Friday, January 06, 2012

South African Articles Are Now Available Online

You've already read them, of course, but I'm so excited to see that the Cape Chameleon is up and running online. Straight from the internets, here are my old articles in all their glory:


Our Contributors

Katherine Barry, USA
IssueArticles
5Houses of Sand
7White Wine
Katherine Barry, from Denver, Colorado, USA, is a recent graduate of Loyola University Chicago with a degree in Communication Studies. She enjoys excellent adventures, particularly road trips, and hopes that she will one day find a job that will her allow her the luxury of world travel.


Words : Katherine Barry
A pile of charred wood is all that’s left of the shacks. The sand where they sat is littered with burned belongings: a blackened Bible, an office chair, clothes no longer usable. The metal sheets that had once been walls have been salvaged, taken for use in new shacks, the obviously burnt edges blending in amongst the rust.
The first fire broke out three weeks before in the same shack that would be the ignition point of the second fire, which would tear through the informal settlement of Village Heights in Cape Town, depriving 15 families of their homes.
Fires in informal settlements – like Village Heights – represent one of the biggest dangers of living in such a community. Even with attempts to build with space on all sides, fires such as the one that destroyed those 15 shacks can spread quickly since the materials used to construct the homes are highly flammable and unregulated.
‘It was better under apartheid,’ says Bernadine, the community leader who has created and maintained the Village Heights library, and who is the recipient of the first Projects Abroad sandbag house in South Africa. ‘At least then we all had our own homes and jobs. Now we have nothing.’

Government response

According to residents, after the first fire the government offered four wooden posts, five pieces of metal and some grounding plastic as a replacement. However, the metal went to the construction of a roof and the residents were left to use plastic to create walls. During the second fire, a woman was badly burned when the plastic melted onto her skin.
Proper housing is something that many people living in South Africa lack, for a multitude of reasons, including long waiting times after application for government housing. ‘I’ve been on a waiting list for twenty one years,’ says one woman who lost her home in the fire. ‘My daughter is 20 now.’ She went on to detail her experience, saying that she makes regular visits to go check on the status of her application, only to be told that she is indeed still on the list, but that no further information can be released about the status of the application.
While debates rage about governmental involvement and personal contribution for houses, the issue remains that people lack proper living quarters. Residents of the informal settlements around Cape Town and throughout South Africa are forced to create homes using materials that they can find, salvage, or buy, resulting in homes that often lack even basic features such as a floor. Security measures are an afterthought as well, allowing for criminal activity to flourish in the crowded neighbourhoods. Where to go from here?
Sand is nearly ubiquitous in Cape Town and the surrounding areas. It also might present a feasible solution to the problem of the shack homes in the ever-expanding informal settlements. Filling bags with sand and then stacking them within a frame can create a solid structure that is built both efficiently and quickly.
Beginning with materials, construction with sandbags can be a cheap alternative to traditional building methods. Since all that is needed to build a sandbag structure are bags, sand, cement and wooden and metal framing, the cost drops significantly due to the lack of construction equipment needed. No cranes, no stacks of bricks and no heavy vehicles entering or leaving the construction site.
20% of the materials need to be allocated for the construction of the frame of the sandbag building, but there is a certain amount of flexibility as to what those might be – including the use of wood or tin. Bricks can be used as well, but in order to maintain the eco-friendly atmosphere, they should only be implemented if they are within reach to avoid the entrance of trucks and other machinery in to the site.

Benefits of sand building

This cost effective creation is incredibly ecofriendly. Since most of the building can be done with materials found on-site, the need for waste is nearly eliminated. This waste elimination plays a large factor in the ecofriendly nature of the sandbag buildings.
Builders who choose to use sandbag building as an alternative to conventional construction methods also stand to gain carbon credits for their choices. Carbon credit programmes offer financial incentives for companies to build in keeping with the ‘green’ trends and for waste elimination and recycling of materials.
This waste elimination and recycling process, presents an opportunity for those who are economically disadvantaged. By being able to build effectively and also save money, they can increase community bonds and safety.

Structural soundness

Besides being fireproof, the sand structures also present an element of soundproofing not found in the corrugated iron structures, which currently make up most of the homes in the townships and informal settlements in the Cape Town area.
They are also not easy to deconstruct or demolish, in essence creating a lasting home that won’t be victim to natural disasters such as flooding or tornadoes. The solidity of the sand as it is packed and stacked neatly to create walls allows for an element of indoor climate control that supersedes that provided by the corrugated structures as well. The sand essentially insulates the home, keeping it warmer in the winter and cooler in the summer.

Spreading the word

The surmountable caveat to sand building is that it is not well known as a possible method for creating homes. The newly homeless fire victims had never heard of sandbag building when asked about it, yet were curious as to how it might work. They eagerly agreed that the community would want to be involved in such a building plan, given the right materials.
Based on the readily available materials and the community mentality that many of the neighbourhoods have, it seems that if sandbag structures could catch on, they might make a wonderful improvement for communities who are underfunded and under protected.
Projects Abroad began constructing their first sandbag house at the site of the Village Heights Library in August of 2010. While normally the construction of such a building (one room) would take less than a month, due to staggered volunteer arrivals, the project has continued for more than three months. Nevertheless, the house is beginning to take shape.
Bernadine hopes to show off the building project as a model of sustainable building. As of the beginning of December, the structure was complete and the roof had been added and finalisation of the exterior decoration was beginning. The hope is that the building will remain a long-standing testament to the possibility of creation from local materials and community involvement.
The project supervisor – Deen Singh – remains optimistic that the sandbag building will be used for the betterment of the community. He explained that everything must be done to help the children. The building has been designated for use in a crèche, or a childcare centre, one that will hopefully create a safe haven for children from all over Village Heights. Currently there are five volunteers working on the building. Rick, a German volunteer, feels that the building he is helping to construct will last, showing immediate change in the place that he came to volunteer. ‘It’s nice to leave something behind,’ he said.
Perhaps this sandbag building can be a model of change for a community that is desperate for change, but lacking the resources with which to create it.

Words :Katherine Barry
The clink of glasses and the soft murmur of conversation fill the air with the sounds of a pleasant Sunday afternoon. Searching for looming mountains, lush vineyards, and quiet roads, families and groups of friends flock to the wine lands in the Western Cape for vacations, day trips and evening meals to sample wine and pass time under the South African sun.
Behind the idyllic fields that birthed the South African wine industry, lie the lingering oppression of apartheid and the pain of extreme poverty. South Africa, which wasn’t known for being a world exporter of wine until post 1994, when apartheid induced international boycott ended, had eighth largest wine producer as of 2005, according to a report published by the South African Wine Industry Council in 2007.

Industry history

South Africa entered the wine industry long before 1994, however Jan van Riebeeck planted the first vines in South Africa in 1655 and the first wines produced from those grapes appeared four years later. After initially planting vines in what is now Wynberg, the wine industry began to flourish in Constantia.
It was soon after the French Huguenots settled in the Cape area during the late seventeenth century; the wine trade began to flourish. Exports from Constantia became well known in Europe, creating the market for South African wine. However, Phylloxera, a disease that kills grape vines, was discovered in 1886 and caused much of the vineyards to suffer heavy losses.
The twentieth century was one of the most important centuries for South African wine. In 1925, Stellenbosch University Professor Perold was able to blend Pinot Noir with Hermitage grapes to create the Pinotage. The Pinotage wasn’t marketed until the late 1950s, but has since become South Africa’s most famous and successful cross-pollination.

Economic impact

As of 2008, the wine industry grossed 2.2% of the country’s GDP, which was about R26.2 billion. The latest numbers, coming from the wine industry, show an increase in production, up R4 billion from five years earlier. The industry also provides 275,600 job opportunities as well, according to South Africa information (www.southafrica.info). Wine tourism draws a steady stream of people to the winelands in the Western Cape. Stellenbosch and Paarl are among the most popular destinations.

Economic problems

The problems plaguing the heavily white wine industry are most certainly correlated to other social problems in post-apartheid South Africa, and while they do not necessarily have their origins within the industry itself, it is apparent that the industry is feeling problematic reverberations throughout its entire structure.
The antiquated ‘dop’ (meaning ‘drop of alcohol’ in Afrikaans) system, under which black and coloured workers were paid in alcohol, usually wine, rather than cash or other goods, led to high rates of alcoholism among the workers, whose consumption of the wine left them tethered to the farm that they worked on in order to maintain a continuous flow of alcohol from the farm owners, who were (and still are) overwhelmingly white. Even though the ‘dop’ system has been abolished, and reforms are in place to ensure that the workers are compensated legitimately, alcoholism remains one of the main social problems emanating from the Western Cape wine industry.

Alcohol-related problems

Shebeens, or other illegal liquor establishments, are often hotbeds of alcohol-related activity. The farm workers, who often lack other means of entertainment and suffer from geographically induced social isolation and lack the money as well as other resources needed to overcome these obstacles, have easy access to the Shebeens.
Since these Shebeens often act as community centres, the presence of children is common. Some mothers even put wine into their babies’ bottles in order to keep them quiet, according to Professor Dennis Viljoen as quoted in an article written for VOAnews.com (Voice of America) by Darren Taylor.
Another of the far-reaching social problems stemming from the South African vineyards is Fetal Alcohol Syndrome (FAS). FAS and other alcoholrelated developmental problems occur when the mother ingests large quantities of alcohol during pregnancy and is the most preventable cause of mental retardation. Many mothers continue to drink throughout their pregnancies, due to a lack of education about the ill-effects of drinking during pregnancy as well as disregard for that information.
Estimates of FAS in South Africa, average around 45 cases per 1000 (suggests Jake McKinstry in the American Journal of Public Health, 2005). Compared to rates of one case per 750 infants born in the United States, (according towww.kidshealth.org) the rate of the South African FAS is staggering. The country has one of the highest FAS rates in the world. Children who suffer from FAS often suffer from symptoms such as: a low birth weight, developmental delay, learning disabilities, behavioural problems and poor social skills.
All of these symptoms could be easily avoided if mothers would abstain from alcohol while pregnant, making FAS the most preventable cause of developmental problems. In South Africa, awareness of FAS is limited, but attempts to spread information have begun. International Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD) Day in on 9 September. Despite the fact that attempts are being made to quell the rise of FAS in South Africa, it cannot be achieved without support from the systems that have contributed to the spread of the problem.

Economic diversity

Alcoholism is not the only problem plaguing the South African wine industry. The lack of diversity may seem inconsequential, but in order to maintain growth rates that mirror those of the population of the country, it is imperative that more black wine farms be created. A black economic empowerment (BEE) charter drafted in 2007 attempted to address the economic disparity and to create a more diverse industry has failed to move through governmental channels. However, there has been promising, albeit slow, growth within the industry. According to the Wine Industry Development Association (WIDA) 38% of ‘wine operations’ have programmes in place for black empowerment. Another positive indicator of progress is Thandi, now an independent company that was started under Paul Cluver Vineyards. Thandi began to show profit and has also been able to pay dividends to its shareholders. However, it appears that Thandi might be an outlier rather than part of a growing trend. BEE research shows that only 2.26% of vineyards are operated under black ownership. Growth and change may be coming to the South African wine industry, but it’s coming slowly.

Putting it all together

The South African wine industry mirrors the rest of the country quite clearly in racial breakdowns and social problems, but it also mirrors the positive impact that time seems to be having on those same issues. Racial integration has been slow coming to South Africa, particularly the Western Cape, but it seems as though the tides are slowly changing as the workforce becomes a more integrated, educated place. The determination of industries to diversify has only added to the sense of hope being fostered among communities of all race, socio-economic, age and demographics.

Wednesday, January 04, 2012

On Stealing Children and Chain Emails

Preface: I have nearly 100 posts that I've started and then abandoned. Most of them are blank. Some of them are legitimately ready to post, but for some reason or another, I never did it. This is one of those posts. It's originally from October 2011.



When I was little, we had a big discussion about "safe words." (January 2012 edit: "Safe words" was entirely the wrong phrase to use there, but I keep giggling every time I read it, so I'm keeping it. Jacob would have given me a point for this one. Safe words are actually words or phrases that are used to protect participants during crazy yet consensual sex, so they can just yell "pineapple!" or something equally weird and everything will stop. "Passwords" is probably a much better word choice.) It probably stemmed from a Dateline episode we had watched, but we created a password so that if someone came to steal us from school, they wouldn't be able to do it unless they knew the password.

One day, Mom ended up in the hospital or something, and no one could get us from school. This lady showed up to pick us up and since I didn't know who she was, I refused to go with her and I wouldn't let Mike go either. As it turns out, she was totally legitimate and our parents had completely forgotten about the password. She was my mom's cousin, or something. She turned out to be very nice. I remember feeling very flustered as I eventually got in her car, still mostly convinced I was being kidnapped by a stranger driving a Saturn.


A Mom’s Real-Life Guide To Health And Safety

OCT. 4, 2011


By GABY DUNN


An E-Mail Forward Will Save Your Life

My mom is a fan of sending along e-mail forwards with dubious cautionary advice that Snopes — and anyone with more than one functioning brain cell — has already debunked. For instance: Did you know if you put your ATM password in backwards it alerts the police that you’re being robbed? Did you know that sugar causes cancer? Did you know that dialing *677 tells you if the unmarked police car trying to pull you over is actually a rapist?

You didn’t? That’s because none of these are true. But they have been forwarded to me by my mother as if they contain life-saving advice.

Other scary emails instructed me to never get out of my car to get a paper from the windshield because a car-jacker is waiting to get inside and that hotel room keys can steal your credit card information. Also, this isn’t advice but did you know George W. Bush makes the same face as a monkey sometimes? That was from a chain letter, too.

PLEASE PASS THIS ON TO SOMEONE YOU LOVE.
All Serial Killers are Pizza Delivery Men or Ice Cream Truck Drivers

When I was in second grade, an ice cream truck started a new route down my street. Every day, I would hear the jovial music begin as every kid would stream out and line up to purchase ice cream. Every kid except me. My mom was convinced that “ice cream truck driver” was the perfect undercover job for a pedophile kidnapper.

Her other reasoning? Quote: “Gabrielle, you were just a little kid. How were you gonna know the difference between a regular ice cream truck and a pedophile in his car offering you ice cream?”

That’s right, guys. My mom thought I wouldn’t notice that one was a big, white musical ice cream truck and one was a guy holding a popsicle next to a grungy El Camino.

Similarly, I was never allowed to open the door for a pizza delivery man. Instead, I had to slip the money through the mail slot and tell him to leave the pizza on the welcome mat. Then, my mom told me to watch through the front window to make sure the delivery van pulled away before I opened the door to retrieve the pizza. I did this well into my teens. It was like a reverseSilence of the Lambs every time we got Papa Johns.
Never Trust a Boy with Dirty Fingernails

This is the one piece of dating advice I can remember my mom giving me. Her logic was that a boy who couldn’t be bothered to clean his fingernails, didn’t care about the details and would therefore make a terrible boyfriend.

If he shows the initiative to clean his fingernails then this boy is probably ambitious, hard-working and conscientious. He has goals, he cares about how he presents himself and he probably calls his mother once in a while.

That’s some flawed logic, Mom. You know who else probably cleaned his fingernails compulsively? Patrick Bateman. Sure, he had ambition. But it was murder ambition.
No Wire Hangers

In no way is my mom comparable to Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest but they did share one non-negotiable tip: No wire hangers.

“They’ll put ridges in your clothes,” she says. Right. On the shoulders. Shoulders are the body’s natural ridges. Last I checked, clothes change shape when you put a person in them.

Never Keep Your Money in Your Backpack or Purse

This is because a pick pocket could easily steal money from your backpack or your purse without your feeling it. You know, if you had the nerve endings of a frozen pizza and the thief had the stealth of Fagin or Aladdin.

According to my mom, it’s much safer to keep your money in your front pocket, a fanny pack or better yet, in a pouch inside your underwear. Yes, she actually suggested an underwear pouch.

Doing any of those things will surely prevent anyone from ever reaching into your underwear ever again.

Don’t Go to Sleep with a Wet Head

“It’s the quickest way to catch the flu and die,” she says, despite raising her kids in the humidity cloud that is South Florida. That’s some 18th century medical advice. If I did get the flu from wet hair, would we cure it with leeches?

A Piece of Paper in Your Shoe is Good Luck

Any time I had an exam at school, my mom would tell me to put a small piece of paper in my shoe. The superstition is that the piece of paper would help me remember what I’d studied.

There’s no secret Mom logic behind this one. It’s a trick my grandmother believed in and passed on to my mom, who passed it on to me. Somewhere along the way, I think they lost a step: maybe the step where I write the answers to the test on the paper first.

In Case of the Apocalypse, Rent a Helicopter

This is by far the most outlandish bit of safety advice my mother ever gave me. About a year ago, she called me and my sister to tell us she wanted to book us plane tickets home for December 21, 2012 because she’d heard on TV that this was the date of the end of the world. She wanted us both, and I quote, “home for the apocalypse.”

The plan she’d devised was to rent a helicopter way in advance and fly around until the flood waters have subsided. Then, we’d float inside the helicopter until we found land or other refugees. I am not sure why she was convinced a helicopter would float. Until we were rescued, my whole family would just stick together in the cramped space.

I told her I’d rather just go out with the fiery asteroids. Thanks.

If You Get Kidnapped, Kick Out a Tail Light

When I was in elementary school, we lived in the same city where Adam Walsh, six-year-old son of America’s Most Wanted host John Walsh, was kidnapped from a local mall. After that, my mom was convinced every stranger we saw was planning on walking off with me the minute she turned her head.

When I was three, she taught me how to sing my full name, address and telephone number so that I could tell the police where I lived. (I still remember the made-up song.) She brought me down to the police station to give them fingerprints and a cheek swab, just in case, and we made a home video of me stating my height and age in case one needed to be given to local TV stations. Even though, according to her logic, I wouldn’t know the difference between a police officer and a guy in a sailor hat holding a popsicle.

Then, when I was about seven, my mom put me in the open trunk of my dad’s car and taught me where to kick so the tail light would burst if I were ever abducted. Then, I could stick my hand through the hole and wave to passing cars to alert them that a kidnapped child was inside.

She’d heard about the technique in an e-mail forward.

source: ThoughtCatalog.com

Tuesday, January 03, 2012

On Death, Eventually

I fear greatly the answers to the questions surrounding death. It pains me to think too much about any of it. Rather than the belief in something after, I believe solely in attempting to make the best of these precious earth-bound moments. And yet, usually catching me entirely unaware, the thoughts creep back into my brain. What lies after? How can we succinctly tie our own spiritualities with the scientific, with the known, with the cold reality of it all?

I remember the immensity that was the moment - that singular moment - when we put down our beloved golden retriever. His head coming to rest for the last time on my shoe. My jerky response as I stood, smashing into the paper towel dispenser. The nurse (nurse? vet tech? lady in scrubs?) attempting to comfort me and me pushing her away because the tears were coming too fast and I couldn't wait to break away and be alone, where no one would see me crying. I realize that this is in no way comparable to the deaths of those humans we come to love so much, but then again, I think perhaps that even those mammalian deaths hold the keys to true humanity. The singularity that ties us all together: love.

No matter how it happens, death holds some sort of quiet whisper, a moment in which time stops rushing and instead, lingers for the exhale. It's not something that will ever leave you. (I do not speak as one wizened by so many experiences, thankfully, although the few that I have had with death have been personally profound.)

I was reading in the bathtub (now that I'm taking baths again, my reading material has multiplied immensely) and I found myself falling in love with the protagonist of the book I'd just started - it's been languishing in one of my book suitcases (yes, I have those) for ages and I've just now gotten around to picking it up. She embodies, for the moment, everything I find wonderful: strength, intelligence, determination, the juxtaposition of masculine and feminine, beauty, courage. And yet, I found myself terrified that she'd die before the end of the book. In that moment, I was certain of her death. I flipped to the last page (a terrible habit, but one I take great comfort in - I even do it with romance novels, and you know from the third page how those are going to end) and sure enough, she dies. It's a beautiful death, really, her soul personified by birds. But now I'm happier to read about her life. I can take comfort in the fact that I already know how she dies, yet I've not at all ruined the book for myself.

This is the point of all of this, I guess: even though you can not know the exactness of your own death, you know that at a certain point, it must come. I look at those yellow feline eyes that I love so much and realize that I can't keep them forever. I push away the melancholy thoughts, realizing that loving him now is so much better than focusing on the pain I'll feel when he's gone. I circle back, from time to time, working myself up thinking about the emptiness that the deaths of those I love will leave. I think it stems from the knowledge that one day, I will be without my mother. In my attempts to soothe myself, I have begun to steel myself against the void I know will exist. Void is inadequate. It will be like a roaring vacuum. It will pull at the edges of my soul.

But it is natural. (I remember this book they got us to teach us about death. I'll never forget how incredibly mystified I was when I read it. I hated the book and yet something drew me to it. It calmly taught children that everything must die, and yet it horrified me. I hated connecting dead leaves to people. Something resonated somewhere deep inside of me. I often think of that book and wonder what it would be like to read it again now. I wonder if it's in a box somewhere in a basement.)

Death and taxes, they say. But they're not wrong. To know the eventuality of it before it happens is to hope that one will be able to fully embrace everything that is life knowing the finality of it all. The chance to struggle and create, to learn and understand, to think, to feel, to be, to love passionately and freely is a gift. Those moments are the footprints we leave behind. To love deeply and live fully are my only goals. If at my funeral, people don't laugh and tell horrifyingly embarrassing yet endearing stories, I will be incredibly bummed.  Life is a wild adventure. It's beautiful and bittersweet.

Either way, it is certain. It's comforting, in a way, to know that everyone has to do it. Someone's doing it right now. Someone did it yesterday and someone will do it tomorrow. We are all born and we will all die, but what we do in between belongs solely to us. That's the best part.

Mom, Don't Read This, You'll Gag.

I sincerely hope that parenthood is as satisfying as pet ownership.

Everyone I know makes fun of me for loving Carlos so much. I understand. Cats are weird. Black cats are weirder. People who own cats are obviously incapable of any sort of normal social interaction. We spend all day locked in our houses, knitting or just rocking back in forth in creaking rocking chairs tapping our nails, occasionally reaching for the remote because the Price is Right has ended but Judge Judy has not yet begun and we need to watch some Cops to fill the time.

Okay, so it's not quite like that.

After Africa, Carlos didn't speak to me for the better part of a month. I am still not sure if he didn't remember me or if he was that mad at me. Even now, whenever I pack a bag or something, he wants to get in and inspect it. He'll crawl right into my backpack or jump into a suitcase, determined not to be left behind.

So after being gone for six days, I was worried I'd be hearing some complaints from him, or at the very least, the silent treatment. (Mike sent me a picture of him and the cat snuggling. I was worried that the cat had switched sides - Carlos usually avoids Mike, even though Mike wants to be friends with him. This is tentative proof of Carlos' food-for-love program in which he switches allegiances strategically depending on who's in charge of feeding him.)

I got home. I was checking email and Carlos came over to sit on me, so I moved the laptop off my stomach and let him knead himself into a ball. His soft cat sigh as he fell asleep on me was all the assurance I needed. Last night, I could tell he was feeling particularly possessive: I woke up several times during the night to find him curled on my stomach, on my back, across my feet.

There's something oddly wonderful about this sort of love. Of course he's stressful. Cat AIDS is a running joke now, but I'm sure that when he gets sick at some point, I'll be a giant ball of stress and worry. Of course people think I'm an idiot for owning a cat. (I will argue that this cat has all the perks of a dog - minus the walking and fetching bit - without the 8 hour time limit. I can leave Carlos alone for a day or so and he'll manage by himself just fine. I don't have to worry about being home to feed and walk him at 6pm sharp. I don't have to worry that he'll make a mess in my living room if I'm not home to let him out. I consider that winning.) But it feels good knowing I have something that really loves me waiting for me when I get home.

Monday, January 02, 2012

On the un-Resolution

I'm not a great maker of resolutions, particularly those that feel pressured in by the new year. Why make some sort of promise to yourself that is going to fall apart before the end of winter?

But this year, I would very much like to fall in love with reading again. Somewhere along the way (ahem, college) I stopped reading for pleasure - unless you count cheap romance novels procured at the used book store. But those don't count. Those are bathtub books, downed in an afternoon. 

I want to love stories the way I used to. 

So there you have it. 
An un-resolution for a new year.