Today, a local friend that I haven’t seen for a while asked me how I was doing, and the title above was my instinctual response: “Trying to keep up with myself.” Literally, there is just so much going on in this country, that I’m hustling to keep up with all that sights, sounds, smells, and other attractions. I put my blog in list form this time, so that you can read the blog like chapters in a book, taking in one story at a time. So, grab a cup of coffee, sit back and relax; you’re in for quite a ride.
1) Tagging along with the UCT Mountain and Ski Club, I went camping and rock climbing in Montagu, a small town located 2.5 hours North-East of Cape Town. The grape-growing, wine-producing inhabitants can’t help but be humbled by the surrounding gargantuan mountains. I was hoping to get in a few good climbs, but that turned out to be quite a challenge, as the biggest size climbing shoes available were 12s (Remember the 5 shoe store story? Discrimination in South Africa doesn’t pass over tall people). I gave the 12ers a shot, forcing them on, and shuffling myself painfully over to the cliff. With my toes curled 180 degrees, I barely got two feet on the wall before my high tolerance for pain gave in. (I get my cavity fillings done pure- No Novocain, so you know it really hurt.) I then tried climbing in my hunky climbing boots- no success, they were just too monstrous. One last try, I attempted to scale the rock barefoot, but my tender feet quickly alerted me that it was simply a bad idea. Ultimately, I settled for sitting on the sidelines, lazily spending the time watching other people climb. But even this was not without its excitement as I got to witness some lekker (Afrikaners for awesome) climbing from the leader of the trip, Joe, who has the reputation of being one of the best rock climbers in all of South Africa, a country known for its lekker climbing. The past 7 years, Joe travelled around the world, climbing whatever he could get his hands on, as well as making a career for himself by climbing up huge buildings to set up Christmas lights in the holiday season. Watching him climb was like was witnessing an Olympic athlete, live in action. Even when climbing the steepest of overhangs, this specimen of nature scurried up the rock with the swiftness of a startled lizard. But of course, as any good camping trip goes, the highlight is never in the hike or the climb, but rather it’s in the food and the Joel Jokes. (And since Joshie wasn’t here, I had to restrict myself on the JJs.) Having no kosher meat on me, I resorted to a classic Israeli camping trick- take whatever vegetables you have and throw them in an open fire. This included peppers, potatoes, a can of beans, and of course, the sacred eggplant. My South African friends never heard about burning up a whole eggplant, and were quite skeptical about how it would go. Yet, I was confident in my choice and it didn’t take much to convert them to avid fans. Scorched black on the outside, mushy and gooey on the inside, that purple heart of goodness melted in the mouth like a stick of pure butter.
2) The past few weeks I’ve been getting involved volunteering with an organization called hoops for hope (H4H). H4H works with Township kids in South Africa and Zimbabwe, empowering the youth with skills for life in a very clever way. Essentially, H4H runs basketball clinics for Township kids after school, teaching the youth the fundamentals of basketball, such as dribbling, passing and shooting. On my first day in the field, there was one court for over 100 kids, but the over crowdedness was irrelevant for them, as spending an hour and a half of their day in a warm, encouraging environment, chasing balls and performing goofy warm up dances, was enough to lift their cheeks in the biggest of smiles. All of a sudden in the middle of practice, the main coach blew his whistle, and the swarm of kids hustled to form a giant circle in the middle of the court. The children, quickly calmed and collected, listen carefully as the coach told a story about a kid who practiced basketball every day, with the dream of one day going pro. After a few years of working on his game, the kid’s friends were doing drugs asked him to join. Putting the ball in the hands of the kids, the coach turned to the circle and asked: “What should he do? What would you do?” The story continued like this, with the children involved in thinking and responding to these hypothetical situations that are in reality, not so hypothetical for them. H4H’s style of teaching is very effective, because rather than telling the children what to do and what not to do, it gets the kids thinking about these important life questions for themselves. This way, when a situation confronts them and their tempted to follow their friends down a dark path, they’ve already thought it out on their own and are armed with the right decision. So far, I’ve been helping out H4H by selling some slick T-shirts as a way to get some fundraising going. Check out the link:http://www.h4hglobal.org/h4hglobal.org/h4h_Blog/Entries/2010/2/26_Calling_All_Social_Entrepreneurs!Putting_People_Skills_to_work_at_H4H.html
By far, the coolest part about joining the H4H team is that I had the privilege of meeting the single person most responsible for the Celtics 17th Championship banner- a man named Kita from the Democratic Republic of Congo. My first day at the H4H office, Kita came charging into the room, quickly hollered at me, “want to play ball in the Townships?” and whisked me out of my seat before I had a chance to reply. We headed down to his car, a well-maintained, Mercedes Benz from the 70s, stylish on the outside, with lush, comfortably worn-in leather seats on the inside. I sat down, opened my window, and let the breeze blow in, not knowing that I was about to absorb the coolest story I’ve heard since arriving in Cape Town. Kita initiated the conversation, asking me where I was from. After telling him about my Boston roots, he casually replied: “Boston? Oh yea? I’m boys with Ray Allen. Pierce- that’s my man. KG, yea, I got KG’s number.” Being an avid Celtics fan, I begged him to elaborate, and he went on to tell me how every year he works with the Celtics on various drills in training camp, such as shooting with Ray Allen. When he got to Boston after the KG deal, there was an urgency to create some kind of unity amongst the stardom of the Big Three: Pierce, Allen, and Garnett. Burrowing a South African word that has been used to unite the diverse population, Kita introduced the Celtics to the word, “Ubuntu”, meaning unity, as a way to cultivate a sense of togetherness on the court. For those of you that are Celtics fans, you certainly know what I’m talking about. From pre-season to the finals, there has been countless media coverage of Ubunutu, ESPECIALLY coming from KG. Interestingly enough, as Kita tells it, KG was initially very resistant to this whole idea of Ubuntu. He thought it was a bunch of trash and wanted nothing to do with some weird slogan from another continent. Yet, Kita kept insisting that although the word would not yield benefits at first, during adversarial times, Ubuntu would serve as a vital tool in lifting the Celtics over the toughest of challenges through cultivating a deep-found sense of the spirit of unity. Only when the Celtics would be down, would “Ubuntu” reveal its full power. Finally, after Kita’s persistent and stubborn encouragement of Ubuntu, KG adopted the word and the rest of the team instantly followed. For the entire season, Ubuntu was the slogan that the Celtics lived, breathed, and played by. But as Kita prophesized, its full power only came alive during one of the biggest challenges of the season- Game 1 of the NBA Finals. In the third quarter of the game, Paul Pierce, the Celtics star player, went down to the ground, clutching his knee in pain. As he was carried off the court, the Celtics chance at a 17th banner seemed to be slipping away. Without Pierce, the Celtics were demoralized. Yet, Coach Doc Rivers saw it differently, and wasn’t about to lose the momentum of this crucial game due to Pierce’s injury. Somehow, he had to inspire the players on the court to believe in themselves. If you watch the Celtics championship DVD, you can see exactly what he did. Screaming from the sidelines, with a desperate passion, Doc shouted towards his players: “Ubuntu! Ubuntu! Remember what that guy from Africa told us! Ubuntu!” The Celtics heard Doc’s call, and responded with incredible play for the rest of the half, ultimately winning the game. The C’s carried the energy from Game 1 into the rest of the series and went on to capturing the 2008 NBA Championship. Ubuntu worked and “that guy from Africa” that Doc was referring to in Game 1 was Kita. I couldn’t believe it- I was riding shotgun in a classic Mercedes Benz on the way to playing basketball in the Townships on a brilliantly sunny day with the very man responsible for the Celtics 2008 Championship Title- Kita. Man, was I ballin’….
Interestingly enough, H4H is also connected to the local Jewish day school, Herziliyah, as one of the H4H staff members, Thabo, coaches the girls middle school team. One day I joined Thabo, hiking up half of table-mountain to check out the school. The location of this building is just marvelous. When you walk out the front doors, literally all you can see is mountain above, and ocean out in the distance. The school had a great vibe to it, as kids were busy engaging in afterschool activities, involving everything from basketball to water-polo. Wandering around the school, I saw signs of everything you would expect from a good Jewish day school: science contraptions, art projects in memory of the holocaust, and posters addressing discussing Jewish values. It’s nice to travel half way around the world and up a mountain, and see that Jews everywhere are pretty much doing the same thing: using Jewish education to pass on to their children a lifestyle and tradition of community, knowledge, values, and of course, fun. (Mom, you would be proud.)
3) I spent a weekend at Maya’s (amazingly nice girl from Blog 1) beach-house in Hermanus. A small town snuggled against the Atlantic ocean 1.5 hours South-East of cape town, whales migrate here, splashing and mating during the winter months. One of the days, we grabbed some lunch at a beautiful grass park that literally drops into a cliff overlooking the ocean. Just a typical town in South Africa hey.
4) I went to the Soweto Gospel Choir concert at the usual Mecca of music, the Kirstenbosch Gardens. (The word SOWETO, stands for South-West Township, an area located just outside Jo-Burg that is famous for the Soweto uprisings during apartheid.) This was one of the most intense concert experiences of my life (I feel like almost everything I talk about in this blog has been described as a peak moment of my life, but honestly, it’s just the way I’m feeling about many of my experiences here. Hopefully, I haven’t reached the top yet; it would be a shame if it was all downhill from here…). Using only their voices and a single drummer to set the beat, the Soweto Gospel Choir threw their entire souls into every song they sang, smiling during the jolly ones, and almost coming to tears during the solemn stuff. Let me tell you folks, this show was an emotional roller coaster. They played a few of my favorites, including Awimaweh, the namesake of this blog. Many of you probably know Awimaweh as “the lion sleeps tonight,” from the movie the “Lion King.” The Choir did an incredible mix of the original song and the lion king adaptation, going back and forth from singing in Zulu to English. Besides a host of incredible African songs ( which I’m listening to right now by the way) they sang a few international classics such as Amazing Grace, and closing with Happy Day. Boy, and happy day it was! Butterflies flapped so hard in my gut, that I felt like my stomach was internally bleeding.
5) I went to a local shul for Megillah reading for Purim. In contrast to the States in which people Boooo when they hear Haman’s name, at this shul in Sea point, a gang of wanna-be Blue-Man groupies performed a brief symphony on various pots, pans and horns every time the big bad wolf’s name was called out. Interesting twist hey. After the reading, there were celebrations in the back which included beer, boerwurst (kosher!), and some ridiculous stand-up comedy, in which the crowd simultaneously laughed with and at the comedian on stage.
6) The next day, I woke up early to begin my scuba dive training course. I’m going to Mozambique in a few days, which is supposed to have some of the best scuba diving in the world. We’re talking Whale Sharks folks. To say that I’m AMPED would be an understatement.
7) Later in the same day, I joined a group of fellow exchanger students, including Tinker Bell (please don’t be like my parents and assume a romantic relationship- she’s just a very good friend!) on a hike up Lion’s head. Lion’s head is a huge chunk of rock that comes right up in the middle of Cape Town, having its own separate geographical identity from Table Mountain. This particular Sunday, a full moon was in the forecast, and hoards of folks gathered to climb up with the light of the sun, and hike down with the glow of the moon. To give you a glimpse of the beauty of Lion’s head, check out the picture below taken around the Lion’s nose- way short of the crown of the head. Upon reaching the top, I was hoping to have a nice snack session, bringing more wine than water in my backpack. But the hike was more challenging and hot than I anticipated, causing me to wish I had done the reverse. By the time I got to the top, I was just praying that the sun would set before dehydration hit. Just as the sun was setting on one side of the mountain, the moon was rising on other, making me feel like I was in the exact center of the world. Cape Town, the ocean, the suburbs, Table Mountain with its cable car glistening in the sun as it was making its last few trips of the day, boats out at sea, helicopters flying overhead...all of this was part of the panorama view. We hiked down in the dark with a few challenges, including a scorpion in the middle of the path that I had to take care of, but ultimately we made it down safely.
When I got home, I passed out in exhaustion (after passing out in the cab-ride as well.)
8) With a friend name Keletso, another person from the friend list provided by the Great Ezra Waxman (For now on, my frum friend will simply be referred to as GEW) I went to a showing of the famous Mozart opera “The Magic Flute”- adapted to the marimba! Imagine, the complex sound of an orchestra of violins, horns, cellos, drums, flutes and more, all transformed to sounds coming out of a band of vib-a-phone percussion like instruments, the Miramba. What’s more, the actual songs were adapted to various languages including English, Zulu, and Khosa. It was a show marked by its eclectic character. On the way back from the show, I met two people that have close working relations with Desmond Tutu. Wiki his name- he was and still is a very important man.
9) Yet, no matter how fun and exciting things are in this country, I am constantly reminded of the poverty, hunger, and serious challenges that face an overwhelming proportion of the population in South Africa on a day-to-day basis. This is not a place where the poor and homeless are merely pushed to the peripheries, out of sight and out of mind. The haves and the have-nots live side by side, and there is no getting away from being a firsthand observer to some extremely depressing situations. On a Friday morning a few weeks ago, I took out the trash from my house ( There are 22 people in my house. 22 people=a lot of trash.) Only to be greeted by a crew of homeless people, ready and eager to help me carry the trash to the corner. Despite the fact that I insisted on doing it myself, they took whatever bins that I could not handle on my first trip, and brought it over to the corner to be collected. Then, they surrounded the trash bins, and proceeded to open them up and shift through the various bags one by one, hoping to find some half-eaten piece of bread, some half-sour cartoon of milk, or even merely an empty plastic bottle to fill up with water- anything at all that could be of use to them. It was just sad for me to think that we live in a world in which literally one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. It just shouldn’t be that way. They actually gave me a thumbs up and smile as I left the bins behind, and although I politely smiled back, inside my guts turned in disgust, not at them, but at the system, which I myself admittedly am a part of, that allows for such injustice and inequality to exist.
7) On a lighter note, I finally got to do some surfing at Muizenburg, a break that is perfect for beginners, discounting the fact that it’s one of the world’s most popular hot spots for great white sharks. But don’t worry, every time a shark is spotted, a horn goes off, signaling all the surfers to come in. I was half-hoping and half-dreading to get a chance to hear the horn, but for better or worst, it didn’t go off during my surf session. Later in the day, I got my first opportunity to drive a car in South Africa, which was exciting, because due to the continual influence of British Colonialism, South Africans still drive on the left side of the road. Once, I almost forget this (only once, pretty good for me, right?) and came close to a near side-swipe collision, but quickly finagled out of it, and avoided the collision all together. So all in all, I felt satisfied with the day and was glad to be alive, having survived the sharks and the lefty roads.
8) The last event of great importance, this past Friday I debuted in my first Bollywood film! Needing extras on a shoot in Camps Bay for a Bollywood film called Crook, a friend texted me Friday morning, telling me that if I come for the day, not only would I get 200 Rand, be able to chill with movie stars, and act as an extra in a bollywood film, but I’d also be granted a free lunch. Mmmm…. Money, Celeberties, Bollywood and Food? It was a no brainer, and I hoped out of bed, taking the B-line straight to Camps Bay. In contrast to my high spirits at the start of the shoot, by the end of the day, I was tired, exhausted, and sick of Bollywood. As extras, we were supposed to be spectators of a cricket match between India and Australia. I didn’t have much of a choice on roles, as the director ordered all the white people to root for Australia, no exceptions allowed. Every time Australia scored we shouted and cheered and every time India scored we booed and cursed. As time wore on and I was getting increasingly impatient, bored, and antsy, I would have greatly preferred if India had scored more simply to provide me with an opportunity to boo and thus a means to vent my genuine frusturations.. All in all, it was still a worthwhile experience, as I got to meet and chill with Emraan Hashmi, literally the Brad Pitt of Bollywood, as well as get a feel for how the movie business in India works. Now I know I don’t want to be an actor, because there is way too much waiting time, and at the end of the day, the director rules the set. I think I’d rather do something with less waiting, more doing, and the ability to be the captain of my own ship, which is why I’m interested in writing. Nevertheless, being filmed in a Bollywood movie is going to be worth it for the sake of that one moment when I go back home, rent Crook, and show it to my Indian friends, casually waiting for scene of the Australia V India cricket game. They’ll be shocked.
Besides all of that above, there’s been a lot going on with the Township Debate League. We had a beginner’s tournament this past weekend (my kids are advanced) and I had a really productive discussion about celebrity activism with my students a few days ago. Saturday night, I went to a rugby game. I had two tests today (one in Film/Media and the other in Scuba Diving, so don’t worry Mom and Dad, I’m still working hard in school!) And basically, life is full, exciting, and I couldn’t ask for anything else. On thursday, I’m going to Jo-Burg, for a 10 day trip to Swaziland and Mozambique as a way to spend my school vacation. I’ll be out of touch for the entire time, and I’ll try getting around to giving ya’ll an update on my Scuba trip as soon as I can. Honestly, I’m living the dream and so grateful for it. Just trying to keep up with myself…
(Just to Give you guys a feel for what I mean by “just trying to keep up with myself”, when I started writing this, I got a call from one of the Bollywood producers. They wanted me to act as a cop in a full day shoot from 9 am to 9 PM tomorrow. I’ve been acting in Bollywood for one day, and I already got promoted! Even though I had such a tiring experience the first shoot, I was tempted to take on the role, but ultimately couldn’t, because I have too much to do before I head out to Mozambique. Folks, do you understand? I just turned down Bollywood…)
By the way, if you have reached this point of the blog, thank you for being such a loyal reader! I encourage you to submit a comment below, as a formal recognition of your loyalty. Seriously, write something!
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
BREAKING NEWS!
This just in. As you all know, the 2010 World Cup will be taking place in South Africa. It is the first time the World Cup is being held on African soil and it promises to be a tournament for the ages. For one month this winter (summer in the States), followers of futball from across the globe will migrate to the Southern tip of this great continent to watch their countries compete in the most glorified sporting event in the world. Like a high school senior waiting to hear from his college of choice, like a young man waiting to hear from a woman that he just proposed to, like a pregnant woman waiting to hear whether it’s a girl or a boy, I have been anxiously waiting to hear a response from FIFA since I applied for tickets a few Tuesdays ago.
The e-mail from FIFA finally came, and the moment of truth could not be delayed. I double clicked, and lo and behold, my ticket application was ACCEPTED! Not just into one game of my choice, but all four of them. On June 11, I will be watching France V Uruguay at the beautiful Green Point Stadium, sandwiched between downtown Cape Town, the Atlantic ocean, and of course, my good ol’ buddy, Table Mountain. On June 16, I’m headed for Durban, to witness Spain V. Switzerland, at the architectural wonder Moses Mabida stadium, which has been compared to the Eifell tower and the Sydney Opera house in its structural beauty. On June 18, I’m off to Jo-Burg, to root for the red, white, and blue, as perhaps the best USA team in tournament history begins its shot at the cup with a game against Slovenia. And finally, on June 20, I will be in Soccer City, Jo-Berg, to watch two of the greatest teams in the world compete in a match that is the ultimate celebration of individual and team talent: Brazil V Ivory Coast. BRAZIL V. IVORY COAST! Nothing else needs to be said.
Now back to reality. Two weekends ago, I underwent a day of training to prepare me for my volunteer work with an organization called Ubunye. A UCT student run volunteer organization, Ubunye does a lot of good work in the Cape Town area, with one of their projects being the Township Debating League (TDL). During Apartheid, the racist government in power forced blacks, colored, and Indian people out of their homes in the city centers, to the townships on the periphery. Although Apartheid ended over 15 years ago, the current state of the townships continues to reinforce the inequalities that were created during the racist regime. Underfunded, overcrowded, and set afar from the Central Business District of Cape Town, the people of the townships face tremendous obstacles in competing with those from more privileged backgrounds. The idea behind the Township Debating League is to improve the situation for the youth of the township by teaching high school students how to debate. (Think The Great Debaters, but just replace Denzel Washington with me. Easy, right? I’ve been told we have similar features…). Through debating, students improve their speech and communication skills, develop a greater sense of self-confidence, learn about the political and social issues facing South Africa, and are overall empowered by experiencing the magical force of words. What’s even more amazing about TDL is that the students get a chance to actually compete in regional debate tournaments. Last year, one of the TDL schools was able to out-debate a handful of expensive all white private schools in an extremely competitive regional tournament, and was second place only to the richest white school in the area. Despite their underprivileged backgrounds, these kids have proved that with the proper training and a push in the right direction, they can compete with the brightest and the best. Personally I think this whole endeavor is a genius idea, and I am thrilled and honored to be a part of the TDL project.
On the day of our training, I woke up at 7 AM and met a hoard of fellow UCT student volunteers at a local bus stop. From there, a caravan of mini-buses took us over to one of the local township schools where the training was to take place. After a quick introduction to the World School debate format, we were thrown into the position of Judges, sitting on the panel of a live debate, with the purpose of declaring a winner and offering constructive criticism to the debaters. 15 year old students, who moments before were goofing around the way kids should be, were all of a sudden transformed into dignified politicians as they entered the room composed, sitting down and shuffling through their notes in preparation for the debate. The range in the communication and articulation skills of the debaters varied greatly. One of the debaters showed exceptional capability, as he walked up to the podium slowly and stood still for a few seconds in complete silence, capturing the sharp attention of everyone in the room, as he gazed at his opponents and the panel of judges before even opening his mouth to speak. Another debater, had the right idea on his mind, but was too eager to say it all at once, speaking as fast as a runaway train, and sticking an unnecessary “ladies and gentlemen” in between every other sentence as an over-the-top attempt at formality. Nevertheless, his enthusiasm and energy was admirable. But perhaps the most courageous student of the day was one girl who barely said anything at all. When she got up to the podium, she was still shuffling through her notes, unsure of what to say. After about a minute of reading off several bullet points from the paper, her mind just went blank. The opposing team began to call for questions as a way to distract her and seize the momentum of the debate, but she persisted in turning them down, attempting to regain focus with determined mental strength. She continued to stand at the podium, beginning sentences, but unable to transform the cloudy thoughts in her mind into spoken word. For perhaps what was the next couple longest minutes of her day, she stood at the podium in confused silence, her mind struggling to seize the floating thoughts out of the air. Finally, after realizing that the words were just not coming to her and with her time limit almost up, she folded her notebook and took a seat. Without a doubt, in terms of actually debating, this girl displayed the weakest performance of the competition. She offered several well-spoken points at the beginning of the debate, but once she unable to regain her focus once she lost it. Yet, in terms of courage and determination, this young lady performed a show worthy of a standing ovation, as she boldly put herself forward in an up-most vulnerable position: standing in front of a critical audience with nothing to say. Despite being put in such an overwhelming situation, she stood her ground for several scary minutes, throwing all her mental energy into that uphill struggle of regaining focus and stability after her mental boat had been rocked. After the debate finished, we told this girl to come up to the Judges panel for constructive criticism. To our delight, she approached us eagerly to embrace any advice we had to offer. After one of the judges provided her with words of wisdom on how to stay focused, she smiled and skipped away, literally bouncing in excitement for the tips she received to help her with her next debate.
On Saturday night, I went to see a movie that was part of a film festival celebrating the 20th anniversary of Nelson Mandela’s freedom from prison. The film exposed the lack of the US involvement in the international sanctions movement against the South African government during the period of apartheid. This was mostly the work of President Reagan, who insisted that Sanctions would cripple the South African economy, and thus would be harming the very people that he was trying to help. Obviously, this was a load of pastrami (mmm…pastrami), and ultimately in 1987 the US joined the international community in asserting sanctions, which was a key move in bringing down the Apartheid regime. The night was a good one, as not only the film was highly enlightening, but in attendance was the previous ambassador from United States to South Africa. I chatted with him for a few minutes after the screening, and currently he is running a leadership program at UCT. Leadership is a big thing these days, not only in terms of leading other people, but also in terms of leading your life to where you want to go. He told me that the key to a great leader is having 4 types of intelligences: Social Intelligence, Emotional Intelligence, Moral Intelligence, and Spiritual Intelligence. He said he worked with Nelson Mandela on creating this paradigm, and the reason that NM was the man was because he was maxed out on all four of these traits. The last one, spiritual intelligence, is not necessarily referring to a specific belief in G-d, a god, or gods, but rather a deep sense of Goodness (“god+o in the middle= good.”-Rav Elisha) that permeates throughout one’s existence. Cool stuff. And on top of all of that, there was free wine, cheese, and other snacks after the screening. But by far the highlight of the night was the fresh juice that I bought before the movie started. I asked the lady selling it several times what was in the juice, and repeatedly all she would tell me was that it was: “nice juice.” She claimed that it was an extra special batch, and was so excited about it that she poured a cup for herself and her co-worker behind the counter before giving any “nice juice” to me. I don’t know what was in it, but I have to say, it was “nice juice” indeed. She told me that if I ever wanted a bottle of my own, I could put in an order and she would get it freshly delivered from the guys at the “nice juice” farm.
On Sunday, I went to a Kirstenbosch concert again. This time it was a collection of performers that did everything from gospel and jazz, to R&B, and soul. I was really feeling the vibe, and I got so into it, that I got up with a friend of mine (her name is Elise, but I like to call her Tinker Bell because she’s got so much energy, it seems like even when she is sitting still she is still flapping her wings) and started dancing wildly, in a crowd of people that were still sitting. Immediately I noticed a dozen or so eyes look in our direction, as we were making quite a scene with our corky moves. I did all I could to ignore the on-lookers, and just threw myself into the dance and did as the music told me to. Finally, when one of the songs finished I took a break and looked up at the people behind me, and lo and behold, the entire crowd erupted in a round of applause straight in my direction. I tried to take advantage of the opportunity and get everyone else up on their feet dancing with me, but after I realized it wasn’t happening, I embraced the applause, threw a couple fist pumps in the air, and turned around embarrassed and excited at the same time. There’s something thrilling about getting all rosie in the cheeks with a crowd of people watching my absurd hybrid dance moves. (I always try to synthesize together as many styles of dance whenever I get going. That includes modern, Jewish (think light bulbs turning), Israeli, latino, Bungra (think more light bulbs turning) and step (BAM!), as well as my signature bow and arrow move. I only shot one special arrow this time, but it was Valentine’s day, so I guess it was only appropriate.). After the round of applause, the music cooled down and I slow danced with Tinkerbell. Made me feel like I was in 8th grade again. I love nostalgia.
On Tuesday, I personally took my relationship with TB to the next step. And as you all should know by now, I am not talking about the disease or any magical creatures from storybooks, but rather speaking of my wondrous soul mate, Table Mountain. After a morning of classes at UCT, I met up with some folks from the hiking Society, and together we embarked on a trip through the kirstenbosch gardens and up a quick, steep, climb to the Table top. As I have gotten to know TB more and more, I just keep falling in a deeper state of love. Just as I reached the top of TB, the dirt ground suddenly turned into a giant beach, with trees growing right out of the sand. I felt like I was in a surreal dream, and commented to one of my hiking buddies as a joke that this place was so out of this world, that I wouldn’t be surprised if all of a sudden I started speaking French. Then, funnily enough, two Mauritius girls whom I was hiking with broke out in fluent French for the first time in the hike! My stomach dropped. Where was I!? French speaking Maurituis girls and trees growing out of the sand on top of a mountain?! What?! We continued exploring the top of TB, which included several lakes, and a huge stone damn which we climbed onto and walked along. After shuffling our way through some of the dense African bush, we came upon a hidden pond, where we discovered a series of rare beautiful red flowers that are only found on Table Mountain, protruding from the banks of the secret puddle. Looking below the surface of the water, we spotted a giant tadpole, a giant tadpole with four legs, and a frog, all swimming/sitting right next to each other. It was a live display of evolution and growth of life right before our very eyes. I took a million pictures!
(By the way, before I get to the end of this blog, I welcome everyone to post comments if you feel like you have something you want to express. It will be nice to hear how people feel, think, and react to anything and everything I am sharing with you. Thanks.)
On a sadder, note. I have some tragic news to report. I have questioned whether or not I should include this story in my blog, worried that this report will make my family and friends at home nervous and worried about my well being (especially my unplug the toaster-oven mother!) But the purpose of this blog is to share all the stories that come out of this country, the good and the bad, and therefore I choose to reveal rather than conceal. There have been several versions of the story going around, and rather than getting into the details of the angles, I will just copy and paste the official e-mail that all the UCT students received from the vice-chancellor of the university, Dr. Price:
“It is with deep sadness as well as anger and frustration that I write to inform you of the death of Dominic (Joseph) Giddy, a third-year student in the Faculty of Humanities, who was stabbed to death near his Observatory digs early Saturday, February 13.
Dominic, who was 21, was returning to his digs with two friends after the trio had participated in a gig at Zeekoevlei. They had been dropped off on the corner of Main Road and Kotzee Road by a charter Golden Arrow bus and were walking to Dominic's digs in Winchester Road.
The trio was confronted by three men who attempted to rob them. An altercation ensued and Dominic was stabbed. One of his friends sustained a small wound to his hand.
Dominic was born in Durban and registered at UCT in 2008 for a BSC in mechanical engineering. He changed degree at the start of this year, registering for a bachelor of social science.”
Observatory, the place where Dominic was murdered, is a 10 minute walk from where I live. It is your quintessential college town, full of corky restaurants, small colorful houses, and bars with Wed. night specials of 2-for-1. What is so unfortunate about Dominic’s story is that it is not uncommon. A reality of life in Cape Town, robberies and murders occur on all too regular of a basis. In the not too distant past, another student was killed by gunshot. Another time, a professor was mugged and murdered in broad daylight. About a week after Dominic was killed, a mass group of students gathered together in the middle of UCT to protest these ruthless killings, demanding the government to take action and tighten security so that students, professors, and all people alike can walk the streets in safety. After several inspirational speeches on UCT’s Jamie Steps by faculty, the student government president, as well as Dominic’s friends and family, the crowd, donned in black shirts, marched down to the Main Road, holding up signs with pictures of Dominic, demanding justice while shouting “How Many More?” In purpose and size, this gathering was not your average university demonstration. This rally of demanding safety and justice on behalf of Dominic was the largest student protest held in South Africa since apartheid.
A few nights after Dominic was killed, I was walking back from campus with Garikaye, a friend from Zimbabwe, who happened to be going to Dom’s funeral. Although I never got the chance to meet Dominic, I decided to go, taking the opportunity to hear about what kind of person he was like. Arriving a little early, I hung out in the yard, and passed the time by talking to a few 12 year old kids. I noticed that everyone that was coming to the funeral was wearing a bandana on their head. Casually, I asked one of the kids what the deal was with the bandanas. One of them looked up at me and calmly said, my brother used to wear them all the time, it was his thing, so people are doing it in his memory. I was shocked and taken by surprise. Besides a deep-felt sorry, I just didn’t know what else to say, quickly shifting the conversation to a place more happy and appropriate for a kid. What can you say to a 12 year old boy that just lost his 21-year-old brother to murder?
During the funeral, Dominic’s best friend rose and spoke before the crowd. He poured out his heart, sobbing and pausing in between words, expressing his love and admiration of Dominic’s character as a warm, all-loving, compassionate, energetic, openhearted, human being. He looked at the casket, and told Dom: “Ever since I knew you, I always wished I was more like you.” He thanked Dom for not only being his best friend, but for also being his role model and hero in life. I never met Dom, but the more I got to know about this person that seemed to have embodied all of what it means to be good in life, the more I couldn’t help but feel like the world was robbed of a genuine source of light and love. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I listened to Dominic’s best friend struggle to weep out a Walt Whitman poem: “We Two Boys Together Clinging.”
We Two Boys Together Clinging
by Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)
We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going, North and South excursions making,
Power enjoying, elbows stretching, fingers clutching,
Arm'd and fearless, eating, drinking, sleeping, loving.
No law less than ourselves owning, sailing, soldiering, thieving,
threatening,
Misers, menials, priests alarming, air breathing, water drinking, on
the turf or the sea-beach dancing,
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.
The e-mail from FIFA finally came, and the moment of truth could not be delayed. I double clicked, and lo and behold, my ticket application was ACCEPTED! Not just into one game of my choice, but all four of them. On June 11, I will be watching France V Uruguay at the beautiful Green Point Stadium, sandwiched between downtown Cape Town, the Atlantic ocean, and of course, my good ol’ buddy, Table Mountain. On June 16, I’m headed for Durban, to witness Spain V. Switzerland, at the architectural wonder Moses Mabida stadium, which has been compared to the Eifell tower and the Sydney Opera house in its structural beauty. On June 18, I’m off to Jo-Burg, to root for the red, white, and blue, as perhaps the best USA team in tournament history begins its shot at the cup with a game against Slovenia. And finally, on June 20, I will be in Soccer City, Jo-Berg, to watch two of the greatest teams in the world compete in a match that is the ultimate celebration of individual and team talent: Brazil V Ivory Coast. BRAZIL V. IVORY COAST! Nothing else needs to be said.
Now back to reality. Two weekends ago, I underwent a day of training to prepare me for my volunteer work with an organization called Ubunye. A UCT student run volunteer organization, Ubunye does a lot of good work in the Cape Town area, with one of their projects being the Township Debating League (TDL). During Apartheid, the racist government in power forced blacks, colored, and Indian people out of their homes in the city centers, to the townships on the periphery. Although Apartheid ended over 15 years ago, the current state of the townships continues to reinforce the inequalities that were created during the racist regime. Underfunded, overcrowded, and set afar from the Central Business District of Cape Town, the people of the townships face tremendous obstacles in competing with those from more privileged backgrounds. The idea behind the Township Debating League is to improve the situation for the youth of the township by teaching high school students how to debate. (Think The Great Debaters, but just replace Denzel Washington with me. Easy, right? I’ve been told we have similar features…). Through debating, students improve their speech and communication skills, develop a greater sense of self-confidence, learn about the political and social issues facing South Africa, and are overall empowered by experiencing the magical force of words. What’s even more amazing about TDL is that the students get a chance to actually compete in regional debate tournaments. Last year, one of the TDL schools was able to out-debate a handful of expensive all white private schools in an extremely competitive regional tournament, and was second place only to the richest white school in the area. Despite their underprivileged backgrounds, these kids have proved that with the proper training and a push in the right direction, they can compete with the brightest and the best. Personally I think this whole endeavor is a genius idea, and I am thrilled and honored to be a part of the TDL project.
On the day of our training, I woke up at 7 AM and met a hoard of fellow UCT student volunteers at a local bus stop. From there, a caravan of mini-buses took us over to one of the local township schools where the training was to take place. After a quick introduction to the World School debate format, we were thrown into the position of Judges, sitting on the panel of a live debate, with the purpose of declaring a winner and offering constructive criticism to the debaters. 15 year old students, who moments before were goofing around the way kids should be, were all of a sudden transformed into dignified politicians as they entered the room composed, sitting down and shuffling through their notes in preparation for the debate. The range in the communication and articulation skills of the debaters varied greatly. One of the debaters showed exceptional capability, as he walked up to the podium slowly and stood still for a few seconds in complete silence, capturing the sharp attention of everyone in the room, as he gazed at his opponents and the panel of judges before even opening his mouth to speak. Another debater, had the right idea on his mind, but was too eager to say it all at once, speaking as fast as a runaway train, and sticking an unnecessary “ladies and gentlemen” in between every other sentence as an over-the-top attempt at formality. Nevertheless, his enthusiasm and energy was admirable. But perhaps the most courageous student of the day was one girl who barely said anything at all. When she got up to the podium, she was still shuffling through her notes, unsure of what to say. After about a minute of reading off several bullet points from the paper, her mind just went blank. The opposing team began to call for questions as a way to distract her and seize the momentum of the debate, but she persisted in turning them down, attempting to regain focus with determined mental strength. She continued to stand at the podium, beginning sentences, but unable to transform the cloudy thoughts in her mind into spoken word. For perhaps what was the next couple longest minutes of her day, she stood at the podium in confused silence, her mind struggling to seize the floating thoughts out of the air. Finally, after realizing that the words were just not coming to her and with her time limit almost up, she folded her notebook and took a seat. Without a doubt, in terms of actually debating, this girl displayed the weakest performance of the competition. She offered several well-spoken points at the beginning of the debate, but once she unable to regain her focus once she lost it. Yet, in terms of courage and determination, this young lady performed a show worthy of a standing ovation, as she boldly put herself forward in an up-most vulnerable position: standing in front of a critical audience with nothing to say. Despite being put in such an overwhelming situation, she stood her ground for several scary minutes, throwing all her mental energy into that uphill struggle of regaining focus and stability after her mental boat had been rocked. After the debate finished, we told this girl to come up to the Judges panel for constructive criticism. To our delight, she approached us eagerly to embrace any advice we had to offer. After one of the judges provided her with words of wisdom on how to stay focused, she smiled and skipped away, literally bouncing in excitement for the tips she received to help her with her next debate.
On Saturday night, I went to see a movie that was part of a film festival celebrating the 20th anniversary of Nelson Mandela’s freedom from prison. The film exposed the lack of the US involvement in the international sanctions movement against the South African government during the period of apartheid. This was mostly the work of President Reagan, who insisted that Sanctions would cripple the South African economy, and thus would be harming the very people that he was trying to help. Obviously, this was a load of pastrami (mmm…pastrami), and ultimately in 1987 the US joined the international community in asserting sanctions, which was a key move in bringing down the Apartheid regime. The night was a good one, as not only the film was highly enlightening, but in attendance was the previous ambassador from United States to South Africa. I chatted with him for a few minutes after the screening, and currently he is running a leadership program at UCT. Leadership is a big thing these days, not only in terms of leading other people, but also in terms of leading your life to where you want to go. He told me that the key to a great leader is having 4 types of intelligences: Social Intelligence, Emotional Intelligence, Moral Intelligence, and Spiritual Intelligence. He said he worked with Nelson Mandela on creating this paradigm, and the reason that NM was the man was because he was maxed out on all four of these traits. The last one, spiritual intelligence, is not necessarily referring to a specific belief in G-d, a god, or gods, but rather a deep sense of Goodness (“god+o in the middle= good.”-Rav Elisha) that permeates throughout one’s existence. Cool stuff. And on top of all of that, there was free wine, cheese, and other snacks after the screening. But by far the highlight of the night was the fresh juice that I bought before the movie started. I asked the lady selling it several times what was in the juice, and repeatedly all she would tell me was that it was: “nice juice.” She claimed that it was an extra special batch, and was so excited about it that she poured a cup for herself and her co-worker behind the counter before giving any “nice juice” to me. I don’t know what was in it, but I have to say, it was “nice juice” indeed. She told me that if I ever wanted a bottle of my own, I could put in an order and she would get it freshly delivered from the guys at the “nice juice” farm.
On Sunday, I went to a Kirstenbosch concert again. This time it was a collection of performers that did everything from gospel and jazz, to R&B, and soul. I was really feeling the vibe, and I got so into it, that I got up with a friend of mine (her name is Elise, but I like to call her Tinker Bell because she’s got so much energy, it seems like even when she is sitting still she is still flapping her wings) and started dancing wildly, in a crowd of people that were still sitting. Immediately I noticed a dozen or so eyes look in our direction, as we were making quite a scene with our corky moves. I did all I could to ignore the on-lookers, and just threw myself into the dance and did as the music told me to. Finally, when one of the songs finished I took a break and looked up at the people behind me, and lo and behold, the entire crowd erupted in a round of applause straight in my direction. I tried to take advantage of the opportunity and get everyone else up on their feet dancing with me, but after I realized it wasn’t happening, I embraced the applause, threw a couple fist pumps in the air, and turned around embarrassed and excited at the same time. There’s something thrilling about getting all rosie in the cheeks with a crowd of people watching my absurd hybrid dance moves. (I always try to synthesize together as many styles of dance whenever I get going. That includes modern, Jewish (think light bulbs turning), Israeli, latino, Bungra (think more light bulbs turning) and step (BAM!), as well as my signature bow and arrow move. I only shot one special arrow this time, but it was Valentine’s day, so I guess it was only appropriate.). After the round of applause, the music cooled down and I slow danced with Tinkerbell. Made me feel like I was in 8th grade again. I love nostalgia.
On Tuesday, I personally took my relationship with TB to the next step. And as you all should know by now, I am not talking about the disease or any magical creatures from storybooks, but rather speaking of my wondrous soul mate, Table Mountain. After a morning of classes at UCT, I met up with some folks from the hiking Society, and together we embarked on a trip through the kirstenbosch gardens and up a quick, steep, climb to the Table top. As I have gotten to know TB more and more, I just keep falling in a deeper state of love. Just as I reached the top of TB, the dirt ground suddenly turned into a giant beach, with trees growing right out of the sand. I felt like I was in a surreal dream, and commented to one of my hiking buddies as a joke that this place was so out of this world, that I wouldn’t be surprised if all of a sudden I started speaking French. Then, funnily enough, two Mauritius girls whom I was hiking with broke out in fluent French for the first time in the hike! My stomach dropped. Where was I!? French speaking Maurituis girls and trees growing out of the sand on top of a mountain?! What?! We continued exploring the top of TB, which included several lakes, and a huge stone damn which we climbed onto and walked along. After shuffling our way through some of the dense African bush, we came upon a hidden pond, where we discovered a series of rare beautiful red flowers that are only found on Table Mountain, protruding from the banks of the secret puddle. Looking below the surface of the water, we spotted a giant tadpole, a giant tadpole with four legs, and a frog, all swimming/sitting right next to each other. It was a live display of evolution and growth of life right before our very eyes. I took a million pictures!
(By the way, before I get to the end of this blog, I welcome everyone to post comments if you feel like you have something you want to express. It will be nice to hear how people feel, think, and react to anything and everything I am sharing with you. Thanks.)
On a sadder, note. I have some tragic news to report. I have questioned whether or not I should include this story in my blog, worried that this report will make my family and friends at home nervous and worried about my well being (especially my unplug the toaster-oven mother!) But the purpose of this blog is to share all the stories that come out of this country, the good and the bad, and therefore I choose to reveal rather than conceal. There have been several versions of the story going around, and rather than getting into the details of the angles, I will just copy and paste the official e-mail that all the UCT students received from the vice-chancellor of the university, Dr. Price:
“It is with deep sadness as well as anger and frustration that I write to inform you of the death of Dominic (Joseph) Giddy, a third-year student in the Faculty of Humanities, who was stabbed to death near his Observatory digs early Saturday, February 13.
Dominic, who was 21, was returning to his digs with two friends after the trio had participated in a gig at Zeekoevlei. They had been dropped off on the corner of Main Road and Kotzee Road by a charter Golden Arrow bus and were walking to Dominic's digs in Winchester Road.
The trio was confronted by three men who attempted to rob them. An altercation ensued and Dominic was stabbed. One of his friends sustained a small wound to his hand.
Dominic was born in Durban and registered at UCT in 2008 for a BSC in mechanical engineering. He changed degree at the start of this year, registering for a bachelor of social science.”
Observatory, the place where Dominic was murdered, is a 10 minute walk from where I live. It is your quintessential college town, full of corky restaurants, small colorful houses, and bars with Wed. night specials of 2-for-1. What is so unfortunate about Dominic’s story is that it is not uncommon. A reality of life in Cape Town, robberies and murders occur on all too regular of a basis. In the not too distant past, another student was killed by gunshot. Another time, a professor was mugged and murdered in broad daylight. About a week after Dominic was killed, a mass group of students gathered together in the middle of UCT to protest these ruthless killings, demanding the government to take action and tighten security so that students, professors, and all people alike can walk the streets in safety. After several inspirational speeches on UCT’s Jamie Steps by faculty, the student government president, as well as Dominic’s friends and family, the crowd, donned in black shirts, marched down to the Main Road, holding up signs with pictures of Dominic, demanding justice while shouting “How Many More?” In purpose and size, this gathering was not your average university demonstration. This rally of demanding safety and justice on behalf of Dominic was the largest student protest held in South Africa since apartheid.
A few nights after Dominic was killed, I was walking back from campus with Garikaye, a friend from Zimbabwe, who happened to be going to Dom’s funeral. Although I never got the chance to meet Dominic, I decided to go, taking the opportunity to hear about what kind of person he was like. Arriving a little early, I hung out in the yard, and passed the time by talking to a few 12 year old kids. I noticed that everyone that was coming to the funeral was wearing a bandana on their head. Casually, I asked one of the kids what the deal was with the bandanas. One of them looked up at me and calmly said, my brother used to wear them all the time, it was his thing, so people are doing it in his memory. I was shocked and taken by surprise. Besides a deep-felt sorry, I just didn’t know what else to say, quickly shifting the conversation to a place more happy and appropriate for a kid. What can you say to a 12 year old boy that just lost his 21-year-old brother to murder?
During the funeral, Dominic’s best friend rose and spoke before the crowd. He poured out his heart, sobbing and pausing in between words, expressing his love and admiration of Dominic’s character as a warm, all-loving, compassionate, energetic, openhearted, human being. He looked at the casket, and told Dom: “Ever since I knew you, I always wished I was more like you.” He thanked Dom for not only being his best friend, but for also being his role model and hero in life. I never met Dom, but the more I got to know about this person that seemed to have embodied all of what it means to be good in life, the more I couldn’t help but feel like the world was robbed of a genuine source of light and love. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I listened to Dominic’s best friend struggle to weep out a Walt Whitman poem: “We Two Boys Together Clinging.”
We Two Boys Together Clinging
by Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)
We two boys together clinging,
One the other never leaving,
Up and down the roads going, North and South excursions making,
Power enjoying, elbows stretching, fingers clutching,
Arm'd and fearless, eating, drinking, sleeping, loving.
No law less than ourselves owning, sailing, soldiering, thieving,
threatening,
Misers, menials, priests alarming, air breathing, water drinking, on
the turf or the sea-beach dancing,
Cities wrenching, ease scorning, statutes mocking, feebleness chasing,
Fulfilling our foray.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Rewind and Play
Hello folks, it’s good to be back here, reflecting and reliving the events of the past week. As I prepare to write this week’s blog, my ears are covered in a heavy set of headphones, pouring that wonderful music from the CD that Abe gave me through my ears and straight into my soul, taking me back to that awe-inspiring scenery from the peninsula tour that I wrote about in my first entry. In my peripheral vision I can see my housemates yelling at me, attempting to get my attention to ask me a question of some sort. I am ignoring them: whatever they have to say can be heard later. This music is simply too good to put on pause and time after time, it just puts me right in the zone. (And what’s better than being in the zone? Fresh socks? Just maybe fresh socks…)
I am going to try to put this blog out once a week on the weekends to recap the events of the past week, but in Cape Town, my life is as unpredictable as the weather. The brisk air of an occasional overcast morning is often boiled away by the blistering hot sun, only to be outdone and cooled by the hurricane like evening winds. Finally, after hot and cold have out danced each other to exhaustion, the opposing temperatures embrace each other in love and acceptance, as the night time air resigns into a state of moderation and balance, making it the perfect temperature for wearing anything from shorts to a sweater vest. (But then again, to those of you that own them, I’m sorry, but is there ever really a PERFECT temperature for a sweater vest?) In short, I will try to put this blog out once a week, but expect the unexpected, and don’t be shocked if I miss the occasional deadline. (I think you can become a follower on the side and then you will automatically be notified when I post, not sure though)
Before I go on to this past week, I want to rewind and write about another unique to Cape Town experience that happened the week before. A little over a fortnight ago, I headed out to the Kirstenbosch Gardens for a summer evening of music, picnic, and family fun. I sat alone in a van big enough to hold 14 folks, chatting it up with the obviously friendly driver (even the mute are talkative in this city), watching the beautiful people dressed up in their loose, comfortable, and yet fancy clothing, parking their cars and making their way over to the gardens. It felt like a pilgrimage to Mecca, black, colored, white, young, old, and even infant, all marching up the mountain slope with the same goal in mind: The Weekly Kirstenbosch Summer Sunset Concert. Signs declaring “concert sold out” phased me in the least, because although I have only been here for one week, thanks to some connections provided by the legendary explorer EZRA WAXMAN, I already had a ticket waiting for me at the concert venue with my inside man. Well actually, the inside man was really a woman, a particularly pleasant, considerate and friendly (surprised?) girl by the name of Maya who met me at the bottom of the green slope leading up the alter (some people call it a stage, but make no mistake about it, this was a religious event!) She led me to a spot at the top of the hill, where I was introduced to her two friends and a bottle of wine. Sipping on wine, eating chips (I had some in my backpack, a little piece of advice: ALWAYS CARRY SNACKS. You never know when you are going to need them) we watched Lira and Friends put on a show that was able to move everyone in the diverse audience. This Lira, boy, was she a performer. Dancing with her hips, arms, and modest Afro, she had the ability to get the entire crowd, tipsy, drunk and sober alike, up on their feet with the single clap of her hands. Yet, just as easily, throwing her body and head completely back, swinging the mike into the air, and sending her soulful voice strait towards the heavens, she was able to get the crowd standstill, listening in awe to the sound of pure talent. As always, my best friend was there with me, watching the concert quietly from beyond the deep-green, forest covered side buffs of the gardens. Somehow, Table-Mountain always manages to follow me around in this city, sneaking into somewhere of every picturesque scene. And only to add to Table-Mountain’s tall and proud presence beside me, the sun was setting in the backdrop, shining its last rays on a view overlooking the suburbs of Cape Town. Sitting there, I couldn’t help but think how I’ve been incredibly blessed with the privilege of having experienced 22 years of diverse, beautiful sunsets. This dusk at Kirstenbosch will definitely be remembered as a special one.
Back to this past week. I’ll start with last weekend.
To start things off, I headed over to Big Bash, a UCT sponsored party to kick off the year that included horseracing, a 100m dash between a handful of first year boys wearing nothing but tighty whities, and of course, a giant dance at the end with over 3 thousand people dancing under the stars in an open field by the race track. I arrived in the middle of the afternoon, and feeling lucky, I decided to place a few bets on the horses. Disregarding records and strictly choosing on the basis of the names, I put 12 Rand on two completely inexperienced horses by the names American Fantasy and Blue Striker, hoping that at least one of them would place. To no one’s surprise but my own, all three of us ended up losers. Yet the night was an interesting one none-the-less: it was my first time at a horserace-manrace-dance party! They definitely make a point to do things differently in Cape Town.
The next day, as the culmination to the University of Cape Town orientation-week, I set sail on another peninsula tour. Anticipating a somewhat similar experience to my first peninsula tour, I was very excited. But as I said, Cape-Townians like to do things differently, and instead of the first stop being the glorious Camps Bay, we headed straight to the liquor store. Upon arriving, everyone jumped out of the bus, loaded up on booze ranging from beer to hard cider (I picked the juice, too early in the morning for beer), and we headed over to a nice wading pool by the ocean, sipping on drinks and chatting, as we watched a few little kids in their underwear jumping into the water from a ledge, making a point to belly flop as painfully as possible.
Besides a girl falling flat on her face from drinking too much and having to be helped up, covered in scratches and blood, which was a sad sight indeed, the booze cruise was a lot of fun. When we stopped by one of the beaches, the orientation leaders gave us some Cane Juice (a Cape Town special, cane alcohol mixed with cream soda, it goes down smooth and does the job well!) and lunch, which was simply a chip roll (that’s right, chips in a roll, nothing more, nothing less. In my book, that’s called a snack, not a lunch!) All in all it was a good chance to get my feet wet both in the Atlantic Ocean and the local life. On the way back, the booze had taken their effect, and everyone was either sleeping or singing (I was trying to sing, but for those of you that have experience with hearing my voice, you know its not a good one).
On Sunday, a critical game was taking place between two South African soccer teams: The Ajax Cape Town, and the M (Mamelodi) Sundowns. I headed over there, excited for my first but hopefully not last soccer game in this country. Just heading over to the stadium, I could feel that the place was vibing. Blowing horns and team chants filled the air, as the crowd lined up to the gates of the stadium. Being the kind of guy that always sticks with the home-team, I was donned in red, the color of Ajax Cape Town. Right next to me in line, there were a group of M Sundown fans dressed in yellow, dancing and working their way through a jubilant call and response cheer. Despite the difference in the color of our shirts, their cheer was just too much fun to resist, and before I knew it, I found myself clapping along and dancing with this group of fans from the opposing team. For the sake of dance, song and just pure fun, team barriers can and should be crossed!
The sun was hot and the game was enthralling. Talking to one of my friends, Kashe, I was telling her that one of the reasons I wanted to study abroad in Cape Town was because of the diversity. People from all different races and languages and ethnicity come together in one city. Kashe told me to look around and pointed out that perhaps I was being a little naïve. I took a quick glance at the crowd and suddenly realized that we and our friends were the only white people that I could identify in the entire stadium. My friend went on to explain that despite the fact that apartheid is over, many social barriers still exist between blacks and whites. Blacks go to soccer games. Whites go to rugby games, albeit with a small black minority in attendance. On the one hand, I thought it was cool that I was at a place where I was an EXTREME minority and yet felt so comfortable that I noticed the team distinctions more than the racial differences. But after I continued talking to her, I realized that the demographics of the stadium are just another example of how this country is still often divided along racial lines and much work needs to be done in the wake of apartheid. To achieve true racial integration and equality, the disadvantages of years of colonization and discrimination need to be taken into account.
A red card early that took a player out for the home team forced the Ajax to play with a 10-11-man disadvantage for the rest of the game. The M Sundowns took a 1-0 lead in the middle of the game and were able to hold onto it until the end. Apparently some disadvantages are just too hard to overcome in the realm of strict competition.
Yet, the day wasn’t over yet. I headed to a club called La Med for an appetizing night of Gold Fish, Cape Town’s favorite homegrown DJ group. Set to go on at 9 pm, the place was already packed at 7, due to the hype behind this distinct trio of groove makers. La Med is located right next to the beautiful Camps Bay. Standing outside as the sun was setting, I watched the ocean rise and collapse along the rocks, witnessing a sight that can only properly be described as “a love affair between the sea and the mountain” (For those of you that have been to Rosh Hanikra and seen the promo video, you know what I’m talking about.)
After a few hours of waiting, I finally crammed into the small room that Goldfish was set to perform and embraced myself for what ever was to come. Onto the short stage came three men. Two DJs and an MC. As soon as the MC grabbed the mike and the DJs began spinning their stuff, the crowd jumped into action. In a matter of minutes, the overcrowded room turned into a sauna as the beats, dance, and temperatures all picked up at the same rate. Yet, even though I came prepared for the sweat with a dry-fit shirt, by the end of the night, my top was soaked through and through. In the middle of the concert, I smoothly made my way over to front row-center. From there I had a picture perfect view of these musicians working their magic. I call them musicians because that’s exactly what they were: they played everything from the cello, to the flute to the sax. Mixing pre-recorded beats with the live tunes of these jazzy instruments was a sound I’ve never quite heard before. Standing in front also had its other advantages: I had all the room I needed to make use of my giant wingspan and give a little demonstration to the Cape Town locals of what it means to really dance. At times, I felt uncertain if I should stay in the front, as not only was I the only boy in the front row, but I was also at least a foot taller than everyone else next to me and behind me. In short, I stood out. But the adrenaline rush of being up in the front was too good to resist. At times, Goldfish would prompt the crowd to get a clap going in the air. Like K-G clapping a handful of baby powder before tip-off or like a gospel singer sending his praise to the lord above, I thumped my hands together with pure power. I felt like the king up there. Lights were shining from behind, and I could see my clapping shadow dwarfing the clapping shadows of all the short people next to me. I had no intention of moving- the people needed their leader.
I ended the night walking out into the bracing air, having dedicated every muscle of my body to match and move in perfect rhythm with every soulful note that came out of that fervent saxophone. The sweat instantly chilled on my back, as I joined a conversation of people, chimed in with a few quick remarks, and then sat back, relaxed, and let the other parties do the rest of the socializing work. My job here was done.
The super-bowl happened. I didn’t see it. I woke up and someone told me that the Saints won. All I heard was that the Colts loss. I was ecstatic.
On Tuesday I applied for World Cup tickets. I got to the computer lab an hour before they went on sale just to make sure that I would have a computer. When the clock struck one PM, all my ADD disappeared, and my entire mental capacity was focused on one task: fill out the ticket forms as quickly as possible. Like I said before, I’ll find out next week what tickets I actually will get. I’m praying for Brazil v. Ivory Coast. It’s going to be the best match of the first round and it’s happening in Soccer City, Jo-Berg.
Once a year the government plans a big celebration in Cape Town in honor of the opening of parliament. However, yesterday was an especially important day, because not only was it the beginning of the political season, but it was also the 20th anniversary of Nelson Mandela’s release from prison. I headed to downtown Cape Town to check out the scene. At 6 PM, the parade started! A marching band came forward followed by a platoon of soldiers who flanked out in perfect order towards the sides of the streets, maintaining a careful eye over the crowd. Then nothing happened. For 15 minutes. I didn’t understand it, did something go wrong? At 6:15 PM: another marching band came forward. Then nothing again, for another 15 minutes. Parades usually come and go in consecutive lines with excitement from beginning to end. But here in Cape Town, they make sure to spread out the whole charade as much as urban patience will allow. At least this gives you time to go the bathroom without having to miss any of the show. During one of the breaks, I took the opportunity to look around and noticed snipers on the top of all the surrounding high-risers. There’s always something exciting about top-secret, high level security. 6:30 PM: A group of police motorcycles VERY SLOWLY made their way towards parliament. I couldn’t understand how they kept their balance under such slow speeds. Then all of a sudden one of them just dropped to the ground. Collapsed instantly. Some people thought it was because he feinted, I thought it was because he lost his balance from the slow speed, but either way, the guy was not moving. A police from the sidelines quickly ran over and checked his pulse. Still no movement. Another police officer jumped on the fallen motorcycle and drove it away to make room for the oncoming parade of more nothing as a team of medics circled the fallen officer. For about 3 minutes, they continuously took his pulse, which I hope was a good sign, because he was still not moving an inch. An ambulance came quickly; he was placed in a neck brace, moved onto a stretcher and whisked away in the truck. He still had his helmet on, but his windshield was lifted and I could see that his eyes were closed, evidence that he was still unconscious. A parade is an event that represents strength, dignity and overall prowess, making it the last place you would expect to see someone on a bike collapse and get knocked out. It was a frightening sight and I really hope that man is ok.
The parade, or lack of parade, continued on, and finally, after some moments of more nothing passing, a pope-like mobile drove forward carrying the president himself, Jacob Zuma. Through the clear windows I could see President Zuma, waving proudly in between the occasional wipe of his nose, with his wife behind him. Well only the first wife to be precise, but don’t feel bad for his second wife; she got to travel with him on his last trip to NYC. It’s wife number three that really gets the short end of the deal.
After the parade wrapped up, the soldiers marched in reverse order to head back to where they came from. The soldiers had their names stitched onto their shirts and my clever friend decided that it would be funny if he shouted their names out as they passed by. As he shouted random names, the serious faces of the soldiers would break down with a smile and sometimes they would even give a deliberate wink in his direction. Seeing these serious soldiers crack mischievous smiles while all eyes were watching them wasn’t funny at all: it was hysterical!
Yesterday my friend told me that the forecast for surf today was 35 feet. I couldn’t believe it: 35 feet! I can’t even imagine what that would look like. I have no concept, no prior experience, absolutely nothing to compare it to. It’s simply titanic. Before going to sleep, I was stoked just thinking about the possibility of seeing waves of that size. Waking up this morning, literally the first sounds that came out my mouth were the three syllables: thir-ty-five. I told all my friends about it, and even some people in my classes. After rallying a huge group of friends to head to the beach to check out this beast of nature, I called the surf shop just to make sure. The surf report was in: 6-8 feet, nice and ride able. Although I am from Boston and as an east-coast surfer have no right to complain about 6-8 feet, I have to say, after the hype of 35, I was disappointed. I ended up going to the mall with a friend to look for some sneakers. I am size 14. We went to 6 different stores. The biggest size any of them had was 12. Having experienced both a shortage in waves and shoe sizes in the same day, I realized that sometimes things aren’t as big as they are expected to be. Sometimes reality doesn’t live up to the expectations. But that’s ok. I think hype is good for its own sake. I think that hype is an emotion, a joy, which can be experienced in its own right. Even if the waves didn’t end up crashing at 35 feet, for the few moments when I thought they were going to, it instilled me with a feeling of awe just at the mere imagination of thinking about what that would even look like. My imagination will continue to wander until the day that I see the 35-foot wave. I don’t know if it will ever come, but either way, I can always hope and will continue to build up the hype…
I am going to try to put this blog out once a week on the weekends to recap the events of the past week, but in Cape Town, my life is as unpredictable as the weather. The brisk air of an occasional overcast morning is often boiled away by the blistering hot sun, only to be outdone and cooled by the hurricane like evening winds. Finally, after hot and cold have out danced each other to exhaustion, the opposing temperatures embrace each other in love and acceptance, as the night time air resigns into a state of moderation and balance, making it the perfect temperature for wearing anything from shorts to a sweater vest. (But then again, to those of you that own them, I’m sorry, but is there ever really a PERFECT temperature for a sweater vest?) In short, I will try to put this blog out once a week, but expect the unexpected, and don’t be shocked if I miss the occasional deadline. (I think you can become a follower on the side and then you will automatically be notified when I post, not sure though)
Before I go on to this past week, I want to rewind and write about another unique to Cape Town experience that happened the week before. A little over a fortnight ago, I headed out to the Kirstenbosch Gardens for a summer evening of music, picnic, and family fun. I sat alone in a van big enough to hold 14 folks, chatting it up with the obviously friendly driver (even the mute are talkative in this city), watching the beautiful people dressed up in their loose, comfortable, and yet fancy clothing, parking their cars and making their way over to the gardens. It felt like a pilgrimage to Mecca, black, colored, white, young, old, and even infant, all marching up the mountain slope with the same goal in mind: The Weekly Kirstenbosch Summer Sunset Concert. Signs declaring “concert sold out” phased me in the least, because although I have only been here for one week, thanks to some connections provided by the legendary explorer EZRA WAXMAN, I already had a ticket waiting for me at the concert venue with my inside man. Well actually, the inside man was really a woman, a particularly pleasant, considerate and friendly (surprised?) girl by the name of Maya who met me at the bottom of the green slope leading up the alter (some people call it a stage, but make no mistake about it, this was a religious event!) She led me to a spot at the top of the hill, where I was introduced to her two friends and a bottle of wine. Sipping on wine, eating chips (I had some in my backpack, a little piece of advice: ALWAYS CARRY SNACKS. You never know when you are going to need them) we watched Lira and Friends put on a show that was able to move everyone in the diverse audience. This Lira, boy, was she a performer. Dancing with her hips, arms, and modest Afro, she had the ability to get the entire crowd, tipsy, drunk and sober alike, up on their feet with the single clap of her hands. Yet, just as easily, throwing her body and head completely back, swinging the mike into the air, and sending her soulful voice strait towards the heavens, she was able to get the crowd standstill, listening in awe to the sound of pure talent. As always, my best friend was there with me, watching the concert quietly from beyond the deep-green, forest covered side buffs of the gardens. Somehow, Table-Mountain always manages to follow me around in this city, sneaking into somewhere of every picturesque scene. And only to add to Table-Mountain’s tall and proud presence beside me, the sun was setting in the backdrop, shining its last rays on a view overlooking the suburbs of Cape Town. Sitting there, I couldn’t help but think how I’ve been incredibly blessed with the privilege of having experienced 22 years of diverse, beautiful sunsets. This dusk at Kirstenbosch will definitely be remembered as a special one.
Back to this past week. I’ll start with last weekend.
To start things off, I headed over to Big Bash, a UCT sponsored party to kick off the year that included horseracing, a 100m dash between a handful of first year boys wearing nothing but tighty whities, and of course, a giant dance at the end with over 3 thousand people dancing under the stars in an open field by the race track. I arrived in the middle of the afternoon, and feeling lucky, I decided to place a few bets on the horses. Disregarding records and strictly choosing on the basis of the names, I put 12 Rand on two completely inexperienced horses by the names American Fantasy and Blue Striker, hoping that at least one of them would place. To no one’s surprise but my own, all three of us ended up losers. Yet the night was an interesting one none-the-less: it was my first time at a horserace-manrace-dance party! They definitely make a point to do things differently in Cape Town.
The next day, as the culmination to the University of Cape Town orientation-week, I set sail on another peninsula tour. Anticipating a somewhat similar experience to my first peninsula tour, I was very excited. But as I said, Cape-Townians like to do things differently, and instead of the first stop being the glorious Camps Bay, we headed straight to the liquor store. Upon arriving, everyone jumped out of the bus, loaded up on booze ranging from beer to hard cider (I picked the juice, too early in the morning for beer), and we headed over to a nice wading pool by the ocean, sipping on drinks and chatting, as we watched a few little kids in their underwear jumping into the water from a ledge, making a point to belly flop as painfully as possible.
Besides a girl falling flat on her face from drinking too much and having to be helped up, covered in scratches and blood, which was a sad sight indeed, the booze cruise was a lot of fun. When we stopped by one of the beaches, the orientation leaders gave us some Cane Juice (a Cape Town special, cane alcohol mixed with cream soda, it goes down smooth and does the job well!) and lunch, which was simply a chip roll (that’s right, chips in a roll, nothing more, nothing less. In my book, that’s called a snack, not a lunch!) All in all it was a good chance to get my feet wet both in the Atlantic Ocean and the local life. On the way back, the booze had taken their effect, and everyone was either sleeping or singing (I was trying to sing, but for those of you that have experience with hearing my voice, you know its not a good one).
On Sunday, a critical game was taking place between two South African soccer teams: The Ajax Cape Town, and the M (Mamelodi) Sundowns. I headed over there, excited for my first but hopefully not last soccer game in this country. Just heading over to the stadium, I could feel that the place was vibing. Blowing horns and team chants filled the air, as the crowd lined up to the gates of the stadium. Being the kind of guy that always sticks with the home-team, I was donned in red, the color of Ajax Cape Town. Right next to me in line, there were a group of M Sundown fans dressed in yellow, dancing and working their way through a jubilant call and response cheer. Despite the difference in the color of our shirts, their cheer was just too much fun to resist, and before I knew it, I found myself clapping along and dancing with this group of fans from the opposing team. For the sake of dance, song and just pure fun, team barriers can and should be crossed!
The sun was hot and the game was enthralling. Talking to one of my friends, Kashe, I was telling her that one of the reasons I wanted to study abroad in Cape Town was because of the diversity. People from all different races and languages and ethnicity come together in one city. Kashe told me to look around and pointed out that perhaps I was being a little naïve. I took a quick glance at the crowd and suddenly realized that we and our friends were the only white people that I could identify in the entire stadium. My friend went on to explain that despite the fact that apartheid is over, many social barriers still exist between blacks and whites. Blacks go to soccer games. Whites go to rugby games, albeit with a small black minority in attendance. On the one hand, I thought it was cool that I was at a place where I was an EXTREME minority and yet felt so comfortable that I noticed the team distinctions more than the racial differences. But after I continued talking to her, I realized that the demographics of the stadium are just another example of how this country is still often divided along racial lines and much work needs to be done in the wake of apartheid. To achieve true racial integration and equality, the disadvantages of years of colonization and discrimination need to be taken into account.
A red card early that took a player out for the home team forced the Ajax to play with a 10-11-man disadvantage for the rest of the game. The M Sundowns took a 1-0 lead in the middle of the game and were able to hold onto it until the end. Apparently some disadvantages are just too hard to overcome in the realm of strict competition.
Yet, the day wasn’t over yet. I headed to a club called La Med for an appetizing night of Gold Fish, Cape Town’s favorite homegrown DJ group. Set to go on at 9 pm, the place was already packed at 7, due to the hype behind this distinct trio of groove makers. La Med is located right next to the beautiful Camps Bay. Standing outside as the sun was setting, I watched the ocean rise and collapse along the rocks, witnessing a sight that can only properly be described as “a love affair between the sea and the mountain” (For those of you that have been to Rosh Hanikra and seen the promo video, you know what I’m talking about.)
After a few hours of waiting, I finally crammed into the small room that Goldfish was set to perform and embraced myself for what ever was to come. Onto the short stage came three men. Two DJs and an MC. As soon as the MC grabbed the mike and the DJs began spinning their stuff, the crowd jumped into action. In a matter of minutes, the overcrowded room turned into a sauna as the beats, dance, and temperatures all picked up at the same rate. Yet, even though I came prepared for the sweat with a dry-fit shirt, by the end of the night, my top was soaked through and through. In the middle of the concert, I smoothly made my way over to front row-center. From there I had a picture perfect view of these musicians working their magic. I call them musicians because that’s exactly what they were: they played everything from the cello, to the flute to the sax. Mixing pre-recorded beats with the live tunes of these jazzy instruments was a sound I’ve never quite heard before. Standing in front also had its other advantages: I had all the room I needed to make use of my giant wingspan and give a little demonstration to the Cape Town locals of what it means to really dance. At times, I felt uncertain if I should stay in the front, as not only was I the only boy in the front row, but I was also at least a foot taller than everyone else next to me and behind me. In short, I stood out. But the adrenaline rush of being up in the front was too good to resist. At times, Goldfish would prompt the crowd to get a clap going in the air. Like K-G clapping a handful of baby powder before tip-off or like a gospel singer sending his praise to the lord above, I thumped my hands together with pure power. I felt like the king up there. Lights were shining from behind, and I could see my clapping shadow dwarfing the clapping shadows of all the short people next to me. I had no intention of moving- the people needed their leader.
I ended the night walking out into the bracing air, having dedicated every muscle of my body to match and move in perfect rhythm with every soulful note that came out of that fervent saxophone. The sweat instantly chilled on my back, as I joined a conversation of people, chimed in with a few quick remarks, and then sat back, relaxed, and let the other parties do the rest of the socializing work. My job here was done.
The super-bowl happened. I didn’t see it. I woke up and someone told me that the Saints won. All I heard was that the Colts loss. I was ecstatic.
On Tuesday I applied for World Cup tickets. I got to the computer lab an hour before they went on sale just to make sure that I would have a computer. When the clock struck one PM, all my ADD disappeared, and my entire mental capacity was focused on one task: fill out the ticket forms as quickly as possible. Like I said before, I’ll find out next week what tickets I actually will get. I’m praying for Brazil v. Ivory Coast. It’s going to be the best match of the first round and it’s happening in Soccer City, Jo-Berg.
Once a year the government plans a big celebration in Cape Town in honor of the opening of parliament. However, yesterday was an especially important day, because not only was it the beginning of the political season, but it was also the 20th anniversary of Nelson Mandela’s release from prison. I headed to downtown Cape Town to check out the scene. At 6 PM, the parade started! A marching band came forward followed by a platoon of soldiers who flanked out in perfect order towards the sides of the streets, maintaining a careful eye over the crowd. Then nothing happened. For 15 minutes. I didn’t understand it, did something go wrong? At 6:15 PM: another marching band came forward. Then nothing again, for another 15 minutes. Parades usually come and go in consecutive lines with excitement from beginning to end. But here in Cape Town, they make sure to spread out the whole charade as much as urban patience will allow. At least this gives you time to go the bathroom without having to miss any of the show. During one of the breaks, I took the opportunity to look around and noticed snipers on the top of all the surrounding high-risers. There’s always something exciting about top-secret, high level security. 6:30 PM: A group of police motorcycles VERY SLOWLY made their way towards parliament. I couldn’t understand how they kept their balance under such slow speeds. Then all of a sudden one of them just dropped to the ground. Collapsed instantly. Some people thought it was because he feinted, I thought it was because he lost his balance from the slow speed, but either way, the guy was not moving. A police from the sidelines quickly ran over and checked his pulse. Still no movement. Another police officer jumped on the fallen motorcycle and drove it away to make room for the oncoming parade of more nothing as a team of medics circled the fallen officer. For about 3 minutes, they continuously took his pulse, which I hope was a good sign, because he was still not moving an inch. An ambulance came quickly; he was placed in a neck brace, moved onto a stretcher and whisked away in the truck. He still had his helmet on, but his windshield was lifted and I could see that his eyes were closed, evidence that he was still unconscious. A parade is an event that represents strength, dignity and overall prowess, making it the last place you would expect to see someone on a bike collapse and get knocked out. It was a frightening sight and I really hope that man is ok.
The parade, or lack of parade, continued on, and finally, after some moments of more nothing passing, a pope-like mobile drove forward carrying the president himself, Jacob Zuma. Through the clear windows I could see President Zuma, waving proudly in between the occasional wipe of his nose, with his wife behind him. Well only the first wife to be precise, but don’t feel bad for his second wife; she got to travel with him on his last trip to NYC. It’s wife number three that really gets the short end of the deal.
After the parade wrapped up, the soldiers marched in reverse order to head back to where they came from. The soldiers had their names stitched onto their shirts and my clever friend decided that it would be funny if he shouted their names out as they passed by. As he shouted random names, the serious faces of the soldiers would break down with a smile and sometimes they would even give a deliberate wink in his direction. Seeing these serious soldiers crack mischievous smiles while all eyes were watching them wasn’t funny at all: it was hysterical!
Yesterday my friend told me that the forecast for surf today was 35 feet. I couldn’t believe it: 35 feet! I can’t even imagine what that would look like. I have no concept, no prior experience, absolutely nothing to compare it to. It’s simply titanic. Before going to sleep, I was stoked just thinking about the possibility of seeing waves of that size. Waking up this morning, literally the first sounds that came out my mouth were the three syllables: thir-ty-five. I told all my friends about it, and even some people in my classes. After rallying a huge group of friends to head to the beach to check out this beast of nature, I called the surf shop just to make sure. The surf report was in: 6-8 feet, nice and ride able. Although I am from Boston and as an east-coast surfer have no right to complain about 6-8 feet, I have to say, after the hype of 35, I was disappointed. I ended up going to the mall with a friend to look for some sneakers. I am size 14. We went to 6 different stores. The biggest size any of them had was 12. Having experienced both a shortage in waves and shoe sizes in the same day, I realized that sometimes things aren’t as big as they are expected to be. Sometimes reality doesn’t live up to the expectations. But that’s ok. I think hype is good for its own sake. I think that hype is an emotion, a joy, which can be experienced in its own right. Even if the waves didn’t end up crashing at 35 feet, for the few moments when I thought they were going to, it instilled me with a feeling of awe just at the mere imagination of thinking about what that would even look like. My imagination will continue to wander until the day that I see the 35-foot wave. I don’t know if it will ever come, but either way, I can always hope and will continue to build up the hype…
Friday, February 5, 2010
FLIGHT SA208 and Beyond...
South African Airways is awesome! On my flight from Washington to Johannesburg, via Dakar, Senegal, I had a cushy legroom seat, with enough space to fully extend the pins on my 6'4'' frame.
The service was incredible, the passengers were friendly, the media system offered a deep list of movies that can be played and paused at the viewers discretion, the accents people spoke with were eclectic and intriguing, and of course the rolls were delicious. I was loving Africa before I even left Washington.
8 hours in the air, two more hours on the land in Dakar to refuel, and another 7 hours in the air later, and I was still just as happy of a camper as ever. The plane was half empty, providing me with all the space I needed to go on pre-meal strolls, consistently change seats so that I could check out the views of Africa from both wings of the plane, and even do a few sets of squats as part of my physical therapy program. Basically, the plane was my jungle gym, and I had a lot of fun riding down all the slides.
My first day in Cape Town, I was greeted by warm, engaging people and a natural surrounding unlike anything I have experienced. Mid-morning, the clouds broke through to reveal one of my soon to be closest companions of the semester, Table Mountain. On sunny days, Table Mountain stands out as a prominent piece of tree covered rock, with a dropped face and a flat top as suggested by its name. On cloudy days, the evaporated moisture plays games with Table Mountain, settling on its flat top and flowing down over its edges just before picking up into the sky once more, like a wizard's cauldron, boiling over with magical steam.
My first Sunday in Cape Town, I joined a group of over 400 international students on what would be the best bus ride of my entire life: The Cape Peninsula Tour. It was a one day journey from UCT to the tip of the Cape peninsula and back, yet the oceans, mountains, and wildlife we saw would take a lifetime to properly digest. Our tour guide, Abe, pumping with adrenaline and enthusiasm for every place we visited, spoke non-stop to us in a wonderful Afrikaners accent, rolling rrrs, and roaring laughter abound. At first we headed through the downtown part of the Cape, passing some of both the expected and unexpected sights you would see in an urban area. In a matter of minutes, we passed by THE Parliament, an ex-slave house, the stage where Nelson Mandela gave his opening speech to the people of Africa after being released from Prison, and a bridge that is simply cut off in the middle of the air and leads no where. This city is oozing with life, contradiction, beauty, and history. Although Cape Town is considered a first world, modern city, the fact is that there was a legal policy of apartheid only 20 years ago. Sights such as the hanging, incomplete bridge serve as a reminder that this country still has crucial gaps that need to be overcome.
The bus ride to peninsula heaven continued as we hooked around the downtown area and slung towards the beautiful soccer stadium that was built right on the water in preparation for FIFA 2010. Enormous in size, I can't even imagine what they are going to do with this beast when 2010 passes. This stadium stands out as perhaps the biggest landmark in all of Cape Town, only to be dwarfed by the titanic Table-Mountain. Table-Mountain: glorious, horrific, and constantly beckoning me to challenge it, is a spectacle that can be seen from pretty much everywhere I go, especially on walks up to campus. Anytime I forget where I am, all I need to do is look up and out, and Table-Mountain instantly reminds: I am in Africa. This is not my first intimate relationship with a mountain; I’ve gotten to know the ranges of Israel quite well and I’ve even had a love affair with whistler that lasted for 4 years. But something about Table-Mountains’ steep faces, narrow shoots, jungle green coating, and overall prominent presence is just so foreign to my previous experiences with the rocks of the world. I am intrigued…
….Table Mountain remained in sight as the Peninsula tour to never land journeyed, passing beach after beach of G-d’s purest grace. Giant boulders stacked on top of each other, with houses built into the cliffs, lead down to a beautiful sea of rolling swells, surfers, dolphins, and yes, even sharks. Camps Bay was a classic, as the clash of the waves into the half sunk boulders unleashed a cool, mysterious, mist into the air that made me question whether I was awake or merely dreaming. Only being allowed to soak in the view for a mere ten minutes, I vowed to myself that I would come back to Camps Bay soon.
I've already been back twice, the second time meeting a friendly local who has gotten so close to the wildlife of Cape Town that he is already on a name by name basis with a few of the local creatures: Damien the Shark and Nelson the Segal are two of his favorites. Pointing out to sea as I was first meeting him, he claimed that Damien shark was playing “kill the seals” out at sea. Despite my 20-15 vision, my untrained eyes didn’t manage to catch a glance at Damien, although I did see a shark spotting helicopter fly by, in the hopes of ensuring that Damien’s seal lunch didn’t include a human dessert. But don't worry folks, the shark attack that happened around here a month ago was a pure fluke. It was an overcast day, and the black flags were up. On a standard sunny day, the shark spotters surround the mountaintops, and with their expert vision, they glance through their binoculars to see if they notice any sharks swimming under water, miles away. I'm not really sure how a few guys on top of the mountain can manage to cover the entire ocean with their bare eyesight, but somehow, they make it work. If they notice a shark, they merely give a shout out to their helicopter friends, who fly in to get a closer look. Of course, once the shark has been spotted, a siren at the beach sounds, at which time the surfers calmly wait till a killer (no pun intended) outside set comes in. After the helicopter confirms the shark’s location out at sea, the surfers merely paddle out and continue on with the day. The shark siren rings regularly several times a day, and the surfers always take it in stride. One thing I have learned about people in Cape Town: they are very very very laid back. Even when a shark is on the prowl, they will do things on their own time and not be rushed. Besides, Damien is nice to the locals.
The Peninsula tour went on, as we explored the lay out of the country just beside the Cape. There we drove through rolling hills of lush wineries. There is supposed to be a nice tour, where you can bike around from winery to winery and sample all the wines as far as you can go. If you make it through the taste tests of over 10 wine fields without falling off your bike you get a free drink! We also visited a beach that was covered in jackass penguins. In the penguin world, gender roles are reversed: the males laid on the babies keeping them safe, while the females just chilled out in the cooler sand down by the water. Penguins on a beach! Another reason why Cape Town is such a unique place: Penguins, sharks, and people of all different races living in perfect harmony. Of course if the shark attack last month was the only problem of this city, then the world we live in would be a much better place. But as you all know, Cape Town and South Africa does indeed have its tragic side, which I will get more into another time.
Onward, onwards, to the Peninsula itself. The hills got stronger, the trees got lower. On Cape Peninsula, the winds are so intense that trees can't grow much higher than 2 meters, because the wind will knock it all down. On one part of the cape, all the trees are pointing down and out towards one direction, because the wind doesn't allow them to grow in a normal upwards line. We drove through the nature reserve that is the cape peninsula, and on the way we see an official road sign that simply says: "Baboon!". I guess the exclamation mark tells you everything you need to know, because later, we see another sign, this time with a baboon sitting on it. We took pictures from the bus, a safe distance away, because as cute as baboons look, they have the biggest canines in proportion to their body in the animal kingdom. I guess the exclamation point was really suggesting: Baboon (if you try to feed them they will tear your face off) !
Finally, we hit Cape Point. The South-Western most part in the Cape peninsula. Be sure to note that clearly. Cape Point is not the tip of Africa, and Cape Point is also not where the Indian and Atlantic ocean split. Rather it is Cape Augulus that is the location of both the tip of Africa and the "official" divider between the Indian and the Atlantic. Cape Point often gets the credit for that, but it is merely a lie that has been used to bolster tourism and prove how gullible people are. Yet, Cape Point is still a beautiful place. After a sprint-hike (when I hike- I SPRINT!) up to the lighthouse, in which I passed by tourists from perhaps every continent in the world, I arrived at a miraculous viewpoint where all I could see was swelling water on all three sides of me, and lush green mountains in the distance across the Bay. My breath was stolen and never given back. That spot will forever own a piece of my soul. I sprinkboked ( that's the name of South Africa's favorite buck and also the way I describe myself when I hike) my way down to the bottom, where giant growths of seaweed bounced up and down in the wadding water. It was a scene straight from avatar, of oceans and rocks from another world. I took a picture by the famous Cape Point sign, shed a tear, and then hopped back for an incredible bus ride back.
The entire bus except for a few spirited souls went to sleep, and I sat in my seat, relishing in the views and experiences of the day, as a South African mix CD that Tour Guide Abe made played in the background. The music, the scenery as the sun was in that perfect position a few degrees above the horizon, the feeling of having experienced so much of the glory of this planet in one day, the stillness of everyone on the bus- the beauty of that moment was all too much for me. That simple bus ride back from the Cape Peninsula was one of the happiest moments of my life. So enthralled by the music, I asked Abe if he has any extra copies of his mix CDS. He said no, and I let it go, not trying to hold on to a moment was unique in its time and place. When, the bus finally reached the destination, Abe reached out to me with an extended arm, CD in hand, saying: "You better as hell not make copies of that, or I'll kill you, bru!" I gave Abe a big and grateful thank you, as a I cupped the shiny disk in my hand. It was one of the greatest presents I have ever received in my life.
...A lot has happened between that day and today. Hikes, meeting people, joining societies, going to beaches, climbing boulders by the sea, eating a wide range of delicious vegetarian food, meeting more people, spending shabbat in a few nice Jewish communities, meeting old Jews, young Jews, and surfing Jews. I went to one shul in which there was an incredible choir. They performed the sharmal sheik tune for Adon Olam at the end of services. Butterflies flapped in my stomach as the melody lifted me to a higher world. I'll spare the rest of the details of my first few weeks, although the events of today are noteworthy.
Wanting to integrate into UCT society, I signed up for O-week, which is generally made up of South African First Year students. Being a third year US student, it would seem I would be a little out of place, but all has worked out well, especially today.
Today, the entire first year class woke up at 3:30 in the morning to embark on an event that is well know across the city as SAX APPEAL. Basically, the idea is to get the first year students involved in city wide magazine sale to raise funds for a UCT volunteer organization, SHAWCO. The magazine, called SAX APPEAL, is a satirical magazine that plays on local and international events. In pursuit of gaining attention, people dress up in all sorts of crazy costumes that make them look like SAX offenders (south Africans say it’s a play in words, but its really just changing one letter to another, and turning it into a word that no longer makes sense for this context. Strange, eh?) In a sense anything goes, as long as its attention grabbing. Many of the boys dressed up in orange jumpsuits, girls dressed up in the usual go-out style, just with added make up, and sometimes brighter colors, and I decided to wear a bikini top strapped around my head, in such a way as it looked like a rugby helmet. (By the way, I won best costume at my station, and got a free pass to a club next week. My costume was effortless, simple, but the creativity was appreciated-I didn’t see anyone else with a bikini on their head.) Amidst noise and commotion, the students all met at a set of bus stops at 4:30 in the morning, boarded the buses, and then were shipped out to various and various traffic lights ( robots is what they call them here) of Greater Cape Town. Upon arriving at the traffic lights, we were met by an organizer, who handed us a stack of Sax Appeal magazines, where upon our objective was to stand in the middle of the street and sell as many of them as we possibly could, with all the proceeds going to charity. Man, was I in my element.
For the first hour, traffic was weak and people weren't buying. Since the people weren’t coming to me, I decided to go to them. At around 6 AM, I coupled up with a wonderfully friendly Cape Town local UCT girl, who was extremely excitable and roared like a lion whenever she laughed. Along with the fact that she was dressed up in a devil's costume, she was the perfect candidate for teaming up with me to wreck some early morning havoc in the, nice quite, upscale suburb of Cape Town, Constantia. At a little past 6 we rang our first doorbell and the lady who replied said no to the magazines, reminded us of the time of day, and cut the conversation short. So we waited till 7 and then we embarked on a mission of walking through the upscale neighborhood and ringing door bells one by one. At one of the first houses, a man answered the buzzer, saying that he knows what SAX APPEAL is but that we are supposed to sell at the lights and stick to the traditions. This annual magazine sale has been going on for years, and many of the grown ups in Cape Town have fond memories of selling the magazine themselves. Although I respect tradition, when it comes to raising money for charity, I am always eager to be innovative, so I ignored this man’s advice, and together with my newfound friend continued ringing door bells one by one. Before long, we were met by much success. One woman who we visited already bought one, but through the combination of my selling skills and foreign accent, I was able to convince her to buy another, just for kicks. Another woman spotted us in her car while she was driving down the street and held out 60 rand in her hand, screaming: “I’ll have three please.” Finally, one woman, was so excited but our excitement, that she brought over 100 rand and said she’ll take 5 because she didn’t have enough change. We slapped her five, gave each other big hugs, and screamed at our huge success: SAX APPEAL! CHARITY!
When we returned back to our main intersection, I stood in the blistering heat along fellow UCT students, begging drivers stopped at the red light to buy the comical magazine. I must have screamed the words SAX APPEAL and CHARITY over 1000 times over the course of the day. I sweated, I small talked, and I hustled. But most importantly, I sold magazines! Never again, will I dismiss the street sellers without a friendly smile or comment. Street selling is some tough stuff, and I almost got hit by a car multiple times. By the end of the day, together with the girl, I sold a total of 31 magazines. Driving back in the bus to UCT, I looked out the window, feeling exhausted yet energized at the same time, pumped up by the fact that as part of the freshman class of UCT, we raised a lot of money for SHAWCO, and had an incredibly fun day.
(most blog entries won't be this long, so if you are discouraged by the length and details of this entry, please give the next one another try, ay?)
The service was incredible, the passengers were friendly, the media system offered a deep list of movies that can be played and paused at the viewers discretion, the accents people spoke with were eclectic and intriguing, and of course the rolls were delicious. I was loving Africa before I even left Washington.
8 hours in the air, two more hours on the land in Dakar to refuel, and another 7 hours in the air later, and I was still just as happy of a camper as ever. The plane was half empty, providing me with all the space I needed to go on pre-meal strolls, consistently change seats so that I could check out the views of Africa from both wings of the plane, and even do a few sets of squats as part of my physical therapy program. Basically, the plane was my jungle gym, and I had a lot of fun riding down all the slides.
My first day in Cape Town, I was greeted by warm, engaging people and a natural surrounding unlike anything I have experienced. Mid-morning, the clouds broke through to reveal one of my soon to be closest companions of the semester, Table Mountain. On sunny days, Table Mountain stands out as a prominent piece of tree covered rock, with a dropped face and a flat top as suggested by its name. On cloudy days, the evaporated moisture plays games with Table Mountain, settling on its flat top and flowing down over its edges just before picking up into the sky once more, like a wizard's cauldron, boiling over with magical steam.
My first Sunday in Cape Town, I joined a group of over 400 international students on what would be the best bus ride of my entire life: The Cape Peninsula Tour. It was a one day journey from UCT to the tip of the Cape peninsula and back, yet the oceans, mountains, and wildlife we saw would take a lifetime to properly digest. Our tour guide, Abe, pumping with adrenaline and enthusiasm for every place we visited, spoke non-stop to us in a wonderful Afrikaners accent, rolling rrrs, and roaring laughter abound. At first we headed through the downtown part of the Cape, passing some of both the expected and unexpected sights you would see in an urban area. In a matter of minutes, we passed by THE Parliament, an ex-slave house, the stage where Nelson Mandela gave his opening speech to the people of Africa after being released from Prison, and a bridge that is simply cut off in the middle of the air and leads no where. This city is oozing with life, contradiction, beauty, and history. Although Cape Town is considered a first world, modern city, the fact is that there was a legal policy of apartheid only 20 years ago. Sights such as the hanging, incomplete bridge serve as a reminder that this country still has crucial gaps that need to be overcome.
The bus ride to peninsula heaven continued as we hooked around the downtown area and slung towards the beautiful soccer stadium that was built right on the water in preparation for FIFA 2010. Enormous in size, I can't even imagine what they are going to do with this beast when 2010 passes. This stadium stands out as perhaps the biggest landmark in all of Cape Town, only to be dwarfed by the titanic Table-Mountain. Table-Mountain: glorious, horrific, and constantly beckoning me to challenge it, is a spectacle that can be seen from pretty much everywhere I go, especially on walks up to campus. Anytime I forget where I am, all I need to do is look up and out, and Table-Mountain instantly reminds: I am in Africa. This is not my first intimate relationship with a mountain; I’ve gotten to know the ranges of Israel quite well and I’ve even had a love affair with whistler that lasted for 4 years. But something about Table-Mountains’ steep faces, narrow shoots, jungle green coating, and overall prominent presence is just so foreign to my previous experiences with the rocks of the world. I am intrigued…
….Table Mountain remained in sight as the Peninsula tour to never land journeyed, passing beach after beach of G-d’s purest grace. Giant boulders stacked on top of each other, with houses built into the cliffs, lead down to a beautiful sea of rolling swells, surfers, dolphins, and yes, even sharks. Camps Bay was a classic, as the clash of the waves into the half sunk boulders unleashed a cool, mysterious, mist into the air that made me question whether I was awake or merely dreaming. Only being allowed to soak in the view for a mere ten minutes, I vowed to myself that I would come back to Camps Bay soon.
I've already been back twice, the second time meeting a friendly local who has gotten so close to the wildlife of Cape Town that he is already on a name by name basis with a few of the local creatures: Damien the Shark and Nelson the Segal are two of his favorites. Pointing out to sea as I was first meeting him, he claimed that Damien shark was playing “kill the seals” out at sea. Despite my 20-15 vision, my untrained eyes didn’t manage to catch a glance at Damien, although I did see a shark spotting helicopter fly by, in the hopes of ensuring that Damien’s seal lunch didn’t include a human dessert. But don't worry folks, the shark attack that happened around here a month ago was a pure fluke. It was an overcast day, and the black flags were up. On a standard sunny day, the shark spotters surround the mountaintops, and with their expert vision, they glance through their binoculars to see if they notice any sharks swimming under water, miles away. I'm not really sure how a few guys on top of the mountain can manage to cover the entire ocean with their bare eyesight, but somehow, they make it work. If they notice a shark, they merely give a shout out to their helicopter friends, who fly in to get a closer look. Of course, once the shark has been spotted, a siren at the beach sounds, at which time the surfers calmly wait till a killer (no pun intended) outside set comes in. After the helicopter confirms the shark’s location out at sea, the surfers merely paddle out and continue on with the day. The shark siren rings regularly several times a day, and the surfers always take it in stride. One thing I have learned about people in Cape Town: they are very very very laid back. Even when a shark is on the prowl, they will do things on their own time and not be rushed. Besides, Damien is nice to the locals.
The Peninsula tour went on, as we explored the lay out of the country just beside the Cape. There we drove through rolling hills of lush wineries. There is supposed to be a nice tour, where you can bike around from winery to winery and sample all the wines as far as you can go. If you make it through the taste tests of over 10 wine fields without falling off your bike you get a free drink! We also visited a beach that was covered in jackass penguins. In the penguin world, gender roles are reversed: the males laid on the babies keeping them safe, while the females just chilled out in the cooler sand down by the water. Penguins on a beach! Another reason why Cape Town is such a unique place: Penguins, sharks, and people of all different races living in perfect harmony. Of course if the shark attack last month was the only problem of this city, then the world we live in would be a much better place. But as you all know, Cape Town and South Africa does indeed have its tragic side, which I will get more into another time.
Onward, onwards, to the Peninsula itself. The hills got stronger, the trees got lower. On Cape Peninsula, the winds are so intense that trees can't grow much higher than 2 meters, because the wind will knock it all down. On one part of the cape, all the trees are pointing down and out towards one direction, because the wind doesn't allow them to grow in a normal upwards line. We drove through the nature reserve that is the cape peninsula, and on the way we see an official road sign that simply says: "Baboon!". I guess the exclamation mark tells you everything you need to know, because later, we see another sign, this time with a baboon sitting on it. We took pictures from the bus, a safe distance away, because as cute as baboons look, they have the biggest canines in proportion to their body in the animal kingdom. I guess the exclamation point was really suggesting: Baboon (if you try to feed them they will tear your face off) !
Finally, we hit Cape Point. The South-Western most part in the Cape peninsula. Be sure to note that clearly. Cape Point is not the tip of Africa, and Cape Point is also not where the Indian and Atlantic ocean split. Rather it is Cape Augulus that is the location of both the tip of Africa and the "official" divider between the Indian and the Atlantic. Cape Point often gets the credit for that, but it is merely a lie that has been used to bolster tourism and prove how gullible people are. Yet, Cape Point is still a beautiful place. After a sprint-hike (when I hike- I SPRINT!) up to the lighthouse, in which I passed by tourists from perhaps every continent in the world, I arrived at a miraculous viewpoint where all I could see was swelling water on all three sides of me, and lush green mountains in the distance across the Bay. My breath was stolen and never given back. That spot will forever own a piece of my soul. I sprinkboked ( that's the name of South Africa's favorite buck and also the way I describe myself when I hike) my way down to the bottom, where giant growths of seaweed bounced up and down in the wadding water. It was a scene straight from avatar, of oceans and rocks from another world. I took a picture by the famous Cape Point sign, shed a tear, and then hopped back for an incredible bus ride back.
The entire bus except for a few spirited souls went to sleep, and I sat in my seat, relishing in the views and experiences of the day, as a South African mix CD that Tour Guide Abe made played in the background. The music, the scenery as the sun was in that perfect position a few degrees above the horizon, the feeling of having experienced so much of the glory of this planet in one day, the stillness of everyone on the bus- the beauty of that moment was all too much for me. That simple bus ride back from the Cape Peninsula was one of the happiest moments of my life. So enthralled by the music, I asked Abe if he has any extra copies of his mix CDS. He said no, and I let it go, not trying to hold on to a moment was unique in its time and place. When, the bus finally reached the destination, Abe reached out to me with an extended arm, CD in hand, saying: "You better as hell not make copies of that, or I'll kill you, bru!" I gave Abe a big and grateful thank you, as a I cupped the shiny disk in my hand. It was one of the greatest presents I have ever received in my life.
...A lot has happened between that day and today. Hikes, meeting people, joining societies, going to beaches, climbing boulders by the sea, eating a wide range of delicious vegetarian food, meeting more people, spending shabbat in a few nice Jewish communities, meeting old Jews, young Jews, and surfing Jews. I went to one shul in which there was an incredible choir. They performed the sharmal sheik tune for Adon Olam at the end of services. Butterflies flapped in my stomach as the melody lifted me to a higher world. I'll spare the rest of the details of my first few weeks, although the events of today are noteworthy.
Wanting to integrate into UCT society, I signed up for O-week, which is generally made up of South African First Year students. Being a third year US student, it would seem I would be a little out of place, but all has worked out well, especially today.
Today, the entire first year class woke up at 3:30 in the morning to embark on an event that is well know across the city as SAX APPEAL. Basically, the idea is to get the first year students involved in city wide magazine sale to raise funds for a UCT volunteer organization, SHAWCO. The magazine, called SAX APPEAL, is a satirical magazine that plays on local and international events. In pursuit of gaining attention, people dress up in all sorts of crazy costumes that make them look like SAX offenders (south Africans say it’s a play in words, but its really just changing one letter to another, and turning it into a word that no longer makes sense for this context. Strange, eh?) In a sense anything goes, as long as its attention grabbing. Many of the boys dressed up in orange jumpsuits, girls dressed up in the usual go-out style, just with added make up, and sometimes brighter colors, and I decided to wear a bikini top strapped around my head, in such a way as it looked like a rugby helmet. (By the way, I won best costume at my station, and got a free pass to a club next week. My costume was effortless, simple, but the creativity was appreciated-I didn’t see anyone else with a bikini on their head.) Amidst noise and commotion, the students all met at a set of bus stops at 4:30 in the morning, boarded the buses, and then were shipped out to various and various traffic lights ( robots is what they call them here) of Greater Cape Town. Upon arriving at the traffic lights, we were met by an organizer, who handed us a stack of Sax Appeal magazines, where upon our objective was to stand in the middle of the street and sell as many of them as we possibly could, with all the proceeds going to charity. Man, was I in my element.
For the first hour, traffic was weak and people weren't buying. Since the people weren’t coming to me, I decided to go to them. At around 6 AM, I coupled up with a wonderfully friendly Cape Town local UCT girl, who was extremely excitable and roared like a lion whenever she laughed. Along with the fact that she was dressed up in a devil's costume, she was the perfect candidate for teaming up with me to wreck some early morning havoc in the, nice quite, upscale suburb of Cape Town, Constantia. At a little past 6 we rang our first doorbell and the lady who replied said no to the magazines, reminded us of the time of day, and cut the conversation short. So we waited till 7 and then we embarked on a mission of walking through the upscale neighborhood and ringing door bells one by one. At one of the first houses, a man answered the buzzer, saying that he knows what SAX APPEAL is but that we are supposed to sell at the lights and stick to the traditions. This annual magazine sale has been going on for years, and many of the grown ups in Cape Town have fond memories of selling the magazine themselves. Although I respect tradition, when it comes to raising money for charity, I am always eager to be innovative, so I ignored this man’s advice, and together with my newfound friend continued ringing door bells one by one. Before long, we were met by much success. One woman who we visited already bought one, but through the combination of my selling skills and foreign accent, I was able to convince her to buy another, just for kicks. Another woman spotted us in her car while she was driving down the street and held out 60 rand in her hand, screaming: “I’ll have three please.” Finally, one woman, was so excited but our excitement, that she brought over 100 rand and said she’ll take 5 because she didn’t have enough change. We slapped her five, gave each other big hugs, and screamed at our huge success: SAX APPEAL! CHARITY!
When we returned back to our main intersection, I stood in the blistering heat along fellow UCT students, begging drivers stopped at the red light to buy the comical magazine. I must have screamed the words SAX APPEAL and CHARITY over 1000 times over the course of the day. I sweated, I small talked, and I hustled. But most importantly, I sold magazines! Never again, will I dismiss the street sellers without a friendly smile or comment. Street selling is some tough stuff, and I almost got hit by a car multiple times. By the end of the day, together with the girl, I sold a total of 31 magazines. Driving back in the bus to UCT, I looked out the window, feeling exhausted yet energized at the same time, pumped up by the fact that as part of the freshman class of UCT, we raised a lot of money for SHAWCO, and had an incredibly fun day.
(most blog entries won't be this long, so if you are discouraged by the length and details of this entry, please give the next one another try, ay?)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)