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.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Sunday, May 3, 2009
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.)
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.)
Friday, May 1, 2009
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.
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.
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