True to my word, I am an awful journal-er, but I’ll do my best to summarize the past week in Cape Town. I’m also afraid that I must cut my attempt at video-blogging short, as I’m paying for Internet by the megabyte here.
I’ve been a week in Cape Town, and still I haven’t processed all that’s happened. Cape Town is the most complex place I’ve ever been. There are clear dichotomies separating both the people and the landscape; comfortable wealth is quietly but visibly juxtaposed to extreme poverty, the natural beauty of the land is protected amidst the rapid urbanization of the city centre. Owen, the man who collected us from the airport, calls it “the Tale of Two Cities.” It is an appropriate allusion, but in truth, to tell the full story of Cape Town, one must present a tale of many more than just two cities.
Our first adventure involved visiting cute guys in spiffy suits… penguins! I was so excited to meet the penguins, but I didn’t eat enough breakfast with my anti-malarial meds and got sick on the ride over. I was not a happy camper. But after the nausea wore off, I got to see my waddling, winged-yet-flightless friends. After my happiness was restored and my cute sensor exploded, we went to Cape Pointe (which was absolutely breathtaking) and decided to have a picnic lunch. Said lunch was interrupted by two decently sized baboons who decided to picnic-crash. Our professor threw a distracting apple in the opposite direction and we were able to salvage our sandwich fixings and load everything back into the van. We found another (baboon-less) site.
I did not fare well on our next adventure. As a former girl scout, I was initially excited to hear that we were going hiking. I love walking, I love trees, I love photography. Hiking is generally a great way to partake in the love of all of these things. Unfortunately, this was not a things-Erica-loves-hike. This was an Erica-death-trap-hike. We began at, and maintained, a brisk pace in our ascent up the mountain. It was not, to say the least, the speed of brisk I was used to. A clear line in the sand was drawn that day: those group members who are in shape and Erica. I was grateful for the few who stayed behind as I wheezed my way up the mountain. And, just for good measure, I had an unfortunate encounter with a large(ish) rock that took me down before I even saw it. In all my graceful glory, I tripped and bit the dust. Hard. I was able to save my camera, but my self-esteem took a little longer to recover. I have to say, though, the views from the top of the trail were well worth it. After the hike, we took the cable car up to Table Mountain. I could spend a thousand words trying to describe how beautiful it was, but I'll post some pictures instead.
The next day we went to orientation at the University of Cape Town. It felt comforting to be on a campus again, and I’m looking forward to having class there. There is an interesting style of fashion in Cape Town. I haven’t quite figured it out yet. After people-watching at UCT, we went to a briefing by the State Department. I think this is the part where they were supposed to make South Africa sound scary, but it wasn’t very effective.
The most significant part of orientation week, for me, was staying in Khayelitsha. Khayelitsha is a township, and means “our new home” in isiXhosa. It is difficult for me to describe how I felt walking around the township, or how I feel now looking back on it. I’d never seen poverty. I’ve seen poor conditions, poor people. But being in Khayelitsha was the first time I’d ever witnessed poverty. I can list all of the ways this community has been disadvantaged, I can invoke clichés and paint the same picture that every other privileged person has tried to provide after experiencing a place like Khayelitsha. But I find it unnecessary. It is nothing I can describe adequately, and no matter how eloquent or heartbreaking my description may be, it ultimately won’t matter. Because every person in this exchange, the reader as well as writer, will wake up tomorrow morning and do exactly what they’ve already planned to do and go about their lives in much the same way as they did before this moment. Reading about destitution does not move people to the depths I used to expect of them. I will always have faith in people, and I will believe with unshakable conviction in their ability to direct positive change in the world. But that day in Khayelitsha, I didn’t see that faith manifested in the powerful, the wealthy, the people with the most opportunity. I saw it in the community. A strong sense of familiarity amongst the older people created a collective sense of security, and there was an unrivaled spirit of innovation among the children. The people here are making a full life out of what Americans would consider nothing. Miriam calls it resiliency. I think that’s a fitting way to describe it. I remember thinking that there must be some amazing quality of childhood that is transcendent; not innocence or simplicity, but rather the firm and absolute understanding that imagination must be.
Since staying in Khayelitsha, we’ve visited vineyards and fishing towns, universities and the waterfront. There is always a hint of surprise in people’s voices when they hear that we’ve spent the night in a township, as if it were not worth the danger evidently inherent in such an endeavor. And as I sense this judgment silently saturating the air of our conversation, I smile to myself. Because in a small home in Khayelitsha, I fell asleep to the lullaby of a community, and it was the warmest and safest I’d felt in a while.
People keep asking me how I like Cape Town, and I’m not sure exactly what to say. I can recall the view from Cape Pointe or Table Mountain and say that it is beautiful, but then I can watch the tin roofs of informal settlements marked with graffiti and the deferred dreams of an incomplete revolution speed past the car window like frames of a film the world doesn’t want to see. I can point to poverty and ask how a place like this envisions their future, but then I’m on a university campus, watching students rush to the classes that will prepare them for the world, just as I would in Chapel Hill. I’m in a quaint fishing town watching colourful boats and ships bounce on winter waters and in an hour I can be wine tasting at a vineyard that stretches for acres or taking a train into the bustling heart of the city. There is so much about Cape Town I’m ready to understand and so many people I’m ready to know. I’m ready to hear the tales of the small cities that compose this remarkable place.
