An American High Schooler's Thoughts on Teaching in India

Over the course of these few weeks attempting to teach English and Math to Hindi speaking children, I have come to greatly appreciate preschool and elementary school teachers.  We help to teach a government school in Katputali Nagar, an urban slum.  Mud, dirt, fields of trash with pigs and goats scavenging for food.  Dirty kids squatting in broad daylight.  One day a beggar girl asked for some water, and strangely the students urged me to say "no".  I felt awful, not because of the beggars but that after shaking hands, I would need to sanitize back at Idex.  It just felt insensitive as the first thought to pop in my head.  We heard some of the beggars here have "pimps", and when offered food they decline and ask only for money.  But every time we climb out of our auto rickshaw kids run up to try and shake our hands, saying "hello" and "how are you".  For many of these people, we are probably some of the first white people they have seen, not to mention Americans.  

The school is fairly large, with kids both younger and older than the ones we teach in 2nd and 3rd grade, our class averaging around 20-30 students.  The school attendance fluctuates because of family or even religious duties, so some students may not come to school for 5-6 days at a time, where we will need to visit their family.  Then some days students will not be in school because they are flying kites instead, so the rules for coming into school are not nearly as strict as in the States.  One day we visited some of the families, and the kids were so excited to drag me by the hand towards their family houses in the back alleys of their neighborhood.  They seemed so comfortable, knowing every turn and climbing on roofs, jumping around to take shortcuts.  Expecting to see glum, morose faces, everyone looked very happy and intrigued to see us.  We heard about the puppet making traditions of the parents, but that because of television the job is becoming less and less supportive.  Though passed down through generations, the parents recognize that their children should not become puppet makers and instead enforce the importance of schooling by having some children attend extra classes.  I learned recently that they all go to school through Saturday too!  I did not expect to hear that at all.  One man in the slum mentioned that he had been to Spain, and even spoke Spanish!  The slum looks desolate only in appearance, not character or intellect.

            Learning about liberating education in our seminars has made me question my own education as well as the way I approached education in the slum.  One of the first impulses that struck me when I saw the kids was the yearning for order, for discipline as they ran around and tried to shake our hands, grabbing and clawing for attention.  I knew that I shouldn’t want to place myself above the students, but in that instant I realized how easy it is to do.  Easy for control, and as the teacher, older and physically bigger, I thought I should have authority in order to teach.  That though I wanted to be the students’ friend, I also needed to exercise authority.  What also struck me was the difference in sound between classes outside and our own- kids outside were silent, slaving in workbooks while the teachers supervised silently, while ours yelled and ran around the room. 

Over time I began to realize that I had to cater my teaching style to multiple abilities and learning styles, every day an experiment for the one worksheet or activity that would work for everyone.  I discovered there was none, that one of the best activities for the class was “Boom Chicka Boom”, and that was not a lesson.  Every worksheet had a takeaway, every lesson a plan, every activity a guideline.  One day the leaders challenged us to use no worksheets for two days, and over those days I discovered how much we relied on them.  But thinking of fun, engaging activities made their learning much more fun, though it did not help to calm them down.  Their sheer amount of energy and vigor drained me every day, excited to leave the chaos for a quiet group lunch back at Idex.  Often I woke up unmotivated or felt weighed down by the challenge of our own lesson plans, but now seeing them progressing and becoming more confident in their learning I don’t want to miss a day.  Ironically, I have found that often the less control I impose on their lesson, the more they discover and learn for themselves.  They learn more when I am not a teacher but a facilitator, when resisting my urge to give the answer becomes incredibly challenging. 

            A recent remark one of the leaders stressed was that these programs, our work is not meant to create meaningful change, that our six weeks here give us a service learning experience.  I find it strange that volunteers from everywhere come searching to make a difference, but yet as teachers we have no experience and do not even know the native language.  The kids learn from us, but we have no training.  I’ve found the nature of volunteering here absurd, that students or other volunteers can come to India and not even know the project they will work on or the nature of the work.  As part of development, working on a project to make change without even knowing its nature or the credentials astounds me.  And our leader, Kayce, is right—this work gives us an experience, for our benefit as well as that of the students.  Yes, we do make a difference, but changing the world takes an incredible amount more of commitment.

            I’ll end with a story.  One day we were trying to catch an auto rickshaw to go to work and though many pulled up to offer rides, they gave prices much too high because we were foreigners.  After walking away from multiple drivers, bargaining down to a fair price, one driver finally agreed.  Expecting him to be frustrated at our bargaining, I smiled when he called us “intelligent” instead.  Contrary to my belief, though the drivers may try and rip us off, many remain good hearted and want only to test our cultural intelligence.

            Very little time remains in India, and in the whirlwind of media project work and IST, wrapping up with teaching and seminars, I have had little time to slow down and enjoy each moment.  In the bustle of cars and motorcycles and beeping, India continues to drive on, and in less than two weeks we will be on a plane to China, our last core country before returning to the US.  The world tour is sadly winding down.     

                      

India: Aggressive Driving and Primary Education

After a long eight-hour flight into Jaipur and a six-hour layover attempting to sleep on the cold airport floor, we got into our host families and settled down.  Jaipur struck me right away as much more foreign than South Africa.  Though there are American touches, such as malls and fast food restaurants littered around the city, the immense language barrier and absurd traffic make India much different than our other countries.  Jaipur as a city is very urban, with cars, motorcycles, and rickshaws bustling everywhere.  The fumes permeate the air, and I miss the clean mountain air from Ecuador.  The streets are very dusty, a kind of mix between truck fumes and dirt, and looking at the sky I often feel as though I am looking through a shroud.  Beeping is constant, and the rickshaw rides into work are a mess of organized chaos.  Motorcycles mostly occupy the road, but bikes, pedestrians, cars, tractors, and even camels and cows use the streets too, and using Chris’s words, it looks like a go-kart race.  The amount of weaving and beeping motorcycles astounds me, as few have rear view mirrors or blinkers.  Almost all of the roads have no lines, and often a rickshaw driver will drive against traffic in order to make a u-turn into oncoming traffic.  I laugh everyday at how close we come to accidents, but realize now all the seemingly chaotic beeping signifies that someone is passing or close to your vehicle.  Although we are almost always close to another vehicle, so close I could touch the driver next to us.  The rickshaw drivers frequently become lost, prefer not to use the required meter, or try to rip us off as Americans.  Most rides cost about a dollar fifty, or 70 rupees, with about 50 rupees to the dollar.  There are speeding laws in place, but I have not seen one traffic cop.  Though a motorcycle handle did touch my leg, I otherwise have not seen one accident. 

Hindi is the main language spoken here, but we learned that really no one speaks true Hindi, but a dialect called Urdu.  We have picked up on some basic phrases like “Namaste”, meaning “hello” or “aapka naam kya hai?”, meaning “what is your name”.  Interestingly enough, I knew of Namaste already from yoga in the US, and this morning I had a chance to do yoga with my host father, who does jewelry.  He showed me multiple meditation exercises with short, fast lung breathing and stomach breathing, along with slower breathing towards the end with ohms.  I didn’t expect to be doing short fast breathing with meditation, but he said that the breathing gives energy.  There are many volunteers in our house, from the US, Brazil, and even Poland.  Much like South Africa, with so many people coming in and out, the house feels like a hostel.  The family has one servant who helps with the cleaning, and the inside feels very spacious with gorgeous white marble floors.  All of the boys live in the basement, and we use the bathroom water heater for our bucket showers.  Humorously, I jumped on my bed expecting a soft mattress and instead found my bed to be a table with a slight cushion on top.  Despite the rather hard sleeping surface, I have slept wonderfully- Chris also sleeps great on a piece of plywood.  Recently, we have even seen the basement transform into a construction zone, as we wake up to screaming metal saw blades.  In many of the India households and offices, everyone must take off their shoes before entering, and one weekend we visited an outdoor market in order to buy some “camel leather” sandals to wear inside.  For about four dollars, they have proved a great investment.  The place we went was incredibly crowded with people, but the owner ushered us towards the back in order to try on certain pairs.  Once I found the pair I liked, I asked if they had a darker pair.  Instead of getting another pair of shoes with a darker shade, a boy brought me the same pair of sandals dripping slightly.  I could smell the strong aroma of paint thinner.  Welcome to India.

Being a foreigner, many people stare at us.  Between our American accents and incredibly white skin, we stick out and receive a lot of stares.  On one occasion where we visited an outdoor mall area with blaring club music, a man flipped us off and proceeded to direct beggars toward us.  Nice guy.  Once again, I felt so struck by the effects of globalization once again here.  I ordered a frozen yogurt at CocoBerry, taking about twenty minutes because of the language barrier, the other guys bought food at a nice McDonald’s, Chris ordering a Big Maharaja Burger, with chicken instead of the traditional beef burger.  Cows here are considered sacred by the Hindi religion, so slaughter of a cow for food is viewed as a sacrilege.  I even saw a woman with YouTube flip flops, along with a Bollywood movie sponsored by YouTube.  We saw a Bollywood action movie called Don 2 with Shah Rukh Han, a famous Hindi actor, in a ridiculous action movie, all in Hindi.  After the absurdly embellished two and a half hour film, we caught little of the Hindi humor.  No English subtitles.  Back to our mall experience, I saw that the Pizza Hut, a run down beat up food chain in the States, presented itself as a sit down family restaurant with shiny tables and folded napkins.  Even McDonald’s looked very clean and organized, adorned with flashy New Year’s messages as people filled all of its tables.  The format of the mall struck me the most, that as I went to the mall in order to find traditional Indian clothing, I looked around and saw all these younger Indians sporting Western, brand named clothing instead.  The strange relation between my trying to understand and embrace their culture while they sought to escape from their own jarred me.  The sound of Sean Paul played on a cell phone belonging to a small Indian boy in a slum really shook me.    

New Year’s Eve in Jaipur, for our family, amounted to a fairly simple night.  We asked if they had any traditions surrounding New Year’s, and although they said they sometimes go out, our host father mentioned that he was alone this year.  As the other volunteers left to go to some restaurants and parties later that night, we were left alone to decide how to spend our New Year’s Eve.  So Chris and I crossed the street to go to a kite store.  Crossing that street gave me the first legitimate fear that a car or motorcycle might hit me.  The cars do not necessarily yield to passengers, and darting across the road proves very dangerous because of the weaving motor bikers.  Timing the cars made reaching the other side like a Frogger game.  Being kite season in Jaipur, I thought to fly one on the roof.  We bought four paper kites, and after seeing many kids in the city flying kites effortlessly, I thought I could do it too.  I was wrong.  Unfortunately, flying a kite requires more than an occasional tug, and Chris and Conner watched as I proceeded to shred the kite with repeated crashes on the hard, cement roof.  After our failed kite attempt, we decided to go up on our roof overlooking the city to watch a movie on our laptop and to catch the fireworks at 12 in the center of the city.  One of the next days, we saw some of the volunteer girls in the newspaper, from the New Year’s Eve party.  The city still looked beautiful from our rooftop all the same.

            The food here is incredible, and because of the huge population of Hindus and Muslims, beef is practically nonexistent.  Only some of the bigger corporations and hotels, like the Marriot, have a license to sell meat.  I learned the other day that hurting a cow results in three years of prison, and killing a cow results in ten years of prison.  So we have not yet had beef.  Nonetheless, I love the almost vegetarian diet, and realize that meat for me has been an addition rather than a necessity in my food choice.  Although we have a similar menu every day, our host parents serve great porridge, papaya shakes, banana, a tortilla like dough called chapatti, vegetables, and curry dal or lentils to serve over rice.  Instead of utensils, we use the chapatti to scoop up the vegetables while we pour the dal over our rice to eat with a regular spoon.  What surprised me even more was that the family grows the papayas in their garden!  Tea also plays a big role in the culture here, and our group loves the chai breaks at Idex almost as much as ice cream.  Though we have gone to the McDonald’s twice now, I have not bought any of their food, and every time I think about going out I miss our home cooked Rajasthani meals. 

            Our work project for India revolves around the education system, so we chose between three venues, including a primary school, a government-run school, and a women’s computer literacy program.  Both of the schools lie in an area called Katputali Nagar, also known as the Puppet Maker Slum.  Upon arriving, I noticed the multitude of flies on many of the kids sitting in school.  The first school children invited us in with screams and shouts of joy, reaching to introduce themselves and shake all of our hands as we crammed into the small school room.  All of the children sat on the floor cross-legged with backpacks in front of them, ranging from a generic knapsack to others more colorful, including one with Mr. Bean’s face blazoned across the front.  The kids kept pointing at which of us they wanted to teach them, and moving from the bustling children to the government school I noticed quite a change.  The kids at the government school remained much more quiet on our entering, and though they waved at us they remained seated on the concrete outside floor as the teacher watched over them.  The head teacher appeared hardened and stolid as we entered, and I watched as flies continued to bombard some of the students.  I learned later that we would help to teach kids from classes 2 and 3, about 8-10 years old.  Hairy pigs nosed through the trash piles outside the schools, and I noticed other mangy looking dogs and animals trudging through the mud road.  One day as we walked out of the school, a man accosted us and asked if we spoke Spanish, and continued to chat in Spanish with us.  Many of the other children greeted us as I was reminded of the housing from the Qolweni township in South Africa, looking at the beaten down shacks.

            Teaching, so far, has been incredibly difficult, and the most difficult of our projects so far.  Without any training, teaching children very excited to learn but not always excited to calm down and listen, I’ve found correlating my idea of fun learning to fun teaching very challenging.  I think of fun learning as interactive, creative, but so far I have found that I move toward repeat-after-me style learning from the board, with worksheets as a supplement.  The kids understand simple English, but explaining activities to them remains a task we often need to ask of our project leaders.  Attempting to standardize the learning in order to ensure that they all learn the same material is also difficult, especially with a broad range of talent in certain areas.  Because of kite flying season, many kids do not come to school, so with each day we have had more kids coming in, providing more children who we know little about.  Splitting them into four tiny groups led to slight chaos, with more attention to each student but moving and distraction between groups, yet two larger groups of about 12 each proved a huge number of kids to try and have focus.  I found that while on student would be eager to make sure he spelled 1-10 correctly, another student would not know the quantities of 1-10, and would instead hit another of the students and play with the black board eraser.  On one occasion I also noticed the head teacher hitting a student on the head during a morning song.  I begin to wonder how common teachers use corporal punishment in classrooms.  Without giving them worksheets and tests, I find it hard to gauge ability levels and sort them into groups depending on their level.  Even more difficult is that their levels differ by subject, so we would need to make different groups for English and Math classes.  I still feel excited to teach, but the patience and work behind making curricula and teaching plans remains daunting.  After seminars about whether our educations have been subjective or objective, oppressive or liberating, and starting to examine the ways of influencing a liberating education, I find myself thinking about how I can apply what I liked in my education to teaching here.  Though teaching styles in high school differ greatly from those in primary school, and finding the most fun and effective teaching style may require a lot of experimentation.      

South Africa in One Post

Unfortunately, this entry sums up all of my time in Africa, so sorry ahead of time for the sheer length.  Many of these paragraphs are directly from a previous post I wrote for a travel website called worldwinder.com, and to view that entire post you can go to their website under guest blog entries.  There are also some pictures from the area there.  

My time in South Africa has been incredible so far, visually, emotionally, mentally, and even physically.  I don’t know where to start with the sheer wonder of the landscape.  Off the 13 hour plane from New York, after several connections, I felt like I had stepped into Florida.  Palm like trees, ocean breeze, nothing like the Africa advertised on television.  After a sojourn at a nearby hostel playing a game called bitong (not sure if the spelling is right), like bocce ball, and watching cricket, we made out way exploring the area.  As we entered the townships I saw the first signs of visual poverty here.  Shacks with dirt floors, the poignant smell of urine and body odor, kids playing in garbage heaps, garbage and glass cemented into the rocky, dirt paths leading to some of the houses; these sights and smells defined poverty for me.  Though the American advertisements are incomplete- South Africa is one of the most developed and modernized parts of Africa, and although shantytowns exist, most of the area where we are staying has highways, cities, shops, supermarkets, and industrialized infrastructure.  Even stranger is that across the way from the poorest and most dangerous township lies a township lined with standard, government funded housing with pristinely paved roads.  The landscape looks like an old American suburb, except without the white picket fence and smiling families, child in hand.  Dogs lie as guards outside houses as kids run up and down the street as some mothers wash clothes or sit inside with their family watching television.  Amazingly, despite living in almost destitute conditions, almost every house I have visited has had a sound system and television.  Satellites poke out of the shacks’ roofs, and one day I saw a house with cardboard lining the outside wall.  Yet only minutes away by car lies an amazing downtown area with stores lining the streets, and a pristine beach waiting for the feet of tourists and their open checkbooks.

            Our work project here involves studying public health through an NGO called PlettAid, as we follow around home based caregivers and record psychosocial data regarding the patients’ moods before and after our arrival.  Unfortunately recording the patients’ moods can be difficult, especially with the language barrier.  In the townships, the two main languages spoken are Afrikaans and Xhosa, and while some of the people know English, many do not.  Often I find myself entering a home and feeling like an intruder because I am unable to communicate with that person- other than a simple hello and goodbye I know little of either language, and the clicks in Xhosa especially make it different than other dialects.  So every day we report to one of the clinics depending on where the patients live, but everyone was assigned a different clinic, so while I am with some of the people in the group, others work at different clinics.  We wait there every morning as residents file in and sit down, usually pretty full during the week, and as our caregivers arrive we either visit patients at their homes or go to another clinic with a patient using van transport.  Here are some anecdotes that I hope shed light on the biggest learning moments of my time in South Africa thus far. 

            The walls of my clinic are lined with signs and promotions regarding HIV/AIDS- free condom signs, family support organizations, and responsibilities and rights of the patients jump out from the white painted walls.  People fill the waiting area to see the sole Sister in the clinic.  On one of my first home visits, a talkative man asked me about America and where I lived.  What struck me was how he talked as if all of America were rich, and if all of the country looked as it did on television.  I assured it didn’t, and it made me think that when I first came to Africa I thought of the moving images of impoverished children clothes in rags peering at me through the screen.  But all of Africa is completely different- within each country, and within each region even city the landscape changes.  Shack towns to standardized, white government housing to supermarkets and tourist filled beaches.  Just like the US, all of Africa does not resemble television commercials. 

            Another huge part of the experience here involves immediate signs of both globalization and westernization.  From American Dracula movies to huge sound systems to blaring Rihanna pop music, I have found that even halfway around the world I can’t escape American culture.  Nike sweatpants, Hong Kong tee shirts, even a Washington D.C. sweatshirt that one of the caregivers wore.  I saw a man with an Eminem hat, Lil Wayne blazoned across a man’s wall outside his house, signs lie everywhere.  Inside one patient’s house, an older woman with high blood pressure, a poster of the pop star Jennifer Lopez resides right over her bed, and in that same visit I heard Pink Panther music from the South African radio frequency.  One of the most striking and stunning forms of globalization, and especially the world influence of corporations is the Coca Cola logos paraded next to the store names.  Little food stores and barbershops litter the townships, and many of the food stores have their names flaunted next to the global Coca Cola logo.  My caregiver explained to me that they pay less to have their signs made by the Coca Cola Company, so as they advertise their store name to township families Coca Cola reaches its arm further across the world.

            One of my most poignant and shocking experiences of the public health aspect of the trip here involves my proximity to HIV and TB patients.  We visited an AIDS patient who weighed about 26 kg, or about 70-80 pounds.  As I helped to lift her from the wheelchair into the van to see the Sister at another clinic, I felt every bone in her chest and the shaking of her breath with the pain and discomfort.  At only 39 years old, she lived off ARV treatment and looked as if she were in the final stages of the disease.  Incredibly weak, swelling in her chest, legs and arms as skinny as twigs, she looked at least twice her age.  I learned that they discovered the disease late, and that her CD4 count was already low when she began ARV treatment.  The second time we saw her she looked worse.  Her stomach swelled with a fluid, and as we took her to the clinic to drain off the more than 2L of fluid, she started to fade.  At first I thought she felt tired, but the Sister and nurses called the ambulance to bring her to the hospital.  Another lady in the room could barely speak from a stroke, and threw up right next to me.  In the next bed, a young couple sat next to their young son with epilepsy.  A few days later I found out from my caregiver that the AIDS patient had passed away in the hospital.  I didn’t cry, I didn’t feel sad or depressed, just a bit shocked.  I didn’t know her that well, and couldn’t talk to her, only lift her into the van and accompany her in the hospital.  HIV/AIDS is the leading cause of death in South Africa.  Because her cause of death was HIV and TB, she must wait longer and pay more for her funeral policy.  Normal deaths involve a waiting period of six months while a TB or HIV related death involves a 1-2 year waiting period.  Openness and testing are highly encouraged, yet phrases like “do you eat sweets with the paper on?” referring to condom use perpetuate detrimental decisions.

            My reaction to her passing scared me a bit because I did not feel shocked.  Looking forward on these experiences I thought that I would be hit very hard, crying after work or feeling depressed.  Each day brought mental exhaustion and emotional drain, but I did not cry over the patient’s death.  Many of the township stories and experiences I heard sounded and looked so abstract to me, so foreign, that I struggled to grasp their reality.  I felt worse that I did not cry over her death, that I did not feel particularly sad, and after I brought that up in one of our group processing meetings I saw that others felt very moved by certain experiences.  It felt wrong, my seemingly indifferent outlook, but now I see that everyone processes these experiences differently.  With such an abstract and surreal experience, there’s no right way to feel or react, even if I think there is.    

 

            The public health system here involves aspects incredibly helpful and affordable to the people.  Home-based care is provided free to the people, along with visits to the clinic and medication such as antibiotics or ARVs.  Despite effective parts, there also exist complexities and weak points.  One of the controversial ways to support the patients is a disability grant, money given for healthy living and supporting oneself and their family if needed.  Yet underlying addictions in townships such as alcohol and cigarettes lead some to abuse the disability grant to buy alcohol, leading some to intentionally grow sicker in order to receive the grant.  When one becomes well they need to find a job to support themselves, but the scarcity makes finding a job difficult.  And the cycle continues.  My media project involves the reasons and factors behind one’s making detrimental decisions to his health.  Unlike my assumptions on arrival, laziness and ignorance play almost no role.

            Though the main part of town remains relatively safe during the day, a recent event in one of the townships changed many of our perceptions of their actual safety.  One night a man raped a seven year old girl, murdered her, and proceeded to show a neighbor the grave.  The town responded in a mob, beating the man and burning him to death instead of leaving him to the faults of the justice system.  One of the patients mentioned that the man had offended two previous times, the first for five years prison time and the second for fifteen years prison time.  The patient believed that the man deserved his death, and that killing him was just, elaborating that murderers should be killed, rapists should have their genitals cut off, and thieves should have their hands cut off.  They also continued that walking around at night one could encounter drug addicts on the street looking for a fix or get robbed.  He blamed these criminals for racial distrust, and that the racial distrust makes it even more difficult to find jobs. 

            December 1^st was world AIDS Day, so as part of our project to raise awareness during the two-week party called Plett Rage, we pitched a tent on the beach to attract people to our activity.  Due to rain we conducted the activity the next day, including a bit of education on condom use through a race to put condoms on cucumbers.  Though a humorous activity, we tried to remind many of the intoxicated partiers who do not know much about the danger of HIV/AIDS in South Africa to use condoms as an easy way to prevent infection.  Changing mindset and consciousness is incredibly difficult in such a short exercise, but I hope we at least made some people think about the issue for at least the day.  Many of the beachgoers, to our astonishment, did not know much about the HIV epidemic raging right in their backyard.  I struggled with not feeling patronizing informing them of an issue in their own country, especially as a foreigner.  Before this trip, I didn’t even know there was a difference between HIV and AIDS. But it affects everyone from children to parents, and if no one knows about it or talks about it, then no one will be open about their contracting it.  As part of the patients’ rights, a patient with HIV has the right to keep secret their status.  In the US, I feel that the use of condoms is advertised as a way to prevent pregnancy primarily, but many leave out that condoms also prevent HIV infection.  Being able to talk about HIV at the dinner table eliminates the stigma and tension around the disease.  If no one knows, no one can help.

            Despite continuing hardships that some South Africans face everyday, the joy and happiness I saw every day amazed me.  Kids playing in the dirt with little food and broken down houses still smiled and laughed like any other child, and as I entered the houses the families would smile and greet me warmly.  Talking with one of the Sisters at the clinic, she told us that whenever she leaves she always yearns to come back, and that despite the medical difficulties, she loves the character of the people.  She felt that most of the people she saw living in the townships appeared much happier than those living in the more developed city area of Plett.  I felt that especially the African women, the mothers, had such pride and responsibility in the household, many of them taking care of the entire family and siblings on their own.  I admire their strength.   

Being in South Africa for the holiday season, we have experienced two major American holidays here, Thanksgiving and Christmas.  We spent Thanksgiving at Rocky Road, the hostel we sojourned at intermittently during the trip.  Our homestay mother Steph also prepared a great meal, but the willingness to accommodate a holiday they don’t celebrate astounded me, and the meal at Rocky Road was one of my best Thanksgiving dinners.  Soft atmosphere, a nice fire, such a personal and relaxing atmosphere.  Due to the feeling of family here in the group and with the people we’ve met, I’ve hardly felt homesick the entire trip.  The food has been excellent, with the highlight being the number of braais we have had.  The braai is basically a barbecue, and the family we stayed with loved it, so many times we would have a braai with our host brothers and host mom.  I felt amazed that she handed us the house so happily, and she treated us more as friends than guests in her house.  The amount of people that she knew in town, the kids that felt so comfortable talking with her and staying over for the night, astounded me.  She really is Plett’s mom.

Our Christmas week we spent doing safari activities with an organization called CrissCross Adventures in Addo.  A young couple led us on amazing activities that week including visits to a raptor and reptile center, cheetah center, Addo Elephant National Park, and a river safari.  I let some snakes wrap around my neck, and hold them, as I learned that snakes are very misunderstood, and many are not aggressive.  Good to learn as I let one slither around my windpipe.  We saw a crocodile, very aggressive animal, an ostrich, even a goat ramming its head repeatedly against the fence.  We got to pet lion cubs and even a cheetah, along with seeing some sirvals, which reminded me of Egypt a lot and the jackals alongside mummies.  The cats were so majestic, and I can see now why Egyptians saw them as royalty.  Yesterday we went out on the river in canoes for a little river safari, learning about different plants and how ancient the land is.  Our tour guide Chris found a huge elephant tusk up on the bank of the river, and he told us that most likely it aged back to the days of ivory hunters.  Our funny guide Moses told us about his life growing up as a kid in the Xhosa culture, stealing honey from bees nests by burning a plant, sticking a plant in a termite hole to get them stuck to fry and eat as protein, even run 6 km to school then grab a branch with which to brush his teeth.  We tried the aloe vera plant, which tasted horrible, and even smelled a potent mint leaf.  The spearfishing and other hunting stories of the Xhosa bushmen amazed me, that everything they needed they could find in the bush.  My favorite day with CrissCross was our safari day in the National Park.  We drove through in a fish tank or pope mobile, as Moses called it, where we could see the animals out the huge windows.  We saw a rhino, ostriches, bunches of elephants, warthogs, jackals, kuddu, elands, and even a lion at the very end of our tour.  At one watering hole, we saw maybe thirty or more elephants sliding into the water to bathe and drink, some even coming close to the van.  Little warthog babies ran next to their mother, and we saw the most interesting ostrich mating ceremony.  The male sat on the ground, swaying its feathers back and forth in order to impress the female, and once they started mating it looked like a dance.  A strange site to see, but very intriguing to watch.

For IST, the whole group went to Cape Town.  The city was huge and bustling, and one night some went out to the clubs on the main street, even after we had already gone out multiple times during Plett Rage.  The amount of activities Cape Town offered was immense, so we had to pick and choose.  Hope and I couldn’t get tickets to Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela was held, but we still climbed Table Mountain, visited the Cape of Good Hope, Cape Point, Boulders’ penguin colony, Chapman’s Peak, and a seal colony off Hout Bay.  Table Mountain was one of my favorite activities, which involved a mere hour and a half to summit but offered great views of the city, ocean, and another hike called Devil’s Peak.  Recently named one of the seven Natural Wonders of the World, Table Mountain is available to everyone to climb by cable car, and because of time we took it down.  I felt mixed about the cable car; I feel that a Wonder of the World should be harder to see, to make it more fulfilling to reach that summit, but doing so would leave many without the opportunity to see it.  Our bus day tour hit many of the big attractions near Cape Town, and we hiked and biked through the Cape of Good Hope to Cape Point, the southern most tip of Africa.  Practically surrounded by water, I liked the endless blue save the numerous tourists seeing it with me.  With so many people it felt pretty crowded.  Seeing the penguins on the beach was cool too, especially because I wouldn’t think to see penguins on a beach at all.  Hope and I both enjoyed the market type shops too, being able to bargain and look at all the crafts people offered.  Thankfully the atmosphere was not as overwhelming as the Otavalo adventure.                                     

As far as other fun activities, earlier in the trip some of us went skydiving and bungee jumping.  I did both, and the surreal nature of the jumps was awesome.  With coastline and beach hikes scattered throughout our work project, we have experienced many sides of South Africa.  Whether a seal colony basking in the sun, bright flowers spotted on a hillside, or dogs sitting in dirt with ticks invading their faces, little children playing soccer on a dirt field, and garbage fires.  Yet throughout all the hardship, the people remain energetic, loud and lively, with the woman especially exuding an air of supreme confidence and pride, which I envy.  Through the work of PlettAid and caregivers, change is happening here in South Africa.   

End of Atahualpa to Tena to Cusco Up A Peruvian Wonder of the World

Well it has been a while- my last entry was right before we left for Tena- Mijal, Arden, Julia and I left on a super early bus, around 6 to start an approximately seven hour venture on public buses to Tena, which lies near the jungle very close to sea level.  After a weird scary movie called Vertigo and lots of random stories to entertain ourselves, we arrived to get situated in our hostel.  We took a wooden canoe across this little river to a kind of zoo, a shelter persay for certain animals.  We saw a tapir, monkey, capibara, turtles, a massive tree and even a tree with cinnamon leaves.  The tree we saw was over 100 years old!  As it grew, it grew down into the ground and then grew out until its death, so that the tree was symmetrical upside down.  The amount of species and biodiversity in the region is unreal- the baby monkeys scrambling around in tree branches especially entertained and touched us all.  We saw the other kids from EIL as we stripped into bathing suits and played in the river. 

The next day was our last day, really, because of the long travel time.  We managed to find a package deal for only 60 dollars- rafting in the morning, jungle tour in the afternoon, followed by a night in an indigenous home.  The White water rafting was one of my highlights that weekend- I didn’t know what to expect really, and as I realized that we did not actually sit in the raft I began to worry a bit.  So we have to sit on the side of this raft as we paddle and make sure to stay in the boat when the white water carries us into the rocks?  I started to think about falling out when we learned the proper body position should we fall out of the raft- on our back, knees bent so we don’t ram into rocks as hard.  Nice.  Sure enough, I fell out the first rapid, called the butterfly rapid- freakn embarrassing.  Luckily there were two German guys with us too, and one fell out with me so it wasn’t too bad.  None of us fell out for all the next rapids, over about two hours.  It was a lot more fun in the front-as my dad says, “the view from the back never changes”.  It’s very true.  We passed some native people, cleaning some metals in the river and looking for more, bathing, washing clothes, or some kids playing in the rapids with old tires.  It made me think how much the river meant to these people, going back to the title of one of the group’s media project titles- Water is Life.  I think they realize the importance of water more than I do.  We stopped towards the end of our trip on the river to jump off a 6 meter bridge- it looked rickety.  I saw each plank bend under the weight of a car passing by and also wondered how deep the water was where we would land.  Our guide assured us that as long as we ben tour knees as we hit the water we could be fine.  Great- so I hesitated a bit as I climbed up onto the metal railing but it wasn’t bad.  Barely hit the bottom on impact.  Even better was that all these locals on the shore watched us, most of the kids naked too.  They looked pretty excited to see foreigners, but they probably see many other rafting groups along those rapids. 

On our jungle tour, our guide found a plant called achiote whose seeds gave a deep red natural dye, used in some of the indigenous tribes to dye their hair red.  So we got some neat face paint, although in the sweltering heat and humidity I sweated it right off.  Our guide led us up onto this ridgeline overlooking the jungle, and we got to look out across the expanse of trees and clouds.  We continued past an elastic tree, where once sliced under the bark, the tree would ooze a black liquid, then hardening to form rubber, a natural elastic.  Pretty awesome the amount of resources found in the jungle- it seemed like every other plant could be used to alleviate an ailment- stomach problems, coughing, sore throat; everything the people in the indigenous villages could need came right from the jungle.  I can now see why they are so angered by petroleum companies’ taking their jungle- the jungle is their way of life.  We passed by a natural waterfall pool for a quick dip and a water massage.  So cool- literally everything is in the jungle!

The place we stayed at for the night was not really an indigenous village- a father and his son lived there, but were not what I thought of when I heard “indigenous”.  That night a shaman visited the house to go through a cleansing ritual with the girls in the group.  He uttered incantations as he shook a leaf around their body, shaking away the evil spirits.  It was quite the ritual to watch, and we payed for only a small sample.  Usually the rituals the shamans conduct are much longer and more grandiose.  It was a very neat side to see of the Ecuadorian culture, and we experienced only a tiny bit of the real culture.  The next day we ate there and rode in the back of a pickup in order to get back to Tena, catching the bus back to Atahualpa and meeting with everyone else. 

Seeing everyone felt a bit strange at first- I got used to the small group and all of a sudden I felt surrounded by smiles and stories and talking.  Bit overwhelming- it took me a few days to become accustomed to the big group again.                               

We left Atahualpa forever, hopefully not, but I’ll see.  My host brother gifted me a beautiful wood recorder and pictures, and everyone asked me to come back sometime in the future.  It was a hard question to answer- I wanted to say yes but I have no idea where I will be in one, five, ten years, so I answered a vague “I hope so”.  The families of Atahualpa voiced that their doors will always be open should we return- their hospitality is unbelievable. I felt odd accepting the gorgeous recorder as a gift, but the effort made to remember Atahualpa was astounding, so David must have really wanted me to have it.  I tried to play it unsuccessfully, but have since learned “hot cross buns”.  Working on it. 

My last night in Atahualpa was pretty unforgettable.  The whole town practically showed up to see our media presentations; except the funny part was that they arrived about a half hour later than the scheduled time.  Very relaxed in Atahualpa as far as getting places on time.  We all presented, a local pan flute and guitar band performed as we danced, tons of food was passed around, including a traditional colada morada, a rich dessert drink made of berry.  We all sat and talked with our families, and each of us, including the leaders, received certificates/graduation recognition from the parroquia of Atahualpa.  Later as the food dwindled, we had a huge dance party to electronic music.  My host brother said I could be a professional, which flattered me.  I am not quite the professional grade dancer.  We watched 10,000 BC as a family before all going to bed.          

The last morning before leaving, I made sure to get some family pictures on the roof- at first I was worried because I did not think my host dad would make it back from Quito in time, but luckily he came back the night before.  Worrying about not saying a proper goodbye or getting a picture reminded me how much they meant to me.  David went off to school, my host Dad to Quito for treatment, and my host mom still there with me as I stuffed all my belongings in my backpack.  I ran down to pick up my pants, getting mended for a hole, but the store was closed.  I hated that- making everyone know that I left something, being the limiting factor in the group.  But more than that was the town’s reaction to my problem.  Two women from the store next to the one with my pants immediately pulled out cell phones and called her house, offering to get a car to run down, practically mobilizing the town to get my pants back.  They suggested sending them to Quito to pick up, everything; eventually the storeowner ran up from her house down the hill to give me the pants.  At that point I felt so bad for making everyone run around for me I was ready to get another pair of pants- but the happiness and willingness to get me those pants stunned me- they were worth about four dollars.

We returned to Quito for a day, back to the mission from before.  We had a cool bowling night with the Ecuador semester group, cosmic bowling in the Quicentro mall.  Really fun to be with some of the other kids going through a similar experience- they studied public health in Ecuador instead of environment, and we got to see their media projects too.  Modern vs. Traditional medicine focused, and it was interesting to see how many plants could assuage a cold, or stomach problems, or other minor symptoms.  The next day we were free to walk around the city before evaluations and a night city tour, where we got to see La Garda, a statue of the Virgin of Quito overlooking the city.  Pretty spectacular at night with the soft purple aura around it.  After our last meals at the mission and a really early wake up on Halloween, we navigated the airport and took a flight to Cusco.  We got a lot of strange looks- not every day the Ecuadorian sees a hippie jester, batman, zombie, reindeer, or bumblebee walking through an airport. 

After climbing Machu Picchu and about to be off to South Africa, I have much more to write about.  Unfortunately, the internet in South Africa is speculative at best, so it will be difficult to post any pictures.  I’ll see what I can do.  All I can say is that we’ll be in a lot of airports. 

Cusco was a lot like Otavalo- big market scene and a ton of opportunity for shopping.  We took a roundabout way to land- big banking turn into a skinny valley for a long runway- funnily enough, there were some seats lined along the sides of the runway should locals want to watch the planes land.  The city is pretty big- some market like setups but mostly streets lined with stores, and multiple squares mixed into the normal city block style.  It was a relaxing few days before Machu Picchu- cafes, shopping, and Alpaca craze set in, along with a lot of holiday shopping too.  I still had some bouts of buyer’s remorse, but I think after initially regretting some purchases, now that I realize I might not ever be back in Cusco, I do not feel as bad.  Although the need to stuff my big backpack and have two carry ons made me think a little bit about the reality of having all that stuff.  And of course whether or not I would actually use those items- I keep struggling with the idea of buying new items, especially clothing, and how easy it is to justify any action I make.  Either it’s “I’m supporting the economy”, or “it’s a better form of consumerism in a market…at least they get all the profit”, or “you’ll never be in Cusco again.”  At the end of the day, I still needed to leave a whole backpack of Ecuadorian and Peru clothing with Andrea in NY.  I still don’t know if I am happy with my choices, but I’m leaning yes. 

We did find some amazing stores in Cusco- one in particular with a Native American man selling great quality leather- expensive, but in my eyes worth it.  My friend Chris bought a gorgeous hand painted drum with the three spirit animals painted on- the condor, the puma, and the snake.  The condor represents peace, the puma represents energy, while the snake represents intelligence.  It’s fascinating the meaning behind these symbols.  These red and black seeds used for bracelets and necklaces represent protection—also the stone turquoise represents creativity and mental health.  The owner was very animated and proud of his work, happy to explain to us the greater meaning behind his work. 

The most common way Hope and I spent most of our time in Cusco was looking at art.  Yet we did not look at art in galleries or stores, just peering over the shoulders of young, walking artists in the squares.  The artists carried with them their entire portfolios- paintings with oil, charcoal, or watercolor on paper or even felt for better transportation.  After the first day when an artist stopped us in the square, we seemed like targets for all the artists.  We spent at least over an hour looking through vibrant shaman faces, the Indian in the mountain of Machu Picchu, spirit animals, or the Peruvian ladies’ hats and dangling braids of midnight black hair.  Fascinating and incredibly detailed work, requiring days of toil- almost all of the work shown was by the student, maybe one or two by their instructor, and the artists we saw were all still in art school.  Most of the themes shown were the same, but each had a slightly different style or preferred medium, and spending all the time looking and arguing down a price seemed a bit annoying at the time, but getting to know the artist behind the work felt rewarding.  I don’t think I would’ve got that experience at a gallery- plus the pieces in the street were far less expensive.  Bargaining the price of a gorgeous piece of artwork down made me feel degrading almost- I ended up buying one beautiful piece a bit overprice, but stood outside this restaurant while my lunch got cold trying to be reasonable with the man.  Hope explained it pretty well- I did not want to cheat him for a price too low, but in a way a price too high cheated me.  A delicate process. 

Machu Picchu hike began.  Much like other hikes, well some, Machu Picchu has a train option to get to the top; we took the longer, four day trek on foot.  Yet we did not have to carry any of our necessities, save clothes, toiletries, etc- we had a team of 18 porters carry everything from chairs to tables to food and water for us up the mountain.  These literal mountain men astounded me- I thought carrying a 50 pound comfy pack was hard- these guys literally tied tarps together with rope, threw a few tarp straps on, and powered up the trail in sandals.  Some wore shoes, some sandals—some had better packs too, but almost all of the packs I saw had no sturdy, comfortable waist belt.  The waist belt is the most important part of a pack really, especially a heavy one, because it transfers most of the weight from the shoulders to the hips.  I felt pretty pathetic standing in a stretching circle about to shoulder my cushy, 20ish lb pack as the porters saddled up 50 lb behemoths in sandals.  Not only would all the weight be on these guys’ shoulders, but they would practically run up the trail, especially downhills.  Every day by the time we got to camp, the tents were set up, food being prepared, no sweat for us at all.  Plus they would clap upon our entry- too bad we weren’t there first to clap for them, they deserved it most.  On top of the porters, our two formal guides were aptly named Socrates and Jesus.  They introduced us to plants and gave insight into the Incan culture as we hiked—what better leaders to follow up to Machu Picchu than Socrates and Jesus.

On top of physical demands, the trip did not demand very much preparation.  The porters provided all meals and even hand and feet washing buckets for us, as well as bathrooms at every camp site and the rest points along the way.  The bathrooms did not have seats or provided toilet paper, just a hole with some for grips for the natural squat position.  Uncannily comfy really- once I got used to it.  They even had trash barrels for the used toilet paper.  Our meals were incredibly luscious- pancakes, rice, meat, vegetables, even flaming banana with alcohol.  Popcorn, tea four times a day, once each meal and a five o’clock tea time- the quantity of food was incredible for a hiking trip.  It made the hiking part that much easier. 

Over four days, we covered a little over 40 km, up and down hill about evenly.  Our second day was the most challenging- seemingly endless stairs up, and seemingly endless stairs up.  Wind and rain pummeled us for the duration of the day, and drying our clothes in the tent worked to a point- even my Gore Tex 3L jacket was absolutely soaked, either to sweat or water, or most likely both.  I was not pleased.  Luckily after day 2 the weather cleared for our long day three- for our early five wake up the porters not only woke us up, but also brought us coca tea.  The leaves are most potent chewed, causing more energy and less need to eat or drink.  A lot of the porters used the coca leaves on the trail, occasionally stopping on uphills to change leaves.  I tried it one day but didn’t feel much effect, though I could have used too few leaves.  Interestingly, one break spot I saw one of the porters intentionally spill his drink, a sort of murky looking drink I thought was chicha.  I later learned that in the Inca culture, they frequently offered the first sip of their drink to Pachamama, or Mother Nature.  One lunch break we made sure to give Her some of our orange juice for good luck with the weather. 

Our last day hiking up to Machu Picchu we had a very early wake up, about 3, in order to make a checkpoint before 5:30- there were many other groups on the trail, and all the groups needed to make it through the checkpoint in order to continue to Machu Picchu.  At al the check points we could receive stamps in our passports, evidence of our trek- six all together, with the most awe inspiring stamp of course at the gates of Machu Picchu.  After a stimulating conversation regarding religion, psychology, and the death penalty, we made it to the sun gate.  Strange how my mind wanders during a hike.  Unfortunately the clouds hid our first view of Machu Picchu for a few minutes, but once it cleared all the cameras came out.  I felt that as many pictures I took of the view, I cold never get enough.  Every few seconds down the trail a better view emerged, better light, better clouds.  Yet at the top of the Sun Gate I could not help but feel oddly unsatisfied.  It wasn’t the view, or the fact that I just walked to one of the new 7 Wonders of the World- it was me.  I kept thinking that it would’ve been better if I had worked harder, or if there weren’t as many people there, or that no matter how long I gazed upon that site I knew it would not be enough.  I thought how I could not be like the Huoruani tribe; I knew the beautiful moment had to come to an end.  One quotation that Conner told me stuck, although this might not be phrased correctly, “Don’t be sad that it’s over, be happy that you’re there.”  The quotation intertwines wonderfully with my goal of staying in the moment, a goal at that moment I did not fulfill.  I escaped my snit little by little as the tour progressed, but I still felt tired in all the beauty.  Tourist groups walked by, security guards stationed around the site to guide traffic and beep at the walking on the grass or taking jumping pictures, which I found out first hand.  The face in the mountain looks much stronger in pictures and paintings, but gazing at the site I did recognize the face.  Words can’t describe the awe of Machu Picchu, or the brilliance of the Inca culture.  The Incas had a compass rock, facing almost perfectly in all four directions, a rock to determine the solstices and equinoxes depending on shadow, and most importantly their most important symbol, called the chacana, or Andean cross.  The symbol embodies their entire culture- the spirit animals, levels of life, numbers, even the seasons, geography, four parts of the year, everything.  Their way of life can be interpreted from that sole symbol.  The architecture of the site was also unbelievable- water canals, structures stronger than our current houses- their rock walls appeared rudimentary, but inside all the rocks had grooves, making them fit together like puzzle pieces.  Instead of just flat rocks, the grooves strengthened the wall exponentially- brilliant.  All the water flowed underground, or above, into certain pools, like little fountains.  Everything revolved around nature and the Earth. 

A few aspects of Machu Picchu disappointed me, mainly the tourist aspect of the site itself.  American food at the bottom, one of the most expensive hotels in the area near the base, and overall a commercialization of the area.  But without that commercialization, my visit to Machu Picchu would not have been possible.  Still, all those people and the American, tourist touch to that Incan site takes away from its beauty- everywhere so far I’ve seen American aspects and highlights, for better or for worse; all the while it makes me feel strange.  The idea in globalization that despite travelling, you can never leave home.  The Incas never said goodbye in their culture, only “see you later”.  So until my next South Africa entry, as the Incas say, spelling probably a bit off, “Tupananchiscama”.