Mzoli's

“That famous braai place in that ugly township”, was the description I was given before we went to this infamous place on Sunday. You literally pick your meat at the butcher’s counter and then they barbeque for you. You then head outside into the sunshine on a dusty road in a township to enjoy the afternoon amongst thousands of others. The place was packed to an equivalent of the Holylands on St. Patrick’s Day. It was one massive street party and so much fun overflowing with beer and steak. Although we got a few looks being white kids in a township, we were still welcomed. Everyone was just chilling. There were impressive speakers playing tuneless African songs and dancing just popped up everywhere, though there was some crazy dancing in the toilet queue…At first I thought that people in the neighbourhood might get a little upset at having such a party every week, but they fully embraced it. People converted their kitchens into make-shift taverns. I bought litres of beer inside a women’s kitchen for less than £2. There were no rules. You could do whatever you wanted and that was fine with the world.

My friend pointed out that no where else in the world could you experience such different things in one day: to go from a posh breakfast, to a braai on the street in a township and then to watch the sunset on one of the richest beaches in the world. I was at first appalled at such discrepancies in a country, but she made out to be one of the most exciting and electric things in the world.

Robben Island

We went out to Robben Island on a sunny Saturday afternoon and had a lovely time. Touring prisons is creepy business though. Despite the new paint and washed floors and perfectly cut grass outside to welcome dignitaries, there is still something creepy in the air. People have lived their whole lives within these walls, and many people died inside these walls. I think the worst part was knowing that people had been tortured inside those walls and here I was taking photos.

The one thing I will say about the famous Mandela cell is that it was small. So small. It’s a miracle that he didn’t go insane. I did see the famous lime quarry that helped build up movement, leadership and intelligence within the ANC. It was bright, dusty and uninviting even under the late afternoon sun. Apparently this is the place where men, white and black, received multiple university degrees and learned the beauty of tolerance. This rock is also responsible for hundreds of men’s eyes as it blinded many of them. According my lovely guide, this is why you may not use flash photography with Mr. Mandela. We were led around the prison itself by an ex-political prisoner, which was a bit cruel in my opinion. I highly doubt that this man wants to tell loads of foreigners about the torture he endured, let alone stand in his old jail cell. However, according to our previous guide, this was a job. One of the only jobs that he could get, so he embraced his fate to never fully leave behind the Island.

Racial Profiling

I have never been a person who particularly cares that much about someone’s colour. But then again, Colorado is not a particularly colourful state; especially not in the very rich, white and particularly Jewish neighbourhood of Greenwood Village. I then moved to Belfast and to even ask if Belfast has colour would literally make you laugh out loud. So it’s been a very different shock to come to a society where the colour of your skin means everything. You start to act like the locals and adapt such an attitude. While apartheid might be over, it doesn’t mean that people have stopped judging based on your colour. I have since become known as the white girl, everyone from strangers on the street to my friends (half of whom are white…but apparently I, literally, am the whitest person they know). I found myself thinking today watching a man in my neighbourhood walking home from work that he looked like a nice man. He was wearing trousers and a shirt with an obnoxious backpack, and he was white. And I realised I made the assumption that the man was ‘nice’ because he was white. I was appalled. I was also a bit sickened at myself to make a half-joke/half-assumption that men wearing diamond studs and sunglasses in a hummer were drug dealers. They were black. However, the hummer was in a township where the average income is practically nothing, so who knows? My friends make jokes about the colour of their skin, but this is a serious matter that means so much to so many people here.

What would you do for a dollar? For a pound? Usually not that much as for most people that isn’t that much money. Maybe something stupid for a few laughs. Or in my case, pay my friend ten rand (£1) to eat an entire clove of garlic. Very hilarious but very regrettable the next morning. While that’s funny enough, there are millions here in south Africa who would do a lot for that same ten rand. When I observed training on medical laws at the HIV hospice in one of the townships, the women needed to fill out a survey at the end of the session. Being the extreme keen person that I am, I had about 40 pens at the ready. I take great pride in my pens, the really smooth rolling pens that write beautifully. These women noticed my pens as well and complimented them. I told them that I got five pens for R14, a really good deal in my humble opinion. A woman turned to me and said, ‘R14! That’s a lot of money for us!’ Now if she was just referring to herself, her family, the hospice care workers or black people living in townships in general is left up to the interpreter. However, it made me think of the things that I take for granted. Pens, for example. Something so incredibly silly and trivial as a pen, that costs more than someone’s dinner.

workers

You can find a person here to do anything/everything for you. With such high unemployment the informal sector is massive. It is always a little bit shocking because you know that you can pump your own petrol and get your own toilet roll. But if a couple of cents help someone, then I guess you learn to become very privileged and wait for someone to nicely fold your loo roll. The owners of our house started arranging for a domestic worker to come and clean. I thought it would be like halls in university where they tidy the general area and thus was quite shocked to see a lovely woman washing my dishes early this morning. I tried to tell her that it was my mess and I would happily clean it and apologised for the general state of the house. I think I may have offended her. I then continued to feel awkward while trying to make some breakfast for my hungover, pyjama clad self. I then tried to offer her some juice, which she politely declined in xhoso so then I had no idea what to say to her. While I understand that giving someone a job is vital, it also felt that I was back in the apartheid era. Hence my attempt to force orange juice down her throat to try and fix a century of social wrongs. If only it was that easy.

the end of the world cup...

I arrived the day the world cup started only to be questioned by security if I was here for the football. No I insisted, I was here to research. The answer was surprising enough and was easily proven by the 10 kilos of books in my hand luggage. However, four weeks later and I am ecstatic I was here for the football. My hand luggage will be filled with yellow Bafana Bafana jerseys, face tattoos of the South African flag and multiple vuvzelas. The end of the world cup was something else. We had just gotten used to this ecstatic event claiming the streets in fan frenzy every night. We tried to plan for the night, first deciding on either orange or red coveralls. I supported the Dutch will all the passion I had for the sole reason that I think that the Dutch have a better sense of humour. Despite a past built on slavery and war that is largely traceable back to the Dutch, Capetonians still embraced the orange spirit. We left at half past two in the afternoon for a match six hours later. Our smart attempts at taking the train failed, as they were so full that they were bursting at the brims. People were hanging out the back of the train almost as posing for that scene in Slumdog Millionaire. We finally got on the train being the annoying drunkards that we were covered in barely legible slurs scribbled across our chests. We were a lot of white kids causing a lot of noise. I expected some form of abuse or at least stares, but the atmosphere was electric. After waking up one baby, I would like to say that we had the whole train singing Waka Waka…or at least in their head.

But just like the World Cup itself, the finale could not last. Our night ended in a bar fight filled with pepper spray and a few bashed-in skulls. That is the very condensed version. While the rest of the story is interesting, it is over and done with. We made it home ok, albeit missing a few belongings including one of my precious vuvuzelas.

It makes you wonder about the predicted plateau of the World Cup and if we are on a downward spiral. Can people only get along when their faces are projected to the world for judgement? Can people only get along under the pretext of fun and games and a whole lot of beer?

I woke up this morning to headlines of xenophobic attacks griping the nation. Since South Africa has the largest economy in Africa, it is a very appealing place especially during the World Cup with all the lucrative opportunities of exploiting tourists for a packet of chips (don’t get me started…) However, with a conservative estimate of 25% of the population unemployed, the competition for jobs is fierce, fierce enough to kill. A few years back waves of xenophobia spread throughout the country and about 60 people died and hundreds more fled back to neighbouring countries like Zimbabwe. Last night hooligans targeted Somali shops, looting and threatening to kill the owners unless they left the country. The predictions are that the attacks are just going to get worse. So much for the Rainbow nation. I don’t know who won on nationalist sentiment last night: Belfast on the 12^th or the township Kaleytisha brandishing sticks at foreigners? It’s terrifying to think about. I have met the nicest people in the world here. But apparently not everything is, as it seems on the surface in this glistening jewel of a country.

And on an opportune note, this is when all of the police are going to be on leave after the overtime of herding around foreigners for the past four weeks. Not that the police have a particularly good reputation of a fair standard with non-nationals...

We live in a different part of town, close to the city but filled with wannabe hipsters and NGOs. I like the neighbourhood but we are told to be careful after a student was stabbed here last year and some various drive-by shootings. So far it’s been good though. The worst we have encountered is some very bad singing from a man who was clearly off his face and screeching the Lion King at the top of his lungs.