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