Gawking at Poverty

Sarah and I have a to-do list taped to our wall in F4 .

Early on, we added "Township Tour" to the list--friends from the hostel said that we had to do one; they all had gone and had amazing experiences.

Well, this morning we finally did it, and I'm still not quite sure what to think. But I can tell you the term "amazing" isn't the first word that I would use to describe the experience. But first, a little background info...

For those of you who don't know, as early as 1901 the government of South Africa began forcibly moving certain racial groups out of specific areas of South Africa. The majority of forced migrations took place under the Group Areas Act of 1950, a piece of legislation which essentially excluded any non-white person from from being allowed to live or work in established towns or economically viable areas. People were displaced to townships, urban residential areas away from cities. Today, many of South Africa's townships are essentially slum communities of government built housing and shack settlements that stretch out for miles.

Here's how a township tour works: Basically, people (mostly foreigners) pay about $40 (US) to ride around in a VW mini bus with a tour guide who talks about different aspects of South African history, government, and society. Periodically, the tour guide stops and lets everyone get out, take pictures, and wander around different community buildings. This morning we stopped at a pub, community pottery center, community medicine-center, hostel, kindergarten, and church.

Overall, the tour wasn't bad. We had a great guide. He was very informative and professional and at times I felt like I was listening to a lecture in a sociology class. Also, seeing township life and culture first-hand gave me valuable insight into the lives of the people I've been treating at the hospital.

But, I couldn't (and still can't) get over the feeling that the entire purpose of the township tour was to gawk at poverty. The whole time I felt like I was on one of those trams at the zoo, looking out the windows and taking in the sites--except here I was looking into the lives of real people and not just zebra and monkey cages. The more I think about it, the more I feel horrified at how de-humanizing it was.

When the time came for us to actually get out and walk around I felt even more awkward. I mean, I how do you even begin to talk to someone you meet on the street who knows that you are a rich white person visiting the community as some type of tourist attraction? It was so strange.

Throughout the tour, I kept holding out hope for the church visit at the end. I mean, attending a church service with other Christians seemed slightly less pretentious than snapping photos of "the natives" through the window of the tour bus. But, it wasn't. In some ways, the church service was the most surreal and bizarre experience of the entire trip. We filed into the back of a church, already in session, and listened as the preacher told us that, "They were gonna show us how they Praise the Lord in South Africa." All of the sudden church had become a show, too, complete with drum set and back-up singers.

If I had to pick a word to describe my township tour experience, I think I would pick some form of the word lament. I lament the fact that in 2007 there are still thousands and thousands (and globally, millions...) of people living in shacks. I lament the realities of domestic violence, and alcoholism, and unemployment that are all a very real part of life for people who live in a Township. And, I lament the gap that racism and classism and township-living has created in South Africa. At the end of the tour I stumbled out of the VW mini bus emotionally exhausted; it was more than I could take in. I felt like I had just attended a funeral.

To be fair, I should say that the tour guide told us that people who live in townships actually appreciate the tours because they feel tours are bringing awareness of township life. This is definitely a good thing. But, the very realistic part of my brain keeps reminding me that awareness alone doesn't do much.

Well, there are lot of things I could venture out on, now. But, I need to stop and attend to the schoolwork that is calling my name, even though I know the wheels in my head will keep turning.

As always, send your thoughts this way.

Awkward Forks and Church Attendance

Reflecting back on the past two months, coming to South Africa for fieldwork was a great decision. Everyday I learn new and different things, meet wonderful people, and am challenged to think about the world and my perceptions of it. But, there is one thing that has been less than great: church.

Sarah and I have been attending Sunday worship services with the congregation that meets on the campus of this university. Logistically, this works great—we don't have a car most weekends, so leaving campus is tricky. But, we can easily manage the trek across the parking lot without the help of a VW Chico.

I don’t want to turn into a worship snob. I really want to like the services and I want to like the people. Every Sunday I go in with an open mind, but somehow walk out more upset than when I started. I've attended five services, so far. Out of those five, four have had some exceptionally mediocre teaching. Last week, in the sermon, the pastor stumbled upon on the issue of tolerance, ranting and raving how Christians are not to be tolerant. They are the moral voice of society and need to be intolerant of society and have their voices heard.

I don't totally disagree with I think the pastor was trying to say, but the way he haphazardly started talking about this very important topic, giving it about 20 seconds time in a 70+ minute sermon left me full of questions: How do Christians remain intolerant of sin yet reach out to the people who need to hear a message of grace? What about groups of people who have been historically turned away from the church because of intolerance? How do Christians hold to their morals, yet remain a relevant voice in the culture as a whole? I still feel slightly unnerved when I think about it.

But the thing that really bothers me about the worship? The people. Every time I have attended Sunday worship I've walked away feeling completely unwelcome. No one (other than the usher standing at the door) says anything. I kind of feel like an extra fork at a fancy dinner: no one really knows what it’s for and doesn’t dare pick it up and use it or even move it off the table.

Even when I pep-talk myself into being assertive and approach people (Styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and Bible in the other) I haven't been well-received. I just kind of want to scream. It shouldn’t be this hard. It's been over two months since I left my church home in St. Louis, and the lack of Christian community in my life is beginning to wear on me.

Maybe this is a good realization. Even though I am constantly surrounded by people at the hostel and people at the hospital, I recognize that just being around people isn't enough. I need to be around people who love God and remind me that God's love is real. I need to hear someone else read scripture and feel the words sink into my soul. I need to hear the confession recited in unison and be convicted of my sin. I need to pray with other people.

I think, one of the reasons I’m so upset about this is because in the past, I’ve had some incredibly rich experiences worshipping with Christians from different parts of the world. A couple of years ago I traveled to Eastern Europe with my college band and we played concerts and worship services in churches all across Transylvania. It was amazing to worship with people we couldn’t even understand because we spoke different languages and feel so connected. My good friend Erin would describe it as encountering the “glue of the Holy Spirit.”

I haven’t quite given up hope on having a positive church-going experience, but honestly, even if things don’t get better, I’ll be okay and eventually find some type of Christian community when I get back to the States. But, I think my dilemma brings to light an important issue, mainly, how do communities (be it churches or neighborhoods, or co-ops, etc.) of Christian people practice hospitality well?

Once again, I don’t have all of the answers. But it seems that before communities can reach out to others, they need to cultivate strong bonds among existing members. And after that, who knows? Maybe all it will take is going up to the tall girl with the cup of coffee and extending a hand.

More from Muizenberg

This weekend was incredible. We made it to Boulders Beach and saw South African penguins, hiked out to Cape Point, met some friendly baboons, and even caught a few waves on Sunday. Enjoy the pictures.

The infamous Boulders Beach.

A jackass penguin. (No, really, that's what they are called. They sound like, well, jackasses.)

Cape Point.

Just like Karen.


Luckily we didn't get attacked by this guy.

See? We look pretty good on shore.


And even better in the water. Sarah is the one surfing, on the right.

The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly

It’s strange—being here, away from home, seems to make the highs higher and the lows lower. The past days have been filled with frustration. At the risk of sounding like a whiner, these are some of the things that have added to my stress level recently: my camera broke. The rental car broke. We didn't make it to Cape Point over the weekend. I spent half of my day on Monday in a cubicle gluing together foam rubber sandwiches which will one day be made into neck splints. I got ripped off and ended up spending around $50 on a 20 minute cab ride. I hate feeling that I am always engaged in an uphill battle.

But, on the flip side, being in a foreign country makes me look at the world with new eyes. Even the most everyday, mundane details are fascinating. Have you ever heard anyone speak Xhosa? It’s beautiful. People make there great half-chirp-half-clicks with their tongues on top of the syllables of the words. Also, last week, Sarah and I were eating lunch in the café, and we looked out the window and there was one of the kitchen-staff people, standing outside of the building making deep fried dough to sell in the café.

And like I’ve mentioned before, I am learning quite a bit about healthcare and therapy as well. This morning Sarah and I observed burn surgery. It was quite the experience. I can’t say that it made me want to be a surgeon, but was fascinating to be on the other side of the knife. The operation we saw was pretty grotesque, but then again I hear that most burn surgeries are pretty gruesome. For most of the procedure, the doctors used a long razor blade to debride (aka shave off the dead skin) the third degree burn wounds that the woman had over the front and back of both of her legs. After witnessing the surgery, I have a new appreciation for the pain the people on the burn unit have to live with everyday.

The end of this week marks the half-way point of my rotation in the hospital. I’ve only got two more days to sew pressure garments—Monday will bring new adventures in rheumatology. But until then, I’ll try to find a camera to post a few pictures of some of the great spandex burn suits I’ve made.

Surf's Up, Dude!

Saturday morning called for some spontaneous surfing. So, we hopped into a VW Chico with the three guys from Liverpool who live down the hall from us, drove to Muizenberg, and hit up a surf shop for some very stylish wetsuits and surfboards. (I've got pictures, but my camera is currently under the weather. Hopefully, I'll get it fixed this weekend.)

Seeing as I'm from the Midwest, and can probably count the number of times I've been to the ocean on once hand, I decided that it would probably be a good idea to start off my surfing career with a lesson from a real live surfer. This ended up being a fabulous decision. Donovan, our surfing instructor, had all sorts of pearls of wisdom to share with us like: if you fall off, just put your hands over your head like this. (Sorry, if the camera was working Figure 1 would be here.) Donovan started us out on the beach and had us lay on our surfboards and then jump up really fast and assume a surfer pose. It was hilarious and wonderful and I think it actually helped my surfing.

But, my favorite part was after we actually got into the ocean. Donovan had us lay on our boards and would push us when a wave would come so that we could "catch it" and try to get up. (Note: emphasis on "try." I probably made it to standing every third wave. ) I can't say that I'm a surfing prodigy, but overall it went better than I had hoped. And it was AMAZINGLY fun!!Maybe I'll move to the coast when I get back to the States.

Good Day, Sunshine

Today was a great day. Nothing particularly special happened, but a lot of little things made everything seem, well, good.

It was warm and sunny here today. This may not seem like a big deal, but it is! The building I am living in (as well as the majority of the hospital) is not heated, and when the temperature drops, it gets really cold and damp. During the past cold spell, it got so cold that the buildings never really warmed up during the day. And night was even more uncomfortable; two blankets, a sweatshirt, socks and a hat and I still felt chilled. Waking up to a room that is 45 degrees Farenheight is not pleasant.

But, back to the good: I spent this afternoon following one of the therapists on the inpatient burn ward. I helped out here and there—did a little passive mobilization of some peoples’ bandaged hands and a few range stretches with a couple of very sweet, grandmotherly African women. I still can’t do a ton on my own, and I spent the majority of my afternoon watching the therapist. Even though I’ve spent quite a bit of time with this OT, for some reason, I was struck by how skilled he seemed. Everything he did was right. (Maybe this hit me today because most things I do these days seem only partially right or downright wrong.)

Those of you who know me well know that I’ve spent many days wondering weather or not I’m really cut out to do the OT gig. Worries about getting stuck in a boring job and doing “unskilled” work have run through my head on more than one occasion. It’s just that I’ve seen a lot of therapists that don’t seem to be doing much for the person he or she is supposed to be helping. I could go into a few specific examples about games of “Name that Tune” and the use of sock aids, but I’ll spare you. I get depressed when I think that I am going to turn into one of those people one day.

I think one of the reasons I really like it here is because even though the hospital is far from beautiful and working conditions are often pretty bad, I’ve seen that the services the therapists offer here fill a definite need. Their work matters. This afternoon I saw with new eyes that all of the little things the therapist did made a big difference for the people he treated.

There were also some hilarious (and totally inappropriate) moments when this one guy kept hitting on one of the PTs and threatened “don’t make me get up and hurt you!” even though he had burns on over 60% of his body and could barely bend his legs. (This may not sound funny, but it was, I promise.) I love these moments of humor and light-heartedness—they remind me that real people exist under all of the bandages and wound rot. Sometimes this is easy for me to forget; burns can be a very de-humanizing injury. Something about all of the gore can be horrifying.

And other things that made the day good: I talked to one of my best friends on the phone for an hour, I went to the gym and lifted weights, and Sarah and I split a 65% cacao chocolate bar after dinner. It doesn’t get much better than that.

Happy Fourth

The following is a real conversation that occurred at 7AM this morning:

Sarah: Karen, happy fourth of July.
Karen: Happy fourth of July, to you. Are you feeling very patriotic today?
Sarah: I'd be feeling more patriotic if work was cancelled and I was heading to a barbecue.

Sadly, Sarah and I (and everyone else in South Africa) spent Independence Day at work. But, I think this is a good time to write about some of the funny things that people associate with the States.

Last week, as Sarah and I were sitting down for lunch, someone at the hospital referred to us as George Bush’s daughters. Yikes. Even scarier, this launched us into an entire conversation about American politics and left Sarah and I to explaining the geography of the state of Mississippi. (That was interesting.)

Today, after I had introduced myself to one of the med student interns, he asked me if I had ever been to the hospital that’s on ER. Then he wanted to know if the weather is really as bad as it is on the show. He didn’t believe it when I told him yes.

Another friend wanted to know if everyone is really a size 0? And followed that question up with, is it true that everyone eats at McDonalds all of the time?

But, the most common question people ask me when they find out I’m from the States, and Chicago, especially: “Have you ever seen Oprah or been to her show?”

So, there you have it: Oprah, Bush, and Micky D’s. Happy Fourth, everyone.