The following blog entry will be presented in an
unconventional way; that is to say not exactly chronologically.
Throughout our adventures in South Africa, there were some
common themes that Allison, Ryan, and I explored and/or discussed, and it would
be too confusing/frustrating to separate them into their appropriate time
slots. So I’ve grouped those themes together, and at the end, you can see a
more chronological run-down of our days, and our non-theme related adventures.
I hope you find this blog interesting and thoughtful. Please
note that some of the ideas discussed are not necessarily the beliefs of Ryan,
Allison, or myself, but at times, simply ideas that were presented to us, or
ones that we wanted to ponder. Our discussions were sometimes about the big
problems in the world and thus ones without clear solutions or answers. I hope
you find our musings at the very least interesting.
Apartheid, Nelson Mandela, and Racial
Segregation
So I guess we should start with the obvious. Everyone one
knows the narrative of apartheid…or at the very least, knows that a narrative
exists. My initial understanding of Apartheid was that Danny Glover tries to go
to South Africa, and the embassy guy freaks out, saying, “But, but, but…you’re
black!” Then Mel Gibson shoots some Afrikaner guy in the forehead, yells
something like “[Your diplomatic immunity] has been revoked!!!” And the day was
saved. (Thank you, Lethal Weapon 2). Other relevant films I’ve seen include the
Power of One, where some white boy saves Africans, and Invictus, where Morgan
Freedom as Nelson Mandela makes sure Afrikaners can play rugby, because that is
the story that really matters. /s
Joking aside, I really didn’t know much of the details of
apartheid before, especially since my focus while studying Africa was on the
Western part, which has a very different history. For starters, where I’ve been
in West Africa, agriculture is the main export. In Senegal, the French focused
on peanut production (for it’s oil, to go in their soap). In Benin, the main
export is cotton. South Africa’s economy, however, has had historically (and
still today) mining as the driving force. A large community of Indians live in
South Africa; descendents from those who were brought there as slaves to work
the mines (Ghandi actually first started working in non-violent moments in
South Africa). For this and other reasons, there was also a large settler
community, i.e. white people who moved to South Africa and stayed. In West
Africa there are very few white people who are born there, or live there long
term.
This is important because it sets the stage for apartheid.
In West Africa, when the French finally left in 1960, they could just up and
pack. Few whites had land or standing interests there. “Bye-bye, West Africa,
thanks for the things, and good luck figuring out this whole democracy thing
after being exploited for so long.” fin.
(“Oh, p.s., don’t worry, the West will continue to exploit you, you’re
welcome.)
In South Africa, it was a little more difficult. There were
a lot of Afrikaner (descendents from the Dutch) and British people, who didn’t
want to leave. They had families, houses, lives, vineyards, businesses, mines,
etc, there. Suddenly they realized they were a minority among the surrounding
blacks, who across the continent were starting to challenge white colonial
rule.
A brief timeline of apartheid:
- In 1910, the Union of South Africa was established as a
territory of the commonwealth, but with home rule (as opposed to direct rule
from Britain).
- Continuing legislation imposed restricts black land
ownership and implements segregation throughout the country.
- 1948: the Nationalist party, running on an apartheid
platform, and mostly made of Afrikanners, takes power. Starts issuing “Passbooks”
and implementing their policy of “apart-ness”
- 1960: a group of men marched on the Sharpsville Police
Station as a protest, burning their passbooks and offering themselves up for
arrest. 69 of them were killed.
- Government arrests thousands, implements military rule. Rounds
up many leaders in the following years (including Nelson Mandela). Resistance
is quiet(-ish), abroad, or in prison
- 1970s: Black Consciousness movement builds up
- 1976: Soweto student uprisings. In subsequent years, more
student and labor uprisings.
- 1980s: ANC strives to make townships “ungovernable” with
boycotts and militant action
- 1985 – 1990: Government declares a State of Emergency
- Late 1980s: Petty apartheid laws begin to be lifted
- 1990: Bans on groups like the ANC lifted, prisoners not
guilty of common-law crimes (including Mandela) released unconditionally
- 1990 – 1993: Apartheid is dismantled through a series of
negotiations
- 1994: First election in South Africa with universal
suffrage.
Apartheid Is Where It Belongs: In A Museum
Walking into the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg is
foreboding. The ticket machine automatically assigns you white or non-white
status. [Under Apartheid the different races were White; then Black (divided up
into 10 different groups, such as Zulu, Xhosa, etc), Indian, and Coloured (aka
mixed)]. Then you are asked to enter through two separate doors according to
that status. Allison and I were briefly separated. I focused on the cage-like
walls, filled with examples of passbooks. There were stories of families who
were some how classes as different races (perhaps Zulu and Coloured) and forced
to live apart. In fact, some areas where people lived in racially diverse
groups were demolished, so that people could be relocated to the “appropriate”
areas.
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| sign in Apartheid Museum |
After this initial introduction to Apartheid, the museum
jumped back into time, starting with the original inhabitants of South Africa,
the Khoisan, and then other ethnic groups that moved in. “We have our own
history,” came the gentle reminder from the paintings, artifacts, and
descriptions, “one that we made ourselves, before we ever had the terrible
legacy of Apartheid forced upon us. Apartheid does not define us.” We continued
walking until we overlooked sprawling, industrial Johannesburg, still marred
with the stain of Apartheid, but today a diverse, bustling, changing city in
the New South Africa.
In our initial days in South Africa (before exploring
museums) Allison and I continually came back to the issue of how anyone ever
thought apartheid was a good and sustainable idea. Ryan was unable to give us a
satisfactory explanation (Is there one?), or at least not one that clicked. Not
to say that there is any excuse, but understanding the motivations of those
acting on questionable principles helps us realize how we might avoid such
logical fallacies in the future.
The initial steps in this racist history are easier to
understand. I know the word segregation, which was the set-up leading into
apartheid. We had that in America. “Homelands” for black people might easily be
mistaken as American Indian Reservations. White People want the land --> White People pass laws
saying the land is theirs and then enforce said laws --> Non-white people can no longer
live on the desirable lands.
But Apartheid was more than that. It was physically
demolishing slums in the inner-city, moving non-whites to houses built by the
government in areas (divided by race) outside the city (called townships), and
then subsidizing the cost for aforementioned non-whites to travel daily back in
to the city to be, say, domestic workers.
I guess the moment it clicked, though, was standing in front
of a picture of black and whites struggling to get on public transportation
together, with a sign explaining that the Great Depression reverberated around
the world as blacks moved into the urban areas of South Africa. Whites, having
long feared the “swamping” of themselves (politically) by blacks now also
competed with them for jobs. They wanted to keep their position of privilege.
Plus, apparently living next to blacks is scary. In America,
when black people started moving into urban areas, there was a “White Flight”
epidemic. South Africa simply dealt with this in a different fashion. They sent
all the blacks outside the city, instead of abandoning them within.
Additionally, a lot of the policies were aimed at a “Divide
and Conquer” strategy. If the Blacks, Coloureds, and Indians were separate,
they would have a harder time unifying and rising against their white
oppressors.
There were many forms of protests, planned acts of sabatoge
and so on (I didn’t pay attention to all these details). The Sharpsville
shooting in 1960 was important, because it lead the government to a military
crackdown that kept apartheid in place and the resistance more or less quelled
for many years. Many leaders, including Mandela, were imprisoned.
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| Sharpsville |
We went to Nelson Mandela’s house, which is in Soweto, or
the SOuth WEstern TOwnship outside of Johannesburg. For the years that he was
in prison, his wife Winnie, held down the fort. She was active in the apartheid
movement, spending a brief time in prison herself. There were also bullet holes
in the house walls, a calling card from the police who wanted to remind Winnie
who had the power.
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| Poster of Winnie, beside the bullet holes in her house |
Another one of our activities included a trip to Robben
Island. This is essentially an Alcatraz off the coast of Cape Town, in the
southwest of the country. It is a long journey from Johannesburg to Cape Town,
and a perilous, boat ride to the actual island. We saw the old mines where
prisoners engaged in back-breaking work almost every day. There was a small
cutout, where they might gather for a break. The smell of urine and the like
meant that the guards did not come close, and many ideas for the new
constitution were reportedly hatched there.
We were given a tour of the actual prison by a former
(civil, not criminal) prisoner. This man in particular was part of the ANC. He
did stress that Nelson Mandela was not the only person fighting for freedom.
There were, in fact, many anti-apartheid leaders in prison right beside
Mandela—in addition to those who were exiles, and those who died in the
struggle. Plus there were just the everyday people, with no leadership
position, who were imprisoned during the struggle.
This point was interesting. I feel as though I’ve been
raised on the tales of the great peace-leaders: Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, and
MLK. But overlooked are the other leaders. And more important, the normal every
day people without whom these leaders would have failed. Allison, Ryan, and I
happened to watch Selma, and discussed the parallels. MLK’s leadership,
however, required a great force of black people to be beaten and imprisoned
before anyone stood up and took note.
Nelson Mandela was an inspiring man, and did fight for his
people. He served many days in prison and refused to cut deals with the
government, who initially offered him freedom if he would condemn some of the
violent events within the country. He negotiated peace and worked hard in his
efforts to unite the country during his time as president.
But his is not the only story. If it weren’t for the people,
Mandela would have rotted and died and prison, and apartheid would still be the
rule of the land.
In the 1970s, however, there was a movement of Black
Consciousness Movement, which was a grassroots challenge to apartheid. It grew
to generate a greater cohesiveness among all the black groups in the struggle.
In 1974, the government passed a decree, requiring all
classes be in Afrikaans, a language that black teachers and students, for the
most part, did not speak. In 1976, a group of students in Soweto—not far from
Mandela’s home—decided to march in protest. Their account of the day was simply
a desire to stand up in protest, sing a bit, and go home.
The police recount a different story, involving dangerous monsters
children who menaced police officers, made them fear for their lives, possibly
threw rocks at them, requiring police officers to respond with bullets. At
least 176 children did not go home that day.
One of the first to die was Hector Peiterson. The museum
commemorating the uprising is named in his honor. One of the most famous
pictures from that day, is of a man carrying his lifeless body, with his sister
in distress running beside him.
The picture in the Hector Peiterson museum that struck me
the most, however, was this one:
Because I can’t help but think of this:
And then I think to myself that perhaps if today, in
America, we have people protesting with the catch-phrase, “Hands Up, Don’t
Shoot”, and that SAME message was a plea protests in apartheid South Africa, a regime we can all agree was pretty fucking terrible, maybe we have some serious soul-searching to do.
There, there's these two pictures:
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| Soweto Student Protests |
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| Ferguson, MO |
And again, both look like a pretty oppressive place, and one we know (in retrospect) for sure definitely was.
If we then think about how TODAY, in AMERICA, we imprison
more black men per hundred thousand than were imprisoned (per hundred thousand)
under apartheid in South Africa, maybe we need to do even more soul-searching.
Because in Apartheid South Africa, the CRIME was BEING
BLACK. Let’s stop pretending that the situation is anything different in
America, today.
Such criminality continued in the South Africa for many more
years. In the 1980s, the ANC adopted the strategy of making the townships
“ungovernable.” This meant that a lot of violence was therefore taken against
the protesting citizens by the apartheid government, especially after the
declaration of a State of Emergency in 1985.
But it was working. The government began to ease what was
called “Petty” Apartheid laws, such as the banning of interracial
relationships. They hoped to appease the population. The people would accept
nothing but absolute freedom. The government pleaded with Mandela: “We’ll give
you your freedom, if you tell these people to stop; condemn them, saying
violence is not necessary for political objectives.” Mandela responded (through
a statement read by his daughter) by saying that he could not be free if his
people were not. And that violence was the responsibility of the current
regime; if only they allowed democracy, there would be no need for violence.
In 1990, the government released Mandela and other leaders
without any conditions. From then until 1993, Apartheid was dismantled through
a series of negotiations. In 1994, the first elections with universal suffrage
were held in South Africa, and Nelson Mandela became president.
South Africa After Apartheid
The end of apartheid was met with much joy. Black people, at
last, had the right to vote. They had a lot more rights enshrined in their
constitution, even more so than we do (such as the right to life—no death
penalty, education, to vote even if one is convicted of a felony, to equality
under the law including gay marriage, to food, water and healthcare… the list
goes on)
The anti-apartheid movement had been so great, so moral; a
beacon of righteousness against a government that was so obviously morally
wrong. People expected the post-apartheid government to be just as great. And
in some ways they were disappointed.
Because how could this government truly succeed? Sure, black
people got the right to vote, but white people got to keep all of the money.
Money, by the way, that they had made on the backs of black people (and
Indians, and Coloureds).
In a bar in Johannesburg one of our first nights, Ryan,
Allison, and I were sat at a table containing a South African couple. We had a
long, fun conversation with them (as well as a great number of drinks). The
girl, at one point stated unequivocally that she did not like Nelson Mandela.
This revelation did not rock me as it might have once, since my good friend in
college—an Indian—had once revealed to me her disdain for Gandhi. Perhaps the
great men are not as angelic as they seem to the casual outside observer.
The girl that night ranted about Mandela’s lack of care for
the Eastern Cape—homeland to herself and Mr. Mandela alike. She felt as though
the President—and his successor, also from the Eastern Cape—abandoned this
region to poverty in an effort to pander to the whites and the rest of the
world.
In one sense, it seemed as though she was upset that Mandela
did not act as other politicians—showing clear favoritism to the region. This
sort of favoritism led to, in Benin, over 12 coups d’état in a short period
post-independence, followed by a dictatorship. Perhaps it was wise that Mandela
did not have such overt displays of regionalism, spending tons of money on his
birthplace, while the rest of the country floundered. He left the Eastern Cape
to be the poorest region in South Africa; perhaps that was just the way the
resources fell.
But it was more than that. Her male companion argued that Nelson
Mandela could not afford to alienate the white population—the businessmen with
all the money. Without them, South Africa would have floundered, and would not
be the 2nd largest economy in Africa, as it is today.
But then the question is, have black people benefited? What
can you say to the individuals there who may be homeless, not have access to
clean water, living in shack settlements set up on the outskirts of the
still-existent, dividing townships? “Don’t worry, our economy is 2nd
only to Nigeria!”?
How can the scars of apartheid be healed? The physical
barriers are there; the areas allotted for very specific races, for the most
part still stands. Do you bulldoze those neighborhoods and move people into
integrated ones, as a reverse apartheid? How do you convince the people of
privilege to integrate when there is not only a disparity of race, but an even
larger disparity of wealth? How do you address the barriers that aren’t
physical? Those of class and wealth? These are the questions as of yet
unanswered in the New South Africa.
White People in Africa
“People travel to
faraway places to watch, in fascination, the kind of people they ignore at
home.” – Dagobert D. Runes
Another topic of discussion common in our trip was what
precisely is the role of white people in Africa. In tourism; in aid work; or
the combination of both, known as “voluntourism”.
When we gape at pour people—in villages, in townships,
whatever, what is the world gaining? From behind the glass windows of our tour
bus, what do we learn? That people who have so little, still manage to plod
through this life—so “simply”, so beautifully? (Sidenote, if any one reading
this ever mentions to me the inspiring “simplicity” with which the African poor
live, you will be subject to a strict lecture). Are we ashamed of our own
excess? Or do we simply see the characters on the other side of the glass as
less complex, less in need of material things? We glide by the women carrying
loads on top of their heads, that we would not trust on top of our car. Oh, and
the children! The children—adorable little creatures that they are—run up to
us, begging for some candy, and oh! it makes you feel so good to give it to
them. But what about the alternative: to avoid poor areas at all costs? They
are dirty and dangerous, so many steer clear. They are filled with our worst
fears; so they are avoided and forgotten.
I think back to my journeys in Western countries. Who
doesn’t love wandering around Paris, gaping at the beautiful, old architecture;
admiring the sophisticated Frenchies in their black clothes? Look at them with
their coffee and cigarettes! Their baguettes!
Is it so different to wander through poor, African
neighborhoods? I guess the main difference is that we don’t look at Frenchies
with pity; don’t ascribe to them a mythological state of being in poor
simplicity. We look at the French as having high culture; the blacks in townships
have none, or at least none of sophistication.
Ryan, Allison, and I went on a bike tour of one of the
townships, Alexandra. It was the first home Nelson Mandela had around Joburg,
before moving to Soweto. We hoped for a tour including the historical sites
(Alex was the location of another student uprising in the 1970s, among other
things). What we got was a tour of a daycare center (possibly there so we could
get pictures with cute African children), and some information on the town’s
current drug trade, and more opportunities to look at cute children. For so
many people who wrote on the tripadvisor reviews; this was wonderful. They got
to see how the people lived, and oh, was it admirable. To be able to go on
living with so little, how could these people do it? For the three of us,
however, it felt uncomfortable at best.
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| art of Nelson Mandela; near his former home in Alex |
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| A street in Alex |
I think the single best tour done right I’ve taken was the
one I took of Fez, Morocco in 2009. I remember being put off at first that it
was a tour built around things you could buy. But in reflection, so is every
tour in the US (i.e. here’s a museum, here’s a gift shop!!) But more than that,
it was a tour of town in a developing country; the people around us were likely
poorer than us. But we got to see the life of the town. We went to a place that
made traditional pottery of the region. Employees gave us a tour, so we could
see the processes and the effort that went into creating these beautiful
pieces. But also, the individuals WANTED us there. Sure, maybe part of it was
showing off their work, tradition, whatever, but also we would hopefully buy
things in the end. We did see historical sites (graves of the old rulers); we
learned about the history of Fez, how it started, grew, and how the
neighborhoods sprawled. But more than that, went to see leather-making,
weaving, a traditional medicine/herb shop, then finally a restaurant serving
delicious Moroccan food. We tapped into the vibrant economy of the city. And
that’s what a town is: a history that got it to today’s point and all the small
businesses combined that give it life.
Guiding Principles
for Economic Responsibility: development that benefits and involves local
communities, using tourism to assist in poverty reduction, and providing
support to small enterprises. Also market tourism in ways which reflect, the
natural, cultural, and social integrity of the destination, and finally adopt
fair businesses practices in terms of pricing and labor standards
Guiding Principles
for Social Responsibility: make tourism and inclusive social experience to
ensure access even for disadvantaged communities. Be sensitive to the host
culture, maintaining social and cultural diversity.
Guiding Principles
for Environmental Responsibility: Use resources sustainably, reduce waste
and over-consumption. Consider volume and type of tourism the environment can
support and promote education and awareness for sustainable development.
And I guess this is essentially what we mean. The problem is
with tourism where there is a boundary between the vacationers and the locals:
where tourists are there only to OBSERVE local life, maybe TAKE a few artifacts
as souvenirs, but not PARTICIPATE. Where there are specific bars where
vacationers go to get their fancy drinks and know that for the most part they
won’t be bothered by locals. Or, if there are locals there, they are always the
servers, the maids, etc; nothing more.
A lot of these guidelines focus on the
community/government/etc that is developing the tourism. They definitely have a
responsibility. I know my mom is proud of the fact that Frederick is a top
destination for the DC area; and a lot of that came through the city government
working with local small businesses.
But there is responsibility of the tourist as well. I know,
maybe you’re thinking, “I just want to go on a vacation where I don’t have to
think!” But for any vacation, you always do some research, right? Even if it’s
to find out the best restaurants or route there. And regardless of the
destination, you should probably do a bit more. Just so you aren’t one of those
tourists that locals hate. But if you’re going to a location in a developing
nation, you’re going somewhere that has a culture completely different than
your own. You should take time research a little about the culture and the
language (even if it’s just the ability to say “Hello!” and “Thank you!”).
Research the appropriate dress code (Hey, you’re already looking up the weather
to figure out which clothes to bring, look up local expectations as well).
Patronize local businesses (because, seriously, did you travel all this way to
go to McDonalds and shop at Ralph Lauren??? You could have saved a lot of money
and stayed at home), and try to use public transportation. Always ask permission to take photographs, and try to pay local prices so you don’t create
inflation for the locals.
Anyway, these suggestions really aren’t that hard. They may
take a little more effort. And in the end, you are creating a better, more
eye-opening experience for yourself, and creating better relations with the people
you meet, and better communities around the world.
So now we’ve got the tourism part covered here. I’ve already
covered a lot of my ideas on aid in previous entries, and the conclusion is for
the most part that aid is currently badly done. And my biggest issue is that a
lot of aid work (including my irrigation project) has been done without really
including the community; their thoughts, ideas, desires, needs, etc. It’s just
been telling them what to do, and then when they leave, they realize this was
never something they wanted in the first place, so they don’t care.
We did find this little gem around Joburg. It’s supposed to
be satirical, saying essentially, “America always has suggestions on how we
(Africa) can do better, always has new solutions for us, how would they feel if
we came over there, and told them how to fix all of their problems?”
Then there is a trend, also of what one might call
“voluntourism”. It’s supposed to be great, right? You get to see the world—and
save it—all in one trip.
Before I write it off as a wholly awful idea, Allison, Ryan
and I pondered if there were any redeeming factors. Even if it’s, say, not the
best way to go about development, can it accomplish an overall good?
The main issue is that voluntourism typically does very
little actual good for the community. Let’s say a group decides to go and build
a school. They raise all this money: a bit for the school, a lot for plane
tickets to go over there. The group arrives in the community. Suddenly, they
realize that none of them are masons (the school is built from concrete). So
they hire one mason to kind of direct them as the merrily make bricks and put
up the school. Maybe a wall collapses halfway through building it, because they
don’t actually know what they’re doing (this is based on a true story, btw).
Just think of all that waste. A much better approach would
be to raise enough money for the school, and to pay for someone to build it. In
this way, more money actually goes into the community, via paying the mason to
build the school. Plus you could buy more school supplies with all that money
you didn’t spend on flying there (maybe you fly one person to oversee the
operation). OH, and please don’t buy American school supplies to send to
children. You do know that you can buy school supplies in any African country?
And, usually it looks different than American ones (such as the notebooks are
lined differently, or the coloring books might actually be in the appropriate
language, the printing paper is a different size). And again, you’re putting
money into the local economy, especially if you say, send that one person to
buy school supplies in village (or the closest village selling such supplies).
But that just doesn’t FEEL as good, does it? You simply sent
a check into the jungles of Africa. Its just money, after all, and we have such
a great supply of that in America. You didn’t have to suffer through the 20-hour
plane ride, the heat and possible malaria. You didn’t sweat like a good
world-saving person should. You didn’t get the party with the drumbeat dancing
and the weird food. You didn’t get the smiles of the children and their
parents.
And how could we possibly motivate people to give money to
that? To just send money and believe that it’s doing good?
Is a shoddily built school better than no school at all?
What about voluntourism that actually does harm? For
example, a lot of people love working with children, and especially vulnerable
ones, like orphans, etc. There’s your feel-good-feeling to the max. But in
reality, it’s actually really harmful for those children to be exposed to a
rotating group of people. They develop short attachments, and then you leave
them hanging until the next group arrives.
According to an article that Ryan read, the best way to do
voluntourism—if you must—would be some sort of project out, say in the
wilderness, or a national park, where you are just picking up trash or doing
something like that. Basically, far away where you really can’t hurt anyone.
[Now, granted, if you are traveling to a foreign country to
offer a skill (medical, technical, technology or business training, or microfinance, etc) that either isn’t available there, or is in short supply,
that is a completely different story. But for now, we’re focusing on projects
that are tooted as something that anyone can do, or projects that focus on the
bringing of things.]
So if we conclude that the voluntourism doesn’t have so much
benefit for communities directly (with some exceptions), is there any saving
grace?
What about the impact on the people doing the voluntourism?
If their eyes are opened to the poverty that exists in the far (or close)
corners of the world, is that an overall benefit (for the developing world)?
They are so inspired to make a difference in the world, that they later come
back and do good. Well what if they keep doing these same projects over and
over again? The same broken ones that make them feel good, but don’t really
help all that much?
We saw an advertisement in Cape Town that said something
like, “I came to Cape Town to change it, but Cape Town changed me.” And I
pffffftttt’d in disagreement. I looked around Cape Town, with its clean
streets, nice, well-kept buildings, an extensive park, almost all full of
well-to-do white people. How could Cape Town ever be billed as a place needing
aid?
But, of course, it does. On the outskirts of town are the
townships; places of poverty where domestic workers and other poor laborers
live. There are poor communities with various needs, and just because they live
next to rich white people doesn’t mean they need the help any less.
And Ryan made a comment about how all these volunteers just
go out to the townships during the day, do some random work there, and then go
out drinking and partying in the bars on Long Street. And I pffffftttt’d again,
until I remembered that I spent a lot of my Peace Corps service in a bar as
well. But if I was drinking shots of $2/liter (20 cents / shot) whiskey, while
these kids were drinking expensive mixed drinks, does that make me better? Does
it make my service superior?
I don’t want to get into the whole comparison thing. Not
everyone can do what I did. Even my fellow travelers, Ryan and Allison, have
expressed that they could never have done Peace Corps. Allison did a Fulbright
in Vietnam, and Ryan in South Africa, which was shorter (only a year) and much
better paid (so better living conditions). And I don’t think any less of them,
or believe that they are less intrepid travelers or less able to work in
developing countries, analyze development, etc. For me, personally, my Peace
Corps experience was a lot about learning what doesn’t work in development, not
necessarily doing everything right.
And having two years to dedicate is a lot different than
signing up for two weeks.
So perhaps the most appropriate way of analyzing it would be
the impact of the project as a whole. As in, not the work of each individual
coming through, but the way the program is organized. Is that organization
working with the community? Did they go out and ask for community input, and is
the program designed for maximum community benefit? Or is it designed around
making sure the kids (volunteers) have a good time?
And as for the voluntourist, what is the impact on them? Do
they learn what life is really like in poverty? Are they able to understand
better the culture and community in which they are working? Do they understand
aid work—it’s good and bad parts—better? If they don’t make such a huge impact
now, will they be able to take what they’ve learned, come back and do better?
One important thing for me would be asking the voluntourists
to live IN the community. Great, you’re working in the townships; so stay with
a family. Really get to understand life there. Sure, go out to a sheebeen
(small drinking place, usually in someone’s house or beside it, whatever) with
your host family or fellow volunteers. But again, spend money at local places,
not at the fancy bars on Longstreet, far away from the place you’re trying to
help.
I guess that’s the basic measure when it comes to tourism
and voluntourism. I know it’s maybe more than people want to think about for
their vacationing and do-gooding. But you have a responsibility as a world
citizen to think about your actions and your impact. And the community to which
you are traveling should be of primary concern.
And like I said, ultimately, putting your host community
first makes your experience better. Which brings us to:
An Ode to Street Food
Ryan, and Allison and I spent a lot of time lamenting our
actions in Senegal, specifically regarding food. We were only there for three months, but even from early on,
we spent a lot of time lamenting our lack of familiar, American food. Or in
general turning our noses up at what our host families offered us.
We did come to like Ceeb u Jen, the national meal, which is
a large plate for rice (cooked in plenty of oil), with a fish, a yam, a manioc,
cabbage, a large carrot, etc on top. Then, of course there was yassa, a
chicken-with-lemon-sauce dish that was delicious. These dishes, however, were
more involved and not served on a regular basis. Of the three of us, I think I
had it best, with a half Moroccan host mom who often fixed Fried rice and Nems
(oh, the culture sharing that happened due to worldwide colonialism), and many
other delicious things. Sometimes even a simple plate of fries with Laughing
Cow cheese and fried eggs on top. Ryan, who in America was a strict vegetarian,
but agreed to eat meat in Senegal for reasons of cultural sensitivity, found
herself disappointed by the grisly chunks of meat that seemed to accompany
every meal.
We ate out often at a few places near our homes or school
that served chicken and fries. I think we ate 4 to 7 plates of fries every week
(and trust me, we still do love our plate of fries).
Looking back, however, we think about how much we probably
missed out on. With the hours and meal we flitted away chasing basic
American-esque food. We missed out on street food.
Street food is just what it sounds like: Food sold along the
side of the street. It’s available in most countries that don’t have strict
laws about the care and selling of food. (Which gives you the added bonus of
sometimes getting to take your digestive system for a ride).
Street food is outrageously cheap. Also the best food to
get—in the way that getting crabs or lobsters from small, roadside shacks in
Maryland or Maine, respectively, is the best. In way that the best Po-boys (and
other Cajun food as well as Soul food) in Louisiana are found in gas stations.
Nothing pretentious; simply an establishment that cares more about preparing of
finger-licking-good food than the appearance.
Yet we never tried the street food in Senegal. Allison says
we were a little too Princess-y then. Ryan says it was just a time where we
were still developing personally. We were not yet ready to distance ourselves
from the teat of familiar, American-style food.
Also, to be fair, we never really had someone show us that
it was an option. I got introduced to Street Food in Benin, mostly because there
weren’t any other options in Kérou. My first stint in Cotonou, I spent $16—that
was two days worth of pay—on a nice Chinese restaurant. After a fellow
volunteer introduced me to the Street Food near the workstation, I never went
back to that fancy establishment. In fact, I spent almost all of my Cotonou meals
eating at the first street-food place or other similar locations; OR a place called “Plate of Food” where you
literally could order a plate of Beninese food, in any combination of
rice/fries/plantains, salad, fish/chicken, tomato sauce, veggies, and a nice
chunk of ground hot pepper; OR getting Schwarma.
And I loved, loved, loved the street food. For lunch every
day there was a lady who sold Bean Sandwiches (literally scoops of beans inside
of a baguette). I would go to the lady next to her and get a bit of “Vegetable
Sauce” which was essentially a green leafy plant cooked with oil and onions,
and spices. All of this for under a dollar. I hated Sundays, because the Bean
Lady wasn’t there.
For dinner, I would usually get rice (only a bit, or
sometimes no carbs, which continually confused the women selling it), with a
heap of “Vegetable Sauce” and balls of sesame and/or fried tofu, and fish. I
love it. It was so good.
On Ryan’s, Allison’s, and my trip through Ghana/Togo/Benin
last year, we found ourselves opting for street food over fancy restaurants.
Would we love to sit down on the side of the road and eat Red-Red (beans in
tomato sauce with plantains) with this lady who is overjoyed to be serving
three white girls? Yes, yes we would! Would we love to find the street in
Kpalimé selling food, order a meal of rice and beans for 40 cents, get drunk,
and then order a whole bag of fried plantains? YES WE WOULD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
So almost a lot of our meals in South Africa were
essentially what I would call Street Food that just happened to be served in
places with a structure and chairs around the food.
Our stint across the Western and Eastern Cape involved a lot
of Fish and Chips. Because we were at the ocean, duh, and that’s basically British
Street Food, right? (Okay, maybe this part was cheating a bit). We wholly
embarrassed ourselves at this one establishment, by using our hands, while the
Brits and White South Africans around us ate the fries with forks (what???).
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| Fried Fish and Chips!!! |
We found this incredible establishment called Eastern Food
Bazaar in Cape Town, which was a row of Eastern foods, including Turkish, North
and South Indian, Chinese, etc. We went there two nights in a row because it
was amazing, and had too many good options to cram into one night.
In Joburg, we attempted to conquer as many cuisines as
possible. Ethiopian was at the top of our list. Ryan and Allison are beyond
obsessed with this cuisine. I’ve always professed a love for Ethiopian food,
but I think this trip made me realize I don’t love it as much as I thought I
did. (Please, Allison and Ryan, still be friends with me!!!!) I think my
interest stemmed from Ethiopian being the mostly widely spread and recognizable
African food available. I mean, there even used to be an Ethiopian restaurant
in my little town of Frederick. Ethiopian is amazing because you can get a
whole platter of food that is cooked with delicious spices. From meat or
lentils, to a cluster of avocado or a scoop of cheese, there are so many tasty
things. But I’m not a fan of the injera, which is this spongy sourdough bread.
That’s not to say I mind putting up with the injera as a vehicle to the tastier
things that make up the rest of Ethiopian food, however.
Luckily, Joburg is a wonderfully diverse city, filled with clusters
of ethnicities, which means a wide variety of food. Some people are immigrants,
so are first generation, or in the case of many Indians, some have been in
South Africa for many, many generations, and are more solidly South African
than Indian. In fact, there is a dish that is a South-African-Indian specific
dish that involves hollowing out a loaf of bread and stuffing a curry-meal
inside. Yum!
 |
Our stop along the garden route; Fried Fish Sandwich with Chips; Curry in
a bread loaf bowl; curry with rice. And one Samosa. |
There is a heavily-Indian neighborhood. We went there on
multiple occasions, eating Indian and Pakistani food, as well as deserts. We
also smoked Hookah, which in South Africa is called “Hubbly Bubbly”.
 |
| Indian Food |
 |
| Indian/Pakistani deserts |
At the hookah bar, a lovely Egyptian man paid for our hookah
the first night, in an effort to make sure we “didn’t think all Muslims are
bad.” Though we assured him we didn’t actually think that, he insisted. And the
next time we came, he was there again with his friends. They had ordered a
delicious plate of fruit. As it’s about to get set down on their table, this
man insists the server serve it to us instead. It was quite yummy. As we were
eating it, one of the other men, yells out to the server “Hey, where’s our
food!?!?!?!” Ryan quietly (so only Allison and I hear her) responds, “It’s
right here, you gave it to us. We’re eating it.” Don’t worry, they got to eat
the second plate that came out about 10 minutes later.
Not far from the Indian area is a small Somali neighborhood.
Ryan couldn’t remember the exact streets, but as we were driving, it became
instantly clear when we came to it. Suddenly the streets were filled with
Somalis—apparent by their more conservative Muslim garb and
Ethiopian-but-darker features. We parked and walked into a food stand area. We
asked the man at the entrance if we could sit down, and he just laughed. As if the idea of three, scandalously
dressed (our shoulders were showing), white girls wanting to eat there was the
most bizarre thing he’d seen in his life. We picked out food from the counter,
merrily ate it as the men their briefly stared at us before returning to their
sports event at the TV in the front. On the way out, we joked with the man at
the door, saying this was our first time having Somali food, but not our last,
and he merrily cried out, “You come back!”
 |
| Somali Food |
Our experience eating Cameroonian food was confusing for
everyone involved. Allison, Ryan, and I weren’t sure whether English or French
was more appropriate, and the people there seemed to be confused no matter what
language we were speaking. When we arrived and walked up to the lady selling
food, she said, clearly distressed, “Oh, you’re supposed to call!”
“Why?” asked Ryan, bewildered.
“I don’t know,” the lady admitted. She launched into an
explanation about how the woman who usually grills the fish wasn’t there.
“Okay, so you don’t have fish. But you have other things to
eat?” I asked.
“Yes. But it’s traditional African food.” This seemed to be
the key point of confusion. She seemed to assume—as did people in other
restaurants we’d go to—that we would never actually want traditional African
food. We were probably lost. Or confused. Or both. In my view, however, it
would have been hard to walk into these locations if it weren’t on purpose. The
places we were at were in the middle of staunchly black-African neighborhoods.
The restaurant was in this little dingy establishment, a flight of stairs down
from the main road. Someone not looking for specifically African (in this case
Cameroonian) food would have turned around a long time ago.
Ryan later determined that this was a spot along a food tour
one could take of Joburg—a tour of white people indulging in “African” food.
However, this restaurant fixed a grilled fish specifically for these tourists,
and the lady must have been flustered that she did not have the grilled fish to
give us. What we wanted, however, was the usual meal, which she had plenty of,
involving rice or African yams, *fried* fish, and a vegetable sauce.
Once we established, however, that this place did have food
to sell us, and that we wanted to buy aforementioned food (the lady was even
more shocked when I asked for the yams. “You know yams????” she asked
incredulously), the food was brought to us, and the two women behind the
counter stared at us apprehensively as we dug in. Merrily we ate with our
spoons and/or hands, and listened to the French that was floating around us.
When we went to eat Nigerian food, we were again,
incredulously informed that they only had traditional African food. We said
that it was exactly what we wanted, and we were brought heaps of rice
accompanied by some stew with meat chunks. We made ourselves even more
confusing by asking that one rice heap not be brought, as that was simply too
many carbs.
We also found a
Ghanaian food establishment. I loved this one, because the food reminded me a
lot of what was available in Benin. I even got gari, which is dried manioc
shavings, eaten as a topping in Benin/Togo/Ghana. Later, we were at an
African-craft market, and met a guy from Ghana (who sold me a Ghanaian blanket
similar to the one I lost in my luggage on the way home from Benin). He was
delighted to know that we’d eaten Ghanaian food, and in fact his sister worked
in that establishment! When we went back two days later, a woman working there
were like, “Oh, you met my brother!” Apparently the news of three white girls
who have actually been to Ghana and like eating actual African food in Africa
and can recognize Ashanti blankets and Tuareg jewelry for what they are, was
the topic of discussion at the family dinner, or whatever.
 |
| Ghanaian Food! |
Traditional South African food contains the generic corn-mush
base (Banku in Ghana, Pate in Togo and Benin, Pap in South Africa), and the
fermented version (to give it extra flavor) is also available in all of those
aforementioned countries. We were too busy running around the continent to go
to a South African street food vendor. However, we did eat at a fast-food chain
called Nando’s. It is a specifically South African chain (with a location in DC), serving food flavored with spices from Mozambique. It’s quite delicious.
You can get pap there if you want, alongside the tasty chicken. We opted for
rice or fries to go with our meals.
My point is our stint in South Africa was a quite a lovely
culinary experience. But not because we spent a lot of money to eat at fancy
places. We chose time and again to eat what in the States one might call
“homecooking.”
This is the kind of traveling I’m talking about. Where you
eat what locals (or in our case, what the African immigrants of various
neighborhoods) eat. Do locals eat at the McDonalds or KFC in South Africa? Yes.
But if you wanted local food, even in America, you wouldn’t go to the
McDonalds. So it’s about participating in the community; eating the food, just
as it is, at its normal price.
Sure, there is a lot of discussion to be had about what is
cultural appropriation, that is taking the aspects you like about a certain
culture (say the food), while ignoring the people and/or the other aspects of
the culture. For such a discussion in comic form, please check out this
website:
http://bitchmagazine.org/post/a-comic-about-food-and-cultural-appropriation
. The point of this comic is to express the frustration the author feels with
(predominantly white liberals) and their obsession with asking her if the
Malaysian food they are eating is “authentic”. As though she can be the voice
for all Malaysians and the food critic of all Malaysian food. Food, culture,
and people are far more diverse than that.
So the point that I’m trying to make isn’t that my eating of
street food makes me a better person or a better global citizen. It’s just me
expressing my joy at finally recognizing what it is to eat good, oily, fatty,
homecooked-style, food…everywhere from the streets of West or South Africa, to
the gas stations of New Orleans, the Soul Food establishments in the Tennessee
or Chicago (Allison and I had these on our cross country roadtrips in 2010 and
2011). It’s taking a step off of the well-known Bourbon Street, where I can
attest the Cajun food is absolute CRAP. (And expensive. Ugh). It’s eating the
Barbeque in a country restaurant, and hushpuppies with your crabs smothered in
Old Bay at some shack on the Eastern Shore. It’s eating rice and beans from a
“Maman” in West Africa.
But it’s not just wanting to eat the food, it’s wanting to
participate in as many cultures as possible. Going to the “scary” neighborhoods
of Joburg. Actually interacting with the people making it, even if it is just
them laughing at you. I think—I know that I still have work to do on analyzing
my motivations in consideration of “otherness” but I also know that I love
experiences in other countries that aren’t exclusively about hanging out with
other expats, and ARE predominantly about eating street food or the like and
hanging out with locals.
Our
Actual Itinerary
Now that I’ve swelled your mind with rambling about South
African history and global tourism and cuisine, I guess you might want to hear
about what we actually did while in South Africa.
Joburg: Part 1
I hopped off the plane and rushed to the exit. I was one of
the first from my plane to make it through to the waiting area. That was
possible only because I didn’t check any luggage!
Ryan drove Allison (who had arrived the day before) and I
back to her apartment, and I repeatedly had my mind on the verge of breaking up
with itself as we drove on the wrong side of the road and went the opposite way
around traffic circles.
Then we had are minds further blown as we went to a little
hipster market in downtown Joburg. It could have easily been located in
Brooklyn (though with more black people), as people sold hipster clothes out of
an old beat up car, or off racks in a second-floor apartment converted into a
plain selling-space. There was a place called Lenin bar where we got mixed
drinks, a backpackers’ hostel (to remind us that Joburg is still a struggling
city with a wealth gap, this was across from an empty building used by homeless
people), a counter selling lemonade and falafel, another selling frozen yogurt,
and…WHAT CONTINENT ARE WE ON AGAIN?????
We went to another little hipster bar, a little closer to
Ryan’s apartment. It wasn’t terribly busy, being a Sunday afternoon. But we had
a little drink, chatted some more, catching up on each other’s life, and then
went back to Ryan’s to sleep off our jet-lag.
Monday we got up and made our way to this building called
Ponte City Apartments. This is actually a building Ryan has lived in and
written about (
http://roadsandkingdoms.com/2015/south-africas-tower-of-dreams/).
She took some time to show Allison and I around, leading us to the bottom where
you could look up through the center of the building. Then we went onto the
main floor, where there are a few businesses, as well as a space where our
seamstresses was in the process of moving into.
 |
| Looking up through Ponte |
Not to long afterward, Ryan’s
friend—about to be come Allison and my seamstress—came down to sign us into the
building. We went up to her apartment, and enjoyed the view of the surrounding
neighborhood. Then we described the types of dresses we would want made.
Allison simply wanted one dress—made of black with a nice African-print trim; a
design that might actually be appropriate in the American workplace. I was a
little more bold; still in my West African mode, and telling myself I needed
all these dresses to make up for those I lost in my suitcase.
Soon, the four of us left to go shopping for fabric in the
fashion district. Mandisa led us to various shops; until we each found the
fabric we wanted. Ryan was shopping for nice material to make a blazer…then an
African print to do on the inside. It took a few shops, but I finally fell in
love with some fabric, and bought them for the two dresses I was planning on
making. In the next shop, I stumbled across the exact fabric with which I had
made a dress in Benin—one that I lost in my suitcase. I had to have it. So I
guess I was making three dresses. Plus, of course, some fabric for shorts I
wanted made. Then I happened to stumble across flannel…and immediately decided
that I should make my sister and her boyfriend matching flannel shirts.
 |
| Looking for fabric |
Satisfied with our purchases, we brought the material back
to Mandisa’s and made sure she knew which fabric went with which dress design.
We told her we’d be back in a week, by which time she promised to have
everything done.
We had Ethiopian food on the second floor of a building in a
busy district. The view was quite cool; we got to see many of Joburg’s
immigrants bustling around, looking at goods from street vendors and going into
the shops.
Later, we wandered around these streets, shopping some
ourselves. Then we went back and took a nap (the jet lag was still sticking to
Allison and I). Later that evening we went to the Mayfair, the Indian district
in Joburg.
As we were driving home, Ryan pointed out that she likes
South Africa because it reminds her som much of America—in that it’s just this
incredible melting pot of people from many races, countries, and cultures. They
move here and contribute to the evolving culture of this country. We also
discussed the continued divide that exists among classes. Most obviously, the
large population of native-born whites are very segregated. They live in the
suburbs or the rich neighborhoods, and quite possibly have never been to the
neighborhoods that Allison and I ventured into on our first days here. Even
among non-whites, there are still divides, such as between ethnicities, and
between recent immigrants and those that have lived in South Africa for
generations.
[As we were talking about dating a few days later, I
suggested that Ryan complete an activity—perhaps for an article—using Tinder.
Tinder uses the information provided by your phone to find your location, and
then matches you with people based on your proximity to them. (Then, of course
you swipe left if you think they are unattractive, and right if you think
they’re hot). Using Tinder, she would drive to various neighborhoods, and then
could write about how Tinder shows the racial divides within Joburg. I’m not
sure she was totally in love with the idea, but I thought it was great.]
Tuesday we went to Soweto, a township on the Southwest side
of Joburg. I mentioned it before as home to Nelson Mandela. Down the street from
Mandela was Desmond Tutu’s house, making this street the only one in the world
to have housed two Nobel Peace Prize winners.
 |
| Plaque indicating Desmond Tutu's House |
Once this neighborhood had mostly dirt roads and no
electricity (though there were two cooling towers for the electricity going to
white neighborhoods placed here; pictured below). Today, this is a black,
middle-class neighborhood, and pretty nice.
After dinner, we went to a neighborhood not far from Ryan’s,
to have a drink. We were sat at a table with two South Africans. They were,
say, a few drinks deep by the time we arrived. However, this did not stop them
from ordering more rounds with us (and for us). We had a pretty fun
conversation with them. The girl kept commenting on how much she loved the
three of ours’ accents. She was loud and a little crazy, and she reminded me
very much of my friend Mimi, just in her personality and way of talking. She
was passionate about her ideas, and not afraid to speak her mind.
The guy suggested that we all take a shot of tequila. He
then ordered—instead of salt and lime—pineapple and hot sauce. So you would
sprinkle the hot sauce on the pineapple, take the shot, and then bite the
pineapple/hot sauce mix. I know some of you may have just vomited all over your
keyboard, but I found it absolutely delicious. And I’m sure I will attempt to
order tequila this way from now on, despite the weird looks I will surely
receive from bartenders and patrons.
Cape Town and the Garden Route
On Wednesday, we headed to Cape Town. It was a short, easy
flight, and then we rented a car for our time in the southwestern part of the
country. The place we stayed was in an apartment that we found through Air BnB.
It was very, very nice, and overlooked a cute square in the city.
We arrived kind of early, and took some time just to wander
around the city. There was a nice garden/park, and we wandered through that,
coming across a little restaurant with hanging seats, etc. We lingered there,
before continuing back and wandering over towards one of the open craft markets.
There I struck up a conversation with on lady when I showed her my Tuareg ring,
and asked if she had any matching jewelry. She was impressed with my extensive
travels across the continent, and we chatted for a bit, before she mentioned
that I might find Tuarge jewelry off of Longstreet. I did, indeed (but because
of the costs of bringing the Tuareg jewelry all the way from West Africa, it
was too expensive for me).
Thursday, we were supposed to hike up Table Mountain, and
then Abseil (rappel) off the top. However, it was apparently too windy, meaning
the cable car wouldn’t be working. So that was canceled, and we moved our plans
to Saturday, when it was supposed to be much nicer out. Instead we wandered
around the shops of Cape Town for a bit, before driving a bit south. In this
wandering, we happened across a book shop, where Ryan’s book was being sold!!!
Allison made her take a picture of it, and then announced to the whole shop
that they were currently blessed with the author’s presence!
I decided to get behind the wheel for this trek. Luckily in
South Africa, American drivers licenses are accepted. I had spent the last few
days really concentrating as Ryan took us around. Okay, turning left is turning into the closer lane. Turning right is
into the far lane. Clockwise around the traffic circle. Everything worked
out fine. The gears on the manual transmission are all in the same place, just
changed with your left hand. I tried to put it in reverse when I meant to put
it in 2nd gear only twice, but it was a rental, so no big deal. And,
apparently I kept drifting to the left (my perception of the car’s position in
the lane was quite off), but didn’t do as bad as Ryan, who once ran her
instructor’s car into a curb.
Our first stop was Simon’s Town, where a colony of African
Penguins is established. We walked down to the beach where they lived, and
watched them in fascination for a bit. They were tiny penguins; not at all like
the big ones you think of that live in Antarctica. They were cute, though. Some
of them were nesting, some were molting, some were just meandering about. After
a bit, we left the penguins, and went to eat some really good fish and chips in
town.
We continued along this road to the Cape of Good Hope / Cape
Point. Now, reportedly, many people (possibly formerly myself) believe that Cape Point is the southernmost
tip of Africa and/or the place where the Atlantic and Indian Oceans meet. Turns
out, neither of these things are true. Both of these claims to fame belong to
another point, some hundred or so kilometers to the east. However, Cape Point
is the point where Europeans, looking for a sea route to India, finally were
able to turn and start traveling East, rather than South, giving them Hope that such a route was indeed
possible. Despite not being the southernmost tip, or where two oceans collide,
Cape Point is quite gorgeous, So I guess it has that going for it as well.
Coming back, we took a scenic route along the coast, which
was even more gorgeous.
Thursday morning, Allison and I went to Robben Island (where
Nelson Mandela was held for many years), while Ryan did some work. The trip
there was on a little boat through very rough waters, and I felt so, so
seasick. I came close to vomiting many times, though I managed to keep it
together. Even Allison, who never really gets seasick, said that she wasn’t
feeling so great by the end. On the way back, she did see one woman puke over
the side, though (wisely) thought it might be a bad idea to actually point her
out to me. We did watch in fascination, a girl who spent the bouncy return
trip, taking picture with her camera and iPhone, never securing either device.
We were shocked when all of her equipment made it to the mainland.
Robben Island was a cool tour. There are apparently people
who still live there, because it’s much cheaper to own land there rather than
in Cape Town. The commute is a disadvantage, however, especially when the seas
are so rough that goods can not be brought to the island, nor can children go
to school on the mainland.
We saw a quarry where Nelson Mandela and many fellow
prisoners were sentenced to hard labor for many long years, as well as the
prison in which they lived. I already talked about it some in my earlier
section, so I won’t repeat myself.
Once we returned, we headed out to wine country. We
attempted to find a winery that is the first run by black people, called
M’hudi. However, google maps, (the racist jerk) didn’t turn out to actually
know where this vineyard was located. Instead, we stopped at a random vineyard,
which turned out to be run by quite snobbish people, and we got out of there as
quickly as possible. We then headed to a vineyard that proudly proclaims to
have goats. There we got both wine and cheese tastings. One of the wines is
called “Goats Do Roam”, a play on “Côtes du Rhône”. After our tastings, we
wandered outside a little tipsy and came across some goats that were chilling
in their castle. It was quite delightful.
 |
| Wine Tasting! |
 |
| Goats in a Castle! |
Saturday, we finally did climb Table Mountain. I’d never
really heard of this place, before researching my trip to South Africa. Turns
out, climbing up to a plateau (Table), isn’t so much of a hike as it is a
straight up climb. The hike starts halfway up the mountain, about where the
cable cars are located. It’s a series of switchbacks, but not the nice switchbacks that are a gradual incline. No. This was a series of switchbacks
that were ALL STEPS. Two hours, over 270 flights (according to Allison’s
fitbit) of stairs. (Our guide claims he could do it in 50 minutes. I felt bad
for him, since we really didn’t need him. The trail was straightforward, and he
was probably bored waiting for our out-of-shape butts). My knees hated me by
the end. When I was almost to the top, some random guys coming down were like,
“omg, are you okay????” So I must have looked pretty bad. I made it though, to
the top, body in tact and all. The view was absolutely incredible. Then we got
to abseil (the british word for rappel), down one of the cliffs. Supposedly,
this is the highest commercial rappelling in the world. The actual distance is
only a little over 100 meters.
Ryan and Allison were not a fan of abseiling. I guess to
much height, only thin ropes, or whatever. Ultimately, we weren’t doing much of
the work. Really the guy at the top was just lowering us down, while giving us
the illusion that we were in control. Still, I loved it. I bounced down the
rock face. Then I had a brief moment of sheer panic when I look down and though
the rope actually ended before I got anywhere near the bottom. A few seconds
later, I realized that the rope was simply curving in a bit, which is why I
couldn’t see it. Halfway down, the rock cut in quite a bit, so I couldn’t
bounce anymore. Instead I just had to lower myself down on the rope (no
touching the rocks anymore). It wasn’t the worst, but it was kind of annoying
just to be hanging and really give up the illusion that I was rappelling like
an experienced mountain climber might.
Finally, we took the cable car back down the mountain, Ryan
offered to marry our taxi driver’s son, and finally we made it back to our room
to pack up our things and head off.
We drove along the Garden Route, which is a road that
extends along the southern coast of South Africa; sometimes right on the coast,
sometimes a good distance away. It was absolutely gorgeous driving through the
Western Cape. Unfortunately, since we left so late, we didn’t have much time to
linger. That night we stayed at a beach house in Plettenberg Bay belonging to
the parents of one of Ryan’s friends. It was so nice of them to let us stay
there. Jean Patrick was there with another couple—his friends who were also
crashing. We had a glass of wine before retiring to bed after our busy day. We
woke up in the morning to an absolutely gorgeous view (the house was only one
row of houses away from the beach).
We went to the beach, though the water was too cold for Ryan
and I, though apparently not so cold for Allison, who I guess is used to the
more frigid Cape Cod waters. We lingered there as long as we could, but we were
headed to a national park that day, which closes by a certain hour. Soon after
we left Plettenberg Bay, we stopped at a roadside gas station that had a
halal-food restaurant, complete with delicious curry, etc. It was really
incredible food, and we left a sharpie message about it’s good tastes on the
wall, along with hundreds of other travelers before us.
The scenery continued to be beautiful, and even more so in
the Eastern Cape. Driving across a bridge, I saw what looked like a scenic
overlook off the road a bit, so I turned there. Turned out that the bridge was
actually the location of the highest bungee jump in the world. We spent some
time contemplating the goregeous scenery and the crazy people that were
throwing themselves off this great height. I think I would have liked to try
the bungee jump, if we had had a lot more time. But for now I was content to
take in the beautiful landscape, and watch the jumpers from afar.
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| With the bungee-jump bridge in the background |
Finally, we made it to Addo Elephant park. Our host from the
previous night had suggested that we take a night drive, so we signed up for
that immediately. We had enough time to put down our things in our cute little
cabin, grab a quick bite to eat. Then we hopped on the tour vehicle, prepared
with a bottle of wine and (for me) a mixed drink.
In all of Addo, which is a huge reserve, there are only 8
lions, so it is rare to see them. The person leading the drive came equipped
with a strong spotlight. We stopped the car and he flashed it into the night.
There was a quick intake of breath as we saw TWO lions coming out of the bush.
His driver turned off the car, and he turned the light back on, so that we
could watch in amazement as the lions sauntered around by our vehicle. They
seemed quite unperturbed by our presence, at time pausing to lay down and clean
themselves, or eventually even nap.
The driver told us that all of the cats had collars with gps
tracking devices. These, however, were not used for game drives. Every time
they are activated, it drains the battery a bit, and it is very expensive to
replace the battery (thousands of dollars). They are used for research, or for
example, when they were searching for the mom of recently born cubs. She turned
out to be dead, so they took all the cubs to be raised in a secure location.
I, however, was even more excited, however, when a little
bit later we saw a cheetah! Now, it wasn’t as close. The cheetah is more
skittish. Plus, its apparently one of three escapees from Kruger National Park,
in the north of the country. This, of course, meant that Ryan, Allison and I
felt super safe, knowing that three cheetahs could escape from one national park,
travel a great distance, and break into a second national park, then two of
them escape from this park as well!
I really liked cheetahs when I was young; I found their
speed fascinating. And watching this one; it was built quite differently from
the lions, with a very small frame. We watched it cautiously slink away; it
moved so gracefully!
Seeing these big cats was pretty much the highlight of this
trip. We still had plenty of time left, however. We got to see many of the
smaller animals that inhabit the park, including hares, porcupines, a fox, owl,
and various antelope-esque creatures, such as the common duiker, eland, and
kudu. At one moment we were actually talking about kudus, though we couldn’t
see any, and then from behind a bush, one stood up into the light, almost in a
“You talkin’ bout ME?” sort of way. It was kind of funny.
The ride did end, however, and we returned to our cabin in a
blissful state. It was amazing, everything that we saw! Allison was only
disappointed that we didn’t see any elephants. We found out, later, however,
that elephants are hard to come by in the evening or morning; they tend to make
their appearances in the heart of the day.
The next morning, we did sign up for a horseback safari. I
was so excited to actually be on a horse again! And I ended up getting the
horse that necessitated the most experienced rider, thanks to the many
horseback lessons my grandmother, Nanny, paid for when I was little! My horse’s
name was Moonlight, I guess due to her white coat. She was impatient, but I
really enjoyed riding her. Our guide warned us that if we did happen to come
across a lion, we would dismount, and let the horses run off and fend for
themselves, while us humans remained with the guide, who carried a shotgun. (I
did feel kind of guilty that our own selfish activities might lead to a lion
getting shot, but in reality, it was unlikely for this to happen).
Being on horseback, however, did allow us to get pretty close
to some zebras and red hardbeest/kudu that were hanging out together. They were
still a little wary of us, but not as much as they would be of a loud vehicle
coming their way. We also were briefly followed by a warthog that seemed
interested in our proceedings. Our guide then said, “Hehe, when you make the
warthogs run, their tails go up like this!” and proceeds to move his horse
towards the warthog to make it run some. A man after my own heart! We also saw
two ostriches; one which was sitting on some eggs, until our presence made her
run away. Plus a mongoose. It was quite an interesting ride!
Allison was still aching to see the elephants, so as soon as
we got back, we hopped in our car and drove to the site where the elephants
were rumored to be congregating. We were not at all prepared for what appeared
before us. There were not just one or two elephants, but over a hundred! Some
were already at the watering hole, some were walking right beside the number of
cars parked there, on their way to of from the watering hole. We parked, and
sat for a good amount of time, just watching the elephants. The way they
splashed water, or how some of the younger ones actually went for a swim. They
were such incredible creatures to watch. I’d only seen some in Benin’s park…but
that was only one or two, through a lot of the vegetation. Here, I could see
the whole of many, many elephants. It was so amazing. There was also a bunch of
zebras, just chilling alongside the elephants, plus a family of warthogs,
running in between the much larger animals.
Completely satisfied with all of our sightings, we
eventually tore ourselves away from the watering hole, and headed back to the
main camp. Plans of doing anything else dissolved into a many-houred nap; I
guess we’d been doing so many things the past few days that our bodies were
exhausted.
The next morning we got up super early, and drove to Port
Elizabth, where we caught our plane back to Johannesburg. Apparently, the
flight attendants took a bet on where the three of us were from (America or
elsewhere). Haha.
Joburg: Part 2
When we got back to Jozi, Ryan had a meeting she needed to
go to. So she dropped Ryan and I off at the apartheid museum. Somehow we were
still exhausted from traveling, so we ordered Debonair’s Pizza, and watched
Selma that night.
On Wednesday, we were supposed to go get our clothes from
Mandisa. When we arrived, they were, of course, not completely done (still
missing certain hems, buttons, or in one case, pockets). I would have honestly
been shocked if everything had been
100% done. Plus, I felt like this gave me the opportunity to make slight
modifications to the items, if I wanted to. So we left all of our instructions
with Mandisa, and headed out into Joburg again. Mandisa seemed to realize that
we were disappointed, and sent a fretful message to Ryan. We shook our heads at
cultural miscommunications. For us, “they’ll be done one Wednesday, in plenty
of time for your departure on Friday,” meant exactly that. For Mandisa, that
meant, “Oh, as long as they are actually done by Friday, that’s fine.”
We had our disappointing bike to of the Alex Township in the
early afternoon. Returning into Joburg-center, we went to the SAB World of Beer
tour. Apparently SAB has the second largest brewery in the world in Joburg. We
went on a bizarre (by bizarre, I mean the designer was clearly on psychedelics)
tour. One part showed woman making sorghum-beer while not wearing a top and
living in a hut. We joked about how after this filming, she probably changed
back into her tshirt, took a car back to the city to her apartment.
Though, the in this museum also stereotyped 17th?
century Germany, so I guess it was meant to be an equal-opportunity offender.
After learning about some worldwide history of beer, as well as a lot of South
African beer-related history, we quickly went through a model of a distillery,
before finally arriving at the bar, where we were served some beers of our
choice. (I chose of fruit-esque beers/cider/things. Then we sat out on the
balcony and looked out on the city as we enjoyed our treats.
Thursday, we drove to the Cradle of Humankind, which is an
archeological site an hour or so from Johannesburg. It is there that the most
complete Australopithecus fossil has been found (not the oldest; that honor belongs
to a site in Chad, in central Africa). The site is within these caves, so we
went on a tour of those. At literally the deepest part of the caves, Allison
turns to Ryan and I and says, “So, I remember now that I don’t actually like
caves.” We laughed, because there was absolutely nothing we could do about that
at the moment. We soon made it out, however, and looked around at the beautiful
scenery, spent a bit of time mocking those in America who don’t actually
believe in evolution or those who were so racists that they could not conceive
of human life beginning in Africa. But here is evidence showing a different reality!
Later we went to an African craft market, located in one of
the malls of Johannesburg, for final gift and souvenir purchases. (This is
where I got the replacement for my lost Ghanaian blanket). We tried once again
to get our clothes, but due to the malfunctioning of our seamstresses sewing
machine (she claimed to have had to bribe they guy to put her machine at the
front of the line for repairs), they weren’t quite ready.
Instead, we eventually went home, and watched Trevor Noah.
He is a South African comedian who recently appeared on The Daily Show, and is
my new comedy obsession. We watched his stand-up “African American” (available
on Netflix), which was hilarious.
Finally, Friday morning, our clothes were ready. Mandisa
said she stayed up until three in the morning. Though the three of us weren’t
so sympathetic, because it wasn’t like she had been doing that the whole week
we were gone as well. Maybe better planning? Who am I to judge, though, having
stayed up many a nights, later than 3, to finish school papers?
After we got our clothes, and posed for a bunch of pictures,
we went to Transnet, which is the highest building in all of Africa. Going to
the top, we got to see a really, really cool view of the city of Johannesburg.
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| Joburg, with Ponte in the upper right |
We had a final Ethiopian lunch, and then took Allison to the
airport. It was a sad goodbye, but we’re already making vague plans for another
trip next year.
Ryan and I had dinner, and then headed to this hipster bar in
her neighborhood. It was a little loud, so talking was hard. Eventually, we
just headed back to her apartment. We sat down to watch this movie called “Zulu,”
that we had found. I was excited, because it had Orlando Bloom—my teenage crush—in
it. He turned out to be a terrible actor in general (Troy, anyone?) but
actually did quite a good job at playing a womanizing drunk. (Oh, Orly…) The
movie itself turned out to be quite terrible (and not helped by the fact that
much of it was in Zulu and Afrikaans, with no English subtitles). We turned it
off, ranted briefly about how movies about South Africa often don’t contain
actual South African actors in prominent roles, and then went to bed.
Saturday we went to the Hector Peiterson museum, which is
about the 1976 student uprising in Soweto. Then we went to Yeoville, which is
my favorite district, as it is home to a blend of African immigrants (this is
where we got Ghanaian and Cameroonian food). We sat at a reggae bar,
overlooking the street. It was quite fun. We spent the rest of the day like
that; mostly just wandering around various parts of the city, taking it in.
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| Reggae Bar |
On Sunday, before I left, we walked up to Constitution Hill.
There are the remnants of one of the prisons in which Mandela and others were
held. They have stayed in place beside the Supreme Court, as a reminder of what
injustice looks like.
We were able to go inside the actual court—which was not in
session at the time. In the hallways of the building, there was a lot of
different art, as well as a display on the rights that all South Africans have.
As I mentioned before, these are actually a lot more than we Americans have!
Finally, it was time for me to get on the plane. I said
goodbye to Ryan, and headed out, looking forward to the next time the three of
us get to take another incredible journey.
