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).

Anywho, this grandfatherly man insists that we buy the map. He tells us of the time he got stuck on Table and had to sleep up there over night. “Did you bring warm clothes?” he asks. “It’s an eight hour hike.” He warns us that the trail can get tricky, but most of the time, we should bear to the right. Some trails are common for muggings, so we’re told to steer clear of those as well, at least after dark. He wishes us good luck, and after he leaves, the cashier gives us the map we were too cheap to buy.

“He bought it for you,” she says. “He didn’t want you on his conscience.”

A round of “awwws” from the group.

So, we go outside, some of us buy food, others use the lu, I go back into the gift shop to make a last-minute purchase.

“You guys haven’t left yet!?” the cashier says when I approach the register. “If you see the clouds coming in, get down the mountain. I remember the last man I warned about that. When the clouds came in, he didn’t get down fast enough. He died.”

“Um…thanks,” I say, avoiding eye contact, smiling uncomfortably.

We leave for our hike, walk through Kirstenbosch National Botanical Gardens, and then to Skeleton Gorge, which begins as steps made of wooden planks and becomes more intense as we walk up rocks. On the way, we hear tree limbs cracking and footsteps trampling the brush behind us. We turn around. It’s the old man.

OK, just kidding. But with all those warnings to be careful, we thought it really set the scene for something sinister. Actually, we just spent the day doing a really challenging hike.

For me, the neatest part about the experience was seeing how much Table Mountain’s terrain changes. We walked up wooden planks and rocks before climbing a waterfall, and then stumbled upon thick sand that led to a reservoir. At the top of the mountain, we walked over large flat rocks, and then through a thick brush nearly as tall as me.

As you can imagine, the view was breathtaking. It makes you realize how small you really are. But we spent too much time taking it in, recovering from the four-hour, not eight-hour, hike. We punked out. We took the last cable car all the way down.

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.

I’m not sure what I was thinking when I elected to go on safari. I thought it would be neat to see wild animals in their natural habitat. I also knew Kruger was one of those things all the tourists do, and the whole trip was surprisingly affordable. It was a long weekend, and I certainly didn’t want to sit around Cape Town. But during that first game drive, which was at night, I was faced with the whole stupidity of the idea. Here we are in this flimsy little vehicle looking for wild animals and shining our light on them to see what they do. Who does that? Tourists. When we saw elephants drinking water from a river, we drove closer, but by the time we cleared the brush, they were gone. How exactly did we lose three elephants? When we thought we saw a leopard in the distance, we high-tailed it in that direction, too.

The front seat that is folded over is called the “suicide seat.” At night, a ranger sits there and scans the brush ahead in search of animals. There are stories of leopards taking rangers from the seat in one swift leap.

Needless to say, I was terrified. For the first couple of game drives, I had a pretty sour look on my face. But by Friday afternoon, I found some liquid courage and thought I had figured out the secret to getting through safari. By Saturday, I relaxed. The whole experience was an adjustment for someone who has never gone camping before, and hasn’t seen wild animals outside of a zoo, except for the occasional deer, crocodile, snake, armadillo, turtle, or raccoon in Florida. And most of the time, I’m in the car or my home when those things come out. Here, we’re engaging with these animals in their homes, on their terms.

We slept in chalets on stilts, and all our food was cooked over a campfire. I ate way better than I do at home — fried eggs, french toast, sausage and bacon for breakfast; chicken bolognaise or kudu stew for dinner, sweet bread with custard sauce or sponge pudding for dessert. Over the four days, I probably spent the least amount of time ever in the bathroom. We had a typical looking toilet and sink, although the shower had no doors and everything was outside. The bathroom floor was the earth. The walls were made of wood and straw. I didn’t have a proper shower for days. We all smelled of camp fire and sweat by the time we left.

The bathroom

Our Chalet

Breakfast

Despite losing the conveniences of my normal life, I’m glad I went. When will I ever be so close to lions, or among a herd of 100 elephants or bulls? It was really the stuff of The Discovery Channel, as far as I’m concerned. Of the Big Five, we saw lions, elephants, and buffalo. We couldn’t find any leopards and rhinos, which at the end of the day, was fine with me.

I certainly don’t regret going on safari. But I’m not sure I’ll ever do it again.

Buffalo

Giraffe

Lions. These guys are brothers.

We were told over and over again that the animals don’t see the individuals inside the vehicle, instead they see us as one nonthreatening box, although they didn’t shy to tell us when we were getting to close, especially this guy.

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.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Tutu’s attitude and the history and legacy of slavery in the U.S. I’m wondering whether Americans tend to hold on to grief too closely, and whether we’re less inclined to move on. It’s been 150 years since slavery was abolished, but we’re still living under its weight. None of us were born into it, and some of us remember the segregationist laws, but as a child of the 80s, I’m even bitter about the institutional barriers I believe prohibit people of color in particular from realizing their full potential, and the racism that often seeps into law.

A few weeks ago, my friend Yvette and I took a tour of Robben Island. Our guide, Kgotso, was a former political prisoner charged with treason whom had spent roughly five years in prison, and now lives and works on the island full time. His next door neighbor is a former guard, who also works for the Museum. The logical question was “How does that make you feel?” He said they had both gotten over it. At the time, the guard was doing his job. Now, they’re learning to know each other as human beings.

Whenever I ask people here why South Africans do not display the bitterness about apartheid I think they should, they point to Mandela’s example. So, I’m wondering why we in the U.S. have not reached this step. Clearly South Africa has not healed totally, and the horrible crime rate would be one indication of that. But maybe Americans are behind because we never had a Truth and Reconciliation Commission, or a leader like Mandela. Thus, we were never forced to acknowledge the injustices waged under slavery and segregation that has prohibited us from experiencing closure, which in the meantime, has made it all the more complicated and impossible to attain.

I shared this with a professor who reminded me that we’re dealing with two different cultures, that slavery was not political oppression, and that the majority of South Africans were not physically displaced, i.e. taken to another continent. As a whole, I suppose it results in an entirely different grieving process. So there’s much more I need to absorb before I can fully understand the “why.”

When Archbishop Tutu is in town, he usually officiates a 7:15 a.m. service on Fridays at St. George’s Cathedral, an airy Victorian church known for its political activity during the apartheid struggle and for naming Tutu South Africa’s first black Archbishop. My friend Shannon and I were surprised, and glad, that the service was so small and intimate. It was held in a room off the main sanctuary in the far left corner of the church. We were actually among the first to arrive, so we got front-row seats.

Maybe 40 people participated in the service, which included a series of back and forth readings between the Archbishop and the congregation. There was time for communion, which I didn’t feel comfortable taking, so a woman suggested Shannon and I ask for a blessing instead. So, Archbishop Tutu blessed us

After the service, we waited so that we could take a picture with him. He of course didn’t remember the photo we took at Wheelock, but he did have the right words: “You dazzled me.” Even better, we were invited to coffee down the block with him and about 30 of the people who attended the service. We were told the group has been meeting for coffee after that service for nearly 30 years. At Wheelock, at least a dozen or so men accompanied the Archbishop at all times, but in Cape Town, he walked the streets with just one other person.

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.

Or, let’s say the person you’re scheduled to meet with at 6 p.m., doesn’t arrive until 8 p.m. They don’t offer much of an explanation, nor do they warn you that they will be late.

OK, one more.

The election disaster in Zimbabwe. Thabo Mbeki’s “quiet diplomacy.”

T.I.A.

But I think the saying focuses too much on the negative.

I was sitting on a crowded minibus a few weeks ago, while a mother was having trouble helping her two young boys, maybe ages 3 and 4, onto the bus. She brought one along with her, and sat him on her lap. Then, she looked up and called for the second. But at this point, a woman who was already seated on the bus, had helped him up the high step, and had sat him on her own lap. She was seated maybe 3 rows from the mother. The boy, who couldn’t see his mother from where he was seated, didn’t fuss. And the mom thanked the stranger for looking after her son. Even more surprising, for the remainder of the ride, she let the boy sit on this stranger’s lap.

This is Africa, too.

Despite, the wealth of horrible, horrible news of rape and crime and domestic violence, I also see evidence of a people that support one another, especially their children. My friend pointed out last week that while cars certainly didn’t stop for us when we crossed the street (mind you, in a crosswalk), they always hit the brakes when a child was waiting. I often see young children, definitely under the age of 10, in their school uniforms, weighed down by over sized backpacks, walking the streets of busy Cape Town alone. While they’re children, they also seem to carry a maturity in their step that I don’t see in children back at home. Maybe it’s just a different level of comfort with their surroundings. But could children even practice such independence in America? Here, the spirit of Ubuntu, a traditional African philosophy, does exist, and underpins many of the micro-level interactions I see everyday.

“I am, because you are.”