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...