Pooper Party

Why do people let their dogs poop in public places and not pick it up? Maybe I am over sensitive but in the past few days I've encountered:

- an overtanned fifty-something woman at Clovelly beach with her three large hounds pretending she didn't notice one of them fouling right next to a family who were sunbathing. The dad eventually had to get up and wrap the crap in a sandwich bag

- the camouflage clad, tattooed muscle-mary - who told me to "Fuck Off" when I offered him a doggie bag for the gigantic mound recently dropped by his rottweiler - in Newlands forest

- the hip-happening guy who ignored the yellow slime issuing from his terrified sheepdog, while screaming at him to "COME ON", resulting in the dog laying sloppy bricks all down the path in Rondebosch Park

- the needy-chick at the Liesbeck park (a spot shared by kids and their nannies; drawn to the playground) who is so busy collaring other dog walkers to tell them her domestic problems that she 'just didn't notice' her spaniel soiling right next to her. And who then who huffed indignantly at the mom of a screaming dog-shit daubed 3-year old: "Us dog owners have rights too you know!".

There are signs all over these venues - pick up after your dog. And if you can't read - there are illustrations clarifying the words. Two of the parks even offer dispensers full of doggie bags - and there are dustbins in which to drop the waste.

The City of Cape Town is insisting that we register our pets - and this has made people mad. "Who does the City think it is," they moan: "Big Brother"? And dog owners here complain that we can't walk our dogs on beaches whenever we want. Well I am not surprised. Why should we be allowed carte blanche when a good percentage of us don't know how to behave ourselves?

The city is trying to make it easy for us to do our part. But we are just too bloody lazy to pick up after ourselves. And don't go blaming your dog, hipster - he learned everything he knows from you. You reveal yourself to us all when you leave your shit on our doorsteps.

The 'kommandant" in my nature is advocating a canine CSI ... matching poop to hound. Sentencing owners to community service ... poop scooping, tick picking and cleaning cages in shelters. Plus a website that 'outs' these lazy fools. Where we post a description of the owner and their dogs, perhaps their license plates and picture. And see if the naming and shaming will get the Capetownians to smarten up and fly right.

Otherwise we are going to be reduced to walking on highways.

The Not So Secret Life of the American Quilt

I've been working with a group of people visiting schools in the South East parts of Cape Town. These are schools in the wide ranging townships that run from the edges of Cape Town to the sea and mountains that ring the peninsula. The program is called the School HIV/Aids Quilt tour. And is a continuation of work started 13 years ago by Brett Anderson-Terry and Jeff Bosaki.

The idea for the NAMES Project Memorial Quilt came in1985 from AIDS activist Cleve Jones. As an adjunct to the Candlelight March commemorating of the 1978 assassinations of San Francisco Supervisor Harvey Milk and Mayor George Moscone. Jones asked people to write the names of loved ones - lost to AIDS-related illnesses on signs, and taped them to the San Francisco Federal Building. (Images that were later echoed in the New York 9/11 missing person signs.)

At that time many people who died of AIDS-related causes did not receive funerals, due to both the social stigma of AIDS felt by surviving family members and the outright refusal by many funeral homes and cemeteries to handle the deceased's remains

The pictures on Federal building reminded Jones of a patchwork quilt. And he was inspired to create something that would commemorate those lost to AIDS. Many of whom lacked a memorial service or grave site. So, each panel on the quilt is 3' by 6': approximately the size of the average grave. And these panels became the only opportunity survivors had to remember and celebrate their loved ones' lives.

The first showing of the The Quilt was 1987 on the National Mall in Washington. Today it weighs over 54-tons, is composed of more than 47,000 panels and is dedicated to more than 90,000 individuals. We take portions of this quilt, some made in South Africa, into classrooms and use it to start a dialogue with the kids. We tell them that the quilt could cover the entire country of Zimbabwe. And we tell them that people don't have to die from HIV any more.

Each classroom has a facilitator (like me) and a speaker. The speakers are all people living with HIV. After they tell their personal stories, we throw the floor open to a Q+A session.

The queries run the gamut of sex-ed, HIV/AIDS literacy and interpersonal issues. We discuss everything from condom usage, femidoms, pregnancy, anal sex, drinking, peer pressure, first dates, coersive-sex and drug abuse. Nothing is unaskable. Nothing left unanswered.

Some of the questions come to us when the rest of the class have left - and these are the heart-wrenchers:

My father is using drink and smoking tik - how can I help him?

How do I get my mom to start taking her ARVs again?

I'm pregnant and I haven't told anyone ... should I test for HIV?

I slept with a virgin and now she has missed her period, could she be pregnant? Could I have given her HIV?

We operate a "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" policy. A phrase many of the kids seem to know. Which basically means what they ask or tell us, stays in the classroom. We don't pass the info on to headmaster or teachers. If we feel the child is at risk, we ask them if we can refer them to someone who will support them. But the choice is always theirs.

These children come from a variety of backgrounds - but the lack of uniform, of shoes, socks, of classroom supplies all tell their own stories. Some of the learners in grade 11 (SA's second last year at high school) are in their 20s. Their education having started late or been interrupted for a number of reasons. Seeing them gave me pause ... having a learner that is essentially a man must up the ante with the girls a huge amount at these schools. Many of the teachers are just years older than these kids.

One rule of thumb seems to be that the School is only as good as it's headteacher. Very often they are operating in pre-fabricated structures. Temporary buildings that never made it to permanence. Our largest single class so far has been 60 kids. The rooms are hot and badly ventilated. Lack of blackboard dusters mean that lectures on STDs (sexually transmitted diseases) share chalk space with algebra sums. This is not school as I remember it.

Yet, despite all this - I am loving this work. The kids are engaging, opinionated and informed to different degrees. Some classes burst with questions - some classes sit and stare at the "umlungu" (white lady) who has shown up out of the blue and it talking about all this "stuff".

We have our own panel making session coming up next week - our panels will be a mix of loss and information. Many of the kids won't admit to knowing someone who has died from the virus. So we keep it general and encourage them to do what works for them.

The team has good days and bad days. And we berate ourselves if we think that we haven't done our jobs "right". But Terence, the psychologist who is one of our facilitators, always stops us gently in our tracks, reminding us ... "if any one thing that you said or did today resonates with these children, it makes change possible for them. Even if it was just that you made them laugh."

Which, given the "umlungu"'s pigeon Xhosa, the clicks and squeaks that I add as a soundtrack to condom usage demos. And the incredible senses of humour of our Speakers - who find laughs in living with HIV: I believe we do.