gathering from ourselves

gathering from bo-kaap

Images above are of Bo-Kaap, a Muslim community just north of downtown, who in defiance of apartheid law painted their homes vibrant colours when instructed to paint them white.

gathering from downtown and suburbs

Images above are of:

UCT (University of Cape Town) with a view of Table Mountain behind, 

a woman working at Lola's, a coffeebar on Long Street in downtown Cape Town,

my friend Saloumie from Jo-burg at Lola's,

women buying produce outside Shoprite in Mowbray, taken from inside a minibus,

and a view of Table Mountain and the City Bowl from atop the mountain

adaption

It is harder to break in this city than I anticipated.  The skin is thick as a form of defense, and it is a challenge to move beyond the glossy surface and search, scrape for the beauty instead.  At first I was put off by the challenge, intensely frustrated at my limited mobility in the city and the country, my stolen independence, my class and skin color.  Now I am welcoming the challenges and instead of looking for the car I do not have or the cheap ticket to Tanzania which will not materialise, I am boarding the minibus to downtown that is already packed with sixteen people (they legally fit around 10, but in Africa, you become comfortable with strangers sitting in your lap), and was invited to spend a couple weeks in Dakar on my return trip to the States with Aya and practise le mie francais.  

I am not settling for less.  I am adapting.

There is much to adapt to.  A couple weeks past, I went out for pizza with some new friends and was in my element.  The neighbourhood and the restaurant were young, artsy, colourful and edgy.  It was a pocket of familiarity in a larger sphere of poverty and discomfort.  After supper, I was waiting outside the restaurant holding my box of leftovers, satisfied and at peace, and the face of the moment morphed in a second.  A black, homeless, older man approached me and made a hand gesture that I assumed signified that he wanted money.  I said I hadn't any.  Then he made the symbols more concrete, brought his hand to his mouth, his eyes open and seeking comprehension.  "Are you hungry?"  He nodded fiercely.  I didn't think twice.  I handed over my two slices of pizza.  I saw him walk away, joined by two other grown men.  3 men minus 2 slices of pizza still equals 3 hungry men.

A couple nights past, I had pizza with a group of friends visiting from the States.  There were a lot of leftovers.  Without thinking twice, two people gave me their extras; I returned home with 1 1/2 pizzas.  I gave what I could when I could.  And by peeling off my own skin of armor and being more receptive to what this city wants to give me instead of me trying to milk it for my own benefits, I receive more than I bargained for.

ancestors

Two weeks ago, I climbed Table Mountain, the centerpiece of these vibrant people.  It is a massive presence that peers through the cracks between the buildings, dances on the skirt of my vision, the backdrop of this performance.  It is the cradle of the university, and we are always held in its arms.  The climb was difficult, more than difficult actually, and there were many moments I very nearly turned around.  It is a strenuous, near-vertical slog of boulders that runs uphill without switchbacks for about a 1-2 hour hike.  Near the top, the rocks become cool and close inwards, and they begin to morph like clouds into familiar symbols and figures.  There are spirits in these mountains.

A strong element to African traditional religions is the abiding guardianship and influence of the ancestors of the living.  The two components of Bantu existence ("Bantu" is a label given to the indigenous people of Southern Africa, but is a term that may be broken into two: "ntu," which in simplistic terms means

"person," and "ba-" which implies that there are multiple persons, thus "people."  So when I refer to Bantu experience and existence, I am talking of the human experience, the existence of all people, not merely the Southern Africans, such as the KhoiKhoi, San, or Zulu, since these traditional religions apply to a larger portion of sub-Saharan Africa and indeed, the world.)  are that of the material and the spiritual realm, and the passing of a person is merely a transition point for that person to enter a different realm of reality.  Once a deceased person becomes an Ancestor (through process of ritual), they are considered the "living dead," because they are not dead in the Western sense; they are still present and actively engaged in our affairs, especially as protectors and mediators between us and the Supreme Being (who otherwise not be distracted by our sniffles and paper cuts).  The final breath of the climb up Table Mountain is known as the "Stairway to Heaven," appropriately named due to its difficulty and the hypnotic faces in the stones that surrounds the climbers.  

This would not be the first mountain to be ascribed sacred purpose; far from it.  Many mythical climbers have found sacred knowledge and communication with other worlds, other spirits and gods, after reaching the crest of a mountain.  Whether these visitations result due to lack of water, lack of sleep, sun-stroke, or possibly divine purpose, it is not my position to judge.  I do know, however, that there were bantu living in this place.  Look closely.  Determine for yourself.

rethinking Africa

I cannot get all the news I need from the weather report.  It is false prophecy, unable the decipher the scattered bones of clouds and the riddles of storms and sun.  95% of the time it is entirely incorrect, and everything is the opposite of what one would expect.  I am told to expect wind and drizzle, and the sun rips off my hat and fleece.  I am told to expect blue skies, and cloud after cold grey cloud lazily rolls down the sidewalk of our campus carved in the mountain.

The news tells us to expect many things.  It constructs our definition of places and people, to fear or trust in them, to go or to stay.  When I say the word, "Africa," what do you think of?  Images of acacia trees, starving black babies with flies in their eyes, AIDS, elephants, AK-47s, huts with thatched roofs, unbearable heat, Mt. Kilimanjaro?  Who or what has constructed these symbols of Africa for you?  Because it has been done for you, whether consciously or unconsciously on the part of yourself and whoever is marketing the concept of "Africa," whether it be by George W. Bush calling for more aid in Africa to save the people who cannot save themselves, or the Travel Channel drawing you to Kruger to take pictures of lions to prove that you've roughed it, you've seen "Africa."

How much of this news is false prophecy?  I find myself walking through Cape Town and marking this slum as evidence I am in Africa, this red earth, this black woman with a baby tied to her back, this cardboard box filled with guava.  But the hills quilted with vineyards, the cafe with the pink espresso machine, the surfers in the turquoise bay, these are all equally a part of this place.  Africa morphs second to second and is vast in experience and history, and we must begin to rethink the way we label Africa in our minds.  95% of the time it does not fit snug into our stereotypes, our expectations.  It is not one place, it is not a victim, and it is not uncivilized (whatever the hell that word means).  Cape Town especially is a kaleidoscope of cultures, colors, caricatures, and we do not know what to anticipate until the rain comes or the sun burns through.

There is a Swahili saying, Asifuye mvuwa imemnyea, roughly translating as, He who praises rain has been rained on.  If you never experience the rain, feel the warm patter on your face, see it soak into the earth, or see it drain in rivulets and floods into the road, you never will know the power it possesses.

bridges

I am not aware of the construction.  Bridges have been building themselves.  I am merely standing aside and allowing them to stretch out across currents and grasp people and knowledge whom I thought were unattainable.

A wall crumbled the other night while my friends, Aya and Poetry, and I were spending a quiet evening in one of our flats talking, sharing, drinking rooibos with honey.  Aya is from Cote d'Ivoire (Ivory Coast), but attends school in upstate New York.  She is soft, bubbles when she smiles and laughs, and is solid and centered in herself and her convictions.  She is a biologist and is critical of much, but open to much more and has offered to help me with my French while we attempt to learn Swahili together as well.  Poetry is from Miami and goes to school in Atlanta, and as her name suggests, is an accomplished slam poet who has toured internationally.  Both are black.

We began to talk about this strange place and how we've learned to contextualise ourselves within it.  I complain about how I cannot fit in, settle my raging mind, and realise they both, for the first time since leaving the States, do fit in.  For the first time in Poetry's life, she does not feel like an outsider.  Even in the deep South, and especially while traveling, she is judged as someone of lesser value, of a lower class, a troublemaker and unlikely to positively contribute to our society.  When she traveled to Florence, Italy, she told us of the times (plural, as in more than once) she had been shooed out of stores because shop-owners are accustomed to seeing black people only in the context of the vucompru, the African illegal immigrants (typically from Western Africa, like Senegal, Cote d'Ivoire, Ghana) in Italy who sell posters and sunglasses on the sidewalks.  These are the stigmas so many must bear on their back because of their skin color and skin color alone.  I believe it is impossible to overestimate the long-lasting cultural, psychological, and spiritual ruin of a race of people who share a history of domination, never mind the political and geographical displacement and disfiguration.  There is so much shame associated with being colonized rather than the colonizer, the person who is not deemed a person at all but an object to be analysed and subdued.  Something seen as innately barbaric; to be told that you will never be capable of fully realising greatness (as measured by Western white perception) because of your skin color, your supposed psychological inferiority, your wild nature.  During the apartheid era in South Africa, those who were not white were referred to as "Non-White."  This classification is by definition a negation of existence.  You are not fully human.  You are less.  You are not normal.  You are not good.  You are not worthy.

I said this to Poetry.  And she started to cry.

She cried, "Finally someone understands!  You understand!  If only my grandmother could have heard those words!  I will never forget those words as long as I live.  I will never forget those words.  I will never forget those words.  I will never forget those words.  I will never forget those words."

I crossed a bridge as I crossed the room to sit beside Poetry and hug her.  A gap was filled.

moving in

My whiteness is palpable. I have never felt so conscious of my race and wealth until now, when I am surrounded incessantly by black Africans and desperate poverty. The city is no longer legally divided by race and class, although apartheid was an effective monster and will be difficult to annihilate completely from such a racially stratified world. The whites remain in their white houses in the comfort of the cliffs; the coloureds (paler skinned black Africans, does not include Indians or Arabs) are tucked into their coloured clusters that look like lollipops sprouting out of the earth; the blacks are either living in corrugated tin shacks in the Cape Flats, areas known as the townships, or roam homeless on every street corner, including children begging for change and food at club doorways when partying downtown. The divisions are inescapable and haunting.

My own home has highlighted my strangeness in this place. I have been accepted into the UCT (University of Cape Town) residence halls, Liesbeeck Gardens (pronounced “leez-beck,” an Afrikaaner/Dutch word) in which I have my own room in a flat that I share with two other Africans and one other American. The res is a good 30+ minute walk, uphill, to UCT’s upper main campus, which is perched atop hills like a perfect Ivy League paradise, nestled into the side of Table Mountain. The location of the flat is less desirable, more assaulting. It is in a section of the town that I can only compare to South-Central of Los Angeles, an area I typically try to avoid. Paint peels off buildings exposing brick beneath. Weeds overgrow all the gardening attempts. The streets are filled with black South Africans and no one else, having their hair braided in the salon, buying produce at Shoprite, or sleeping during midday on the pavement in a sleeping bag. Except perhaps a stray white American girl. I find myself confused in a grocery store where eggs are not refrigerated, where I am overwhelmed by their selection of curries and chutney but cannot find laundry detergent. I am ashamed of my ignorance and ashamed of my skin color, for the assumptions and assertions it signifies.

My flat itself is cold and spartan, and the walls remain white and empty. There is no central heat here, which is a factor I am trying to accommodate for the following month and a half at least until winter takes its death. The days are manageable, as I am typically outside walking, keeping warm and content. The nights are chilly, 40 degrees outside, and I am writing this while lying in bed wrapped in down comforters, fleece, and a hat. I have discovered the beauty of a hot bath before bed as well, a ritual for Africans who typically do not take showers.

I am fortunate, however, that my roommates are exceptionally warm, which helps this place feel more like a home. My American roommate, Lauren, is from Colorado and has had a difficult time adjusting to the sparseness of this new lifestyle, although her room has a luscious window overlooking palm trees and the mountain and mine is small and looks into the interior of the apartments. This remains a factor that I hope to twist towards my advantage, however, once spring sets in and her room overheats while mine remains cool. Sifiso (sphee-so) is from the Mpumalanga region of South Africa, just west of Swaziland, and seems friendly and smiles, but most remains to himself. Every time he cooks, however, the flat is filled with heat and smells like delicious chicken curry. Nosipo (nnosy-poe), on the other hand, is incredibly outgoing and is a person I already feel akin to. She is from Bulawayo in Zim (Zimbabwe), we’ve already had a rich discussion about Zim. Her parents forbade her from returning home over the winter break because they were afraid she would be unable to leave the country again to return to school. I feel really blessed that she would talk with me about this because I could sense that it was difficult and painful for her to discuss the ruin of her home and country. Her presence is full and she plays beautiful African choral and gospel music as well as Afro-jazz, and sings along unabashedly. It is like awakening to a gentle and stirring concert every morning.

I understood that Africa is a massive, unidentifiable place, but failed to recognize that South Africa too, even Cape Town itself, is unidentifiable and like a bipolar character. At times it is trendy, bright, and lush, and at the same minute it is skeletal, judgmental, suffering. It is neither. It is both. The poverty gap is huge and seemingly insurmountable, and for the first time in all my travels, I am unable to negotiate that gap, to blend in to a city’s separate facets and appear as a local. I am vulnerable. I am white, and my skin and my accent betray me. They do not identify me, and yet they reveal absolutely everything.

arriving

The sky was dark and the sea was dark and we landed in darkness. We arrived in Dakar at 4am, and I awoke from a dreamless sleep into what seemed more surreal and dreamlike than what I had just left behind. I looked out my window to see a man standing, legs spread and arms crossed, staring in the direction of our plane, and a hoard of Senegalese dressed in dirty white t-shirts, neon yellow jackets, and flourescent blue pants swarmed the plane and began to clean the plane, check our passports, and remove us from our seats to check for hidden weapons or explosives. They were jovial, kind, but I was suddenly aware of my whiteness and the pristine leather seat upon which I had been sleeping minutes before, the orange paisley purse with leather trim, the designer jeans. I felt intrusive and welcomed at the same time, a curiousity.

They left as quickly as they came, and the flight attendants closed the doors and began walking through the aisles, spraying insecticide to kill off any rogue malaria-infested mosquitoes that may have penetrated the fortress of the plane. We lifted off, headed towards Cape Town, where we would arrive in another 8 hours. We had not been permitted to leave the plane during our 1.5 hour layover. It was still dark when we left.

Entering Cape Town was like skirting paradise. The oceans are turquoise and the violet clouds veil Tabletop Mountain like a shy blushing girl. Looking down upon the Cape Flats felt like looking into a box of crayons; homes are brilliant shades of red, orange, teal, and yellows. Even the shacks in the townships are painted in vibrant pallettes. More on them later.

I became instantly aware of the vastness of this place in a timespan of 10 hours or so. This fear and strangeness is present, as well as this color. Of course, I do not want to impose judgment upon Senegal for a brief half-awake assessement of the place at 4 in the morning. But this place is massive, and it is not just one place. It is a million places at least. And I've just landed in one of them.