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.