Ubuntu: I am because we are

I’ve been trying to write a blog reflecting on the past three months but I’m having a hard time putting an experience like this into words, let alone a simple blog post. I’ve written one, started over with another, and done that once more. Here is my best attempt.

This trip has been everything I hoped it would be and at the same time nothing like I ever thought it would be. I have learned more about the world and a way thousands if not millions of people live than I ever could have imagined. The relationships I have built over the past three and a half months have literally changed my life. From my internship at City Mission Educational Service, where the group of students was challenging yet the conversations I had with them opened my eyes to a life I could never imagine. They were some of the most real, down to earth kids I have ever met. Working with the Firefighters FC had the same effect on me. I was in a “dangerous” township, yet I still managed to always feel safe and at home. I am proud to say I am a Firefighter. I had the most fun doing the “nontraditional” stuff, the kind of things I never could have done had I done a normal student exchange to an international university. I got to hang out in townships with local people, which is the only way to truly get to know a place. In addition to all this work I also got to be a tourist. I climbed beautiful mountains and went on safaris; I visited vineyards and countless shops; I toured museums and ate at amazing restaurants; I learned how to surf and jumped off a bridge. All of this shouldn’t be taken for granted or taken lightly, without it my experience in Cape Town would be incomplete. Through my classes I learned about the history of South Africa, allowing me to engage in meaningful conversations with locals; I learned the ins and outs of NGOs, connecting the lessons with my work at CMES; and I had my previous teachings and ideas challenged, which isn’t always comfortable.

In addition to all of this, two aspects of Cape Town were the most meaningful: my relationship with Bongi and my student. The effect these two individuals had on me I cannot even begin to articulate. They each inspired me in their own ways and saying goodbye to them was the hardest. I will miss them more than I can imagine and everything they have taught me will affect how I live my life until the day I die.

Ubuntu is an African proverb that is very prevalent here. The rough translation is “I am because we are.” I think it relates my trip perfectly. I couldn’t have had the experience I did without the people I traveled with and the people who I met here. South Africa is a beautiful country, but it doesn’t even compare to how beautiful its people are. As heavy of a heart that I have to leave, I’m also incredibly excited to go home and be reunited with my family, girlfriend, and friends whom I left behind that rainy January morning. I’ll do another, final blog post later in this week after I get myself settled in at home.

How do you teach a teenager how to read?

Two months to learn how to read.

Where do you start?

First with letter sounds: A, B, C, D…what the hell kind of sound does X make? It took me a few weeks to realize that Z is pronounced “Zetta.” I’m learning as I go.

Next step vowels: A, E, I, O, U. Sometimes Y is definitely too complicated. How do you help someone with a heavy accent get these sounds right? Long and short vowels, which one is which? Thank god for the internet.

Let’s try some combined sounds: Ch, Sh, Th, Ing, Er…but sometimes “er” is written “re” here. If I don’t know it, how do I teach it?

We need games, they make it fun. Matching games, computer games, memory games. But all these games are for little kids, my student is 16. I want to treat him with a sense of dignity. Looks like I’ll have to search a bit harder and create some of my own.

Now it’s time for words. Let’s start with the “100 most common words in the English language.” Thanks Wikipedia. Flashcards. They’re amazing. Let’s go through them once, let’s go through them again, separate the words we struggle with the most and go through them one last time.  

Time for a book. First the most basic book, for toddlers almost. We struggled, words were hard. We have to learn to sound them out. What sound does that “b” make…no, that’s a “d” sound I said a “b!”  Okay, on to the next book, we’ll take turns reading, I’ll help you sound out the words.

How do you teach a teenager how to read?

Step by step I worked with my student after school. Once we started a few weeks after I arrived at City Mission Educational Service he stayed nearly every day. We’d go to an empty classroom, sit at a desk. I’d take out two pieces of fruit, usually bananas, one for me, one for him. “Wow thanks! It’s beautiful!” was the typical response. Then we’d start. How do you teach a teenager how to read? I didn’t know. I made it up as I went along, sometimes right there on the spot. Progress was slow, but eventually I started to see it. All of a sudden we had the letter sounds down and we could move on, then all of a sudden words were coming with greater ease.

My time tutoring my student after school came to an end on Tuesday. The past few sessions we had been really practicing actual reading rather than the basics that we had spent so much time on. He would read a simple book, the same one three days in a row, and I would read a chapter in other, longer book. Our lessons culminated with his biggest book yet, one that had a lot of “big words.” We started off alternating pages. He was doing great and I kept telling him how proud of him I was. Then, all of a sudden, he skipped my turn. He wanted to keep reading. Page after page he read, until almost the very end of the book, when it was finally my turn again. He sounded out words he wasn’t familiar with, and the best part is, he wasn’t just reading words, he was reading a story and he comprehended it. Every once in awhile I’d ask him what was going on in the story and he could articulate it back. It was amazing. All the hours were paying off and were being justified right in front of me. I can’t even begin to describe the feeling.

This kid has stolen my heart. I spent countless hours with him after school, reading, talking, laughing. We spent just as many hours outside of school going to soccer matches, the aquarium, the movies, bowling, and for walks. We have possibly the most opposite lives that anyone could have but somehow somewhere along the way he became like a brother to me. He has inspired me and influenced me in ways that I cannot put words to. All I know is that he will be forever with me, in everything that I do for the rest of my life.

The days are winding down here and goodbyes are becoming more frequent. Today was my last day at my internship, which meant I had a few dozen students whom I spent the past three months getting to know to say goodbye to. Not to mention all the teachers who helped me so much along the way. Later in the evening we had a big Thank You dinner for all our internship supervisors. Two of my fellow students were asked to say thank you on behalf of all of us, and well, sometimes others can just say things better than you can. This is an untitled poem written by Nicole Hellthaler that is a perfect summary of my time in Cape Town.

No one wants to be cliché

But I feel I have no choice

Because before I even realize

These words escape my voice.

We have found ourselves

And lost ourselves

And found ourselves again.

We have broken down

Been beaten down

And learned the value of a friend.

Our eyes have been opened wider

Forming a new lens

Of how the world should be

And what we want to mend.

We have literally climbed mountains,

To realize there are many more.

This time however is different,

We are stronger than before.

We have formed bonds so important

That we will never be the same.

It’s not easy to say goodbye,

And you are all to blame.

A thank you is in order,

Even though you can never be repaid.

Instead of mourning our goodbyes

Let’s enjoy the rest of today.

Goodbyes are never easy, just as she said. Leaving for this semester was difficult, but the goodbyes were only temporary. We could literally count the months, weeks, days, seconds until we would see each other again. These goodbyes on the other hand have much greater sense of permanency to them. I would love to come back to South Africa, but who knows when that will ever happen. So as I get more and more excited to reunite with everyone back home, I will also be struggling to say goodbye to those who have affected me in so many ways here in Cape Town. 

Vernon, CT

I grew up in Vernon, so when I learned that the man who would be teaching one of my classes and coordinating my internship while I was in Cape Town was named Vernon I immediately knew I was going to like him. I had heard about him from past participants: he’s amazing, manages to place you in the perfect internship, and literally knows everyone in Cape Town. My expectations were high and I wouldn’t be disappointed. Reverend Vernon Rose has to be one of the most incredible, humble, kind, and personable persons I have ever met. He has an amazing life story and recently sat down to tell our class it. Check it out.

To understand where he is now, you have to go all the way back to Vernon Rose’s childhood. As a youngster, his family was forcibly removed from their home in District 6 to Bridgetown, where I work and he currently lives. In 1960 his third grade teacher, Dulcie September (an anti-apartheid activist who was assassinated), gave him his start on a life of activism. Before he could begin that though, he had to make some noise as an athlete. As a kid he was the Western Province Community Centre’s Table Tennis Champion and represented the Western Province in soccer. To give you a perspective, South Africa only has nine provinces. Then, in the 10^th grade his history teacher played Martin Luther King, Jr.’s “I Have A Dream” speech and it changed Vernon’s life; he aspired to be like Dr. King. While getting an undergraduate degree in social work from the University of the Western Cape, a local university, Vernon worked as a house parent in a children’s home. By the time he was 25 he was promoted to be the principal.

The next stage of his life occurred in the United States when he traveled to UNC Chapel Hill and Duke. He moved overseas with his soon-to-be wife, Esme, to work at an internship (ironic, huh?) and study theology. In 1979 he worked with the American Communist Party (before you freak out at the word communist, remember that Nelson Mandela also worked with the Communist Party) to get medical supplies to Tanzania. He worked in the prison system where he met with Benjamin Chavis ( who among many things was an assistant to MLK and Director of the NAACP). After getting a Masters in Divinity from Duke he moved up to study at Yale to pursue yet another Masters degree. Being South African, he didn’t realize the prominence of the university. There, his mentor was Cornel West (arguably the leading African American scholar in the States). To top off his list of celebrity appearances, Vernon also worked with Stokely Carmichael (known also as Kwame Ture, who popularized the term “Black Power”) while State side. Somewhere along the way, Vernon was ordained as a Baptist minister.

The interesting phase of his life starts back in South Africa, where on September 2, 1989, his birthday, he was arrested and subsequently spent a night in jail for protesting against the apartheid government. After doing developmental work through the University of Cape Town, he became the Director of the South African Council of Churches, where he worked with Desmond Tutu organizing Peace Talks. As if one Nobel Laureate wasn’t enough, as a Regional Director of the Urban Foundation, Vernon was later invited to attend the World Economic Developmental Forum where Nelson Mandela was speaking and subsequently was able to meet South Africa’s first democratic president. Further, he has worked with the top eight gangsters in Cape Town at the time and helped the National Lottery Board develop policy for their Distribution Agencies. All of this still doesn’t explain how Vernon knows everyone in Cape Town though. In the early 90s Reverend Rose facilitated the process of organizing an NGO forum of 4,000 Capetonian organizations. So, traveling through Cape Town with Vernon feels like you’re traveling with a celebrity, everyone is constantly waving and saying hello.

So what could this man possibly be doing today? Aside from organizing all the internships for my program and the school of nursing that comes in the fall, he is serving as a consultant for the government as well as various local organizations. He is currently mediating a case between two towns, one affluent and the other middle class and colored, that is receiving national attention. Oh, and he’s also writing a musical.

Personally, I think Vernon should file a lawsuit against Dos Equis, because he has to be the most interesting man in the world. He never would though, as he is probably the most humble and modest person I have ever met. He didn’t want to go through his life story with the class because he didn’t want to talk about himself, and when I asked his permission to write this blog he took a moment to think before giving me the okay. I am so fortunate to be able to call Vernon my professor and my role model; this program wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for him. 

Life in a Shack

If you’re being politically correct, it’s called an informal settlement. You may also know it as a shanty town, the slums, or a squatters camp. The houses are shacks made out of corrugate metal, plastic, or wood. It is poverty in one of its most extreme forms, and Cape Town is littered with them. On the rainy and dreary day we arrived, an informal settlement was the first thing I saw coming out of the airport. “Welcome to South Africa, this is what life is like here.” The entire time I’ve been here I have wanted to walk through one, so I asked my friend Amanda, who leads the Wednesday night tutoring sessions, to bring me. This morning, along with her sister, we took a walk through a settlement in Khayelitsha, which by the way has the largest informal settlement in South Africa.

The sights and sounds were as I expected, though you can never expect the emotions you’ll experience walking through such a setting. People young and old literally stopped in their tracks to stare at me as I walked by; white people don’t frequent these parts. Some kids smiled and waved, a few wanted to shake my hand, others scurried away and hid. I wore my hiking shoes because I knew I would be walking through dirt, rocks, broken glass, and garbage. Most of the kids ran around playing barefoot. Kids were everywhere, one group kicked around a flat soccer ball, two young boys drove around old milk cartons turned into toy cars, and another group of elementary aged boys and girls played a dodge ball type game with a grocery bag-turned ball. A woman fetched water from a water spigot to do her washing, while other women hung their clothes from lines tied to whatever they could find. Men mostly hung around, smoking, drinking, and conversing. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t even 11am yet. The shacks were on top of each other; as we walked we would have to squeeze through the maybe foot and a half gap left in between them. Electricity wires were all over the place, both running along the ground and from poles up above us. When a line would break, it was simply tied in a knot back together.  You can imagine how dangerous, deadly, and common fires are in these communities.

Despite it all, the people are proud of their homes and live with dignity. Every shack had a mat in front, and many times the dirt beyond the mat had been freshly swept. Many people had stereo systems playing and TVs could be seen through the windows. A couple shacks even had a satellite dish attached to it. You may be thinking, “Why would these people who live in such poverty waste their money on material items like that when their money could be better spent buying food or clothing?” To that, I ask you, have you ever bought something you really couldn’t afford? Maybe it was a nice electronic, an appliance, a car, a house…you get the point. Why did you do it? Because you wanted to feel normal, you wanted to fit in, right? It’s the same with these people, they want to be normal, they want the dignity of feeling like everyone else even though they live in such poverty. They can adjust to a diet of less food. It was something I thought about as I walked around the settlement.

The highlight of my time in the camp was visiting a shebean, an informal and illegal bar amongst all the shacks. Owned by Amanda’s extended family, it had a pool table (to which I said, how the heck did they get this thing in here), tables, a bar, and a huge speaker playing house music (essentially just beats). I timidly entered and before I knew it Amanda was arranging for me to play a game of pool. I don’t play pool, I’ve never been very good, but I couldn’t back out now. The man I played was serious, early on my jacket sleeve brushed up against a ball and he made a big fuss about it. Before long he only had two balls left while I had only gotten one in; the game was looking to go as I expected. All of a sudden I hit a couple lucky shots and had the game tied up again. By that time a crowd had gathered to watch the white boy play. To the cheers of those surrounding us, I ended up coming to within one ball. Had we been playing by the rules I’ve always known I would have won; he scratched on the 8 ball twice. But this was their table, their shebean, and their rules. I didn’t end up winning, but it was still a pretty cool experience. I wouldn’t be surprised if I am the only white person who has step foot inside the shebean.  

Visiting an informal settlement was on the list of things I wanted to do that I made shortly after arriving here. It took me 14 weeks to do it but I’m glad I took my second to last Saturday here to travel to Khayelitsha for the third time in four days and walk through the community. It’s certainly like nothing I could ever experience in the States. 

The Day I Met a Nobel Peace Prize Laureate

There aren’t a lot of things that will get me out of bed before 6am on a Friday where I otherwise have nothing to do. It’s hard to believe that one of those things is to go to church. But this isn’t just any church. It is St. Georges Cathedral, an iconic church in the struggle against apartheid. And this wasn’t just any service. It was being led by Archbishop and Nobel Peace Prize recipient Desmond Tutu. He typically leads the Eucharist every other Friday, but with the Easter holiday his schedule was interrupted. We forgot to call the office to see if he was scheduled for today, so we took a shot in the dark and decided to get up early just in case. Luck was on our side, and after a brief introduction by a priest to tell us not to take pictures during the service the archbishop emerged. To say I was excited would be an understatement. Here, maybe twenty feet away from me, was one of the forefront figures in the struggle against apartheid and global human rights, a world famous peace activist whose name is mentioned along with the likes of Nelson Mandela and the Dalai Lama. In addition to the Nobel Peace Prize he has been awarded numerous prestigious honors, including the Order of Vasco Nunez de Balboa, one of Panama's highest honors, which he had received just the day before. 

I'll admit it, I snuck a picture during the
service. This is the view from my seat

The service was almost identical to the Episcopal services I grew up going to, which made me feel at home in an environment I'm no longer comfortable in. I wasn't he only one out of place though; out of the five of us only one attended church regularly and another was Jewish! The service proceeded as I remembered from my childhood up until the sermon. I was really curious as to what Archbishop Tutu had to say, hoping to hear some profound wisdom only someone like him could possess. Instead, he went around the small chapel and asked each group where they were from and what they were doing in Cape Town. The four girls I was with asked me to stand and introduce our group. All of a sudden my heart was racing and I was as nervous as could be; I was about to stand up and speak directly to this world-renowned peace keeper. I wanted to say something meaningful, but in the end I simply told him we were from the University of Connecticut and we had spent the past three months working with local organizations. Much to my surprise, he thanked us for our work. 

When it was time for "Peace" my nerves had dwindled and I was determined to shake Father Tutu's hand. It required me walking through a maze of chairs and striking up a half-hearted conversation with a Trinity College professor to get that handshake, but I succeeded. As I sat back down I was in a state of shock. Once again I was in awe of the situation I was in, I kept thinking about everything this man has accomplished and the influence he has had on the lives of thousands, if not millions, of people. 

The service ended and Archbishop Tutu positioned himself at the exit to the chapel and shook each visitor's hand. I said a few words to him when it was my turn and he joked with me about how hold he is and no longer can remember anything. For being 80 he is in incredible health and is full of energy and humor; he was malking us laugh and laughing himself the entire time we were there. We then had the opportunity to take pictures together, where he jokingly scolded us for blinking and having to retake the picture. The rumors I had heard about him were true, Desmond Tutu is tiny. From standing next to him, I would say he is maybe 5'4" on a good day. We ended our time at St. George's in the cafe below the church, next to a photo memorial of a 30,000 strong march against apartheid the archbishop led in the 80s. As we grabbed a bite to eat and talked about the service we watched as the archbishop sat nearby with a group of his colleagues. When it was time for him to leave, the tiny peace keeper gave us a wave goodbye accompanied with a big smile. It was a fitting end to the lighthearted morning on the day I met a Nobel Peace Prize Laureate. 

This Isn't "Based On A True Story"

A month or two ago I was in my sixth and seventh grade class when we started having a discussion about life. One of my seventh graders started talking about when he was younger and lived on the streets at the tender age of 8. It was one of the many harsh realizations I’ve had to face during my time in Cape Town. Unfortunately I had to cut the conversation off because we needed to move on in class, but the student asked me if I would buy a journal for him to write in for me. The next day I presented him with it and he spent his interval break writing me. To say the least I wasn’t prepared for what he had to say. He further divulged into a life I cannot imagine living, talking about a broken home and internal struggles. We went back and forth a couple times in the journal until one day he didn’t show up with it. He left it somewhere and it was gone. Much to my surprise, the first day of school back from a two week holiday he presented me with another journal, which he purchased with the little money he had, already written in. Once again we wrote back and forth, which gave me an idea. In school yesterday I asked him if he would write out the original story he told me of his earlier life so that I could share it with people back in the States. His response: “Sure, then people will understand what life is like.” So these are his words, exactly as he wrote them in our journal. I typed it exactly as it was written, though I’ve taken out some information, like his name and where he lives, and tried to clarify any of the spelling that I could. This isn’t some dramatized movie that is “based on a true story,” this is a true story. This is real life.  

My name is [removed] and I yose [used] to stay in a play [place] colled [removed]and I stay with my mother and sister and a small brother but the problem was that my mother was adicted to drinking beer and sometime my brother’s father used to come to live with my mother. and somethimes he would get so drunk that he and mother would fight and mabey would fight over a beer and would Atack each other so from than I stated staying on the [s]treet and some times would sleep on people’s yarsd and would sleep on toilest, old places and my mother would evrythime when she was drunk she would hit me over old stuff that I did and condore [couldn’t, I think] remember me off [of] old stuff that I did [w]rong and after that my mother got tiyed [tired] of me and in 2008 sanded [sent] me to This place where I met new faces and made new freands and This Place was better then my original house It is colled [removed, but it is a shelter for young boys, many of whom are coming off living on the streets. Many of my younger students live there]. So now I live here for 5 years and from that day I niticed one thing in my life and that was I was growing very fast and Im still 12 but the Thing Thath makes me Happy in my hole life is that my mother is changing from bad to good. So ser Dan that’s my hole story. The End. From [sad/crying face] to [happy/smiling face].

He turns 13 this Thursday. Once again I am forced to think back as to what I was doing at that age. The answer? I was getting on a plane by myself bound for Ohio to spend two weeks at my aunt and uncle’s house, where I would ride horses and four wheelers and swim in their pond without a care in the world. How privileged I was, and I didn’t even know it. Later in his journal he went on to thank me essentially for being a positive influence on his life and not giving up on him (“I must thank you ser. becase there is now [no] one that would waste his time with a brat like me…your are the most coolest ser [teacher] Ive ever had in my hole intie [entire] life Thank you very much for diong this…you…has changed my hole life”). He told me to “remember The crazy boy who allwase [always] wanted your hiar (that’s a whole different story!) and never foget me and I never foget you.” As if I could forget someone like him…

Now Batting for Team America

It is amazing how complete strangers will step up to the plate for you here. This evening a group of six of us was traveling home on a taxi from Khayelitsha where we were tutoring the Firefighters soccer players. At the taxi rink (essentially the taxi station, and remember, “taxi” really means 15 passenger public transport vans and not what we refer to as taxis in the States, those are cabs) we grabbed a taxi bound for the city, and while we waited for it to leave Alex and I bought a piece of hot corn from a local kid. Though it was only R7 (just under $1) we were having issues coming up with enough change so the girls we were with started digging in their purses looking for another coin. Much to my surprise one of the women sitting near us also was digging in her purse for a R1 coin for us. The taxi was leaving so we ended up just giving him an uncounted handful of small coins, hoping that it totaled the R1 we needed, but it was still awesome to see a random woman willing to give us money when we needed it.

Later in the drive two of the interns with me paid the driver a R20 bill to cover their R12 fee, but the driver never gave them their change. The same woman from before went up to bat for the Americans and called out the driver. The entire conversation was in Xhosa, the predominant local language among the black community, but it was animated enough to follow along. The two went back and forth and the conversation gradually elevated; this woman was really going after the driver for not paying us. Having heard enough, the driver pulled the taxi over on the highway and told the woman to get out, which she flatly refused to do. Instead, she tried to pay the two their change out of her own earnings. Eight rand to us is pocket change, but it’s a different story to a lot of Capetonians where every penny counts. It was a sincere and heartfelt gesture, but the girls politely declined her offer.

The outbursts calmed but the tension was still in the air. When we got to the place where we were getting off the woman wouldn’t let us leave until we had our change. The girls ended up getting their money and we left, but the woman was left to fight her own battle to get her R8 change back from easily the rudest taxi driver I’ve ever encountered. We were strangers to this woman, no names were exchanged and more than likely we’ll never see her again, but she put us before herself and made sure that we were taken care of. It’s common practice, but it still surprises me.

This was an interesting lesson that I think a lot of American’s could use, especially in our treatment of foreigners. 

Old Mutual Two Oceans Half Marathon

Earlier today I participated in the Old Mutual Two Oceans Half Marathon, dubbed “The World’s Most Beautiful Marathon.” The race had two themes, my Achilles tendon, which I had somehow hurt during a training run two weeks prior, and the weather, which was forecasted to be 60 degrees and raining for the 6am start. Before we get ahead of ourselves though, we need to start with the International Fun Run, a 5k which took place on Friday morning. I was skeptical and cynical going into it, the title just sounded silly and plus I spend a lot of my time trying to blend into the Capetonian culture rather than proclaiming my foreignness. The run turned out to be awesome (and it was also way longer than 5k, my guess it was 4 miles). The weekend’s race had 80 countries represented and at the event Friday people were dressed up in their countries colors and a flag from each nation was distributed to one of its citizen’s to carry. It was a lighthearted atmosphere and the route spent most of the time along the shoreline. Unfortunately, my Achilles, which I had been resting for the past week and a half, tightened up at the end of the run, making me nervous for the next morning.

The half marathon turned out to be possibly the biggest mental race I have ever run. We arrived at the start in the dark, the overcast sky hiding the full moon above; warming up, my Achilles was tight and sore and no matter how much I stretched it I couldn’t make it comfortable. I had emailed my high school cross country coach looking for advice, and his words were in the back of my head. “My advice is to avoid this race…don’t be a hero, you need your heel for a lot more activities than races.” Was I being stupid trying to run this? How will I know when enough is enough and I need to stop? Will I be able to make myself bail on a race I spent the past three months training for (not to mention over $100 registering for)? At what point in the race will I reach the mark where no matter what I’m going to finish? Hurting my Achilles now would probably keep me out for the majority of the summer, and I already have a bunch of bike races, triathlons, and running races on the schedule. Before I had answered most of these questions in my head the gun went off and the race had begun. With over 16,200 people registered to run, the start of the race was extremely crowded and the darkness added a whole new element. At least it wasn’t raining.

It took just about 15 minutes for the pack to loosen up so I could get into a groove. Having never run in kilometers before, I had no idea how to pace myself, so every 5k I took my split. My first split was 30:28, way slower than I wanted it to be due to the start, meaning I had some catching up to do. At the 10k mark (26:59 split, 57:28 into the race), two things changed. My Achilles finally loosened up, allowing me to relax a bit and just run, and the weather changed. I felt it happen; the sky got dark, the wind picked up, and the temperature dropped. On top of this a 5k long hill, arguably the hardest part of the race, started. At least it wasn’t raining.

It started raining just as I reached the 13k mark. It started light but picked up until it was a downpour with a strong wind that would whip tiny rain bullets into your eyes. By the 15k mark (27:16 split, running for a total of 1:24:44) I was soaked all the way through. I picked up my pace and spent the last few kilometers battling the driving headwind. I crossed the finish line unofficially at 1:53:26, working out to be an 8:39/mile pace. This wasn’t the fastest half marathon I’ve run, in fact it was my slowest (out of two previous races), but there was a sense of accomplishment I felt crossing the finish line that was absent in any of the previous endurance races I’ve completed. I had won the mental battle and ran a great race. In the end my Achilles held out and the weather waited as long as it could before it released its wrath on the runners. Now I can say I’ve run 13.1 on two continents, and I have the medal to prove it! 

Soccer is just the head fake

As a high school graduation gift, one of my best friends’ parents gave all of us the book “The Last Lecture.” It quickly became possibly my all-time favorite book and I have read it every summer since. The author, Randy Pausch, was a professor at Carnige Mellon who was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer when he was asked to give the symbolic “Last Lecture,” which turned out to truly be his last lecture. Throughout the book he talked about living life to its fullest and learning lessons along the way. A lot of what he talks about has stuck with me, but in particular one of his points has been creeping into my life here in South Africa. It’s called a head fake. The head fake is the underlying message and agenda that someone implements in whatever activity they are doing. For Randy, his head fake during his speech was that his purpose for speaking was really for his kids, as they wouldn’t have their dad around to tell stories and teach those life lessons.

Recently, I came across possibly the best head fake I’ve seen so far. In my last blog post I talked about my good friend Bongi who coaches the Khayelitsha Fire Fighters, a local youth soccer team. The thing is, what Bongi and the other Firefighter coaches do is so much more than coach. They are leading, they are serving as positive role models, they are teaching life lessons. On Wednesday nights the older boys get together to do their homework and receive tutoring when needed, which the UConn students have been helping with. After tutoring we run life orientation classes, which essentially teach different life skills and life lessons. The players love it; they embrace everything we do, to the extent that they asked Amanda, Bongi’s friend and an aspiring teacher who is running the Wednesday night sessions, if they could get together to do homework more than once a week.

The kids don't eat the entire day during tournaments, so we
bought some food and drinks for them on Saturday.

The Fire Fighters started as just an idea that the head coach, Power, had years ago to throw together a soccer team to give kids something to do after school and keep them off the streets. It has evolved into an amazing program that uses the few resources they have to put together amazing teams. The boys are incredible players, from the U11 to the U17 teams, and they do incredible work off the field too. This past weekend I spent at a tournament for the U11 and U15 teams, where most of the other clubs there were well established soccer academies with corporate sponsors, meaning they had all the funding and resources one could want. Both teams went 2-1 in normal play and qualified for the playoffs. The U15s won a hard fought quarter finals match but fell short in the semis 2-1. They played well and showed maturity beyond their years in their lost, keeping their heads up and reflecting back on it later in the day. The U11s won their first match with ease, but the semi finals came down to the wire, ending on penalty kicks, where our goalie made some great saves and our players some beautiful goals. It was on to the finals game, against one of the afore mentioned “corporate” teams sponsored by Old Mutual, a company that sponsors EVERYTHING in South Africa (including my race next weekend). The two teams were well matched, they played neck and neck, but Old Mutual came out on top 2-1, scoring on a free kick and a questionable penalty kick from a handball in the box.

Picking up crying ten and eleven year olds off the field and telling them they have nothing to be ashamed of is as heart wrenching as it sounds. I wasn’t lying to them though. These kids played as if they were twenty years old and had been playing together since they were eleven. They are a group of township kids who practice on a small strip of dying grass littered with rocks and broken glass, who share their cleats, shin guards, socks, shorts, jerseys, water, food, and literally anything else you can think of because they can’t afford their own. Yet despite all this they can play with the teams who have all the funding in the world.

The Fire Fighters U11 team before the finals with coach Bongi

No one likes to see the Fire Fighters win. I lost count how many times this weekend opposing coaches would make a query on the age of certain players or the legitimacy of their paperwork after we beat them. It was enough that by Sunday afternoon the tournament directors knew me by name. Yet despite all of this the players were good sports, they barely complained and they won and loss with class. I’d like to end this rather long blog post with one of the most rewarding moments of my weekend. A random fan had talked to me a couple times throughout Sunday, saying he liked the Fire Fighters and was rooting for them. At one point he stopped me and asked me where the team was from, so I responded with Khayelithsa, knowing he wouldn’t be expecting us to come from such a far off and “poor” township. Then he asked if we were an academy and who our sponsors were. I smirked and responded, “They’re just a group of kids who get together and play in the park, no academy, no sponsorships.” All he could say was “damn, they’re good.” If only he knew just how amazing the players really are.