My South African Story

         First at the airport. Waiting. Waiting. Nathan. Hello Nathan! Waiting. Saniya. Hello Saniya! A little bit more waiting. Everybody. SN. What was just quietly waiting not five minutes ago has now become a giant loud explosive operation of unloading, moving, loading, and once again unloading ungodly heavy dufflebags in a mad dash with everybody’s spirits high and for a lack of a better word, nervouscited.
        After we checked in, and got through security, we faced our first barrier. Worry was up next on the emotional rollercoaster, as Amy picked the short straw of fate, and landed with a ticket in Shannon’s name leaving the entire group unsure if she would even make it. We were all relieved when we saw her walking out the back end of security, and we formed one of those all-too familiar Mount Madonna circles where SN gave us the lowdown, and tried to prepare us for the next grueling twenty or so excruciating hours.
Airlines are assholes. Anybody over six feet can tell you this. I don’t care how attractive the big boobied blonde foreign flight attendant is, my legs need more space. While I am on the subject, “May I have a coke please,” even though I want a root beer; what is up with no airlines in the world serving root beer? Seriously though! Hours pass. Leg cramp. Bathroom. Movie. Crappy dinner. Bathroom. Movie. Bathroom. Movie. Bathroom. Movie. London. Everything was so expensive there. Airport + Europe = Broke. Ya thanks, I just bought an eight dollar sandwich that I downed in three bites. Another plane ride of just about the same sequence, and I was ready to keel over and die. I thought the plane would never stop, but it eventually did (thank God), and after an exhausting day of just sitting and vegetablizing to movies playing on a four inch screen, drinking small sodas, and eating the plastic “gourmet” airplane meals, we stepped off the escalator and into yet another vehicle. But we didn't care, for a bus was the last of our worries. We were in Cape Town, and almost to our hotel.
When we arrived, we were welcomed with smiles and the exciting news of who our roommates would be. Holden, Miles, and I were picked to be together in the nice room (the one with the kitchen), and I couldn’t be happier. A group of people who were sensible, who were idealistic, people I knew I could trust not to sharpie my face with the male genitalia while I was sleeping, or keep me up to ungodly hours with constant racket from phone updates and other things of such. With WiFi reaching our room, and really good coffee, I expected this to be a walk in the park. And SN laughed.
        Days into the trip, and everybody was tired. Mind me when I say this, we still were going strong, and excited, but just a hint, a tiny bit tired where we were starting to feel the trip in our bones and our bodies, the weight making the experience more meaningful and less bubbly from the excitement of the semi-new arrival. Everyone in the group was feeling more grounded in the dirt of the country rather than just traveling upon it. After the tour of the township of Langa with the Leap School, we all felt a little less like strangers to the culture, yet at the same time, a little more awakened to the gravity of many of the residents’ situations. A lengthy thought invoking walk back, and new friendships made. More dancing, singing and finally crying, and we were back on the bus, back to the hotel, back, way back from our first big eye opener, that can popper, that time when moma shakes you awake at six in the morning because it’s time to go to school, but the devil lives outside my bed mama don’t make me mama type of awakening that caused everybody to jump, everybody take a step back, and truly recognize we all share this world. The type of awakening that shows that our borders and our fifteen-feet tall chain-link fences don’t truly separate my humanity from anybody else’s humanity. The type of awakening that proves that countries like ours can’t turn a blind eye to something just because it isn't in our back yard; the longer we wait; the longer we force Seabiscuit down that racetrack wearing horseblinders, the faster and more unexpectedly our actions of inhumanity are going to pop up and bite us in the ass.
        Next up on the road map was Philani, a local child nutrition project in the middle of the township Khayelitsha. Serving food to kids was a highlight, but the thing that I will remember most about the entire trip was the cook. Names, names, names. Something I will never be good at. I regret to my soul that I do not remember her name, but cook, ooohhh mama that cook, you should have seen her. Everybody knows the popular saying, if a house is a body, then the kitchen is the heart; that woman is the heartbeat that flows through the body, that flows food from that room’s doorway to the kids’ eagerly awaiting mouths, that flows the love from each bite, and still has love to do the dishes afterwards. Her smile is something I will never forget, and I could truly see how much love that woman has for everybody, every little tummy that skips through, over, and across that threshold. Let me tell you mama, that woman must have a special place in Jesus’ heart. After helping to a load of dishes, which took Holden and I, a two man team, took close to an hour to complete, we thought to ourselves if it took us this long, how long does it take her. And we only did the dishes once! She makes two to three meals a day, and usually (except for today) does the dishes for every meal she cooks! She was so grateful, and as we were finishing, she had the biggest grin on, and started to do a little jig or dance while repeatedly chanting or singing (kind of a mixture of the two really), “I am a happy woman today, no dishes for me!” The rest of the day was fun, but a blur, and we got back to the hotel sooner than I thought we would. My small twin bed and yet a good night’s sleep awaited me.
        After many interviews, one of which included tea and the Archbishop, we moved to Saint Peter’s, a religious study retreat center that looked a little bit like an old insane asylum from an old horror movie. Brick buildings, freshly painted plain white rooms with the toxic scent still lingering, staying in my nostrils, even after I left my small room reminding me of when I first moved into my house and it was still getting repainted, making my sister and I sleep outside on the lawn in our camping tent. It was fun though, we had lanterns and roasted marshmallows, you know, the full monte. The bathrooms terrified me, and at first, I refused to even enter the them, because I was afraid that Silent Hill might come to life the second the lights went out. But the longer I was there, the more beauty I saw in the place. The building and chapel seemed more inviting, and the place gave off a natural warmth that emanated from the building’s history. The brick courtyard forming a dark faded red spiral around a beautiful smooth tan leafless tree drawing the eye’s attention from the ground up, twisting and turning, up and up to the tops of the twigs where birds were building their hanging nests and flying to and fro all around us. That tree touched the sky, it made you dizzy, it loomed over me not in the way of a carnivorous beast to its fallen deer, or heavy thick black thunderclouds over a New York City, but that of a mother bird, covering its young ducklings under its dry wings from the rain. That tree, that leafless tree somehow instilled peace into me. I felt at ease looking at it. Sitting under it. The lush greenery seemed more vibrant than before, and the light was more friendly and less eerie. At the end of our stay at St. Peter’s, it became so beautiful, and the people were so friendly and loving, I did not want to leave. Dear God, please don’t make me leave! I wanted to stay and talk to the sisters, embrace the welcoming soul of the keeper, have more deep conversations about language, I miss the laughing, I miss the chapel, I miss the insta-freeze-dried coffee, I miss the times when you wake up early in the morning, and think you are at home in your own bed, but soon remember you are halfway across the world, but rather than be disappointed and homesick, you realize there is no place in the world you would rather be.
        After a long bus ride, a safari awaited, and so did one hell of a flu. With Ethan taking care of me (he told me not to tell anybody), his inner mom coming out, and the fact that I probably drank more water than all of California has in its aquifers, I managed to recover the day before we left for the plane. Airport, Leg cramp. Bathroom. Movie. Crappy dinner. Bathroom. Coke, Movie. Bathroom. Movie. Coke, Bathroom. Movie. London Airport. Eight dollar, three bite sandwich. Leg cramp. Bathroom. Movie. Crappy dinner. Bathroom. Coke, Movie. Bathroom. Movie. Bathroom. Movie. SFO. Mom. Dad. Traffic. Home. Such an abrupt ending to a long journey. My bed was nice, but I felt something missing, and home never felt more alien.