Cape Town - The Real World

Minus the cameras and an even ratio of boys to girls, on Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, I landed in what feels like an MTV Real World house. At the moment, I am living with 10 other orphanage volunteers in a house owned by our sponsoring organization, Aviva, in a Cape Town neighborhood called Observatory.

Actually, its a very nice old house, complete with daily maid service, 4 newly renovated bathrooms, a large braii (bbq grill) on the back patio, a wrap-around security wall, electric fence and cans of pepper spray hanging by the front door to take with us when we leave or to grab if anyone knocks on the door. (In fact, two Aviva volunteers were mugged right outside the house just the other week.) And, the other volunteers are all very nice and fun. There is only one guy amongst our group, from Scotland, whom I have not seen put any solid food into his body since Friday - he's a rugby player and really does enjoy his pints of beer! The women volunteers have come mainly from Holland (the Dutch government will pay them for their volunteer work), but also from the UK and Canada. The average age of the other volunteers is 23 but, fortunately, there is one woman from the UK who is my age and another from Illinois who is 59 years old. And despite being unsafe, as is the whole of Cape Town, I like the neighborhood of Observatory a lot. It has an artsy, bohemian feel with many funky restaurants, bars and shops and reminds me of New Orleans, with two story homes that have 2nd floor wrought-iron balconies.

So the problem? 10 people. 3 bedrooms. Bunk beds. In addition, Aviva has some volunteers who work at other sights outside Cape Town, but who come into Cape Town on the weekends and use the house as a backpacker-type lodge. As one of the 20-somethings rolled into the bedroom the other night at 5:00 a.m., giggling the whole time she tried to climb onto the bunk bed right above me, I realized why I gave up roommates many years ago!

The 10 of us will work and live out at the orphanage in shifts of 3 1/2 days on and 3 1/2 days off. When we work, we will live out at the orphanage. When off, we will live back at the house in Observatory. My shift starts tomorrow, Wednesday.

Before our first shifts begin, we spent this past weekend sight seeing and enjoying some Cape Town sporting events. We climbed up Table Mountain, rode bikes down the Cape Peninsula to the southern most tip of Africa at the Cape of Good Hope, visited African penguins at a penguin colony near Simons Town and, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, watched South Africa beat India in a cricket match at Newlands Stadium. (Pictured here, South Africa at bat; flags flying after South Africa scores a 6; me eating a double frankfurter (that is the way they came, I swear, two foot long hot dogs per bun!)). The cricket match lasted 8 hours and I did not understand the rules until midway through, but I loved it and am really enjoying Cape Town. As I said in my blog about all the good of Cape Town, I find this to be one of the most beautiful cities with no shortage of entertaining activities. However, now having had another 4 leisurely days here, I'm ready to begin what I came to Cape Town to do, learn more about the orphan and HIV/AIDs crisis here in South Africa while helping out at the Baphumelele orphanage. 

The Dunes and Germans of the Namib Desert

After my friend Christy departed on Sunday, I decided to spend my last few days in Namibia seeing the dunes of the Namib desert, which are supposed to be some of the largest and most beautiful sand dunes in the world, in what is considered the oldest desert in the world at over 80 million years old. Since we had returned our rental car, I arranged for my lodge located in the Namib-Naukluft National Park, aptly named the Namib Naukluft Lodge, to transport me there and back.

Accompanying me on the 3 hour drive southwest of Windhoek to the Namib desert, through the narrow passes of the Naukluft mountain range, were an older German couple who did not speak a lick of English. Although we hardly spoke a single word to each other on the drive there – well, they kept trying to speak to me, to which I nodded and smiled, while thinking to myself, ‘nope, still don’t know any more German than I did 10 minutes ago’ – they kept insisting I get in every picture they took at stops along the way. (Pictured below, the husband, our guide and me. I figured I should take at least one picture of them in return.) They were a very cute couple. The whole way there she kept her eyes glued to the map, following what seemed like every Km of progress, while he took pictures of the same landscape out the jeep window. At one point I noticed that if I took a picture, then he would quickly whip his camera around towards my side of the jeep and take a picture of the same thing. This became a source of amusement for me as we drove to the lodge – fortunately, my digital camera allows me to erase all the random photos I took!
We arrived at the lodge just before sunset and dinner on Monday, November 20th. Also at the lodge, and with whom I would spend the next day and a half eating, walking on sand dunes and watching the sun set, were another 3 German couples, also with very limited English speaking skills. That was it at the Lodge, just me and 4 German couples, a fact which made me chuckle quite a bit throughout my time there.

At sunset after our arrival on Monday night, I took my glass of wine and walked a bit of ways from the lodge to a small water hole. From all directions, dozens, really maybe hundreds, of guinea fowl and desert ground squirrels scurried towards me as I approached. They apparently thought I was the lodge manager who feeds them during the late afternoon each day, but on this day had not yet done so. Stunned and overwhelmed by the onslaught, I stayed put a little too long, resulting in one squirrel taking a bite out of my left big toe! Although freaked out, a bit of antibiotic lotion, an apology and assurance by the lodge manager that I did not have rabies (something I feared, despite having been vaccinated) made it nothing more than a source of great amusement to me and my new German friends.

We had goulash made with kudo meat for our Monday night dinner, plus, among other things, “Kansas City fritters.” I had them repeat the name of this menu item to me many times to be sure, for I could not figure out what was “Kansas City” about them. I had I anxiously hoped for something with BBQ sauce rather than the simple chive/egg pancake they served me!

On Tuesday, we arose at 4:15 a.m. to drive to the Sossusvlei area of the Namib-Naukluft Park, in order to make it to the dunes in time for sunrise. The giant dunes are truly beautiful, made red by iron, and with lines that flow like musical notes. We climbed to the top of two of the largest dunes, Dune 45 (pictured above) and Big Mama, and had a big breakfast in the desert. By midday in the Namib desert, not surprisingly, it is quite hot. Unfortunately, we experienced a very hot and, to me, amusing delay on our trip back to the lodge as a result of a flat tire. As during everything else these past few days, as I piled out of the jeep along with the Germans, all of whom were very concerned that we would die of heat stroke yet could not stop taking pictures of the flat tire, I just laughed, wondering where in the world was I???

I came back to Windhoek on Wednesday afternoon, for one more night in Namibia before going to Cape Town on Thursday, Thanksgiving. On Friday, I will meet up with some other volunteers to start work at Baphumelele, the orphanage in the Khayelitsha township there. As an aside, a few people have emailed me about my pictures. As you can imagine, I have taken hundreds of them during the past month. I believe (or fear) I am limited by the number and size of photos I can post on blogspot, so have tried to keep my picture posting here limited and small. However, if you want to see the pictures that I am putting together separately in a Kodak gallery, just email me. Have a great Thanksgiving! 

Swakopmund, Seals, Sand and Shiloh

After breakfast at Cape Cross Lodge on Thursday, November 16th, we set out south down Namibia’s Skeleton Coast to the coastal town of Swakopmund, making a brief stop to see the Cape Cross Seal Reserve. I found the Namibian coast striking due to the contrast between the rippling dunes of the desert on one side of the 2-lane coastal road and the crashing waves of the South Atlantic Ocean on the other side. “Skeleton Coast” was named as such after the ships and sailors that met their demise here because of the mixture of fog and strong Atlantic currents.

The Cape Cross Seal Reserve also was striking for the number of seals – averaging between 80,000 to 250,000 – as well as the smell. Those who know my gag reaction will be correct in assuming that it was going strong there; we could only stand it for about 10 minutes. Part of the strong stench is due to the dead seals left on shore, both young pups that have been crushed by the thousands of other seals and also older seals that have starved to death. We heard from several people that Namibia currently faces a “seal problem.” There are approximately 2 million seals around the coast, causing many to die by starvation, entanglement in fishing nets or being shot by fishermen. At the same time, those seals lucky enough to eat have decimated the local fish population. The government has set about killing some of the seals but, according to one local tour guide with whom I spoke, not in a sensible way. According to this man, the government could handle the seal population in a way that also benefits the people of Namibia. Seal meat, he said, could be an excellent food source. And, instead of shipping all the seal skins to Canada (as the government currently does) it could re-open all of the abandoned tanneries in Namibia (abandoned as a result of the diminishing cattle industry) and employ people to make leather goods. I’m not sure of the merit to any of this, but it is just the type of creative and multi-faceted solution to a problem that I hope to be able to help discover for Kisumu, Kenya, one of the Millennium Cities where I’ll be working beginning January.

After Cape Cross, we spent Thursday and Friday nights in the little picturesque coastal town of Swakopmund. The guidebooks do not over-exaggerate the beauty and uniqueness of this town and, as we said throughout our tour of Namibia, we found it hard to believe that we were in Africa. Swakopmund felt like a blend of old world Germany, with pastel-colored colonial buildings and beer gardens, and modern Santa Monica, with palm trees, boardwalks and contemporary, beachfront homes. We stayed at a little hotel, the Hansa Hotel, that also felt very European - it was easier to find a German newspaper there than a Namibian one! Although we did have bratwurst for lunch one day, we enjoyed great seafood for all of our other meals in Swakopmund, including crayfish, king clip and Walvis Bay oysters.

We spent Friday on the sea and in the sand dunes around Swakopmund. That morning, we went down the coast another 30 Km to Walvis Bay and took a boat ride to see oyster farms, dolphins, pelicans and more seals. The seals are so friendly around Walvis Bay, as a result of being fed from the tour boats, they would jump right up onto the stern of our boat as we cruised along (pictured above). Later that afternoon, we went out with a guide on 4-wheel motor bikes along the coastal sand dunes (pictured above). Although both Christy and I got stuck several times, going up and down the face of the gigantic sand dunes on these bikes was incredibly fun. Finally, on the way back into Swakopmund, of course, I could not help but do a drive-by of the little community called Long Beach, between Walvis Bay and Swakopmund, where Angelina and Brad holed-up and had Shiloh earlier this year. I find their choice of the Swakopmund area of Namibia fascinating because it is so un-African – its Malibu, but more quiet and isolated. Although I do think they helped bring some name recognition to this country back in the U.S., it seems to me that it still really needs to grow as a U.S. tourist destination - in 2 weeks, I have yet to come across another person from the U.S. here!

On Saturday, November 18th, we left Swakopmund and drove back to Windhoek. Christy left on Sunday and, since I had a few more days before I start my volunteer work in Cape Town, I decided to head back out of Windhoek and see the famous red sand dunes in southern Namibia. 

Damaraland to the Coast – My Kind of Camping

After 2 days at Etosha National Park, on Tuesday, November 14th, we packed up our little green pea of a car and headed west through Damaraland, making our way towards the Namibian coast on the Atlantic Ocean. Again, we saw no people around and barely any cars passed, but we did have to slow down now and again for donkeys, goats and baboons crossing the road. We planned our fuel stops wisely because to run out of gas would involve us walking for 100 Km to the nearest town. We have also found good snacks for the car rides – Simba chips (our favorite, chutney flavored) and biltong, dried meat (like beef jerky) that comes in every variety imaginable (our favorite, chili beef).

Damaraland, a huge and sparsely populated (by now, hopefully you’re getting the picture) area in the north central to western part of Namibia, is named after the Damara tribe. The Damara are thought to be one of the oldest inhabitants of Namibia, after the Bushmen (the San), and are particularly known for their “clicking” tongue. Our guide on Tuesday and Wednesday there, Actung, is Damara and he taught us the sounds and symbols for the four types of clicks they use – l, ll, !, +/- – as well as how they speak these clicks before and after some words, but not others. We could not stop listening to him talk; it is truly a fascinating language.

Damaraland is still considered desert, but the landscape changed dramatically pretty shortly after we began heading west. Some of Namibia’s mountain ranges, the Spitzkoppe and Brandberg, rise dramatically out of gravely plains in Damaraland. We spent Tuesday night at the Mowani Mountain Camp – one of the most unique places I’ve ever stayed. There are 12 “tents,” each scattered about and nestled in between huge red granite boulders (pictured, looking into our tent). The dining and reception areas are out-of-doors under mushroom-shaped thatched huts. We looked out from the balcony of our tent across miles of golden plains, interrupted by huge boulders or mountain peaks, and covered by spotless bright blue sky. Sunset is a big activity at Mowani and we, along with the other 8 guests staying there that Tuesday night, walked up to the top of a boulder where they had bean bag chairs for us, and served cocktails and appetizers, as we watched the sun set. (Pictured above, me at sunset.)

We did not find the activities at Damaraland to be the most thrilling of what we had experienced thus far in Namibia, but going there is worth the trip to see the landscape and stay at Mowani Mountain Camp. With Actung, our guide, we hiked around Twyfelfontein, a sight with over 2,500 rock engravings, mostly of game species, thought to be 5,000 years old; the Organ Pipes, a series of dolerite columns which made for fun black & white photographs; and Burnt Mountain, a section of a mountain range formed by dolerite rocks that cooled some 130 million years ago after volcanic activity in the area. Before we left on Wednesday morning, Actung took us out to track desert elephants. The desert elephants are unique because of their extra long legs that allow them to cover a much greater range each day and their ability to drink water only every 3-4 days.

After lunch at Mowani on Wednesday, November 15th, we drove another 3 hours out of Damaraland to reach the Skeleton Coast. About halfway through the drive, we left the plains and mountain ranges of Damaraland and hit white sand desert. The landscape along Skeleton Coast is bleak, eerie, isolating and desolate. As our road ran smack into the Atlantic, we encountered fog and cold, gusty winds. Without any people, cars, or buildings around, we felt that we had hit the edge of the earth. That feeling was reinforced at our lodge that night, the Cape Cross Lodge, a slight distance north of the Cape Cross Seal Reserve and located right on the Atlantic Ocean. Think of the movie The Shining and you’ll understand how we felt there. There were only 8 guests staying in the lodge that night, there was nothing and no one else around us (other than 100,000 seals at the seal reserve), and it remained foggy and cold throughout our stay. We made it there in time for dinner and the next morning, after breakfast, we could not leave fast enough to drive down the coast to the little, picturesque town of Swakopmund. 

Cats: "Their Eyes Are Merciless"

“Even National Geographic does not have it this good,” said our very cute Italian guide, Mateo, as we tracked a leopard through Etosha National Park. Mateo left Italy 3 years ago to follow his dream of being a wild game guide and park ranger in Namibia and, in those 3 years, had yet to spot a leopard in Etosha. “I must call my mother,” he exclaimed, “I can now go back to Italy!!!” I think a good guide makes all the difference in these game parks and Mateo was great due to his knowledge and complete enthusiasm for the animals (plus being adorable and having an Italian accent did not hurt).

We left Windhoek and headed north on Saturday, November 11, to spend that night at the Okonjima guest farm, home of the Africat Foundation, and then Sunday and Monday at the Epacha Lodge on the Epacha game reserve, just outside of Etosha National Park. Over 60% of Nambia is semi-desert and the landscape we encountered driving north of Windhoek is a desert mountain plauteau that goes on forever, in all directions. Namibia is also a land of huge cattle farms – first the Germans, then the South Africans, “took” or, some say, “were given,” land from the black Namibian tribes and pushed most of the people into the far north of Namibia. We have come to understand that is why we have not seen many people, let alone black Namibians. If we are not passing through inhospitable desert, then we have encountered nothing but very, very large farms owned by white people. There are only about 100,000 whites living in Namibia (mostly German or Afrikaner) and I bet they own most all of the land. I can’t believe that more of an uprising about this has not yet occurred.

The Hanssen family owns the Okonjima guest farm and also founded the Africat Foundation, a leopard and cheetah rehabilitation program located on their farm. The leopards and cheetahs have been rescued from cattle farms throughout Namibia and brought to Africat for care and eventual reintroduction into the wild. Okonjima is no longer a working cattle farm but a huge wild game reserve that also has giraffes, zebras, ostrich, wild dogs, warthogs, and all varieties of large and small antelope – eland, kudu, oryx, hartebeest, gemsbok, springbuk and impala – a hunter’s dream! Although the leopards and cheetahs have tracking devices on them, as Africat monitors them throughout the reserve, they are completely in the wild. We were able to drive around and watch them chase giraffes, jump in trees to try to grab falcons, drink from watering holes, and generally just roam about – there is no attempt to tame their behavior, they are allowed to roam and kill on this game reserve as they please. It was, however, a bit contrived when we went out for morning coffee at the Lion Lapa and there, waiting for us (or, rather hopefully, their morning feeding of donkey meat), were 3 beautiful lions! Since this is Africa, not to forget, there were no cages or protection about us –it was just us, our coffee and muffins, and three lions!

Both the Okonjima and Epacha accommodations were beautiful thatched chalets and the views, looking out for miles across the game reserves, were magnificent. All the game lodges in Namibia seem to follow the same routine: early continental breakfast before leaving for a 7:00 a.m. game drive; back just before lunch and resting; tea and cake at 4:00 followed by a late afternoon game drive; back just before cocktails at sunset; then ending the day with a multi-course game dinner. The food here has also been excellent – we’ve had oryx, kudu, eland and ostrich. All very good, even the ostrich, although I would not rush to order it again.

After the Okonjima/Africat reserve, we spent two days at Epacha and Etosha. Etosha is one of Africa’s great national parks (24,000 sq Km) with, for instance, over 18,000 zebra, 8,000 giraffes, and 3,000 elephants. Its central feature is the Etosha Pan, a huge depression (5,000 sq Km), mostly of salt. At Etosha, with Mateo, we spent a lot of time hanging out at watering holes (which I have also done a lot of in NYC, but with different water and animals). The animal behavior at the watering holes is fascinating: the shy eland, the largest of the antelope, approaches slowly and cautiously, almost painful to watch; the carefree wart hog scurries down, throwing all caution to the wind; the giraffe takes its time, bobbing its neck up and down and right to left, looking around before it will take the chance to spreads its legs so it can drop low enough to drink (for once its down, there is no way it will make it back up quickly); and then comes the leopard, prancing confidently to the water, a mere baby female that could not hurt even the wart hog, yet, all life stopped, retreated or waited. The sprinbuk – dozens of them – stood still with all eyes glued on this leopard as it approached, drank for 10 minutes and then left (pictured above). I guess its nice to be the boss!

Also at a watering hole, we watched two male giraffes fight over territory. They did this by swinging their necks into each other, over and over again. We sat for 30 minutes and watched them do this until one giraffe, tired and irritated, gave up and went away. We also viewed a herd of elephants approach during the afternoon – a time best to visit when lions and leopards sleep – drink, bathe, and play in the water. Mateo pulled the car from the watering hole to play with them as the crossed the road. He taunted them, revving the engine, pretending to impede their cross. He provoked the reaction he wanted, for their ears flared out straight – a sign of playful, yet not serious aggression -- and they started for our truck (pictured, one heading for us). Mateo pulled away, realizing, in the end that we were playing a game in the wild we could not win. 

Namibia – Where is Everyone?

I arrived in Windhoek, Namibia on Friday, November 10th. One of my best childhood friends, Christy, arrived from Kansas City, Missouri, later that afternoon. Her luggage then arrived on Monday after a few desperate days spent on the phone trying to get a response from South African Airways as to its status, which even included a call to Air Namibia to ask them to walk the 10 meters across the Windhoek airport and beg Tuyamo, the South African Airways baggage handler PLEASE to pick up her phone. (At one point, clearly tired of us, she even picked it up and hung up again!) Miraculously, it made its way to us, at that point located 450 km north of Windhoek at the Etosha National Park.

We rented a brand new, very inconspicuous, lime green Nissan at the Windhoek Airport to drive ourselves throughout the northern and western part of Namibia for 10 days. Of course, this made me (and my family back home) slightly nervous – two U.S. women tourists driving alone, in Africa, on the “wrong” side of the road, with a manual transmission (located on the “wrong” side as well) – but I’ve never had better driving conditions, the roads are nicely tarred, directions are well-marked and, what is most remarkable to us, there are no other people out on the road. Namibia is one of the most sparsely populated countries in the world with only 1.9 million people living in over 800,000 sq. Km (twice the size of California). This immediately became obvious to us as we set out from the airport located 42 Km outside Windhoek – on the way we did not pass a single car on the road!

Since we only had Friday evening in Windhoek, we arrived to our hotel, Roof of Africa, and asked them to hire a driver for us to show us around for a few hours. Windhoek does not immediately feel like any other African city I’ve seen. Again, there are hardly any people or cars about and it’s very orderly, clean and quiet. Joining our driver, Abner (and not sure why) was a cook at our hotel, Tussi. After an hour of sightseeing around Windhoek – with not much to see other than some German colonial architecture – Abner and Tussie wanted to show us where they lived, in the township of Windhoek, called Katutura. Katutura is a township just like all others I have described, but driving through on a Friday evening, with Abner and Tussie, gave a different perspective. Everyone was outside. Kids rolled tires down the streets. Groups stood outside a few churches and sang. Men sat in lawn chairs and drank. Women cooked in black kettles over outdoor fires in front of their homes. Abner and Tussie talked about living there and owning their homes with pride.

But things became a little strange when we pulled up to Tussie’s house, number 29. “Get out and come see” she told Christy and me. As we were still getting out of the car, we watched her open up the door to her house and immediately slam it, laughing. Already uncomfortable, “what is it?” we asked but could not imagine, “that’s ok, we’ll just go back to the car.” “No, come in,” she said. So we entered. It was pitch black – no windows – and miniscule – not bigger than a walk-in closet. We entered into half the house that contained a make-shift kitchen. A curtain divided the second half, the bedroom, holding a small bed and all the household belongings piled on top of it. As soon as we entered, Tussie pulled back the curtain into this bedroom and there standing in a small, plastic bucket, completely naked, was her 16 year old niece, having a “bath.” Behind the 16-year old girl was her 18-year old sister, whose left eye was swollen shut and did not look well. Stunned, we turned quickly on our heels to leave but Tussie insisted, “no, take our pictures, take our pictures,” she insisted. Christy and I just both stood there for what seemed like eternity and looked at each other, confused by what was happening. “No, really, we will leave,” we said. We walked out and they followed, including the bathing niece who now had wrapped a towel around herself. Outside they again asked for us to take their pictures, and we did (pictured above).

Before we knew it, we next found ourselves at Abner’s sister’s house, to take pictures of his family. Then we went to the home of one of Tussie’s sister’s, to take pictures of Tussie and her sister’s newborn baby. By this time we realized we were becoming the main Katutura photographer, it was getting dark and, with no end to Tussie’s enthusiasm for picture-taking in sight, we asked for them to take us back to the hotel. I still do not entirely understand our interactions with Tussie and Abner – in part I feel they were just excited to show us around and take advantage of our camera, but in part they were putting on a show for us which made me feel as if we were exploiting the situation by just being in their homes, and in Katutura, with our cameras.

Later that night, we ate dinner in Windhoek at Joe’s Beer Haus, a raucous German restaurant. Namibia was a German colony in the early 1900s until after WWI when the League of Nations gave the mandate for governing Namibia to Britain (which then handed it over to South Africa, which controlled Namibia until its independence in 1990). The German influence can still be seen everywhere and we have encountered many German tourists, more than any other group – again, not something I expected for Namibia! 

Cape Town – The Bad

You knew it had to be coming…

In my mind, the poverty and crime in Cape Town puts up a good fight to completely overshadow all that is beautiful about it. We spent half of Tuesday and all day on Wednesday in the car as Yusef drove us around one township after another – townships with names like Lavendar Hills, Mitchell Plains, Pelican Park and, the grand daddy of them all, Khayelitsha. Linda kept saying to just wait, that what we saw in Johannesburg and Gaborone and in the Linda township we visited in Livingstone, Zambia pales in comparison to those of Cape Town. She was right.

First, there is the sheer number and size of them. We drove for hours around these. Stopping at a newly built observatory point in Khayelitsha – which is where the orphanage where I will work in December is located – we could see that the township sprawls for miles in all directions (pictured, looking out over Khayelitsha towards False Bay). Of course, part of this is a legacy of apartheid, but today, part also is due to uncontrolled immigration into South Africa. We were told that 55,000 illegal immigrants cross South Africa’s borders each month looking for jobs that are not there. They all end up in the townships. Linda said that every time she comes back to Cape Town this or that township has grown in size or a new one has sprung up – one would like to think that the problem is in reverse at this point, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

Second, there is the quality of them. Soweto, outside Johannesburg, is massive, but driving around it, you will see more solid homes, more government built homes, a wider variety of structures, some quite nice – Winnie Mandela and Desmond Tutu live in Soweto. Some people in Cape Town – especially many coloured people – complain that the African National Congress has tended to take care of its own, the large black population located around Johannesburg, before turning to Cape Town and its majority coloured population.

Of course, Soweto has its share of tin shacks, but not to the same extent as in Cape Town. Miles and miles of shacks are piled together, with electricity wires flowing in all directions that will cause fires to destroy entire sections in a matter of minutes. Many of these began as squatter camps. In South Africa, you only need to “squat” onto someone’s property for three weeks and then you are legally allowed to stay there. So, people set up their homes one right on top of the other, and no one will or can do anything about it. Roads end and you can look back into the bowels of some of these camps and see nothing but dirt alleys that twist and turn into what must be hell.

And then, there are the children. Those on the streets we met, to say nothing of those in the orphanages we visited, seemed more sickly, their hair patchy, eyes tended to be somewhat crossed, or blank, their faces expressionless, their skin blotchy. By sheer coincidence, Leigh-Ann and Greg had contacted the orphanage where I will work, called Baphumelele, and we all went to it so they could do a site assessment and consider donating money there. Many of the children there did not look well at all. I will have plenty of time to write more about Baphumelele in December, but suffice it to say that I think spending six weeks working there is going to be difficult.

One of Linda’s friends, Father Gugs, an Anglican priest who has started a primary school, an AIDs orphanage and a myriad other programs in Khayelitsha, took us around the township on Wednesday afternoon. We walked back into the heart of one of these squatter camps where Father Gugs set up a preschool for some of the children there. The area had no running water until recently when a Scandanavian volunteer working with Father Gugs spent about $3000, dug a ditch, and ran a water pipe through this section of the township up to the little “school” building. Now most everyone around the area reaches through the tattered school fence to turn on the tap in order to get their daily supply of water. As was the norm in each school or orphanage we visited, the teacher had the children stand and sing us a song. They did that at Father Gug's little preschool as well – and each one of us, even Greg, had to turn and look away to hide our tears as these children sang us the song, “If you are happy and you know it clap your hands.”

Finally, there is the crime. I know we have crime in the United States, but it doesn’t seem to claim the same number of victims - here, almost everyone - or have the same level of desperation. Sooner or later, everyone seems to get hit by one crime or another and you here story after story about it. There is not a house without bars on the doors and windows. They will rob people at church – three masked men with rifles robbed Linda’s friend, Debbie, and others at a church council meeting a few months back. We met a Dutch Reform minister who says people frequently steal the cars of his church members during Sunday services. They even rob schools and orphanages! Several months ago, a couple of armed men went into the nursery at Baphumelele and demanded the keys to the new van that had just been donated to it. In the middle of the day on Tuesday, someone mugged a man right in front of the security guards outside my hotel. For as beautiful as Cape Town is, it would be very hard to live under these conditions - truly, like living in prison, surrounded by some of the most awful living conditions people should never have to endure. 

Cape Town – The Good

After Zimbabwe, Cape Town seems like paradise. I had always heard that Cape Town is a beautiful city and, indeed, that is true. We flew into Cape Town from Zambia on Monday, November 6th, just as the sun set behind the mountain chain that runs down the cape peninsula, turning everything multi shades of pink, red and orange. After checking into our hotel, Linda and I walked to the Waterfront (something like South Street Seaport in NYC, but on steroids) and had sushi – I really thought I had eaten my last sushi for the next 14 months back in New York just before I left! Since I will spend most of the next 2 months here, I was ecstatic to see all sorts of shops, restaurants and cultural activities at the Waterfront. I think Cape Town will spoil me before I head to Kenya in January!
Cape Town reminds me in part of San Francisco, in part of Auckland and in part of San Diego. Table Mountain (pictured), a 1073 meter mountain smack-dab in the center of the city, forms an imposing backdrop along with the Atlantic and Indian Oceans that make up Cape Town’s coastline. The city is vibrantly colorful, especially the pastel painted facades of the buildings in the Bo-Kaap area (pictured above), a district near the center of the city that has a strong Cape Malay Muslim influence. On Tuesday, our driver, Yusef, himself a Cape Malay Muslim – and someone who is going to get to know me quite well as he drives me around on weekends in December – drove us throughout the city, and we had lunch in Bo-Kaap at a Cape Malay / Indian restaurant called Biesmiellah.

Part of what also makes Cape Town a fascinating city to me is its “coloured” population. As I have just learned, South Africans use the term “coloured” to refer to a mixed race people with strong Cape Malay or Indian heritage. Unlike in the U.S., coloured does not mean black. Over half of Cape Town is coloured. About one-third of Cape Town is black. The coloured people’s history and relationship with black Africans is complex, partly because during apartheid, although by no means treated well by whites, they were treated slightly better than the blacks. As a result, there has been resentment by blacks towards them. Yet, since they were still extremely oppressed, many collaborated with blacks to resist apartheid policies. Like blacks, coloureds could not vote, they had to carry passes, and they were forcefully removed from their homes and dumped in townships. But today, not all coloureds support the ruling African National Congress, as many feel it does not always support the coloured person's best interests.

We had a great home-cooked meal at the home of a coloured friend of Linda’s, Debbie, on Tuesday night. Debbie also will become a good friend of mine in December as I seek out the company of familiar faces – and I also hope she can teach me a lot more about the coloured population’s past and present here in Cape Town, for I’m very fascinated by it and by how different the race relations have been and are here compared with the United States.

On Tuesday and Wednesday, Linda, Leigh-Ann, Greg and I also visited townships and more programs which I will describe in my next blog entry. On this stint, we did not get to do a lot of other wonderful Cape Town activities, like visit the wine country, go whale watching, dive with sharks, or see a cricket match…but I’ll get around to all of those when I’m here in December!

****
Just a personal note, since my blog lags a bit behind where I actually am in my travels. I have been in Cape Town all week. Linda left today, Thursday, and I parted ways with Leigh-Ann and Greg as well. It has been fantastic to travel with them these past two weeks and they, especially Linda, have taught me a lot. I will get to see Leigh-Ann and Greg again in January when they are back in Kenya, and Linda in late May back in Johannesburg.

So homesickness immediately set in as soon as they left. I walked again down to the Waterfront for a greasy fish & chips lunch by the water, then took a long jog along the coast. Fortunately, tomorrow I will fly to Namibia to meet up with one of my good childhood friends, Christy. I’ll be in Nambia until Thanksgiving, then its back to Cape Town where I will begin work at an orphanage here on the day after that. I have no idea what my internet situation will be while in Namibia, so if you log into my blog and do not find a new posting, check again in a day or so…I love keeping everyone up-to-date with this so rest assured that I’m frantically running around Namibia looking for a connection in order to get back in touch with you. I hope you are well. 

Victoria Falls: No water but plenty of animals

Other than the border crossings each morning and early evening, I had a great weekend in Victoria Falls relaxing - made all the easier when forced to go to sleep early after the electricity goes out in the hotel as result of the thunderstorms and you are told not to leave the hotel under any circumstance - and visiting several of the game parks. It was really nice to take a break from visiting school and orphanage programs and seeing the poverty and AIDs problems up close. By the time we left Botswana last Friday, I was feeling very weary.

Hippos and zebras are an entirely different story, however. On Saturday, Linda and I went on a boat safari along the Zambezi river. Hippos were everywhere. Unlike the happy hippo characters of my imagination, these can supposedly rip a boat, needless to say also a person, in half rather easily. We also went on a land safari and I could not click my camera shutter fast enough to take pictures of all the zebras, giraffes, elephants, rhinos, wart hogs, impalas, water buffalos and babboons we saw. Poaching has been a huge problem in the parks so every now and again a man also would pop out from behind a tree with a rifle. Always rather disconcerting, so Linda leaned up to the driver each time and asked, just to make sure, whether the man was there to shoot poachers, animals or us.

However, this time of year, the Falls on the Zambia side are dry. After we arrived in Zambia/Zimbabwe, that was the first thing everyone said to us - too bad, the Falls are dry. We thought they must be joking. But, of course, we arrive and there is no falling water in one of the world's great wonders. But it was still beautiful and the Zimbabwe side of the Falls does have water if you are willing to get yourself over there to seem them...

After a few days at Victoria Falls, it was then time to head back to South Africa, to Cape Town. 

Zambia? Zimbabwe? They both start with a Z.

That, and that they share a border along Victoria Falls, seems to end the similarities. Hopefully though, you can understand my confusion when I learned that from Nov. 3rd to 6th, not only would I stay in a different hotel from Linda, but in an entirely different country.

After Botswana, on Friday, November 3rd, Linda and I headed up to see Victoria Falls and wildlife for the weekend. (Pictured, crossing the Zambezi River from Botswana into Namibia - so my parents can see I’m alive.) When Linda sent me her itinerary for the trip a few months ago, I decided to veer off at this point and have my travel agent book me into a different hotel in order to save money. No big deal it seemed, both right at Victoria Falls, mine just 6 Km down the road from Linda’s. Well, after it was too late (i.e., I could not cancel without charge), I discovered my hotel is located in Zimbabwe; Linda’s, in Zambia. Two separate countries. One under international sanction, led by a guy named Robert Mugabe who doesn’t like white people much these days (or, at least those that own land and refuse to leave, even after being told they would be killed if they did not). But no one could properly advise me on how big of a problem this would be. So, I decided to forge ahead with the plans, steadfast in my efforts to be cost-conscious. In addition, enough people had given me some comfort that I would be able to make it to Linda’s hotel each day without being shot at the border. Indeed, that was true, I could get back and forth and I made it through the ordeal perfectly fine - however, it was not easy or cheap or fun.

Everyone, even the border guards, looked at me incredulously when I explained that I had accidentally booked in Zimbabwe, “You are staying in ZIMBABWE?!? Ohhhhh…” and they laughed, nervously. Unbelievably, there are not a lot of accommodation options at Vic Falls. On the Zambia-side, where almost EVERYONE but me seemed to stay, there is the Zambezi Sun, Linda’s hotel, a large, clean, Disney-esque lodge suited for tour groups and business retreats from South Africa; and an even more upscale lodge called Royal Livingstone. On the Zimbabwe-side, there is my hotel, the Mercure Rainbow, a more pleasant-sounding name than reality reflected; the old, colonial Victoria Falls hotel; a few more expensive than mine; and, on both sides, some cheap backpackers' lodges.

Linda’s hotel was 100x nicer, so we launched our activities from there each day. That meant I had to get to and fro. The border opens each day a 6:00 a.m. – I could not cross over it and get to the Zambezi Sun early enough! My hotel was empty, dark, without working phones in the rooms, and, off and on, electricity. My hotel’s idea of a safety deposit box was to take my passport, wallet, etc., throw them all into a trash bag, wrap the bag several times around with duct tape and put the taped bag into a drawer behind the front desk. After observing this procedure, I carried everything of value with me, or left them with Linda.

Each morning, I first had to find someone willing to drive the full 6 Km to Linda’s hotel, as most drivers stop at the border. I had to pay that driver $20 US to take me across, plus a $10 vehicle fee, which I never understood. Each direction, there are two checkpoints. After waiting in a long line of trucks also trying to cross, we would hit the first checkpoint each morning around 7:00 a.m. The driver would take my passport, tell me to stay in the car with the doors locked and disappear into a building. I have no idea what he did at the first stop, but I sat there, ignoring the dozen hagglers who surrounded my car and tapped on the windows, while baboons jumped around the parking area (pictured, a large baboon that had fallen into an oil well, approaching my car as I waited). The driver would come back out to the car and we would drive another ½ Km down the road to the second checkpoint. Here I would get out and have to pay a fee for entering: $10 for a day trip to Zambia; later that day, $30 for going back into Zimbabwe. This always took longer than necessary - either the border guards could not find something to complete the paperwork, such as the date stamp (and would seem stunned by having to find what they were looking for, as if I was the first person to ever cross their border), could not make change, or, simply, sat there and ignored me. I had to repeat this process each evening as I headed back before dark – 6 times over the course of our weekend at Victoria Falls.

On Monday morning, finally leaving Zimbabwe for the last time, the Zambian-side guard asked me, “when do you leave Victoria Falls?” I told him, “later that afternoon.” He asked, “How are you leaving?” “Flying out of Livingstone (Zambia),” I replied. “Did you spend the night in Zambia?” “No, I stayed in Zimbabwe.” “Well, you owe us $100 for using Zambia only for transit purposes. A new fee we are imposing on Americans, because America charges Zambians this fee,” he told me.

I became slightly angry for at this point all my cost-savings had been lost in crossing back and forth over the borders. I explained to him that I had used Zambia for all my activities and meals, and that even choosing to fly out of Zambia put money into the Zambia economy. The border guard was not buying it. Instead, he took my passport and tossed it at me, “if you don’t like it, find another border to cross!”

I looked around for my driver, who had moved to the opposite side of the room. Realizing that my main objective was to simply get back to South Africa, I said, “ok, just tell me what I owe you so I can leave.” “No,” he said, “you are annoyed, huh? So you can just leave from another border.” Well, obviously, that was not going to happen. I did what came most natural, started to cry, and I gingerly handed him $100 with a meek, "please." He growled, stamped my passport, and I was on my way. What is it they say about the road to hell being paved with good intentions? 

Botswana, Part II – Expats

Although we only stayed in Botswana two days, I loved what I saw and experienced there during that short time. And, so do many others it seems, many of them expatriates, whom I met while in Gaborone, who came there for a year or so and stayed. All expressed the same sentiments to me – they arrived intending to work for only a short period and, not only fell in love with the country and its people, but saw the great need for help and could not leave. You could tell, from talking with them, what difficult decisions it had been for them and how homesick they were – for England, Sweden, the United States, for their families back home – but they simply could not leave. Several of the teachers who listened to Linda’s speech that morning at the Maru-a-Pula school all remarked that they understood her descriptions of sacrifice, for it was what each of them felt that they were doing by staying and working in Botswana, so far from home.

I found Botswana a wonderful place and understand wanting to stay and help the people there. First off, the local beer is called “St. Louis Lager.” What could be a better for a beer-loving girl from Missouri, than that? I was told that there is a large Botswana population in St. Louis...Jesse, my sister-in-law from St. Louis, will need to look into that further for me.

Second, and more seriously, the people are amazing, gracious, polite, warm, and non-contentious. Botswana has an interesting past and, I want to believe, a hopeful future. The British were a light-handed colonial power in Botswana, and the transition to its independence in 1966 was peaceful. Around that same time, diamonds were discovered and the prosperity was shared with the people. Money was spent on healthcare, roads, and other infrastructure. Botswana went from being one of the 25 worst-off countries in the world to a "middle-income" country, now one that has to fight for donor aid and NGO attention because it is considered to be doing comparatively well. On the flip side, it is considered the least corrupt country in Africa, so at least donors know with some confidence that their money will be well spent.

But the AIDs pandemic hit Botswana extremely hard. Most of the population is crowded into the southeastern section of the country, near Gaborone and the diamond mines, and as a result of this density, combined with all of the prostitutes who work the routes of the diamond truck drivers in the area, the HIV virus spread rapidly. Today, 37% of people between the ages of 15-50 have HIV/AIDs - a staggering number. However, and here is the hopeful part, the government has started to work hard to fight this - it gives out free anti-retrovirals to every person whose white blood cell drops below 200 (don't quote me, but it might be the only African country that does this) and has launched a large "stigma free" campaign (even, a bit ridiculously, crowning a Miss HIV Stigma Free...not joking). President Mogae has been tested, people are talking about it openly, clinics have been opened up in remote areas of the country, training of healthcare workers is taking place. Despite the frightening statistics, most of the people I met in Botswana found reason to be hopeful that their country and people were moving in the right direction.

Finally, there is the Botswana environment - the Okavango Delta, the Kalahari, the Chobe National Park, etc. Unfortunately, I did not have time to explore the Botswana parks on this trip (but hopefully will next summer with my family). When I asked people there what they love to do in their spare time, their answer was always the same - that they pack up their 4x4s and drive out to a park for the weekend and sleep, literally, with the lions. It is definitely another reason they find living there an unparalled experience.

On our second night in Botswana, we went out to dinner at a steak house in Gaborone called "Bull & Bush" - great steaks, really, that would rival many I've had in the U.S. We were joined, along with Andy, by the cricket coach/chemistry teacher at at MAP (one job more interesting to me than the other...), a woman who is the head of the Harvard AIDs Project in Botswana, and the Chairman of MAP and his wife (both also avid explorers of the Botswana game parks and authors of several books on Botswana). Dinner conversation was lively and informative, and at the end, turned towards the topic of why they all are in Africa and what it means to them. Andy left us with a quote that evening, one he said someone had recited to him when he left MAP to go back to the U.S. after his first stint teaching there, it is from "Little Gidding" and I thought it pretty well summed-up what the expats had expressed to me:

"...And what you thought you came for
Is only a shell, a husk of meaning,
From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled
If at all..."

Botswana, Part I – The Maru-a-Pula school

On Wednesday, November 1, we flew to Gaborone, Botswana. For those dying to know what I did with my 3 huge suitcases, I stored them at a hotel near the Johannesburg airport. It seemed like a secure option, although the storage room must have had 1,000 bags piled into it – hopefully all bags with owners who know their bags are there! Linda’s bag did not make it on our flight to Botswana. Everyone in Botswana told us that this is normal, the airline will simply decide, rather willy-nilly, to send the bags on another flight. “It will probably arrive on the next flight at 7:00 p.m., or maybe a flight tomorrow morning,” the airline representative said to us in the Gaborone airport, absolutely nonplussed about it. We looked around at the half dozen clocks hanging high on the airport walls and laughed, not a single one told the correct, or even the same, time. But, as all had assured us, her luggage arrived on Thursday.

As a brief aside about my last day (Tuesday) spent in Johannesburg. We visited one last orphanage there. This one has done some great work (e.g., placed 450 orphans into adoption, all of whom had been abandoned in the worst possible way, literally, discarded in gutters and latrines) and creative fund raising (e.g., when told by the South African government that they would not be eligible to receive subsidies for baby formula, but pig farmers would, they bought two pigs…and you have never seen pigs so big!). However, it could only best be described as, well, cult-like. The “matriarch” of the family has adopted all of the children who could not be placed (most of the HIV+ ones). She is up to 20 adopted children. Her daughter and our guide around the property, a woman who looked like a grown-up Elizabeth Smart, wore a long skirt and head scarf because, she explained to us, she does not want to attract any men. In her discussion of the orphanage, she blurred the lines between family and program in a way that unsettled all of us. After this fascinating and strange orphanage, we did more touring around Soweto, visiting Mandela’s house where he lived just before being sentenced to prison, seeing Bishop Tutu’s residence, and eating lunch at a shabeen, Wandie’s, there. (Wandie, who has been running this shabeen/restaurant since the apartheid period, greeted Linda immediately upon our arrival.)
But, back to Botswana: we stayed in the capital city, Gaborone, which is also the largest city in the country, yet is small, with a population of only approx. 250,000. We spent two nights at the residence of the headmaster of the Maru-a-Pula School, Andy Taylor – a large, very modern ranch house on the campus of the school. Andy used to teach at Horace Mann in NYC and has been the headmaster at Maru-a-Pula for the past 2 years. The Maru-a-Pula school (www.map.ac.bw) is the Oxford of Botswana. It has 558 students (including the president’s grandchildren), 60 whom board there, and over 50% from Botswana. Although excellent academically and very multi-racial, what impresses me the most is its orphan scholarship program and its community service aspect.

Andy organized a cocktail reception at his home our first evening there and invited teachers, alumni and students to meet with us. Everyone was delightful and impressive. I met a young alum, Joshua, who went to school at Amherst College in the U.S. and is now back in Botswana doing AIDs training throughout the country. Another alum, and one of the first MAP students, Lucy, is now a human rights lawyer in Gaborone. Lucy was the first black student to attend the University of Cape Town, and the only one that first year she attended. I met four brilliant students, all current boarding students, all orphans. One, Keneilwe, an articulate girl who has lost both her mother and a foster mother to AIDs, just received a full scholarship to study at a Malaysian university. Maybe she will be the first female president of Botswana?

The rains started in earnest in Botswana as soon as we arrived, or so everyone told us, and a visitor who brings rain brings good luck. We slept through loud thunderstorms and awoke early the next morning so that Linda could address all the students at their 7:30 a.m. assembly, a fact Andy sprung on her the evening before. She gave a brilliant speech, all about the necessity of sacrifice in order to succeed. We then spent all morning touring the school (and hearing the marimba-playing band, pictured here) and meeting students, many of whom led our tour. We also visited the boarding houses which, very unfortunately, currently have empty rooms – rooms that could be filled with orphans on scholarship. It costs about $10,000 a year to sponsor an orphan student at MAP (all who must pass entry exams as well) and Andy is passionately trying to raise the money. What I would like to do when back in the US, my goal will be to pool together 9 people who will join me in sponsoring a Botswana orphan to attend MAP throughout their secondary education.

I saw the impact of MAP in Botswana. After our tour of the school, we visited orphans and vulnerable children (pictured here) and women with AIDs in villages around Gaborone. Brenda, the director of the community service program at MAP, and several other MAP teachers, went with us. Each MAP student spends a class period each day in service back to his or her community. This is incredibly empowering for students who grew up in the villages they now serve. We visited a grandmother who is HIV+ and now raising her grandchildren after their mothers - her daughters - died of AIDs. Inexplicably, the government cut off their food subsidies. Brenda and the other MAP teachers with us decided, on the spot, that MAP students would start delivering food to her – possibly saving one or more of their lives. We also visited a small “home” where several orphans live, somewhat supervised by a nun named Sister Angela. One girl told me that all she wants is someone to help her with her math – can you imagine that is all you want under those circumstances??? I hated math as a 13-year old, about the age of this girl. Again, Brenda decided at the moment to send MAP students to tutor them.

What I saw that afternoon were simple, small-scale solutions that could be made by MAP and its students. But, they save lives – both by virtue of the service activities themselves and by what these services teach the MAP students involved. In the future, these students will hopefully make long-term, wide-scale, social changes in Botswana. I was sold on the school.