October 13-31: Abantwana Bam (Google it)

So my time in Cape Town and South Africa is quickly drawing to a close. I finished classes a couple of weeks ago and already have one final under my belt. Classes obviously have not been the only learning experience I’ve had here; rather, they’ve been only a small component of a larger, ongoing, and frankly exhausting mental challenge. Going back over my blogs, it then seems strange, perhaps even negligent, that I never really mentioned the work at the children’s home that I did throughout the semester. In Philly, working with kids is a huge part of my life, and anyone who has any sort of conversation with me is bound to hear me speak of it. So it is weird that I never took time to talk about my South African kids here, virtually, with all y’all, wherever in the world you may be. Perhaps this is because whereas at home working with kids in West Philadelphia is often a very emotional and volatile experience, however wonderful and rewarding and fun, here in Cape Town, going to the children’s home twice a week was a completely different and surprisingly easier endeavor, communicating subtle truths that, unlike everything else I’ve encountered in Southern Africa, didn’t leave me feeling like I’d been involved in an intellectual hit-and-run. It’s funny; one would think that children who are nearly orphaned, if not completely orphaned, living in a hub in the center of a sprawling expanse of tin shacks, an area riddled with unimaginable poverty, crime, and disease, would have a lot more issues than kids living in the US, even in the roughest of neighborhoods. The opposite holds: I’ve rarely seen happier, more loving children.



Baphumelele Children’s Home is located in Khayelitsha (meaning “new home” in Xhosa), a black township on the fringes of Cape Town proper. A township is basically a slum, an informal settlement demarcated by clustered shack upon clustered shack, usually lining the highways and main passages to the city. (Cape Town is desperately trying to get rid of them before the 2010 FIFA World Cup, seeing as they’re so close to the airport. It’s not working.) Townships date back to the 1940s, when black men started to migrate towards cities looking for work and set up homes along the way. Khayelitsha started forming in the 1980s, and today it’s home to over 1 million people. Coming into it by car, you can see the shacks stretching for miles beyond the highway, blanketing the land, their roofs almost inseparable, so close together are the houses. A network of roads criss-crosses the terrain, adding legitimacy to the vast settlement. Khayelitsha’s no temporary camp, however; shops, also in tin or wood shacks, line the roads, and people bustle about. Women balance packages on their heads while children jump rope or play in puddles. There are stray dogs everywhere, garbage everywhere. A glimpse inside the houses closest to the street shows that despite the haphazard outward appearance of the shack, the inside shows permanence and pride, often impeccably kept.

Baphumelele is situated in the middle of Khayelitsha and is home to about 100 children at any given point. It’s not quite an orphanage; rather, parents or families will send children there when they can no longer take care of them themselves. Many of the children have some sort of family, but have been placed there because their parents are sick, in many cases with HIV/AIDS, or they’re too poor to care for the children properly, or because they’re addicted to substances. In some cases, the children have been abused; in others, they really do have no living family. Sometimes it’s a combination of all of those reasons. At any rate, Baph provides shelter and care for kids who need it the most, giving food, clothing, a comfortable home, and even ARV drugs to kids with HIV. Most of all, they get lots of attention and lots of love. Amongst the squalor and drama of the township, it’s a bright spot of joy.





Anyone who knows me knows how much I love kids, so of course I jumped at the opportunity to volunteer there twice a week. (It was also a chance to practice my fledgling Xhosa… and it taught me just how bad I actually am at it.) My job: Run after-school tutoring and enrichment for kids ages 10 to 13. (Sound familiar?) The kids were immediately friendly and outrageously hilarious. Going in the first day, I had a whole lesson planned out, and although the kids were really attentive, I found that something about giving directions just doesn’t translate well from English to Xhosa. Although the kids speak English, they don’t completely understand the mechanics of it; consequently, my attempts to start up a game of Red Rover failed. My head reeled as the kids instead began to body-slam each other and yell in rapid Xhosa “HAYI! HAYI!” (“NO! NO!”) Luckily, one of the kids, Sipho, was willing to translate everything I said into Xhosa, and the game finally got off the ground. It was Sipho who tried desperately to teach me how to do the Xhosa “q” click really, really loudly, like the real Xhosa speakers do. Unfortunately, I never got the hang of it. (Although in Xhosa, it doesn’t really matter how loud your clicks are, just that you’re doing them.) I found Sipho fascinating. He was a little Coloured boy who spoke both Afrikaans and Xhosa, as well as English, with blue tinted glasses and yellowish corkscrew curls. He’d also been a member of… the Cape Town Circus. Yes. He’s loud and outgoing and wildly theatrical, confident, a born performer. Somehow Baph got him an audition for the circus, and he’d done it for a while. Go figure! Sipho left halfway through the semester to go to boarding school, and while we were all happy he was going to a private institution where he’d get a good education, I was very sad to see him go.

Lessons at Baph I anticipated to be a real challenge, seeing as at the after-school programs in Philly it’s always a struggle to get the kids to sit through and complete something wholly academic. I decided to start off each day with something fun, namely, the Power Circle. (Holla to my CSSP folks! When I tell you we got all of Baphumelele hooked on that song and shouting about how they “got their reputation,” I’m not kidding. Although I’m not quite sure they understand what a “reputation” is, nor how to say the word properly.) Lessons were sometimes difficult to do, not because the kids wouldn’t have the patience for it, but because of the language barrier. The kids would laugh at me when I’d try to speak Xhosa to them, automatically switching to English for my own comfort, but it sure came in handy when I would try to teach them how to spell simple English words. When I discovered that everyone was messing up how to spell “strawberry,” writing “strawbirry” instead, I noted that, in Xhosa, the letter “i” makes an “ee” sound, which is why they wrote “i” when I said “e.” When I clarified, saying “i” as in “inkomo” (“cow” in Xhosa), they all burst into fits of laughter over the silly American lady speaking Xhosa. But on the test, they all spelled the word “strawberry” perfectly.



Even though the kids sometimes got a little frustrated with the work, they were always willing to do it. On a particularly nice day, I decided to let the kids have a day off, so we could all run around outside. Instead of wanting to play games in the perfect weather, however, they all whined and said they wanted to do math worksheets instead! !!!!! What??? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. So I pulled out some subtraction sheets and led the kids inside, where they buckled down for the hour.

As someone thoroughly involved in urban issues and a lover of children wholly interested in their development, I find the Baph children to be a really interesting case study, especially in comparison with the kids I’ve worked with in Philadelphia and Bergen County, New Jersey. Before coming to Cape Town, I thought the results of living in impoverished areas and unstable family situations were pretty much immutable on a child’s psyche and emotional condition. I’ve had children call me “Mommy” before, signaling that I was giving them some sort of love that they weren’t getting at home. I’ve seen children as young as five going absolutely berserk, simulating nervous breakdown. I’ve seen fourth graders crying because they think they’ll never, ever succeed in school or in life. I’ve seen kids held back from succeeding in school by their own parents, simply because that parent is too ashamed that she can’t help her daughter with her homework. I’ve seen kids suffering from malnutrition. I’ve seen kids slide from happy-go-lucky and adoring to threatening and dangerous within a span of two weeks due to problems at home. And this is all in the United States, the wealthiest nation in the world. We do have poverty in our country, and all of the children in these scenarios have been living as a part of that reality. Coming to South Africa, however, has shown me just how relative poverty is. In the United States, the bottom 20 percent of the population, almost 60 million people, still live in luxury as compared to those in South Africa. In the US, even those living in poverty are likely to live in a permanent dwelling with electricity, a stove, clean water, and indoor plumbing. They are likely to have some sort of access to medical care in the event of an emergency, and during childhood, they are likely to receive a full regimen of vaccinations against infectious diseases. They are likely to live past the age of five, and likely to receive some sort of education, approximately 12 years if they stay in public school. Those in poverty are still likely to own a television and a telephone or cell phone, and they are likely to have access to a computer at a public library, if not in their own homes. In South Africa, in Africa in general, none of that holds, especially in Khayelitsha. In comparison to those living in black townships, impoverished Americans live like kings and queens. (This I say not at all to belittle the struggle of people living in poverty in the US, but simply to give some perspective.) So why are these South African kids, who have almost nothing, whose problems seem to greatly surpass those of children living in West Philadelphia or in cars in Bergen County, why are they so happy? Working with the kids over the course of the semester hasn’t given me the whole answer. Perhaps it’s that they don’t watch too much TV, so their attention spans are much greater than those who do. Maybe it’s because they have so little and are not aware of how much they do not have. Or is it something intrinsic to their culture? Children are content to play with empty laundry detergent bottles and take care of each other when one scrapes his knee. They share everything they have, from food and toys to germs and boogers. The teenagers don’t separate themselves from the younger children; rather, they play with them and carry them around on their backs. Against the tragic sight of apartheid’s continued marginalization, the kids are a beautiful sight.


Many of the kids have never left Khayelitsha before; they all describe it as being “huge,” and they can’t fathom anything greater than it. To end the semester, my group partner and I decided to take the kids on a field trip. The morning of the trip, I got a couple of phone calls from a number I didn’t recognize, during which the caller would hang up as soon as I picked up the phone. Frustrated, I decided to call back. It was Andiswa, one of the 13-year-olds, whom I had given my phone number to a while ago. She tearfully accused me of lying to her, insisting that I was not really coming, that I’d made the whole field trip up. When she put one of the sisis (“sisters” in Xhosa, caretakers at Baph) on the phone, I discovered that most of the children were crying, afraid that the van wasn’t coming to pick them up for the trip. I tried not to laugh as I reassured them that the van was on its way. The game plan was to take the kids to see “High School Musical 3” at the local mall, before having a picnic lunch at the beach. A day of hilarity ensued: Like I said, a lot of the kids had never left Khayelitsha. Andiswa freaked out and clung to me for dear life as we rode the escalator, letting out low groans of fascination and fear the entire time. A bunch of the kids insisted that the movie screen was a wall, then gasped with wonder when the show began. All of them sang along to Troy and Gabriella’s crooning; they knew every last word, even though the movie had just come out. (I, on the other hand, suffered through my despise of Disney’s mutilation of musical theatre… I lost count of how many times my eyes rolled into the back of my head. I’m still peeved about how the media let Vanessa Hudgens get away with those nude-y internet pics, just because she’s part of the money-making machine. Ugh. The kids were a great distraction from the movie, though.) When I took some of the girls to the bathroom, I had to show them how to wait in line for the sink. (Since they don’t get out much, they don’t exactly know manners. They did a really good job, though, and later on showed their friends what do to in the same situation.) The excitement continued once we got to the beach, where they kids cheered for the KFC fried chicken we’d brought them. (Tell me why the first American fast food in Africa had to be KFC chicken??? Hmmm...) Seeing them run around and enjoy the water, then fall asleep in the sun on their blankets was the sweetest thing. And of course, I shed a few tears as we loaded them back onto the van, saying goodbye for the last time. I’m a little tired of saying farewell to kids I come to love, even in such a short time. But I refuse to stop allowing myself to love them. They’re just too cute, and they give too much love in return.

It seems like everything that has composed my life in Cape Town—school, dance class, Baphumelele—is drawing to an end. In fact, it is. But I still feel like I have a lot more ahead of me before I go home, like I’m just getting started. Next on the agenda: East Africa! I’m going to Kenya for about three weeks with a friend here who’s from Nairobi, and we’ll be traveling the country together. I’m super, super excited about this, since Kenya is a completely different story and has a different feel than South Africa, which is incredibly Westernized. I’m also really looking forward to striking out on my own for the first time, without a lot of Americans around to fall back on. The only thing I’m disappointed about is that I’ll be missing the event of the season by about a week and a half: “Obama the Musical” at the Kenya National Theatre in Nairobi. How my heart leapt when I thought I’d actually be there for it! However ridiculous the display, and I have no doubt that it would be positively preposterous, I would have died perfectly contented to see two of my favorite things, Barack and musical theatre, joined as one. Strangely enough, things at the Kenya National Theatre only run for three days at a time, dashing my hopes. But I feel that I’ve already done my duty to my country by completing and sending in the absentee ballot, which was quite a process and not nearly as satisfying as voting in a booth, especially for a first-time voter in a presidential election, and especially especially in the most contentious and important election of our generation. But a took a picture to commemorate the occasion.

Such love to all of you! I’ll be home in a little over a month (yeesh! Where did the time go?), so make sure to keep your schedules clear! And in the meantime, write to me, email me, comment me, Skype me while you can! Or else I won’t bring you a souvenir. ☺

Hleka,
Christina

September 29-October 12: Legacy

The weather has finally changed. Knock on wood, but it didn’t rain once all week. Instead, last Saturday brought the first warm weather of the changing season, hailing spring and the sunshine I’ve been longing for. It doesn’t help that next week is the last week of classes (wait. Whaaaat???)—the incredible sunshine, in conjunction with my increasing awareness that my time in Cape Town is quickly waning has amplified my desire to get out and see and do and feel as much of this city as I can. Sometimes I get really frustrated with myself for forgetting where I am. I sometimes regret that I chose to come to Cape Town, which is so westernized and hybridized that at times I almost feel like I’m back in Philadelphia. Sometimes I really wish I had chosen to go to Ghana or someplace like that. But then there are those moments that grab and shake me and open my eyes to the gripping realities of this world in black and white and coloured tones. These moments range from fleeting sparks of cognizance that slip away as easily as they came, if I’m not on my toes, to long stretches that ebb and flow throughout the week. The sunshine seems to have ushered one of those in. God love this incredible weather!

Last weekend I did what I said I wouldn’t and rented a car. Now, we all know that I’m a little cross-brained, and that terror that strikes my heart at the thought of driving on the left-hand side of the road has not subsided. (Although I have gotten very accustomed to veering left when climbing the stairs. I even find myself unnecessarily giving people the stink-eye when they go to their right. Come on, people, where are we?) Renting a car, however, is the easiest and cheapest way to get around outside of Cape Town, so when my friend Joy, who knows how to drive South Africa-style, offered to take the wheel to head out to a music festival last weekend, I gladly hopped on board. The hour’s drive to Darling, South Africa, was lovely and tense simultaneously. I swear, I really don’t think that South Africans realize that cars are 2,000-pound weapons of glass and steel. Not only are they maniacs behind the wheel; they’re maniacs as pedestrians. We were cheerfully driving along the highway when a group of teenagers appeared on the side of road and started darting into traffic. All I could do was let my jaw hang open as our car careened towards them, wondering whether they were trying to cross the road or not. We quickly realized that it was some sort of game, Russian Roulette on the N2. Joy’s a pro, though, and kept her cool. The guys were also pros, managing to avoid the speeding cars, running barefoot with gigantic smiles across their faces.

When I’d managed to wipe the sweat from my eyes and slow my heartbeat, we’d turned onto the dirt road leading to the wine estate where the music festival was being held. The view was breathtaking, incredibly bucolic. Bob Ross would have had a field day with all the “pretty little mountains” and the “happy little trees,” not to mention the rolling hills of purple and pink and yellow daisies. With the windows down and the breeze circulating through the car, we were the picture of typical happy hippie college students, ready for a weekend of camping and head-banging. The sight, however beautiful, was also distinctively South African. Not African—little discourse allows us the idea of rolling greenery as opposed to dryness and elephants, if not famine and disease. This site was South African. Looking upon it, I could not help but acknowledge its beauty and fertility, its ideal location. Any dummy can see just why taking the land out of black hands was a no-brainer to the apartheid government. The coloured township next to the estate, identifiable by its smallish but decent houses, appropriately painted in bright “colours,” emphasized the division, as did the absolute absence of black people from the entire area. I winced as I realized that the daredevils playing Most Extreme Elimination on the highway were probably from a nearby township, most likely one created in the removal of their families generations ago from the very land across which we were driving.




After setting up out tent (yes! I camp now!), we trekked across mud and hay to settle in for a night of live music. Incredible. SO much fun. Anybody remember that song “Save Tonight” by Eagle Eye Cherry? It was one of those grade school anthems. I used to get really excited when they would play it on Z-100… anyway, Eagle Eye Cherry was there, for whatever reason. The lead singer is Swiss, but I think the band is South African, and it was incredible to see them live. What was even better was to hear them play a reggae version of “Save Tonight.” Just when you thought the song couldn’t get any better! As the night wore on, the music got better and better. It was so refreshing to hear actual South African bands, since clubs and people in general listen to American music so much. (My roommates have yet to tire of the country, although Bokang did pull out some Marvin Gaye the other night.) After managing to move away from the mosh pit (and let me tell you, these South Africans can mosh with the best of them), we ended up getting a great spot to listen to two incredible bands whose style I can only describe as “fusion.” There was a Brazilian-Mozambiquan duo that drummed and rapped and swung their dreadlocks around, one of my personal favorites. There was a group that sang in Xhosa, and although I couldn’t understand most of it, I got super-pumped when the lead singer started clicking. And then there was Goldfish, the crème-de-la-crème of South African pop these days. Waiting until 1 am to see them was worth it. Think thumping techno and disco and Moby and Stevie Wonder and Grover Washington Jr. and those one-hit-wonder chicks you hear on the Top 40 stations whose songs immediately make you think of glitter and strobe lights. Watching the musicians switch from playing saxophone to mixing to singing was mind-blowing. You couldn’t help but jump and throw your hands in the air. The entire crowd rode of a wave of euphoria, moving and jumping and swaying as one, until the set ended and we all realized how exhausted we were. Joy, Tobie, Monica, and I wandered around in the dark trying to find our tent, obviously not smart enough to grab our flashlights before we headed out.

Heading back to the stage in the morning for some breakfast and more music before the drive back to Cape Town, I realized that almost all of the festival-goers were UCT students. It was great to see that weird, quiet kid who never says anything in class out having a good time, as well as that stuck-up chick who can’t seem to just shut up her senseless opinions and keep her hand down. UCT for a lot of people is all business, no play, and you could see how people really just need to let loose on the weekend. That’s universal. What I also saw, however, was that almost every last person at the festival was white. There were a bunch of older people sprinkled in here and there, the young-at-heart who were rocking the Birkenstocks and flowing shirts with the rest of us, but I saw maybe two black students in a group of perhaps 2,000. Again, I thought of where I was, Darling, South Africa, a place that even beyond 1994 and black government, is still strictly white. I suddenly noticed Afrikaans floating in and out of my range of hearing at a constant rate, heard some guys making a weird joke, calling one in their group “Siphosintle,” almost derogatively. Normally I wouldn’t think anything of it, but I know Sipho is a Xhosa name. UCT appears to be this perfect composition of the “new South Africa,” white and black learning side by side, educating themselves to both be the future of their country, working together in class, sitting on the Jammie steps in equal measure. A one-to-one ratio assures their equality and their unity. But what happens outside of class? “All of UCT is here,” my friend remarked. Correction: all of white UCT is here. Where are the black people? It wasn’t that they don’t listen to the music that was being presented; in fact, it was my black friends who’d introduced me to Goldfish. Was it that the ticket was too expensive? Too difficult to get there? Or was it that they just weren’t expected to go, it wasn’t for them, didn’t want to go? Then again, how is that any different from home, where you’d expect to find one audience at a Ben Folds concert and perhaps another at a 50 Cent concert? The beauty of the land and its history, a history I know to be true without having to read it in a book or see it in legislative signs, a history that the place itself, with its sunshine and daisies confirms, speaks volumes about a legacy intact. Nature’s wonder never tasted so bittersweet. Double back, again: I’m an American study abroad student in South Africa—could it be that I’m just seeing what I want to see? One African guy I know here said that he thought Americans were really racist; at least, all the Americans he’d met were. When I pressed him on that, I realized that he meant he believed us to be more race-conscious than South Africans. Big talk, in my opinion, since everyone I’ve met here has immediately tried to put me in a box according to what I look like, and has had a helluva time doing it. The statement was odd to me, since I can definitely say that race is much more of a sordid, steady issue here than it is at home. After thinking about my friend’s role as a guide for American students, however, I suppose that was a cogent conclusion. We come to South Africa knowing its history. We all want to see it in the flesh, and in attuning our minds to this goal, we might just think about it more often and impulsively than actual South Africans. Not a bad thing, in my book, since in most people’s cases, the analysis is critical engagement, part of the deal of our being here.

Last night I met a guy at a local café who had come into Cape Town to visit his cousin. His name was Masixolwe (click the “x”), and he was pretty impressed that I not only knew it was a Xhosa name, but that I could say it with little difficulty. (Score!) We ended having a really great conversation, something I find to be rare here. Half of the South Africans you meet here find out you’re American and shut down or dismiss you, and while it’s really disheartening, it’s also really informative. In speaking about American and South African politics and domestic issues and cities and school, I discovered that he’s a third-year student at Stellenbosch University. I felt skepticism flash across my face, and I immediately regretted it. It was impulsive, but Masixolwe didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he read my eyes and nodded his head. Stellenbosch is the heart of apartheid South Africa, and blacks suffer active discrimination to this day. Some classes are still taught in Afrikaans, even if students don’t know the language. Masixolwe, who’s studying engineering, told me how he’s forced to show his ID card by professors who don’t trust that he’s a student, how he’s continuously passed over in favor of white customers as he tries to buy his morning muffin. The worst thing is that there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it, no one he can turn to. The whole of Stellenbosch is against him. He has a right to be there, but he apparently doesn’t have the right to be taken seriously. It hurt so much to hear his story, because as much as the United States has alienated itself in some ways in its “freedom” rhetoric, that would never, ever be acceptable at home. Masixolwe was surprised when I told him that while that may happen, he’d have a lot more agency to do something about it. He just shrugged his shoulders and said that things would never change, but at least he has the opportunity to work hard and make something of himself for himself, not for his country. I wished that I had more wise words or something to offer him, and I almost felt embarrassed for having the privileges and opportunities and real liberties that I do. Masixolwe smiled, however, and told me that I was the first American he’d talked to who he’d actually felt comfortable talking to, that he normally feels alienated. The conversation, he said, had made his week. And in all truth, it made mine, too. Despite the horror of social realities here, despite the constant heartbreak I feel and the intellectual, psychological struggle of being here, the potential to be open and engage in a dialogue is the first step, a beautiful, if occasional, opportunity that makes it all worthwhile.

Hleka,
Christina

August 26-September 28: The Politics of Travel

It’s almost incomprehensible that I’ve been in Africa for more than two months, partly because the time has flown by, partly because of the dismal, rainy Cape Town weather that mocks the stereotype of hot, dry, and sun-baked Africa, partly because the deluge of schoolwork and the wonderful premise of direct grade transfer oft keeps me in the UCT library defending my GPA instead of tooling around the country. (A toast to dear ol’ Penn.) Therefore, it is also unfortunate that I’ve past the semester halfway mark. While my friends at home have been deciding whether or not to drop classes, settling back into school, I’m in the final stretch of my semester, with my break behind me and only a month more of classes to go. The regularity of my schedule more times than not makes this study abroad experience more about the formal study than about the abroad bit. Although I do enjoy my classes for the most part (geek! I know, stop teasing me), the best study I get is when I can get off UCT’s falsely and deceptively hybridized campus and see and feel and weigh Africa, real Africa. It’s then that the study abroad becomes alive for me. Only away from the classroom does the challenge of development economics and the words of Fanon and Ngugi and the multiplicity of culture actually mean something. Oh, hell. I’d be cool to just do the readings for class and earn my A by playing “I Spy (a Real-Life Example)” all around the continent.

Consequently, I felt that my spring break tour of southern Africa was far more enlightening than the mountains of work under which I’ve toiled since my return. (Which wholly accounts for my derelict blogging. Sorry to those of you who checked in.) As I woke up this morning to more abysmal weather (who knew Cape Town was so freaking rainy? The locals’ excuse is that we’re so close to Antarctica. Well, I don’t know if anyone told them or not, but Cape Town is also really close… to AFRICA), I found myself yearning to be out in the bush again, completely removed from everything except the locals, the heat, the zebras and ugly, scary hippos, not completely in vacation mode, simultaneously immersed in Africa’s characteristic duality of history’s wretchedness and nature’s splendor. Being here or out there, however, has not made me forget my status as a study abroad student in the Cradle of Humanity, or in the trip’s case, a tourist. Like I’ve said before, despite being black, I feel no visceral connection to Africa. There’s too much, too many social constructs that keep me apart. I have the debatable luxury of being able to observe without directly participating. Despite however this experience my change me or shape me, despite the fact that I may never be the same again, at the end of the day, I get back on the plane and go back home.

The plan was pretty simple—ten days spent roving through four countries in a huge green overlander truck, stopping along the way to camp out in tents or sleep under the stars, depending on weather and preference. As it might be, my fellow journeymen were mostly American, with a few Europeans sprinkled in for good measure and even more good fun. We were fortunate enough to be accompanied by some native South Africans who knew the places we were visiting, as well as a group of incredibly talented cooks who whipped up the best camping food I’ll ever have, as well as some invaluable insight on the realities of real Africa. I felt like it was the best possible way to dive into my first true African experience, to get it as raw as I possibly could without sacrificing safety and security. (Goodness knows that any solo venture I might embark on in my traveling novice might have landed me up the Nile without a paddle.)

The overlander truck was huge and built for action, seating 21 while carrying everything we could possibly need to make our trip run smoothly. Tents, mattresses, all our stuff (which wasn’t too much, we were roughing it), plus a built-in kitchen-type thing in the back. Forget Hummers; it was more Batmobile/Captain-Planet-mobile than anything else. I felt like it could spout wings if it wanted to, or turn into a boat… which it practically did as we forded a creek on our way to the delta in Botswana. In short, we all loved the big green truck, our home, strange but reliable comfort in our ten days of travel. Staring out the window as we rolled through countless small towns and collections of huts in Botswana, however, simply reminded me and reinforced my understanding of my position as a tourist. The truck wasn’t a Hummer, you understand; it was built for travel, for tourism, and everyone who saw us knew it and knew that we weren’t among them. Children would spot us and shout to their friends, and all would chase us joyfully and when their little legs gave out would stop and just wave until we were specks in the distance. Would they ever get a chance to hop on a big green truck and tour the wondrous continent of which they are a natural part? To them, we were probably the most exciting thing that happened in their parts for a while. All we did was pass through. Conversely, on the occasion that we did stop for food or to pick up supplies, the big green truck immediately marked us as targets, gave us away. Adults lacked the starry-eyedness of their children, instead looking upon us as interlopers, or with indifference. One man was so kind as to give us the heads-up that by parking in a certain stop, we were positioning ourselves as prey for the town’s professional thieves. We promptly parked elsewhere. I thought to myself how I’d feel if a group of foreigners rolled through my little town in a humongous truck, like conquerors in tanks, with the intent of “observing real Africa.” It’s a little demeaning. We didn’t know much about the towns in which we stopped, even in South Africa. I was a little disappointed to find that Xhosa is not at all useful out of the Cape Town area; closer to Johannesburg, Zulu is more prevalent. I tried to be as polite and friendly as possible, to what effect, I don’t quite know. Our vehicle did a lot of the talking for us, speaking inaudible volumes as we rolled into town and rolled out within the hour.



Our first real destination was Botswana’s Okovango Delta, which is by far the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. The delta is in the northern corner of Botswana and surrounds an island, where we camped for three days. The only way to get to the island is by makuro, which is kind of like a gondola. The makuro is made from a tree that takes 90 years to mature, at which point they cut it down and hollow it out into this little boat that’s good for about five years. Not quite the best of returns, but the sensation of gliding across marshy water dotted with flowers and populated by hippos was unforgettable, and perhaps worth the investment in its yields of pleasure. The makuros were paddled by local people from the nearby town, who also joined us in camping for the duration of our stay.

Camping on the island was the most authentic African adventure I’ve had, in two respects. On the one hand, I reveled fully in the wonder of pristine, untouched, un-fabricated natural beauty. Each morning we rose to the incredible sight of the sun creeping into the sky, flaming orange against lavender clouds as we ventured out into the bush to try to glimpse elephants and zebra and wildebeest. Think Timon and Pumba in all their glory. Afternoons were spent swimming in the water hole and sunning ourselves; dusk might allow for hippo-watching before gathering around the campfire for dinner. On the last night, our local guides sang these amazing songs in Setswana, the language of Botswana, that just knocked us off our feet. Men and women would break into four-part harmony and call and respond to each other. The sight of them, dancing and raising their voices, illuminated by the light of the fire under a million bright stars, was truly remarkable, and made me feel like I was truly in Africa. The scene darkened, however, when it was our turn to reciprocate. The point of the little talent show was cultural exchange, but as a whole, we Americans didn’t feel like we had much to offer in comparison. We ended up doing horribly pitchy renditions of “Build Me Up, Buttercup,” “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” (Tammi and Marvin-style), “Like A Prayer” (can’t get more American than early Madonna), and a blasphemous version of the national anthem. (In our defense, it’s a really difficult song.) The locals absolutely loved it, though. They were really impressed and thoroughly entertained. That’s all that matters.




The most interesting part of the delta, however, was the time I spent talking to the local people we were with. After teaching this guy Joseph how to make a s’more, I got him talking about his job as a makuro-puller for tourists. I was surprised to find that he really was not happy with it. I’d think that any job that allows you to spend copious amounts of time in a gorgeous natural setting with lots of down time would be ideal. He quickly emphasized that he found makuro-pulling tiresome, but said he stuck with it because it exposed him to English and American and European tourists. Learning English was his priority. I played along, sadly familiar with the truth that English opens doors. Joseph despised his native tongue, so frustrated by it that he couldn’t even find words to tell me why he so desperately wanted to escape it. English, he emphasized, would give him a better life. It meant higher paying jobs, better living conditions, better opportunities. He hoped to marry an American woman who would help him in this journey. (I quickly stomped out any ideas he had, also familiar with the “get me a Green card” game.) Joseph’s brow, furrowed in frustration, imparted upon me a new understanding of the politics of language, something I’ve been studying in my African lit class, and also hit me over the head with my twisted but true fortune of being born speaking the most important language in the world. What a gigantic advantage we’ve been given to be native English speakers, immediately socialized into the world that sadly revolves around mastery of a tongue that is incredibly hard to learn but ultimately crucial for entry into the upper echelons of world civilization. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to hate your mother’s language for excluding you from where you want to be, and I hate how for Joseph, learning English means graciously abandoning everything else that makes him him. The truth in this was discomforting. I felt ashamed. I regretted that all I could do for him was honor his request that I teach him some phrases with which he could “court English-speaking ladies.” I opted for “You have beautiful eyes” over “Baby, you must be tired, ‘cuz you been running through my mind all day.” If he’s going to do it, I figured he should be classy about it.




The next stop was Chobe National Park, where we saw about 13 different species just hanging out alongside the Chobe River. It was breathtaking to watch the animals interact with each other at sunset as we drifted down the river, kind of part of the scene yet so apart from their world. We saw springbok, impala, monkeys, baboons, hippos, the little white birds that follow hippos around, elephant, and buffalo. The next morning we rose early to catch the sunrise and celebrate the birth of a baby hippo, who, according to our guide, had only been born three hours before, and to send our love to Mufasa, a real lion in the flesh. It was insanely cool. What I found best about the whole scene was how many different kinds of animals there were, and how they all managed to live in harmony. It’s not as if they had human-like hostilities about who got the best land or the most food. There was no hatred. If they happened to kill each other, it wasn’t in revenge or war; it was because they were hungry and it’s simply the natural order of things. I was still thinking of that when that night, back at the campsite, we met a couple of white South Africans, Afrikaaners, who weren’t so keen on our big green truck (it is a little inflammatory) or the fact that there were a bunch of Americans touring around. Their extreme belligerence and hatred towards our entire group, which culminated in a near-fist fight, really terrified me. It should be noted that their ire was alcohol-inspired, but the vehemence of their words, with which they told us to get off of their land and out of their continent, was deeply-felt and not a transitory sentiment. Immediately, I responded (in my head, I wasn’t going anywhere near the fools) like a good African Studies student, turning their train of thought around as an argument for them to get off of this land, which truly belongs to the native African people. How irritating, how infuriating that they could even maintain such a sense of entitlement. But then I thought of my friend Jess, a white South African who was on the trip with us whose family had been living in southern Africa for centuries. This is the only home she’s ever known. At what point, then, does a settler become a native? The question of the day, in my opinion, although I didn’t stick around those chumps to find out the answer. Instead, I took to my tent for the night.

We finished up our tour of southern Africa in Zambia, where we went to Victoria Falls and had a chance to do some activities along the Zambezi River! Aside from the delta, this was my absolute favorite part. My activity of choice was white-water rafting down the Zambezi, which was one of the coolest things I’ve ever done. We had to climb down the gorge into which Victoria Falls…well…falls… to hop into huge rafts that would take us along the rapids. The Zambezi is absolutely gorgeous—clean, clear, blue, and warm. To be honest, I fell out on the second rapid, which was like a test-run rapid, but I didn’t even mind. It was just so much fun. We spent the day paddling and drifting and holding on for dear life under the bright African sun and among the mountainous terrain, stopping to eat sandwiches on the rocks or take a dip alongside the raft when we got too hot. The whole thing makes me want to move to Colorado and do it whenever I want. I’m not quite sure if it’d have the same effect in New Jersey… and I’m not too keen on the Hudson.

The most important and eye-opening part of my trip, however, was my impromptu venture into Zimbabwe. Now before you freak out, remember that I’m here typing this and I have all my limbs and I’m perfectly safe, and it’s no accident that I am. Victoria Falls is the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe, and during the high water season in March, the Falls are breathtaking from any angle, but during the low water season, right now, they’re pretty dinky on Zam side, much better on Zim side. I figured that I’d only be here once, and I wanted to get the full effect and the best possible pictures for my mom, who was really excited for me to see them. I also have a good number of friends at UCT who are from Zimbabwe, and converse to the media-fueled idea that they might be manic-depressive or incapable of social function, they are some of the most interesting and smartest people I’ve met here, and all very, very proud of their home country. After consulting with our truck’s cooks, both of whom were from Zim and assured me that it was perfectly safe to cross the border, I grabbed my big German friend Stephan and forked over $35 for a day visa. Our first stop was a market close to the border, to which we decided to catch a cab. We negotiated with the driver over a fare, something that I am now used to doing in South Africa. The interesting thing here, however, was that we were not only negotiating about how much we’d pay, but in what currency. Tourists are very welcome in Zimbabwe not only because they bring commerce, but because they bring money that is more stable and far less inflated than Zimbabwe’s. It saddened me to see people trying to sell their own currency to tourists as “souvenirs.” We settled on a price of 50 rand with the cab driver, which was exorbitant, but given that he probably needed the cash more than we did, we were glad to help him out.

We weren’t the only tourists around, but it kind of goes without saying that there aren’t a whole lot of visitors to Zim right now. From everything you hear about Zimbabwe, you’d probably think that the entire country is in a state of disaster, ready to spontaneously combust or something. In reality, it’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been to, which makes for a discomforting and very tragic juxtaposition against the density of the poverty one meets there. At the market, women offered to trade their beautiful fabrics and wood workings for the shirt off your back, literally. Socks, shoes, panties, anything; they wanted it. Men showed similar desperation in their marketing techniques, hardly taking “no” for an answer, exhorting you to “just take a look” in their shops. Despite their obvious need, however, they weren’t at all threatening or menacingly aggressive. I’ve actually felt more vulnerable walking to work in West Philly than I did in Zimbabwe. Although people are very poor, they maintain a sense of dignity and understanding, trust that you’ll do what you can for them. We ended up meeting some beautiful children on our way from the market, and since I hadn’t thought to bring all my camp clothes with me, the best I could do for them was to give them food. After handing out 12 mini-bags of Fritos and talking to the kids for a bit (all of whom spoke English very well, to my surprise), I handed out my lunch to some adults. I was feeling pretty good until a young boy, maybe 10 or so, came up and asked us for shoes. Shoes are a hot commodity, and I’d been asked about my New Balances more than once that day, but as I looked down at his feet, my heart dropped. His shoes were falling apart, rotting on his feet, almost all of his toes poking out of them. My sneakers, which I’d picked up without a second thought right before I left for South Africa, would have fit him and last him for at least eight years. Had I had my flip flops with me, I would have gladly given him the sneakers, but a lack of foresight meant that I hadn’t brought anything but food and would have either had to walk back to Zambia barefoot or piggyback on Stephan, which really would have been asking for it. All I could do was scrounge up a chocolate bar for the boy and hope that someone would come along with a great pair of kicks for him. Of course, he understood that I had nothing, smiled, and continued on his way.



Stephan and I capped our trip off by stopping into Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe-side, to which no words will ever do justice. The feel of the spray and the rainbows and the little monkeys running around, the grandeur of waterfall after waterfall just knocked the wind out of me. It’s truly stunning, and even more stunning to think about how all of it is natural. Man had nothing to do with it. All we can do is appreciate. I hope that every one of you will get a chance to see it some day. It’s well worth the trip. I hope the pictures will speak for themselves.

So now that I’ve had a “real African experience,” I just can’t get enough. I’m so excited to take off to goodness-knows-where after the semester ends, but until then, I’m trying to keep in mind the wonder that every-day life had in store for each of us. I miss you all terribly and promise to do a better job keeping you updated! Keep the emails, comments, whatever whatever coming! And consider Africa for your winter vacations! As of a couple of weeks ago, the exchange rate was stellar because of the strengthening dollar, but… well, I don’t know about that now. Reading about the American economy right now strikes terror in my heart, and considering I’m in Africa, that’s saying something. I feel for you, Wharton Class of 2009. Yeesh!

Hleka,
Christina

August 18-25: Abantu

New family in Oceanview; Jace and Cleo trying to catch a buoyant ball; Mama Lorna doing what she does best--cooking with love. (And that's not cheese she's grating; it's butternut squash, for soup. Genius. Sheer, delicious genius.)

Hello, hello! Molweni! I hope you’re all well, healthy, and happy. I know for some of you, happiness might be evasive—back to school, much? Ah, well lucky for you, I’ve decided to put off homework to provide you with some African enlightenment. Can you believe I’ve been here for almost two months? I can barely grasp it myself—I keep checking the calendar. But here I am, still alive, and trudging through an insane amount of work. The deal, however, is pretty typical of… THE WEEK BEFORE SPRING BREAK! Ha! Yes, while y’all are just starting the year, I am almost halfway through the semester, battling the requisite pre-vac onslaught that seems to be typical of universities ‘round the world, unfortunately. (At least it’s interesting—economic policy analysis in developing countries. Okay, decide for yourself whether it titillates you.) But the reward for my sleepless nights and Red Bull dependency is great; by Saturday morning, I’ll be off for 10 days in Bostwana and Victoria Falls! Another couple of stamps on my passport, and another crucial experience in shaping my understanding of Africa. Although I think Cape Town (Kapa, in Xhosa) is fascinating and offers plenty of lessons, I’m ready to connect with nature, sleep under the stars, and cavort with some hippos. (Remember my penchant for wild animals and potential peril.) The trip is so close, yet so far, and my choice to blog doesn’t exactly bring me any closer. But let’s face it: I have policy-writer’s block, I work better under pressure, and I miss you all. :-)

While it’s great to sit and reflect on the larger revelations I’ve had here, I’m realizing that the smaller, more transitory moments have been really enlightening and uplifting. Although I maintain that Cape Town and UCT are not the easiest environments in which to immerse oneself, I’ve had the privilege of encountering some wonderful agents of understanding—the locals themselves. While I couldn’t possible recount the fleeting instances of gravity and joy I’ve had here, I can do my best to provide snapshots of people and moments that, for me, have made a difference. Read in doses, if you must; each person is wonderful and deserves your attention. (In other words, procrastinate from whatever you’re doing in shifts.)

o My roommates, Bokang and Nkoana: (Go ahead, sound those names out, you can do it! They’re phonetic.) When I first moved in, I was a little nervous about living with guys, let alone African guys whose backgrounds and culture was so different than mine. I can’t tell you how I agonized over my over-enthusiasm when I met Bokang and seemed to scare him stiff. While he was perfectly nice and made every effort to make me feel comfortable, he retreated to his room and seemed nervous when he ran into me in the kitchen. When Nkoana, who was away for winter break, returned before the start of classes, I was even more anxious. He didn’t seem to want to talk to me or our American roommate, Claire. Plus, he seemed to have this perpetual unannounced visitor, who after a while we were convinced was a squatter. (I’m actually still convinced he was a squatter, although he’s gone now. Welcome to Africa!) Between their constant visitors, tendency to speak in Sotho (they’re lifelong friends from Lesotho, the tiny country entirely encompassed by South Africa), and habit of never washing/never putting away dishes, I feared not only that we would live out the semester in uncomfortable silence, but also that my goal of making friends by living in the residence hall with Africans would be in vain.

Always the worry wart, I had no reason to fear. Both guys are shy and sweet and quite funny, if you can bring it out of them. We’ve taken to standing around our kitchen talking about our days and “back home.” I’ve learned that Lesotho has great skiing, since it’s all mountains, and that engineering, which both study, is even more impossible at UCT than at Penn. I nearly died when I mentioned President Bush and Nkoana asked me in earnest who that was. !!! THAT was a first! And an awesome one, at that. It was so refreshing to hear that after the negative things I’ve heard over and over about the U.S. here, to some people, somewhere, there are other things to worry about.

Favorite moment: I came home one day on a mission. After a month of living in my flat, I decided to give it a scrub-down. I began by tackling the first of our two bathrooms, the one with the shower. (There’s another with only a bath; Africans like a good soak, apparently.) I had bought a new shower curtain to replace the absolutely abhorrent one provided to us by UCT, which was basically a bed sheet covered by mold. I swear, every time I bumped into it while showering, my skin crawled. Enough was enough, so I picked up a super-cheap plastic one, cream-colored with plastic rings, and after scrubbing the shower stall, I put it up. When Bokang came home, I showed him my handiwork. As I babbled about how dirty the shower had been and how I probably hadn’t been clean since I arrived in Cape Town, he grew quiet and reached for the curtain. Feeling it between his fingers, he said, “This is beautiful.” I scowled. The curtain is basically the lining of a regular curtain and cost the equivalent of $2.50 in South African rand. It was the only one I could find in the area, so I’d settled. To Bokang, however, it was a luxury to have a new shower curtain, and it was absolutely lovely. His appreciation, however, soon turned to fear. He asked me what I had done with the other shower curtain, and I told him I’d pitched it in the trash, where it belonged. He grew frantic, saying “No! We’ll get in trouble, we’ll have to pay for it!” Feeling slightly guilty, I told him that there was no way that I’d allow any of us to live in such an unhygienic environment out of fear of dorm fines, and if UCT wanted to take it up as an issue, I’d stand up for all of us and pay if I had to. When he didn’t seem convinced, I told him that the mold would make him sick and he wouldn’t be able to study, and really, not to worry, I’d take the blame. He smiled, looked at the curtain again, and walked out.

Favorite moment: I woke up one Sunday morning to blasting music. It was early and I really wanted to go back to sleep, but despite my fuzzy REM haze, I couldn’t ignore the twang of country infiltrating my room. Sitting up and glancing at the clock, I realized that I was awake 30 minutes earlier than I needed to be, and I was upset. Who would possibly be up at 9:30 on a Sunday, playing outdated country music? Nkoana. As I listened more carefully, the songs grew familiar and resurrected memories of fifth grade. He was playing that Faith Hill album with “Breathe” and “The Way You Love Me” on it, at full volume. I couldn’t help but laugh at this African boy, who wore a bucket hat and spoke in quiet but confident English, who apparently had a thing for Faith Hill. I couldn’t blame him; I remember being a fan back in the day, myself. But I laughed even harder when three hours later, I found myself listening to the same album, which he had put on repeat. While I thought the incident was isolated, I was pleasantly surprised to hear the dulcet tones of Shania Twain wafting through our flat one weeknight. Three songs on repeat for a solid hour or so, oldies, but goodies. It was the last thing I expected from my sweet Lesothoan roommate, but as I contemplated that strange minx globalization, I found myself mirthfully humming along to “That Don’t Impress Me Much.” (“So you’re a rocket scientist?”)

o A classmate, N: (I’ve chosen not to disclose his name; know that it’s an awesome name likely to be used by an amateur author who’s trying too hard, like “Olive” or “Cash.”) You know those people in lecture that you desperately wish would put their hand down and just shut up? I’ve learned not to judge them so quickly. My class on post-colonialism, despite being focused on a wonderful topic, can be kind of dense and dull, but the one thing that causes everyone’s ears to perk up is a comment from N, who seems to know everything about everything. As the professor is lecturing, N’s hand will shoot up, and he’ll spurt some random fact or date, or ask a question, and then express utter shock at the response. You can’t help but notice him, pale, lanky, noticeably older than the average student, in a beanie hat and leather jacket. I smiled in spite of myself when he chose to plop down and project his effusiveness from the seat next to me. I smiled even more broadly as he kindly showed me to a part of campus where I had my next class, which I otherwise would not have found. The next time we had class, I snagged a seat next to him and started up a casual conversation, asking him how his week had gone. “Well,” he said, “I’ve had a good week. On Monday I celebrated 10 years of life after being diagnosed with HIV.” In equally measured cheer and solemnity, he detailed how he’d been given five years to live, and explained his choice to go off antiretroviral drugs, since they made him sick and too tired to do anything. For the past five years, he’s been a walking miracle. His exuberance for everything, especially learning, all made sense now. My eyes must have been the eyes of saucers, for he nodded vigorously and continued, explaining how many kilos he’d weighed at the height of his illness. Shame overpowered me, as I admitted to my American hubris and told him I didn’t know kilos, only pounds. Only when he had quickly taken out a book of conversions he carried around and had done the math for me did he ask why I didn’t know the metric system. I told him I was American, surprised that he hadn’t caught on already. “Oh, darling!” he said in his enviable South African accent with a huge guffaw and a playful punch on the arm. “It’s time to get with the times!”

o Mama Lorna: It’s always at the front of my mind that I’m not at home, I’m in Africa, but with Cape Town being as Westernized (and white) as it is, it’s sometimes easy to draw too many easy parallels. This past weekend, I hauled my cookies out of Kapa to get a taste of the “real South Africa,” and it only increased my hunger. In participating in a weekend home stay organized by CIEE, I was placed in the hands, home, and heart of Lorna, a single-mother of three who lives in Oceanview, 45 minutes outside of the city. Oceanview is a coloured township, created and sponsored by the apartheid government. (It’s a town; I’m not discussing the blanket of tin shacks that flanks the highways, created by people who tried to move as close to Cape Town as they could in hopes of finding work.) Lorna and most of the members of the Oceanview community are former residents of Simon’s Town and Noordhoek, which in the 1960s were deemed prime real estate suitable for white settlement. The entire coloured community that once lived there was relocated, forced to abandon the place where their families had lived for decades. Each year, the Oceanview community opens their homes to 200 CIEE American exchange students so that they might come to understand the day-to-day lives of South Africans in post-apartheid realities.

Not to put down anyone else’s home stay family, but Mama Lorna was the best, hands-down. She opened her home to me and Claire, giving up her bedroom and sleeping on the couch so that we could sleep comfortably in her room. She made us a feast of incredible lamb-and-cabbage stew, lentil-and-butternut soup, the works. She shared with us her stories of constructing a life in the apartheid state, and of constructing a life as an average human being with average human challenges. Her experience was at once specific to South Africa yet universal. I can honestly say that I’ve never met such a warm and giving person. The pivotal moment of the home stay, however, came when Lorna and her friend Roger took me and Claire to Noordhoek, Lorna’s hometown, for lunch. We walked into a restaurant that was half-café, half-high-end grocery. All but one of the tables were unoccupied, and three employees stood around chatting amongst themselves. A sign was propped against the wall: “Please wait to be seated.” Seeing that the place was practically empty, Lorna made to go sit down, when one of the waiters stopped her, saying “May I help you?” When she told him we’d like a table, he shook his head and told her than every last table was already booked for lunch. Lorna simply nodded and made for the door, Roger behind her. I followed, but with furrowed eyebrows. The restaurant had been a cute place, but definitely not the kind of joint where you needed a reservation. Both Lorna and Roger were silent until we found another restaurant that seated us without a problem. When we returned later to pick up tea on the grocery side of the restaurant, about half of the tables were full, but every last patron was white. I was livid. After the way that Lorna’s family and neighbors had been forced from their homes, the very land on which the restaurant now stands, they should have rolled out the red carpet for her and given her a free five-course meal. It made me want to cry, despite the fact that we’d had a perfectly delectable meal elsewhere. But if it bothered Lorna, she didn’t show it. She handled the situation with the dignity of a woman who’d seen it all before.

I spent the rest of the weekend stuffing my face, watching “The Simpsons” and playing games with Lorna’s 12-year-old son Jace (who looks like an older version of little Ian!!!), and soaking up the experience of being in a real South African household. A glass of wine seemed to improve everyone’s spirits, and I found myself engaging in adult conversation with people who were genuinely interested in me as an American citizen. Roger quickly grilled me on my thoughts about Obama and other American cultural and political ballasts, and despite my nerves, I think I played ambassador pretty well! It was from him that I learned about Obama’s choice of Biden for Veep, which Roger translated from Afrikaans while watching the nightly news. (Interesting note, though: Roger was very critical of Barack Obama's candidacy, a trend I've noticed among coloured South Africans. While he wasn't as vehement in his opinions as others I've come across, perhaps because he was talking to an African-American, he contended that the United States is not ready for a black president, and that it wouldn't be good for the country. Others have said flat-out that a black president would be disasterous for the country. They contend that electing a black president would mean that blacks would "take over the country," as they have in post-apartheid South Africa. While coloureds were discriminated against during minority white rule, they certainly did not have it as bad as the nation's blacks. Many say that they are worse off now that apartheid has ended, as legislation seeking to empower the previously disenfranchised, i.e. black South Africans, does not apply to them. To elect Obama, in their eyes, would be to let African-American interests and African-American interests alone dictate the policy and direction of the U.S. I thought this assessment said volumes about the condition of South African government and the bumpy road to equality and reconciliation.) After attending church with Lorna on Sunday, eating some more, and playing Frisbee and ball with Jace and Cleo (a neighbor whom, like all children, I wanted to put in my pocket), it was time to go home. Well, back to UCT and homework, at least. Mama Lorna, whose open arms I will always remember, has demanded that Claire and I return, and I can’t wait. (My stomach can’t, either.)

o Favorite moment: Driving down the highway on my way to Baphumelele, the children’s home where I have been volunteering for almost a month, I love to survey the life that ebbs and flows on either side. It’s a sharp juxtaposition, striking as you emerge from clean and shiny Cape Town, to suddenly be confronted with mile upon mile of tin shacks crammed against the roads leading in and away from the city. Although the settlements are systematic, with rows of Port-a-Potties and stores among their midst, far from temporary housing, the poverty is beyond extreme. This is no collection of He-Man-Woman-Haters clubhouses to be knocked down when Mom gets tired of looking at it out the kitchen window. This is home. This is life.

Children running around and playing soccer on flanks of grass (yes, on the highway) are pretty standard, but one day I saw something that absolutely took my breath away. As the highway split and we approached an overpass, I saw the sun glinting off what appeared to be a huge puddle of rainwater. We drew closer. Two boys, skinny and dark brown, were sitting in blow-up rafts of red, yellow, and robin’s eye blue, precariously navigating the water. They had huge sticks which they used to paddle and propel themselves into each other’s rafts, playing some kind of boat bumper car. I saw them for only a second or so, but the sheer joy of the scene was utterly touching. I could imagine them as they sighted the puddle from their homes on the side of the road, perceiving it as an oasis, a conquerable river. They had had to dodge three lanes of traffic, with their huge rafts under arm, probably, to get there, but they’d made it, and I could almost imagine their gleeful laugher through the din of the highway rush. It was a beautiful sight, a reminder of why I adore children, and the joy that lies in the small things in life, regardless of what you “have” or “don’t have.”

I know you all are probably dying to hear about the kids of the children’s home, but you’ll have to wait. They’re amazing and adorable, and there’s so much to be said, but I just can’t bring myself to tell you about them without having pictures to go along with the stories. (We haven’t been allowed to bring our cameras yet, but starting Wednesday, we will be, so it’s coming.) Know that the home and the children alike are an incredible lesson to a girl who thought she knew it all about “the babykins,” and an invaluable component in my effort to construct an inclusive and accurate understanding of South Africa. (Also know that my repertoire of hand-clapping games, songs, and cheers has not gone to waste. Kids, no matter where they are or what their story is, all love an over-grown and over-active child.)

As much as I’d like to think that my words to justice to these incredible abantu (people), I can’t help but wish that you all could meet them for yourselves. The wonder and promise of my time here lies most firmly in the people around me, who pass in and out of my life slowly or quickly, and sometimes I catch it, sometimes I don’t. What’s clear is that when it comes to South Africa and her people… well, I guess we just needed some time to warm up to each other.

Heads up that between work and Bostwana (!), I’ll be out of touch over the next two weeks, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t love you and miss you. It only means more stories with which to gorge yourselves upon my return. Want something more with which to entertain yourself? Write me an email! Seriously! I love it!

Hleka (guess who ACED her Xhosa tests!),
Christina

August 4-17: "One of the most difficult things is not to change society, but to change yourself." - Nelson Mandela

Ten points if you know who the funny little man is without looking!; UCT loves Obama just as much as any other college campus. When I first got here, I was surprised to see his image plastered all over the campus' surrounding neighborhoods, including on the bottom of this garbage can

My dear fans! How dedicated of you to persist in checking this blog, even though I have recently been lax in updating it. Consider last week’s lack of entry not as a lull in the cyber-sense, but a swell in the amount of time and effort I have had to digest more and more of my African experience. My previous proclamation to learn through osmosis is no longer effective, not in life and not in the awesome African dance class I’ve started taking. I know what you’re thinking… Christina’s doing yet another activity, what else is new… but it’s an incredible way to learn about African culture, and as Mother Cape Town is not the friendliest and most welcoming of places, sometimes, you’ve got to get creative! I haven’t taken African dance since I was a tiny girl, but it only took one class with the ebullient but strict instructor to remember how fun, difficult, and liberating it is to throw yourself into something fully, mind, body, and soul. It’s my Cape Town experience in the nutshell exemplum of a studio, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and a barre.

As an Urban Studies major living in the crucible of Philadelphia, I often found myself holding my head and rubbing my temples as I confronted an inescapable lesson plan of my own creation. I would wake up; look over whatever dense and often depressing reading being discussed in class that day; walk out the door; get yelled at by an angry and rightfully-disillusioned West Philadelphian; feel guilty about my life’s privilege as I walked to class; participate in stimulating class discussion; feel grateful yet woefully responsible for the privilege I have been afforded; go to the after-school program; play with the kids who are at once adorable and exhausting; mentally tussle with the school system and neighborhood itself; go home; make myself dinner; and settle in with some more dense and disheartening reading. For me, it’s not an easy thing to escape, this thing called mindfulness. My studies are often unalienable from my surroundings, and because of it, I am constantly in examination. I can barely remember the time just before I entered college when inequality was an intriguing subject I could readily separate from my line of sight and confine to the theoretical boundaries of a book. Well, better to say I could barely remember; I recall all to clearly now what it’s like, what it means, to be blissful in ignorance. Coming to Africa has been a return to my roots. Not in the slavery, ancestral sense: In all honesty, I feel no visceral connection to this land or these people, and personally, I think that’s okay. My time here, in class, on the street, in my dorm, with my friends, reminds me of what first got me interested in social issues, in culture, in nations, and in human life.

The easy thing to do while I am studying abroad in South Africa would be to not think about what I am seeing and experiencing, to be a tourist. I see it happening around me far too much, and it reminds me of how far I’ve come personally, and how far I have to go. I could very well stick to the Americans with whom I feel comfortable, go out to bars every night, take lots of glamorous pictures of myself, not speak in class, or even listen, and take all my classes pass/fail. I could watch without looking, hear without listening. That’d be easy. But having chosen to be an Urban Studies major, I have chosen to constantly grapple with big questions, and it’s hard. While there are a million-and-one things to be considered and weighed and questioned and debated in South Africa, the thing I have found myself constantly evaluating is my position and role here. Race is no longer something I feel is an adequate way to “compartmentalize” someone, if you must. In the past couple of weeks I’ve been called everything from Coloured to Spanish to White, which I initially took a ludicrous assessment but since have probed with more mindfulness of the South African socio-economic-racial-historical complex. The most fair thing to say about me is that I’m 100% American, and to a whole lot of South Africans, that ain’t good. I hate that people automatically assess me in light of our presidents’ policies and our national history before even asking what I think about anything. Every time I hear some nasty comment, I’m tempted to strike back with some South African apartheid stereotype, to give them a taste of their own medicine. I’m sure they wouldn’t like it. But as a good diplomat, I don’t, and therefore am forced to turn my anguish inward, to be mulled over again and again. It’s not easy to ask oneself big questions, to think critically about yourself, who you are, and where you come from, to actually think about what one is hearing and seeing instead of taking it as a “South African moment” and letting it roll off the back, but I truly believe that the reward for my mental initiative will be great. (If anything, it provides you folks with lots of blog fodder with which to distract yourself, procrastinate, yada yada.)

While I thoroughly disagree with a lot of what I’m hearing about the United States in random comments, in class, wherever, I do have to say that being in Africa and studying the history of its nations’ struggles for liberation is extremely enlightening, especially in considering the state of political discourse in my own country. Let’s just say that studying the liberation struggles of South Africa, Kenya, Zimbabwe (the history of which from 1980 you should look into, if you haven’t already, fascinating and tragic, tragic stuff) has an interesting effect when on me when I’ve then turned to read the New York Times and catch up on the latest election news. It leaves a nasty taste in my mouth, because, in my opinion, it’s kind of immature. I’ve kind of buried the lead, here, but on Monday, I had the absolute honor of attending a debate on UCT’s campus featuring some of Africa’s most important and consequential freedom fighters, including… get ready for it… Archibishop Desmond Tutu. Already having been sick for the entirety of the previous week and thus missing a week of classes (it sucked.), I decided to ditch class again to make sure I got a good seat, and ended up sitting in the middle of the front row, about five feet away from the bravest people I will ever encounter in my life. The lecture was an offshoot of the book Speak Truth to Power, a compilation of interviews with the world’s most courageous human rights defenders done by Kerry Kennedy. (American. Yes, our Kennedy family. It did take me a while to figure out that she was one of them, over here in Africa doing something wonderful; I thought for a second that South Africa might have its own Kennedys.) The debate was more of a series of speakers who told their stories in order to articulate to us, the young people, the importance of not taking for granted the freedoms we have, and to exhort young South Africans to remember and honor what was so tirelessly fought for in their country. (Funny—I’d say about a 1/3 of the people in the room were Americans, from my program.) These men had been jailed, exiled, beaten, tortured for what they believed in, an Africa in which black Africans would finally realize their potential, when the last would finally be first.

I cannot possibly do justice to these men’s messages and stories by recounting them here, so I won’t try. It was not so much their rhetoric that moved me as did the power of their spirits, which seemed to surge through the lecture hall. I could not help but stare at one man, a Kenyan named Koegi who discussed the ethno-political tensions now surging through his country, as well as his countless near-death experiences. (Well, not countless… Kennedy compelled the crowd to laughter when she explained that he had the highest number in Amnesty International history of near-death alerts.) My real fascination, however, was with the wisdom and bravery that was etched in lines on his face, that had literally created a film over his eyes. There is nothing that this man has not seen, but in the face of peril, he has exhibited superhuman courage for something that is larger than himself. In varying ways, in the stature of the men seated beside him, from the paunchy, white, defiant rebel to the white-tufted grandpapa of Archibishop Tutu himself, communicated the strongest political message I’ve ever heard, simply because through resilience of spirit and immutable hope, they were there that day to tell us their stories in a nation that’s quite a few steps closer to the one of their dreams.

The overall message of the day, one of moral and intellectual strength, and willingness to rise above smallness and pettiness with faith in what is best about mankind, one of hope as a constant driving force, was a most compelling political statement. These men were undoubtedly among the strongest and most influential the world has ever known, yet it is their character that arms them, and the integrity of their beliefs that makes them so strong. As I walked out of the hall, however, I couldn’t help but wonder how this kind of message would have been received had it been delivered from the mouth of an American politician in my own country. Immediately I thought of how “spin” (or a “lack thereof”) would destroy this message, characterize it as weak and implausible, dangerous, even. “What would the pundits say?” I thought. Again, the bad taste crept up my throat. How small-minded people can be. I then stopped myself and shut down my American lens. I didn’t want to dilute the power of the message I’d just heard. I was successful; I heard the message again with stirring clarity today as I toured Robben Island, the island on which thousands of political prisoners were kept by the apartheid government. Again, the uncomfortable juxtaposition of Africa's inherent beauty and imposed ugly history came crashing down like the waves against this gorgeous paradise-prison, but what was outstanding was the island's present existence as a testament to the strength of the human spirit.

While I think that messy, disorganized African politics, at its roots, is an expression of that which is most important in this world, and a conscious effort to right what is wrong, I am therefore disappointed to hear from South Africans that they’re much more interested in American politics, because in this world, it’s what matters. One of the most important things I’m learning here is that life should not be about the small, but about the large, and the pettiness of American political discourse, which is basically built in to our system, is what often dominates. I refuse to think that hope is a sign of the weak, because being here reminds me, as it should everyone, that it is the only thing that the truly strong have in common.

Sitting in my room, re-reading Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth (a book I tackled as an idealistic freshman and which I credit for having put me on the path to URBS), contending with each bit of class material I study, I am forced to remember that what lies outside my window, this present-day Africa, is a direct result of the ideas that I am studying, the persistence of people who, at one point, were just like me, doing exactly as I am. Being here makes me want to study. We all know I was already a nerd before I got here, but engrossing myself in these revolutionary and truly important thoughts, challenging my life and the liberties that were also hard-won in the States, thinking about what exactly is the reality of my time here, in this so-similar yet so-dissimilar context, is something of which I cannot get enough. It’s at this point that I’m glad that I have the mind that never slows down and worries too much, because it only makes for a mind that understands more, and understands more about what’s really important.

*Obviously, my overly cerebral and emotional response to being in the presence of true courage didn’t stop me from being an exploitative tourist and getting a picture with Desmond Tutu. Isn’t he adorable!!??

I miss you all! Thank you for your continued love and support… and missives. I love mail, so keep the digital communication coming!

Hleka (had my first Xhosa tests, and it was no joke),
Christina