I'm Official.

Hey ladies, gentlemen, and those of you who have yet to make up your minds -
I am sitting at the computer on a lovely Friday evening. Mac is in the kitchen, preparing for a braae. The delicious smell of garlic is snaking it's way through the house.
I can't write long, I just wanted to tell you the news. Basically, I'm amazing. Mom, don't read this.
I just got back from the World's Highest Bungee Bridge. Even on the first bounce, it is still higher than the second tallest bungee bridge. The facility has a pub - very advantageous. On the deck, you can watch people plunge straight down into the gorge. You can pay to jump off, or just take a walk along the side. I jumped.
First, I had to sit while these padded straps were wrapped around my ankles. I had to put my arms around these two (boisterous, hilarious, jibing) guys, and they helped me hop to the edge. They started to count down, and I bellowed - "No, wait!" "There is no time for waiting," they said, so I bent my knees and leaped into the air.
Before I felt the tension on the bungee, I was convinced that I would fall straight into the weak, muddy river below. My arms were out, like they might somehow help me fly instead of fall. I could feel the wind pounding at my cheeks, rushing into my ears and back out again. I stretched my feet, trying to find solid ground in the middle of the sky. It was only about a five second fall. But then, the bungee tightened and I was pulled back up again. I swung under the bridge, then flew up again. After a bit, the bouncing lessened and I was simply hanging upside-down from a concrete bridge.
A man in a hazard-red shirt belayed himself down to rescue me. He hooked my harness up to his, and slowly tipped me right side up. He told me his name was Spiderman, and I told him that mine was Grace. Actually, it was a rather enjoyable conversation, never mind the fact that we were hanging above an enormous ravine.
It was absolutely terrifying. Pee your pants terrifying. Cry to your mom terrifying. But I couldn't have gone back to the States without jumping, not when the bridge was right down the street.
Later, Chris, Mira, and I drove to The Mill - an artisan village, of sorts. There were Mohair goats grazing in the sun, and piles of scarves and blankets displayed in the nearby warehouse. Everyone recognized the number written on my hand - written by the guys at the bridge - and I immediately had this common ground with a group full of strangers. Even now, my chest is still wrapped up tight. I can still feel the ground fall out from under me, hear nothing but the wind in my head.
Oh, and when we were leaving, there was quite a commotion back at the harness-area. A group of about fifteen English guys in Adidas Speedos were getting suited up to jump. I can only imagine how cold they were, standing practically nekkid at the top of the bridge. Good luck to you guys, wherever your Speedo bums are.
(olive juice.)
P.S. Okay, Mom. You can start reading here. Love you.

Birds of a Feather...are Creepy.

Hello to my few but loyal followers!
I don't know how it happened, but I just slept through a whole night. At the right time. This is a miracle. I am finally past jet-lag. Now, I am dreading my first week back in the States. I'll have to do this all over again!
The house is still quiet, with just about four of us still left behind. Today is Chris' birthday, but I'm not sure when he is coming back. He and Gerald called last night, said they won fifth place. Of course, I don't know how many people competed. That could mean fifth place out of five hundred or fifth place out of sixth. I'll let you know.
We had a brie on Friday night. It's a barbecue, a South African tradition. While we lounged around the fire pit outside, Rocky threw an array of meats on the grill. We ate with our fingers, and the food was so good that barely anyone spoke while at the table. Rocky and Maritjie invited some friends over for the event - some good, some bad. I spoke for a while with this one guy - Richard - who resembled an aging hippie who never quite got a hold on the aging part. He wore a small, crocheted rainbow cap which barely covered his mop of wiry gray hair. A matching gray moustache adorned his face, hiding most of his mouth and extending as far as his cheeks. We talked about the chaos of religion, about my wants, about his downfalls. I liked the way he explained things. He was careful, but not constrained. He closed his eyes while he was searching for the right words, then sent them from the confines of his mind, down through his mouth and past his bristling moustache. We had a languid conversation, let our words find their own meanings in the black of the night.
And one drunken soul disrupted. Arnie, walking unsteadily since arriving, was all over. His words, his howls, his fumbling arms - crashed into everything. He kept asking for my name, even after I had told him. Once, he stood on the badly-constructed table by the fire pit, then proceeded to come tumbling back down. Everyone scrambled to catch things that had been flung off the table - cups, mobiles, Arnie himself. But he only continued into the night, with his bumbling body following slightly behind.
When I woke up the next morning, Arnie had already gone. Whether it was on his own behalf or someone else's, I don't know. A few hours later, I found myself at...Monkey Land! It's just down the street from here, past Kurland. There's this enormous enclosure of forest, filled with about 300 rescued monkeys. Some were lab monkeys, some were pets that weren't supposed to be, and some were injured by hunters. I followed through the jungle's canopy, listening as the guide described which hooligans were swinging above our heads. Atlas, the only white woolly monkey, followed behind us the entire time. His echoing howls erupted all around us. We saw all sorts of monkeys - lithe lemurs with their striped tails swinging below them; tiny yellow ones, brave enough to zig-zag across the path; brown capuchins, bored at the very sight of us. There was pointing and picture-taking, and lots of "ooh-ing" and "ahh-ing."
Across the parking lot is Birds of Eden. It is the world's largest enclosed aviary. From the outside, it is just an enormous net, held in the sky by a few stretching metal towers. Once inside, I was met by a completely different sight. Green, surrounded by green, surrounded by more green. I followed the ups and downs of the wooden boardwalk, keeping my head towards the tops of trees. The sound of cooing, of cawing and chirping and every other sort of call came from all around. At the top of the sanctuary, I could spot great expanses of the net. Parrots adorned with rainbow colors opened their enormous wings and took flight. Small birds, big birds, white birds, black birds. Birds with iridescent blue feathers and still more with yellow-rimmed eyes.
There was one bird with a vendetta against me. We met towards the front, when I had to pass by him. He had these beady, pomegranate-red eyes. He flew behind me, watched me as I turned every corner. What a stool pigeon.
Then, my camera died. As I neared the end, I saw the most bizarre sight. A fading pink flamingo, surrounded by these cat-sized red birds. Red, like they were strung up by their feet and dipped in paint. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, or Dr. Seuss. And there I was, with no camera to take evidence. You guys will never see what I saw. I think I might be a bit crazier for it.
Today is Sunday. I go back to the creche tomorrow, maybe to teach another art class. I help wherever I am needed.
(olive juice.)

Here's to You, Mr. Auclair

Hello, Portlanders - wherever you are in the world.
Happy International Labor Day! I hope you are celebrating by lazing around and not lifting a finger. I know I am.
It is about nine in the morning here, and the house is quiet. Max and Bella - the two little kids who were staying here with their parents - had to leave this morning. Max tried to trick me into coming back with them. He said I could drive them to school and pick them up again, and do work on the computer when they are gone. I told him maybe when I finish college - oh, I'm sorry, university. College here means K through 12. Then comes university.
Chris is gone for the weekend, too. He was invited to be a part of the South African team in an international bocce tournament. So he hitched a ride out of town, and now we are down about six people.
Yesterday was my first day at the creche - a preschool, of sorts, for the kids in Kurland. The building is quite small, with only about three classrooms and a hallway. There's a playground structure on the side yard, and only a few trees for shade. But still, it is always bustling. Rocky dropped me off at about nine in the morning, and I was immediately thrown into the art classroom. I stood there for a bit, with about thirty sets of seven-year-old eyes staring back at me. Then, the room erupted with noise. Let the wild ruckus begin, right?
We started coloring pictures of barnyard animals - pigs, sheep, cows, ducks, chickens. The room was filled with loud attempts at imitating such creatures, which made for a pretty hilarious soundtrack. Then, we went about cutting the pictures out. That's when things went awry. I found bits of paper sheep heads littering the ground, duck feet flying out the window, tiny cows fluttering in one girl's hair. A gruesome paper sight. As you can see, we need to work on our scissor skills. We did not make it to the glue stage.
But the whole time, we were laughing. Little hands tugging at my shirt, wanting recognition for the rainbow animals they had made. The boys at the back table laughed every time I said "very good," made them teach me how to form the foreign words. And all around, little voices calling out "Fro! Fro!" to get my attention. When snack time hit, I was suddenly bombarded with pleas to rip open lollipops, to unscrew the impossibly stuck caps from soda bottles. At break, when everyone made their way outside, five little girls stayed behind. We ran around the room, making a contest of clean-up duties. And all the time, just laughing.
I know I shouldn't play favorites, but my heart can't help it. There's this one little girl, Lollie. She's about four, but she can speak better english than anyone in my class. A tiny girl, with little features to match. And when I had to say goodbye, she stood on the steps and waved.
I'll be heading back to the creche on Monday, teaching a different age group in the last classroom to the left. But this is where you guys come in: I need to create my own sustainable project for Kurland. The creche lets out at about one, and I am supposed to think up some after school project for both me and the kids. Past volunteers have hosted soccer lessons, or painted murals on the school walls. But we all know I would be hopeless in those capacities. I was thinking I could set up some sort of link between here and home, some system of donations or awareness. But other than that, I've got nothing. So help me! Drop me a line, tell me about all of your brilliant ideas. You guys are in college now, you're supposed to be smart. This is your assignment.
(olive juice.)
P.S. Hey Sophie - when the kids count to ten in Afrikaans, it sounds just like Dutch.

Bocce? I never knew.

Hello, world.
It is about six o'clock here in The Crags. It's not too cold, because the sun hasn't gone down yet. But just you wait.
Yesterday was a national holiday - Freedom Day, to commemorate the day Nelson Mandela walked free from prison. Did you know that Nelson Mandela is not even close to his real name? Both his first and last name are nicknames, and they just sort of stuck. You learn a lot on a twelve hour flight.
SO. Rocky Road is unbelievable. Even in autumn, everything is lush and green. The wind is breathing, working it's way through the leaves in the trees. With every barefoot step in the grass, little locusts pop up. If I move slowly, I can hear their tiny legs hitch as they jump.
Yesterday, Chris, Rocky, and I drove to this little beach that's so out of the way, only natives go there. We had to wind our way through the mountains, driving on the old highway. Rocky said that about six years ago, somebody spotted a leopard on the road - but nobody has seen one since. The beach is about two kilometers long, and it's absolutely beautiful. It was low tide, but not with that on-the-Maine-marsh stench. The water looks a bit darker than back home. And the horizon, more final. At low tide, the rocks are uncovered - these enormous collections of sharp stones. Some are covered with black mollusk shells reaching upwards. The water feels the same, though. Imagine that - a million miles away and the sea is moving with the same water.
Today, we went to Kurland Village. I can see it from the driveway, over the valleys of brown and green. They don't use the word "townships" anymore, unless you're a tourist. The smell of sewage, of this aching decay, filters by every once in a while. But the stinging stench of acid and sulfur - the only smell that I couldn't stomach back in Guatemala City - cannot be found. It's because they don't cook drugs here, they use alcohol instead. It's cheap, it's easy. It's also fatal. There are these bags of wine for sale, barely a buck. They scramble up your brain so much, now there's a Surgeon General's Warning, of sorts, on the bag. It says "Don't drink and walk in the streets." Two people have gotten hit and killed that way, just on this road alone.
There hasn't been any rain lately, so the roads in Kurland are dry. But when the rain does come, the dirt just spits it back out. Entire houses drown, nothing to save them. Nothing to do but wait for the sun to dry up the damage.
There isn't much money flowing through the village. Rocky says that he still doesn't know how people find a way to eat here. The only flow of help comes from a few devoted charities. A Safe House - for abused and neglected children - funded by a German woman and her volunteers. Rocky Road - not fishing for them, but teaching them to do it themselves. And a few driven villagers, working with a government that's only fighting harder against them. There's a school, but children need uniforms to attend. When money gets tight(er), that's the first thing to go. There's a creche - a daycare, of sorts - but not enough teachers to look after so many children. There's a clinic, but nobody there speaks the native language. At every step, something to hammer them further into the ground. And this is the way they live.
But still, where the smoke sifts, some light still finds it's way. People smile, they wave and laugh. They sweep their sidewalks, pick up the trash that the wind blows around. They find pride in what they have, and hope to build something stronger.
Last night, a family arrived here. The man, from France; the woman, from South Africa. They met a while back, and now have two adopted children from here.They live in Johannesburg - JoBurg, to all South Africans. The two kids are absolutely hilarious. Max is the older, at six. He has an "M" carved into the hair on the back of his head. Right now, he's wearing a red "Wildcats" jersey. I asked him what the Wildcats are from, and he replied with "High School Musical, of course!" He's smart and social, and we are pretty much best friends now. The younger one, Bella, is three. She's adorable, of course - all smiles and laughs. Both kids are bilingual - french and english. It makes me feel pretty inadequate. They came to teach some of the kids at Kurland about bocce ball, which is HA-YUGE here. We're talking tournaments that yield about 15,000 participants. We drove to the village this afternoon, and I retrieved runaway balls (ahaha.) as the older kids learned to play. After a while, I sat on the sidelines to take pictures. We're trying to gather a collection of videos and photographs here, to make more people understand what Rocky Road does. Of course, these kids have some sort of sonar that attracts them to anyone with a camera. I got about, oh, a bajillion pictures. They love posing, and seeing the picture seconds later. I made friends with this seven year-old, Shanelle, who still had her backpack on. We took pictures together, taught words to each other, and she asked if I would be back tomorrow. Definitely.
I'll be working at the creche, come Thursday. We visited this morning, on a bit of a tour. When Chris and I were walking through the empty halls - all the kids outside - a little girl in braids threw her arms around my legs. I hugged her back, and she smiled shyly before turning away. Once outside, another group of girls ambushed me. They asked for my name, practiced the foreign sound with their mouths. Then, they grabbed hold of my wrist and pressed all the buttons, watching as the numbers changed.
Rocky told me not to get attached, but I'm already wrapped around their little fingers. I just hope I can find the strength to say goodbye. Otherwise, come visit me at Christmas.
(olive juice.)

And so it begins...

Hey, fambly. And more fambly.
I just arrived at the Rocky Road House in The Crags, South Africa. I'm safe, unscathed, in one piece.
Of course, that's not to say the days in transit were rough. The flight to Amsterdam was fantastic, though. I split four entire seats with this guy from England who had just completed the Boston Marathon. I read SkyMall and dreamt of a home filled with unnecessary - but still useful! - Made for TV products. You never know when you'll need a collection of Set it and Forget it! Pots.
The flight from Amsterdam to Cape Town didn't quite go down the same way. An elderly man in the row beside me had a (little) heart attack. Luckily, there were two (female) doctors on the flight, and they just kicked butt. We had to make a pit stop in Botwswana to let him and his wife off, who both ended up being fine. We made it to South Africa about two hours late, but my connection wasn't until the next morning.
Ahem, let me repeat that. The next morning. Oh, and did you know that South Africa is hosting the 2010 FIFA World Cup? They're completely reconstructing their airport to accomodate the wave of tourists. Imagine the fantastic, epic-ness of the Big Dig - just smashed into the middle of an international jetport. But I gathered the courage to ask a few people for help, and finally wound my way to the domestic terminal.
I arrived in George, and Gert picked me up in his sweet cruiser. As we drove across the mountains, I couldn't help but picture Guatemala. The land here doesn't have the same patchwork hillsides, but it comes close. The only thing that was missing was the pitching of the van to avoid endless potholes.
One of the hosts, Rocky, met Gert and me in a parking lot about an hour outside of George. He gave me a tour of Plettenberg Bay, which is almost too good to be true. The whole city tilts downwards into the water, into this enormous cove of perfect blue swells. There isn't much of that strangling heat, because it's autumn here. When the wind picks up, though, it carries the chill of the ocean towards you.
We drove to Rocky Road about three hours later, and the place is unbelievable. There's so much green here, even in the cooler months. There's an outside bathtub surrounded by a bamboo hut, and it looks out over the forest. The patio out back is completed by a well-worn fire pit, which I can't wait to try. There's space to breathe.
I would love to tell you more, but I am in desperate need of a shower and a nap. I just wanted to let you know that I got here, safe and sound. I miss you guys already!
P.S. Tomcat, I am fine! Stop worrying!
(olive juice.)

Still in the 207

Hey, guys.

It is Easter Sunday, and I am sitting in the kitchen with good ol' Walter. He is eating all the gross-flavored jelly beans for me, so life is good.

  There are officially ten days left until take-off. Then, I will be headed to South Africa for three fantastic months. Of course, it's going to take me a good two straight days in transit to get there. I have to take a plane from Boston to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Cape Town, and Cape Town to George. I'll have about seven hours in layover time, which means lots of time for books and people-watching. 

I promise to take a bajillion pictures, and to write everything down. I'm taking my red leather journal, just like I did in the fall. Right now, it still smells like Panditas and my dank water shoes that I left in Costa Rica. But I plan to rub some new memories into it, too. I can't wait!

(olive juice.)