Waking up

The other day, I was laying on a patch of grass at Muizenberg beach with the sun and breeze both lapping at my bare legs, staring into the deepest and most infinite blue sky I had ever seen. I spent a minute or so concentrating on each sense. I wanted to soak up the moment to remember for the rest of my life. The taste of the previous night was still in the back of my mouth; it had been a mess of dancing on Long Street with a ton of kids from our program crammed into a bar called Jo’burg that strictly drops ‘90‘s hip hop classics. The aroma of churros or something like them was swirling in the air, mixed with scent of the water a few feet away; the perfect combination of sugar and salt that reminded me of long days on Balboa Island wading by the sail boats and eating frozen bananas. I felt the sun warm my skin as the light breeze stripped the warmth away every few minutes, reminding me that it was still technically Winter, even though it seemed the farthest thing from it. I saw big black aunties with little babies at their side, splashing in the ankle high waves, screaming as the chilly water poked their toes, retreating at the sign of anything more extreme. I saw clouds race by and morph from shape to shape to shape until they disappeared behind rows of brightly painted surf shacks. I heard the sounds of a construction site near by, men working on a city that is so eager to show the world what it has to offer. But beyond senses, beyond tangible feelings and physicality, I felt an immense tranquility. Here I was, laying on a beach on a beautiful day in South Africa with some really sick guys I had gotten to be friends with: Julian, the hilarious Australian who is wild and out all the time; Ramon, the Swiss boy who is too suave for his own good and already known for making extremely inappropriate but solid jokes; and Jake, the good ole All American boy from Boston who can sing for days and is as sweet as can be. Bliss doesn’t even begin to describe the day.
But as most things in this city, my week consisted of extremes, high and low. For as beautiful as my day in Muizenberg was, the day before was heartbreaking. Since it was still orientation week, we were being shown all that the school has to offer us. That includes it’s volunteer programs which I’m almost positive that almost every international student is participating in because the need for aid here is at least part of why everyone came. One of the programs is called SHAWCO and it took a gaggle of gawking students through two different townships to see where we would be working. I thought it was going to be really cool to see these places in person after seeing them on TV and in the news for so long but it turned out to be really difficult. I knew it would be hard, but I had no idea. First we stopped by an elementary school that some of the team would be working with and you would have thought we were movie stars or something. They all ran out of their classrooms and watched us walk in, their eyes huge in anticipation and pure fascination. A little girl reached out and grabbed my hand. Our eyes met, and it hit me. The reality of it all. They were real people, not just gimmicks used to get you to send in 30 cents a week. But after the cheers and questions and claims that I was Hannah Montana and a boy next to me was Justin Beiber (to be fair, he had the locks), we left for another township and this is when I went from feeling like a hero to a complete villain.
Imagine making a shed out of any flat, hard surface you could find. Tin sheets, shingles, plywood, and in an extreme case, posters and old billboards. Now imagine that shed multiplied by hundreds. Fluorescent shades of yellows, reds and turquoises tried to disguise that this shantytown was placed on muddy roads sprinkled with garbage and bones of animals that just couldn’t survive. And fuck, we were driving through this place in air conditioned, luxury chartered busses. We were touring their town in droves, some taking pictures, some looking down in shame. Touring to see how poor they were, how diminutive and desperate their lives. Personally, my eyes couldn’t meet theirs. I felt the guilt of American citizenship. American waste. American ignorance. American consumerism. Capitalism. Selfishness. It was heavy. And I want to ask all of you who are reading this right now, why don’t you do more? Why don’t you help? I’m not trying to be self-righteous and I’m not sitting high on any horses, because those of you who know me know that I didn’t give two shits before I came here. But now that I’m here, I can’t help but care. My heart breaks every time a helpless child or emaciated woman or toothless man asks for my change as I just spent 10 US dollars (70 ZA rand) on lunch. It’s not like the homeless people in San Francisco. You can tell how badly these people need the meal that your 10 cents can provide and they plead, they follow you, they really truly beg. And yet, we’re instructed not to support them because if we do, they will harass us for more. Can we blame them? If I was in there position, I would.
So, why don’t you help? You kids in San Francisco that spend your Daddy’s money on clubs and ecstasy and trendy clothes. You kids in Orange County that throw down for a keg every weekend and fill your gas tanks up every other day. All of you that can help and just don’t. Why? Do you feel like it’s a gimmick? Do you feel like your money should be yours for the keeping? Well, fuck you then. Come here and cry as you walk down the streets hearing women scream at you to tour some other township. To stop invading and pitying her home. Come here and see people who own practically nothing smile at you because you’re American and you’re living their dream. A dream that they can never fulfill because we don’t give a shit about their poverty. Because their government has been corrupt and poor for ages. Because they have no means. We don’t care because it’s a world away, right? Out of sight, out of mind. Well, guess what? I’m in this world. It’s in my sight. And our lifestyle disgusts me. Be a global citizen. Give a shit. If you want to help out with any of the causes UCT works with, contact me and I will let you know how to help.
Sorry about the rant, but heart break is infuriating.
Anyway, the rest of orientation week was an absolute dream. Sorry Mom, but I don’t think I’ve partied this hard in my entire life. I’ve been all over the city, met warm, hospitable locals and realized that chivalry lives on in other parts of the world. American men need to wake up before we all go global. Honestly, the past few days have been a blur of gorgeous men, beer and dancing all night. Every night. Insanity. But the braai (remember, that’s a bbq) we attended yesterday in a township on the outskirts of town was something I will never forget. A short minibus trip away (yes, I have ended up actually using the minibuses that scared me at first. It’s less than a dollar to most places you want to go and as long as it’s daytime, you’re chillin) lies Mzoli’s. It’s an amazing butcher shop that hosts a huge braai every Sunday. MEAT FOR DAYS. All of you American carnivores back at home - but this place on your bucket list. People show up starting at around 11 am. We got there at 12 and it was already pretty packed. You go into the shop, pick out what meat your group wants and they put it on the braai for you. After a few hours (it’s insanely hectic and busy but the time flies because everyone’s drinking the ridiculously cheap and delicious beer, mingling and dancing to some sick Afrobeats played by a DJ on the dance floor... mist machines included), you pick up your meat that’s been placed in a huge bucket. Along with some delicious “fat bread” and some starchy potato dish, you get down to business native style with only your hands. I shared a bucket with Jake, Julian, Ramon and our friend Ernst from Amsterdam and before we knew it, sauce was flying. We all sauced each others faces and I definitely got slapped in the face with a few steaks. Senta (from Long Beach/Santa Cruz) and Lieke (also from Amsterdam) couldn’t escape the calamity and soon we were all dying of laughter with meat sauce and beer everywhere. After another few hours of dancing and chowin down, our local friends Keith, Karlo and Colin gave us a ride back to Jake’s where we zonked out right away. Needless to say, it was an unforgettable day.
Alas, I am here to STUDY (see Mom, I haven’t forgotten), and today was the first day of classes. My schedule is pretty relaxed, I’m only taking three classes this semester and the one I had today was full of my friends and an orientation leader that we like, Asher (swoon). I have heard the classes are really difficult so I’m glad I’m only taking twelve credits because I’m going to try to get a job at this restaurant called Trench Town. I met the manager at a bar and apparently they hire internationals under the table all the time, so that would be cool to get some extra skrilla for adventures. Now, after a full week or so of partying, it's time to wake up and get back to real life. At least it's still real life in Cape Town. My internet is acting up, but pictures are coming soon.

Live Wholly,

KG