Visas are for Noobs

I did actually manage to have one day of orientation with the full team.  We did some team-building activities and discussed the logistics of a large organization like ours joining with grassroots organizations already at work in our respective countries and then how to evaluate and improve independence and actual growth of a community.

Within teams, we did some activities to get to know each other better, and I was unprepared for the depth of our conversations.  In French, my small group shared details about their immediately family members dying early, of being alone, of their extended family telling their parents to kill them…  I gently tucked away the ‘River’ diagram of my life, which mostly involved my father and I being dillweeds.  My experiences are definitely not trivial – I raged and wept through years of frustration – but I think I have shared enough within a community I trust and pray with that healing has begun.  In a community where (at least speaking from an Asian perspective), one may not share familial grief or heart pains either due to pride or perceived lack of significance, I didn’t feel like interrupting in the short amount of time we had.  My teammates seemed quite matter-of-fact about their experiences, but I don’t know how much of that was real and how much of it feigned, and I didn’t want to question anything in French. 

For all I know, they could have been talking about summers spent in orchards and I could have grievously misunderstood.

To close orientation, we went in a circle and each person talked about something sweet and something bitter before taking a grape, dipping it into a glass of salty water, and eating it.  I appreciated the overtones of Communion, and it was nice to close with sharing in something that united us.

And thus was I entirely prepared to set off for Country B (by plane) on my way to Country C (by bus) the next morning at 4:15am.  I was the first one up (quite literally at 12am because Mom heard voices outside and thought I’d overslept) at 3:30, I got my luggage ready, and hung out with the area director for a while outside.

“I must tell you that I have been lied to.  It is cold here.  Give me my money back.”

“You paid very little.”

“Still.”

“You know, this city is 300m higher above sea level than Banff.”

“You win this round.”

Ten people and their luggage for two years (some admittedly less anxious than I was) were packed into a little family van and we headed out to the airport with a very jolly man and his partner ‘Nico’ (which sounded like a very different word in a booming voice and South African accent) and who shook everyone’s hands with much gusto. 

At the airport, everything went sideways.  We were pulled out of line as we didn’t have proof that we were leaving Country B and we looked well prepared to start a nudist commune there (except for me, as I appeared to be carrying armour).  FYI, Country B is hardly an immigrant haven, but I suppose anything is possible.  In the end, it was determined that everyone could travel and get their visas on arrival.  Except Canadians.

Any Canadians?

Oh, yes – one.

So that little worthless slug slime of a Canadian had to take the Walk of Shame back to the retreat centre in the cool sunrise and apply for an online visa.  As she sat in abject dejection (with a little bit of fatalism and self-righteous crankiness), she was cheered in the usual way – food.  And then she was asked to go on the sightseeing tour of Johannesburg that she’d missed earlier.

God is so good. 

So I got to see the Apartheid Museum and Braamfontein and meet these amazing people who thought God was worth giving up jobs for, even though it means uncertainty and a lack of clarity about job titles and an inability to stop smiling.  I would have loved to see Soweto, Mandela House, and the Hector Pieterson Memorial, but then I think I would have even more words to babble incoherently about people and a country I know next to nothing about.    

Do you know how amazing South Africa is?

No. 

This is a country that has been torn apart and stitched together by Afrikaners, Africans, Indians, the British, quite a few pricks, and no small amount of blood, sweat and tears.  There are high speed trains.  There are many hooters (honks, obviously).  There are theatres and hills of gold ore waste, world-famous hotels and landfills.  The people are amazingly friendly: our sightseeing tour guide took our picture, then got another guide to take a picture so he could get in with us (“George, George!  Get over here, man!”), then got Monica (which also sounds like a different phrase that made my eyes bulge for a moment before I realised it was her name) to take more pictures of us – and our Uber taxi driver discussed aspects of Joburg, of having to pay to get paid, and of being Venda and definitely not Shona.  It’s nice to be in a country where locals speak English to joke with tourists, but still hold on fiercely to their own backgrounds despite overwhelming odds.

And have conversations like this:

- At a hipster cafe -
"Welcome, ma'am, how are you?"
"I'm well, thanks, how are you?"
"Sorry?"
"Er.  I'm good?  How are you?"
"I'm fine, how are you?"
"This is madness, wummun - make me a sammich."

I learned early on in the day that my visa for country B (which I thought would take days), had been approved, so I got to whole-heartedly love every moment of this God-given day to see a piece of His creation.  We ended the day with a properly fierce thunderstorm that caused a minor tsunami in the double-decker bus and I enjoyed a quiet dinner with the remaining members of the orientation team.  Right now, an American team member and I remain at the retreat centre and look forward to our flight and bus ride to our 2-year home very soon.  (Edit:  This is no longer happening.  I will forge a road myself, like Frodo without Sam.  Bad comparison.)

If you're wondering about postcards, this is what happened:

"Hi, this won't be registered mail, ma'am."
"...Okay."
"So you're okay with that?"
"I suppose.  So, uh, you'll be putting postage on that and--"
"Does this need stamps?"
"I thought I didn't understand mail, but I think you're worse off."