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!