ken

ken- (n) knowledge, perception, or understanding.

The more of South Africa I see, the more ken I am granted.

Last Wednesday… Cape Town, eKapa, Kaapstaad! I was picked up early in the mahrnin’ by Monalisa, the international office advisor and our tour guide. We drove along the N2 to Bloukraans, where the less mentally stable half of our party jumped off the bridge in the world’s highest bungy jum, 216 m down. We drove the rest of the way to Cape Town through Knysna and George, which took all day. Nursing a headcold and feeling groggy, I didn’t enjoy the scenery as much as I should have. I saw sheep, cows, horses, ostrich, hawks, even a couple of springbok. The ocean near Knysna was beautiful. Closer to the Cape, the scenery of Stellenbosch reminded me exactly of the dusty golden hills of California, only the trees scattered in the fields are acacia, not oak. We arrived in Guguletu around 8, which is dead quiet in a township. No one leaves their homes after dark, for fear of danger I suppose. (I can’t help wondering, if no one leaves home, who is there to be afraid of?) Dangers of the night? We were cordoned off into our respective homes; each of us stayed with a Mama who makes a business renting out township homes to curious tourists and volunteers. Mona and I stayed with Mama DeeDee in a house a street or two over from the main drag of Guguletu. She showed us around her house which was much nicer than I was ignorantly expecting but not exactly polished. She has glass fronted cupboards holding china and silver, hardwood brick floors and a fancy speaker system but her front gate’s lock is broken, she had no lampshades and the walls didn’t exactly meet the ceilings. The bathtub was bricked into a corner and sealed with plaster. She said the house was one 20m2 room when she moved in and that she is in the process of expanding and fixing little things as she goes. Highly impressive for a lady in her late 50’s living alone. She has five grandchildren but neither a spouse nor any of her children live with her anymore, so to keep the loneliness at bay she rents her spare room out to travelers like us. She made us dinner taking special care to make vegetarian food for me: mealie pap, sweet potatoes, mashed pumpkin, collard greens, and tomato sauce. We ate with our fingers watching a soap opera on SABC. We prayed before eating and before sleeping in a combination of English and isiXhosa. I understood “Jesus of Nazareth” and “protect us always,” but not much else. She belongs to the Baptist church in Langa, the next township over, and went to church three times a week, walking to take a taxi each time. I got the impression that the attitude of the ladies in Guguletu was one of “this is the way life is and we just have to make the best of each day.” She laughed at my smattering of Xhosa, but hey, I tried. The house was SO quiet at night. I had expected the people to be out in the streets, whoever the people are. 

Morning in Guguletu

Top of Table Mountain, all hot and sweaty

An encouraging sign as we headed down the mountain

The courtyard in B Block at Robben Island

Nelson Mandela's cell

The front gate of the prison complex

                Thursday we woke early, had mathebela for breakfast, a thick porridge that was dark and creamy. Mona said she ate it every day growing up. We thanked Mama DeeDee and left, watching little boys in the street being chased by their mothers. Mona remarked that one woman was singing a gospel song while swearing at her children for being naughty. The whole group of twelve students, Mona, and our tour guide drove to the Saasveld Lodge on Kloof Street, an extension of the infamous Long Street. We proceeded to the base of Table Mountain. The sun was beating down but how could one give up the opportunity to climb that mountain that towers over the city. Also, the trail was steep. We climbed up Pletteklip Gorge, our shirts soaked through with sweat before we even started hiking. Giant stone steps carved into the face of the mountain traced our path vertically through the gorge. I was out of breath and my heart was racing but I couldn’t complain (some of the other girls sure could xP). We reached the top in about two hours which made us all feel weak given our physically fit guides reported usually reaching the top in under an hour. We ate lunch at the top surrounded by incredible views of the Cape Peninsula. I saw a lizard, some wild rock hyraxes (called dassies here), and lots of protea. The flowers are strangely beautiful like sedentary aliens. The top of the mountain is highly commercialized as there is a cable car taking the less physically apt to the top: there’s a restaurant and a gift shop up there. The natural landscape was surprisingly silent; without the tourists it would have been serene. The Americans, Germans, and British here are pretty obnoxious with their cameras, orthopedic shoes, and LOUD voices. They just sound ignorant. I have no idea whether they are or not but their presence was somewhat dominating everywhere we went. We climbed down a different way on the side of the mountain facing the city. It wasn’t all that hard of a path but the declivity was such that I was a little intrepidated (yes, I know I made that word up). One misstep and I would have been 1000m down in downtown Cape Town. My legs were wobbling by the time we reached the bottom. We showered, dressed, and went down the street to a burger joint. Nothing remarkable save gross consumption. As we sat on a tony outdoor patio, a man dressed in tatters sat on the curb nearby talking to himself, cradling his head. I felt the privilege guilt sitting there dressed warmly with a plate full of food. Had I been alone I probably would have shared my dinner with him. Shouldn’t society/social interaction be an impetus for good? Signs on lampposts on Long Street actively discourage begging in favor of charitable actions that give back to the community. 

We walked up and down the clubs and taverns of Long Street. It looks like an electrically charged, slightly run-down version of New Orleans, complete with wrought iron balconies. I'm reserving my comments on the people I saw for Alice says it's rude to make personal remarks.

The next morning we left for Robben Island! We rode a ferry from the mainland to Murray’s harbor on the island where prisoners were originally brought. We were treated to indoor chairs with plush cushions whereas prisoners were shackled to the side of a barge, facing the harsh cold of the bay. The island really is a perfect prison: you can see Cape Town in the distance and think of being there, but the cold weather and sharks make it impossible to escape. On cloudy days, the island is shrouded in fog and you could be centuries away from civilization, let alone kilometers. We went from ferry to bus where we were given a narrated driving tour of the island. We saw the first mosque in South Africa (called the Kramat, I believe), the graveyard of the leprosy patients, Robert Sobukwe’s personal prison, the gov’t buildings, and the lime quarry. Even through the fogged rainy windows of the bus, I was floored by the sight of the University nestled into the back of the quarry. The monument of the Rainbow Nation sitting just in front was powerful as well. Both were so small and humble in mere vision but their power was palpable. I got to thinking about why exactly the world celebrates the heroes that led apartheid to its end. From what I have seen so far, South Africans are very content to let life go by, to roll with the punches. Government, economics, history, and society itself encumber change. Poverty, crime, and disease are just a part of life. At one point, apartheid was just a part of life to some, I suppose. People knew it was unjust but what could be done? Robert Sobukwe, Oliver Tambo, Albert Luthuli, Walter Sisulu, Ahmed Kathrada, and Nelson Mandela, amongst many others, refused to be content with the injustices life had dealt them. In one of Mandela’s most famous orations, he stated he was prepared to die for the ideal of equality amongst all people. Thankfully this statement was not put to test but he gave his life to the struggle all the same. 

Once we got off the bus, a former political prisoner (whose name I have forgotten) walked us through the main prison. We went through reception first, then the famous B block where all the political prisoners were kept. Before our guide started talking, I knew where we were. I could see the power in the garden that Madiba planted, where he hid the contraband manuscript of his autobiography. It was odd actually. I could sense the history and the importance of the courtyard and it looked exactly the same as it had for decades, but everything has changed. The men that were imprisoned are now in charge, seeing their dreams come to fruition. The men that were in charge have been dealt justice, one hopes. Again, I was frustrated with the sub-par understanding and maturity of some of the students I am with. I figure it’s their loss but it’s irritating all the same. I have taken to hanging at the back of the group, walking slowly enough so that once they all leave I have a quiet moment alone. I stayed behind in a few of the solitary cells in C block as well as in one of the group cells in F block just to take it all in. There’s power in history. Power like standing before a master work of art: being able to see the entire beautiful scene but having the presence to walk up close up to the frame to see the individual brushstrokes. I imagined the halls, the walls full of creaking bodies, shuffling footsteps, and soaring dreams. 

I have way more to say, but I’ll leave with this for now. Part 2 of Cape Town trip guaranteed but I have to get to class. The second term starts today; I’m already one quarter done with my trip. I’m satisfied with the speed it is going. I have a lot I want to learn about.