"So... where did everyone go?!"

Last week I went on a field trip with my Service Learning class up the west coast to Saldanha Bay. We took a two hour bus ride north to the Military Academy. That's where we stayed the first night in huge tents. It kind of felt like summer camp, I'mnotgonnalie (yes, I am proposing that that oh-so popular and overused phrase be made into one simple, convenient and beautiful word). We aslo had a braai with some wine accompanying (naturally... I mean come on, would this still be South Africa if we didn't?).

The next day the fun started. And what sort of "fun" does one do on a Service Learning field trip, you may be asking? The garden-planting variety, of course. As a group of twenty-two students, we got to work digging up eight plots and filling them with "compost" (it was really just bagfuls and bagfuls of shredded-up paper, like someone had gone to town with the paper shredder for a couple weeks). We eventually finished up the garden, having planted eight neat little plots of carrots, cabbage, cucumber, tomatoes, etc.

The reason we were planting the garden, we were told, is that the nearby AIDS clinic realized that people had been coming in to receive their anti-retroviral treatments on an empty stomach, which totally messes everything up. The problem is the community is too poor to afford food. So they decided they would start providing food to everyone who came in (a nice soup or something) so that they wouldn't be on an empty tank when they took their meds. Good idea. So in we stepped and plopped a lekker garden right on their doorstep. We just hope it actually grows stuff (not ink-contaminated from the sketchy "compost").

After that, we went to Middelpos to do some work in the township. For any of you who don't know, townships are South Africa's ghettos where, for centuries, the whites stuck everyone else into slum-like living conditions. Seeing inside of one, even for just a day, was definitely and educational experience, if nothing else.

So as we were dropped off outside the "safe park" in Middelpos where all the local kids came for after-school care and playtime, we looked around and didn't see much around us. Most townships I've seen are on the outskirts of towns, but this one seemed to be pretty much in the middle of nowhere. So as five of my classmates and I walked up and were instantly taken in by all the kids, we turned around and saw that our whole group had completely vanished. Poof. Driven off to some other place. No words of advice or instructions, just "hear ya go, play with the kids, see ya later!" Naturally, when we realized this we were a little offput and confused. But actually, we (as a group of six white American college students dropped off in the middle of a township in South Africa) took the situation surprisingly well. Even considering all the language barriers (everyone spoke isiXhosa) we seemed to manage pretty okay for the time we spent there.

Well anyways, when I said earlier that the kids took us in as one of their own (almost), I meant it. We noticed that they had one of those mini spinning "merry-go-rounds" that are so common on playgrounds. But on a piece of playground equipment that should actually only be supporting about ten kids, there were about twice that many jam-packed on there. So we decided it would be a good idea to help spin them around. Fast. Really really fast. Only we soon realized that kids were starting to fly off or fall down underneath the thing and have everyone's flailing legs in their face. Not a good situation. So we decided we'd cool it and not break some kid's neck.

But the kids were not too keen on the whole "playing it cool" idea and instantly starting shouting the Xhosa word for "faster! faster!" Add to that, they picked up chanting the phrase "one more time!" from Corey, and you got twenty kids on a spinny thing that just wanted to be spun. So, by the wingéd feet of Apollo, they were spun. Fast. Really really fast. And even though kids were flying off left and right, they were loving it. And they were having to hang on to every inch of me in order to stay on, but I was loving it too.

And then something that our instructor had told us earlier suddenly hit me. Sixty-percent of these kids have HIV. And most of their parents have AIDS. How's that for a mind blower? And the fact that it suddenly came back to me, after I had forgotten it for an hour and had been having so much fun with these kids made me realize something else: it doesn't matter. At least not in terms of how I'm gonna treat these kids, or how I'm gonna see them as beautiful children of God just the same as everyone else. I guess you could say I had a spiritual realization right then of what it really means to love others as Christ loves us, and what our calling as Christians in this world really is. Playing with those kids for the afternoon was about as close as I've come yet during my time here to seeing the Kingdom of God become real. A pretty gnarly experience.

(Left) Laura and I with the kids on the spinny thing. They loved it. Greg is behind us playing soccer, and behind him you can see why I say "middle of nowhere"

(Right) Me a little overwhelmed. Oh well. One More Time!

Two Middelpos boys with Laura. (Yes that's a boy on the right).

(Left) Jamie posing with the kids. They were also in love with having their picture taken.

(Right) They really wanted to braid the girls' hair.

The Middelpos Hair-Braiding Salon in full-swing.

After the "safe park" (which, ironically, was just about the least "safe" park I've ever been in, considering the play equipment was either broken or not fully installed, there was broken glass and rusty metal all over the place, and ticks were everywhere) we walked through the township to the main care center to serve the kids a meal. Adding to everything that had already happened, walking through the streets of the township with kids on our shoulders and holding our hands as they sung traditional Xhosa songs was doubly gnarly.

Then after serving them a little dinner, which proved to be pure chaos and mayhem (with about 100 kids, only 40 bowls, and 6 of us dishing it out), they sang us some songs of thankfulness and parting. It was mostly in Xhosa, except for one which included parts of the Lord's Prayer, but despite my lack of understanding, it definitely brought some tears to my big manly eyes.

Then we finally got picked up by our group, drove home, and I slept for about twelve hours. All worth it, though. And if I had been feeling somewhat encapsulated by the "Stellenbosch bubble" before, this experience definitely popped me out of that sentiment.

The Radio Story

Well, I thought I would now take the opportunity to devote a whole post to the sharing of what has come to be known as “The Radio Story.” It all started last week when I was visiting Réunion. It was Wednesday, and I had the whole day to go exploring with my friend who was hosting me, Béné. We left early in the morning to go see some beaches on the southern tip of the island. While driving, though, we realized that the last remnants of Cyclone Lola were making weather conditions less than ideal. It wasn’t anything big, just a little rain and clouds. So Béné decided it would be a good idea to turn on the Réunion Island radio station, Radio FreeDOM, to listen if they would be giving out information about where there was good weather on the island.

So as we drove around for a bit, we listened as the host answered phone calls about everything from people asking questions about politics, to people putting out requests for returning lost pets. As Béné told me, the station is very popular on the island and almost everyone listens to it. She once called in when she lost her car keys and someone called the same day saying they’d found them and wanted to give them back. It’s a very “small island” kind of thing.

We continued listening as we drove, and I noticed that Béné was on the phone with someone, but thought nothing of it. Suddenly, the radio host answered another call and, to my astonishment, I heard Béné’s voice on the radio. Completely shocked that my friend had just called in and was put directly on the air, I look at her and all I could say was “QUOI?!”

Quite naturally, she started telling the radio host how she had this American friend who was visiting the island for a week and wanted to go do something where there was good weather. But as soon as the host heard that I was American, she launched out a barrage of questions asking “Where is he from? … What, Los Angeles! The City of Angels? … What, he can speak French? Is he there now? Well put him on!!”

Suddenly having the phone thrust upon me, I had no other choice but to start talking to the radio host (in my badly-accented French) about how I came to be on the island and how much I was liking it so far. It would seem that finding a tourist who wasn’t French was such a rare and exciting event that it had thrown this lady into a complete state of hysteria. After asking me a second barrage of questions, we posed our question again (which had, in fact, been the purpose of the call) asking whether there was something we could do on the island where there was good weather.

Hanging up, we listened and waited to see if anyone would call in to respond to us. Sure enough, three minutes later someone called in to respond to “Carl l’Américain” telling about how it was gorgeous over on her side of the island and that if I came over I should go to such and such restaurant to eat a traditional Réunionais Créole dish. Three minutes after that, someone else called in saying that it was great weather in St. Pierre and that I should come over and they would take me around and cook me food. And for the next hour, honestly no joke, dozens and dozens of people were calling in excitedly proposing things for Carl l’Américain to do. Each time someone would come on saying “What? Is there really an American on the island? Fabulous! Well he should come over to my place and do so and so and eat such and such!” we would roll with laughter.

Eventually, we made our way up into the mountains and got out to have a little excursion. After having a lengthy walk around the village of Cilaos, and a nice lunch (of traditional Créole food in a restaurant), we got back into the car three hours later, turned on the radio and heard “Oui, ça c’est pour Carl l’Américain…” Not knowing how this whole business could still be going on THREE HOURS later, we just looked at each other and laughed our heads off. It seemed that the radio host had taken up our cause with great determination and for each caller that called in, regardless of what they were talking about, would ask if they at least had a few words of advice for Carl l’Américain.

Seeing that I was still a main topic of conversation on FreeDOM, we decided to call in again. This time, we got on even easier than last time, and all I had to say was “Bonjour, c’est Carl l’Américain” and the radio host was going crazy over me all over again. “What? How was Cilaos? What did you do? How did you like it? What did you have for lunch? Was it not too spicy?” For some reason, she was very keen on asking if radio stations in the US were like this one, to which I said “Of course not! Radio FreeDOM is the best radio station in the world!” which seemed to bring her great joy. But honestly, I could not imagine a station like this in the States that has tens of thousands of listeners being this easy to get on by calling in. Nor would people use it as a lost and found, or announcement board, which are cool uses for a local radio station.

With this second call in, we asked whether it was good weather in the south in order for us to go and see the waterfalls of Langevin. Again, it didn’t take long for someone from Langevin to call in saying that it was beautiful and that I should definitely come down and see the waterfalls. So we did, but sadly didn’t find anyone to take us in to their home to offer us more Créole food.

But it did seem that my “celebrity status” had spread at least a little, because even a few days later, an old woman was talking to Béné about how she had heard on the radio there was this Américain staying on the island. “Yeah, and he’s even staying at MY house!” she responded. At this, the woman insisted that she make me some traditional Créole soup and gave it to Béné to give to me.

So yeah, THAT is how I got to be on the radio and became famous.