Maintenant, Je Vais Parler Français.

Très bien.

Après Madrid, je suis allée à la France pour habiter avec une famille française et pour étudier la langue.  Ma famille française se composait de Sophie, ma mère d'accuiel, et Lucien, mon frère d'accuiel.  Ils étaient très gentils quand je suis arrivée. Immédiatement, j'étais très confortable et nous nous entendions tous très bien.  Chaque nuit, Sophie prèparait la meilleur repas.  C'est vrai. Elle me manque de cuisson!

La première tatouage!

C'était parfait, parce que Sophie à adoré les mêmes choses que moi, par example...la photographie, voyager, la musique, les différentes cultures, cuisiner...
C'était très facille à habiter avec eux.
Les matinées de Mardi, Mercredi, Jeudi, et Vendredi, j'allais à l'école française.  Les autres étudiants ètaient tellement amusant et j'espère voir eux encore.  Ma première semaine en Nice, je suis allée avec une autre fille pour obtenir un tatouage en vieille ville.  Un acte spontané peu.  Mais nous étions très heureux avec nos nouvelles pièces d'art.
La ville de Nice était magnifique!  La plage...les personnes...les nourritures.  

Moi avec un artiste.

Freja de Danemark.

Les hommes heureux.

Il y avait des danseurs et des musiciens sur la rue.  Et j'ai adoré la mode.  Je n'ai jamais vraiment connu la vie en ville, mais maintenant je pense que j'aime cette vie.  Je voudrais retourner à Nice bientôt.  Je sais que je vais.  Après mes aventures d'Italie je vais retourner à la maison de Sophie.    


 La vie est belle.

Et finalement...les meilleures pâtes.

The City Was Mad

I made my début into Europe with Madrid which welcomed me with open arms.  I have never lived in a major city before, therefore do not have professional experience with the metro system.  Immediately after passing through customs I was thrown into this confusing operation of underground travel in order to get to my hostel.  Long story short, I ended up being confidently pointed in the direction of several wrong trains around a good bit of Madrid before I arrived in the proper place: Sol.  Such a simple name for such a complicated journey.

I stayed in Mad city for three nights.  During my visit, there was a nation-wide strike consisting of mainly young folk due to the the government basically screwing them over with its decision for lower wages.  Every time I stepped outside, a symphony of chanting, singing, and horn blowing penetrated my ears.  The strike went on for two days straight.  Thankfully I didn't leave until the day after the strike and the metro was running properly again.  Others weren't so fortunate and had to change their expensive itineraries.
Police officers decked out in their finest swat-like getup decorated the streets.  At one point there was a face off between the protesters who were linking arms and jumping up and down chanting, "No consumen!"  Or something similar.  The police officers just stood their ground, legs in a wide stance, arms folded, and wearing the visage of warriors...or so they hoped.

My favorite frozen yogurt place post strike.

My last night in Madrid, I wanted to get one last peek at the strike, so some other people from the hostel and I made our way down to the city centre.  Cheap, green crunched up beer cans and ripped up, dirty signs from the protest tiled the ground.  All the Spaniards now were scattered about drinking and smoking whatever was rolled up in those little white papers.  The action seemed to have ended.  All of a sudden I get a whiff of something burning.  We weave through the dazed civilians and turn a corner onto one of Madrid's tiny streets.  Smoke climbed the brick buildings and tumbled down the street towards us.  We broke out into a run along side other amateur and professional camera men wanting to witness the creation of such smoke.  One lady passed us, heading the opposite direction of the fire, saying in the most nonchalant state, "Oh it's just a car on fire."  My eyes grew and my legs accelerated.  The smoke was thick now and I had to use my scarf as a mask as not to become faint.  La policía were pushing spectators back, trying to maintain what little control they had left over the city.  It was mayhem.  About 300 people were injured from the strike and many were arrested.

Last Few Weeks of South Africa

Meet Rocco.  The one and only.

Now for some quality time with my cousin, Jenny, whom I haven't seen in about eight years.  My first weekend in Balito, a town right outside of Durban, was Jenny's son, Rocco's very first birthday.  To celebrate such an exciting even, we went out to breakfast at Wimpie.  There we had a happenin' party with loads of balloons and laughter from little ones running around.
My stay here has been so much fun, reminiscing with Jenny about all our Munroe traditions and laughing till some tears make their appearance.  We even got in the kitchen and whipped up some old family recipes, mainly invented by Aunt Rose Marie...or should I say Rosie Britches (called by my father and her other siblings.)
Here are some photos of the little munchkin, Jenny and her hubby and a game drive we took the other day...

Jenny, Rocco, and Daniel

Pulling a baby's pants up past the belly button.  Never gets old.

Birthday bubbles

Cheers Cintsa!

For my finale of the Cintsa chapter in my life, I attended the Bulugha Farm School concert for the last time - well, hopefully not the last time.  Bulugha is another school about ten minutes from Cintsa School.  Every Thursday, the children perform for anyone who so desires to watch.  Towards the end, they send around a box for the intention of donations to the school.
Richard, a lively black South African drummer, is faithful to the children and attends this concert every Thursday along with his drum.

Billy Elliot

Once everyone has been seated in the classroom that had transformed into an auditorium, the children dressed in their maroon uniforms begin.  The voices create an orchestra of rhythmic sounds sans any actual musical instrument...except for when Richard makes his appearance.  They sway together in close quarters, clapping hands and stomping feet all with perfect timing.  I sit in the audience, bouncing one of the children on my lap to the beat, soaking in all the magical notes the voices hit.  There is one student, nick named Billy Elliot by another volunteer and me for the sole reason that boy he can dance.  A couple songs later, Richard prances directly in front of the target of all the eyes in the audience and sets his drum down gently between his knees.  He begins slowly, steady, then breaks out into beats of whatever life force is driving him now.  The power the drum has over him is contagious and begins to leak out through the audience.  Everyone is smiling and dancing in their seats.  Some children hop up on old wooden desks and shake what they got.  The music stops and Richard calls up Billy Elliot to the front.  A little boy dressed in jeans and a white wife-beater lights up and jumps up beside Richard.  The drumming makes its way into the atmosphere once again and Billy begins to move.  His eyes so wide I was scared they were going to pop out.  His smile so massive, you could count the number of teeth he had.  To say the least, he was enjoying himself.
Next, two school girls get up and show everyone their fly moves.  Richard halts in his drumming and looks over at me, gesturing for me to get up there next to the girls.  "You're not getting away that easy," he says.  You can't say no to that.  He told me to copy everything the girls did.  The drumming starts along with some mild booty shaking, then some hand gestures and dancing feet.  I was enjoying myself thoroughly.  What a wonderful way to finish off my stay in Cintsa.

Some more photos from Cintsa...

Uzakhanye and Mivuyo on my last day at Cintsa School

Buccaneers 

Why Wouldn't You Want To Chuck Yourself Out Of An Airplane?

Jasmien and I had arranged for Cesar, Paolo, Nico and us to get a ride to Grahamstown where we would fly like birds.  And by fly, I mean fall.  We all ran down the sizzling hot, paved hill and across the soft, sandy beach.  We were meeting the man who would drive us to G-town at Buccaneers Backpackers.  A long river snaked out to meet the ocean dividing the beach we stood on and the beach the backpackers resided on.


 Thankfully it wasn't high tide and we didn't have to strip down to the bare essentials to cross the cool waters.  Previous nights coming back from the bar at Bucc's had been a whole other story.  We were running late to meet the man, so we tried to up the acceleration.  However, we were with two Brazilians...and they have a reputation for taking their sweet little time.  Ten minutes later, we made it to the reception at Bucc's where we sped off down the rocky, uneven road all packed in a car.  One South African, one Belgian, two Brazilians, and me, and meeting up with one Swiss man at the destination.  The drive usually takes about two hours, however, for us it took almost three due to the frequent cigarette stops that the South African driver depended on.  Many conversations about what was wrong with the South African government and what the driver's life had been like the past several years later, we arrived in Grahamstown at the skydiving bunkhouse.  As we drove in, we could see a few  last jumpers from the day coming in for a landing.  What a perfect time to fall from the sky; sunset.

For the rest of the night, the guys at the skydiving house showed us a good time by cooking a braai (barbecue), taking a few shots of a Brazilian tequila that Paolo brought, then hitting the town.

Morning welcomed us with bright blue skies, without a cloud in sight.  Perfect!  Nico showed up ready to jump. By 10ish a.m. we were starting.  First, Paolo and Cesar went up.  The anticipation was eating me alive, I was so excited.  Jasmien was starting to get a bit nervous.  Finally it was our turn.  As we were getting strapped in, our tandem jumping partners were filling us in on how all this goes.  "Just do the banana and keep your head back on my shoulder or else when we jump you might head-but me and I'll get knocked out.  Then you're on your own." So...banana.  Got it!
Once we were at the plane, we got a couple more instructions from the experienced jumpers.  As I climbed into the extremely small plane, I noticed a bit of duct tape.  "Oh, it's fine.  Just holding the wing on," said one of the guys.  We all chuckled, however, Jasmien's laugh had some nervous shake to it.
6,000 feet up, we released a man from the plane that appeared to the eye as Jack Sparrow.  His dreads went into a hulla dance as he fell to earth.
10,000 feet up, Jasmien and her instructor inched to the edge of the plane.  She dangled wide-eyed strapped onto the man that was now in charge of her life.  "Wait! I think something's broken!" she screamed out.  Then, boom, they were gone, letting gravity play with their bodies.

  I was next.  Fortunately, there was a camera man that had flown up with us.  My instructor said if I smiled and asked nicely, I could get some free photos out of this jump as well.  So of course, I did.  Next thing I know, I'm flipping in mid-air watching the plane disappear out of sight.  Then, we fall into a steady free fall for about 45 seconds.  I look up and the camera man is directly in front of us snapping photos every five seconds.  As I look through the photos now, I feel a bit sorry for my instructor, for I'm giving him a full fledged beard with my hair and maybe a little bit of an annoying tickle.  Oh well, after the 45 or so seconds the parachute opened and we dangled over the earth, gliding down from the sky.  It was so quiet and peaceful.  Once we had landed, I wanted   to get back up there again.  That's the life.

Free fallin'

Post jump

Red Rover Red Rover Send Awareness Right Over

Every day, the energetic little beings would greet me with open arms screaming in Xhosa.  Within two weeks I had accomplished knowing the names of about half the class.  Their eyes would sparkle in response to me calling their name.  Feeling special seems to be the ultimate sensation to them.  Overtime they started to catch on to my name and would scream out to me for some recognition.

Towards the end of the school days, we have outdoor play in the school yard.  All the little ones release bursts of joyous screams and punches to the sky as we march outside.  Today Naomi and I will teach them Red Rover for the first time.  Maybe a little over ambitious, but we'll see what happens!  Phumla translates the directions to the miniature ears and we give it an enthusiastic go.  For the most part they got the idea, however, ended up morphing it a bit to their liking.

Sisonke (at top)

 Then there's always the spacey kids that have the wandering eyes.  "Sisonke! Sisonke!"  Finally his wobbling head finds its balance and looks around wide eyed at the screaming of his name.  "Run, Sisonke!"  At that he runs with all his might and unfortunately doesn't burst through the arms like he had hoped, instead he hangs his limp body on the wee little arms in an attempt for gravity to lend a helping hand.





Every Monday we would teach computer skills at the local orphanage.  It had been raining one Monday and murky puddles spotted the yards.  The children used a minor hill as a Slip 'N Slide by running and chucking their bodies onto the earth.

After a while, I strayed from the computer scene along with Ana and Amanda (fellow volunteers) into the building that the orphans resided in.  Along with all the fun, the rain also brought muddy footprints which decorated the entrance and tiled hallways.  As we followed the freshly made footprints, we passed bedrooms containing two to three sets of bunk beds.  Children ranging from one to six or seven played with each other and their toys, running in and out all the while giggling at these simple pleasures.  Finally we came to the end of the hallway and turned into the last bedroom.  There lied a cradle holding a three month old baby girl.  She was the youngest orphan there.  Her rounded face seemed so peaceful in her dream-state.  I was given the permission to hold this bundle of innocence and stare into the creamy, brown eyes. I was told that it is completely fine for a mother to leave her child at the police station no questions asked. One eight week old baby was actually found in the bush on the side of the road. There were many other stories shared with me, however, they seem almost too intense to share over a simple blog.

Ana and I 

We were able to play with the other children for a bit as well before we had to head back to Cintsa East.  One child had the chubbiest cheeks and would latch onto me once I had him in my arms.
 Another child had Severe Alcoholism Syndrome.  This occurs when the mother is intoxicated almost the entire time she is pregnant.  If you look closely at the child's face, you are able to see the difference.  Unbelievable.

Here in Cintsa, there's lots of play time and not nearly as much serious work time like what I'm used to seeing back in America.  Everyone here just takes a piss out of everyone and talks shit to each other in order to forget about those silly worries.  I've got to say that is quite a nice remedy whenever you might be fretting!

Note the wording on the shirt.

Molo Sisis and Bhutis!

It has been an extremely long time since I've written in this thing.  So here we go...
I have now completed one month in South Africa.  Due to barely any internet, I have been unable to write as much as I would've liked.  So I feel I should start from the beginning in an attempt to not leave any crucial ingredient out.  Thanks to my handy journal.  However, there is so much that I don't believe I'll be able to express through writing.  I'll be tackling this portion of writing in sections.

Two days after biding my farewells to the fierce cold in the states, I arrived in Cintsa East, South Africa.  The heat was both welcoming and overwhelming (due to my unprepared winter outfit).  I had always wanted to come to Africa and I was finally here.  It happened.  The town of Cintsa consisted of a couple bars and restaurants, a neighborhood, beautiful beaches, and a township.  A township is where many black people live in poor conditions.  This is where I would be volunteering for the next month in a preschool.
My first day teaching was Valentine's Day so we rummaged through all the paper at the school to find enough pink paper for the 30 or so students in the Grade R class (preschool).  At 8:30am, I got dropped off along with a couple other volunteers at the entrance of the Cintsa township.  We all walked down the dusty, dirt road filled with potholes to the public school.  Moving through the township was something I'd never experienced before.  Being so close to what was actually going on in the world was satiating.  These "homes" appeared as shacks in my eyes glued together with scraps found about the earth.  Random dogs would prance along with their rib cages sticking out.  As we got closer to the school, I spotted a student ringing an old bell announcing the commencement of the school day.  A couple stragglers' backpacks danced to the rhythm of their run; already late for school.  Tiny sweat droplets began to form on the children's faces due to the intensifying heat.  Hundreds of smiles greeted me as I turned into the schoolyard.  They tugged at every limb of my body, wanting to be held and played with.  I couldn't take my eyes off these beautiful children.  Their massive, dark chocolate eyes were overfilling with joy and excitement, erasing any worry in the world.  I was hooked.

The nice sized classroom for Grade R was set apart from the rest of the school.  Instead it stood next to the kitchen.  There was an average of thirty students Monday through Friday, ranging from the ages of four to six, occasionally the "babies" would wander in in an attempt to sneak an older kid's lesson in.  Amongst those babies was a little three year old boy with an old man face and a tummy that screamed  "Happy Buddha."  Everything about him was unbelievably cute and amazing.  I tried not to pick favorites and treat every child equally, however, when it came to this little guy, Phumalela, I had to make an exception. More smiles and laughs came from him than words.  It was only the first day and the taste of adoption had already formed within me.
One in four children have HIV/AIDS here.  I was told to be careful around a child if they are bleeding, since you never know for sure if they have it.  Nothing seems to bring these kids down though.  I don't think I've seen a day without smiles from every student here. That is one thing they do not lack in their difficult-seeming lives.
Every morning around half past ten we have snack time.  Phumla, the Xhosa teacher for Grade R, forms the girls into one line, then the boys into another by the door.  Their bodies all squish together, anxiety pushing each other to get out the door and retrieve their backpacks from their cubbies containing their snack.  First the ladies sweetly walk out the door, then the gentlemen fight with all their might to get to their pack first.  Once all the children are seated on the floor of the classroom chowing down, a few come up to me, holding two hands out.  They have no food.  I take the sandwiches that a group of local women make every day for the children, from a plastic bread bag.  As I place a sandwich in each innocent hand, they respond with, "Enkosi," meaning thank you in Xhosa.  They know barely any English.  I was told from the teacher that some children come to school solely for the reason of food.  Many students in this community have alcoholics as parents whom forget to wake up and dress and feed their children.  Some are even living alone with no parents at the age of sixteen and younger.  One five year old child, Lisakhanye, went home from school one day to an empty house.  Her parents had up and left, her sisters had gone to live with their boyfriends, and her brother was living with another family.  By 9:00 at night, not knowing what to do, she walked on her own through the township past drunken faces to her teacher's home and knocked on the door.  Phumla welcomed her inside, giving her a family for the night.  "I feel like I'm rubbish that someone has dumped and just forgotten about," she voiced to Phumla.  Never would one wish to hear those words come from a five year old.

As a portion of our lesson one day, we taught about the different kinds of families.  One typical one; mother, father, brother, and sister, then we considered the others; some families without a mother or a father, some with children raised by their aunts, uncles, or grandparents, and some with just children.  When we talked about each family the children responded with, "Maybe the father is just gone and not dead... All the kids living by themselves could go to the orphanage."  My attachment was growing exponentially now, unwilling to stop.