Thursday, February 19, 2004
Good Altitude
My calves and knees and pupils have been happily working overtime this past week. I love how plants cling to mountains, even the thorny ones. Sunday morning, set out for Table Mountain with my roomates Jill (from Boston, econ major at Fairfield), Dianna (from Clevland, urban studies at Fordham), and our friends Christian (from Toronto & Cornell) and Peter (Indianapolis, Indiana U).
We would begin our hike up the mountain that is the set for the city from Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. The gardens are known for their copious variety of flora and fauna, Sunday night concerts and overpriced postcards. To get to the gardens we called the Boogie Bus, a rasta-themed mini van with red and purple stripes, flashing lights, and non stop reggae music. Steve came to Cape Town from Zimbabwe thirteen years ago and has since been driving international students all over Cape Town in this souped up van with sub bass woofers and a surf board decorating the roof. Perhaps he should create a franchise in Providence.
So we trekked through the Fragrant Gardens up a dirt road to the beginning of the Skeleton Gorge Trail. Christian brought to our attention the statistic that more people have died climbing Table Mountain than Everest. Armed with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, digital cameras and bulltong (the local version of beef jerky. Unfortunately, I have not found its soy counterpart), we began our climb. The terrain early on was shaded by fully clothed trees and consisted of rock stairs and the occasional ladder. We passed by barefoot hikers and a few with babies on their backs, which led to a discussion of the child rearing activities of Steve the Crocodile Hunter and Michael Jackson. When we came to a clearing, we saw the Atlantic Ocean, the Cape of Good Hope, grids of houses and the rim of mountains around the city. As we hiked further up, the vegetation got closer to the ground and flamingo-colored wild flowers popped up. After three hours, some hoisting and panting and a few bathroom breaks (on my account), we made it to the top.
We could see the Indian and Atlantic Oceans, as well as Robben Island, where Mandela spent twenty-seven years imprisoned under the Apartheid government, along with many of South Africa's most influential political activists. It was windy and there was a pile of stones on top, similar to the one at Robben Island, created by prisoners, released and returning for the first time. We had a tour of the island on Friday, led by a former political prisoner. He showed us where the sinks were, the day to day routine of prisoners, the stories that go untold. In the prison cells, you could press a button to hear stories of how prisoners found ways to play, how they managed to communicate with each other through barriers and bars, how they educated each other in the limestone mines. The only other time I had walked around a prison was in Eastern Europe when I was in high school and we visited Aushwitz and Majdonek, sites of dehumanization and torture. We left stones there. The Robben Island prison only closed down in the early 90's. Of both of these experiences I ask, can you bear witness after the fact? I talked to one of our orientation leaders, a student at U.C.T whose father fought against Apartheid with the A.N.C., is now in parliament, and knew Mandela and Robert Sobukwe. She said her father speaks of forgiveness, but that she thinks she will never be able to forgive. Her memoriers of living under the repressive system are few, of having to be quiet about her father and of not being allowed to go to a nearby pool. I am here to be a witness, to listen, to learn stories.
That was a bit of a tangent. I have a lot of blogging to catch up on. So where was I? Ah. Eating pb&j on the biggest table ever. Pitiful joke. The way down took 1.5 hours. We passed more babies, groups, and people with hiking sticks. I did not have a hiking stick. I had short legs. I still have them. But the point is, I had to use my hands a bunch to climb up and slide down things. And the stick would have proved hazardous to all those aroudn me.
We landed back in the gardens, where families were sprawled out on blankets, with wine and cheese and bulltong and babies not in backpacks. We took off our damp socks and shoes and proceeded to pass out to the sound of bagpipes and kilts (if kilts make sounds) of the Highlander concert. We gaped at the moutain towering over us that we had survived, that had become the object of our affection. The physical surroundings were the closest to Eden I could ever imagine. The only thing that bothered me about the space was its whiteness. Most of the people in the garden were white. I try to always be aware of space and race, who is welcome and comfortable in which spaces, how admission to the garden is 20 Rand.
We left the garden (were expelled from paradise?). In honor of the Celtic music, I modeled Camp Ramah's riverdance for my hiking buddies as we waited for Steve and his Boogie Bus to deliver us to our showers.
Night Vision
I mentioned earlier, before all the long winds of my blog post, how my pupils worked overtime. Last night, I went with the Mountain Club for a sunset hike up a moutain called Lion's Head. I suppose it didn't register that hiking up for sunset would mean a descent in darkness. The climb involved gripping a metal chain on a vertical rock. So I had a few heart palpitations on the way down. I learned that depth perception depends a whole lot on light. But seeing layers of stars, a glittering city and the sun dipping into the water was well worth it. It's traditional to sunset hike Lion's Head when there's a full moon. Seeing as there was a really new moon, or really no moon last night, it was a bit difficult to see our feet. But it was a visceral and thrilling experience, and Jill an Dianna and I all had really vivid dreams last night.
My calves and knees and pupils have been happily working overtime this past week. I love how plants cling to mountains, even the thorny ones. Sunday morning, set out for Table Mountain with my roomates Jill (from Boston, econ major at Fairfield), Dianna (from Clevland, urban studies at Fordham), and our friends Christian (from Toronto & Cornell) and Peter (Indianapolis, Indiana U).
We would begin our hike up the mountain that is the set for the city from Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. The gardens are known for their copious variety of flora and fauna, Sunday night concerts and overpriced postcards. To get to the gardens we called the Boogie Bus, a rasta-themed mini van with red and purple stripes, flashing lights, and non stop reggae music. Steve came to Cape Town from Zimbabwe thirteen years ago and has since been driving international students all over Cape Town in this souped up van with sub bass woofers and a surf board decorating the roof. Perhaps he should create a franchise in Providence.
So we trekked through the Fragrant Gardens up a dirt road to the beginning of the Skeleton Gorge Trail. Christian brought to our attention the statistic that more people have died climbing Table Mountain than Everest. Armed with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, digital cameras and bulltong (the local version of beef jerky. Unfortunately, I have not found its soy counterpart), we began our climb. The terrain early on was shaded by fully clothed trees and consisted of rock stairs and the occasional ladder. We passed by barefoot hikers and a few with babies on their backs, which led to a discussion of the child rearing activities of Steve the Crocodile Hunter and Michael Jackson. When we came to a clearing, we saw the Atlantic Ocean, the Cape of Good Hope, grids of houses and the rim of mountains around the city. As we hiked further up, the vegetation got closer to the ground and flamingo-colored wild flowers popped up. After three hours, some hoisting and panting and a few bathroom breaks (on my account), we made it to the top.
We could see the Indian and Atlantic Oceans, as well as Robben Island, where Mandela spent twenty-seven years imprisoned under the Apartheid government, along with many of South Africa's most influential political activists. It was windy and there was a pile of stones on top, similar to the one at Robben Island, created by prisoners, released and returning for the first time. We had a tour of the island on Friday, led by a former political prisoner. He showed us where the sinks were, the day to day routine of prisoners, the stories that go untold. In the prison cells, you could press a button to hear stories of how prisoners found ways to play, how they managed to communicate with each other through barriers and bars, how they educated each other in the limestone mines. The only other time I had walked around a prison was in Eastern Europe when I was in high school and we visited Aushwitz and Majdonek, sites of dehumanization and torture. We left stones there. The Robben Island prison only closed down in the early 90's. Of both of these experiences I ask, can you bear witness after the fact? I talked to one of our orientation leaders, a student at U.C.T whose father fought against Apartheid with the A.N.C., is now in parliament, and knew Mandela and Robert Sobukwe. She said her father speaks of forgiveness, but that she thinks she will never be able to forgive. Her memoriers of living under the repressive system are few, of having to be quiet about her father and of not being allowed to go to a nearby pool. I am here to be a witness, to listen, to learn stories.
That was a bit of a tangent. I have a lot of blogging to catch up on. So where was I? Ah. Eating pb&j on the biggest table ever. Pitiful joke. The way down took 1.5 hours. We passed more babies, groups, and people with hiking sticks. I did not have a hiking stick. I had short legs. I still have them. But the point is, I had to use my hands a bunch to climb up and slide down things. And the stick would have proved hazardous to all those aroudn me.
We landed back in the gardens, where families were sprawled out on blankets, with wine and cheese and bulltong and babies not in backpacks. We took off our damp socks and shoes and proceeded to pass out to the sound of bagpipes and kilts (if kilts make sounds) of the Highlander concert. We gaped at the moutain towering over us that we had survived, that had become the object of our affection. The physical surroundings were the closest to Eden I could ever imagine. The only thing that bothered me about the space was its whiteness. Most of the people in the garden were white. I try to always be aware of space and race, who is welcome and comfortable in which spaces, how admission to the garden is 20 Rand.
We left the garden (were expelled from paradise?). In honor of the Celtic music, I modeled Camp Ramah's riverdance for my hiking buddies as we waited for Steve and his Boogie Bus to deliver us to our showers.
Night Vision
I mentioned earlier, before all the long winds of my blog post, how my pupils worked overtime. Last night, I went with the Mountain Club for a sunset hike up a moutain called Lion's Head. I suppose it didn't register that hiking up for sunset would mean a descent in darkness. The climb involved gripping a metal chain on a vertical rock. So I had a few heart palpitations on the way down. I learned that depth perception depends a whole lot on light. But seeing layers of stars, a glittering city and the sun dipping into the water was well worth it. It's traditional to sunset hike Lion's Head when there's a full moon. Seeing as there was a really new moon, or really no moon last night, it was a bit difficult to see our feet. But it was a visceral and thrilling experience, and Jill an Dianna and I all had really vivid dreams last night.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Here is my new UCT email address. It's a bit quicker than the Brown email.
LWSANN003@MAIL.UCT.AC.ZA
LWSANN003@MAIL.UCT.AC.ZA
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
It's been a while since I last posted. It's been tough to get online. I'll get a U.C.T. student card tomorrow and have access to some more email venues. Venue is a big word here. The past week was bursting with fantastic and challenging moments. I thought I'd spill out a few of the highlights.
1. Viva 10+ Concert in Green Market Square
Parliament opened last Friday. President Thabo Mbeki addressed the country and laid out some of his goals for dealing with poverty, unemployment and the H.I.V/ A.I.D.S pandemic. That afternoon, there was a concert at an outdoor plaza in downtown Cape Town called Green Market Square. Some of South Africa's most popular bands and artists performed to celebrate the ten year anniversary of democracy in South Africa. The square was packed and the sun was strong and I danced and sweated with hundreds, maybe thousands of people waving flags of South Africa and the African National Congress, Mbeki's party. Elections will be held in April. It should be an exciting few months.
2. Moving In
Saturday, I moved into my house on 6 Chapel Road in Mobray. It is pale yellow and two stories tall, and surrounded by a garden and a spiky gate. There is a lemon tree in the back yard. I met Roxy, one of my South African housemates. She is a dance/choreography major at U.C.T. She's lived in the house for 3+ years and she's hilarious. She is fluent in Afrikaans. Another one of my housemates, Arthur, is from Jo'burg. He grew up speaking Zulu.
It's a bit uncomfortable when I think about arriving at such spacious and beautiful accomodations when so many people struggle to find housing and food. But, nonetheless, I'm excited about the lemons and my roomates and the semester ahead.
3. Simon's Town and the Cape of Good Hope
Sunday, we moved on to an orientation with all 300 of the international semester study abroad students at U.C.T. As part of the programming, we rode tour busses all around the Western Cape region of South Africa. The Cape of Good Hope is supposedly where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet, but not really. I'm a little confused about that. I'll let you know. Regardless, we followed stone stairs and rickety wooden planks to a lighthouse on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The colors are so vivid here. There were baboons hanging out by the trails. One of the baboons grabbed a woman's nalgene bottle and began to drink from it. I don't blame him/her. Later on, in Simon's Town, we saw tropical penguins, jackass penguins as they're called, sunbathing and sleeping on rocks lining the shore. There was a beach nearby where families sat with picnic baskets and umbrellas, and kids splashed around in pools that collected between boulders in the water. My friend Elizabeth and I had a conversation with two girls about our age. "How's America?" Fatima asked. I didn't know how to answer. I'll take suggestions.
4. Mini Busses
The main form of public transportation here are mini busses that drive to and from the suburbs, downtown, and the waterfront. They're made to hold about 16 people, but numbers get into the twenties. There is a driver and a pogo, I believe it's called, who organizes passengers. Being whistled at from a van here doesn't mean the same thing as it does on Bradford Lane or Thayer Street. It's just the mini busses offering their services.
5. Clifton
I spent half a day on the beach with some fun people on my program. There were enormous tendrils of kelp coiled along the shoreline, natural rock formations jutting out of the sand and the familiar Devil's Peak decorating the sky in the background. The water was icy and refreshing.
6. Kayelisha (I definitely spelled that wrong)
Today I visited one of the townships on the outskirts of Cape Town with SHAWCO, the university's community service organization, like the Swearer Center. We drove by rows and rows of shacks, some with signs for hair salons and produce. Some looking as if they might topple over. Some with tarps as roofs. SHAWCO has a community center there, with a library, some computers and a hall for weddings and funerals. Women stood outside with rugs and hats they had woven and strands of beaded jewelry. A chainlink fence with barbed wire on top separated the center from the yard of the school next door. We approached the fence and children from the school, in maroon and white uniforms met us, crowding against the metal grid. We talked to them about age and brothers and sisters and school and asked them to teach us some Xhosa. They laughed as we butchered the pronunciation of the word Xhosa, and were very patient with us as they taught us the Xhosa for "My name is . . ." and "How are you?" I'm not sure why were talking through the fence, but it made me nervous as the kids got really close to the gnarled metal. After fifteen minutes or so we ended up going through the gate to the school. Two girls I had been chatting with grabbed my hands and began to walk quickly. I had no idea where we were going. Finally they stopped at an open door and pointed. "This is our classroom," they told me.
I hope to spend more time in Kayelisha. When tour bus guides rave about five-star hotels and fancy restaurants, and you live in a big yellow house with a lemon tree, and spend time getting lost on an ivy covered campus, there's more to remember. I felt like today I was a witness to some of the issues of poverty and education that South Africa and the women and men and children grapple with. I want to be a volunteer.
1. Viva 10+ Concert in Green Market Square
Parliament opened last Friday. President Thabo Mbeki addressed the country and laid out some of his goals for dealing with poverty, unemployment and the H.I.V/ A.I.D.S pandemic. That afternoon, there was a concert at an outdoor plaza in downtown Cape Town called Green Market Square. Some of South Africa's most popular bands and artists performed to celebrate the ten year anniversary of democracy in South Africa. The square was packed and the sun was strong and I danced and sweated with hundreds, maybe thousands of people waving flags of South Africa and the African National Congress, Mbeki's party. Elections will be held in April. It should be an exciting few months.
2. Moving In
Saturday, I moved into my house on 6 Chapel Road in Mobray. It is pale yellow and two stories tall, and surrounded by a garden and a spiky gate. There is a lemon tree in the back yard. I met Roxy, one of my South African housemates. She is a dance/choreography major at U.C.T. She's lived in the house for 3+ years and she's hilarious. She is fluent in Afrikaans. Another one of my housemates, Arthur, is from Jo'burg. He grew up speaking Zulu.
It's a bit uncomfortable when I think about arriving at such spacious and beautiful accomodations when so many people struggle to find housing and food. But, nonetheless, I'm excited about the lemons and my roomates and the semester ahead.
3. Simon's Town and the Cape of Good Hope
Sunday, we moved on to an orientation with all 300 of the international semester study abroad students at U.C.T. As part of the programming, we rode tour busses all around the Western Cape region of South Africa. The Cape of Good Hope is supposedly where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet, but not really. I'm a little confused about that. I'll let you know. Regardless, we followed stone stairs and rickety wooden planks to a lighthouse on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The colors are so vivid here. There were baboons hanging out by the trails. One of the baboons grabbed a woman's nalgene bottle and began to drink from it. I don't blame him/her. Later on, in Simon's Town, we saw tropical penguins, jackass penguins as they're called, sunbathing and sleeping on rocks lining the shore. There was a beach nearby where families sat with picnic baskets and umbrellas, and kids splashed around in pools that collected between boulders in the water. My friend Elizabeth and I had a conversation with two girls about our age. "How's America?" Fatima asked. I didn't know how to answer. I'll take suggestions.
4. Mini Busses
The main form of public transportation here are mini busses that drive to and from the suburbs, downtown, and the waterfront. They're made to hold about 16 people, but numbers get into the twenties. There is a driver and a pogo, I believe it's called, who organizes passengers. Being whistled at from a van here doesn't mean the same thing as it does on Bradford Lane or Thayer Street. It's just the mini busses offering their services.
5. Clifton
I spent half a day on the beach with some fun people on my program. There were enormous tendrils of kelp coiled along the shoreline, natural rock formations jutting out of the sand and the familiar Devil's Peak decorating the sky in the background. The water was icy and refreshing.
6. Kayelisha (I definitely spelled that wrong)
Today I visited one of the townships on the outskirts of Cape Town with SHAWCO, the university's community service organization, like the Swearer Center. We drove by rows and rows of shacks, some with signs for hair salons and produce. Some looking as if they might topple over. Some with tarps as roofs. SHAWCO has a community center there, with a library, some computers and a hall for weddings and funerals. Women stood outside with rugs and hats they had woven and strands of beaded jewelry. A chainlink fence with barbed wire on top separated the center from the yard of the school next door. We approached the fence and children from the school, in maroon and white uniforms met us, crowding against the metal grid. We talked to them about age and brothers and sisters and school and asked them to teach us some Xhosa. They laughed as we butchered the pronunciation of the word Xhosa, and were very patient with us as they taught us the Xhosa for "My name is . . ." and "How are you?" I'm not sure why were talking through the fence, but it made me nervous as the kids got really close to the gnarled metal. After fifteen minutes or so we ended up going through the gate to the school. Two girls I had been chatting with grabbed my hands and began to walk quickly. I had no idea where we were going. Finally they stopped at an open door and pointed. "This is our classroom," they told me.
I hope to spend more time in Kayelisha. When tour bus guides rave about five-star hotels and fancy restaurants, and you live in a big yellow house with a lemon tree, and spend time getting lost on an ivy covered campus, there's more to remember. I felt like today I was a witness to some of the issues of poverty and education that South Africa and the women and men and children grapple with. I want to be a volunteer.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
I'm sitting in an internet cafe. Moby is blaring in the background. But I am unmistakably in Cape Town. Looking up from anywhere outside, you can see the enormous ripples mountains hugging the city. It's my second day here. It is breathtakingly beautiful. Changed and changing. Today, we spent most of the going over nuts and boltsy stuff with our program director, Quentin, and then made our way up to the U.C.T. campus for a braai, a barbecue, with the U.C.T. first-year students (and like Brown, I believe the term is first-years). The campus is stunning. Ivy curls around the buildings. There was a phenomenal band called Freshly Grown, and non-stop dancing, black and white and coloured students moving together. It's pretty amazing that ten years ago it would have been impossible. Like anywhere, there is still a lot that needs fixing. But it seems like the university and its students are very involved in the Townships near Cape Town, working with children and women and men and healthcare and arts.
Lots of introductions and names and quality nametags. So far, all 80 of the students on my program have been staying in a hotel in downtown Cape Town. Saturday we'll move into our (semi) permanent near-camus places. I found out I'll be living in a house with 6 American and 6 South African students. There's a kitchen and a gate and a front-loading washing machine that has had its handle broken off many times. That's all I know. I'm ridiculously excited. There's lots to see and hear and learn and do here. I'll write more soon.
Lots of introductions and names and quality nametags. So far, all 80 of the students on my program have been staying in a hotel in downtown Cape Town. Saturday we'll move into our (semi) permanent near-camus places. I found out I'll be living in a house with 6 American and 6 South African students. There's a kitchen and a gate and a front-loading washing machine that has had its handle broken off many times. That's all I know. I'm ridiculously excited. There's lots to see and hear and learn and do here. I'll write more soon.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
I'm in Cape Town, in South Africa, in Africa. It's unlike anywhere I've ever been. I watched the sunset, at eight pm, standing on a hill, enveloped by mountains, overlooking the ocean. The scenery is breathtaking. All around me is a buzz of different languages and cultures, a real mixture of Western and African influences. Landing was an interesting experience. As we neared the airport, I saw rows of houses, huge and fenced. A few seconds later, there were grids of magenta and turquoise rooftops of the Shanty Towns. Riding from the airport into downtown Cape Town (on the other side of the road) in a van, I got a closer look at these townships, and the corrugated metal shacks people call home. There is an enormous disparity of wealth here. I've been thinking a lot about how to reconcile my position in all this, as a broad, white, with more than enough rand notes in my wallet.
We arrived at a hotel in downtown Cape Town, had a light snack, and strolled around town. There were grassy parks with barefoot kids and cuddling couples and I remembered how much I love summer. Everything here moves at a pace I find very pleasing, a nice, slow pace. And I don't have to walk with my shoulders up to my ears to stay warm. So no complaints there. We wound through a market, and down a street that reminded me a lot of Ben Yehuda Street in Jerusalem, no cars, musicians, people sipping and snacking outside. I saw a Shwarma place near our hotel.
I grabbed dinner at Colorado Steaks or something like that with a large group. Ketchup is called tomato sauce. I didn't eat meat. But the menus were wooden slats that could potentially double as kickboards. The most heart-breakingly delicious part of my day, however was being in the middle of an ocean-mountain sandwich.
We arrived at a hotel in downtown Cape Town, had a light snack, and strolled around town. There were grassy parks with barefoot kids and cuddling couples and I remembered how much I love summer. Everything here moves at a pace I find very pleasing, a nice, slow pace. And I don't have to walk with my shoulders up to my ears to stay warm. So no complaints there. We wound through a market, and down a street that reminded me a lot of Ben Yehuda Street in Jerusalem, no cars, musicians, people sipping and snacking outside. I saw a Shwarma place near our hotel.
I grabbed dinner at Colorado Steaks or something like that with a large group. Ketchup is called tomato sauce. I didn't eat meat. But the menus were wooden slats that could potentially double as kickboards. The most heart-breakingly delicious part of my day, however was being in the middle of an ocean-mountain sandwich.
