Misadventures in Durban

This period has been a time of new experiences for me, and this trip to Durban has not been an exception. I arrived here yesterday evening with five other women of the Mandela Museum staff for the South African Museums Association conference, yet here now I am sitting in a curtained bed in Durban's fine Entabeni Private Hospital: my first non-ER hospital experience. I've never actually been admitted before. Got an IV drip and everything - or I did, until they removed it as it was causing my vein to swell uncomfortably. I went in this morning as I'd been planning for a few days to get checked for what I assumed were gallbladder problems. I'd hoped to have some sort of wham-bam-thank-you-Doc laproscopic surgery to get the damned thing out, leaving me a day or two to recover and still actually attend the SAMA conference.
The test results, though, showed nothing wrong with the ol' bladder of bile, which is weird. So instead they admitted me to let a gut specialist doctor take a look at me, possibly with a camera in my stomach, tomorrow. Still optimistic that I can hit at least some of the conference tomorrow or Wednesday.

Apart from some thrilling adventures in sitting, laying, and waiting, it's been routinely boring here. That's no surprise, but I do have to say the docs and nurses of the ER (where, as a walk-in-patient), I had to be admitted, were surprisingly quick to treat me. Made me feel all special. I pretended that it was because I was a special emissary from the United States, or possibly the United Nations. That's right, I got Barack watching my back. Well, hey, it gets boring laying on a hospital bed. I had to think of something to keep my mind off the needle protruding from the back of my hand.
Medical woes aside, this trip to Durban has provided another not-so-new experience as well: that of getting quickly irritated wih my fellow travelers. I was ashamed by how soon it was happenning. I like to think that I am a most tolerant person, but by this morning I wanted to wrap my hands around the necks of at least two of my colleagues. I'd like to blame the raging abdominal pain for that, but I wasn't in that much pain and actually haven't been for a couple of days now. with some time, rest, and a little morphine, I can see now that I jumped the gun on triggering the anger (see what I did there? gun - trigger? I dare you to mix a better metaphor). I can see now that snapping at them while they were trying to find their way to the hospital to drop me off could be seen as selfish and impatient and stuff. But really, when you're the navigator and the driver proceeds to not drive where you indicated, take a different route and then get lost, all the while
speaking with the other passengers in a language you don't understand (when all of you DO have a language in common), it does get a little easy to overlook the fact that they're speaking - if in another language - about trying to get you where you're going.
I wouldn't have minded so much if the whole speak-the-language-that-one-of-you-doesn't-know thing hadn't also happened in the four hour car ride and the multi-hour combination of hotel-finding, check-in, and dinner the day before. It gets easy to feel overlooked and, well, marginalized. It gets so much more frustrating when you're in a moving vehicle while overlooked and therefore are pretty much helpless to control the situation short of causing bodily injury or a car wreck.
I guess this kind of situation is a short-cut to setting off my fuse because of the lack of control-feeling and the being ignored-feeling. I don't like either of those and the combination of the two would on a long-term scale, I think, amount to psychological torture for me. (Now those of you reading this, try and forget that last tidbit if you ever find yourselves in a situation where you've taken me hostage.)
I said this wasn't a new experience because it happened the last time I was in Africa two years ago, in Botswana, on a field trip to the Makgadigadi Pans with two Tswana-speakers. Guess which language got spoken predominantly? Guess how often they switched to English to consult me in decision-making? Guess who couldn't wait to jump out of the car and away from the others by the end of the trip? Back then, I'd imagined that what was happening was a gendered thing - both of my two companions
were male, and Botswana tends to be patriarchal. This time though, we are all women, and Xhosa women are "known for their independent spirit" anyhow (according to a guide book, but I can generally concur based on what I've seen). So it got me thinking that really, the perceived marginalization is likely very unintended. Not that the gendered bias of the Botswana trip is impossible - my fellow archaeologist back then actually refused to let me sit in the front seat on the ride home, when I'd been crammed in back for hours - which just seems plain rude, no matter if we've had some differences.
But all in all, I do think this has been a lesson in maybe just taking a chill pill when situations like this arise. Or at least a lesson in saying - loudly - that I don't understand and would like some clarification. I hate feeling helpless, but even more I hate feeling like my opinion/ thoughts/ etc are too unimportant to be bothered with. I do think I try hard to listen to others so I get pretty damn irritated when people don't do the same.
It can be easy to forget, though, that one person in a group doesn't speak the lingo. It can be easy to overlook their need to feel informed and included in your effort to, well, help them out. That's a lesson I will try to remember when I am an awesome PhD Professor Museum Curator Type and I am busy hosting awesome cultural international heritage artifact conferences with guests from all over the world. Listen, world: speak up!
So now my thoughts are duly expiated electronically and I can turn to anticipating a nice drowsy morphine-ariffic night. Tomorrow I can hope to see the beaches of the Indian Ocean closeup and daydream, bored, sitting in a museum conference rather than on a hospital bed. All in all, I pretty much love my life. Most of the time.
PS, I took a photo of my hand with the IV needle sticking it out and will try to remember to post it for those who like to live vicariously in such gruesome experiences.

Out of Mthatha

I find it hard to believe a month has passed already since I got on that airplane in Chicago. Last time I visited Africa, the days crawled by for the most part. Then, I was full of anxiety over my mission to find a research topic, and I was homesick as hell.
It's easier this time around, in part because my goals are so much more straightforward: Wake up. Drink coffee. Walk to the museum. Drink more coffee. Say hi to my colleagues. Work on a project, while drinking coffee. Etcetera.
Sure, there is still anxiety (over finances, the looming Wenner-Gren deadline and what the hell to write about for my SAfA paper) and homesickness (what I wouldn't give to have Ninjacat here with me snuggling on my lap!) but I also feel much, much more at home. It's hard not to, when people I only met that morning invite me to supper that night, and when fellow museum staff call me 'sister' and 'dear'. People are genuinely afffectionate here as well as hospitable. I just wish their babies weren't scared of me.
So what has happened since last I updated? The museum routine continues much as usual; I am working on putting together some information on digital photography techniques since a few people expressed interest in learning them. I am otherwise finding ways to fill my time - there's really no end to what one can do in a museum if you're creative enough. As I mentioned on Facebook, I got called a few times one day to photograph incoming school groups. I would really like it if my photos ended up being used to market the museum, or if they were given to the schools as memorabilia of their visits. Yeah, that would stroke my ego all right. But even if they don't it's fun to have an excuse to wield a camera.

This weekend constituted my first out-of-Mthatha experience since the visit I made to Qunu and Mqhekezweni that first week here. Isabel and I were determined to travel to East London, an oceanside city about 220 km southeast of Mthatha. She suggested we hitchhike, which is a very common practice here. There are unofficially designated places along main roads where would-be hitchhikers stand. It's common courtesy to walk further down the road past the hitchhikers already present in order to give them a chance of being sighted and picked up first. As Isabel and I were waiting, waving a cardboard scrap bearing the letters 'EL', someone came up and tipped us off that we'd end up waiting all day and that we'd better try the taxi rank. Which was on the other side of town. I felt so justified in not exercising that morning before leaving my apartment.
I'd been wanting to experience riding in a taxi-bus since it's how everyone without a car gets around here. Well, I experienced it all right. I experienced it up and down every winding curve of the three-hour drive to East London, crammed in the middle seat of a five-passenger hatchback. It's standard practice for the taxi driver to delay departure until all the seats have been filled; otherwise he'd lose fare (and I say he because I have never seen a woman taxi OR cab driver here). By all seats, I mean seven, including the middle of the middle and the middle of the back. Have you ever read "The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency"? If so, then you know what an African 'lady of traditional size' is, and I don't need to describe what seating six traditionally-sized people where four people belong is like. Well, that's not entirely fair - Isabel is tiny, as of course was the baby sitting on the lap of the lady next to me. Oh, and because this is Southern Africa, and Southern Africa is a warm climate, most people like, well, warmth. So - opening car windows while driving? Not really inclined, were my fellow passengers. In summary, thank god for Dramamine, and next time I will take the Greyhound.
Anyhow, East London itself was wonderful. It is much more urban than Mthatha, yet still has a lower crime rate. Go figure. I didn't see a whole lot of the city, thought the esplanade along the beach was filled with temptations. Lots of nice-looking restaurants, an aquarium WITH A WHALE-WATCHING DECK (which we  actually walked out on since it was free), and plenty of informal vendors selling interesting things like beaded jewelry. Before I checked into the backpackers' where I spent the night, Isabel and I stopped in at her friend Lashiola's place, where Isabel spent the night. Lasha, her baby Junior, and her Auntie ended up coming out with us to walk the shorefront. Lasha was classmates with Isabel at the University of Fort Hare (where Nelson Mandela and bunches of other distinguished black African leaders also went - during apartheid it was the only university that didn't restrict Africans). Lasha is now working for a development firm and had a lot of interesting things to say about fieldwork in rural areas. She also asked me a bunch of questions about things I'd taken for granted - like, for example, the fact that I don't use hair extensions or special products. Actually we had a whole ongoing discussion about the differences between African-type hair and European-type hair. Turns out there's a whole world of haircare that I'd never imagined. Apart from the fact that Lasha is clearly a natural-born social scientist, our conversations were fun by virtue of discovering all these differences in our everyday routine behaviors. I find those differences the most interesting, because they involve the tiny things we never think twice about; they seem so natural to us. So to discover that other people do these things equally naturally and yet totally different is really fascinating. (Hello, anthropology!) If I ever find myself in a place where I have both time and some money, I am going to make a TV show documenting different people's everyday lives, because I don't think I am the only one who would find these routine uniquenesses interesting. Forget MTV's Cribs, I wanna know what YOU keep in your garage!

Ramblings and things.

Another week in Mthatha. Another couple of words learned in Xhosa. Another project at the museum. I certainly can't say that this isn't a dynamic experience for me.
Most days, I do my thing at the museum, I walk home, I am tired enough to want to veg in the evening rather than pick at the school work I've scheduled for myself this semester.
This is the closest thing to a real 9-to-5 routine that I've had in years. If I didn't like the work, the people, and the atmosphere at the museum, it would be a real drag.
This week at the museum I began to put together photographs for a catalogue of artwork done by artists in residence of Qunu over the last few years. I got to work with a Nikon D300. It is the sex (at least compared with my own camera). Next, I get to actually compile the info for the catalogue and then design its layout and stuff. I really like that I was given this project. I get to feel in charge of it and creative and stuff. And when it is done, I can grab a copy of it for my CV! So that's fun.
The schoolwork I mentioned consists of trying to figure out the best angle of attack for making a database of data from sites excavating in the Sowa Pan area. I want to have a solid foundation on which to base my future research. So far I have begun a database for the list of sites documented and published by Mike Main in 2008. Unfortunately it is not a very detailed list and inconsistent in what it contains for each entry. It is, however, a start, and I am hoping that the information I can glean from the photographic record of the National Museum collections (literally photos of the fronts of the boxes that contain the artifacts), that I spent so much time and money downloading this week, can supplement the database as it is. I need to have something to show for myself at the SAfA conference in November, and something to write about for the Wenner-Gren by Nov. 1. I also need to figure out what to do about Botswana... I know what I want to do there, but I don't know what kind of permission I will need from the powers that be. I guess I could try and make contact with them.
Such are the exciting details of the life of an archaeology student moonlighting as a museum intern. Aren't you glad you're reading this blog?

As for the more pithy experiences of this week, the drama llama reared its diva head at the offices but I wasn't directly involved. I guess I am surprised it took three weeks.
It was a relatively small llama, though, and the drama seems to have passed already. Still... awwwwwkwaaarrrd! I wouldn't even mention it here but it was remarkable how awkward it made me feel. I was told about it by one of the parties involved, and this person seemed to want me on their side, and as I also know the other person involved, I couldn't help but feel like running away. As a representative of MSU and a total outsider I felt put on the spot. For me, it just reinforced the fact that my position is an odd one. The expectations and responsibilities for me are not quite the same as for other museum staff.

While this was going on, the museum had a power outage and I learned an interesting thing: a lot of people here buy electricity in pre-paid bundles just like they do phone minutes. I had no idea this was possible. This is just one of the many ways in which daily life here differs in minor, hidden ways from that in the US. We have the same needs and wants, and - at least for the equivalent of the working and middle classes - we get most of the same services, goods, and whatnot, but the way that they happen are just a bit unexpected for me. Taxis are another example. Taxis here are not taxicabs - they call those cabs. 'Taxi' refers to a big van with a fixed route that works essentially as a bus - you hop on at a dedicated taxi rank, pay 5 rand, and the taxi drives to the designated area. To get off anywhere along the route, you just yell for it to stop. You can flag down a taxi from anywhere too, and often they will honk as they drive past you to see if you want them to stop.
Taxis intimidate me, what with their lack of signage and the incredibly overcrowded state they always seem to be in. But Isabel, my research buddy at the museum, rides them to and from work everyday, and she says we should take a taxi together to East London to hang out there.
I ought to be game for that, given what I did today, which was inadvertently take a walk through a shantytown north of my neighborhood. Mom, if you're reading this, you can stop freaking out. It was bright daylight out and most people I encountered were kids, and everyone I encountered was friendly. They ALL were sure as hell wondering what I was doing there, but no one said as much as boo to me. Well, they did say "Molo", which means hi. The kids were highly amused, especially when I asked to take their photo. I am not sure I have ever met a kid who doesn't like having their photo taken.
Friendly or no, I didn't actually mean to walk through that area. I decided to go out for a walk this afternoon, and since I live right by a golf course, I thought I would walk around it. It is fenced off, as are most things here. So I walked outside the fence, and the dirt path along the road next to the golf course led eventually to, well, a bunch of tin-roofed houses and gardens, some of which were in better repair than others. It seemed safe enough, so I figured I would keep on the path, which eventually must lead to the other side of the golf course and back to the road near my house.
It did.... eventually. I might have gotten very awkwardly lost in the makeshift settlement had it not been for a nice young woman and her toddler sister who walked me out of the place once I asked which way Mandela Drive was. There were only two paths, but still - maybe safe, but super uncomfortable. Hell, I was uncomfortable as it was. It wasn't just the settlement or the obviously impoverished people.
It was the fact that this was literally on the other side of the fence from the (north end of) the golf course - a status symbol of an upper-class life if ever there is one. I cannot imagine going golfing on that course and seeing people living in this settlement just outside the fence. How do people - on both sides of the fence - deal with that juxtaposition and abrupt reminder of the income gap?
I was all smiles while passing through the settlement, but once beyond it, taking the path towards the hospital (closest obvious landmark), I was shaking. It is very easy to get comfy in my cozy little apartment in the nice part of town, working at a government-funded institution in the center of town. It is easy to forget that people are barely scraping by, literally just across the street, or golf course in this instance.
I am very glad I went for that walk (even if I did take the wrong way home and walk an extra couple of miles). It reminded me why I am here. It also forced me to be OK with being not just in the familiar, nice parts of town. People live in places like that settlement; they make their livings (or not) every day and some of them, the kids at least, even do it with a smile. If they can do that, I can step outside my comfort zone once in a while to try and connect with - maybe even help - them. Maybe put some action behind all those noble sentiments I have made in the past.
But that's for another day. I can't deny that I WAS glad to see my cozy apartment upon returning from the walk. It's Saturday night, after all, and I'm gonna have some fun.