First Impressions: Volunteer Work

Transport:
I am driving daily into Mitchell's Plain,a crime infested, low-to-mid income suburb of Cape Town with an overwhelmingly Colored population. Driving for the first couple of days has been (to use the South African term) quite hectic. Armed only with a map book and my brave little Uno (which has all the horsepower of an actual horse) I went out to battle the dual forces of my own pathetic sense of direction, and the comically confusing road signs. I eventually found all of my destinations, but not without some epic wrong turns, or without tasting my heart in my throat a few times. People on South African roads drive in one of two styles: Granny and Absolute Maniac. Everyone jaywalks, weaves through traffic like it's going out of styles, and kids play “chicken” on the highways. I've already lost count of the narrow gaps I've had to squeeze my car through, often involving high speeds or police cars. However, now that I know the way I look forward to smoother, easier travel.

Prison:
Same old, same old... Generally being acquainted with prisons is a bad thing, but I come by it honestly, having done Bible studies in prisons, including this one, 3 years ago. The prisons still reek of sweat, the sick bays are still filled with AIDS victims dying slowly, and the criminals are still shockingly friendly with the visitors. This friendship, unfortunately, does not extend to other prisoners, and most of them are forced to join prison gangs, imaginatively labeled the “26s” “27s” and “28s”. The gangs look out for their own, fight each other, and pick on- or sodomize- those with no gang to protect them. We got a prison tour Monday; our classes start Thursday.

School:
The school looks much like a prison. The fences are razor-wired, with an electronic gate providing or preventing access, many windows are broken, and all are covered with iron bars. Students wear uniforms, though more attractive ones than those of inmates. The school I went to is in an area so vicious that people refuse to use their cell phones while walking the streets; it's an invitation to get robbed, or worse. Today while walking to the school, my co-teacher (boss, really) heard gun shots. He is a real fun guy who is employed full time with the YMCA, with Rastafarian-style dreadlocks, a red visor cap and an easygoing manner. The school itself cheerfully exudes the surreal gong-show atmosphere that is Africa.

We spent much of the day making out classroom inhabitable, as it is being used as a storage room, as well as a smoke room by the security guards. Nothing says “school pride” like leaving your butts around in a classroom for the YMCA guys to clean up. We're still recruiting members for our “Peer Education” class and getting them to fill out questionnaires, mostly about sex and the murderously flawed notions that many Africans have about STI's. The South African classroom is truly a battleground where the “personal freedom” message of liberalism comes up against the cold hard reality of promiscuity = death.

Then we had to go from room to room, finding last year's Peer Education students for a catch-up meeting. (Our Intercom was broken so we couldn't call the kids). Apparently the original classroom doors were all stolen, and when they were replaced no-one though to number the new ones correctly, so classrooms 56, 7 and 23 might be side-by-side-by-side.

The most bizarre meeting was with a substitute teacher, who began to preach to my co-worker about the sad state of South African youth (something that he's well acquainted with, that being his job) while I dodged advances from high school girls. Finally the sub asked one of the female students, who was draped around his neck for some reason, to lift up her shirt to show us the bullet wound on her stomach and explain what getting shot feels like. We beat a hasty retreat, mumbling excuses.

Neighbors:
Whackjobs. Sick of yelling at their mother and trying to steal our dog, the two boys (high school drop outs from the looks of things) got nice and high/drunk and yelled threats at me from their house tonight. I shrugged it off and am not too worried (when I mentioned it to some wrestling buddies, they enthusiastically suggested ways to “sort out” the problem. Mrs. R and the kid are home alone a lo,l so if we get any more trouble we might call the police.