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

July 30-August 3: The Week I Almost Had My Face Bitten Off by a Cheetah

When I was still at home, everyone I told about my imminent venture to South Africa either gave me looks of great respect and excitement or looked up to the sky to see if a full moon had called out a lunatic. They told me repeatedly of the dangers, that I’d be abducted, that I’d be drawn and quartered, or have my head boiled and peeled. South Africa has the highest number of murders in the world per year, a local New Jersey policeman told me as I requested proof of good citizenship for my visa. (At the time, I rolled my eyes at his small-town mentality and ignorance; I now know he was just about right.) “Fiddle-dee-dee!” I thought. If you don’t take chances and constantly think about what could go wrong, you’ll never leave your house… and probably end up being electrocuted by the toaster, anyway. But alas, I’m in Africa, and I have confronted the indigenous dangers of the continent. No, I have not been mugged, or followed home, or captured for sacrifice. I’m talking about the fuzzy-wuzzy wildlife. My dad warned me about the baboons, but he never said anything about the cheetahs.

But more on that later. (Don’t worry yourselves; obviously I’m still alive, unscathed, and pumping out the blog.) Molweni! Kunjani? I hope you all are well! Africa is just as beautiful as ever. One of the most enjoyable experiences I have had here is hopping on the Jammie Shuttle in the morning, which is the bus that takes us from the residence hall up the mountain to UCT, and surveying the city as it bustles with waking energy. The sunlight tinges everything orange-yellow, illuminating everything from the cute Dutch-style houses and the street-vendors to the homeless who live their lives in the same sheltered corner against the wall of the Shoprite. Even when it’s raining (during Africa’s winters, when it rains, it pours), it’s a stunning and moving experience to survey human life in its mundanity. What catalyzes the experience is the profound presence of nature, the constant backdrop of mountains in every direction, rising above the manmade landscape to constantly remind one of that which is bigger than oneself. In the States, I never thought much about my position on the earth, how small I was, a speck. Landscape was the iron jungle, compensating for relatively flat land. It’s pretty boring. But here, as you look out and you see Table Mountain and Devil’s Peak and Lion’s Head stretching far into the sky, frosted with clouds, the city at the bottom seems like a toy kingdom. The houses scattered at the base of Table Mountain as it slopes down to sea level are so small. I love sensing my location, like drawing a pin-point dot on one of those tactile, raised globes from elementary school.

This week, my sense of physical exteriority from the United States has been compounded by a sense of profound cultural exteriority. Many a time I’ve laid in bed this week and contemplated how I will go about learning about this incredible country, a task harder than I anticipated. In a school of 20,000+ students, I feel quite alone, isolated by my American accent and my status as a transient study-abroad kid. As much as I’d like to not travel in a pack of Americans all the time, as much as I’d love to throw myself headfirst into friendships with South Africans who could teach me all about their country with enlightening conversation, it just doesn’t happen that way. It’s like high school, where everyone already has his or her own group of friends, exactly the reason I didn’t want to move in high school. While some are intrigued by the fact that you left the States to come to South Africa, many make immediate judgments as soon as they discover you’re an American. One guy I came across told me he felt “sorry for me” after hearing my accent and confirming that I was American. (Why he felt sorry for me, I’m not sure. Considering the condition of my country versus his, I would venture to guess he was just trying to make me feel bad after I declined to dance with his friend.)

Of course, there’s the race issue. (You have to have wondered; I didn’t want to discuss it until I had more of a grasp on the situation.) In the quest for a “non-racial nation,” South Africa has created a most confusing philosophical and practical matrix. My mom was here in 1994, right after apartheid ended and the “Rainbow Nation” idea was instituted, and I came here with mixed expectations of lingering prejudice and honest, frank discussion. While both were good guesses, they were incomplete, at best. While many of the Americans I’ve been bopping around with have marveled at the frankness with which they perceive race is considered here, I feel like it’s way more taboo than in the United States, and not at all in a good way. Maybe my assessment of the situation is different than the people with whom I am traveling because race is something that I often think and talk about, in my coursework, with my friends, in seriousness and in jest. As an African-American female, I’m also having a different experience than my Caucasian companions. What makes my experience so striking is that Africans gape at me like some specimen, marveling at my “light” skin. While I’m kind of used to this, since in the States I sometimes come across white people who actually have darker skin than I do, I’m not used to the constant barrage of questions about my heritage. Despite trying to be a “non-racial nation,” South Africa is still a country painted in white, black, and the in-between. Compartmentalization is part of their past and a fervent, unapologetic part of their present.

While I was intrigued when I was asked the “What are you?” question six times in one night, while I raised my eyebrows when I discovered that the two adult leaders of our program, a white woman and a black man, have had entire conversations about my background and have targeted me for participation in certain events for purposes of diversity, I was pretty shaken when a white South African took it upon himself to put me in a box. As always, the American accents of a friend and me gave us away to a guy our age while standing outside a restaurant. “Oh, you’re American?” he said. We nodded. “But you’re Chinese,” he said, pointing to my friend (who’s Japanese), “and you’re Coloured.” It burned. My mom had told me very matter of fact-like that I would look most like the population deemed “Coloured” here, which is basically anything that’s not dark-skinned, but not white. Fine. I knew this, but I was really taken aback when he said it outright. I was offended, to say the least. What bothered me at the moment was that the statement had absolutely zero context. None whatsoever. It’s not as if South Africa was a racially-homogenous country that would make the fact that my Japanese friend and I are both Americans very unusual or interesting. The statement came out of the blue. Second of all, I take issue with my status in the eyes of South Africans as a “Coloured.” I’m not South African; the experiences that have defined my racial identity are completely different than they would be if I had grown up here. When I contradicted him and told him “No, I’m black,” he looked at me with confusion. “No, you’re Coloured,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. It was almost as if he was trying to save me from myself; it’s preferable to be Coloured. His eyes told me that he wasn’t trying to offend me, but I persisted and rephrased, saying this time that I was African-American. “What the hell does that mean?” he said, now looking at me with disdain. “You’re Coloured.” Now I was really peeved. Dual histories swirled around in my head. Paper-bag tests. Apartheid’s racial hierarchy, in which I, at least, wouldn’t be on the bottom rung. That famous 1960s photograph of the “Whites Only” and “Colored” restrooms. The relocation of entire South African Coloured communities to shantytowns, to clear prime real estate for whites. My grandmother proudly correcting a man who tried to shuffle her through the “white door” into a 1940s social event, stepping over into the “black” line. Keeping my (unreasonable) fury under control, I told the guy that he should just get the hot dog he was waiting for and leave me and my friend alone. Confusion returned to his face (maybe because he didn’t understand why I was dismissing him, maybe because I called the sausage a “hot dog” instead of a “boervors”) and he walked away.

But I continued to think about it, weighing my reaction, vacillating between scolding the stranger and scolding myself. I was still thinking about it the next day, as I sat in my development economics class listening to the professor, the former chief economist for the Republic of South Africa, discuss obstacles to growth of the formal and informal sectors of the economy here. While he gave a very thorough and intriguing presentation about the various mechanisms of large and small firms in developing countries, particularly the one we are in, he put up the blinders when it came to talking about the challenge of race that continues to hold back small, black-owned firms who struggle to find funds, while their larger counterparts most often are financed not by banks, but by money they receive from their parents. Not parent companies, even; their biological parents. I kid you not. You’d think that the chief economist of South Africa would take very seriously that blacks in this country don’t necessarily have rich uncles to support their start-ups, nor do they have the background education or credit to get loans, and maybe consider some sort of microfinance scheme to level the playing field. But no. South Africa is a “non-racial nation,” so something like that can’t be directly addressed. The whole situation I find baffling. In a lot of ways, race is a lot more taboo here than at home, since it’s not always considered constructively. (Not to say that the United States is a bastion of racial equality—ref. Michelle Obama and the “baby mama” comment.) But given the experience that I’ve had so far, I’d say I was right to self-correct and remind myself that I’m not in Philadelphia riding the bus with African-Americans. Despite the common thread of struggle of “minorities” against colonization and oppression worldwide, this is a whole different animal, one I don’t expect to tame.

Speaking of animals… Mr. Cheetah. The highlight of my week; the fright of my life. I rose on Saturday to a brilliant sun and clear blue sky, the air crisp. It was the perfect day for the wine-tasting trip our program had arranged, a welcome change from the monsoons that had kept the rest of the week wet and glum. The trip was a lot of fun and very interesting—I feel quite cultured and uppity, now that I know how to determine the age of a wine and swirl it around so that it releases the right olfactory sensation. But the best part of the day arrived when our program leader surprised us with a stop at a cheetah rehabilitation center in Stellenbosch! We discovered that for 80 rand (about ten dollars), we could meet a cheetah and pet it and snap a few photos. We were assured that it was perfectly safe. My friend Janine and I coughed up the dough and eagerly awaited our turn to meet Joseph the Cheetah. But Joseph wasn’t having any of it that day. He was restless and just wanted to walk around. Our guide informed us that we couldn’t go in until he was settled and “wanted to work,” so she took us over to another cheetah, Hemingway. The line for him was longer, though, and we only had a limited amount of time, so when she received a walkie-talkie message that Joseph had finally plopped down, we headed back over, ready for our glamour shots. Our friends peered through the fence as we made our way into the cheetah habitat, pressing ourselves up against the wall to avoid the stare of the cheetah, who was sitting, leashed, with one of the trainers. We positioned ourselves behind him as our guide took our cameras and prepared to take the pictures. I was so excited… I couldn’t believe I was petting this huge cheetah! Was I in Africa or what? And then… Joseph whipped his head around and stared me right in the eye. His big ol’ cat face was about seven inches away from mine. He assessed me with his huge orange eyes, those scary black teardrop markings seeming to narrow, and my life flashed before my eyes. I couldn’t breath for terror. His tongue slipped out of his mouth. He all but licked his chops. I think I whimpered… I felt my face contorting as he moved forward a millimeter… and then he turned back, facing front, leaving me to clutch my racing heart and catch my breath as I burst into nervous, hysterical laughter. Joseph really wasn’t in the mood to be social, and he dragged his trainer up so that he could relieve himself someplace else, leaving me paralyzed and without a picture. Luckily, the guide had gotten a couple with Janine’s camera; the one above was snapped right after Joe decided I wasn’t a nutritious snack, after all. (Notice how freakily focused Joseph looks. Notice the maniacal and crazed smile on my face. Also notice our friend Jess in the background, thanking her lucky stars she’s not me.) We were promptly ushered out so that Joseph could brood in peace, and not a moment too soon. Although I was scared almost to the point of heart palpitations, it was by far one of the coolest things I’ve ever done, right up there with partying with those baboons I saw at Cape Point. (My father has expressed concern; baboons are some of the most vicious creatures on Earth.) I assure you all I’m being cautious, and I’m not doing anything exceedingly unsafe, but hey! If I’m in Africa, and the powers that be determine that I’ve got to go, I think being carried off into the wilderness by monkeys is the coolest and most impressive option. Don’t you agree? ;-)

Hleka,
Christina

July 22-29: Waxing Philosophical

Molweni! Kunjani? Ndingu Christina mna. Sikhona.

Confused? For the layman, or non-Xhosa speaker, that’s “Hello everyone! Howzit? (More foreign terms… that’s like ‘How’s it going?’ in Cape Town-ese.) My name is Christina. We (my entire family) are well.” Besides a few other equally unfamiliar phrases, that’s about the extent of what I’ve retained from my Xhosa class. In short, it’s really, really difficult. The above phrase doesn’t have any clicks in it, fortunately enough for you, but when you start adding in some double and triple consonants, things start to get pretty sticky. Try this one: gxabhagxabhisa. Yep. That’s got two clicks, in the gx. Those two letters together make something of a gum-snapping sound, requiring harsh friction between your tongue and middle palate, with some interaction between the sides of your tongue and your molars. The word itself means “hurry.” (By the time you figured out how to say it, the person will have already made it to where they’re supposed to be.) To make things more complicated, instead of conjugating verbs and positioning prepositions, conjunctions, nouns, adjectives, etc. independently, words often just get smooshed together into one lump. For example, the phrase ninjani namhlanje means “how are you today?” The presence of certain letters in certain places means different things, different tenses and emphasis. To be honest, although at this point I recognize the phrase, I can’t dissect it, and I can’t form a sentence beyond those provided as examples in my course reader. Spanish never looked so simple and appealing, even with its umpteen-thousand verb tenses and mumbling teachers. My professor has confidence that we’ll all speak like native Xhosa speakers by the end of the semester, but I have my doubts. I’ve never been so pleasantly lost in a class or felt so comfortably confused. I like that this is difficult.

Xhosa (there’s a click in the Xh) is one of the indigenous languages spoken in South Africa, and I decided to take the introductory course on a whim, because one of my planned courses didn’t fit my schedule and I needed another few credits to complete my course load. I figured that while my knowledge of the language would hardly be beneficial in the States and would count as only an elective back at Penn, it would be useful here in helping bridge the gap between me and the people I will meet in exploring the townships of Cape Town. (I also hope the clicking will be a cool party trick back at home, at least.) But it wasn’t until I sat for my first class, when the teacher began simply by going through the various sounds of the language, that I realized how absolutely different this country, this world is from what I thought to be reality back at home. The mere building blocks of their lives, whether syllables of their mode of speech or historical foundations or personal stories, are, in my very humble and limited opinion, somewhat fantastic. This place belongs in a history book; indeed, in my experience, it is in a history book. This language belongs to a five-year-old who speaks to her imaginary friend in a special code of random nasal sounds and made-up words; from my mouth, that’s exactly how it sounds, even when I’m doing it correctly. Now that I’ve been here for about three weeks and am settling into my life and school, stabilizing, I’m realizing how much this is not my world, and the rules that govern this one are so similar yet dissimilar to those at home. I lie in bed at night and hear talking outside my window, my roommates on the balcony. The phenomenon is similar to Philadelphia on a weeknight, detached voices having mundane conversations about nothing. The difference: They speak in Sotho (they’re both from Lesotho, the tiny country wholly encompassed by South Africa). It sounds so similar to Xhosa, but although the two languages are closely related, they have their differences. But while I sound like a seven-year-old imbecile when I attempt Xhosa, they sound sophisticated; the language sounds like it could be universal. It’s not that I’m merely starting out; it’s simply that this language is an extension of a culture and a reality of which I have very little understanding. Despite all my efforts to immerse and absorb and understand, I will not completely comprehend Africa, and that’s okay.

Trying to avoid the discourse constantly fed to us by books, media, history, and each other, I’m trying my best not to make comparisons between Africa and the United States. I really don’t want to degrade anything I’m seeing by trying to understand it in terms of something else, something that’s not really comparable. I don’t want to compartmentalize or weigh observations by deeming it within or without my sense of reality. Doing so would attach some sort of stigma of abnormality, which I feel would automatically undermine any effort I make to acclimate here, despite my good intentions. I wish to be completely passive in this experience, to observe, to learn via osmosis, and to not judge based on what I know about my life so far, but based on what I hope to learn about humanity and true reality. I won’t know what I’m looking for until I’ve already found it. So far, I haven’t been quite so successful in eschewing comparison (I’m human, after all, and it’s how human psychology works), but I’m doing my best.

But to complicate the whole process, this philosophical, spiritual journey that I so relish, there are everyday features of life are just not the same here, and it’s those little things that are starting to get me. Having to pay for internet by MB consumed is something I find continually troubling, because internet is the one thing that’s more expensive here than in the States, at least when you use as much internet as I do. (Also troublesome is the realization that I use the internet so much, something I never thought about or faulted myself for back at home.) The novels I need for my African lit class are not in the campus bookstore as the result of an oversight in pre-semester ordering. (Or, more accurately, the fact that they don’t place caps on class size, and don’t have people register for class until the day before it starts, makes it hard to know how many copies they’ll need to supply, so it’s just easier not to order any.) In either case, having to run around Cape Town looking for obscure titles required for course work is beyond frustrating, especially when you’re not a seasoned local. I miss my over-priced Penn Bookstore and the convenience of Amazon.com. It baffles me that students will pose barely-relevant, philosophical questions to the professor in the middle of a huge lecture, in my experience most appropriate for office hours when you can be sure that the professor will know your name, seemingly just to prove that they had done the reading or are capable of grappling with the material, or to make sure that the professor is worthy of his Ph.D. I also have trouble internalizing that the black people around me are not African-American, but just straight-up African. I don’t know why that should be so important to me, but I think that it is a constant, subtle reminder that despite being similar in appearance, speech (accent aside), taste in music, even dress to anyone I might see on the trolley in Philly, they have a history, a set of roots that is separate from African-Americans, and because of that, their lives and sense of reality are immeasurable different. It’s subtly mind-boggling, especially when I look at the Jammie Steps of UCT crowded with a perfectly heterogeneous mélange of black and white students, purportedly a 1:1 ratio, and remember that South Africa’s white population makes up only nine percent of its total. It gives new meaning to taboos of privilege and affirmative action, especially when most of the black students you meet are pursuing business or engineering in light of their country’s needs. All these sensations have been simmering as I try to stabilize myself enough to focus on my schoolwork, but I can’t anticipate how they will boil over and blow the top off my emotions as I venture into the townships. I start working in a children’s home next week, and although I’ve received a few chidings not to become overcommitted to activities, I think that having this one commitment is really important. How else am I going to see the real South Africa? (You can’t exactly waltz into shanties without having a purpose there, and I’m not the type to do a slum tour.)

Funny enough, and shake your head if you must, but the one thing that has thrown me off the most here is their practice of driving on the left-hand side of the road, with the driving wheel on the right-hand side of the vehicle. My brows have been in constant fearful furrow, my fists clenched, my foot mercilessly pumping an invisible brake as I hurtle headfirst into traffic and miraculously avoid collision, thanking the powers that be as I pay the driver and stumble out of the cab. It doesn’t help that tailgating is something of a national sport in which everyone participates. When a chartered bus that was giving us a tour of the city suddenly ran out of gas and slowly rolled into an intersection, my jaw dropped cartoon-style, but my eyes didn’t pop out of my head until oncoming cars honked irritably but did not slow down at all. They seemed to think that the bus was playing a crude practical joke and would move immediately, so they needn’t brake. Luckily, some Samaritan was able to guide us and our manual transmission out of traffic before anyone got hurt. But as fast as people drive here, they walk slowly with equal enthusiasm… and on the left-hand side. I’ve suffered a few collisions and fake-outs in the aisles of the grocery store, giving my best “Sorry!” and dumb-American look in apology. How is it, I wondered, that Americans are automatically conditioned to veer right??? I don’t remember anyone teaching me that, and I know we don’t just intuitively follow the pattern of traffic from age five or whatever, and I assume that South Africans are not similarly trained. But it’s a reality, a phenomenon, and it’s strange and intriguing. But just when I thought I was doomed to do an ungraceful, bobbing shuffle with puzzled strangers for the next five months… I swung left. Going down the street, in the drugstore, up the stairs. I acclimated to a tiny, tiny bit of African life! Go, me! With renewed courage, I hope that I can start to make sense of what I’m seeing and experiencing not by thinking too much, but by just accepting first and analyzing later. Hey! I might even become a decent speaker of Xhosa! (And just think of what that will do for my Spanish.)

Hleka (“Love” in Xhosa… the “h” and the “l” are said together to make a slurring, Daffy Duck-sound),

Christina

July 16-21: Getting my toes wet...

Hello there! Back for some more? Good. I’ve missed you.

The past week I’ve spent acquainting myself to my new life in Cape Town, which has revealed even more differences and more similarities to my life in Philadelphia, all at once especially interesting and startling. By this point, not only am I all registered for classes, but I have also already started my fall semester, having attended first lectures today. School In July!? After winter in July (and believe me, it’s nippy here), school seems like not so much the strangling. But let’s rewind.

I’m starting to realize how much at Penn I have taken for granted, especially in terms of infrastructure. After going through a snoozeworthy introductory lecture series (this was no Penn NSO, folks), we were compelled to sit through a three-hour standardized test similar to New Jersey’s 8th grade GEPA, basically to see if we could speak and write English. Aside from that, registration was a beast, with a lot of running around to different departments on different parts of the mountain (University of Cape Town sits at the base of Table Mountain) with different colored forms to get signatures from people who were either still on vacation or perpetually at lunch. The main issue is that they don’t have the technological support to allow everyone to register online at their leisure, so eventually my three different forms and I made it to a computer lab, where someone registered me on something similar to Penn-In-Touch. Most of the registration was done by hand, though, which as a computer-dependent American was completely foreign to me. Registration was well rounded off, however, by an AWESOME drum lesson! All 300 of us American students got these loaner drums and banged our hands raw with the help of these great guys from this place called “Drum Café.” They were really good; it never occurred to me how much skill is required to get such a sound out of those things. I wasn’t quite successful, but I still had a great time.

I kind of forgot that there was a “study” part to this whole “study abroad” thing, but regardless, I’ve been ready to start settling into some sort of routine. This first day was overwhelming; the student body is more than twice the size of Penn’s, and everyone was running around hugging and kissing each other, asking how each other’s “holiday” was. I was tempted to affect a British/South African accent after being told that my accent was “strange” (!), but I fought the urge and tried to look confident. The demographics of the school are especially striking. I had read that the school had “proudly” maintained a 50:50 ratio of whites to blacks for a while, but the mix is very stark. Everyone either looks very African or very Australian-esque. Since we hadn’t seen a lot of white people yet, it was refreshing and really interesting to see everyone swarming around together. You get the feeling that the university is truly a vehicle, or an emblem, at least, for where the country hopes to take itself.

Not to be a nerd, but I’m super excited for my classes! I was nervous going in, but the majority of the people in my selected courses are Americans. It’s just how the cookie crumbles; Americans come here and want to learn about Africa and therefore take classes pertaining to the topic; most Africans wouldn’t be attracted to such. I’m taking a class on African literature, a class on Africa and colonialism, Xhosa (the click language!), and a class on development economics. All the professors seem great, very passionate and accomplished. My professor for my econ class used to be the chief economist for the South African state, which is so impressive. The perspective of the developing country seems to seep through everything. At home, our econ classes are pretty cut and dry, all capitalism, all the time. Here, the country is moving towards a capitalist economy, but there is the passion of assuaging the problems of the past that is of utmost importance. Employment is the largest issue here, and people are actively striving towards it. Nevertheless, some views of capitalism are skewed, I think. When a cab driver tried to charge us 100 rand to drive us home from a place it had taken 30 rand to get to, one of my South African friends said earnestly, “What can I say? He’s a capitalist, and as an American, you should understand that.” Huh? Again, the big, bold AMERICAN stamped across my forehead spoke for me, but not exactly the truth. Capitalism and opportunism are not equivalent, and there seems to be some sort of misunderstanding about that… at least among meter-less cab drivers. I just got plain pissed tonight when one cab company tried to charge me R 150 to drive 10 blocks, which normally costs about R 20. I curtly turned him down and hung up the phone, all the while damning this Jersey twang.

Friday was Nelson Mandela’s birthday, which was a huge event! (Anyone know when Dubya’s birthday is? No, neither do I, and nor does anyone care.) On July18, people celebrate the “Rainbow Nation” and its poster boy. We all wore black and white to represent the post-apartheid state. (Originally, it was supposed to be rainbow colors, but essentially, it would look like any other day.) There were “birthday parties” all over town for “Madiba,” which is what Mandela is called here, and we all sang “Happy Birthday” to him at the soccer game we went to the next day. I’ve decided I really like soccer. And yes, they call it “soccer” here, and not “football.” The game we saw was between the Kaizer Chiefs of Johannesburg and Manchester United, and it was soooo exciting! We had great seats, and the stadium (which, interestingly enough, looks like an office building from the outside) was PACKED. Weird, but most people here are Man U fans! The crowd was a sea of red. I think it’s because the Kaizer Chiefs are known to be pretty bad, but let me say that their goalie was on his grind that day. For those who know me when I’m either really pumped up or around celebrities, I was like that for about 2 hours. It was exhilarating through and through… until it ended, in a tie! No overtime, no shoot-out, just tied, one-one, good game. Lame! But I’m definitely looking forward to going to another game; at about $20 a ticket, why not?

As I’m settling into my academic life, I’m also starting to explore some extracurriculars to keep me busy. (Come on, you all know me.) I’m especially looking forward to activities here, though, because everything I will be involved with will help me to learn more about myself and this new place and everything about it. The most significant thing I did this past week, besides making sure I was properly enrolled, was to explore different arenas of volunteerism, ranging in focus from homelessness and tuberculosis treatment to orphan education and charter schools for township children. Above is a picture I snapped with two kids at a shelter called Arc, which is humongous and run entirely by private donations. Although there’s a lot to do there (cooking, computer literacy, drug rehab, the list continues), I really enjoyed meeting these kids for only a few moments. The little girl’s name was Lashawna, and the little boy couldn’t tell me his name (he probably spoke only Xhosa, no English), but both were so glad to see us there, if only for a brief introductory visit. At the TB hospital, I picked up one little girl who seemed really distant and unresponsive when I talked to her, but completely broke down when I put her back on the floor. (All the kids are on treatment, so it’s quite safe for me to be there. I’d be more likely to catch TB on the SEPTA bus back in Philly, from someone who doesn’t know they have it.) At the charter school, a young Ph.D student who directs it talked to us about the “life training” they put their kids through, trying to reconcile the large issues they face with the reality of their everyday lives. There is also a program with orphans that sounds a lot like the Beacon program (GATOR!), although I regret that I didn’t get to visit it. Walking away from the tour of places that all need help equally, I thought about how academically, at least in the U.S., we tend to “pathologize” problems, turning them into phenomena that seem almost insurmountable. Here, though, I’m seeing more and more that struggle and hardship is universal, and it’s just life, and it’s up to the individual as to how one handles it. These kids here are quite like my kids in Philly; the neighborhoods and shelters they live in are very much their homes. There’s very little shouting about victimization, though; Africa carries her head high. I’m not sure which program I’ll work with yet, but I know that this, like every other volunteer opportunity I’ve ever taken, will be instrumental to my understanding more about how this mess of a world doesn’t spin off its axis.

Again, I miss you all and hope you’re doing well. Emails, Facebook messages, blog comments, scrolls in bottles, etc. are, as always, welcomed with toothy smile! Let me know what you think, and keep Cape Town in mind for vacation! (Mom tells me that it’s just been named one of the best bargain vacation spots… and I assure you, in this seemingly dire recession, the R 7.5/$1 exchange rate feels oh-so good.)

Keeping my fingers crossed that next time I write, I will know how to say “Love” in Xhosa,

Christina