Across the Universe

Besties

The Cape of Good Hope is where the two oceans meet.  Or perhaps more accurately, crash into one another.  The Indian Ocean crashes to shore full of mystery from the far east and the Atlantic is icy with the arctic current that renders it impossible to swim for all but the bravest of children and wetsuit-clad surfers.  Not that I’d be swimming anyway; having a shark flag alone, as all the beaches here do, is enough for me to remain parked on the sand, I don’t care which color threat blows in the breeze.

It seems appropriate, the crashing of these two oceanic worlds in a place of so many other worlds crashing together.  South Africa is a place of tremendous wealth behind barbed wire home security fences, and townships without running water, where the horror of poverty rivals what I saw in my beloved Kenya.  This is a land of eleven national languages where everyone uses words like whilst and whereby and pleasure, and it tickles my old fashioned ears.  Where the races of Black, Colored, White, and Indian still maintain distinct cultures and languages, and it matters to which you belong.  Here in Cape Town I’ve delighted seeing biracial couples of every combination and their rainbow babies, strollers full of plump hope for a new South African reality.  But I’ve also experienced the not-too-far-post-apartheid discrimination while out with a proud Colored man, when he received fist bumps from those of his own demographic and offensive insults from men of my own.  Here in Africa I often feel like I’m sculpting sandcastles with bones. 

Hasta la vista, Arch Nemesis

I arrived here in Cape Town nearly 6 weeks after arriving in the country.  It seems as if this is the city where all of my other South African experiences and impressions are suddenly in high definition, like falling into one of the African oil paintings that line the stands of nearly all of the street vendors.  This is a city where carnival means parade, and parade means thousands of people from every race and neighborhood converging to celebrate the unique diversity that is this city.  Where Colored floats feature artists spraying live graffiti to local township music, and Indian mamas dance in their saris, and painted Zulus perform warrior dances with their spears on a cloud of balloons.  Cape Town reminds me more of Chicago than anywhere I’ve been on this continent, perhaps because of the sparkling waterfront full of foodie shops and craft markets; though nobody, anywhere, rivals the craftsmanship of Africans.  The city centerpiece is a brilliant public garden built in the 17th century by the East India Trading Company, also known for importing slaves from Western Africa, Indonesia, and Madagascar; the same slaves who built this city into what it is today.  The garden is home to foreign trees, tropical plants, and scores of homeless people curled up in any scrap of shade they manage to find; lives flourish and wither on their respective vines.  I can’t help but wonder how much has been invested in feeding the flowers while the people sleeping beneath go hungry.

My last few weeks here have been spent as a guest of a most delightful family.  And it’s been fun, and cozy, and holy-moly-loud, full as the apartment’s been with little kids and medium kids and young adult kids, and on holidays and weekends, grown-up kids.  Lindsay has been a tremendous source of refreshment and encouragement, and my spirit feels lighter and braver having spent time with her.  Her kids have generously shared their laughter, and hugs, and countless performances of show tunes and home-choreographed dances.  Really, they’ve enfolded me and invited me into their version of normal.  Because of Lindsay's generosity
here on the Cape Town peninsula, I've had a home.

Elephant's Eye View

On one hand, sometimes I feel like a South African baller: I have girlfriends to meet for coffee, and kids to play with, a proper kitchen in which to cook without dozens of European college students, and even a sweet South African beau.  But then I acknowledge reality, and realize that even after more than two months in this country I know I am not even minimally scratching the surface of this South African universe.  Because a place with eleven national languages and even more distinctly unique ethnicities would take a lifetime to learn even a little bit.  So once again I'll bid goodbye to a place that's shown me so much, and confronted me unapologetically with what I believe about race and class and privilege, including how each contour the lenses through which I see and live in the world.  So to Mandela and his rainbow nation, a heartfelt thanks: I'll take the gift of enhanced personal responsibility over the roiling Indian Ocean to where your curries came from, and where the Indian mamas, if I'm lucky, will teach me to wear a sari.  It has been, as you say, my pleasure.