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.