Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Poor little rich girl

In order not to mislead the audience (I take you all very seriously, you know) I've posted some pictures of how the majority of South Africans live. Townships -- all-black suburbs that grew in size as a result of Apartheid -- are a common sight along the highways and Kayamandi, a township directly outside of Stellenbosch, has over 30,000 people living mostly in shanties on a 75-hectare area. Suffice to say, it's pretty crowded. When I vented frustration to my history professor about going to restaurants with all-white clientele and an all-black staff, he mentioned that there isn't really a substantial black middle class. Instead, he suggested I go to Spur, this really kitschy Tex-Mex wannabe place, since I was likely to run into clientele of all colors there. The wait staff, though, would still be black, as white waiters tend to work at the high-end restaurants. I guess it wasn't a serious solution to the fact that the society still is very much stratified by race, but it did solve the "where can I find a milkshake for under R15?" question.

So of course your next question is about the white couple pictured above. I only post this because I saw The Curious Case of Benjamin Button last night (it's still a new release here in S.A.) and, though it's not even closely related to the short story, the love interest is Daisy, who of course we remember from The Great Gatsby. Seriously, those Fanning children are cash cows. Anyway, following a sneaking suspicion I had that F. Scott Fitzgerald was super hot (he just writes so beautifully) I found a picture of him and Zelda. He's not hot, but they're pretty cute. And they really knew how to party, apparently, though what with her accusations of him being gay and his sleeping around with prostitutes to prove her wrong, I guess their marriage was a bit unconventional. Long story short, this photo is completely irrelevant. Next.




These are from Mosselbaai -- we drove to what we thought was the city center. Wrong. I don't know what first tipped us off: the mosque, the abnormally large number of not-white people. Either way, we weren't in Kansas anymore.









Since Cape Town Airport isn't really in Cape Town, the drive to Stellenbosch after first arriving here was kind of startling. This was basically the first thing I saw in Africa, and it's probably a little more representative than college-student-town Stellenbosch, which is a bit of an affluent Afrikaner bubble.














I kind of pulled the camera out to take these pictures while we were driving away. I mean, I was already getting stares. Why not just be exploitative?




















I cheated -- this is from Heidelberg, not a township. But you get the idea.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Ele-pants











I'm back from a rather exhausting weekend in (technically) the Eastern Cape, the part of South Africa by the Indian Ocean. Besides the "boys are gross" observation (I've had enough of smelly feet and farting to last me a lifetime) which was basically inevitable given that I was traveling with three guys, there was a lot of rather nice scenery to see. The Eastern Cape is so much more lush than the Western Cape; it actually rains there, apparently, so there's rolling green hills and it's gorgeous. A couple random facts I learned while traveling the 700 km or so:

1) The police are corrupt. I knew this anyway, but apparently they sell dagga (weed). And they can be bribed, etc. etc. Also, since they have cameras at certain points along the highway, police cars aren't parked around corners waiting to bust you for speeding, like in the U.S. No, they send you a note in the mail, provided they actually get around to it. (I have limited faith in the police bureaucracy here.) The more I hear about the South African police force, the more I tend to agree with Larry the Texan: "It's a free-for-all: everyone just does what they want, man. This is South Africa!" It's kind of sad but at the same time a little amazing. Apparently even telling the policemen you were driving drunk isn't enough to guarantee you a ticket/jail time; instead, they supposedly laugh and shake their heads in an "aw shucks; kids these days" sort of way before wishing you a good night and parting ways.

2) Fraternities in Germany are pretty much the same as fraternities in the U.S. They tend to also get drunk and do stupid things together. Steffen, the German guy who came along with us, spoke fondly of his drunken nights "acting like assholes" and smoking 50 cigarettes with his fraternity brothers.

3) South Africa is really, really big. Africa sort of comes to a point in South Africa, and it looks small in relation to the rest of the continent on a map, but it's enormous. I realized that to get to Durban, for example, it'd be at least 25-ish straight hours of driving. (I know most people tend to consult maps beforehand, but they sort of intimidate me so I usually ignore them.)

And as far as our destination, I wasn't quite sure where we were supposed to go when I agreed to accompany Larry and Steven, but it sounded better than the alternative: staying in Stellenbosch, perhaps dragging myself to the grocery store to buy yet more strawberries, and failing to finish my reading for English. Still, we ended up going to Knysna (pronounced nyz-nuh), a town known for its beaches, timber and forbidden caves. I'm going to be honest here, because clearly that's what blogs are all about: I didn't visit any forbidden caves. Just to clear up any confusion.

Knysna is cute -- the townships, as the Lonely Planet guide informed me, use the town's lumber for construction and are unique -- but kind of a ghost town. At night, its one bar is all but deserted; I didn't get a chance to see its one club, but I'd expect about the same thing. We didn't pass anyone walking to and from dinner, and it was a little eerie. Correction: Larry went looking for what he thought was a crocodile, which actually turned out to be a man snoring under a bridge. Still, we found an adorable hostel that, due to Knysna's apparent lack of tourists, we all fit rather comfortably into: the four of us took the large front bedroom that could have held seven people. We didn't have to share the room with others the whole time, a fact I totally could have enjoyed if Steffen didn't snore so loudly in his sleep.

Sleep or no, Saturday was busy. With Larry's improving stick-shift driving, we went to View Point, a part of the bay with rocky cliffs (no, I didn't decide to jump) that seemed at low tide: some fish on a taller cliff looked a little dead because their little pool had run out of water. Luckily for me, an extremely amateur photographer, the scenery was so gorgeous I couldn't screw up the picture even if I tried.

Then it was off to our number one destination, the Knysna elephant farm. It was probably the most touristy thing we did all day, the really overly touristy stuff that's so manufactured and staged it's almost disgusting (DVDs of the experience, complete with techno background music), but there were elephants so I was in. While I was paying for my ticket (R140; ~$14 for elephant petting? Oh yes), the lady behind the counter informed me for a mere R25 I could get a bucket of food for the elephants. Like the true American consumer I am, I said "I'll take it" and found myself holding several carrots, bunches of grapes, lettuce and pumpkin chunks. Granted, it wasn't that much food, but I thought it might do some damage (appetite-wise) to the pachydermed individuals out there. Nope.

This is why elephants have it so well: in the wild, they eat 18 hours each day (the zoologists assured us that, in this reservation, they kept the eating down to a mere 12 hours). 18 hours?! The rest of the time, they're sleeping. Two of my favorite activities, and they've got humans waiting on them, hand and foot. While we stood there trying to feed carrots and other random veggies to the elephants, the zoologists were delivering several kilos of tree branches to the elephants. Yeah, apparently our snacks were nothing to these guys, since they eat 250 kg of food each day. The baby elephant quickly tired of me putting food on my palm and reaching for it with his trunk and instead grabbed my bucket and tried to eat the rest of the food (the pumpkin proved too big for him, though). Adorable. And then, after the elephants realized the silly humans had run out of bucket food, they stomped off to a corner of land and tore up the branches. So apparently elephants eat trees -- the picture of me and Mr. Elephant is a bit underwhelming, I think, because he's got a tree branch all over his face. They are also a little intimidating, though no one got trampled to death during our tour; but it occurred to me they were slightly bigger than I was, even after eating a chicken & mushroom pie, food baby and all. Their plot of land was bereft of trees, which makes sense because they seemed to be chomping those things up. I really wish I could eat trees, too.

Speaking of trees, we had hoped to go to the Big Foot Forest in Knysna's national park (we later discovered it was actually called the Big Tree Forest, though that didn't really help us), but for some reason it was "closed." I was a little disappointed -- how often do you see 700-year-old trees? -- but a little less so when I found that their most popular attraction was a suspension bridge. Just like in the movies where the super-fit, attractive hero is running from imminent death and the bridge breaks in the middle over a 100-meter drop to the center of the earth and, after a few minutes of sweat-inducing suspense, makes it to safety. I thought I might have to face my demons (I'm really scared of heights) and rough it when the bridge broke, and the "enter at your own risk" signs weren't too helpful. Nor was the "bridge history" sign, with its brief timeline of the 30-year-old bridge. The fact that it had been rebuilt and "repaired" in 2007 didn't inspire too much confidence, but I figured it might offer some good photo opportunities. After all, having good photos is a little more important than one's mortality, I think. The view was breathtaking, of course.

And then on to the most beautiful beach I've ever seen in my life, in Noetzie, a little ways past a township outside of Knysna. So many rocky cliffs that lead down to the water, and it was completely deserted. It looked like paradise. There were quite a few nice houses in the hills, taunting us for being (relatively) impoverished students. Again, the scene was a little ruined by Steffen's fascination with dropping trou -- let's say I've seen a little more of him than I'd have liked to, but at least he's comfortable with his body? I warned him it was illegal to be nude in a public beach in SA (it is) but he didn't seem too concerned. Considering the police vigilance here, I can't say I blame him.

We'd stopped over in Mosselbaai (Mussel Bay) before Knysna on day one and took a wrong turn somewhere, ending up in a township instead. Our 2009 VW (which, by the way, was a model type from the 1980s, though the car was brand new) attracted stares from the all-black residents of the town. Yeah. It's completely awkward to get stared at for being white. Even in middle school in Fort Worth, where I was a minority among the mainly-Hispanic population, the shouts of "hey, white girl" still implied some sort of familiarity with white people. In that township, it's completely uncomfortable because you can feel the stares for being different but also because you know you don't belong there. On the other end of things, those houses on the beach scream opulence; also, we passed so many BMWs and Mercedes on the highway (all driven by white people). There are these two completely different worlds, living literally minutes from each other, and it's kind of disturbing.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Zuma: I'm just not that into you*

These posters are plastered to most of the streetlights in town, and with election season coming up, I guess it's kind of a big deal. Still, there's something about ANC pres Jacob Zuma's face that's just... ugh. I know I mentioned the "cat that swallowed the canary" look last time, and I definitely think there's something to that. But something else was bothering me, and I couldn't figure it out until today, when it finally dawned on me. He has awful teeth. I mean, really bad teeth. Orthodontia is in order here.

Which led me to think about politicians and attractiveness. So, disregarding Zuma's past -- rape charges, ridiculous AIDS statements and corruption aside, you have to face the facts: he's a pretty unattractive man. Even with better teeth, he's still got that nose. And those beady eyes. And he's bald. Ugh. So, would a man who looked like Zuma be able to run for president of the U.S.? I really don't think so, for the physical reasons. McCain might not have been the most attractive person, but he was a hottie when he was younger; Obama is fairly glamorous (though I prefer the Obama of the early 1980s, during his Harvard Law Review days; yummy); even John Kerry went tanning so he could look decent. And I'm sorry, Zuma, but I'm afraid you don't make the cut.

I know, I know, this isn't the states. Most people here can't afford braces, and maybe the "common man" look, as well as his skin color, insures him the majority of the popular vote. I guess it probably is better to focus on the politics rather than how orange John Kerry is, but when you've got a hot political leader, why not flaunt it?

In other news, I think I'm going to the Eastern Cape tomorrow. I'm not exactly sure where yet, but me, Larry the Texan and Steven the Dutch guy are renting a VW Golf and setting out for five or so hours across the country.

Tonight I met a Norwegian girl who has a VW bug with flames painted on it. The engine is really loud and growly but it's really cute, and it's much better than walking.

ALSO, I ATE A WORM. Tonight at the student center we had International Foods Night and... yes, I sampled a worm from the Botswana table. It tasted like bacon (perhaps my favorite food)-- it was really salty and crunchy and honestly, not too bad. In fact (sorry, Sarita), it kind of tasted like bacon + Indian food. Very interesting spices. It was kind of yellowish inside, after I bit into it (the rear, not the front with the eyes), so I tried not to think about the insides and whatnot, but it wasn't nearly as scary as I thought. Kind of a healthy snack, really, much better than Choc-o-Break cookies, my latest bad habit (like frosted animal crackers. I know, what am I, five?). The French table had ratatouille and crepes; the Canadian (wtf?) table had salmon and rice (for the record, made by Americans); the Mozambique table had some sort of shrimp/coconut/rice dish that was decent; and there was a Mexican table serving enchiladas and nachos. I was kind of terrified to try the "Mexican" food and instead looked longingly at the Swedish meatballs and was disappointed by the so-called "American" cuisine, macaroni-and-cheese and apple pie. No chicken fried steak? Disappointing.

Brief blog break (BBB), but after this weekend I shall return with pictures of hopefully-somewhat-different geography and stories about my Eastern Cape fling(s). Stay tuned.

* I already broke my back, but I'd really like to not become a political prisoner this semester. Hope Zuma doesn't go blog-surfing...

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Limbo




It's an odd state of existence, being an invalid. There are the perks: I'm not allowed to do any heavy lifting, so Alyssa carries the heavy groceries for me; technically, I shouldn't be bending my back to do laundry, so if I really insisted I could probably find someone to pity me and take care of my load; and the cool kids from the northeastern U.S. acknowledge my existence in their cursory "so how's your back doing?" Still, I feel like there's something missing. In the absence of a corset/cast-like device, I think people are less willing to believe -- or fully comprehend -- the magnitude of my injury. I mean, yes, they saw me lying on the rock crying my eyes out post-trauma, but people forget things and minimize incidents later. If I had some sort of tangible "proof" of my compressed vertebrae, well, that'd be nice. No more of this complaining about the uncomfortable seats in film class. Time to bring out the big guns. Maybe I should carry around my chart and x-ray images? Victorian corset? Lug around physical therapy equipment/doctors to class with me? I'm determined to milk this for all it's worth and see what it gets me: the attention of cute foreign boys, free dinners, car rides to the beach, etc.

In between trying to impress those around me with my bravery (give me validation!), I have another uncomfortable state of being. At my latest physio appointment, I complained to my freckled therapist about my sore back.

"Oh? It's sore?" she said, blue eyes sparkling. "That means it's healing -- the cartilage is growing back. It's normal for the pain to sort of fluctuate during the first eight weeks."

Eight weeks? Gulp.

After mobilizing my spine (kind of like a massage, but a little more painful), the story changed.

"Have you been... sitting down a lot lately?"

I told her I'd just come from my two-hour English class.

And that's when she explained to me the three cardinal rules of compression fractures, because these can actually make it worse: don't sit for too long, don't stand for too long and don't lie in the same position for too long.

Um. So that leaves running and walking, two activities I try to avoid at all costs. (Secret: I'm sitting as I'm writing this. Sorry, L1 and T12! <333) What am I, a robot?

"The professors tend to not like it when you stand up in class," she offered. "But we can write you a note and they'll let you stand for exams."

And the thing is, being a sedentary person by nature, there are so many fun things to do while sitting! Without going into the more explicit acts one can perform while in a chair, I especially love sitting and drinking Savannah Dry cider during trivia night at the pub, because I usually know the literature questions, though nothing else (the trivia quiz-writer certainly has a thing for Jonathan Swift); watching movies (in Afrikaans: fliek); consuming bottles of South African wine and chatting.

So, in between trying to decide what position will do the least harm to my healing spine, let me enlighten you, over a week late, on the activities of St. Patrick's Day spent in a foreign country. Because it takes me several years to learn a lesson, I've just recently realized the importance of donning green for St. P's. This time I put on green earrings, went to Hemingway class and... realized no one else realized the gravity of the holiday. There were greys, pinks... no green.

"Do you get pinched if you're not wearing green?" I asked the long-haired hippie girl with the Sartre book on her desk.

She gave me a confused look. "Why would someone pinch you for not wearing green?"

Later that day, someone asked me what it was that St. P was known for. And I think that pretty much describes the importance of March 17 to the average South African. They do, however, have an "Irish" pub in Stellenbosch, so it was filled to the brim that night. As a new 21-year-old, I wanted to partake in the madness, so I purchased a couple glasses of green Guiness. Guiness is really intense stuff and honestly, pretty terrible. A European recently remarked to me that Americans drink to get drunk. I am a stereotype: I hate the taste of alcohol, and I especially dislike Guiness. But it's alcohol, so I'll drink it. Even after the green dye stains my teeth and lips in an especially unsexy way. The big, beefy males tended to congregate in the corner watching some sort of rugby match and screaming in unison at some failed or wonderful play. I lamely left shortly after midnight because I had a paper to write for the following day. Even St. Patrick's good deeds can't motivate me to finish assignments in a timely manner.

On an economic note, let me just say that most things here are cheap if you're an American student. (The dollar equals about ten rand; the situation is even better for the Euro, with about 14 rand per Euro.) You can buy a nice bottle of wine for $3, go to a moderately-priced restaurant and pay less than $5 for dinner, take the train to and from Cape Town for $2, buy a cocktail for $3-4... but their Apple computers are still really expensive, virtually hundreds of dollars more than what you'd pay in the U.S. Supposedly they're still a relatively new phenomenon here and thus more expensive, but it's a shock. Also, their books are just as expensive as those in the U.S. (since most of them have to be imported from England; I guess they don't have any major publishing houses in South Africa... or perhaps most of Africa for that matter). You pay about $15 for a trade paperback, about the same price you'd pay at my beloved B&N.

Earlier tonight I went to a discussion about racism at Stellenbosch (by the way, the birthplace of Apartheid) in which people brought up the concern with Afrikaans being the primary language spoken at the university. The university didn't, until the last ten years or so, offer any courses in English, and was entirely Afrikaans. I didn't know this before coming here, but Afrikaans is the primary language spoken by the white descendants of the European colonists (Dutch, French). They only learn English in school. Xhosa and Zulu are the two main languages spoken by the black population of the western Cape. Thus, the black population of Stellenbosch U. is pretty small; still, some people were talking about being misled about the language situation, since they were informed their classes would be taught in English. Since the only courses offered in English are English literature and international classes, many non-Afrikaans-speaking students (read: the black students) are SOL when they arrive here, having their chemistry instructor literally lecture them in another language. There's going to be a big push to change the course languages offered -- the leader of the discussion mentioned a demonstration in a few weeks? And then the Canadian student on the panel said capitalism was the root of racism and suggested we overthrow the capitalistic system (okay, so it got a bit radical at the end, but it was interesting).

Also, elections are on April 22. The ANC will win but maybe it'll be interesting to watch (Zuma looks very crooked in his campaign posters, like the cat that swallowed the canary).

For homework, our history professor (a cute Afrikaner old man named Hans; I want him to be my surrogate grandfather) suggested we watch an Afrikaans soap opera. Awesome. Another note on academics: 75 is an A, and 50 is a passing grade. And my courses are transferring on a pass/fail basis to Rice. That's why I go out on weeknights.

(Note on the pictures: these are from Kayamandi, the black township right outside of Stellenbosch. By virtue of my race, I'm clearly an outsider when visiting there; I get a lot of stares. The kids are playing cricket; the little convenience store is sponsored by Coca-Cola; I liked the color of the building.)

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Here's to China?

Today in my Hemingway class I found out two things of note that don't really relate to Ernest in the least: first, absinthe (the good hallucinogenic kind) is legal here; and secondly, the Dalai Lama was denied admittance to South Africa lately because "they have to focus on the 2010 World Cup" in Cape Town. One made me super excited; the other made me a little sad.

"So what's the real reason?" the headband-wearing guy I'd been assigned to present "Hills Like White Elephants" with, asked.

"Oh, you know, the same. It could screw up our trade with China," the red-haired punkish (albeit very insightful) girl answered.

Silly.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Honeymoon ends; therapy


So sometime this morning, when I was writing the third of this week's last-minute essays, a curious thought popped into my head: "The honeymoon period is over." Of all the hackneyed adages in the world, that one speaks to me the most. It doesn't matter what I'm talking about, because it always seems to ring true -- rocky points in relationships, getting to the bottom of the Nutella jar, or getting passive-aggressively "released" from your job at the bookstore because you had a scheduling conflict and couldn't work the Harry Potter release party (f.u., Barnes & Noble and your still-overpriced-even-when-40%-off-with-the-member-discount hardcover bestsellers).

And no, I wasn't thinking of Heidi and Spencer's delicious/inevitable marriage collapse (wow, that's the first The Hills reference I've thrown in here; I am SO sorry), but more of the fact that I no longer feel like I'm on vacation. Not necessarily because I'm bored now that my pace of life has slowed down (my parents enjoyed taking us to rock museums, so you can only imagine how enthralling those cross-country road trips could be. Don't ask about the petrified forest), but because it finally occurs to me I'm in school. And I have assignments due. I've probably slept a combined total of twelve hours since Monday which means... a slight improvement from last semester. It's just confusing to feel like you're temporarily staying somewhere and then having to study on top of it, sort of like when we went to Austin in 5th grade and had a lot of fun then had to write a report about it. I just can't look at that rose quartz-encrusted rotunda the same way again.

Updates? Updates. I have spinal shock from the trauma, which means my nerve endings are still weird and that my thigh muscles are sore. Haven't turned into a hunchback yet, but I am slowly feeling my muscles loosening up (I can even put my legs straight out in front of me now without dying). And, I know this is super cheesy and maybe I should go write a Patch Adams-esque screenplay or something, but it feels really great to be improving. Rather, physical therapy feels great. So my idea of physical therapy -- a big room with ex-war veterans attempting to walk straight with the tearful encouragement of their physical trainers, football players stumbling off injuries, old ladies stretching -- turned out to be a little off. It's less physical, more... therapeutic. Therapeutic in the massage sense -- let me just say, ultrasound juice is amazing (menthol!) and, though I was initially scared at the physical therapist's announcement that she was going to "mobilize [my] spine," I realized this just meant a thirty-minute massage. The therapist has a French name, like many of the Afrikaners here do, is cute and blond and seems to also have a sweating immunity. So when I walk in to my appointments, the sweat pouring down my face and, if I'm lucky, chicken-mushroom pie crumbs on the front of my shirt (I really have to stop eating while I walk), I feel a bit I've-really-let-myself-go in comparison. But I'm not here to impress my doctor crush; I'm here to improve. Even if her freckles are adorable and her accent music to my ears. We're going on the Garden Route tour in less than a month (ooh, more like two weeks), the one where there will be baby cheetahs who want nothing more than to be petted. I think there's some hiking and rock climbing, as well, but as an invalid I think I'll abstain from rock climbing.

I still have a craving for chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and cream gravy. You know my address! (If not, please see Facebook profile; too lazy to type it out right now and besides, the steak would probably be cold by the time it arrived, anyway.) For some reason, though Cuban food seems to have found its niche here, and hamburgers and steaks are all over the place, the chicken fried steak hasn't yet caught on. Life can be so unfair.

South Africa fact 1: J.R.R. Tolkien was born in South Africa!

Sunday, March 15, 2009

You're a-peein'








Last week as I was leaving African-American lit class, a fellow American remarked that she found it uncomfortable to sit through the America-bashing that was that day's discussion. The South African kids in the class -- one, a red-haired punkish girl (a nice change from the bleached-blond miniskirt-wearing twigs that fill the campus), the other a muscley mullet-donning intellectualish guy -- discussed Jim Crow laws and racial divisions and, more or less, explored some of America's more incriminating moments.

"I just don't know what to do when they insult the U.S.," Ms. New York said.

I guess it is kind of awkward to hear how much America sucks. In terms of etiquette, what is the best reaction? A chuckle? Agreeing unconditionally? Regardless, though, I find myself less on the defensive, more on the "hmm... well, actually, you're right. LOL SRY about the whole Iraq War thing/the last eight years" position. We read a James Baldwin essay in which he mentioned patriotism:

"I love America more than any other country in this world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually."

I think Baldwin had a point there. It comes off as a little insecure to deny or ignore America's flaws. Let's ignore, of course, the fact that he eventually got so fed up with life in the states that he left for France. Honestly, I feel like, while al Jazeera might watch Desperate Housewives and get a completely wrong impression of the U.S. (we don't all look like Eva Longoria, unfortunately, and Susan is just an idiot), the message we send out to the rest of the world is kind of embarrassing. Americans aren't exactly known for their intellects. Or for their quiet voices. Or their manners. (However, I'm still convinced we can do Tex-Mex better than anywhere else on the planet.)

Like Avenue Q tells us, we laugh at stereotypes because they're kind of true (another of the show's life lessons: a B.A. in English is useless, unless you can write a Tony award-winning musical and become insanely rich). Last week, our history professor lectured a minute or two past 4, when class ends, and several Americans in the front started sighing loudly and tapping their watches. Pierre from Paris (cliche? Perhaps) has much better manners, I noticed. The girl from Mexico didn't overtly exude impatience. Nope. It was just the Americans. Awesome. Somehow, I didn't quite feel like belting out "The Star-Spangled Banner."

The more I think about it, the more I think Baldwin might have been on to something when he left the U.S.* Maybe he didn't just move to France because of the racial inequalities and of feeling like an outsider in a culture in which he had no ancestral stake. Perhaps he got one request too many without a "please?" at the end. Maybe someone said "Where's the bathroom?" without first greeting themselves or talked loudly on their cell phones in the movie theater. Or perhaps he foresaw the advent of Katy Perry, mesh underwear, Snakes on a Plane and iPhones and took off running.

Today me and Alyssa went with Rick (from the Netherlands) and Tim (from Germany) to a concert at Kirstenbosch, in Cape Town. After some initial road confusion -- we quickly found out that Tim is also used to driving on the right side of the road -- we got to the venue, where we met more Germans and spread out on the grass to enjoy the music of The Dirtyskirts. The music was decent but ultimately nothing special; however, it occurred to me that I really enjoy Europeans.

Maybe that's kind of a generalization. I mean, some Europeans are kind of terrible. I wouldn't necessarily go to a movie with Hitler or invite Jack the Ripper to dinner. Even Mussolini I'm a little iffy about, and Freud isn't really my style. But I like their general attitude. They're quieter, more polite and have a good knowledge of American politics and history (I was out American president-ed by Tim the German today, I'm a little sad to say). And while I've learned during my time here that boys can be jerks no matter their nationality, I'm having a bit of a crush on Europeans in general. This doesn't mean that I'm going to adopt some faux-aristocratic European accent like some of the Texan (!) exchange students here (I really don't know what would be more pretentious), but it just means that I might bolt, Baldwin-style, the next time someone says "misunderestimated" or forgets a "thank you."

*
So since I can love America while acknowledging her shortcomings, let me just note that I love apple pie a la mode. And SuperTarget. And Tina Fey. And all my friends from back home! Well, most of them. You know who you are. And yes, that first picture is Dr. Kovac, and technically he's from Croatia but he was my first TV doctor crush, so I think that counts for something.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Miscalculations






Long before I met those American kids from my program, the ones from the Northeast who always look picture-perfect and free from the horrors of perspiration, I packed my suitcase with one goal in mind: to look spectacular. Normally when traveling, I pack for comfort, and I always regret it. Not because I'm a sadist and would rather be uncomfortable if at all possible (...not that there's anything wrong with that), but because I always end up looking like an ugmo in pictures. This time, deciding once and for all to end this vicious cycle (no more PHS ACADEMICS too-large sweatshirt photos for me!), I strategically packed a single suitcase of dresses, skirts and walking shorts. My best blouses came along with me and I prayed the airlines wouldn't lose my suitcase (but just in case, I carried my most prized possession, my black dress, in my carry-on). Me and the suitcase were blissfully reunited at Cape Town Airport and, looking at the rest of the chumps in my program, I was relieved to see my cheap mostly-Forever 21 wardrobe was somewhat different from the rest of the girls'. My purple American Apparel dress got a few looks in town (perhaps it's a little too different) but for the most part, I was determined to turn over a new leaf: I was going to be glamorous!

Don't laugh. I think everyone longs to be glamorous in some way. Maybe some of them actually succeed. But I think most of them probably live in Paris or London or Cape Cod, places where it's cooler and people don't feel like passing out from heat exhaustion at midday. Because it is absolutely impossible to be glamorous in Stellenbosch. Walking around, the humidity and the heat guarantee at least a marginal pit stain; if you're carrying groceries home in the afternoon, you can expect to have sweat dripping off your face. I honestly don't know what Grace Kelly would have done, and I kind of wish she were here to give me a few tips. Because apparently wardrobe has nothing to do with glamor: it's inherent. I think I have the makings of a children's book there, only it might be a little exclusive. I mean, my argument is that some people just aren't glamorous. Or perhaps glamor can only really happen in the fall and winter. In that case, I plan to hibernate for the next couple of months.

But it brings up a good point. The weird thing is, I find myself almost two months in and having somewhere along the way transitioned from tourist to resident. The experiences are no longer new and fresh but have become part of an everyday routine. Still, I've been wrong about a lot of stuff so far, so I think that's going to be the theme of this post: stuff I was wrong about.

1) The pedestrian has the right of way. There are a few things in the states that I tend to take for granted. Besides SuperTarget and corndogs, I just assumed the pedestrian-right-of-way was something that would sort of transfer to South Africa as well. Wrong. For maybe the sixth time since arriving in Stellenbosch, I almost got run over today. Drivers will purposefully speed up when they see pedestrians, causing one to have an awkward internal debate with oneself. "No way is Nissan going to hit me," one thinks. "He wouldn't! I'm a... pedestrian? Oh, but he's speeding up. But he's got to be bluffing. Uh oh. Corrupt government? I'm not taking a chance AAAAAAAAAH!" Or something like that. In a way, I'd like to see if they're bluffing and just stop in the middle of the street, but something tells me I've sustained enough injuries for awhile. Plus, I don't think my health insurance covers legal battles. What's more, the drivers often yell in Afrikaans, which never fails to momentarily stun me. In Texas, I'd show them a lovely view of my middle finger, punctuated by some sort of expletive, but what happens when you can't even speak their language? I'm pretty sure they're not saying "Goiemore; hoe gaan dit met jou?" either...

2) English is an easy language to understand. After all, I've been speaking it for 20 years! Even though I might lapse into random Texan phrases at the drop of a hat (what can I say? "I'm fixin' to" comes more naturally to me than "I'm about to"), clearly I don't have an accent. (Also, don't ask me to pronounce "umbrella".) I'm about as west coast as you can get without living there, and considering I come from the same town as Larry the Texan from my group (Hick McGee with cowboy boots and the full Texas accent and attitude), that's quite an accomplishment. But the people here genuinely have a hard time understanding me. Is it a language barrier when you speak the same language? They drive on the left side of the street, call bathrooms "toilets", put unnecessary u's in everything, put cheddar cheese on French toast (wtf?)... and then they look at me strangely when I pronounce my r's. And since I've been listening to myself for, like, years, the first few times I had to repeat myself slowly, my first thought was, "but I don't have an accent." And there are so many different types of accents here: the typical Afrikaans-as-a-first-language accent (your typical South African accent), Xhosa accents, Zulu accents... Yesterday I asked a woman what "offline" meant because she was so hard to understand. "OHHH, offline!" I said as it finally dawned on me. She stood there, looking exasperated, probably wondering why so many stupid Americans come through South Africa. Honestly, after nearly two months, you'd think I'd be able to understand better. After all, I know "sakkie?" at the grocery store means "do you want a sack?" If only I could get my English skills up to par!

3) Internet connectivity should be similar to that in the states. Another backward thing here: the internet is slow as molasses, and I have to pay by the megabyte. That's right -- if I download a movie, my monthly internet usage goes through the roof (I really wish I hadn't started The Reader, but I guess that means I have to finish it?). We get these nifty little statements each month declaring how many rands' worth of internet we've used. R600, we were told, is a good figure. Mine? Somewhere around R1000. Oops.

4) I'm going abroad. Great chance to escape stupid artists with little to no talent. I have seen so many posters of Katy Perry since I've gotten here (in London she was also EVERYWHERE). Considering Afrikaner culture is so strict, it seems odd that "I Kissed a Girl" is so popular, but maybe it's precisely for that reason that she seems to have found her niche in South Africa. And it's so annoying. But everyone deserves their 15 minutes, right? Right?

Someone next door is playing The Shins. There might be some hope. Now if they could just get over this smooth jazzy song they always play in the clubs...

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

The Cavemen outside my window annoy me

Do you remember the first time you heard a "South African" accent? Perhaps you were watching Blood Diamond and you realized Leo was speaking a particularly interesting dialect of English. Maybe a trendy blonde just cut your hair and you had to find out where she came from. It wasn't quite a British accent...

I've been in love with the typical Afrikaner South African accent for a long time. My love began when I was at Ogle, getting an $8 haircut and the cute blonde said she was from Jo'burg. Since then, I've really been in love with the way they slightly roll their R's and the melodic way they pronounce my name (more of a "Sea-air-ah"). In my opinion, no matter how stupid the expressed sentiment, you just couldn't go wrong with that accent.

How many more times will I have to say this? I was wrong.

I hadn't counted on the complete cavemen that populate Academia. Today, one of them told a girl to make him a sandwich, woman. Moreover, they seem to find it eternally amusing to run around our block yelling "gluuuuuuuuuuuuuurg" or "maaaaaaaaaawk" or any number of grating unisyllables. They dress in wife-beaters and are super beefy and... anyway, my dreams of snagging a South African beau are quickly evaporating. Plus, they're all blond, which (I know, I know, I'm such a racist) makes them all look the same, just like that time I watched that Danish movie and couldn't tell who was whose sibling or romantic partner.

So why am I not gauging my eyes out, Oedipus-style, at the realization that procreating with one of these cretins would mean children with combined IQs less than 100? Because there is hope. Maybe. Despite the impracticality of his wardrobe choice (given that the temperatures usually hit 85-95 degrees Fahrenheit, plus that intense African sun), a blue sweater-clad guy in my Hemingway class took his seat Tuesday (and my breath away). I do have a thing for sweaters, but it was more than that: this guy has a sensitive, almost-feminine face and sporadic facial hair. He makes decent insights about the short stories and even laughed at my Gary Coleman reference (you thought Coleman and Hemingway were on completely different planets? Think again). In short, he's my new target. Which probably means I will smile at him bashfully for the remainder of the semester and shortly learn that he's dating one of the twigs who goes here.

In other news, I'm going to be so behind on American slang when I get back. Any new phrases I need to add to my slang dictionary? Anything I should "drop like it's hot" over here?

Also, there is one town in South Africa that refuses to end Apartheid. So if you're Jewish or Black or not-an-Afrikaner, you can't enter. Apparently, it's the laughingstock of the entire nation.

In national news, Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon are in South Africa right now, filming The Human Factor, about Nelson Mandela uniting the country post-Apartheid via 1995's Rugby World Cup. I really don't know how I feel about Freeman playing Nelson Mandela (WTF, Hollywood?), but it does explain why the air seems full of magic, life a little more hopeful...

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Notes on a Scandal! (Nick Guest-Blogs)

(February 22 to March 8, 2009)

This little project has convinced me that Sarah is the much better creative writer out of the pair of us. Hopefully the “artistic integrity” of the blog will not be too severely compromised. Yummo!

If my flights to/from S.A. were representative, people are not traveling in great numbers at the moment. The Continental flight Houston to Heathrow was among the first since 9/11 I have seen with empty seats, and seating Heathrow to Houston return was like Swiss cheese (I had 3 seats to myself). My $971 roundtrip was a bargain for a route normally costing ~$1,400… fares for April and May are even lower (albeit for low season). Routes cut, planes shrunk. P.S.: I now love veggie meals on planes.

South African Airways has especial problems. Heathrow to Cape Town was by far the worst international flight I have been on – a few scattered TVs played terrible movies (not just airplane-terrible; terrible-terrible 1980s trash). The food, my British seatmate noted, was mostly inedible (plain macaroni, greasy chicken, sketchy breakfast meats) and the service was awful. There have been stories in the S.A. papers about flight attendants and other SAA personnel smuggling drugs on the planes; this would explain a lot.

I had hoped flying SAA would give a taste of S.A., with South African crew and accents, but as Sarah has noted, there is a great diversity of South African accents, most straying far from my preconceptions. By far the most common “accent” in S.A. is inflected with one of the black-African languages. Among non-blacks, accents vary between Anglophones and Afrikaans speakers, and even then, there is a great variety. I was also frequently reminded that S.A. is a nation of English as a second language speakers… but I was impressed that many people commanded three, four, or often more languages.

It became immediately clear upon arrival that S.A. is a country of drivers, with public transport as thin and slow as Houston, or worse. Getting into Cape Town from Stellenbosch was 1:45… each way. My advice to anyone coming here would be, above all, get a car (or make friends with a driver). What had been a 30 minute walk to the train station was 5 minutes by car… we saw more in a half day driving the Winelands than I could have seen in two days by train. The possibilities in S.A. open up with a car…

However, I agree with Sarah’s appraisal that for the average American, the country is not drivable. Beyond manual transmissions and left-hand driving, S.A. drivers are awful – worse than Polish drivers (who occasionally would obey stop lights and signs) and in the league with Ukrainian drivers, breezing across lanes, blowing stop signs, ripping through small streets at high speeds, and disregarding pedestrians.

I drove at one point with my British friend from the plane through Cape Town; I was amazed at their handling of traffic, and I was super stressed just watching the driving. It was much worse than Manhattan, which is supposed to be un-drivable for out-of-towners, with trucks cutting into traffic from the shoulder, and lanes holding no meaning. On the plus side, the road network is good and well maintained (if poorly signposted in places).

Geographically, the Western Cape, which is all I really saw, was varied… The Winelands around Stellenbosch reminded me of the winey areas of California… I guess that is obvious. The broad expanse between Cape Town and Stellenbosch, as well as the mountains, reminded me of parts of Arizona, or West Texas – dry but not desert, mountains, and green. The seashore reminded me of Hawaii, with lush, beautiful mountains, clouds and mists, cliffs, crashing waves, and so on. The main difference with Hawaii (and why I suspect the area is not more of a tourist haven than it already is) is that the water is uncomfortably cold, and largely un-swimmable due to currents and temperature. Also, winds on the Atlantic seaboard were intolerable (sand in the eyes!).
Weather-wise, I was not rained on once while in S.A. For several days it was 40 to 45 C in Paarl, near Stellenbosch, igniting fires which turned the sky brown, generated smoke in Stellenbosch, and smoldered orange on the mountains at night. At night it usually remained warm and sweaty… I went through clothes, and showers, quickly in S.A. No one has A/C in their homes that I could see, not even in the upper-middle class suburbs. In general, temperatures in Stellenbosch were like a middling-hot Houston summer day and night, around 85 to 90, dry, but with intense, skin blistering UV and sunlight.

The food was unexpected. I was expecting “South African” food – bobotie meatloaf, lots of corn/mealie based food, and so on. However, having been here, I got the sense that there really is no such thing as “South African cuisine.” Yes, the food is meat heavy – as expected – and it is possible to order game (I had Ostrich and Springbok; Kudu and others were available). Braiis seemed common –almost daily – all bring your own meat.

However, among affluent whites, the food I saw was light European – sandwiches, pastas, salads. “Traditional” S.A. dishes needed to be searched out, like in Germany – this is not the food normal people eat daily. There seemed to be quite a strong, late night street-cafĂ© culture in Stellenbosch, and a taste for wine. I (and Sarah) really liked Malva pudding, which is sorta Dutch, but most of what we ate was just normal, Western food.

With regard to money,., the exchange rate was very favorable – 10 Rands to the dollar – so S.A. is currently miraculously cheap. Some sample items – smoothie 19 Rand (large), Soap 4R, Milk liter 12R, 1KG Corn flakes – 17R, 1st class train to Cape Town 12R, dessert 22R, nice bottle of wine 19 to 29R.

Sarah and I had a particularly remarkable meal – Ciabatta and hummus, veggie sandwiches and salad, fried chicken and fries, and malva pudding… at a super nice restaurant… for 109R ($10.90). Nice meals for 2 totaled 80R to 150R. That’s less than one sandwich at Katz’s. Meanwhile, whereas I had brought $300 in “starter money” for South Africa, I found that this was far, far more than I needed to get me through 2 weeks.

How are the people? Well… as you might expect, South Africans are mainly black-African. And there are coloured people, of an interesting array of extractions, and appearing quite diverse. But the people I found most interesting (and hilarious) were the white Stellenbosch students.
I saw S.U. as a campus full of rugby players and beauty queens – huge, bulky, meaty-headed boys, often with their hair bleached, and the occasional mullet – and petite, thin, over-tan girls in summer dresses. The boys seemed to like drinking heavily, tossing rugby balls, listening to loud, bad American music, riding dirt bikes and jeeps, and yelling masculinely. Maybe Afrikaaners are the Texans of Africa?

I also noticed the older (40-50) South African women looked very tan and dry… like raisins… and often favored short, bleached hair. Oh, and everyone drives, so that is where you see them, rather than on the street.

I was surprised by the number of Muslims/Cape Malays in Cape Town. I had been under the impression that this was a small, minor remnant of a former population, but everywhere I went I saw halaal-meats stores, “halaal” markings on menus, women in headscarves and men with skullcaps, so as far as I can tell, their influence is still large. Even Stellenbosch sports a mosque.
Economically, I was expecting something like Poland – the two countries have nearly the same GDP per capita, so I expected medium standards of living, medium quality of life, medium quality of facilities. And of course I expected somewhat more economic inequity.

Despite expecting this inequity, I was still surprised by the degree to which S.A.’s extreme economic disparity. It is not just a contrast between, say, U.S. upper-middle class suburban and ghetto life, at least from my experience in Houston – it is a group living fabulously well, as luxuriously (or, in some respects, more luxuriously) than in the U.S. in this natural wonderland – think golf clubs, horseback riding, wine, cricketing, biking, and so on – and another, vastly larger group, living in abject poverty, far worse than American ghettos… vast corrugated metal squatters’ camps. For some reason I was really struck when I was walking on the street and saw a man pick up a cigarette butt another had discarded to smoke.

What’s the deal with South Africa and crime? I don’t really know (I was only in S.A. two weeks, in a particularly safe region; I personally was not mugged or threatened). It is hard to get a clear sense of the issue from South Africans. My British friend’s aunt knew little about the safety of trains because she herself had never ridden one. Sarah’s Afrikaans teacher advised students never to ride the trains, but I found them to be safe and giving a good cross section of S.A., even when I mistakenly rode in “dangerous” second class.

Speaking of second class, one of the weirdest “I am in Africa” moments was riding in second class and realizing “statistically, about one in four of these people has HIV.” Also, I was also advised that TB (drug resistant) is a major problem in townships (a pretty name for, mostly, vast corrugated-metal slums), owing to immune-compromised HIV patients.

Back to crime – It seems that given both lingering racial suspicions and American-style crime hysteria, people could easily have very cloudy ideas of their own risks. After all, in the U.S., we have unrealistic fears of sexual predators, abductions, Myspace pedophiles, and the dangers of the cities… Which are mostly overhype and just keep (white, suburban) people locked up at home, scared. But, despite my acute sense of safety, poshness, and criminality-overhype in S.A., I imagine the statistics don’t lie that crime is bad in S.A. I just took reasonable precautions, so I did not see any of it.

It seems to vary by location, J-burg supposedly being worst. Even in the “most relaxed city in Africa” (Cape Town) crime seems to be on everyone’s (or, all the white people’s?) minds. Precautions vary: Cape Town was 8 or 10 foot tall, white, bricked walls, electric wire or barbed wire on top, and armed response signs; Stellenbosh was modest iron fences with barbed tops (and even some homes without such fencing) and armed response signs. Everyone had an armed-response panic button.

The causes of S.A. crime levels? I don’t know. It might be inequity (and I think this is by far the strongest part), but other societies are unequal. It might be cultural (a la gun crime in the US, lack of murders in Saudi, etc). It might have something to do with race, drugs, alcohol, poverty, disease, politics, the incredible quantity of young people here/age imbalance, education, something else, or all the above.

It feels like the crime panic in S.A. is also generated, not because anything is *absolutely* bad in South Africa – it is actually quite nice, posh, and Western for a segment of society, better than the Czech Republic or Poland, and even some of Western Europe. Parts of S.A. feel like big country clubs and wine estates (because they are).

The problem seems to be *relative* – I imagine inhabiting safe and secure place like the suburban U.S… and then suddenly, large swaths of the U.S. become as dangerous, or more so, than the worst parts of Mexico. Even if your little bubble was not acutely affected, it would be understandable to be panicked about crime. I got the feeling that things are bad in some absolute sense, but mainly relative to how they used to be.

Also is the question of who is being victimized… and by what kinds of crime. Murder here is around tenth in the world… I don’t know the stats on property crime… and rape is supposed to be unparalleled. But who is this affecting? Blacks, whites, rich, poor? For example, in the U.S., poor-on-poor and minority-on-minority crime is disproportionately enormous; if the statistics pertaining to these populations extended not to 20% or 40% of the population, as in the U.S., but 75% or more as in SA, the U.S. would have a rather scary crime rate too, and start to resemble S.A.

Meanwhile, the security at Sarah’s dorm is terrible… well, maybe. I came in and out of the compound two to four times daily for two weeks and not once did I get hassled by the guards who are supposed to check everyone’s ID and make sure they are residents. Strangely though, these same (black-African) guards seemed to check the ID of any black person coming through the gates. Sarah’s dorm windows have ultra meaty metal security bars/lattice, but the front door just has a pad lock, so it is rather like living in a locker.

A few other assorted observations… the water was drinkable… very much a first-world trait. Also, I thought it was amusing how Cape Town shuts down at 5:00pm, and the train station is mostly cleared out by 5:30 p.m. as people race to get out of the city before dark. Adjacent to the train station is the “Golden Acre” mall – clearly constructed for the enjoyment of one group some years ago, and now full of all kinds of people – showing some signs of deterioration and grime, but mainly lively. The markets adjacent to (and above) the train station were also remarkable – meat, cold drinks, Chinese import crap, haircuts, clothing, cloth, etc.

At any rate, for me as a tourist, I never felt at risk, and thought the country was crazy-posh. South Africa seems really like two utterly different worlds appended to each other, experiencing utterly disparate qualities of life. One is utterly, completely, un-blemished-ly first-world, without any sign of decay or inconvenience; the other, not.

There is no getting around the issue of race in S.A.. In the US, it’s often easy to dodge the race issue, since we are largely (self) segregated. In S.A. it is far harder to avoid frequent race mixing, and some uncomfortable issues that come out of it. There seems to be a palatable tension in the air. On many occasions I got the distinct sense that “you don’t belong here, so I will treat you poorly” directed at me.

It’s hard to appraise the “legitimacy” of this attitude. White people no more (or less) “belong” in S.A. than they do in the U.S. – it just happens that in the U.S. the native population was wiped out starting in the 1500s and 1600s and is now utterly marginalized, whereas in S.A. they are a majority.

I guess it could become a bit tense living in a world of 80% Native Americans, especially with white people having spent the last several hundred years maltreating them.

It’s hard to know how to feel about this tension, or other feelings of “I don’t belong” or “I should feel guilty” – on the one hand, it is horrible for any group to have been historically abused… but given that much of my family was in Ukraine getting pogrom’d through the 1920s, and had nothing to do with the African colonial situation, it is also hard for me to see myself as responsible, or feel white liberal guilt too acutely, any more than I do for the social ills in the U.S., or Mexico, or anywhere else…

I read “this exhibit makes me ashamed to be white” written in the guestbook of of the District Six (& Apartheid) Museum in Cape Town. How do you respond to something like this?
I was also thinking a lot about the issue of what is exploitative, and what is not. The impression I got was that the land of South Africa is a natural paradise, ripe for tourism. And if tourism occurs, it might lift up economic circumstances and create jobs, as it surely does in Hawaii, Orlando, Las Vegas, and so on. There does not seem to be an especial reason to feel guilty in touring South Africa, supporting the local economy.

Yet it is hard for me to shake this feeling of exploitation, and it is hard to pin down why. Traveling in Ukraine, despite the economic differential between myself and the everyman, I did not often feel guilty about being there, or that I was exploiting them… yet in S.A. it feels uncomfortable. There is something disturbingly zoo-like and dehumanizing about double-decker busses of 40-50-60 year old white people driving past a shanty town and taking photos. Class issue? Race issue? It has something to do with dignity, I think.

What about tourists buying “African” drums and getting faces painted at a “traditional” restaurant while wearing “traditional clothes,” or going to a “cultural village” to connect with native song and dance? Or urban, educated, black Cape Town residents dressing down in “tribal garb” and war paint, performing chants and drumming on the street for tourist tips? These all generate revenue for S.A. Is this just crappy tourism and bad, ignorant travel practice, or is it something more problematic?

In any case, the color difference (/ barrier) can make the experience of S.A., even walking the streets, feel like an aquarium, provoking a distinct awareness of the outside looking in. Of course, we always do this as travelers/tourists, but it the feeling is acute here.
I don’t know… I don’t have any answers.

Another thing I experienced in S.A. is getting hassled on the street. Depending on where I was, I might get hassled for money, by an “instant friend” grabbing my shoulder, by someone trying to sell me something or give me an advert card (“Fucky-delight!” “What, you want something else?” – clearly I project “GAY!”), or seeking to harass or tease, perhaps once or twice on an average trip in Stellenbosch, perhaps every 15 minutes in Cape Town, or every 5 minutes in touristy Cape Town. It was incessant.

It got to the point where as soon as I heard someone speak to me, or gesture at me, or move toward me on the street, I would move away at speed, and avoid eye contact. But, then, I did this as someone (I think honestly) asked me for the time of day, and as I sped away they yelled after me “The time! I asked for the time!” What are the implications of this?

Part of the problem with traveling in S.A. while white is that you wear a giant signboard reading “I am rich, I am likely foreign, and I likely don’t know anything about S.A.” In Ukraine I dumped all clothing with roman letters, dressed down, and felt like I blended in somewhat – poorly, but somewhat. I imagine I would have been subject to similar harassment there if I wore my “rich, ignorant, foolish American” sign around Odessa.

Another racial/class issue is the division of labor in S.A. It starts flying in from London – white pilots, black flight attendants. Service jobs – attendants at auto garages (petrol stations), police, fast food workers, foodservice – all black. On the other hand, waiters at finer restaurants, train drivers, professors – white. Exceptions, of course, too. In the U.S. (and U.K., I thought while there) we have basically the same kinds of issues.

Also there seems to be a lot of extra labor floating around which is inefficiently employed – for example, bathroom attendants, full service gas station employees sitting idle, or the general sense of having far too many people doing the same job, especially in government (why does a provincial train station need 4 or 5 ticket checkers?). Can this be healthy?

Regarding departures, I observed on the flight to S.A., as well as outbound, that there is a particular demographic that seems to be visiting South Africa in large numbers… the middle-age crisis crowd. The flight in was heavy on 40-50-60 year olds with graying hair, as was the red tourist bus I was once compelled to ride across town. It’s a bit of a luxury destination for the well-heeled, and lighter on young people and backpackers.

To wit, re:rich white middle aged people, I was told on my return flight I should expect tons of 1 meter tall wooden giraffes on the plane, as they are too fragile to go under the aircraft. I only spotted one giraffe in the overhead bin next to me; there may have been more.

*******

Well, I guess my last observation from this trip is that, to an unusual degree for my usually well-planned life, this trip bore out the truism that life and fate can work out very strangely, and differently from how we expect.

I thought my trip here would involve tons of movement around South Africa and abroad. As it turned out, I mostly spent time at the Uni in Stellenbosch, absorbing the town’s daily routine via osmosis, with something like 5 or 6 days in Cape Town. This slower style of travel was new too me, but still quite nice. Sarah and I would usually go out to dinner at night… I might shop, study, or wander during the day while she was in class.

I would have never guessed that sullen, sociopathic me would meet and talk to someone my own age on the plane to S.A. I ended traveling with my Oxford friend around Simon’s Town, to their family’s home near Newlands for dinner, to Kirstenbosch Gardens, the Atlantic Seaboard, V&A, Table Mountain, Chapman’s Peak, Downtown, the Castle, and the Winelands with Sarah. So odd.
Also there was Sarah’s injury at Cederberg, which impeded drinking (due to the meds), dancing, and other important activities placing pressures on the lower back. I guess breaking one’s vertebrae is akin to converting to Baptism? But she also spent a lot of time in the dorm, so we could talk and reconnect. Hopefully she feels I took good care of her…

Most oddly, by my very action of coming down here, I seem to have disturbed the electric winds of an empty universe enough to have played a minor role in a broken marriage engagement, and in another Rice student conceiving of flying halfway around the world to visit his love. Weird. Very weird.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Painkiller-induced reflections






Alright, so I've been a little derelict in my blogging duties. Here's why:

1) Cederberg Mountains
This past weekend I went to the Cederberg Mountains, this jumble of rock formations four hours from Stellenbosch, with my group of 60 other Americans. We were staying in cabins in the foothills of the mountain with cute, well-stocked kitchens and portable showerheads (basically the Ritz). At first I thought we were going on this three-day hike up the mountain and got a little intimidated but turns out we stayed in this really peaceful resort by a river. After polishing off half a bottle of St. Celine wine Friday night, I woke up bright and early Saturday to begin our hike to the top of the mountains. My thoughts on hiking (you knew it was coming): Hiking is something that, in theory, should be amazing, but in practice I get winded really quickly and feel like dying. The fun quickly wears off and usually I end my hiking trips swearing never to hike again. This time was no different -- however, I got to the top of the mountain! The very top. I also climbed the "adventure trail" (another stupid idea made on some sort of adrenaline rush that left my decision-making skills somewhat impaired; more on that later), which was a series of intense rock climbing episodes where I more or less allowed the big strong guys in our group to pull me up because I suck at rock climbing. I scraped up my knees, I reapplied sunscreen like a million times, I took pictures. It was exhausting. After an hour and a half descent, I was again on solid ground, and I felt good. Completely exhausted, but good.

In the van on the way back, all of us were clearly too tired to form complete sentences and basically communicated via grunts and eyebrow motions, but I think we all were thinking about jumping in the river to cool off. When the group of us got back to our cabin, we got into our swimsuits and were on our way to heavenly bliss when one of the van drivers offered us a lift to the river (our next destination that day). There was no hike, he assured us. We jumped in the car, dreaming of icy water and cleanliness.

I don't know if people here are just less truthful, or perhaps Americans are just lazy, but apparently "there's not a hike to get to the river" means that there's a 15-minute hike to the river. In flip flops. Of course, we did veer off the path a few times, but it was a long walk to the river, all the while our sunscreen melting off. When we did get there, the view was spectacular, two cliffs about the equivalent of 4-5 stories above the water's surface that people were jumping off to enter the water. It looked a little like heaven, I think. Or maybe I was just so mentally and physically exhausted by that point, Waco would've even looked nice to me. In fact, from this point on, let's just attribute my bad decision-making to the fact that I was so fatigued.

The water was deep enough that people were jumping off the cliffs (even the really, really high one) and, despite complaining about a mammoth wedgie after falling at such a distance into the water, most people seemed thrilled at falling so far. No pain, no gain? I stayed in the shade, wondering if my SPF 50 sunblock had run out yet, wishing I could be one of the brave souls to jump off the tall cliff. One by one, almost everyone I knew jumped off either the high cliff or the three-story cliff and I wished I weren't such a pansy. I always play it safe. Maybe that's what made me get up and climb to the high cliff. Why not? One of the guys who leads the program saw how nervous I was. "Why don't you try from this height?" he asked me, motioning to the smaller cliff. "It's an easier jump." Having an incredible fear of heights, I figured that I just needed to gather the courage to jump off the cliff and that, at this point, 15-20 feet wasn't going to make too much of a difference (oh, the irony). I was trying to not think too much, and maybe that should've set off a few metaphorical alarms in my head. Whenever I tell myself not to think, I always do stupid things. The view from the top was absolutely terrifying. If the cliff looked far up from the water, the water looked miles away up there. I had butterflies in my stomach. This is not what I should be doing, I thought (voice of reason?). "I need to just go now, before I start second-guessing myself," I heard myself say to the ten or so other Americans who stood on the plateau. They stood back, letting me pass. "Go ahead," one of them said. I gulped. "How many people have died today?" I asked. They reassured me that I could literally step off the cliff and fall safely into the water. Running out of courage and questions, I breathed deeply, Pilates-style, and stepped off.

When everyone else jumped, it was a few seconds in the air and splash! Over with. Not so when I jumped. I fell through the air for what felt like ten minutes. My stomach isn't so great with falling. On the roller coasters, I always feel like, enough, enough, hit the bottom already. The same feeling here -- the water just wasn't coming fast enough. My stomach had flown up somewhere near my ears (perhaps I'd completely lost my stomach?). Like someone later told me, it was literally a leap of faith. Rationally, you know the water has to be deep enough, but your body's telling you not to jump, that you're about to kill yourself. After this incident, I think I'm a bit more inclined to listen to what my body's telling me.

Another challenge of jumping off a cliff: having good form jumping that distance is really difficult. By the time I hit the water, my feet were straight out in front of me, my back in a reclining position. If I'd been sitting on a couch, watching Jack Bauer vampire-style biting Russian villains, it would have been perfect. Too bad I was falling from over 10 meters at a speed of -9.8m/s/s...

The second I hit the water, I felt my back pop, and immediately I forgot about the atomic wedgie so many had complained about. "I broke my back," I thought for a second, then I thought something along the lines of "so I guess I'm going to drown." I saw the murky green of the water and thought I was going the wrong way (perhaps I'd made a mistake and was going toward the bottom of the lake?), then realized I was surfacing. And surface I did. Jumping-off-cliff etiquette, as someone recently informed me, is all about surfacing quickly and letting people know you're okay. By those standards, I was a little rude. First, I didn't surface for awhile, and when I did surface, my back was killing me and I realized I was crying. As I attempted some version of gimpy-back breaststroke, the shouts of "Are you okay? Are you okay?" were overwhelming. I think I managed a "I'm ok" while crying, which somehow didn't come off as too convincing. After realizing my back pain wasn't going away, I lay down on a nearby rock while the program director, Mike, offered me painkillers. I accepted.

"The bruising should go away soon," he said, trying to be helpful.

"WHAT BRUISING?" I attemped through my tears. It hadn't occurred to me that I could get terrible backpains AND bruises all down my back and legs. In almost a week's time since the incident, the bruises have gone through practically all the colors of the rainbow (minus orange), but they are pretty disgusting, still.

In the midst of my pain, I looked up a few times and saw that I'd become the equivalent of an I-20 car wreck during rush hour. People were rubbernecking everywhere. People I'd never spoken to before, the cool kids from the Northeast who never sweat and always look glamorous even while hiking, stopped and asked if I was doing alright (I said yes, hoping my bravery might impress them so much they'd beg for my friendship. Perhaps they might teach me the secrets of no-sweat and always looking picture perfect?). I wasn't doing alright, though. My back was not happy, which made the 15-minute hike back to the van pretty difficult. A procession of onlookers followed, and I thought how unfortunate it was that I'd once again become Tragedy Girl.

"I'll sleep on it and maybe it'll feel better tomorrow," I kept thinking, in between praying to God and promising to stop being mean to people if he'd make the back thing just a minor couple of muscle spasms and bruises. My bargaining didn't really work; I woke up Sunday with a back even more sore and Mike promising to take me to the doctor the next day.

2) The "Doctor's"

After sleeping in two- and three-hour increments Sunday night, I was ready to visit the doctor and take however many painkillers I needed to sleep through the night. It's a terrible feeling to be tired but be unable to sleep. Monday morning, I went to class (sitting on a chair can be painful) and another Mike, this one a sk8er-esque version, took me to a pharmacy/clinic. He dropped me off in the parking lot, I walked in to the pharmacy and saw a "clinic" sign to the left and a small waiting room. I'd had an 11:45 appointment which Other Mike had been vigilant about honoring, but this waiting room was 6 ft x 6 ft, with no receptionist in sight. "Maybe this is how they do things in South Africa," I thought. "No receptionist? Okay. Maybe this is part of the whole laid-back atmosphere?" Another strange thing: the doctor kept emerging from the exam room and saying "okay, who's next?" which also seemed a little backward. Still, the pain in my back seemed to trump whatever weird medical customs they celebrated in Stellenbosch. So when the doctor looked at my back for all of 20 seconds and promised me it was probably fine, that I just shouldn't do any heavy lifting and went to the pharmacy to grab me a package of homeopathic "muscle strain" pills, I didn't find it strange. Perhaps it's my innate trust of old ladies. This one was adorable and made me feel like I was going to be alright. Also, I wasn't charged for the doctor's visit, which was weird but maybe they do things differently. Maybe it's included in the medication costs? And homeopathic medicine? They do new-age stuff like that here? Hope it works.

They didn't. And having Schlossman here, who's quick to use the internet to research any and every drug, I learned that, in such a diluted form, the drug had never been scientifically proven to have any effect.

I called Original Mike the next day, after another almost-sleepness night.

"I can't take it anymore," I told him. "I sleep for only a couple of hours each night, the doctor prescribed me homeopathic shit that hasn't even been proven to have any effect. Can I see another doctor, please? I just want a doctor who's going to give me good drugs."

"Can I ask a quick question?" he started. "Um... when you got to the pharmacy, you walked up a set of stairs, right?"

"...the set of steps to the building?"

"No. You walked inside, there was a set of stairs on your right and then the waiting room with a reception area?"

And that's how I realized I had wandered into the Free Clinic that prescribes homeopathic medicine instead of real painkillers. And that I had just seen a nurse, which is why no x-rays were taken.

Schlossman and Mike found it hilarious. I just wanted drugs. So the next day, I went to the actual doctor's office, where I basically spent the day in the waiting room and took a zillion x-rays. I did, however, get a conclusive idea of what was wrong with me. After explaining how I'd injured myself to the doctor -- "Well, I went to the Cederberg Mountains this weekend and jumped off a cliff about four or five stories into the water and landed badly" -- and hearing her response -- "Well, that wasn't too clever, was it?" -- and leafing through countless Afrikaans-language fashion magazines, the verdict was in.

Compression fracture in my T12 and L1 vertebrae. I've lost 20 percent of the bone mass in my L1; however, this loss is classified as "stable" since I can stand up. With physio-therapy to speed up the recovery process, my back should be just fine in six to eight weeks, provided I take it easy.

"Maybe you need a corset," Dr. Number Two said, looking at the chart.

I immediately thought of Victorian times, which did nothing to stop my already working-overtime waterworks. For some reason, his declaration of "well, I guess you now have back problems, eh?" had really sent me over the edge, much to the discomfort of Original Mike, who'd gone in with me, citing insurance coverage reasons. Just to make sure everything should be claimable when I get back to the States, he said.

"I... I... I have to wear a backbrace?" I blubbered, my voice shaking. Mike attempted to pat me awkwardly on the shoulder. "It'll... be okay, Sarah," he said. "I mean, this ... really could be a lot worse." The "you're actually lucky, even though this seems really tragic" argument isn't really the kind of logic one wants to hear when they're being told they're going to be strapped into an antiquated garment for six weeks. Cue the tears. I had joked about how I hoped I'd get a backbrace to relive awkward high school-esque moments, but this was just too much.

After calling for a second opinion (in Afrikaans), the doctor said that actually there wouldn't be a corset. I would, however, have to bend with my knees, sleep on my back with a pillow under my knees to take off pressure from my spine, not bend over or do heavy lifting for six to eight weeks. The mention of physiotherapy was also a little problematic. My mother was in physiotherapy for a back problem, and I didn't want to have to do those silly exercises. Schlossman assures me this isn't the sad kind of physical therapy, the kind for people missing limbs and sides of their brain, that this is more to speed up the recovery process, but we'll see.

In the meantime, I'm taking it easy. It would be nice to have someone wash my clothes for me, but I had just started to get my legs toned. No joke. For the first time in my life, I have legit leg muscles. I'm determined to keep them. And a word of warning (if nothing else, I guess I could be a cautionary tale?): don't do things your body's obviously telling you not to. Unless you're a real badass and can get away with everything, unlike me.

In the meantime, here's a list of things that, due to the limitations of spinal movement and medications I'm taking, are no longer kosher:

1) Clubbing
2) Drinking alcohol (this one's really going to hurt)
3) Any activity that involves bending over (including but not limited to intense make-out sessions with hot foreign boys, washing laundry, cleaning my room quickly)
4) Standing for long periods of time
5) Sitting for long periods of time

As well as, of course, jumping off five-story cliffs into the water. Though I'd really like to think that stage of my life is over.