Flick, Nosee and Jillian/Alison/Juliana: A love triangle if ever there was one

It feels like forever since I wrote anything here. I was still wrapping up orientation when I wrote last Friday, and already I feel like I’m in the middle of the semester with the amount of work and stress that was catapulted onto us this week. It’s disappointing for all of us to think about the amount of busy work we have this semester. Dr. Bender doesn’t seem to understand the importance of learning from a city and its people. She instead wants us to spend all our time writing journal entries for grades and doing presentations. Already I gave a presentation yesterday and I have another next week. With Just three classes I’ve already submitted two written assignments. We even have a map test on all of Africa next week – talk about seventh grade.

It is Friday afternoon and I have just finished with my last class for the week. We are all exhausted; most of us just want to go home and sleep until Monday. But a group of us are rallying and trying to rent a car tomorrow to take a trip down to Cape Agulhas, the southernmost part of Africa. It’s hard to find automatics to rent, and even harder to find a company that will rent a car to you if you are under 23. If it doesn’t work out then we are going to just take a taxi to the beach, considering it’s been 2 weeks and we have yet to dip our feet in the FREEZING water here. Next weekend we are trying to go whale watching. I have a fantastic image of Free Willy jumping over me on the rocks – I hope it happens that way. The plan for tonight is to go to Rafiki’s and watch South Africa play England in the Rugby World Cup. I had never even heard of the Rugby Cup before, but it seems to be as popular here as soccer. We originally were going to an AIDS benefit being put on my work this evening but it has been postponed since the announcement of the game time. We won’t get to salsa dance for HIV until November.

I guess now that I’ve mentioned my work I should probably say what I am actually doing. I took two Jammie shuttles (UCT’s p2p’s) on Monday morning to get to the Desmond Tutu HIV Foundation. I am one of the lucky ones because my commute is free. The foundation is housed in the Institute for Immunology and Molecular Medicine at UCT’s medical campus, so I get to take the student shuttles rather than public transportation. Monday was quite crazy there because President Mbeki himself was coming for the dedication of something or other just a few floors above me. Despite my American prowess, I was unable to catch him for a quick chat. How insulting.

But my free commute and the presence of the President is about where my luck ends. I got to work to find that no one had any idea who I was. I was shuffled from office to office, awkwardly reminding people of why I was there and politely telling them that no, my name is not Alison. Ironically, people also took to calling me Juliana. I don’t know why Jillian is such a difficult name to master. It was immediately obvious that I was in the way for most people, so I finally landed in the office of an ornery old woman named Flick. Her anti-Americanism was palpable and her basic will to live undetectable. She spent the morning moaning about how sick she felt and sarcastically reminding me how she would probably be dead by tomorrow. I hope I never reach that level of bitterness and irritability. But at least my presence gave her someone to complain to, so I did not feel entirely useless. Flick is extremely neurotic – she had trouble letting me even use one of her mugs when she offered me tea. Then she spent the next half hour tracking down a case of wine that was delivered somewhere to this dungeon of a basement office. (Are you starting to pick up on the vibes of this environment?) We discussed how I am not pre-med, and how therefore I do not belong at this organization according to Flick. Then she pulled up my CV and saw that it mentions fundraising for St. Lucia, so she naturally tried to recruit me to volunteer my FREE TIME to fundraising for some “save the ocean” organization. I’m all about the ocean, but I think at this point I was just looking to find something for me to do at my actual internship. And on a side note, what free time was she referring to?

We discussed the miscommunication over my nonexistent film skills and I regretfully told her that I would not be producing blockbusters about HIV/AIDS. I offered any creative input or technical assistance I could, but I quickly learned that they do in fact have trained individuals whose only barrier to production is motivation. As it started to look like my internship was rapidly turning into the job of just kicking people around and saying “why aren’t you doing anything?,” I digressed from cinematography and inquired about any other areas in which I could be useful.

Remembering Tanzania, and the immense amount of patience and flexibility this last trip demanded of me, I quickly shook the frustration that was mounting and reminded myself that I cannot control anything in the way an American inherently wants to micromanage any and all parts of a day. I just sat back and took off my coat, making myself comfortable as I waited for Flick to find something to do with me. I offered up my interests and served her my services on a silver platter, promising to give it my best in any area, despite my intrinsic worthlessness in the fact that I am not a doctor, a filmmaker, or at least a Bill Gates-esque donor. It was clear to Flick that I was only of value as a trash can in which she could dump her endless complaints about life.

Refusing to let defeat seep under my skin just yet, I went back to Kate, the TA for my program (who is also the reason that I have been inappropriately placed in this heavily research-based organization) and asked her if she could help to steer me in the right direction. Kate recommended I be placed at the DTHF, despite the fact that they have not taken our interns before, solely because she wanted me to jumpstart their stagnant documentary project. Despite my emails over the summer, and my emphasis on the fact that I have no editing skills whatsoever, she told me to “brush up on them” and it would be fine. If I had not been removed from working for the Treatment Action Campaign (and I am still not sure of why they moved me) I would never have been in this increasingly depressing basement in the first place. I’d be somewhere where my lack of biology and chemistry and excessive load in the humanities would be an asset, not a disability.

Now the frustration is coming back to me. Kate dropped me in Nosee’s office, where I found a young and very pregnant black woman who made quick work of shaming my existence. I hate that it is relevant to state that she is black, but it was her and not me who decided that color was important. I have been the minority in the room plenty of times, in fact I am much more of a minority in Tanzania than in South Africa, but here I actually felt the connection of my color and my class. I don’t know if I was looking for the resentment and hatred that I spoke of being so absent after my trip to Robben Island, if maybe I fabricated a racism that was more just my own paranoia, but regardless of my own undeniable psychosis, I am positive that Nosee did not want to have anything to do with me. But was it because my color represented Apartheid and political oppression? Or did my skin remind her of the ravaging of a continent and the social, political and economic domination that my ancestors of the Global North imposed on her ancestors? Or am I just assuming one would think that way when really it is just my own resentment towards colonialism that brings these issues to mind? And let’s just say she was associating me with my hemisphere’s past - is any of that my fault? Is it our burden to carry? Am I some sort of unofficial ambassador of imperialism who only thinks I am helping to cross cultures? Why should I come here if I cannot overcome my own color in the eyes of others? To whom am I trying to prove something? And who am I trying to help? And why am I asking so many questions?

I could go on and on with the moral dilemmas that badgered me after meeting Nosee. It’s not that I haven’t been faced with these questions before, but it’s that each time I am faced with such a situation I am equally unsure of how to overcome it. It feels like I have missed the learning curve, or perhaps I am just too stubborn to accept that I cannot not change everyone’s views of me. I cannot make people who hate me hate me for good reason, just as there are those I’ve met in Africa who like me solely for my nationality; I cannot make them actually scrutinize my character. I’ve met people here who are so eager to discuss the Yankees and Justin Timberlake; they want to learn my accent and adopt my style of dress. It wouldn’t matter if I were a jerk; in fact it may even help if I were less patient and more demanding in order to uphold the image of American efficiency. I can be patted on the back for pulling myself up by my bootstraps and building such an ideal country or stabbed in the back for invading others. Neither act have I actually participated in, but as an American in a foreign country, I am representative of both. People are immediately turned on or off by my origin and it is endlessly frustrating in both scenarios. How do we get to the point of actually getting to know each other as individuals, not mascots?

This all just makes me think of the kids at St. Lucia, because they are my sanctuary from myself and all that I might represent. They notice my skin only in amusement as they trace over my moles and examine my ear piercings with novelty. “Juliana, what is this one?,” they giggle as they discover a freckle on my arm. They recognize our differences only as intrigues to be explored, not shied away from. And the sad part is, not even all children are privilege to such innocence. Children are being raised to become warriors, fighting for a cause that they never were allowed to choose. It’s recognized in war-torn countries, but it’s happening in our own as well. It’s ironic that it is the very lack of education received by the children in Tanzania that affords them the blank canvas on which they see me. They have learned of America only through volunteers and people who care from them; they know nothing of our wars or our past. They hold no damning evidence with which to dismiss me. Perhaps it would serve international relations if in adulthood we could preserve such unabashed interactions. Maybe if adults could actually discuss our differences and lay them on the table we would see that they come down to moles and piercings and that they are not worth digging trenches and drawing arbitrary lines. If we could move past color and consider the substance of our character we could see that not all Americans travel in seek of conquest, and not all Africans are destitute and awaiting our salvation.

But back to Nosee. (I recognize that I am rambling.) Maybe I should blame her ‘tude on her pregnancy and those “crazy” female hormones, but I don’t think its convincing for me. Let me give some more information. Nosee is one of the employees who was trained in the month-long film workshop that started this entire documentary program. I discussed with her what it was she wanted to do with the project and submissively asked how I could help. For most of our interaction she did not even grace my inquiries with responses. She just sat and stared at me as if she was trying to decide why I thought I had the right to be there. Let me tell you, I felt welcome!

In a way though, Nosee’s frosty demeanor was a bit of a reassurance. Ever since Robben Island I have found myself searching for the tensions in race relations that I know must exist. I know that there must be resentment, but I just didn’t expect it to hit me on my first day of work, in a place where people are coming together to fight an illness that kills across colors. Again, my naiveté astounds me.

I took a bathroom break to dig up my confidence and rethink my tactics as to how I could earn Nosee’s respect. I knew it would not be done in a day, but I thought maybe if I took interest in an area other than this film project that was bludgeoning all of us over the head, I just might have a chance at finding a purpose here. And what’s more, I just might demonstrate that I am here to learn, not to lead. I went back to the program overviews I had read in the preceding week and decided to ask Nosee about the vaccine trial centers as an admission of my ignorance and an opportunity for her to educate me- the stereotypically superior white woman.

It seemed to go well, at least on a quantitative scale when I considered the number and length of the answers she gave me. We even planned a field trip together for the next day to attend a meeting on an adolescent education program coupled with a visit to the vaccine center out in the townships. Feeling like I had found at least some success for both parties, and well aware of my imposition on her time and her breathing air, I decided to make myself of better use and take off back to main campus to get myself an ID. At least then I could at least breach the doorways of my workplace in a physical sense, if not socially and intellectually.

The ID trip turned out to be a great success because I killed two birds with one stone. In less than a week I had already managed to lose my UCT ID, so I convinced the also ornery old man at the ID office to make me a new card with access to both the medical and the Upper (or main) campus. He logged me in as a visiting researcher, which I found particularly amusing as it would only serve to augment the disappointment among my coworkers when they all learned the truth that I am in actuality a lowly sociology major - and what’s even more incriminating-- I am pre-law. Blasphemy.

To my dismay, I then spent the next two hours posing to still be at work (I was not supposed to finish until 5, and therefore not back to the house until 6) by sending home a ridiculously long and detailed email from the library on campus. The sharks in there that monitor the computer use to make sure it is academic were thoroughly suspicious of my intentions; I spent my time flipping between the email draft and an academic journal to try and throw them off my track. All of this was in vein however because the email never sent, and all of the issues that I was so desperate to share were lost. Now, only four days later, I cannot even remember what I was thinking or feeling. The days here disappear into ancient history the second my head hits my pillow. I don’t know if it is because this whole experience is so groundless, and none of it seems connected to anything or anyone I know, or maybe its just because the range of emotion you go through in any one day is so diverse that it is too taxing to commit it to memory, but one way or another, I quickly lose my sentiments as soon as they have passed. It makes me feel the need to journal more, but that again takes me back to the point of the obscene amount of useless assignments we have and the personal time they rob from us here.

I need to get this entry rolling because my stomach is starting to talk to me and my bed back at our “Real World Mansion” (one of its many nicknames) is starting to look extremely inviting. I need to at least get to writing about something other than Monday. So, I’ll turn to Tuesday. On Tuesday I rose once more, this time prepared for the inevitable frustrations to which I was commuting. I stupidly decided to dress a little lighter this time as I was tricked by the warmth of Monday. This was a decision I would later come to regret.

When I arrived at the office, Nosee told me that our meeting had been postponed until Thursday, a day that I have class and cannot work. For about an hour I bounced around between offices, trying to find out if I could still get out to Gugulethu to at least explore their community centers. The foundation has two full-time drivers, one who makes a trip everyday to Masimphumulele (I butchered that name but I don’t want to look it up), and one who taxis back and forth to Gugulethu apparently all day long bringing vaccines to the center and prescription scripts back to the main office. The “all day long” part will tie into my regret over my attire for the day.

So I successfully pissed off Nosee some more by misunderstanding whether or not she was coming with me to Gugulethu. I thought she said she was not, so when I told her I was leaving with the driver on his next round of vaccine deliveries she was of course able to attribute this exclusion of her to my American elitism. But we sorted it out, and we both hopped in a smart car with Stanley, the driver, to enjoy a car ride in Xhosa in which the only English used was my name. And of course by now I’ve learned that laughter is universal, and laughter following your name fosters a greater insecurity than when you can actually understand in what capacity people are making fun of you.

I just stared out the window at the townships we passed and pretended not to notice that I was the source of entertainment -another unexpected way in which I was useful, much like my time with Flick the previous day. We got to the vaccine center, but Nosee did not want to go inside. Stanley made his delivery and Nosee said we would instead visit the clinic where they are conducting negative cohort studies and VCT (voluntary counseling and testing). She promised that we would visit the vaccine center when we were finished at the clinic. Okay, sounds good, I’m flexible. We went to the clinic, where Stanley abandoned us to head back to UCT. The next 5 hours consisted of me sitting on a chair by myself in the waiting room, counting cracks in the wall, while Nosee enjoyed an extended lunch hour and socialized with the women working in the clinic. I was again honored to provide the entertainment. About an hour in I asked Nosee when Stanley would be coming back for us. She called him and we were given our first round of “I’m coming in 20 minutes.” This pattern persisted; every hour or so I would ask and she would call, until 5 o’clock rolled around and it was time for everyone to go home. Half-past came, and still, no Stanley. It was raining by now, and it was significantly colder than my bare arms could handle. Nosee and I walked out into the township to find a mini-bus taxi that would get us back to the city. From there I was on my own. The taxi itself was quite a surprise, nothing like the dala dalas of Tanzania. For starters, it pulled over without already having 30 people in it. It had leather seats and a TV that unfolded from the ceiling. I knew I wasn’t in Tanzania anymore.

We rode to town and I got off before Nosee. After a heartfelt goodbye I found my way to the nearest bus stop, where I had to wait another 40 minutes for the beloved Jammie shuttle. Wet, cold, and dejected, I rode to main campus where I could get my next shuttle back towards home. I had a meeting scheduled for a stupid group presentation at 6 o’clock. By the time I got off the bus I had to run up the mountain (a fifteen minute walk) to get home and put an end to my day. The day in itself pales in comparison to any random day in Tanzania last month, but there was something particularly isolating about coming back into that house after the rest of the group had had significantly superior experiences. At least in Tanzania, I came home to Matt, who had been through the same hell I’d been through and needed the same space I did. Here, I found myself in a house bustling full of students, none of whom were on the same page as me. Even if there had been someone in my shoes, we wouldn’t have had the time to discuss anything anyway because there was still work to be done. Tuesday dragged on with homework until I finally decided I just didn’t care and I went to bed. The rest of the clan was still taking group transportation to work each day, so I felt isolated and unable to share what I was thinking or feeling as they had spent much more time together and I had been on my own. I was just grateful that I had had such a trying time in Tanzania, because otherwise I’m sure that homesickness and loneliness would have started to set in.

Wednesday won’t take long to write about, because it was almost identical to Tuesday. I was dropped off, this time Nosee did not stay, and I spent a few hours on a bench, waiting to be picked up. I at least had a brochure to read, albeit in Xhosa, but I had fun making up what the words might mean. I learned that I can entertain myself fairly well if need be. This time Stanley did come back for me eventually because he did have to make another vaccine delivery. The “20 minutes” only turned into a few hours, rather than a not at all. I did get to see the vaccine center, and I met with someone who did not make fun of me or write me off. She was white. Again, I had to wonder if maybe I was discovering a pattern. I met with this Doctor (my memory is again failing me with names) and discussed the dilemma that I am not actually a medical student, and I am not a filmmaker, but I am a human and I do want to “make a difference” in any way I can. Because of confidentiality, there is very little involvement I can actually have at this center, the last hope of where I could actually find something to do. I expressed my interest in conducting research about what motivates people to participate in the vaccine trials. It would be coercion to pay them, so they are only given compensation for transportation and time. People volunteer years out of their lives to be injected with drugs and tested and questioned, and tested again, and questioned again. Why do they do it? It’s obviously noble to volunteer your body to fight HIV, but for people who have enough health risks to worry about it seems like a lot to give. The Doctor agreed that this research would be very interesting, but told me that she did not believe I would gain my approval from the International Research Board in time to actually carry out my work. Not to mention the fact that I would have to work everything into Xhosa and then back into English. That coupled with the issue that I’m only allowed to interact with people BEFORE they sign on to join the study may bake it hard for me to gather enough participants. The outlook was grim.

Basically I just retreated to the waiting room so as not to waste any more of the Doctor’s time. She apologized that she could not use me for the studies and invited me to come back to visit. She mentioned working in Masimphumulele, but those trips leave at 7am every day and return around 6, and again they offer little hope that I could actually conduct any research I’d need to do my thesis. I don’t think I’d want to mess with a 7-6 day that could easily turn into much longer.

I got back to UCT with Stanley and without even going back in the building I left for the bus stop. I wasn’t in the mood to go say goodbye to Flick. Or Nosee. I got home earlier, again had lots of work to do, and again fell asleep early without getting to taste any new parts of Cape Town.

Thursday and today were class days; they really don’t require much detail. I am just very grateful that the week is over, and I’m optimistic the next week will be better than the last. There is another Doctor who I am scheduled to meet at 9am on Monday; maybe she will be able to put me to work. Perhaps she won’t find sociology so asinine.

And even if it doesn’t work out, I will find a way to make something happen. I can find another NGO, or I can focus my paper on the captivating relationship I see myself developing with Nosee. What an Honors thesis that would make.

I hope this entry hasn’t just sounded like Flick speaking. I feel like often the endless discussion of my experiences here must come across like whining. But the difficult days teach me far more than the easy ones, and I am at least starting to feel like I am living in this country rather than just vacationing here. If nothing else, this entire escapade has done wonders for my patience and independence. I don’t feel I need anyone most of the time, and it is a good feeling to be strong on your own two feet. It’s nice to miss people not because I can’t live without them, but because I want to share with them all that I am seeing and doing. I have often been comparing this internship here to my work in Trenton last summer, and how even after a miserable start I found a niche for myself and things improved. It seems things are coming full circle and I am building on the tough times in Trenton and TZ to get me through the tough times here. This is all stuff I should just be writing in a personal journal, not a blog. I have been treating this blog as my journal though in the name of saving time. I apologize if that makes it nauseating to read.

On that note, I’ll stop here. I need some of the delicious vegetarian samosas that are waiting for me at 30 cents a pop downstairs. You see, the days always somehow manage to end well.

Until next time everyone…