So I came back from Afrika Burn thinking that I would have no incredible stories to tell. Then thinking about it, I realized that the whole thing was a magnificent experience unlike anywhere I’ve been. Afrika Burn is essentially the South African version of Burning Man, which for those of you that don’t know is a community arts festival in the middle of the desert. Honestly, it’s kind of hard to describe without sounding a little crazy, so I suggest looking at the website (www.afrikaburns.com). There were about 2000 people in the middle of the Karoo; I could look around for miles and see nothing except the mountains in the distance. The whole weekend seemed totally timeless because I was bound to no schedule and no clock, free to wander between tents and art projects at will. Everything seemed normal to me while I was there, but I realize that nothing like that happens in the real world. I danced on top of giant lego structures (with “letgo” written on top of them where it should say lego) at a dance party next to a flame-throwing gypsy truck. I rode on a pirate ship, found neon fish floating in a blacklight, saw a black snowman, helped build a 3-d dreamcatcher, painted community art, extended a path to nowhere, attended an Alice in Wonderland Mad Hatter tea party, spied on people through a looking glass on a tower, walked around with facepaint all day, drummed in a samba percussion workshop, had another dance party in a tunnel from nowhere to nowhere, sent a postcard for free to the states, found a giant rubix cube, watched giant ship masts coming out of the desert burn, talked in solar powered telephone booths to other phones set up around the camp, exchanged jokes on a joke hotline, heard the ocean at the listening tree, envied the giant bunny slippers on scooters driving around, colored on random people’s pictures, played giant chess and scrabble, stumbled upon glow in the dark “gardens,” played soccer and friz, drank sangria and wine, hung out with a giant elvis statue, met an avatar, prayed at a chicken shrine, enjoyed free cherries, cherry brandy, and ice-cold popsicles, jumped in a bounce castle, made friends, and generally had a jolly good time. Everything was centrally art focused, though a couple of tents were blasting house or rock music the whole time. Afrika Burns operated on a giving system; everyone was supposed to bring a gift that they could share and exchange gifts with people they met. One guy had a mist-er hooked up to a water tank around his belt attached to an umbrella, and was offering rain. The popsicles and cherries were similarly gifted to me. There were official tents set up around the inner ring where most of the art was, and those ranged from a bar to the music tents to the tea party to a love tent to a giant message board to write dreams to a postcard place to a tent where you could build your own kite. There was so much going on at that festival, my descriptions don’t even do it justice. Yet at the same time, it was very much laid back: I didn’t walk much faster than a shuffle most of the day. There was just no hurry. If you want a funny story, ask me about the sailor dude or honeybear.
The Wednesday before I went I took a drum lesson from our next-door neighbor Sibu, who happens to be an rasta, ex-PAC resistance fighter against apartheid. One time, in an effort to get sanitation for his community, he helped build blockades against the police in the middle of the night using bricks and human shit as mortar; the white police were so disgusted when they realized what the walls were made of that they wouldn’t take them down, and brought in port-o-potties. I bought a djembe from him and was able to jam at Africa Burn. Also, on the way to and from the karoo, our car was so full that the only place the djembe could fit was between my legs – I don’t think I stopped drumming for all 6 hours. My carmates said they didn’t mind and liked it by the end, but I’m unsure of whether that was just infinite patience or not. Either way, did I mention that the people here are great?
The day after I returned from Afrika Burn, I went to see one of the premiere South African bands, Goldfish. They’re some kind of jazzy house music and I highly recommend checking them out. For the more jazz-y stuff, look up “Cruising Through,” “This is how it goes,” or “Hold Tight.” For the house-y stuff, look at anything off of their remix of Perceptions of Pacha (an earlier cd which the three hits above are off of). Anyway, a couple of things happened on that adventure. My friend Craig and I caught a train to Stellenbosch, the capital of wine country in South Africa and the town where the concert was. An aside: I don’t remember if I mentioned this before, but no white South Africans ride trains (or really any public transport). It’s really odd, but I guess they all have cars, somehow. Anyway, we transferred halfway to our destination in Bellville. As soon as we got off, we asked someone where the train to Stellenbosch was and they pointed to one that was rapidly pulling away. Craig and I ran and hopped into said moving train, on the first car that we could get to. This happened to be a regular metro car (as opposed to the metro plus which is usually about 2 rand more, has nicer seating and a security guard always there) and some guy was pacing back and forth down the aisle shouting at the top of his lungs and preaching to us. We couldn’t help laughing a bit to ourselves, and we saw a few other smirks around the car. We hopped off at the next stop and rode the metro plus to Stellenbosch, where we immediately proceeded to get lost because we didn’t remember to check the map for how to get to our hostel. We eventually found it without too much trouble, but while we were walking around I was struck by how much wealthier Stellenbosch was. The difference is immediately apparent: instead of a city where sidewalks are lined with electric fences or barbed wire-topped walls, there were open lawns and grassy areas. There were no bars on the front windows of shops. And there were very few non-white people; more and more this makes me really uncomfortable. In fact, I may have seen five that weren’t working on the street. Similarly, I saw maybe 10 black people out of the whole crowd at the concert. Granted, it was at a winery and out in Stellenbosch, but it’s really weird to see and feels off somehow. To top off the weekend, we had another hilarious encounter with someone we met at the concert, but that’s another story for another time. Ask me about it later.
I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to update this in a long time, but BU (Beth Uriel) has more and more taken over my life. I’m usually there from 3-10 or later Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, sometimes even going in on Fridays too. I’m realizing that it’s really hard to accomplish all that we set out to with the business, for a number of different reasons. Even weekly meetings of the Me’Kasi team have taken four weeks to initiate and the order for more merchandise has taken 2 weeks. I’m slowly realizing too that a lot of our struggle has to do with a lack of ability for action that is due not only to the guy’s history on the street, but also to the fact that they’re simply high schoolers. I can’t remember being very responsible in high school, and I certainly wouldn’t have any knowledge about how to run a business or sell a product. Complicating the matter is that the guys feel like they aren’t trusted with the business at all. They are only allowed to take out one t-shirt at a time to sell, and must leave something of equal or greater value as collateral. This makes it almost impossible to sell anything because anyone interested in buying a shirt can’t compare colors, designs, or sizes. I’ve been told by the guys that they also feel like they appear illegitimate carrying around one t-shirt in their township at a time; it looks like they stole it or are re-selling it from somewhere in Cape Town. Unfortunately, the heads of BU don’t seem to want to change this policy because there have been many instances of guys taking out a portion of the stock which promptly disappears and the house doesn’t get any money back. Guys come back with stories that they have been mugged, and there is no way to verify the truth of their claims. House members also pinch shirts from the store. The house also doesn’t want to put a key to the Me’Kasi store, which usually remains locked unless a volunteer is in there, on the “duty keys” because there have been multiple instances of theft of the key and then the inventory. This means that there isn’t always someone who has access to the room in the house, which can be very frustrating: Mthandazo, one of the Me’Kasi team members, brought someone from his township to the store to look at the shirts but had to turn him away because they couldn’t get into the store. This is painful because BU loses a customer, and I’m sure Mthandazo loses street cred. It seems impassable because the guys feel untrusted and like they haven’t committed any wrong and are being punished for the actions others in the past have done; at the same time, the people running the house don’t want to give them the opportunity because the store will be taken advantage of. Trust has to be earned on both sides. Because of this lack of trust and ownership, the guys aren’t motivated to participate and the business has gone nowhere. We’re trying to navigate these issues somehow and create ownership by interviewing each of the guys working on Me’Kasi to get their impressions of how to run things better. The weekly meetings we set up will also help. We’re also going on a team-building/marketing adventure this Friday in Maninho’s township: we’re going with the whole team in a van with a guitar and my djembe to attract a crowd. After a couple of the guys freestyle for a bit, we will tell the township about a game we’re setting up: we’re having 4 team members wandering around the township wearing Me’kasi gear and the first people to bring them back get free t-shirts. We’ll see how it turns out.
As for the dynamic around the house, it has changed slightly when the owner (Lindsay) came back from three months on maternity leave. Everyone in the house loves her and I immediately see the difference between her attitude toward the guys and that of the social worker who lives there full time (Marieke) and was running the place while Lindsay was away. Marieke is far more harsh and acted a lot more like an authority figure than a friend, while Lindsay is really a mother to the guys – stern in her rules while appearing fair, understanding, more respectful and not imposing. She sat in on our weekly meeting this past Monday and had phenomenal advice on how to proceed. I’m excited about how we can move forward, though it’s really a complicated process. I’d like to think that I’m getting some business experience, and realizing how complicated it really is.
This past Saturday I spent the day in Maninho’s township with Masecani and Ken (another kid in the program working with me at BU). South Africa never ceases to surprise me. Maninho and Masecani have formed a rap group together called the Young Soldiers, and they sang a song at a community gathering at an elementary school. They were mixed in with a couple of other performers, a beauty pageant and a couple of breakdancers. Before we got to the school we wandered around with them meeting a couple of Maninho’s brothers and friends, stopping by his house, and watching a street soccer match. His home, like many others in the township, is about eight by eight feet, with a couch, fridge, tv, small and plug-in electric stove all crammed in together. The outside is simply corrugated tin and I’m sure is not insulating at all, but the inside is something he could take pride in. While wandering around, I was completely struck by the friendly atmosphere. The streets were full of people all day and everyone was super friendly. I must’ve met 30 or more people, stopped and had conversations with all of them, and shaken hands with a bunch more randomly on the street. It’s a little tough to imagine the levels of crime in that community even though I was super conscious of what could possibly go wrong. One guy I met and walked around with a bit did tell me that when the township gets sick of gangsters robbing people, they take justice into their own hands and kill them. Members of the community would rather not involve the cops. Masecani also told me that there were no laws because the cops don’t come around. Hearing stories from the guys, kids at other people’s service learning, and even a couple of kids in my program, while reading about the unemployment and crime situations for class gives me a totally different impression of the townships than I felt the other day. Another interesting note: many white South Africans have never set foot in townships and are terrified to do so.
In other news, I watched City of God today, a fantastic movie based on a true story arising out of the favelas in Brazil. Go see it. Oh yeah, and congrats to those of you who preassigned into EBF. Get pumped for a great next year.
