Today I would just like to say: South Africa is not a nice country. I’m sorry to say it but I don’t think most people would choose to live here. (Probably why we have so many wealthy South Africans emigrating to Canada, Australia and Europe.) I’m not trying to be self-righteous or naïve or overly patriotic, but I don’t think there’s another way to put it. It’s a dangerous, divided and corrupt country. I hate being in a system that is so exploitive of the poor. It’s so frustrating. (Although I’m sensitive about how people who live here can just get a sense of, “this is just how it is.” I definitely have days when I feel this way. I’m sympathetic of a complex economic and social situation)

Canada is certainly far from perfect. We have our own systems of exploitation, and our blind spots… but they are a little less obvious, perhaps a little easier to ignore. However, I feel there is an overall sense of justice in Canada—not that its been reached, but if feels like its reachable, at times. Maybe I’m wrong.

I don’t think it helps that I live in one of the richest parts of the South Africa. If you have money here, you can certainly live the “American Dream.” Or, is it the African dream? It just seems so perverse when its juxtaposed so closely with miserable poverty.

And then there is the crime here, so senseless and brutal at times. A couple months ago I read an article about rape in South Africa. The figure they gave was 1 million reported rapes a year. Even now I question how this is possible. This is a country of 40 million people. Let’s say half of those are woman. Is it possible that one in twenty women are raped each year? Seems unbelievable, but again, not really.

A couple days ago the son of Pastor Marc, the pastor of the church I’m attending, was stabbed multiple times while walking home. A random group of men attacked him, for no apparent reason. I think Cindee said it best, “What the hell is wrong with this country?” Thankfully he is still alive.

It’s such a terrible environment here. It wears on a person—all the gates and bars and barbed wire and security systems. There is such a culture of fear—some legit, other parts needless perpetuated. It’s hard to even take people seriously. I think, being Canadian and living in such relative safety, I find it hard to believe that I could be easily killed and raped walking from Cindee’s house to the beach—only a five minute walk through residential homes. But, it happens. (On days like today when it’s sunny and 33 degrees out, and Cindee’s gone for the day, I make sure she locks the door and takes the keys so I’m not needlessly tempted to venture out.)

People here see a house, without fences and barbed wire on television, and they can’t even fathom what that’s like. How that could be. In the meanwhile, I sometimes picture my own neighborhood in Sarnia to give myself a little bit of comfort. It’ll be so weird to be back there and walk down the street. For a few days at least, it will feel absolutely wonderful—until I take it for granted again.

I think in North America we have a bad reputation for being senselessly materialistic. But the more I stay here, the more I question if this is indeed a North American phenomenon. Living around Umhlanga Ridge—I can’t help but sometimes feel that people here are equally, if not more, materialistic. I can’t figure it out. Maybe in an economy and country that is unstable, people feel more threatened? Do their survival instincts kick in as they desperately try to separate themselves from the poverty around them? They build bigger mansions, drive nicer SUVs and dress in fancier clothes? Maybe get their nails done more often.

There is a certain indifference that leaves one sick.

Or maybe, in North America we’ve been privileged long enough to figure out that its not all its cracked up to be? Charity and social justice are, shall I say, fashionable in Canada. Maybe cause we don’t feel the threat of poverty? Maybe cause poor people haven’t hurt our loved ones and broken into our homes? Maybe we’d be less charitable if third-world poverty actually threatened our lifestyle—if things started costing more cause exploited laborers started being paid a decent wage? I guess that doesn’t say much for human nature, but who knows.

People who go on mission trips to foreign countries often say, “The people are so beautiful. They are so poor, but so happy.” That’s simply has not been my experience. Not that some poor people aren’t happy, not that there aren’t beautiful people who have risen above this. But I feel like I’m surrounded by poor people who are full of resentment, hatred and despair. I think it was Bishop Desmund Tutu who said the soul of this country is dead. Somewhere in the exploitation and injustice of years past—a certain moral conscious has died.

Maybe I’m just in a foul mood cause Cindee and I almost got mauled by a bunch of loose guard dogs on our way to the beach yesterday.

Maybe I’m feeling this way cause I just watched Cindee’s copy of Motorcycle Diaries and Che Guevera is making me feel all revolutionary.

I think this country just inspires intense love and hatred for it, at the same time.

Siya keeps asking for a cup-of-ccino. He doesn’t want a cappuccino. No, he says, I want a cup of ccino.

I feel the kids are growing up before my eyes. Mary was walking around with my ipod the other day.

She’ll sing along, “On the radio, uh-oh…” She’ll say, “Maria, I love this song. Do you like this song?” and hand me an ear phone. (Auntie Karin- you are a favorite.) The other night Mary did all the dishes for me! I had made curry-pie and there were a lot of dishes.  It took her a good hour, but she did every single one. I’m so proud of her!

Siyabonga is crazy as ever. I’m not sure what to say even– words cannot describe…

but…maybe this picture can. Siya loves to dress up. The other day he was wearing, with no explanation, a speedo over his regular shorts. At one time, when he was in fact supposed to be getting into his pjs he was wearing four hats, two shirts, two vests, two pairs of pants, a couple ties… got to love him though.

On Thursday night baby took his first round of ARVs. His official status was that he was in cardiac arrest.

However, hopefully he becomes stablalized now. Once he is stable and off of oxygen he’ll be discharged. He’ll probably be with me in about a week or two.

Can’t wait.

Thought I’d take a moment to introduce you all to a couple of my friends here.

Of course, I’ve mentioned Cindee before. She’s my dear fellow Canadian, hailing from Regina. She’s worked with Ruth for about four and years off and on, traveling back and forth from Canada. Right now she’s off doing other things, including attending Bible College.

Every weekend I make a pilgrimage, often a bit of an expedition, to her house. She’s taken me under her wing these last three months. Her lovely flat by the ocean is such a welcome getaway. Neither of us have a car, so transportation is always an adventure, but we do pretty well. We can often be seen in a back of a “buckie”—or as we normal people say: a pick up truck, on our way to church. (Mom, don’t freak out.)

I can’t even imagine what my time here would have been like without Cindee, certainly a whole heck of a lot more lonely. (And that’s saying something!)

Then there’s Rudi. Rudi is my all-Afrikaans friend. This is how he talks: “Hello bru! How’s it?” “Ah, lakar dude.” (This is how he’d address a guy, of course.) He addresses me like this: “Maria!” long pause. “ Hey, it’ll be ok.” (He usually doesn’t believe me when I say I’m good. I’m not sure why!)

Rudi has, up to about two weeks ago, graciously given me rides everywhere. He’s always so genuinely looking out for me. I’m lucky! One weekend when Keith and I were stranded on the farm, he drove all the way out on a Saturday afternoon to fetch us; this is about an hour of driving.

Now, my Mom might be a little more calm about me getting rides in an actual car, rather than the back of a pick up truck, but I’m not sure if that’s warranted. Rudi’s car was in a bad way. The tires were too big for the car, so whenever it went over a small bump, or if say, it turned, the wheels would rub against the frame of the car. (Is frame even the proper word? I don’t know! What do I know about cars?) Anyways, driving with Rudi is a frightening experience, but he’s great.

Rudi is also crazy. I should mention this. About three weeks ago he moved out of his small-patio-furnished apartment. He was living out of his car, which is not the safest thing in South Africa. Then, he was sleeping at the church office, where he works. About two weeks ago his car was stolen, with just about everything he owns inside of it. Poor guy! Anyways, he wasn’t too phased. He takes most things in stride.

Both of these dear friends usually don’t have money for groceries and such, so that’s been an interesting experience. They’re pretty awesome.

Below are a couple photos that were taken about three weeks ago. Cindee, Rudi, Keith and I went out for lunch after church at Gateway, a few days before Keith left. Lunch was on Keith’s parents. That was nice!

Little baby got tested yesterday, and by all accounts he really shouldn’t be alive. Yet, he is. Ruth has arranged for the proper medication to be sent from the hospital her children use. Hopefully by tomorrow he will be on ARVs. As soon as he is stable enough to leave hospital he should be on the farm with us.

I’m savoring every bit of sleep I get for the next little while, knowing if he makes it here my days of sleep are pretty much over. I’m ok with that.

Last night it rained for the first time in almost two months. As the lightening and thunder approached—the children put on a convincing drama untitled, “Oh my! The Storm Will Kill Us.” Just as I got them into bed, the power went out. It was out for about eight hours. It came back on around 3 a.m. I was having a dream that a strobe light was being flashed in my face.

It was a nice evening. I didn’t have the option of checking my e-mail, or blogging, or watching a movie…but I read by candle light and went to bed early.

Right now I’m thinking about a little boy. He’s in critical condition in a hospital not far from where I am right now, in my room. I’ve never met him, but I’m hoping to.

Let me tell you what I know. He’s nine months old, but the size of a newborn. He’s a little skeleton except for his bloated stomach and head. His parents have died of AIDS.

His aunt is now his closest living relative. She has four of her own children; the youngest is seven years old. Now she’s been left with her sister’s three children. The older two children were left in the care of their granny, but she recently had a stroke. This woman is now the sole breadwinner for two families, including this little baby that has been in slowly and steadily deteriorating in hospital. This poor woman is stretched to the breaking point, and her boss is threatening to fire her since she’s missed so many days of work lately, trying to resolve this situation.

The whole situation has come to Ruth’s attention because the woman wanted the baby to be taken away. She just doesn’t feel capable of caring for him. However, in a country overrun with orphans, Ruth’s goal right now is to have this baby stay with his family, and to assist this woman in going through the proper channels to be able to receive a foster grant for taking in these children. This way she’ll have at least some income to care for them.

In the meantime, this poor baby has fallen through the cracks of the social and health system. He’s slowly dying in hospital. He is most certainly a case of full-blown AIDS, but if no one advocates for the baby he won’t be put on ARV treatment, since there is limited supply.

(South Africa is certainly a good case of a government taking some action to supply their people with ARVs…which allow people with AIDS the chance of life. However, there is far too much demand. Each hospital is allocated a certain amount, and if you don’t make it on that hospital’s list of allocated patients, then you have to pay. Certainly a dying baby with no one speaking for it, is the last in line.)

Ruth went to the hospital today to try to get things set into motion. She said he’s very clearly close to having his organs shut down. If he survives the next week or so, long enough to be discharged from hospital, Ruth has told this woman she will take him until he’s at least stable and responding to the ARVs. Obviously a woman who is already so desperately stretched cannot possibly care for such a sick baby.

So, if this little boy keeps fighting…in a week or two he could be in my arms! It would be such an unbelievable challenge to care for him. The bulk of the work would fall on me… I’m sure it would stretch me to the breaking point… but this is what I’ve been asking for.

I can’t help think that this was meant to be. I’ve been waiting for something these past couple weeks… really struggling. I’ve been sitting here waiting for this little boy. I’m praying we meet soon. I’m trusting God that we will.

Official class portrait of August 2008. You will notice that there are more dogs than people. That’s life though, folks. Actually, these dogs that once drove me insane, now in the absense of most human contact, I’ve become quite fond of. It’s like Life of Pi, or Castaway…or something like that.

Somedays we are sad. (Maybe cause Keith has left and taken his pretty camera! Or because we are in desperate need of a haircut!)

Somedays we drive eachother crazy, hey, hey!

But most days we’re doing just fine, thanks. Maybe cause Siya has me, and I have all of you. Oh tear.

Love, Maria

In this post I’ll begin a little series of posts about the trip and Keith and I took end of July to Johannesburg and Kruger National Park. Let’s call this little story, Safari Shoes by Maria Vermeer.

Our last day at the game reserve we set out on an early morning hike to find wild animals. I was in flip flops. This was a long and painful circumstance that began with my forgetting my shoes at Cindee’s the previous weekend, and escalated by having to buy shoes in Johannesburg. That was a terrible time since the only mall in walking distance was quite posh, and the cheapest shoes I could find were $60 Crocs. That’s pretty pathetic given I’m in Africa! (I now own the swankiest pair of Crocs known to man.) Anyways, a cranky sales lady and an awkward situation where I couldn’t figure out if I should be asking for American or European sizes ended with me purchasing shoes that may or may not be a size too small. By the end of the Safari they were giving me blisters. So…after all that trouble I ended up wearing my flip flops on our hike after all. Dear me. I can be seen above standing, rather frigid. The keen observer will also see the giraffe I was attempting to pose with.

Suddenly and without warning peril came upon our Scottish friends. (This mother-daughter team were quite hilarious and Keith and I (being quite hilarious ourselves) got along with them splendidly.) Sally had stepped on a giant thorn that had gone through the sole of her running shoe and about an inch, if not more, into her foot. It was tipped with blood.

You will notice that Keith, being the socially sensitive person that he is, began to snap photos. However, this was taken in good humour…despite the fact that Sally’s running shoe and sock was now soaked in blood.

I was almost immediately keenly aware that I was in fact walking in flip flops. I imagine if I had encountered that thorn I would have most likely died. But what can I say? I live on the edge like that. I did not die. I hiked in flip flops and I now own a pair of very expensive little suede Crocs. Although I am not necessarily proud of that fact.

The End.

It’s reading time. What would childhood be, in any country, without a little Dr. Sues.

The lemon tree beside the house. I use these lemons for everything!

Security systems…

and razor wire…

and laundry. Lots of laundry.

Homeschool in the sun.

Mary and Jake playing in the rock pile after school.

Clotheslines.

Simon in his Superman costume. He’s a little African superhero.

And more laundry.

Paws, Tipsy and Sunny.

Children in wheelbarrows.

Sunny and I. Puppy makes me happy!