thing with no name

TWNN in the midwest and even in your computer

2009-04-04T22:19:00.001-04:00

A glorious spring has lured my toes from their socks, the blossoms from the trees and it's snowing petals downtown, now. A week ago, Sarah and I were blissfully reunited (albeit for a mere 50 hrs!) when TWNN was nominated for the Greg Gund Memorial Standing Up Film Competition at the 33rd Cleveland International Film Festival, directed by the multitalented Bill Guentzler, who set a new record for attendance this year. Our screenings were generously sponsored by The AIDS Funding Collaborative and The Cobalt Group, which hosted a Women of the World series. We met up once more with our good friends from festivals past, who continue to accumulate well-deserved honors and recognition. It makes me so happy to think about what an unbelievable year it's been for all of us, despite the troubling times ahead for the arts industry.

We are also thrilled to report that the film is now available on iTunes! Pass it on...if it's anything I've learned from the past five years, it's that so much time, love + work is put into movies that it's a shame if they're not seen by as many people as possible...thank you.

up in the mountains again

2008-11-24T12:41:00.004-05:00

Woodstock was warm and welcoming, from the gigantic fireplace in the main lounge hall to the cozy home of a local resident who kindly let us take it over for the weekend. I loved being home for the brilliant leaves and for my birthday, and to see my folks, who shlepped three hours to experience what this film festival business is all about. We were honored that Thing With No Name was nominated for the Haskell Wexler Award for Best Cinematography, and very happy to be reunited with LAFF friends, notably the geniuses behind Trinidad and Prince of Broadway. Jeremiah Zagar's In A Dream and Ellen Kuras' The Betrayal (Nerakhoon) were two new films I got to see here, and were some of the most gorgeous and sensitively made documentaries that I've seen yet; it is only fitting that they have been shortlisted for Academy Awards.

It was back to the mountains last weekend for The Starz Denver Film Festival, where our two screenings and panel were sold out! This happened with many thanks to the amazing publicist Rachael Tucker, Ashara Ekundayo of The Pan African Arts Society, and Barbara Bridges of The Denver Film Society and Wildblue Entertainment. During the panel that Barbara arranged on Women in Transition in Africa, it was uplifting to hear the experiences of the women that both Abby Disney (Pray the Devil Back to Hell) and Lisa Merton (Taking Root: The Vision of Wangari Maathai) had followed; you can listen to the podcast (including my mic malfunction) here. Our schedule was filled, but a few minutes here and there with good friends, family, family friends, and even friends of friends (thank you for spreading the word, everyone!) was golden; these festivals are so good for reconnecting with the world that too often tends to drop away during the film production process. There's so many people to thank...Britta, Adam, Carla...cue the music and cut me off now...

fall screenings

2008-09-26T14:53:00.004-04:00

With the generous support of The Pangaea Global AIDS Foundation, The Peace Corps, and RPCVs Brooke and Tom Nagle, we had an incredibly successful screening at the LGBT Center in San Francisco this past August; Thing With No Name played to an audience of over 150 people, a standing room only crowd that raised funds for The Mpilonhle Project and Philakahle, two fantastic organizations that serve the mountainous regions of KwaZulu Natal. We were fortunate enough to coincide the screening just following the World AIDS Conference in Mexico City this year, and to have Nomsa and Mpume from The Mpilonhle Project there to take questions from the crowd. We'd met Brooke and Tom at the last screening at the Los Angeles Film Festival, who had volunteered for two years in Okhahlamba and had driven up from San Diego to see the film; we are too fortunate to have crossed paths with these great activists.

If you are in the area, come wish me a happy birthday and join us at the Woodstock Film Festival (Oct 4+5) and The Starz Denver Film Festival in November (screenings TBA, though we will be present Nov. 15+16th). We're extremely grateful to have participated in many great festivals (and met many invaluable friends) this year, and excited for more...I've fallen behind on the postings since moving to Santa Cruz, where I'm busy beginning my masters/the next film; I'm thrilled to begin collaborating with a number of notable documentarians and overall veterans of the independent film world, but just concentrating in this pretty place is proving to be the biggest challenge so far...

TWNN at LAFF

2008-07-09T17:52:00.004-04:00

Why yes! Those are in fact paparazzi photos of Sarah and I attending one of the three screenings we were blessed with at the LA Film Festival a couple of weeks ago, now. LAFF graciously hosted a mess of independent filmmakers from all over, fostering an incredibly stimulating environment; kind of like the best summer camp you could ever dream of. We made many new friends and helpful contacts, got some fantastic reviews from Variety and indieWIRE, watched some beautiful movies, and suffered many hangovers from the free mojitos and all-night karaoke and pho. It was the most perfect 1% glamour to the 99% grit of filmmaking, which made it *that* much more appreciated...

But now I'd better back up; after returning from South Africa, we did a Q+A at the final Brooklyn International Film Festival screening at a superb new facility called the Lumenhouse, catching up at last with some great old friends and meeting some new ones. Then it was on to Boston, where Gerry met up with us and helped out with the more medically slanted questions, and I reunited with the brilliant Julia Przedworski of Ecuasana, who works in the similar vein of increasing access to medical treatment in Ecuador.

I am now home, back in my own space, with the windows open, the orchid in full bloom and the artifacts of familiarity all around. My head is still reeling from these past two months, of so much noise and nervousness bursting in on a normally quiet life...good to get jolted by the electric minds of others from time to time.

relieved/relived

2008-06-02T17:31:00.003-04:00

that perfect fog that silhouetted everyone and everything that first time around covered the morning once more today, as we headed for Ogade to watch the film with MamDlalisa, Danisile's Home Based Carer. white flowers adorn the crevices around her house, overlooking the flames and laundry and cattle tending that happens below, where all of the families she looks after live. she is truly a queen among them, and among the other Home Based Carers, being the first to publicly test for HIV, and then the rest followed suit.

so the queen's approval was granted, save for her only comment that maybe next time we could follow the story of someone who lived?

they all become my family, she said of the ARV support group she keeps together; and they become family to one another, a system of checks and balances that maintains the regimen required by this fussy medication.

we left after a meal of fresh zulu chicken and boiled bread; on to another screening with the few extended members of the Mlangeni family who wanted to view it. again, it went smoothly, without the overpowering emotions and fainting that we feared, and approval that it was a good, balanced representation of the situation. it was an enormous relief to get this feedback from both sides; in time, hopefully the daughters and sons will be ready to let us know their thoughts, too.

so the main mission to return is complete; in the meantime, we've been busy acting as the IT group of the area, setting up websites, shooting events and giving computer program advice, though we are still learning in these areas too...you can give what you can, when you can't give the money or time that you wish you could...

the weekend was spent hiking/strolling in the mountains with Cazie and the Moll family (who run the greatest hope of a hospice Philanjalo in Tugela Ferry), and Phum canoed for the first time in the pond near the picturesque house that they've spent the past decade or so building; turns out i'm not the only one who spent school breaks mixing concrete. sunday was a ride through the game reserve, my horse this time was named warrior, who proved himself to be one while cantering much faster than my usual favorite, muffin. Sarah shot giraffes with her super 8, and the rhino family we got a little too close to. then a birthday lunch for Carol at the waffle hut, and a visit to a pottery studio that showcases local HIV+ artists. animals grew out of spouts and handles, eating and chasing one another around the perimeters.

we also learned that certain members of the Bergville community have decided that i am a spy for the BBC, falsely reporting how all of the Blacks in SA are poor and the whites are rich. sarah was disappointed that she was not included in these charges. i've never felt so flattered.

we visit with Dani's family last before we head to Durban, where the mood will be more somber. Ntokozo cried at seeing us, releasing a torrent of sadness that all of us had been keeping in for these past two years, being the death that never had the closure that Ntombeleni's funeral had given us. it's been troubling me, what to say to her, when i know that she's thinking that we cannot possibly know how she feels. it's true, and it's all that i can say.

simangaliso

2008-05-28T17:22:00.002-04:00

...those three kids, running through the bright gold grass, three little dots that grew larger and larger at the first distant rumbling of imoto, our car. It has made its way onto my list of top ten best memories of this lifetime.

Ntombeleni's family is doing wonderfully, I am happy to report, and though there are hints of fresh sadness from the passing of the elderly uncle (the first man seen in the film) just three weeks ago, a new baby girl, Ntombeleni's granddaughter, is a happy new addition. Tshengisile, her mother, and Ntombeleni's eldest daughter, grabbed us both in a rough embrace, and we were led to the main rondavel, the one we had helped to paint, now a bright acqua on the inside. The children are in school, and cared for by the government foster care grant, R800 ($104 USD) each per month, for the time that they are still young.

Both families have let us know that they do not wish to see the film; too intense, too personal, too soon. We understand this; I don't think I could bear to experience my mother's death a second time around. There is also the custom of not really mentioning the departed around the house; it brings up too much sadness. Tomorrow, we see Danisile's family...it is so exciting to reunite, but it will doubtless be heavier...

It was also a great relief to hear that my postcards had been reaching them, and that I can continue my one-way communication through drawings and photos (since my Zulu will never be fit) this way. I'm leaving a pack of stamped, addressed postcards here, to see if we can continue this way. Though Ntombeleni's sister-in-law now has a DVD player thanks to the recent introduction of electricity to KwaMaye...email should only be steps away, especially with this newfangled doohickey that picks up connection via satellite, that I only learned of months ago...

As we left, Phumlani and I drew pictures to one another in the sand. Then he wrote 'simangaliso', over and over. When Phumzile came around, I asked her what it meant. 'Miracle', she said.

special report: back in the drakensberg

2008-05-26T19:38:00.003-04:00

We lifted off Friday, letting the city break down into a pixelated array of rectangles, squares, and intersecting highway lines, thinning to a strip of coast, and then dark blue sea for the next ten or fifty hours. The dark blue greyed to black, and it's a shame there's still no camera fit to catch the brightness of those lonely stars that only one shining ship below could appr

eciate. It was startling just to see a light in the middle of so much cold sea, and unthinkable that a friend of mine had crossed that. I thought of the distance growing between myself and the warm little cat that sleeps curled against my body, now half a world away. Those friends, too.

Dawn came pale and orange through the plane window in Dakar, where we stopped to refuel, refood, and get sprayed by a substance that was deemed harmless by the World Health Organization. It smelled like Lysol. We rose again, and I awoke over Namibia, just past the Angola border. straight roads, dirt roads, and not one house. Johannesburg happened unexpectedly after the mountains, tiny windows glinting as we angled down, over fires and exhaust. The air felt warm and smelled grilled.

The transition to Durban was smooth, and the friendly Afrikaner man beside me, and twice the size of me, attempted to discuss

water polo before I confessed I had no idea that the US had a national team(?); I come from a land too plentiful in sports, beliefs, and toothpaste brands than I will ever comprehend.

We spent a perfectly comfortable night at a lovingly designed b+b with good old friends of Sarah's father Gerry, and picked up a glowing Phumzile (literally, in a bright golden scarf) at the airport from where she is currently studying in Cape Town. A three hour drive north took us back past the giraffes, the doctor's clinic, the naartje/ butter-avo vendor, past the adjacent road to the hospital, and to Carol's door, where all of the dogs, the cats, and the Zulu-fluent parrot were there to greet us.
It's two years to the month we arrived for the first time. Each ridge in the horizon line, each curve of the road, and each bite of Carol's pudding was/ has been/ and continues to be real. I can't explain it, but there is great relief in all of this.

screenings coming soon to a festival near you...

2008-05-07T18:11:00.005-04:00

International Film Festival of Tribal Art and Culture (India)
Renderyard Film Festival (London): March 22, 3:30pm
London Independent Film Festival: April 14, 2pm
Brooklyn International Film Festival: screening date TBA, May 30-June 8
Boston International Film Festival*: June 10, 5:30pm
Los Angeles Film Festival*: screening date TBA, June 19-29

*filmmakers will be present

we are also thrilled to return to South Africa in late May to visit with our friends...

a thank you (THANK YOU!!) to the screening attendees

2007-11-15T01:14:00.000-05:00

On behalf of both Sarah and I, and on behalf of the Mlangeni and Mvula families, we want to thank you for the generosity that has materialized into not only the film, but now also the school fees for the children. If you were to hear Ntombeleni's grandchild Phumlani's perfect impression of Sarah's words, you would have no doubt that this child is unfairly gifted in sweetness and smarts. Danisile's saintly older sister is a schoolteacher who is looking after all six of the girls now, so there is no doubt that their education is prioritized.

I know that it's awkward to ask for money, especially knowing it is hard earned; money is the time you spent working on something, materialized. I like to bypass the whole official government currency part of it and think of it as an exchange of time; each of us working away, whether that's quietly writing, speaking out and teaching, or rushing around to help a someone or a situation. It's hard to measure the value of that time in dollars, the same measurement of value used for a cheese sandwich. But that's the world we're in, and the dollars (hours, days) that you have given will actually last many years for many beautiful, beautiful children. In time-currency, that's a better investment return than any tech stock could dream of...

It was overwhelming to see so many loved ones in one room. I wish I had a whole day for everyone. Please feel free to comment, ask questions, share ideas...and pictures!

*click on the invite for details

2007-10-12T12:49:00.001-04:00

the anniversary

2007-06-24T11:58:00.000-04:00

It has been a year since we've been in KwaZulu Natal. What have we done, and what can we do? The film continues to grow with the crucial and thoughtful feedback of our advisory board members and friends. It has been difficult to keep in touch, never being sure if the mail gets through. The communication divide renders a huge portion of the world invsible, while the rest continues to carry on a one-way conversation with itself. Who does more to kill the AIDS epidemic, the 'Condom King' in Thailand who has personally reached out to every prostitute in Bangkok, or a celebrity brandishing a diamond encrusted red ribbon? The latter raises awareness and money, but does that money go where you imagine it does?

I recently read the Vanity Fair 'Africa' issue: celebritylicious, but some interesting info (and a funny piece by Chris Rock on going to SA).

I liked the piece on Jeff Sachs; here's what I picked up from it:

• On aid: according to Sachs, the billions going into aid haven't yielded any formidable progress out of poverty because it isn't enough to make any, when scattered thinly to the numerous outlets that receive it (Something one experiences on a smaller scale when budgeting for a documentary film...). Billions of dollars is certainly beyond my imagination, but in terms of GNP, it isn't much:

• Last year, the US put $499 billion into the military, and 22.7 billion into foreign aid. While in dollars, that is the largest amount of money given to aid, it is only 0.17% of the US budget. Great Britain and France give 0.52% and 0.47% of their GNPs. Sachs believes that if every rich nation gives 1%, or double the total of what is given now, true change can occur. He argues: that amount is cheaper than mass migration, cheaper than war, cheaper than food aid.

• Total annual spending on health care in Sub-Saharan Africa: $20
in the US: $6,000 (and for WHAT??)

There is also a piece on the transformative powers of ARVs, called 'The Lazarus Effect'. Only 28% in need of ARVs are getting them. Finally, an article by Bill Clinton, the first US president to visit South Africa, in 1998(!), remembers what Mandela told him, something he was thinking about his captors when he was released:

"I don't hate them. If I continued to hate them, they would still have me. I wanted to be free."

interview at actionforeveryone.com

2007-05-29T23:38:00.000-04:00

Sarah + Esy answer questions about Thing With No Name at www.actionforeveryone.com, a site that reminds you how much you can do without even realizing what you're doing...

TWNN wins a grant from The Jerome Foundation

2007-04-24T12:40:00.000-04:00

Just thought I should share the excellent news! Post-production is progressing well, thanks to Sarah's dedicated editing, and the feedback of our generous advisory board.

search for the cause

2006-11-01T16:09:00.000-05:00

As of Thursday, November 2, you can use this internet search engine to garner funding for Thing With No Name, at no cost to you:

www.goodsearch.com
type in 'Thing With No Name'

the new trailer!

2006-09-19T15:31:00.000-04:00

please proceed to:

www.thingwithnoname.org/trailer.htm

+ we love your honest feedback, as this is our tool to post-production funding...

guest columnist: sarah friedland

2006-08-25T09:33:00.000-04:00

3:00 p.m.

10:15 am - the crew is feeling settled with our mornings work. We have followed our main character, Dani, as she makes the journey to the local clinic. We begin at her family home, a cluster of mud and thatch huts perched in the foothills of the Drakensburg, far above where I am used to families living. I ask her questions in English, Vusi, the interpreter, repeats in Zulu and converts the answers back into English for Esy and I. Esy follows Dani, walking backward with the camera, and I listen through the headphones. We make sure that everything falls perfectly within the parameters of proper filming practices. White balances are checked, focuses are checked, and sound levels are monitored. I watch the little bars of volume rise and fall with her voice, one step removed from reality by my headphones.

“Where are you going today? And what are you doing?” After translations, the answer comes back to me; “I am going to the clinic for my second ARV training session. I am very happy because I know I am going to live.” We are all thoroughly satisfied with this positive answer. Dani seems genuinely excited to begin treatment with antiretrovirals (ARVs), the miracle drugs that postpone death and sickness for HIV positive individuals. Through a government roll out program, these drugs only recently became available in South Africa. However, due to the meticulous way in which they must be taken, the Department of Health has developed the ARV training sessions, a series of classes mandatory for all people interested in initiating treatment.

Following Dani's small frame, we descend from her house to the road. We fake that she will be walking the 2 hour trip to the local clinic, instead we pick her up and drive her most of the way in our white, rental, SUV. However, you will not see that in the film. You will only see where we stopped along the road, the visually interesting spots where we asked her to walk. The effect will be staggering. The distance a person with full-blown AIDS is forced to travel to access health care will horrify the audience.

We leave Dani at the clinic make plans to pick her up around 1:00pm and take her back home. We do not want our main character to danger her health by walking home with a severely weakened immune system.

I am lulled to sleep by the slow ride through the rise and fall of the dirt road leading to our next destination. Jolted by the abrupt change in the road, I wake up and my eyes slowly open to observe the river we are driving through. As we pass, I wave to the workers dressed in royal blue jump suits. These men have been hired to do the manual labor necessary to erect the bridge that will joining the two sides of this river. The bridge, which has been promised for decades and which they have been trying to build for years, will connect people to the main road, to schools, and to the hospital and clinics. At one point the project had succeeded, however the new bridge fell victim to the rains of the summer months, when the trickle of water I observe now swells to become a formidable river. After their work was washed away, they started again. And now, every time we pass through here, they are sitting, waiting on the side of the road. Apparently they are waiting for supplies that have either not been ordered or not been paid for.

Our SUV passes through the river without a problem. About 5 km of a gentle incline leads us to the house of MamRossetta.

She is waiting for us in the entrance to her house. MamRosetta, like most of the Home Based Carers, is an extremely tough and warm person. Which is why she is so successful in caring for dying people. She wears a skirt that falls to her mid calf, sneakers, a button up blouse and a scarf. All of the different elements of this outfit combine magnificent, garish colors, which compete for my eye’s attention. Perhaps the most striking feature of the ensemble is the fuzzy, silver, hat that reminds me of thick Christmas tinsel. Esy and I have become especially fond of MamRosetta, as her presence reassures us that we are doing something worthwhile. She is oblivious to the power she has over us and, as a result, we feel committed to help her with transport for certain patients, even though they are not part of the film. She gives us both a big hug.

There is small talk as we all climb back into the car and ride down the street to Cindy’s house. I ask about other patients of hers’ that we have met during similar outings. She tells us that she does not know how they are because she has been very busy with the funeral arrangements of her neighbor who passed away a few days ago. She takes this opportunity to inform us that she will be unable to accompany us to the clinic this afternoon because she has to attend the funeral of a different neighbor. I am slightly disappointed because, not only do I enjoy her company, but I also know things will be inevitably more difficult without her expertise to rely on.

Funerals have become the main social function of this area. Every weekend there are multiple funerals and the dead must compete for the presence of shared loved ones.

We begin the steep decent into Cindy’s house along the path leading close to the house, winding through tall grass. It is by no means a road. We are forced to stop before the house, as it is impossible to make it the entire way with the car. We stop as close as the car allows. MamRosetta gets out to help the family get ready. We prepare ourselves for a long wait.

The last time I saw Cindy was about 2 weeks ago. She was in the group of people we were originally selecting from for the film. I remember meeting with her mother in their house. We were crowded into the small rondevel, a round, one-room home. The entire family was present, mostly faces I do not entirely remember, although the mother stands out clearly in my mind. She was laughing at Esy and I. She said we were sitting on the grass mats in the rondevel the way a young bride would and offered to find us husbands. The name young bride has seemed to follow us through the community. We liked her immediately. I remember watching her curiously while she moved around the low roofed rondavel on all fours, walking with her knuckles and knees, manipulating her way through the tight quarters. I also remember this evening not realizing that Cindy was present until I noticed the repetitive elevation of the blankets in the corner. Something was breathing under there. That was Cindy.

We decided it would be impossible to work with Cindy in the film, as her condition was too fragile. But we wanted to help her get her CD4 count , a blood test which calculates the number of white blood cells left in the body, and a requirement to receiving ARVs. We also said we would take her to the hospice in Tugela Ferry, four hours away, where they start patients in critical condition on ARVs immediately and there is a high rate of recovery.

We did not end up keeping either of these promises.

Tugela Ferry was reluctant to take her because they did not know her medical history or her family. It is a popular practice for family members to sue if a medical agreement does not work out the way it was understood. This has led medical professionals to be weary of taking risks with sick patients who might not live. And in the three weeks I have been here, sadly, some of this logic has rubbed off on me. The head doctor at Tugela Ferry wanted to meet with the patients and their families before agreeing to admit them. At the time, this seemed too difficult to organize and, instead, we decided to take our chances with the local medical system.

We took Cindy and some other patients to get their CD4 counts done with a private doctor. This doctor refused to take Cindy’s CD4, claiming that it had already been done recently in the public sector and that it would be duplication to repeat it. Afterwards we took Cindy and two other patients in a similar skeletal state to the hospital. We were hoping they would be admitted. After waiting for 3 hours, the patients were denied because they had not been referred from their local clinics. We carried these three patients back to the car. Exasperated and defeated, we tried to reach their local clinics before closing time. Cindy was the lucky one of these three patients that the clinic agreed to refer back to the hospital for admission. From the clinic, she was taken by ambulance back to the hospital where we had been only hours before. We took the other two patients back to their families and tried and explain our failure.

I roll down the window of the car to get a clear image of Cindy and her mother climbing up the hill to the car. Cindy is on her mother’s back, a 28-year-old woman getting a piggyback ride from her mother. Esy hops out to try and help in some way. Vusi and I remain in the car. MamRosetta and the mother manage flop Cindy’s limp body down on the seat and arrange her bones, trying and make her as comfortable as possible.

We leave MamRosetta behind and make our way to the clinic. In the car, conversation is strained to say the least. Vusi tries his best and, as always, we revert back to medical conversation. Why do you need to the clinic today? What will be done? These kinds of issues manage to pass the time as Vusi drives, very slowly, to the clinic. One gets the impression that he is trying to prevent Cindy’s bones from being too jostled. Cindy looks like there is nothing left holding her together.

11:30 a.m.- it comes out that they are going to get the CD4 count done so that Cindy can start ARV training sessions next week and then after the three weeks of classes is over, begin treatment. The usual confusion comes over me. Why did the private doctor not do this if in fact it needed to be done? Why did they not do it in the hospital while Cindy was admitted? I know now that I will never really get an answer to these questions and that no one is to blame. I have given up trying to understand the convolutions of the medical system. I look over at Cindy. She is being cradled by her mother, unable to hold her head up; it falls on her mother’s breast.

We arrive at the clinic. Cindy is carried inside. There is a line out the door. Everyone averts their eyes but I know they are secretly following us. One woman gets up and helps to find a wheel chair for Cindy. The nurses are nowhere to be found. Esy finds a chair for Cindy’s mother. I retreat to the back corner with Vusi. Vusi walks outside, I remain for a minute. The mother is sitting behind Cindy, Cindy’s head is still resting on her chest, she reaches up her hand to her mother, who takes it. Her chest is moving up and down violently.

A nurse walks by and says nothing; she walks by a few more times. I wish MamRosetta were here. Finally, the mother gets up the courage to ask the nurse for help. The nurse looks at the medical card and tells them to wait a minute and eventually escorts them into one of the rooms. Esy follows. I walk outside.

I am sitting in the sun. Esy comes out after about a half hour to give me an update. “The nurse said something about taking Cindy to a hospice.” “There is a hospice around here?” I say confused. “I guess so, she said she wanted her to be close… to the medical staff,” she replies. We agree to rouse the reluctant Vusi, who is also sitting in the sun, and get some answers. The three of us enter the clinic and find the room where Cindy and the mother are. Cindy is lying on a bed attached to an oxygen tank. There are about 5 nurses in the room all talking loudly and constantly stimulating the thick confusion blanketing the small room. It is explained to us that they have tried to take blood for the CD4 count but all of the veins are collapsed. Cindy’s mom looks at us deploringly. The head nurse addresses me, “where exactly are you taking Cindy after this?” “What do you mean?” I reply. “The mother said you were going to Tugela Ferry, to the hospice,” the nurse states. I am shocked, how could we have neglected to explain to the mother that we would not be able to take Cindy to Tugela Ferry. I am disgusted with myself. Vusi explains to everyone, very politically, that the hospice is full and they will not be able to take her there. I am so thankful for Vusi in moments like these. The nurse says in Zulu, “that is too bad because people really recover who go there.” I see the response of defeat in the mother’s face.

The room is quiet for a minute and then is filled with agitation about how to proceed. The mother wants to take Cindy home. The nurses want Cindy to be re-admitted to the hospital. The mother says the only reason she agreed that Cindy should go to the hospital in the first place was because she thought she was going to Tugela Ferry, not the local hospital. As Vusi repeats this to me in English, I notice Esy bowing her head to the floor in shame. Eventually the nurses convince the mother to take her child to the hospital and an ambulance is called. The mother’s unsatisfied glance keeps turning back to her child as if to ask, “what do you want? What is right?” About three minutes later the mother changes her mind. The child will not go to the hospital. The nurse reluctantly changes the note written in the medical chart to say that the mother refuses hospital admittance and the ambulance is cancelled.

Cindy stays in the bed. The nurses continue to work on the mother. Explaining that there is other medicine in the hospital that might help the situation. Maybe they will be able to draw some blood and take the CD4 count and then maybe, just maybe, she will be able to hold through the three of weeks ARV training sessions and receive “amapillies” (ARVs). The mother looks her child again, wet eyes, sweetly whispering to her. The mother changes her mind again; the child will go to the hospital. The nurses are in an uproar. “Can the signature in the medical chart be overturned?” “We will have to call the head nurse.” “The ambulance will not come now that it has been stopped.” “You must take her.” All eyes are on me now. My eyes dart excapingly around the room. Someone please help me.

“Vusi, what do we do?” “What if she dies in the car on the way to the hospital?” “Will I be responsible?” “We are supposed to pick up Dani?” I hate myself for thinking practically in times like this. Sometimes I think I would be a better producer than director, when my need for clean organization leaves me passionless. Vusi does not reply. He just looks down at his hands and shakes his head. He knows he is already in over his head. I look at Esy and follow her gaze to mother and child; the path of her eyes has not shifted once since we entered the room.

“OK, we will go pick up Dani at the other clinic, take her home and then come back and take Cindy to the hospital.” Everyone looks temporarily relieved. There is a chorus of “Syabonga”, thank-you, from everyone in the room, especially from the nurses. I wonder what the core of this relief is, is it that they truly want help for Cindy, or that, like me, they want Cindy to be out of their presence as soon as possible.

12:30 p.m.- on the way to pick up Dani; Esy, Vusi and I agree that nothing should be mentioned to her about Cindy. Dani was present when we went to the private doctor to get the CD4 counts done and met Cindy that day. She is luckier than Cindy and we do not want our main character to be discouraged by Cindy’s fate. The trip goes without a glitch. We collect Dani from the clinic. She is beaming. She has understood everything in the first adherence training and there was a guest speaker. A man who has been on ARVs for a year and is perfectly healthy and who’s CD4 count is now in the high 100’s. As we watch her small frame ascend to footpath to her home, we are temporarily relieved.

Back in the parking lot of the clinic, we watch the mother shift Cindy from her back into the car. She informs us that they wish to be taken home. She is a woman without recourses. Her eyes are full with sadness, accepting of the path unfolding. No one attempts to sway her resolve.

Vusi and Esy sit in the front. I am in the back seat, next to Cindy. Her head seems to have permanently settled on her mother’s bosom. There is still a slight movement coming from her chest. As we wind our way home down the dirt roads and back through the river, the mother speaks continuously. “It is not your fault…I am grateful for your help…Cindy has been sick for a while…She came back to us from Johannesburg already very sick…we tried everything…” During this deluge of memories, Cindy’s bottom jaw becomes unhinged. Her mother, without a pause, shifts her body up and gracefully slides a hand to Cindy’s chin, cupping her lips together for the rest of her journey. There is no more movement in Cindy.

2:00pm- Cindy’s mother requests that we try and reach the house all the way with the car. Vusi agrees without hesitation. At 3 km/hr we continue through the fields, creating a road as we go. The brother greets us at the back fence of the property and helps carry the body into the rondavel. Esy and I grab a few bags of beans and porridge and some rubber gloves from our supply in the back of the car. I look at the rubber gloves, asking myself, what are these going to be good for now.

We enter the rondavel. The mother has laid Cindy’s body on the grass mat. I give the goods to the brother. He looks about 13, a very shy boy. Ever polite, he accepts the offerings in the Zulu tradition with the left hand supporting the right hand just bellow the elbow. My transfixed gaze on this child is broken by a sudden awareness of the mother’s praise. She is leaning over the body, on her knees. Her hallow voice fills the space and her body sways. Again, my transfixed state is broken. This time, by Vusi’s gentle hand on my shoulder, beckoning me away from this scene. He is right, it is time to leave. I, in turn, tap Esy and, like dominos, we exit.

waking up,

2006-08-23T09:39:00.000-04:00

after two more days of zombie life, walking through scanners, x-raying our bags and our bodies, getting fully frisked, undressed, unravelled unpacked and wrapped back up again. Two tonne-heavy wings, that through the magic of physics floated us back to familiar ground, and into the arms of our families. And after three and a half months of twenty-four hour togetherness, Sarah and I sadly parted ways at JFK. It was when she left that I realized how ferociously proud of her I am: pulling this off required immense passion and the endurance of so many 'no's' thrown at you, from funding applications to the process of getting ARVs itself.

The first few hours of American-watching were exciting, while waiting between flights outside in the seventy-six degree sunlight. New, tightly fitted clothes and tans on everyone, gleaming cars that no one can really afford, all of the wealth that goes unnoticed. The variety of faces, side by side, wearing the same anxious expression, anticipating their checked baggage.

An invisible fence of fear prevents D. from ever seeing all of this. Because of where she was born, she cannot hope to glimpse other countries, even if she could ever afford it. The generalized fear of greater numbers and the potential to overwhelm the system; it sounds familiar to the AIDS epidemic, and what prevents one person of the masses from being helped.

And so the production phase ends; but there is still much to be done. Screening the hours of footage, catching the right seconds in each terrifyingly miserably joyfully unforgettable day. I can't wait to see it, to let the story flow, the twinges of regret pinch and the beautiful mistakes surface, and the satisfaction to have it all make sense to other eyes. Fundraising for post-production will also keep us busy, when the real expense of film transfer for festivals needs to be taken care of. But most of all, we hope that you (yes:you) feel proud of what you have made possible. You are reading this. You have contributed to making this, falling in any multitude of definitions of the word 'support'. Families have been helped, love has been built, hope has been realized into years of 'normal' life. In this case, 'normal' is a truly exceptional state. It should always mean that, but never does until it gets taken away. Individuals, advisory board members, foundations: this is yours. In the words of Vusi: You. are. gorgeous.

In the meantime, I'm revelling in the lush grass where my parents live, the humidity, in all of the things I couldn't do: run, go outside at night, drink 100% orange juice, wear trousers. Still bruising unsuspecting pedestrians by walking on the wrong side of the sidewalk, but my brain should go rightfully backwards again, sometime soon...

eleven seventeen in durban,

2006-08-18T17:21:00.000-04:00

and we will see our families on Monday...very happy news. But sad to think of all of this that is real and around us now disappearing so fast. I can't complain about the speed of travel these days, but when you no longer feel the actual distance between it all, it's hard to believe one place or the next. We just got back from listening to some jazz at the Bat Center, glorious to hear live music all around, in a beauty of an old building that has been converted into numerous ceramics, printmaking and craft studios and galleries, a music venue and bar. It was teriffic to meet up with Cazie again, to meet her mythical and fantastic boyfriend, to talk about great films with them, to be out at night by the docks. Earlier today we played in the warm waves, then lay on the beach quietly. City noise can be soothing after so much silence. Noises of aliveness are so nice.

what's left

2006-08-15T06:14:00.000-04:00

Lara died the day before we arrived back in Bergville. She was that necessary little bit of silliness that greeted us when we came home every evening, bright blue eyes and fluffy tail held high as a flag for every home on our street that she claimed as her own. The little dog that followed us everywhere we walked, whether we wanted her to or not. People offered money for her, stopping their cars on the highway, the supermarket manager gave her bits of beef. When the sun rose, she pawed at my window and howled to be let inside. She jumped in the bed and tore holes in the blue sheets. The muddy paw prints will stay on the window, as will the hole in the yard from her lengthy snout rubs. I'm not a dog fanatic, but there is less reason to laugh now without her.

Friday, we crossed the border into the country of Lesotho, a tiny island of monarchy enveloped in South Africa. It felt militaristic and cold; we were threatened with arrest three times, and came back through SA singing 'Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika' in our hearts with relief...it was Vusi's first international border crossing, his first time to be questioned like a criminal for being born at the wrong coordinates. Silly to be bullied by a country the size of Maryland, but then little countries have been proven to push around entire continents. The trip was made even more painful in that we've exceeded the 12,800 km allotted by the car rental company; we're well over seven thousand miles, over two trips across the US. It gives an idea of the physical distance between the community and clinics. Two Peace Corps volunteers are set to take over our flat; but they'll be forbidden to drive, because too many people have been killed in road accidents here. It's hard to imagine how they'll possibly be able to do anything; we ended up learning to drive stick on the opposite side of the road out of necessity, because sometimes the ambulance just doesn't come. And I hope they've got two and a half years worth of really good books, because there's no nightlife for hours around...

Drawn out goodbyes and the guilt of leaving are making the thought of going home all the better. All of the shouting at our loved ones through crackling phone connections and fickle internet access will not be missed. But the best thing that came from this communication isolation was the rare opportunity to focus solely on the present situation, being unable to obsess over the future. Day to day survival is still the name of the game here, as it always has been. Taxi service interruptions, missed appointments at clinics, missed refills on pills...these are the predators that have replaced the lions and rhinos now behind electric wire in game reserves. D. has the alarm watch, the calendar, the will to adhere, and the support of her bright, attentive sister. MamMlangeni's family has the continued support of her sister-in-law, but sustained financial support for the children will be the biggest obstacle without MamMlangeni's pension.

We both feel that this is the best thing that we've done, so far. In the worst possible scenario, everyone would have died. In the best, everyone would have lived. We ended up in between. Regardless of the outcome, the film would tell a story, and it has become a little more realistic than the optimistic we were shooting for. It will still be positive and hopeful, not just another passive gaze at the suffering of others, ranting off statistics and leaving you feeling even more isolated and helpless in the situation; besides, nobody wants to spend an hour and a half of their free time watching that. It will clarify the obstacles to halting the epidemic, why successful solutions in other countries can't work here, and what does work and what is being done to encourage or discourage that. The whole picture is so overwhelming that you can easily sink into feeling disillusioned and bitter, but it seems to be in isolating the little steps to stopping things that you can manage to make progress. The lasting activists I admire accomplish so much more at the grassroots.

And it will be a visual-audio-sensory feast...

robots

2006-08-06T16:15:00.000-04:00

That's the name for traffic lights here; if only they moved and blipped and served you finger foods...but I'm already wary of all of these wireless devices that communicate with each other, whispering plots against us warmbloods with their little blue teeth. No robots in the Drakensburg...or internet cafes, where I've spent about an hour deleting hundreds of missed messages over the months...oof.

While we've been hiking in the Drakensburg, sighting several varieties of houseplants in their native habitats, the botanical gardens in Cape Town formally introduced us. The king protea, the big, pink, fuzzy national flower of South Africa, presided over the downward sloping site at the base of steep mountains, with jaggedy tips eternally blurred by clouds.

We dined at a tasty gypsy joint to celebrate Konrad's 27th birthday, where he was crowned with a tiara and serenaded. Stopped along the little beach towns along the Garden Route...a restaurant built on legs over the sea, where watching the night tides slowly roll in and dissipate was mesmerizing...wading through a flooded road, to see if the car could make it through...elephants crossing in front of the car at Addo Elephant Park, a turtle crossing the road with an ostrich...warthogs that resembled distinguished old fellows, sans monocle and pocket watch...

Sad to see this break come to an end, but it's been essential to getting some outside perspective on the situation we were immediately immersed in, and to appreciate the bigger picture of what and who else makes up the country. Pockets of conspicuous consumption along the coastline, luxurious things that many South Africans will never see, between hours of untouched hills. Silvery menorah trees. Hoping the inevitable mini malls and crowds of tract homes don't come too fast. I forgot to mention that the Sunday before we left, we celebrated D.'s 33rd birthday with the gigantic cake pictured. She was thrilled to receive the lovely digital watch, kindly provided by Sarah's parents from overseas, that has an alarm that is set to go off at 7am, the time she needs to take the pills, for the rest of its life.

It's ten thirty in the evening, and I sit in the most elegant bedroom I've ever been in, with a bed with more pillows than I know what to do with, at a chic bohemian B+B in Durban. Alicia Keys slept in this bed a few weeks ago; yet it's the same price as a cheap motel room in the States. The French doors are open, with warm air coming in through the spiralling iron gates. The lights of Durban glitter on the horizon. A soft cat is rubbing against my legs. I have a cup of tea and unlimited wireless, so at last we have some visuals...

cause of death: meningitis

2006-08-02T04:15:00.000-04:00

So it said on the death certificate. The test was supposed to have taken place a month ago, but the nurses forgot. All of those little dominoes, to this.

Any anger I felt left inside drained away at the funeral. A yellow and blue striped tent was set up, connected to the rondavel. When someone is stabbed or shot, the tent is not connected to the home, to ward off bad luck. The sun was warm and bright.

Another week without internet passed, another apology for lateness in responding to my good friends and family. We made it to Cape Town yesterday, for a needed break to see more of the country beyond KZN...one hour after arriving, I fell in love with this city, bathed in golden light, pink clouds gathering around the gigantic mountain in the middle of the city...green and blue lovebirds canoodling in the aviary in the park. It's a beautifully designed city, reminiscent of Havana for Sarah, and New Orleans for me. It took a two day drive through flatlands with no radio stations to get to the swisslike snowcapped mountains around it. Completely different feel here...

Konrad has proved himself an excellent makote (young bride), washing clothes, fixing meals, and providing mountains of Cadbury's Dairy Milk Chocolates...Vusi valued him at twenty cows. It's his birthday today, so we'll take him out for a swanky meal. Being the soundman that he is, he noted that 'sanibona'('hello')sounds like 'Sonny Bono'. I hope he doesn't say 'Cher' instead...

M. has gone.

2006-07-25T05:01:00.002-04:00

The night before we took her to the hospital, three toddlers set a fire. It blazed across a twenty acre field within seconds; neighbors ran to the nearest water pump half a mile away. When we arrived in the morning, the beehive hut stood at the edge of a sea of blackened grass, sky blue as always. One meter and half a second saved her for three more days. At first she'd refused to go to the hospital, afraid to be admitted during pension day, but no one could imagine her waiting in line for the eighty dollar monthly stipend when she couldn't hold herself upright. From the back seat, she stared out over the fields in silence, eyes fluttering, in and out this world. Ntombeleni Mlangeni was forty years old, a mother of seven, and a grandmother. Her eldest daughter will continue to work in the roads to support them. Tall and strong, she still lies on her stomach like a child, and laughs out loud. I wonder if anyone will marry her, already with a young son. Her intended husband was shot in Johannesburg on the day of their wedding, years ago. She was terrified to lose her mother; you are never ready to lose your mother, my mother said. You can blame the system, the transport problem, the one who infected her, the situations that led to his infection, and on and on but you can never name the one thing that was responsible for her end. All of these rondavels dotting the hillsides, shining buzzcut thatched roofs, grandmothers leaning against them in the sun. Almost all of these huts with a small skeleton within, buried deep in blankets that slightly rise and fall, in shortened breaths.

There is such a sharpness, of centuries of separation, just beneath the thin new skin that covers everything here, in the Cape of Good Hope. There are American ghosts, bent at the waist in the fields. The hatred that is still so hard to kill in the most notorious areas, and pessimistically thinking of how many more generations it will take to silence that here, and of those that will be brave enough to cross color lines to hasten it, and ready to be ridiculed by both sides for it. D. explained today that black means darkness and evil, so she will never be beautiful because of it. I thought about what Malcolm X had said about that. And an art teacher in 3rd grade who said that there are so many different colors in skin that nobody can be one color, when a mixed classmate argued that she was tan, not black. Brown celebrities get blonder and are suddenly beloved by twice as many. Millions of subconsciously simple tactics to make you smaller. I know that the topic of race is almost boringly obvious, and no, it shouldn't matter, but I can't seem to stop it from permeating every waking thought;

Best of all, the past few days of heaviness in our hearts has been lifted by the visit of Gerry, Sarah's father, and Konrad, Sarah's boyfriend, which required us to set aside some time to concentrate on the beautiful things around; another horse ride through the game reserve (+ another week of walking like John Wayne after last weekend's horse ride at a local doctor's farm), a rollicking Zulu engagement ceremony, and a few braais. We were in need of some outside perspective on the stories we've become a part of, and of some good ol' daddy hugs.

The much anticipated sex initiation ceremony also happened last weekend. Beautiful girls, faces, breasts and arms smeared with white clay. The both of our faces painted with three white dots. The girls running from the fields to home, and chased back outside by men and boys. A goat wearing sneakers. Meat that could be spread like butter upon bread. We were fed until it was painful, in thanks for photographing the event. All in the most beautiful area, the sky pinkening over the mountains of Lesotho. If you don't see me for the next three months, I'm locked in a room, printing family pictures for every person in uKhahlamba.

My heartfelt apologies for writing so late...our friend with a phone line went out of town, so checking email next should be thrilling; please know that I was deeply concerned about losing such faithful and extremely good-looking readers...

* * *

2006-07-13T10:09:00.000-04:00

Highlights of Sodwana Bay, off the Indian Ocean below Mozambique, from this past weekend:

*snorkeling through the dense crowds of angelfish that swarmed around our arms, the needlenosed fish flashed by just below the silvery surface. It's incredible how they never actually touch your skin, despite the constant tossing of the waves. Little silent hurricanes. Life seems safer without gravity,

*the sights en route to the coast: trees that were pale green all over, even the trunks, that oozed thick red sap.

*the families of squirrel monkeys that ran over the roof at night. We slept in a safari tent at a diving lodge in the park, that was blissfully warm,

*resting in the cleavage between sand dunes

*a fist-sized beetle that moved like a wind-up toy

*the baby pineapples carved to eat like ice cream cones by the little girl at the market with the big machete

*the three missed calls from worried friends

*ending each day completely clean and peaceful, and feeling as weightless as those fish...

Sitting on the back porch with my old lady Friedland and a one-eyed tabby in the afternoon sun...only one day has been without sun since we've been here, that being the disastrous day in the taxi full of very sick people. I realized that yesterday, sitting with D., who noted we'd be leaving in a month. There is still so much to cover, to make the whole picture clear enough to anyone who hasn't been reading the blog (naughty naughty). The roads that we travel every day, the in-between scenes footage that fills in so much in a glimpse...what else makes you remember a place? I dream of bike rides home, old sweaters and jeans that I've owned, certain tastes of one time and place.

This morning there was a ceremony of gratitude for M., who has stopped coughing but still finds it hard to wake up. Her mattress was carried into the rondavel hut by members of her congregation, all dressed in royal blue and white. Four pastors directed the service, with friends speaking up on her behalf. She awoke partway through, and was able to eat for a few minutes afterwards, when we all received big plates of chicken, rice, and boiled bread with cups of corn pudding. Sarah and I feel like we're training to do competitive eating; we'll be coming back with a lot more of us to love.

It was a beautiful ceremony, and we mutually thanked one another. One pastor said we must stay, because there is a lot of help needed here. It's really the Home Based Carers who do the hardest work, traveling miles on foot through rivers and up mountains to help the most isolated people. If a fleet of 10 vehicles (and unlimited petrol...) were supplied, I have no doubt that these women could help thousands more. It's hard to convey to M. and her family how equally important the job that she is doing for us (being filmed is a big commitment), and what we hope it will do in the long run...

& photos of our jungle friend, and painting M.'s rondavel with red clay and water...

hhaaayyii!!

2006-07-06T13:58:00.000-04:00

If Shakespeare was right that there are only comedies and tragedies, it looks like this movie might be a comedy after all. I'll skip the six hours of confusion at the hospital on Monday that I spent tearing the rainbow wings from the bodies of crushed locusts, right to jubilant Tuesday, when M.'s madness had come and gone from its peaks, and she was laughing at the insults that she'd spat at her daughter the night before ('harlot in trousers!'). Madness is common with one of the ARV pills in particular; nightmares and dizziness come, and had almost prevented M. from continuing to take them. But with the force of the Home Based Carer and her children, she has arrived at a more peaceful state of being.

We spent the morning scurrying through the ravines and tunnels that her children hide in when the police come, looking for fields of dagga, marijuana. It felt like the moon's surface appears from down here, craters in multicolored layers, eroding in knuckle-like rows. We were accompanied this week by Cazie, the film student we met up with upon arriving in Durban. She was the mistress of sound control, and thrilled the kids with her perfect Zulu. We visited M.'s sister-in-law, where a neighboring gogo (granny) was shucking dried corn. Every exclamation she made began with HHAAAYYII!! and Vusi and M.'s daughter laughed so hard they could barely stand. "HHAAAYYII what is this Misses doing??!" when Sarah sat beside her and began to shuck the corn. "HHAAAYYII I like this Misses! She has done this before!" She reminded Sarah of the old Cuban ladies that she knew.

This afternoon we talked about love, with D., in her pink walled bedroom. The fears for her daughter, the little she knows about what goes through her head. Universal teenage stuff. The senseless murder of her daughter's father in the work hostels in Johannesburg, which she had never mentioned before. On the drive home, a perfect snake of fire wound its way through the mountains. It's law to burn two meter fire breaks around the crops by mid July. The stillest nights yield the most beautiful displays.

The pictures here were painted by the first people on earth. Painters take note: egg whites, animal blood and fat. Don't waste your money on Windsor & Newton. Fluid gestural drawings, broken with bullets in areas by British soldiers who were angry with their portrayal. Wars, births, food, and eland-headed spirits standing over it all, larger than all of the rest.

the hills are alive

2006-06-29T13:34:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-26T10:40:00.000-04:00

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!*

2006-06-21T03:07:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-06-14T12:22:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-10T13:22:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-06T12:56:00.000-04:00

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

2006-06-02T10:26:00.000-04:00

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...

siyabonga: thank you

2006-05-28T04:14:00.000-04:00

Many thanks to all for the words of support, and offers to send cameras; with such a long journey, I am afraid of when/if it might arrive, and if it would arrive in one piece! And Gwen, your words of comfort went a long way. Pat, I reformatted everything, reset everything, and the cam has been more on than off; let's hope it will take some photos of the traditional healers' conference coming up. We're planning a quick trip to Pietermaritzburg, so I will buy another camera there...From now on, I will try to be more like my tech-wise friend Fusco and buy the latest model and ebay it as soon as a newer one comes out, to cut my losses! I wish I could write all of you, but internet is limited; if we come across a wireless joint sometime during our travels, I will go correspondence-crazy, I promise...

Friday went significantly better than the last posting, with some eye opening testimonials from the Home Based Carers (HBCs), unpaid holy women who travel many kilometers on foot to care for the sick in their homes. She presented us with a sweet-smelling grass basket, because Zulu tradition dictates that a gift must be given when a new baby arrives, as it is our first time here. Vusi is an incredibly eloquent translator and excellent driver who saves our lives on a daily basis; he is a pastor and musician, which adds to his sensitivity in these hard to bear situations. Phumzile is essential as always, and we will be sad to see this heroine leave at the end of June to attend a community development course in Canada; but also informative to hear the grassroots solutions being implemented around the world...I wish all governments were humble enough to admit the wrongdoings and try out each other's successful programs in health care, education, waste management, etc...

The CD4 counts of the patients arrived, with a shock: our healthiest-seeming patient had a count of 20. You can never tell with HIV; so the HBC will accompany her to the clinic tomorrow morning, so that she can start ARV training asap. Our intervention has been a big dilemma in our minds; we met a doctor from the north during a hike (pictured...wow), who was supportive but also questioned the sustainability of it; once we, and our car, leave, will the patients be able to continue getting timely refills on the pills, or go off of them and risk becoming drug-resistant and not be able to continue? The best that we can do is continue to provide taxi fare to the HBCs and keep in contact from afar. This film, which began on the narrower premise of observing the ARVs effects on the patient's body, now encompasses the myriad social obstacles that prevent people from getting the care that's there. We can't waste time and energy fretting over the things we can't control, but do the best we can with what we can offer now, and with what we hope that the film can do.

rain

2006-05-25T15:42:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, izolo, wednesday, lwesithathu, was disastrous and infuriating.

It began with jitters, maybe from eating my breakfast too fast, or from not sleeping well the night before, or from starting at 5am to be on time for the doctor appointment at 9:30, to be on time to get the patients' blood mailed out to do the CD4 count, to see if any of them qualify for ARV treatment. 200 or lower is needed: once we found out how long and convoluted the process of getting ARVs is after you qualify makes that number ridiculous: you would be long dead, and flat out broke from the transportation costs and difficulty just getting to the adherence classes, which go on for weeks, and which many patients can't get to once. So we're reassessing the budget and time frame, wondering what we could possibly accomplish with these obstacles...we must stick to the promises we have made to the patients and their families, but there will be no knowing whether the patient will be able to even get, let alone continue treatment.

Of course, we didn't know any of this when the day started out, raining, but that was ok since we were filming in a taxi to show how the difficulty of getting around is the main reason that a person cannot adhere to the medication. Tiny kids cover enormous distances alone every morning and afternoon for school. They wave and shout 'abelungu!' (white people!) When the roads are smooth, cars go fast over the hills and curves, and there is no room for pedestrians. We went to a private doctor, who kindly allowed us to film in his practice and invited us to dinner (the health department here does not allow it, after being shown in a bad light by other programs).

After the CD4 count, it was off to the hospital, 40 minutes away, where after a few hours of waiting, our 3 very sick patients were refused; we were told to bring them to another clinic, 40 minutes away, where they would be transported by ambulance to that same nospital. Senseless, but we did it, and only one was admitted into the ambulance; then we were told that if she wasn't admitted to the hospital for whatever reason, she would be dropped on the side of the road in the middle of the night in town, at least an hour from her home in the mountains. Another patient was left in the rain, and died the next day when this happened. Suddenly health care sounded much more frightening than home care.

Reasonably, we took the patients home, back to where we started 12 hours before. This morning, we took one, a mother of many worried children, to the clinic, and were told that 3 weeks of classes were necessary even to be considered for ARV treatment, which could take 5 months. I can't believe how the AIDS counselors and clinic staff can stick to this impossible protocol when they live in the same community. It has to change, or the entire culture will not survive.

The clouds lay in heavy blankets around the mountains this morning after yesterday's rains, mist in the valleys making each hilltop its own golden island in a smoky sea. We drove above and below them, swimming in invisibility, silhouettes of women and children disappearing into the thick air. I would have liked to have filmed it, but we were running late for the clinic appointment. And I'm sorry not to have pictures to post, as my digital camera finally died, after our passionate affair of the past four years. Sometimes it decides to work, but mostly flashes 'no memory stick': any sony users out there with advice? Love to you all; you shine like the stars you are from this distance

contact info for the next few weeks...

2006-05-21T14:28:00.001-04:00

...I think at least until mid-June...

Anthony's B+B
Carol Irish
PO Box 448
Bergville 3350
KwaZulu Natal
South Africa

we have internet!

2006-05-21T14:09:00.000-04:00

Millions of things slip past your eyes all the time, when you're concentrating on just one thing, or being 'free-headed' as my old landlord Kenny says. I skimmed over faces in NYC, scanning for familiar ones. Consistency is nice, soft, and suffocating; tasting something new records the moment in your head, and it must be the best feeling in the world to realize that as it happens; trimming the vines that routine wraps around your eyes while they are closed to the complications that click and buzz and spark out- and inside of your head. Most of the time I'm floating, feeling secured by the love that is there, but not anchored by it, in a steady state, entertained here and there by replays of the best memories. I met a woman from Lesotho at an AIDS meeting in NYC, who said, "Thank you for leaving your beautiful life to do this." Beautiful and unruffled, but guilt sticks to the back of the cheap price tags and the trash I put out there in its various forms: the cost of this convenience and all of those rabbit holes to what is so horrible it must be hidden past what is immediate and before me now; I can feel the sadness starting from what I was only imagining before—

Last night we could see lightning from 20 miles away, flashing pink on the black clouds last night, while driving home from visiting new friends in the Drakensburg ('dragon lands' to settlers, and Ukhahlamba, 'barrier of spears' through Zulu eyes) mountains, beautiful pale blue and looming over golden grass fields and rough-edged acacias, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Phumzile, our incredibly hard working friend and co producer, has taken us everywhere to try everything, and know everyone. The past few computerless days:

Wednesday: arrived from Durban with Vusi, our very kind driver-translator-Zulu teacher-in-one; excellent home-cooked meal by Carol, the owner of the B+B, with an eye-opening discussion with workers from Broadreach and an engineer who are also staying here. As well as 2 big dogs, 2 very small siamese cats, and an African Grey parrot, who doesn't speak but whistles now and then.
Thursday: The new best breakfast ever eaten (insert everything good you can imagine here. And we'll be here for a few more weeks...!) Phumzile had meetings and the schedule worked out, set to begin filming on Monday(!). Met with the director of Worldvision, and her great two dogs (one looks like our old Malamute, Kooska), cat, and house, the second area we'll be staying in. Drove up to the hut of a traditional healer, held hands with his lovely little baby, and fished for familiar words to try and understand the conversation he was having with Phum—Cat, you would be so interested in her work, integrating traditional medicine with western, for a wider acceptance of both methods—and were offered coconut biscuits and Sprite. Watched the pink lightning that no camera is fit to capture, yet...

Friday: Phum brought us to an ARV support group meeting, where she moderated a discussion with the home based carers and their patients on local beliefs about sexual behavior and HIV transmission; over just the past few days the depth and intricacies of the problem have been revealing itself not little by little, but in huge gaping crevices that might make the film about twelve hours longer...this meeting might have been the heaviest realization of this; it's especially important to indicate that protection is still needed while on ARVs. I knew that it was hiding somewhere in a dark corner of my mind, the thought that extending life through ARVs could lead to more infections; but that had been far outweighed by the benefits of raising a child, living out a life. One person has died every day that we've been here.

On the beautiful side of life, everyone we've met has been warm and supportive. We've been fed enormous plates of chicken with rice and sweet boiled bread, mashed yams, and a sour corn porridge. I love how the huts rise up from the ground of their color, and have no dark corners, because they are round. No vinyl siding to distract from the main beauty here, which are these MOUNTAINS...

It's all become very real, and happening very fast...

2006-05-17T05:32:00.000-04:00

One night of deep horizontal sleep after 2 1/2 days of vertical sleep is a beautiful thing; strange how keeping so still on the plane can make you feel like you've run a marathon. Last night we had dinner at Sarah's favorite Indian restaurant with Cazie, a daughter of one of the doctors here who is interested in interning on the film. She's super bright and energetic, so it was a shame that my head was still in zombie mode. She's also fluent in Zulu and a number of other languages, and can show us some great hikes + views up in the Drakensburg mountains. I ate a dosa that was the length of my torso, so I was expecting great dreams with the combination of potatoes (wicked dreams: try it sometime), sleeplessness, and malaria pills, but I woke up with no memory and numb arms...to a breakfast of mango juice, bananas with yogurt and coffee. It's much warmer than we expected, and the air is kind and barely there, + filled with birdsongs.

We pick up the car at 2, and it's 2 hours to Bergville...

through time zones + ozones

2006-05-16T08:14:00.000-04:00

I see many of my new york friends about as often as I see my foreign ones; uncrossing train lines + the busy-ness of everyone makes big gatherings rare, which made saturday night at barbés all the better; no real goodbyes, just genuine support and love from our friends, you mahhvelous people...

Sunday went smoothly, early at the airport and no extra weight charges(!), along with the eerie politeness of the gorgeously dressed Singapore Airlines staff. The seats were bright purple and they gave you matching socks and a wee tube of toothpaste. After a singapore sling, stroganoff and an ice cream bar, and there were about seven million international movies to chose from: heavenly. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid was even playing, and I gazed lovingly at the young Paul Newman, so grateful that he had put us in this place. A German man complimented my lederhosen, and asked if we could switch. But they were a gift from Sarah, who was sitting beside me, so I declined.

Then came a day long layover at the Frankfurt Airport, where I have great memories of the best breakfast of my life at an airport hotel, when stranded in a snowstorm once with three girls from Italy. This time, we met two guys from Romania and Macedonia en route to film a UNESCO festival in the Philippines, also shooting on a Canon XL1, (we have the XL2, but we're too classy to brag about that sort of thing...). They're also shooting *and* editing the whole thing in two weeks, so go to Romania if you want something NOW. So Thing With No Name has its first spot in the film festival of a mountainous Macedonian town!

And now, at 2:20 pm Tuesday, we've finally taken our socks off to cool our feet in the balmy Durban air...birds are cooing in the garden outside of the little apartment we have for the night, and it's so nice to feel the outside again...

the birds in the bbq

2006-05-13T17:32:00.000-04:00

Stayed up till five last night, fitting and refitting, tightening, rolling, padding the breakables and praying they pass the carry-on commandments. Then I awoke to the loveliest Saturday, endured the post office, and ate some empanadas by the lake with Andrew, where we witnessed a Canadian goose attack a family of four in a paddle boat. The baby mourning doves that hatched under the barbecue on our fire escape learned to fly this morning, all the way to the biggest tree in the backyard...though we fly tomorrow, we arrive Tuesday; the day of May 15th, 2006 will never exist for us, said Sarah. Leaving on Mother's day, and erasing my parents' anniversary...not the best daughter to my incredible parents this year; but we all gotta fly sometime...

three days to takeoff...

2006-05-11T00:11:00.000-04:00

Greetings to our friends, supporters, investors of time, services, love, and finances...

The beach could be a block away tonight, with this moist air. The apartment is bare, the equipment has been obtained (after months of research and dreaming...and budgeting...), I'm down to five long skirts and minimizing to fit more more more for this little camera friend that will cling to my hand every waking hour. I'm looking forward to the muscles that will grow, in hands and eyes and neuron-speed, as the new environment takes definition.

Still unreal, and completely relieving that this is happening; it couldn't have without you.