So, for those of you that haven't heard/I haven't told, Grace Shentall is dead.

Grace is the mother of two of my African campers. She was one of the kindest women I have ever met. Every year, she greeted us with open arms and made us feel welcome. Every year when we left, she cried, and made us promise that if we were ever in South Africa to come and see her, and that we were always welcome to stay with her family. She loved her family. She was, as they say, a kindred spirit.

I got the email this morning through another member of the Africa team, and I sat in shock at my computer for a while. Then I went and took a shower, came back, found Sarah, and cried hysterically until I had to go to work. I want to sit here in my room, lay on my bed, and cry until it's all out of me, but I have class and then rehearsal. The most painful part of people dying is that other people have to keep on living, I suppose.

Grace is dead, a car crash on a South African road. I won't be able to go to her funeral, or comfort her children, or hug her husband, or tell her goodbye. The grief is gaping, and I can't fill it up.

I drifted from the indistinct haze of sleep when Derek tugged at my foot.

"Carmen... Carmen..."

I woke and blinked. The sky was light- a pale light, a sun-hasn't-risen light. I checked my watch. 5:12.

I had told Derek to wake me for the sunrise, but forgotten how early it was in South Africa, a land both in summer and without Daylight Savings Time. I got up- in pajama pants and a t-shirt, braless and blurry-eyed. I fumbled for my glasses. Campers and counselors surrounded me on a sea of mattresses. We had slept under the stars the night before. I had fallen asleep listening to Trevor explaining the constellations.

I slipped on flip-flops and followed Derek to the truck.

I slid onto the cold, cracked leather seat and we took off down the road, slowly bumping our way away from the house and into the fields, dust rising behind us.

We rumbled to the slow halt in between mature sunflowers and softly budding corn, and Derek flipped on the radio. As South African news whispered in the background, we sat in relative silence and watched the sky.

Suddenly, it was there. The sun, a pale pink disc, mild and not bright at all. It began to drift higher in the sky, through cool blue haze. Is that all? I thought to myself. As though sensing my disappointment, Derek smiled. "It's a bit misty," he said. "Just watch."

It continued to rise, and the blue began to recede, pushed down by the pale yellow semi-golden sky that sat above it.

"Now," Derek said, "watch it catch on fire."

And it did. The sun touched the golden part of the sky, and the edges began to glow, and then the light overwhelmed the sun itself, the ground and the truck and the sunflowers and the trees, the sky. It flashed through the fields and over the earth, casting long shadows and illuminating dark places, and for a moment I saw nothing but light. And then it was there, the sun, hovering and bright and definitively risen.

I realized I'd been holding my breath. I exhaled.

"And that," Derek said, turning on the car, "is a South African sunrise."

I nodded and breathed. We drove away.

Time for a South Africa story... accompanied by pictures! Yay!

When we weren't working with the older youth, we were taking turns with the beautiful and amazing children of Deelpan. Each of these kids are absolutely perfect- sweet, loving. The younger ones didn't speak a word of English, and the some of the older ones spoke hesitant but clear English when prompted. Not that it really mattered. Lefty translated, we danced and sang and played games, and everyone got along regardless of the language barrier. It's kind of incredible, really. Everyone speaks love and kindness and laughter, I guess.

Anyway, there was one particular little girl who I fell in love with. I don't know her name, though I have dozens of pictures of her, because... well, I couldn't ask her, and she couldn't tell me. She couldn't have been any old than three or four, and walked around in an oversized Easter dress and big brown eyes. She would follow me around with her arms in the air, and once I picked her up, I just couldn't put her down. We wandered around, heads above the crowd, pointing and dancing and playing. Once I took her picture the first time, she managed to grab my camera and investigate it thoroughly. She even figured out how to scroll through the pictures, turn the camera on and off, and look through as though taking a picture, though she was actually looking through the lens backwards and not the viewfinder. She took my glasses and put them on, played with my hair, and poked my nose. After a while, I said "nose," pointing to hers. She repeated it. We tried it with other face parts.
"Eyes."
"Eyes!"
"Mouth."
"Mouth!"
"Ears."
"Ears!"
There was a slight pause, and then she smiled at me.
"I wuv you!" she said. Clear as day, and in English. I was so startled, it took all of my effort to turn around and tell Thuso (one of my older campers who speaks both English and Tswana), "She... just said she loved me."
He looked at me curiously. "In Tswana?" he said, saying the phrase in Tswana.
"No, no, in English," I said.
"I love you!" she said again, louder this time.
Some of the other kids heard her. They all began to hug me- at least ten of them- saying "I love you! I love you!"
And I almost began to cry. I hugged the little girl tightly.

After a while, Thuso came over and offered to take her for a bit. "She's probably getting heavy," he said.
I handed her over, and Thuso began to chat with her. After a while, he began to laugh.
"What is it?" I asked.
"She said that you're her mother," he said.


( a few more )

For those of you who are using Facebook, my South Africa photos (well, most of them, anyway- I'm still trying to figure out how to get the film-photos-on-CD off the damn thing) are up here and here.

Those of you who aren't, they'll be up as soon as possible, I promise.

Finally, time to sit down and tell an Africa story.

This story has a preface. For those of you who followed last year's post-trip stories, you will remember my camper Carmen. For those of you who don't know her story, read the link. If you already do, this will make sense.

When Carmen came to camp this year, she was better than I had ever seen her. Tall, happy, smiling. Unlike last year, when bangles covered her wrists and scars, she just had one bracelet on.

The week proceeded as usual: it's camp, it's Africa, it's amazing. I got to know the kids more and more, grew closer to a lot of them, and kept my eye on Carmen.

The second to last day of camp, we had a campfire, as is the tradition. Derek [who owns the farm we stay on, and who I love dearly and think of as another father, or an uncle, or something] stacked up logs and surrounded it with dried corn husks, and the blaze reached up and nearly touched the sky. We all sat around in plastic chairs, out backs cold with the chill of the night and our faces hot with the glow of the flames.

We sang songs about shaving cream and joked around for a while, until we all finally settled down for a time to talk.

Lichtenberg Methodist Church's pastor got up and spoke briefly, and then for a while, it was silent. After a bit, I stood up and told the campers how they- and South Africa- have changed my life forever and how there are no words to describe how much I love all of them. Once I spoke, the dam was broken, and everyone began to talk. Campers stood up and talked about various things- their lives and faith and friends. I watched everyone's faces in the flickering firelight.

Finally, as it was winding down, Carmen stood up. She was holding an envelope in her hands, and she was shaking.

"Last year, when I came to camp, I was a different person that I am now. I was hurting and afraid. I didn't tell you all last year why I was the way I was, I just said that I was hurt and needed help, that I needed to make steps in the right direction."

"Last year, after chapel one night, I found Dan. And we talked for a while, and he asked questions and I was vague. Finally, after a bit of this, I looked him square in the eye and said 'My father has been molesting me since I was five.'"

"I used to cut myself- my wrists, my arms, my legs. But I've taken so many steps since then, steps in the right direction. And Derek- Uncle Derek- took care of me. Everyone took care of me. But these things are still with me. And I knew that there was something that happened between me and my dad when I was seven, but I'd blocked it out, and I couldn't remember."

"This summer, I decided to make a photo album of me and my siblings for my mom. I was digging through boxes of photographs when I found... this."

She held up the envelope. A plain, brown envelope.

"Photographs of what happened between me and my dad when I was seven. Pictures."

Her hand shook, and the last word trembled. My chest tightened up.

"I have everyone and God with me, and I'm taking steps in the right direction. Which is why I'm doing this."

She turned to Derek. "Uncle Derek, will you help me?"

He stood up and moved towards her. Suddenly, everyone was up and moving towards her, holding her, touching her. It grew silent. You could hear the stars.

Carmen threw the photographs onto the fire. They crackled and the envelope caught on fire, the edges curling and burning. We all stood there. Then, suddenly, one of the mother just began to wail. I began to cry, really cry. And we watched the envelope burn, the fire reflecting in our tears. And then someone began to sing Amazing Grace.

Last year, I wept for Carmen. Now I wept with her. And I saw exactly what she could see. Light. People surrounding her. Love.

Carmen gives me strength. She reminds me that even are worst wounds can be healed. She reminds me that those around us are as great a source of strength as ourselves. She reminds me that there is hope. Above all else, there is hope.

When I say that South Africa changed me, it isn't really accurate. The people in South Africa changed me. The children, the parents; the farmhands and farmers; the pastors and campers; the blacks and whites and everyone in between. Darren, a shy camper who calls me sister and carried a small boy on his broad shoulders; Brendon, full of questions and kindness and humor; Melissa, a vibrant, irrepressible spirit that makes me love life; Justin, the very strange and very wonderful boy who reminds me of myself as a child, and to love that different beat that he dances to. All of my campers. All of the small children of Deelpan who chased our trucks through the dust and wanted only to be held and loved. And Carmen, strong, beautiful Carmen.

And that's today's South Africa story. I'm done.

South Africa Anecdote Number Two

After the week of camp was over, we spent our remaining time in South Africa at Pilanesburg, a game reserve about three hours from Lichtenburg. It was quite nice- we camped (we started sleeping under the stars, but the morning dew left us cold and wet, so we eventually moved into tents) at a small site at the far edge of the park. There's a "visitor's center" with a pool, restaurant, bar, giant chess set, gift shop, etc., and then during the day you get in your car and drive around the park at your own leisure, looking for animals. While the big animals are unable to get into the camp site, there are a number that can, including baboons, small deer, and... ostriches.

There are also very nice bathrooms, with showers and everything, in these little circular buildings throughout the site.

Which brings me to my story.

One morning, I went to the bathroom to take a shower and brush my teeth. I finished up, then turned around to leave.

And in the doorway stood an ostrich.

Now, I don't know how many of you have ever seen an ostrich up close. They're BIG. And when I say BIG, I mean BIG, capital letters and all. I imagine that their actual height is somewhere between six and seven feet, but combine that with the nasty claws, ruffled feathers, and intimidating bald head, it's like running into a pissed-off Green Giant with a freakishly small head and an attitude.

It was blocking my only exit, and there I was, a pathetic human holding her Suave shampoo and Crest toothpaste.

But I wasn't worried yet. After all, I had a bigger brain, right? So I waved my arms at it. "Go away!" I yelled.

And then it hissed at me.

I could see it contemplating my soft pink flesh and lack of speed. And I became concerned.

It stepped closer to me. I kept trying to tell myself "It's just a big bird, it's just a big bird," but it was HUGE. It hissed again.

Just as I was contemplating barricading myself in a toilet stall and crawling out the little windows that lined the upper part of the building, the ostrich seemed to lose interest in me, and turned and left.

At which point, I dropped the Suave. Yes, I was shaking just a bit.

(A picture of the ostrich and his partner-in-crime is in the last photo post that I did. That's them wandering around the campsite at a later date. I steered clear of them both.)

( many, many more... )

More later, I promise. I need to go to bed now.

Sunset.

To counteract the violence of the previous picture, I present you with my first photo from South Africa that I will post here.



Deelpan School, Lichtenburg, North West Province

Well, I've finally decided that it's time to write my first Africa story. There are many- some are exciting, others quite humorous, but this one is... well, sad. It's quite longish, so I apologize.

This year's camp was amazing. We had a great number of kids come back, and many of them brought new friends with them. Among the newcomers was a girl whose name (amazingly enough) was Carmen.

She was sweet, but very quiet, and walked with hunched shoulders. Her entire demeanor suggested almost... fear. But she was friendly, and had a few friends that she hung around with.

The second night of camp, Dan (for those of you who don't know who Dan is or what our relationship is... to sum it up, he's my pastor who's more like my best friend, and he's amazing) vanished for several hours, along with Carmen. I knew they were talking somewhere, but when the conversation lasted into the wee hours of the morning, I suspected that it was serious. But Carmen never volunteered the information, and neither did Dan.

The week progressed much like that... Carmen speaking to Dan for long hours, late into the night. Occasionally, Jamie would go as well. I was worried, but I knew that Dan was extremely capable, and I didn't want to interfere. So I left it alone.

On Thursday night, we had chapel, as usual. I was standing at the back of the small church, leaning against the door, listening to Dan speak. He was talking about how God moves in our lives, using us and often helping us in the process.

( I will warn you now, this is going to move into the realm of the spiritual, as well as uncomfortable. If it doesn't make sense, it should by the end. I promise )

I'm back on American soil.

Let's see...

In the past week, I have pet a lion, fed and ridden an elephant named Chikwenya, watched a showdown between four hippos and a bathing elephant in a remote watering hole, slept under the stars, been thrown into a pool with all of my clothes on, drank champagne, drank alcohol that was not champagne, sat under a tree full of baboons, watched a glorious sunset over a glassy lake, bartered in an African open-air market, sat in the middle of an elephant parade, seen the elusive brown hyena, stepped on a long thorn, been cornered by an ostrich in a bathroom, held a praying mantis, sunburned my nose, gotten lost in the darkness, been found by a friend, eaten impala, laughed, cried, hugged, reluctantly boarded a plane, and returned.

Many stories to follow.

Have received a kiss from a lion, held a cub, had 23 cups of tea, had my hair elaborately braided, adopted a South African accent, started anew, turned my sorrows into support for another, seen and killed a deadly spider, shed old burdens, bought a straw mat, given hugs, said good-bye to campers, seen a dust whirlwind over a field, counted six simultaneous bolts of lightning, and remembered why I absolutely love this place.

I'm leaving the farm tomorrow, and we're off to the game preserve for three days. Which means... no internet access! But I promise that I won't allow myself to be eaten, kicked, trampled, or maimed by any large African creatures.

See you crazy AUers next weekend! Good luck with the start of classes.

Have wept in a chapel, been attacked by a beetle the size of my fist, been eaten alive by mosquitoes, run barefoot through a field, been photographed with beautiful children, touched a prickly pear, confessed everything, laughed, cried, run through a puddle, been touched by a hot breeze, seen God, shown children who didn't speak my language how to do the chicken dance, told stories, and given and received many, many hugs.

Have mud wrestled, jumped into a pool with my clothes on, received a sun tan, sun burnt my nose, earned freckles, had my face painted, braided my hair, watched native African dancing, danced in a native African dance, seen seven shooting stars and two satellites, laughed, cried, been touched by God, been awakened by water balloons, danced under a full moon, prayed in front of a stone angel, fallen into a fountain, and slept under a breathtaking sky.

One week to go.

Greetings from the Southern Hemisphere!

I don't have much time on this computer, but I wanted to let everyone know that I arrived safely in South Africa on Saturday, and it is simply beautiful here. Warm and sunny with a light breeze during the day, punctuated with the occasional violent and beautiful thunderstorm, and a night sky filled with endless stars.

I feel very at peace in this place.