February 20, 2007, 7:26 p.m., UCT Library

The Taoist philosopher, Lao Tzu is quoted as writing “A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving”. I think I have been half guilty of aiming for a certain destination when I planned this trip.

In many ways I can be a romantic. I can certainly be an idealist when it comes to traveling. This is due in part to my previous travels and to my upbringing, as well as having the wealth and relative security of the United States as a platform from which to feel free to jump. So it is only now that I see that in my mind, I was traveling to a certain place—expecting to arrive at a South Africa that is yet to be and is not for me to say it will be.

From my previous logs I think it is obvious that there has been a certain negative element of this trip that was unexpected. But, it has been my task to figure out for myself how to read Cape Town, with what eyes will I see this place—will I see it as a traveler? A student? A westerner? A woman? A white person? An American? In the end, what will this place mean to me? What will I mean to this place?

So in the past week I have taken a renewed, more proactive approach which has shifted the experience in a much more positive direction. It is important that I document this part as well. So the following may be somewhat random—polaroids of moments that I think fill in the black and white with color.

Diversity Program

As you may or may not know, I am studying in the Sociology Department (http://www.soc.uct.ac.za/ ) under the Diversity Program (http://incudisa.uct.ac.za/index.php?page=UCT_diver_studies). The intention of the program is to reflect on the politics of difference and its effects on organizational, institutional and socio-political life.

Personally, I’m interested in the way multiple axes of difference (culture, race, ethnicity, language, gender, nationality, class…) are articulated by the novelist. It is likely that I will do some closer work on South African writers and how they portray the diversity of their own identities and within their native land.

My professor, Melissa Steyn held a small gathering at her house this past Friday for all the students in the Diversity Studies program. I previously attended the Sociology orientation which is where I met Kim Wales, who was the student from UCT who attended NYU last semester on the exchange program. A bubbly and beautiful girl with long curly hair, she was so delighted to be able to talk with someone from NYU. She got even more excited when we realized that we knew some of the same students. She was kind enough to pick me up so that we could attend the party together. We also picked up another student, who I am pretty sure is of Xhosa background (the Xhosa language famously contains a variety of consonantal 'click' sounds) and therefore I could only pronounce his last name, which is Zuma. Zuma is a Nelson Mandela Scholar, which basically means that he has been hand selected as a future leader in South Africa. If you met Zuma, you would understand why. He is serious but has a soft demeanor. He listens more than he speaks. When he does speak, his words are carefully chosen. I cannot wait to be in classes with this man and hear what he has to say. He also is interested in studying abroad at NYU—I’m keeping my fingers crossed that he will.

We arrived at Melissa’s house and were welcomed into her maze-like home. Filled with a myriad of tiny rooms and tinier hallways between each, the walls were covered with family photographs, political posters, inspirational quotes, and artifacts of South Africa’s history. We walked out to the back patio, where roughly 15 people of all different races and nationalities sat, comfortably chatting to each other. The table was filled with half-drunk plastic cups of wine, some cheese and fruit, and a lot of fascinating discussions. We settled in and introduced ourselves to the two people at the table we were closest to—there was Matt, the serious and awkward post-graduatem, as well as Kathryn, a beautiful middle aged woman who was from the US but spent most of her life in Belgium doing performance art. At some point Melissa asked us all to give a brief bio of ourselves so that we could all get to know one another. From Cape Town, from Port Elizabeth, from Malaysia, from San Francisco, from Germany, from all over the world… and me-- from New York. Their paths often times ranged wider than mine—whether it be across countries or oceans or cultures or class lines (these all having the potential of being equally far distances to travel). All of us converged in this house, in this program. Their interests were fascinating and just as varied as our pasts: the phD student interested in the use of diversity theories in development initiatives in South Africa to the Capetonian studying “Whiteness” in Afrikaner culture. I felt quite plain and absolutely ordinary but excited by the opportunity to hear their unique voices.

I left with a new energy that I have never felt at NYU--a hope for what I might learn here and a fresh anxiousness to begin class so that I can hear this diverse group of voices converge on social issues. What I am starting to see/learn is that understanding and being open to diversity can be as integral to our survival (“our” being the people of the world) as clean water, fresh air, food in our mouths.

The Roommates

Shoo-Shoo: Have you ever heard a German man quote Dave Chappelle? It’s f#@king hilarious. Florian (a.k.a. Shoo-Shoo, which is a nickname that stuck after I massacred his last name—something that might be phonetically spelt: Shoe-hoe, with a thick glob of phlegm coming into your mouth on the “hoe” part) is a tall, blonde, Arian type of guy with a deep German voice. He plays field hockey. He dances like Tom Jones when he is drunk at clubs. If you told me a few weeks ago that this guy would basically be my best friend here, I would have laughed… but we share a love of cereal and all things Dave Chappelle.

Wendy: Wendy is a tiny Mexican girl who speaks English with the most beautiful accent. She studies at McGill in Montreal but doesn’t speak French. She is always telling me funny childhood stories involving wild animals that are tinier than her—usually involving their death. She had a pet rat once—guess what? It died.

Kai: Kai is a slightly smelly German surfer who is very interesting to talk to but that can only be done at a distance. He wakes up at 6 am every day to go surfing before class. I am pretty sure he will be black by the time we leave this country. He is very active in non-team sports such as hiking, surfing, rock climbing. All this activity seems to leave him pretty hungry, so be sure you’re finished with your meal before you offer him any of your food. He will inhale it almost immediately—unless it is meat or dairy, cause he’s a vegan.

Micheala: Micheala is my very tall and also blonde roommate. Her and Shoo-Shoo could be siblings, or makers of the master race. She very rarely snores and can sleep through pretty much anything. She never wears a bra but always wears a string bikini top. She likes to smoke on our steps—the back steps, the front steps, the steps from our bedroom door. Give her a few steps and she will smoke there.

I really love them all. We play Monopoly together. We go to the beach together. We commute to school together. We cook together. We put sun-block on each other. We watch horrendous South African soap operas together. We ask each other about our days. We have made a really nice home here together.

The long walk home…

I mentioned in my jogging post that I took the UCT shuttle home for the first time and that this was a frightening experience. Basically this walk has become a microcosm of my experience trying to “figure out” South Africa—showing just how unreliable the information we receive is, how arbitrary our judgements can be.

It began back at UCT where I had asked multiple people (students and university administrators) how exactly to get home but no one could definitively answer the question. Eventually one of the orientation leaders broke out a map and knew roughly where the UCT Claremont shuttle stopped near my home. I then started to trace the path of how I could walk home but he stopped me and asked when exactly I would be going home. I told him that, of course I would walk home in the afternoon but this didn’t seem to satisfy him. The unspoken conversation that was happening was “When do you plan on making this trip? In the relative safety of daylight?”. He then urged me to take a taxi home. The walk looked short on the map but knew it could be excruciatingly long if the path was dangerous. But when I arrived there didn’t seem to be any taxis around.

So I went into a nearby store and asked the white clerk the best place to catch a taxi. I was advised that there were no taxis around this area and the only way was to walk—and he asked if someone could pick me up instead (please realize that I wasn’t any further than a 10 minute walk home). He told me that it was a very dangerous route and to hold onto my purse tightly. He only served to frighten me even more—the context proving to be more scary than the content.

Basically, it was only later that I figured out I was about to walk the wrong way home—“wrong way” meaning through a densely packed back street close to a train station, which also served as an impromptu market and meeting place. Although this sounds innocuous enough, this is exactly the type of situation that white South Africans avoid. In fact white South Africans only rarely take public transportation. Imagine living in Manhattan and never stepping on the subway—nearly impossible to believe, right? Wrong. Though I don’t want to presume that this area was a dangerous space, the fact that there were no white people in sight did not indicate that it was deemed unsafe or unsuitable for a white person—for whatever reason. Being new to a country, you remain wary in the first few weeks until you are able to read the signs of danger with more cultural accuracy and experience.

As I left the store, there were two young women walking past who looked like they were going in the direction that I needed to go. So I trailed next to them as though we were walking together. They must have thought I was insane or that I had some personal space issues but it didn’t matter. I felt the real and imagined eyes of the crowds of people all over me. The two women were going on the train, so once I had passed the train and was on the suburban road behind the train station, I kept relatively close to a few pedestrians walking as well. These were older black women who seem to be the domestic workers who do general house work in the rich suburban areas (how do I know this? Because we have one for our own house—set up by the owners of the house. She comes once every two weeks and does some general cleaning. This seems to be the norm, not the exception).

In any event, I arrived home safe but shaken. I was depressed by the fact that this would be my life for the next 6 months. I felt like a brat for even having that thought seeing as some people live their whole lives in real or imagined danger.

These fears were half-settled/half-encouraged when a security guard buzzed our door one evening. Apparently UCT has arranged for a security guard to cover the student houses that are a bit off campus—this includes us. He said that he would buzz our door each evening so that we knew he was in the area but that he would stop buzzing around 10 pm. We also took his number in case of emergency. I couldn’t decide whether this idea made me feel more comfortable knowing that help was in the area or that we needed help to be in the area.

A few days later I was shown a different route to the UCT shuttle by one of my roommates, which avoided the train station. There weren’t as many pedestrians—which is a liability in one sense and a blessing in another. So I settled on this as an alternative, which I could travel with a roommate, in the day-light.

Then one of my roommates walked it alone. She said she was a bit worried at first but it seemed fine. So that was encouraging. Plus, I always have my mace.

I started to walk this route alone on a day-to-day basis. I was neither scared nor fully-comfortable but I had learned something from my jog. I wanted to disarm the situation/the fear with kindness. I was determined that with each person that I walked by I would say some sort of greeting. “Good morning”, “Hello”, “Good afternoon”—it didn’t matter. All that mattered to me was that I showed some sign of respect, some opportunity for the other person to show me the same. Although the gesture may seem so simple and small, I believe these types of actions have the power to humanize us in ways that are unconscious. I swear that every time I have done this I have witnessed first a look of surprise, then a look of confusion, then a sign of respect (the tilt of a head in acknowledgement or a wave of the hand) or an even more positive greeting (“Good day to you!”). It has become both my way of settling my anxiety, as well as undermining the mutual prejudice and fear that is the legacy of apartheid.

Then just the other day I was walking this same route, when I saw two ADT security guards on bikes. It seems they cover the area on their bicycles (of course, this is a service that is paid for by someone in the neighborhood—I have yet to figure out how this works exactly). Again, I said hello to these two men. Again the same repertoire of surprise, confusion and finally, a positive reception flashed across their faces. One of them commented on how hot it was outside. I agreed and said I hoped that they wouldn’t get too hot in their uniforms and to be careful in the heat. He was obviously very surprised that I was making small-talk with him. He asked where I was from and we continued this conversation—him on his bike, me walking on the sidewalk. Our conversation sort of died out when I was just about a block from the stairs which lead up to the main road but the security guard insisted on escort me to the stairs. He said that sometimes people hang out around the stairs and he wanted to be sure I arrived safely. Again, it was something that caused me to reconsider my perception of safety (and also that it is not only white South Africans who spread this fear) but more than that, I was genuinely happy that by merely saying hello to this person, I made a certain impression on him. That he was concerned for me—a complete stranger—and he wanted to ensure my safety. Call me a hippy, but my preferred method of self-defense is making friends. Plus, I might just meet a lot of people on this trip. I might even meet myself.

Think Locally, Pimp Globally

In the interest of “keeping it real” (yes, I just used “keeping it real), I have to admit that one of my ulterior motives in traveling to Cape Town was to bag myself a South African hottie. Like Eddie Murphy in “Coming to America”, I was crossing oceans to find my Zulu King. As any well-traveled person knows, travel hook-ups are like souvenirs, like amorous stamps in a love-passport. That was a terrible, terrible simile.

In any event, I don’t have a good feeling about this trip. Besides the fact that that South African accent, which once sounded so deliciously exotic, now can sound pretty snobby—there just don’t seem to be that many men of my age around.

Part of the issue is that I spend a great deal of my time at UCT and post-graduate work seems to be relatively underdeveloped there and in South Africa in general. So most of the men around me… well… are boys. 18,19,20 year old kids. I don’t know that I have words to tell you the hilarity of a 18 year old hitting on you and asking you where you went to high school—true story.

Some point their finger at “white flight”, which basically means that white men around my age usually go to other countries for an extended amount of time or permanently to get advanced business opportunities which are not as readily available in South Africa. So now I have to go to London to meet a South African?! Wow, globalization IS real.

Lastly, there are too many damn Americans and Germans here. What the f#$k is that about?! I’m supposed to be the only American! Me! Only me! Like meeting a born-and-bred New Yorker in New York, it’s hard to meet Capetonians! (and yet, I still get asked the proverbial “yea but where in New York are you from?” and when my answer is “New York”, I still get the “Really!?”… interesting, huh?)

So, for now… prospects are dim. And I’m learning German.

Places I’ve been recently that are probably on a postcard:

Kirstenbosch Botanical Garden: Drive 5 minutes from my house and pay a mere 20 Rand (that’s roughly 3 US dollars), and you can enter into a magical garden, which is the only botanical garden in the world named a World Heritage site.

The first time I visited, Kai, Wendy and I got lost along the maze of miniature walkways, tree-covered paths and landscaped gardens. There is a sculpture garden, where an ivory elephant sits tranquilly, an alligator slivers across the lawn, a 6 foot high mask glares from the shade of a tree, an intertwined couple hold their baby as the sun bounces off the smooth figures, cutting them a strong silhouette against the lush green background. Another favorite was the fragrance garden, where plants are elevated so you can easily bend to take in the intoxicating/fresh/delicious scents.

The second time I visited was to see a concert—each Sunday, Kirstenbosch holds concerts in their main lawn area. Similar to the Central Park concerts, these draw diverse bands and diverse crowds. We happened to catch an Afrikaans rock band that Sunday—which weren’t that great, although the crowd (mostly teenagers) seemed pretty into it. Good lyricist, I guess. In any event, the lawn is on the hill in such a way that you can overlook the city bowl. We could’ve been listening to bagpipes (which actually was the previous’ week’s act)… I was just happy to sit on a lawn, feel some grass between my toes and have a picnic.

Clifton Beach and Muizenberg Beach: my homes away from home. Beaches are now a relatively regular part of my routine. Yes, going topless is pretty normal around here. But no, I'm keeping my tan lines. I won’t go into it any further because you will probably hate me.

Hiking Lion’s Head

One of my goals for my semester at UCT was to get as involved as I could in “student life”. So far, this “student life” stuff is overrated. I’ve found out that students, in general, are pretty dorky.

Anywho, as part of my plan to re-embrace student-hood, I’ve not only joined UCT’s running club but also their Mountaineering and Hiking club.

The first outing was a sunset hike up Lion’s Head, which is one of the various mountains that dominate Cape Town’s gorgeous sky. The range is vaguely shaped as a lion’s head as well as a rump, forming what some say looks like a lion sitting down. I guess this is true—but I think it’s a bit of a stretch.

So, the 60 or so students begin the hike, trotting eagerly to their destination. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they hike. I’m definitely one of the “stop and smell the roses” hikers, in that I actually like to appreciate the scenery while I’m hiking instead of just getting to the destination. So while everyone raced to the finish line, I took my time, stopped to take photographs and capture the moments that were special to me. As you know, I’ve never been one to just follow the group.

And of course, what lay ahead was a stunning hike that was all my own. I watched the sun play across the mountain range, casting shadows on the city bowl as it set over the ocean. As I wound my way around the mountain, I turned a corner and caught a paraglider just about to step off the steep ridge and catch the wind. There were 3 paragliders playing in the sky above me for the rest of the hike. The hike itself was roughly over an hour with some scrabbling mixed in. The top of the ridge always has fog rolling over it, so once I reached a certain point, I decided to stay put so that I could capture the sun set without risking a bunch of photos that were mainly of mist. Slightly sweaty and satisfied, I snapped away at the paragliders dancing on the horizon in near solitude (minus my friend Melanie and some other random hikers who were on their way to the summit). The mist which rolled down from above me softened the glare of the sun which descended lazily over the water. It was enchanting and absolutely peaceful. Once the sun had finished it's descent, we headed back down around the mountain while the sky changed from blue to black and the city lit up into a semi-circle of orange stars.

District 6 Museum

In the 1950s, District 6 was a vibrant mixed race neighborhood—despite being deliberately neglected by the government and lacking some very basic amenities. There were spice shops, tailors, butchers, fishmongers, mosques, churches, schools. “It’s streets were veritable rivers of life”, one former resident wrote. In the struggle of living, there formed a community that had warmth, respectability , “rascality”, despair and creativity.

In 1966, District 6 was declared a whites-only area after a Swiss city planner was hired by the government to re-organize the city. Cape Town’s streets were deemed an “accidental layout” and not surprisingly, the new layout divided and isolated communities according to race/color. This division served to fragment identities as well as divide the various communities which had found solidarity/strength in their shared experience of oppression—a frightening possibility for any government keen on maintaining its dominance. Over 60,000 people were given notices to leave to a new area—the “Cape Flats”, which lay on the outskirts of Cape Town and had no amenities whatsoever. Sometimes people were told to relocate before any housing was built for them whatsoever.

The effort to further control and isolate the colored and black population was simultaneously achieved by new Pass Laws, which came in a few variations but basically said that any colored or black person had to have a passport-like book which listed detailed biographical information (birth date, race, employer, areas approved to travel within, etc). These passes had to be on your person at all times and were checked at various points in order to control your ability to travel, whether it be for work, to see friends and family, for buying products—in short to live. Among a variety of non-violent demonstrations against pass laws and the forced removals, pass burning sent a loud statement but garnered little results.

By 1984, destruction of District 6 was completed. The whole area had been bulldozed, stripped and cleared; it's former residents scattered.

Any artifacts of District 6 that are left now remain at the District 6 Museum where the personal accounts and pictures will overwhelm your senses and touch your humanity. The museum is as much for visitors to Cape Town, as it is for the previous residents of District 6, who are mainly in the Cape Flats township-- but had been divided into various areas by race. Families who had lived in District 6 for generations can now return to this monument and see some photographs of their old neighborhood.

It is true that District 6 can not be found in any map... but the spirit of true places never can be.

University of Cape Town








Sunset at V&A Waterfront

My Kitchen









Dinner with Randy at the V&A Waterfront










Sunset at Tableview









The Bernsteins at Signal Hill

Kirstenboch Gardens













Concert at the Gardens










Muizenberg Beach (changing houses)













Where all the action happens-- my bedroom

photos!

"Braii" or bbq in American English




















The District 6 museum




















The UCT Drum Workshop




















Fish Hoek Beach

February 12, 2007, 10:35 pm

There is a pretty good chance that I will get fat in South Africa-- and go completely insane. In the past week or so I have only been alone outside the walls, gates, locks, alarms of my house twice-- once when I insisted that I would take the UCT shuttle service home instead of having my roommmate Shoo-Shoo chauffeur me back and forth as he has been kind enough to do each day. He asked me sincerely, "Are you sure? It's no problem". It was a wonderful gesture but I told him "No, I must--if not today, then when?" He seemed more uncertain than me, or at least that's what I like to think he saw in my face.
The second time was this past Saturday when I went jogging in my neighborhood-- and by neighborhood I literally mean a 2-3 block radius outside my house. When I told one of the other students in my department that I went jogging, she literally gasped. I can't say that I wasn't a bit proud of that.
If you thought the obesity problem in the US was bad, it seems we are luckier than we think. Not only do South Africans have to contend with the trend of sedentary modern living but it seems that recreation spaces have either in actuality become havens for muggers or at least become so in the popular imagination. In a recent article I read in a South African magazine, various statistics were listed about the muggings reported last year on Table Mountain, as well as rapes and attacks reported in parks—reinforcing this fear and encouraging group exercise as a solution. In the US, finding a workout buddy is simply a good way of motivating you to get off the couch, while in South Africa your running buddy might not only improve your health but save your life.
A staggering 50% of SA women are obese or overweight—but as I’ve seen with many other detrimental effects of crime, the effects ripple throughout society like Homer Simpson’s belly. The women who live mostly in the safety of their homes or make plans with their friends in malls where the fried food flows, also confine their children to these spaces. It’s not a big leap to the next conclusion—frightening numbers of children with type-2 diabetes.
So prior to this "run"--if you can even call me jogging in tiny circles, constantly looking over my should for the boogie-man, a "run"-- I was literally jumping rope each day in my back patio area. I love Rocky just as much as the next guy but my calves were bleeping killing me!
I couldn't take it anymore-- physically and psychologically. I set out to go for a jog. I made sure my roommates were awake and knew where I was. I didn't take my ipod. I just had my keys and the mace keychain to listen to jingling in my pocket. I was reminded of a clever idea that my mom had when we used to live in the city-- my brother could only ride his bike around the block as long as he rang the buzzer at each pass but I wonder sometimes about those excruciating stretches of time between doorbells. Still, this wasn't a solution for me. My mother was an ocean away and I had to face this alone, one foot in front of the other.
I started to jog. The neighbor's dog began barking at me. Then the next house's dog, and the next after that. Soon the whole neighborhood was like a kennel at feeding time. The domestic workers and construction workers that are a fixture in this ever expanding suburb were lying in the shade on the side of the road and eyed me suspiciously. I eyed them back. I even turned back a few times to make sure I wasn't being followed. On the second round, I tried a new approach-- I smiled. This was met with a mixture of curiosity and cautiousness in their faces. On the final round, I up'd the ante and decided to wave. Success! They smiled or tipped their head.
I can't say it was my fastest or longest jog. I certainly didn't cover much ground but my heart rate (especially on that first loop) was definitely up. So perhaps it wasn't my best run, but it was one of the braver runs I've completed.
When people asked me what I would miss from home, what they could send in a care package or tell me about through emails-- I really never imagined it would be these seemingly ordinarly freedoms that I would crave the most.
I'm still adjusting-- I have hope that I will get better at negotiating this paradise filled with landmines.
Until then, I'm looking for a running buddy.

UPDATE: February 20, 2007: I've joined the UCT Running Club and have been running with two lovely ladies, Nikki and Marion-- who have shown me some great routes. Still, I think I'll venture out every once in a while... to entertain the neighborhood dogs.

3:30 p.m. February 11, 2007 Newlands House

"Don't let your studies get in the way of your education". This piece of advice charges from the lips of my program director Melissa Steyn, as she addresses a lecture hall filled with international students. Monday marked the start of the business of orientation and the requisite course registration (which is still conducted here through a mixture of signatures, stamps and qeues that wrap around the halls and down the staircases). We are toured around the ivy-covered, formerly whites-only campus. We are given lectures on culture shock and have our pictures taken for a UCT ID card. Campus police and local police offer mixed messages-- have fun but "don't take the mushrooms they offer you on Long Street". My roommate, Shoo Shoo (this is the nickname that has stuck ever since I attempted to pronounce his last name) laughs a knowing laugh. Each day I'm awoken by a racket of unfamiliar bird calls and the neighbor's dog. I sit in the lecture hall and stare at the peeling skin on the backs of the sunburnt students. There are various activities planned for us-- an African Drum workshop (which becomes a game of monkey-see, monkey-do) a welcome reception, and the Freshers' Braai ("braai" = bbq) on the UCT rugby field.
All of these events are lovely and I do indeed feel most at home on campus-- well, not exactly at home, but it is an atmosphere I'm comfortable negotiating. But the words of my professor ring in my head. Because I have RAndy as my guide, because I am a student from an economically wealthier/dominating country, because I am white-- I am priviledged to a certain Cape Town. Randy drives me and his parents to the top of Signal Hill which has one of the most stunning views of the mountains, the ocean and the city. We shoot down to Tableview (just North of the city) and watch the sun set over the Atlantic as Kite surfers fly into the air off the spray of the ocean. We stretch out on the grass and drink a cold beer before we're off again for a delicious seafood dinner. The next evening we walk along the beach at Camps Bay, which could easily be mistaken for Miami with all the trendy bars and restaurants. The beautiful people laugh and smile, the tide crashes, the world turns.
But everywhere you go-- no matter how high your walls are, how fancy the restaurant, or secure the locks, there is a presence of tension. Perhaps moreso in these spaces of wealth and priviledge where there is farther to fall- or rather a strong fear of being touched by poverty, victimized by crime.. and of course, tainted by HIV/AIDS.
1 in 16 people in Sub-Saharan Africa has HIV. I stop to consider 16 people-- a large dinner party of friends, a few commuters in a car on the L train, a small classroom of elementary students. The wealth disparity in South Africa is as dramatic as its mountain ranges. Poverty not only means prostitution but also lack of access to anti-retroviral treatments, MTCT (mother to child treatments), education, etc. In South Africa, one of Africa's richest nations, only 12.6% of pregnant women received MTCT in 2006. From husband to wife; from lover to lover; from mother to child, the tide crashes, the world turns.

February 4th-13th

I miss Cheerios.

12:30 a.m. February 8, 2007, Cape Town, South Africa

Before you die, you must visit Cape Town. That is the first and most important idea that I must communicate to anyone who reads this.

I arrive on Sunday, February 4th at 7 a.m. and am greeted by UCT transportation services driver as well as two other haggard-looking students-- a plain Norwegian girl and a slim Hawaiian guy. We chitchat about the flight, our home universities, our studies. They look so young. I'm reminded of when I arrived in Sydney for my undergrad abroad program. But once we step outside it is I who become the child.
The blinding sun instantly warms my skin but it isn't scorching and there is not a drop of humidity. Everywhere you go in Cape Town a constant breeze cuts through the radiating heat from the sun and can whip up into a strong wind and nearly topple you or tumble lazily through and lull you into a deeply relaxed state. I can't stop grinning as I stretch my arms out, my skin hungry for the sun. Later that day I catch a glimpse of myself and realize the freckles on the bridge of my nose have reappeared.
The two younger students continue to play it cool, but I hope that they allow themselves to feel the depth of each moment. Soon I begin to realize how Cape Town offers the highest highs and the lowest lows, as we drive through this spectacular city and spot the first township area on the way. It is a patchwork settlement of sheet metal, plywood, and plastic just a small distance from the highway. In the background, the Table Mountains boldly stand against the sky.
We arrive at the first student's house and are informed that we must drop off our bags there in order to make the UCT tour on time. At this point I've been travelling for 33 hours straight (if you don't count the fact that I stopped in Brooklyn for a few hours on my way to the airport in order to complete my vocals for the CD). But I adore the idea of immediately plunging into this new landscape.
There are three coach buses lined up on the street and packed with students. When I board, I know I'm in bad company. Climbing the steps, I face roughly 50 undergraduate American students and as I walk through the aisle to find a seat, the cacophony of "like" attacks my mood. Luckily the Norwegian girl who I arrived with sits next to me... and promptly falls asleep. Still, the disjointed juxtaposition of the scenery and the company proves annoying. Like watching a love story and listening to a horror film soundtrack, I realize these kids are still at home in their tiny dramas, wrapped in their American flag. It is amazing how the experience of travelling-- of living within difference-- can be completely and utterly shut out. Psychologically, we protect-- at all costs-- the stability of our established modes of living, of homogeny. This is natural and I can't fault people for operating in this manner-- I know I have in the past as well. That is why I have some hope for them as well--I see a lot of my younger self in them and know what can develop out of months of living abroad or weeks of backpacking. I owe a lot to my Peru and Bolivia trip. I owe a lot to my friends who have shown me that the beauty of travelling, or wandering, is that there are no wrong turns-- go left or go right, it is always the right decision its own adventures.
So yes, the crowd was disappointing-- although, I did overhear some stories about this guy named Brett, who "like so wanted to be with me but then was like 'You're going away so why don't we just, like, get together or whatever' and I was all like 'Yea, ok'... So I skyped with him the other day and he told me about... I was all like "What?!"...". This would be one of those moments where I turn to face the camera and give a face that basically says "I want to shoot myself in the ears".
After a while though, all the chatter faded into the background. It wasn't so difficult because I lost myself in the South African coast line. I wasn't in a seat on a bus filled with Americans; I was inside the viewfinder of my camera. I was outside of my self-- concentrating on pulling the scenery into focus, into my lens, in my memory-- and wishing for a wider lens and wider eyes to consume this unfettered landscape.
I expected Cape Town to be a beautiful place but I did not expect the unceasing and spectacular power of the land and the water. At the tip of the African continent, in the grips of both the Atlantic and Indian Ocean tides-- the Twelve Apostles ridge dominates the sky. We drove along Chapman's Peak Drive-- 10 km of highway carving the mountainside, hundreds of metres above the thundering blue waves. Maneuvering the curves and crags of the mountainside, we entered Table Mountain National Park, which forms a significant portion of Cape Town and the lower half of the peninsula. The dry and sparse shrubs crawl over the rocky land-- the shape of the plants and leaves are completely alien to me.
At the very end of the park is Cape Point, where we are allowed time to hike up the cliffs to Cape Town's southern most point. I stood atop the crumbly cliff, trying to take in how magnificent this juncture is. With the cold Benguela current from the West and the warm Agulhas current from the East breaking on the rocks hundreds of metres below my feet-- there was little to do but be thankful having such a day, experience, moment, life.
I could have spent all day at this spot but soon we were back on the bus, shuttling to the Boulders-- home to an African Penguin Colony (formerly known as Jackass Penguins). Then last along the tour was some time at Fish Hoek. In some ways Cape Town is a bit of a tease, as I've found out that most of the beaches have a very cold surf. Since Fish Hoek is along the eastern coast and is fed by the waters of False Bay, it is one the warmer and more tame beaches. On such a sunny Sunday afternoon, the sand was filled with families and sunbathers. I rolled up my jeans, kicked off my shoes and sunk my feet into the hot sand. I was reminded of the first time I felt the Pacific rush up my ankles in Sydney. Roughly five years later, here I am again dipping my feet in new waters.
When we returned to the university, our housing coordinator gather the three late arrivers to drop us off at our proper residences. My house is located in a quiet and lush residential neighborhood between Constantia and Newlands. It is difficult to describe its character since each house hides behind large walls. This is common throughout Cape Town but is particularly noticable in the posher suburbs where the walls are higher, the dogs bark louder and each house is stamped with a sign for ADT security systems. There are no front yards. There are no bicycles lying haphazardly on the grass. There are no remnants on the street of the chalk from a game of hopscotch. WE pull up to my house where the garage and a tall door is wedged between high brick walls which face our street. We ring the doorbell and I realize there is a camera poised at me. We are buzzed in and enter walkway crowded with lush deep green vines and vibrant pink-purple flowers. I feel I've been let into someone's secret garden. Is it more beautiful because it is hidden? or protected? or because not everyone is allowed to see it? If one lifts a leaf there is only a brick wall to see.
We turn the corner to the side patio/front entrance. The kitchen is bursting with light but each window that can open has bars over it. There is a tree ripe with limes just outside the separate door which leads to my room-- where I have 3 keys on my night table-- one for the door to the patio, one for the gate which closes in front of that door, one fro the door that goes from my bedroom to my study. Beyond that, I carry 6 keys-- in addition to the 2 house keys that are for the back patio sliding doors. Just outside my bedroom winder is a flowering bush that smells similar to lilacs. The owners of the house say the flower is called "Past, present, future". I wonder if it merely smells sweet-- I hesitate to touch it, it may be poisonous yet.
This house is truly charming but there have been more and more moments where I have felt like a prisoner, a victim, a girl who is lost and is trying desperately to figure out who and what to trust.
Over the course of the next few days I will hear official safety talks from UCT, rumors from other international students, horror stories from Cape Town residents-- white, black, and "coloured" as they are called here. I am supposed to share my bedroom with a German girl but she has not yet arrived. I must admit that a part of me is happy to get a roommate-- this room is too large, too empty, too easily filled with my fears. I would be lying if I said that I wasn't ashamed of this thought. I feel like a child who begs for the hall-light to stay on. I check each door and window, fumbling with these unfamiliar keys-- looking for the right fit that will make me relax.
Luckily the first few nights Randy is still in town and I am absolutely spoiled by his presence-- truly the next best thing to having my brother here by my side. I arrive at my house and briefly meet two of my roommates-- Florian, a tall, lean blonde German guy with a strong, square jaw and icy blue eyes. And Kai-- also German, but softer with brown hair and a sunburn. Just as I bring my suitcases in, the door rings and I'm reunited with Randy-- who I haven't seen in over 7 months. But we barely miss a beat as I run up to him like a little kid and jump up into one of his amazing bear hugs. He swings me about and for a moment I forget completely where I am... except that I am with him. We look at each other's faces in amazement.
Soon we are off to the V&A Waterfront, a marina and shopping area with a swinging bridge. Randy's parents have been visiting him for the past week or so and they are kind enough to go off on their own and allow us time to catch up. We have dinner in the outdoor dining area of an upscale restaurant overlooking the water. We share a bottle of wine and watch the clouds creep over the Table Mountains and disappear in the darkening sky. I can't get over the fact that we are in Africa together-- after so much time apart nonetheless. As I said, I am spoiled by his presence here-- he is completely adjusted to this place and I feel totally at ease with him to guide me. We talk and talk-- not able to get enough, not fully filling in each story with the color we normally would but just covering the broad outlines. The time slips through our fingers but we know better now than to try to take hold of it.

? a.m. February 4, 2007, somewhere over Africa

Moonlight shining on an airplane wing looks pretty much the same anywhere in the world-- but somehow its just better when you're flying over Africa :)

4:50 p.m. February 3, 2007 Heathrow Airport, London

My flight has a substantial layover in London, so I aranged to have lunch with newlyweds Tanya and Chris (Tanya and I were college roommates and Chris and her have been dating ever since we were freshmen!). London strikes me as funny in that it poses no challenge to me as a traveller. I even begin to doze on the tube. But it is a bright day and I'm thankful for the time away from the airport.
I meet Tanya & Chris at the Gloucester train station. Tanya has, in her caring anxiety, already scheduled our whole day-- from the place and time to meet, to the sufficient amount of time Chris must get lost so that we can have 'girl talk'. I chuckle to myself as she explains all her ideas. It is just nice to relax and give the reigns over. But our conversation has no agenda, no to-do list of topics. We talk about big and small things-- mostly enjoying being in eachothers' presence. I hate to think that is just because it is so rare that we see one another that these moments are so precious but it certainly encourages us to savor these connections.
Arriving back at Heathrow, I'm feeling refreshed and ready for the next step. I've become too goodbyes, or I've really begun to see how rarely we truly say goodbye.
Walking down the sloping ramp towards the open plane door, a small girl with flushed cheeks and blonde hair runs past and squeels in her British accent, "Last one there's a rotten egg!" Her little brother tumbles by and shouts "Whoo hoo!" as he attempts to catch up to his big sister. I laugh aloud because the scene takes me by such surprise. I'm unprepared for the delight I feel from their carefree spirit. I'm reminded that I must be a little like a child during this trip.

8:40 p.m. February 2, 2007, La Guardia airport

Tick. Tick. Tick. This is the sound of a rollercoaster propelling its seat-belted passengers towards an apex. Or its the faint sound of your wrist watch slicing through a quiet room. Some call the heart a 'ticker' but its sound and rhythm is not as sharp or exact-- sometime it will even skip a beat. Sometime it will stop.
Sounds which mark distance or time have been ringing in my head. Too loud to ignore, too powerful to change. Today I leave for Cape Town. I leave for that sensation of the rollercoaster plummetting and shooting back up again-- an object of the earth's forces directed by a track. The seconds will be drenched by these intense movements and I hope that they fill up the time marked by those finite heart beats.