the hills are alive

As hard as I've been on the hospital, they came through this past week Despite the interdepartmental communication problems that plague just about every department of health on earth, I have to mention how they're terribly understaffed for the scale of this epidemic; it's only fair to the kind doctors and nurses who really have been helpful. M. began ARVs on one of the coldest nights of winter here. Fortunately, she lay warm beneath wool blankets in a hospital bed, while I buried myself in a sleeping bag and two comforters. We boil ourselves in hot baths before bed, to remind us that we have feet. You can sunbathe in skivvies by day, but nights are frigid in houses without insulation and heat. Thatched roofs are well insulated, and the smoke from the floor fires burnishes the grass and beams shiny black. It makes a beautiful finish. Mud bricks are laid for walls, and the smooth floors are mixed from clay and dung. Grass mats are unrolled to sit upon, and smell incredible.

Sarah's been working her cold little fingers to the bone all weekend to bring you an updated trailer to the film (posting to site TBA); a little warmer to how it will really feel. To assist her concentration, I cultivated my wifely skills: making dinner, doing laundry, running errands, kneeling to serve her tea, and ever increasing my value in cows. In this weather, gathering dry limbs of wood at the top of the mountain makes or breaks an excellent bride. To do it, we climbed half a mile vertical and four more through Sound of Music-like hills, with an entourage of little children singing in neat rows. D.'s lovely sister led us up, telling legends of the ranges around, including one 'Hysterical Woman Bush'. There are no men in D.'s family; just beautiful girls with sparkling smiles and amber eyes. The enormous bundles were tied together with green strips of young bark, and balanced on our heads. The sight of us doing Zulu things or making Zulu sounds is endlessly funny to everyone here...

And you can see from Sarah's glowing photo that we visited the Tevreden Cheese Factory, in honor of the classic David Friedland song. We are wealthy in cheese! It was crucial—cheese sandwiches are our lunch four days out of the week, to keep the budget steady against the soaring price of petrol. And then come those golden afternoons when we are given enormous plates of home cooking...

new home, new dogs

In the way that Sarah and I feel no control over where life decides to put us, we were steered completely off course Thursday when a quick trip to the clinic became a six hour shuttle between there and the hospital, where the doctor said we shouldn't have come to in the first place. We've learned to bring books, and to brainstorm interview questions to pass the time...

One man, who had been waiting in the queue since 8 that morning, subsequently died around 2pm, lying on a bench with blood dripping from his arms. The nurses walked blindly past his frenzied wife. I can't stand it anymore. Sarah was ready to throw things and scream if M. was denied treatment for the day (and possibly would have been denied ARVs for 'bad behavior' of not seeing the doctor). Instead, she worked that magic that her baby blues can do, and M.'s family was impressed at her successful talking skills. Must be in that Newyorkisch blood...btw, Zulus also say 'fuhgeddaboutit' only it's pronounced 'ay soogah!'

A cold wind blew over the fields as we left, and heavy clouds covered the skies. The sunset bled rubies through the breaks. We drank some ndoku around the fire, and were presented with two hand-hewn brooms each, made of the sweet-smelling grasses that the mats and baskets are woven from, things that M. made before she became too weak. One of her little boys said that we have finally found our home. Despite whole days of waiting, both women have expressed tremendous gratitude for transport to the clinics alone; for many years, the government has attempted to initiate a bus system, schedule and all, only to have the private taxi drivers burn the brand-new fleets. Desperation in the present is so blinding to what temporary setbacks for sustainable development could accomplish...

Friday afternoon was golden with D. and her family; the sweet dedication of her older sister makes me miss mine. We ate delicious smoked beans with rice and tea, and filmed as she took her evening dose of ARVs. We sang around the fire lit on a piece of metal on the rondavel floor, something I'd like to do back in NY but I'm pretty sure would be against code. It amazes me how here, like in Ireland, everyone can sing well, and everyone knows the words. We are so poor not to have this. The stars were brighter and more dense than I'd ever seen.

Another point of confusion and contention we've come across are the many many many high-potency multivitamin supplements available (some for around $100) at pharmacies and through local salesmen. The companies have community members sell the products for a commission, giving jobs and instantaneously gaining trust of the community. Certain companies have been revealed to be testing on vulnerable populations to market their drugs abroad, and have been proven to kill people by prescribing as many as 30 pills a day and taking them off ARVs, for their 'toxicity'. True, any chemical can be labeled as toxic, but such high doses of vitamins are deathly toxic; strange how people think that herbal remedies are safer when they can be equally poisonous. I have to agree that I somehow feel more comfortable when an ingredient is derived from a leaf than mixed in a tube, even though only my brilliant chemist mommy knows how many harmful chemical compounds are in that leaf. That said, I'm just as skeptical about the myriad remedies put out there by pharmaceutical companies, who seduce doctors like my sister with lobster dinners...keep that lobster coming, boys, I think she needs more convincing...!

There is one substance, ubhejane, being marketed as a traditional medicine, but was invented by a truck driver when the recipe came to him in a dream. It has 89 ingredients, all of which are secret. The rightful respect for traditional medicine unfortunately creates a loophole for swindlers to legally murder. It sickens me to think of how many have lost their money and lives invested in the hope that it works, because it really would be wonderful if a cure came from Africa.

Carol whipped up a mean braai at the B+B for our last night there; Friday morning we moved into Phum's old flat. Sad to leave the shower, the fireplace, the great dinners & conversation, and the little old lady siamese cat who kept me warm at night, + who presented us with an after dinner mouse. But the flat is larger than our apartment in NY, and has two sweet dogs (Lara=huskie + Zoe=alsatian) that stand guard on cars—literally standing on them.

Sthembiso said this phrase 'ishaywa isavele ngenhloko' that means 'hit it on the head before it fully reveals itself', referring to the snake coming out of its hole, but also refers to prevention. Snakes are the most feared creatures in these parts, home of the spitting cobra. One young traditional healer, the last surviving member of his family, & who is also HIV+, warned us about an enormous seven-headed snake that lives in the shadow of the Tugela River source, high in the mountains, because the ones who go there never come back.

impilonde!*

Today marks the beginning of betterness for D.; we picked up her first installment of ARVs at the hospital, and the queue wasn't too bad, either (only 3 hrs)!

We celebrate the smallest of achievements here, because so many unexpected little delays can build up into weeks of waiting...paperwork problems, appointments 50 km away, an official going out to lunch and never returning...but D. has the three magicl pill bottles in her hot little hand, and we're confident she'll make it. M. begins next week; here come the side effects...and the muscle of the film...

This weekend, we shot hospital images in an NGO hospice run by a generous doctor in Tugela Ferry. The Department of Health does not allow any filming on its premises, since being muckraked by some TV show earlier this year, so we needed some clinical images to illustrate the contrast of fluorescent lit, antiseptic-angular-steelyness with the light and texture of life in a thatched rondavel with chickens peering in. The hospice was infinitely more welcoming; big windows and walls that opened up to sunlight and patios that looked over the Tugela river; kind staff and plenty of personal attention. Birds flew into the wards, perching in the rafters. While we stressed that the patients would maintain anonymity (no shooting of faces), they were unanimously excited to have us there, and to demonstrate how much better they were feeling. The countless patients who have regained their strength continue to visit and brag. It's wonderful; every hospital should be as comfortable and personal as this. I was very impressed with the design of the Sloan-Kettering children's cancer ward in NY; bright colors and wood, open areas and minimal white coats. I'm pretty sure that that sickly pale greenish color (that doesn't exist in the natural world) used for bedspreads and scrubs doesn't need to be so ubiquitous. When I was 8, I cried to my mother that I couldn't concentrate on math because the classroom was painted that color (it was the math part, too). A place meant for births, deaths, and other significant events of life should be a better place to remember...the atmosphere seemed to increase the stress I felt when my Dad was sick. The objects that surround you may become so familiar that they virtually disappear, but they still make up the scenes that you remember of your life. Details are important. Of course, this rant could instigate the installations of one-size-fits-all motel art and decor...better wait till I get back to the states to do it proper.

I'm enjoying the higher stature that photographs have here; hardly anybody has them. I've gotten requests to send printouts when I'm shooting, so I take down names. Like Ireland last summer, there are no numbers on the houses, no street names, but also no mailboxes. Vusi will be able to find the person by asking around the area. One of the healers asked if we could photograph the virginity testing ceremony, but we were unable to in the end. It wouldn't have been the pictures you're imagining; more of the ritual. It's a source of pride to anyone, to display what you do with your life. If my house was burning down, the first thing I'd rush in to get would be the negatives and CD archives. I heard of one New Orleans photographer who shot himself when the hurricane flooded his life's work; and so many people left with no visual or material record of their families. I like the belief in ancestral worship here; records in writing and pictures help me to remember, but are more for the ancestors I won't live to meet. My great grandmother crocheted the most intricate green miniskirt. I get compliments every time I wear it, and she is mentioned every time. She lives on through it, and I don't have to have known her to know the kind of person she must have been. Every inch is perfect. It's also very short...

Saturday night we visited Phum's pastor, spending the night outside in a caravan that they take on the road for revivals. His family had taken in several orphans and sent them to school. In hard times, people band together. When it's easier, we compete. As I post, she sits on a plane, bound west for a beautiful new future...we love you sis, you are impossibly irreplaceable in the millions of hearts that hold you within—it will be wild to meet up again in Nova Scotia...

(*long life, cheers)

...In which Sarah and Esy are blessed by 40 traditional healers...

After welcoming singing and dancing, our plates were piled high with stew and phutu, a maize couscous, and chakalaka, which we were overjoyed to find, is the same thing as pico de gallo salsa, sans cilantro. It was part of a series of conferences organized by Phum and a local doctor who hopes to integrate traditional healers with the local hospital. It's an immensely important step for both parties; there are many people who (understandably...) don't trust western medicine at all, and some who take traditional medicine in conjunction with the pills, sometimes a deadly combination.

One of the healers mentioned the need for an awareness campaign in the local areas; the posters and information distributed by the clinics could be made much clearer and more immediate through graphics. The few that are pinned to the walls are long lists in English, in a tiny font, and full of those long, crazy disease and drug names; not so useful to a predominately Zulu area, in a country with 12 official languages. Our patient M. seemed to be confused about the infectiousness of HIV, and there is little mention of preventing transmission while on ARVs. The national ad campaign on HIV awareness is well-funded, and I hope that they are strong in their school outreach programs, but the billboards have been simplified to the point where no message gets across (ex: 'HIV: get attitude'). Obviously, the depths of this problem are difficult to sum up in one shot, but I'm trying my hand at some possible solutions to present. Open call on suggestions to fellow designers!

Both the doctor + healers shared their beliefs about where the virus comes from, and how it is passed; there are strong theories tied to politics (the rise of AIDS in conjunction with the switch to the ANC government in '94), race (one healer asked why only Africans get it), and loss of cultural traditions (a woman who hasn't waited 6 months after giving birth or who has sex after being widowed poisons the man). The doctor's openness and respectfulness to these ideas was essential; if he had said 'that's absurd!' and tried to push his own agenda, then a wall would have gone up where there are already so many walls to begin with, furthering the division on (and prevention of) treatment. Both sides put aside their pride and listened openly; a rare thing, and bloody simple, too.

D.'s family served us the freshest chicken possible; it's something to watch a blinking bird become a perfectly dressed meal. It was so enthralling to film that I didn't realize how boring footage can be, if you stay focused on just one thing. Shots on television shows rarely linger longer than ten seconds; it sounds dizzying, but try counting sometime. Our eyes dart around constantly, taking in so many things at once that we don't have the time to put words to. I'm excited to see how Sarah slices these hundreds of hours up into digestible seconds. I also carried a five gallon bucket of water on my head. It's not easy looking so graceful...

haze + flames

The smoke from the burning grasses this week gathered into a thick veil over the mountains today, the smell of fire everywhere, stinging eyes inside of the huts, hanging on the air and mixing with the sweet scent of cattle fur. Living in the presence of animals is nice to be reminded of our own animalness, though the strata of suffering that we people love to pin on one another must shame the rest; could be why they won't speak to us.

Wednesday we filmed D., a hilarious spitfire of a woman, as those little ones tend to be, as she walked the steep and crumbling path to the clinic early this morning for an ARV adherence class. The earth is red and dry in the winter, that Mars-like moonscape that makes places like Arizona (Zulu food, architecture, and customs are also strikingly like Navajo). I drew with a piece of it on the curb as we waited in the parking lot for another girl, frail and barely breathing. The nurses at the clinic tried to convince her mother that she should go to the hospital–you know how I feel about this hospital...I agreed with her mother, who wanted to take her home. She died an hour later in her mother's arms, in the back seat of our car as we arrived at her home. It's hard to describe how agonizing it felt, to be present at such a private moment, and to hear that otherworldly wail of a parent who has lost a child. That same sound, when my friend died in high school. But I felt relieved that it hadn't happened in a hospital queue. It's etched in forever...my brain weaves wildly vivid dreams, working overtime to make it all make sense.

How do you convince someone whose life has been so hard that life is still worth living? At that meeting at Housing Works in NY, I met a Chinese businessman, HIV+, who had opened his home to addicts and prostitutes, focusing on fixing their self-esteem problems before ARV treatment. 'People who don't care about themselves won't care about passing it on to others.' He had attempted suicide when he found out that he was positive, because there was no talk, no outreach or support. Such an enormous part of the disease is this. A factory wage is R80 ($12USD) per week. Like the welfare system in the states, there is more incentive to have children to get government grants with the lack of job opportunities, and unprotected sex means more transmission...at the base of so many problems of the world lies unemployment and unfair business practices. Good business could turn so many lives around...people being good to one another on the smallest of levels advances humanity by leaps and bounds. One good parent or teacher does an immeasurable amount of good to a generation, and with so few of both left alive the scores of children we pass on the roads every day have less and less of a chance.

Bestseller doesn't always = best, but Gladwell's 'Blink' can be read as fast, with some juicy ideas on recognizing what is instinct and what has been subconsciously brainwashed into us...according to studies, an inch of height is worth $789 in salary per year. And surgeons who spend three extra minutes per patient are less likely to be sued. There are some creepy tests about race. Some white South Africans have mentioned that we are lucky, that Zulus are relieved to hear that we are not part of the history here; but none of us have an innocent history. There is so much that is never said, that when D. exclaimed 'It's like you're not even white people' it was alarming. I'm considered white here, if only because I am not Zulu. South Africans I'd met in the past said I was 'coloured', but I haven't heard the term yet. I learned the term 'whitewashed' in California; a nonwhite person who hangs out with white people. This from the state where minorities are the majority. Is it ok for me to bring up race, because I belong to two but to neither? There's a lot of history that wants to be forgotten.

Today, Saturday, I rode not through the desert on a horse with no name, but through Spioenkop game reserve on a horse named Muffin, through a herd of giraffe. Sarah followed closely on Daisy, and Sthembiso, our engineer buddy, on Muchacho. We met up with Phumzile by the water and had a braai (bbq) by the lake as the sun set and the full moon rose...

wowee cowee

On average, a woman's family gets eleven cows when she is wed. The wife of a king gets 22! In some cases, the parents of the bride will not even speak to the husband-to-be and his family until they throw some money down on the table. A reporter from Jo'burg told us how painful it was for her brother's bride...but as Vusi said, when you must have something, you will pay any price for it. That's $9,163 USD, making the camera worth about 5 cows. Maybe four cows and a little baby cow.

We went to the farm of a traditional healer today, who had over 70 cows...extremely wealthy. And I'm sorry to report that my first monkey sighting was a dead monkey sighting; it was hanging on a tree to be eaten and used for medicine (I promise not to eat monkey, Dad.). The hills were rolling and smooth, the mountains muscular, the footage like BUTTER. I told Sarah to leave me there, but she had to drag me from the site...it was just over the range that separates S.A. from Lesotho, where we'll pass through on our road trip in July. It takes days to walk through the pass, sleeping in caves along the way. I can't wait to watch this tape, of sunlit wheat waving and glassy reflections of purple mountains. We were very happy to be invited back for the coming of age ceremony there for the young women in mid July, where crowds of beautiful ladies present their beautiful bodies in all of their natural glory...yes, my friends, the views are stunning.

Sunday was polo day at the country club with Carol, our gracious hostess at the B+B. The horses were gleaming, and every so often the ball would come rolling our way, followed by a stampede; I love that there were no fences between us and the game; really makes you feel like you're in there, playing. Hopefully we'll be able to catch the big soccer game vs. Manchester United in Durban in a few weekends...

Saturday we walked with some zebra, eland, and whispered to a lone rhino on the plain...and he turned his backside on us. Believe me, it's better to see his backside than his frontside coming at you, very suddenly...

still alive

This first day of June was my first back in the field after a three day hiatus from the planet, recharging after a fever of a hundred and seven: Sarah saved my life once again (...for those of you unfamiliar with the 'lobster incident'...) by immersing me in a bath of normal body temperature. Still the hacking cough, but the pain has melted away immensely with the day filled with shooting all of the pretty things we never seem to have time for...both patients resting today. One event that I'm sorry to have missed was a dance rehearsal on Sunday, where the women sing songs in Zulu about contemporary social problems, including a great one about opportunistic infections that can attack with HIV, but Sarah captured a beautiful recording. And also the following pictures of me setting up a shot, and minutes later getting swarmed by curious children, some of which were former students of Vusi, also pictured.

It's looking bright so far for both of the patients we are following, who have just begun adherence training at their respective clinics. Sarah alone was permitted to sit in on the sessions, and was pleased to see that condom use was demonstrated. Those of you in the U.S. might have spotted Gerry, her daddy, recently
on the PBS show Frontline that was about the history of AIDS; the woman who produced that show is also on our advisory board. He's something of a superstar in these parts, which has been really nice to hear about from all sorts of people. We love our parents so much and are terribly proud of them, something that stings more when we meet an orphan. The HBCs have taken us in as their daughters, and call us 'the young brides'. Vusi almost began negotiating our price in cattle with an old man who lived beside a mountain where we were filming. I'd be curious to know who's worth more cows; they're 5000 rand each ($833). Then we could know who to sell if the camera breaks...