Getting to Know You

When you drive around Cape Town, there are men at the stop lights walking between the rows of cars selling things. Not things like a windshield wash, but things more along the lines of fuzzy dice, beaded and fresh flowers and rugs. I am not a marketing major, but I question how successful this particular strategy is. I can't really imagine sitting at a red light thinking, "What is missing in my life right now? Fuzzy dice. Oh, look, there is a man selling them. How convenient. Let me roll down my window and get out my wallet in the carjacking and rape capital of the world." I guess it must be semi-productive, though, or dozens of men wouldn't be out there risking life and limb dodging cars everyday trying to make a buck. Well, a rand, I guess.

In addition to the strange things they pedal, there are also people selling papers. This actually makes a little sense to me. They hang pieces of cardboard up on light poles with the various front pages of the day's papers glued to them. You can decide which you want, if any. On my way to work the other day I saw a cover that said, "Tutu gets behind gays." I tried to convince myself that the wording was an oversight, but I just know it wasn't.

Work has been going well. Volunteers usually only work until noon or one, but on Monday I stayed all day with Daniel, Fazal, Allie and the other kitchen staff to prepare the food for the homeless. I usually leave while it is still cooking. It was cool to see the whole process for once. When the food finished cooking we made an assembly line to package it into Styrofoam to-go containers. I was in charge of spoons. I had to put one in each container after the rice was dished up, but before the gravy went on top. I am not sure if they give me the easy jobs to be nice, or because they think that dishing up gravy is too huge of a responsibility for me to handle. It could very well be the latter, because when we went to distribute the food under the bridge from the van, some homeless guy opened his and yelled, "No spoons today?" Evidently, I missed one. Our assembly line lacked quality control. Dixon said, "No. No spoons today," and turned his back on the guy. The guy kept yelling about his spoon. I just wanted to tell him to shut up about it already. He probably went through the line eight times like everyone else, and had seven other containers with seven spoons sitting under the tree, which is where they put them while they go back through the line. As if we can't see them.

The refugees want me. Well, actually they want green cards. I was sorting keys the other day, which was the most horrible task ever, because I had to try about a hundred keys in about twenty doors to try to determine which keys belong to which locks. Fazal told me try the key to his heart. I just stuck with the locks. I am not sure what one hundred times twenty is, but I do know that it was the closest I have ever come to going insane. I was in a terrible mood. I was standing at the desk sorting some of the wretched keys, when some guy asked me my name. I told him, and he replied with, "I like you. I like looking at you." I laughed and ignored him until he asked me for my number. Then I decided that I didn't feel like being sexually harassed on top of my already demeaning job of being key detective, so I packed up my keys and told him goodbye. Today, some guy asked me my name, I told him, and then he asked me if I was married. I said no, and kept walking. He told me we'd talk later. Fazal says I should tell them that I am taken, and that my man is downstairs in the kitchen peeling potatoes. Fazal is the potato peeler. Ah, Fazal...that is a story for another day. One refugee actually put it right out there, and asked me to help him get to America. I gave him my apologies, and told him I'd have to add him to my waiting list.

The other day, a vendor at the market asked me where I was from. I told him that I am from the US and he smiled, "The land of Obama," he said. I said "Yes, the land of Obama." As if this wasn't enough confirmation of my support, he asked me who I would be voting for. I told him that I would vote for Obama for both of us. He told me he'd give me a good price. I am going to flaunt my love for Obama at every stand from now on, just to ensure that I get an Obama discount. The refugees love him as much as I do. It's so great.

I like being here so much that I think I am going to stay for an extra week.

Into the Wild

On Saturday, I got my National Geographic on. I went on a Safari, and even though it is such a touristy thing to do, it was so fun. We had this amazing guide who knew everything about the animals. I thought his name was Danny, but no one seemed too eager to back me up on that. Maybe that's why he ignored me every time I shouted things at him. He pointed out ostriches, zebras and springboks. Springboks are the national animal of South Africa and the national rugby team is named after them. They are like gazelles that hop. It is pretty sweet. Danny told us that when they hop, they release the smell of flowers to confuse predators. Danny filled us with knowledge, explaining to us that hippos kill more people each year than lions and crocodiles combined, but they will only attack you if you get between them and the water. He also told us that lions sleep twenty hours out of the day and hunt the other four. When the female lion is in heat, the male mates with her seventy-six times to ensure that she gets pregnant. Leslie commented that being a lion would be the life. What with all that sleeping and sex. While it was a slightly inappropriate thing to say to Danny, I thought it was a valid point. One of the coolest things that Danny told us was that when elephants get old and are ready to die, one of their friends takes a journey with them to a place with plentiful food and water. The two stay together for about three days, and then the young elephant leaves the other. In a year, the younger elephant returns to dig a hole in which to bury his friend. He won't forget to go back. It is true that elephants never forget.

On Sunday, we went to the Cape. We made several scenic stops on the way, including Hout Bay. Farid, our driver, told us that we could go on a boat trip to seal island, or that we could just go over and look at this guy with a seal on the pier. I went over and there was this massive seal staring lovingly at a haggard-looking man. I was appalled when the guy bit down on a piece of raw fish, and the seal took it out of his mouth. I looked around to see if anyone else was about to lose their breakfast, but they were all oohs and ahhs. When he kept doing it, I decided to take the tour to see the normal seals in their natural habitats, without skinny, nasty sugar daddies. It was worth it, because Seal Island was a small patch of jagged rocks completely covered with seals. It was beautiful. We traveled on to the cape, and had lunch at the restaurant there. Someone pulled into Farid's spot, and I thought that he was about to go postal on their asses. He jumped out of the van, and yelled at them in one of the many languages here that I do not speak. We parked them in and didn't get killed, so it was enjoyable. We went up to the lighthouse after lunch and took pictures of the Cape of Good Hope. Then we went to the bottom and stood at the end of Africa. It was one of the most beautiful places that I have seen. On the way home we stopped at Boulders Beach to check out the penguins. There were several whales swimming close to shore. None came out of the water other than to skim the surface for air, but it was so cool to know that they were right there. The wildlife here is spectacular.

Happy Birthday Madiba!

Nelson Mandela is ninety today. It is an excellent reason to celebrate. Last night we went to a club called Tiger Tiger and partied. The drinks were two for one and they had a fashion show. Then we danced the night away...well, part of the night, anyway. We have to be home early on weeknights because we have a curfew due to having to work in the morning. On the way to work we jammed to songs about Mandela. Today for lunch we had a braai, or South African barbecue, in his honor, complete with balloons, pictures and even a cake. We sung him "Happy Birthday" in, like, three languages. I think we are going out tonight to celebrate more.

Work is going well. I worked in the kitchen with Fazal and Daniel again today. Some random Italian guy named Luigi passed through and thought that I introduced myself as Miami. He was like, "I'm Rome." Desiree said, "No...it's Annie." A few minutes later, the misunderstanding officially became my nickname when he asked me for help. He couldn't get through the door with his hands full because it was blocked. "Miami, can you move this mop and bucket ?" he asked. Yeah, if you stop calling me Miami, asshole. I moved it. Then he came into where Fazal and I were talking and told us he wanted to tell us something in his language. He started pointing at us and shouting in Italian. Daniel, the Italian chef that I work with, just laughed. Then Rome left and I asked Daniel what he said. He told me that it would be impossible to translate. I said, "Tell me Daniel." He reiterated that it would, in fact, be impossible to translate, but also that we probably didn't want to know. While the food was cooking Daniel and Fazal got out their guitars and started playing. Daniel sang in Italian. It was pretty sweet, which is a word that I am trying to teach my new friends to incorporate into their vocabularies. On Monday, I am going to stay at work to take the food to the homeless people. Usually, I leave before they do that. I guess there are three hundred people, and that it can get a little crazy. Melanie said that they don't usually let girls go, but I am going. Fazal said he would come with me. I am so appreciative that I work with such cool people. I came to South Africa to hang out with an Italian and a Zimbabwean. Who would've guessed?

Workin' It

We had a false-alarm the other night. Alarms started blaring after we had just finished an informal discussion of how dangerous Cape Town actually is. We have panic buttons throughout the homebase that we are assured summon armed response in less than three minutes. I am not getting out my stopwatch, but after seeing how things work in Cape Town, I wouldn't put much money on the validity of that promise. Welcome to the rape capital of the world. After the alarms started ringing, we all just congregated downstairs and found out that it was the neighbor's alarm. It makes me wonder what is going on over there, after the blood-curdling, gut-wrenching scream that I heard the other night. I feel bad for Bradley, one of our security guys. He must have shit his pants. Twenty American chicks, four guys and the odd Canadian are a lot of responsibility.

The last two days of work have been great. Yesterday was Wednesday, so they had the welcoming program for the new refugees. When I got dropped off at Scalabrini, there was already a crowd waiting to get in. I interviewed them trying to remember the details that Barbara taught me the previous day, and did a horrible job at first. The first guy didn't really speak English, and that did not help anyone. The other problem is that I am American and ignorant and don't know shit about Africa. Some guy's permit said that he was from Zaire. I am supposed to write the route that he got into South Africa. Uh, where the hell is Zaire? Apparently, it is the DRC, but why wouldn't they just write that? And what do you put down for nationality? Shit, I should have paid attention in high school. Not to mention that the awareness that everywhere writes dates differently than we do in the US does not make it any easier to actually do it correctly under pressure. Some guy was telling me the dates like, "Twenty, zero-two, two-thousand eight." When he realized how hopeless I was. I am sure that they thought that I was the biggest moron ever. Imagine fleeing your country to escape political persecution, jumping borders with only the clothes on your back, walking miles with no shoes, and settling under a bridge in a country whose inhabitants practice xenophobic attacks. Then you go to seek assistance and you find ME. Me and my idiotic smile. I am officially a bimbo. Sorry Dad. After that, I helped Bella sort donated clothes. I didn't feel as stupid, but it wasn't as fun either.

In the afternoon, some of us went to Green Market Square and the Pan-African market. The weird dude that I bought a bracelet from actually got mad at me for bargaining with him. Whatever. Some kid tried to get us to give him money, but we are not allowed. We told him that we were strictly prohibited, but he was persistent. He told us not to be shy. He could tell that we wanted to buy him food. He told us we wouldn't get in trouble. Finally, he went away.

Today, I got to teach an English class. I taught them about family relationships using the possessive. Maggie and Lisa are Bart's sisters. Homer is Marge's husband. They are weird about The Simpson's here. In the middle of a square in the city they have a huge African sculpture with Bart's head protruding out of it everywhere. They also sell Playboy grooming products in the pharmacies. I don't get it. After playing teacher for an hour and a half, I went down and made soup for the homeless refugees with Fazal, who is only twenty and a Zimbabwean immigrant. He is fun to talk to. Or maybe I should say listen to, because he never stops talking. Daniel is Italian and very nice, but more quiet. They are both musicians. I suck at peeling potatoes, and cried like a baby when I cut the billion onions that were needed for the soup. I have absolutely no problem with feeling like an idiot, though. Must be the maturity that comes with my old age. It was a fun day. I love my job.

Contrast

I have been here for three days. They have been amazing. On Sunday, we had orientation and took a tour of the city. We stopped at the beach and then drove past the beautiful beach-front property that goes for about $250, 000 here, which seems unbelievably cheap to me, as it is the Malibu of Cape Town. We also drove to the top of Signal Hill and took in the view of the city and Table Mountain. Cape Town is a really beautiful place.

Yesterday, we got our first dose of reality. We took a township tour which stood in stark contrast to the drive around the city the day before. The condition in which the majority of Cape Town's population lives is indescribable. Our tour guide, Richard, was awesome. He explained life in the ghetto in detail to us. He told us some really interesting things, like how the government tried to hide the reality of the townships by putting decent looking houses around some of the ghetto's borders so passers-by wouldn't see how atrocious they were inside. He took us into a barracks that was originally put up to house men who worked in the city. Now it houses multiple families in each dorm-sized bedroom. We met a woman who lived there and shared her twin bed with her husband. Her small children slept on the floor next to the bed and her bigger kids slept in the common kitchen. The other two single beds in the bedroom belonged to two other families. There were five other bedrooms sharing the common kitchen. The kids in the townships are amazing. They went crazy over us. If they see a person with a camera they start posing and singing and dancing. I took video of five little guys singing, "Ole, Ole Ole Ole". The sense of community was unbelievable and the beauty in that, and in the people themselves, far exceeded the glamour of the beach-front houses we saw the previous day. At the end of the tour Shamiel told us the reason that we were headed back into the ghetto. Richard, our well-spoken, educated, multi-lingual tour guide, that I had a little crush on, needed to be taken home.

Today, I went to my job for the first time. It is a great placement. I met everyone who works there and got a tour first. Then I helped a young guy from Zimbabwe find a pair of shoes, pants and a shirt from the donations at the center. Unfortunately, the majority of the clothing donated is for women and children, so we had a fairly difficult time of it. He had a great sense of humor, but despite my laid-back demeanor, our almost-fruitless labor broke my heart. He asked me to pick him out a nice shirt. I gave him a red flannel one, but just wished that I could take him to the mall. I asked him questions about himself and he told me that he was alone in South Africa and that he lived under a bridge. After that, I learned the process for interviewing the new refugees that will be coming tomorrow. Then, I went and made parcels to give the newcomers that contained a small bag of maize meal, and smaller bags of beans, sugar, rice and a can of spam-type meat. If I understand correctly, this and six rolls are to last a person for two weeks. I made a hundred packages, and am excited to go to work tomorrow and meet the people who need them.

South Africa reminds me every day, several times a day, that nothing is black and white - not people, not politics and not the complex social issues that face South Africa, the US or the world.

Africa at Last

After a short flight from Minneapolis to JFK, I waited at the wrong gate - the one listed on my boarding pass - for like three hours. It was entertaining, though so possibly worth it. Across from me was a billboard that said "EMBRACE CHANGE (but please don't go groping it)". Some guy danced, literally danced, past me singing to his iPod. All I caught was "like a puppet on a string," before he pranced off. A little Chinese kid kept coming over and asking me questions like, "Where is the lestloom?" I didn't know. He also asked me, "What time is it?" I told him one, but it was one forty. I am not very reliable, but must look approachable. The crowd just kept getting more Asian by the minute, and no plane landed at the gate I was waiting at, so I decided that something was up. I went to a monitor and found out that the gate was changed, and when I got to the right gate there were people everywhere. I quickly learned that the flight was overbooked. Shit. I better have a seat after waiting for three hours. I met a couple of the other volunteers before we began boarding. When the guy scanned my boarding pass it made an ominous beep, and he violently tore it up. I asked him nervously if something was wrong. He told me that I had been upgraded without making eye-contact. I have noticed that this malady seems to be a common affliction among airport employees.

Flying first-class is great. I have never done it before, but hope to do it again soon. They fed us all the time, and my seat reclined to sleeping position so I slept comfortably for most of the flight. When we landed in Dakar, Senegal I felt it. It was a lump in my throat that made me want to shriek and jump up and down and cry tears of joy all simultaneously. It was the realization that I am in Africa. I was so content to know that. Senegal was something else for the hour that I was there. It was already pushing ninety degrees at four a.m., and the humidity followed the Senegalese bomb sweeping crew onto the plane. They took apart all our seats and made us identify our luggage. If a suitcase went unclaimed it got thrown off the plane. Part of me wished that I could stay in Senegal for a couple days, by I left without touching land or any of the hot airport personnel.

I arrived in Cape Town yesterday evening. I made it through customs without any trouble even though I didn't have documentation of a return flight. I didn't have any baggage issues because I carried it all on. The guy in customs scared the shit out of me though. He asked me what I was bringing into the country, as he inspected my Goldfish crackers. I think he was hungry. He gave me grief about my new phone, asking me if I was leaving it in the country. I told him no, but it wouldn't surprise me. Someone would probably steal it. I decided not to go into possible scenarios with him, though, and just let him keep harassing me. He asked me why it took me so long to get to customs since my flight had come in a good bit earlier. Was this really customs? What the hell? Inspect me for fruit and illegal weapons, and let me go about my business.

Our drivers brought us to the home base, playing funky beats that I would expect from Africa. We definitely passed townships on the drive. We arrived at our house and found our rooms, which are named after the eleven official languages of South Africa. I am in Afrikaans, which is great because I can pronounce it. I have a fireplace, toilet and three roommates. The house is huge, but it's not the Four Seasons. During my first shower I had to stand in a foot of one of the other volunteer's used water. The drain is a little slow. I am not sure whose runoff it was, but my favorite coping strategy is denial and I think it's just better if it remains a mystery. The other constant reminder that I am not staying at the Ritz is the beefed up security. The house is surrounded by a cement wall, the slats of the metal gate are spiked so no one can jump it and it is only opened by our security guards. There is razor-wire and electric fence running around the top of the whole shebang. The view of the mountain is beautiful, if you can look past the bars on the windows. I am optimistic, though. This country has survived a lot and I am determined to survive, and hopefully fall in love, with it.

Tickled Pink

I am not ready for Africa. 

Meghan bought me a purse for my trip as a going away present, and I am still about one-third packed, but other than that I can't say much for myself. I bought all-purpose shoes to take, but they give me blisters. I read Mandela's A Long Walk to Freedom sometime last fall, but that is the only book on my pre-Africa reading list that I have read cover to cover. For the last two days I have been reading Chelsea Handler, and I don't think anything she has to say about her one-night stands is going to be valuable to me in Africa. At least, I sure hope not. Last night, instead of packing or tackling the mountain of laundry in my room that rivals Everest, I chatted online with a Colombian that I thought was mine, but turned out just to be some creep with the same name. The conversation got a little out of hand, but as usual it was all my fault. 

 

Annie: What are you doing? 

Colombian: watching tv 

Annie: Probably porn. 

Colombian: yes porn

Annie: Really? I am so good.

Colombian: do you like porn?

It was a strange question coming from my Colombian, because he should know what I like by now, but I thought it could be some kind of kinky game he was playing. I still had my guard up though, because he hadn't spelled anything wrong yet, so I was suspicious. 

Annie: Do you have anything interesting to tell me? 

Colombian: You tell me something interesting 

Annie: I have nothing interesting to tell. 

Colombian: then let's talk about porn

I knew it! He was found out. My Colombian would have never remembered the apostrophe in the word let's. But I didn't want to jump the gun and ruin the kinky stuff if I did have the right guy, so I asked him to tell me something only he would know. He told me he knew many things. I asked him what color the walls in my bedroom are painted. He said pink. I said adios. My walls are NOT pink. Later when I decided to be old-fashioned and just call the real Colombian, I asked him what color the walls in my room are painted, just for the principle of it, and he said green. My walls are blue. An unmistakable blue. Although, when I told my roommate Logan the story he started nodding when I got to the part about the Colombian saying my walls are green. Logan was like, "Yeah, they're blueish-green. I'd call it aqua." Um, okay. I guess Pottery Barn calls it schooner, which isn't helping anyone, and is just as damn bad as calling it aqua. I definitely learned my lesson. You should always make sure that you know who you're chatting with on Skype, and guys are clueless when it comes to colors.

Oh, yeah. And maybe I should start thinking about packing.