It’s been brought to my attention that I don’t write as much as I used to. I’ll admit it’s unacceptable, but life so quickly becomes normal even in Africa.
For example, over the weekend we went to a comedy show starring Trevor Noah. During our orientation they played a video of his stand-up and we watched it in silence as the RAs laughed their asses off behind us at jokes which mainly pertained to race relations and political problems in South Africa, which at the time we didn’t understand yet. Seeing him at Baxter Theatre this weekend and being able to laugh at 95% of his jokes made me realize in an instant how much we’ve learned since coming here. To understand intimately the people of this country and their history makes me proud of the time I’ve spent here.
I’m equally proud of my recent success at La Fiesta Restaurant. Spencer and I have developed a habit of dropping into this little joke of a Mexican restaurant for one reason only: to solve the word scramble and win a free margarita. We take a 25 minute walk to observatory, carefully trying to avoid the muffin factory store on the way in order to arrive at the site of said free delicious drink. Each day the manager writes the letters to an obscure word between 9 and 14 letters long on a chalk board with the explicit promise that he will grant anyone who can unscramble the word one cold one on the house. The first day it took us around 30 minutes to unscramble “compromising.” I’m happy to report that on day 2, it was only a matter of 10 minutes before I blurted out “nymphomania” and established a victory streak. Given the trend of the learning curve, I expect the manager will have the drink made and waiting to pass to us as we walk by and shout out the word. Fun stuff!
Just as I was beginning to feel like I’d be living here forever, a letter arrived at 123 Ember Lane that grabbed my ankle and pulled me back to reality. My final acceptance letter to Tulane SOM I’d been waiting on for almost 2 years had made its way into our mailbox and I was beyond excited to submit my intent from Africa. Over the past couple years I’ve had time to think through the consequences, both good and bad, that will come of my decision to become a doctor. While I have concerns and apprehensions about finding a balance between work and family, I submitted my intention to attend without hesitation because I know this is a career that will fulfil me and give my children great lives like the one I have.
I’m amazed how quickly time has rushed by—I can feel the wind in my hair as I barrel forward into the next adventure of 4 years where each day I will wake up and learn something that I can use to help improve the quality of people’s lives. I feel unbelievably lucky to have been given this opportunity and turn my gaze to the next chapter of the book, which is bound to be the best yet.
Love from La Fiesta,
A
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
Not all who wander are lost...
I have been across the universe and back in 3 days. It started out as an idea- a seed. Spencer and I were pondering how we would make it to Darling, South Africa for a weekend long music festival titled “Rocking the Daisies.” There was a package deal which offered transport, a tent and tickets- the three T’s you absolutely had to have to enjoy the weekend. Because we love a good adventure, and were interested in saving a few Rand, we opted out of the package and tried to locate the three T’s on our own. The tent and sleeping bag part was easy- we rented those from a kind UCT hippie who runs the UCT Mountain and Ski Club. Tickets were available for purchase online so we scooped up a couple no sweat—and even got free t-shirts as part of the deal. Now all we needed was to figure out how to get there—the final item to join the T party.
We rose Saturday morning feeling unsure of ourselves, but gave a front of confidence to one another. First stop: Cape Town, which was only a R7 ride away by mini-bus taxi. Once we arrived at the station, our path became less clear. There was the option to take kumvees all the way in via Atlantis, or we could ride a bus coming at 1:20 pm (a couple hours later) to Mamry or Mamesbury and connect to Darling from there. We opted to wait for the bus as the locals we talked to seemed to recommend that route more highly. We found an Indian food bazaar and split some lekker chicken curry and nut-flavoured ice cream while we waited for our chariot to depart. We were glad to finally board the train, and embark to a destination unknown. Some amount of time later, a young man approached us and told us he would walk us to the kumvee depot in Mamry and make sure we got to Darling alright. I was immediately defensive because we hadn’t spoken to this young man and he somehow knew where we were going. We stepped off the bus into a tiny remote town where everyone seemed to know everyone—and they certainly didn’t know us. The young man walked us through a dusty open yard surrounded by barbed wire and around to the depot. When I reached into my purse and tried to hand him a 5 rand for helping us, he looked at me like I was crazy. He really had just wanted to help us.
We sat in the Darling Kumvee for what felt like a lifetime. It was 30 minutes, but I get very antsy. When we’d finally loaded the van and driven off I was finally sure we’d made it to the festival. I was wrong. We were dropped off in the middle of Darling and hadn’t the slightest clue where to go next. We rolled into the Police Station and asked if we could walk to Kloof Wine Estates, where the concert was being held, and found out we were still 13 kilometres away. I also encountered a woman covered in own splattered blood casually hanging out in the waiting room of the station—guess that’s how they do it in Darling. Out of nowhere another guy approaches who indicates that he’s also trying to get to the concert. We flag down a minibus and after a few minutes of literal begging convince someone to take us the rest of the way.
Rolling hills dotted with cars and tents and people stretched out in front of us and we knew we’d made it against all odds 7 hours later. No worse for wear, we pitched our tent with the skill of a former Boy and Girl Scout and headed past thousands of college co-eds lounging in the sun outside their tents. Massive electric daisies spun in the sky as techno lights flashed in our eyes. Ravers, hippies, parents, students all danced to the music bumping out of speakers on multiple stages. We encountered an area we dubbed The Techno Nipple, which was a massive inflatable space where dub-step played 24 hours a day and people gowned in neon were moving and shaking for hours on end. I think this was the 2010 version of Woodstock.
Sunday brought a cold-snap and shocked many partying people back to reality. The tent handing out free energy drinks 24 hours a day had been taken down, and it was clear that the party was about to be over. As we were leaving I ran to the bathroom once more and accidentally peed all over my sweatpants while trying to avoid the most infested looking port-o-potty in the world—classic and typical. This time we opted to take the bus, which we managed to sneak on to as it was leaving at 3 PM on Sunday. I managed to remove the offending sweats before we loaded up. You’re welcome, bus.
Back in Rondebosch, I was happy to pop in a movie and relax with my best bud. Coming up on finals and the end of the semester, I know my weekends are numbered so I’m glad to live each one to the fullest. Consider the daisies rocked.
Love from your girl with nomadic tendencies,
A
We rose Saturday morning feeling unsure of ourselves, but gave a front of confidence to one another. First stop: Cape Town, which was only a R7 ride away by mini-bus taxi. Once we arrived at the station, our path became less clear. There was the option to take kumvees all the way in via Atlantis, or we could ride a bus coming at 1:20 pm (a couple hours later) to Mamry or Mamesbury and connect to Darling from there. We opted to wait for the bus as the locals we talked to seemed to recommend that route more highly. We found an Indian food bazaar and split some lekker chicken curry and nut-flavoured ice cream while we waited for our chariot to depart. We were glad to finally board the train, and embark to a destination unknown. Some amount of time later, a young man approached us and told us he would walk us to the kumvee depot in Mamry and make sure we got to Darling alright. I was immediately defensive because we hadn’t spoken to this young man and he somehow knew where we were going. We stepped off the bus into a tiny remote town where everyone seemed to know everyone—and they certainly didn’t know us. The young man walked us through a dusty open yard surrounded by barbed wire and around to the depot. When I reached into my purse and tried to hand him a 5 rand for helping us, he looked at me like I was crazy. He really had just wanted to help us.
We sat in the Darling Kumvee for what felt like a lifetime. It was 30 minutes, but I get very antsy. When we’d finally loaded the van and driven off I was finally sure we’d made it to the festival. I was wrong. We were dropped off in the middle of Darling and hadn’t the slightest clue where to go next. We rolled into the Police Station and asked if we could walk to Kloof Wine Estates, where the concert was being held, and found out we were still 13 kilometres away. I also encountered a woman covered in own splattered blood casually hanging out in the waiting room of the station—guess that’s how they do it in Darling. Out of nowhere another guy approaches who indicates that he’s also trying to get to the concert. We flag down a minibus and after a few minutes of literal begging convince someone to take us the rest of the way.
Rolling hills dotted with cars and tents and people stretched out in front of us and we knew we’d made it against all odds 7 hours later. No worse for wear, we pitched our tent with the skill of a former Boy and Girl Scout and headed past thousands of college co-eds lounging in the sun outside their tents. Massive electric daisies spun in the sky as techno lights flashed in our eyes. Ravers, hippies, parents, students all danced to the music bumping out of speakers on multiple stages. We encountered an area we dubbed The Techno Nipple, which was a massive inflatable space where dub-step played 24 hours a day and people gowned in neon were moving and shaking for hours on end. I think this was the 2010 version of Woodstock.
Sunday brought a cold-snap and shocked many partying people back to reality. The tent handing out free energy drinks 24 hours a day had been taken down, and it was clear that the party was about to be over. As we were leaving I ran to the bathroom once more and accidentally peed all over my sweatpants while trying to avoid the most infested looking port-o-potty in the world—classic and typical. This time we opted to take the bus, which we managed to sneak on to as it was leaving at 3 PM on Sunday. I managed to remove the offending sweats before we loaded up. You’re welcome, bus.
Back in Rondebosch, I was happy to pop in a movie and relax with my best bud. Coming up on finals and the end of the semester, I know my weekends are numbered so I’m glad to live each one to the fullest. Consider the daisies rocked.
Love from your girl with nomadic tendencies,
A
Monday, October 4, 2010
Gaining Independence
What a weekend! Saturday, I found myself at a concert in a township called Langa. There was some serious talent there. The first woman to sing sashayed out in a floor length gown that looked as though it'd been constructed out of a blue painter's tarp. Peeking out from under the hem of her dress was lime green tulle and her head was shaved except for a braided strip down the center of her skull, detaching from her at the nape of her neck and descending to the middle of her back in a thick dredlock decorated with beads and string. Her voice was exceptional and her style impossible to mimick.
We stayed at the concert for a few hours hearing different acts in all different styles and watching in awe and amusement as the 50 person crowd stood up and sang along to the xhosa and zulu songs they knew by heart. When the sun began to set, we figured we better get the hell out of Langa. One of the acts began to chat Spencer and I up outside the concert venue and suggested we get on the Langa city bus. He apparently has some connections and talked to the driver for a minute after which the driver waved us in. We hopped in and I became pretty uncomfortable. Two white kids, 50 or so Africans- we also realized the bus was going to Cape Town instead of Rondebosch. I made Spencer get off the bus with me and our new friend arranged for a second mode of transport: a stranger's beat up car to the kumvee depot. I performed the sign of the cross on myself and slid into the backseat of the world's oldest car driven by the world's smelliest and kindest man. He delivered us to the bus depot without a question and we made it back to Rondebosch safe and sound.
Sunday I rose early and got an amazing morning coffee with Spence at the WahWah. We travelled into the city for a day at the aquarium and the craft market- a different kind of exciting from the day before. My favorite part was the "mermaid purses"- cases that sharks lay their eggs in... so cool.
Today I felt very independent as I took the Jammie shuttle to the Hiddingh campus to do research at the National South African Library for a paper I'm writing on contemporary religious and popular reactions to the first heart transplant (which consequently took place right here in South Africa). Oh, how I took online catalogues for granted in the United States. I spent the better chunk of my time scrolling through micro copies of newspapers from 1967 looking for anything to do with the transplant. I encountered moderate success but called it a day after a few hours because I'm simply not mentally strong enough to do work for longer than that at this point... I'd better get my ass in gear for medical school.
6 weeks and counting until I return whence I came. How very strange, indeed.
Love from Langa Bongos,
A
We stayed at the concert for a few hours hearing different acts in all different styles and watching in awe and amusement as the 50 person crowd stood up and sang along to the xhosa and zulu songs they knew by heart. When the sun began to set, we figured we better get the hell out of Langa. One of the acts began to chat Spencer and I up outside the concert venue and suggested we get on the Langa city bus. He apparently has some connections and talked to the driver for a minute after which the driver waved us in. We hopped in and I became pretty uncomfortable. Two white kids, 50 or so Africans- we also realized the bus was going to Cape Town instead of Rondebosch. I made Spencer get off the bus with me and our new friend arranged for a second mode of transport: a stranger's beat up car to the kumvee depot. I performed the sign of the cross on myself and slid into the backseat of the world's oldest car driven by the world's smelliest and kindest man. He delivered us to the bus depot without a question and we made it back to Rondebosch safe and sound.
Sunday I rose early and got an amazing morning coffee with Spence at the WahWah. We travelled into the city for a day at the aquarium and the craft market- a different kind of exciting from the day before. My favorite part was the "mermaid purses"- cases that sharks lay their eggs in... so cool.
Today I felt very independent as I took the Jammie shuttle to the Hiddingh campus to do research at the National South African Library for a paper I'm writing on contemporary religious and popular reactions to the first heart transplant (which consequently took place right here in South Africa). Oh, how I took online catalogues for granted in the United States. I spent the better chunk of my time scrolling through micro copies of newspapers from 1967 looking for anything to do with the transplant. I encountered moderate success but called it a day after a few hours because I'm simply not mentally strong enough to do work for longer than that at this point... I'd better get my ass in gear for medical school.
6 weeks and counting until I return whence I came. How very strange, indeed.
Love from Langa Bongos,
A
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