Lessons Learned

By now my time here is past the winding-down phase and entering into the circling-the-drain phase. Today I finished my last writing assignment (of my junior year!) and tomorrow I will be presenting on this assignment for my academic director and classmates. As one final act of procrastination that would make the Honor's Program proud, I decided to jot down nearly everything I've learned over the past fifteen weeks.

o Watch out for jellyfish.
o When a minibus or truck bed looks full, it can always fit at least two more.
o When it comes to guava picking, where there’s a will, there’s a way.
o Cows belong on the beach. And on the road.
o Children are a cross-cultural, cross-lingual godsend.
o Anyone will be your friend when you come bearing bubbles.
o The rosetta stone to understanding Zulu-speaking two year olds: funa = want and buka = watch.
o Celine Dion’s heart is still going on in the southern hemisphere.
o Everyone wants a piece of Barack.
o When in doubt smile.
o The world needs some saving.
o I can’t save the world.
o They’re not joking when they say the milk is full cream.
o They are joking when they pretend that tomato sauce is catsup.
o When watching pap smears, if you feel like you are going to pass out, you should probably sit down.
o If someone says, “F*** you give me your phones,” you should probably give them your phone.
o When attending Zulu weddings, come approximately 3.5 hours after the advertised start time. Things might be underway by then.
o Zulus aren’t kidding when they say they will party all night.
o On a hot day, a homemade icy pop is the only thing (spare a Black Label) that will hit the spot.
o Cars can and will get stuck in the mud. Sometimes you just can’t push them out.
o Sometimes the trick isn’t knocking on a lot of doors but knowing someone who can get you in the window.
o On rainy days in rural areas, don’t drink the water no matter how clean they say it is.
o A basin and a few pitchers of water can get you crazy clean.
o South Africans don’t celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.
o You can prepare a feast with just a double burner and a lot of love.
o You can go anywhere in a minibus taxi.
o Doing what makes your heart sing is a luxury.
o 2-ply toilet paper is pure indulgence.
o Cheese sandwiches are best enjoyed after several hours of strenuous hiking while overlooking the edge of a continent.
o Joe Cool’s is not cool.
o Coffee Bay does not have coffee.
o Hole in the Wall is, in fact, a hole. In a rock wall.
o No one has heard of Ohio.
o Keep a tally of the number of cows you have been offered in labola. It’s good for your self esteem.

Back in the Dirty Durbs

After a beautiful, invigorating, and ridiculously educational stay at Isilimela I’m back in Durban to madly write the rest of my term paper before 9am on Friday. So far I’ve made it to internet and to coffee, so half of the battle should be over (so I tell myself).

Highlights since the last update include:

Becoming a guava addict and a professional guava picker.



Working with the Gateway Clinic to write up an evaluation report of the prevention of mother to child transmission (PMTCT) of HIV infant feeding counseling.



Experiencing another country’s elections. Everyone was quite confused by our desire to see the sleepy Isilima polling station, but I got a free Jacob Zuma (the new president) poster out of it! Yes, he’s corrupt, but it’s history.

Mastering the art of truck-bed transport. We took a trip to Coffee Bay that involved the 40 minute, 90 U.S. cent, fourteen passenger squeeze in the back of a pickup truck down the dirt road that was followed by the hour and a half, $2.90, fifteen passenger comfort/terror of a minibus taxi into town and was finished off with the two hour, $6, twelve passenger luxury of the backpacker’s shuttle into our accommodation. When there are very few roads and very few places to go, you can get pretty much anywhere in a taxi.



Seeing hole-in-the-wall. This was the most over-hyped hike of my life. Four hours, a bag of chips, a box of cookies, and a liter of water got us to our destination. It was a hole. In the wall. Luckily we not only got to see dolphins on our way there (!), but we also got a ride back, so it was more than worth it.

Becoming a master chef, despite the fact that the grocery store was closed and we had no refrigerator. (Think dehydrated soy mince curry with tomatoes, potatoes, onions, and canned peas.)

Overall, the experience was incredible. We were incredibly lucky to be at a hospital and clinic with staff that were so open to help, teach, and share with us, but for now it’s crunch time!

Molweni from Isilimela!

I really was intending this post to come earlier, but thanks to the beauty of South African time, I really didn’t know where in the world I would be going for my three week long independent study project until a few days before I left. If you have been keeping up on my Zulu lessons, you would observe quite astutely that the greeting above is indeed in a different language. Let me introduce Xhosa, a sister language of Zulu spoken here on the Eastern Cape that thankfully sounds quite familiar. Through trial and error during my first week of work at Isilimela Hospital, I have learned to say hello, how are you, I’m fine, where are you going, guava, lie down, running, goodnight, and a grab bag of other less-than-useless phrases.

But to explain why I am attempting to speak Xhosa at all, let’s start from the beginning. With every SIT study abroad program, the final month is allotted for independent study, culminating in a paper. For some people, this study is purely based on books and experts, while for others like myself, this study involves getting your hands dirty for a few weeks before returning to the Dirty Durbs (Durban if you’re not up on the slang) to write up a report on your experiences. I decided back in November with the help of a Miami professor that I would apply the principles of Empowerment Evaluation (one of those lefty, feel-good products of community psychology) to the infant feeding counseling arm of a prevention of mother to child transmission (PMTCT) of HIV program. And while prenatal care in this country is almost solely devoted to PMTCT, finding a site was easier said than done. I thought I was going to be everywhere from Durban to cozied up with the border of Lesotho.



Luckily the good people of Isilimela came to our rescue. (The plural possessive in that last sentence refers to my classmate, workmate, and bedmate Ranju.) The kind Dr. Ugwu not only welcomed us into the hospital, but also arranged a place for us to stay in the nurse’s quarters for several weeks (after which we will move to the Kraal backpacker’s hostel right up the road on the beach). The hospital is 17 kilometers from a paved road and a few kilometers from a stunning beach that (we have discovered) is very popular for the four day Easter holiday that we are currently enjoying.



While it is easy to focus on what the hospital does not have (an ambulance, enough doctors to perform surgery, accommodation for many more much-needed staff, all of the right sized syringes, the measles vaccine for 2 more weeks, the resources to keep charted records on patients, a lab, a clinic with proper doors for all its exam rooms etc.), the hospital is rich in its dedication to treat all patients coming through its doors with hospitality and the utmost care possible. One nurse that I shadowed in the Gateway Clinic (a primary care clinic behind the hospital) had been serving the hospital for nearly two decades and was a wealth of information, not only on how to address client complaints, but on how to pay attention to what they may not mention as a complaint.



Everyone seems to be like a family. The nurses share their tea, steamed bread, and chicken feet (I didn’t venture into that one yet) and we were invited to walk with one woman to her house, walk along the beach with her daughter, and then be walked back home with bellies full from yummy pap and curry. Ranju and I are continually amazed by how beautiful it is around here, a beauty that is certainly augmented by the number of guava trees that are just getting ripe! (Yesterday, after coming back from a walk I just had to scale a tree and hang on the branch to make two beautiful guavas pickable.)



I’m not sure how often I will be on the internet, as I am currently in Port St. John’s (an hour’s truck ride away), but I still have cell service and may be able to check my email every week or so. Also, next weekend, Ranju and I decided we will hop on over to Coffee Bay for some relaxation, hiking, and possible surfing lessons (or possibly not on the latter), so I will try to get on the internet some time then. That said, everything here is going great. This week, I was mainly focusing on networking and understanding PMTCT and infant feeding from different angles. Next week, I plan on having more focused discussions with the nurses and doctors that I have worked with so that we can do a group evaluation of the program, looking for ways to make the program more sustainable and effective.

South Africanism 101: How to speak like a local (almost)

An important element of any introductory course is starting from the beginning, so a few pointers to start out with:
*Enunciate. 'T's really should be pronounced as such and not as 'd's. I was once asked if I could speak in less of an accent by a first language Afrikaans speaker. I giggled inside.
*If at first you don't succeed, try try again. I overheard a conversation that went like this: "Hello may I speak with Dr. X?" "Dr. X is not in." "Do you know when Dr. X will be back?" "Do YOU know when Dr. X will be back?" "Do you have the number for Dr. X?" "Do YOU have the number for Dr. X?" "Can I leave Dr. X a message?" "Why don't I just give you his cell phone number."
*When reading the text of the average male, don't be too hasty in writing him off as gay. Texts contain an average of 2.5 :)'s and 1 muah. These will also be extremely long, as you have to get the best bang for your buck with pay-as-you-go phones.
*If all else fails, smile. No one can resist the charm of a happy foreigner.

And on to the all-important list of phrases, sayings, and isms.
*Howzit = What's up
*Just now = As close as South Africans can get to "in a second"...unfortunately they're perpetually slow so it's more like in a Texas minute.
*Tomato Sauce < Catsup (equal sign does NOT apply)
*All sorted = Good to go
*Umlungu = Zulu for white person. Very helpful for understanding what little kids pointing at you in Cato Manor are saying.
*Stylin' = Super sorted...people will be jealous
*Take Away = To-Go/Take-Out
*Packet = Plastic bag
*Robot = Traffic light
*Tuck shop = Snack shop...could be run out of anything from a house to a
*Air time = $$$ for your pay-as-you-go phone
*Hawu (shame) = Expression of empathy
*Haibo = Expression of surprise/other strong emotion
*Yeesh = Expression of badness that crosses all linguistic boundaries...especially helpful for haggling and for explaining to a homestay mama that you are sick

Now you're all sorted...Zulu lessons come next!

Disaster Week Check-In

So according to culture-shock experts (and yes, they exist) this is the week when everyone will forget I exist, my pet will die (and I will be mysteriously informed of it by those that have forgotten my existence), and I will find out that my favorite vegetarian hang out back home was secretly slipping bacon shavings into everything I ate. All of these lofty promises considered, I figured it was high time for a status update and inventory.

Idealism: relatively intact. Last week (contrary to the rules of culture-shock that say this should have happened this week) I was dispossessed of my cellular telephone. I was walking with a group of six girls who were kindly asked to give up our phones, which we obligingly did in exchange for our continued safety. I have since decided that I will carry a bigger, crappier phone and fork over the twenty rand for a taxi ride here and there. My academic idealism has yet to face any big challenges thanks to the lefty feminazis I surround myself with and the fabulous host mamas that make us feel as if the world has already been taught to sing in perfect harmony.

Suntan (read farmer’s tan): check. We have now gone on two fantastic hikes, the latter of which was to see some Khoi-Sans rock art. I also am now living in a furnished apartment on the Durban beach, so I was able to celebrate with a pre-class barefoot jog with my roommates. Beyond that, we’ve been able to shadow three different sets of community health workers (including our Amatikulu mamas) on their daily rounds.

(Self-appointed) craft demigod status: in progress. We actually got to learn how to do some beading from Zulu women on Thursday. I made a lopsided AIDS ribbon pin. Fingers crossed, I will be able to learn a craft for a part of my Independent Study Project (during the first three weeks in April). If not, I am at least living vicariously through my Cato mama’s survival crafting.

Love for tofu: ironically intact. All of our homestays are now over, but during these, I was happy to eat whatever food-love was put before me. This usually included half a plate of starch (either rice, pap, or jeqe steam bread), a piece of protein that was more than likely a chicken leg, and a tad of curried vegetables thrown on top. I learned how to clean a chicken bone like a pro, although the mamas who eat the cartilage and all still showed me up. All of that said, I crave vegetables, tofu, beans, lentils, and catsup. We all may or may not have fantasy foods lists started that we work on in lectures. All but one of my items are vegetarian. About a third are desserts.

All things considered, I think I’m going into disaster week strong. Touch wood.

"I Went in Through the Window"

One of the joys of living in a post-apartheid state is realizing that you are surrounded by silent activists. Sure, these people exist in every country and come from every walk of life, but we are more likely to hear about people that choose to make a cause their life than people that have been forced to take up a cause as a part of everyday life.

Cato Manor has a past of activists by necessity. During Cato Manor’s early days, women stumbled into activism when the state tried to ban shebeens (informal bars run by women) and replace them with state bars. The women responded by organizing on Sundays (Zulu men like to drink after church), storming in to the government bars, and driving the men out with force and more creative tactics like dunking their underwear in the beer vats.



Fast forward a few years and Cato Manor has been torn down. Its African and Indian residents have been moved to different townships. Fast forward a few more years (about fifteen years ago) and Cato Manor is being rebuilt as an Indian township. Families have already deposited money on all of the houses and some lucky ones were already moved in. That’s when legend has it that Nelson Mandela and the rest of the ANC told the Zulu mamas to move on in.

Mama Busi, one of the host mamas said, “There were lots of houses for the Indians and no houses for us. So we took them…My sister needed a house so I took two.” I asked my mama how she got her house and she said, “I went in through the window. Nelson Mandela told us to.” This happened around two in the afternoon, as mamas walked from Chesterville, a township on the other side of town. Mama Dudu said that they looked in the windows, “and walked away very slowly if there was a family inside” until they found an empty house. One mama couldn’t find a key so she used the window as a door for a year. Few had water or electricity hooked up so some went to neighbors’ houses and some went back and forth between old houses and new houses for a few years.

Today I met another accidental activist when we visited an AIDS and cancer day clinic. Zandile went through full-blown AIDS and is back on her feet, talking to people in clinics and even people on the radio about HIV/AIDS prevention and treatment. Unfortunately, she was pregnant with her last child before Nevirapine was readily available to prevent vertical transmission of HIV, so her daughter now has the virus. She said, “I had trouble telling my daughter she had to start ARV. But because I was talking about myself [and my HIV+ status] it was better.” Now Zandile is a community health worker that supports HIV+ children, encouraging them to take their medication.

Many more accidental activists to come, I am sure.

I Bless the Rains Down in Africa

This weekend was a crash-course in the South African Wild Coast. Some crashed harder than others.

Of course every pseudo-tragic story must begin with a sunlit walk in the park or stroll in the bush, as the case here may be. The original plan was to spend Friday and Saturday camping in Mboyje (spelling there is questionable) and to spend the next two days hanging out with host families in Gwexlintaba (spelling there is also questionable) attempting to merge our limited Zulu skills with their language that combines Zulu, Xhosa, and Afrikaans.



The first day and a half worked out swimmingly. Saint Valentine (or perhaps just Zed, our program director) blessed us with a lovely six hour hike. Although it wasn’t too taxing, it was still quite impressive that our guide was able to navigate the entire thing in a pair of Birkenstocks.



After about an hour and a half we made our way to this beautiful outcrop where we snacked on some cheese sandwiches before heading over to Waterfall Bluff. This was a beautiful sight to behold despite the slightly grey day. It is one of only 5 or 6 (depending on your source) waterfalls that feeds directly into the ocean and the only one (sources all agree here) of this kind in Africa.




We took our lunch (one of the best PB&J sandwiches I’ve had in recent memory) at a beautiful pool created as this waterfall wanders down to the ocean. We even took a dip while we were there that cooled us off for the rest of the hike.



We found out on our way back that most of the people passing us on the trail were going to look for a girl that had been collecting mussels and had been swept away by the strong tides in the cove.

That night and into the morning, our lovely hiking weather turned into not-possible-to-access-village-with-its-dirt-roads-and-bolders-on-said-dirt-roads weather. Needless to say, we checked into the nearest Backpackers and tucked in for a quiet night. We thought. (Can you hear the suspenseful music now?) Round about 11 at night when we were all tucked into bed (did I mention we’re used to going to bed at 9…this was a crazy night) the first man went down. From there, about every half an hour another person mad a mad dash to the bathroom to relieve themselves from one or both ends. (I'm in a health program so you get to read this stuff.) I got off with just one round of vomiting, but was still in our make-shift infirmary (aka the couches) all night.

The next day, we discovered that about half of us were sick, so we stayed behind for another night in the hostel while the others went to the village. While we were bummed to stay behind, we were at least glad that we weren't like the unlucky ones that got sick when they went to the village. The hostel nursed us back to health (although the bartender couldn't seem to get it through his head that we weren't hung over and that no hangover could possibly incapacitate us like that) and we were good to head back to home sweet Cato yesterday! I think Mama was so happy to see me she forgot to be disappointed that I could only eat 1/2 a spoon.

Lessons learned: don't drink the water when it's raining.

Meatloaf Hops the Pond

Usually, we chow down on some variation of African curry with chicken (think mixed veggies, gravy, and chicken living in happy stovetop harmony) with pap (imagine if grits could be prepared in dry mashed potato form but be derived from corn) in Cato, but last night I got to play chef! I decided on meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and broccoli: the epitome of Midwest American fine cuisine. Everything turned out fantastically although I kept on confusing my family by refusing to call catsup tomato sauce. I even got my twelve year old sister to say that she liked the broccoli. (Whether that was truthful or not is another matter!)

Food in Cato is not done “family style” where everyone makes their own plate, but one person dishes in the kitchen and brings the food out to the rest of the family. I can’t tell how much of this is due to the fact that tables are actually coffee tables in living rooms (due to lack of space for separate seating) and how much of this is due to tradition. Either way, the disher (usually a younger member of the family) asks everyone else “how many spoons” they want to find out how hungry they are. (This led to much confusion on my part the first time I was asked.) The number of spoons is the number of (huge!) spoons of rice/pap/other starch you want on your plate and everyone gets roughly the same amount of curry after that. At first I was amazed at how much my family members ate (mama regularly gets 4-6 spoons which makes for a 3-dimensionally heaping plate), but have since realized that they don’t usually eat much during the day, so huge amounts of starch are good, cheap energy.

That aside aside (bad puns like these are the reason why I should not be allowed a blog), mama had about 4 spoons last night (and two pieces of meatloaf) and happily declared afterward, “That was good. I want more!” I think it was a success!

P.S. It was hilarious a) to see super American food sitting on the coffee table last night while we watched the news in Zulu and b) to see my host sister look for forks for 5 minutes because she insisted that we had to eat my food with a fork.

A Day in the Life

A lot of my life right now is just settling into the same routine so, given a lack of new and exciting events to share, here’s my day to day life:

*Wake up at 6:10, dash to the kitchen so that if mama Lucy made porridge (cream of wheat or oatmeal) I can dish my own and put WAY less (full cream) milk and sugar on than she would.

*Grab the pot of hot water mama has so kindly heated on the stove for me, dump it in the bath tub, and add an appropriate amount of cold water for a refreshing (sponge-ish) bath.

*Grab my stuff and head across the street to walk with Katie P. (my house is the one on the left and this picture was taken while waiting for Katie)to the pickup point and eagerly await Thula’s arrival.



*At 8:30 classes start. Zulu language class and a lecture by the one and only Kathy alternate between filling the first two hour time slot. Chances are either way, we are ready for a break by the time lunch rolls around as Zulu leaves our tongues twisted and Kathy leaves our minds twisted. (She’s fond of speaking of the BARKING MADNESS of history.)

*Lunch time comes at 1 so the kitchen gets nice and crowded before people migrate to the pool or take a stroll around the neighborhood.



*Afternoon lecture starts at 2. Here is when we usually have guest lecturers or field trips. By the time lecture is over, we have a little down time, then it’s time to go back to Cato Manor!

*Walking back in the afternoon is an experience, as all of the kids are home from school and we are usually greeted with a chorus of “Hello!”. (For some reason they are so determined to speak English to us and we’re so determined to speak Zulu to them.) I’m always greeted by my little brother Simphiwe running out of the door to say hello while Londiwe waits inside.



*Dinner usually comes around 6:30 which is conveniently time for Rhythm City, a fantastic soapie (aka soap opera). The big drama now is that Stone left his girlfriend/fiancé/wife at the alter of the in church wedding after going through the Zulu wedding because he couldn’t deny any longer that he was in love with his best (man) friend. Every episode, a lot of snot runs down is face. Then comes the evening news, and GENERATIONS, the biggest soapie in South Africa. I can’t even start to explain how wonderfully bad it is. It will truly be missed back in the States.

*After that it’s just homework time and then I make my Zulu teachers proud by declaring, “Ngidinga ukulale!” (I need to sleep!) before heading to bed!

This may sound unglamorous at best and boring at worst, but Zed (our program director) would back me in saying that the true gems of experience are found in the everyday.

Umdeni wami wakwaZulu Natal (My kwaZulu Natal Family)

I’ve been living with my homestay family in Cato Manor (a township in KZN that was torn down during apartheid due to too much racial mixing but was rebuilt by Mandela et al.) for a week now. We originally just got a basic information sheet, so I knew that I was going to be staying with mama Lucy who had an 12-year old granddaughter Londiwe (pronounced LawnDEEway). Needless to say, we were all nervous, having so little information and isiZulu language comprehension skills. As Thula (our trusty program administrative assistant/language teacher/comic relief/driver) snaked through Cato Manor and dropped off girls, our butterflies calmed down when we saw girl after girl getting a warm reception from their mama. (They were told beforehand that us Americans like hugs!)

When my turn came I was surprised, excited, and (let’s be honest) a little scared to see an adorable two year old greeting me. (This was not on the information sheet!) It turns out that two year old Simphwe (pronounced SimPEEway) and his mom Nobuhle (NoBUHle…but the hl makes a spitty retainer sound) have been living with mama Lucy (who is actually Nobuhle’s aunt).

I have a hunch that Mama Lucy is actually one of the coolest people I will get to know on this trip, but it’s going to be hard work to prove it. She has basic English skills, but I struggle with talking just with her because Londiwe is fluent and much easier to converse with. (Obviously I haven’t gotten past “Hi. How are you?” in Zulu.)

Last week though I had two great break-throughs. The first was initiated by mama who brought out her old apartheid-era passbook, some glasses lens cleaner (thanks!), and a catalogue of items made by an artists’ collective she’s a part of. She is (Bridget, get ready to be way jealous) in charge of making crocheted items out of used plastic bags. I tried to make the point that I want to learn really, really, really bad. Hopefully we can work that out. On top of that inconsistent income, she receives a government stipend for caring for Londiwe (whose father passed away eight years ago), money from SIT for taking in students (I’m her fourth), and money from her informal business of icy-pop selling out of the freezer (milkshake mix + water + sugar put in a sandwich bag and frozen…yum!).

The second great break-through was going to church with mama Lucy. That woman knows how to do church! When we were walking to church, I saw mama more excited than I had yet. She practically ran to the man recording the announcements to tell him that I was a guest (everyone in the church said “Obama Obama” when they found out that I was from the States) before rushing me to a seat. She’s a part of the special church ladies that dance in and out a few times (Mama knows how to get down!) so she joined me after a few minutes. She was sure to point out where we were in the service order book so I could stumble along in bad Zulu and grabbed my hand to dance with her at the end of the service.

Hopefully I can hop over to an internet café sometime and upload some pictures, but suffice to say that my family is fantastic!

A Note on Security

When I told people that I was going to South Africa, the first reaction of most was, “Be careful. No seriously, be careful.” With some of the highest rape and homicide rates in the world, this advice is certainly warranted and I expected to see cities that were run-down and forgotten much like places in the States that have high crime rates. I was expecting to see signs of insecurity. What I wasn’t expecting was a totally different conception of security.

Immediately upon entering a South African city, you notice fences and walls that we only see to keep inmates in prisons. Each house, business, and office that has enough money has a 10 foot wall or gate topped off with barbed wire or jagged spikes in addition to bars on the ground floor windows. Most of these gates have a pass code and, if the owners are affluent enough, a security guard and/or security camera. A large parking lot without a security guard probably means that you don’t want to leave your car, let alone frequent the business.

What is striking (besides the amazing ability of South Africans to make barbed wire and barred windows aesthetically appealing) is the simple fact that security here means keeping others out while in the States, security is intended to keep your assets in. We build fences to make sure our dogs don’t run away and occasionally to tell a neighbor what land is ours. So as you picture me frolicking in Durban, feel comforted (?) by the knowledge that security here is not a passive statement of ‘this is mine’ but the aggressive stance that ‘this isn’t yours’.

Greetings from Africa!

Well at long last I am settled down in Johannesburg and just enough of an insomniac (I've been awake since a phone went off at 4:30) to be able to monopolize the hostel computer for long enough to blog. The plane trip went off without a hitch and I managed to make friends with my Senegalese seat mate Gaba who showed me the joys of the little TV screens before MaryBeth hooked me up with some Dramamine for the second leg of the journey. All in all, my day of travel was 29 hours long (9 of these were spent waiting at JFK and one waiting on the runway in Dakar) and needless to say we all were excited for bed that night.

This week is orientation/tourist fun so yesterday we went to Soweto, the Joburg township whose claim to fame is the early homes of Mandela, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, and a host of other apartheid resisters. We are in Johannesburg today as well and then will move to Durban, meeting our Cato Manor host families on Tuesday night (?). I'm excited to meet Mz. Lucy whose last name is escaping me and whose 11 year old grandaughter is also in the house.

So far, I have been bouncing between amazement at the beautiful scenery and weather and sadness at the degredation done to the land by apartheid. All 21 other girls and our program staff are fantastic so far. I give the drama another 3 weeks.