9.23.2009

There are no lions in South Africa

Second reality: There are no lions in South Africa.

Okay, well obviously there are some. They are on the postcards and the 50Rand bill, after all. But they aren’t where they’re supposed to be.

Evening of the gift shop incident. And despite having a healthier sense of caution, I don’t actually feel like I’m in Africa. The roads are paved. The hotel has automatic doors and a flat screen tv in the lobby. Dinner was at a cowboy-themed restaurant where they sing happy birthday and actually give you a real dessert (not the dollop of whip cream American places give these days). How is this Africa?

Where are the dirt roads and women with baskets on their heads and lions ready to eat me?!!!!

Where is Africa?

This isn’t what I expected. Even knowing all I do about South Africa as a developed country. I still wanted my romanticized view of the African continent. And this is not what I imagined.

I studied apartheid. I’ve explored the history of the country. I saw a documentary on Nelson Mandela and I follow the news. I consider myself educated and well-informed. But I still have stereotypes and I still can’t wholly shake them.

I expected grasslands and wild animals and undeveloped country. I got traffic and loud music and t-shirts and jeans.

It doesn’t feel like Africa. But this is Africa. And it’s not that different from home. It’s time I let go of romanticized visions and let the world develop beyond my ignorant view.

There are no lions in South Africa.

At least not where the people live.

9.17.2009

South Africa is dangerous

I returned from Africa nearly two months ago. How do I even begin to go back and unravel all that was the trip? The fact is, I haven’t spent nearly enough time unpacking all of it – and I don’t mean my suitcases. So much happened, perhaps so much changed me. Maybe that’s cliché. But if Africa didn’t actually change people, than we probably wouldn’t have that cliché.

A part of me fears, though. That I haven’t really changed at all. It’s been nearly two months and the awe in which I walked around New York City in those first few days back is gone. The constant questioning of how I’m privileged to have so much doesn’t seem to nag on my mind quite as often. And the tears that came every time I remembered the poverty, and racism, and isolation I brushed against, aren’t quite as wet as they once were.

So perhaps it’s good that I am just now making the time to go back and review the three weeks that were my African journey. Perhaps now is precisely when I need to be reminded – and then return again and again to these memories anytime I come close to forgetting yet again.

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My first reality: South Africa is dangerous.

More dangerous than Central Park after dark. And not because of lions.

I hadn’t even been in the country for more than a few hours. If you can even count the airport in Johannesburg as being in the country! And yet already I was having my confidence rocked by South Africa.

It was an innocent error. Or a naïve one. Depending on your view.

With my carry-on bag slung over my shoulder and my money safely tucked in my brand new money pouch, I felt like a confident, secure world traveler. I knew I could probably find postcards cheaper than at the airport, but I wasn’t here to shop and didn’t want to miss the chance to send some memories home. I was eager as I selected cards with wild animals and beautiful coastlines. None of which I’d actually seen in my two hours at the airport but all of which I was sure I would see before I returned.

With my purchases carefully selected, I made my way to the counter that looked just like any other gift store counter in any American airport I’d ever been in. As my cards were scanned and the total rand I owed came up on the screen, I awkwardly swung my bag to my front and dug deep for that secure money pouch that was really supposed to be hanging down the front of my shirt. But I’d do that when we were actually out and about – not in an airport surrounded by my friends. I swung the bag around to my side again and began counting out the foreign currency I had just received at an exchange place trying not to be distracted by the colors and animals I found so exciting on each bill.

That was when it happened.

“What do you think you’re doing, leaving that bag open? This is South Africa. Not New York.” It was said with such disdain. A haughty know-it-all chastising the ignorant newbie. It wasn’t a polite reminder or a concerned piece of advice. It was a message that I didn’t belong.

In a heartbeat I processed what he meant, why he said it, and how he knew I was from New York. My carryon was partially unzipped after I’d retrieved my money. South Africa is well known for petty theft and major crime. And my sweater was proudly advertising my NYU affiliation.

It was all I could do to manage a polite thank you and ashamedly zip closed my shoulder bag as I grabbed my change, my postcards, and shuffled away. My super sophisticated money pouch seemed ridiculous all of a sudden. My bravado at managing a new currency was gone. My confidence that I was smart enough to travel in Africa was nowhere to be found.

It was that last that hit the hardest. For now, I was surrounded by my team – eight other travelers all going through this together. A buffer against the stupid mistakes I might make or a resource if the worst really did happen. But in ten days, I’d be on my own. Making my way from one African country across a border into another and with no one there to hold my hand. If I couldn’t be smart in an airport gift shop, how was I going to stay safe on my own, in a country I didn’t know, with a language I didn’t speak?

I knew the realities of South Africa. I’d been told in our meetings often enough and done my own research on travel warnings and advisories. I knew not to walk alone or to go on the beach at night. I knew to keep valuables out of sight and put my passport in the hotel safe. I knew that even the airport porters might be suspect. But I didn’t really know. I was a New Yorker. I knew how to stay safe. I had common sense. I’d traveled Europe and fended off drunk Italians with my friend. Slept in train stations and shady hostels and not had a single thing stolen. I thought I knew. But I didn’t really know.

This was a new arena. A new ball game and new rules. And I was expected to get them wrong. That was the advantage that I lost. I was anxious before I’d even begun. I anticipated my demise before I met my opponent. My confidence was shot. Africa would win because of one man.

South Africa is dangerous.

I’m not entirely sure if it’s the crime that makes it so. Or the expectation.