Cape Town Post #5

“Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens” – Carl Jung

I’m sitting here trying to figure out how I’m gonna start this post. How I’m gonna put into words what I want to say. What follows are just some of the experiences that have been burned in my memory recently. While they are recent events, many of the occurrences repeat themselves regularly living out here in Cape Town. It’s going to be really hard for me to organize these thoughts so if you do read on, just bear with me.

So I’m walking to the mini-bus station in downtown with my I-pod in my ears this morning and once again I’m struck by something that I literally see all the time out here. I see a kid, probably between the age of 16 to 18, tattered shirt, torn up shoes, stained pants, dirty as all hell, lying next to a tree face down in this concrete jungle with his head in his hat hiding from the sun. I see him, and have the realization, “Jesus, this is where this kid sleeps.” One of most troubling things for me to grapple with every day while I’m out here is my interactions with street kids. Undoubtedly, many if not most of these kids are orphans, don’t go to school, have no source of income. Somehow though they find a way to subsist day in and day out, mostly from begging I’m assuming.

When I first arrived I was told along with the other internationals in my program, “Do not give to panhandlers and beggars. It only encourages the behavior and does nothing to fix the problem.” Ok I understand why one might say that, but then I think to myself, what the fuck are these kids or anyone else who is homeless gonna do if they don’t beg and get money from tourists.  In a country that’s unemployment rate is hovering somewhere around 30-35%, some say even higher, what are these people going to do. Just go get a job? Yea, because we all know it’s that easy. I feel like this is simply all they know, how they’ve lived for years.

It saddens me deeply, to see just how bad some of these people have it, and furthermore, the cynical view that so many well off people have of the homeless and urban poor. What’s even more troubling is the feeling that if I gave 1 or 2 Rand to every person who asked me, both hands extended as if preparing to receive the Eucharist, with that prototypical look of desperation, “Please sir. Please. Help me. I’m trying to feed my child. I need food. Sir Please. Just one Rand. Please!”, I would in all honesty be giving out hundreds of Rand a day. Something no one would ever do. This is especially common being in town away from Rondebosch, that even itself is home to many mendicants. Many of whom I might add are solitary pairs of women with little children or babies at their side.

The other night, as I’m doing a bar crawl with some new friends I just met from Rhodes University here on holiday from the Eastern Cape, a young kid runs up to me. Then he does exactly what I just said asking for money. When I say, “No. I’m sorry. I can’t man. I’m sorry”, he just looks at me and starts balling his eyes out. Literally, tears streaming down his face. I stop, let my friends go ahead and talk with him for a second. And granted, what I’m about to say could have been completely fabricated, or completely true. I will never know but what I do know is that in a city like Cape Town it is completely possible. I sit there with him crying, for some reason feel the urge to throw my arm around him, and he starts saying “I don’t know why anyone won’t help me. I just need a little money for food. No one will help me. They all just keep saying no.” I’m like, “Oh buddy, don’t cry. Its ok. It’s ok man . . . Don’t cry.” (Is it? Who I am to tell him not to cry?) He continues crying. He tells me his name is Rialdo, he’s 16 years old, his parents are both dead. He’s got no one. Just wants some food. And I swear he truly looked as if he was telling the truth. And here I am pissing away money at bars for no other reason than to have fun. And he’s telling me he needs food. Words cannot describe what it is like to look into the eyes of a hungry child, devoid of any sense of hope in the world, and from what I can tell in our short interaction,  lacking so many of the things that most “civilized” people would agree are essential for developing into a well-rounded, mentally and physically healthy person. Yet this kid  is but one of the thousands of similar faces I see every week. Raggedy, dirty, often toothless individuals, roaming the streets, buses, trains looking for a little scratch. I gave him a little money and tell him “keep your head up buddy, it’s all gonna be ok.” He wipes his face, and just as quick as we met we begin to walk in opposite directions. I look back and see him walking backward away from me with one hand on his chest and his other fist pumped in to air. When our eyes meet he yells, “Thanks you brother”. This interaction will stick with me forever.  

I’m on the train to Muizenberg the other day on my way to go surfing. About half of way there two obviously homeless men enter the car that I’m in and walk to one end. One man behind the other. The man in front starts slowing walking forward, being led by the hands by the man behind him. Then I see that the man in front is missing both of his eyes. Both men start softly singing the words “When I see the blood” over and over again. I have no idea why they were singing those words but as they walked through the car multiple people, all of whom looked like local Africans gave the two men money, putting it in the little tin jar that the blind man was carrying. When he turned to me I hardly acknowledged the two men. I don’t know why.

The poverty in Cape Town is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. There is a lot of poverty in Berkeley, but nothing like what I see every day out here. At a hostel last night (or backpacker as they call them over here in SA) I met a United States Marine. He fought in Iraq for a few years and is now in Cape Town on vacation. The second night he was here he got really drunk on Long Street and was on his way back to his hostel, called The Backpack, when two men walked right up to him. He told us “I knew exactly what they were doing as soon as I saw them.” One man pulls a knife. A fight ensues. The marine is stabbed in the arm and as the one man stabs him the other pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. Now, after he told us this we all told him what at that point he already knew. And that is that you really should never walk around any unfamiliar streets late at night in Cape Town. This marine was attacked by two guys that were nowhere near as big as he was, yet they did it without hesitation. A post-Apartheid society with ostensibly more destitution now than ever before.

People do the strangest things I’ve ever seen just to make a little money out here. And now I’m talking about things other than begging or robbing people. Almost everywhere you go you will see people trying to sell the most random things ever. For instance, on Main Road, which runs right through my neighborhood, there is a guy who sells tiny little plants (succulents usually). He usually has like four or five in tiny little plastic pots. It’s not likes it’s a business at all and in fact I feel like he probably steels these plants from the yards or porches of nearby houses and then tries to sell them to make money. Then you have the guys at big intersections throughout town who have hundreds of random charger chords draped over their shoulders trying to sell them to people driving by. Like car chargers. I can’t help but assume they probably don’t sell many of them but whatever you gotta do, right? Then there’s the kid who came up to me today when I was sitting in the mini-bus at the station in town waiting to go home. He walks up, holds out his products, and says “Genuine Nike socks! 39 rand in the stores. I give you two pair for 20. ($2.50) No. Ok. Here! 32 GB flashdrive! 10 Rand! No. Ok . . . Bag a chips? 1 Rand.” These kids are a dime a dozen too. They are everywhere in town. From gum, to knock-off sunglasses, to tiny tubes of super glue, to airtime vouchers for your mobile phone. People sell it all. To be completely honest, I give these people a hell of a lot of credit for their work because somehow they make their living selling things that in no way would provide a substantial amount of money. Another thing I see a lot of is kids helping fill up the mini buses that we ride around out here.  At strategic points along Main Road going in and out of town the drivers will pull over, and there will be these kids on the side of the road running up and down the streets yelling at people. “Cape Town! Mowbray, Claremont, Wynberg!” getting people gathered up to stuff into the already overcrowded mini buses. The more people they can gather up to put in a driver’s mini bus the more they will get tipped. Which at least from what I’ve seen usually isn’t much more than five or six Rand max. Never before in my life have I seen so many people doing such trivial meaningless things just to get by. Yet another reason why I feel so blessed to have the opportunities that I do. To study and learn. To travel. To meet constantly meet unbelievably interesting people every day who cultivate my mind and outlook on the world in which I live. What opportunity do these kids have?    

Since most of my friends are off in other countries or other parts of Africa for fall break this week, I’ve been hanging out with these kids from Rhodes University that I met through one of my friends in the Lover’s Walk international house who goes to Boston College with a couple of the kids visiting from Rhodes. Anyway, its eight girls and one guy, who I might call a true gentlemen and a scholar, or maybe The Man, The Myth, The Legend, for having the courage to take a two week vacation with eight girls. Anyway, he’s a great dude. He’s also kak hilarious. (Another thing some South African’s say is Kak before an adjective, kak hilarious is the equivalent of saying “fucking hilarious”, not as profane, but when said definitely sounds like the word “cock” so I guess it’s still kinda vulgar sounding)  His name’s Steve Pope and the girls he’s with are pretty cool too.

A couple nights this week I stayed at backpackers in town because no one is really home at my house and if there’s any  place to meet awesome international people traveling the world, its at these backpackers, where for about 100 Rand a night you can have a bed to sleep in. BUT, if you’re like me and don’t mind passing out on a floor every now and then, you can usually sleep for free! Anyway, in the two nights that I spent at these hostels, one called Cape Town Backpackers and the other The Backpack, I met some of the most interesting people ever. But one man in particular struck me. His name is Charlie. He’s 49, from Boston, owns a bike shop in DC, and for the last two years has been traveling by himself overland all over West Africa, Europe, and Latin America on a dual sport motorcycle.  Never before have I seen a more unbelievable portfolio of pictures. His pictures of Central and South America were particularly inspiring. He heard my and Steve’s American accents and came right up to us and said, “Where you from?” We chopped it up for a good four hours over some nice Black Labels and some crappy pool play discussing his travels and much more.

 I’m reading a book right now called Dark Star Safari by an American travel writer named Paul Theroux.  Essentially Theroux documents his entire overland trip through Africa from Cairo to Cape Town. Needless to say I’ve quickly developed quite an affinity for his work. He travels by hitchhiking, hopping on buses or mini-buses, trains, and ferries, the hard way, through ten countries.  A true inspiration for me considering I’m planning a similar trip myself. Charlie and I both discussed Theroux’s work, as well as our feelings on current efforts of international development, and the work of NGO’s/aid agencies alike.

Charlie and Theroux have both become extremely cynical of the world in which we live. One thing Charlie said last night that stuck with me was this, “I’m done trying to save Africa. So condescending. Instead I will let Africa save me!” As a sustainable development major it has become quite clear what lies at the heart of so many of our world’s most pressing issues regarding poverty and conflict. At least from what I can ascertain, it is the neoliberal policies of the current global economy that all too often serve to benefit the needs of the global North while simultaneously looting the developing world of its various forms of capital. And yes, obviously it’s all much more complicated than this fact alone. But what is less obvious is the fact that western society seems to think they have so much to teach people in the developing world, when in fact it is the very people we think we’re saving that have much to teach us. Obviously, I still believe that there is great good that can come from social movements like Invisible Children/Kony 2012. I mean look at the dialogue it has fostered in the last few weeks. That is a definite start. However, there needs to be a greater level of understanding of the intricacies of our world. Far too many of us don’t realize the intimate connection and role we all play in creating conflict and maintaining poverty around the world. I would be hypocritical to act like I’m not a part of it myself. I too am a product of a consumerist society. However, we all have room for change. Civil society has and can continue to create positive change. At my age I feel like I’m in the peak of my idealism, and as such felt obligated to encourage hope for change when talking with Charlie. Two of the best lines I’ve read in Dark Star Safari are actually quotes from people Theroux met along the way through Africa. The first: “Traveling makes one modest- you see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.” The second (spoken by a man Theroux met in Sudan): “The criterion is how you treat the weak . . . the measure of civilized behavior is compassion.” Who knows. Maybe in the world we live in, as beautiful, amazing, and screwed up as it is, that’s the real answer. Not governments, international bodies, religious dogma, false promises, failed policies, or demigods. Just each other. Person to person. One interaction at a time. Kindness.

I’m seriously considering becoming a teacher. Maybe a writer too. Maybe even a travel writer.

To end this post, a happy story. A tale of triumph perhaps.

So Steve and I go to this place Mzoli’s in Guguletu last Sunday, a township like 20 minutes from Rondebosch. Mzoli’s is an extremely famous meat market and every Sunday they have a huge daytime braai. Tons of my friends at UCT have gone and have told me that I have to go. People swarm upon this place for one reason . . . THE MEAT!

We get there and our cab driver informs us that today is the busiest he has ever seen it. Thousands of people all over the streets. Somehow we find the line to order the meat, which isn’t as much a line as it is a massive blob of people standing in the streets slowly making their way to the one door-way leading into the butchery. After an hour and a half of slowly inching forward, inch by excruciating inch, I get to the steps leading to the single doorway into the shop. At this point I’m completely cramped and surrounded by babbling, unruly Afrikaans speaking Guguletuens, and a couple brave Columbians. Everyone starts pushing their way to the tiny doorway about to explode at the hinges and after a seemingly never-ending wait deep inside what has been the most ridiculous mob I’ve ever been a part of I make it inside and fill my order. A massive 200 Rand platter of meat. Beef, lamb, chicken, boerewors. I’m drooling at this point. All over the place. It’s embarrassing. I take the towering platter back to the grill where surely it will be swiftly prepared. I was very, very wrong. 

HUNDREDS of platters and buckets of meat sit in front of mine and Steve’s meal. The most devastating thing I could hear at that moment, “Come back in three hours. Then it should be ready.” Oh dear god no. My head drops, I turn and walk my ass right back out the way I came. When I finally find Steve, who’s anxiously been awaiting my return, I give him the news. He completely breaks down, disturbingly falling into a state of panic. I somehow calm him down. 

We begin roaming the streets, meeting locals, and having a couple a nice little sodas. Three hours later and one mind-blowing conversation with the self-proclaimed king of Guguletu (says his father is a political science professor at Harvard and tells me and Steve “As far as the eye can see, this is my playground!), finally I think our meal might be ready. So we march our way through the crowd back to the butchery, push our way deep inside, find the cook, and hand him our receipt. There it is. A steaming, juicy, elegant pile of animal flesh. Arguably the most exhilarating moment of my entire time out here in Cape Town!

Thanks for reading everyone!

Peace, Love, and Music!