We spent two weeks in South Africa in June and July of 2004, touring through Johannesburg (Jo'burg, for the ultra hip!) and the north eastern province of Limpopo. We are in the process of producing a documentary on a well-known South African artist, Kim Berman, and her efforts to fight poverty and disease through art. More as we get photos, but in the meantime, some candid observations from my journal below...
Monday, June 21, 2004
My first view of South Africa is from 35,000 feet up in the air, through a field of sheep like clouds dotting the floor below, the sun slanting through them like some Michelangelo painting. �It looks a little like California,� I observe, as we begin our decent over the parched brown land speckled with rows of houses with dirty swimming pools.
Our trip here has been long�first a 7 hour journey to Dakar, Senegal. I tried to sleep, but turbulence kept me up�every time I felt drowsy, a shudder and quake from the aircraft would shoot adrenaline through my veins and I�d lie there in a dazed state of alarm. Not an ideal situation for rest. Heart pounding, eyes drooping, I think I may have gotten an hour or two in there. The plane is a full flight. We are served food and drinks every two hours it seems. Though the meals aren�t half bad. The seats are also equipped with individual TV screens on which one can choose from a host of movies (in my case, �Mona Lisa Smile� and �Mystic River�).
We land in Dakar as the sun is rising. It is past midnight for us and my eyes burn from lack of sleep. Thankfully, the plane empties and an hour later, we are refueled and on our way to Jo�burg.
The Tylenol PM knocks me out for 4 hours�spent stretched (ok, not really stretched�scrunched is probably more accurate) across two seats, as Janet has migrated to the center aisle, where she dozes near Patty�who is fast asleep.
It is a real relief to land, to get through customs and reclaim our precious equipment on the other side. Patty jokes, �Phase one is complete.�
Outside, Kim meets us, greeting everyone with a warm hug and her soft spoken accent, welcoming us from a long trip. I recognize her from the first interview Patty and Eileen did with her last year, directly following the fire. Still, she hugs me as I introduce myself. We head outside into the brisk night air, where Jeannot loads up his car. The air is cool and the faint scent of frying oil lingers around us. I have that strange displaced feelings as we take off into the highway. Me up front with Jeannot (left side of the road = right sided driver) and Larry and Janet keeping up infrequent conversation in the back. The ads are distinctly Euro in taste as we careen down the highway. Naked women, unnecessarily unclothed, selling life insurance. Smart cars whiz pat. The buildings, cold and industrial.
Jeannot takes us past Jo�burg proper, the skyscrapers unassuming, indifferent, unrecognizable to us East Coasters, so comfortable with the Empire State Building and the Chrysler building looming large over the city. We drive through a beat up neighborhood, tired and old with graffiti and downtrodden people. The market is still open (it is past 6 p.m. and it is already dark here) and people peruse the bananas and oranges while a vendor lazily carves pieces of watermelon, his dry eyes keeping close watch on the potential buyers (and more likely, thieves) who fondle his goods.
As we approach a stoplight where a man in loose fitting clothes implores the people in the car ahead of us for money, Jeannot calmly locks his car door and advises us to do the same. The Cottages, where Larry, Janet and I are staying are quaint, but the heavy metal gate that locks us in is simply a reminder that this ain�t paradise.
The rooms are charming and quiet, tucked away in lush greenery. We join the rest of the crew, plus two dogs, a cat and three other residents from Sweden for dinner. A fire crackles behind us as we sip African red wine and sleepily slurp homemade soup.
A rundown of the two weeks ahead both excites and exhausts us. We make our way back to the Rose Cottage and prepare to drift off into fitful jetlag induced sleep�tomorrow the shooting begins.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Today was the first day of shooting�have not encountered much wildlife yet. The only real thing close to a leopard is Mr. Mao, the cat who belongs to the Cottages where we�re staying. Janet and I are in the Rose Cottage, whose biggest threat is a ledge between the bathroom and the bedroom that we stump our toes on every morning and evening. Mr. Mao is hardly an intimidating figure, quick to purr as I lift him in my arms away from the illegal dog food he is snacking on. Mystery, a grey and white mutt, stares up at me in a mild-mannered and uncurious way�much the same as the staff, who bustle around us like distant relatives, intrigued enough to ask us the occasional question, but not intimate enough to leave us completely alone.
The interviews at Phumani Paper and the APS went �swimmingly� as Janet likes to say. Stompie and friends serenaded us with a Hutu melody, replete with foot stomping, dancing and a shrill, but instinctively pleasant ululation. The music was celebratory, and I had the urge to grab a drum with them and join in. But all I did was stand by the camera and tap my feet to the tribal beat, a silent and unobtrusive observer. The fourth wall. A role we will have to get used to, but am already finding difficult to maintain as the hours pass.
APS is a marvelous studio, one that does its heritage proud. The original studio, which burned to the ground in March of 2003 is memorialized throughout the space, from Nhlanhla Xaba�s artwork, to the brass etchings welded into the staircase, to the artwork on the walls made up of burnt pieces of prints and paintings. The space is bright, a warehouse of cement and bricks, but with large skylights and windows welcoming the fresh South African winter sun in, to create warm and inviting shadows across the floor. Various paintings and prints remind us of the real tragedy this country faces�graphic signs with the words �AIDS kills� and �Use a condom, thick or thin, it kills� smatter the walls. It is hard to distance myself from the harsh reality, especially as we interview Selena about the AIDS link program. She is HIV positive, though she smiles warmly as we clumsily execute the traditional South African handshake, which is a handshake, a clutch, and another handshake.
A long (but successful!) day of shooting, we head back to Kim�s place. Larry drives the car, taunted by our constant calls (�Left! Stay left!�) and his own stumbling efforts to drive up a hill (�the 2nd and 4th gears are too damn close!� he mutters as we stalls for the third time). For my own part, I sit up front and cringe every time we turn corners, trying to ignore the constant and uncomfortable feeling that we are about to run into the curb.
Dinner at the Cottages again, nestled in the misleadingly tropical gardens�we sit down by the fire, sip African wine and indulge in flavorful chick peas, chicken and rice. Tom, the Dean of Technikon, quizzes Patty about our intentions. I�m proud of how she expertly navigates his somewhat accusatory questions. (�Why do you need so many crew members?� he asks, arrogantly implying that all we really do is point and shoot) and confidently sings the praises of our team�ever the diplomat, she has urged Larry to �schmooze� with Tom and she appropriately laughs at all of Larry�s jokes.
Tomorrow we drive an hour outside of Jo�burg. With our first day of shooting behind us, we are ready to meet each challenge head on.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Today we visited Ivory Park, the largest shanty town in South Africa. A couple million people live here, Kim tells us. Abject poverty, tin roofs (if they�re lucky) cover cardboard walls, shacks, tired and decrepit, lining the red dirt streets with names like Angola Road and Constitution Street. On the drive to Ivory Park, we pass men working in ditches in the median. They hack at the red earth, dusty but cool in the mid-morning winter sun. Along the shoulder, children in uniforms walk off to school and women carry cardboard boxes on their heads, balanced precariously as they sway their ample hips back and forth in an easy gait.
The shacks attempt normalcy, some advertise full service hair salons, TV and radio repair, even Laundromats�But the lazy stare of the vacant souls along the road betray the charade. These resident have nothing. No electricity, no running water (the government makes a half-hearted attempt to supply spigots for water, Kim tells us) no jobs, no education.
Twanano is the paper making project housed in an old glass recycling house. Bottles are piled high on the right side of the courtyard (if one could call it that) and the tires crackle loudly as the glass snaps beneath the car. The air is thick with the smell of nauseatingly sweet milkweed boiling in a kettle over a fire behind the main building. The women sit around two buckets, their dark fingers tearing shreds of boiled milkweed into tiny pieces. Next to them at a table, more women in bright blue rubber smocks hammer away at the shredded fibers, creating a mushy grey pulp. This oatmeal like gunk will become delicate sheets of milkweed paper. It doesn�t sound like much, but it is a living for these women. The shanty town stretches beyond the horizon, further than my own eyes can carry. It is overwhelming. And humbling. A lump catches in my throat, but I can�t cry. I feel impotent when I stare at the homes, the utter poverty these men and women live in. Where to begin? How do you fix this?
We visit APS again to interview the AIDS workers of Paper Prayers and continue on to a clinic where the program continues with those living with HIV�including a baby and two young children, who weep like most children do, crocodile tears, to gain attention from mom. Still, we know they have more reason to cry than others�their future looks bleak. Olivia tells us her daughter died in 2000 because she was born with HIV and a standard childhood vaccination killed her.
At Kim�s house, we talk to Kurt Shillinger, a former Boston Globe correspondent, who paints an exceedingly depressing picture of the AIDS crisis and America�s lack of response. Dinner and wine sweeps most of our sadness away. Jack tells us about a woman he tracked down in Vermont after 20 years of writing letters; Paul, a very gay artist, describes his latest exhibition and cheerily invites the crew to his celebratory party on Friday. Larry flirts with Kim�s mom, Mona, talking about golf as if it were Paris in springtime. What lovely people we have met so far in South Africa. But it is difficult to forget the reality this country is still refusing to face�it is dying. And as Kurt warns, if we don�t do something soon, there will be no one left.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Today was my favorite thus far on this unbelievable journey. We woke up early because we had an hour and a half drive to the Sisters of Mercy in Winterveld. Janet took a little extra time in the shower, so I decided to hike up to the �observatory� which I discovered is basically a garden winding up a large hill overlooking the city. Telling Larry that if I wasn�t back in 20 minutes, he could consider me dead (every request made to leave the group is greeted with the standard, �I�m not looking forward to the phone call to your parents, Mirjam, [or Janet] explaining your demise��), I made my way up through the bizarre and beautiful flowers lining the stone path (Winter. Dead winter, even, and the flowers still bloom�a metaphor for what we are filming?). The top, a depressing lump of burnt shrubs and grey rocks, offers a stunning panorama of the city below. I sat for a little while enjoying the sun, then made my way down to the parking lot to join the others.
First stop was the Sisters of Mercy in Winterveld. The long trek through Pretoria and along many a dusty trail, all lined with identical shacks, led us to the paper making project. The women were eager to show us their work, and enthusiastically sang the praises of Kim, who laughed shyly, embarrassed at the attention. She hurries them into showing us their paper, turning the focus off of herself and onto the women of the project, as she often does. Next was the embroidery project next door, where Raymond, the artist who drew the designs gave us an impassioned confession of his work, his hopes to help his community, to make a difference, to inspire. He was so genuine and real. It was a little bizarre, but so touching. All you could think was, I want to hug him. He especially made an impression on Janet, who got made me take about 12 photos of the two of them.
After this, we made our way to the AIDS hospice�not the clinic. This was where people who were �in the last stages of an incurable disease� came to die. One of the AIDS workers tells us this and he says �in the last stages of an incurable disease� like it�s a slogan. He looks tired. Stray cats scamper around the small courtyard, while in the back, frail skeletons sit slumped over in wheel chairs. In the distance, a farmer has set the dead fields on fire, a traditional way to cleanse the soil and prepare it for new life in the spring. The crackling of the flames as they lick through the dry grass is coupled with the stinging smell of smoke.
The last visit was to Makow, where six women were struggling to survive. We arrived and began unloading the van, in the background through the open door we hear them singing. Warm, untrained voices, simple and poignant harmonies�I feel like weeping and laughing at the same time.
After the interviews, we sit down at the table inside, as it gets darker. After introductions and some uncomfortable silences, one woman says they will sing again for us. This time, I do weep. Patty, Janet and I are all wiping away tears by the end. Then another woman tells us, �When you leave here, don�t forget us.� And I almost have to laugh at the absurdity of this thought. I wish there was some way I could assure her that, with all my heart, I will never, ever forget her.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Today we drove to Kopenang. Stopping along the way to take some quick shots of a graveyard. We set up sticks and shoot row upon row of dirt piled high, numbered stone markers tossed haphazardly on the mounds, some with dull pieces of broken glass shining in the dusty sun. Some had brightly decorated headstones�purple streamers, flowers, plastic odds and ends. It was another overwhelming sight. More impressive were the some 20-odd graves, empty, their large holes gaping like hungry maws, waiting patiently for their habitants to be received. Like the shanty towns, far as the eye can see. A wretched and unforgiving reality. One imagines this is where the squatters of Ivory Park will be buried when they die.
Off to Kopanang, a combination paper making program, AIDS outreach, garden and orphanage. The women welcome us with a joyous song. I can hear one voice leading the chorus�she is wearing a bright blue jumpsuit. Her voice is not western world beautiful�not by our American Idol driven standards. The voice rises about the rest, like some strange animal, youthful and old all at once. African music is so joyous, I can�t explain it. The call-answer style, the same harmonies, over and over again�the deep baritones of the men filling in an almost percussion-like thrum.
We meet the children at the nursery. 20 snot-nosed kids of the same variety found at any nursery school in this country or any other. They stand in the yard, out in the high noon sun wearing sweaters and hats (after all, 67 degrees or not, it is winter), shifting their weight uncertainly back and forth, until one of the women starts them up in a children�s song. They do the same awkward hand gestures and dance moves, clapping their hands at appropriate times, except when they are distracted by one of us taking a picture, or by Taffy, Kim�s dog. Then they stare mesmerized for a moment before they are swept along again in a familiar chorus. Two of the braver children make their way toward Larry, who is shooting all this on his camera, and start inspecting the lens and crouching in front of the tripod.
One of the children has dark purple lips and we ask if it�s from candy. Sister Sheila says in her straightforward, no-nonsense way, �He has mouth sores. It�s a medication.� These children have HIV, or at the very least, their parents do and they are orphans, raised by grandparents. Doctor, one of her favorites, is very ill. She says they probably won�t live far beyond the age of 8.
We conduct several interviews, only to find the van in which we arrived has a flat. Larry, Jakob and I manage, after a bit of a struggle, to change the spare. But after that, we�re off again. This seems to be a ritual for us, careening into a devastatingly depressing environment, meeting incredible people, disappearing behind cameras and notebooks while they tell us their stories, the van falls apart a little more and requires a few more pieces of gaffers tape, and we�re off again down a stretch of dirt road.
This time our next stop is a memorial service for one of the artists at APS who committed suicide last week. The ceremony is moving, especially Kim�s speech about making a difference. But no tears well up in me. All I can think about is Kopenang, how those women live in absolute poverty, where their only way out is embroidery, their only relief from the pain is singing or paper making. I do not know what it feels like to have to rely on art to sustain me like this. I love music, dance, art�but I have never needed it as badly as these women do. These exceptional women, who have elevated this to a form of deliverance. How damned and how lucky they are to need it so much to survive.
Sunday, June 27, 2004
Let me begin with this. I. Am. Drunk. So tonight�s entry will be short and probably quite inarticulate.
Venda. That�s where we are now. We did a 7+ hour drive yesterday from Jo�burg to the Limpopo Provice. We are literally in the middle of nowhere. It feels like camping. At night it is pitch black, the only light comes from a half moon balanced between towering trees hanging in a veritable field of stars, the lake is serene and chilly underneath the lush green hills.
In the morning, African sparrows with little black mohawks flit over the lake. They roost in the shrubs during the night and in the morning, they chirp little warnings and greetings as Larry and I walk past.
Today was a day �off.� That�s in quotations, because it�s Kim�s definition of �off� not mine. We drove about town visiting a new studio that Shoni was building up in the mountains. Then we visited several artists�wood carvers, pottery makers, and sculptors. I bought some bracelets but to be honest none of the artwork spoke to me as the Phumani art work or embroidery has.
In the evening, we interviewed Kim and Stompie. At dinner, Stompie and I danced�even Larry joined in and I was very impressed.
I�m still drunk and now I�m also exhausted. More tomorrow.
Monday, June 28, 2004
Today involved two site visits, more of the same. I napped in the van on the way which rejuvenated me. But after another exquisite meal at Shiluvari, I am too tired to write anymore and will continue tomorrow.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Last night it was raining outside. The wind hummed tunelessly against our cabin as we slept. Outside in the morning�now sitting by the edge of the lake. It is all brown and grey out here. The dead tree standing in the water with black strips of bark hanging from her skeletal figure like bits of torn skin, the brown water, usually calm and still, is ruffled by the wind, choppy and aggravated, it laps up onto the shore like silk. Pattering against rocks and through reeds.
The 6,000 birds who live here are out and about, declaring the day begun. Each has a bizarre and exotic call that, like any foreign language, sounds almost familiar to me, but remains incomprehensible.
Yesterday evening was wonderful. We created a camp fire, drank wine and beer, Larry smoked his pipe, while Janet and I roasted marshmallows over the flames (who knew marshmallows existed in South Africa??).
The smell of the burning wood, the occasional popping of the fire and the easy chatter of the group reminded me of camping. It was a perfect evening. Afterwards, we made our way back to Shiluvari�s main reception for dinner (butterfish and pasta cooked in coconut milk). Everything we�ve done here seems like years ago, not the single week it�s been. Today, Tuesday, marks 3 more days before we return to New Jersey.
We head back to Jo�burg today with two planned stops along the way. As I sit here enjoying the morning, it�s hard to imagine the bustling city again. Two birds fly low along the length of the lake. Probably fishing for breakfast. Which reminds me it is time to go. More later.
* * *
More visits to paper making projects. Kim scolds the one group for not producing more paper. �This isn�t something for nothing,� she tells Thomas, the project manager. �You make something for us, we give you money. It�s a business.� Still, her voice is kind and encouraging. She is a teacher and a nurturer at heart and it always shines through at each site. And not just through here. It is not difficult to see that they all love her.
The drive back�besides Larry getting pulled over beacus the trailer lights aren�t functioning�in uneventful. It is a long drive, though and we see plenty of marvelous South African landscape. Suissel trees in the red dirt, mountains in the distance, non-threatening clouds hovering over the horizon, shedding bright golden rays down on the boulders below. I can imagine that every country is this spectacular. The Pilgrims saw America as this vast bounty of potential, I wonder if the South Africans see that same dream in their home. I hope they do.
At Kim�s, we chat with Robynn over wine (um, scotch) and potato chips, and make plans for our last three days here. It will be busy and hectic, but what else is new?
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Today is June 30�D-day, the day the US hands the government over to Iraq. We are so far removed from the �real� world. I read the South African newspaper this morning. One of the dancers from Lord of the Dance was shot and killed on Sunday., Michael Flatley�s statement says, �It could have happened anywhere.� But the dancer was dead over a shoulder bag and a laptop. Without a doubt, it is Jo�burg.
The schedule was light today. Wandering around the city to get �beauty� shots (I used the term loosely here). We visit the old location where the original APS burned to the ground last March. Three strapping young artists come along, functioning as body guards. The area is being rebuilt. I�m not sure by whom. But there are fresh bricks stacked in big grey piles by the side street and the worst of the remains from the fire have been cleaned up. Eileen points out an old printing area�I think it�s a sink�that still remains, leaning rotted and charred against a wall.
We drive to the other side of the city to visit Kim�s sister, Hailey, who is an art therapist and dealt with many of the students after the firs. She is cool towards Kim, who leaves to run errands while we interview.
We are glad to leave because it means lunch and shopping. We visit a ridiculously overpriced art shop, which seems to have bought out plenty of the APS products and doubled what they would originally go for. I feel like I�ve stumbled into a Pier 1 where they try to make you feel like you�re cultured for having knickknacks of which no one really knows the origin.
Next, we�ve moved onto Rosebank Market, more of the same, though more authentic to me. The actual artists serve as vendors. They grab at my arm and call out to me as I pass��Sorry! Ma�am, ma�am, sorry! Sorry!� I smile because they are trying to ask for my attention�still, all the apologies make me uncomfortable, so I settle in the areas where the vendors say, �Come, take your time, look in my stall��
I buy earrings for myself and Hannah. Still, nothing for Peter.
We return to the Cottages, shower and prepare for dinner. Tonight we dine out with Kim and Robynn. Should be entertaining, as always!
