Group 3B

4/3/12

       There’s a part of my sense of humor, let’s call it the American Dreamz factor, that most people do not understand or find at all funny. Last Friday we had a teambuilding/introductory workshop with all of the students and their caretakers. Of course the adults had us do that thing they think is fun, where each team (of one student and his/her caregiver) has to give themselves a name. “Let’s be Group 3, or Group D,” said Margaret. And that’s when I knew. We became Group 3B. Perhaps Margaret and I were the only ones in the room to whose sense of humor this appealed, but I didn’t care. I love her. Oh, and when the caretakers were introducing themselves and their students to the room, she introduced me as her daughter.  Possibly not as flattering as Ben’s caretaker introducing him as “sexy,” but still.

       I’ve finished my first week of work, and Margaret and I are beginning to develop a routine. She greets me every morning with,  “I’m tiiired toooday.” Then we set off to start visiting patients. I greet them with, “Moh-low Mama (or Dada depending.)” Sometimes they offer me tea. With the ones I know well I respond that it’s 40 degrees (Celsius) outside.  My favorite is visiting Simon, because he has the most adorable six-month-old granddaughter. The second time I visited I was admiring her, and her mother handed her to me, saying in baby talk, “I want to know you.” When I left, Simon told me to come back to check on his baby. I guess baby kissing is a pretty good way to get the patients to trust you. Now I get to hold her every time I go over there, while Margaret makes her usual half-hour of small talk. They have the most fun trying to get me to say the Xhosa version of goo goo ga ga. It’s sort of like “Niza, Niza, Niza, Niza, Niza,” but with a click instead of an “I.” My mouth doesn’t work that way. I can’t click that fast.

       After we visit a few patients, we go door to door looking for new ones. Currently Margaret doesn’t have enough patients.  She thinks that perhaps it’s because the Xhosa people are extremely neighborly. We found a stroke victim (new patient #4!) whose neighbors have been doing all her laundry and bringing her food.  Perhaps Kwanokuthula has a patient shortage (which is by no means a bad thing) because it’s almost entirely Xhosa, and they take care of one another. I doubt if I had a stroke the neighbors would be doing anything, especially my laundry.
       While we make our way through the streets, Margaret harasses me about sunscreen, and introduces me to people as her daughter’s twin. Her daughter is also 18. At least an hour before quitting time, we inevitably end up at her non-profit crech (preschool.) Sometimes we spend more time at the preschool than caretaking, and I feel more like a teacher than nurse. I don’t mind though, I just want to help in any way I can. And I just love the children. I end every workday completely covered in snot, and completely happy. I have never met such affectionate children in my life. Never before have I wished I had seven laps, and twelve arms. Usually I just end up getting dog piled. I don’t want to make assumptions; perhaps they’re not getting enough affection at home, but perhaps their culture just raises them to be more affectionate. Either way, I am happy to provide an endless supply of hugs.
       After a while their teacher makes them sit in a circle and listen to me read. They can’t understand a word of it, but it’s supposed to help them learn English. Really I have no idea if this technique works. I’m not even reading picture books, but books with words like “physiology.” I don’t know. My favorite part of English time is when they’re told to jump up and down and scream, “I…AM…JUMPING!”
Seriously these kids are so amazing. They’re only three-years-old but they all have completely different personalities. There’s the boy who pretends to be obnoxious with the truly obnoxious boy, but really he just wants to fall asleep on my lap. There’s the girl who plays teachers pet, and cries whenever I give anyone else my attention. The fiercely independent girl, one of my favorites, refuses to be a part of any of the child mob scenes. And then there’s the boy who won’t fight for attention, but is always calm, cool, and in the background waiting patiently. Oh my, I guess I shouldn’t bore you by describing them all.
       I really like it in Kwanokuthula. It’s going to sound weird, but I’m worried that I shouldn’t. It may not be as dangerous as the township ironically named “New Horizons,” or the less ironically named “Craags,” but every time I get home from work, my homestay mother asks me about how I deal with that “rubbish bin.” Okay she’s slightly racist (as her ten-year-old son would say,) but she sort of has a point. It’s a town of shacks and tiny government built homes literally covered in rubbish. Is it bad that I’ve become immune to shacks? Does my desensitization mean I’m no longer the bleeding heart I used to pride myself on being? Or could it be a good thing? If I’m not overwhelmed by pity, could it be I am better able to see the shack occupants as human? Does that put me in a better position to help? Or does that put me in a cold and indifferent place where I don’t understand their need for help? Have I been in too many happy shacks to understand how many unhappy ones exist? Have I loved to many shack dwellers to understand that that so many are suffering? I have to say; I’m a little disturbed by myself.
       Would that be a weird note to end on, and then sign off “Love, Katherine?”