Limbo

It's an odd state of existence, being an invalid. There are the perks: I'm not allowed to do any heavy lifting, so Alyssa carries the heavy groceries for me; technically, I shouldn't be bending my back to do laundry, so if I really insisted I could probably find someone to pity me and take care of my load; and the cool kids from the northeastern U.S. acknowledge my existence in their cursory "so how's your back doing?" Still, I feel like there's something missing. In the absence of a corset/cast-like device, I think people are less willing to believe -- or fully comprehend -- the magnitude of my injury. I mean, yes, they saw me lying on the rock crying my eyes out post-trauma, but people forget things and minimize incidents later. If I had some sort of tangible "proof" of my compressed vertebrae, well, that'd be nice. No more of this complaining about the uncomfortable seats in film class. Time to bring out the big guns. Maybe I should carry around my chart and x-ray images? Victorian corset? Lug around physical therapy equipment/doctors to class with me? I'm determined to milk this for all it's worth and see what it gets me: the attention of cute foreign boys, free dinners, car rides to the beach, etc.

In between trying to impress those around me with my bravery (give me validation!), I have another uncomfortable state of being. At my latest physio appointment, I complained to my freckled therapist about my sore back.

"Oh? It's sore?" she said, blue eyes sparkling. "That means it's healing -- the cartilage is growing back. It's normal for the pain to sort of fluctuate during the first eight weeks."

Eight weeks? Gulp.

After mobilizing my spine (kind of like a massage, but a little more painful), the story changed.

"Have you been... sitting down a lot lately?"

I told her I'd just come from my two-hour English class.

And that's when she explained to me the three cardinal rules of compression fractures, because these can actually make it worse: don't sit for too long, don't stand for too long and don't lie in the same position for too long.

Um. So that leaves running and walking, two activities I try to avoid at all costs. (Secret: I'm sitting as I'm writing this. Sorry, L1 and T12! <333) What am I, a robot?

"The professors tend to not like it when you stand up in class," she offered. "But we can write you a note and they'll let you stand for exams."

And the thing is, being a sedentary person by nature, there are so many fun things to do while sitting! Without going into the more explicit acts one can perform while in a chair, I especially love sitting and drinking Savannah Dry cider during trivia night at the pub, because I usually know the literature questions, though nothing else (the trivia quiz-writer certainly has a thing for Jonathan Swift); watching movies (in Afrikaans: fliek); consuming bottles of South African wine and chatting.

So, in between trying to decide what position will do the least harm to my healing spine, let me enlighten you, over a week late, on the activities of St. Patrick's Day spent in a foreign country. Because it takes me several years to learn a lesson, I've just recently realized the importance of donning green for St. P's. This time I put on green earrings, went to Hemingway class and... realized no one else realized the gravity of the holiday. There were greys, pinks... no green.

"Do you get pinched if you're not wearing green?" I asked the long-haired hippie girl with the Sartre book on her desk.

She gave me a confused look. "Why would someone pinch you for not wearing green?"

Later that day, someone asked me what it was that St. P was known for. And I think that pretty much describes the importance of March 17 to the average South African. They do, however, have an "Irish" pub in Stellenbosch, so it was filled to the brim that night. As a new 21-year-old, I wanted to partake in the madness, so I purchased a couple glasses of green Guiness. Guiness is really intense stuff and honestly, pretty terrible. A European recently remarked to me that Americans drink to get drunk. I am a stereotype: I hate the taste of alcohol, and I especially dislike Guiness. But it's alcohol, so I'll drink it. Even after the green dye stains my teeth and lips in an especially unsexy way. The big, beefy males tended to congregate in the corner watching some sort of rugby match and screaming in unison at some failed or wonderful play. I lamely left shortly after midnight because I had a paper to write for the following day. Even St. Patrick's good deeds can't motivate me to finish assignments in a timely manner.

On an economic note, let me just say that most things here are cheap if you're an American student. (The dollar equals about ten rand; the situation is even better for the Euro, with about 14 rand per Euro.) You can buy a nice bottle of wine for $3, go to a moderately-priced restaurant and pay less than $5 for dinner, take the train to and from Cape Town for $2, buy a cocktail for $3-4... but their Apple computers are still really expensive, virtually hundreds of dollars more than what you'd pay in the U.S. Supposedly they're still a relatively new phenomenon here and thus more expensive, but it's a shock. Also, their books are just as expensive as those in the U.S. (since most of them have to be imported from England; I guess they don't have any major publishing houses in South Africa... or perhaps most of Africa for that matter). You pay about $15 for a trade paperback, about the same price you'd pay at my beloved B&N.

Earlier tonight I went to a discussion about racism at Stellenbosch (by the way, the birthplace of Apartheid) in which people brought up the concern with Afrikaans being the primary language spoken at the university. The university didn't, until the last ten years or so, offer any courses in English, and was entirely Afrikaans. I didn't know this before coming here, but Afrikaans is the primary language spoken by the white descendants of the European colonists (Dutch, French). They only learn English in school. Xhosa and Zulu are the two main languages spoken by the black population of the western Cape. Thus, the black population of Stellenbosch U. is pretty small; still, some people were talking about being misled about the language situation, since they were informed their classes would be taught in English. Since the only courses offered in English are English literature and international classes, many non-Afrikaans-speaking students (read: the black students) are SOL when they arrive here, having their chemistry instructor literally lecture them in another language. There's going to be a big push to change the course languages offered -- the leader of the discussion mentioned a demonstration in a few weeks? And then the Canadian student on the panel said capitalism was the root of racism and suggested we overthrow the capitalistic system (okay, so it got a bit radical at the end, but it was interesting).

Also, elections are on April 22. The ANC will win but maybe it'll be interesting to watch (Zuma looks very crooked in his campaign posters, like the cat that swallowed the canary).

For homework, our history professor (a cute Afrikaner old man named Hans; I want him to be my surrogate grandfather) suggested we watch an Afrikaans soap opera. Awesome. Another note on academics: 75 is an A, and 50 is a passing grade. And my courses are transferring on a pass/fail basis to Rice. That's why I go out on weeknights.

(Note on the pictures: these are from Kayamandi, the black township right outside of Stellenbosch. By virtue of my race, I'm clearly an outsider when visiting there; I get a lot of stares. The kids are playing cricket; the little convenience store is sponsored by Coca-Cola; I liked the color of the building.)