The price tag read forty-seven Namibian dollars ($7 US) for a tacky South Africa soccer ball at the local Pick n’Pay. Sam gave me fifteen dollars, not half of forty-seven, and said we should get it. I didn’t feel particularly good about being sucked into paying for two thirds of the ball, especially since I would always be using it with someone at least twice as good as me at soccer. Needless to say, we got it, and it was magical.
The first test of our new ball took place immediately after the purchase. Sam and I walked down to the beach and began passing while the wind blew veraciously off the Atlantic. Our first soccer session ended with little excitement and we walked back up the streets to meet our group. As we walked a number of men would signal for the ball and we would pass it to them only to watch a few standard ball handling skills and then receive the ball back to continue our walk. We moved on with our tour of Swakopmund and soon enough we found ourselves running around, arms spread, celebrating goals we had scored on a make shift goal at an after school program Walvis Bay. The ball was already beginning to egg but it didn’t matter. The more the ball expanded into an oval, the more people it drew. After our last stop of the day, at another mine funded youth program, we started a game of keep away with a group of six or seven kids on the street. The streets on the coast of Namibia are wide and constructed with a mixture of clay, mud and dirt. We formed a large circle in the vacant street and began to pass around the man/boy in the middle. Style and skills were a must, for just passing it was far too easy, for them… I threw the ball in the air and tested my slowly improving soccer skills yet usually ended up in the middle. The young shoeless kids, maybe 11 or 12 would use all of their favorite tricks and cut quickly around the road, desperately trying not to lose the ball. The game went on for quite some time until we were called to get back in the van, only to sit there sweating as I yearned for Passat to drive faster so the wind could race through the window and erase the beads of sweat on my face. As the van pulled up to our backpackers hostel right on the water, Sam and I turned simultaneously and said “ocean.” We ran in and changed into our suits and ran down the street toward the freezing water and howling wind. Sam was a few strides ahead of me, as usual, and was in the water before I could feel the sand on my feet. Consequently I was standing there questioning if wanted to feel as cold as I could tell Sam was. That said, I jumped in and was it terrible but mostly enjoyable. People walking by looked at us like we had just figured how to get out of our straight jackets but it didn’t matter, when in Africa right… We then met a group of Namibian students who were in training to become teachers and also testing the temperature of the water on the beach. It was too cold for them and it quickly became Sam and my job to fill up their jugs full of salt water, which we were told had some special use in the rural north. And of course as our day had gone, we began playing soccer with the group. We juggled and laughed around the circle while the waves would rush up and usually wipe the ball away. You’d think we’d be “soccered-out,” as I was, but Sam still had some left and he spent the next hour juggling with the owner and a guest of our hostel. Our days in Swakopmund continued on pace with our first and in turn they were fantastic and full of new encounters and ever improving juggling skills. The power of the soccer ball and sports has struck me more than just in Swakopmund. I see it three times a week when I intern at Physically Active Youth (PAY) and I even see it in every day interactions at home and in Africa.
People often separate themselves by those teams or sports they support, yet it is only when we remove these divisions and rivalries that we find the true power of sport. Sport is universal, it is a language, it is a great insight into a culture while also being a great venue to enter one. This was never more apparent than the connection Sam had with a deaf man who supported his beloved Liverpool at our hostel. A group of us sat in front of the minuscule TV watching the red of Liverpool dash across the screen while the deaf man pointed to the patch on his shirt as Sam did the same. The two shared thumbs ups and smiles throughout the game, and although it ended undesirably, they both agreed silently, there is always next year….
Our soccer ball introduced us to probably 20 or 30 people is Swakopmund while at the same time it helps teach kids at PAY necessary life skills like honesty and how to lose. Ideally the purchase of our $7 dollar soccer ball will continue to be the catalyst of many more relationships and juggling sessions but most importantly it will hopefully even teach us a few life skills along the way.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Shebeen Scene
I apologize for not updating my blog for quite some time. I could tell you that I didn’t have good Internet or was busy but then I would be lying. After a month in Africa, which is hard to believe, Windhoek is starting to feel more comfortable and I’m actually growing quite fond of the place. It is small, yet extremely diverse and there is a lot to do. I spent ten days at an urban home-stay in Dorado Park, which is a good, not great, neighborhood in Windhoek. My little sister, Ndeshi, and I spent lots of time with each other and got a long very well. My host mother and father were gone for the entire 10 days, so Ndeshi and I essentially just made meals and watched the US Open on commercial breaks of her MTV shows. Nadal!! My older brother Victor was a wonderful guy, but was unfortunately only around for a day and half. We spent most of one day preparing for a braai (BBQ), where we enjoyed some wonderful spiced beef as well as some shrimp, which I prepared and no one had ever had before. The “prawns” were a hit. We ate the meal as we watched TV with their Oshivambo grandmother, from very rural northern Namibia, who was convinced that the people on TV could see her. Aside from her connection with the Namibian soap opera stars, she was quite disappointed that I did not speak Oshivambo and that I never brought her beer. She did although make me try her home brew of beer, which sat in a bucket in the kitchen bubbling at room temperature. Surprisingly it wasn’t terrible and was quite strong. There was a never a doubt in my mind that grandma could drink me under the table.
Victor, 23, owns a shebeen jukebox in one of the informal settlements of Katatura. He also owns his own shebeen (corrugated tin shack bar), but its doors have been locked due to a bad business partner. Most importantly, it was time to collect the money from his Juxebok, so he brought me along. We headed out in our tiny car (visualize my knees touching my chest), fully loaded with zebra print seat covers and home made cheetos on the dash. Immediately upon arrival to the shebeen and absurdly large bottle of Windhoek Larger was placed in my hand, it was cold and I had no problem with the excessive volume. Victor greeted the owner and proceeded to open the juxebox and grab the colossal amount of single Namibian dollar pieces. We took the box of change into the back room, someone’s home and bed, and counted out $874 Namibian dollars. No talking, all business, and then we left. Victor is a public prosecutor, seriously.
Classes are in full swing and are all quite interesting. That said, they are each four hours and without fail get boring towards the end. Class structure itself is very discussion based and it is rare if we don’t have at least one speaker each class. We also visit many sites and museums during class, which helps break it up.
My internship at PAY remains a source of joy and excitement. Not to mention getting out of the CGE house!! I am both enjoying and struggling through tutoring students at PAY. Most kids are eager to learn but aren’t always focused and are often more interested in joking with friends. It is not uncommon for me to have a number of students between grades 8 and 10 who cannot read. Each sports coordinator or volunteer at PAY has their own team which plays both soccer and basketball games. I am happy to report that I am undefeated as a coach and pulled out a tough victory against my rival coach Big Mike, who is the Namibian College MVP basketball player.
Today most of the group got in the van and drove out to this beautiful Lake Oanob Resort, about an hour away from Windhoek, and spent the day swimming and hanging out by the beach. No complaints…
Victor, 23, owns a shebeen jukebox in one of the informal settlements of Katatura. He also owns his own shebeen (corrugated tin shack bar), but its doors have been locked due to a bad business partner. Most importantly, it was time to collect the money from his Juxebok, so he brought me along. We headed out in our tiny car (visualize my knees touching my chest), fully loaded with zebra print seat covers and home made cheetos on the dash. Immediately upon arrival to the shebeen and absurdly large bottle of Windhoek Larger was placed in my hand, it was cold and I had no problem with the excessive volume. Victor greeted the owner and proceeded to open the juxebox and grab the colossal amount of single Namibian dollar pieces. We took the box of change into the back room, someone’s home and bed, and counted out $874 Namibian dollars. No talking, all business, and then we left. Victor is a public prosecutor, seriously.
Classes are in full swing and are all quite interesting. That said, they are each four hours and without fail get boring towards the end. Class structure itself is very discussion based and it is rare if we don’t have at least one speaker each class. We also visit many sites and museums during class, which helps break it up.
My internship at PAY remains a source of joy and excitement. Not to mention getting out of the CGE house!! I am both enjoying and struggling through tutoring students at PAY. Most kids are eager to learn but aren’t always focused and are often more interested in joking with friends. It is not uncommon for me to have a number of students between grades 8 and 10 who cannot read. Each sports coordinator or volunteer at PAY has their own team which plays both soccer and basketball games. I am happy to report that I am undefeated as a coach and pulled out a tough victory against my rival coach Big Mike, who is the Namibian College MVP basketball player.
Today most of the group got in the van and drove out to this beautiful Lake Oanob Resort, about an hour away from Windhoek, and spent the day swimming and hanging out by the beach. No complaints…
Friday, September 3, 2010
Windhoekin'
Baboons on the side of the road were definitely not what I was envisioning when arriving in Windhoek, but sure enough there they were. The land (desert) is dry, rough and barren. Oddly enough there are a fair amount of hills and small mountains, which cause it to appear not that different from some Arizona landscapes. The town itself is quite nice and very small. In fact most of the time, it feels almost like a ghost town. That said, the nightlife is really fun and very active, yet once you leave the bar or club, you see no one. I am in a large Center for Global Education owned house in Windhoek West with 22 other students. It is very simple and safe with a great pool and lounging area in the back. We are within walking distance of the main streets and shopping center of downtown. The group feel is a bit overwhelming but something I’m sure we will all get used to it. We have no other choice. The city feels comfortable and manageable but not always safe. When it small groups it feels fine but walking alone to places seems very questionable. The people I have met here already are all incredibly nice and welcoming. I had my first day of work at Physically Active Youth (PAY), which is an amazing after-school program helping kids with academics, life skills and sports. After only one day I can tell the kids, staff and program will be a very important to me for many years to come. The kids are adorable and so eager to learn while the staff is just as eager to help and give it everything they have with very little in return. It has been inspiring at every turn. I start my 10-day urban home-stay tomorrow with a family of four. I will be staying with a them at their house in Dorado Park, not too far away from our program house. They have a 22 year old son and a 15-year-old daughter. I anxiously await my arrival and learning about everyday family life in Windhoek, and I hope to form a good relationship with my family. It is getting hot and I am still waiting to see my first Namibian cloud….
Saturday, August 28, 2010
The Streets are on Fire
The first thing you notice about Southern Africa (in the winter) is the burned and blackened side of the road. Hundreds and hundreds of square feet of charred turf surround the streets. I immediately asked Moketzi, our driver, if they were controlled burns and he said sometimes but mostly they are from fires people build at night to stay warm, and do not put out. Evidently they aren’t as in touch with their fire prevention representative as we are with Smoky, but they certainly need to be. Once I began to look for burning fires and evidence to support Moketzi’s claim, the streets illuminated. Driving through fog in the mornings, fires would come into view like a lighthouse through a harbor. As we approach, outlines of people would appear huddled and tending to their fire. With my forehead pressed against the window I would try to discern how many people surrounded the flames until I could no longer see. The fires would be lost behind traffic as I turned to find the next one. In the evenings, we would return by coming over a bridge through the city and I would look down to see each corner rippling in flames. Yet another sign of poverty, that like the flames of a fire, you cannot help but pay attention.
PS. Inspired, as usual, by Lupe Fiasco "Streets on Fire"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UF7rBcFolAc
PS. Inspired, as usual, by Lupe Fiasco "Streets on Fire"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UF7rBcFolAc
Thursday, August 26, 2010
What Happens in Soweto
“What happens in Soweto stays in Soweto” Igi whispered in my ear. But what happened for me in Soweto is something I will take with me far beyond the crumbled brick walls of the sprawling township. We were dropped off at Florence Mondi’s Bed & Breakfast in Pimville Zone 1, which is more or less directly in the center of Soweto. Florence has been a host mother before and over the past few years with the arrival of the World Cup she decided to convert her home into a B&B. Florence, 57, was incredibly welcoming and eager to share her story with us. We spent the first evening getting to know each other and hearing about each other’s lives and families around the globe. Flossie’s side business was selling airtime, which is the equivalent of minutes for a cell phone. The doorbell would ring every 10 minutes or so and she would make her way to a little window by the front door where she would print out a receipt with a code for a certain amount of Rand (SA currency). Florence was a very powerful motherly figure both inside her B&B but also around the neighborhood. Many of the surrounding young men had been employed, scolded, or fed by Florence so there was always a healthy concentration of young men outside on the curb.
We awoke on Saturday to hear the news that we would be attending a funeral for a local “community pillar” as they called him during the service. We arrived and were seated first row, right beside the casket, with roughly 500 other Sowetans behind us. The service was entirely in Zulu and was vibrant and loud from the very fist word. The most breathtaking part was that the moment someone would finish his or her words, the place would erupt in song. There was a method to this beautiful music, an elderly lady would usually stand and belt the first line of a song while the rest of the room would fall into harmony to complete the song. This happened about 15 times and most of the songs ended with people dancing and waving their arms in the air. I felt so out of my comfort zone that I was comfortable being completely absorbed by the experience. I knew no one, I understood no one, but I understood the music and I understood the purpose of why we were there. In that sense it was all I needed to experience it, and because of that it was an incredible window into township culture. As the funeral ended I was immediately separated from Momma Flo and my friends and thrown into a stampede of dancing and singing Sowetans filing out a single door. I was taller than everyone around me but that did not stop the glare of lower eyes looking at me like what the hell was I doing there. That said, the reception we got from the people in Soweto, including the Funeral, was very special and welcoming throughout the weekend. After the service we went to a local shop for lunch, which exclusively made Quarter which is pronounced “Quottta.” Quarter is a quarter of a loaf of bread hollowed out and filled with french fries, cheese, various meats, veggies, and ketchup. A massive amount of food for 8 Rand (there are 7.25 rand to a dollar). It was delicious.
The afternoon, and the rest of the weekend, began while we were sitting on the curb and were approached by some men from Pimville. The men had worked for Florence in the past and said they wanted to show us “the real Soweto,” to which we nervously obliged. Igi was a cop, Don (aka James Bond) was a manager of a cleaning service, Bona I’m pretty sure was a drug dealer, and there were twin brothers David and a name I never understood, who were drivers for a bank. We walked with the men, hand in hand, to various drinking and soccer viewing locations all around Pimville. Castle Lite was their beer of choice because they were convinced you could drink it all day long and never feel it the next morning. Needless to say both of the following mornings (afternoons) we didn’t see the boys until lunch time. We talked for hours and hours to these men all of whom could not have been nicer and more concerned with our safety and comfort. Each would take turns asking “You good nick? You ok golden eye?” And of course I was, it was amazing. We met dozens of people and discussed countless others from presidents and soccer players to beautiful women (ie. Maddie).
The two major parties in South Africa are the ANC (African National Congress), which is Mandela’s party that emerged and rescued the country from Apartheid, and the DA (Democratic Alliance), which stemmed from the National Party who was responsible for the Apartheid starting in the 50’s. The ANC today is riddled by corruption and getting very little done while the DA party is growing both in support and progressive anti apartheid ideals. The problem is that no one has the confidence to vote for anyone other than the ANC in fear of another Apartheid. That said, the ANC has gotten in between 65% & 75% of the votes the last decade. Our Sowetan friends acknowledged they agree far more with the DA and would love to vote for them but there is a colossal cultural blockade to do so. Igi the policeman also gave us great yet horrifying insight into the corruption of the police. He said in almost every situation they can be paid off which is why you see most of them riding around in BMW’s, like many of his friends we were hanging out with.
We went to a mega church the next day, probably 3,000, which was eye opening to say the least. Filled with singing and hands violently thrown towards god, my Sunday morning was filled with dancing and getting in touch with Jesus (we never talked). In the afternoon we were again greeted and taken around town by Igi and gang. We watched an Orlando Pirates game, one of the most popular SA teams based in Soweto, in a converted garage with a handful of other well-served vuvuzela blowing fans. After a few Castle Lites (legal at age 18 here) we headed back home, blowing our vuvuzelas and celebrating the Pirates victory, to have our last meal with Momma Flo. The van came to pick us up Monday morning and we told them to come back in an hour after we ate another huge breakfast with Florence, they laughed and we heard another honk an hour later.
My weekend in Soweto was one of those times that forced me to realize not only what we live for as humans but also no matter the race nor the economic status, we all live essentially the same. The vital things that emerge are the connections in life. Whether that be four grown brothers walking down the street holding hands or their generosity to take a few American boys around for the weekend, it is the relationships that are responsible for the joy in our life and in that way they bring us together.
We awoke on Saturday to hear the news that we would be attending a funeral for a local “community pillar” as they called him during the service. We arrived and were seated first row, right beside the casket, with roughly 500 other Sowetans behind us. The service was entirely in Zulu and was vibrant and loud from the very fist word. The most breathtaking part was that the moment someone would finish his or her words, the place would erupt in song. There was a method to this beautiful music, an elderly lady would usually stand and belt the first line of a song while the rest of the room would fall into harmony to complete the song. This happened about 15 times and most of the songs ended with people dancing and waving their arms in the air. I felt so out of my comfort zone that I was comfortable being completely absorbed by the experience. I knew no one, I understood no one, but I understood the music and I understood the purpose of why we were there. In that sense it was all I needed to experience it, and because of that it was an incredible window into township culture. As the funeral ended I was immediately separated from Momma Flo and my friends and thrown into a stampede of dancing and singing Sowetans filing out a single door. I was taller than everyone around me but that did not stop the glare of lower eyes looking at me like what the hell was I doing there. That said, the reception we got from the people in Soweto, including the Funeral, was very special and welcoming throughout the weekend. After the service we went to a local shop for lunch, which exclusively made Quarter which is pronounced “Quottta.” Quarter is a quarter of a loaf of bread hollowed out and filled with french fries, cheese, various meats, veggies, and ketchup. A massive amount of food for 8 Rand (there are 7.25 rand to a dollar). It was delicious.
The afternoon, and the rest of the weekend, began while we were sitting on the curb and were approached by some men from Pimville. The men had worked for Florence in the past and said they wanted to show us “the real Soweto,” to which we nervously obliged. Igi was a cop, Don (aka James Bond) was a manager of a cleaning service, Bona I’m pretty sure was a drug dealer, and there were twin brothers David and a name I never understood, who were drivers for a bank. We walked with the men, hand in hand, to various drinking and soccer viewing locations all around Pimville. Castle Lite was their beer of choice because they were convinced you could drink it all day long and never feel it the next morning. Needless to say both of the following mornings (afternoons) we didn’t see the boys until lunch time. We talked for hours and hours to these men all of whom could not have been nicer and more concerned with our safety and comfort. Each would take turns asking “You good nick? You ok golden eye?” And of course I was, it was amazing. We met dozens of people and discussed countless others from presidents and soccer players to beautiful women (ie. Maddie).
The two major parties in South Africa are the ANC (African National Congress), which is Mandela’s party that emerged and rescued the country from Apartheid, and the DA (Democratic Alliance), which stemmed from the National Party who was responsible for the Apartheid starting in the 50’s. The ANC today is riddled by corruption and getting very little done while the DA party is growing both in support and progressive anti apartheid ideals. The problem is that no one has the confidence to vote for anyone other than the ANC in fear of another Apartheid. That said, the ANC has gotten in between 65% & 75% of the votes the last decade. Our Sowetan friends acknowledged they agree far more with the DA and would love to vote for them but there is a colossal cultural blockade to do so. Igi the policeman also gave us great yet horrifying insight into the corruption of the police. He said in almost every situation they can be paid off which is why you see most of them riding around in BMW’s, like many of his friends we were hanging out with.
We went to a mega church the next day, probably 3,000, which was eye opening to say the least. Filled with singing and hands violently thrown towards god, my Sunday morning was filled with dancing and getting in touch with Jesus (we never talked). In the afternoon we were again greeted and taken around town by Igi and gang. We watched an Orlando Pirates game, one of the most popular SA teams based in Soweto, in a converted garage with a handful of other well-served vuvuzela blowing fans. After a few Castle Lites (legal at age 18 here) we headed back home, blowing our vuvuzelas and celebrating the Pirates victory, to have our last meal with Momma Flo. The van came to pick us up Monday morning and we told them to come back in an hour after we ate another huge breakfast with Florence, they laughed and we heard another honk an hour later.
My weekend in Soweto was one of those times that forced me to realize not only what we live for as humans but also no matter the race nor the economic status, we all live essentially the same. The vital things that emerge are the connections in life. Whether that be four grown brothers walking down the street holding hands or their generosity to take a few American boys around for the weekend, it is the relationships that are responsible for the joy in our life and in that way they bring us together.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Jo'burg
After 3 full hours at the extremely well done Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg, we went to visit with a group call Khulumani. Khulumani is a local grass-roots organization, which works closely with the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TNC), which fights for reparations and compensation for individuals and families that were affect by the Apartheid. The have compiled a database of nearly 30,000 victims that have filled out Khulumani’s forms and have shared their stories of how they were affected. Khulumani then takes this information and their donations to really focus on what the victims deserve for their losses as well as helping them continue to live their lives. When we arrived for our meeting with Khulumani they were ecstatic as they had just received word that were given 1.3 million dollars from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. Tragically during our presentation, the group received a call saying that the letter they had received from the Gates foundation was a fraudulent and forged all in a ploy to steal money from Khulumani. Seeing this unfold before our eyes and how low people can go to obtain money appalled everyone and certainly changed the dynamic of the presenation. The good news is that the Gates Foundation is still reviewing Khulumani’s request and that the organization thankfully noticed that the letter was fraud. For more on Khulumani see (http://www.khulumani.net/)
This evening, we went out and had a few beers before we attended a play called And the Girls in their Sunday Dresses. The theater was very intimate with a minimal set, while the play consisted of two hilarious women who were waiting in a line for rice. They screamed and danced in several languages and even got a few of our “white American boys" to come on stage and dance with them. Of course Passat and Moketzi (our drivers) brought dates to the play, being the very urban and well dressed men that they are. Other than their incredible style, Passat and Moketzi are a main source of humor amongst the group. They are constantly communicating with all of Johannesburg through their car horns, which everyone seemingly understands. I’m off to bed as it is late here but more to come later!!
This evening, we went out and had a few beers before we attended a play called And the Girls in their Sunday Dresses. The theater was very intimate with a minimal set, while the play consisted of two hilarious women who were waiting in a line for rice. They screamed and danced in several languages and even got a few of our “white American boys" to come on stage and dance with them. Of course Passat and Moketzi (our drivers) brought dates to the play, being the very urban and well dressed men that they are. Other than their incredible style, Passat and Moketzi are a main source of humor amongst the group. They are constantly communicating with all of Johannesburg through their car horns, which everyone seemingly understands. I’m off to bed as it is late here but more to come later!!
Johannesburg & Soweto
Hello all! I am here and overwhelmed but eager to share and at least write down a little of what I have learned and experienced here in Johannesburg. I would like to preface this entire blog by saying that I know nothing about this part of the world and will try not to pretend to. That said, all I can do is share what I see and attempt to convey how it affects me.
As South African Airlines flight 208 touched down in Johannesburg, after 17 hours of travel, a strong southern accent exclaimed from the seat next to me “after 17 hours in a plane, you bet your ass we’re not in America.” Although somewhat ironic, it was the first of many shocks to my system that I am in fact in Johannesburg, South Africa. We gathered as a group and met our two program coordinators Linda and Kristin, both of which have been in Namibia for over two years. Passat and Moketzi, our drivers, are the next two members of the Center for Global Education staff we meet as they dart up in two narrow vans followed by metal containers for our obnoxious American luggage. Immediately we are swarmed by what must have been 6 or 7 porters who are overly aggressive about asking me “their brodha” for tips. We arrive at our home for the next week called St. Peter’s place, which is essentially a church with guest rooms surrounding a courtyard in the heart of Johannesburg.
Our first full day in Johannesburg will forever remain one of my craziest first days of travel and also one of the most overwhelming days in my life. With the help of Molefi, a local friend and guide of the program, we set out to experience Soweto. Soweto is a sprawling township, with a population of 6,000,000 Soweto holds nearly 70% of the Johannesburg population. We started our tour by driving along the "government-enforced" route through the township, which is lined by quite nice houses only to be completely offset by the millions of shacks that lay behind them and in the distance. Initially, these nice houses were an effective way to show the world press that Soweto wasn’t as bad as it seemed, until people started exploring further in and realizing what was taking place.
After lunch we walked around a nicer section of streets in Kliptown which is a section of Soweto. Kliptown has very literally two different sides of the track. One side houses several Apartheid museums, Freedom Sqaure, as well as shops and restaurants. While the other side of the track is mind shattering. We walked over this very narrow rusty bridge as if we were climbing a latter into an entirely different world. As an American the first thing that stuck me was the smell and trash throughout Kliptown. The rock filled dirt pathways were lined with trash that was either at our feet or bobbing in the open sewage that ran downhill throughout the township. The moment I set foot in Kliptown two very young local boys accompanied me on my left hand named Piet and Dodo (not sure on the spelling). For nearly two and a half hours I explored, with the young boys on my hand, this incredible place that I am still having trouble digesting. For that matter I don’t have much to say about it but instead will try and post a few pictures that can attempt to capture my experience. What I will say is that the initial feeling is one of intrusion and guilt for stomping through this community, when it was clearly not our place. In fact a member of my group was feeling uncomfortable enough to ask if tours like ours were common, which our friend responded to by saying “well, we had a few Europeans through here last year.” I only share this to convey the curious, bizarre, and incredibly warm reception we received. Essentially Kliptown has been lost and taken over by poverty. After countless broken promises from the government, the residents are left begging for help. The most prominent government failure is surrounded by a document or policy called “The Freedom Charter” which was instituted by Mandela and the ANC when they came into power in the early 90’s (the document itself was actually created nearly 60 years ago, yet never brought to the forefront until Mandela). “The Freedom Charter” was an incredibly progressive document that would implement basic needs like water, education, housing, and electricity for all South Africans. Evidently, Kliptown and many of the other settlements have not seen any of these things happen. And in fact, for the first time I have begun to hear negative things about Nelson Mandela, who I thought was widely recognized as being such a hero to all. Yet much of the Kilptown community does not look at him that way at all, and instead as yet another person who left them behind.
Not only is the unemployment rate nearing 80% in Kliptown, but there is opportunity to change or improve their surroundings. They are, and have been, stuck in this haunting, static, gray area in which they are waiting for someone to flip the switch and let them live again. What I came away with from my experience to Kliptown was an oppressive feeling of sadness but more importantly the lack of opportunity for the residents to improve their lives. After talking to several residents the idea that seemed to resonate the most was that they do not want people to give them houses but instead teach them how to build their own.
View pictures above!
As South African Airlines flight 208 touched down in Johannesburg, after 17 hours of travel, a strong southern accent exclaimed from the seat next to me “after 17 hours in a plane, you bet your ass we’re not in America.” Although somewhat ironic, it was the first of many shocks to my system that I am in fact in Johannesburg, South Africa. We gathered as a group and met our two program coordinators Linda and Kristin, both of which have been in Namibia for over two years. Passat and Moketzi, our drivers, are the next two members of the Center for Global Education staff we meet as they dart up in two narrow vans followed by metal containers for our obnoxious American luggage. Immediately we are swarmed by what must have been 6 or 7 porters who are overly aggressive about asking me “their brodha” for tips. We arrive at our home for the next week called St. Peter’s place, which is essentially a church with guest rooms surrounding a courtyard in the heart of Johannesburg.
Our first full day in Johannesburg will forever remain one of my craziest first days of travel and also one of the most overwhelming days in my life. With the help of Molefi, a local friend and guide of the program, we set out to experience Soweto. Soweto is a sprawling township, with a population of 6,000,000 Soweto holds nearly 70% of the Johannesburg population. We started our tour by driving along the "government-enforced" route through the township, which is lined by quite nice houses only to be completely offset by the millions of shacks that lay behind them and in the distance. Initially, these nice houses were an effective way to show the world press that Soweto wasn’t as bad as it seemed, until people started exploring further in and realizing what was taking place.
After lunch we walked around a nicer section of streets in Kliptown which is a section of Soweto. Kliptown has very literally two different sides of the track. One side houses several Apartheid museums, Freedom Sqaure, as well as shops and restaurants. While the other side of the track is mind shattering. We walked over this very narrow rusty bridge as if we were climbing a latter into an entirely different world. As an American the first thing that stuck me was the smell and trash throughout Kliptown. The rock filled dirt pathways were lined with trash that was either at our feet or bobbing in the open sewage that ran downhill throughout the township. The moment I set foot in Kliptown two very young local boys accompanied me on my left hand named Piet and Dodo (not sure on the spelling). For nearly two and a half hours I explored, with the young boys on my hand, this incredible place that I am still having trouble digesting. For that matter I don’t have much to say about it but instead will try and post a few pictures that can attempt to capture my experience. What I will say is that the initial feeling is one of intrusion and guilt for stomping through this community, when it was clearly not our place. In fact a member of my group was feeling uncomfortable enough to ask if tours like ours were common, which our friend responded to by saying “well, we had a few Europeans through here last year.” I only share this to convey the curious, bizarre, and incredibly warm reception we received. Essentially Kliptown has been lost and taken over by poverty. After countless broken promises from the government, the residents are left begging for help. The most prominent government failure is surrounded by a document or policy called “The Freedom Charter” which was instituted by Mandela and the ANC when they came into power in the early 90’s (the document itself was actually created nearly 60 years ago, yet never brought to the forefront until Mandela). “The Freedom Charter” was an incredibly progressive document that would implement basic needs like water, education, housing, and electricity for all South Africans. Evidently, Kliptown and many of the other settlements have not seen any of these things happen. And in fact, for the first time I have begun to hear negative things about Nelson Mandela, who I thought was widely recognized as being such a hero to all. Yet much of the Kilptown community does not look at him that way at all, and instead as yet another person who left them behind.
Not only is the unemployment rate nearing 80% in Kliptown, but there is opportunity to change or improve their surroundings. They are, and have been, stuck in this haunting, static, gray area in which they are waiting for someone to flip the switch and let them live again. What I came away with from my experience to Kliptown was an oppressive feeling of sadness but more importantly the lack of opportunity for the residents to improve their lives. After talking to several residents the idea that seemed to resonate the most was that they do not want people to give them houses but instead teach them how to build their own.
View pictures above!
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