Cape Town

The other day I was fortunate enough to kind of happen upon tickets to a rugby game in Cape Town. My roommate takes economics from this graduate student who -- as well as being a snappy dresser and pretty good looking -- is a big fan of rugby and offered students a ticket and a ride there and back for the low, low price of R150. I paid up. Nevermind that football bores me to tears, I thought. Maybe I'm a closet rugby fan.

"Rugby", to me, has always sounded like an adorable sport where people run around pelting each other with marshmallows. Rug-by. I didn't really think that it would be so ... brutal. All the players look like cavemen on steroids who, in a testosterone-induced rage, could pound your face into a brick wall and remove your innards in two seconds flat. So having like twenty of them on the field at once -- whoa. What I thought was a group hug (how cute! Do they do this at the beginning of every play?) devolved into punching and sitting on people's heads. However, the South Africans beat the Australians (the Reds) handily, which almost made me forget how stupid it was that they sold their team name to Vodacom (yes, the team is officially called the Vodacom Stormers). Ugh. I'm not sure why -- perhaps my Roman forefathers and their love of gore -- but by the second half, I was kind of paying attention to what was going on and wasn't even too shaken when the 15th guy lay in agony, clutching his knee. Or when he tried to hobble off the field and no one helped him and he basically collapsed in a heap center-field. Tough love for those Australians.

South Africa won by a pretty narrow margin (Australia came back in the last five minutes) and the members of the audience decked in Australian flags left sadly, heads drooping. I felt pretty good, not just because South Africa beat them and it was pretty questionable there for awhile, but because I'd just had my first rugby experience. It wasn't as cute as I'd imagined. I did, however, eat something that theoretically was a hot dog and saw my first rugby match fight which broke out on the bottom floor of the stadium during the first half. All in all, I felt pretty initiated into the whole sporting thing and might even see a rugby match again, though "Go Vodacom Stormers" is way too many syllables for a legit cheer. Sell outs.

Then it was off to the hostel with a group of Europeans (mostly Belgian, I think?) from my dorm. Similar to my misconceptions about rugby, my knowledge of what a hostel was turned out to be completely wrong. I'll admit it -- I saw Eli Roth's Hostel, which turned out to be more of a porno than a horror flick -- but it nonetheless shaped what I thought a hostel was. So it was a bit of a surprise to walk to the Ashanti Lodge and see the cute little fish mosaics on the shower floors and the kitschy African art over the walls. It was definitely a little cozier than the Slovakian hostel from the movie. After meeting a German with dreads who volunteers in Kayamandi through the same project I'm doing (more on that later), the group of us went out to town. Apparently, Long Street is the Bourbon Street of Cape Town. Clubs galore -- and then a bookstore! Like a nerd at a kegger -- and then restaurants. After grabbing a decent hummus and chicken pie (they have so many croissants and unhealthy-but-nonetheless-delicious flaky pastries here) from a Mediterranean place down the street, we joined the Europeans at the Waiting Room. It was three or so stories and was supposed to look like someone's house (why yes, I do know several people with full-scale bars in their living rooms and balconies on their roofs overlooking the cityscape) and was kind of charming and played jazz and it was quaint. The best part, though, was that me and Alyssa met two guys from the University of Cape Town who offered to show us around the city. Also, the guy I talked to (in addition to having a striking resemblance to Seth Rogen) was an English and philosophy major and actually wasn't a pretentious jerk about it. Whoa.

The next day we went to Kirstenbosch, courtesy of Saul and Andrew (Andrew has a Mercedes. I might not know how to pick a peach, but I certainly know how to pick my friends) and saw the botanical gardens. We slightly hiked around the foot of Devil's Peak and enjoyed the scenery. Then, against the warnings of our Afrikaans teacher, we took the train from Cape Town back to Stellenbosch. Saul and Andrew assured us we'd be fine. "Just... don't look too American," our new South African friends warned us. So after changing out of my American flag t-shirt and removing all 20 of my "I voted McCain/Palin 2008" buttons from my purse, I figured I was all set. Alyssa and I bought our first-class tickets -- yes, I was kind of thinking there might be a juice cart and stewardesses in cute skirts; I guess I'm setting myself up for disappointment here -- and sprinted to Platform 8 just in time to board. Yeah, first class here is definitely not really first class. I didn't get any juice and there was not a stewardess in sight. The rampant graffiti would have made for an excellent black-and-white photo but also made it hard to see out the windows. However, we survived. And riding the train is much, much cheaper than taking a bus or taxi to town, so I feel like I might have a viable option for further exploring Cape Town. Go Vodacom(R) Stormers!

Raka (or why I still smell like smoke)

This weekend was the Raka Unplugged music festival in Swellendam, about 300 kilometers from Stellenbosch. Though I'm not sure what was "unplugged" about it, since there were definitely microphones, speakers, etc. I know, I know, details shmetails.

After a three-hour drive through the mountains, we arrived at a riverside resort (basically camping grounds by a river) Friday evening. Of the buses supplied to us international students, one got super lost for several hours, one hit a guy on a bike (and then drove off!) and one repeatedly broke down, leading -- nay, practically forcing -- the passengers to load up on wine and strawberry juice-vodka concoctions. I, being the 59th person to sign up for the festival (there were 60 spots in total), got last choice and hopped on the enormous charter bus where we watched Pineapple Express and the driver told us it was alright to smoke inside and several South African men who didn't believe in the power of deodorant sat down two rows in front of me. But you know what? We didn't get lost and we didn't hit and/or kill a biker, so it was a pretty successful ride. Stepping off the bus, though, after having signed all my rights away in the Raka indemnity form (if I lost a limb, it was my problem, not theirs), I was struck by just how quaint and adorable it was. Hills upon hills, a river with a dock, a bar. While we waited for the tents to arrive (they were in the bus that repeatedly broke down) we enjoyed the magic of Black Label beer and Hunter's Dry cider (my personal favorite).

Thankfully, many of my American friends here are really skinny and outdoorsy, so the fact that we were fitting four people in a two-person tent didn't even phase me that much. But that was a terrible first night of sleep. I couldn't really straighten out the whole night and was more or less pushed into an awkward corner, unable to move. Moreover, our nearby tent neighbors seemed oblivious to the fact that tents have little to no sound privacy. And while I'm a complete gossip and admittedly have eavesdropped a few more times than I should, it was all of 4 a.m. and I honestly didn't care that she was completely high and did they really do it last night? Gross. But it was really cold and rainy -- one of my friends had earlier remarked, when I asked her if she was sleeping in a tent, that it had only rained twice in the month we've been here so she was going to sleep under the stars. I think she regretted her decision, and she spent the next night in the charter bus, free from beetles and rain and feet in your face. Before we'd called it a night, though, me and Lisa strolled around the grounds and met two South African guys with a trailer and the promise of free booze. One of them looked like a surfer -- really fit, gelled-back hair, tan -- and seemed nice enough, though it took him quite awhile to formulate sentences. The other one might have been a little brighter, though he unabashedly admitted he was a bit of a racist. At least he was being honest, I thought. And besides, racism is sort of a spectrum. You have the neo-liberal racist jokes that everyone tells to show how over racism they are, and then, the more extreme case, you have my Mamaw. She grew up in Blum, Texas, where seeing a black person was akin to seeing a dinosaur, accompanied by pointing and a rush to protect all you hold dear. "Be careful," she warned when I brought my bike over to her house in Oak Cliff to ride down her street to the park. "Let me know if any of those Negroes give you a hard time. I'll march right over there and give them a piece of my mind, tell them to go back to..."

And here I was in Africa, where these two guys were explaining why they preferred to be called "South African" rather than "African" (it was like someone calling me North American instead of American, they said) and, no joke, explaining the hardships they faced as white men in South Africa. Had Blondie not been so slow in putting together sentences, I would've assumed they were being ironic. The way they talked about black people ("you can trust one or two of them, but in a group they'll turn on you in an instant," Mr. Brown Hair said at one point) also seemed to suggest otherwise. It was a bit of a turn off, and I realized I wasn't drunk enough to deal with it. Also, I have no poker face, and my jaw repeatedly dropping after Blondie or Brown Hair said something particularly insensitive got to be a little awkward. It was disturbing to hear people talk that way because, save for family events, I'm usually pretty clear of overt racism. There, they seemed to have no qualms about their bigotry, no attempt to hide what they saw as inevitable.

The next day, I got up around 8 or 9, and it was the weirdest day. It was Valentines Day, but I was without a computer or a TV, so I wasn't constantly bombarded with images of ruby-red lips and hotties proposing and glasses of wine in dimly-lit restaurants. And we were all there for the music and pretty much in the middle of nowhere, so it wasn't like anybody was skipping off to go on a date. And for once, it was a full day of absolutely nothing to do. Whenever I'm late to something -- which is always -- I always think about how arbitrary time is, how it's a human invention, how I'd love to go somewhere time ceases to exist and the hours and days bleed into each other and no one cares because you don't have obligations to anyone. (Drugs? Nursing home?) And this Saturday, that's how it was. The first band played at 1:00, so we had hours to kill. I napped, I read a book, sat on the dock, walked around and felt the least stressed I've felt in ages. I think that was honestly the best part of the weekend, just feeling serene and free of responsibility.

And then the music started. Of course there was the obligatory weed/cigarette smoke, which I still can't get out of my hair. And there was the requisite 'shroom guy who refused to give any to Americans (...so I heard), much to the disappointment of an English major guy from my program who aspires to be a writer but also aspires to do drugs all his life. (I told him it was a bit cliche to be a druggie English major -- how original! -- but he wasn't too impressed at my insightful pearls of wisdom. "I'm not ashamed!" he asserted. "You... shouldn't be. I'm not saying you should, just that it's kind of predictable?" I offered. I don't think we're going to be friends anytime soon, though who knows? We might bond over Hemingway in our Modernism and the Short Story class. I intend to analyze the f out of this short story tonight...) And there were hipsters everywhere. But it was definitely on a smaller scale than ACL -- the stage was pretty small, and they sold 2,000 tickets in total, expecting 700-800 people each day. It was very chill -- people sat on blankets, with an enthusiastic few in the front Indie-jamming to the acoustic guitar. And some of the music -- notably the reggae and the final act, a blues band -- was pretty good. But the problem is, the bands sang entirely in Afrikaans. And of course I pretend to be cultured and try to be adventurous in music (though, honestly, KTRU tests my comfort level -- sorry, Schlossman), but I listen to just a few French songs or some Hebrew stuff before switching back to Beyonce, something I know. Something in English. Because you can appreciate the music for what it is, but if you can't tell whether he's in love and happy or whether his mother shot herself yesterday, it's a little confusing. So it was fun for a few hours, then it was, "I really wish I knew Afrikaans." Then it was completely freezing and we wrapped up in a blanket, lay down and gazed at the stars, marveling at how clear the sky was (in Texas, you'd have to drive hours in the country to get that sort of view), finding a backwards Orion's belt, soaking in the smoke and final bands. I got an Afrikaans band t-shirt (x-large, because South African girls are stick-thin) and had a, uh, short conversation with the short/ugly band member (the drummer?) about American television (what did I think about it in general? And what about the way it's used to brainwash terrorists against the U.S.?) before realizing he didn't really care how I answered because he just wanted to tell me how South African television worked and how good he thought Prisonbreak, Lost and Heroes were. It was a little less than enlightening. It was warm around the bonfire, though, so I got to ignore Shorty sometimes and focus on the drunk Americans' antics. Ah, yeah. The next morning was amazing -- no hangover -- and the last band played at noon. Then it was time to dissemble the tent and say goodbye to racist South Africans, mediocre hamburgers and tall guys with dreads.

I learned a life lesson this weekend: the mullet is not dead. Maybe in America it's the unmistakable mark of White Trash or a punchline to a joke. But here, hipster guys (and sometimes girls) don the mullet. And maybe I'm slowly getting brainwashed (I have always had questionable fashion, anyway), but sometimes it doesn't look too bad. I do need a haircut soon, and what better way to blend into the intelligentsia?

Bring your own toilet paper

I hate the phrase "fun run." There's nothing fun about running, ever, so it's a bit misleading. Unless you're Maurice Green or someone remotely fit, running is torture. I never do it, personally, unless I feel that it's urgent -- for example, if a pack of vicious dogs (or baboons) is after me, or if I'm late for free food or clothing. So why I signed up for the Owls Fun Run last year is beyond me. In what's just another recurring theme with me, I failed to think of what fun run participation would be like. I pictured myself putting up my hair, donning my pair of tennis shoes (maybe for the fifth time since I graduated high school?) and psyching myself up for the run. I didn't consider how low I'd feel as the 70-year-old lapped me, again, or having a stitch in my side that wouldn't go away, sweat pouring un-sexily down the sides of my tomato-red face or how much I'd wish I'd worked out before this when I came in last among my group of friends. In short, I never picture things accurately when I sign up for them. Ever.

The international student club on campus is kind of useless (do we do anything? We don't appear to have regular meetings) but it does provide us transportation to certain events. And though I love jamming to Beyonce's "If I were a Boy," the unfortunate thing about globalization is that you can be as far away as Africa and still hear almost exclusively American music. So when I saw that there was an Afrikaans music festival coming up this weekend, I signed up as quickly as I could, thinking about glamorously dancing to awesome music I'd never heard before, understanding the lyrics even though all I know how to say in Afrikaans is "my naam is" and "my vak is" (the v is pronounced like an F, so it sounds exactly like an English obscenity; har har har) and meeting awesome South Africans.

I'm not saying that won't necessarily happen, but it's really hot here (it broke 100 last weekend), so I don't know how glamorous I can be while I'm dripping sweat everywhere. But there are a few more, um, pressing concerns I've been mulling over lately.

Except for a few concerts, I've never, ever been to big music festivals like Austin City Limits. I wish now that I had. Maybe this festival will be more intense than ACL? All I know is, we're advised to bring our own toilet paper. And we need to bring a tent. And I don't think I'm going to be seeing a toilet or shower for a couple of days. It's BYOB, also, and though I initially scoffed at the idea of bringing tons of alcohol along, I think that, given that we'll be using some sort of communal outdoor toilet area, I'm going to need beer. Lots of it.

Supersized

Though it's not my favorite movie of all time, Breakfast at Tiffany's is definitely in the top ten. Maybe it's because I adore Audrey Hepburn (who doesn't?), maybe it's because I secretly want to be a '60s callgirl, maybe it's because I agree with Holly Golightly's philosophy in refusing to belong to anyone, or maybe I'm just in love with George Peppard. But in one of the cutest sequences of the movie, Holly tells Paul (Fred) about Tiffany's, a place he's never been, before they go to the five-and-dime to shoplift in a really adorably heartwarming way.

"...The only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there."

The other day, I was given the unique opportunity to explain to two Europeans what a SuperTarget is, and I found myself waxing lyrical about the place in much the same fashion.

"It's... a place where you can buy everything!" I gushed. "Let me put it this way: I went there once to buy something for dinner, and I ended up buying a dress! You can spend your whole day there and buy clothes and makeup and accessories and New York Times bestsellers and groceries and housewares and auto parts and toys and electronics! It makes me feel happy and like I can improve myself! The prices aren't the greatest, but you put up with it because the ads are so artsy and it has everything you never knew you needed!"

The Dutch guy wasn't too impressed.

"But why would you want a huge store that sells everything?" he kept asking. "It's a little excessive. Would it kill you to go a grocer's, then an auto parts store and make a couple of extra trips? And is that really the thing you miss most about home? Don't you have any friends or anything?"

He then started mocking the U.S. and our obsession with everything "super": SuperTarget, SuperWalmart, supersize, supermodel, Superman. I told him the choice of "super" as a prefix to already-existing brands was an obvious choice, because everything's just clearly better than it was 10 years ago. Back in 1998, you couldn't go to a Target and purchase donuts and a dress (well, okay, you could, but you wouldn't have nearly the same selection of donuts you have today). It does, however, bring up an interesting point: what happens after "super"? Ultra? Superlative? Utmost? Dandy? Tremendous? Supersuper? Will progress just... end because they can't think of a good-enough adjective to capture how beyond-Super it is? What a terrifying thought.

Regardless, I've had to go shop for food, makeup, clothes and souvenirs thus far, and these have all been separate shopping trips because stores are tiny here. Supersizing is so American. On the plus side, it would have saved me a few sunscreen/clothing/book trips. And maybe the locals don't know what they're missing. But I do. And it's going to be a long few months without Archer Farms salt-and-vinegar potato chips and Isaac Mizrahi shoes...

No change

I think I have more of an idea why we're warned not to give money to the people on the street.

Me, Alyssa and Brooke were walking to dinner a couple of hours ago. It was just after nightfall, and Alyssa ducked between a couple of buildings to get some money from the ATM. A guy said hello to us (he was sitting on the steps, but moved closer to us) and launched into this story about how he needed money to buy butter or something to spread on his loaf of bread. He had a loaf of bread out, said he was living in Stellenbosch (Brooke asked where; he replied "here -- I live on the streets) and told us his mother had died so could we please spare five rand?

I have R100 currently left to my name, until my debit card gets reimbursed (which shouldn't happen until the 15th), so I haven't got a ton of cash and wasn't carrying much on me at the moment since I figured I'd pay by card. I told him I wasn't carrying cash, Brooke talked to him a little and asked him a few questions, then we started walking toward the restaurant. "Bye," we said as we left, and at first I thought he said "bless you" the way panhandlers sometimes do, even if you don't give them any money, but then I realized he'd said, "fuck you" rather loudly.

A few seconds later, we heard this snapping and turned to see him stomping up behind us with a furious look on his face. The area had a few people, but the bars were on the other side of the quad and for a moment I thought we were going to get mugged. Or jumped. Or shanked. Or held at knifepoint. But he was just trying to scare us, and he eventually lagged behind and left. I was terrified, but mostly I was annoyed. It's been a very, very difficult day and the whole time, all I could think was, "Of course. Of course someone's going to mug me today. Perfect."

Brooke, who's from inner-city Dallas, insisted she would've smacked him if he'd come any closer, but I was a little freaked out. She did say people have been known to get mugged because they gave people money, leaving their obviously-full wallets exposed. Of course, I suppose a group of three girls is safer than one girl, but it would be really nice to have a bodyguard. Any takers?

Language

I came home today from class, made pancakes (crepes) with syrup and a chai milkshake for lunch.

Not that I'm counting calories or anything, but I'm thinking my diet needs a bit of an upgrade. No, cider does not meet my Vitamin C requirements, and those red onion/black olive/garlic potato crisps are not veggies. So while I think I may be on the way to getting leg muscles (this would be a first) and I'm doing water aerobics with the old ladies on Maandags und Vrydags, the food sector of my life is not looking so hot. Something to work on.

When I was in high school, I decided to take Latin because I believed it would help me in the medical profession. Yes, before I discovered I'm absolutely terrible at anything scientific I was hoping to enter the world of plastic surgery, treating burn victims and repairing lives and Roman noses. While it might have helped for some SAT word roots, reading the collected works of Catullus was pretty useless, in retrospect. Who cares about kissing a thousand times, a million times, to ward away death? Please.

When I entered college, I'd had it up to here with dead languages (despite the whole "a good Latin student never declines Sex" puns, it wasn't that fun) and wanted something I could speak. Spanish was a little too commonplace -- though, also in retrospect, it would've been a good choice because I'm such a clueless gringa -- and I wanted something beautiful, something that flowed off my tongue and enabled me to speak with hot foreign boys while sipping red wine and wearing nice clothes and being literate and witty. So I took French, of course. While trying to figure out the "r" pronunciation after my first class, I pictured myself as a new Audrey Hepburn, speaking flawless French to the masses, impressing them with my deep statements about society ("ma soeur a un crayon rouge", etc.), wearing Givenchy, being adored.

Rutledges are really good at making fried chicken (my aunt's recipe is to die for) and having Southern accents. What we're not so good at is goodbye. Saying goodbye is a process that often takes hours, a fact my mother points out each time we make the trek to Dallas and spend half the time officially "leaving". Rutledges are also not the greatest at social/religious/racial tolerance.

But perhaps the thing Rutledges are the worst at is language acquisition. Within a month, my dreams of being a fluid French speaker were crushed. I had the worst accent, and what's more, my writing didn't show any real promise, either. Without complaining too much about how random some of the gender assignments are (why is "uterus" masculine, exactly?), I couldn't get my adjectives and nouns to agree in number, I always confused "ont" with "sont" ("to have" and "to be" are two different things, apparently), and my teacher perpetually had this amused-yet-slightly-exasperated expression on her face when I tried to tell her what my mother did for a living.

"Her mom work on the computers," I attempted.
"Her mom?" Mme. Blomquist prompted me. She was a particularly bitchy grad student who seemed to think we should praise God because she deigned to teach us, making no secret of laughing at our mistakes.
"Yes. Her mom work at Fort Worth for the computer city?" I guessed.
"Her mom?" And then, snapping out of the French, she raised her eyebrows and muttered, "You need to work on your possessives. 'Ma mere,' not 'sa mere.'"

It didn't get any better as the months wore on, and so, after four semesters of more or less the same, I dropped French my junior year.

And then, three weeks ago, I came to South Africa. Everyone here speaks Afrikaans at home and learns English when they go to school, but I guess their mother tongue is always their fallback; also, almost every course at the university (save for the English classes) are taught in Afrikaans. I'm a fish out of water, I guess. So I signed up for the Introductory Afrikaans class. So far, we've only learned a few words, but despite the fact that the language seems completely made up (one of the words for "male" is "manpersoon" -- is that a joke?) and tough to listen to (switching from beautiful French to this harsh Dutch derivative is some transition) with their guttural g's, I'm excited. Now, instead of someone randomly asking me for directions, me looking downcast and asking if they could please repeat, this time in English, I'll hopefully be able to tell them the gym is 15 minutes down Bosman St. and over the bridge. Maybe I'll even say their farewell ("okaybyyyyye") without laughing at how ridiculously made up/leet/Valleygirl it sounds.

On the plus side, I have three English classes, and those are taught in a language I know, a language that sounds significantly less harsh and flows fluidly off my tongue. Because even when I don't know what I'm saying, I can always just b.s. (Some might argue a B.A. in English is just that.) Unfortunately, I can't yet b.s. Afrikaans, because I literally don't know what to say, let alone make some sort of Freudian statement about the narrator's relationship with her father. But check back with me in a few months...

P.S. The pictures are from Cape Point -- one is a view of the Cape of Good Hope, the other is just a view of the mountains (I know, all my pictures kind of look the same, but the mountains are just sooo pretty) and the other is a group of penguins on Cape Point (it was a little underwhelming because they stand around and do basically nothing, but cute). Oh, and those are baboons we saw at Cape Point -- they start screaming when they're scared and they are absolutely terrifying. But also, adorable.

Nirvana

I found my bliss today. We were walking along Dorp St., looking for Oom Samie se Winkel, an old general store from the 1800s. The sun, per usual, was not letting up, we'd probably walked a couple of miles already and had nearly gone through our water bottle supply, when we saw MELISSA'S: The Food Shop on the side of the road. It was air conditioned, a definite plus, and it had free samples of lemonade (they call it lemon syrup)! And oh my god, it's like Central Market only ten times better because it isn't a chain and it's small and the floors are old-fashioned black-and-white linoleum and the workers wear little chefs' hats and wow.

Gelato is a big deal here, and it's challenging to find real ice cream, but there they had iced coffee, raspberry/rose and chocolate/orange flavors. They had potato crisps flavored with red onion, black olive and roasted garlic (I grabbed a bag before we left), fresh salsa, chocolate ganache, South African cheeses and so many different kinds of pesto!

In short, I'm pretty sure I know where all my money's going to go here (yeah, so, the food's a little pricey). Even if I gain like 30 pounds (which I inevitably will, as we all know tasty food must be unhealthy), I can kind of counterbalance it by walking around a lot and sweating (which is just about all I do when I'm not eating).

Yumm-o!