Dear Potential Employer

Dear Potential Employer,

Greetings! I see that you have successfully found this blogpost, which means you have also probably found my Facebook profile in order to screen out any potential crazies from the job pool. From the list of people you received resumes from, I'm glad that  I made the cut and deemed worthy enough to cyber-stalk. I also hope this means that I sent you my typo-free CV. If not,  I hope misspelling my major didn't knock off too many points. I know its really "Public Policy," and not "Pubic Policy." Damn spell-check is tricky these days.

Anyways, I sincerely hope my Facebook page adequately represents a person who is eager, loves group work, is hard working and intelligent yet also lots of fun. In other words, an ideal candidate for the [insert appropriate position] I applied for.

Do you ever become suspicious when you CANNOT find a potential employee's Facebook profile? In today's world where even my grandmother has a Facebook, I hope red flags are popping up everywhere in your head when you can't find "Alice Thompson" in the social network sphere. Because believe me--she's there. Perhaps under a misspelled version of her name or temporarily disabled it during the job hunt process, but somewhere out there, the real "Alice Thompson" is on Facebook.

What I want you to do, Potential Employer, is ask yourself, "WHAT on earth is this girl trying to hide??" Does she have an obsession with Project Runway, a tendency to be tagged in photos involving alcohol on the weekends, or that she likes to post status updates about how much she looooovessss her boyfriend? Perhaps.

And in all honesty, these normal and pretty mundane things that make up the entirety of a lot of college students' webpages wouldn't make her a bad person to hire. She probably has nothing to actually hide but is so desperate to get hired that when she heard stories of Facebook's influence in deciding future employment, she got a little spooked.

But since this chick is my competition for the [insert job position] for which I am incredibly qualified and passionate about, when you can't find my competition on Facebook I want you to think this:

• She routinely posts racist status updates
• She tags herself in photos doing coke
• She never went to class all last semester and only passed because her tutor write her papers. And then she Tweeted about it
• She's started to really get into the dog fighting scene
• She's a livecam girl
• She lied about feeding the homeless, but instead spends her time joy riding with friends hitting mailboxes with baseball bats

From this image, I hope you would agree that "Alice Thompson" is not the ideal candidate for this job position, but that I would be perfect. As you click through my profile and explore the tiny snapshot of what I allow people to see of me, I hope you can completely define me by this profile. This includes the images I approved to be tagged of me (don't worry, I'm not doing coke in the other ones--my hair just looked weird in them), the "interests" I wrote down because they truly are my passions in the world )and certainly NOT because I knew other people would be reading it and I want to appear cool, smart and interesting), and the links I post to my wall that inform my friends what I've been reading and to ensure everyone that I am--well--cool, smart and interesting. 

Please enjoy perusing the rest of this site as well (there's a pretty hilarious story a few posts down about me riding a horse. **Spoiler alert** I fall off and get laughed at by all my friends). Oh and don't forget to check out my photo albums on Facebook, There's a really great one on all the South African signs I came across during my travels. Also, please keep in mind that I am of legal drinking age, so any photos of potentially pre-21 alcohol consumption must have been time stamped incorrectly, because I assure you nothing of the sort ever happened during my first three years at UNC.

I look forward to hearing from you,

Caitlin 

hellogoodbye

Last summer, I filmed my friends and me talking about what we would miss most about Rwanda, and what we'd miss the least--which ended with me falling off my bike and almost hitting a Porsche in the Netherlands. So I thought this year, I'd just make a list, and reduce the risk of damaging expensive property 


Things I won't miss about South Africa:
constantly looking for my plug adapter

paying to download This American Life podcasts and the Daily Show
mental math rand to USD conversions
not being able to drive
living in a gated society
not being able to access Hulu and Pandora Radio
not having good Mexican food
an hour long commute to work (when it’s a ten minute drive...)
avoiding eye contact with anyone walking to the street

living with 20 people

Things I will miss:

living with 20 people

biltong
my favorite South African and my favorite British-Ghanaian
waking up to Table Mountain everyday 

spelling words like programme and colour
good cheap SA wine
ostrich burgers
ginger beer
braaing at Hillcrest
Mzoli’s
Biscuitmill and the Stellenbosch market
the Garden Route
accents
this freaking amazing weather
HIMYM marathons
Daily Deli and its eccentric characters
baby rhinos and the baby rhino dance

Turkey Day in SA

...oh hey, that rhymes.

It's been exactly 6 months to day the I landed in Cape Town, and on one of my favorite American holidays, I have more than a few things that I'm thankful for...

• For the luxury to travel when I’m young
• For having a home to always come back to
• For friends of all sorts—for life, for six months, for one weekend
• For my education
• For my education not in a classroom
• For after-sun aloe gel
• For good wine
• For my freedom to do and be whatever I want
• For the freedom to make mistakes
• For the freedom to make the same mistakes over…and over
• For my curly hair
• For the opportunity to explore
• For Skype video calls
• For postcards
• For my good health
• For my ability to pay for good health care
• For my super cool new beaded rhino keychain
• For my camera
• For the things, people and events my camera captures
• For my big-little brother
• For being a Tar Heel
• For loving and for being loved

Just like riding a bike

A story from ages ago that I’ve wanted to tell you but I never found the time. Now that I’m supposed to be writing a 20 page paper, it seems like the perfect opportunity to procrastinate.

For spring break, our whole group with to Kwazulu-Natal for some amazing camping on a game reserve. (one of my best friends from SA insists I don’t call this a “safari” because we weren't going into the heart of darkness on horseback true “safari style.” Pshh.) Some amazing stories to share later that include a run-in with a momma rhino and her baby while we cross a river, and my solo night watch hearing leopards and hyenas across the river.

But I digress.

The second part of our spring break was in the Drakensburg, and the second day we were given the option to go horseback riding through the mountains.  You could choose between “experienced” and “beginner.”

Now, I've ridden a bit back in the day, and I knew the beginner one would be to slow to my liking. So I thought, I’m sure it’s just like riding a bike—I’ll be fine.

FALSE.

Actually, it would be an accurate statement if it went something like this:

"Horseback riding is just like riding a bike if you never really knew how to ride a bike in the first place, and the bike you’re riding now is ALIVE and realizes you have no idea what you’re doing and totally wants to fuck with you."

The second we’re on the trail, our guide turns around and says, “everyone can canter, right?” UMMMM I’ve cantered maybe once in my life. I instantly knew this was going to be an adventure of epic proportions.

Some highlights of the ride include:

• Frantically trying to get the rhythm of trotting (and failing—the theme of the story)
• Cantering across absolutely stunning scenery—and crossing rivers, mountains, open fields, etc
• My horse completely taking advantage of me and riding up on the ass of the horse in front. Which was especially terrifying when we were cantering and I had no control whatsoever.
• Yelling “Stop! Stop! Stop!” in a girly whiney voice whenever this happened.
• Having my heart rate beating a racing tattoo against my chest the entire time

Near the end of the ride, proud I had survived so far, the guide turns around and says “you guys want to gallop now?” My response? “UMM NO THANKS.” To which my friends told me to just “suck it up and go with it.”

So I did. And it was absolutely amazing. We were going so fast and the ride was so smooth at that speed.

Until...

Until we start slowing down and I see that my horse is heading for a small tree. And I get the impression that it’s going to gallop under the tree and clothes-line me. So I duck down and lay flatter on my horse. And I end up being forced up onto the neck of the horse. When we stop I’m literally clinging onto the neck of the horse completely off my saddle. Classic.

I should mention at this point that my dear dear friend who is riding behind me has been laughing hysterically at me this entire time. To my terrified requests to “stop stop stop,” to the time I’m sliding off my saddle, or just my general fear that I will die on this horse, I can always hear a gleeful burst of laughter from behind me. Thanks Luke.

Anyways...

The climax of this whole story is the second time we start to gallop. My crazy horse starts to ride up again on the ass of the horse in front of him, and it gets to a point that my foot slips out of the stirrup. And I start to tilt. And during all this time something becomes very clear: I.Am.Going.To.Fall.

Once I come to grips with this understanding, I decide to fall on my own terms, and pitch myself over, doing a graceful barrel role (regardless of what it really looked like, it was graceful in my head) and watching my horse joyfully gallop towards to barn. It’s a good thing I was wearing a helmet.

(While you’re reading this, insert in your mind the hysterical laughter—the kind that literally pains your stomach because you’re laughing so hard—coming from Luke)

Given the chance, I’d totally do it again. 

Arguing with myself

I live in a bubble.

I often do my work (transcribing interviews, writing manuscripts, playing minesweeper, etc) away from the office these days at the Woolworth’s Wellness Cafe. It’s a lovely big, open cafe with big windows overlooking the main road that let the sunshine stream in. I come for the free internet, the relaxing atmosphere, coffees, smoothies, and the delicious lunch buffet similar to Weaver Street.

Yet in my head, my constantly running inner dialogue continues to point out how this place is an obvious haven for the wealthy white population. That while in Africa, I have found a place where white people come to be served by black employees wheatgrass health shots, super-protein blasted banana smoothies, and organic chicken salad with lemon garlic dressing and fresh fruit.

I’m not sure what it means, and exactly how bad it is. By coming to the Wellcafe to write up conversations about the most marginalised people in South Africa, am I continuing a cycle of hypocrisy and supporting all those buzz words like “structural violence,” and “disempowerment”? Or is the simple reality that I enjoy being here—where I can leave my computer to go to the bathroom without fear that it will all be gone when I return, and sip overpriced yet delicious coffee—enough to silence my inner dialogue and allow me to simply enjoy the moment?

At what point does enjoying the nice things in life mean I’m actively participating in the unfair inequalities of the world?

A good friend of mine told me that he visited a township very briefly during the first few weeks of moving to Cape Town and sees no point in ever returning. “I’ve seen slums all over the world, Cape Town is no different. There is no reason for me to ever be there.”

And in a way, it’s perfectly true. If you’re not going to do anything about it, then there’s no reason to be there.

But if I DO plan to “do something about it,” do I still have a reason to be there? Or can I do just as good of a job while living my comfortable life?

I think I’ve decided—at least for now—that it’s all a balance. For me, I need the inner dialogue that notices how privileged I am to have a place like the Wellness Cafe. And I think what the biggest problem is with places like this isn’t the fact some people live very comfortably, but that most people’s inner dialogue have been silenced by years and years of comfort. We get lulled into a false sense of “normalcy” in our little bubble, we think we deserve it, we remind ourselves how hard we’ve worked for this comfortable life, and we forget there’s a whole big world out there that doesn’t get to have lamb stew and Moroccan couscous for lunch.

But if actions speak louder than words, there’s no difference between me eating a fantastic lunch in a comfy place and “feeling bad about it,” and the person who eats the same meal and is oblivious to the fact they’re incredibly lucky. At the same time, I’m not doing any significant good by moving out to the townships and vowing to a life of poverty.

All this arguing with myself is kinda exhausting—I think I need a pick-me-up latte before I start work again.

Garden Route-ing

We started our trip driving out to Mossel Bay, hitting crazy weekend traffic out of Cape Town and waiting another hour outside of...while Sarah’s dad (who is a doctor) helped at a really horrible car crash. Driving extremely carefully after that, we finally arrived at our hostel well past midnight. The guy there was not overjoyed to be woken up and was even less pleased when our group inadvertently took too long of showers by South African drought season standards.

The next morning was met with a slight drizzle and grey skies, but slowly brightened and the sun began to peek out by the time we had eaten our pizza for breakfast at a local Italian place right on the water. We spent a long time after breakfast splashing in the shallow waters and collecting brightly colored shells. Sometimes, it’s good to let the inner children out to romp around every once and a while.

We hopped back in the car, pumped up the road trip music and headed onward.

Our second hostel was THE place to be in this small town outside of Knysna, which appeared only to survive because of tourism. The town seemed to only consist of hostels. All the locals and travellers mingle our by the car, hang out by the fire pit while drinking and braai-ing.

Next morning, after little sleep because our dorm was conveniently located right next to the bar, half our group went bungee jumping, while a few of us went white water tubing and rock jumping. While on the river, I fell out of my tube and slammed my leg into a rock--which resulted in a bruise of EPIC proportions. It looked pretty badass for weeks.

Afternoon was spent lying on a beach in the national park and hiking up to the swinging bridge. Monday we went cave exploring and took the long drive back to Cape Town—stopping at a road side store where I re-stocked my dried fruit obsession.

Do I need to reiterate how tough my life is at the moment?

Foreign Aid

I wrote a short piece for the UNC Global Health blog (yes, there really is a global health blog--who knew?)

Check it out HERE.

On minibuses

"We, Americans, we live in a kind of bubble-wrapped world."

I always love using public transport when I travel--it's cheap, it's fun, and I get to see a side of the city I generally wouldn't.

People who use the minibuses in South Africa are almost always black or coloured--mothers and babies, men and women travelling to and from work, etc. The only white people I have seen on minibuses appear to be international students like myself (but this has only happened twice).

To catch a minibus, you generally just have to stand there because any and every bus will honk and yell to see if you want a ride. Each bus has a sign in their front dashboard telling what direction or area they're headed. There are two people who are "in charge" of each bus--the driver and the guy who yells out the widow, opens the door, collects fare, and tells the driver where you want to be dropped off. Most rides within the city cost R5 (about $0.70) and rides out to the townships usually cost about R12.

Minibuses out to the townships operate slightly differently. There is only a driver, no caller-out-the-window-guy. Buses to townships don't leave the station until it's full--which means that not only is every seat occupied, but also at every aisle, a wooden board (covered with a cushion if you're lucky) is place between the two aisle seats to create another place for extra passengers.

Collecting fare is different too--everyone already knows how much the fare costs (which means I have to ask the person next to me) and they pass their fare to the person on their left. Everyone makes change among themselves if they can, and pass it up to the front. The passenger sitting next to the driver collects all the money and sends back change when needed.

This method works less on the "honor system" and more on "community methods of justice." Everyone watches to make sure that everyone pays up, and if you don't, shit will go down (for lack of a better phrase).

But because I stick out as an obvious foreigner, people are much nicer and more lenient if I don't understand the system. Once I paid the wrong fare--it took a little for the man counting fare to realize, but once they figured out they had come up short and then realized it was my fault--there was a laughing comment in Xhosa and then they politely explained the problem. Sometimes, being foreign is a good thing!

Which leads me to when being foreign is NOT a good thing. Because I'm not going to lie and act like minibuses are 100% safe. When I know where I'm going and don't need to ask for help, I try to say as little as possible so not to give away my American accent. But I'm sure that it's not just my accent that gives it away that "I ain't from 'round here..." Being a foreign white woman, I become an easy target and it really is just a matter of time before someone tries to take advantage of you.

Which is why I am astounded that the UNC program is having minibuses be the mode of transport for many of the students going to their internships. Using minibuses everyday, at the same time, going to the same place by yourself is stupid and it's setting yourself up for something bad to happen. This isn't just my opinion--going out to the townships the locals were shocked to hear I used public transport to get out there and always have words of caution. Beyond the risk of crime, these buses aren't the most well kept and minibus crashes occur, perhaps not "often" but more than should happen.

This means I have a tough balance to figure out with minibuses. For one thing, it's just too expensive to get out to places by private taxi (and I also don't like the image of rolling up to a township in a private taxi). And minibuses are so convenient as well--you never have to wait for long, it's incredibly cheap, and takes you where you need to go. And I like going against a pretty racist/classist system. I like having street cred :)

But you do need to be cautious. And take steps to protect yourself from shady situations.

So things I avoid are empty buses, always getting off before being the last passenger, and trying to avoid bringing attention to myself. And at the end of the day, accepting that although it is possible to become a victim of crime, it's better than living in a glass box and not experiencing the world around you.

Riding the minibus has dramatically lessened my apprehension and fear of poverty, townships, and the people who live there. I realize that people from all walks of life have IPods, text constantly, have children they love and care for, and that I can find community everywhere. People are generally not "out to get you," and I have consistently found helpful and kind people everywhere I go.

Americans generally live in a bubble-wrapped world. And I think it's worth it to get a little bumped and bruised in order to pop a few of those protections and get out there and truly live.

Quick Update

Not much new to tell you, so I thought I'd put a few thoughts down in bullet form:

• I got super weird tan lines on a hike to Camps Bay last weekend--one of the most beautiful beaches in Cape Town. In order to "fix" these unsightly tan lines, I ended up burning my back into a pretty lobster-y shade the next weekend. Damn the African sun!
• I've been known to cook in large quantities. Like, very large. My most recent creation was an ostrich meatloaf filled with tons of veggies and peri peri sauce. I seem to only use the one industrial size soup pot whenever I cook.
• I can't wait for summer. Can't. Wait.
• Living in the American house is still an adjustment--being with 20 other people constantly can get a little overwhelming, which is why it's been great to have a few good friends outside our main group to go escape with :)
• I'm starting to [think about] writing my article(s). This means compiling all my research from the past four months, including my interviews I'm still conducting, into a paper that will [hopefully!] be published in a journal. Pretty daunting task!
• We're doing these things called "body maps" in one of our classes. We're basically drawing pictures on an outline of our bodies to represent our answers to these deep, intense questions our "professor" poses us. It's taught by an Anglican priest and it is supposed to guide us on our "journey of transformation" here in SA. Questions like "where do I come from?" and "what is the relationship between mind, body and spirit?" I'm trying hard not to roll my eyes constantly and at least appear to take this seriously. But in all honesty, it's quite frustrating to have to take a class like this. I would much rather learn some actual SA history (since I'm getting history credit for it) than this "finding yourself" class. Oh well, at least it's easy!
• There is no decent Mexican food--because there isn't a Latino population here at all. I think that we should all be a little more grateful for the South Americans in the US because I sure am missing a good burrito with some pico de gallo!
• I really wish I could go to The Rally to Restore Sanity in DC on October 30th. You should all go!!

One month later

As my last German friend in Cape Town left for home, the instant arrival of 20 American students ensured I wouldn't be without foreigners in this city. I said goodbye to Blencathra and moved down the street to my new home (still in the ritzy upper class neighborhood of Tamboerskloof) filled with UNC study abroad students.

The following week I took off from work and participated in my programs orientation week. Surprisingly, I realized how much I needed this week to re-orientate myself to my new surroundings. My new life in the same city was going to be much different from the independent style I had grown accustomed to these last three months. Minus the stress of traveling in a huge group, it was nice to be re-introduced to Cape Town and explore the city through the new eyes of my peers. Robben Island, city centre, Cape Point, Table Mountain--our first week was completely packed with a "welcome to the city" marathon.

Lets just get one thing straight. America--we are a LOUD bunch of people! On our balcony, in the kitchen, walking down the street, in restaurants and bars, on buses--everyone knows when Americans are approaching. For me, spending three months trying really hard to blend was for two reasons--one: pride and the desire to assimilate and two: basic safety reasons traveling alone or in groups. Being foreign in addition to American often makes you a target for muggings).
So learning to be comfortable loudly walking in a giant group of Americans in down town Cape Town was a huge adjustment and still something I'm getting used to. On Friday we take the Jammie shuttle (the University bus that is free for students and faculty) to UCT for class. Just imagine it: enormous group of Americans loudly pile onto a bus and completely take it over. Conversations fly across the bus, trying to talk to strangers at 8:30 in the morning, questions about this and that--once we got off, our lovely TA told me I looked like a 13 year old at the mall with her mom, my expression was clearly "Mooooooooom you're embarrassing me-get me out of here!"

Despite the adjustment to constantly living with group dynamics (Real World: Cape Town. It's totally happening with or without the camera crew) it has been quite lovely being surrounded by people again. This weekend a lot of us hiked to Camps Bay--a relatively easy 2 hour hike up into the mountains surrounding Cape Town and ending at one of the most gorgeous beaches in the city. Picnic on the rocks overlooking the crashing waves, watching the surfers in the frigidly cold ocean waters, laying on the beach, reading our books for class (needed to slip in that academic stuff somewhere in this post...) and getting ridiculous looking tan lines--yeah, I'll happily trade half my senior year for this.

School's out!

"Where are my notes, have they also gone on strike?" --High Court in Johannesburg judge Frans Kgomo on finding he had no stenographer during a public servants' strike, 12 August 2010

Last year I learned a lot about minority political movements, in particular how poor and marginalized people create influence politically and socially.

Because workers generally have little political power, strikes are often their only "weapon" to assert their demands.

South African workers in a variety of crucial sectors have recently gone on strike, including car manufacturing workers, transportation workers, home affairs and teachers. As a result, seven car plants have been temporarily closed, Metrorail has been flooded with demonstrations, immigration services have been closed temporarily, and schools have been empty for a week.

Obviously the intended effect of these strikes have been to cause attention and disruption, but (schools in particular) they have had disasterous effects as well. What kind of education can be provided in such a fragmented and disrupted environment? According to a recent article, Soweto schools have been the worst affected by the strike. (As South Africa's largest black township, Soweto is famous for the "Soweto uprisings" during apartheid when mass protests against government policies resulted in the deaths of rioters when police opened fire on 10,000 marching students.)

In environments where teachers feel they have no other political options but to strike, the effect is that pupils who want to learn cannot. The article quotes a Grade 12 student who said, "The teachers said we much come today. We were supposed to write a test and now the school is closed. That means I won't be writing today and that's bad for me."

In addition, on the first day of teacher strikes in Cape Town, seven cars were stolen in Tamboerskloof and a friend's apartment was broken into--which he attributes to kids (although this can't be proven yet).

Nelson Mandela writes in his autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom, that "[a] freedom fighter learns the hard way that it is the oppressor who defines the nature of the struggle," and essentially, the oppressed has no choice but to "use methods that mirror those of the oppressor."

Even though Mandela is speaking about fighting "fire with fire" and mirrors Malcolm X's famous "by any means necessary" speech, it provides an interesting backdrop to the teachers strike.

The teachers strike--perhaps effective, perhaps not--has the foreseen consequence of negatively effecting the education of their students. At what point is it worth it, to the detriment of uninvolved third parties? Are teacher's first responsibility to their students, or is (hopefully) creating policy and social change for the long run more important? Do teachers have other options instead of striking? Or has the "oppressor" defined the environment of protest so narrowly that teachers have no other choice but to strike?

Which one is it?

"Procrastination is the bad habit of putting off until the day after tomorrow what should have been done the day before yesterday" --Napoleon Hill

"Time you enjoyed wasting is not wasted time" --T.S. Elliot

So I suppose it's a bit of both. And performing that balancing act has become a pretty enjoyable experience in Cape Town. On pretty days (like today) I choose to walk to work--rather, I choose to walk to a nearby cafe for coffee and breakfast to do my morning emails, and then make my way to the downtown minibus station to take a R5 ride to work.

Arriving at the office in the early afternoon, I'll chat with my office mates--which gives the guise of productivity when we talk about policy matters in the US and here.

Or I'll spend some time with J.S. and get my daily update on the state of the world through the lens of a sarcastic and cynical man (and people question the fact we're soul mates) while organizing my calendar for the week or download additional articles.

In other words, I'm really just improving my multitasking skills.

Oh hey there blogosphere

So, it’s been a while! But life has been good—and Cape Town continues to treat me excellently.

It’s somewhat difficult to think about what to say, not because I think my days are mundane (because lets be real—I generally avoid boring at all costs), but because everyday life is sometimes difficult to put into words. What have I been up to? Umm…I don’t know…STUFF! :)

Let’s start with work—the past month I’ve been doing interviews with key people who were involved in creating this specific health policy I’ve been researching. I was kind of nervous the night before my first interview, but I was able to relax after a long Skype chat with my professor back home. It’s weird talking to you guys back home—seeing familiar faces set in familiar settings is a little surreal through a webcam.

So for my first interview, I met up with [this person] at [this place] and travelled with them to first attend an NGO coalition meeting where [this person] was briefly explaining a different policy about community health workers (CHWs) to NGOs and individual CHWs at their annual meeting. I won’t get into CHWs because it’s long and I wouldn’t want to bore you with policy jargon (even though it makes me sound really important and well informed).

Longish story shorter—we chatted, I learned more about the policy, and I went on my merry way.

I’ve had a few more interviews after the first one, but like most everything else I’ve encountered working here, I’ve learned to be flexible and change my game plan at a moments notice. After the initial interview, my other “informants” didn’t really know anything specific about the policy! I’ve gotten to a few meetings, realized instantly that they’re not the person I should be talking to, and have to improvise my entire interview. Which has actually still turned out to be helpful—the best info is sometimes what people tell you that you wouldn’t expect anyways.

My favorite interview so far wasn’t because of the information gleaned, but the location of the interview. I took the train with a friend down to Kalk Bay—a fishing town about an hour away from Cape Town, absolutely gorgeous and just a really cool little town.

One side note: It’s been really frustrating to hear about people’s qualms about public transportation here—believing that if I ride a minibus or take the train I’m sure to be mugged, attacked, or experience other forms of violence. Chill out people. If you’re smart and take the normal precautions anyone would in any city in the world, then public transport here is no less safe than DC or Kigali. But just for Dad’s concern—I never take an empty minibus or train car, or travel at night. You’re welcome.

Anyways. That’s been work. Fun times.

Other than that—I’ve had to say goodbye to most of my friends at the guesthouse and watch them fly away back to Germany. It’s sad saying goodbye to people knowing that in all likelihood, we’ll never see each other again. Such is life.

Every Saturday we always go to the Biscuit Mill--this really fantastic market with fresh veggies, cheeses, baked goods, and unbelievably delicious sandwiches, crepes, burgers...the list goes on and on. It's a good tradition.

The other week, my roommate, her boyfriend and I (you know you’re good friends when you don’t feel like the third wheel out to dinner with a couple…) went to the Mt Nelson Hotel for Wine and Dine. And yes, it was exactly as pretentious as it sounds and still absolutely amazing. Each month, this really fancy hotel showcases a South African wine farm by pairing a six course meal with their different wines. The family comes to the event and talks about the wine and the farm throughout the meal.

This was our second “wine and dine,” and THIS time, I learned not to drink ALL the wine they give you (seeing as the continuously refill them). Being quite drunk in an incredibly fancy dinner is an unsettling feeling.

I feel like that’s a perfect way to end this entry.

Public Health Failures

Thought I'd share two examples from today about the ways in which we generally fail at successful public health and human rights. I still can't stop laughing about the second one, which makes me feel like a terrible, terrible person. Enjoy.

One of my American friends here went to a (certain private university in DC). I was rambling on today about public health and condoms (because thats what I do nowadays) and he tells me that his school ISNT ALLOWED to distribute or sell condoms, or theyll lose their Catholic association. AND they dont test students for AIDS or any STIs at their student health center. He said the only place to buy condoms is pretty far away, so lets think about likely it is anyone uses them. Why people, whyyyyyy???!

So second thing: I was driving home from work with another friend--he's an intern at the hospital across the street. He was telling me about one of the nurses on his floor--apparently a patient was being difficult so the nurse HIT HIM.

Whaaaaaaaaat?!

He continued to be difficult (I dont know what being "difficult" entails...) so the nurse threatened to WITHHOLD HIS MEDICATION from him. He still continued, so the nurse didnt give him his pills. He just had heart surgery!

I feel like I've heard this story before

I've been somewhat disconnected to American news, but "death by firing squad" certainly caught my eye this morning.

Ronnie Lee Gardner was executed a few hours ago by five unidentified marksmen recruited from the Utah police department. Similar to lethal injection, four of the shooters had live ammunition and one had a blank so no one would know who had a "kill shot." Gardner was given a last meal, then a paper target was placed over his heart. He was given the opportunity for last words, then a bag was placed over his head and all five marksmen fired in unison.

Gardner's life story is all too familiar and representative of so many current death row inmates and executions. We can predict the elements of his story without much thought: horrible childhood involving sexual, physical and emotional abuse, poverty, hunger, drug use, and no positive role models. Early crimes sent Gardner to prison where he turned into an even worse criminal.

Cohen writes in politicsdaily.com "that Gardner's home life was atrocious--he was found famished and nearly naked on the street at age 2, but he was not taken away from his hapless mother. When he got into trouble with the law, before he had even become a teenager, no meaningful and sustained attempts were made to rehabilitate him. The criminal justice system did a sloppy job on its inexorable way toward a conviction. The safety net broke."

The debate is clearly not new. Proponents of capital punishment want to brush these childhood and adolescent experiences aside; they want to assure you that Gardner made his own life decisions and needs to be held responsible for his gruesome actions. Gardner CHOSE to kill three people, including a defence lawyer in court the day for a pro bono case when Gardner tried to escape, and he needs to be punished. Which is true. We all need to be held responsible for our actions.

But who is holding the justice system and social services responsible for their actions (or rather, inactions)? I think most of us acknowledge to varying degrees that the systems are imperfect and that it's stressed beyond capacity. In fact, our juvenile systems create criminals, rather than rehabilitating troubled children and providing productive alternatives to crime. Once hardened criminalized adults, the system provides them with substandard (if any) support, throws them back into prison, and kill the monsters they helped create.

We all share ultimate responsibility by not seeing the big picture. We choose to only see a man who mercilessly killed innocent people for his own gain. People want to see ultimate punishment for these horrific crimes--so badly in fact that the chance to be one of the five marksmen at Gardner's execution was so popular at the police department that they had to hold a lottery. Online comments reveal people's satisfaction and joy at his death, and shared desires to also be one of the shooters. One commenter asserted that if Youtube posted the video of Gardner's execution, the site would crash from all the viewers. Gardner "deserved what he got."

But we too deserve what we get when we ignore the starving and abused 2 year old child, the thirteen year old kid who emulates the violence he experiences at home and beats up a classmate, and the teenager who has sold drugs since he was kicked out of school. We take the vulnerable, the abused, the poor, and the mentally disabled and we lock them away; we ignore the underlying problems and we all ultimately pay.

When we see a train heading down a track we know ends in a terrible crash--and we have the power to change its direction--why do we only hold the train responsible when it explodes?

A day in the life

I've been here almost a month, and it's a weird feeling. One part of me feels like I'm still a newbie to this city, and another part feels like this has already become home.

I've (finally) completely unpacked my things (yes, it's really taken this long). Completely put away my suitcases, and organized a grocery list/shopping schedule that complements my tiny refrigerator shelf and small dry goods basket. I've discovered my favorite tea pot from the community kitchen. I've learned the best way to line-dry my laundry with clothes pins without leaving weird folds and "pinches" once they're dry. And I have 10 South African phone numbers in my phone.

The routine of normal life feels...normal. I get up at 6:45, stumble around my room getting dressed in the dark so not to wake my sleeping roommate and head downstairs to eat a breakfast of yogurt, granola and tea (and a scrambled egg if I'm not running late) with another housemate before we leave promptly at 7:10 for UCT.

I get to my office by 7:35 and make the ultimate decision of the day: do I take a nap for an hour, or get to work immediately? Guess which one usually wins.

I like working best in the university cafeteria, which is more like an open lobby area. I buy a cup of coffee and sandwich for lunch for R25 (about $3.30) from a lovely Xhosa woman and work all morning surrounded by sunlit windows and the bustle of other UCT academics. I settle down into work--reading and taking notes from various research articles on related health policy issues, and watching the previous night's Jon Stewart. You didn't think I could part from JS did you? Around 1:30 my laptop dies and I head back to my office to finish my work for the day.

My routine will somewhat change after today because I have new interns sharing my office with me. They're two American (the first two I've met since I've been here...honestly) PhD students. Now that I have company, perhaps I'll be more inclined to work in my office--what a novel idea!

One of my favorite phone calls of the day comes around 5pm, when my ride tells me he's coming to pick me up to leave for home. The rest of my (seemingly never ending) work will have to wait til tomorrow. On the drive back to Blencathra (our guesthouse) we make fun of the ridiculous SA radio, look for zebras grazing on the side of Table Mountain, and try not the stall out on a hill in evening traffic.

The rest of the night is spent either cooking dinner at the house and vegging out in front of the TV watching the World Cup match of the evening, or going downtown to watch the World Cup match of the evening. I won't say I've become an instant expert (or instant lover) of football, but I'm trying my hardest. But it's hard to NOT get excited when you're surrounded by the world's most devoted--and often craziest--soccer fans. I may not have eardrums after the blasts of the vuvuzelas--or a liver after the ensuing celebrations--but you can't be in Cape Town and not fall prey to World Cup fever.

I know I've already bought a return ticket for December, but that may need to be renegotiated.

Why is this headline news?

Yesterday it was on Aljazeera and BBC news; today its on CNN. Some World Cup journalists were robbed in their hotel during the night and their passports, money, and equipment were stolen at gunpoint.

And my first reaction is "...so what?"

Perhaps I've become so desensitized to the whole idea of crime while living in Cape Town. While being robbed here is always described as unfortunate and certainly not fun, and it IS something you need to take precautions against, it's not something completely out of the ordinary.

In a city like Joburg--where stories of carjackings, murders, and theft are not incredibly uncommon--the fact that these journalists were robbed (and not shot mind you) is unfortunate, but surely isn't worthy of making international headline news. In Durham, NC just in the past month there has been 43 reported robberies with a deadly weapon

Cooler as ekke?

So in parts of Cape Town, this "Zef" (Afrikaans for "redneck") rap thing is all the rage. Especially this guy, Jack Parow:

If you're wondering what that ridiculous thing on his head is, thats the brim of an over extended "Pinocchio" style hat. True hip hop has never been more embarrassed.

His biggest hit at the moment is Cooler as ekke, which translates to "Cooler Than Me." And apparently women are going crazy for this guy. Its hilarious.

Since it's all in Afrikaans, I never knew what he was saying (although I was confident it was a multi-layered, poetically complex work of musical expression...). Thanks to the power of Google, I am here to share with you the words of Jack Parow. The Afrikaans slang words are in Bold, with the English equivalent in [brackets].

And as much as I make fun of it---I can't lie, it's pretty damn catchy.

You think you're cooler than me because you smoke Yves Saint Laurent cigarettes

You think you're cooler than me because you've got a tattoo of a snake on you tette [breast]

You think you're cooler than me because you've got a poster of Led Zeppelin above your bed

You think you're cooler than me because you're at the J&B Met each year [A South African horse racing event where people wear crazy outfits]

You're old news, I come with raw beats.

You lie and wait, I go searching for something

You're ice tea, I'm witblits [colorless spirit/alcohol]

You're light beer, I'm spirits

You're the old with the new fresh look

I'm the guy with the Pep Stores pants [generally considered to be a store with cheap pricing and quality]

I watch you, you koekeloer [slang for a (non medical) version of "gynecologist"...you can figure that out for yourself :)] oukes [people, friends]

You still forward Vernon Koekemoer jokes

I'm great, you're spasties [spastic/spaz]

I take poppies [dolls/pretty women] you go on about small kids

You're Tim Vorster, I'm Chris Edwards [both stars on a SA soap, Egoli]

You're innie [in the] bushes, I roll innie fat shit

You're going as campfire songs ommie [?]

My slick style sneaks quietly like a vampire, your style is soft shit like a pink marshmallow

Girls screaming for just "one night in Parow"

You think you're cooler than me because you hang with models and I hang together with slette [sluts]

You think you're cooler than me because I'm a rapper and you sing falsetto

You think you're cooler than me because I travel on the bus and you fly in a jet

You think you're cooler than me because you drive a Peugeot two six zero

You roll with a cellphone in you pen [pants]

I still roll with a 3310 [old Nokia phone]

My style goes sexy correctly

You still wear fucking Mr Price Red [SA clothing store/brand of cheaper prices]

If I walk in, skrikkie the whole fucking bar [the whole bar gets frightened]

You still get fucking money from your mother

I leave the whole jol [party] papnat [wet/dripping wet]

If you enter, the whole party pad vat [take the road/leave]

I'm American, you are Iraq

I bomb you, I make the splash

I'm a Bic pen

You're a Mont Blanc

You walk around with foam on the edge of your fucking mouth

I'm a flash drive you're a floppy

You act as if you have everything, but you're fake

Jack Parow bra, I live like a straatmeit [street mate/friend...a vagrant]

You think you're cooler than me because you drink at Ku De Ta and I drink at De Decks [Cape Town clubs]

You think you're cooler than me because you are the gentleman, bra eksie prette [man, I'm the picture of a gentleman]

You think you're cooler than me because I holiday in Hartenbos

And you holiday in Quebec

You think you're cooler than me because you have the new issue of One Small Seed [SA pop culture magazine]

Jack Parow bra, I'm a poes woes [wild cat]

You eat Caviar and couscous, I drink Klipdrif [SA brand of whiskey]

You drink Peroni

You have friends in Sweden, I have friends in Benoni

I buy all my clothes at the local Pep Stores, save more

You buy all your fucking clothes at a store

You only wear fucking Polo Shirts

Same, you listen to the Dirty Skirts [CT rock band]

My name's Parow, think, heavy uiteskollie [naughty boy]

You look like Jeremy de Tollie [Dirty Skirts frontman]

Jack Parow, the life of the party

You only wear fucking Issey Miyake [a perfume]

You're too cool for school, eks mos kief [of course I'm cool]

I'm Grasshopper

You are Lacoste sports

You let the cake flop, I raise the house

Your girl has a picture of my dick on her Space Case [pencil box]

So there you go! (A really fantastic last line too, don't you agree?)

I think this is about the same level as "Bedrock." Which means the idiocy of the song makes you feel guilty for listening to it...but you can't help but sing along.

The South will rise again

"Tell me the truth-do you think I've lost my Southern accent? I feel like it comes back only when I'm shouting at fights or at baseball games." --Cleo Moore

"I used to say that whenever people heard my Southern accent, they always wanted to deduct 100 IQ points." --Jeff Foxworthy

I overheard someone say y'all today and I almost jumped out of my seat to go give them a hug. A shared American accent amidst a sea of mangled British voices and Xhosa clicks (all of which I love...) is an instant camaraderie; the clear sound of two outsiders finding each other.

But because I've gotten so used to hearing South African (and German...) accents, hearing an American speak gives me a jolt of surprise. My first thought isn't "Oh how nice! The sound of my homeland!" but is more along the lines of "Whoa. You sound funny. Oh wait....that's what I sound like."

Long live 'Merica

This picture has no relevance, but it makes me laugh. I love African signs.

Oh my goodness

SO EXCITED!

http://www.sa-venues.com/events/western-cape-event-description.php?id=1056

All I'm gonna say is, that "2011" thing better be a typo.

I'm on my way

"Patience is something you admire in the driver behind you, but not the one ahead."


My first interview was scheduled today at 10:30...three and a half hours later...she is apparently still "on her way."

Living and working with people who exist "on Africa time," I knew these six months were going to teach me a lot about patience. Which I'm notorious for not having much of.

I've discovered there are a lot of different kinds of patience. One is learning to be flexible; findings ways to entertain yourself while wating for something that feels like it will never happen. (Like the amazing works of breath-taking artistic achievement I created while waiting for my interview...)

Or the kind of patience that accepts that everything won't all get done immediately. That sometimes taking the detours is the most important part.

But being in a field of work where it feels like every accomplishment is met with 10 different failures, I think the hardest patience to learn is the determination to be optimistic when met with every reason not to be.

This isn't stupid, always-sunshine-and-rainbows-optimism, but the patience to persevere when the odds are incomprehensibly against you. When thre seems to be no other way out but to give up.

I wanted to give up a lot last semester. And in many ways, I probably should have. My patience not to give up conflicted pretty terribly with my impatience to fix things immediatly.

To accept that nothing can be immediatly fixed (expect perhaps auto-correct spell check) takes a lot of patience. Sometimes too much.

I will never be a sunshine optimist, but a realist (somewhate dark and twisty) optimist. Which for me means that when faced with the shitty parts of life, sometimes there are no silver linings. Sometimes there isn't a golden piece of wisdom to be gained. Except to pick yourself up and keep going.

But this reality doesn't mean to give up. To acknowledge the hard things isn't to deny the fact that things can get better. That baby steps are sometimes the greatest accomplishment you will have. A tiny improvement in an otherwise overwhelmingly discouraging place can still sometimes be cause for celebration. To be patient; to know that although everything doesn't work out in the end, you have to hold on to the things that do.

...And on another note, I think I'm going to have to reschedule this meeting.

Weekend Excursion

So I went with three of my house mates up to Citrusdal and Clanwilliam this weekend:

We spent the first night at our landlord's farm a few hours drive from Cape Town, off a dirt road that took us about 30 minutes to drive down. The next morning we got up early and took a tour of his farm. Lots of lemon trees:Also ostrich, cattle, springbok, and other game animals The next day we drove about an hour and went walking around to see some ancient cave paintings, then stayed the night at a guesthouse in Gekko On Sunday we drove up to see some wine farms
And then headed back to Cape Town to get ready for work on Monday...

Even I'm still a little confused

It has taken me about this long to finally figure out what exactly I'm doing for the next few months. I'll attempt to explain...

My main focus is on community participation and developing health polices that support this participation. That's a pretty intense sentence, so I'll unpack each part.

"Community participation" sounds pretty self-explainatory: we want individuals and groups within communities to participate in health and government, but it actually is a complicated idea and has even more complicated implications. With increased community participation, people have more autonomy to assess their health needs and problems, collaborate with others to create specific solutions for their community. Increases in participation also lead to increased community awareness of health related programs and activities, wider dissemination of knowledge and health education and increased equity of health care provisions.

So, if we accept that community participation is a good thing (hint: we do), then we need some type of policy framework that establishes the ways people can effectively do this. Since the end of apartheid, SA has made several policies that specificially address the issues of human rights, health and community participation.

For the next few months, I am going to be looking at the development of a specific health policy that outlines Community Health Committees (CHCs)--how it was created, the important actors involed in its development, the obstacles surrounding its implementation, and its strengths and weaknesses as a policy. CHCs are supposed to act as the voice of the people--their complaints, suggestions and opinions on the way health services are delivered and the health system as a whole. CHCs are supposed to pressure the government and hold them accountable for their health care promises.

Government can't provide all forms of health care to everyone because it doesnt have the resources to do this (sounds similar to the HC debates in the US...) So it rations and only provides what is most important and what it can afford to provide. If communities (rather than big companies or politicians) were able to influence the decisions on how to allocate health resources, we are more likely to reduce the big differences in health status between rich and poor and between rural and urban communities. This can happen by building partnerships between civil society groups and local government.

Community participation in health and human rights comes with a million different types of complications. One of the biggest difficulties is the fact that what is written down in policy and law is often not achieved in practice. For example, in many medical clinics, there is a big problem with nurses being rude and taking advantage of patients (think of it as a "power trip"). Nurses threaten pations that if they complain, the nurses will refuse them treatment. In addition, many nurses do not wear name tags (even though they are required to by law), so even patients who might be willing to make statements to CHCs cannot identify the specific nurses that are threatening them.

I'm sure all these problems will be completely worked out in the next few months, no problem.

I've realized that-

1. I have a weird accent thats doesn't sound especially American or southern...to other Americans. Everyone else, I say 2 words and immediately know I'm from the US. It's also probably because I'm incredibly influenced by the way people around me talk (give me half a day in Y-vegas...you'll see)
2. The emergency number (aka 911) is 10111. Like I'll remember that when I'm attacked at gunpoint (Dad-it's a joke. Promise.)
3. It gets dark way early. Like 6:15.
4. On my first day at UCT (University of Cape Town), I was told the elevator often gets stuck, so if I ride it to make sure I have my cell phone to call someone if I get trapped. Yeah. Right. I'm always taking the stairs.
5. My boss took 3.5 days off this week. Must be nice being department head.
6. I'm going to have to be incredibly proactive in my work. Oh and make lots of lists.
7. Facebook is blocked on campus--probably a good thing
8. BUT Gchat is always on--come talk to me when you're eating your breakfast
9. Theres a building on campus named "Snape Building." I'm on the lookout for the "Dumbledore Building." It has to be here somewhere.
10. Everyone dresses very western--the girls wear skinny jeans tucked into boots, scarves, even the tights-instead-of-pants deal.

And apparently...

...AOL Radio "is unavailable from your current location" as well. And they're not deeply sorry at all!

Pandora, why have you foresaken me?!

"We are deeply, deeply sorry to say that due to licensing constraints, we can no longer allow access to Pandora for listeners located outside of the U.S. We will continue to work diligently to realize the vision of a truly global Pandora, but for the time being we are required to restrict its use. We are very sad to have to do this, but there is no other alternative."

Looks like I'll have to make my own musical decisions from now on. This is incredibly upsetting. At least Pandora is "deeply, DEEPLY sorry."

Just for Marian

• The flight really wasn't too bad...not that I slept very much. Movies and ambien are a pretty good combo for a few short naps.
• I always think it's awkward to sit next to someone for 14 hours and rarely say a word.
• Customs: what's the point? I could have carried in a live chicken in my bag and no one would have known. (Ok, that might be a slight exaggeration...)
• My first full day in SA I went to an outdoor market--with lots of European pastries, meats, coffee, wines, etc--with my house mates. Lauren, you would LOVE this place--gorgeous fruit pastries, macaroons, coffees, crepes--take a break from France and visit!
• I had a crepe with roasted sweet potato, beetroot, feta, balsamic vinegar, and pumpkin seeds. It made me think of Australian veggie sandwiches when the beetroot turned everything pink
• I'm going to have to get used to the "European style" of coffee sizes again--which means excellent coffee, but tiny tiny sizes! R15 (about 2USD) for maybe half the size of an American tall.
• The weather changes dramatically--all last week people were telling me to bring my rain gear and coats..but the last two days have been brilliantly sunny and hot. Today was about 24C (75F)
• The house mates I have spent the most time with are all German, which has been fun to have people around my age to spend time with. One works at a law firm, another works at an online Cape Town magazine, one works in the medical school at UCT, and one is a 15 year old attending the German school nearby. Some of their other friends work at the law firm, and a Spanish girl works in a HIV program.
• We all went to a bar last night to watch the Germans play in a football final--except I'm woefully ignorant to the workings of soccer...this is a necessary thing to learn in CT.
• I take lots of naps. It's lovely getting over jet lag.

Mistakes are never fatal, unless you're dealing with heavy machinery

I hope the mistakes you make don't make you afraid to make them again. That you choose to live passionately, spontaneously, and throw caution to the wind. If your mistakes teach you to be careful, to shut yourself off from experiences that might hurt you, to look twice before you leap...then I hope you never learn from them.

It's impossible to live without regret. People who say this are lying to you; they are lying to themselves. But I'd rather regret the things I have done than regret the things I haven't.

The Invitation

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hid it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

--Oriah Mountain Dreamer

The Story

You know those adventure books you read as a kid that would give you a decision to make, and you’d have to turn to a different page of the book to continue on your journey? I used to have a Mario Brothers one where I was supposed to save the princess, and I’d always cheat and try to figure out the best series of decisions that would give me the best outcome. If I fell in a pit because I decided to choose turning left down the spooky trail, instead of turning right near the lake of lava, I’d just quickly flip back to where I had to make a choice—and choose the other one.

In this thing called “reality” that I have to occasionally remind myself I live in, I wonder which pivotal decisions I’d flip back to and do differently. Those moments—the ones I know completely changed things—I wonder what I’d pick to do now, if I knew turning left has me falling into a pit in 5 pages.

It took me a while to realize that even with all my cheating, I never found the perfect path in my Mario Brothers adventure book. And going back to change my decisions not only made the story more confusing, but it also kinda killed the fun of reading the book.

Oh the places you'll go

It just hit me.

I leave for Cape Town in a little over a month. A MONTH. When does life slow down?

Our first group meeting with everyone going to Cape Town put me back to the first Rwanda meeting--the pizza, the awkward introductions and "interesting facts," the review of what to pack, and the palpable excitement of the certain adventures and unknown experiences we were all going to have.

Remembering that first Rwanda meeting, I never could have predicted what my summer had in store for me. Looking around the room today brought back that spark of excitement that can only come from the knowledge that something huge is about to transpire.

Today was a crashing mash up of everything amazing. After the Cape Town meeting, I went to hear Fatou Bensouda, Deputy Prosecutor of the ICC who we met in The Hague over the summer, and was thrilled, comforted, and overwhelmingly beyond happy to see so many people from our Rwanda group. Speaking with her afterwards was not only thrilling, but also reaffirmed the importance of being a witness to these horrific events. Fatou embodies the power that individual people have to make a change in the world, and why it is so important to me to live in the places of the world the rest of us would rather not be reminded exist. Places like Rwanda, where today commemorates the beginning of the 100 day genocide in 1994, or Kenya, where election violence threatens democracy, or the DRC, where women are constant victims of rape and exploitation, or South Africa, where the consequences of apartheid continue to this day.

Sorry Dad, but Cape Town is just the first (I guess second?) step.

Because after Rwanda, I saw how much it had changed me. Not only in my broader understanding and interest of the world and politics, but in the way I saw myself working within this obnoxiously complicated system. The way I approached problems and other people changed, I refused to let go of what was important to me, and I struggled to find a balance between my life here and now and my future goals and expectations. This has been a hard semester. 18 credit hours has been exhausting, my emotions have been intensely on edge, I've been reminded of the power of forgiveness and I've accepted I sometimes make mistakes. Sometimes it feels like I'm going to Cape Town simply to run away.

But then I remember why I wanted to go to Cape Town in the first place, and it feels like I'm running towards something instead.

Retraction

So, I've been informed that I mistook the Clemson mascot. (I can't see why people are really surprised...it's a blog written by a woman about mascots...I'm clearly not claiming superior sports knowledge) I do apologize, but also recognize that my story didn't fit as well if I had used the accurate mascot.

...I totally had Kansas losing early.

Ohio State has no chance

While everyone is arguing with friends, looking up stats, and religiously watching ESPN to make well thought out predictions for this year's NCAA tournament, I decided to look at the true heart and soul of any team to make my decision: their mascot.

This year, my bracket is decided solely on who would win in a to-the-death-cage-fight.

In the first round, there were a few clear wins (Cougar > Gator). And I've OBVIOUSLY done my research.

As a general rule, any human mascot will always be destroyed by nature's greatest animals (exception: Spider v Knight. sorry Richmond). UNLESS you have God, Satan, or magic on your side (So-Wake, Duke and Notre Dame get easy wins in Round 1).

The hard ones were the generally even-matched guys. Take Kansas-Lehigh. Jayhawk vs Mountain Hawk? How to decide? Well, I did my research. Apparently, the Jayhawk is a mythical bird (magic points) that combines a blue jay (an obnoxiously noisy creature) and a sparrow hawk (stealthy hunter). They warn me "not to turn my back on this bird." The mountain hawk should have listened. Kansas wins.

But what about the Clemson-Missouri game you ask? In a death match, would a cougar or tiger come out victorious? The only way I could decided was a recent reminder of dear old Tiger Woods and his escapade with a rather unattractive cougar mistress. The Cougar definitely came out with a W on that one and so does Clemson.

The notable upset in rank was the Maryland-Houston game. According to Wikipedia, the terrapin was once considered a delicacy to eat and was hunted almost to extinction. I can't respect an animal weak enough to almost become extinct. Houston wins.

The mascot upset goes to Syracuse. I know, you're immediate reaction is that you think I just couldn't bear to have a #1 team go down in the first round. But nay. Let's just stop and consider that cage fight: GIANT ORANGE vs a Wildcat? Clearly there's some voodoo going on to bring to life an orange (obvious magic points) and what would be a wildcat's weapon against the giant citrus machine of death? A wildcat doesn't stand a chance--they'd get a tiny bit of juice in their eyes and be done for.

Stay tunes for my completed bracket tomorrow. It's gonna rock your world.

This Is Not Important

I’m trying to cut out coffee. Which means I’ve been drinking tea constantly. Tea is a terrible terrible replacement for the caffeine-laden love that can only come from freshly brewed ground coffee beans with some half and half. Ok, now I want some…I’ll be right back.

The American The Office is better than the British The Office. Except for Ricky Gervais’s laugh.

I really miss my old phone. You know…when they still made phones with buttons. But at least this new one doesn’t need duct tape and saran wrap.

If I ever have a kid, I want him to be like Calvin.

Oh Disney, you lying bastard

Valentine's Day is approaching--or Single's Awareness Day, whatever you like to call it--and the feeling of love is in the air.

But also bitterness. I'm sensing a lot of bitterness--you know who you are ladies (and gentlemen perhaps?).

There's a lot of jaded, cynical, and bitter feelings on the topic of romantic love--and I've gotta say that in most situations, I'm a pretty jaded, cynical and bitter person (even though I like the term "realist" better). But for once, I like to think I'm an optimist when it comes to love (Wow. I think I even made myself gag with that comment).

We feel like we've been lied to this whole time about love. And we all know who we have to blame.

DISNEY.

We love to whine and complain about how Disney destroyed our chance of having healthy relationships because we've been fed this impossible dream of what love really is. That we're all waiting for Prince Charming to sweep us off our feet and that love will make everything perfect forever. And when that doesn't happen, we feel Disney betrayed us!

But perhaps we're simply wanting to blame someone for our misconceptions of love. I think we are very hard on love and what we expect it to bring. Which leads us wanting to salvage every relationship so badly that we refuse to let go. We blame love, we blame ourselves, we blame Disney.

I think we need a better understanding of love, or we are going to be constantly let down. We expect love to fix our problems, our insecurities, and our fears. We need it to step up and hold us together when we're on the verge of falling apart.

And in a way, love does do this--I've said previously that love is the "undying connection we find ourselves locked in with each other" (yeah, I just quoted...myself. I feel a mix of pride and narcissism).

I couldn't live without love. In fact, I love love. I love my family, I love my friends, I love my dog, and I love my unnatural love for Jon Stewart. But I also have a fear of love, that some kinds of love--the love that leaves you blinded and giddy--will drop right our from under me and leave at a moment's notice.

We need to accept that things change, and celebrate that. We need to accept love wherever we can find it, even it it's not exactly how we envisioned it.

Because when you lose one source of love, you've gotta know where else to find it.

Disney taught me to love love. But then I grew up and realized that maybe the way Disney portrays love isn't exactly like real life. But that doesn't mean that love ain't there.

Cheers to the Crazies

I empathize with the crazies
the obsessive, compulsive, the leap-before-you-lookers

I empathize with the wanderers
the wonderfully lost, constant searchers

I empathize with the heartbroken
the wildly resilient, untamed emotional wrecks

I empathize with the hopeful pessimists
the blunt, sarcastic, anti-status-quoers

I empathize with the tender hearted
the movie crying, curl-up-and-snugglers

I empathize with the loners
the one-man wolf packs, the don't belongers

Who wouldn't change for anything