Day 8: In South Africa you can be in two places at once.

I’m behind in my days. Today is Tuesday in real life, but I’m living in Sunday still.

It’s half past three (this is the South African way of saying it’s 3:30, and it sounds like “hoff post three”). The Lion Park website said it was closed on Sundays, but Mrs. Kalmer doesn’t take no for an answer. So she, Christine, Herman and I load ourselves in the Jeep and drive down to the park.

When we enter the gates, I become a child. I am little five-year-old Brooke who is obsessed, to the point of neurosis, with The Lion King. There’s Nala and Simba and the whole lion pack! I’m squealing and running to each of the pens. There’s a cheetah pacing back and forth, right in front of me – within arm’s reach! I run to the next pen and the next: there’s Ed the hyena and Timone!

And then I am giddy when our turn to enter the lions’ pen gets nearer. Finally, we walk in. AND I GET TO PLAY WITH BABY LIONS!

Dream number two has come true. I’m 2-0: I’m in Africa and I’ve pet baby lions.

Ha! I’m still in awe.

And then, to top things off, we drive the Jeep through the lion camps and watch them during feeding time. I’ll try to upload a video of the fight between Mufasa and the other lionesses.

National Geographic should be calling me up soon.

~|~

The people of South Africa have created two worlds in their one nation. The townships that skirt the happy homes of the white people are literally a few miles down the road. In a simple car ride, we pass through the threshold that divides wealth and comfort from poverty and peril. The shift is instant – you can’t even see it coming. But when you have entered into the periphery, you know.

Townships consist of homes made from scraps – simple, one bed-room shacks with a billboard for walls and a scrap of tin as a roof. They are made one next to the other, little communities of recycled resources. There may be hundreds, there may be thousands, all gridlocked in an impoverished community. Only black people live here – there isn’t enough space or money circulating through these neighborhoods for the whites.

Fires are prevalent, and when your neighbor’s house is separated from yours by a single shared wall, when one house goes up in flames – the rest are likely to follow suit. What is there left to do after that but start from scraps again?

Jobs are obviously scarce. The people have made shops out of the same material they make their homes with. They sell fruit, they sell bags, they sell services and old tires.

The problem is that a majority of immigrants in South Africa are from neighboring, and even far away, African countries. South Africa has wealth, and the people of this continent know that. But what they don’t know or don’t understand is that the gap between the rich and poor is not only great, it’s widening. South Africa has one of the most potent stories of disparity.

When foreigners come to this nation, they are met by frustrated South Africans who suffer enough from the lack of job opportunities. As a result of this, there is hatred, prejudice, and fierce animosity.

South Africa has the ingredients for a threatening concoction. Poverty and neglected law enforcement have created a nation that is home to thefts, murderers and rapists who have no incentive to stop and no consequences to face for their crimes.

Nobody cares. Nobody can care. South Africans shrug their shoulders at statistics because there’s nothing they can do. The court system is easy to work around, and the leadership of the nation contributes to the amorality of the nation.

President Zuma allegedly raped a prostitute who had AIDS. He is reported by newspapers as having said that it was alright because he took a shower afterward. This was before he was elected. Truly, South Africa is the rape capital of the world if its own president is accused of such a sickening crime. A 2009 statistic from the Human Rights Watch shows that one out of 20 men in South Africa has raped a woman. And it happens because it goes unpunished.

Theft is the least of our worries as women.

But what created this culture? What histories parented these statistics? The people of South Africa are not born with a mindset to steal and kill and rape. No one is. So what has made so many of this nation’s people different?

All people act some way because something acted upon them in their past. Everyone has a history built into the equation that makes him him and her her.

~|~

From hot water to cold, my mind and my heart are tossed back and forth. I spent the weekend among white people, living as they do and as I do back home. But from behind car windows, I witnessed the cold reality of how so many black people live.

On our way home from the lion park, the sun was settling down. As we drove past, I watched groups of people in the valley walk together or gather together in their Sunday green or white attire. They weren’t gathered in any building. They didn’t sit in stoic pews. They did not sing along with a band. But I bet they knew everyone’s name. And I bet they were happy. And I bet they were praising God for all they had. I bet they were singing out or bowing their heads. I bet they were cold but glad to endure it for God. I bet God could see them. I bet God could hear them. I bet God was with them. I bet it was beautiful; I bet it was real. I bet it was black and hearty and raw and human. I bet they know what church is.

And I bet it’s a lot different from white church.

I was back in America again. Some hip, funky music was playing as we entered the massive, dimly lit auditorium. There were screens on either side of the colorfully-lit stage in front. We found seats near it and waited for the service to start.

The band on stage brought in the beginning. The lead singer looked like Owen Wilson with longer hair and a chubbier face. He wore real in-vogue clothes, like a brown rustic leather jacket and a purple scarf with dark jeans and square-toed loafers. His face appeared on the two screens so that all had a good view – at least, a view – of his face. He was backed by a pianist, two other guitarists, and another female singer.

The music was typical of a revived, fresh and funky Christian church trying its hardest to be untraditional (while recreating a new traditional – a new mold, a new formula – at the same time!). The songs went on for a while, getting the crowd fired up and all. Some girl came out on stage and recited some monologue about how she could get so caught up in everything but always remember that Jesus loves her and Jesus wants her to have a relationship with him, and blah-dee, blah-dee, blah.

Then some dude with a hole in his sock came and did a little musical-type serenade on stage about how he’s had enough with money. He’d love to hate to love you, money, but he just can’t. So he’s had enough. And he takes off his expensive watch, his tie and his shoes and throws them in a briefcase. Yeah, he’s through with money. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

And then there was Trevor, who has a lisp, a soft voice and a small frame. Trevor’s in his later fifties, probably, and he wears pleated slacks, and and oxford under a sweater vest. Trevor would be a rabbit if he were an animal – but with a slightly larger nose than the usual rabbit.

When Trevor talks he interrupts himself with, or tacks on at the end of every sentence, a small and inquiring “heh?” It doesn’t matter what kind of sentence. He can say, “I just love Jesus. Heh?” or “Today, can I talk to you about money? Heh?” That’s another thing, Trevor asks for permission. Trevor also peppers his sermons with tidbits of Christian humor: “Now let’s be honest. I know we’re in church and all, but let’s tell the truth…” Silly Trevor.

Fittingly enough, Trevor talked to us about money. He opened his sermon with the story in Mark’s gospel about the rich kid who asks Jesus how he can secure his spot in heaven. Jesus tells him to follow the Commandments and teachings, and the rich kid says he does, perfectly. And then Jesus tells him he must give everything to the poor and follow him. At this, the young guy walks away downtrodden, not wanting to give up his riches, for he has many.

Trevor tells us that this story is important for a specific person – for the person who puts money before God. God says that you can’t serve two masters – you will either love the one and hate the other or vice versa. So Trevor eases our fears of being called to give up our riches and reminds us that the story of the rich kid is meant to be a message for people who struggle with the problem of serving two masters. It’s not meant for everyone. Not everyone is meant to give up their riches.

But Jesus does say that it is nearly impossible for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. Trevor interjects with an exclamation – “He doesn’t say – He doesn’t say it’s impossible! And he doesn’t say that it’s easy for a poor person to enter heaven; in fact, it’s very hard, too.” But Trevor reminds us that Jesus is saying this about the people who put money before God.

God just has to come before money, that’s all.

In fact, we can use money to serve God, he says. We must be creative with our money – make a lot so we can give a lot. We must be good managers of our money – we can’t just give it all away! That would be stupid! Someone has to be poor, but it sure doesn’t have to be you if you’re rich. No one wants to be poor, anyway. “Poverty,” says Trevor, “is de-YUmanizing. It’s de-YUmanizing. De-YUmanizing.” (That’s another thing Trevor does in a very pastoral way: he repeats things for emphasis. Again. And again.)

It’s a very scary thing, I would imagine, being a white, wealthy Christian in South Africa, where poverty would be cured if the wealth were more evenly dispersed. It’s hard, really hard. But Trevor did a great job at allowing people to leave church feeling guiltless, and even relieved.

Whew! As long as I give some, I’m alright, I can keep the rest. Oh yeah, and God comes first.

But you can’t be a Christian if you’re not a socialist. And how can you be a Christian if you have room within yourself to care about anything else besides Jesus? I really don’t get it.

~|~

School started today, and I could have skipped to class at 7:30 in the morning.

I. Love. School. Halleluiah, praise the Lord, I love school. In South Africa, you don’t have to go to class. I mean, professors make it out like you have to, but you don’t have to. But I will! For fun! Because I love school! I love writing in my agenda! I love having homework! I love everything! I love it! I love pens! I love pencils! I love scratch things off my To-Do list! I love reading textbooks! I love getting syllabi! I love sitting right in the middle and getting to class early! Yahoo!

Six other foreigners and I have the same class on Tuesday mornings at 7:30. So we walk there together. We love our professor. She’s brilliant, lean and tall, with long graying hair held back by a head band. She has nice hands that float along the wavelengths of her speech.

She knows what she’s talking about. She’ll be great. Her name is – I have no clue, because I can’t pronounce, nor spell, any of the names of the people I meet. But she will teach us foreign policy. And she will teach us well.

She doesn’t like you to be late to class.

“If you are late,” she says in her heavily accented English, “don’t come. Five minutes is fine. But after that, just go and have some coffee or something. It’s too disruptive.”

I love her. And ma’am, I will not be late and I will never be tardy.

My next class was at 4:30 p.m. with a man professor. He’s funny looking – like a European from Hollywood or something. He wears blonde hair, kind of messily parted somewhere on his head. He dressed himself in a smart sweater with a collegiate emblem. He looks like he could either be buff or fat, at this point I can’t tell.

He talks like he has a lot on his mind. He goes on for a few sentences and then pauses – either at the end of the last one or in the middle of the new one. He pauses, and you can see it on his face that he’s just lost his place among the files in his brain. He sorts through them, as if in no hurry at times, and when he finds the one he lost, he picks back up again.

He talks like a philosopher, with words like “fundamental” and “essentially” and “modernity.” I think philosophy and political science students take a class called “How to Sound Smart, Even if You Aren’t.” And Mr. Whatever took that class; although, he really actually is smart.

It will be a great class, and tomorrow morning we’ll be starting with Plato.

~|~

I am finally caught up.

Every day, I become more rooted here. I am adapting and learning. I’ve done all my grocery shopping and stocked my cabinet and portion of the fridge full. I live here now. It’s been a week, and it will be many more, and I’m finally realizing that.

Madison, Matt and I are growing comfortable with one another. We share secrets and food; we make plans and leave functions early. We’re growing into one another.

My house is fully stocked with students on each end, occupying each room. There is Mandy from Holland across from me and Anna right next door. There is Claudia, Lui, and Kim down the hall on the other side. There is Dani and Isa and Jamie; Carmen, Xinyu and Ying; Teresa and Leonie – all in the houses down the road. There is Michael and Peter and Shane and Ferdie. There is Thomas and Nick. Then there’s Madison, Matt and me.

Together, we are the Czech Republic, Holland, China, Singapore, Mexico, Germany and the U.S.

I cut nearly five inches off my hair today. Yes, I did it myself. I needed it, and I surprisingly don’t regret it. Even though it is noticeably shorter. It might look horrible, but I’m okay with that, actually. I’m in AFRICA, who cares. (Plus, RESTON, I have no one to impress, anyway! It’ll be grown out by the time I come back home to you.)

By the way, I found out that Nelly Mandelly is a boy, not a girl.