Botshabelo "Storming" Stage

Now, for all my social work pals who have taken a Groups class, you will be familiar with the term "storming" from the stages of group/team development as described by Bruce Tuckman. For my non-social work pals, the stages he describes are forming, storming, norming, performing, and adjourning. These are all pretty self-explanatory and I'm not here to teach a Groups class, but let me focus on the stage I describe in this post: storming.

In the storming stage of group development, as groups begin to move toward their goals as set in the forming stage, group members start to realize that they cannot live up to their initial excitement and expectations. At this stage, conflict and competition are at their peak and it is often in this stage that groups and teams begin to assign blame. It is in the storming phase that many teams fail.

Don't panic. I/we at Botshabelo haven't "failed." It has, however, been a difficult time while I/we define my role here, learn to trust one another, and pass through tests of worthiness and fitness to be here. In fact, I think that's why it's taken me so long to post this (apart from internet difficulties). I wasn't sure how to communicate my experience and perhaps I'm still not quite, but I'm going to give it a try.

Tammy, my faculty liaison/field instructor and social work mentor, always says, "trust the process." Usually, I am also a huge proponent of this statement. Circumstances here, however, are anything but "usual," and sometimes the process can be an apparent sadist. Things here can swing from one extreme to another in no time. I'd go from having a really affirming therapeutic interaction with a child to an overwhelmingly frustrating and lonely roadblock in taking family histories or my accounting assignment. 

I am incredibly grateful to have been reading what I was when I first arrived and throughout my first month here: the work of Houston-based social work researcher Brené Brown, PhD, LMSW. Her theory of shame, shame resilience, and the concept of daring greatly have guided me through this storming stage so far with more stability, compassion and self-confidence than I believe I could have mustered on my own. If you haven't read her books, DO IT NOW! Whether you're a social worker or no, it's some of the most enlightening and impactful reading I've ever done and has changed my perspective on so many things in my life, work, and relationships. Not convinced? Want a preview? Check out her TED Talks from 2010 and 2012 right NOW NOW! I'll wait . . .

Incredible, right?! Now what does Brené Brown have to do with Botshabelo? Quite a lot, as a matter of fact. I realized relatively quickly after my arrival that the things that were making it so difficult for me to find my way here were all connected in a culture of shame. I think I could write an entire journal article about that element of my time here (and I might), but I'll try to boil it down into a digestible, blog-length description.

The thing hanging over absolutely everything that happens here, every decision that is made, every comment, every interaction, every disciplinary action, is trauma. There is the first-hand trauma experienced by the children who call this place their home or their school. There is the vicarious trauma experienced by the Cloete family who founded and run this place. And then there is the vicarious trauma experienced by the visitors, volunteers, and students like myself who are only here for a short time.

Just imagine a life where the people who were meant to protect you and keep you safe as an infant and child were the very people who hurt and exploited you, leading to damages to your physical health, mental health, and relational health. Imagine being taken away from all of that harm only to find that you fear your savior as much as you love her. Now imagine a life where even in the apparently "safe" environment you've created for these children you dealt with trauma, its aftershocks, death, crime, and crisis every single day without ceasing. Imagine that you have been doing it for over 25 years. And finally, imagine a life of privilege that is suddenly thrown into stark contrast with the poverty and traumatic histories surrounding you in a new environment.

Now think for moment how all of these different lives and perspectives might interact. What conflicts would arise? What alliances? What fears? What learning could take place? 

In all of these perspectives interacting, I often find myself having to pause, "call deep on my courage" and compassion, as Brené has said, and examine what is really about me and what is not. More often than not, what initially feels like is about me, absolutely is not. This realization so often leads to the next critical step: empathy. As Dr. Brown's explanation of shame tells us, it cannot survive being doused with empathy. If I can move through my own shame toward resilience, I can find compassion for the people whose words or actions sent me into shame in the first place. I can also shorten the time and distance between experiencing a shame trigger and finding empathy.

For example, about a week and a half ago I had one of the most challenging conversations of my short social work career and possibly of my life. In that conversation I was told that I was difficult to talk to, too quiet, not proactive enough, and that perhaps too much had been expected of me . . . in those exact words . . . OUCH. In less than five minutes, nearly every one of my shame triggers was hit. At another time in my life I might have collapsed, internalized the criticism as being evidence of my unworthiness (shame), and pined to give up. Instead, however, with the voices of my mother and father, Tammy, and Brené Brown whispering in my ear, I was able to remain calm, genuinely invite the feedback, and find self-compassion. I am not difficult to talk to and while I am often quiet, particularly in new situations, this simply makes me observant, capable of holding space for others, and a damn good therapist. "Not proactive enough" was really just a comment on differing styles. And finally, no one expected too much of me because no matter what, I AM ENOUGH.

Now, I would love to lie to you and say that all of this came together quickly and easily and I never felt the warm wash of shame or the sting of their comments. 'Twas not so. It hurt. A lot. And there were times when I was screaming reactions in my head like, "Perhaps you DID expect too much of me because, as it turns out, I'm not a god damn mind reader!" Hey, nobody's perfect. And as much as this conversation hurt, I'm glad it happened. It clarified a lot of things for me about how relationships here operate, others' perceptions of me, and my own strength. I'm also pleased to report that this isn't the flavor of all of my interactions here, especially where the kids are concerned, and they, after all, are the reason I'm here in the first place.

When I applied for and accepted this placement, I did so with the understanding that there would be lessons for me here that I couldn’t even fathom at the time. I was right. These are not the lessons I necessarily came here to learn, but I’m trying to trust the process and find ways to connect these lessons back to my primary goals here as a student, professional, and person. It’s going to be painful and uncomfortable and challenging and it might be just what I need, at least some of the time.

It also hasn't all been challenging and difficult, either. There have been some really quality moments over the last couple of weeks. For example, the kids started the afternoon doing community work last Wednesday, but ended up swimming and playing in the muddy dam trying (and succeeding) to catch catfish for Botshabelo to farm! We sat on the banks, enjoying some watermelon and the lovely weather in the setting sun, and watched the kids having the time of their lives and celebrating like made any time they managed to catch one of the fish!

Catfish catchin'!

I've also found ways in with these kids that have been really successful. There is no structure in place here for formal counseling sessions in the traditional sense that are the same time every week for 50 minutes. There are too many last-minute changes for all that noise. So, I've had to get creative in finding ways to interact with the kids throughout the week. One of those ways was simply by buying paper and crayons for the kids to color. They come for the coloring and listening to music, but they also get practice with boundaries, respecting one another, and the opportunity to be creative and express themselves in what I hope is a supportive and nurturing environment.

The other good news is that I've had some support through this tough time that I didn't have in my first week. I mentioned before that a volunteer had arrived. She left yesterday, but her presence made all the unbearable things bearable simply by being able to talk about them with someone else who truly understood and saw the same things I saw. I have truly cherished our time together and will miss our afternoon walks and our dinners together (she is a chef and owns her own restaurant and insisted on cooking for me . . . it was rough).

Me & Anne just before she left Botshabelo . . . for now . . .

Another group also left today after a brief stay here at Botshabelo. They were a group of 14 Norwegian high school seniors and three of their teachers. The school has sent student groups for many years now and have done some incredible work around Botshabelo. Unfortunately, as so often happens in environments filled with crisis, poverty, and trauma, life happens and the projects don't always survive to their full potential. This year, the group worked to revamp some gardens they had planted two years ago. In the process, I got to know the teachers very well and was so grateful for their input and perspective, having been here in years past, and for their support and kindness. And now I have friends in Norway! Pretty cool, if you ask me.

There was also a really fantastic show put on for Anne and the Norwegians before they left. The goodbyes were emotional, but reaffirmed the importance of my time here. These kids cherish these visits from outsiders and I need to keep reminding myself of that.

The Norwegian group sings in their farewell concert!

The Norwegians left this morning, so with Anne's departure yesterday and theirs this morning, I am incredibly grateful that I can expect Tammy and her daughter here this evening! I can always count on a confidence boost after a talk with Tammy, so spending four days with her sounds like a dream! It will also help me ease back into being here by myself, for which I will also be grateful, when the time comes!

The only other news from this last week is that I pitched an idea to Marion about the sex education program with which she wants me to assist her. When I was volunteering at the Lobamba Youth Centre in Swaziland in the first two weeks of my year of traveling that began nearly five years ago and led me to the path that would become a career in social work, I used a packet of materials called "Auntie Stella." It is a sex education program designed in Zimbabwe specifically to be used with young people in southern Africa. None of this trying to take a program developed in the US or Europe and changing all the pictures to have black people in them! These are real-life situations that apply to the specific experiences of adolescents in this region of the world. It's set up like an agony aunt column, á la Dear Abby, where people are writing in for advice. The group discusses each situation (in whatever language they prefer) and comes to a decision as to how they would advise the person. Then, they read Auntie Stella's response which includes factual information and culturally sensitive material. The entire thing is available for FREE online, so . . . can you say "BONUS!?" Have a look at it here, if you're interested. It's pretty cool and extremely enlightening in terms of the issues that young people face in their daily lives in Africa. Anyway, Marion was very intrigued and pointed out a few topics that she thought would be particularly useful and appropriate for the older children here at Botshabelo: 

• I had an STI--Am I infertile?
• My girlfriend's pregnant!
• My sugar daddy treats me badly
• I want to have sex like all my friends!
• Should I sleep with him?

It can be jarring to read through the materials as a privileged American, but it is uncomfortable in the most profoundly useful way, in my opinion. Check it out and let me know your thoughts/reactions!

Anyway, I'm off to watch the road for Tammy's arrival!

Valentine's Day Highs & Lows

It has been a weekend of pretty intense highs and lows here at Botshabelo!

I'll begin with Valentine's Day. Now, the kids here are absolutely nuts for this holiday, although they seem to lack any romantic affiliation to it, which is just fine by me (especially for children)! Everyone wanted to wear pink, red, and white at school yesterday, but were unjustly forced to stick to their school uniforms of light and navy blue. Tragic, no? 

Anyway, Anne, the recently arrived volunteer, cooked a lovely meal for the Cloete family, the head school administrator, Gift, our handyman, Harold, and me on Friday night and it was then that we learned that we would be judges at the Valentine's Day show the following day. Say what? We didn't get any more details than that, but were intrigued and eager to see what the kids would be doing and sharing in their excitement for the holiday.

The following morning, I chose to do my daily workout on the large deck outside my house since the weather was nice and it was much better than taking up all the common space in Dipuo's and my house. I noticed some of the kids peering at me from the path in front of the house and invited them to join me. Within ten minutes, we had about a dozen of us exercising together! It was fantastic and spontaneous and really freaking fun. Nothing takes your mind off of how hard it is to get through a minute of "froggers" like watching a little girl squeal with glee as she imitates the movement and delight in being a frog for a whole minute. As we were nearing the end, I had a brainwave: we should do this regularly! I had a way in with some of the kids that would be fun, physically active, and free of obligation. What better way to build rapport, forge a therapeutic alliance, and just play?

I was on a pretty serious high from the morning's workout and still grinning from ear to ear as I was hanging my laundry out to dry in the early afternoon when a child ran up and said that she was sent to fetch me for the Valentine's Day contest and that I must come now. Now??? I had thought that it was in the evening. Anne was still in the kitchen, where she spends most of her time, but I happened to catch her on my way out. She was just as surprised as I was, but we hustled over to the classrooms where the event was apparently taking place. People were still milling around when we arrived and we were then asked if we had pens and paper . . . Well, no, we have no idea what's going on! So I ran back to the house, grabbed some stuff, and ran back, only to discover that they'd found pens and paper in the nearby classroom. We proceeded to wait around for about 45 minutes before anything really started, but also without ever really receiving any information about what on earth we were supposed to be judging. Some kids started dancing, so we asked if this was what we were judging. No, it was not, they were just performing for fun. Ok . . .

So, Anne, Harold, and I sat and waited for whatever it was that we were about to judge. We had an ever-changing list of children broken up into older girls, younger girls, and boys laying on the table in front of us. Suddenly it began and a line of about 20 girls suddenly walked out in front of us. There were no numbers, they were not in the order on our lists, and I have, at this point, maybe 25 names down of the 160 children here. I felt so flustered and I was trying so hard to make sense of everything! It was frustrating, but at least it looked like the kids were enjoying themselves!

Some of the contestants in the Valentine's Day contest!

We suddenly took a break, for reasons I didn't completely understand, but I was glad to have a chance to step away, even for just a moment. I was able to recognize that I wasn't going to understand what was join on and that I could just let go and let it be and make some choices and try to enjoy it!

I was starting to feel better from walking back to the house while taking deep breaths, when Anne noticed that her wine was missing from on top of the fridge. Then she realized her cigarettes and lighter were also gone. I went to use the restroom and discovered that my toiletries were also absent. Later we also identified my chicken breasts and Diet Coke in the fridge as casualties. We'd been robbed. SUPER.

Mercifully, my bedroom was secure and my computer, iPhone, camera, passport, and wallet were untouched. I'd have cried if any of those had gone missing. But little items from the kitchen were easily replaceable. The icky feeling I had in the pit of my stomach was from the thought of someone being in my space when I wasn't there and without my knowledge. We determined that they'd waited for everyone to be occupied by the Valentine's Day celebration and managed to get in through an open window I'd left when I locked up in my rush to hurry up and wait for nearly an hour at the start of the event. I felt a little sheepish, but rested in the knowledge that it could have been so much worse and that I wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

My roommate, Dipuo came back to the house in the middle of this discovery and expressed genuine empathy and compassion. She said she hated it when stuff like this happened, especially with visitors. She said that she would tell Nicole, so she knew. We thanked her and collected ourselves to head back to the pageant, hoping to leave the sour moods behind.

When we walked back in to finish judging, the first words we were met with were that I was told in my induction to always close and lock the windows when I leave the house . . . I was overcome with the care in this statement. It was defensive and absolutely not the reaction we needed right then, but we were already in a mood, so it just confirmed that the day was going to be a mixed bag.

Eventually we did, in fact, judge the contest. We kind of managed to get the kids in the order they were on our lists and see the entire performance, but even now, more than 24 hours later, I can't tell you if we judged a fashion show or a beauty pageant. All I can tell you is that we chose winners and the crowd seemed pleased by our choices, so I guess we can call that a win!

Waiting to hear who the winners are! 

We also had a fantastic performance from a pair of gumboot dancers who were incredibly talented and (apparently) very funny (although they mostly spoke Tswana, so I didn't understand about 95% of it)! (I still can't upload videos without bringing the whole system down, but it's something to look forward to when I get home!)

Thankfully, today was mostly a win. I had lunch with an old camp friend, Melody, who has been living in Pretoria for a while with her husband and who is, in her own words, "pregnant up to here!" She was able to meet me in a town that's not too far from Botshabelo for ease of transport on my side and, although the outing was cut short, it was so pleasant to catch up with her. I don't think we'd actually laid eyes on each other in nearly a decade and it was just delightful to see her in South Africa and expecting a baby! She is due soon, so I hope that I will be able to see her again and meet her son before I have to go home. Fingers crossed! We didn't get a picture together because I'm an idiot, but next time . . . and with a brand new baby boy in it with us!

I have no idea what the week ahead has in store, but I'm crossing my fingers for a restful evening, and more positives than negatives on the horizon.

Janie's First Botshabelo Intake

Well, I said at the end of the last post that my first intake experience was a story for another post, so here 'tis!

[I'm going to preface this post by saying that I've not included every detail (excluding, of course, any identifying information) of the clients or the experience. Not everything is safe or appropriate to publish on the internet (are you listening, kids?) and this family's story is no exception.]

The process began last Thursday. That afternoon, a man brought his elderly neighbor to ask for help with the four children he was taking care of by himself. To begin with, Marion asked me take a family history and put together a family tree for the children and the old man. The man who brought him in helped translate, and although the old man managed to remember most names, he said he couldn’t remember many dates. Once that was done, Marion joined us for a more thorough interview. he told us that he was looking after his own two-year-old son and three other children who belonged to his ex-girlfriend’s daughter all on his own. He said he hadn’t heard from the three sibling’s mother since she left them there two years ago, but that she’d told him that she needed to look for work. He eventually revealed that he had absolutely no paperwork for any of them. It was clear that the children were in imminent danger as they had not been to school, were often left home alone, and all depending on the small and sporadic income of this single, elderly, retired man. Eventually, it was agreed that the children should come to Botshabelo and transport was arranged for the weekend.

Sunday afternoon the man who'd brought them in was back. The group of people he brought with him, however, looked very different from the one described by the old man a few days earlier. There were five children instead of four. The old man was apparently sick and unable to travel, so he sent a woman who introduced herself as his sister, whom he had mentioned a few days earlier when we were putting together the family tree.

Something felt . . . off.

Marion came to interview this new adult and over the course of the next few hours we heard at least four different stories of who these children were, how they were related and to whom, and what the family was asking. My notes go on for pages and probably 20% of it is close to some version of the truth. In one version of the story, early on, Marion realized that the woman wasn’t the old man's sister at all, but in fact his ex- or current girlfriend who was also supposed to be the three sibling’s grandmother. Further complicating matters, we learned that her daughter, the children’s mother, was not completely out of the picture. In fact, she called repeatedly throughout our meeting. In another version of the story, the groupings of siblings changed. Their neighbor who had first suggested Botshabelo was completely flabbergasted. He’d had no idea the intricate lies he’d been told or to which he’d been a witness. It was a gigantic mess, but at the very least it was obvious that something wasn’t right.

Finally, Marion was able to talk to the two oldest children alone. The rest of us cleared out of the room for a bit because they were clearly intimidated. It appears that none of the children may actually be related to one another and have all been abandoned. It’s also apparent that the oldest children have been looking after themselves and the three babies, including cooking, bathing, and dressing. The oldest is actually about an inch and a half shorter than the next oldest boy, who is five years younger. I couldn’t think of a more impactful example of the effect of chronic trauma on a young body.

When it was time to call the adults back in the “grandmother” was told that we would take all of the children. She seemed relieved and thanked all of us. I doubt very much that we’ll ever see or hear from her again, but you never know.

Almost as soon as the car pulled away, I watched the countenances of both older kids relax. Smiles spread across their faces throughout the evening. By nightfall, when I was helping inventory their clothing and other things they'd brought with them, they were running and playing and laughing with the other kids. It was both profoundly sad and full of promise.

Truly, this is just one example of the profound generosity and kindness I have witnessed here. There were a few questions, but never any about whether or not these kids would have a place here at Botshabelo. Their safety, healing, and the chance to be children were all that truly mattered.

Welcome to Botshabelo

I’m arrived and settled at Botshabelo, at last. I arrived here about a week and a half ago and it’s been a fascinating combination of easing in slowly and being pushed into the deep end.

I got a transfer from my hostel to the Johannesburg airport where a man named Joseph met me to drive me out to Botshabelo. After a long, but mostly uneventful drive through the traffic headed out of the city, we pulled onto the property late in the evening. After stepping out of the car, I was treated to a muddy greeting by a handful of the dozen or so dogs and given the keys to my new home.

I am staying in one bedroom in a small two-bedroom house with a bathroom, an airy and open kitchen/dining/common area, and a large deck shared with a currently empty two-story house next door that is used as a conference room and to house volunteers. A woman named Dipuo occupies the other bedroom in my house with her 1-year-old daughter. Dipuo is a year older than I, has two other children living here (one in the daycare and the other in school), and grew up here herself.

To give you some perspective of Botshabelo and the way it operates, I’ll share a story from my very first hour. After I arrived, I was told that Nicole Cloete, the woman with whom I’d communicated prior to my arrival, would stop by to meet me around 8pm and in the meantime, I was invited to unpack and get settled and left alone. So, I did just that. I unpacked my bag, put away groceries, and rearranged the furniture in my bedroom. Suddenly, a little girl appeared in the living room area carrying an armful of something in a plastic bag. I guessed that she was about 9. She said that she was going to wash in the restroom. Given that I had been here about 4 minutes, I assumed she knew what she was doing and perhaps lived in the room next to mine with Dipuo. Shortly, I realized that she meant she was going to bathe in there and shortly after that, three more girls arrived to do the same. I was grateful that there were at least other kids there with us now, but then suddenly they were all naked, the bathroom door was open, they were asking me questions, and then the hand-held faucet was turned on accidentally and sprayed down the entire bathroom, soaking everything. It was . . . hectic. I couldn’t find any towels, the girls’ clothes were dripping wet, I didn’t know who to talk to or even where to find anyone else (my house is at the front of the property and by now it was pitch black), and all the while my child abuse prevention training from 7 summers as a camp counselor was throwing up red flags and blazing sirens for me to get out of that situation. Obviously, I did nothing inappropriate, but standing around in the living room trying to have a conversation across a language barrier with four naked girls was uncomfortable at best.

About an hour and a half after I first arrived and 20 minutes after the girls had left, Nicole and her twin sister, Leigh, stopped by to say hello and let me know that my induction would be at 10am the next morning. I mentioned the girls coming in to bathe and they said that they’d mistaken this place for a different bathroom that they were supposed to use. Mystery solved. Unfortunately, I didn’t catch which bathroom it was that they were supposed to use, so I wasn’t exactly helpful to the next girl who knocked on the door 15 minutes later.

That initial experience has been extremely characteristic of my first week here. Everyone else here knows exactly what’s going on and is absolutely too busy to hold my hand and walk me through how it all works. And there is not an ounce of sarcasm in that comment. It’s completely accurate. There are 160 kids of all ages living here, about 80 of whom go home a few times a year and 80 of whom live here full time, and the small group of family members, employees, and volunteers must see to it that all of these children are fed, cleaned, dressed, educated, medicated, loved, counseled, and parented all day, every day. That’s not including what they must do for their own families or with the village of 800 people at the back of the property. I mean it’s honestly an absolute miracle that this group of people makes it through the day. It’s incredible to watch and thrilling to take part in. I’m learning as I go and starting to ask better questions. I have every faith that I’ll figure this place out about two days before it’s time to go home.

Helping to ease my transition into this new environment are the dozen or so dogs that are a part of this community. Marion told me on my second day that they would look after me and I’ve officially been adopted into the pack. There is one dog in particular, a peculiarly adorable “street special” named King, who has decided that I am his and he is mine. It’s remarkably comforting to know that they are asleep on the porch outside and to hear them bark and chase after the butterfly that threatened the perimeter. He’d probably sleep with me in my bed if he didn’t consistently have ticks. Country dogs, right? Many people in the area are actually afraid of dogs, so having them follow me everywhere I go is also a great comfort while I get used to my new surroundings and meet new people. They even came with me on my run the other day, although they looked a little ragged on the way back down the hill . . .

"My" dog, King, taking a sunny snooze on the deck outside my house while I work.

I’m sure you’re wondering what the hell I’ve been doing with my time, since that was a question I was unable to answer before my departure. And while I can safely say that no two days are alike, I can give you a bit of a picture of what my typical day might involve.

During the week, I’m up eeeeeeeeeearly in the morning to be in the children’s rooms by 5:15am to help get everybody get up, dressed for school, teeth brushed, beds made, dirty laundry collected, trunks packed, and rooms cleaned. There are around 7 connected bedrooms filled with bunk beds and children and their things, all of which are connected to Marion and Con’s bedroom. Marion and Con are the couple who started this place and still run it today. It’s an absolute madhouse in there during these transition times like waking up and going to bed. Once the kids are ready, they go through Marion’s room where she inspects them, and then to the dining hall for breakfast. From there, it’s straight to the classrooms for school, which starts between 7:15 and 7:30am.

Once the kids are in school, I usually head back to my house to exercise, bathe, and eat some breakfast. The kids are in school until 3pm, so I spend the day working on my tasks, such as helping Botshabelo catch up on its bookkeeping, creating files for each child that will include detailed genealogies (or as detailed as possible) to help maintain the child’s lineage even after their parents have died and to aid in dealings with the home affairs office around identification, prepping to aid Marion lead a sex education program for all of the children here, or working on readings or assignments for school.

[Sidebar: The accounting stuff is a crazy story. Several years ago, a big accounting firm in Johannesburg reached out to Botshabelo offering to do their books as part of their corporate social responsibility. Great! Except that they then sent Botshabelo a bill for nearly R40,000 (that’s about $3,500). They were barely eating at the time, so when they said that they couldn’t pay it, the company then held their records ransom. By the time they got them back, they were four years behind in their books, meaning that they cannot apply for grants or other funding, or even access the R20,000 in their PayPal account. Huh-what?! This is something in which I hope to put a serious dent before I leave.]

When school is out at 3pm, the children have another meal (they eat 5 times a day), and are then free to play soccer or sing or work on homework. Then, around 5 or 5:30pm, every child on the property bathes. It’s a herculean effort. Supper is around 7:30pm, at which time I duck home to cook for myself, then there may be evening activities. There is a choir that practices Wednesday evenings, house meetings on Tuesdays, family meeting on Friday, I may read stories to some of the kids before bed, and there’s probably other things I don’t even know about yet. Bed time is technically 9pm, but I gather that Marion and Con spend at least 1.5-2 hours getting everybody in bed and asleep.

Once a week, I also go into town and spend the day at the Wimpy, a fastfood restaurant, where I can use wifi and submit school assignments undisturbed. The problem is that it’s not unlimited free wifi. I get 30 minutes or 50MB. Not a lot when you’re wanting to Skype with your professor or send and receive lots of emails . . . Or check Facebook . . . . . Or upload a blog post . . . . . . .

On the weekends, I may visit a client in a juvenile detention center in Rustenburg, take a child to visit his father in a maximum security prison in Krugersdorp, play and talk with the kids, greet and look after visiting parents, help with chores, or any number of other things. And on Saturday nights (and sometimes Fridays) the kids have a dance party in front of the classrooms. It’s the best fun!

Oh, and Sunday is technically my “day off.” We'll see how easily I manage to maintain that boundary.

Other highlights in my first week and a half include administering a rapid HIV test on a woman from the village (it was negative!), sitting in a disciplinary meeting for the entire group of students in grades 7, 8, and 9, breaking down on the highway into town, witnessing Marion negotiate a relationship dispute between a couple in the village, sitting in on a meeting with a group of people wanting to facilitate a type of movement-based therapy with the children, welcoming a volunteer who will be here for three weeks, and assisting with a family from their initial inquiry to Botshabelo to assessment to intervention, in which five children came to live with us (this is a story for another blog post).

Folks, this is a place to watch. So much happens here in a day and it will be my honor and privilege to give you a glimpse inside the work happening here. Until next time!