Abbey in Africa

So with an hour and a half until I have to go volunteer, a room in desperate need of cleaning, laundry that now has complete control of my floor, the first of a mountain of papers due on Friday, and about four novels to be read (including ones by Faulkner and Conrad), I figured my time would be best spent working on my blog.

Let's begin.

I have been putting off blogging for a little while in order to digest the weekend I spent in a homestay two weeks ago. And today I have finally come to the realization that that particular weekend will most likely never be fully digested. It can be shared and described--probably not as accurately as I would like--but it will take a long long time to fully synthesize everything I took in. So, at risk of being terribly politically incorrect, appearing ignorant, and not doing my wonderful homestay family justice, here is a glimpse of my time in Ocean View.

Ocean View is located about 45 minutes outside of Cape Town, towards the Cape Peninsula, and is a coloured community that was created when the apartheid government designated Simonstown (where the penguins are) a whites-only area in the 1950s/60s. All the displaced non-whites living there were then moved to an area about 20 minutes away, which has come to be called Ocean View. I don't think I would call Ocean View a township, at least not in the way that Khayelitsha (where I volunteer) is. I can say with conviction, however, that it is a place just as full of energy, personality, and life as it is with contrasting economic conditions and prevalent social issues.

My narrative of my weekend at Ocean View begins in a large lecture hall at UCT, where all 150 or so CIEE students met for a debriefing about the upcoming weekend. But, as was to be expected by now, not much happened in the way of debriefing. We learned that we would be leaving from campus at 5:00 on Friday, leave Ocean View at 4:00 on Sunday, that we should bring a thank you gift for our host families, and that it would probably be a good idea to pack a bathing suit. I don't know about you, but it seemed to me like that was definitely all the information I needed before spending a weekend in a strange place with people I didn't know and customs I was unfamiliar with.

Reconvening on Friday as promised we boarded the now-familiar tour bus that would take us to Ocean View. I have learned to hate these buses, as they never fail to make me feel extraordinarily privileged and a complete outsider in the worst way possible. I don't think I will ever get used to pulling up to a poverty-stricken area in a large pristine bus full of mostly white young Americans.

Upon arriving in Ocean View my nervousness finally began to settle in. Being a self-proclaimed socially awkward person, fears of long silent gaps between conversation began to awaken within me. Luckily, though, finding my host family in the Ocean View High School gym proved much smoother than expected. And if discovering that my friend Juliana (a particularly non-socially awkward person) would be staying with the same family as I didn't put me at ease, the huge hug and warm smile my host mom gave me certainly did.

Dinner the first night was in the gym with all the families and students. We were able to begin to get to know one another while we were treated to a show of local kids singing and dancing and a delicious lamb curry with rice. Following dinner, Juliana and I followed Thelma and her husband, Lanto (I'm not exactly sure how to spell his name), to their car and we drove the 5 minutes to their home.

In the car Juliana and I got our first taste of the contradictions that would come to characterize this weekend. We were telling Thelma and Lanto how much we enjoyed the performance and just how talented all the kids and teenagers on stage were when Thelma decided it was a good idea to teach us our first word in Afrikaans. In reference to Alvin, the leader of the performing arts group, an apparently openly gay and slightly effeminate man, we learned the word "moffie." Although Thelma told us it simply meant "gay," the chorus of laughter that would follow her usage of it hinted at something a little darker. A little uneasy, I had the feeling that I was witnessing an unwitting prejudice emerge. Thelma's tone was in by no means condescending, hateful, or judgmental, but something seemed a little off. My suspicions where concerned when I got home on Sunday and found the word in the glossary of a book I am reading for African literature. Turns out the definition is: "homosexual (derogatory)."

As we drove to their house, Thelma pointed out the various neighborhoods within Ocean View. There were the flats--low income apartments similar to the Projects in New York, an area she called Lapland due to the discrepancy of houses--a nice-looking home would be right next door to a metal shack, and an area called Beverly Hills, which had large houses complete with sculptures and in some cases swimming pools. Thelma and Lanto's home was bare bones, but comfortable. It was two floors, with the living room, kitchen, and bathroom on the first floor and two bedrooms upstairs. The house had everything you would need for a family of three, and as we would come to hear later, the family was more than happy with their financial situation. However, I had to look past the unpainted walls that exposed cement bricks, the paint-splattered staircase and rough metal banister.

That evening Juliana and I were able to sit down and really talk to Thelma and Lanto about their lives, and share ours with them. With four thriving businesses (two takeaway restaurants, a video store, and an auto shop), their family is able to maintain their house, three vehicles, a satellite TV, and are planning on buying another house down the road shortly. Their plan is to be able to leave one of the houses to their son, Xavier (now 7 years old) when he is older. Hearing Thelma lay out her future plans was at once inspiring and disheartening. Clearly she is a successful businesswoman with a good head on her shoulders and fully capable of taking care of her family, and she is noticeably proud of this--as she should be. But at the same time, I wondered why she wasn't planning on leaving Ocean View, wasn't trying to make a life away from the drug problems and broken homes. Another shock came when Thelma asked me point-blank after about half an hour of conversation, "Are you rich?" Taken aback, I stuttered for a while before attempting to explain how the money my family usually pays for university is being spent to send me to South Africa. Thelma was understanding but skeptical; and understandably so. While she is looking ahead to provide a home and means of living for her son, my family is looking to give me a good education so in the future I can provide for myself.

Around 10 pm we all headed over to their Pastor's (they all called him Pastor as well) house, as their families are good friends. While Thelma's house was largely undecorated, Pastor and Ann's was stock full, from floor to ceiling, with paintings, photographs, and knick-knacks. Reunited with our friends Sarah and Mindy, who stayed with Pastor, we all settled into the living room, sitting on floor cushions when space on the furniture had been exhausted.

Here our conversation again turned heavy. Juliana asked Pastor what sort of outreach work his church was doing to help with the drug problem everyone had told us was so prevalent in the community. Pastor explained how he would welcome those with problems into the church, but if he could not save them their was nothing he could do. Thinking he didn't understand the full scope of the question, we pushed him further. Did he run any programs in the community? Did he help place people in rehab facilities? When these follow-up questions were met with negatives we realized we had discovered another cultural divide. It is a whole other level of separation when you realize that things you take for granted (such as churches handling social problems in secular ways) are not even part of some one else's vocabulary.

When Thelma returned from closing up her takeaway for the night around 11:30 all four of us American students hopped into the back of her bakkie (small pickup truck) for a night tour of Ocean View. Thelma rode in back with us and pointed out the different neighborhoods again as we watched teenagers play a night soccer game, drove through a house party in the flats, and witnessed a Rasta party up near the woods on the outskirts of town. While I felt safe for the whole drive with Thelma there (who knew nearly every one because of her takeaway), I was surprised by all the shouts of "Whitey! Whitey!" that met us everywhere we drove. Thelma laughed these off in a comforting way, saying, "You'd think they've never seen a white person before!" But in all seriousness, having grown up in Ocean View, the residents probably see very few.

After the bakkie tour we went home, where Juliana and I slept soundly in Xavier's bunk-bedded room. And that was Day 1.

I'd rather not go through all the activities we did chronologically because I think that makes for boring reading. And, as I have already highlighted some of the most memorable conversations we are going to fast-forward a bit through the "and then, and then, and then's" of the trip. So here is a list of the things we did on Saturday and Sunday morning:

1. Woke up to a breakfast of ham, eggs, and toast that Thelma had already prepared for us
2. Went to see horses and a crocodile at a nearby farm
3. Met up with Pastor's family again and drove to Fish Hoek beach, a beautiful and lively beach about 20 minutes away
4. Had a snoek braai (fish braai). Best fish I've ever had.
5. On Sunday a large bike race (like a mini Tour de France) was passing by Ocean View's entrance, so we set up camp and had another braai--this time with chicken and lamb

Throughout almost the entire weekend Juliana and my host family stayed with Pastor's family. Included in our activities was Xavier, who, turns out, is the coolest 7-year-old I've ever met, and 6 and 7 year olds Talicia and Tino (again with the uncertain name spellings). Talicia and Tino live in the flats with their mother, who tends to neglect them. Because of this, Pastor and Ann have essentially taken over responsibility for caring for them. They arrive at Pastor's house every day around 7 am, at which time Ann feeds them and gives them new clean clothes. While they go home each night to their families, they have essentially assimilated into Pastor's family. The three children kept us occupied all weekend with the playing that was necessary to satisfy their seemingly insatiable appetites.

As Sunday morning rolled around and it came time to pack up and return to the much-hated bus, Juliana and I exchanged phone numbers with Thelma and made promises to see eachother again soon. As I made a final lap around the parking lot with Xavier on my back I asked him, "So, do you want to go back to Rondebosch (my neighborhood) with me?" Lanto, who overheard me, responded with, "Oh, I'm good friends with the owner of Rondebosch Cafe and Video--I could pick Xavier up later." Briefly I was tempted to accept, especially when Xavier continued holding my hand after I returned him to his feet, but decided it would probably be in everyone's best interest not to separate the child from his parents. Final hugs with Thelma, Ann, and Pastor (Lanto wasn't so big into hugs) were bittersweet, and I think Juliana and I both left uncertain when or if we would see them again.

Quentin, CIEE's director, had told us in that not-so-useful pre-departure meeting that this weekend would be an opportunity to share with us "Positive images of marginalized people," which I think is precisely what transpired. While the differences in our point of views I mentioned above may seen off-putting or negative, I want to emphasize that everything about my Ocean View weekend was positive. I could not have asked for a better host mom than Thelma, who kept the conversation lively with her wit and the tone light with her understanding and acceptance of us. It is difficult to house strangers in your home, and even more challenging to make them feel like part of the family. Thelma succeeded in the latter.

That weekend left me with all sorts of questions: questions that were left unanswered, questions that led to more questions, and questions that will remain with me for a long time to come. I only wish I could have done my experience more justice in my retelling of it, or better yet I wish I could have shared it with all of you. On Monday morning, the day after I arrived home, I received a text message from Thelma. "We miss you! When are you coming back?" it said. Soon, I hope.

Xavier: The Coolest Kid I Know

The Kids (and Mindy) Enjoying their Ice Cream

Over the past month or so I have picked up on what I feel to be some interesting occurrences/trends/customs in this fine country, and thought it was about time to share what I have noticed. So, without further ado, and in no particular order, these are...

The Things I've Noticed:

1. Certain students at UCT think it is okay not to wear shoes. On campus. Ever. This means walking down the sidewalk, this means in class, this means in the food court, the library, the shuttle. No shoes.

2. "Africa Time" is even slower than "Island Time" (those from the Vineyard know what I'm talking about). They even have their own way of talking about time, that involves my needing to reinterpret the meaning of the word "now." I will try to explain:

Now now: This is referring to in about 5 minutes time. So if someone says, I will meet you "now now" they will most probably (I say probably because nothing is certain) show up in a few minutes.

Now: This is anywhere from a few minutes to a few hours. If someone says they will meet you "now" you can relax because you have some time to get ready.

Just now: Probably the most complicated, just now refers to a time far in the future, hopefully within a day but you cannot be sure. If someone says they are going to meet you "just now" it is probably best to just tell them to forget it (because they most likely will anyway).

3. A one-man band still refers to itself as "we." One of the boys in another CIEE house has his own band, named Elsa and the Awesome Awesomes. As promised, Sven (said boy's name) is awesome, and so is his band, which he refers to in the plural, even though it is just him, his iPod, a drumset, and a keyboard. He (they?) give(s) concerts and is/are getting quite famous in the study abroad circle.

4. Sub-list #1 = Things this country doesn't believe in:
a. Western literature
b. Good notebooks
c. Public transportation *more on this below*
d. Ice cream (it is all frozen yoghurt--yes, spelled like that--or has an * stating that it is not made with cream)
e. Produce that is not already individually packed
f. Letting students interpret the subject material for themselves
g. Decent gummy candy (ie: no Sourpatch, Swedish fish, Mike 'n Ike, normal gummy bears, etc)
h. Iced coffee -- this one hurts me the most.
i. Road rules
k. Pay-by-the-month internet; I have to pay per megabyte
l. Used books

5. There are essentially three options for getting around Cape Town: a minibus taxi, a metered cab, or the train, none of which are as straightforward as they may seem. Let's take a minute to go through the difficulties involved with each mode of transportation.

The train: Does not travel everyone, only along the coast. Therefore the train can be useful for getting to some of the not-so-close beaches. And while the train is incredibly inexpensive, beware the crowds and often general state of sketchiness.

Minibus taxis: (Now I can't remember if I have explained these in a previous entry, so this may be deja vu for some of you. Whatever.) Minibus taxis are vans that travel along the main roads and stop when you flag them down. There is a driver, of course, but than also another man who yells out the window the bus' final destination and tells the driver when to stop. Once you flag down a minibus you squeeze in with another 15 or so people and cross your fingers in hopes that the driver will actually stop where you want him to. While also very inexpensive (R6-10 each way, or $.60-$1), taking a minibus can take a loooong time due to the stopping that happens every few blocks and the fact that you must often change buses to reach your desired destination at the minibus depot in town. Side note, the minibus depot is probably (as in definitely so far) my least favorite place in Cape Town. Think Port Authority in NY on crack (literally).

Metered Cabs: The most reliable, and most expensive, mode of transportation is taking a regular cab. Cabs are a necessity, though, as they are the only safe mode of transportation at night. However, using one is nowhere near as straightforward as it may seem (a whole different animal from yellow NYC taxis). Many of the cabs have meters, but using the meter to determine your cab price oftentimes leads to a far more expensive fare. Therefore, much haggling is often done before getting into the cab to reach a lesser price. Also, when calling a cab you can expect to wait a fair amount of time before it arrives because oftentimes there are no cabs in the area--and unlike NY (again) you cannot flag one down on the street. My friends and I have come to know some cab drivers that we can rely on, so we now call them directly on their cell phones when we need a ride instead of calling their companies. While this may sound shady, it is in fact much safer and less expensive than taking a random cab waiting on the main road for business.

Basically, the lack of transportation is felt so heavily that many CIEE students have decided to buy or rent cars with their friends for the semester. Also, I have never missed the subway so much in my life.

6. The malls make you think you are in America until you realize you don't know any of the stores and can't find a sundress anywhere.

7. The open-air markets are great, but there are only about 3 varieties of product that all the stalls sell. When the stall owner says he is the artist I think it is fun to ask if he supplies all the other booths with his work.

8. When you wake up in the morning at 7 for an 8:00 class and you think it is cold outside you are wrong. By 10:00 you will be sweating and regretting your choice to wear jeans.

9. Sub-list #2 = South African Slang:
a. Hectic- The South African's equivalent of New England's "wicked," it is NOT synonymous with chaotic
b. Dodgy- Taken, presumably, from British English, meaning sketchy or shady
c. Nice- While in America nice means "kind," or "pleasant," here it can refer to almost anything that is well done or enjoyable. A juice or food can be nice, as can a concert or bar. Rarely used in reference to people
d. Lekker- Afrikaans for "nice" (as explained above)
e. Misbehave- Not so much a South African thing as a Thapz (my SOLmate) thing. Referring to activities done, usually while intoxicated, that are most likely considered naughty or inappropriate. Most often used in the context of flirting, as in "Did Molly misbehave with Joe last night?" *Of course this term has never been used to explain how I spend my evenings*
f. Braai- A South African barbecue. Involves copious amounts of meat, usually chicken, lamb, and sausage, that you eat with your hands around a giant bowl
g. Snoek Braai- A braai with fish, snoek
h. Howzit- A greeting, like "what's up?"
i. Izzit- A question. Even though it sounds like "is it?" it is often used in place of "really?"

10. I may have mentioned this before, but "coloured" is not a derogatory term. Rather, it refers to people of a mixed race or who have lighter brown skin.

11. I don't need TV nearly as much as I thought I did. While I would like the know what is happening on some of my favorite shows (Grey's, Heroes, Lost), I don't have any sort of gaping hole in my life without a television set. Go figure.

12. When telling time it is only appropriate to refer to the minutes in terms of half, quarter, etc. instead of saying the number. For example, 10:30 = half past 10. And 3:40 = twenty till 4. If you say "ten thirty" or "three forty" a South African nearby will passively aggressively correct you. Here is a dialogue for those who are confused:

South African: Do you know what time it is?
American: Oh, yes. It is two thirty (2:30).
South: Half past two? (2:30)
American: Yes, that's what I meant.

More to be added later, as ideas come to me.

Although they they don't fit in with the rest of this entry--unless you consider randomness a coherent theme-- here are some pics from my friend Mindy's 21st birthday dinner to keep you entertained (and to prove I have friends).

*Disclaimer*
I have not been writing frequently, and I apologize. I am leaving out important details about my social life, and I apologize. I have included little to no detail about my friends and people I have met, and I apologize. There are good reasons for all of these things, which I would be more than happy to share with you if you ask me, but would rather not get into it now. As it is, I foresee this entry being entirely too long. (But I don't apologize for that.)

One of the most important factors that went into determining where I was to study abroad was discovering the answer to the question, "Where do I have the potential to do the most good?" Meaning, I wanted a study abroad experience that allowed me to understand the world outside of the "western" bubble, to share my good fortune with others, and to grow by seeing beyond "first world" advancements to the daily struggles so many people in this world face. (Reading back that sentence just now makes me feel privileged, snobby, and elitist, but I think you know what I am trying to say.) The main way I wanted to achieve these things was to volunteer; to spend my time away from UCT, in the townships that enclose Cape Town.

So here my volunteer story begins.

At 3:15 twice a week, a group of roughly 12 of us board a minivan headed for Khayelitsha, the largest and allegedly most violent township located on the outskirts of Cape Town, in the Cape Flats. The population found within this tin landscape is somewhere between 500,000 and 2 million people, but without any sort of regulated census effort the exact number is unknown. But the remaining truth, leaving a permanent shadow on Cape Town's shiny veneer, is the scale of disenfranchised people left in the wake of South Africa's tumultuous history.

As our minivan rolls into the township everyone watches. Prying eyes see the young white people through the windows, see that we don't belong. But many faces light up, smiles filtering through to those eyes as hands raise to wave and mouths open to shout. Some don't shout, but watch the minibus with skepticism and curiosity. Twice a week, it is always the same.

We arrive at Baphumelele Children's Home and get off the minibus and it is chaos. Children run around, jumping on us right away. Toddlers with outreached arms and open faces look up expectantly, kids are dancing, eager to have us join in.

Maybe I should back up a little. My literary self got unnecessarily carried away with some in medias res. (Oops.) After sifting through all of the volunteer options CIEE made available to us I settled upon CHOSA (Children of South Africa), an organization that is dedicated to helping (who else?) the children of South Africa through outreach programs. The particular program I joined sends volunteer students into Baphumelele Children's Home (Baph for short) to run an after-school educational program. Baph is not an orphanage in the traditional sense, although many of the children there are orphans. Instead, it provides a safe home for kids who have been removed from their families by the South African equivalent of DSS or whose parents are facing especially hard times, either financially or personally. As a result, the majority of the children living at Baph have been abused in some way or face an unsafe home environment, even if their parents are living.

Okay, background provided.

Back at Baph, Betsy and I are handed a list that named the 11 kids we would be responsible for during the next 10 or so weeks. We try out the unfamiliar names, awkwardly flubbing our tongues as they seem to become too thick for our mouths. Phumeza, Xhoisie, Thulani, Nomphilo, Sisonke... We repeat them to ourselves, taking special time to work out Xhoisie, for which the "xh" makes a clicking noise, like when you click at the side of your mouth to make a horse start walking. All the while children pull on our arms--begging to teach us their clapping games, many of which I remember from my own childhood--snatch our sunglasses as they run away giggling, and try to braid our hair.

At 4:30, maybe half an hour later, a chorus of "Study? Study?" breaks through the Xhosa din, and we are led by the hand to the cluster homes that will become our classrooms. Betsy and my 11 children, aged 10-12, pull additional chairs up to the one wooden table that fills the entire kitchen and squeeze themselves in. They naturally separate themselves into two groups, with all the girls on one side of the table, all the boys on the other. I guess boys (or girls) in South Africa have cooties, too.

But this transition from play time to study time is not an easy one. The kids continue to speak to one another in Xhosa as they pull the chairs to the table, as they settle in, as Betsy and I introduce ourselves, as we begin our first activity, and so on. Our plan to have the kids trace one another's hands and decorate them with words describing themselves as a way for us to get to know them vanishes before our very eyes, and instead we hand out crayons and let them free-draw. Betsy and I exchange glances that say equal parts of "what do we do next?", "is this going to work?", and "oh shit."

5:30 finally rolls around and we have the kids put away the crayons and paper. Betsy and I stagger out of the house and onto the bus in a daze. Nothing could have prepared us for the difficulty of that day. How do you control a group of pre-teens who barely speak your language (or refuse to), decide to switch names with eachother (the case for 4 of our youngsters), and have the educational level of around third grade--rather than fifth or sixth? We had no idea. And reuniting with our fellow volunteers on the bus we realized that they didn't know either. Eyes were wide and mouths slightly agape. No one knew quite what to say.

And that was last Wednesday.

Since then I have been back to Baph twice, and the difference between the first and second days was night and day. On Monday Betsy and I arrive with a new lesson plan, one that hopefully appeals better to our age group. And we were incredibly relieved to find one of the kids' live-in caregivers in the kitchen cooking dinner. We learned that the previous Wednesday 4 of the caregivers had failed to show up for work, leaving the home severely understaffed. Vicky, the caregiver (or Sisi--sister in Xhosa), in charge of the house we would be in was eager to jump into our lesson plan, helping to translate and discipline the kids when our attempts failed.

After deciding that our greater theme for the semester would be to teach about the ocean, on that Monday we had the kids perform an experiment to see which objects would sink or float in a bucket of water. Following the splashing and laughing I provided a mini lesson on density, which boiled down to me saying that floating depended on an object's weight and size. Not exactly scientifically correct, and not exactly retained by my students, but I figure it was a valiant effort. Last Wednesday we continued our buoyancy lesson by having the kids make boats out of tin foil and having a competition to see which would hold the most coins.

Each time I visit Baph I am impressed by the acumen and cleverness of these children despite their fragmented formal education. When Sisonke (one of my favorites; I know I'm a bad teacher for picking favorites) realized he could sink the other kids' foil boats quicker by dropping all the coins in the same corner of the boat I couldn't help but smile, even as I made him stop. Their artistic talent is also exceptional; I want to find a scanner so I can upload some of their artwork for you to see.

Also, just a note, in the best interest of the children and to avoid any sort of exploitation, we are not allowed to take any pictures for another few weeks. CHOSA's organizers, Rob and Jamie, as well as Baph's founder want to avoid the generic "Cute African Child" photos that flood the web. If you want to learn more about either Baph or CHOSA, and see the pictures they have posted, please visit their websites:
http://www.baphumelele.org.za/
http://www.chosa.org/

Peace for now, I'm off to Baph to play Fish Bingo. Wish me luck!

Week one of classes at UCT was one full of red tape. I mentioned before how the inefficiency of Orientation frustrated me to no end, and turns out things are no different once the semester actually begins. First of all, the powers that be do not believe in the internet as a substitute for long lines, as the US has come to. Registration at Barnard consists of typing courses into an online form and hitting a "submit" button. Registration at UCT means running to and from the different departments to get approval for your classes, signing up for additional tutorials (called tuts, same as discussion sections), and waiting an hour in line to get a student ID. And then, once that is all done and you are officially enrolled, there is more running around. I had to go to the computer lab to get a password so I can log into my UCT email and the online portal professors use for announcements, I had to go to Document Services to load money onto my ID so I can use the printers, and I am I still running around desperately trying to find all the books I need (but that is a story I will get to later). They definitely don't make anything easy for you here.

But now I know my classes and have a schedule so things are right on track. Classes here are only 45 minutes long, and meet 4 times a week (normally the days are split between lectures and tuts or seminars). I am taking Modernism, African Literature, Sacred Art (an Art History course about religious art), and Applied Ethics. Since my first class is at 8 am, not exactly sure this is going to work out, I am done by noon every day. Also, I have managed to weasel my way into an African dance class, which I am stoked about. The School of Dance at UCT offers an African dance class especially for Semester Study Abroad students, which meets in the evenings twice a week. For those registered for it, this course includes weekly lectures, reading, and papers. But I didn't register. I spoke with the instructor who told me it was fine for me to audit the class, just showing up and dancing without any of the extra academic stuff. I have also found out that there are open ballet classes for R75 ($7.50) taught by Cape Town City Ballet members offered on UCT's campus twice a week, so I will have to check that out as well.

I can not tell you how happy I was to be dancing again (well, I guess I just did). Waking up the next morning to sore muscles felt so familiar in a fantastic way. Even though over the past few years I have been dancing less and less, the idea of not dancing at all for 5 months is horrifying. For a little while it looked like UCT's bureaucracy would prevent me from taking anything besides ballet, as the dance schedules do not line up with the rest of the university, and I didn't quite know what to do with myself. The day I found the dance department I felt right at home, and until that moment I didn't really know how much I missed being in a studio. I spent a few minutes watching the ongoing ballet class and then lingered on my way out, straining to hear the piano notes long after I left the studio.

I think I'm getting ahead of myself, though.

For those of you who haven't googled UCT, the campus is absolutely gorgeous. All brick and ivy, situated at the foot of Devil's Peak. Jameson Hall, located at the center of Upper Campus (which houses the Humanities Faculty), is a dead-ringer for Low Library at Columbia. Complete with columns and steps that act as a hangout place in between classes. A statue of Cecil Rhodes even replaces good old Alma Mater.

The unfortunate thing about UCT's campus, however, is that it is situated at the top of a massive hill. So walking to class requires a 15 minute uphill hike that ends with about a million steps (the campus is also utterly handicapped unfriendly). For fans of Kung Fu Panda, my walk to class is exactly like Po's trip to the Jade Palace. Instead of braving the hike and arriving at class panting and sweaty, I have taken to walking 5 minutes and catching a shuttle that takes me up to my classes.

One last thing I will leave you with is my struggle to find books and notebooks. First of all, South Africa does not believe in notebooks. Those of you who know me well know my obsession with quality stationary: I like my Clairefontain notebooks, Pilot razor point pens in different colors, and the overwhelming feeling of walking into a Staples and perusing the possibilities. But those things don't exist in this country. There is one generic brand of notebook that has thin paper and is wide ruled, and that simply does not work for me. Finally, after days of searching, I came up with what I think is a brilliant plan. I bought a large leather day planner that has paper of an acceptable weight and am using that as my notebook, paired with these great markers/pens (called Stabilo- check 'em out, Mom). I also found Moleskines at a store in the mall and have two small ones for my English seminars. Success, finally.

My luck with buying books has yet to reach a happy conclusion, however. Turns out this country also doesn't believe in used books. Most students do not need to buy books for their classes, as they are supplied with course reading packets for free. I, however, need to buy roughly 16 books for my two English classes and the seminars that go with them. I decided to bite the bullet and spend the ridiculous amount of money on books I will probably have to leave here in June and made my way over to the campus bookstore. As my luck would have it, they did not have the books I need to read first for my classes in stock, and I was told to come back next week. Which is great, considering I need to be reading them now. The first two books I need are The Collected Poems of TS Eliot and Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, books that I figured I could find at any regular bookstore. Wrong. The Barnes and Noble equivalent I found in the mall did not have ANY Faulkner or Eliot. After my disappointing mall experience I tried to stop at two smaller bookstores in my neighborhood, both of which were closed at 1:00 pm on a Saturday afternoon. Don't people in South Africa read?

Okay, enough of my rant. I am sure my book situation will work itself out in time for me to be thoroughly drowned in homework. (Homework which up until this point everyone has been pretending doesn't exist.)

As Orientation came to a close and classes leered in the future, the majority of the people on my program couldn't help but notice the week we had off in between. Choosing to take advantage of that time, nearly everyone decided to blow some money they may or may not have had to do some traveling around South Africa. While some groups with a little more foresight took extensive trips to neighboring countries such as Namibia, Botswana, and Zimbabwe, by far the most popular choice was to check out South Africa's Garden Route. The Garden Route is the stretch of one of South Africa's main highways, the N2, that runs along the coast of the South and Eastern Cape. Along the way are countless places to stop and do some pretty amazing things. I've heard that it takes about 2 weeks to stop and do everything one might want to, but seeing as we only had 4 days we had to make some tough choices.

The first of which was how to go about doing this. Some choose to go on a professional tour, others to use a hop-on-hop-off bus, and others check out the train. What seemed to allow for the most freedom as well as cost the least amount of money was to rent a car and drive yourself, which is what I ended up doing. Teamed with 3 other girls I've met since being here (coincidentally enough 2 of them actually go to Barnard), we packed up our bright blue Nissan with snacks and maps and guidebooks (oh my!) and took off on the open road--on the left-hand side. Becca and Ellen took turns at the wheel while Betsy and I snacked in the back, trying hard not to offer our oh-so-helpful driving tips. No one likes a back-seat driver.

We did most of our planning during the first couple hours in the car, calling hostels--called "backpackers" here--and booking reservations for tours and the like. While there were some disagreements, the general consensus to keep an open mind and maintain a laid back, go with the flow attitude served us well.

Now we come to the part that I have least been looking forward to writing. I had been determined from the start to keep this blog from being a day-by-day itinerary slash travel diary. However, I think that may be the best way to describe everything I did last week. Here goes, hopefully with minimal damage to my creativity.

Day 1: Monday, Feb 9

The first day was filled with a lot of driving. We watched beautiful scenes of vineyards, farms, and the occasional glimpse of the ocean roll by our windows for the roughly 4 1/2 hours it took us to reach our first destination, Mossel Bay. Mossel Bay is a small ocean town, which seemed to thrive on its tourist industry and boasted such attractions as a ferry to Seal Island, Shark Cage Diving, and extreme water sports. As we didn't arrive until nearly 3:30 in the afternoon many of these options were exhausted for us. Deciding to take advantage of the weather, though, we rented some sea kayaks and took to the open water.

Backing up just a wee bit, the backpacker we chose to stay in in Mossel Bay was one of those things which may be a fantastic idea, but not so clutch in actuality. We spent the night at the Santos Express, which is an old train car that has found permanent residence right on the beach. Cool, right? It is until you end up in a train car filled with bunk beds, filled with people, complete with windows that barely open. (More info on Santos here: http://www.santosexpress.co.za/)

But the story of the Santos Express, or at least our experience with it, is a humorous one. We decided to save some money by staying in the dorm car instead of taking two double rooms, gambling on who else we might share our room. We arrived to meet who would come to affectionately be known as our "Man-mate" (as in Room-mate). Our Man-mate, whose name remains a mystery, was a middle-aged Dutch man, born in Jerusalem, who was taking a holiday touring South Africa. He was very friendly and unobtrusive, if anything we would have loved to talk to him more, to learn more about his travels and family. But there is something intrinsically funny about four college girls all of a sudden bursting into what had previously been a room occupied by one older man.

Monday being my birthday, after sea kayaking we made our way to Delfino's for dinner. Our table on the porch was once again right on the beach, providing us with a great show of surfers catching their final waves of the day as the moon rose. We shared a couple gourmet pizzas, chock full of delicious toppings, and a couple bottles of the "talking, eating, drinking, laughing, singing, sharing wine" (verbatim how it was advertised) before we headed back to our train.

Back at the train we were surprised to find that our Man-mate was no longer our only roommate, as the entire car was filled with other people from CIEE who had apparently had the same hopes for the beach train as we had. It was a stuffy, restless, night.

Day 2: Tuesday, Feb 10

Adventure Day. After making an early start and checking out of the train at 8:00 am we made our way to Bloukrans Bridge, which at a drop of just over 700 ft is the highest bungee jumping bridge in the world. Seriously. Three of the four of us decided to take the plunge, alternating between excited and terrified the whole 2 hour drive there.

Turns out, Bloukrans is incredibly well organized. While it is nearly impossible to put one at ease who will imminently hurl oneself off a bridge, you immediately got the sense that everyone who worked there was not only qualified, but genuinely in love with their jobs. Here is the order of operations for bungee jumping:

1. Shell out R620 ($62) and sign your life away.
2. Step on the scale and have your weight written with bold black marker on the back of your right hand. (This will be read out loud in tandem with your name for the rest of the day. Good thing it is in kg, which I don't fully understand).
3. Walk over to the harness station where you get fitted with a highly attractive yellow harness. There was definitely no camel toe involved, at all, ever.
4. Join your jump group, mine had about 20 people, and begin the walk down to the bridge. Up until this point you had been on solid ground, far away from the edge of the cliff.
5. Make your way to the center of the bridge, where a large holding station is waiting, by walking through a sort-of cage tunnel made of galvanized mesh. Able to see through the floor to the ground below you, many of the guys I spoke to thought this was the most terrifying part of the whole experience. I highly disagree.
6. At the center of the bridge is a DJ booth with loud music to pump you up and get you excited. While we waited for our turns--which was a surprise as the order was chosen randomly as we went--everyone danced, clapped, and cheered.
7. Wait, wait, and wait for your turn. Getting more and more nervous. I was the very last one from my group to go; figures.
8. Finally they strap your feet together and attach a safety harness to the carabiner at your waist. A man then gets on either side of you and helps you hop to the edge of the platform, reinforcing the fact that your toes must be over the edge before you begin.
9. Arms outstretched, still with the nice strong men at your sides, they begin to count down.
10. 5-4-3-2-1-BUNGEE!!!! And away you go.

This experience was seriously like none other, how can anything compare? For the first 5 seconds you free-fall, and you think that you may actually die--or at least thats what I thought. Screaming at this point is inevitable (as seen in my photos below). Exhilarated but relieved when I could feel the bungee taut at my ankles I was able to enjoy the rest of the ride and take in the incredible scenery. For me the most disconcerting part was waiting upside down at the end for some one to come down and get you. But of course he did (I wish I knew his name), and we had a nice chat about UCT as we rode back up to the bridge.

Of course I have photos that chronicle this event, and I also have a DVD so we can all watch when I get back.

That afternoon, still high on our death-defying morning, we headed to Tsitsikamma National Park where all four of us took a zip-line canopy tour of the forest. We spent roughly 2 hours zipping through the tree tops with our 2 guides, Vernon and Pandora, and a cheery British couple. Not only did we have a great time, but we learned that the company that runs the tours is focused on creating a self-sustaining community, only hiring locals locals as tour guides. There was also a restaurant run completely by the women in the community. They make a mean grilled cheese and tomato sandwich.

That night we stayed in Plettenberg Bay, another beautiful little town on the ocean. Our backpacker, Amakaya (http://www.amakaya.co.za/), is owned by Donald--a 30ish surfer-type--and his father, and managed by Leroy, who lives there with his young son. Once again we ran into more kids from CIEE, but Donald and Leroy were more than happy to entertain us all with stories about travelers they had met. Donald, thinking himself very wise, also dished out life advice in a way I imagine only an aging surfer can do.

Day 3: Wednesday, Feb 11

Raining. Raining. Annoying, plan-spoiling rain. With only a day left we didn't have the liberty to rearrange our schedule completely, so we piled on the layers and headed to Knysna Elephant Park. While the plan had been to ride the giant pacaderms, this wasn't available due to--check it--the rain. So we had to settle for feeding and petting them, getting thoroughly soaked and muddy in the process. Of course everyone knows that elephants are huge, but I was surprised at just how large the scale was. They loom above you, with their wise eyes looking down and lean (yes, surprising) legs reaching towards the sky.

Following the elephants we made our way to our final hostel, this time in Knysna (pronounced nie-z-na). Called Peace of Eden, our backpacker was situated in the "magical" Knysna forest and run by an older couple. Jen and Howard were incredibly accommodating, booking us a cabin for just the four of us, giving us advice on where to visit, and even making us dinner.

After dinner the four of us got into a long conversation with Jen about politics, both American and South African. It is amazing how tuned into international politics South Africans are, knowing minute details about the American election and being able to speak knowledgeably about just as well, and in many cases better, than many Americans. It makes me embarrassed at just how little I know about what is going on in the rest of the world.

I am excited to learn, however, just how big an impact Obama's election has had on South Africa, and most likely the rest of the world (I may be generalizing, but you get the gist). We have been told many times that our recent election has inspired South Africans to register to vote in larger numbers than ever before. Although we Americans know that Obama's election is not favored by everyone, it continues to send a positive image to the rest of the world. While we were once an embarrassment, Americans can now hold their heads high abroad again, knowing that we have taken our future into our own hands.

Day 4: Thursday, Feb 12

Last day. Our goal was to find a trail in the forest that Jen told us about before making the 6ish hour trip home. However--once again--things didn't work out quite how we planned.

The short of it is that we got lost. Unable to translate the map, we ended up following a meandering road through the Knysna forest for nearly an hour. As we drove we weaved in and out of cliffs and trees, and eventually passed through the forest to farmlands. Along the way we saw a number of monkeys, baboons, springboks, cows, dogs, and birds. This prompted us to dub the morning a "Create Your Own Safari," as by the time we reached the N2 once again we had seen more animals than we had to date.

Then began the long drive back. We got the car back at the right time and made our way home, exhausted and grimy but perfectly happy. Classes the next day seemed like a rude awakening to reality.

Below is a list of the friends we met along the way, a Cast of Characters, if you will:

Cast of Characters (in order of appearance):

Thrifty Car guy: Taught us how to drive on the left side of the road and reminded us to undo the safety break
Woman w/ facepaint: Waving a flag to direct traffic
Truck driver #1: Gave us directions on the N2 in the middle of traffic when we thought we were lost (but weren't)
Hilda: Unhelpful but smiley lady working at the Santos Express
Man-mate: Middle-aged Dutch man, our first roommate
Maggie/Jacky: Rented us sea kayaks and recommended a restaurant for my birthday dinner--the antithesis of Hilda (see above)
Marc the Cabbie: Gave us a ride home
Old Inspirational Kayak Man: Showed Betsy and I how to get our kayak back into the water after we accidentally capsized onto the beach
Matt: Another UCT study abroad student we met bungee jumping
Pandora and Vernon: Zip-line tour guides
British Couple: Funny, curiously good at zip-lining
Leroy & Son: Might be a little racist
Donald: Thinks he is 25, but is 32
Ralph: Waiter at a restaurant in Plett
Andrea: Ralph's gf
Elephant Trainer: Awesome, he knew everything about elephants, is afraid of bungee jumping
Jen: Hippie mom-away-from-home
Howard: Married to Jen
Kathy: Peace of Eden employee
Mark: Nephew of Jen and Howard, doesn't believe in Capitalism, prefers the barter system
Thomas: Friend of Mark
Aussie Lady: Resident of Peace of Eden, just moved to South Africa indefinitely
Truck Driver (with dogs): Laughed at us, but got us un-lost in the Knysna forest
Woman with the Broken Road: Self-explanatory?
Party Van: Full of Eastern Europeans (maybe?), stationed behind us when we had to wait at a traffic stop on the highway for 10 minutes. They loved us, they told us so.

Ok. The end.