hellogoodbye

Last summer, I filmed my friends and me talking about what we would miss most about Rwanda, and what we'd miss the least--which ended with me falling off my bike and almost hitting a Porsche in the Netherlands. So I thought this year, I'd just make a list, and reduce the risk of damaging expensive property 


Things I won't miss about South Africa:
constantly looking for my plug adapter

paying to download This American Life podcasts and the Daily Show
mental math rand to USD conversions
not being able to drive
living in a gated society
not being able to access Hulu and Pandora Radio
not having good Mexican food
an hour long commute to work (when it’s a ten minute drive...)
avoiding eye contact with anyone walking to the street

living with 20 people

Things I will miss:

living with 20 people

biltong
my favorite South African and my favorite British-Ghanaian
waking up to Table Mountain everyday 

spelling words like programme and colour
good cheap SA wine
ostrich burgers
ginger beer
braaing at Hillcrest
Mzoli’s
Biscuitmill and the Stellenbosch market
the Garden Route
accents
this freaking amazing weather
HIMYM marathons
Daily Deli and its eccentric characters
baby rhinos and the baby rhino dance

Turkey Day in SA

...oh hey, that rhymes.

It's been exactly 6 months to day the I landed in Cape Town, and on one of my favorite American holidays, I have more than a few things that I'm thankful for...

• For the luxury to travel when I’m young
• For having a home to always come back to
• For friends of all sorts—for life, for six months, for one weekend
• For my education
• For my education not in a classroom
• For after-sun aloe gel
• For good wine
• For my freedom to do and be whatever I want
• For the freedom to make mistakes
• For the freedom to make the same mistakes over…and over
• For my curly hair
• For the opportunity to explore
• For Skype video calls
• For postcards
• For my good health
• For my ability to pay for good health care
• For my super cool new beaded rhino keychain
• For my camera
• For the things, people and events my camera captures
• For my big-little brother
• For being a Tar Heel
• For loving and for being loved

Just like riding a bike

A story from ages ago that I’ve wanted to tell you but I never found the time. Now that I’m supposed to be writing a 20 page paper, it seems like the perfect opportunity to procrastinate.

For spring break, our whole group with to Kwazulu-Natal for some amazing camping on a game reserve. (one of my best friends from SA insists I don’t call this a “safari” because we weren't going into the heart of darkness on horseback true “safari style.” Pshh.) Some amazing stories to share later that include a run-in with a momma rhino and her baby while we cross a river, and my solo night watch hearing leopards and hyenas across the river.

But I digress.

The second part of our spring break was in the Drakensburg, and the second day we were given the option to go horseback riding through the mountains.  You could choose between “experienced” and “beginner.”

Now, I've ridden a bit back in the day, and I knew the beginner one would be to slow to my liking. So I thought, I’m sure it’s just like riding a bike—I’ll be fine.

FALSE.

Actually, it would be an accurate statement if it went something like this:

"Horseback riding is just like riding a bike if you never really knew how to ride a bike in the first place, and the bike you’re riding now is ALIVE and realizes you have no idea what you’re doing and totally wants to fuck with you."

The second we’re on the trail, our guide turns around and says, “everyone can canter, right?” UMMMM I’ve cantered maybe once in my life. I instantly knew this was going to be an adventure of epic proportions.

Some highlights of the ride include:

• Frantically trying to get the rhythm of trotting (and failing—the theme of the story)
• Cantering across absolutely stunning scenery—and crossing rivers, mountains, open fields, etc
• My horse completely taking advantage of me and riding up on the ass of the horse in front. Which was especially terrifying when we were cantering and I had no control whatsoever.
• Yelling “Stop! Stop! Stop!” in a girly whiney voice whenever this happened.
• Having my heart rate beating a racing tattoo against my chest the entire time

Near the end of the ride, proud I had survived so far, the guide turns around and says “you guys want to gallop now?” My response? “UMM NO THANKS.” To which my friends told me to just “suck it up and go with it.”

So I did. And it was absolutely amazing. We were going so fast and the ride was so smooth at that speed.

Until...

Until we start slowing down and I see that my horse is heading for a small tree. And I get the impression that it’s going to gallop under the tree and clothes-line me. So I duck down and lay flatter on my horse. And I end up being forced up onto the neck of the horse. When we stop I’m literally clinging onto the neck of the horse completely off my saddle. Classic.

I should mention at this point that my dear dear friend who is riding behind me has been laughing hysterically at me this entire time. To my terrified requests to “stop stop stop,” to the time I’m sliding off my saddle, or just my general fear that I will die on this horse, I can always hear a gleeful burst of laughter from behind me. Thanks Luke.

Anyways...

The climax of this whole story is the second time we start to gallop. My crazy horse starts to ride up again on the ass of the horse in front of him, and it gets to a point that my foot slips out of the stirrup. And I start to tilt. And during all this time something becomes very clear: I.Am.Going.To.Fall.

Once I come to grips with this understanding, I decide to fall on my own terms, and pitch myself over, doing a graceful barrel role (regardless of what it really looked like, it was graceful in my head) and watching my horse joyfully gallop towards to barn. It’s a good thing I was wearing a helmet.

(While you’re reading this, insert in your mind the hysterical laughter—the kind that literally pains your stomach because you’re laughing so hard—coming from Luke)

Given the chance, I’d totally do it again. 

Arguing with myself

I live in a bubble.

I often do my work (transcribing interviews, writing manuscripts, playing minesweeper, etc) away from the office these days at the Woolworth’s Wellness Cafe. It’s a lovely big, open cafe with big windows overlooking the main road that let the sunshine stream in. I come for the free internet, the relaxing atmosphere, coffees, smoothies, and the delicious lunch buffet similar to Weaver Street.

Yet in my head, my constantly running inner dialogue continues to point out how this place is an obvious haven for the wealthy white population. That while in Africa, I have found a place where white people come to be served by black employees wheatgrass health shots, super-protein blasted banana smoothies, and organic chicken salad with lemon garlic dressing and fresh fruit.

I’m not sure what it means, and exactly how bad it is. By coming to the Wellcafe to write up conversations about the most marginalised people in South Africa, am I continuing a cycle of hypocrisy and supporting all those buzz words like “structural violence,” and “disempowerment”? Or is the simple reality that I enjoy being here—where I can leave my computer to go to the bathroom without fear that it will all be gone when I return, and sip overpriced yet delicious coffee—enough to silence my inner dialogue and allow me to simply enjoy the moment?

At what point does enjoying the nice things in life mean I’m actively participating in the unfair inequalities of the world?

A good friend of mine told me that he visited a township very briefly during the first few weeks of moving to Cape Town and sees no point in ever returning. “I’ve seen slums all over the world, Cape Town is no different. There is no reason for me to ever be there.”

And in a way, it’s perfectly true. If you’re not going to do anything about it, then there’s no reason to be there.

But if I DO plan to “do something about it,” do I still have a reason to be there? Or can I do just as good of a job while living my comfortable life?

I think I’ve decided—at least for now—that it’s all a balance. For me, I need the inner dialogue that notices how privileged I am to have a place like the Wellness Cafe. And I think what the biggest problem is with places like this isn’t the fact some people live very comfortably, but that most people’s inner dialogue have been silenced by years and years of comfort. We get lulled into a false sense of “normalcy” in our little bubble, we think we deserve it, we remind ourselves how hard we’ve worked for this comfortable life, and we forget there’s a whole big world out there that doesn’t get to have lamb stew and Moroccan couscous for lunch.

But if actions speak louder than words, there’s no difference between me eating a fantastic lunch in a comfy place and “feeling bad about it,” and the person who eats the same meal and is oblivious to the fact they’re incredibly lucky. At the same time, I’m not doing any significant good by moving out to the townships and vowing to a life of poverty.

All this arguing with myself is kinda exhausting—I think I need a pick-me-up latte before I start work again.

Garden Route-ing

We started our trip driving out to Mossel Bay, hitting crazy weekend traffic out of Cape Town and waiting another hour outside of...while Sarah’s dad (who is a doctor) helped at a really horrible car crash. Driving extremely carefully after that, we finally arrived at our hostel well past midnight. The guy there was not overjoyed to be woken up and was even less pleased when our group inadvertently took too long of showers by South African drought season standards.

The next morning was met with a slight drizzle and grey skies, but slowly brightened and the sun began to peek out by the time we had eaten our pizza for breakfast at a local Italian place right on the water. We spent a long time after breakfast splashing in the shallow waters and collecting brightly colored shells. Sometimes, it’s good to let the inner children out to romp around every once and a while.

We hopped back in the car, pumped up the road trip music and headed onward.

Our second hostel was THE place to be in this small town outside of Knysna, which appeared only to survive because of tourism. The town seemed to only consist of hostels. All the locals and travellers mingle our by the car, hang out by the fire pit while drinking and braai-ing.

Next morning, after little sleep because our dorm was conveniently located right next to the bar, half our group went bungee jumping, while a few of us went white water tubing and rock jumping. While on the river, I fell out of my tube and slammed my leg into a rock--which resulted in a bruise of EPIC proportions. It looked pretty badass for weeks.

Afternoon was spent lying on a beach in the national park and hiking up to the swinging bridge. Monday we went cave exploring and took the long drive back to Cape Town—stopping at a road side store where I re-stocked my dried fruit obsession.

Do I need to reiterate how tough my life is at the moment?