“The sun illuminates only the eye of the man, but shines into the eye and the heart of the child” -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Loyiso: Met while stranded on the side of the road, on the way to Lesotho

Rethabile: Faithful Skillz Street Onlooker

"Because of your smile, you make life more beautiful." -Thich Nhat Hanh

Mpho

My Team

I decided to become a GRS intern within a period of two weeks, without ever adequately devoting enough consideration to the prospect. I had nothing else to do. I thought it was a good cause. It was more of “why not?” logic than a ravenous, must-have mentality. It’s so surreal to think that had my somewhat haphazard decision-making led me down a different path, I never would have met the 11 girls on my team. I never would have known they exist.

I guess this can be said of anyone, anywhere. But the fragments of my life, and theirs, that had to fall into place to result in our happy collision seem more unlikely than usual. In honor of this personally awe-inspiring serendipity, I’ve decided to immortalize my roster in the vast breadth of cyber space, or, my blog. I confess, I’m partially motivated by my desire to give my readership (humorous… “readership”…as if it expanded much beyond my parents) an idea of the names I attempt to pronounce on a regular basis. Thus, I present the exquisitely feisty females that make up team “Red Danger.”

Unacceptable Coach's Favoritism: Tshego and Kelebs

Tshegofatso Maarman: Shy, yet amazingly spunky and stylish in her own way. Defender. Eleven years old. Dreadlocks. Favorite.

Molebogeng Lefera: Bold. Confident, yet quietly so. Midfielder. Twelve years old. Fascinated by my hair.

Mpho Mbangi: Reserved, but so genuinely sweet she could give me diabetes. Midfielder. Twelve years old. Comes through during discussions like a champ.

Didimalang Moses: Attitude. Sassiest little lady I’ve ever seen. Loud. Striker. Thirteen years old. Tall and utterly beautiful. Alpha female.

Refilwe Jakkals: Extremely quiet. Always observing. Defender. Twelve years old. Soft, pink-brown, J-shaped scar reaching from her lower left lip up into her cheek. I don’t know what happened. Scars are commonplace here, but I want to hear her story.

Tumelo Motsamai: Independent. Speaks when she needs to. Striker. Thirteen years old. Tall, lanky, and dark.

Goitsemang Springbok: Affectionate. Fairly awkward. Any position she deems suitable at any given moment. Twelve years old.

Abigail Moawci: Vocal at the right time. Passionate. Striker. Thirteen years old. Great afro puff.

Kamogelo Motlagomang: Edgy and borderline arrogant. Latecomer. Ally of Didi. Striker. Thirteen years old. Good foot skills. Short and slight.

Becca Mosina: Smart. Soft-spoken yet powerful. Midfielder. Twelve years old. Extra junk in the trunk. AWOL, sadly.

Kelebogile Konstantina: Deceptively quiet. Attitude and flair all her own, once you pull her out of the shell. Defender. Twelve years old. Balls outrageous. Favorite number two.

Those are my ladies, as best as I can accurately and concisely depict them. Needless to say, nicknames have saved me.

Street Soccer: Girlz Only

During my earliest days as an intern I was charged with the exciting yet daunting task of creating and coordinating a soccer league for little ladies. As part of a new program GRS has dubbed “Skillz Street,” these leagues are intended to provide a fun, safe soccer experience, centered on the values of fair play. The leagues theoretically combine small-sided soccer, close relationships to GRS coaches, and fair play rules and discussions; they are designed to promote HIV/AIDS awareness, foster constructive discussion and communications skills, and help develop positive self-image and a sense of self-efficacy among the participants. Most importantly, the final stipulation: Girlz only.

The feminization of HIV is a staggering phenomenon. The proportion of women living with HIV has steadily increased, especially in sub-Saharan Africa; 76% of young people (aged 15-24) who are infected with HIV are women or girls. Not surprisingly, given such figures, girls and young women stand out as a particularly at-risk demographic group. Thus the focus on girls for Skillz Street.

After two chaotic and demanding weeks of preparation, a pilot league of Skillz Street was fast-tracked onto the Kimberley scene on November 3^rd. Much to my amazement, and relief, nearly every registered girl came to our opening day. Not as much to my amazement, two of our coaches backed out at the last minute (an unfortunate yet not entirely unexpected occurrence) and so Thuso and I stepped in as coaches. In any of the other GRS sites, I would definitely not be the go-to backup coach. But Kimberley faces a major coaching shortage, and with Thuso already subbing in, I—the washed up college athlete who hasn’t engaged in legitimate physical activity in months—was next off the bench. It’s not ideal, and it’s definitely not Skillz Street in theory, especially considering my Setswana repertoire is still painfully minimal. But for me, it’s been the most rewarding experience in Kimberley to date.

A typical day of Skillz Street begins with a Skillz Core intervention under the careful guidance of Thuso Jones. Extracting the GRS lingo, the girls come about an hour before match time to go through one of the eight HIV/AIDS educational sessions in the GRS curriculum. As the rest of the coaches filter into the Letsego school grounds, Kristin and I (primarily Kristin—she’s a godsend) set up the short-sided fields and attempt to assemble our consistently finicky pug goals. We generally acquire the assistance of gaggles of intrigued 10-year-old onlookers. Once the teams have congregated around their respective coaches, opposing teams decide upon the fair play rules for the match. Nearly every time they choose the same rules: No insults, both teams must celebrate every goal, and an opponent must help a player up if she falls.

Matches last 20 minutes. Soccer skillz fluctuate from a complete inability to make contact with the ball and the regular use of hands, to some genuinely impressive passing and dribbling talent. My team was undefeated for the first couple of games. We’ve since hit a rough patch.

After the match the teams reconvene to discuss how well they adhered to the fair play rules. We then move on to broader discussions about our “theme for the day.” Some of the themes we’ve covered include: the importance of personal choices, teamwork, communication, and peer and community pressure on girls. As I drafted the questions that guide these discussions, I was admittedly a little skeptical about the outcome. I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the “theme of the day” in practice. Once discussion is sparked, the girls have generally far exceeded my expectations. They are smart, usually sassy, and much more aware than I ever was at their age.

After spending two or three hours with my girls twice a week throughout the month, I’ll bid them farewell when the league ends on December 3^rd. Generally the role of an intern is played out on the sidelines—coordinating, supporting, basically executing any task that will make the real game more worthwhile, more influential, more lasting. My brief stint as a Skillz Street coach has afforded me the opportunity to step onto the field, and I can’t be more thankful.

Rejuvenation

I staunchly defend the position that a blog must offer, above all else, a home for honesty. Maintaining that commitment is, I confess, easier said than typed. When writing is my primary means of both relaying, and personally digesting an experience that I was incessantly told would be wholly enriching, it’s tempting to focus on the good and gloss over the bad and the ugly. But my life here includes all three, and more.

After our weeklong Holiday Camp festivities, I was seriously worn down. I was exhausted, and while I’d seen and experienced some truly inspiring moments, I’d also seen the opposite. One day as I waited for the teams to finish their games, I watched as a small girl lost her balance and tumbled off the nearby bleachers. She curled into a little bundle of collapsed, limp limbs, and as her sobs wilted into whimpers, I saw her tears drip onto the red dirt. A gang of teenage boys sat with her on the bleachers, and at the sight of her fall, they laughed hysterically. It was a raucous, wild laugh, not the subtler, guilty laugh that sometimes slips out when someone falls or does something embarrassing. It made me sick to my stomach. I’d endured their harassment everyday throughout the week, but when I saw this, I lost my last semblance of patience. I angrily demanded why no one helped her. They continued to laugh as they twirled their index fingers beside their ears, gesturing to me that they believed she was crazy. When I helped her up and sat her back on the bleachers, she just smiled at me and repeated my name, “Lindiwe, Lindiwe.” She even laughed at the boys. I wanted her to be angry like I was, and to fight back, or at least refuse to acknowledge her cruel tormentors. She did the opposite. She indulged them. I was speechless. The entire interaction lasted only five minutes, if that, but it broke me. I was disillusioned and frustrated. I wanted to go home—all the way home.

Vonnegut said that laughter and tears are both responses to frustration and exhaustion. I met the completion of that week, including its most testing and draining experiences, with the latter.

Vonnegut preferred the former, because there is less cleaning up to do afterward.

Our camp officially ended on Friday evening after we hosted our 24 coaches for dinner at our house. The following day, Hooter and I woke up at 7am to make the 2 hour trek to Danielskuil and Lime Acres to drive our coaches home, only to be followed, naturally, by the 2 hour return home.

Our Toyota Tazz-Condor combo caravan pulled into the Gateway 2 Heaven around noon. We planned on leaving again at 2pm, this time to dribble approximately 15 kilometers through Galeshewe to raise money for Grassroot Soccer with Hooter’s previous employer, the Greenwich Country Day School. Admittedly, I would have preferred to embark upon this sure-to-be-strenuous expedition on a different day. Alas, the Connecticut counterpart of our fundraiser was scheduled for that Saturday, so I had very little choice in the matter.

Outfitted in our bright yellow Grassroot Soccer t-shirts and two partially deflated Nike soccer balls, we set out on our journey, dribbling down the quieter and well-maintained streets of Kimberley. The atmosphere changed as we neared the township limits, and we were greeted by honking cars and enthusiastic bystanders. Interest mounted as we ran through a local park and called out in Setswana.

A left turn took us onto the busiest road in Galeshewe, where we were beautifully ambushed by a horde of intrigued and excited kids. They eagerly followed as we dribbled along the bustling streets and through the lively neighborhoods of Galeshewe, garnering much attention from older onlookers. The kids were elated to pass and dribble with us, and their happiness was contagious. With every kilometer we traveled, the weight of the past week slipped away from my mind. As we entered into the heart of the township, glorious South African rain began to pour down onto us, and we took refuge in a local school. We played soccer drills under an overhang to wait out the thunder. It was sublime chaos.

When we finally began to make our way home, we had to carry some of the youngest, and most tired, kids. The rain still fell softly, and every one of us was thoroughly drenched. I had befriended a young boy early on, asking “Leina le gago ke mang?”—what is your name? I think I fell in love when he responded, “Trouble.” I carried Trouble on my back from the school to his home. I held his older brother’s hand. I think it was the happiest I’ve been since I arrived on the African continent. Honest truth. Honest good.

Our farewell to these kids was bittersweet, but we said we’d return some day to play more soccer. I believe we will. I owe them. At one of my lowest times in Kimberley, the street soccer players of Galeshewe rejuvenated me.

Holla Galeshewe Holiday Camp

Castrol South Africa, major oil producer, makes a major donation to GRS to be distributed in four sites throughout South Africa. Result in terms of my world: a five day, soccer-centric, HIV-educating, dusty dirt field, hot, arid, exhausting extravaganza, all packed into the weeklong holiday children get off from school.

The five-person team here in Kimberley split up to support two camps at separate venues, each hosting over 100 excited kids. The camps were intended to run from 10:30 to 2:30. In reality, we arrived to set up around 8am, only to find the majority of the participants already waiting for us, ready and running. Every day, without fail, we watched our intended departure time slip further and further away as our schedule fell victim to a variety of obstacles, including but not limited to: the intrusion of a herd of migrating cows on our soccer pitches, the intrusion of a herd of migrating goats on our soccer pitches, the lag time in our efforts to coordinate games and activities for over 100 kids and 13 coaches, mild to somewhat-not-so-mild dust storms, and the constant heckling/confusion/distraction generously offered by a gang of friendly yet sassy kids who stopped by to take in the scene.

Each day the participants and coaches alternated between two Grassroot Soccer educational sessions and two soccer matches, specifically focused on the values of fair play. Before each game the teams discussed and decided upon three “fair play rules” which, if followed throughout the match, could garner additional points. The most popular rules prohibited insults, required both teams to celebrate every goal scored, and stipulated that when players fell, opponents had to help them up. The execution of said rules was generally varied, ranging from unfortunate and blatant disregard to genuine and uplifting adherence.

On the final day we brought in a voluntary counseling and testing partner organization, New Start, to offer players of legal age (14+) and coaches the opportunity to be tested for HIV. Four representatives from the organization came to our site. They worked out of two tents set up a few yards away from our fields, providing pre and post-counseling along with the test itself. The entire process takes under an hour.

The testing component of the camp was easily the most charged event of the week. Every individual that tested, or even considered testing, surely experienced a sense of fear and anxiety that I struggle to describe, much less truly understand. In speaking with our coaches—the individuals who dedicate hours and hours of their time per week to educate about HIV—and hearing even their concerns about testing, I began to more fully realize the intense and complex implications that accompany the testing process. While some coaches decided that they weren’t ready to take that step, many others decided differently.

Zweli, an unusually tall, lanky, and loud coach from Danielskuil, recounted his testing experience to me as I drove a group of coaches home after the camp. He explained that, knowing of the VCT opportunity at the end of the camp, he’d struggled between the temptation and the fear to know his status throughout the entire week. When he encouraged his team to test, they responded with a challenge—a challenge for their coach to test along with them. Armed with this motivation, Zweli attended pre-counseling with every member of his team who tested. He waited for and spoke with every player after they received their results, and finally, he followed through on his promise.

As we drove through the vast, flat landscape back to Danielskuil, Zweli brought me along for the ride of his emotional roller coaster. He concluded his story by explaining that it was the courage of his players that finally convinced him to learn his status. He told me that he was proud of them, not only for their own courage, but also for the courage that they instilled within him. Zweli is a remarkable coach. He’s energetic, enthusiastic and fully engaged. But at that moment, when attention shifted away from Zweli and instead towards his team, I’d never been more impressed by him.

Thankfully, every member of Zweli’s team who tested was HIV negative. But in a country where, statistically speaking, 20 of our 100 participants should be HIV positive, Zweli’s team was most likely an exception. Out of the 28 individuals who were tested at our camps, one tested positive. He is 15 years old.

Testing results remain entirely confidential. If people test positive they immediately receive post-test counseling and are referred to a local clinic equipped to provide further care, including anti-retroviral treatment. Unfortunately, consistency is essential for the effectiveness of treatment, and this consistency is rarely realized. It’s a surreal experience to suddenly know, with certainty, that one of the kids that attended our camp all week is HIV positive. It’s nearly impossible to fathom his experience: to learn within minutes, from a complete stranger, in only a light fabric tent raised above the dirt ground, that he will live the rest of his life with knowledge of his positive status. I’m afraid for him. I’m overwhelmed by the hugely daunting challenges I imagine his future will hold. He is 15 years old.

Joyful

I found out today that my avocado-stocking friend at our friendly neighborhood Pick n Pay is named "Joy." I can imagine nothing more fitting.

A Little Goes a Long Way

At the risk of flaunting my capacity for the cliché, sometimes the smallest, most seemingly insignificant gestures and interactions have meant the most to me here. I find that my memories of events and larger experiences have already begun to fade into an overall abstract, indefinite place in my mind. The abstract is marked, however, by a handful of acute memories—moments that stand out as particularly joyful, and sometimes genuinely heartwarming.

In an effort to recruit over 200 kids for our upcoming soccer/HIV and AIDS education event, my fellow intern Hooter and I took to the streets of Galeshewe, visiting 10 different schools, three days in a row, to drop off and retrieve necessary forms. We spoke with teachers and school principals who were both eager and thankful to get their students involved, and we waved and smiled incessantly at rowdy, uniformed kids. On the last day before the holiday break, we stopped by all of the schools to drop off “Yellow Cards”—our hopeful attempt to make the participants actually show up the following Monday.

At our last school, as I frantically rushed to color in the final cards, my yellow colored pencil was dwindling. I awkwardly attempted to whittle the tip of the pencil with a scissor blade. My fumbling hands, outstretched from our car window, must have been comically visible, because without even noticing her presence, I was gently nudged by a young girl. She didn’t say a word, but she opened her palm flat, revealing a tiny metal pencil sharpener. I thanked her profusely, and at an unfortunately high octave due to this unexpected thoughtfulness. I sharpened my pencil as quickly as I could, returned the device to her little hand, and watched as she scampered off away from our car.

I was blown away. It seems so ridiculous, but it totally struck me. I was giddy for the rest of the afternoon. She was probably surprised when I assaulted her with my excessive gratitude, but it just flowed out of me. I can only hope to make a similar impact with such a simple gesture someday.

Interestingly, yet unsurprisingly, even the world of sports is largely segregated in South Africa, especially in Kimberley. White Afrikaners doggedly support their favorite rugby teams, while soccer is life for most black South Africans. At “The Halfway House,” the local bar we’ve begun to frequent, two large “Natal Sharks” statues preside over the courtyard. On a random weekend night at the Half, I once asked an Afrikaner man if he was going to attend a big upcoming soccer match. He laughed in my face. Galeshewe, on the other hand, is dotted with red dirt soccer fields. Painted emblems of favorite South African soccer teams brand most houses. When we saw a Bloemfontein Celtics game, we were quite possibly the only white people in a packed stadium seating over 20,000. (An experience that deserves its own post…if only motivation wasn’t’ so hard to come by.)

In an extremely, seriously extremely, rare turn of events, the South African national soccer team, Bafana Bafana, rolled into Kimberley, of all places, to play an international friendly match against the Malagasy national team. Somewhat ironically, they displaced the local professional rugby team, and the once predominantly white populated stadium assumed an entirely new character, as hundreds of black Bafana fans filed into the stands. The stadium erupted when Bafana finally scored the only goal of the match late in the second half.

As we meandered our way out of the stands to beat the post-game rush, we exchanged Bafana cheers with the crazy, yellow-clad fans in front of us. One man looked at our little string of white soccer fanatics and said “Thank you. I’ll be at the next rugby match.” It happened so quickly I almost missed what he was actually saying to us. I returned his smile and waved as the flow of the exiting crowd pushed us steadily forward.

Bafana Fans

Language seems to be somewhat of a dividing force here in Kimberley. While I’ve encountered many black children and adults who speak both English and Afrikaans, in addition to their native Setswana, I have yet to meet an Afrikaner who utters a word of Setswana. Necessity breeds change, and apparently Afrikaans works. I guess language will probably remain a one-way (drive-in-the-left-lane) type of street, for now.

This communication dynamic has largely motivated me to pick up a little Setswana here and there, primarily through daily harassment of Thuso. After countless humbling yet hilarious attempts to mimic the more guttural sounds Thuso so effortlessly voices, I’ve perfected a few key phrases.

Today, as I perused the produce aisle in our local Pick n Pay, I smiled at an older black employee as he stocked avocados. He had a wrinkled, friendly face, and his dark hair faded into an endearing gray border meeting his forehead. I timidly uttered “Dumela rra”—Hello sir—and his smile lit up. He responded, “Le kae?”—How am I. I said I was fine, and asked about him, all in Setswana. He grabbed onto my arm and practically hugged me right then and there. Right next to the avocados. He laughed affectionately as I explained that, unfortunately, I had already exhausted my Setswana vocabulary. I assured him that I’d work on it and return to speak to him. I could tell just by looking at him that he believed me, and he believed in me. Well, I couldn’t really tell that he believed in me just by looking at him. He actually told me that.

Either way, I’m looking forward to our next conversation, after I pick Thuso’s brain a little more. I’m hoping I’ll get another hug.

Food for Thought

“Diamonds are nothing more than chunks of coal that stuck to their jobs.”
Malcolm S. Forbes

Lime Acres and Danielskuil

It was with both great excitement and closeted anxiety that I set out on my journey to the only remaining sites the Kimberley team will support—Lime Acres and Danielskuil—two small mining communities about a two-hour drive northeast of Kimberley. Six human bodies traveled happily along together through hot, non air-conditioned desert air, and we bounced and bumped into Danielskuil in the late afternoon. I don’t know what I expected. I don’t know if I expected anything. But what I found was a community that, upon first glance, seemed to consist entirely of a massive De Beers mine, a pretty hefty eyesore of clustered industrial mining equipment, and a nearby small but sprawling township.

The township itself didn’t stand out to me structurally. Like the others I’d seen, it was made up of grids of small, block homes, each individually fenced off. But at some point during my conversations with the local coaches, and the brilliantly alight transition into another desert evening, a transition I’ve begun to fully await and love, I began to see the exception that is Danielskuil. Admittedly, Kimberley does have a charm of its own, but this community alone has really struck me as uniquely, almost strangely beautiful. The coaches in both Lime Acres and Danielskuil seem warmer than those I’ve met in the city. They are blatantly genuine. In my eyes at least, they simply desire to be part of GRS—to be part of a large team and an even grander cause. It’s a quality that seems somewhat standard, and yet I’ve found is as rare as it is inspiring.

I think there was some unnamable appeal in the confluence of my interaction with these people and my perception of their home. As the sun goes down here, light hits red dirt roads, casting warm, brown-orange glow up onto the homes, and dramatic deep pink flowers catch the eye. I’m no wordsmith. My depictions, I’ll be the first to admit, usually come out on the more cliché side of the spectrum from boring to brilliant. But the scene here, despite my self-proclaimed poetic impotence, is truly, and somewhat peacefully, beautiful.

We left these communities in the full dark of a rural, desert night. I couldn’t see the townships as we chugged along home, back to the booming and bustling metropolis of Kimberley on a weekday night.

I’m so excited and eager to begin working with these people. Ever a country type of girl, I can’t wait to return to the rural roots.

Thuso Jones

Thuso Edwin Jones (Pronounced “too-so”… Edwin Jones). Enough said.

Not really. Not enough could be said. Our once endearingly soft-spoken, questionably spacey Assistant Site Coordinator has unquestionably won the hearts and faith of the Kimberley Team. As has been very consistently discussed in these parts, Thuso Jones oozes integrity. That’s really the best way to describe him.

Thuso volunteered as a GRS coach in his home community in Danielskuil a few years ago. He simultaneously worked in the De Beers mine there to support his family, specifically his two younger brothers and his outrageously, wonderfully, make-my-ovaries-pang-she’s so cute, baby sister. When we visited his home in Danielskuil, I saw him hold her and kiss her tiny hands, and I literally thought my heart was going to explode. After leaving GRS to more fully assume the responsibility of providing for his family, Thuso was able to return to our organization to take on a paid position as our Assistant Site Coordinator in Kimberley. His name means "help." Amazing.

I truly believe that “Thus,” as we’ve fondly dubbed him, is largely responsible for any successes GRS Kimberley has had since he was hired. He commands a subtle, quiet leadership among our sometimes-unruly coaches, and he stealthily but efficiently keeps the day-to-day details in order. Beyond these administrative tasks, however, Thuso’s true and unique gift lies in the coaching realm. Once a coach himself, Thus steps in when our coaches can’t make an intervention. I’ve been fortunate enough to witness him in action on a few occasions, allowing me a glimpse into one of the most surprising—and glorious—transitions imaginable. Our shy and ever earnest pseudo-boss transforms into a charismatic, energetic, teacher-coach extraordinaire. When Thuso teaches, his smile dominates the room. It seeps into every student at the intervention. His reach is truly remarkable. Define: “dark horse.”

Thuso is my age, and yet the burdens and hardships he’s carried in his life are unfathomable to me. I have very serious respect for what he’s accomplished, and nothing but great admiration for the modesty and kindness he radiates despite the challenges he’s faced. I’m thrilled to have the opportunity and good fortune to work with him for an entire year.

A New Vision

The issues and events that lead up to sexual behavior, especially sexual behavior of the highest risk, are so complex and so intimate that attempts to significantly influence this behavior seem wholly daunting—on some days, futile. Across the world, we all act in ways we know we shouldn’t. Education and awareness are powerful, but so are a variety of other factors that push people of all ages in the opposite direction. How do we tip the scale? What makes GRS different?

For years billions of dollars and resources have been poured into HIV/AIDS prevention and care programs, and while these efforts have seen some success, the statistics remain shocking. What’s done is done, but the results haven’t been good enough, and mediocrity shouldn’t be emulated. I think GRS has recognized this, and its constant determination to improve its curriculum and develop new angles to reach the kids is really encouraging to me. Even if it’s not quite there yet, I truly believe that GRS is well on its way to implementing a new, innovative, and remarkably promising approach to HIV and AIDS prevention.

It’s fascinating to watch “interventions,” as they’re called, or the primary mode of delivery of Grassroot Soccer’s core curriculum. This curriculum is comprehensive and uniquely streamlined, and GRS devotes a great deal of resources to the development of coaches and their ability to deliver this curriculum in an accurate and engaging manner. Throughout the eight sessions, kids participate in a program that integrates soccer and basic HIV/AIDS information, along with such themes as self-esteem building and the development of a sense of self-efficacy. Learning is activity-based, and GRS coaches act as positive older role models for the kids. Of course, this is all in theory. Practice is something different and it can always be improved. From what I’ve observed, interventions vary a lot from site to site and day to day. Most I’ve watched are definitely less effective and seamless as Grassroot Soccer markets. Even in my short time with GRS, however, I have seen an exception—an extraordinarily inspiring exception.

Samito is a short, slight man with long dread-locked hair and a bright and boyish grin. He’s likeable from the moment you meet him; he’s genuine, friendly and charismatic at once. On my first day, rather my first hour, in Mangaung, the major township outside of Bloemfontein, I watched Samito and an assistant female coach, Kamo, lead an outstanding GRS session. Samito’s delivery of the curriculum was textbook, or it would be if such a textbook existed. But more importantly, and unlike the other interventions I’d seen, this session quite obviously captivated the students. Or perhaps more accurately, Samito captivated the students. Samito captivated me. He seems like he was born to be a teacher—to interact with and reach out to kids. I’m realizing more and more every day what a truly exceptional gift that is. Teaching is an art, and a passion, and Samito excels at both. That session stands out to me as proof of the possibility of excellence in the Grassroot Soccer world.

Beyond these success stories, “GRS in theory” promises even more avenues for real progress in the realm of HIV and AIDS prevention. It is increasingly accepted that behavior change involves more than strictly education and awareness. And it involves even more than positive older role models, especially if such role models can’t play the ideal long-term role in a child’s life. To have a shot at cutting to the core of sexual behavior, GRS and other prevention-focused efforts will have to move up to reach people through a community level, or a cultural level. And I believe that this is what GRS has done, or is in the process of doing now. The creation of a “Skillz” culture that will allow the messages of GRS to permeate throughout a community is an overarching goal that promises greater sustainability and influence of the original GRS-student interface. Street soccer leagues are one component of this new strategy; they are intended to further develop and reinforce the unique “Skillz” culture, while simultaneously creating a safe space for youth, especially girls, to participate in sports. GRS has also allied itself with a major African broadcasting company to continue to reach people at levels beyond the initial interventions. In a similar vein, GRS has developed a curriculum-based, extremely marketable magazine to reiterate its key messages and further capitalize on the enormous appeal of soccer and soccer stars in South Africa.

Altogether, these varying angles and methods of reaching out to people seem to be well researched and uniquely entrepreneurial, which I find promising. The logic behind a more community-based approach to HIV/AIDS prevention makes sense. And the necessity of a more business-like strategy—complete with various marketing, accountability, and oversight components—seems undeniable. I’m thoroughly grateful to have the opportunity to participate in this new and ever-improving GRS vision.