Once More, With Feeling

I miss it.

I didn’t at first. I arrived back in Canada and it was home and I was thrilled. I had a two-month honeymoon with all things Canadian. Recycling, customer service, safe streets! I returned to Montreal (twice) to see my university friends. I explored Texas with my parents on a 10-day roadtrip. I learned the words to the country songs that had come out in my absence and was all set for the highly anticipated re-opening of Random Ranch in Barrie last weekend.

But as the novelty of all of this fades, doubt takes it place…why did I leave South Africa?

I miss how empty the roads were, and how you could drive for five straight hours without encountering traffic. I miss how stimulated I felt when I was learning new things and meeting new people every day. I miss how resilient everyone was, how every problem was answered with “We’ll make a plan” / “Ons sal ‘n plan maak.” I miss Afrikaans.

There has been some comedy in the readjustment – I tried to drive on the other side of the road like three times. I’ve looked at some things in a new light – why are black people in the States called “African- American” when they’re not African at all? (If we’re speaking in terms of heritage, shouldn’t white people then be called “European- American”?)

The two things that have most surprised me is how homogenous the Canadian population looks and sounds and how tedious and localized the news reads, relative to South Africa.

I thought that I would feel awkward as a minority in South Africa, but I quickly got used to it. Now everyone around me looks and sounds like me and I feel a little bland. Even in Toronto, which I remember as being very multicultural, there are many other fair-skinned people. Even in Montreal, which I remember as being very French, there are many other English-speaking people.

I have always been an avid watcher and reader of the news, but now the headlining stories disappoint me. Fires, car crashes. The suspicious death of a goose in Collingwood. Fires, car crashes. Nevermind that Robert Mugabe is stealing another election in Zimbabwe or that ethnic violence has broken out in South Africa’s townships resulting in the murders of immigrants. I understand that people want to know what is happening in their own region, but if what is happening overseas is more urgent, then shouldn’t we look at it first?

I left for South Africa one year ago today and it was the journey of a lifetime. I came home because it was important to me to see my family and friends again, to get reacquainted with Canadian culture, and to return to school in September. I still feel strongly about all of those reasons. I still love Canada and am thankful for its peace and stability.

But I feel empty without Africa and I'll be back the first chance I get.

Amends

Emotion overcame me as I left Cape Town city limits on Monday morning. I pulled over and I sobbed. I don't know when I last sobbed. This country has affected me.

Mascara a wreck, I drove myself 500 km east to Knysna, a pretty town on the Indian Ocean that I'm smitten with. I booked myself into a Backpacker's and am chilling here for the final three days of my stay in South Africa. I'm calling it my Reflection Time. On Thursday morning it's 250 km further east to Port Elizabeth to catch the first of my series of return flights.

This weekend, I'll be in Canada. (I can write it down, but I cannot believe it.)

I look forward to seeing my family and friends, to sleeping in my own bed, to hearing Canadian accents and fine-tuning my own. I'm excited for my first Dr. Pepper, Reese Peanut Butter Cup, and trip to Tim Horton's.

But I'm losing something profoundly important to me - my adopted homeland. I have favourite things here, too. Savannah Drys. Lime milkshakes. Vida e Cafe.

I don't want to let go. I want to always know the sounds of eleven different languages being spoken on the streets. The feel of the fine white sand between my fingers at the Clifton beaches. The sight of Table Mountain, resolutely guarding the Mother City.

Ironically, what I love most about South Africa is also what is most worrisome - how young the country is. The history and the future are side by side. It means that new developments are exciting and significant. But new countries are also volatile. I'd like to return here within 5 years. But I look at Kenya and wonder whether I can promise that I'll do so. South Africa's aching beauty in landscape and people - what I love second-most - either reflects or mocks the future, I don't yet know.

I've been able to do and see much more in Africa than I'd ever expected. I've learned more about myself than I expected to. I'm ready to get a life-size tatoo of the continent to pay it tribute to the outstanding experiences it has given me. But I think my nose piercing will give my parents enough of a fright.

I'm going to write a final entry on my blog from Canada. And I'll revive it again, ideally, within 5 years, when I find my way back.

Wild at Heart

All I really, really wanted to do in Namibia was ride an ATV in the desert. I did that – wearing my Gretchen Wilson t-shirt, no less – rendering the trip wholly successful.

Namibia has been on my to-see list for the past year. It has a really interesting history, alive today in the architecture and pastries from its time as a German colony, and in the townships and radical inequalities from its time as a possession of apartheid South Africa. German and Afrikaans are still widely spoken, along with indigenous languages and English. Namibia won its independence recently, in 1990, and has been doing fairly well on its own.

Colonialism makes for a bit of an identity crisis and as this church in Windhoek shows, Namibia is not entirely sure whether it is German or African.

My proudly Namibian sandboarding instructor boasted to me that middle-class South Africans have been buying homes in Namibia because should the political situation get worse, Namibia offers a brighter future. As a patriotic temporary resident of South Africa, I pointed out that Namibia’s democracy is really more like a one-party state itself and that SWAPO, the ruling party, has just built an unnecessarily extravagant State House with taxpayers’ money. But then I had to get back to sandboarding.

Courtney and I opted for the "unskilled" sandboarding, which was more like tobogganing than snowboarding. Nevertheless, I managed to wipe out. Courtney wiped out on the ATVs though, so that made us even.

My patriotism further prevents me from calling Namibia more beautiful than South Africa, but it is indeed a very pretty country, where the sun nearly always shines. The 400 km drive from Windhoek to the coast took Courtney and me past the long grass and wildflowers of the Kalahari and into the vast Namib Desert without hardly a town or traffic along the way.

I was surprised at how green the Kalahari Desert was!

This, to me, is a proper desert - the Namib.

Most recently, Namibia has become (in)famous as the country that Brad and Angelina escaped to for three months prior to the birth of their biological daughter, Shiloh. As a little bit of a pop culture addict, this may have played into my motivation to visit the country. But it was sheer luck that a co-worker of mine at the Treatment Action Campaign offered Courtney and me the use of her family’s holiday home in Long Beach, the same place the Jolie-Pitts had called home, for our stay on the coast. The best part was that with our own house, we were able to do a huge Easter egg hunt on Sunday.

Long Beach is small, and it didn't take us long to track down the resort where the Jolie-Pitts had stayed, order drinks, and proceed to grill the server for details.

I think it’s really cool that with just a car, a guidebook, and a friend, I saw another African country. A year ago, I’m sure I wouldn’t have felt confident doing that.

A year ago, I’m sure I wouldn’t have tasted the zebra.

Pangs

Every day last week, I returned to my flat pretty convinced that I have the coolest job on the planet.

One day I was perched at the Cape High Court – one of an army of HIV-Positive t-shirts – observing the case that TAC is pursuing against Matthias Rath and the Government for violations of the Medicines Act. Our lawyer argued well and I think that the judgment will come in our favour, forcing Rath to stop selling his unregistered medicines as a cure for AIDS.

Another day, for the next issue of Equal Treatment, I was interviewing Zimbabwean refugees who are waiting to be processed by the Department of Home Affairs in line-ups that are months long downtown. These people had unbelievable stories to tell and I can’t wait to see my article in print.

I’m really, really happy here. I am gaining invaluable experience at work and savouring all that Cape Town's summer has to offer in the evenings and on weekends.

Bringing St Paddy's down South.

But pangs of doubt hit me.

Do Western volunteers bring valuable skills to Africa, or are we occupying positions that native citizens should be trained and remunerated for? I could get work in my home country. Should I stay there, and leave Africa for Africans?

Do journalists create awareness, or just publish compelling stories by exploiting other people’s pain? The Zimbabwean refugees whom I interviewed are still sleeping on sidewalks, five days after I met them. Don’t I owe them something more, after they gave me their stories?

And another thing – I remember that very early in my stay, I was appalled by how middle-class South Africans could live such fine lives in the midst of abject poverty. When did it become easy for me to accept, to adopt the same carefree lifestyle? How unjust is it that I’ve enjoyed more of what South Africa has to offer than most of its citizens?

Case in point: my friend Courtney and I are spending the Easter long weekend in Namibia, South Africa’s neighbour to the north-west, a place that has been described to me as “God’s own country.” I'm really looking forward to it. We fly out of Cape Town on Wednesday morning; spend two nights in Windhoek (Namibia’s capital); drive to the coast for three nights at Long Beach; and then make our way back to South Africa on Easter Monday.

Story of my life.

The varied landscapes, the diverse cultures, the relationships I've built compel me. For better or for worse,

I’ll always be making my way back to South Africa.

Hush

My plane ticket home is for one month from today, which means that I won’t be able to ignore the fact that the most exciting year of my life is rushing to an end for much longer.

South Africa will soon be far, far away. I’ll have to dig through online news sources to find out what happens with Zuma’s corruption trial in August. If he’s convicted, he won’t be eligible for the presidency, and then what? Who will lead the ANC? Who will lead the country? I’ll care, but I won’t be a part of it anymore.

Shhhh. I can still go about my life as per usual for a little while.

At work, the current issue of Equal Treatment is in the editor’s hands and now I’m working on new projects. The first one is with the legal side of the organization. I’m assisting with two cases that we are pursuing against individuals and companies who illegally (and deeply immorally) sell unregistered medicines as bogus cures for AIDS. Secondly, beginning later this week, I’ll be spending two days a week at TAC’s district office in Khayelitsha, which is the same township
where I taught an after-school program back when I was a UCT student.

There’s been lots of playing as well. My friends Jessie, Courtney, Sarah, and I went on a road trip for Jessie’s last weekend to Cape Aghulas, the southernmost point in Africa, and stayed overnight. I wanted to rip across the Southern hemisphere’s longest unbroken beach on an ATV, but horses were the only transportation permitted (for environmental reasons – oops), so we rode them, barefoot.

For Jessie’s last night out, karaoke was the obvious answer. We selected Spice Girls for our final performance together. It was deliciously awful. Life has been quieter since I took Jess to the airport on Thursday.

Quieter, but not quiet. Especially since I traded in Herbie for a new yet-to-be-named ride, and she has a radio and CD player. There’s no better way to get to the beach, I’m sure of it.

My housing arrangements have also been upgraded – in the material sense, at least. I was relocated to a two-bedroom on the 18^th floor, which happens to be the penthouse. My apartment grew three sizes and became outfitted with a balcony that looks out at Table Mountain. It really feels more ornate than anything and I’d rather have Jess.

Overall, February was one of my best months in South Africa. It was also somewhat exhausting.

Too bad there’s no time to rest. For March, I’m most excited about the plans that Courtney and I are making to spend Easter in Namibia, the reunion that I am trying to organize with my little Karoo sisters, and a stopover in Knysna, my favourite town along the Garden Route, before I fly out from nearby Port Elizabeth.

As my groceries were being scanned at the Pick & Pay the other evening, the cashier paused for a moment to shuffle through the postcards that I was purchasing. Once. Twice. I started to grow impatient. But my heart melted when she locked eyes with me and breathed, “Isn’t it a beautiful country?”

I jog along the boardwalk at Sea Point in late afternoon, watching the sea swallow the sun. I drive in the countryside on the weekends in the silence of unspeakable beauty.

Yes doesn’t seem like a strong enough word.

The view from the balcony

Earshot

I got news this week that was so good it necessitated going out to Dizzy’s on karaoke night and singing “Like a Prayer” on stage with my friends.

Really, I probably would have done it anyway.

But I sang under the guise of celebrating my offer of admission to Carleton University’s Master of Journalism program.

I applied to the MJ programs at Carleton, Ryerson, and Western, with Carleton as my first choice all along because of its distinguished reputation in the field and its location in Ottawa, the epicentre of Canadian politics. I was never sure that I would get in. The competition is stiff – only twenty students are taken into the program every year.

But I'm told that they want me to be one of them.

(They obviously didn’t hear me sing.)

I’ll be Ottawa-bound in September, armed with an entrance scholarship, a paid TA position (Teacher’s Assistant), and the certitude that this is what I want.

I see journalism as a mix of travelling, learning, analyzing, and writing...which I do by choice already.

This week, for example, had me out playing with penguins on a daytrip, sitting in on a meeting at parliament for my job, discussing South Africa’s electricity crisis, World Cup woes, and leadership uncertainties with my co-workers, and submitting edited articles for our magazine, which goes to the printer’s next week.

I feel ready for it.

After just a few more months of dancing to African drums.

New Moon Rising

It’s all happened much more quickly than I expected.

I have made friends with other international interns living in my downtown high-rise apartment. I have a diverse crowd of co-workers whom I greet every day at 9 am. I have a little blue car that I drive on the “wrong” side of the road all over the city.

I have never felt so grown up.

My car is called Herbie. His full name is Herbie the Half-Loaded Hyundai. Half-Loaded because he can't get past 40 km/hr on a hill, or 100 km/hr on the highways.

I did feel disoriented and dissatisfied my first weekend back. There were too many plans being made with too many new people. But I have a knack for landing great roommates, and when Jessie moved in on Sunday, everything started to come together. She’s interning as a photographer with the Cape Times for a month and her insistence that we do everything South Africa has to offer before she goes has rekindled my enthusiasm. I’ve come around. Completely. Cape Town is fantastic.

My new roommate and I at lunch in the Winelands outside Cape Town.

My days are devoured by the intense workload at the Treatment Action Campaign. TAC is South Africa’s premiere HIV/AIDS NGO. Their primary aim is greater access to HIV treatment for all South Africans. They work at this through both legal and educational means. Zackie Achmat, its HIV-positive founder, famously refused to take ARVs, the drugs that prevent HIV from escalating into AIDS, until the cost of the drugs was reduced and they were made available to all South Africans. His stance attracted the attention of Nelson Mandela, who visited him at his home and pleaded with him to begin treatment. He wasn’t swayed. The government announced that it would make ARVs available in the public sector in 2003. TAC is also behind the HIV-Positive t-shirts that have caught on around the world. The shirts were inspired by the story of the Danish king who voluntarily wore the yellow star that Jews were forced to wear during the Nazi regime, symbolizing his solidarity with them.

TAC throws real work at me every day, which is both exciting and intimidating. In my first few days alone, I had an article to write on HIV education in South African schools, a second one on sexually transmitted infections, a third on AIDS orphans, then a brochure to compile on how pregnant women who are HIV positive can prevent passing the virus on to their babies. I love the immediacy of the results – the brochure, for example, will be distributed to public clinics as soon as it has been printed. My co-workers are just as busy, but we do socialize during lunch or after work.

As soon as I step foot back in my apartment after 5 pm, there are already plans being made for evening activities. Living in the heart of downtown and having my own car has opened up a whole other world of entertainment possibilities. My friends and I hike up Lion’s Head or stroll along the Sea Point boardwalk for exercise, hit up bars and restaurants on more social nights. Jessie has plotted out daytrips for all the Saturdays and Sundays to come.

The "tablecloth" effect on Table Mountain, as seen from the top of Lion's Head.

I’m still finding Naartjie’s hair on my clothing and still missing dinners with my South African family, but –

I’m beginning again.

Goodbye Iowa

Once again, the end is here. These are my last few days of tranquil country life.



I’ve enjoyed every part of my days in Philippolis.

I like my morning ritual: Naartjie waking me up with boundless enthusiasm for the new day, taking her out for a jog, munching on tea and rusks, indulging in an episode of 7de Laan. I like my evening ritual: going to the tennis courts or an exercise class with Doreen, a family dinner with wine and the news, settling on a movie. I like everything in between: doing deskwork to the tunes of Tegan and Sara, reading a chapter of my book in the mid-morning sun, walking up to the corner store for a Coke in the heat of the afternoon.

But I need to start packing. I catch a bus at midnight on January 31 and will wake up in Cape Town on the morning of February 1. I’ll move my increasing heavy suitcases into a downtown apartment, pick up my rental car, and set off for an afternoon at my new place of work: the Treatment Action Campaign (TAC) head office, where I’ll be interning with their monthly magazine, Equal Treatment.

I’m thrilled about working for TAC. And Cape Town has newspapers, video stores, coffee shops, fresh produce. I’ll be able to go to malls, beaches, dance clubs on weekends. But the transition will be overwhelming at first. The crowds, the traffic, the activity will all seem alien.

It has been especially quiet in Philippolis since Emily and Dodi returned to boarding school two weeks ago. I miss them all the time. But since our tearful farewell, I’ve spoken with them on the phone and exchanged text messages. Parting with my Jack Russell terrier will be more final. Naartjie and I have been inseparable these past two months – she even tries to climb into the shower with me – and I would love to keep her forever. But her owners are expecting her back. They have a big yard to accommodate her tireless sense of adventure, and I’ve been returning her for weekly visits so I know that she still feels at home with them. Nevertheless. The separation is going to break my heart. Maybe hers, too.

Why do they call it goodbye?

The I in Team

I’d been anticipating Thursday’s business trip to Orania for over a month. I wasn’t the only one: as I busily packed my overnight bag, I noticed that it was moving. I looked inside and saw that Naartjie had settled herself in amongst my shirts and toiletries. She was asleep, having secured her inclusion on the trip. My heart melted.

The pink roll is my hoodie; the white roll is my dog.

In the end, we only stayed for the afternoon, and the overnight bag was not necessary. I was a little disappointed; I’d hoped to get more of a feel for the controversial place.

Located an hour and a half from Philippolis in the Northern Cape, Orania was established in the early 1990s as a private town for the exclusive settlement of white Afrikaans-speaking people. It has its own flag; its own currency, the Ora; and its long-term goal is independence from the new South Africa. On a hill overlooking the town are statues of Afrikaner prime ministers and presidents from days gone by. It must be the only place in the country where a statue of Hendrik Verwoerd, the architect of apartheid, stands proud and undisturbed.

Verwoerd's son-in-law was one of Orania's founders.

Controversy aside, one cannot deny that Orania is a prosperous and well-managed little town. Its paved roads, perfect gardens, and computer-equipped schools stand in sharp contrast to neighbouring towns. I was most stunned to see recycling facilities – I haven’t had the opportunity to recycle anything since I left Canada.

It was this level of success and sophistication that drew Doreen, Mark, and I to Orania to meet with the mayor and two prominent townspeople. Doreen had several ideas for topics related to small-town development that she wanted to research, and I was to stay on as an interviewer if the town consented.

There were two flaws with our plan. Firstly, we had not anticipated that Orania would have already conducted surveys on all the topics that Doreen laid out. These people are seriously well- organized. Secondly, I would not have been any help. I am very proud of the amount of Afrikaans that I have learned in the past six months, but I would not be able to run interviews in the language. And English is not welcome. I sat through the two-hour meeting and hour-long lunch straining to understand as much Afrikaans as I could.

As a foreigner, I have a feeling of immunity in race-conscious South Africa. I wasn’t on anyone’s side during apartheid. But in Orania, my foreigner status was viewed with deep suspicion. My white skin was not enough. That I’m well-versed in Afrikaner history and have been learning the language for the past six months was a moot point. I’m not a member of the club. My presence was tolerated, but nothing more.

"I speak and (think) in AFRIKAANS"

Orania could be studied as a model of local economic development. But it wouldn’t shed light on the South African situation at large. It cheated. Orania’s success comes from the skills and money that its well-educated, wealthy citizens brought when they migrated. All of them earned their status through apartheid’s systematic upliftment of white people at the expense of black people. If the town could incorporate poor South Africans into its Utopia, then that would be worth commendation.

Throughout the afternoon, the suspicious looks I got gave me the impression that the townsmen didn’t want me there for fear of what I would think. And if one fears being judged, doesn’t that mean he knows he’s doing something wrong?

Where the Wild Things Are

Each passing week, I feel more comfortable in South Africa and life here becomes more normalized. I remember, early on, having to convert prices back into Canadian dollars to understand costs. I remember the rush of pride I would experience when I saw the South African flag waving in the sky. I remember staring at world maps, in awe of where I was located. That doesn’t happen anymore.

But just when I thought I knew the country pretty much inside out, it threw me for another loop.

I should have expected it. After all, South Africa is incredibly diverse in land and people. “The world in one country” is a popular slogan in guidebooks. And I’ve just returned from exploring another piece of the puzzle.

My friend John and I travelled together for 10 days along the Wild Coast over the New Year period. The name ‘Wild Coast’ is not a marketing tool. It’s simply accurate.

The region was formerly part of the Transkei, one of the ‘homelands’ which the apartheid government declared independent in single-minded pursuit of its policy of separate development between blacks and whites. Legally, this Xhosa-dominated agricultural region became a separate country from ‘white’ South Africa, complete with its own capital city and parliament. The international community never accepted the Transkei’s independence as legitimate, but the South African government’s charade had a lasting impact. John – who is South African – said that he experienced the sensation of being a tourist for the first time ever while we were in the Transkei.

The Wild Coast puts the Africa back into South Africa, I joked, with its mud-hut homes, its unspoilt coastline, its cattle wandering on pothole-infested dirt roads. This all stands in stark contrast to the first-world feeling of Cape Town’s city centre and even Philippolis’ large-scale sheep farms. The people in the region are more traditional in their livelihoods and culture, and very friendly, interested in talking to the white visitors. Although they are not wealthy, they seemed to me to be better off than the people living in shantytowns on the edge of South Africa’s big cities..

I’m posting pictures below that I hope capture the feel of the place.

We set out from Kenton-on-Sea, where John's family has a holiday home - and his brother has a boat, which we took out along the Bushmans River.

At the far end of a dirt road (which couldn't be travelled along faster than 40 km/hr and which gave us sightings of antelope, warthogs, and a giant lizard) we arrived in the mountain town of Hogsback.

We spent 3 days at a Backpacker's in the coastal village of Mpande without electricity or running water, but with this breath-taking view of the Indian Ocean's shoreline.

More of Mpande's landscape. Across the whole Transkei, livestock meander about. There are no fences to keep them on anyone's property or off the road. John and I still haven't figured out how ownership is claimed.

Take, for example, this cute (random) donkey!

This is John horseback riding on Mpande Beach, before the horses began to gallop. The beaches were never crowded. They looked like they belonged on a remote tropical island.

We got drumming lessons from a local on New Year's Day. It was not easy.

This shows the town of Qino, where Nelson Mandela was raised and still maintains a residence. We drove by, but alas he wasn't home.

We visited John's friend Shannon, who has just started her year of community service at a hospital in the Transkei. She just completed her studies in physiotherapy and must by South African law work for a year in an under-serviced area before she can be employed in a locale of her choice. I think the policy must be very beneficial to the country.

Look what I found! A town called Bell with its own police station. I was there of my own accord...honest. The search for the town got our car stuck in the mud, but I think it was worth it.