The Bitter of the Sweet - Part 1

Ending a relationship always hurts. Sitting here in the Cape Town airport, looking out towards the city side mountains as I await my flight to Jo-Burg, the feeling inside of me is no different. Over the past 6 months, I have put my heart and soul into exploring this city, harnessing my hyper-active personality to propel me on an adventure of discovering the beauty and excitement as well as the contradictions and pain that permeate Cape Town. Cape Town is a city of extreme dichotomy, showcasing the best and worst that the world has to offer. The glory of Table-Mountain, the pristine coast-line scattered with excellent surf and scuba sites, the incredibly friendly people, the vibrant music scene, and the rich, diverse sense of culture are all part of the picture that makes Cape Town one of the most desired destinations in the world. Yet, the desperate beggers, the discouraged unemployed, the living conditions in the townships, and the front page photo of a newly born baby that was half burned to death and then abandoned in the trash yard are all part of the horrific realities that exist just around the corner. Cape Town is a city of pleasure and pain, smiles and tears, perhaps just like the rest of the world, but here, there is no escaping either side of life, as the full experience of the joys and sorrows of the human condition is thrown in your face whether you like it or not.

For half a year, I tried to immerse myself in this city: understand it, live it, become part of it. And as I sit here about to board my departure flight, I feel nothing short of love for Cape Town. The passion, the struggle, the charisma, the humor, the smile- that warm, South African smile, that stands proud and strong in the face of the greatest challenges. Looking back on my time here, I can’t help but chuckle at all the ridiculous things that I’ve done. In an e-mail to my mom a few days ago, I told her I’ve been running around like a mad dog for the past week. The truth is, I’ve been running around like a mad dog since January, and been loving it the whole way through. This last week been pretty emotional for me, with every sunny day, not knowing if it would be my last chance to see Table Mountain in its full glory for a long time. Heading up to UCT campus the past few days, I kept on bumping into more friends than I even remembered having. Seeing Robyn from Sax Appeal, Luke from the parade, and other blokes I just completely forgot about, I felt truly touched by the connections I’ve had to so many great people. Maya, Michael, Elise, The Township Debate League family, and so many more. Sure, we’ll all stay in touch and I’ll be back in Cape Town some day, perhaps even settle down with a family and live vicariously through my kids as they run around like mad dogs. But never again will I be in this city in the same way- a 22 year old exchange student, young, minimal responsibilities, and a world of opportunity and adventure at my fingertips. Nor do I have the desire to hold on and relive these experiences the same way all over again. Each phase of life has its own perks to offer, and without a doubt, I’m extremely stoked to come home, see my parents, have my mom’s chicken soup, hang out with stroudel and friends back home, and head into senior year in Atlanta, working my butt off to chase a few of my dreams. But at least while I’m still here, the sweetness that Cape Town has been to me makes saying goodbye all the harder. Just like ending a relationship, when you have to say goodbye to a beautiful girl, even if you know it’s what you got to do, it’s still hard to let her go. An expert in pulling on opposite emotions, Cape Town’s got me feeling polarized once again; sweetness all over for everything that was and the feeling of wonder of what will be, and sadness for the past being just that. It’s the bitter of the sweet. But for now, let me indulge in nostalgia for the last time, and share with ya’ll my last two months, which has been the most saturated adventure period of my entire life.

Lesotho

Scuba Diving in Cape Town

Vanessa, my awesome dive-master who parties so hard that I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in a morning without a recovery red-bull, invited (for a small fee of course) my friends Ian, Jon, and me to go scuba diving at a ship wreck off the coast near Cape Town. Completely into packing in as much activity as possible before we leave, the three of us signed up immediately. We took a mini-bus to Hout Bay, a suburb just outside Cape Town, where we met Vanessa and Steve, aka Scuba Steve, who was to be the captain of our boat. Especially in winter, the Atlantic ocean waters by captain are very cold, and we needed 7 mm wetsuits, hoodies, booties, and gloves to keep us semi-warm. After finding the right sizing and suiting up, we hopped onto Scuba Steve’s boat and headed out to sea. Immediately after leaving Hout Bay Harbour, we hooked a right and found ourselves in the shadow of a giant rock cliff, with the sun’s rays sneaking through the irregularities at the top. Boating on further, we came upon a titanic ship thrown against the coast, having crashed a few decades earlier in a night storm. The ship was of colossal proportions, having its own helicopter landing on the back, which had been hijacked by a colony of birds who were startled by our boat and flew off, covering us with a storm of feathers as they breezed by over our heads. In big letters on the back of the boat was written the word “American”, and all the Americans on the boat fittingly decided to take a picture with this in the background. We could only hope that the sunken American ship is not a sign of what is to come to the US empire. Boating further on, we finally reached our dive site and prepared to launch. Perhaps one of the coolest parts of diving off a boat is the initial launch, where you sit with your legs, facing into the boat, oxygen on and in your mouth, and the captain of the ship does a countdown of 3-2-1-Go! Holding your mask with one hand and pushing off the side of the boat with the other, everyone does a back flip into the water at the same time so no one will land on each other when entering- just like the Navy Seals. Diving down we explored the entire length of a huge sunken ship and saw quite a few cool things. Carpets still in full color, giant cylinder steamers toppled over, and the raised steering deck were all part of the tour. Monster lobsters were plenty along the way, which I enthusiastically pointed out to Ian every time I spotted one. For some reason, he wasn’t as impressed.

After the dive, we explored some of the waters some more, and by chance, we were lucky enough to spot a sunfish. For those of you that don’t know what a sunfish is, google images it right now. This creature looks like it belongs on another planet. While the top half of the fish resembles a normal giant fish body, the lower half looks completely different, with a rugged and bumpy shape that resembles a small astroid more than anything else. The fish’s face looks like the spitting image of one of those beasts from the film “Aliens”, and it was incredible seeing the sunfish surface as it prepared to gobble up its huge meal of a single blue sail jelly fish, which basically looks like a small blue air bubble that blows across the surface of the ocean with the wind. The sunfish was quite shy, and immediately after it sucked in the blue sail jelly fish with its disgustingly beautiful lips, it descended back to the dark depths of the water, to a place where its hideous yet incredible appearance is less noticed.

Staying with Horwitz Family

With my rent ending in early June, I knew I needed to find a good place to stay for my remaining time in Cape Town. As usual, my super-mom came to the rescue, giving me the phone number of a Capetonian Jewish educator named Jos Horwitz whom she met at a conference earlier in the year. I already went to their house in Passover and really digged the vibe, so I decided to give it a shot and ask if I could stay over. Jos quickly responded affirmative, and my fate was sealed: I would be the 5th Horwitz boy for the months of June and July.

Having grown up with two brothers myself, the four-brothers scene at the Horwitz was an atmosphere that I could easily adjust to. Video games, sports, and casual fighting were all part of the vibe that I have known so well since my early years. The youngest Horwitz is Daniel, who at age of 14, is already quite mature as well as a determined rugby player. In one game he got hit extremely hard in the face, which led to bruised cheeks and perhaps even a broken nose. Yet, despite the pain, Daniel went on to finish the game, scoring a try and earning the title of man of the match. The second youngest is Ross, 18. In his final year of high school, Ross is level-headed and easy going. Just as athletically determined as Daniel, Ross competes in the Swim from Robben Island to Cape Town challenge every year, which he claims is as much of a mental challenge as physical due to the resilience needed to withstand the freezing waters of Cape Town. Wetsuits are not allowed- the challenge must be completed in a speedo. (Did someone say Lionel Lyon?). Brett, a second year UCT student, is an avid gym goer, insistent on constantly defining and refining his body. Further, Brett is a well connected man in the Cape Town party scene, as he always carries a small golden VIP card that allows him to cut lines and get into clubs for free. Just a few nights ago, he got me into one of Cape Town’s most popular clubs for free without even being there- all he had to do was make a call in advance to get me on the list. The eldest child is Dean, 22, who is a hilarious, witty UCT graduate, working for real estate as well as a social networking website called studentology, which he uses to his advantage to get into places for free. From facebook to foursquare, Dean is connected to a whole world of online networking. He is also a proud follower of Justin Bieber’s twitter page and together we have discovered that Bieber has 3.5 million followers while one of the best basketball players of our time, Lebron James, only has .5 million. You know there’s something wrong with the world when a young pop singer who has only recently been potty trained is more popular than one of the most dominant athletes in NBA history. The mother of the house, Jos, works for the Herziliyah school system, and was very active in the struggle against apartheid throughout her childhood and into the turmoil 90s. Just before I left, she was telling me stories of when her life was at risk, like the time that she was driving into the townships and there was a mob marching towards her car. In order to get away safely, she had to pull away in reverse at over 100 km per hour. This was the day before American Amy Biel was killed in the same area. The father, Steve, is an extremely nice man, who showed me pictures of his days fighting for the South African army against the Cuban forces in Angola. He told me how they were all brainwashed into thinking that the Cubans, Angolans, and any other communists were nothing short of terrorists. He’s also a big fan of a good braai. (BBQ in SA).
Overall, I had an incredible time staying at the Horwitz family. They were extremely accommodating, buying kosher meat especially for me and welcoming me home no matter what hour of the night I ended up strolling in. I enjoyed getting to know each of the brothers on an individual basis, playing catch with Daniel, chatting it up with Ross, partying on the inside scene with Brett, and visiting all sorts of places while cracking jokes with Dean. It definitely got me nostalgic for my own brotherhood back home.

World Cup

Cape Town – see World Cup Post.



Durban
Next stop was Durban to attend the Spain V Switzerland match. I fell asleep on the first leg of the 20 hour trip and when I woke up, I looked out the windows and all I could see was white. We were caught in a snowstorm. While this might not be unusual for the New England folk reading this back home, a proper roadside snowstorm is a rare occurrence in South Africa. The snow was actually sticking to the ground, yet impressively, the bus kept up its speed, plowing through the powder at over 80 km per hour. Staying at a woman’s house via connections through my buddy Elise, aka tinker-bell, I joined a huge group of travelling students, which included Americans, Norwegians, and a few Brazilians. The night before the Spain game, we headed out to the bar with the Brazilians to watch the Brazil match. Their energy was unbelievable. Way before the game even started they were already singing, and once the score finished in their favor, their moods remained in cloud nine for the rest of the night. Before the Spain game the next day, the entire group decided to paint the Spanish flag on their face and although I was 100% committed to supporting my home country, I decided to join in on the face paint festivities just for kicks. Walking towards the game, we could see the giant arch of the grand Moses Madiba stadium from a distance, which has been compared to the Sydney Opera House and the Eifel tower in its architecture beauty. The game was a bit of a disappointment, as top ranked Spain failed to score a single goal. Yet watching the Swiss fans go nuts over their upset victory was nevertheless an interesting site. In the end the Swiss victory was to my advantage, as a Swiss couple who were staying at the same place as me were happy to offer me a ride to the bus station the next morning. Had their team lost, who knows if they would have still felt inclined to provide the free transport.

Jo-Burg

During the course of my week long stint in Jo-Burg, I stayed at two different people’s homes. First up was the Tucker family, home of none other than Ashley Tucker from the Township Debate League at UCT. I met Ashley on of the first weeks of the semester, and already then was she eager to extend an invitation for me to stay her place in Jo-Burg during my world cup tour. Picking me up from the airport with her mom, she was in her usual peppy and upbeat mood and I could tell it was going to be a great time crashing at her pad. Walking into the house, the floors were spotless, the air was fresh, and the books in the library were labeled and organized according to various categories. I had many interesting conversations with her mom, who works as a gardening journalist yet somehow finds herself involved in ensuring that the entire Jo-Burg region won’t have a water shortage in the next decade. Her sister Chelsea was just as engaging, eager to learn and curious to ask about a range of topics including life in the States and middle east politics. One night we partied it up big time at her house, her mom joining in on the festivities through offering us an endless supply of apple cake. The night of stories and laughs ended with some jubilant dancing to the mixed music by a DJ called Norwegian Recycling whom you should all check out as soon you finish reading this. My favorite song is by far “How six songs collide.” And of course, hanging out with Ashley was as good as ever, as she is always upbeat and enthusiastic in every interaction she has. She also happens to be an extremely beautiful girl, which definitely doesn’t hurt. (She’s got a boyfriend though, so unfortunately, we had to keep things platonic). On my last day hanging out with her, we checked out this place called the Monte Casino, which is a giant casino built in an indoor venue that is designed to look like an Italian town.

The next place I stayed at was quite a different experience, but still just as interesting and fun. One of my last weeks in Cape Town I met a girl named Kate who told me I could stay at her mom’s house in Jo-Burg if need be. Not wanting to overstay my welcome at the Tucker’s, I thought it would be good to split my time in Jo-Burg between the two places and immediately accepted the invitation. I could tell that Kate’s mom, Pat, would be extremely hospitable before I even walked through the door, as she sent me all sorts of e-mails regarding what my standards of kashrut were, wanting to buy the appropriate meat in advance. Ashley gave me a ride towards her house, but we had trouble finding the place and had to give her a call to get more specific directions. After clearing up some confusion, we were put back on the right track and I assured Pat that we knew where we were going and that I could take care of it from there. She didn’t seem convinced, and from practically a half kilometer from her house down the road, I could see her waving her arms up and down, just to make sure we wouldn’t miss the spot. It was a classic case of Jewish mother-syndrome. Symptoms include over-worrying, a desire to control as much of a situation as possible, and an overall sense that the world will fall apart unless you hold it together by your own two hands. But ultimately, all these symptoms are rooted in a genuine feeling of love and care, and that is what Pat showed me the entire time I stayed at her house. A journalist that has met and even bumped heads with the likes of Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu, Pat has a powerhouse brain with the ability to recall names, dates, and events from a wide range of histories and cultures. She is also extremely hysterical, her daughter branding her as “The Female Woody Allen.” Like Woody Allen, her humor is very Jewishly paranoid, and I tried to convince her several times to give stand up comedy a swing. One of the highlights of staying at her house was certainly her two dogs, one of whom was quite old and the other a young pup. The young pup would often entertain himself by humping the old dog as he lay still trying to sleep, while the veteran exhibited some of the strangest dog behaviors I have ever seen, in performing this crawling motion back and forth on the ground in an effort to scratch his stomach. It is very hard to describe exactly what I’m talking about, but this dog would go on doing this scratching motion for 5 minutes straight a time, which would get me cracking up the whole way through.

Acacia Overland Tour

Eager to explore as much of Africa as possible before my return flight home, I signed up for a 24 day Overland Tour through a company called Acacia that would take me from Jo-Burg through Botswana, Zambia, Namibia, and back to Cape Town. The idea of the overland tour is quite simple and smart. Essentially, we drive to all sorts of destinations around Africa on a huge truck that can conquer any road, setting up tents and cooking dinner at campsites along the way. Equipped to seat up to 24 people, including a locker for each person’s stuff, as well as cooking, camping, and eating gear, the overland truck is quite big. The tour is managed by a driver and a tour guide, but much of the day to day upkeep is attended to by the participants, such as cleaning, cooking, washing dishes, and packing the truck. Because the participants are expected to help out with the day to day chores of the group and almost all the nights are slept in tents, the trip is reasonably priced, about as much as it would cost to travel around Africa on one’s own. Also, it’s a great way to make good friends with people from all over the world. Being stuck on a truck together for three weeks leaves little choice for otherwise. I signed up for the trip completely on my own, not even knowing whether there would be a single other young person on it. Not that I have anything against old people, but I was praying that I wouldn’t be stuck on a truck with a bunch of senior citizens for 24 days.

To my luck, I discovered that old people don’t like camping and young people do. In fact, in order to sign up for the camping overland trip, you have to be between the ages of 18 and 35. This ensures that there will be a certain dynamic on the group that won’t be broken by a young teenager that is too eager to impress or an old man that just can’t keep up with the crowd. There actually was a 43 year old man on the trip named Chris, and although I’m not sure how he got through with that rule, it didn’t really matter, because this guy was as youthful as a lion cub at heart. We actually ended up becoming really good friends- more on this later.

As with so many of my experiences in Africa, there are too many good things to list them all, so I’ll just give you the highlights from my overland trip.

Kruger
First stop was a campsite just outside Kruger. A newly renovated spot, I was fascinated by the actual layout and structures in the campsite. A stylistic highlight was how the toilet paper rolls in the bathroom were held up on the round part of the handle of a shovel that was nailed to the wall. We woke up early the next morning to get a jump start on our game drive into Kruger park. Lucky for us, on our first day out there we managed to spot the entire big five, which are the five most dangerous animals to hunt for in Africa. The big five are elephant, lion, rhino, buffalo, and leopard. Surprisingly, Buffalo is the most dangerous as they are frequent to charge, and leopards are the rarest one to see. Early on in the morning our safari driver got a call on his radio regarding a leopard spotting and we immediately zoomed over to the spot to check it out. It was clear that word had spread quick, as there was practically already a traffic jam by the leopard spot. Yet we managed to sneak in well enough to spot two leopard cubs, even rarer, playing in the sand by some bushes. I was mystified. We had to drive on to avoid blocking traffic, but we heard that the mother came out later and walked towards a tree in which laid her kill: a Kudu hanging in the branches. After killing its prey, the leopard carries the corpse up into the trees to keep the meat away from other predators. Throughout the rest of the day, we saw the remainder of the big five with other animals as well, such as the giraffe. Even when we weren’t spotting animals, driving around Kruger was a pure pleasure, as the scenery and landscape was breathtaking and unique in its own right.

Botswana

Chobe National Park
The difference between Botswana and South Africa? A whole lot of hippos. Immediately after crossing into Botswana and on our way to a borderside campsite, we passed by a little pond surrounded by a chicken-wire fence beside a gas station. Why the fence? To create the illusion of safety for pedestrians from the inhabitant of the puddle: a giant wild hippo, that spends the hot hours of the day cooling off in the water. For those of you that don’t know, the hippo, more aggressive than the lion, is one of the most dangerous beasts in the animal kingdom. Their palate consists of strictly grass and other vegetarian matter, but when it comes to their murderous inclinations, the hippo will attack and chomp anything deemed a threat. With Jaws that can open a full 180 degrees and clamp down in a flash, teeth that curve and extend over a full foot each, you’d be lucky if the hippo only snapped you in half. The fat cow-like body, short stubby legs, and general slow, casual walk is quite deceiving, like a Ford pick-up truck thrown into 4th, the hippo can instantly shift gears, charging forward like a freight train at full-steam speeds. A hippo charging would break through that chicken-wire fence so fast, it wouldn’t have even noticed it was there. Get in between a male and its water, a female and its baby, and you’ll instantly be deemed a threat. Once this is determined, there is no escape. Being quite neurotic and defensive, hippos are inclined to attack at the slightest provocation. Of course, the greater the danger, the more enthralling the lure, and the next day when passing by the same gas station, a group of us ran towards the pond, daring each other to see who could get closer to the hippo. At first, the hippo seemed undisturbed by our presence, its body full submerged underwater, the top of the head peeking above the surface, eyes darting back and forth to keep watch on our distance. My good ol’ tent-mate Collin of England insisted on testing the limits and kept on walking towards the hippo, hoping to snap an up-close facial photo. The girls yelled “Collin, don’t!”, the boys murmured “Bru, come on,” but Collin’s legs couldn’t hear the words, and he continued marching forward, eager to get closer to the face of danger. He took one step too many and it was instantly clear that the hippo’s patience was broken, as the mammoth creature all of a sudden began to ascend upwards and out of the water, the size of its cannonball body revealed, its head turning directly towards Collin. This was too much even for the naive bravery of a 22 year old boy, and after the Hippo made his first move, Collin made a quick, decisive response: RUN! Collin behind, the girls in the lead, and me somewhere in between, the whole group scrambled to the truck, mad in laughter, half in fear, and half in pure excitement for what just transpired.

(Side note: the previous night, we watched the USA V Ghana game at a bar at the Botswana campsite. Being the only American there, I proudly waved my flag and stood up to the national anthem, singing along to every word I could remember. I forget a few of the lines, and just muttered random syllables very softly to cover up this shameful fact. Only half a year away from home and I already know the South African national anthem, which is in 5 languages and two keys, better than my own. Sad? Maybe. But the South African national anthem is the most beautiful national song I’ve ever heard, and if you ever want to hear it, feel free to ask for a recitation from me. I know the whole song, word by word. In case you don’t bump into me anytime soon, check it out on you tube. If it doesn’t bring you to tears, then you clearly have a problem with your heart- go eat some cheerios. )

Elephant Water Holes.

The next night we stayed at a place called Elephant Water Holes, which is known for just that; a water hole right by the campsite, where elephants come to drink. Upon pulling into the campsite, we rushed to the hole, which we found surprisingly close to the camp bar. Lo and behold, several elephants were calmly drinking out of the murky water, glancing over towards us every now and then just to make sure we kept our distance. There was actually an in-ground patio made for the very purpose of sitting and watching the elephants, with a sign on the edge stating: “Do Not Pass this line.” Although not as dangerous as the hippo, elephants are still quite lethal. Large and in charge, elephants along with the rest of the big animals out there, are deceivingly fast. After an hour of watching, what looked like a huge oil-truck pulled up to the campsite, right beside the camp pool, which was practically empty. The driver pulled out a hose that was attached to the tank, opening a lever that sent a gush of water streaming into the pool. They were filling up the pool, but for what? It was Botswana and winter time, not a popular time to go for a swim. A few minutes later, it became clear that although the pool was designed for humors, mother nature had a different plan. A big elephant with its kid, ignoring the huge truck and people standing near the pool, pulled right up the edge of the concrete, dipped their trunks into the concrete, and began to slurp away. The way elephants drink is fascinating. With their trunks in the water, they suck up as much water as this giant tube will hold, which can be up to 10 liters. Holding the water in this giant straw, the elephant takes the trunk out of the water, leans the head back and opens its jaws, placing the trunk in the mouth and squirting all the water from the trunk onto its wet tongue and down its throat. After the pool was full, the owner of the campsite said that the driver had to go and that although this would scare the elephants away, seeing my interest in watching the elephants, he told me not to worry, reassuring me that the elephants would come back for more water later. And come back they did. Later that night, walking back towards the bar to catch the second half of the England-Germany game and to check my e-mail, I noticed a huge crowd of people gathered around the pool, gazing, jaws suspended mid-air. Surrounding the concrete lip of the man-made water hole, a herd of about twenty elephants were calmly going for a drink as if it was nobody’s business. This was the truest encounter of man meets nature. Here we were on the cusp of the Botswana wilderness, and these elephants took a crowd of people away from their soccer game, providing us with the opportunity to watch something much more spectacular. The bigger elephants, with their babies at their rear feet, would push their way to the front, making their way to the choice spots near the pool as a sign of their dominance. If a smaller elephant dared to challenge one of the big boys, a quick thrust of the tusk and blow of the trunk would immediately remind everyone who was the boss. Occasionally, the elephants would give a blow in our direction, just to make sure we kept our distance and respected their great power. A giant, 6 ton elephant came trampling towards the hole, scarring one of the standard sized elephants away. The startled elephant came trampling towards the direction of us passive viewers and with the mighty force of its legs, crushed several metal chairs that had been occupied only moments ago. Worried that the next time we wouldn’t be so lucky and that the chairs would be occupied, I asked the man standing next to me, who happened to be the owner of the campsite, what signs we can look for to anticipate a charge. The man described in detail two different ways the elephant can flap its ears. The first was nothing more than a sign for a false charge while the second manner was the predecessor to the real thing. So I asked the man what to do if the elephant indeed gives warning that it’s about to give a real charge. Well, the man said, at the point, running won’t do you any good, it’s already too late. The real danger of being so close to these deadly animals only served to augment the beauty of this night time encounter with nature’s finest.

Crossing into Zambia

To get into Zambia from Botswana, one has to take a ferry across the Chobe river. However, being a far cry from any normal ferry, the border crosser on this body of water takes a long, long time. Due to frequent breakdowns and other mishaps, crossing the river often takes hours, even days. On top of that, due to an extremely inefficient customs system, trucks seeking to bring goods across the border sometimes have to wait up to three weeks before getting on the ferry. I talked to a truck driver asking him what he thought of the long wait, and to him, it was actually a nice break in the otherwise monotonous task of sitting behind the wheel. Our drivers told us that if we were lucky and with the help of their connections, we’d only be at the border for half a day rather than the full session. Being a group of young, restless, and competitively inclined travelers, we proceeded to entertain ourselves with a serious game of “hit the can.” Placing a can about 50 meters away, a group of 5 of us boys chucked small stones towards the can, winning a point for every hit. I consider myself an individual blessed with especially good aim and I all but expected to dominate the game. However, fate played against me, as it happened that one of the Australian boys in our group was a highly experienced Cricket bowler. My shots consistently came close, but I couldn’t keep up with the accuracy of Mr. Australia, and ultimately, my “touch” was no match for the bowler’s natural feel. After a little over an hour, the game got boring, and I also had to go the bathroom: #2. I found a port-a-potty that was simply beyond all functional use, and instantly decided that I would have to take this one out on mother nature. Walking into some bush and tree covered area by the crossing, I found myself a nice spot and unloaded. Coming back, I was told by my travelling friend’s that I should have been more careful. The wooded area that I just came back from was officially part of Zimbabwe and I just illegally crossed the border. I never got a chance to get a Zimbabwe stamp on my passport, but that day, at least I had a chance to explore their natural bathrooms.
Finally, after some bribe-work and playing off several connections, our truck moved to the front of the line. We were about to drive onto the ferry, with only one truck in front of us. To our bad luck, the bumper of the truck in front us got slammed and stuck into the concrete road. Our truck tried to tow it out, to no success. We had to pull away to let a bigger truck in. The bigger truck towed out the smaller truck, the smaller truck drove right back onto the ferry, and of course the bigger truck ended up taking the last spot on the ferry, the spot intended for us. So finally, another 30 minutes later, we got on the ferry and were headed to Zambia. On the ferry ride over, several Mucoroos (small dug out canoes) pulled over to the ferry and men from the ferry began loading all sorts of cargo onto the boats. TVs, blankets, bags of rice were all included in this live scene of smuggling goods tax free across the border.





Mosi Au Tunya- The Smoke That Thunders (Victoria Falls)

The departure point to explore Victoria Falls from Zambia is a small, tourist, crafts filled city called Livingstone, named after the first white guy to “discover” the Falls. The appeal of Livingstone is that it is the hub of a wide array of fun and extreme activities to keep you hyped while you’re not checking out the falls. Our truck pulled into a campsite called the waterfront, which was located on the banks of the Zambezi river, mere kilometers away from the lips of the falls. The water from the falls hits the ground so hard, that even from our campsite we were able to see a mist rising above the river’s horizon from the direction of the falls.

Immediately after arriving at the campsite and being warned not to feed the monkeys (they were everywhere!) and also to stay away from the river edge to avoid being eaten by a crocodile, we were taken into a room where we were given a presentation on how the high energy activities available at our disposal. The list contained what you might expect and more: bunjy jumping, white water rafting, zip lining, and so on. At the end of the list there was a section on cultural tourism in the either, again, with a list of tours that one would expect in Zambia: Zambian art tour, British colonialism tour, etc. At the bottom of this list, the words “Jewish Cultural Tour” stuck out to me as if it was painted in red. Jewish community in Zambia? Being the token Jew of the group, my friends asked for me to elaborate on the Jewish history of this country. Immediately when I had access to internet, I asked my mom about this matter, hoping that her Jewish education skills would find some connection to Judaism and Zambia. Nope. Not wanting to miss out on the other crazy things going on in Zambia, I opted not to go on the $45 Judaism tour of Zambia, and until this day, I am still quite intrigued on what one actually sees on a tour of Judaism in Zambia.

ACT II- May- The Return of the Bruce and Beyond

ACT II- MAY: The Return of the Bruce and Beyond.

Scene 1- Parents Arrive

In large part due to my blog updates, my parents were inspired to make the trans-Atlantic flight to South Africa to visit the sites that I wrote about, but also partly to visit me. Our plan was to meet in Port Elizabeth (PE) and road trip together through the Garden Route, a famous road that covers the spectacular Southern Coast of South Africa, starting in PE and heading Westward to Cape Town. Despite the fact that I am a fully grown, independent, 22 year old man, I was honestly excited to see my folks, folks. Getting off the plane and embracing my Mom and Dad at the PE airport was a sentimental moment indeed, made all the sweeter by the case of Mandel bread in my mom’s hand (one of the big perks of having a Jewish mother). I won’t lie, I missed my parents and it was good to see them.

Scene 2- Jeffrey’s Bay

Our first destination on the Garden Route was the legendary surf spot, Jeffrey’s Bay, home of the Billabong Pro. The fact that there is a level in Kelly Slater called J-Bay is proof enough of the prestige of this wave. My dad, being the Bruce that he is, was so on top of his game, that he did intense online research of J-Bay accommodation until he found a Bed and Breakfast that was located on the upper banks directly overlooking this beautiful wave. Driving into our place, I jumped out of the car and ran to the boardwalk viewpoint, standing in awe of what was my first experience of a perfect tube. Now, I’ve seen my share of smooth waves in my lifetime, many of which I have shared with ol’ time surfer Stroudel at Long Beach, but this cylinder was like nothing else I’ve ever seen. Charging in wicked fast from the sea and peeling over just at the tip of the point break, this wave rolled with the grace and speed of Shakira’s hips, turning over like a quick whip while maintaining a fluid form throughout the break. A handful of guys stood out there in the line up catching these waves with such precision of placement and timing that even someone who knows nothing about surfing would be able to instantly tell that these guys were highly skilled. Seduced by the beauty of the wave, I was nearly tempted to go out there and give out a try myself, despite the fact that I’m actually not a really good surfer. I’ve been out in bigger surf before- this wave was only about 6 feet high. But after talking to a surfer who told me that if you fall after the break the wave can easily push you into a rock surface that is covered by only 4 feet of water, I resigned to watching the wave from the shore. I walked along the beach to check out the wave from different angles, finding a 3 foot beached, nearly-dead shark, who clearly didn’t have his way with the wave. Although I wish I was skilled enough to ride the J-Bay, I have no regrets about not giving it a go. Watching the elegant sets roll in one after another in the light of the setting sun, I was stoked without even getting wet.

Scene 3- A Day of Mammoth Proportions

The second day of the Garden Route, I insisted on waking up at the crack of dawn, just so I could spend as much time as possible watching the J-Bay wave before hitting the road to continue our trip. After a nice walk on the beach and a healthy breakfast, we set out to the Tsitskiamma Mountains, home of THE BIG TREE. An entire reserve built around a single tree with a huge reputation, we had high expectations of what we would see. After a 20 minute stroll on boardwalks through the woods, we got to a tree that was clearly big, but as my dad said, not nearly big enough to be called “THE BIG TREE”. Perhaps due to his 6’4.5’’ height, my dad was thoroughly disappointed, more impressed with the boardwalk system surrounding “The Big Tree”, than “The Big Tree” itself. Despite my comparable height, I actually thought the tree was kind of cool. But my dad was eager to move on to other sites, pushing the pace of my time with “The Big Tree.” (Basically, when we got to the tree, he took one look at it, yawned, and said: “let’s go.”)

Our next stop of the day was the Storm-River Mouth, the site of a series of giant suspension bridges hanging over a river that feeds into the ocean. The opening view of the Storm-River Mouth hits you right in the face: white water splashing on rocks cast throughout the sea, waves storming into the middle of the river, the opposing river banks connected by a long suspension bridge, and a huge bluff covered in big green trees across the way, overlooking the entire misty scene with determined dignity. We took a short hike over to the suspension bridge. Standing in the middle of the bridge, we were surrounded by water, with the ocean behind and the river slithering out in front, disappearing in a canyon around the bend. The looming bluff was too daring to resist, forcing us to set out on a hike to the peak. At the top, each direction offered a different view, rolling farmlands peeking out on the higher level above, while the suspension bridges standing a k-nex set down below. On the final leg of the hike back to the car, I told my mom (who, like all Jewish mothers, loves to talk) about how it is sometimes nice to take an oath of silence while hiking. She suggested taking the oath together, and not wanting to argue with her, I happily agreed. To her credit, she was able to maintain true to the oath for the last 30 minutes of the hike. Her biggest test came when a group of strangers walking by attempted to engage her in quick small talk, where upon she reacted by simply pretending to not understand what they were saying, looked down, and waited for my dad to pick up the conversational slack. She definitely deserves bonus points for that sneaky manoeuvre.

The final stop of Mammoth day was to be the 216 meter high Bloukrans Bridge, home of the world’s highest Bungy Jump Bridge. As a little kid, I can’t begin to tell you how much I used to be afraid of scary theme park rides. I was so scared of going down the steep water slide Geronimo at Water Country that I asked my mom go down first to alleviate my fears. Of course, she had no interest in doing it for herself, but for the sake of her son, went down that crazy thing, screaming the whole way through. After watching her go down the slide, I hiked to the top, prepared myself to launch, and then chickened out, running away to take a dip in the wave pool instead. There are numerous versions of this type of thing happening to me and they all point to the same conclusion: I used to be a serious whimp. Yet, this time, I wasn’t going to let my over-analytical mind get to me. I was determined to jump off this bridge, I made my mind up, and I wasn’t changing it no matter what. We arrived at the scene of the bridge and my stomach immediately dropped. Not for the sake of my own fear, but for the joy and excitement that I got out of thinking that my parents were actually going to watch me jump off a bridge. Wow, what a rush. This bridge was huge, and despite my mom’s pestering in the background, saying: “David, you don’t really have to do this. You can tell your friends you did it anyway. No one has to know the truth. Don’t do it!” I had already made my mind up and was excited for this breakthrough from my childhood fears. I geared up in a harness and made my way towards the bridge. The walk towards the jumping point is an intense enough experience on its own, as I walked on a metal caged track tucked just under the main part of the bridge, with holes in the cage flooring, offering a lucid view of the 216 meter drop to the forest below. The man accompanying me on this walk told my how many people back out of their decision to jump at this very point. Not me. My mind was already set. Walking further, we reached the jumping point, which was manned by a crew of at least a dozen men. Everyone around me engaged me in conversation, surely as part of their job to distract me from negative thoughts. Didn’t make a difference to me. My mind was made up. I joked, laughed, slapped five with everyone at the platform. One of the men pointed out a guy across the platform, telling me he was Robert Mugabe (ruthless dictator of Zimbabwe). Indeed he wasn’t far off from the Mugabe look, and we shared a good laugh about this. Then, as they bundled up my feet together, which was made of less material than I expected, the crew played some pump up music which I happily danced to do with whatever part of my body that I could still move. I wasn’t afraid at all. My mind was made up. Then they brought me to the edge of the bridge and... Holy Shasta! What a drop! Standing over the edge, my survival instincts were screaming at me to move back. But it didn’t matter. My mind was made up. They then told me to put my toes even farther over the edge. Sure. No problem. My mind was made up. Then, without even giving me any warning, they initiated an intensely fast and loud countdown. 5! 4! 3! 2! 1! It wasn’t even necessary. My mind was made up. I jumped forward like a swan diving into a lake, both of my arms stretched straight out like superman flying to save the world. My first thought was: Shasta! Why did I do that?! My second thought was: Wow, I am going a lot faster than I expected. My third thought: Wow, it’s getting even faaaaaaasssssttter. My fourth thought as the Bungy pulled on my legs: YAAAAAAA! Although I didn’t yet grasp the vocal chord capability to express that. After the Bungy pulled me up one more time, I finally regained vocal capability, shouting out loud continuously in pure ecstasy. I bounced up and down for another minute or so, and then a man from above was sent down to take me up. I grabbed him as a natural reflex, to which he replied: “Hey buddy, don’t touch me. I’m a married man.” These bungy guys sure know how to have a sense of humor. He clipped me onto his harness, and together we rose back to the top of the bridge. Upon getting to the landing, I was filled with such an adrenaline rush, that I couldn’t stop smiling. The only feeling I can compare it to was the high I experienced after getting my wisdom teeth pulled. I smiled and greeted everyone, slapping five with Mugabe and crew. I walked back off the bridge and headed to where my parents were. I gave my parents each a huge hug and high five, after which I saw a handful of people in the background. They all looked at me excitedly, and congratulated me on a great jump. Like a famous politician, I walked over to each and every one of these strangers, and shook their hands, huge smile still intact. I’m telling you folks, I was not in control at the time- the bungy spirit took over. I then walked into the gift shop, still smiling, and waved to all the workers in the store. I asked to see the video of myself jumping, and was pumped up at every moment of watching it. I bought the video along with some pictures (happy to show any of you if you are interested) and smiled the whole time while purchasing. My parents were cracking up at me in the background, while the lady running the store told them that she’s never seen anyone smile so much after jumping. Upon heading to the door to leave the store, still in 7th heaven, I turned around to wave and smile to my new friends. So engaged in my activity of smiling, that I wasn’t looking where I was going and walked right into a pole. For a moment, all the workers in the store paused in shock, and then in unison, we all started cracking up together. I went into the car and kept on smiling for a good 30 minutes more until the adrenaline finally wore down. Later that night, I looked into the mirror and noticed that a blood vessel burst in my eye and tiny capillaries were burst around my eye sockets, revealing little red spots on my face. I guess the combination of the adrenaline rush and the blood pumping to my head got to me, but let me tell you, it was well worth it. I’m already looking forward to my next Bungy jump. I’m glad I made up my mind.

Scene 4- Knysna to Oudshoorn

Knysna, one of the cities of the Garden Route, is a charming mussel-economy based town, with a bay that connects to the Atlantic ocean through a very small opening. We stayed at a beautiful Bed and Breakfast overlooking the whole scene. Highlight of the stay: some delicious ginger chilli sauce and listening to Pavarotti and friends perform “We are the World” while staring at the view.

On the same day that we stayed at Kysna, we checked out this place called Monkey Land, a giant caged in monkey reserve. At Monkey Land, we took a walk around the reserve, with monkeys casually hanging around us, free to roam wherever they want. I really enjoyed the intimacy of being able to walk around with the monkeys as opposed to seeing them in a cage. Lemurs, capuchins, and marmosets were some of the species we saw. Highlight: in the middle of the tour, a giant white monkey walked right in front of us in the path, ignoring us completely and forcing us to have to stop in our tracks to avoid walking into him. It was my first experience of a monkey crossing. (Although you do have to watch out for Baboons in Cape Town.)

That night we stayed at a place higher up in the mountains called Oudshoor, Ostrich capital of South Africa. Highlight: Upon arriving there, the place we were staying at was experiencing a blackout. Lucky for me, I brought my handy dandy headlamp. Lesson of the day: always travel with a headlamp.

We woke up the next morning for a relaxing walk in the fields of Outdshoorn. Rather than pay for a tour of the Ostrich safari, we did it the Israeli way, going into the parking lot and enjoying as much of the ostriches as we could see from there. They farm ostriches like chickens in this country, and we had more than enough opportunities to see ostriches throughout our road trip.

Scene 5 – Table Bay

I spent the weekend with my parents staying at the Table Bay hotel in the waterfront, truly a grand place. Previous guests have included Michael Jackson and Barack Obama, so you know this place is nice (but don’t worry, I’m sure my parents got a good deal). For our Shabbat food, the generous owner of Avron’s kosher deli hand delivered the goods to our place. We had a delicious meal Friday night, and called it in for an early night of sleep after an exciting week of travelling. The next morning, we took a walk along the promenade along the Atlantic ocean to the Jewish community in Sea Point, a scenic Cape Town neighbourhood nestled between the mountain and the sea. On this particular Shabbat morning, the swells were monstrous, pounding away at least 10 feet high and providing an awe-inspiring back-drop for a pristine Shabbat walk. At some points, the waves were big enough to crash up against the promenade wall with such force, that the up-spray would shoot forth onto us on the sidewalk. I wanted to take my parents to the Marais Road Shul, because I had been there before and was really impressed with their choir, which is known to be the second best in all of South Africa. Last time I was there, they sung an enlivening “adon olam” to the tune of sharm el sheikh, a six-day war classic. Of course, despite the fact that my parents were almost 8,000 miles away from home, going to shul they were bound to bump into someone they would know. At this shul, odds had it that they crossed paths with Eliezer Kapelowitz, a long time friend who used to live in Newton and happened to be in Cape Town visiting his mother. You can be sure that my parents got a good kick out of this “it’s a small world” encounter. We made it to shul just in time for the “Adon Olam,” which was sung to the delightful tune of “Shir L’Shalom.” After Kiddush, we stayed for a short shiur by Robby Berman. Topic: the halacha and organ donations. The shiuir was insightful, funny, and clearly targeted at the right audience, as most people in the crowd were well over 60, making them the crucial people to discuss the topic of donating organs. To sum up his point, if you are not already an organ donor, then you should become one. I recommend checking out his stuff on Google.

That night, we went to see a play called London Road, without knowing what it was about in advance. Merely by chance, the show was about a Nigerian drug dealer and an elderly Jewish widow, becoming friends in Sea Point. Fitting that the show we saw was about the same place I showed my parents earlier that day. After the show, I took my parents to a great milkshake place, Mr. Pickwick’s, which also runs as a bar at night. My parents were the only ones above 30 in the whole building, and I’m sure they enjoyed pretending to be young for some of the evening.

Scene 6 –Cape Peninsula Tour the Sequel.

Written about in my first post, one of my most extra-ordinary experiences of Cape Town until this day still remains that initial peninsula tour. Wanting to provide my parents with the same enchanting experience I had, I decided to give them a tour of the peninsula myself. We stopped at all the major places that I stopped at, but to avoid repetition, I will merely address the highlights.
One of our stops was Boulder’s beach, home of the penguins. Upon reaching the guard of the beach, he told us that there are two ways to go, one that costs money and the other one free. In addition, we were told that the free one offered a closer view of the penguins. Not understanding how this made any sense, we took the good deal for what it was, choosing the free route. We ended up seeing dozens of penguins who stood so close to us we could have touched them. The fact that you have to pay to get a worst view of the penguins still bewilders me.

At Cape Point, we got caught in a rainstorm. Well, I shouldn’t say we, rather my parents got caught in a rainstorm while I found shelter to wait it out. There was a beautiful rainbow after the storm.

Scene 7- Parents Leaving

After showing my parents around Hertziliyah high school and driving up to the top of Signal Hill with them, which offers a 360 degree view of the Cape Town Area, my parents set out to finish the rest of their trip without me, heading to Kruger for a safari on their own. It was sad to say goodbye to my parents, but don’t worry, I’ve managed just fine since then.

Scene 8- Mannenberg

My friend Maya runs the Shawco volunteer arts program at UCT and she told me about a kids performance festival that was going on in the Cape Town suburb of Mannenberg. It sounded like a fun day so I decided to join even though I am not a Shawco volunteer. Highlights of the day:
1) Having little colored kids play with my huge nose, in shock of the mere magnitude of the thing. Seriously, these kids were jumping on my lap and pulling away at my shnaaze, giggling, laughing, and just flat out impressed with such a big smelling device.
2) Seeing all the little kids get on the stage and sing along to Knaan’s “Waving Flag” song, which I’m sure you all know by now from watching the world cup. Great song. I dig Waka Waka as well, but that Knaan’s deserved to be the official song.
3) Playing soccer with the little kids and being the worst player on a team full of 12 year olds. I don’t understand how Bafana Bafana didn’t make it the 2nd round- the youth of this country are very talented players.

Scene 9- Shavuot

At the Bnei’ Akiva shul during Shavuot, the community held a panel to discuss what Cape Town Jewery will look like in ten years. I was impressed with how much people cared about the Jewish life in Cape Town, ranging from high school aged kids to adults. Everyone passionately expressed their opinion about how Jewish life in Cape Town could be improved. Seeing people care about something is always inspiring.
Highlight of the night: A little kid, about 8 years old, addressed the crowd of over 50 adults, talking about how he likes the Jewish life better in Johannesburg than Cape Town, because when he goes there he gets to eat at the kosher Nando’s (think Wendy’s).

Scene 10- Shark Diving

About a month ago I went great white shark diving, in a place called Gansbaai, about a 2.5 hour drive from Cape Town. We departed the marina and went off in a boat into deep, shark infested waters. The Cape Town area is one of the best places in the world to go shark diving due to the high population of great white sharks that live close to the shore. When we arrived at a good point in the ocean, the boat anchored, and a few of the crew began to spill out chum into the sea, whose smell is supposed to attract the sharks. After about 30 minutes, we saw our first shark from on top of the boat, and we quickly were told to hop into the cage to get a better view. The cage is set up against the side of the boat, and I jumped in. When a shark comes by, someone from the top of the boat shouts out which direction to look in, after which the cage divers held their breath and submerged their heads under water to get up close and personal with the sharks. We saw several sharks throughout the day, the largest being 3.5 meters. The sharks would come right up to the cage, even making eye contact with me. The crew on top would play with the shark with a tuna head on a rope, throwing it into the water and pulling it back as the shark surfaced, as a way to get the shark to open its mouth so we could see into its jaws. It was pretty cool stuff.
Also, on the trip out at sea, we passed by an island full of 60,000 seals. That place stunk. The seals were making a lot of playful noises, but I think some of the sounds they were emitting carried odors as well.

When you say my name, I disappear.

It’s been a long time folks. April since my last true non-world cup post. Communication is one of the most important aspects of being human. More than anything else, it is language that distinguishes us from the animal kingdom. When we express ourselves, no matter what we’re expressing, we feel free and alive. The greatest way to relive the most joyous moments of our existence is to unfold them to a friend. The most effective medicine in unloading our sadness, anger, and frustrations in life, is to divulge them to an even better friend. In short, when we are restricted in our communication, either through shyness, language barriers, or just not knowing what to say, we feel stifled- our inner state yearning to be expressed in the outer world. When communication is natural and open, our words take off to the sky, carrying our soul to a place of intimacy, love and laughter. A place in which our humanity only begins to come close to reaching its potential. As difficult as it has been, not having a chance to write to you folks for several months has been tolerable. Not being able to talk to many of you for a semester is also something I can deal with. But imagine, not only being unable to talk to you, but being prohibited from talking to anyone. Imagine, if this prohibition was not only for 6 months, but for three years. A great man by the name of Robert Sobukwe did not have to imagine this scenario. He lived it.

The head of the Pan-African Congress (PAC), Robert Sobukwe was reputed to be a remarkably charismatic man, capable of connecting with, inspiring, and mobilizing the African people on an unmatched level in the struggle against apartheid. In 1960, he was arrested for openly defying the pass law, which required all blacks to carry a small passport size pass, detailing the limits of their personal freedom of movement. After serving the three year sentence, afraid that his organizational skills would provide too big of an advantage to the struggle, South African parliament created the “Sobukwe Clause”, authorizing the Minister of Justice to renew Sobukwe’s imprisonment at his discretion. The authorities immediately re-arrested Sobukwe and sent him to Robben Island.

When he got to Robben Island, he was placed in a small two-room cottage, which was to be his residence of solitary confinement for the next three years. The government, concerned with his influence even from Robben Island, prohibited him from speaking to any of the other prisoners. He was sentenced to silence. But this did not stop him from communicating to his fellow inmates. Every day, he would go out to the gate of the fence that surrounded his cottage as the other prisoners on the Island were walking towards the Lime Quarry to begin their day’s labor. In his palm, he would hold a handful of sand, squeezing it tight, the grains dropping piece by piece towards the ground. With a face of determination, he would look at his comrades in the eye and they would understand exactly what he was saying through this symbolic gesture: “Through our blood, sweat, and tears, this land of Africa will return to our hands.” More than this, he was able to communicate his decision on various political tactics, and he continued to guide the PAC from solitary confinement through signaling various hand gestures to the prisoners walking by.

Memory often serves to store what’s important, and Robert Sobukwe’s story was by far the most memorable part of my trip last month to Robben Island. To tell you the truth, going to Robben Island was a bizarre experience. What was once a prison to Nelson Mandela, Walter Sisulu and Govan Mbeki, has now become a full blown tourist site, complete with snack shops (I can’t believe I find myself complaining about this), tour buses with cheesy catch lines written on the side – “the journey is never too long when the destination is freedom”-, and even the occasional penguin crossing (apparently as common in Cape Town as the rat in New York). Put simply, the place felt more like a Disney ride where “anything is possible as long as you believe,” rather than a historical site that was once used not only to uphold apartheid through imprisoning the leaders of the struggle, but was also a place where many atrocious forms of torture took place.

However, we did get a glimpse of the real history of this place through a tour of the prison guided by an ex-prisoner. The most heartening and real moment occurred when he held a simply question and answer session in one of the larger cells, inviting the group to break down the barriers and ask any question on our minds. The room fell silent as he told his story in a soft-spoke voice, nervously turning his ankles back and forth on the cement floor. During the Soweto uprising in 1960, a policeman murdered his pregnant girlfriend right in front of him. Immediately after, he joined the armed resistance against apartheid, hoping to bring down the system that justified such injustices. He planned an attack on an un-manned oil rigger out at sea, but ultimately failed to explode the target due to a miscalculation he made. Nevertheless, he was caught, convicted of sabotage, and sentenced to life in prison on Robben Island. I asked him what it’s like working as a tour guide every day in a place where he spent so many years as a prisoner. He responded simply by saying: “A man has to eat to live. He has to have money to eat. He has to work to have money. Sometimes it is hard being here, but that is why I do it.” It’s sad to think that although this man has not been imprisoned for 16 years with the dismantling of apartheid in 1994, the lack of economic opportunities in South Africa have kept him literally in prison until this day. When asked what types of punishments the prisoners received, the tour guide offered his response in the form of a clear, unquestionable hierarchy from bad to worst. A bad punishment was solitary confinement for 3 days, with minimal food and water, no contact with anybody else, and 24-hour lock down in the cell, with no time for exercise or fresh air. A worse punishment would be the same type of solitary confinement conditions, but for 14 days, with food being provided off and on for only three days at a time. But worst than either of these punishments was not being able to receive mail or have visitors. I was shocked. The prisoners were only allowed to receive one letter and have one 30 minute visit every 6 months, yet to have this tiny bit of personal connection to their loved ones taken away was considered unquestionably worst than being subject to the tortuous experience of hunger and solitary confinement. Perhaps in prison, human nature is highlighted more truly, with physical and material needs playing of second-rate importance to the human desire to communicate and connect to those closest to us.

Ok, now to break down my trip from the past 2 months. To give you guys an easier time digesting it, I’m going to write this blog like a play: Two Acts broken down into specific scenes. Ladies and gentlemen, kindly take your seats. The show is about to begin.

ACT ONE – APRIL

SCENE 1-Passover

As what can be expected from any Passover away from my mother’s matzo ball chicken soup or Auntie Gilda’s “tasty” cream puffs, during pessach I generally feel extremely weak and lose weight. Being a big carb man, I make sure to digest loads of matza, especially the shmura stuff, but this never compensates for the fact that almost everything else that tastes good contains corn syrup or other kitniyot that I’m forbidden to eat as a consequence of my polish ancestry. (I’m thinking of starting a campaign against this religious prohibition as well as a movement towards Jews that keep Halaal (Jhalaal). If you are interested in signing up for either group, please contact me personally (No Joke!).) Yet, as any Passover in exile goes, the first two sedders got me padded with a nice layer of fat that helped me stay warm for the hibernation of the 6 days that were to follow. The first sedder was quite an interesting scene that juxtaposed active youth with passive elderly. The sedder was headed by a vibrant, verbose baal teshuva. Oozing with energy and a deep bass voice, he led a fun filled sedder, full of stories told very loudly (whether it was out of consideration for the weak hearing of the elderly or neglect for the folks sitting right next to him such as me, I do not know), traditional family songs with the lyrics handed out to the crowd in attendance (for it as nothing short of a show), and even a chance to throw toy frogs and ping pong balls, in a gesture to simulate the ten plagues. On the other side of the table, were the elderly, who did as elderly do best- sit quietly and pretend to listen. Although I am only 22, I found myself empathizing most with the elderly, and by the end of the meal, I found myself with the grandma of the house, showing her how to turn off and on the lights in her own room and tucking her in bed. As odd as it is to say, there is something that feels nice and full circle of taking care of an old person. Her generation gave birth and provided my generation with immense opportunities and resources, and in return, I had the privilege to put a blanket over her body and help her go to sleep for one night. The second sedder took place at the Horowitz’s, the place where I am currently writing and staying for a week. It was an entirely different scene, offering everything a 22 year old could ask for. The Horowitz’s personally drove my friends and me to their home, offered us an arrangement of wines and drinks before the meal even started, hosted a crowd of interesting people, (including a pretty theater actress as well as a judge that helped write the constitution of Namibia) bought an entire kosher chicken specifically for my dietary needs, and flew threw the sedder so fast I don’t even remember it happening. All I could say in gratitude was- DAI ENU! (Translation: It would have been enough!) But there was more- they had video games. Lots of video games and we played them for a good while after the meal. One of the sons drove my friends and me home and we hung out some more at my place. Although untraditional, it was a very liberating sedder, to say the least.

SCENE 2- TWO OCEANS MARATHON

Before I write about the Two Oceans Marathon, I would just like to make one thing clear: The Two Oceans Marathon has nothing to do with two oceans. Many people mistakenly believe that the Cape Point, the beautiful tip of the Cape Peninsula that is just a 45-minute drive from the heart of Cape Town, is the point where the Indian and Atlantic Ocean split. This belief is simply false. I know I have written about this in the past, but just to reiterate an important geographic fact, the true divide of the oceans occurs at Cape Augulus, a 3-hour drive from Cape Town, and the true southern-most tip of Africa. Nevertheless, much of the branding in this city ignores this fact, and the phrase “Two Oceans” is used as an effective marketing strategy all over Cape Town, including the “Two Oceans” aquarium, as well as the “Two Oceans” Marathon. Despite this geographic inaccuracy, this race is an incredible ultra-marathon (56k!) event that I am eager to share with you.

The night before the “Two Oceans” Marathon, a friend of mine, Jon Bellar, told me of an opportunity to do some promotional charity work for “Old Mutual” alongside the marathon track. Basically, “Old Mutual” would outfit a squad of UCT student with “Old Mutual” gear and then send them off to various points in the marathon to serve as human advertisements. In return for the students helping to get the “Old Mutual” name out, the company pledged to donate a generous sum of money for every willing participant, with most of the money going to SHAWCO, a student volunteer organization on campus, as well as a small cut going to the students themselves. It sounded like a great way to provide some greater purpose to the passive activity of watching the marathon, and I jumped on board right when I heard of the idea.

Waking up at 4 AM after only 3 hours of sleep, I was so exhausted that I nearly decided to abandon ship and snooze through the morning. Via text message, Jon confirmed that he was still down to go, so I had no choice but to throw on some clothes, and run towards the bus station to catch a ride to the marathon track before I missed my lift. Upon getting to the station, Jon and I were greeted by a crew of student organizers who immediately loaded us up with “Old Mutual” gear. I threw on an “Old Mutual” shirt, whistle, hat, and even grabbed an “Old Mutual” branded Vuvuzela (if you don’t know what these things are, just watch a single game of the world cup- you will see them everywhere. Plastic horns that make a loud, obnoxious sound and people blow them all the time for no particular reason. Think Rosh Hashanah 24-7. Not very fun. There’s a reason we only blow the Shofar once a year. ) We were then thrown into a mini-bus and whisked off towards some unknown destination. The scene was very reminiscent of my early year experience with selling Sax Appeal (Look to post 1 for more on this.), especially considering that Robyn (the one whose laugh sounds like a lion roaring) happened to be thrown into the same mini-bus as me. Sweet.

Arriving in the middle of a big hill in a location that I still cannot identify, the mini-bus threw us out onto the street, the air and sky still cold and dark. For the first 30 minutes, we sat still, bored and unsure of what we were supposed to be doing. Then, a small car pulled up alongside us, the driver getting out and opening the trunk to reveal two huge speakers and a panel of DJ equipment. Within minutes, the technology was hooked up, the music was pumping, and as sophisticated and serious students are trained to do- we proceeded to groove. To the beats of everything from Bob Marley to Akon, we took our moves to the middle of the street, grooving right through the very rising of the sun and passing morning traffic. I’ve enjoyed dancing at many occasions- parties, concerts, weddings, religious weddings (a whole different beast with the serious circle dancing), bar-mitzvahs, etc.- and this early morning dance session definitely goes up there with the greatest. The music was blasting full volume, the entire group was getting really into it, we were in the middle of a hill side street surrounded by mountains, and our moving bodies warmed up in sync with the on-coming red glow of the sky. Adding to the energy, we made use of the vuvuzelas, twirling them in the air, blowing them to the rhythm of the beat, and walking in such a perfect line, that I guarantee we could have competed with any marching band. Folks, I’m telling you, it was a scene right out of Newsies.
Being close to the end of the marathon, this intense dance session went on in the middle of the street uninterrupted for the next few hours. Finally, once the runners came by, we continued to sway and swagger, but now we redirected our energy towards cheering on the runners, providing them with extra encouragement as they strived to maintain pace in the midst of this very challenging hill. The front runners, with the inner-focus of a professional chess player, paid no attention to us and probably didn’t even realize that we were there. Yet, once the cream of the crop passed, everyone from the above average runners to the straight up walkers seemed to be very grateful for our enthusiastic cheering. The double eye-brow raise was by far the most common form in which they expressed their gratitude. (Trying excitedly waving to strangers and see what type of reaction you get. I guarantee you will see plenty of double eye-brow raises.) Reading their names on their shirts from afar, we shouted things such as “Richard, your mom would be proud of you!” or “Diane, your son is really impressed with your hard work!” Sometimes, from the really excited runners, we even got an occasional pound or high five, which definitely helped to keep our spirits high in the midst of a very long day of cheering. In addition, there was a group of promoters across the street working for “Absa”, a rival bank to “Old Mutual.” Although they were actual promoters and paid much more than us, the competition between us added to the fun of the day, as each group tried to out-promote and out-cheer the other. It was color-war all over again, except instead of supporting a team with a particular color, we pledged our loyalty to the Old Mutual, cheering about various interest rates and loan options.

All morning, Jon and I were eyeing this particular mountain right beside our hill. At a certain point, the cheering got to be too much for us, and we decided to make a little trek up to the top of the hill. The little trek turned out to be a wee bit longer than we expected, as we had to blaze our own trail and climb rocks that were gradually becoming wet and slippery due to a mountain top cloud that met us half way up our trek. Finally, upon arriving at the top, in a lord-of-the-rings fashion, we blew our vuvuzelas as a signal of our victory over the mountain. Surrounding us were more mountains, and looking out to both the East and West, we could see a body of water in each direction. The view was terrific (yet, remember, both bodies of water were still part of the Atlantic!) On our way down, we blazed a different path, carefully stepping over fallen bushes and tree branches. On one step I found myself standing directly above an extremely poisonous snake, which startled, and quickly slithered away from me. We made it down safely and overall the day was a huge success; Jon ran the last 10 KM of the race on fresh feet, triumphantly passing the other runners who were worn down from having already stamped out 42 KM, and I walked away with the digits of a fellow volunteer, who happened to also be a very pretty South African girl.

Scene 3- Table Mountain Scramble

In the middle of a boring, nothing-to-do Sunday, a few friends- Martin from Sweden and Ian from Cornville, Arizona (A real place. No Joke. Unexpectedly, there is no corn in Cornville. I guess it’s one of those no ice in Iceland/ no green in Greenland things), and I decided to take a short hike up to Rhodes Memorial, a beautiful lookout point in the middle of Table-Mountain centered around a monument of a man riding on a horse. The rider is supposed to be Cecil Rhodes, one of the “great” imperialists of his time who “earnestly” wanted to spread the goodness of the British people. He was once quoted as saying of the English: "I contend that we are the first race in the world and that the more of the world we inhabit the better it is for the human race." Ironically enough, the prestigious scholarship in his namesake, the Rhodes scholarship, recruits applicants who strive for social justice and have compassion with discriminated members of society. Rhodes must be TWISTING in his grave. Yet, despite all of Rhodes moral shortcomings, he was a legend at getting magnificent monuments built after him, and Rhodes Memorial is known to be one of the best. In the spirit of Rhodes, upon reaching this magnificent point, my friends and I wanted to climb further, reach higher, and test the limits of the human potential! We made our way through some bushes and began an ascent up the mountain on a small dirt path. Upon reaching a flat point in the trail, we took a break to enjoy the even higher view. Yet, the moment was all but still and quiet, as jet-engine like winds blew across the mountain with such force that we had to fight to prevent being blown off the edge. Taking advantage of this force of nature, we decided to test how far this wind could carry our spit. Within moments, we were jumping for joy and handing each other high-fives in excitement of our spit flying well over 15 meters. After the spitting session, we deliberated on whether we should return home or continue with the spirit of adventure, following the path or non-path until we finally reached the centre of Cape Town. Reasoning that since we could see Cape Town’s skyscrapers it must not be that far, 20 minutes or half an hour max, we decided to continue with the trek. Three hours later, tired, dehydrated, and with way too many Israeli pickles and peanuts on our hands (it was a snack I brought up intending to eat when we reached whatever our destination was to be), we ended up in the centre of Cape Town, desperate to catch a mini-bus taxi home. Although the hike ended up being a bit longer than we expected, the adventure was worthwhile due to the numerous memorable sites and moments along the way. An abandoned house in the middle of the hill with a homeless person sleeping inside of it (whom we are lucky to have not woken) was one of the places we explored. Another place we saw was an abandoned shooting range, covered in empty bullet shells. Ian from Cornville also happens to be a soldier in the US army and he carefully explained to us the make, model, strengths and weaknesses of each bullet. After losing the trail, we were forced to go through some heavy bush, with the skyscrapers serving as our only compass towards our destination. A slight obstacle of a high-speed highway met us in our way, especially difficult to cross due to a curve in the road that cars whizzed around just beyond where we were standing. We came up with a plan that one of us would run across first to get a better view of the curve and make sure that the coast was clear for the rest. What this plan failed to neglect was the fact that the first person would not have a look-out man, making him vulnerable to cars zooming just behind the blind curve. Elected first person to cross, I opened my ears carefully, listening for any engines in the distance. Upon hearing a moment of silence, I made a quick move forward to suddenly see a red vehicle coming towards me, propelling me to make a move back to safety just as fast. My hear-beat quickened, concerned more for startling a driver into a swerving accident than for a car actually hitting me. After a moment’s breath, I took my chances yet again, this time making it across, arms raised in air. After guiding my friend’s across the street, we continued towards Cape Town, passing a field of burning grass as the last memorable moment before getting into town. Dehydrated and loaded with too many Israeli pickles and not enough water, we made a quick stop for some water and bread at the Indian Bazaar, which sells incredible Naan for only 5 rand (70 cents). We stuffed ourselves into an already over-crowded mini-bus and slumped in our seats, exhausted and happy to go home. Lesson of the day: don’t cross highways and when you go for a hike, bring a better balance of pickles and water. Pickle juice just doesn’t quite do the job.

Scene 4- Old Biscuit Mill

Basically, imagine the most savory smells, the most scrumptious tastes, the most melodic music, and the most beautiful looking and elegantly dressed people, and you have imagined the Old Biscuit Mill (even the dogs that people are walking are guaranteed to be cute.) Like any open market, once a week various restaurants and food producers set up a stand at the Mill, inviting people to taste their various foods and buy what they like. However, as alluded to above, what makes the Old Biscuit Mill special comes down its pure quality. Rather than talk about the structural construct of the good looking people’s faces or the theory behind the pleasant music that was played, I will only elaborate on that which is most important- the food. (Seriously, where you expecting anything else?) Close your eyes (might be tough if you are reading this) and imagine. Before even walking into the actual market, you stop at a place across the street where an Israeli sells sensational hummus and babaganoush. You speak to him in Hebrew to distract him as you sample his food repeatedly. Leaving his store and walking into the main tent of the market, you are greeted by a stand displaying an assortment of olives. Soaked in everything from garlic to rosemary and ranging in colors from green to purple, the choice of olives is overwhelming. Yet, don’t worry, there are plenty of toothpicks to try them all, and despite the fact that ultimately the woman behind the stand wants to make a sale and profit, she encourages you to taste as many olives as you would like (at a certain point, you might get some “are you serious?!” looks, but that’s only after you’ve tried ALL the types of olives, MULTIPLE times). A walk a little further brings you to the fresh bread section, where you are greeted by loafs of French, ciabatta, rye, sourdough, and other types of this universal staple. You buy a loaf and put it in your bag immediately, because by the time you’ve sampled all the stands, it is very likely that the bread man will be sold out. Walking on, you sample some more olives at other olives stands, Acting curious, intrigued, and like you’ve never seen an olive before always helps bring out an encouraging “try another one” reaction from the stand people. “Wow, what is that?” “Oooo, that smells good,” or just a jaw-dropping stare are all effective ways of getting that second sample that we all we all know everybody is looking for. Moving forward, you taste cheeses, avocado, tomatoes, and bread, and if you are really skilled, you collect enough various samples from all these stands that you are able to combine them to make a delicious sandwich, without having spent a dime! You move on to the fresh juice section and are sure to sample at least three flavors before buying the freshly squeezed pomegranate juice, which you knew you were going to buy all along. Slowly, you move into the next section, where you relish in the smell for as long as you can, because you know that if you keep the same kind of kosher as me, this is as close as you will get to tasting any of the tender meats that are being cooked, grilled, and fried. You take a walk around the entire section, in awe of the diversity of cuts. You make a note of all the “vegetarian” stands, serving foods such as pizza, caprice sandwiches, and potato pancakes (like bubbie’s latkes, just “slightly” supped up with basil, fresh cow-milk, and potatoes shipped directly from Ireland.) You buy a beer, and make a round of all the stands again, because it is just so much fun to look at food that you know you can never eat! Finally, you make a choice. You go for the latkes covered in lox and a poached egg, because it’s as kosher as it’s going to get. You sit down. You eat. And then you do it all over again and again until there is no more food or they kick you out.
Just an ordinary day at the Old Biscuit Mill. And remember, folks, this miraculous event happens once a week. Like Kiddush at shul…

SCENE 5- Cape Town Museums

One particular weekend, Ian and I decided to dedicate an entire day to exploring the museums of Cape Town. All the Cape Town museums are connected through a common organization and network called Ikozi, which means fire pit. Like people coming around a fire pit at night to share their stories, the museums surround Cape Town tell the history of the city from different perspectives. I won’t go into too much detail as to the content of the museums, but if you want to learn more, I simply recommend googling: “Colonialism, slavery, and Cape Town,” because sad but true, that was a recurrent theme throughout the day. (On a side note, I was recently watching a world cup game at a fan fest in Cape Town, in which there was an ad promoting the history of the city. Along with recognizing Mandela and the struggle for liberation, the ad showed pictures of colonists landing ashore and building houses, with bold subtitles declaring “Courage,” “Vision,” and other various virtues. The Ad closed by saying “Cape Town, don’t forget the history.” This is a city whose history can not be discussed without mentioning slavery and discrimination. It seems as if the makers of the ad, which neglected to mention these horrible memories, did the only forgetting of history. Sure, I would never expect a promotional ad to brag about slavery and oppression, but better not create a history promotional ad at all than create one that censors these elements that are a fundamental part of this city’s story.) However, I will relay a few highlights from the day. Our first stop was a giant star shaped structure in the middle of the city, which used to be a castle for the early colonialists to defend themselves from the natives. Upon entering the castle, we saw a man dressed in medieval clothing, talking to a modest crowd with a very small canon at his feet. Running over to the scene, we caught him talking about how the canon works. He then asked if anyone knew what the humpty dumpty song was all about. Everyone answered that it was about an egg falling off a wall, and as expected in these types of situations where the answer is seemingly obvious, we were all wrong. The man went on to tell us that real story of humpty dumpty was about a particular British canon falling down during the destruction of a castle wall in England. The man then unfolded from his pocket a big piece of paper with a drawing of the egg humpty dumpty, taped it to a milk crate that was positioned in front of the canon, and told us to move back. He lit the fuse, placed it on the canon, and BOOM! Fire exploded from the front and back of the canon, the whole thing wheeled itself backwards from the force of the blast, and humpty dumpty was shot down off the crate, with a million little holes in his head from the gunpowder spray. Looks can definitely be deceiving- that baby canon was comedicaly powerful.
Later in the day, we went to the slave museums, which was built in what was once a slave house. My favorite exhibit in this museum was the life of Nelson Mandela as chronicled by Zapiro. Zapiro (real name: Jonathan Shapiro) is a famous South African cartoonist, who uses satire to address the political and social issues facing the country. Please, please, please, google this man’s name and check out some of his comics. If you know anything about South Africa’s history, you will find them hysterical. And if you don’t know anything about this country, do some research just for the sake of laughing at his comics!

The day finished off with some nice down time in the company gardens, the central park of Cape Town. Little kids ran around feeding squirrels while I sat on a bench and read Mandela’s autobiography “A Long Walk to Freedom” ( “A Book that everyone should read” according to the Boston Globe).

Scene 6- Dr. Zaid, The Witch Doctor.

One day, my friend Mickey came over to my room to show me an ad in the newspaper about a witch doctor named Dr. Zaid. In the ad, Dr. Zaid guaranteed that he could cure AIDS, give people good luck when gambling, and grant you powers so that you can “touch a girl and she will follow you.” The guarantee was so strong, that except for an initial consultation fee of 50 rand (7 dollars) you only had to pay him fully once your wish was fulfilled. Mickey wanted to see what this was all about, and together with Ian and me, the three of us decided to make an appointment with Dr. Zaid, the Witch Doctor.

When we arrived in his office, we were shocked to see how nice the place looked. Decked out in leather couches and a big flat screen TV, it was clear that Dr. Zaid’s practice was doing well. Dr. Zaid wasn’t there and an assistant came over and told us that he was running a little late and would be there soon. This didn’t bother us in the least bit, because within minutes we discovered a stack of DVDS, one of them which was titled Multi-in-One- essentially the ultimate bootleg DVD, a collection of dozens of movies on a single disc, all with Chinese labels of course. We stretched out on the sofas and started watching the movie “Do the Right Thing.” Instantly, I was intrigued. The assistant repeatedly came back into the room, telling us that Dr. Zaid was still running late. At a certain point, it didn’t really matter to us and we would have actually preferred if Dr. Zaid came even later than he did, just so we could have had a chance to finish the film. After about an hour into the film, Dr. Zaid finally came, and he welcomed us into a dark side-room, taking his shoes off before he entered, apparently as a sign of respect. All of us hesitated before taking our shoes off, wanting to show respect to his practice, but at the same time worried that we were walking into some scam and that our shoes would “magically” disappear while we were in the dark room of “magic.” Nevertheless, we rolled the dice, took our shoes off, and stepped our socks into the dark room. It was everything you expected from a witch doctor’s office: black cloth covering the wallpaper, a stack of hay as tall as me in the corner of the room, a tub of dirty water with grass in it, a set of antlers, a few more things I just don’t even know how to describe, and of course, one single light bulb in the middle of the floor to mysteriously illuminate it all. Now you see it, now you don’t. Of course, with no chairs in the room, Dr. Zaid sat down, and all of us followed suite with such a deliberate attempt to show comfortability that it was just straight up awkward. Dr. Zaid stressed that it was better if we each met one-on-one, but we were worried that would cost us extra consultation fees, so we made it clear that we wanted to meet together.
He looked at me first, and asked slowly and deliberately, “What is it that you come here for?”
I told him, “I’m interested in the touching a girl and having her follow me deal. I have one girl in mind. She is highly unfriendly and I couldn’t imagine her ever wanting to follow me. “
He responded, “Yes, if you touch a girl, she will follow you. But you have to do exactly as I say. First, it must be someone that you are interested in. Someone you want. Someone you want to marry. Because after you touch her, you will be able to do whatever you want with her. She will marry you. What you have to do is this. You must go up to her and give her a little tap on the bum”
While saying this, he made the motion of giving someone a tap on the bum, with a dead-serious look in his face. Mickey and me couldn’t help ourselves and we burst out laughing.
This upset Dr. Zaid, and he said: “This is why I do consultation one-on-one. This is not good that you are laughing.”
While Mickey continued to burst out next to me, I did my best to gain my composure and explained: “It’s just, I don’t get it. Does it have to be on the bum?”
“Yes” Dr. Zaid replied.
“What about on the shoulder, or the arm, or the leg? Isn’t the leg close enough to the bum to count?” I questioned.
“No, it must be on the bum,” he confidently replied.
“Well, obviously a girl is going to follow me if I tap her on the bum. She’ll chase me down and slap me. That’s not the type of following that I’m looking for. I don’t want the police after me, Dr. Zaid.” I told him.
“No, no, no,” he reassured me, “you see, girls, they sometimes say that they don’t like that. But we all know that they want that. A little tap on the bum. Not so hard, a little tap.” He paused, “But it must be on the bum.”
I had to use all the self-control I had within me to keep myself from bursting out loud, which was made all the more challenging by Mickey’s snickering in the corner. At times, I couldn’t help myself, and I let out the kind of devilish laughter that was made all the sweeter because I knew I wasn’t supposed to.
“After you tap her on the bum, like this.” He does the motion once again, while continuing, “then she will come to you, and you can do whatever you want. You can ask her to marry you. And she will”
“Just like that? A tap on the bum and she’s my wife, that’s it?” I ask skeptically.
“No, that is not everything.” Dr. Zaid responds. “There is a little more that I must tell you. It is about the magic. But I will only tell you once you pay.”
“How much?”
“400 Rand (60 dollars)”
“That’s a lot!”
“No, no, don’t worry. 200 you pay now, and the other 200, after you tap her. On the bum, of course. After you see that it works.”

I explained to him that it was completely out of my league to pay 400 rand to tap a girl on the bum and that I thought I only had to pay 50 rand and then I would learn all the secrets. He moved onto my friend Ian, without hesitation. Ian told him that he was interested in gaining luck for gambling, and Dr. Zaid said it was quite simple. Ian would have to pay 200 rand and Dr. Zaid would give him luck for gambling, telling him where to go gamble. Then Ian would gamble and, of course, make money, but he would have to come back and bring the money to Dr. Zaid. At this point, Dr. Zaid would talk to the ancestors, and they would tell him what Ian should do with his money. The most important thing, Dr. Zaid emphasized, was that Ian do exactly as the ancestors told him. If he didn’t listen to the ancestors, many bad things would befall upon him. While this was going on, I couldn’t help but wonder how this communication with the ancestors worked. Did they speak through the hay stack of the bull horns? It seemed to me that the only safe bet here was that these ancestors were good businessmen, and Ian could expect nothing less than the request for a healthy tip for their services, with paralysis and death looming as threats if proper payment were not delivered. Even though I don’t believe in this stuff, I still wouldn’t want to mess around with these ancestors. To my ultimate shock, Ian actually thought about signing up for the lucky charms, just in case it worked. For his own sake, he had enough sense to say that he’ll think about it before handing any cash over.
Dr. Zaid then asked Mickey what he wanted, and Mickey smoothly replied that he wanted nothing more than to see his friends succeed.
So as our meeting with Dr. Zaid appeared to come to an end, Dr. Zaid told us to think about it and to come back soon. We’ve all thought about going back to finish the movie, but again, you can only mess with magic for so long until it turns on you.
We opened the door, and luckily for us, our shoes were still there. Perhaps the fact that they weren’t stolen is a good enough testimony to the truth of Dr. Zaid’s magic.

Scene 7- Afrika Burns

Based on the Burning Man festival in the States, Afrika Burns is a 5 day desert camping retreat of eating, partying, burning giant art sculptures, and gift giving and receiving. The idea behind the festival is to create an artistic atmosphere of communal sharing, in which every camp brings something to give to others, and in turn, entitles them to receive the gifts of the rest of the campers. Money is absolutely forbidden, except of course the 450 rand entrance fee to get in, which goes to crucial logistical needs, such as setting up outhouses to keep the camp site sanitary for its 2,000 plus inhabitants. The camp site is in the middle of the Karoo desert with zero access to electricity or running water, demanding of campers to bring these basic necessities with them. It was astonishing how much these festival goers could create on their own, as flashing lights and wild displays covered the site and created a city like environment cast in the desert, resembling the Las Vegas strip more than an isolated campsite. I’ll go into more details in a moment, but first, the trip there.

Packing four people into my friend Maya’s tiny gulf, with all the belongings we would need for the long weekend, the car was so full that the shocks were almost bottomed out from all the weight. The real journey only began three hours into the drive, when we reached the edge of the Karoo desert. Driving through the Karoo, we slowly made our way through the bumpy dirt-roads, driving past endless open fields and hills of pure nothingness. Occasionally, we passed by small farming shacks, but they all seemed to be abandoned. Finally, as we made our way over a ridge overlooking a valley below, Maya and her friend Phumi, both who had been to Afrika Burns before, immediately shouted “Stop!” They quickly exclaimed that without a doubt, we were going the wrong way. We found ourselves lost in the middle of the desert. After a quick U-turn we proceeded to inspect each and every form of shelter along the way, hoping to find some form of human life to guide us in the right direction. First stop, an abandoned cattle farm. No one there. Second stop, an abandoned sheep ranch. No on there. The sun was setting and our situation was looking dire. Finally, in the distance, we saw smoke and followed the trail that led to its source. Upon arriving at a small fire, we met an extremely friendly Afrikaans man with his wife, who happened to be grilling delicious lamb chops on the open flame. After offering us a drink, which we had to unfortunately decline due to the urgency to reach Afrika Burns, they pointed us in the right direction, and we were once again on our way. Although ideally we would have been watching the sun set from our already set up camp, looking at the desert sky glow like a rainbow on an isolated dirt road definitely had its own beauty to it. (As the great Bruce would say, “That’s the Beauty To It!”) However, when the sun finally set, darkness surrounded us, and the spooky scene was made all the eerier by the abandoned cars scattered alongside the road. You see, when people get a flat on their way to Afrika Burns, the excitement to arrive at the campsite is so great that people will actually hitch a ride to the camp and only come fetch their cars on the way back from the long weekend, not wanting to miss a moment of the experience to change a flat.

Driving further on, we saw a car driving that was clearly in trouble, as the exhaust pipe was emitting a dark black smoke and the rear right tire was clearly flat. The drivers were apparently oblivious to all of this, as they drove on with music blasting and the front headlights turned off. It was pretty clear that their party was already started. We hailed them over, and after making them aware of their problem, they explained to us that they had a spare tire, but no jack to switch it with. How convenient. This led to us having to completely unpack the tightly packed trunk to gain access to our jack. When we finally reached the tool, we discovered that it didn’t even fit their car. Frustrated, we packed our stuff back up and wished the best of luck to the delirious fellows, who bid us farewell with some foul smelling hugs. Driving down the road, we could see the dudes jumping in their own car and continuing down the dirt road with the flat unfixed and music blasting just the same.

Finally, we arrived at Afrika Burns and were greeted by some ladies speaking in Eastern European accents who were dressed up in Alien suites. After taking inaugural shots of “magic” juice and laying the throng down on the initiation bell, we drove in the main site, to be welcomed by a scene that was truly out of this world.

The best way to describe Afrika Burns is that it was a combination of a child’s wildest dreams and fantasies from age 3-12 all placed together in a single place. There was a huge blow-up tent (when I say tent, think circus size) that was shaped like a giant squid. Inside the squid, there was a dance floor that was popping until 3 AM with a live DJ and a very spaced out crowd. Just by the squid, there was a giant jelly fish that covers a section of tables, for chill time. One tent was designed around an Alice and Wonderland theme, with a huge rabbit hole followed by a tiny wooden door that you have to walk to lead into enter a room covered in fake grass and little tea cups and plates. Everyday at 4, teatime was held here, which included socializing, blasting music and free cake. Tea was certainly not the only herb passed around. A hot-spot for the night life was the desert rose, which was simply a huge 10 meter rose that land-marked a tent with a very sweet dancing vibe. There was music playing literally 24 hours a day, so if you wanted to move, there was always an option. (Although this sometimes meant some very strange choices). Another unique place to dance was a portable, full size living room, fully equipped with couches, tables, and paintings of snobby elderly women. This was actually the best party place, especially on the night that it was parked next to a GIANT Lego man (classic childhood fantasy.) Getting around the huge camp was never a problem. One option was hoping onto the back of a full hay-truck, whose bed was loaded with a huge set of speakers and a live band. The musicians always made sure there was room for fans to jump aboard as the truck drove around the camp. Another alternative was a wacky giant motorcycle that was actually used as a vehicle in some Hollywood movie. My personal transportation preference was the pirate ship van. I just such a kick climbing up the side ladder of the van, to find myself in the middle of a giant pirate ship structure with a mast towering over me. As the pirate ship van drove around aimlessly through the night, there was no need to ask permission before hopping on; being a gift giving society, at Afrika Burns, literally anything goes. (Example: one very tall man was painted blue and walked around dressed up like an Avatar for the entire weekend. He also happens to be a teacher at UCT. The weird things people do in their weekends.)

However, the most common mode of transportation people used were bicycles. Burrowing an especially small bike (think tricycle size) from someone in my camp one afternoon, I left it by another tent to join a group of guys driving out to the well for a swim. When I came back, the bike was gone and I panicked because it wasn’t mine. For the next two hours, I proceeded to walk around the entire camp, questioning every little child where they got their bike from. I walked into people’s dinners asking if they’ve seen a small blue bike. No luck. Finally, I gave up and took another bike to provide me with transport for the evening. All of a sudden, just when I got the new bike, someone whom I never met came over to me and told me that they found my bike. Perhaps they knew me from all the little kids I harassed about their bikes, but either way, I was greatly relieved. For the rest of the night, I was stuck with two bikes on my hand, riding one with one hand while holding the second with the other. I placed both bikes down for a moment and two little girls picked them up speeding away for a joy ride. I chased after them as fast as I could, explaining to them that those bikes are not to leave my sight. Perhaps there are indeed some challenges living in an open gift giving society in which anything goes. Private property, is indeed sometimes nice.

Some of my favorite gifts: A station where you can choose a postcard, write a note, and the people running this tent will actually send it out to who ever you address it to. One postcard had a picture of a naked man jumping in the desert and I just had to send it out to Lionel Lyon. If you don’t get it, don’t worry, I know he understands. Another station I got a kick out of was the stone giving station, in which you pick a stone that speaks to your spirit. Although this might have not been the nicest thing to do, I decided to sort of mock the whole thing, by taking it VERY VERY seriously. Placing various stones on my heart, I would tell people around me to be quiet and listen intently in the silence, determined to find a Stone that truly “spoke” to me. Once I found the right stone (it’s green and I still have it in case you want to see it), I proceeded to talk about my deep connection with it for several minutes. I got such an inside laugh out of the whole thing. However, I think the people running the station thought I was serious and didn’t pick up on the joke, thankfully saving them and me from any embarrassment. Our camp had a bread-making and kite-making station for our gift, but there really is not much more to say about that. We never actually made kites, and we ate all the bread that we made. In terms of food, our camp ate like royalty. Through a connection of Maya’s, we stayed with a camp of 15 people in which everyone threw down 700 rand before the trip began. This enabled us to eat gourmet through the trip, which included meals of fried eggplant appetizers and Indian Curry. No more about food for now, there are just too many other points to cover.

One very strange event that occurred: I was sitting silently with a few strangers on a giant harp-like structure and a man painted blue on a bike came up to us. After briefly introducing himself as Thundercat, asking our names, and offering us some dates, he proceeded to pluck at some of the strings coming out of this sculpture, making sounds of various pitches with the pluck of each string. For the next 10 minutes, he continued to do this, composing an improvised masterpiece for our crowd of three. When he finished, he simply bowed and biked away. We all clapped and had a good laugh, and then returned to peaceful silence. A few minutes later, I turned my head and saw Thundercat in the distance. He was getting his picture taken while doing headstands in the portable living room- naked.

The most exciting part of Afrika Burns was by far the various burns. The entire festival revolves around the burning of the various sculptures set up around the camp, with different sculptures being burnt each night. These were without a doubt the biggest fires I have seen in my life, stretching easily 20 meters into the sky. The most memorable fire was the burning of the Lego man. Standing at around 5 meters high, the Lego man was exactly what you would expect- a huge replica of the Lego man, walking on some blocks, with a few spare giant blocks on the side to establish the setting. When the Lego man was lit, the first thing to go down was the head, which fell from the top and rolled towards the giant crowd encircling the structure. One of the fireguards walked over to the rolled overhead, which was now engulfed in flames. He casually took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, leaned down, lit the cigarette from the actual burning head, stood there, and calmly looked down at the dead Mr. Lego man while smoking the cigarette that he lit from his head. It simply doesn’t get more gangster than that. What also made the burning of Lego man memorable is the stampede of naked women who decided to run around the fire, passing all the fire guards, when the flame was at its peak. Watching the naked women juke out the fire guards back and forth was a hilarious site indeed. Then, from the midst of all the naked women, one stayed back to be met by a naked man that emerged from the crowd- none other than my friend, Mr. ThunderCat. The ensuing improvised dance that was performed between these two creatures can be best described as simply beautiful and a pure freak show.

Driving back home from Afrika Burns, I couldn’t help but think, who are these people?! Where do they come from? Do they live in our cities, towns and homes? What do they do on a day to day basis? Do they shop in our grocery stores? My car pulled over to the side for a quick pit stop and I decided to relieve myself by some bushes on the side of the road. As I was walking towards my car, another vehicle pulled over and a man popped out of the shotgun seat. He immediately looked at me as if we were long lost friends and shouted out, “Hey David.” Confused and unable to identify him, I look back at him, not knowing what to say. He then made a plucking gesture in the air and sang a single note from his mouth. “Thundercat!” I blurted out, which upon hearing this, he smiled and went back into his car and drove away. I guess these people aren’t that weird after all????