I’m sipping a glass of rose I bought after a wine tasting back in April, probably one of my happiest days abroad. It was the second full day I spent with my good friend Yvette, who had flown in to visit me from Boston. That morning, we toured Vergelegen Wine Estate, where we both betrayed our age: The two of us giggling as Yvette performed cartwheels in the rolling green grass and I pretended it was my runway. We got lost amid the orange groves and fruit orchards and then snapped pictures of each other climbing the trees. Later that day, we enjoyed a chocolate and wine tasting of several reds and whites, and I bought the rose to share with my folks back home. But it doesn’t taste as good as it did when we sat outside in the Blaauwklippen Valley, relaxed and enjoying a perfect day.

I thought it was going to be difficult to leave South Africa because my life was so different. From my window, I could see the Atlantic Ocean in the distance and when I left my building, I saw Table Mountain at the end of the block. I took day trips to the wineries and ate at some nicer restaurants, but I spent most days traveling by minibus, “caskets on wheels,” spending time in the townships, making modest attempts to get out of Cape Town so I could see how the people lived. I initially broke away from my built-in community of American friends, and worked to create a social life independent of them, but I found that I was happiest when I brought both groups together. None of this was real life.

When I returned home, I felt like I had never left. Cape Town was a dream, as sappy as it sounds; a magical place very far away, and therefore almost hard to miss. I share pictures with family and friends, but they don’t know how it felt, or how a particular place smelled. I know that I was there, but the experience is such an extreme aberration from my daily life, it’s hard for even me to remember.

A few people have asked me if my trip was transformative. I think that will become clearer to me later on. At this point, what I do know is that I have a stronger sense of purpose, and while I may not have a 20-year life plan, I certainly have a better idea of how I want to live. I know that my humanity is bound up with yours, so it is my duty to do what I can to assure we all live better lives. I know now how lucky I am to be an American, to be a black American, and to not have the stigma attached to me of being a black refugee — because I will never have to leave my country for one where democracy is real. I certainly read the news with a hunger for international reporting, and I am becoming increasingly aware of the ways in which I see the world through a Western lens.

In other words, I have no regrets.

I met some unforgettable people. I made some mistakes. I learned that there are situations in which I am weak, and others, in which I surprise myself. And although I do not know what my next step will be, I know that I will enter it with a renewed sense of purpose, and an awareness that my life is about more than me.

In March, these refugees from Zimbabwe protested against a xenophobic attack on Somali refugees in Worcester, a city roughly two hours outside of Cape Town in the Western Cape.

Just before I left Cape Town, everyone was talking about the recent spate of xenophobic violence near Johannesburg that left dozens of people dead, hundreds injured, and thousands displaced. The short story is that hundreds, if not thousands, of Zimbabweans have fled their home country these past 3 months due to post-election violence there, creating an even tenser relationship between black foreigners, (Africans from across the continent), and poor South Africans who feel that these foreigners have better access to social services and jobs than them. A number of my friends and acquaintances worried that they would be singled out for their appearance or accent, and that since violence erupted in Gauteng, tensions would erupt in Cape Town, too.

Eventually, they did. The Mail and Guardian is reporting that there are 18,000 displaced people just in and around Cape Town.

The whole thing is a bit complicated, and once I feel one way about it, I read something else that changes my mind. This BBC story does a great job of putting this story into its historical context. Also this blog logs the conditions refugees lived under at the Desmond Tutu Hall in a nearby township called Khayelitsha, where more than 500 people sought shelter following the attacks.

With the presidential runoff in Zimbabwe slated for later this month, it’s unlikely we’ll be hearing any less about this issue, although from here, it seems like things have calmed down since I left.

Time flies, huh? I’ve been spending the day saying goodbye to people and buying some last minute gifts. I’ll spend the remainder of the day packing, and then hanging out with friends tonight. My flight leaves Cape Town tomorrow evening at 5. I head to Oxford to visit a friend for a few days, and then over the Atlantic and back home.

As silly as this sounds, I don’t feel like I’m leaving. I feel like I’m going to be around next week, even as I deconstruct my living space and bid my new friends farewell. I’m so happy to have had this experience, and to have met so many people who have truly given me a new way of seeing my surroundings and my self.

I took a very quick and expensive trip to Victoria Falls this past Sunday through Wednesday. I rationalize a lot of my decisions based on not knowing when I will have this opportunity again. I hope I feel the same way when I get back home.

So, all in all, the trip was amazing. It definitely had its good and bad points though. The good — I saw Victoria Falls, I visited Livingstone, Zambia, which is COMPLETELY different than anywhere I’ve been in SA, I met these two cool South Africans from Soweto that I ended up hanging out with the whole time, and I walked up to the border of Zimbabwe. The bad being, I spent way more money than I anticipated. I had to actually buy a second ticket between Jo’burg and Cape Town on the way back in order to avoid being stranded there for the night, (I hate you Zambian Airways for getting me there late), and I made a very poor decision at the curio market outside of the Falls by paying way too much for some tourist junk than I should have. Chalk it up to experience, right? Oh, and one more bad thing.

When you get close to the Falls, you get drenched, even if you’re wearing a raincoat. I met this nice Australian couple, who I toured the Falls with on my first day. After we got drenched, we sat down to observe the Falls from one of the more drier locations, and I offered them some biscuits/Maria crackers. They decide to continue further, and I tell them I’ll meet up in bit. I wanted to enjoy the moment even longer. So, I put my biscuits away, I stand by the ledge, just taking it all in, when I feel a heavy tug on my bag. I look to my left, and here’s a full-grown baboon on his hind legs, with his paws leaning on my bag, looking me dead in the eyes. I flipped. I took that bag off so fast, and I ran. I probably screamed too. A man nearby turned around and shooed the baboon away. I stood from a distance terrified. What a fool I am! The man returned my bag to me, which had my life in it — passport, camera, money, keys — and for some reason, I kept staring at this woman he was with, I suppose unconsciously looking for maternal support, something. Instead, she just looked back at me like I was an idiot. Really, what was I thinking? I see baboons on heavily traveled roads in SA. I knew better. Of course, after this, I see baboons everywhere :-/

I could write more, but there’s no time. Victoria Falls is really amazing. And despite the surprises, I don’t regret it. I’m glad I went.

That’s me on The Beacon, the highest point on Table Mountain.

It started as a scene from a cheesy horror flick: four 20-something women, foreigners in Cape Town, South Africa, embark on a challenging hike up Table Mountain, one of the world’s most magnificent structures. At a gift shop before beginning the hike, a strange man insists they buy a map. But the typically idealistic and unemployed women debate whether the map is worth its 60 rand price tag (less than $10), and believe they can navigate Table Mountain’s miles of unknown terrain using common sense and tidbits of advice from those who have gone before. (In our defense, do you know what you can buy with 60 rand? That’s two salsa classes. Eighteen samoosas. Sixty text messages).

I leave Cape Town on May 31, and then London on June 5, which means I will be back home in Florida very, very soon.

And it looks like I’m going for broke! It’s time to see Southern Africa!

We enjoyed a four-day weekend here last week, and six of my friends and I headed for Kruger National Park in Mpumalanga in hopes of seeing The Big Five. We caught a 6:30 a.m. flight from Cape Town to Jo’burg, rented a 8-passenger van, a boxy Mercedes we affectionately called The Party Bus, and made the 4.5 hour drive to Balule Nature Reserve on the middle edge of Kruger. Along the main dirt road we took to our campsite, roughly 40 minutes into the park, we often saw giraffe, warthogs, kudu, zebra, and impalas.

Shannon Raj, Archbishop Tutu, Me.

I’ve been fortunate enough to meet and take a picture with Archbishop Desmond Tutu twice now, once last Fall at Wheelock College in Boston, and for the second time at “the people’s cathedral” here in Cape Town last week. Each interaction has left me feeling inspired, and ready to focus on the important things I’ve been neglecting. But they have also left me with many unanswered questions, like how is it possible for someone who has overcome so much to appear unburdened by it? How does Tutu evidence such complete joy? It’s people like him that I find most inspiring, but also the ones I don’t understand.

All I’m missing are the Yankees hats and a video of people dancing to Jay-Z or Biggie at the club.

Pics of businesses, items and buildings in and around Cape Town.

From the Clinton Global Initiative Annual Meeting in 2006.

Oftentimes, people say “T.I.A.” or “This Is Africa” in reference to situations they consider particular to this continent.

For example, maybe it’s clear that you’re a foreigner and English is your second language. You’re at the Department of Home Affairs and the woman charged with helping you file the paperwork for your visa, refuses to explain what a “radiological report” is and why you need one. Instead, she rather coldly, ignores your polite requests and attempts to address the next person in line.