Lion Hunting

I rode in a safari jeep for nearly 12 hours through Kruger National Park, eyes peeled for a fierce, majestic wildcat...

I finally spotted one behind a sheet of glass at the MGM Hotel
in Las Vegas.

I'm still not quite sure how I feel about all this. At least safari made for some good photo opps.

 

Kiddos

They are curiously charming, and charmingly curious.
They are collectively chaotic, consistently capricious and candidly cheerful.

They are children. They are kiddos, adolescents, bambinos, bambinas innocents, cherubs, crianças, niños pequeños, infants, enfants… No matter what we call them, they are representatives of youth, and sweet immaturity. They remind us fondly of our own naivety. And they remind us how to play,

The squirts I spent time with in Sea Wind, South Africa are dancers and singers.

They play dress-up.

And they fall asleep in your arms when they’ve had enough.

These little lambs were especially tired on this day because a slew of new playmates from Semester at Sea crowded their classroom. We were there to take data for the school’s nutrition surveillance program sponsored by Operation Hunger, a local nonprofit.

We took each of the 86 students’ weight, height and arm circumference measurement and graphed their nutritional intake as a bell graph. The top of the curve represented ideal weight, which most of the girls reached. Most of the boys, however, fell below the curve. One program volunteer explained that boys are often more malnourished than girls because they have more freedom throughout the day to go out and play with friends. Girls are required to stay home and help their mothers with household chores, thus they have greater access to food.

Most of the children suffering from malnutrition in the school are experiencing Kwashiorkor malnutrition, a condition attributed to older siblings receiving more food within families and characterized by gaunt arms and legs, and bloated bellies.

30 million children in Africa are undernourished. To learn more about Operation Hunger’s attempt to combat this statistic, go to http://www.operationhunger.co.za/index.html.

Sunday Brunch

I’m six beers deep rummaging through a 3-foot by 3-foot blue plastic bucket of chicken seeking to devour my next piece of meat. It’s a challenge to get past the many hands grabbing into the bucket; I’ve got to act fast to feast on the rapidly disappearing pile of poultry.

There are one hundred plus hungry mouths surrounding me and they’re all smeared with barbeque sauce, and dripping with beer. We don’t have napkins, or silverware, or even chairs. Our standing, at this point stumbling, bodies pack the entire township block for Mazoli’s barbeque. Booming beats and freestyle rap rhythms sound in the background. Smoke from sizzling meat fills remaining light in the sky just before sunset.

An hour prior to the raging feast, I was cheering bottles with students from the University of Cape Town. I even made drunken, pathetic attempts to spout out rhymes to rap music with some locals clad in shoulder boom boxes.

An hour before that I walked across the street to use the facilities. I had to meander through the masses crowding the street, shoulder bumping dancers and stepping on rappers’ toes.

An hour before that we ordered our protein bucket. My comrades laughed at me when I asked for a menu. The waitress took our order and asked where we might be sitting. “We’ll be around,” says my buddy Ned.

Ned has been in South Africa for half a year now. He’s study abroad at UCT and showing us around while our vessel is docked at the Waterfront. Ned casually suggested that morning that we go to a Sunday barbeque. It sounded low-key.

Ned brought us to the convenience store down the road upon arrival at the township. He pointed out that most of the people filling up the block were coming straight from church. He grabs a six-pack off the shelf, and I suggest we split it at lunch. Through chuckles he responds, “Get your own—you have some time to kill. I’m not sure you know what you’re getting yourself into. We’re going to a brai, for Christ’s sake!”

Falling for the First Time

Travel stories wedged into those short four months at sea slowly surface in a variety of forms. When I told the story of skydiving in Cape Town over Table Mountain, I was speaking to a crowd of people at a Toastmaster’s meeting. Here's the speech:


I’m sitting in a plane with the side door wide open, clear goggles squeezing my ears together, engine noise blaring behind me, legs dangling off the side, and heart racing because I’m about to jump! I’m about to free-fall from 10,000 feet.

I'm about to go skydiving.

Some of my friends had dared to dive in Namibia and they raved about what an exhilarating experience it was. Some of my other friends had heard that it was cheap in South Africa. I’d never really even thought about skydiving before… not that it seemed unappealing, it had just never entered my mind.

But now it was all anyone could talk about. It was exhilarating and cheap: sold. I jumped on the bandwagon.

Last week when I researched “skydiving” I found out that it’s more common name is “parachuting.” I also found out that choosing where and when to skydive is a crucial decision that one should consider before they even decide to go. Some companies are not certified and others have higher accident rates, so many articles recommend researching which companies have more experienced instructors. Jumping from thousands of feet can be a dangerous activity and one should make sure he or she is in good hands. The average death due to parachuting is 30 out of every 100,000 jumps.

I definitely missed all those memos.

 In fact, I didn’t even think about the risks or technicalities involved. I was only going to be in Africa for a week and I was going to do something outrageous while I was there. While we sailed on the ship, we were only allotted 2 hours of internet time for the entire semester. Needless to say, I did absolutely no research for my upcoming adventure. I googled “Skydive South Africa” and chose the first link on the list. I opened the website’s contact information page and immediately signed offline so as to avoid using up any extra internet time. I called the number, made reservations, and that was that.

Skydive South Africa is a member of the Parachute Association of South Africa, a governing organization that keeps parachuting companies certified and safe. The organization’s website says that all first-time skydivers are required to sign a safety waiver before they jump. When I arrived at the jump site, a friend taped me signing this waiver in a “Hi Mom and Dad” style video. What I didn’t know at the time was that they should have been there with me. Legally, persons under 21 who skydive in South Africa need written permission from their guardians.

The Parachute Association’s webpage also explains that first timers must take a 6-hour instructional safety class before they even go up in the plane. I think my entire skydiving process- including driving to and from the site—took about half that. The guides strapped me into some coils and carabineers and practically threw me onto that rickety little puddle-jumper. Before I could even blink I was in the air, plane door open, with my instructor in my ear telling me it was time to go.

Most people are slightly scarred, if not terrified, to fall thousands of feet. There is a great deal of fear and anxiety that goes along with this extreme sport, and understandably so. It’s dangerous…especially if you haven’t done your research.

But honestly, I don’t think I would have ever gone if I had to search for the right location with specialized instructors. My experience was intensified because I had limited resources and only a few days to plan. But even if you are home with unlimited internet minutes, I’d say follow your gut and be spontaneous. And not just when it comes to parachuting… we could all use a little impulse here and there.

So back to the airplane. I did a tandem jump, which means that someone attached to your back pulls the parachute for you. Julianne, my instructor, told me to put my arms above my head and let my body fall naturally whenever I was ready. There was no hesitation- I was only going to get nervous if I thought seriously about what I was doing.

I raised my arms… and fell.

For three minutes that felt like 3 seconds my body catapulted across the skyline. Lips flapping and entire body tingling. I don’t think I blinked once. I didn’t breathe. I was screaming out of excitement and the indescribable, overpowering adrenaline flowing throughout every inch of me. It was the most alive I have ever felt.

And I think I am still coming down. 

This article has since been published on the Art of Backpacking website. 

Asking Open-Ended Questions

One needn’t travel far from the Waterfront to realize that South Africa is indeed a country of contrast, of extreme degrees between people and their environments. A few miles from the Waterfront marks the edges of the township neighborhoods, what laymen’s terms can only call “ghettos” or “slums.” On both sides of the gravel pathways are shacks of slapdash bricks with holey, cracked tin roofs. Dust settles into the clothes drying on strings tied between neighbor’s windows. I see no adults anywhere, but children flock at my feet. Their smiles consume their entire faces.

Established in 1867, District Six is one of the oldest townships in South Africa. Until government declared it a white-only area in 1896, it was the only district that housed multiple races. I learned this at the District Six Township Museum, where I interviewed our guide and the only grown up I could find. Ivy was contagious. She called everyone baby and gave us big bear hugs when the day was over. I didn't know what to ask, I just wanted to talk to her.

Ivy taught me that the contrast between black and white is only the beginning of disparity in South Africa…

Me: Tell me about family structure here.

Ivy: Just like white families, men are the head of the house. A big part of black culture is to respect men as the dominant. It’s hardest for black women because we are inferior in our skin and our sex. South African black women are the most oppressed.

Me: Tell me about your employment.

Ivy: You know that image of a man on the couch reading the newspaper while his wife makes dinner? That is over baby.

Westernization has made women and men’s roles more 50/50. Well, maybe 48/52. Men are starting to share duties at home, and women are looking for better jobs.

Me: What do women do together outside of work?

Ivy: We don’t meet in the kitchen! We get together to keep up our spirits. We embroider, have tea parties, and talk.


Thanks for the in, Ivy. And more importantly, thanks for the bear hug.

A Slice of Europe... at first glance, anyway

The southern tip of Africa is the merging of the Atlantic and Indian oceans, and thus the juncture of opposing waterfronts that create violent waves rocky enough to tilt the huge cruise ship in which I sleep. But not for long though; I’m abruptly awoken by a water glass siding across the counter and shattering in the sink in my cabin. I peer out the porthole to see only deep blue water and then only sky as the ship slants back and forth.

The orange ceramic mug that I bought in Namibia is still intact. I stumble between waves to snag it before it joins the glass shards in the sink, pull on my warmest wool cap and head outside into the chilly morning mist. I post up with my steaming coffee, eager to arrive in Cape Town. As we approach land, the port city emerges from the cloudy abyss. First I see the flat top of Table Mountain, and then crisp white and baby blue buildings appear in the horizon.

The sun rises as our ship slowly pulls into port. Baby seals, undisturbed by incoming vessels and people passing, bask in the first light on a wooden plank on the dock. We’ve arrived at the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, a nautical metropolis that was once described to me as “a slice of Europe.”

I stand at the ship railing and gulp the now cold remains of my orange mug. The vision of a crisp, affluent Africa in front of me will soon be trampled by cultural stories, colorful people and distant neighborhoods that I visit in the following week.