensitive these days! Call it being more spiritually in-tune, maybe my sights are even more acute to the plight of those who suffer or maybe I’m softer because I miss my loved ones, or maybe I’m just the stereotypical emotional woman. Either way, I find that I cry for others more easily these days. I don’t mean I just start bawling out of the blue. I mean, my heart wells up with empathy, sorrow, love, unfiltered emotion, I am rendered to silence, and quiet tears run down my face, uncontrollably. Since I’ve been here, I’ve cried for that woman I saw in the minibus (refer to previous post if you’re confused), I cry for the shoeless street kids who loiter the crowded intersections in tattered clothes with signs that say, “Please feed me”, I cry for the 5.3 million people in this country who are HIV+, I cry for the children of my racist neighbors who emulate their ignorant parents, I cry even for Driver A who thought it acceptable to treat a woman with disrepute and Driver B who didn’t want to intervene so as not to cause bad blood between himself and another driver. I cry because so many people in this world will never know what it means to really love and be loved or lost love and feel that they can never find it again, I cry because this country is absolutely breath-taking and crying is the only worthy response to God’s creativity, and I cry because my tears won’t do a damn thing to truly help those in need and it makes me feel very small. But I cry anyway, because, in a way, it really feels good to cry for someone else who is no longer sensitive enough to cry for themselves or others. It reminds me that life is still….well, alive.

So, when’s the last time you cried for someone? Maybe not shedding tears, but when did you last allow your heart to go out to someone whom you do not know? If you did, what did you do about it? 

Not sure what I'll write about next, but I will write again soon. Much love...

Happy V-Day (I know, I'm a lil late) !!!

“You’re contagious, touch me baby, give me what you’ve got. Sexy lady, drive me crazy, drive me wild…”

-Ron Isley

To the lovers, those who love love, those who’ve lost love, loved ones, e’rbody… Happy Valentine’s Day from Johannesburg!! At this time of year, we customarily exchange tokens of infatuation, make exclamations of undying passion for our object of affection, write inspiring romantic poetry, spend ungodly amounts of money on flowers that may or may not last longer than 2 days, gorge on expensive dark chocolates (my preference, hint-hint fellas!), hum love songs, send those notes that say :

Is you is or is you ain’t my baby? Yes? No? Maybe?

And every year, undoubtedly, in emotional seconds (maybe minutes) of heated passion, babies are intentionally or unintentionally conceived on the evenings of St. Valentine’s Day probably to “baby makin’” songs by the likes of R. Kelly, Jill Scott’s latest, Maxwell (even though you KNOW you can’t understand a word he says, but he’s nice to look at!), Luther, Marvin, and, the guru of love making songs, Ronald Isley.

While I was on the minibus to work earlier this week (sweating buckets in that inferno and praying profusely for safe passage!), Isley’s song, “You’re Contagious” comes on the radio. Mumbled melodies of the lyrics softly escaped the lips of some of my fellow bus riders. As we ambled along, the bus driver stops to pick up a woman who looks to be in her mid-thirties. Short, brown hair, purple leggings and a yellow and black top that slides a bit off her left shoulder. She proceeds to enter through the front door of the van, only to stop midway, asking the driver for a “favor”. Apparently, she doesn’t have fare to get to Randburg. I’ve never seen a driver pull off so fast, leaving her forlorn on the curb. All the while, Ron Isley plays in the background. Traffic was especially heavy this morning, and not long after the driver denied the woman passage, he asked everyone to get off the bus and find another bus to Randburg. I’m used to this by now and quickly flagged down another bus. To my surprise, the purple-legged woman was napping in the front seat! When the bus reaches the taxi rank, I am the second to last passenger to get off, so I hold the door open for the woman, who is the last. She shakes her head. Now, I’m confused, because everyone, except the driver, is supposed to get off at this particular unloading spot, lest you have permission to enter the “bus drivers only” vicinity. Then it hit me… she didn’t have money and asked the bus driver (male) to do give her a ride as a favor. But it was she who was, in fact, going to give the driver a favor. My heart went out to the desperate woman while watching over my shoulder as the driver and the woman disappear behind the bus depot...

Thinking of that woman later that day, how ironic it was that “You’re Contagious” was playing on the radio that same morning. In my mind, I thought of what a literal translation of the song could mean in the South African context where 5.35 million predominantly heterosexual people have HIV. While it is not a “contagious” condition like a cold or TB (the virus cannot exist on its own and in the open, so one cannot contract it by kissing, sitting on toilet seats, hugging, shaking hands, etc) it is definitely spread through the exchange of bodily fluids, namely semen, vaginal fluid, blood, and breast milk. Among HIV/AIDS prevention and advocacy organizations, the “feminization of HIV/AIDS” is a predominant topic. In South Africa, HIV/AIDS affects 1 in 5 women. That woman’s face burns in my psyche. She may or may not be infected, but considering that she was willing to engage in risky casual sexual behavior in exchange for a 20 minute ride in a stank bus with a man whom she does not know and he does not know her, imagine what she may expose herself to on other occasions. Simultaneously, I think of my female friends and loved ones who are reading this blog post and those who aren’t. To you all, I say that if you are sexually active and not married, dual contraception is the message that I hope you take away from this post. Ladies, birth control alone will not protect you from a condition which you cannot give back like an unwanted gift from an ex or throw away like dead Valentine’s Day roses. Condoms, when used properly, will safeguard you, sexually. However, considering that they are not foolproof, I encourage you all (male and female readers) to give yourself a gift this Valentine’s Day. GET TESTED FOR HIV! Take time to get to know that person that you wish to be in a relationship with before you start “relating” if you do so at all. If you are in a monogamous relationship, I encourage you and your partner to get tested on a regular basis, not because you shouldn’t trust each other, but because you should trust each other enough to show it. Take heart in this Zulu word, meaning “love yourself”.

So today I think not solely of the numerous love children who are conceived on Valentine’s Day, but more so about the 30,000 innocent South African babies who will be born HIV+ in 9 months due to Mother to Child Transmission (MTCT).

And to my religious readers… I hope that you do not see this post as something that is not applicable to you as well. Even if you are not engaging in risky sex, I guarantee that someone close to you is. Be a living example for them, get tested, have frank discussions with peers, kids, friends, whomever about sex and sexuality. NO ONE is too young or old to at least converse about it. Abstinence messages and virginity pledges alone do not work. Reinforce these discussions with practical and appropriate information told not in a way to scare or condemn but to inform. As I’ve attempted to illustrate in this post, even if they aren’t hearing about sex from talking with you about it, “IT” has infiltrated pretty much everything, especially our music and media (thanks, Ron Isley). So if they aren’t getting the truth and example from you, who and where do you think they are getting it from (cause they’re definitely gettin’ it!)? This is the part where Keenan Ivory Wayans’ mailman character from Don’t be a Menace would pop out and say, “MESSAGE!”(shoutout to Josh!).

SOOOOOOO, speaking of Valentine’s Day, my office had a cute celebration on Friday during lunchtime. They went all out by setting up a DJ playing love songs in the courtyard, secured a comedy group to entertain staff, and designed lil’ games with prizes for staff to engage in, like “Describe your first kiss” for the females and “Tell us your worst pickup line” for the guys. In my personal experience since I’ve been here, some of the men have really and pitifully tried to pick me up. Unlike the lines I hear in the states, these men get straight to the point. For instance, I met a guy whom we’ll call Abdul. Our conversation went like this:

Abdul: My African Queen, I am Abdul.

Me: Hello, Abdul.

Abdul: I work in town.

Me: Good for you, Abdul (I’m clearly agitated)

Abdul: Let’s go out. Give me your number.

Okay, pause. Lol! At this point, I’m cracking up to myself because he obviously had no intention other than getting’ wit me and, ironically, I appreciated his curt approach for it clearly indicated his goal. No sugar coating with talks of how beautiful my hair is or like flattering comments. Didn’t ask my name, age, nothing that would inform him about me, individually. Most other encounters are similar. I find the manner of most of the men to be abrasive and aggressive. So, recently, I’ve taken the advice of one of my sage mentors and good sorors.

No, I am not affianced, but it seems to be somewhat of a repellent for unwanted advances… SOMEWHAT. Needless to say, no South African dip jawns for me (that’s for you, Brit!)!

Not all the male species that I’ve encountered are total tools. I’ve met very fascinating individuals in meaningful settings that clue me in to a least a modicum of their character. The guys at my job are delightful and have even given me a Zulu name, “Mbali”, meaning Rose. They also have other affectionate nicknames for me, one being “Obama’s daughter”, since I am the only American in the office. I also could not have asked for more enjoyable male tour guides and companions during my weekend excursion and bicycle tour in the historical township of Soweto.

Quick history lesson: SO(uth)WE(stern)TO(wnship) is to the southwest of Johannesburg, hence the name. Aside from its quaint matchbox housing structures, and the great Orlando stadium, Soweto is known around the world as the site of one of the most disturbing and outrageous responses to what was intended to be a peaceful demonstration. On June 16, 1976, high school students of the township set out to protest against the new Bantu Education Act, another horrendous apartheid law which required that Black school children would solely be instructed in the language of Afrikaans, the predominant language of White South Africans. The Minister of Native Affairs (subsequently Prime Minister), Dr. Hendrik Verwoerd, declared “Natives must be taught from an early age that equality with Europeans is not for them.” Essentially, his reasoning was that Blacks needed to know the language in order to understand and follow menial orders from Whites. Close to 20,000 school-uniformed students marched in droves to Orlando West Secondary School where they planned to sing their national anthem, Nkosi Sikeleli ‘iAfrika (God Bless Africa). Much to their surprise and demise, barricades, armed police officers and angry dogs waited for the coming crowd. The police ordered the youth to disperse. When the youngsters refused, police sicced dogs on the students and let tear gas rain on the crowd of innocents. Students retaliated by throwing stones at their perpetrators. Suddenly, policemen drew their guns, and fired deadly shots at the surging crowd of youth. The picture below is of young slain Hector Pieterson, the first among many students to die in the struggle against apartheid in Soweto (his sister, who is still alive, runs alongside). 

Prior to coming to South Africa, I delved into much literature about such historical atrocities, but nothing spoke more volumes than actually biking the streets of Soweto, a section of which is also home to Nelson Mandela, Desmond Tutu, and the woman who wrote that song, “In the Jungle, the mighty jungle the lion sleeps toniiiiiiiiight. OH-WEEEEEEEEEEE….” (btw, did you know that song is about revolution and not really about a sleeping lion?! Google it!). Here are some pics of my journey and of the cute and colorful backpackers establishment where I stayed for the weekend. Shout out to Lebo’s Soweto Backpackers!

(on the right) "One of these things is not like the other..."
 
 

 Outside on the the local shebeens, pronounced SHI-BEANS, (which is pictured below), we share in the celebrating the ancestral spirits by drinking spirits! The traditional beer that I'm sipping is made from maize and sorghum. And, a shebeen is most comparable to what people in the U.S. would call a jukejoint. Shebeens were once illegal means of augmenting one's income, particularly during the days of apartheid.

To the left is an example of the matchbox houses of Soweto. This particular house is the home of the woman who sings that song I was talking about...

This is a little boy who was intent on completing his self hand made car replica. This genius child gathered scraps of metal and made his own toy (this makes me think of a Langston Hughes poem, "No love for the genius child". google it!)

 This is a view of a typical Soweto street in the area known as Zone 1. Matchbox houses and commercial structures flank each side of the walkway.

I have so many other stories and pics to share and hope to do so over time. Until then, I am glad for all of the comments and positive feedback I am receiving. Keep it coming! It helps to keep me going too. (If you leave a comment, don't forget to sign your name in your message 'cause I can't see who all of you are!). Watch  out for the next post about me conducting research in Durban and Capetown and then gettin' my surf on! Peace and love from the Mothaland...

The Beginning

Genesis 12: 1 “Get out of your country, from your family and from your father’s house, to a land that I will show you…I will bless you and make your name great; and you shall be a blessing..”

Sanibona (isiZulu for “Hello”) from Johannesburg, South Africa! I have been in Jozi (as it is affectionately called by young South Africans) since Jan. 11, 2010. Already, this new year has certainly presented a new location, challenges, and perspective for me. Three weeks into my journey and I feel myself settling in quite well. However, my transition has not been and is not without numerous, um, shall I say, “experiences” thus far…

First eye-opening experience occurred well before I even landed on South African soil. Midway through my 17 hour flight from Dulles Airport to Dakar, Senegal to Johannesburg, my salt and pepper-haired seat mate, a White woman from Cape Town, decided to engage me in conversation. Engage is a generous verb, in this case. You know the type of people who talk so fast and so much that they don’t really give the receiver a chance to reciprocate conversation? Yeah, she was THAT person. Anyway, she could not have possibly heard my voice in her deluge of words long enough to place my accent to a particular part of the world, but her line of conversation clued me into the fact that she assumed that I was:

1. South African

2. from Cape Town; and

3. Coloured


(Let me interrupt this story with a Quick History Lesson) South Africa has a very rigid and hierarchical race classification structure, predominantly perpetuated by apartheid laws of the past Nationalist Party of South Africa (for more info, look up “South African apartheid laws 1949-70, 1913, 1923). By law, one was classified as White, Indian, Coloured, or Black (the privileged to the disenfranchised). One’s racial status through law determined where one could or could not live, work, attend school, and what kind of education one could learn. This racial distinction dictated who one could or couldn’t marry, what sort of professional or trade skills one could acquire, and whether or not one could vote, among other depravities. Very similar in theory and practice to Jim Crow segregation of the States. And, just like segregation between Whites and Blacks in the US, apartheid spawned a culture of inequality, unequal resource distribution, and disempowerment of the darker peoples. Generations of living subservient to those whom the law deemed superior manifested not only in physical aspects of poor housing conditions, under-developed educational facilities, the deliberate breakdown of family structures, etc… but also the internalization of inferiority, anger, fear, and hopelessness for many. Like Pavlov’s concept of conditioning, the lower races became synonymous with terms like uneducated, unemployed, thieves, dishonest, unintelligent, and unsophisticated. Those considered “Coloured” were considered one step up from “Black”.*

*I’ve used the past tense in this paragraph, but many stereotypes remain the same today

How was a distinction made between the two groups, you ask? By very trivial and Willie Lynch type of division tactics highlighting physical features determined by a “racial advisory board”, like:

• Coloureds have sloping shoulders and shoulder blades

• Blacks have tighter-coiled hair and walk with slumped backs

• Coloureds are neater in appearance than Blacks and are lighter-skinned

And the list goes on and on! (I suggest reading Mark Mathabane’s Kaffir Boy
[shout out to Mayla H!] or Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom for more insight). Now, considering that the Nationalist party wasn’t voted out of power until 1994, it goes without saying that stereotypes of each group still prevail. Back to my story…

This woman on the plane didn’t know me, hadn’t heard me say anything that would signify where I’m from. But, she took one look at my neat locs, (which grow in a loose curl pattern), my brown skin, noted that I had the resources to travel from the States to South Africa, and may have noticed that I chose fish over chicken for my meal (because all true “Blacks” eat chicken, right?) and decided that I was not Black, but Coloured. “Welcome to South Africa, Mia…”

I received a different reaction from the Black South African airport staff when I landed. As soon as I stepped into the airport lobby, many began speaking to me in isiZulu (there are 11 official languages spoken in South Africa, including English). isiZulu is commonly spoken by South African Blacks, so to those whom I’ve encountered, I am immediately addressed not in English, but in whatever mother tongue I am assumed to speak. Many are taken aback when I answer in English. Kind of how in the States, it may be expected that those we meet must speak the language of the land, huh? Food for thought…

Johannesburg, South Africa is not the city that many uninformed individuals would associate with sterotypical  “Africa” as perpetuated in media. It is not jungle-laden, people do not wear loin-clothes or swing in trees like Tarzan. Like many other regions of the continent, however, it is not without its social challenges. Yes, South Africa probably has the highest prevalence of HIV/AIDS in the world, with stats tripling those of India and doubling neighboring Zimbabwe. This issue compounded by seemingly lack of opportunity for many young South Africans who drop out of school for myriad of reasons, poor delivery of services such as water and electricity in surrounding rural and urban settings, like Orange Farm (pictured above) , and the underlying criminal element drives some to desperate measures. But the spirit of the country, the creativity especially of youth, and the countless initiatives promoting policy changes and individual uplift prevail. As the largest industrialized city of the continent, Johannesburg is very much like a Philadelphia or D.C. as far as its metropolitan district is concerned. People dress as those in Western societies, for the most part. Much of American music is blasted from car radios (and most sounds just as ridiculous here as it does in the States) Unlike Philadelphia or D.C., it does not have skyscrapers, many sidewalks, or SEPTA (or Metro). Which brings me to the topic of my next “experience”…………..transportation.
Until June, I am residing with my family who live in Fourways, Johannesburg which can be likened to what Chestnut Hill is to Philadelphia or what Silver Spring is to D.C. However, the HIV/AIDS prevention campaign and advocacy organization for whom I work is located in the Sandton area (metropolitan district) of Jozi. By car, it takes 25 minutes to get from Fourways to Sandton, without traffic, and 45 minutes with. During my first week, the organization generously provided a driver to take me to and from work. In this way, I could become familiar with the route. The second week, I was left to my own devices. Without a car, I have braved the local informal public transportation option: the taxi-bus.

These taxis are really just very old minivan type vehicles that fit 16 averaged-sized individuals comfortably. The taxis I’ve been on are holding more like 18-20 people! Like SEPTA or Metro, the taxis run between the major residential areas and the business districts. Unlike Septa, there aren’t any designated street routes to which taxi drivers must adhere, which means there are no predetermined pickup/drop-off stops either! To get off, one must holler, “AFTA ROBOT!” or “BEFORE ROBOT!”, to the driver (robot=traffic light). Fare, which is between 8-10 Rand, equal to about $1.20-$1.50, is not handed directly to the driver, but is passed to the person in front of you who may pass it to someone else who gives it to the driver. And God help you if you do not have exact change or at least small bills! You risk not getting change back unless the driver or someone on the taxi has it. If you sit in the front row with the driver, you are expected to not only handle the money on the driver’s behalf, but you better be good at math because you must count all the money that is given compared to the number of people on the bus, as well as make sure that all have paid and are given the correct change. PLUS, that front seat assistant has to be able to communicate with passengers in isiZulu!

A passenger has to be vigilant of where the driver is actually driving before boarding the taxi and while driving. For instance, to get to work, I have to catch a taxi from Fourways to Randburg and transfer at Randburg to another taxi to Sandton. To get onto the first taxi, I must walk about a mile to the main road (far in the distance as illustrated in pic on right), stand on the corner, and fashion my right thumb and pointer finger into the shape of a lower-case “r” indicating that I want to go to Randburg. To get to Fourways, one holds up four fingers. Other signals I’ve seen (but haven’t figured out yet), are the “three fingers up, thumb and pointer in O shape” sign, the “right fist over left fist” sign, and the “upside-down number 1” hand signal. Initially, I was not aware of the hand signs and figured that all taxis went down the main road. WRONG! The first time I tried the taxi, I ended up in downtown Jozi, about 20 minutes from where I needed to be. Getting off a taxi is a greater challenge. One would expect that drivers take the same route back, but in the opposite direction. Another incorrect assumption! Once, a driver went waaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy past the stop I am accustomed to getting off at. Fuming, I marched uphill about 2 miles back to my stop (good thing I carry “commuter shoes”!). I learned the hard way that TAXI DRIVERS MAKE UP THEIR OWN ROUTE! Not only do they stray from the roads previously taken, but they make up their own road rules too! Sometimes, drivers may even decide that they do not want to continue driving to their destination and simply turn back around, making all passengers get out! They drive on designated pedestrian areas, on road shoulders, up hills on the sides of roads, cut in front of unsuspecting fellow drivers, run red lights, drive in turning lanes and then come dangerously close to ramming into other automobiles as they cut back into straight lanes, and speed like demons, all to avoid traffic and maximize the time they have to make more money. All the while, I hold on for dear life, try to look unaffected and not out of place, and adjust to the fact that people drive on the left and not the right side of the road. However, as crazy and unpredictable as the taxis are, they do get me where I need to go. (Here's my view from the back of a taxi).

Overall, I am very much enjoying myself and this vitamin-D rich atmosphere! One benefit to being without the comforts of familiarity is that I can concentrate on my spiritual, personal, and professional development without distraction of my cell phone, unlimited access to email, my car, or even relationships with people who are more distracting than anything else. Instead, much of my time outside of work, hanging with the family, or church, is spent alone and in silence, meditation, prayer, exercising, admiring myself in the mirror , reading, walking outside observing God’s African artwork of nature, getting lost in the street markets, spontaneous dancing (again, in the mirror) in the privacy of my room, and just listening to the outside and within. I am thoroughly enjoying my company.

Being quiet is one of the best ways I am able to commune with God, focus my thoughts on that which I feel ordained to pursue. True, one does not have to travel great physical distances to pursue peace and settings which inspire introspection, but it certainly does help. In my contemplation, I wonder what tomorrow will bring as a result of my today. Will I make a career out of international public health? Will I want to continue traveling or return home right away? Am I doing the right thing? What about my family and friends? Will my future significant other be revealed to me in this time? Through the process of time, all will happen as it is supposed to. I am currently reflecting on Kahlil Gibran’s concept of Time, as explained in The Prophet: “…if in your thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all other seasons, and let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing…” I’m looking forward to what this season of my life will yield. Peace and Love…

Stay tuned for the next post! Topics I’ll be writing on will include my adjustment to South African lingo and languages, bicycle backpacking through the historical township of Soweto, and my encounters with the South African man!