Morning of the big meeting. I couldn’t help but feel like we were just starting a professional basketball game. [Enter Chicago Bulls starting line-up music now] [In the classic announcer voice:]Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome the catalyst of the Computer Volunteer Teaching Team. Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit’s Anne! Although she’s a temporary volunteer visiting from Amsterdam; she was the first to unlock and turn on computers in the past 3 months! Next, we have your MVP from I-SAN-DLWANA: Musamuhle! She’s a young, recent technical college grad with computer skills and decided to start her career volunteering at the primary school. Finally, last but certainly not least, let’s give it up for the strongest part-time volunteer: Simonie! She’s a South African employee at the lodge and decided to help with computers in her little spare time. The music faded in my head but their presence gave me hope that this team would make a computer class a reality, or at least a strong possibility.
We all hugged one another, excited for our first meeting to construct a plan for the following year. The assembly bell rang and we shuffled off to attend before business began. Having a token white person standing among the teachers had become normal. Two, with myself and Anne, the past week was distracting. Three white people (Anne, Simonie and yours truly) resulted in half the learners just starring to their direct left. I cleared my throat many times and gave kids The Teacher Eye that translates across all cultures to “You should be paying attention!” My efforts to have them focus on assembly were clearly a drop in the ocean of foreign diversity. Children picked their noses and starred on.
The children closed their eyes to pray and it became clear that one child was crying. Anne, with the typical Westerner reaction, immediately dove her arms into the crowd and fished out the crying child, lifted her up, wrapped her arms around the child and saved the poor girl. Simonie and a few teachers moved closer to the child; I remained standing by, attempting to restore normality.
The teacher leading assembly continued on without reacting. I tried to listen to her but was interrupted by Anne’s “Awwwww!” and “Sorry my baby!!” high pitched comments. Simonie petted her back, “You okay my darling?” echoing in a baby voice. Yup, all children were now starring at the overreacting white people. The class teacher was asking the child (in an adult voice) where the pain is, what happened, what is wrong, etc. Anne, holding the child’s head to her chest, turns to me and symmetrically asked, “Can you do your Zulu magic and make sure this child goes to the hospital and not to a witch doctor?” I felt like responding, “You know these teachers understand you when you speak English?” but said, “Sure,” instead with a small nod. My exciting Computer Volunteer Teaching Team was turning into a team of freaking out white people. Lame.
The children were excused from assembly and the crying girl was taken back to her grade 1 class with the teacher. Anne and Simonie, looking terrified, ran out of the hall and demanded to see the girl again. “She’s in the grade 1 room,” I said, hoping their drama would simmer.
“Katie, honestly. She must go to a hospital.”
I sighed, “It’ll be fine, guys. They will take care of her. We can go see how things are going and check up on the girl–”
“Yes. We must.”
I took them to the grade 1 class. Anne picked the girl up again and took her to the main office to set her down on a table. “I know first aid. Katie, translate for me.” I wish I had my own First Aid credentials on me to throw in Anne’s face and say that the girl needs to get to the clinic and that this is beyond a first aid concern. I exhaled.
The poor Zulu child was a deer in the headlights surrounded by white people and in pain. A few teachers entered and we determined the girl had a fever, really hot lower legs and feet, and her tongue was in pain. She was feeling sick on the way to school but didn’t miss, like a good kid. The teacher called the girl’s gogo and Simonie offered to take her to the hospital.
As it became clearer that I was getting dragged into this, I spoke up, “Guys, it’s going to be fine. People get sick here and they deal with it. We can go to the free clinic and pick up her gogo on the way if that’s fine. We shouldn’t get too much in the middle of this. We don’t even speak the language, alright?”
The girl lived in my section of town, with the Thusini family. I shockingly was able to confidently assure the teachers that I did, in fact, know where that family lived. The team loaded into the car with a crying, shaking girl.
I hopped out of the car when we were near the house. As I started to bolt for the Thusini rondaval, I thought I’d better make sure I’ve got the right home. “Sisi,” I said to the girl, “Uhlala lapho, yebo?” (Sister, you stay there, yes?)
“Cha.” (No.)
Damn, I thought, Why are there only 5 different surnames in my entire village?! I picked her up and explained to the whities that I had the wrong home. I carried her and followed her winding directions to the other side of the section. I found her gogo and explained that I had a car to take her to the clinic. She thanked me and carried her little one to another home. I returned to the car and instructed them to drive closer so we didn’t have to delay. Gogo and the girl had been inside for about 5 minutes when I decided to walk up to the house and check out things. I was invited in and found a witch doctor pulling out various plastic bottles, a broken bull’s horn, and porcupine bristles. I was offered a seat on the bed.
After another 10 minutes, Anne and Simonie peaked their heads through the door and entered. Simonie stood next to the Sangoma and outwardly displayed her judgment while Anne sat down next to me. The Sangoma dipped the bristles into the bottles that an American would label ‘empty’ to soak up any reminding oil. He instructed her gogo to hold her still, then took this muthi (traditional medicine) and poked the bristles into her skin. He pierced the skin up and down her legs, around her feet, up her back, down her arms, over her head. The girl screamed and alligator tears rolled down her cheeks. Anne sqeezed my hand. “It’s fine,” I whispered. Blood beaded all over her limbs. All I could think was that her worn out school uniform was so thin from having to be washed countless times because she probably only has one or two dresses she must re-wear daily. Simonie walked out during the second round. The three women in the room looked at me and laughed at the fact that Simonie was scared by this medicine. The poor girl looked back at Anne and I, puffy face, blood dripping down her legs, arms restricted by her gogo. Her red eyes seemed to be crying out to us: SAVE ME. Her legs began to shake as the ‘healing’ continued. The healer would pause, and see if she could put weight on her feet. If not, he would stab on, focusing around the problem foot. When he would put the tools down and let her stand, I could almost hear Anne silently cheering with me, Come on, girl! Just put more weight on it. Make it stop! We remained for the entire process, including the bull’s horn ‘treatment.’
The truth was that my gut was screaming out to grab that girl and slap that traditional healer across the face for hurting her. I was with Anne and Simonie on this one. I didn’t agree with hurting a child that was already in tremendous pain. I’ve learned to control my reactions, make them more culturally acceptable. But that never changes what makes your stomach churn.
Soon enough, we loaded up with the gogo and the child and drove them to the clinic. They sat down in the packed waiting room. Simonie looked at me, “Will they have to wait?”
“Yeah.” I responded as I realized that it may be hours.
“And when they are done, how will they return home?” Simonie continued.
“As they usually do, by foot.”
“All that way?” Anne worried.
“Yup.”
