The Long Road Home

NEW YORK-- Apparently, I slept so peacefully, no one wanted to wake me up Saturday morning.

Petrified of missing my flight back to the States waking up was never going to be an issue. Being coherent enough to not mess up my girlfriend’s meticulous planning was.

Half asleep, I see an unclear but a woman of caramel complexion in a towel not too much darker than her rummaging for clothes. I looked at my watch, found my glasses and rubbed my eyes before I realized it was Lauren and she was preparing for church.

Lauren suggested I stay at her place and pack my things while they attended church so we could head to the airport. Just as I thought about doing just that, I remembered the “special circumstances” that led to a wild few nights and included going to church on a Saturday morning one of my many only in Africa rules.

As Lauren reminded me that her church was “conservative” when it came to attire, I pulled on some dress slacks, picked out a blue dress shirt and found my blue and red tie. Her surprise was evident, but something one could tell was a pleasant occurrence.

Having never attended a Seventh Day Advantest church, I relished the opportunity to see and experience something new. Each day on my trip was marked by emotional or educational growth. It was fitting it concluded with some spiritual nourishment — even if it was winter in South Africa.

Lauren took me to the Oliver R. Tambo Airport for my mid-afternoon flight. In route we joked about the French and Italians who left South Africa before I did. Apparently the running joke being sent to inboxes across the country was “In 2006 France and Italy met in the World Cup final. In 2010 they met at the O.R. Tambo airport after early elimination.”

I bought a handful of vuvuzelas for my nieces, my brothers and sister and a book for my 20+ hour flight. Lauren and I took one final picture, gave each other a grand hug and I thanked her one final time for all her hospitality.

At 1:57 p.m. I possessed a broad smile of completion. At that moment, the clerk had taken my baggage claim form and I walked down the runway to complete my two weeks in South Africa.

That sunny Saturday afternoon was the antithesis of the dark and ominous skies that met me in Durban 16 days prior. The stark difference in the weather illuminated the difference in my confidence about my grand adventure. It was the perfect setting to say goodbye to a beautiful place that will forever be part of me.

Nelson Mandela is the person who inspired me to see his country with his autobiography. It’s only fitting that I close my blog with a quote from the Nobel Peace Prize winner an icon of the unified and dignified South Africa.

“I have discovered the secret that after climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb.”

Ending on a high note

Watching the United States fight its way into the knockout phase of the World Cup satisfied my soccer fix.

There were a trio of matches I thought about attending, but as I told a few Americans at my hostel after the dramatic victory, “I’m going to end my World Cup experience on a high note, why ruin it by going to another game?” As it turned out the Slovakia-Italy match proved to be an exciting one; however, my company trumped being with thousands of stunned Italians in Ellis Park.

Lauren, a former au peair for my older sister, picked me up from a mall on the eastern edge of Johannesburg. I was in South African version of Wal-Mart looking for another bag to fit all the possessions I bought for myself and others when she walked up in all black with a big smile and a larger hug.

She was my company for the afternoon and evening and the one who showed me a side of Johannesburg few tourists (intentionally) see.

The plan was to spend my final two days in South Africa hanging out with Lauren and her friends and catch a few museums.

Once she told me that the museums feature things that South Africans learn in school, I was not as enthusiastic about going—since, I was under the false assumption that the museums were a supplement, not a complement, to education. Nevertheless, we did make our way to Soweto to walk through the house Nelson Mandela returned to, albeit briefly, following his imprisonment.

We made our way to Rosebank, her favorite part of town, to watch the exciting finale to Italy’s reign as world champions before grabbing a few drinks at a nearby bar. (As much as I resemble my mother with my non-existent drinking habits, I told Lauren my hard rule was bent in special circumstances.)

Thursday Lauren and I went to a bar in Melville to enjoy what South Africans call a Puza (check the spelling) Thursday. I had a couple more drinks and went into the lower level of the bar where there was dancing and other excitement. (Usually, I do not drink, go to bars/clubs and above all dance, but as I said it was a “special circumstance.”)

Friday was more of the same. I met Lauren’s brother Verny, who is my age and the center of attention. Everyone seemed to know Verny and the relationship appeared mutual.

Verny and his boy Leroy took me for a drive through Eldorado Park where they all grew up. For a few hours I spent time with the fellas, eating, getting a tour of the hood and a deeper appreciation for truth in my reporting. (Both thought Americans had notions that were not completely true because the media in this country highlights the worst of Joburg and doesn’t bother to fill in the edges that were scribbled over in journalistic crayon.)

I told the two that the only difference between Eldos and some areas of the U.S. was not as many people had grass on their front lawns. Eldorado Park had some nice houses and some that needed a lot of work. It was a township of people who not only owned their homes, but lived in them for generations.

I felt like a novelty in that I was “the American” but it was a friendly novelty. Verny and Leroy introduced me to their crew and encouraged me to get comfortable in Eldorado Park. Time leads to intricate details of our conversation being lost to activity, but as we drove through the neighborhood, I couldn’t help but think it was very similar to the area surrounding my grandmother’s house.

To cap off a Friday with the fellas, we all went out to a club in central Johannesburg. Le Mix Room recently opened, but the vibe in the two-level club was an inviting one for conversation, drinking, dancing and “other things.” I partook in all of the above with my motto being “what happens in Africa stays in Africa.”

(Earlier in my trip, someone else mentioned the same line. My instant retort at the time was “except AIDS.” However, there was little possibility of that happening at Le Mix Room Friday evening.)

What can be reported is I dressed up like a preppy American in khakis, a white button down shirt, a red sweater — apparently South Africans call them jerseys — and white and red shoes finish off the motif. Eventually the police shut down the party a little after 3 a.m., but not before I had a few drinks, bought a few more, listened to DJ Fresh and enjoyed a relapse into undergraduate impulsiveness.

The temperatures, and the cops, were not temperate after the party concluded but everyone stopped long enough to take a few pictures to remember the night and the time an American got a true taste of Johannesburg.

Apartheid is where it belongs — in a museum

My itinerary noted the day was one of the coveted free days on my trip. I did not have to travel, there was not a game to go see, in fact there was nothing planned for June 19.

It was in that absence of activities that I decided to go to the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg. This country, and the city of Gold in particular, has a dark history of racism and segregation that South Africans tell me is still being cleansed from society.

Apartheid is at the fulcrum of the past that South Africa proudly displays in history museums as opposed to its statutes.

As someone who was born after the most violent demonstrations against the practice, in kindergarten when Nelson Mandela was released from prison and nine-years old when South Africa held its first democratic election
Apartheid was an opaque ideal that I never understood.

Saturday’s trip to a museum depicting South Africa’s inhumane divisions clarified all the news reports, books and other information I consumed about apartheid growing up.

It was a 150 minutes of balancing stoic emotions with utter shock at the 40 years of minority rule, the undercover murders of political protestors, the division of communities, the reservation of well-paying jobs for whites only and the list of 148 laws the country established between 1948 and 1990 directly, or indirectly, segregating the people and resources of South Africa.

Immediately visitors are reminded of the divisions that gripped South Africa. Every entrant is given a black card with white words that says either “white” or “non-white” in English and Afrikaans. Those cards determined which entrance someone entered the museum.

The cards are given to entrants at random: hence the five-minute walk through the entry being the only time in my life I have been classified white!

Pictures were not allowed inside the museum. People broke that rule, especially to take a picture of the Johannesburg skyline in the background.

(The only time I allowed myself a chuckle during my afternoon trip was when I took a picture of a group of six people—four white people, a black man and an Asian woman arms locked and smiling—with the Joburg skyline in the background.)

The museum provided a 15-minute video of the history of South Africa, which served as a backdrop for how a distinct minority could rule union so forcefully.

From there, I spent the next two hours reviewing newspaper clippings, video clips, pictures and other artifacts from the apartheid era. Unable to take pictures I scribbled as much as I could feverishly in a notebook so I would etch my own history about apartheid.

The stain of apartheid is still being undone. Until it is, the legacy of such an inhumane practice can be reviewed in a museum — a place befitting the past.

The Friendly City...sans the Internet

PORT ELIZABETH--Having burned through most of my rand in Cape Town, I was hoping I could enjoy a day in Port Elizabeth on the cheap. But as one person told me on a bus ride Tuesday night: “You’re an American. The conversion rate makes you rich.”

In South Africa weather goes up the cape from west to east. Meaning, the rain and cold I enjoyed in Cape Town was also here in PE.

Our bus arrived a few moments before 7 a.m. With the rain exacerbating the chilly air, I was not in a mood to explore the city in search of breakfast before taking a taxi to my bed and breakfast. The first three times I called my accommodation to set up a taxi the phone rang for eternity.

After beginning to lose the veneer of patience and arriving within a dangerous proximity of showing how much of an American ass I can be when annoyed, I asked whether the bus company knew of a taxi service. In what can only be described as an angel looking out for me, a woman behind the Intercape counter told me she would catch a taxi for me that would take me to the Park Plaza Bed and Breakfast.

A conversation with the taxi driver allowed me to remember why I was in Port Elizabeth in the first place—to see a pair of world class soccer players in the World Cup.

Tuesday’s game between Cote d Ivoire and Portugal was the talk of the town. Featuring Didier Drogba and former World Player of the Year Cristiano Ronaldo, as well as other players who are known throughout the soccer world, the match was one of the most anticipated of the group stage.

I dropped off my big bag at the bed and breakfast and went to see the city and find food. The wind was whipping in off the Indian Ocean, making it paramount I figured out PE’s public transportation sooner (warmer) than later (chillier).

The Beachfront is a popular place with locals and tourists alike, so I spent a few hours there. I bought a brunch that was twice as much as I thought it would be because I didn’t speak clearly. So much for the South African perception that Americans enunciate more than they do; or the thought of me saving money during my day here.

I went to the hotel to take my first shower in two days. After reading my professor’s Facebook post about Cote d Ivoire this spring, I put on warm clothes and found as much orange and green as possible so I could show my support for the Elephants, even if my hands were in my pockets and my vuvuzela remained quiet.

(No one here asked me what FAMU meant, but it didn’t matter. I’m too proud a Ratter to travel internationally and not let people know who educated me.)

I met George, a Lisbon resident who lived for Jacksonville for three years, on a bus that took us to Nelson Mandela Bay Stadium. He showed me a couple pictures from the time he spent earlier in the week playing with a six month old tiger. We spoke about his team’s chances, Ronaldo’s penchant for unnecessary diving and how the U.S. surprised a lot of people with its draw against the Three Lions.

Our bus approached the beautiful stadium, which is no more than two kilometers from the bay, about an hour prior to kickoff.

George excitedly ran inside to see how his Portuguese side looked in training. Meanwhile, I meandered about taking it all in and snapping pictures of the stadium and the city in the background. I arrived at my seat—in the upper deck, but right at midfield—just in time to shoot pictures of both teams training.

Had I brought more clothes, I would have been more demonstrative about the contest. Nevertheless, I was very happy to be in a stadium with so many world class players. Fortunately, for me and the Elephants, Cote d Ivoire captain Didier Drogba recovered enough from an arm injury to take the field for the final 25 minutes of the match.

The game was a stalemate that ended scoreless. Neither team really tested the opposing goalkeepers as Ronaldo won Man of the Match almost solely on reputation alone.

It took a while, but I made it back to my bed and breakfast in time to catch the prime time contest between Brazil and North Korea. Knowing I had to give the bed and breakfast R625 for my room, I left at halftime in search of an Internet cafe or a wireless hotspot to make a seamless transfer.

But things were not as they seemed.

Port Elizabeth may have Internet connectivity, but it’s certainly not comparable to what is available in the United States. The more places I went, the more I became frustrated. Finally, after losing enough cool to chill the seaside city by myself, I stormed back to my hotel fuming at the prospect of the dearth of online options.

My girlfriend and I worked it all out. As I said my prayers Tuesday, I expressed thanks for the trials placed before me that day.

That adversity led to a conversation Wednesday morning that once again highlighted the differences between South Africa and America. This time it was South Africans who were wondering aloud why things were unintentionally complex.