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.