I spent this Easter weekend with B, an 81 year old Kentucky-born missionary who has called Western Kenya her home since 1982.
B lives in a mud house, plastered and painted to look like a brick house: a small island of Americana way out in the bush. Inside the walls are bright yellow, with dark blue flowered fabrics for curtains, velvet-upholstered furniture, two bedrooms and a bathroom. B takes bucket showers with river water and washes her vegetables with bleach solution. She throws her compost under a banana tree she's growing in the back yard, feeds meat scraps to a dog who lives on the front porch, and burns any remaining trash once a week. B told me about her own grandma who worked a midwest farm on her own until she turned 100. B, it seems, is on the same track.
It's a cozy home and B has everything she needs, including power, an oven, a refrigerator and several close Kenyan friends, neighbors, family and frequent visitors. On Saturday we got on the back of two piki pikis (motorcycles) to take the 40 minute bouncy ride over dirt roads to Kakamega town, where B does her weekly grocery shopping. We brought home huge bags of groceries, tied with strips of tire onto the back of the piki pikis. B's driver also held between his arms a big jug of bottled drinking water. This week, groceries included a treat– canned peaches. "Don't tell them I'm not suffering" she told me.
But B does miss pickles, pudding, jello and chocolate chips, and brings them back from the United States anytime she goes. For Easter weekend we baked four loaves of banana bread (three of which to give away) and made potato salad with olives. B taught me to play 13, her favorite form of solitaire. I taught her how to text. Over one dinner conversation she recounted the entire detailed plot of the Silvester Stalone movie Cliffhanger, complete with her critique of his mountain climbing technique (for she herself was a climber and a spelunker before she moved to Kenya). The 15-minute story ended with a prompt, "Well that was a pretty good movie, I guess." It was a fabulous time. In a big way, I felt like I was with my own wonderful grandparents.
So what is B doing so far away from home? She is building a health clinic next to her house, which will have outpatient services, a pharmacy and a maternity ward. B is a nurse–a profession that has served her very well–and has set up multiple clinics around Kenya since 1982. While she gets some donations from churches in the U.S., she supplements those funds with her own small pension and social security check. There's no doubt she's bringing something good to the community she lives in.
But first and foremost, B is a missionary, spreading the gospel come hell or high water. Suffice it to say B and I have very different approaches to Christianity. I have a lot of opinions and feelings about that, but this is not the place. If you're interested in unpacking it with me, let's do it face to face and preferably over a drink back in the States.
Our differences didn't stop us from eating, praying and celebrating Easter together. B brought me to the mission church on Sunday, where congregations from five different churches gathered to meet the American visitor (me) and celebrate Easter. Fifty or sixty people gathered in a big mud building–some of whom had been walking since the break of dawn to arrive around 11, when the service started. B and I stayed for the two hours of beautiful music, lots of announcements, and three sermons including one from B. Six or seven pastors were present, all men. I myself stood up when asked to give a testimony– I introduced myself, said some things about Jesus and resurrection and hope, and taught the congregation a song (St. Lydia's-style). Friends, that might have been my first ever sermon, clocking in at three minutes!
I'm very lucky to have gotten to know B's amazing world. She treated me as her own granddaughter, showered me with love and gifts, and was sad to see me go. She is an extraordinary person, and her story will stick with me for a long time.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Close Encounters
The past couple posts have been a pretty heavy, so it's time for a good old fashioned wildlife photo shoot. This is from our visit to an animal orphanage in Nanyuki, a three hour drive towards Mt. Kenya. C took these on his fancy camera.
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| Waterbuck give wet kisses. |
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Black and white colobus monkey shares his secret: woo visitors into giving him bits of potato.
|
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| Bongo Bongo Bongo Warthog Warthog Zebroid* Bongo. |
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| Pigmy hippos only ask to be taken seriously. |
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| Are you porcupining for a bite of compost? |
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| Samango monkey helps himself. |
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| Oh hello! |
And finally...
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| The hungry cheetah. |
That's all folks!
*Zebroid is a cross between a zebra and a horse.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Landscapes
Lately I've been more serious, more lost in my thoughts. Visiting Kakuma has brought me back to Tiffany's death. I've realized the past few months in Kenya have provided some welcome distraction from grief.
I've started to think about emotions as landscapes that take shape over the course of our experiences. Some places form over long periods of time, the way glaciers carve out valleys. Some places change suddenly, the way volcanoes burst open the earth.
Tiffany's death was a terrifying earthquake. The world is a different place.
There's something to be said for seeing a place with your own eyes. Maybe I had read the guidebook and seen the photos. But I had never experienced grief like this. Not like this. Now it's part of my body, my internal landscape.
What does grief look like? It is cavernous. It is dark. It is empty. It is craggy. It is deep. Over time, maybe this place will be smoothed over by the weather. It will be less frightening as I become familiar with its cracks and corners. It will be a place to share with my fellow humans.
In the days after Tiffany's death, I thought about other people who live with grief. People who live in places of violence and disaster. People I have never met. People I meet every day. It makes me realize the many emotional places I have never seen or imagined that might be central to another person's life. Truth is what you experience.
Undoubtedly, my experience with grief is tied to faith. Resurrection has never been so true for me as it is now. When Jesus died, the earth shook, the sky went dark, the temple curtain tore from top to bottom. The world was a different place.
If emotions have geography, they also have seasons. At last the spring is here to shed some light after a long, dark winter. Easter is only two weeks away. It will be especially important for my family this year, as we remember that three days after Jesus died,
He rose.
There is life in death. There is hope in disaster. God is not finished.
I've started to think about emotions as landscapes that take shape over the course of our experiences. Some places form over long periods of time, the way glaciers carve out valleys. Some places change suddenly, the way volcanoes burst open the earth.
Tiffany's death was a terrifying earthquake. The world is a different place.
There's something to be said for seeing a place with your own eyes. Maybe I had read the guidebook and seen the photos. But I had never experienced grief like this. Not like this. Now it's part of my body, my internal landscape.
What does grief look like? It is cavernous. It is dark. It is empty. It is craggy. It is deep. Over time, maybe this place will be smoothed over by the weather. It will be less frightening as I become familiar with its cracks and corners. It will be a place to share with my fellow humans.
In the days after Tiffany's death, I thought about other people who live with grief. People who live in places of violence and disaster. People I have never met. People I meet every day. It makes me realize the many emotional places I have never seen or imagined that might be central to another person's life. Truth is what you experience.
Undoubtedly, my experience with grief is tied to faith. Resurrection has never been so true for me as it is now. When Jesus died, the earth shook, the sky went dark, the temple curtain tore from top to bottom. The world was a different place.
If emotions have geography, they also have seasons. At last the spring is here to shed some light after a long, dark winter. Easter is only two weeks away. It will be especially important for my family this year, as we remember that three days after Jesus died,
He rose.
There is life in death. There is hope in disaster. God is not finished.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
The Edge of Humanity
I spent last week in Kakuma refugee camp in northern Kenya, close to the border with South Sudan. The camp now has 150,000 people from more 10 countries, with South Sudanese and Somalis each making up a third, and the rest coming from all over Africa and the world.
Kakuma is, for a start, the single hottest place I have ever been. Imagine Texas, during a heat wave, with no air conditioning, and all dust. When it rains, the dust turns to huge sloshing mud, and water flows right through the floor of the tents where new arrivals stay. When it doesn't rain, there are dust storms so thick you can't see ten feet in front of you.
Kakuma is, for a start, the single hottest place I have ever been. Imagine Texas, during a heat wave, with no air conditioning, and all dust. When it rains, the dust turns to huge sloshing mud, and water flows right through the floor of the tents where new arrivals stay. When it doesn't rain, there are dust storms so thick you can't see ten feet in front of you.
Yeah - it's miserable. No wonder Kenya is happy to lease the land to the UNHCR. This is a place for people who have nowhere else to go.
On Monday, C and I got to visit a screening FilmAid was putting on at the reception centre for new arrivals. Between 300 and 700 people arrive every day fleeing violence in South Sudan. However they get themselves to the border–by foot, bus or car–the UNHCR then picks them up in huge trucks, that travel along a paved road to Kakuma. At the reception centre, they are registered, provided meals and tents, and health care as needed. In a few days they will be moved to Kakuma 3 or 4, sections on the outskirts of the camp, to live in big white UNHCR tents.
What was the final straw, that led them to make the decision to leave? Who did they leave behind–too sick, too stubborn, or without money to afford the bus ticket to the border? Who is missing–on the front lines, in hiding, or dead?
***
Not everywhere in Kakuma is in crisis. In fact, the majority of people in Kakuma have been there for a long time–several years, and longer. Some people have been there since the camp was opened in 1992. Some were born and have lived their whole lives in the camp.
This is how a refugee camp works: the UNHCR has a mandate to provide specific services to refugees, like food, shelter, education, health services, water and sanitation infrastructure, etc. It partners with the Kenyan government and international NGOs to get this work done. To a large extent, life for refugees is structured around these services.
On Monday, C and I got to visit a screening FilmAid was putting on at the reception centre for new arrivals. Between 300 and 700 people arrive every day fleeing violence in South Sudan. However they get themselves to the border–by foot, bus or car–the UNHCR then picks them up in huge trucks, that travel along a paved road to Kakuma. At the reception centre, they are registered, provided meals and tents, and health care as needed. In a few days they will be moved to Kakuma 3 or 4, sections on the outskirts of the camp, to live in big white UNHCR tents.
It had just rained when we got to the centre, and the place was overrun with children ankle-deep in mud and dust. Everyone there had left their homes somewhere between two days and a few weeks earlier. The adults in particular looked exhausted. I tried to imagine what was going through their minds.
What was the final straw, that led them to make the decision to leave? Who did they leave behind–too sick, too stubborn, or without money to afford the bus ticket to the border? Who is missing–on the front lines, in hiding, or dead?
This is the edge of humanity–of what it means to be human, to stay human, when all is lost. Of what it means for humans to help each other. In some sense I felt like I was looking at foreign policy turned inside out. These are our mission statements, our international conventions, our tax dollars in play. I felt at once proud to be a part of this response system, and so sad that this is the best we can do.
We are all the same. This could happen to any of us–persecution or danger chasing us out of our homes, jobs, communities, everything normal. How would we want to be treated then?
***
Not everywhere in Kakuma is in crisis. In fact, the majority of people in Kakuma have been there for a long time–several years, and longer. Some people have been there since the camp was opened in 1992. Some were born and have lived their whole lives in the camp.
This is how a refugee camp works: the UNHCR has a mandate to provide specific services to refugees, like food, shelter, education, health services, water and sanitation infrastructure, etc. It partners with the Kenyan government and international NGOs to get this work done. To a large extent, life for refugees is structured around these services.
But on top of that, Kakuma operates with its own economy and society. People come to a refugee camp from all economic and social backgrounds. So people who had wealth in their former lives are able to start up businesses and pay for extra services on Kakuma's private market–extra food, power, supplies, whatever it is. All kinds of goods are imported from Nairobi and East African neighboring countries.
Life here is not what you'd expect.
For instance, over the weekend, C and I joined some other humanitarian employees for Ethiopian food, owned and run by Ethiopian refugees, in groovy, brightly painted restaurant. I also got to attend a training for one of many community theatre groups that create and perform skits in their communities on social issues. And you might not know that Kakuma is home to extremely talented and competitive hip hop dance troupes. Check it out.
It's an inspiring place, and like any other–people bring their talents, their passions, their resources.
***
Here's the thing about a refugee camp. People here are extraordinary.
Here's the thing about a refugee camp. People here are extraordinary.
Refugees, by definition, are people who are fleeing persecution "for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group, or political opinion." C and I had many conversations with one person, M, who fled his country because he had led an organization criticizing the government for violations of human rights. He is much younger than me, and has accomplished incredible things. And for that, he was kidnapped twice and received death threats, and is now living in Kakuma until he can pursue higher studies or be resettled to another country.
Every single refugee, or someone in their family, faced extreme and unsafe conditions in their home country, and had the guts to pick up and leave. Each person I spoke with has an amazing story. And story, it seems, carries more power here. Your story, and how you tell it, is what gives you the chance for resettlement through the UNHCR. Your story might put you in danger. Your story might save your life.
And stories can take your mind off things for a while.
Enter FilmAid. We do a lot of things in Kakuma–training refugees as filmmakers, creating films on issues from cholera prevention to violence against women, running education workshops and investing in local arts groups... The list goes on. Essentially we are a communications organization that works in the crazy niche of humanitarian operations and refugee life. In this setting, information can be life saving, and entertainment can be its own form of relief.
FilmAid's original and favorite activity is evening screenings. We set up a huge screen on the side of a truck and project cartoons, PSAs on health or protection issues, and full-length "family favorites." Thousands of people gather as it gets dark, the stars come out and the screen lights up. When I was there one of the movies we screened was Airbud. Imagine the sound of a thousand kids cheering when a golden retriever scores a soccer goal. Ridiculous? Perhaps. But also just amazing. You have to smile.
***
I'm not sure what exactly I'll take away from this experience. One response is a resounding "What the [fill in the blank with your favorite expletive]." How is this possible. How is this real. How have I never understood to this extent, that humanitarian crises have a profound implications not just for people who are living through them, but for all of us.
I'm thinking about how I can live in response to this deeper understanding. I think faith can play a big role. Not to give explanations, but to open the space for questions. Perhaps most importantly–How can we help? I know that churches, for instance, have served a lot of South Sudanese refugees in the resettlement process in the United States. I know that Lutheran World Federation provides essential services in Kakuma. There is always room for more partners, more funding, more prayer and mindfulness of those who are suffering.
It can be overwhelming to take in what's really happening in our world. It's so much easier to turn off to the news, to think of some reason why people must have brought suffering upon themselves, to forget about what's not right in front of our eyes. I know I will again.
Let this be one more reminder. We are all the same.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Aesthetically Speaking: Nairobi
There's a blog post bubbling up here, and I'm not sure how it will take form.
I want to write about the aesthetic experience of traveling, of Nairobi, of now. The small spaces I'm getting to know intimately. Like memorizing the back of a cereal box as a kid. It's all in the detail.
Let's start easy - the smells, the tastes, the colors. Smoke and exhaust. Lentils, papaya, and boiled water. Red, red, red mud and dark rain clouds.
At home: Tiny fruit flies flying out the sink from unwashed dishes the night before. Damp laundry on the line. Waxy bar soap. Tooth paste that is pink and tastes like baking soda, with writing on the back of the tube translated into six languages. Tucking the mosquito net under the mattress.
On the weekends: Hot sun on a long run, cooking with black beans, listening to Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, eating chocolate after breakfast. One adventure a day. See monkeys like squirrels in the park.
I want to write about the aesthetic experience of traveling, of Nairobi, of now. The small spaces I'm getting to know intimately. Like memorizing the back of a cereal box as a kid. It's all in the detail.
Let's start easy - the smells, the tastes, the colors. Smoke and exhaust. Lentils, papaya, and boiled water. Red, red, red mud and dark rain clouds.
At home: Tiny fruit flies flying out the sink from unwashed dishes the night before. Damp laundry on the line. Waxy bar soap. Tooth paste that is pink and tastes like baking soda, with writing on the back of the tube translated into six languages. Tucking the mosquito net under the mattress.
On the weekends: Hot sun on a long run, cooking with black beans, listening to Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, eating chocolate after breakfast. One adventure a day. See monkeys like squirrels in the park.
At friends' house: Miss brekkie? No wuzzas, have some homemade gluten-free bread with Vegemite. Learn the rules to Australian football. Cuddle up with the friendly cat named Fish.
On the street: Awareness of my color, my wealth, my everything. Looking up from tree trunks to see how high they go. Huge puddles from rain the night before. Eye contact with strangers, and feeling strange.
At work: Greeting every coworker with a handshake. Obsessing over Dropbox. Sweet-talking harddrives. Endless photos of refugee camps -- crowds, kids, filmmaking. Indie music. Asgeir's Leyndarmal on repeat. On Friday afternoons, Indestructible African Beats and UK's Top 40 of 2004. Procrastination in the form of bookmarking progressive Christian blogs. Tea in the morning, tea in the afternoon.
A sense of falling out of myself, and falling into myself.
On the street: Awareness of my color, my wealth, my everything. Looking up from tree trunks to see how high they go. Huge puddles from rain the night before. Eye contact with strangers, and feeling strange.
At work: Greeting every coworker with a handshake. Obsessing over Dropbox. Sweet-talking harddrives. Endless photos of refugee camps -- crowds, kids, filmmaking. Indie music. Asgeir's Leyndarmal on repeat. On Friday afternoons, Indestructible African Beats and UK's Top 40 of 2004. Procrastination in the form of bookmarking progressive Christian blogs. Tea in the morning, tea in the afternoon.
A sense of falling out of myself, and falling into myself.
Especially as I pass the middle-mark of my time in Nairobi, I crave to experience new things each day. And hand in hand with that, there is occasional exhaustion – and getting lost in thoughts.
And writing them down. For you.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Reunions, Mountains, and an Archbishop
Every day in Cape Town was full with some kind of adventure.
As it turned out, my FilmAid boss S was in Cape Town for three days while I was there. She came for a conference on "video for change" in Africa, organized by Witness and STEPS. I got to join her there. It was interesting to learn from different organizations using video in sub-Saharan Africa, and get a feel for how FilmAid functions in comparison. In particular I got to know Nuba Reports, which trains journalists in South Sudan to document bombings and atrocities in the civil war there.
I also spent some time helping M, the University of Cape Town drama professor who co-founded the Magnet Theatre. Between the conference and going to M's office, I was fairly busy Monday through Wednesday, a nice compliment to the unstructured touristy fun to come.
I also got to spend time seeing friends. S, who worked at the Magnet while I was an intern, told me that she was pregnant on my last week in Cape Town in 2010. Now, she has a beautiful and rowdy 3 year-old and an infant of two months. I got to spend one afternoon and evening at a mall with her whole family, and had the 3 year-old attached to my back by the end of the day. I may have grown a lot in the past four years, but I'm not the only one.
I also saw S, the wife of T, who founded and runs the Stanford program in Cape Town. And J, the service-learning professor for Stanford students. Both of whom were such gracious and supportive figures. We hashed over old memories and friends -- and, as usual, it was an interesting experience to share about my path ahead. I never know how people will react when I say the word "pastor." Telling someone about my own experience with faith, even a little bit, often brings the opportunity to learn about theirs. …But that's a topic for another post.
One highlight from the week was seeing "Passage," a play co-produced by the Magnet and the Baxter Theatre. It was about male rites of passage, in Magnet Theatre's style of "physical theatre." You can go back to my posts from 2010 to read more about that -- but in short, it was an incredible performance. I am entirely biased, BUT -- I don't think there is any better theatre on the planet. My boss S came with me to the show. And in her words, it was a-MAZ-ing (wish you could hear the Kenyan accent).
That was the night after the conference ended. So the next day, S and I had a day of vacation together. We took the train down the coast of False Bay. There were stunning views all down the coast -- mountains close on one side of the train, and beach starting just after the tracks on the other side. In Muizenberg we stopped to walk along the beach. In Kalk Bay we ate huge chunks of fish, walked along the wharf and saw sea lions. Finally at Simon's Town, we walked to Boulders where the penguins are, and got to walk right up to them on the beach.
The last two days I spent with D, the Australian cricket journalist travel buddy who I had been staying with. The test match between Australia and South Africa ended on Wednesday (note: Australia won), so we were free at the same time to get some serious hiking in.
On Friday we hiked Table Mountain, starting in Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens and hiking up Skeleton Gorge -- one hour straight up. Then suddenly you're out of the trees, and beautiful views of Cape Town and surrounding suburbs are endless… at least until the fog rolls in. Thankfully we had clear skies all the way across the mountain. Once across the top, we took the cable car down, and headed over to Lion's Head - our second hike for the day!
We scrambled straight up, into the fog that was now swirling all over the city. Usually Lion's Head is famous for its 360 degree views of the Atlantic, of Table Bay, Table Mountain, Camp's Bay, and the city bowl. But at the top, all we saw was white fog. It felt like the end of the world. Although it wasn't the sunset we hoped for, it was a surreal and peaceful experience in its own way.
My last day, we went down to Hout Bay, over Chapman's Peak and finally to Noordhoek, where D's (cricket journalist) friends live. There we walked along the river in Silvermines Park (there's no silver, but it is beautiful), and up to a large, beautiful dam. D's friends had a big friendly dog who they take swimming in the dam every day (or close). Lucky dog.
Lucky me. I've saved the best part for last.
C, who works at the Stanford Centre, knows Archbishop Desmond Tutu through her family. She shared on Thursday night that Tutu would be presiding over mass at St. George's cathedral on Friday at 7:15am. I was there! It was a fairly small service in a side chapel, with maybe 100 people. True to form, Tutu was a delight. He was silly, lost his place in the service, made faces and side comments throughout. One particularly beautiful moment was when he prepared the Eucharist in English, isiXhosa and Afrikaans seamlessly.
Before serving communion, Tutu asked all visitors to stand up an introduce themselves. There was a funny moment. Apparently Tutu is a huge cricket fan. When D said that he was there to cover the Australian team, Tutu said, "Forgive me if I try to strangle you slowly." Never thought I'd hear those words from an icon of peace! (He followed it up with, "We love you.") After the service, Tutu greeted everyone on their way out. I shared that I was going to study to be a pastor. He asked which denomination and said "we're together" - meaning Anglicans and Lutherans - then "God bless you."
God bless you too, Tutu. It was a moment I'll remember forever. All of the music for the service where a cappella chants from the Taize community in France, where I hope to go on retreat in June. I love the resonances. It feels like the start of something new.
I feel sad to leave South Africa again. But at the same time, it's nice to have some closure, and to make space for new ways to grow. I am optimistic that I will come back some day. I'm sure I will be a different person then.
In the summer of 2010, L, L, J and I used to sing a song "Heart of Mine." The words always take new meaning. At the risk of being entirely too cheesy, I'll share the chorus.
The walls are coming down and down and down
And life is going round and round and round
And love it will be found and found and found
It's all inside of you
Sobonana, South Africa. Until next time.
As it turned out, my FilmAid boss S was in Cape Town for three days while I was there. She came for a conference on "video for change" in Africa, organized by Witness and STEPS. I got to join her there. It was interesting to learn from different organizations using video in sub-Saharan Africa, and get a feel for how FilmAid functions in comparison. In particular I got to know Nuba Reports, which trains journalists in South Sudan to document bombings and atrocities in the civil war there.
I also spent some time helping M, the University of Cape Town drama professor who co-founded the Magnet Theatre. Between the conference and going to M's office, I was fairly busy Monday through Wednesday, a nice compliment to the unstructured touristy fun to come.
I also got to spend time seeing friends. S, who worked at the Magnet while I was an intern, told me that she was pregnant on my last week in Cape Town in 2010. Now, she has a beautiful and rowdy 3 year-old and an infant of two months. I got to spend one afternoon and evening at a mall with her whole family, and had the 3 year-old attached to my back by the end of the day. I may have grown a lot in the past four years, but I'm not the only one.
I also saw S, the wife of T, who founded and runs the Stanford program in Cape Town. And J, the service-learning professor for Stanford students. Both of whom were such gracious and supportive figures. We hashed over old memories and friends -- and, as usual, it was an interesting experience to share about my path ahead. I never know how people will react when I say the word "pastor." Telling someone about my own experience with faith, even a little bit, often brings the opportunity to learn about theirs. …But that's a topic for another post.
One highlight from the week was seeing "Passage," a play co-produced by the Magnet and the Baxter Theatre. It was about male rites of passage, in Magnet Theatre's style of "physical theatre." You can go back to my posts from 2010 to read more about that -- but in short, it was an incredible performance. I am entirely biased, BUT -- I don't think there is any better theatre on the planet. My boss S came with me to the show. And in her words, it was a-MAZ-ing (wish you could hear the Kenyan accent).
That was the night after the conference ended. So the next day, S and I had a day of vacation together. We took the train down the coast of False Bay. There were stunning views all down the coast -- mountains close on one side of the train, and beach starting just after the tracks on the other side. In Muizenberg we stopped to walk along the beach. In Kalk Bay we ate huge chunks of fish, walked along the wharf and saw sea lions. Finally at Simon's Town, we walked to Boulders where the penguins are, and got to walk right up to them on the beach.
The last two days I spent with D, the Australian cricket journalist travel buddy who I had been staying with. The test match between Australia and South Africa ended on Wednesday (note: Australia won), so we were free at the same time to get some serious hiking in.
On Friday we hiked Table Mountain, starting in Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens and hiking up Skeleton Gorge -- one hour straight up. Then suddenly you're out of the trees, and beautiful views of Cape Town and surrounding suburbs are endless… at least until the fog rolls in. Thankfully we had clear skies all the way across the mountain. Once across the top, we took the cable car down, and headed over to Lion's Head - our second hike for the day!
We scrambled straight up, into the fog that was now swirling all over the city. Usually Lion's Head is famous for its 360 degree views of the Atlantic, of Table Bay, Table Mountain, Camp's Bay, and the city bowl. But at the top, all we saw was white fog. It felt like the end of the world. Although it wasn't the sunset we hoped for, it was a surreal and peaceful experience in its own way.
My last day, we went down to Hout Bay, over Chapman's Peak and finally to Noordhoek, where D's (cricket journalist) friends live. There we walked along the river in Silvermines Park (there's no silver, but it is beautiful), and up to a large, beautiful dam. D's friends had a big friendly dog who they take swimming in the dam every day (or close). Lucky dog.
Lucky me. I've saved the best part for last.
C, who works at the Stanford Centre, knows Archbishop Desmond Tutu through her family. She shared on Thursday night that Tutu would be presiding over mass at St. George's cathedral on Friday at 7:15am. I was there! It was a fairly small service in a side chapel, with maybe 100 people. True to form, Tutu was a delight. He was silly, lost his place in the service, made faces and side comments throughout. One particularly beautiful moment was when he prepared the Eucharist in English, isiXhosa and Afrikaans seamlessly.
Before serving communion, Tutu asked all visitors to stand up an introduce themselves. There was a funny moment. Apparently Tutu is a huge cricket fan. When D said that he was there to cover the Australian team, Tutu said, "Forgive me if I try to strangle you slowly." Never thought I'd hear those words from an icon of peace! (He followed it up with, "We love you.") After the service, Tutu greeted everyone on their way out. I shared that I was going to study to be a pastor. He asked which denomination and said "we're together" - meaning Anglicans and Lutherans - then "God bless you."
God bless you too, Tutu. It was a moment I'll remember forever. All of the music for the service where a cappella chants from the Taize community in France, where I hope to go on retreat in June. I love the resonances. It feels like the start of something new.
I feel sad to leave South Africa again. But at the same time, it's nice to have some closure, and to make space for new ways to grow. I am optimistic that I will come back some day. I'm sure I will be a different person then.
In the summer of 2010, L, L, J and I used to sing a song "Heart of Mine." The words always take new meaning. At the risk of being entirely too cheesy, I'll share the chorus.
The walls are coming down and down and down
And life is going round and round and round
And love it will be found and found and found
It's all inside of you
Sobonana, South Africa. Until next time.
PS Check out the Instagram feed on the right side... now you can see my most recent photos!
Saturday, March 1, 2014
The Birthday Post
If it's possible to be infatuated with a place, that's how I feel about Cape Town. A little tipsy, heart racing, adoring. If you were here, you'd feel it too.
Everything is dramatic. Cape Town doesn't bother with much middle ground. The mountain is next to the sea. Poverty next to insane wealth. Boutique health food stores, and the highest HIV rate in the world. Diversity in every dimension. A vibe that is at once peaceful and in-your-face.
My name is Liesl Spitz, and I love Cape Town.
It's remarkable to land in a place so far from home, and feel such familiarity. I know the streets. I have memories everywhere I turn.
The bar where Matt and I watched World Cup games, the restaurant where I first ate Koeksisters, the walk through Company Gardens, the view of Table Mountain from the taxi park, the storefronts on Main Road, the QuickSpar grocery store in Observatory, the boxes of Five Roses Tea on the shelf.
And of course, the Magnet Theatre, where I interned for my five months. I spent most of my waking hours there, day after day, organizing, cleaning, hanging, unfolding and refolding, inventory-ing, filing, mopping, doing whatever remotely helpful or unattractive task I could find – a bargain. Because in return, I got to watch the making of brilliant theatre, form friendships with artists, and gain a whole lot of perspective on life in South Africa.
This morning I got to watch a run-through of Boom Umthi, a production for children that the Magnet is taking to a festival in Italy this week. Afterward Margie, my former supervisor and (current) life coach, took me to cheese cake and cappuccinos with her husband and daughter.
No wonder I love Cape Town. It's not the cheesecake, or the beautiful weather (it is summer here, sorry East Coast), or the constant view of Table Mountain. It's the relationships I made here, and the intense growth I experienced here.
If today I feel that I know myself, it's in large part because of the work that happened here four years ago.
Every day I thought about identity. I thought about my grandfather's experience in South Africa decades earlier (hi Grandpa!), and how my family's history ties into my personal story. I thought about culture as identity; about identity as performance; about performance as ritual. I thought about service, and about relationships, and how inextricably linked they are.
I thought a lot about beauty.
Interestingly, I didn't think much about God. My four months in Cape Town was probably the longest time in my life that I haven't gone to church.
Later I came to understand that I was growing spiritually, in a big way. That we don't (necessarily) encounter God in religion, but in relationships and experiences. That will always be true. And perhaps more true -- that seeking God is not our job. God seeks us.
So many truths that carry me through these days, I learned then.
Cape Town was also the first time that I lived on my own. (Although I don't think I have ever lived truly on my own.) My schedule, my groceries, my health, my safety–my responsibility.
It's only four years later, but I feel ten years older. Here I am, and I love myself. For my birthday, humor me. Own it with me. Self-love is so important. It looks different every day.
Today, self-love looks like nostalgia, adventure, and a bit of indulgence.
After cheesecake with Margie, I visited the Stanford house on Herschel Road. Then I took a taxi to the Newlands Cricket Stadium, and saw my first ever cricket match. (The friend I'm staying with here is a journalist who's covering the game.) I took the train back to town, and took a long bath complete with rice crackers and Camembert, a view of the fog creeping over Table Mountain, and Beyonce's newest album.
***Flawless.
Today is Quarter Century Day. I feel grounded, and unbelievably lucky. When it's cocktail hour in your time zone, join me in raising your glass to the road well-traveled and the road ahead. Here's to however we know (and likely love) each other. This is the stuff of life.
Everything is dramatic. Cape Town doesn't bother with much middle ground. The mountain is next to the sea. Poverty next to insane wealth. Boutique health food stores, and the highest HIV rate in the world. Diversity in every dimension. A vibe that is at once peaceful and in-your-face.
My name is Liesl Spitz, and I love Cape Town.
It's remarkable to land in a place so far from home, and feel such familiarity. I know the streets. I have memories everywhere I turn.
The bar where Matt and I watched World Cup games, the restaurant where I first ate Koeksisters, the walk through Company Gardens, the view of Table Mountain from the taxi park, the storefronts on Main Road, the QuickSpar grocery store in Observatory, the boxes of Five Roses Tea on the shelf.
And of course, the Magnet Theatre, where I interned for my five months. I spent most of my waking hours there, day after day, organizing, cleaning, hanging, unfolding and refolding, inventory-ing, filing, mopping, doing whatever remotely helpful or unattractive task I could find – a bargain. Because in return, I got to watch the making of brilliant theatre, form friendships with artists, and gain a whole lot of perspective on life in South Africa.
This morning I got to watch a run-through of Boom Umthi, a production for children that the Magnet is taking to a festival in Italy this week. Afterward Margie, my former supervisor and (current) life coach, took me to cheese cake and cappuccinos with her husband and daughter.
No wonder I love Cape Town. It's not the cheesecake, or the beautiful weather (it is summer here, sorry East Coast), or the constant view of Table Mountain. It's the relationships I made here, and the intense growth I experienced here.
If today I feel that I know myself, it's in large part because of the work that happened here four years ago.
Every day I thought about identity. I thought about my grandfather's experience in South Africa decades earlier (hi Grandpa!), and how my family's history ties into my personal story. I thought about culture as identity; about identity as performance; about performance as ritual. I thought about service, and about relationships, and how inextricably linked they are.
I thought a lot about beauty.
Interestingly, I didn't think much about God. My four months in Cape Town was probably the longest time in my life that I haven't gone to church.
Later I came to understand that I was growing spiritually, in a big way. That we don't (necessarily) encounter God in religion, but in relationships and experiences. That will always be true. And perhaps more true -- that seeking God is not our job. God seeks us.
So many truths that carry me through these days, I learned then.
Cape Town was also the first time that I lived on my own. (Although I don't think I have ever lived truly on my own.) My schedule, my groceries, my health, my safety–my responsibility.
It's only four years later, but I feel ten years older. Here I am, and I love myself. For my birthday, humor me. Own it with me. Self-love is so important. It looks different every day.
Today, self-love looks like nostalgia, adventure, and a bit of indulgence.
After cheesecake with Margie, I visited the Stanford house on Herschel Road. Then I took a taxi to the Newlands Cricket Stadium, and saw my first ever cricket match. (The friend I'm staying with here is a journalist who's covering the game.) I took the train back to town, and took a long bath complete with rice crackers and Camembert, a view of the fog creeping over Table Mountain, and Beyonce's newest album.
***Flawless.
Today is Quarter Century Day. I feel grounded, and unbelievably lucky. When it's cocktail hour in your time zone, join me in raising your glass to the road well-traveled and the road ahead. Here's to however we know (and likely love) each other. This is the stuff of life.
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