In addition to my year-round writing (and blogging), I do part-time seasoal work in an office. It keeps my life interesting. It also gives me the opportunity to both help people and build relationships with coworkers and clients. This season, I am working in a different office (same company) than I did last season, which means I am building some new co-worker relationships.
On Tuesday, I worked the early afternoon with two women I really like. The first, Margaret, is a very sweet lady who is a graduate of my alma mater, Carroll University (coincidentally just up the street from our office). This lovely gentle-woman has beautiful gray hair and her musical voice is tinged with a distinct British accent, which she developed growing up in South Africa. The second woman, Yvonne, is German by birth, very nice, and shares my ex-Army-wife experience -- except that her husband was an officer and mine was enlisted.
Recently, I have been thinking about what I will do when my daughter graduates from high school and, on Tuesday, I was kicking around the idea of travelling. Now, I have no money, so my thoughts of travelling only really include anywhere I can get to by bus -- or maybe by houseboat (?). But my well-travelled co-workers did not know my intentions because I did not state them and they started talking. It was an interesting conversation that I really enjoyed. (After all, I am looking for information about places to visit.)
Then Margaret said, "Well, if you ever have the opportunity to spend any time in Africa, you will leave a part of your soul behind." (From the ensuing conversation, I assume she meant someplace in South Africa.)
My ears perked up at her comment. I could not let it pass without knowing what she meant.
"What do you mean?" I asked... and so the stories began. There are two I would like to share with my readers. The first is about desperate poverty and the second is about the situation of normal people trapped in a country with terroristic war.
As a U.S. citizen who has frequently lived on a shoestring budget and presently resides with my parents so I can make ends meet, I have to say that I am really tired of hearing how wealthy I am because of my nationality. (However, as far as the wastefulness of Americans is concerned, I have to plead guilty as charged for throwing out my tissues full of snot rather than recycling them.)
I have seen and experienced plenty of poverty in the U.S; people living under bridges and begginf for their subsistence [eg. "Disabled Vet will work for food"], the homeless sleeping on the lawn of The Mall (in Washington D.C.), etc. There is horrible poverty here in addition to our country's more popularized waste, but it is nothing like the poverty that Margaret described exists in South Africa.
I had asked about the economy and Margaret tried to think back in time. It was years ago that she was there, although I hear that the economic situation has worsened since she left due to corruption in the government. (All hearsay, I might add.) Margaret's answer was that many of the poorer families survive on next to nothing in the outlying communities. She told me that people who have jobs try to help by hiring the local poor, but cannot afford to pay much. Therefore, the poor work for very little and are grateful just to have a job. Earning $20 a week means they can feed their families, even though they could not provide decent housing with running water or toilets.
Margaret then described the food the impoverished afforded to eat as a "mealy-meal" substance, thicker than cream-of-wheat. No vegetables, no protein, only this thick mush to eat. The children of the area were so malnourished that they would get big, round bellies -- but the big bellies are definitely not from overeating. She also relayed how when she was finished wearing clothes, she would never throw them away. Even though her clothes and shoes might have holes in them, she would lay them on the side of the street because she knew someone who was without would happily find and use them.
As Margaret talked, I imagined a mother walking barefoot down the street and finding a pair of holey children's shoes on the side of the street. She ran over to pick up the treasure, excited that her child would now wear shoes.
Margaret's other story I want to share, and I hope I do not botch it too badly, occurred back around 1969 when she was a young teacher. She and a friend of hers (another teacher, I think) had been invited to a mutual friend's house for dinner. They stayed a little late and the sky grew dark. Margaret remembered having a normal, every-day conversation with her friend trying to decide their best course of action. Should they drive home slowly enough to be able to detect land mines in the road home? Or should they drive home quickly, so as to get through the area where "Freedom Fighters" would blindly sniper anyone driving in their vehicles?
I do not know what Margaret and her friend decided to do, drive fast or slow. What I do know is that I am very thankful to live in a land where the government tries to help many people in need, the police work hard to protect the public and our military sacrifices life and personal freedoms to defend our liberty.
On Tuesday, I worked the early afternoon with two women I really like. The first, Margaret, is a very sweet lady who is a graduate of my alma mater, Carroll University (coincidentally just up the street from our office). This lovely gentle-woman has beautiful gray hair and her musical voice is tinged with a distinct British accent, which she developed growing up in South Africa. The second woman, Yvonne, is German by birth, very nice, and shares my ex-Army-wife experience -- except that her husband was an officer and mine was enlisted.
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| My Idea of a Houseboat |
Then Margaret said, "Well, if you ever have the opportunity to spend any time in Africa, you will leave a part of your soul behind." (From the ensuing conversation, I assume she meant someplace in South Africa.)
My ears perked up at her comment. I could not let it pass without knowing what she meant.
"What do you mean?" I asked... and so the stories began. There are two I would like to share with my readers. The first is about desperate poverty and the second is about the situation of normal people trapped in a country with terroristic war.
As a U.S. citizen who has frequently lived on a shoestring budget and presently resides with my parents so I can make ends meet, I have to say that I am really tired of hearing how wealthy I am because of my nationality. (However, as far as the wastefulness of Americans is concerned, I have to plead guilty as charged for throwing out my tissues full of snot rather than recycling them.)
I have seen and experienced plenty of poverty in the U.S; people living under bridges and begginf for their subsistence [eg. "Disabled Vet will work for food"], the homeless sleeping on the lawn of The Mall (in Washington D.C.), etc. There is horrible poverty here in addition to our country's more popularized waste, but it is nothing like the poverty that Margaret described exists in South Africa.
I had asked about the economy and Margaret tried to think back in time. It was years ago that she was there, although I hear that the economic situation has worsened since she left due to corruption in the government. (All hearsay, I might add.) Margaret's answer was that many of the poorer families survive on next to nothing in the outlying communities. She told me that people who have jobs try to help by hiring the local poor, but cannot afford to pay much. Therefore, the poor work for very little and are grateful just to have a job. Earning $20 a week means they can feed their families, even though they could not provide decent housing with running water or toilets.
Margaret then described the food the impoverished afforded to eat as a "mealy-meal" substance, thicker than cream-of-wheat. No vegetables, no protein, only this thick mush to eat. The children of the area were so malnourished that they would get big, round bellies -- but the big bellies are definitely not from overeating. She also relayed how when she was finished wearing clothes, she would never throw them away. Even though her clothes and shoes might have holes in them, she would lay them on the side of the street because she knew someone who was without would happily find and use them.
As Margaret talked, I imagined a mother walking barefoot down the street and finding a pair of holey children's shoes on the side of the street. She ran over to pick up the treasure, excited that her child would now wear shoes.
Margaret's other story I want to share, and I hope I do not botch it too badly, occurred back around 1969 when she was a young teacher. She and a friend of hers (another teacher, I think) had been invited to a mutual friend's house for dinner. They stayed a little late and the sky grew dark. Margaret remembered having a normal, every-day conversation with her friend trying to decide their best course of action. Should they drive home slowly enough to be able to detect land mines in the road home? Or should they drive home quickly, so as to get through the area where "Freedom Fighters" would blindly sniper anyone driving in their vehicles?
I do not know what Margaret and her friend decided to do, drive fast or slow. What I do know is that I am very thankful to live in a land where the government tries to help many people in need, the police work hard to protect the public and our military sacrifices life and personal freedoms to defend our liberty.
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