And of course experiencing all of the things i have in the past two weeks with my sister will remain one of the greatest privileges of my short life. Especially showing her a piece of me and what my experience has been here this half a year. But i guess its time to go home when you are the last America left. Like being the last to fall asleep; the last one to pack my things, let go and go home. Al confirmed- of all the study abroad students not staying on for the year- i’m it. I guess its time to go when everywhere you go you recall the first time you were there, and with who, and what else you did that weekend, where you ate and the other time… So i guess its time to go.

Tomorrow we leave. On a jet plane- three actually- at 7;05 from Cape Town to Dakar and then from there to Atlanta (a homecoming i am very much anticipating, but later) and from there to Orlando. How much has changed since that summer day in July with my Mom and at the beach in New Smyrna when i looked out over there horizon and thought- that’s where i’ll be, just down that way, a little past the horizon, on the other side of the sea, where the ocean buts up against land again. But i never knew all the things now about what its like on this side. And when i look back across the ocean from this side, like i did on Christmas Day i realize some of the totality of it all. 

And there are a million people to thank, like Ida and Braam, and Gaby and the Swiss and Norwegians, the man i met in Bo Kaap and the family i stayed with in Harare, and the Sandboarding instructor in Swakopmund and the barmade in Zambia and Mike and Heather and Daniels 1, 2 and 3, Yobs, Phomi and Jessica and all those i didn;t name and those whose name i don’t know (or probably just cant pronounce.) The people of this continent have helped me time and time again, and i am grateful for those who treated me like their own, and truly made me feel like this is where i belong. I suppose this is the last proper entry of this trip- from this side atleast. I will of course post again and rehash the adventures Kim and Dan and i had. but i think that will be more like a epilogue of sorts. I guess there is nothing more to say now except that now that i am Out. Out of Cape Town. Out of my wildest dream. Out of Africa.

Bloem is for Lovers…(I mean Boers)

This was my second time taking the Intercape- and now things start to make sense. Although they don’t advertise so- it must me a Christian Bus because on my trip to Windhoek, Namibia we watched ‘Left Behind,’ one of the most painful cinematographic experiences of my life. On our trip to Bloem we started with a loudspeaker prayer of thanks to our dear lord and savior Jesus Christ. It really actually complimented the experience though because this was our first time deep into the South African Bible Belt province of the Free State, real Boer (Afrikaner Farmer) Country. Our seven pm bus was supposed to be a 5 pm bus, none-the-less we arrive the next morning at about a quarter to 8 at the Tourism Board Centre and Bus Stop in the city of Bloemfontein. The city, which derives its name from the Afrikaans for “Spring of the Bloom” or “Fountain of Flowers” is the provincial capital of the Free State as well as the seat of the National Judiciary, making it one of the three national capitals of South Africa. In terms of sight seeing, attractions or nightlife, we were warned by multiple people and Lonely Planet that Bloem offers naught. They were mostly right. We did manage to enjoy ourselves though for a day while we waited for our long lost South African roommate from JoBurg, Sebastian to arrive that evening. We went in the morning to the Boer Market (Farmers Market) where we ate delicious fried potato twirls wrapped around a cheese injected hot dog. Also- tried some veggie samoosas, white chocolate fudge, petted puppies, bought a pair of 40ZAR Aviator Sunglasses and made fun of the locals in the Boer Short Jorts (a style deep in the hinterlands of short short jean shorts tucked in with a khaki or greenish collared/button safarish shirt, and ankle socks.) We took a nap at our hostel, Evergreen Accomadation where the nice host, a burly woman named Cat helped us and then later drove us to 2nd Avenue for some ‘night life.’ (Not before we all first boarded the ‘Cane Train’ so to speak.) After saying hi to some Americans we met at the market who were celebrating a birthday at Cubana (they were Public Health Workers -one with an Emory undergrad and Harvard grad) we set off for some food. Tried the recommended ”The Mexican” but when we found out there was no Mexican food on the menu we left. Long story short- we ended up back at Cubana where we celebrated Tonia’s fake 21st birthday then to a corner pub and finally to the world famous Mystic Boer pub down the street. If i wasn’t already inebriated, tired and dreading a 5am wake up for a 6am bus ride- the Mystic Boer would have made our Bloem experience top that of anywhere we have been- alas tho- it didnt. The place did have some serious character and if i ever end up in Bloem again- that’s where you’ll find me!

The Village People

Sunday- early we woke- despite our bodies best attempts otherwise- and found our way to the right bus station with Cat’s help. We took the Interstate Bus straight to Maseru- the capital of Lesotho (Le-Soo-Too). As the only white people on the bus we took our seats of honor near the back and let our tired half wake musing drowned in a sea of Sesotho conversations and music. We arrived at the border just a couple hours later- but have all woke up with the bus parked- were unsure of which way we had just come from and which way to cross. (The bus had sneekily turned around so our first attempted was wrong which we realized after 5 minutes of walking towards a sign that read: Welcome to the Free State) Back around and across Maseru Bridge Border Post before finally seeing the correct sign: Welcome to the Mountain Kingdom of Lesotho!

A quick geography lesson for those who don’t know. Lesotho really is in fact a Mountain-top Kingdom. It is that funny looking dollop-sized country in the middle northeast part of South Africa, completely independent but also completely surrounded my South Africa. For a number of historical anomalies- it remained under direct British administration- not becoming part of the 1910 Union of South Africa (When the Afrikaner Orange Free State and Transvaal joined the the British Colonies of Natal and Cape to form the precedent to the modern South African state.) As a result- Lesotho never became much of a white settler colony minus some years during the apartheid era when liberal white dissidents, South African anti-apartheid leaders and mixed race couples took refuge there.

Anyways. We found the main mini-bus conbi station and boarded one to Malealea at the cost of 29ZAR each. The scenery was beautiful- from when i was awake- but especially as we turned of the tar road at the sign reading Malealea 7km away. The dirt road winds up a steady slope to the seam of two large mountains. From this tiny place you are welcomed to “Gates of Paradise Pass” the gateway to the mountain lined valley for fertile green maize fields, tall rocky mountains, winding rivers, caves and nature. Malealea Lodge sits on the site of the village/town’s former trading post. Run by a friend South African man and his staff of Basotho employees- the place really is a near paradise when not over taken by overland trucks. We stayed in the hostel style forest rondevel huts and enjoyed a spectacular sunset- after an even more spectacular nap. That night- we chose the more economical village meal experience where we were led down to a man’s home in the town. We enjoyed a Basotho meal of mealie pop (maize meal), spinach, chicken and some end treats.

The next morn, bright and early- we transfered what belongings we needed into saddle bags for our three day Mountain Pony Trek. Four Americans, two Californians, and two southern transplants, one South African, two Basotho, and eight horses set out! All of our horses had a lot of personality- mine Shonia alternated from “auto-pilot” to misguided. Tonia’s which we liked to call Sleepy for lots of reasons had a pony tail that matched hers. Sebastian’s liked to eat- all the time- just like him. Sarah’s has issues also like someone we know. Ryan’s was named Robben Island and usually just like to be up front. Also- mine was by far the most flatulent but least inclined to relieve herself on the trail. The first day involved 6 hours of riding. First out of the village and down the river gorge, across (and by across i mean through) the river, up the otherside, up some hills with mountain goats, lots of kids, breath taking scenery, huge sky, horrifically rocky terrain. Victor, our one guide pointed up to a peak where our destination village was but we thought he must have been miscommunicating. We trekked up a steep Devil’s Peak sized slope to a small village of six or so round huts, where we thought we would stop. Incorrect. Up further to a tiny pass and then slightly down to the village of Sekoting (or has the map calls it Sekoting hut.) In the middle of absolutely no where- some forgotten, untold fold in the map, in the mountains, a real majesterial isolation and transcendental beauty. Interrupted only by the fact that our legs where in complete and udder pain. We shared a hut and cooked some pasta, beans, and chakalaka mixed vegetables. A short but treacherous hike to the top of the ridge revealed a blinding sunset west in the valley from which we came.

Day Two. Back on the saddle like real professionals. The pain in the inner leg mostly passed, due to stretching but real ass bruising set in and stinging sun burn on our forearms and back necks. Four Hours, out of the pass west and then north, hugging a large green mountain, down some more tree lined creeks, pass cows and pigs and more mountain goats. Up a new path above the river back east towards Ribaneng Hut (village) with the incredible tall Ribaneng Falls in the background. Ribaneng joins the Okavango Delta in Botswana as one of my favorite single chill spots in Africa. The village is incredible. Right out of National geographic, nice people- not overly interested in us, hilarious kids, a priceless view. The mountains in this spot, at this season, wet and green and fertile look like what i imagine Peru or Tibet to look like. The village across the ravine looked like it was from Mulan and i not so secretly tried to organize us to raid and burn it. Instead two young Basotho boys taught us their game which involved pitching stones at a tower of stones down the hill- like horse shoes and baseball together. So much fun. My camera unfortunately temporarily broke during this day but Tonia did an excellent job of capturing the people and the animals and the scenery and the fun times we shared. Our group had already encountered Dhaka before but imagine our amusement when we noticed the whole garden knee high with mary jane plants. Classic.

Our hike to the waterfall was lightening’d out so we jst basked in the glory and fun and simplicity of village life for those blessed enough not live in one. Lesotho offered a lot of time for reflection. I thought a lot about Emory friends and people at home, and places to i want to eat in Atlanta and in Cape Town, about Charlton House and how bittersweet this whole end will be coming up so soon. I became genuinely excited with the realization that Kim and Dan’s visit is now imminent. Kim+Dan(^2) Reunion! In Lesotho i have never seen clouds and light and mountains touch so fantastically. Truly a special place. And the good company i kept. The gang was so much fun. and i will miss them all. I am sad that without Yob (Sebastian) around my basic fluency in ‘Yob’ will diminish. (Yob says things like: Its too late for my bones, meaning i am out of money; It is soo late for i am past drunk, and it is hammertime for what happens right before you get off your tits. etc… Real Joburg South African.)

Our last day out of the Ribaneng and back towards Malealea was fortunately overcast and not as long as the seven hours promised us. Amusement: Basotho kids who can’t speak English but have learned “Give me my sweets” and tell you so with the same voice and inflection as Pearl in The Landlord. Also- another English catchphrase-”What is the time?” from every kid. Where do they all need to be? The highlight of day three was climbing down the ravine to see some cave man paintings. Our guide was friendly but limited in knowledge about cave paintings and English so i’ll have to wikipedia that later. They are pretty incredible echoes of our humanity.  Our last dinner at Malealea was fun and enjoyed my bunkbed forest hut more than ever. We woke up early on thursday for the 6am minibus back to Maseru, then another minibus back to Bloem which took some time. 

Is Bloemfontein Afkrikaans for Purgatory?

So how do you kill 10 hours in Bloem. You go to the “Waterfront” mall modeled after the one is Cape Town. You submit to your craving after a six month hiatus of not eating McDonalds. You see the Bond Movie. You hang out some more at food court. You start to feel more and more like those middle school rat packs of teenage terrors that loiter around malls around the world. You peruse the magazines in the book shop next to the sign reading: No reading Magazines before Purchase! You steal a grocery cart from Whoolworths and then have it demoted by a clerk to a no name cart and stuff you baggage in like a homeless person. You make fun of Afrikaner Short Jorts before finally catching a taxi to the bus stop (which happens to be on the other side of the new FIFA 2010 Soccer Stadium), and load your bus as much of the town falls victim to a power blackout (Everytime the power goes out now, i think, what country are we in now? Zim!) An overnight bus trip, back to Cape Town, home sweet home, a truly sweet place i am sad to think about leaving. Last minute cleaning and prepping for Kim and Dan’s Arrival!

I set out with two others on November 21 to Zimbabwe. I have heard all the warnings and understand why no one’s logic would send them there but decided to go anyways. For my travels- i went with my friend Braam here, a known political activist and refugee worker in Cape Town who is one of the handful of white Zimbabweans with an absolute fluency in Shona. The other companion- Anna- Braam’s friend and an Austrian journalist based in JoBurg. If you aren’t familiar with Zimbabwe’s recent encounters with the journalist- be aware they aren’t good. Not exactly a low risk group- going in to expose Mugabe’s regime with an activist and a journalists. I was brought on due to my hobby of photography, ability to video tape, background on Zim, and honest desire to see what ever is out there to see. 

Into the Wild

We flew in late to JoBurg. Anna fetched us at the airport and we set off towards our first stop, Tonderai’s brother’s home in Polokwane. Real hospitality and genuine warmth; without complaints or questions, he woke up at 3 in the morning to host us and drove to the center of town to help guide us back to his place. The proud father of a ginormous baby, as well as husband and older brother- we took them to breakfest at Wimpy the next morning as a small gesture of appreciation. 

After some small errands in Polokwane (formerly Petersburg), the purchase of cassette tapes, torches, limited groceries… we drove north more to the border town of Messina. Here we bought large containers of petrol which filled the small trunk of Anna’s Toyota and part of the back seat (great aromas all week) and set out to for the Beitbriddge border crossing into Zimbabwe. Arrived just before dark and face what appeared to be a three to four hour queue on the SA side. What better way to begin a clandestine trip into Zim then a small bribe to lubricate the machinery. After being approached by a man who offered to take our money and our passports we negotiated to retain our passports and escort him as he slip the line attendant a fifty rand note. Done. Braam was upset to have to do it. This is what he fights against everyday at the Department of Home Affairs, but our backs were up against the wall and that this experience would help Anna, our journalist chronicle provided justification enough at the time. 

We didn’t finish immigration on the Zim side to late after dark. In exchange for his help, we took our border ‘guide’, who also offers other services such as smuggling, etc (possibly a Gumaguma) to a house in the Zimbabwean town of Beitbridge to pick up a tire and returned him back to the border. His words of advice to us were: Don’t stop for anyone; don’t get hijacked; be careful of road blockades. We were off. After a some initial confusion- our tar road turned gravel and we discovered it was the way to Bulawayo not Harare- we set out on our expedition. Absolute darkness, but surprising good roads, much better than those of Namibia.

Encounters

Our objectives in Zimbabwe were fairly clear: Braam- to capture video footage and pictures of the situation on the ground, make connections at the border and in the community for future aid delivery, return home. Anna- find the story. Understand the problem. Annotate it, capture it, write it. Me- to learn, to bring full circle my interaction with Zimbabweans here in Cape Town, my study of Zim Lit- the words of Yvonne Vera and Tsitsi Dangarembga, to cast off the shell of a tourist, immersion, self discovery, because i felt called to go… 

Our plans were not so clear. Braam and I wrote out a tentative itinerary to please Anna ere we left but with full knowledge that we would completely abandon at the first opportunity, following the story, traveling in the general direction of our destination without knowledge of what that was. 

Just barely out of the corner of his eye- Braam spotted some men sleeping by the side of the two lane highway under a tree. We U-turned, called out and spoke to them in Shona. Before i knew it- we were sitting down in the dark talking to them. They showed us their bags of grain they were guarding overnight, waiting for some transport in the morning to take them to the rural area. I snapped three photos of them, before we saw a car slow down and stop not far. We left them one loaf of bread- jumped in the car and sped out. During an extended time of perpetual fear and terror- sometimes your forget, as it becomes normalized to you- other times your heart beats uncontrollably. We kept driving till we felt for sure we weren’t being followed.

Accomadation

We agreed wisely not to try and drive through the night after seeing a motel some distance still south of Masvingo. We pulled in. I noticed its location next to a police station. This turned out to be the nicer of the two paid accommodations we stayed in. In its heyday probably a real fun place- little rooms clinging on to this large rock formation. The three of us shared a bed in a singe room with no privacy door separating the toilet without a seat. We did have electricity as well as a bottle of whiskey- but i helped myself to neither really.

Stones and Rocks

Morning provided my first glimpse of Zimbabwe. After driving through the night with only the shadows of branching trees reaching across both sides of the highway- it was a reassuring pleasure to be able to see in daylight our surroundings and rob them of their haunting mystery. Zimbabwe looks exactly as Vera describes it, at least in the south. It’s hard to communicate what it means when i say there are stones. Huge, beautiful formations, building up hills covered in a green forest, only topped by the grey rock the pokes out of the canopy. 

The Republic, shedding its colonial name Rhodesia in 1980, adopted its name from the Shona phrase “Dzimba dza mabwe”, or Great House of Stone. The great house of stone, Great Zimbabwe, remains an archeologically important landmark as well as lasting symbol of Zimbabwean nationhood and Africa civilization. Great Zimbabwe, a world heritage site sits southeast of Masvingo. 

It was in these rocks and forests that we found our first encounter of the day. Typically, with Braam, in Zimbabwe, these things start as friendly conversations to locals in Shona and somehow end up several hours later in someone’s two room block house with curtains shut and the video camera recording…

We found a family, husband, wife, two small children and another man, again waiting by the side of the road for transport back into the rural place. We chatted and agreed to drive the woman and her children in some distance towards the 60km dirt road. We crossed a bridge and came upon what could have been mistaken for a small town, though i think it naught. This community of 300 people lived near a state run clinic/hospital for the mentally ill and psychologically impaired. We introduced ourselves and were welcomed in by the main nurse. He in turn showed us to the matron (even though both were men). Braam went off for a period talking to the men- about politics, a desire to bring in aid without the government skimming it, an offer to interview… Anna and I were left by the car for a solid hour, providing great entertainment to the local children who watched as a tall, wandering patient name Peter talked to us in mainly Shona ramblings sprinkled with English. When Braam arrived back with the matron we left and returned back to the main gate of clinic where we met the nurse and extrahands. 

As Braam later explained- sometimes when he seems most relaxed and cool, circumstances often dictate the most risk and pressure. The matron, while sympathetic, explained that three months ago, the government has explicitly banned any photography inside medical facilities across the country. He even wanted to take our bag of flour, but Braam insisted we had given it to the nurse as a gift, for the facility. “A definite ZANU-(PF) guy” he said. Exactly the sort of reassurance you want to hear right as you are about to take back an orderly and the nurse to their nearby home for interviewing. Filming them separately, explaining the dangers and risks associated with being filmed- they both agreed and were eager to share- just like everybody else we met in the country. 

Economics

Zimbabwe is in a state of financial collapse. The employees of this clinic like everyone else are being paid in worthless ZimDollars. The nation has rewritten the meaning of hyperinflation. In 1998 it hovered at 32%. Earlier this year, inflation was estimated at about 231,000,000%, but who can keep track? The government continues to slash zeros and bills all have expiry dates. When i visited Vic Falls in October, the most recent worthless denomination was the Z$100Billion note. Now it has been reduced down to Z$1Million. At any rate- the government restricts the amount of cash anyone can withdrawal at one time. That means that for the people we talked to, living outside Masvingo, Harare, or Bulawayo or close access to a bank- is that the money you are able to deposit will not cover the expense of getting to the bank. Month by month it sits there- and people and teachers and nurses and even police go without. 

Hit and Runs

After getting more than forty minutes of video footage- we felt it urgent just leave and gave the woman and her two children who we brought in some small South African notes and bottled water to help them fetch transport for the remaining kilometers. 

Originally in our plan- we intented to follow up on a rural community that Braam had just been to a few months prior. We wanted to check on the child he last found who had a broken hand, swollen for weeks, because transport could not be found to a hospital. Since then, money was found in South Africa for his treatment, and the doctors said he risked amputation if the conditioned had worsened. Also, this rural community is home to the mother of a good friend who asked that we bring in some supplies for her- cooking oil for the stove, flour, tea bags, mealie meal (corn meal, the staple diet of Southern Africa, used to make Sadza) and sugar. We intended to go, but we got a message from Cape Town the morning of our departure from Polokwane telling us the police has been asking questions twice that week of her. The timing was too suspicious and the risk too obvious. We aborted. For the safety of our friend’s mother and her community- but also a continuation of their condition. 

Braam sniffs out opportunities like a dog. We just hold on for the ride- like a rollercoaster- where you have faith and trust it will safely deliver for you, but a nervous, silent held breathe for the duration. We spotted a police officer hitching outside a rundown shabeen-looking store. We offered him a ride. And before pulling out- we of course need to also make conversation with the local boys, who generously offer to sell us some ganja. We laugh it off and show him the officer in our car. We gave them half our litre of Coke which had been mixed with whisky the night before. I wish we saw their face as they took the first swig. A welcome surprise i’m sure. With the office crammed in the back next to me, our bags, a few loaves of bread, and a container of petrol, Braam explains us and asks if he would be willing to talk on camera. 

What sort of condition has Mugabe let his country deteriorate to that a uniformed police officer would agree to be filmed, none the less by white, Shona-speaking Zimbabwean but also is American and Austrian ‘friends’? I was remarkable calm as i held the camera while Braam questioned. We stood under the bridge of the highway, in a dried out riverbed, lined with rocks, of course. It was only the occasional sound of a car passing overhead that i became skittish and when we finished and climbed out of our hiding spot back to the highway, my heart again jumped, adrenaline pumped and my blood boiled. 

Money Speaks

There wasn’t hardly an interaction that wasn’t punctuated by a food or monetary transaction. A nice soldier even owns a pair of my old New Balence tennis shoes now. The men under the night trees, the family, the nurse and orderly, the small boy herding goats on the side of the road, the police officer, the soldier, the other police officer, our hosts, the highway checkpoints- all received something from us. Some as out of responcibility, others out of courtesy, some by gentle force- the lines between handout, charity, bribe, gift, etc… become very blurred. Indistinguishable. 

We dropped our uniformed friend off eventually. We drove through Masvingo- not lingering long because of the police suspicion. We snapped photos of the bank queues, political posters as well as one woman’s Mugabe/ZANU-(PF) t-shirt. We got our first and luckily only flat tire shortly before night fall. We fixed it and set out again on the dark scary roads of inner Zim. Weighing the danger of a shaky tire, and being tired (Anna and Braam were forced to share the driving) we stopped in the town of Chivhu. Our accomadation this time was in a 1970s style motel- minus electricity and running water- both out. We paid something around 250Rand for this honor. A man introduced us to his younger female friend- probably pimping her to the truckers that pass through but we kept to ourselves in our room, especially after Braam felt nervous after the ZANU men in the bar heard him speak Shona. This was the only night i indulged in the alcohol, even though whiskey is not treat to me. 

Nzara

Hunger simply. We heard this everywhere and having eating only crackers, pretzels, peanut-butter, and apples since entering the country- i began to relate- on at least some transient superficial level. On the road north to Harare we again picked up a hitcher- this time a uniformed soldier on his way to the capital. We took him off a side road for the interview. We passed a sign that said ‘so and so, tribal chief’ and wanted to stop but its a good thing we didn’t since Mugabe appoints all the chiefs these days. 

i hesitate to delve exactly into what we learned from the police and military interviews. Partly because it i cannot provide all the contexts, full background into this past year’s botched elections, the spiral of the economy and the full illuminating background into the former success Zimbabwe was- the jewel of Africa well into the 1990s. Also- much of it was done in Shona as well as English- so i would only be passing on my understanding and the summary i heard rather than verbatim words. I will say, we heard passive desciptions of the pre-election intimidation and post election violence. Descriptions of beatings, especially on the back side. How uniformed police/military were forced to vote (polling locations, job threats). We heard the same story about money and hunger. Nevermind civil servants- ZANU can’t even take care of its own anymore. There is more- and perhaps later i will spend some time on the analyses of what this means- not what they are saying- but that they are.

Homecomings 

Even though he had my shoes now- i felt bad as we made him hide under a blanket as we rolled into Harare and Braam leaned out the passenger window of our small sedan to capture photos of the maize meal line running in the hundreds. Longer even than the bank queues. 

We let him out and finally rolled into the once shining capital. When you face so much tragedy and heartbreak- its hard to feel every time. And maybe it shouldn’t compare to other people’s grief and loss and hunger- but i felt a genuine sadness for Braam has we returned to his home. He was elated- three years since his last visit but much longer since its heyday. Stories of combi riding, and picking up dates, the corner flower vendor, and lunch at IB’s. Nostalgic descriptions of beautifully lined avenues, covered by jacaranda trees which would later drop their purple white petals like a blanket of snow on the African grass. It wasn’t too hard to imagine either- lots remained even though not much is the same. I felt privileged to see Braam in his home. New insight into his character- a better understanding of why he does what he does- what drives him- what his core is made of- he is a man like so many that has been robbed of his home. 

We tried unsuccessfully at a phone ship to send word back to Cape Town of our safe arrival. Eventually we sent an email. We walked around Avondale including the open air market where got a vendor to burn us some CDs from pirated music (Braam was especially displeased with Anna’s selection.) We carefully ordered a plate of sadza and veggies and ate. We investigated the Forex grocery store. Not fully stocked but by no means empty. Just completely unaffordable. The majority of items were only available for purchase in USD or Rand (cereal more than $6.50USD etc..) and some items like bottles of coke and bread for purchase in ZimDollars. Confusing ordeals ensue where one has to figure out what line to pay for what item in what currency if you even have it. Quote- “It’s just apartheid. You can get what ever you want- but only if you have the money” and the right type. 

I really shouldn’t say too much about the people who hosted us in Harare. They are about as close to family as it gets. She taught Braam Shona when all the other white boys only spoke English. They have provided sanctuary many times before. They are amazing people- living in extraordinary times. The house sits in a middle class neighborhood, more than a generation ago a white neighborhood, but those distinctions faded much earlier than in South Africa, when in fact they remain strong today. This was Braam’s childhood home. Now, it hasn’t received any running water in six months. The teachers, like the doctors and the nurses in Harare are on strike- so the the third grade boy hasnt been in class since October. They have a nice yard and have a large garden with mealie and veg’s. Also, a coup with giant ducks, some chickens and dogs roam the property. There where two newborn puppies. 

After some sorting, we strolled further down memory lane. On to the old high school. A walled sanctuary truly a little protected from the realities outside. The grounds sit right next to the President’s residence so it never loses power and the school has its own water hole as well. A castle like structure with gardens and fields and boarding houses and genuinely amazing people. I even came across a UCT friend whose parents teach there and live on campus. The people i met there provided so much comfort as well as challenging conversation. One insight- Mugabe’ son who attends paid next semester’s tuition in US dollars, despite the minister’s harassing of school officials who want to accept dollars from other parents. We enjoy a night out of sorts- although the night scene in Harare has completely died for several reasons. People nowadays just host visitors at home. At the book club tho- five of us did manage to partially forget ourselves and enjoy the live music and bad singing. Reminders here and there- 25rand for a can of coke (the South African prices is more along the lines of 7, 8 or 10rand per can.)

t.i.a.

The next morning i slept in while Anna and Braam paid visits to Paranuagua hospital and the police station. The balls. We learned- at the hospital they are just turning people home. Everyone. The doctor who spoke said that of those only about 30% had a chance of living. We have been reading and hearing- Cholera outbreak Cholera outbreak and thought for a while we would find the bodied, the graves, the grave- a smoking bullet- but the truth is- they have sent everyone home to their doorstep or village to die at home. Braam talked himself into the mortuary as well. Family members have been turned away- not allowed to identify loved ones because without water- the bodies remain unacceptable even to show loved ones. I am as sure about what they discovered at the prison/police station but there is footage for later study.

Meanwhile- i woke up feeling almost okay. I helped the kids out in the garden who were raking up a garden to plan lawn. Anna and Braam came home and we set out for lunch at an old favorite. Lunch was interrupted though when some people a little too suspicious sat a little too close. We just left and spent some time in the afternoon down pour making sure we were not being followed. 

We retreated later to the walls of St. – for dinner with his old teachers and their daughter, our friend from UCT. We went on back and forth, deliberating on our next moves- debating how long we had been staying in one place. 

Exodus

That night we carefully decided on the merits and risks associated with going rural. We meticulously packed the car. Hid our tapes. Poured our petrol. Braam barked out orders like a Shona father to Z- who was helping us. We went to bed at 3am, our alarms set for 5. That morning the sun was already up and we were on the road- 3 plus 2 of us to M-’s rural area. 

The more rural you go- the safer it was. We were in a friend home community. We paid our respects to the eldest and explained ourselves and asked his help. He directed us around. Braam did some private interviews. Anna and i walked around with others for sometime. Some comic relief was provided in the form of me trying to plow a field being led by cattle. i felt strangely at home and calm there. I should- all that Afr Studies courses and Anthro back at home made it seem not the slightest bit alien to be siting in a circle under a tree with the elder and his family and neighbors, a mom breast feeding, some bashful kids, a child born handicapped and malnourished.

Nzara again. The first lady we met hadn’t had any mealie meal in five days. The others pointed out- the small girl sucked and sucked at her mother’s nipples- she was hungry but there wasn’t anything relief- not from her mother or the land. The rains came late this year- climate every year is more unpredictable- so the harvest will be a month or two later. I met a grandmother who showed me around her home- which actually quite nice and amazing. A large circle hut (made of bricks, mud and a thatched roof) for the kitchen. Her two granddaughters inside. A rectancle two room structure for a living area and bedroom. Not empty and poor like you picture- but just like our homes- filled with treasured items, photographs- a brother living in London now who hadn’t called or written since 2003, dishes and pictures of the Virgin Mary and Jesus. She was Roman Catholic she told me (traditional beliefs remain side by side still- but not in this house i guess.) She asked if i went to church. I don’t i told her- but i pray. They church provides not humanitarian relief- nourishing the soul only, white the belly stays empty. She told me about her daughter- who died a few months ago. She cares for the grandkids now. Presumably of the HIV positive she told me. The mother hadn’t been tested and was surprised to hear that the kids could get a test at a clinic (though in reflection i wonder if that is true for them.) The suspect the mother died of AIDS though because she gave birth to 2 or 3 stillborns or miscarried. not sure. Conversation with the community members mostly focused though on household economics and politics. This area, they considered not so bad as other rural areas- it at least had Harare in the periphery. They also told us about the violence and threats surrounding the elections and runoff. 

Before leaving- we drove by the school and spoke to the teacher. The kids weren’t there because rumors said that an aid organization was giving out food somewhere but that wasn’t verified. To those who aren’t familiar- the education system of Zimbabwe used to be the envy of all of Africa. To this day- that is why you see Zimbabweans working everyone in South Africa. It contributed greatly to the xenophobic violence outbursts this past year. Zimbabweans are well educated and arrogant. South Africans, ignorant and lazy. At least these attitudes contributed to the events in Cape Town but primarily Johannesburg this year. Black South Africans suffered from the imposition of ‘Bantu Education’ (engineered by Verwoerd) as a system of limited education for blacks suitable only for the needs of white management. Anyways- as i mentioned earlier- this too is sinking with the rest of the ship in Zimbabwe- their education. In the rural areas we went in the north and south- you will find the elderly speaking perfect English and the children only know Shona. We stopped at one last clinic on the way out but the excessive Mugabe posters and attitude from the staff told us to scram so we didn’t take any photos. 

Toll Roads

There aren’t any of course but for whatever reason- all our luck of meeting police officers when they were alone and in need of rides changed. We encountered four road blocks. Taking bribes, tolls, donations, whatever… When this has happened to us earlier in the week- we managed to talk our way out a lot- Braam can read people and cut through any situation to find someone’s humanity or at least humor. (My favorite was the time talked him down to a 20rand bribe and then got them to make change with our 100rand note!) The way down though was different. We were pissed off and upset. Braam got in more than one argument. Its almost not their fault. They have to survive too- and with the money drying up from the Daddy Mugabe- road collections remain an important supplement to their income. The country is hectic, hey. After our third hassle- they asked for my number in Cape Town. They take your money and then want to hangout with you when they get to South Africa, if they do.

The border at Beitbridge is an absolute mess. Completely different from my crossing into Namibia and Botswana. Braam reckons that a good half of the crime in Guateng and JoBurg could be shut down if they would just clean up Beitbridge. For one thing- i accidentally walked back into S.A. without stamping in. Then- realizing my mistake we waited for a good hour and a half. This was a visitors queue mind you- not the asylum seekers. We got in line right before sunset so we were fine. But they delay the big buses and other transports till after dark where the line triples and thus stand poised to make a killing off of under the table payments for all sorts of services- shortcuts, importations, legal and non legal goods, etc…

Thanksgiving

Good riddens and goodbye, thankful to be back in RSA on wednesday night. Hungry but especially thirsty- we ate in Mussina but couldn’t find lodging there. Another sign of the state of things in Zim- now everyone just stays in SA where there money can buy something. The town is booming- but is sleezy. Gumagumas, traffikers- all sorts of shady charachters. And now Cholera. First in Harare and Beitbridge- it has made its way down to Mussina, SA and deaths continue in Limpopo Province. We successfully avoided it by disinfecting our hands constantly and drinking bottled water, coke and whisky. We drove to Polokwane and slept there.

Thursday was Thanksgiving in America. I really wanted to find a computer to skype home but alas circumstances wouldn’t permit. Just when you think you are done and the stress is lifted- life just happens again. On the highway from Polokwane to Johannesburg we found a minibus combi overturned. We had rubber gloves and water so we stopped. What we saw was fifteen bodies laid out in the sunny grass. Severe head trama, blood everywhere, twisted legs, three children, a crying baby- where was the mother?- the driver stuck in the overturned vehicle still. I felt powerless and shocked and drowning. Anger set in- it probably wasn’t long but all i could think was: Where the fuck are the fucking paramedics? I did come of some use- i held an IV fluid bag for the baby for 35 minutes before they ambulanced him away. Anna had gloves so she helped a girl and Braam was sorting out the bus with some others. This country still has serious race issues- but even up there in Limpopo- the Afrikaners stopped and helped and weeped with the rooinek, Amerikaner and African. But to think- just 14 years ago an ambulance would have just passed them bye. Emergency services were for whites only. Blacks were left to die or find there own way to hospital. I have no idea if they all lived. We just got back in the car and kept going. 

Fiction

As a twenty year old who has grown up in the relative safety and obscurity of America- most of the events we went through unfortunately reminded me of the movies and books i have read- in adequate comparisons for these real events. Watching Braam- watching his absolute dedication reminded of Ernesto Che Guevara in the Motorcycle Diaries. And of course there was Blood Diamond- with the white Zimbabwean leading us around, Anna playing the part of the journalist and fiercely independent woman. And although i only saw his motorcade- his presence was always felt- Bob Mugabe- his larger than life personality, his charisma, and corruption and evil all mirrored Idi Amin in the Last King of Scotland. 

Johannesburg

Anna at home at last and Braam reunited with some family. His family is absolutely incredible. Very funny, humored, warm people. We walked in on dinner a his uncle’s and stayed at his other aunt and uncle’s with his dad and cousin. They even had a black sheep cousin visiting in from the states (now from Arizona but formerly from Michigan and Pennsylvania- with a real coal country accent.) Except for all the talk about Zim- you would think they area normal South African family- but their story is deeply intertwined with the liberation struggle and extremely illuminating with respect to why Braam is the way he is. 

After his parents divorced, his father returned home to South Africa from Harare. He join MK (Umkhonto we Sizwe, the armed wing of the ANC/SACP) and spent two years in East Germany receiving training. Kallie introduced his brother and sister-in-law to the ANC as well. Before Transformation- they were caught and charged with treason against the apartheid regime. They both spent three years in jail seeing each other once only several months. After release and the negotiated settlement not long after- Derrick- his uncle was appointed by Nelson Mandela to Cabinet in the post of Minister of Land Affairs (a politically smart choice- pick a white Afrikaner with absolute sterling liberation credentials to take on the land issue). Derrick is now the deputy minister of Science and Technology. A photo of Derrick and Madiba sits proudly in their home. A small irony is that, after his brother was caught- Kallie had to be more careful and liberation ushered in a difficult personal period in his life. Derrick passed on a coffee shop to Kallie who passed it on to Braam who later closed it in favor working full time with refugees. He is the funniest old man- who know just spends time walking the dogs, cooking meat pastas, and experimenting with facebook (and their pesky friending limitations.) 

We ended up missing our friday night flight back to Cape Town- no thanks to Braam’s disorganization- but hopped on standby on an eight o’clock saturday connection. My roommate’s are gone. My phone isn’t working. Rondebosch seems like a ghost town. and i feel burdened by the wait of all of this- how to make sense of- process it- record it- share it. It felt so good to see my mountain again here in the Mother City. But that comfort, coupled with some lonelinesss competes against my urge to figure out how to retain in my memory the events of the past week and put them down. I did see a couple friends today and enjoyed more than one shower before bed. Its an absolute privilege to know what i know now, firsthand. Cape Town really does seem to exist in its own sort of dream world- where even the homeless beggars and street children get bye day to day and even are about to drink. In Zim- people are slammed daily up against the harsh cold face of reality. Their reality. And when i climb of Devil’s Peak or Table Mountain now, and turn north- facing up the continent- i wont help but think of all that is happening above us.

Alas, there was no beach for me today. Martin and Chistian, of whom I am realizing how much I am going to miss once we go our separate ways this week joined Matt and me at Pancho’s. I ordered tonights dinner and tomorrow’s lunch. After- all of us in the house watched Sean Penn’s film, Into the Wild, based of the book of the same name by Jon Krakaur. The initial draw was that Penn shot scene for the film on location at Emory’s spring commencement ceremony a few years ago. My heart beat a little faster at the sight of my favorite square of earth, the Emory quad, on the television. I swear i even heard the sound of President Wagner’s voice reading names. Beyond that though, it was genuinely one of the most powerful films i have seen in a long time, full of food for thought. My favorite- Dr. Peter J Brown- was McCandless’ academic advisor in real life. He wrote for the wheel. Took African studies and anthropology courses. Very weird to think of what became of him from our similar circumstances. Life is quiet here, for now. Got my hair chopped. Appreciated talking to several friends from home this week, after several choreographed attempts. Looking towards the next step.

Saturday morning i returned to one of my favorite Cape Townian spots- the Old Biscuit Mill for their weekend market, with Kris and Mohammed. Bee line straight for the banana nutella crepes but i also got distracted by the burrito stand and all the free cheese and balsamic vinegar and organic honey stands. Afterwards, i caught up with the Swiss and Ellen and went to Muizenberg. The guys tried to surf and we just enjoyed the scenery- even tho the wind picked up quite hectic. That night- Laura invited the Swiss and I to join her and some of her friends at the Africa Cafe, a sort South African version of Fogo de Ciao on a scaled down format. It was excellent. We enjoyed casava bread, pumpkin fritters, fish fried rolls, spinach, black eye bean stew, rice, exotic rice, stewed beef, chicken, and finally the forgotten prawns at the very end. Plus dessert, some Pinotage, and then a digestif dessert wine pushed on us by a very pushy waitress. There was some serious digesting to follow that one.

Sunday i piggybacked on Laura’s trip to the beach with her friend Ruth from the UK. We went to Clifton, luckily on the other side and better shielded from the wind. We didnt call Al, however, or take a cab, but rather did the whole trip in the minibus. Much more complicated than my usual 5 minute trip to Rondebosch or Cavendish in minibus. We had to take one to town and then ‘connect’ at the minibus station. Our second had a total of 21 passengers in it (over the 16 person limit) although 4 were small children. Hooray for Cape Town. It only cost us something like 11rand after all and we got there fine.

That evening- out plans to hike Lion’s Head and watch the sunset- then go to Cafe Sofia for jazz were slowly hijacked by the more people inviting themselves along. We ended up just watching the sunset in the parking lot of La Med Clifton overlooking Camps Bay. Ate dinner somewhere else in Camps bc we couldnt be seated at La Med- and then returned to continue festivities and sundowners. It was fun- great spot on the water- fit in some goodbyes too to departing Americans who i will hopefully see again.

Monday i returned back to Muizenberg with the usual crew who tried to surf again while i took a nap and read Tracy’s copy of Time’s commemorative edition of Barack Obama’s election. So nice- plus a nice croissant sandwich at Knead. Finally- I scored a victory against the South Africa Postal Service- my replacement camera is finally in the hands of its rightful owner. No thanks to you SAPS. It really could have been worse and i shouldn’t complain but i am.

Through a very random, special series of circumstances- i found myself this evening at Judge Dennis Davis book launch. Sounds like an extremely interesting account of the role of the courts and the constitution in the history of South Africa and the struggle for representative, constitutional democracy. A gentleman who’s name i can’t recall, a defendant at the infamous Rivonia Trial was there and also spoke with great compel. That’s not the reason i went though. I went at the invitation of the Zackie Achmat, who is himself no stranger to the courts. Somehow i found myself at dinner with him, his husband, a Social Justice Coalition colleague and the former British High Commissioner (ambassador) to South Africa, Ann Grant, at a burger place on Long Street. Small crazy world it is. And I’m retiring to bed where i hope i have better dreams than i have lately- strange dreams..

Yesterday the Swiss and I went on Boogie Steve’s Stellenbosch wine tour. The rain was unfortunate but the alcohol didn’t seem to mind and neither did we. The first vineyard we went to had a tore up roof from the wind storms of the first half of the week. Two mornings ago i woke to a loud bang, sort of like the sound of the Space Shuttle’s reentry back home in Florida. We didn’t find out till later that the old historic windmill up the street of the M3 had snapped and broken in half. Hectic. After the tour and a nap we went to an African Game restaurant on Long Street where i found my new favorite: Kudu. The Swiss and I had other unspeakable adventures after that and i slept in this morning happily (we had to be up and drinking by 9am the day before.) Today i worked out, finally made the South African Postal Service release my package from Mom they have been holding hostage at customs and got my flight to JHB. The day before yesterday we got another roommate- Laura, from Italy! and she has already cooked us two meals. Tonight’s was an amazing white fish with a tomato and raison medley and rice. Delish. Hope this spell passes so the weather is nice for my Kloofing trip in the Cederbergs at Suicide Gorge on Sat.

8:00- Enter Hahn hall for my second examination of finals, History of Southern Africa. I definitely did not feel over confident but it went fine, without major stumbles and i was glad to be done of it. Outside we gathered around to talk about the American polls, set to open in just hours. The smog hadn’t set in so we had a clear view across the Cape Flats of the mountains on the other side.

11:00- I tried my hardest to nap some but found myself mostly online reading the news stories.

2:00- walked down to Rondebosch for a quick bite- bad sushi at a Chinese place. The back up to campus to meet Deanna for some more reviews and preparation for our next exam.

4:00- No studying of course- just sitting on the Jammie Steps loving the weather and the view, talking, calming nerves, Natalie, Deanna, Jaz and others- waiting for our exam to start. By this time i cannot say i was at all concerned. Nash surprised me with an out of the park score on my final essay- i spent all day and week writing about this country. His test would be no different.

5:00- One last time in the Maths building for the test on South African Political Thought and Tradition. I wrote and wrote and then was done. Early- i hate that but i honestly said it all. As i exited- i almost felt a pang of sadness, even though that class and much of the academic culture here is somewhat sophomorish and UCT has been an impediment to complete South African immersion and learning in my opinion. 

7:00- Although i left the classroom i promised a friend to walk back with her so she wasn’t violently raped or mugged. Arrived back at home- checked the news- got ready for dinner.

8:00- Arrived at Pancho’s, the only place for a satisfying burrito. I made a reservation for 12, all of us from Charlton House to give Mari and Oystein and send off before they leave on their six week travels through southern Africa. For some in the house, a last goodbye. Not me thankfully. We didn’t have room for everyone as more people tagged on than rsvp’d. I tried not to let this be my stress or problem. Our waiter made the most offensive, ill-humored joke about Obama’s safety- which further unnerved me. Politics is funny but people’s lives are not.

10:00- back home having eaten way too much. Wanted to take a nap but didn’t/

1:00- Ellen conceded the television and we tuned into CNN International to start the coverage.

2:00- Early indications show dramatically different returns in Indiana’s rural counties in 2008 compared to 2004. Tonight will be interesting.

4:00- Pennsylvania, New Hampshire, Ohio have been called for Obama. Immanent outcome still seems unreal though. 

6:00 maybe- The polls in California and the west coast close and history is made.

7:00- With Jessica skyping me- we both watch it- History- the realization of so many hopes, weeks and months, of campaigning, a movement we took ownership of, contributed to and carried forward- the fulfillment of unpredicted aspirations of generations of Americans and a reminder to millions more across the world, not just what America is capable of, but also an individual. Exhausted- my eyes to dry to get sentimental- the sun up and birds loud chirping, i finally retired to bed. Surely without complete realization of events passed. For the first time- i actually wished i was in the States- Chicago or at least Atlanta, definitely Atlanta to feel connected more so than i am here. A new start. A new World. A new day after a recovery in bed- beginning at half past seven am.