Today, I'm coming home. I will arrive tomorrow at JFK airport, the same place I began this journey, almost eight months later.
I caught a one way flight and moved to Kenya for six months. I slept in the bush next to elephants and rode on the back of a motorbike across the cradle of humankind. I feared for my life in a dodgy Mombasa hostel, and taught school children Math and Science. I worked and lived amidst the street kids of Kibera, and watched my orphan toddlers grow up. I traveled to Rwanda during the genocide anniversary, and saw the churches where thousands were murdered. I went white water rafting down the mighty Nile past Ghandi's ashes, and turned 25 in a cottage in the Ngong Hills. I moved in with a popular artist, then moved to Cape Town, South Africa. I swam with Great White sharks, I climbed mountains, I got a job as a waitress in a cafe bar. And then...it was time to come home.
"...I speak to you because I cannot help it. It gives me strength, almost unbelievable strength to know that you are there. I covet your eyes, your ears, the collapsible space between us...all the while I will know that you are there. How blessed are we to have each other?"
--Valentino Achak Deng, What is the What
Maybe I inspired you, maybe I entertained you, or maybe I taught you something not about me, but about yourselves. Either way, I thank you for being there with me. And I hope next time you're faced with a decision, you might just think again, and decide you're not afraid to jump.
September 8, 2009
September 1, 2009
"Black Taxis"
"So do you know how I get to the beach from here?" I ask the tall woman behind the counter. "Taxis are quite rare, you need your own transportation," she tells me. "Well what about the shared minibus taxis?" I've seen them frequently since my arrival. "Oh..." she pauses, caught off-guard then lowers her voice, "...well, you could take the black taxis...but I wouldn't recommend it." As she feigns a look of pity, I tell her that would be perfectly fine to me, and walk out the door.
South Africans still refer to each other as Blacks, Whites, and Coloureds, and are satisfied with judging each other in this respect. The reminents of apartheid are uncomfortably blatant, and I find it disheartening to be put in such an ostentatious category. White South Africans I've met find it confusing that I'm dying to head into the townships, but to be honest, I feel much more comfortable amidst those surroundings. I haven't heard hardly as many overtly racist remarks from black South Africans as I have from the whites, though I'm sure I'd rather not know what they are thinking. There's a place I like to go in Cape Town. It's a walk-way near the train station void of all white people. There are cheap boxes selling food, vendors hawking anything and everything, and a few benches. I like it because it reminds me of Kenya. At the moment I'm sitting next to a woman smelling of sweat and obnoxious floral perfume, which blends with the odor of garbage and greasy food. I'm reading a book about Zimbabwe and am not in the least bit surprised with how comfortable I feel. I've come to love my moments of being alone.
Last night I shared a dorm room with seven male tour guides from Zimbabwe and Kenya respectively. Though nothing should surprise me anymore, some things still cause me to take a step back and laugh at my circumstances. One morning at my restaurant my dorm mate Ed came in, and out of breath proclaimed, "Jen, I just got out of prison! I was arrested last night for not having my passport on me..." I love my friends. The other week I rented a car with two English mates, and drove around the coast to see penguins, surf and beaches, and picked up a hitchhiker along the way. I went out last weekend and managed to lose just one shoe. I hiked to the top of Table Mountain in one hour and ten minutes, then wanted to roll all the way down due to exhaustion. Life is a funny thing sometimes.
Stories. We all have them. The more living we do the more interesting they become, and the more your eyes carry hints of secrets. All you have to do is ask, and the quiet brown-haired boy with a surf board becomes a British Marine, and the blond girl with glasses next to you in the raft is working with refugees in the mutiny that is Sudan. And today, I'm the girl that would rather take the black taxis...
South Africans still refer to each other as Blacks, Whites, and Coloureds, and are satisfied with judging each other in this respect. The reminents of apartheid are uncomfortably blatant, and I find it disheartening to be put in such an ostentatious category. White South Africans I've met find it confusing that I'm dying to head into the townships, but to be honest, I feel much more comfortable amidst those surroundings. I haven't heard hardly as many overtly racist remarks from black South Africans as I have from the whites, though I'm sure I'd rather not know what they are thinking. There's a place I like to go in Cape Town. It's a walk-way near the train station void of all white people. There are cheap boxes selling food, vendors hawking anything and everything, and a few benches. I like it because it reminds me of Kenya. At the moment I'm sitting next to a woman smelling of sweat and obnoxious floral perfume, which blends with the odor of garbage and greasy food. I'm reading a book about Zimbabwe and am not in the least bit surprised with how comfortable I feel. I've come to love my moments of being alone.
Last night I shared a dorm room with seven male tour guides from Zimbabwe and Kenya respectively. Though nothing should surprise me anymore, some things still cause me to take a step back and laugh at my circumstances. One morning at my restaurant my dorm mate Ed came in, and out of breath proclaimed, "Jen, I just got out of prison! I was arrested last night for not having my passport on me..." I love my friends. The other week I rented a car with two English mates, and drove around the coast to see penguins, surf and beaches, and picked up a hitchhiker along the way. I went out last weekend and managed to lose just one shoe. I hiked to the top of Table Mountain in one hour and ten minutes, then wanted to roll all the way down due to exhaustion. Life is a funny thing sometimes.
Stories. We all have them. The more living we do the more interesting they become, and the more your eyes carry hints of secrets. All you have to do is ask, and the quiet brown-haired boy with a surf board becomes a British Marine, and the blond girl with glasses next to you in the raft is working with refugees in the mutiny that is Sudan. And today, I'm the girl that would rather take the black taxis...
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