Each hour is like a box of chocolates

This past weekend was like a sandwich made with heavenly bread - the kind with a soft, dense center, perfectly crisped crust, a hint of honey, and some whole grains thrown in - and rotten meat.

I started the weekend feeling content and prepared to go out and explore the city with friends. Friday was a satisfying day at work. Six of us from the office delivered food to Zimbabwean women living in the De Doorns refugee camp and the most vulnerable South Africans in the neighboring township. We weren't allowed in the camp, so we set up shop on the road just outside of it. It was a surprisingly calm process in light of the fact that these women are unemployed because the farming season is on hold for the winter and therefore have little to no means of supporting themselves and their families. We were told that last year Zimbabweans went to the nearby landfill to find fresh scraps to eat. The food - maize meal, oil, beans, and salt - is desperately needed. Since we were denied entry into the camp - only government officials, security personnel, and the residents are allowed in - a member of the camp's elected representative committee went in and told the women that there was a food distribution. Grown women came streaming out of the camp, running down the hill to the entrance like teenie boppers chasing Justin Bieber through a mall. There was a moment when we thought they were going to just flood the trailer holding all the food and strip it bare. But they lined up and sat patiently on the sidewalk. It was incredible to see that much restraint from people who are teetering on the edge of potential starvation. It was hard to process those initial ten minutes at the camp.

To see the UNHCR tents just beyond a chain-link fence that was topped with barbed wire.

To see adults run for food as if they were children chasing the ice cream truck.

To see some without shoes.

To see some with infants strapped to their backs.

Their reality is one that should not exist. I complain because the guesthouse in which I'm staying has no heat; they don't even have a house. One of the things the organization is advocating for is that the government needs to engage with the camp's elected committee in a meaningful way so that the residents can receive what they need (and are due by court order) to move out and the government can close the camp. But that addresses only one issue. The reality is that once they leave the camp they will most likely move back to the township (or to another township) and build shacks built from scrap metal, cardboard, plastic bags, whatever materials are available. They will not move into houses or apartments or anything that resembles a livable structure to most of the U.S. They will move from poverty into poverty, back into a situation where they need scrounge for food during the off season and will either be cold under a blanket or risk burning down their home for the sake of keeping the oil fueled heater on a bit longer into the winter's cold, wet night.

After distributing the food to more than 100 women in the camp, we packed up and moved in the township and made three drops for the most vulnerable - mainly the elderly - South Africans. At each stop we were met with crowds of South Africans eying the food in the trailer; members of SANCO (South African National Civic Organization, with whom we partnered for the operation) forcefully told those who wanted but did not receive food the reasons for why some were chosen over others. It was all said in Xhosa, one of South Africa's 11 official languages, so I don't know the details, but I can tell you, based on the tone, volume, and body language, people were not happy. At each stop young children entertained the other interns and me with songs we didn't understand and hilarious dances. At the second stop, there was one little girl, who looked about three years old, that was quite the showman (well, showwoman). She sang one song with coordinated dance moves over and over and over again. It reminded me of a combination of 'this is the song that doesn't end' and 'david melech.' Some other children joined her in singing. At one point, a woman got them to see the South African national anthem; I wish I had my video camera out and recorded it. One of the interns commented that it is so amazing to see how children are able to persevere and find joy in seemingly hopeless situation. The showwoman wore no shoes, a tshirt, and sweatpants that were too short for her and had a hole in the back. Children should not be living in situations like this; children should not need to have the resiliency to persevere. This, again, is a reality that should not exist. It was hard to enjoy the singing and dancing with the other interns; it was hard to look at these children and not see the world they are growing up in.

[Sidenote: in writing this, I feel like a major douche. Here I am complaining about how hard it was see their poverty. I don't even have to live there. And I assume it is hard because of how it looks compared to my standard of living, not because of any experience I've had that is remotely comparable. In reality, when I say hard, I mean it makes me feel guilty for what I have and helpless for what I can't change.]

Despite the emotional challenges of Friday, I felt content riding back to Cape Town. It now seems weird that I felt that based on what I've just written, but it was a good feeling to know that I was part of a group that made the lives of those who are struggling a little better for a little bit of time. Maybe it's better to say fulfilled instead of content...

On Saturday, I embarked on my first trip on the train. I survived. It seems that most forms of transportation that are used by the public, i.e. everything except a personal car or metered cab, are deemed dangerous. And sure, bad things can and have happened, but mostly I think it is a fear of the wealthy of mixing with those who cannot afford the aforementioned options. So I took the train. It was a bit stressful because there are no announcements about which stop is next, but I managed to make it from the Kenilworth station to the Woodstock station on my first try.

Then the challenge of getting from the station to the Old Biscuit Mill. I assumed the OBM - a weekly open-air market held on Saturdays - was near the station. I was wrong. But there were four twenty-something-year-old white women dressed like hipsters who also got off the train at my stop and it turned out they were going to the OBM; so they led the way. To understand the importance of the hipster attire and white factor, just check out the website: http://www.theoldbiscuitmill.co.za/. This looks like something that belongs in the South End of Boston. And when I arrived, I found what I can only describe as a yuppie-hipster-student mecca. And since I am a yuppie, wannabe hipster, and former student (and white), I loved it. LOVED it. I am so thankful to Elle, a Simmons student who did the spring semester at the University of Cape Town (UCT), for inviting me to the market with her.

I missed breakfast because of sleeping in and not wanting to miss my train, so I was hungry upon arrival.  Elle was a bit late and I was confused, so I walked through the copious food stands trying to see if there was another entrance at which she might be waiting for me. I was drooling within 30 seconds of entering the food tent. I wanted to eat everything; even the meat looked appetizing. After making a near complete ring around the venue and going back to see if Elle was at the gate yet, I decided to venture back into the nom-nom carnival and obtain some breakfast. I went with a pomegranate smoothie and a butternut squash-and-feta roll. I was quite pleased with my choices.

Elle and I finally found each other and started by walking through the permanent shops at the Old Biscuit Mill before heading into the foodfest. I had lunch with Elle once in the fall to talk to her about and offer as much advice as I could for her then upcoming trip to South Africa. It was great to see the before and after. And now, she's the one offering me advice. One of the best tidbits I learned from her was about the travel buses offered in SA; turns out I should be able to go to Namibia out of Cape Town fairly cheaply (less than airfare at least) and possibly to Mozambique out of Durban. My dreams of seeing some of south Africa's other countries on this adventure are revived!

And now back to the food. Elle and I maneuvered through the crowds in what I imagine could be the next dance craze - think robot meets zombie - to go all the way to the back so that she could get her made-to-order ostrich (don't worry, none of my family members) burger. It looked pretty delicious and the long line seemed to reinforce that view. Going back to the front we walked past stands that sold pastries, cupcakes, things that looked like super thin crust pizza, waffles, cheeses, breads, falafel, Thai noodle dishes, quiche, samosas, wine, smoked fish, olives, pestos, and a zillion other things I can't remember. Next time I go (which is tentatively planned for this Saturday), I plan on taking my camera and taking lots of pictures. For lunch I went with a tuna burger, which was actually just thin tuna steaks seared on a grill, on a whole wheat role with arugula and some sauce and a mango lassi. It was so filling that I couldn't even force myself to each a cupcake, which is saying something.

After lunch, Elle, some of her friends from UCT, and I walked from Woodstock through Observatory into Mowbray (two more suburbs). It was beautiful weather for a walk and nice meeting new people. One of them, Farley, had some more good advice about traveling outside of South Africa on the buses.

I bid Elle and her friends goodbye and headed back to the train. They suggested it might be easier to take a minibus back, but I wasn't quite ready to ride one by myself just yet. And I purchased a roundtrip train ticket. I made it back to the guesthouse in Kenilworth safely, ready to cool off (I was dressed for much colder temperatures) and putz around before Skyping with my parents. I chilled in the house for a bit and watched some rugby with the boss while my towels were in the dryer. [Sidenote: nothing dries here. The only way to get the towels I use for my morning shower to dry is to use the dryer. Simply hanging it up to dry does little to nothing.] Then I headed back to the guesthouse, signed into Skype, ready to talk.

This is where the first piece of delicious bread ends. Now enter the rotten meat.

I waited and waited and waited and no one called. In retrospect, it was silly of me to give a six-hour window of time for my parents to call because it meant I was glued to the computer for six hours. But as each minute and then hour passed, I realized more and more how alone I was. And then as night fell I realized I was not only alone but also trapped in the guesthouse because I have no economical ways of going outside after dark. So I sat in a puddle of self pity for about six hours, questioning why I came here and quit my job and left my home and friends and family. Oh, and the light in my bathroom is broken; I tried putting in a new bulb, but no juice. So I finally gave up on Skype and talking to my parents and curled up into bed with disk 1 of season 2 of The Office and fell asleep. The one good that came out of my loneliness was I went onto CouchSurfing.org and sent messages to connect with other CS'ers in the Cape Town area.

There was only a little bit of rotten meat, but that's all it takes to ruin a sandwich. Now back to the bread.

Sunday I woke up trying to feel more optimistic about my life choices. I practiced yoga. I took a shower. I made plans to go for a walk with Divya, who I couchsurfed with the last time I was here, at 3 p.m. And then I confronted my fears and rode a minibus. For those who haven't been to South Africa, it might be hard to understand why a minibus might be scary. I'll try to explain. The minibuses are, for the most part, white unmarked vans, but with windows. They are privately owned, but offer the cheapest and most efficient way to get around. There is no schedule. There are no set bus stops. You just stand on the street and wait to see a man leaning out the sliding door's window, screaming the van's destination with all the beauty a crow might be able muster. And when you get on the van, you just say where you want to be dropped off. Each van is supposed to hold only 14 people, but during rush hour that limit is pushed. In the past, people have been robbed and groped and even kidnapped on these minibuses. It's a challenge to see these minibuses as a smart way to travel and not your impending doom.

But with some change in my pocket and the advice of interns and Elle's friends - only get on minibuses that are crowded and that have women on them - in my head, I stood on the sidewalk waiting for a ride. A couple went by before I found one that met the safety criteria. And as soon as I got on, I was at my destination - the grocery store. I survived. And then as soon as I got to the grocery I was done and back on the sidewalk looking for my ride home. Again a couple came by before I found a minibus I liked. While the broader minibus system still confuses me and I have no idea how to find a transfer at the major depot in the city, I at least now know I can go grocery shopping on my own.

After unpacking my groceries, I went on my laptop and was delighted to find my dad on Skype. So we chatted for 20ish minutes. And then my mom signed in, so I got to talk and see her! I showed them around the guesthouse, i.e. walked a computer around and tried to point the camera at the relevant parts - kitchenette, desk, bed, bathroom, patio. I told them about work. It was really good to hear their voices and to know that they hadn't forgotten me, as silly and juvenile as that sounds. My chat with my mom was cut short because Divya got here a few minutes early for our walk.

Divya planned to take her friend Jaffar and me to Hout Bay for a walk, but the rain rerouted us to a beach (I think Elounda Beach). It was great to see the ocean and walk in the sand, even with a fine mist falling. While the beach looked nothing like those at home in Waterford, it reminded me of where I grew up. And the scenic drive back into the city reminded me of the road that mirrors the shoreline's curves from the Friendly Toast in Portsmouth, NH to Boston. It was bittersweet, enjoying the moment there with new friends and thinking of memories made with friends who are thousands of miles away.

The car ride back to the guesthouse ended with tentative plans to go to the Old Biscuit Mill on Saturday and invites to have homemade Indian food at Divya's for dinner one night and see a movie about the aboriginals at a theater called, no joke, The Labia. There is nothing else I can say that will top that.