So it's been a while since we updated this. I blame that on the fact that we were led to believe that we would have reliable wireless at our house (which turned out to be very untrue), and the fact that the only internet we have is at our workplace from 9 am-2 pm (subtract 6 hours from that and you'll figure out what time you have to be awake on the East Coast to gchat with one of us).
The past week and a half have been an interesting mix of local Capetonians, rowdy children, and rowdier World Cup fans. Our host grandparents and actual host parents are some of the lovingest people ever. With them, we've gotten a glimpse of 2 interesting facets of Cape Town life that a lot of people studying abroad don't see- Cape Colored and Cape Malay families (something I'll get to in another post).
That probably sounds really racist calling someone colored. Here, because of the unavoidable influence of apartheid, the racial classifications are white, black, colored (read: mixed-race, usually some combination of European and South/Southeast Asian blood), and Indian. For the last 10 days we have lived in a suburb of Cape Town called Lansdowne, probably a 15 minute drive from the city (which we can see every day nestled into the base of the glorious Table Mountain). The suburbs here are much smaller than what you would expect- every few blocks or exits on the highway, you get to a new suburb because apartheid officials used their small size to more easily classify non-white and non-Christian people into their own neighborhoods.
People also know about Cape Town's (and South Africa's for that matter) reputation for being incredibly dangerous- I believe the stat is that there is a rape every 26 seconds around here. Subsequently, almost every house has a gate. Not one of those fancy gates that you might have to go into your backyard- we're talking heavy duty, steel gates reminiscent of prisons and the driveways of high-security mansions. Every day before I leave our house I have to make sure the padlock is secure on our barred doors, and then close the remote-controlled gate leading to the driveway. Police are very visible in the streets, but that hasn't stopped people from being cautious. However, the houses here are incredibly beautiful. In Quynh's new neighborhood, it literally feels like you're driving down a street in SoCal. Spanish clay, plaster, terra cotta like roofs, and an unusual abundance of palm trees and pine trees with their trademark Cape Town curve (because of the strong winds that come in the winter) mark traditional neighborhoods, while the poorer townships (think the projects + not that much building material + apartheid + even worse) have really colorful buildings and shacks on the side of the highway.
Our work is a pretty interesting place. St. Joseph's Home for Chronically Ill Children is a large compound with a circus-top-like roof that is visible from the highway. Quynh and I share an office where we do our research; unfortunately, because of a lack of central heating and the fact that the Southern hemisphere is in winter right now, it's always cold. COLD. Like fleece and beanie cold. And the saying that "you can see four seasons in a day" in Cape Town constantly holds true through our small window. The home itself serves as a sort of intermediate point in the treatment of kids with diseases like AIDS, TB, and diabetes- once they're out of acute care in the hospital, they stay at this home run mainly by nurses until they can be discharged to their parents (who often are in very tight situations of their won) or are sent back to the hospital. Our assignment is to design questionnaires to conduct an audit of 30 children who have been discharged from St. Joseph's over the past few years to see how they are being cared for by their parents, see if they are taking ARVs, etc. The really interesting part of this is that we are going to have to travel into the townships with a social worker who can translate for us into Xhosa (one of the native languages here), as well as interview the doctors who referred these children to St. Joseph's to see how their stories match up with the medical records. So we spend our mornings reading up on the status of pediatric AIDS care in Cape Town and in the afternoons we head out to the children's wards named after plants- Quynh works with the older teenage girls in Freesia and I'm with the younger boys in Sweet Basil.
The kids are loud and eager to play with us. I've been climbed on top of and punched many times already, but they're the cutest kids ever, and I've made a deal with them that if they help me learn Afrikaans (a hybrid of Dutch and English that at times sounds like a mother talking to her 1 year old child), I'll get them something cool (undetermined). I was happy to see that still kids of their age just love watching Power Rangers (now there's a purple ranger? and a white ranger who rides a rhino? WTF?) and WWE wrestling and jumping around. The best day so far has been when the nurses put on a VHS of a concert from Michael Jackson's We are the World Tour (his peak in the early 90s). The kids know all the lyrics already and were dancing around with their shirts unbuttoned and doing the moonwalk and crotch-grabbing like nobody's business.
The other interesting thing about St. Joseph's is that the older kids, for the most part, are very self-aware of their diseases, and sometimes try to manipulate you with them. For example, the two oldest kids in my ward are diabetic, and so they always use their different eating times to try and play with my phone and boss people around. It's a very open place and we've been talking about possibly teaching the kids a bunch of Asian cultural dances (this after a long conversation that we had to have with some of the staff explaining that 1) Quynh and I aren't married and that 2)Quynh and I do not live in Vietnam and the Philippines respectively, but are only of descent. The equivalent of Asian-Americans doesn't really seem to be existent here (or at least acknowledged), as I've also heard some Chinese people who have grown up here referred to as "honorary whites")).
And then there's the World Cup. South African spirit has been on a high, as soccer has finally started to get the recognition that rugby and cricket have always had. The yellow Bafana Bafana jerseys are sold out everywhere, so Quynh and I resorted to buying some pretty good knockoffs to wear on Friday for the opening game. The fan jols (fan parks) in downtown Cape Town fill up so quickly, and there are always rumors of stampedes and barriers and riot gear (affectionately called "apartheid shields" by one of our friends) happening because of overcapacity crowds. We went with Mishkah and Tasneem- our host grandparents' (Nazrina and Moosa) daughters, as well as their friend Tabang to go watch the game in the city. The incessant sound of vuvuzelas (which now can sound from a range of an elephant to the drone of bees to crying babies to a birthday party favor) covered the city, which was decked out in the colors of all of the represented countries. Unfortunately the city was full, so we resorted to going to the Waterfront to watch at a bar.
Regardless of native country, 99% of the bar was wearing Bafana jerseys, save for one brave family dressed in US gear and a guy with a Mexico jersey and a luchador mask. There was such a vibe of excitement and nervous energy as people watched the opening ceremony and kickoff, energy which people calmed by smoking (everyone smokes. everyone.) and doing vuvuzela beer funnels. The singing of the South African national anthem was particularly moving because I didn't realize that it was half in Afrikaans and half in English, uniting the Rainbow Nation both in color and in language. Mishkah was visibly teary-eyed, while Tasneem tried to show as little emotion as possible because of her full-face painted South African flag which had dried.
After the early scare of an early Mexican goal, Siphiwo Tshabalala's goal in the second half sent the bar into a frenzy. Beers spilling, vuvuzelas blaring, shouts of joy, tables rocking, lights being ripped out of walls, anthems being chanted, me being picked up by my shirt and hi-fived- I have never seen so much energy exerted over one sports play. Not a Super Bowl touchdown. Not a World Series walkoff home run. Not a Robert Horry gamewinning three-pointer. The expectations of this nation on its soccer team has been immense, not to mention the pressure of the world on this country to show it is capable of hosting a World Cup. Concerns about the economy not being able to sustain itself after FIFA leaves, of the government having too much corruption, of the people not being supportive enough of this team, all were alleviated in that moment of ecstasy. Definitely one of those sports highlights I would watch for motivation before an exam.
Although that game was a draw, the post-game festivities on Long Street were ridiculous. So many drunk people, so many tall Dutch people, so many people drumming and dancing in the street. People partied so hard that when we went out the next night, the clubs weren't nearly as packed because people had just exhausted themselves (someone called the Algeria-Slovenia game a recovery game to try and get rid of their hangover).
Somehow, by the grace of Tasnim Motala (one of two other Yalies we know who are in the Cape Town area), we got invited to watch the US-England game with the US Consulate-General at the One and Only Hotel (a haughty name apparently supported by a six-star rating which I don't think actually exists). Upon arrival, we were not only amazed by how absurdly nice this hotel was, but also because there was an antique car show happening outside. Though we were advised to dress "smart casual" (business casual), there were definitely the usual American blue jeans and T-shirts floating around as we were seated next to a party for FIFA Executives, which had a bit more England fans then we would have liked. Although the party was mildly deflated after Steven Gerrard's early goal, the place burst into cheers after Robert "Butterfingers" Green allowed the tiebreaker. I'll take the points. And unfortunately, this guy who called himself King Solomon stole my American flag, so I was left with a tiny replica to put in my host house under an unusually large Swedish flag.
I know this isn't a particularly philosophical or thoughtful post (and only my side of things), but we needed to post something. We have a hell of a lot more to tell you about.
Most lovingly
Ian
Guys, this blog is amazing. Can't wait to here more.
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