Uthango Snack Sneakers, by Christine McCann
For hours on end, ten volunteers with completely different backgrounds and experiences worked to create a business program for kids.

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Letting Go, by Elise Eggart

Let go - if I’ve learned anything in the time I’ve been in South Africa, I’d pin it to those two words, words that some small voice in the back of my head steadily repeats when I find myself in the countless situations that have made me stop and pinch myself to be sure that what I am experiencing is indeed my reality.  I think back to the most recent of these experiences, which occurred just yesterday, when I attended Maranatha Family Church in the heart of Masiphumelele, the black township where I have been working and teaching for the past five weeks.  I planned to visit the church at the request of Lubabalo, one my computer students, who had been begging me since class started to come and hear his youth choir sing. 

When I made my way down the main street of the township, tripping over my ankle-length khaki skirt as I dodged roosters, dogs, and wandering toddlers, all I could think about was how much I would have preferred to have been in bed.  Church on my one morning off.  I had already contrived an exhaustive list of excuses to leave early by the time the building appeared in the distance.  I approached it cautiously, with the reluctance inextricably linked to fear of the unknown.  Before I had even walked through the portal of the tiny, one-room church, I could see that church in Masi-p would mean something quite different than what it had meant for me in the past. Of course, the full extent to which this church experience would defy my expectations had yet to be revealed. 

I gingerly peeked my head inside.  “Come, welcome, my sister!” the pastor bellowed, as a small crowd gathered around me and herded me to the makeshift altar, where several folding chairs had been arranged at the front of the congregation.  So much for subtlety - my new celebrity status shattered my intentions of making a quick appearance for a song or two and quietly sneaking out the back door.  The crowd plopped me down front-row-center next to the pastor’s wife, a large, jolly woman, decked out from the top of her loud hat to the bottom of her sparkly sandals in Pepto-Bismol pink.  I counted seven of our computer students in the congregation, who smiled at me in grateful recognition. 

“Greet our sister! Give her a hug!” the pastor bellowed again, and suddenly I was sandwiched in the warm embrace of fifty sets of arms.  “Praise Jesus! We’re so glad you’re here! Hallelujah!” the masses shouted, and they smothered me with hugs and kisses - rigid me, who shies from human touch and is fanatical about my personal space.  As far as I knew, I was the only white person around for miles, and the shower of attention and unmerited favor certainly wasn’t making me feel any less self-conscious.  But despite my discomfort, I had to admit that I was quite charmed by the spectacle - the love and hospitality these people were showing me was far more than I could ever have deserved.  And in a strange sense, in the middle of that rustic sanctuary, surrounded by a people whose native tongue I didn’t speak, who knew not why I was in their midst but could certainly have called upon generations of memory of oppression wrought upon them by those whose skin color was the same as mine, I felt more at home and at peace than I had in a long, long time.  Call it grace, call it hope, call it whatever you want - there was something really special here.

Within several moments, an antiquated keyboard adjacent to the altar started to play, and the room erupted into a resounding chorus of praise to God.  Let go, the voice inside my head whispered, and I began to forget myself a bit, moved to tears by one of most beautiful sounds I had ever heard.  All voices joined together in electric harmony, and for a moment I thought the tin roof of the shack church might blow off from the sheer force of the music.  I didn’t have a clue how the words of those Xhosa choruses translated, but no language barrier could have obscured the meaning of the passion that thundered from their souls.  The tempo quickened, and the congregation began to sway around me.  Arms and legs broke loose in all directions and boogie-fever like I’d never seen fell over the church like a giant wave.  I sporadically snapped my fingers a bit, fully appreciating what I was experiencing, but still not sure that I myself wanted to participate.  Lubabalo tried to sweep me into the conga line that had begun to wrap around the altar.  I shyly refused with a smile, but made sure that he noticed that I had begun tapping my foot as well. 

LET GO - the internal voice grew louder to match the deafening music around me.  And in a pivotal moment of mental weakness, my heart defeated my head.  As if they had a mind of their own, my arms began to flail wildly about, and my legs started to skitter and shake in time with the music.  I opened my mouth, and my gut pushed out a chorus.  I didn’t know what I was supposed to be singing, much less what those Xhosa words meant, but somehow it just didn’t matter.

Oh that inebriating music - it went on for hours, punctuated by joyful shouts in Xhosa and cries of “Praise Jesus! We are blessed! Hallelujah!”  It’s strange to think that members of a community ravaged by AIDS and shackled by lack of education and unemployment could find occasion to count their blessings.  But the real irony is that, amidst my flailing and warbling, I knew deep down these guys were right - they were blessed, blessed in ways that our western culture of niceties and excessiveness inevitably fails to make us understand. 

After ages, the keyboard’s tempo slowed once more, and the congregation stilled, while one young woman echoed a soulful prayer to the heavens.  We took our seats, and the pastor’s wife grabbed my hand in hers and clutched it to her chest, where the billowy folds of her bubble-gum blouse enveloped it.  As she leaned in close to me, she grinned, her fluffy monstrosity of a hat falling low on her forehand.  “Sister, I see you found the beat,” she said in broken English.  I squeezed her hand and chuckled, “Yeah, I guess I did, didn’t I.”  And for the hundredth time in six short weeks, I grasped that I’d once again learned what it means to let go…    

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Uthango Snack Sneakers, by Christine McCann

Before I arrived in South Africa, I was so unsure of what this experience would be like. So many unknowns for two months, in a country that was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It’s now days away from my departure, and looking back can see what an incredible experience this has been. It has definitely been extremely challenging and frustrating at times, but I know that I have now experienced South Africa in a way that most Americans will never know.

During the first phase, I was involved in Snack Sneakers, a program designed for the seventh graders in Masiphumelele to learn about basic business and entrepreneurship. The program was run through Uthango, a social investment organization who have actually run this same program multiple times before. They decided to give us the chance to start from scratch and develop the entire program, instead of using what information they already had.

The greatest challenge of the entire phase was working with nine other volunteers (in a very small room everyday). For hours on end, ten volunteers with completely different backgrounds and experiences worked to create a business program for kids. Looking back, each of us grew immensely and found ways to compromise and build relationships with each other as well as the kids in the program.

It was the kids in the program which made it all worthwhile. We each worked with a small group, allowing us to get to know them and be proud of them when they would come back each day after selling all of their candy.

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We Will Succeed, by Torin Perez

This summer I am working for the WorldTeach program, which is a non-profit, non-governmental organization. WorldTeach provides opportunities for individuals to make a meaningful contribution to international education by living and working as volunteer teachers in developing countries. When an individual makes a commitment to a program such as this one, the beauty of non-profit service can truly be seen.

My experience in Cape Town, South Africa is surely one that I will always remember. Being here is a dream come true. All of my family members have desired to make a trip to a country in Africa but have not been fortunate enough to get the chance. Granted my wish at such an early age, I feel very blessed, and am humbled by every moment of the days that I spend here.

To be truthful, I am so overwhelmed by how much I am learning and by how enriched I feel that it is very difficult to pick only one valuable experience. I have been brought here with WorldTeach, but it feels more like WorldLearn. But if I have to pick one, it would have to be my experience here as an American. Since the first day I have been here, I have been referred to as an American: “The American,” “this is a university student from America ,” “his name is Torin and he is a volunteer teacher from America who has come here to help us.”

Everywhere that we go, we are looked at as a doorway of hope, a gateway to a better future, which has forced me to think about what being an American really means. I have gathered a sense of pride in my country and I have personally delegated myself the responsibility of upholding what I represent to the South Africans that I meet.

The first phase of the South Africa summer program took place from mid-June to mid-July while the students were on a recess from school. The program I was involved in, Snack Sneakers, was designed for Grade 7 students from Masiphumelele, one of the black townships.

Ten volunteers total, we taught basic entrepreneurship skills and business concepts to 35 students. In an environment like Masiphumelele where unemployment is very common, starting a business on your own is the best alternative for an individual seeking success. Many terms such as “loan” and “wholesaler” were foreign words and working with ESL students made our assignment even more challenging.

During the program we acted as actual bankers and wholesalers and allowed the students to buy and sell sweets and chips while teaching them about other facets such as public relations and marketing. We also stressed principles like respect, commitment, punctuality, honesty, self-confidence, persistence, responsibility, and teamwork.

The children were initially attracted to the program because money and sweets were involved, but in the end they realized that there was a lot more to entrepreneurship than that. Through team-building exercises and small classroom lessons, they learned more about entrepreneurship than they ever thought they could. I never thought I would be teaching a business course, but I never doubted myself, I never doubted my colleagues, and I never forgot our goals.

The name Masiphumelele means “we will succeed.” Having formed during the Apartheid era, Masiphumelele still exhibits much poverty and a general lack of resources. I hope that what we have done here can at least on a micro-scale contribute to the Masiphumelele community, helping it live up to the meaning of its name.

The morning of the last day of the Snack Sneakers program I was touched by the tribal song recitals of the children. Previously, whenever a teacher walked into the room, the noise dropped to silence. But on this day, the song continued, and as I listened, my eyes couldn’t help but well up with tears. Something about their voices and the song raised my spirits and made me feel appreciated.

But more importantly, it represented their own pride in themselves, their culture, and their country. What is most satisfying to me is that I am confident that the 25 children who were dedicated throughout and completed the entire two-week duration are on the road to a brighter future, and I know that their hunger for better lives will lead them on to bigger and better things.

Selected as Honorable Mention, WorldTeach Fall 2006 Journal Contest.

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Hokisa HIV/AIDS Children's Home, by Ashelyn James

Let me first make you aware that the journey on which you are to embark will be one of the most amazing things that you will ever experience—your life will never be the same. I’ve had the opportunity to work with some great people and the relationships that I built and fostered while in South Africa won’t be forgotten. I signed up for this program with intentions to teach as much as I could in South Africa, but I’ve realized that over the course of time here, I have become more of a student, learning new life lessons from the people and the culture everyday. I hope that your experience will have an impact that will be just as powerful.

One place where I spent several afternoons was the Masiphumelele Library. At first, it was awkward and I felt useless, but as time progressed, I found where I could be helpful. Since the school holiday was over for the kids, the library was usually pretty busy with students wanting extra help with English or with school assignments. The high school students had just received their marks from exams around this time as well, so they were always open to more help. I wouldn’t say, though, that I completely felt like the library was my niche.

Also outside of my assignment, I was able to volunteer a few days at Hokisa, the children’s home in the township for kids directly/indirectly affected by HIV/AIDS. This was one of the most powerful experiences of my stay. Working at Hokisa forced me confront the AIDS epidemic face-to-face. It’s actually hard to put my feelings into words here; I’ll just say that it’s a lot tougher to come to terms with HIV/AIDS when it has a child’s face than it is when you read about it in pamphlets and magazines or hear about it on television.

After leaving Hokisa, I really had to take time to reflect and gather myself. Though it was difficult at times, working with the kids was amazingly rewarding and impacting. My heart, spirit, and passion have grown immensely and I’ve learned to appreciate everything so much more.

All in all though, I know that I have had some impact in South Africa—in the end, that’s all that truly matters. I can walk away knowing that my summer was well-spent.

During orientation week, a volunteer asked one of the speakers how she would describe her impact on the community. Her response was, “One small drop in a huge ocean…” Well, one drop causes endless ripples—your presence will be felt in South Africa forever.

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Anthems, by Kelly Garner

I have a difficult time putting into words the respect, admiration and gratitude I have for the students I met at Ocean View Secondary School. In the short time I was there, the students taught me far more about the history and culture of South Africa than the collections of books and documentaries I looked into prior to my departure.

What struck me first, was how open and honest these teenagers were about their lives and thoughts regarding the world. Some of their stories were difficult to hear, nonetheless, it demonstrated how strong and resilient many of these students were. It would be no exaggeration to say that my conversations with the students at Ocean View Secondary School were some of the most thought provoking discussions in my life. They wanted to discuss race and apartheid, and each question made me reflect upon race relations back home. The students wanted to know about HIV/AIDS rates in North America and how our countries have managed to educate and fight the transmission of the infection. No topic was untouched and I realized how many misconceptions all of us have regarding other places and people in the world.

And the talent within the walls of this institution is outstanding. Everywhere you look there is an athlete heading off to an international tournament or a musician waiting to be discovered. One day, while supervising a class, the students spontaneously broke out into song accompanied by a few of the classmates playing percussion using their desks, pens and fists. In turned out the students were singing the Ocean View School Song. To thank them for the impromptu concert I began to sing my own national anthem. Being a single voice in a crowded room can be quite nerve-wracking, and the students must have noticed my nervousness. Those same boys began to play percussion and the other students joined by clapping their hands. Never has my national anthem “Oh Canada” sounded so wonderful. We finished the class with performances of “The Star Spangled Banner” and “Nkosi Sikelel’ IAfrika”, the American and the South African anthems respectively. This moment was perhaps the defining moment of my summer in South Africa and a memory that I will carry forever.

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My Africa, by Katie Gerding

Africa. The word conjures images of lions and rhinos, dusty deserts, scorched Joshua trees, tribal traditions, and ebony-skinned children in their bare feet. And while much of Africa will reflect these images, the kind that typically grace the pages of National Geographic Magazine, Africa is so much more.

I cannot speak about Africa the continent, for I have not traveled across it. I can only speak about South Africa. And in fact, I can only speak about a tiny piece of South Africa – the part with which I’ve become intimately acquainted over the last 2 months. And no matter how different it is in reality than it was in my preconceived notions, I’ve learned to stop saying, “This doesn’t seem like ‘Africa’.” This phrase often echoed in conversations with fellow travelers during my first few weeks here. “This doesn’t seem like Africa.” But it is Africa. And it’s one of the most complex and beautiful places I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.

So what, after all, is Africa? I dare not presume to know. But I can tell you about my Africa. My South Africa. My Western Cape – one person’s experiences in a short time on a small piece of a massive continent.

Africa is a tapestry of languages. It is the auditory braid of Afrikaans, English, and Xhosa in one line at the Pick-and-Pay. It is me teaching an eighteen-year-old girl how to use email, then, a week later, her trying to teach me how to properly execute the “click” in Xhosa words and learning how to say “I love you.” Ndiyakuthanda.

Africa is stories of apartheid. It is the story of a family being uprooted from Simon’s Town, a place where they had lived for generations, and forcibly moved to Ocean View simply because they are mixed race. It is the story of a woman who speaks of the good old days when her family lived in Noordhoek and were also forced to move. She speaks with nostalgia and warmth about the shack they had to leave behind. Yes, it was a shack, but it was home. And how dare someone make them leave it? The shack was made of corrugated metal and lined on the inside with cardboard boxes. The boxes were then covered with brown paper from shopping bags. “And the best part,” she says, eyes glimmering with memories and mouth turned up in a smile, “was how we used beautiful, bright colors to paint the brown paper.” How do you take that away from somebody?

But Africa is also stories of freedom and of redemption and of healing. It is the story of that same woman whose family had been moved from Simon’s Town returning to her hometown to work the voting booths on that incredible day in 1994 when all people, no matter their skin color, were finally allowed to vote. She arrived early that morning, unsure of the turnout. Would people really come out to vote as they’d said they would? At the earliest dawn the lines wrapped around the corner and the voting booth levers worked overtime to give long-silenced people a voice.

Africa is children who hunger for stories to be read aloud to them, hanging on every word, every page, every colorful illustration. It is handing a child a packet of colored markers for the first time and watching as they delightedly invent pictures and designs, awestruck by the beauty of their own colorful creations. It is watching their eyes light up with pride when they see their work displayed on a barren classroom wall.

Africa is a Crayola box of skin colors. From fair-skinned people of British descent, to caramel-colored cheeks whose ancestors came from India as slaves, to the deep dark chocolate brown of people whose tribal ancestors graced the Eastern Cape for centuries. And it is every shade of skin color in-between, resulting in a contrast and a beauty rarely seen even on a New York City street.

Africa is riding in a taxi, a combi, scrunched between a woman holding a small child and a teenager on his way to school in the morning. It is sitting in the front seat beside the driver and seamlessly becoming his partner, collecting fares and counting change and handing coins back over your head to fellow passengers, all the while listening to an old American hip-hop song blasting on the radio.

Africa is fresh-baked donuts, without a hole, sprinkled with coconut and still warm from the oven – a gem of the Malay Cuisine with its unrivaled melt-in-your-mouth sweetness.

Africa is craggy mountains clothed in green and gray, draped with a tablecloth of cloud cover that is chased away by sunshine. It is two blue-green oceans lapping shores of white sand. It is a vast playground for gigantic whales, frolicking seals, vicious sharks and waddling penguins.

Africa is children sitting on the front step of a shack in Masiphumelele waving excitedly and shouting “hello” as I walk by. It is children dancing in the street as they listen to a musical group outside of the township library. Africa is me dancing alongside them, grasping their small hands and twirling them in circles as they giggle with glee.

Africa is HOPE. It is hope for all people of all colors in a country whose history is dark, but whose future is bright. It is a 12-year-child-country that looks forward to a time when apartheid is only a word children look up in the dictionary, never having to live in its shadow.

Africa is so much more than I will ever know or understand. I am simply a visitor, an observer. But in this short time each of these small pieces of a massive continent have become mine. I might be leaving Africa in a few weeks. But I’m taking these with me.

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