Where to from here?

It is now a month into the new year and I have yet to finish this blog. Maybe it is because I know this is my last entry; that after this, things will change. Maybe it’s denial that my magical year in the bush is complete. Maybe I just don’t have the words to accurately describe the emotions I feel as I reflect on the last 12 months of my life.

So...December has faded into a chaotic blur of repeated goodbyes, last-minute holidays and hasty packing. Community Service has drawn to a close and I am now a completely independent, fully qualified occupational therapist. So where to from here?

As my friends and I travelled along a long winding road sometime in December, this very question rose its challenging head. “Where to from here?” We have grown. Our minds have been broadened. Our eyes have been opened. Our hearts have been warmed. We have changed. We are no longer the same.

I, for one, can recall how much God has worked to mould me into the person He wants me to become. He clearly loves me far too much to allow me to stay the same. He has broken down my pride, my selfish nature, my desire to be successful and precise in order to build me up in His strength, in His power. He has blessed my time at Manguzi and allowed me to see a whole new side of Him. He has poured out His love and provision on me this year like I have never experienced it before. He has answered all my prayers in spectacular fashion. He has given me strong friendships, growing experiences and overwhelming love. His love never fails.

This year God has taught me:
•To work in His strength, because trying to do things in my own is a complete disaster.
•To wait for His prompting – His timing is perfect.
•When to speak and when to keep silent.
•To have faith that He will provide. No matter what I needed, God has provided it in spectacular fashion.
•To allow Him to bless me – and wow, how wonderful it is to be blessed by the Maker of Heaven and Earth!
•To love generously and sacrificially, be gracious and judge not – behold Jesus and you will become like Him.

So, where to from here? As the car ride with my three friends continued, we discussed what this means for us. Surely we now have a responsibility to speak to those around us about our experiences?; to proclaim the good, the bad and the inspiring moments along our challenging journeys. With a new perspective and understanding of our world, and more particularly, our beloved country, we can no longer afford to keep silent on matters surrounding poverty, injustice, racism, classism, materialism and all the other bad –isms to which we have been exposed.

Yes, we are young, white, privileged females who have lived and worked in old, black, impoverished communities. The contrasts couldn’t be greater. But we have come out on the other side with insight that cannot be held within our hearts alone. We need to break the silence and share our stories with others. We may be different to the people with whom we have worked but now we know them: their histories, their families, their pain, and their stories. We are exposed to a reality much bigger than our own now. We cannot keep silent.
           
There have been countless moments this year when I am bursting with emotion, with inspiration, with knowledge and skills that I can't help but want to use it to better this already incredible country. While there are so many reasons for people to hate South Africa, there are far more reasons to love her; to be moved to be a part of her change rather than ignore it or complain about it. Our country is young, wild and completely crazy but wouldn’t you rather be a part of the chaos than sit on the sidelines and worry about tomorrow?

With the move to Middelburg, Mpumalange, to follow my fiance’, I have got a job working in the local provincial hospital. What was once a strong, thriving hospital has become a shell of what it used to be. Having worked in a rural area, dilapidated buildings, apathetic workers and tough cases come as no new concern to me. What does concern me is people’s reaction to my choice of employment in the run-down hospital. Words such as, “Why?” or “Shame!” have escaped from many people’s mouth as I tell them my active choice of working there. Yes, I had other, easier opportunities for employment but no, that was not where God was leading me. He needs me right here, in the midst of incredible suffering and hardship. It seems that I now have larger, more abstract problems ahead of me compared to that of my rustic bush life last year. The blatant racism within my new privileged community hits me like a rock almost daily as I listen and observe people’s words and actions around me. I am still so unsure of how to react to these motions – with outright anger? with gentle challenging words? by my actions alone? It seems that these are the new challenges God has placed in my path so I head out on a new, greater adventure, with the knowledge and faith that my Lord goes before me and will equip me with all that I could ever need.

I will not keep silent. I am a part of a new generation. I am a soldier. I fight racism. I fight classism. I fight poverty, injustice and oppression. Grace has carried me this far and by Grace I will carry on.

I will end with this final inspiring thought:

Rejoice.... Not so much in victories as in the fact that God is leading them.

Praise... Not so much for His blessings as for His love that prompts them.

Serve.... Not for the ultimate or  resent reward, but for the thrill of knowing that we labour together, that He stands beside you in every enterprise, however trivial.

December memories:

December 16th – Reconciliation day. It seemed like an apt day to connect with Manguzi community members through the giving of 20 litre buckets of food and bags of stationary for the Christmas period. “Buckets and bags of love” is an initiative organised by my Bible study. With donations from all over the world, we managed to raise over R50 000 and hand out about 150 buckets and 150 bags to families in need. On the day, we partnered with local black Christians along with some of our European doctors to drive around and hand deliver buckets across the greater Manguzi area. I was brought to tears on many occupations as I watched impoverish gogo’s dance and clap with joy as they praised God for providing for their very basic needs. Their faith in the midst of such obvious hardship was moving to say the least. I was once again reminded of the call God put on my life for 2014 – just love them, Caryn. Here are a few photos taken on the day:

Other special December moments:

Therapy department's annual Christmas Party

Val, a dietician from Swaziland, gave two of the therapy assistants Swazi flags for Christmas

All hands on deck as a broken hospital car gets pushed around a local clinic in order to bring it back to life

Photo shoot with ladies from the MDR ward after a fun Christmas party

When we can't use our hands to paint we use our feet - the picture of a young CP child during stimulation group

THE LUMINEERS! Attending yet another magical concert with some of my favourite people

I was visited by Ross and Sarah - all the way from Cape Town this month!

Enjoying the local Mozambican 'poison' at Ponto Malangane - R&Rs (Rum and Raspberry)

The long but beautiful walk to Kosi Bay Mouth

And so it ends. My year in the bush has been one unforgettable experience. Thank you for sharing many special moments with me.

“Going rural”...over-glamorised or under-appreciated?

This month I have encountered numerous moments when I have been forced to consider whether living and working in a rural area has been over glamorised. I have met students who have been disappointed by the frustrating systems in place, friends in urban settings who feel marginalised by their rural peers and doctors who question why they came all the way out here "just for this". 

When considering the run up to moving out here, I remember the embellished view I had of the place....caring, productive communities.... inspiring medical staff... functional health care systems that worked in the most remote of conditions. 

In hindsight, I really should have been disappointed with the reality I found....within a few days I had encountered suffering, marginalised communities, over worked staff and failing systems. I arrived to a dirty run-down house with little to no food and a bunch of people I didn't know. I was soon travelling in dangerously dilapidated hospital cars to work in rundown buildings with dysfunctional impoverished people. 

So why was I so happy? Why did I want to tell everyone how amazing it was? Why was I so eager to show my new home off to anyone who dared to come and visit me? 

Recent reflections on this craze of "going rural" for com serve have really made me wonder whether my overwhelming excitement and love for being here was just a facade that I had created prior to actually arriving. With the end of apartheid and the push for a more equitable society, I was fed the rural dream within the first few days of stepping into university in 2010.  I read about inspiring people doing extraordinary things in magically remote places. By that stage "going rural" had become a popular choice for many young health professionals during their year of community service. Needless to say, I was quickly infected by the bug and soon joined a rural medical society on my campus. I began using some of my spare time to attend talks by rural doctors, chat to older OTs about their rural experiences and even spent one holiday in the middle of nowhere volunteering in a rural hospital. But all these experiences only made the desire to "go rural" that much more enriching. I was hooked. 

But now, even as the months have worn on, am I too darn stubborn to see the obvious disappointments surrounding me? Have I refused to submit to an alternative, darker reality than the bright sparkly one that had been built during my time at university? Maybe Ispeak so highly of rural because speaking about the good moments makes the bad ones seem okay. Maybe I over-compensate for all the heart-wrenching experiences and fool myself into believing that the few magical moments make it all worth while...maybe they really do.

Granted, there are days when my heart just can't seem to conceptualise the depth of suffering that is experienced by some of the community members out here. There are days when I really don't feel like working. There are days when I wish I was somewhere else... where the struggles of working within this kind of context were only read about in foreign newspapers.  There are days when I just don't want to get out of bed or when returning to the hospital after lunch feels like the toughest mission in the world. 

But those days and few and far between. On those days there is usually something else bothering me.... Something that has nothing to do with living rural... Something that would have made me feel like that no matter where I was. Never once have I questioned my decision of coming to live in Manguzi. If anything, my choice of working here has been more and more affirmed with each passing month. 

Because as much as this place is filled with disappointments, there really is something magical about it. I experience such a sense of peace and contentment both at work and the rest of the time that I can't help but think that I was not fed ridiculous lies at varsity.... Everything people spoke about came true. My experience this year has far exceeded my very high expectations and I can't help but encourage others to join the rural clan. You won't regret it. 

The choice to come out here is not an easy one and choosing to stay on long-term is far more difficult than walking away from one exquisite year in the bush. As in all things, the rural experience is what you make of it and if you dare to seek out beauty in negative spaces, I can assure you...you will not be disappointed. 

 November Memories...

Kelly, our Speechie, held an art evening for some of the Manguzi ladies at our house

I attended the spectacularly beautiful and outrageously fun wedding of my dear friends Gill and Carl. What a fantastic couple they make!!

Zenia, our Speech Therapist, spending quality time with Sphelele, one of our delights in paeds ward

Pumi, our Occupational Therapy Assistant (OTA) running an aerobics class in the MDR TB ward

Precious, another OTT, bringing patients to the aerobics class. People can participate from the comfort of their own wheelchair!

Meat on the braai at one of the farewell parties we had with the nurses earlier this month

A spontaneous visit by my good friends Denny, Reah and Sean was a wonderful excuse to get away to Black Rock Beach for a weekend!

OTs UNITE! Our OT clan had a group reunion whilst paddling down the pongola river n Norther KZN

Sammy, one of our guides paddling quietly passed some cows taking a refreshing dip in the river

Kelly and Kati stayed on to visit the marvelous Kosi Bay Mouth - what a treat to show them my home!

The mandatory picture at the drift wood tree at Kosi Bay Mouth

You know you're living rural when....

This month I have constantly been reminded of my rural living with the small comical incidents that occur on a daily basis. While I would love to capture them all through the lens of a camera, this is not possible, but here are just a few to make your smile.

You know you're living rural when...

People take joy-rides on the linen cart as driving an authorised vehicle is a rare and privileged experience

Sunday afternoons consist of driving back from yet another world-class destination with the setting sun in your eyes and a content smile on your face

Clothes and food are mainly purchased on the side of a road (especially after grant collection every month!)

 Braaied meilies are a special treat for any passersby (my favourite stop after a long clinic!)

Rustic living is a part of the process but reminds us that we really don’t need much to enjoy life

Beautiful sunsets plague our daily lives ;)

The hospital grounds are made up of majority beach sand

Road kill is taken home as a victory prize for that night’s supper

Animals in wards and offices aren’t even given a second glance

A normal run involves lakes, hippos and standing on cars

A local car washing business is formed out of a natural river

Therapy is performed in a tree house

Ridiculously tiny animals are found and loved

4x4s are the only way to get anywhere

Competitions at our local retail stores e involve the winner receiving their very own water tank (jojo)

And finally....you get to meet and work with passionate and inspiring people on a daily basis! Check out these gems:

1) Jabu Indlovu (one of my OT supervisors and recent winner of Rural Rehab Worker of the Year). Click here to read more about her on RURESA's facebook page (you may need to scroll down a bit once it's opened).

2) Maryke Bezuidenhout (Head of our Rehab department and one of the Mail & Guardian's top 200 young professionals) Click here to read more about her accomplishments.

3) Margaret Masinga (therapy assistant and secretary of a local disabled people's organisation who is in the process of fighting for the rights of disabled children to attend school in our area) Click here to view a recent Mail & Guardian article featuring Margaret and the current situation of special schools in KZN.

4) Phumzane Nthuli (a local motivated marathon runner making waves in the KZN running scene as he moves up the ranks of top runners). Click here to view his facebook page.

There are no lines in Africa

Whether it’s the physical space between two people in a Spar queue, the row of individuals waiting at a mobile SARS office or the emotional boundary between a health care practitioner and their patient, this month has reminded me that there really are no lines in Africa.

September has been another whirl wind of a month but I have decided to focus this post on a simple statement mentioned by my supervisor when I mentioned that I was going to try and get my tax return at the mobile SARS point one day. As she plainly put it, “Remember Caryn, there are no lines in Africa.”

My SARS line experience

Filing for tax returns can be a somewhat tedious process, as we all know, but when the structured, air-conditioned Durban SARS office decided to reject my proof of address letter written by the hospital HR manager, I thought the process was going to become even more of a mission.

To my misguided fortune, I found out that SARS would be visiting Manguzi Hospital to help employees with their tax returns by using a mobile office they seem to have created. Unfortunately for me, that particular day proved to hold a high patient load and I only managed to arrive at the bustling van at 3pm. I was told that due to my status as a ‘medical clinician’ in the hospital (rather than a cleaner or another apparently ‘less important’ job) I

would be prioritised so I could get back to work as soon as possible. While this all sounded rather classist to me, I wasn’t going to argue with a system that assisted in ensuring I would still be able to see my mounting patient load. My acceptance of this unjust system was further heightened when I realised that the arrival of the SARS van clearly called for a day of rest as lazy government officials left their posts around the hospital to sit on the grass and watch the chaos unfold.

While I was fast-tracked through the first of two queues by the possibly classist HR manager, I was not so lucky with the second queue. After receiving my number in the first queue (I was deemed to be 181 in the building chaos of people), the friendly HR manager told me to return at 4pm so I could continue working while the line subsided and he would then assist in fast-tracking me to the front of the second queue later. The flawed logic of this only dawned on me later as I wondered why I didn’t just finish the process right there and then. Nevertheless, I was now stuck in this mess. I returned at 4pm to find the HR manager having given up on trying to instil the slightest sense of order to the crowd. I was left to fend for myself. Eish. The line had turned into an absolute dog show in the space of an hour and after waiting for 30 minutes without moving from the spot on which I was standing, I realised that this experience was really going to test my patience.

I began asking people around me for their numbers and found a place where I seemed to fit in. I stood patiently and waited for what was left of the line to begin to move in a forward direction. I chatted absent-mindedly to the people surrounding me: being the only white girl in a group of 200 odd people inevitably called for some questions. I returned home twice for refreshments and to fetch my book but always hurried back hopefully, desperate for the line to have become a little shorter in my absence. Tensions rose as dusk turned to darkness and the group of people seemed to subside in only miniscule fractions. By that stage, our assigned numbers had become meaningless and I realised that I’d have to push my way forward if I hoped to be home before 9pm. As the shoving increased and seats were fought over, the three phenomenally slow SARS officials did nothing to quieten the rising resistance movement I was witnessing grow before my eyes. All of a sudden the crowd seemed to move forwards quite drastically and I unwillingly became a part of the scramble for the random empty seats dispersed amongst the group. At that moment, the ridiculousness of the situation hit me and I started laughing uncontrollably at the pandemonium of which I had become an inevitable part. Others joined me as they noticed the young white girl’s reaction to common practice in Africa. Soon the mood had lightened and humorous banter rose throughout the crowd dispersing the mounting tension. I was grateful for Mr 182 as he pushed me forward with every empty seat that became available, as if refusing to leave me behind in this obvious self-centred pursuit of our tax return rewards.

With only 7 people in front of me (and a good 50 people behind), one of the SARS officials announced that they needed to return to Jozini as it was getting extremely late. The crowd erupted into a mass of discontent and I began to consider the power of what anthropologists may call “mob mentality.” When the official submissively stated that it would be difficult driving the large SARS van back along dark roads with many cows to content with, his words were met with jeers, waving hands and further shoving of people towards the crowded van. He wearily looked at the angry crowd, made a phone call, and continued to work. We had won our first battle together. I laughed openly about how the character of the group quickly changed to one of comradery when we had a common enemy and couldn’t help but liken this to the downfall of the apartheid system who had tried so hard to disintegrate ties between people of similar oppressed groups. The man next to me broke through my thoughts as he happily waved me on to a suddenly empty seat with his half eaten stick of sugar cane. After instructing a few other people where he thought they should sit, he squeezed in beside me and chuckled, “perseverance is the mother of success ntombazane.” Oh yes. That night, his words could not have been more accurate.

I made it to the front of the queue after a mere 4 hours of hustling my way through the nonexistent African SARS line. Surprisingly, as I sat near the front I found a lot of 180s around me in the queue, with the odd sneaky 200 and something every now and again. I finished my tax return within the space of 5 minutes and jubilantly bid the crowd a farewell. I was greeted back with comical waves and laughs. I ran home, thrilled to know my tax return was secured and remarkably thankful for my unconventional SARS queuing experience. I was grateful for the chaos, the reminder that I live in one of the most unique countries in the world and felt a strange sense of belonging that I could add my presence to the disorder.

The Clinician-Patient Boundary

The line between a patient and a therapist is frustratingly blurred. While there are obvious lines that one does not cross when treating a patient, I often struggle to know how far to reach into their lives. This month, God turned the tables on me, and to my complete surprise, showed me exactly how far His love can reach.

On one particular day this month, the weight of exhaustion due to poor sleeping patterns rested heavily on my shoulders. I cursed my old creaky bed, my annoying hot room and the powers that be that seemed to be adamant to keep me from my precious sleep. It consumed my mind and I went about my day in a daze, wishing for the moment I could step back into my house and rest my head on my pillow.

My annoying sleeping patterns and inability to get them under control is a continuous struggle for me. I think the worst part is that it affects my job and ultimately the way I express God’s love to the people with whom I work, live and share life. I become an edgy and impatient (well, more impatient) person, hoping only to keep to myself and continue in a quiet manner throughout the day. This never bodes well as my job demands the exact opposite – enthusiasm, patience and a whole lot of energy.

Yet it was on this day that God chose to bless me through the words of a complete stranger.

I was taking a painfully slow walk with a Gogo who had had all the toes on her right foot amputated. Together, we trudged slowly towards the bathroom at the other end of the corridor (her with a walking frame continuously muttering under her breath; me with my head down, hands in my pockets, consumed by my own thoughts). As we finally made our way back to her bed (a good 30 minutes after I had managed to motivate her to get up), a nurse passed us and smiled. “Do you know what Gogo is saying?” the nurse asked me. “No,” I flatly replied, having barely noticed her apparent unintelligible ramblings. “She is praying. For you” the nurse replied simply. I was stunned. This Gogo with whom I had barely engaged, was praying for me!

While I will never know what exactly she said, her actions reminded me that God is with me, no matter how mundane the task may seem. He will never let me get through a day without revealing Himself to me in some small or big way – it is my choice whether or not I decide to see and hear Him. While I always question whether I can ethically cross that professional line to pray with my patients, God seemed to answer my question through the Gogo’s simple action. “Yes, pray for them Caryn because they are already praying for you!”

September memories:

Spring is here!! This beautiful tree stands right outside my house and reminds me what season it is . In the space of a week all the old brown leaves fell off and new ones have started to grow.

I visited a mobile clinic this month and provided rehab services inside the derelict building on the left. 

Cameron (Njabulo), a physiotherapist, napping on our way to clinic in the overcrowded 4x4

Time for some paper mache' with the OT assistants as we built a standing frame for a CP child. Messy but fun!

Who says physios can't make splints? My supervisor, Maryke, made this soft splint out of old wetsuit material and velcro. Check out the difference she has made to rural rehab in South Africa: Mail and Guardian 200 Young South Africans

Home-Based Care visit with Nonhlanhla, a physio technician, to catch up with Nelly, a gogo who suffered from a stroke recently

Nelly practising using a walking frame outside her homestead

Little Zaida, the current princess of paeds ward, discovered herself in the mirror

Adri reading with Zaida in the ward

Kelly, a Speech Therapist, teaching a little girl feeding techniques

Home exercise program for a gogo who can't read