Cape Town, South Africa

Once again, I am very grateful to have “insider information” about my itinerary on this voyage. I have Marcielle, another of my mother’s co-workers, to thank for her great help in deciding what to do while in Cape Town.

 

The five days in the city all featured glorious sunny weather with temperatures in the seventies. I woke up the first morning to see the sunrise light up Table Mountain, the prominent geographic feature in the city. We watched the lights of the city disappear as the sun came out and revealed the mountain in all of its glory.

 

We were not required to do a face to face check or have a diplomatic briefing. However, the mother of Amy Biehl, a woman who was murdered in Cape Town in 1993, spoke to us before we disembarked. She told the story of her daughter, who studied at Stanford before moving to Cape Town as a Fulbright Scholar to work against apartheid. She was driving her friends’ home the day before she was scheduled to leave the country, and on the way back she was attacked and stabbed. Her parents now run a foundation dedicated to the memory of Amy located in townships similar to the ones where her daughter was murdered to counteract the lasting effects of apartheid. She has forgiven the crime, and recognizes that it was a result of the social climate rather than the individual. Two of Amy’s killers even work for the foundation now. It was very powerful to hear Mrs. Biehl speak about Amy, and even more amazing to hear the story about forgiveness.

 

I had to leave midway through the talk to go on the trip I signed up for to satisfy a class requirement. The trip went to three power generation facilities: a nuclear plant, an open cycle gas turbine plant, and a wind farm. All three places were run by Eskom, an energy company that produces 95% of South Africa’s energy and 45% of the energy of the entire continent. We were met by smart and well-informed employees who fully understood the problems their company faced. Some of these problems included needing to be self-sufficient due to underdeveloped neighboring countries, and how to continue economic growth with limited energy supplies. I enjoyed further refining my thoughts about energy use and production. For example, where should we draw the line between using energy for “progress” and saving energy for conservation of natural resources?

 

The wind farm was really more like a backyard experimental garden than an industrial farm—it only had three turbines and only one was operating when we visited. However, it was still impressive to see one up close and personal, and we even got to go inside.

 

After the trip I came back and had relaxed along the Victoria and Alfred (V&A) Waterfront, where we were docked. The V&A Waterfront is very cosmopolitan and lively, with regular artistic performances, a large mall, lots of smaller boutique stores, and a wide selection of restaurants. It seemed to be a gathering place of tourists and affluent locals alike. With so many passerby, our ship was getting a lot of attention, and by the end of the voyage I had explained the program to at least a dozen curious people. There was also a huge, gleaming white private yacht docked next to us. I heard the owner arranged it to be docked there for weeks leading up to the World Cup so he would have a prime location during the games in June. Seals also sunned themselves near our ship, and I even saw one sitting on the hull (I think it’s called the hull) of the MV Explorer!

 

After walking around the waterfront, I went to dinner with some Jewish friends who were happy to eat at a kosher restaurant during Passover. We ordered South African wine and lots of meat and had a wonderful dinner, returning to the ship after eleven.

 

The next day I got up early for another Semester at Sea trip, this time to Robben Island. I was very happy going into the trip because all of the trips to the island were sold out before we got to Cape Town. Additionally, the trip through Semester at Sea was cheaper than a normal ticket, a real first in the history of the program. However, when we got to the ferry station at seven in the morning and heard that we wouldn’t be back until after four, when it was advertised to get back at 2:30, I was less than amused. Luckily my friend Analise and I were able to get on a returning boat that left the island at twelve.

 

With these arrangements in order, we visited the island where Nelson Mandela and dozens of others were imprisoned during the years of apartheid. We took a boat ride, and I sat next to our guide on the way over. He was a white peace activist banker. He used to talk to international banks and try to convince them to withdraw funding and refuse to offer loans until apartheid ended. He told me that this was one of the main reasons apartheid collapsed—without monetary collateral the country couldn’t operate.

 

We arrived on the island and began the program. It was designed by the Cathedral Justice and Reconciliation Group as a reflective journey. We explored themes like community, faith, justice, and diversity at different sites around the island. We visited a Kramat, where a Muslim leader died in 1754, a leper cemetery, the lime quarry where the prisoners toiled, and of course the prison. Our leader stressed to us that the island was more than Nelson Mandela, and had been a place where people had been banished for centuries.

 

Analise and I split off to visit the inside of the jail before catching the 12:00 ferry. The cells were tiny, and each of them featured a picture of the prisoner, indicated when they were imprisoned, and a short story. It was eerily quiet where we were walking, and beams of sun shone through the jail cell windows, making thin shapes on the floor. We were guided to Nelson Mandela’s cell, which had a mat on the floor, a small chamber pot, and a single chair. I couldn’t imagine living there for a week, much less twenty-seven years.

 

We took the ferry back and went to a restaurant which had complimentary wi-fi if you bought something. So we ordered egg rolls and samosas and enjoyed some skyping.

 

A few hours later I left for dinner to meet my friend Eric and his boyfriend Michael, who had flown in for the week. Twelve of us had a feast at a place called Africa Café, and had at least a dozen courses, from sweet potato balls covered in sesame seeds to delicious lamb. When we were all sufficiently stuffed, our waitresses performed an African dance with drumming and singing. They were all exquisitely dressed, and had designs painted on their faces. It was an awesome, albeit expensive, dinner experience.

 

After dinner we walked a few blocks to the Green Market Square, where a free jazz concert was being held. Our ship was visiting during a huge jazz festival, and this night featured the only free performances. The atmosphere was alive and fun, and people were dancing everywhere.

 

Our third day in Cape Town I went with three girls on a guided township tour. Our guide, Anele, picked us up at eight and we headed off in a large van. We went to the Bo Kaap neighborhood first, which has colorful houses and a strong Muslim influence. Anele told us that during the period when whites were relocating blacks to townships the whites kept the Bo Kaap neighborhood as it was. The reasons for this were because of the high density of mosques in the area (Anele said that for all of apartheid’s failures, it at least respected other people’s religions), and also because the neighborhood housed citizens that worked for the whites living in Cape Town, whether as domestic servants or as mechanics. The neighborhood was quiet the morning we visited, but as it was Good Friday I imagined that people were in their homes with their families.

 

We drove to an overlook of District 6, one of the most famous neighborhoods that was completely destroyed during apartheid. The only thing that we were looking at that morning was an expansive grassy field. Anele described that the area used to be a place where blacks, coloreds, and even whites lived together harmoniously. As such, those in positions of power during the apartheid years saw that they had to get rid of this example that people of different races could live in the same space. While we were there, Anele also told us some stories from his childhood. Anele was colored, but he had a mother and an older brother with fairer skin. He said that one day his mother was shopping in a store and his father was holding his older brother outside of the store. A policeman came up to his father and demanded whose baby he was holding. When his father replied that he was holding his own baby, the policeman tried to take the baby from him because he thought that Anele’s father had stolen the baby. Luckily, Anele’s mother came out of the store, and the situation was resolved.

 

Hearing that story and trying to imagine a whole neighborhood where there was nothing but grass was hard. I couldn’t imagine having to prove that my child was my own to the police. Part of me felt glad that I had not lived through those times and didn’t have any responsibility to what had happened, but a larger part realized that there were so many injustices still today that seeing myself as blameless would be a lie. Living in the states and being a first-world consumer, I support (knowingly and unknowingly) all kinds of injustice around the world. My tennis shoes and t-shirt that I was wearing that day might have been produced with child labor or workers laboring below minimum wage, and of course our grand ship was using fuel that could be funding military operations in another country. I realized that it is futile to put myself on a pedestal when my everyday choices have international implications.

 

We left District 6 to visit the oldest township in Cape Town, Langa, which means “sun”. A few miles outside of the city the townships—seemingly endless stretches of shacks—began. Once inside the township, the appearance was much less grim, and children played in the street and music seemed to come from every other house. While we waited for our township guide to get out of the Good Friday church service, we walked around a market area. We passed rows of meat vendors and barbeques, where women cooked. Anele told us that barbeques were popular because most residents of the townships did not have any ovens. I felt like an outsider for the first time I had been in Cape Town because the townships were completely different than the modernized city, and of course we were the only white people in sight. However, most people seemed happy to see us, and Anele said that people liked tourists because we provided money for their township and also sometimes reported back to our legislators about the need to improve the quality of life within the township.

 

We met Sugar, our guide, as well as a retired couple from France, outside a shop which sold art that the township people had produced. Sugar took us to a bar/hangout area first, which was pretty empty due to the holiday, but still had a pool table, tables, and beer advertisements. Then we began to walk through the townships. We passed many different types of houses; some made out of concrete that looked inhabitable and others that were tilting shacks that looked like they should be bulldozed. Soon, we came upon some “hostels” which were government-owned residences. There was a clear demarcation between the old hostels, which were gray and falling apart, and the new hostels, which were painted brown. A woman invited the six of us into her residence on the second story of one of the old hostels.

 

We entered a dark communal area with one window in the corner where a woman was washing a metal pot that reflected the sun into the room like a mirror. A baby of seven months was playing on a blanket, being overseen by her mother, and several other people came in and out of the room while we were there. The woman who invited us up showed us her room, which had three bunk beds and was full of various possessions. When we asked her how many people lived in the room she said three FAMILIES. So this one room, with three bunk beds, housed ten people. Four other similar rooms connected to the common area, so that twelve families shared the space. I could hardly believe it.

 

We went down the stairs back outside where we saw some kids playing. They smiled at us and asked us to take their picture. As I was reaching for my camera I realized that one of the smaller children, probably around three, was peeing on the ground.

 

We walked through the hostel complex area and I was oddly reminded of a college dorm since all of the buildings were identical. However, it was decidedly different with rows of laundry hanging in the common spaces, women peering out at us from their windows, and children running around.

 

Sugar took us to one of the newer hostels, where one family had its own kitchen/living room, bathroom and bedroom. Compared to the first hostel, it seemed luxurious. Sugar said that the older hostel rented 20 Rand (about $3) a month for a family, while the new hostel rented for 300 Rand (about $40) a month for a family. As I digested this information, I realized that my meal the last night at Africa Café cost nearly as much as a month’s rent in one of the newer hostels.

 

We continued walking, and went past the “Beverly Hills of Langa” where the more affluent people in the township lived. Their houses had fences, satellite dishes, and manicured lawns. A couple blocks further, we entered the area of Langa which had shacks made of wood and plastic. Sugar said that fire was a big problem because it could easily spread and wipe out many people’s residences in a short amount of time. She also pointed out the communal toilets, which looked like metal port-a-potties, and communal water source which came out of a pipe. I looked down the road and saw a row of four children holding hands. I started walking toward them and one of them broke off and they all started running towards us. One picked me out and hugged my legs and looked up at me happily. I picked him up and tried to talk to him but he didn’t understand English. I learned from Sugar that his name meant “My Own”. He had a snotty nose and big eyes, and whenever I tried to put him down he gripped me with his legs determinedly. Several more children came out to greet us, so that when it was time to leave we had gathered a small crowd. As the four of us girls got into van, the kids climbed up with us. Anele patiently let them crawl around the van for a few minutes, but soon we had to pluck them out and drive away, waving behind us.

 

We visited Khayelitsha, the biggest township of Cape Town with over one million residences. As we entered the vast, foreign world, Anele announced to us, “Girls, welcome to Khayelitsha.” Anele did not stop the van for us to walk around in this township because there had been recent protests and he did not think it was safe. Apparently the Cape Town government is putting in a new bus system and the taxi drivers are worried that they will lose business so they are protesting. We passed rows of shacks, small shops, and barbers, and I really could not get my mind wrapped around how big the area was.

 

Anele dropped us off at the ship in time for lunch. After eating, I took a taxi with two of the girls I had traveled with and Brittany, my roommate, to Kalk Bay. It was a beautiful drive, with hills running along the ocean. There was also a 5K going on next to where we were driving, which was fun to watch. I found out when I got back to the ship that Zach, one of my friends on the ship, had gotten fourth place overall! In addition, the next day they were having a 56K marathon. I don’t think anyone on the ship attempted that race though…

 

Once at Kalk Bay, I walked along the ocean past fishermen with long poles, small shops, and restaurants. One shop in particular stuck out as unique as it had all sorts of random things for sale in different rooms of the house. It was almost like the possessions of ten homes had gone to this one house and now everything was for sale. My friend and I stopped at the end of a pier to talk and reflect on the day. It was crazy how many different sides there are to South Africa, and how easy it is to live exclusively in one area.

 

The fourth day I woke up determined to hike Table Mountain. Unfortunately, I hadn’t heard of anyone going that day, but as luck would have it I found out at breakfast that some of my friends from the University of San Diego and Andrea, who I traveled with in India, were hiking that day. They had met an “awesome” taxi driver earlier in the week and he would be picking us up at nine so I was excited that everything was set to go.

 

Our taxi driver, Earl, certainly was a character. He was seventy years old semi-retired driver who enjoyed talking to foreigners and tried to break the bad stereotype of taxi drivers around the world. He was very opinionated and every now and again started singing. He hiked Table Mountain from his waterfront residence once a week, and decided to hike it with us that morning. So after we picked up lunch at a grocery store we all headed up the mountain. One of the girls with us was not feeling too well that morning but Earl was the perfect motivator and we made it slowly but surely up the mountain. On the way, I asked Earl about his family (four children) and questions about South Africa in general. He said that he had been robbed at gunpoint and knifepoint, and had gone through six cell phones because they had all gotten stolen. From his point of view, crime was the biggest problem of South Africa today.

 

The hike up the mountain was not long, but it was continuously uphill and rocky. We met several people along the way, including an eighty-year-old from England. We were disappointed in the weather because the mountain was blanketed with a cloud. After the half-way point it was very wet and windy, and we couldn’t see out at the view at all. Once we got to the top and walked over to the cable car area, the clouds miraculously broke so we were rewarded with a spectacular view of the ocean and city. We ate lunch at chatted at the top. We asked a man to take a picture of us girls and Earl, and when the man told us “say whatever you want to say” before he snapped the picture, Earl yelled “VIAGRA!” As I said, Earl was a character.

 

We took the cable car to the base of the mountain. It was an interesting ride because the floor of the cable car rotated a full 360 degree turn in the four minutes it took to descend the mountain. We walked back to the car, said goodbye to Yellow Man, the “strange fellow” (according to Earl) who acted as a parking patron, and left Table Mountain feeling accomplished.

 

We stopped briefly at the “Biscuit Market” which reminded me of a Charlottesville farmer’s market. By the time we arrived, many of the stands were sold out, but there were still some vendors who sold locally grown, organic foods. It seemed to attract a younger, affluent crowd, maybe in their late-twenties. There were also several boutique shops, but none of us were really in the mood to shop so we decided to return to the ship. I hugged Earl good bye, showered and had dinner on the ship, and went to bed soon afterward.

 

The next morning I got up early to go to church on Easter Sunday. As most of you know, I am really not very religious, but I was very set on going to church this morning for some reason. I think I wanted to do something that I knew that I would only be able to do on this particular day. Anyway, I joined Luzuko, the interport student from South Africa, at his church in his township. Twelve of us piled into a taxi van and headed off.

 

We started the morning by visiting Luzuko’s family’s house, where we met his mother and his younger brother. His brother was watching cartoons on a TV which seemed very surreal somehow. His house had a living room in the same space as the kitchen, two bedrooms, an office/bedroom, a room used for storage, and a bathroom. Six people lived in the house, but Luzuko lived in a shack in the same township so he could have his own space. We thanked his mother for letting us in his house and continued to the church.

 

The church was easily one of the nicest buildings in the township. The inside was bright and airy, and instead of pews were lines of red plastic chairs. Dozens of women were dressed in purple clothes and seemed to act as church helpers. They were all very happy to see us, and hugged us and wished us all Happy Easter. They insisted that we sit close to the front, just behind three rows of priests dressed in white. Although the service was supposed to begin at nine, people only began to come in large numbers later than that. However, when I looked over my shoulder I realized the church was packed. Suddenly, around nine twenty, people started to sing. I had never heard singing like this. It was so rich and deep, and I felt that it went through me like gushing water. It didn’t seem to come from other people; it seemed to come from the walls and the floor of the church itself. People were swaying, dancing, and clapping their hands to the music as they could not contain themselves. It was beautiful.

 

After a few songs a woman read from a book in one of the African clicking languages. I was impressed by how involved the women were at this church, especially since churches in the states seem to be largely patriarchal. Children lit candles at the altar to another glorious song. Then, one of the priests in white spoke to the congregation and had bags of rice he dropped on the floor. Luzuko explained to us that the church raised money for times of hunger by selling bags of rice when the food was plentiful. I liked the idea of this kind of offering. The priest also said that they were raising money for a huge banquet because the pastor of fifteen years was leaving to go to Chicago. After money had been collected and the rice had been sold, the pastor began the service. By this time, it was 10:30. He announced at the beginning in English that the service would be “stretched” so he said that no one would be offended if we left early. This understanding meant a lot, and it reinforced to me how welcome I felt at this church.

 

The pastor spoke mostly in the clicking language, but would also switch occasionally to English so we could understand what he was talking about. The pastor spoke with fire and passion, and absolutely lit up the podium at which he stood. He used his hands with excitement and sometimes his fingers shook at the seriousness of what he was saying. Watching him preach was very real and transfixing, even when I could not understand what he was saying. From what I gathered, he was talking about how women were crucial in the church, and how it was them who had the duty of washing Jesus with the oil and discovered that he was gone. Every so often, one of the female priests dressed in white would cry out and begin a song, to which the congregation would alight. I saw children dancing in the aisle, a woman with a tambourine, and people swaying with their bibles. The most unnatural thing about the experience was not the actions of the people in the congregation; it was the behavior of the woman sitting next to me. She was one of the nurses on Semester at Sea and she was filming the service. I told her when she took her camera out for the fourth or fifth time that I wished she would put it away because it made me feel embarrassed. She said she understood where I was coming from, but she just wanted to capture the singing because it was so powerful. To this comment, I could only respond, “I know.” Of course I wish I could have captured some of the service to look at later, but to me the moment was so moving that I didn’t want to have to disconnect myself from it by opening up my camera.

 

We left the service at eleven, and I returned to the ship with about half of the other people who had gone to the church. I had lunch on the ship and then hung out with my friend Phi at the V&A Waterfront. We got some ice cream at the grocery and ate it together watching people pass us by. I enjoyed the sun and the company, and reluctantly returned to the ship after another fantastic port.

 

Almost as a sign, when we woke up the next morning we were still in Cape Town. Apparently it was too windy to leave, but we weren’t allowed to leave the ship of course, and class continued as normal. Everyone lamented that they couldn’t get off even for thirty minutes to grab a meal. Finally, the ship was cleared to leave around four, and we bid South Africa farewell.