Hostel Living

I have been staying in a hostel in downtown Cape Town since my arrival.  It’s called the Penthouse on Long st. and I am staying in a room with 15 other people.  It’s actually a great situation because I meet new people so easily.  People here are mostly Australian or English.  I don’t know if you are all aware of this, but our American accent is so boring.  Sometimes I totally zone out the content of what my new friends are saying just to devote my full attention to their accents and how amazing they are.  I don’t think they notice because I am pretty good at looking like I am paying attention; it must be my extensive training in therapy.  It seems like people are visiting Cape Town / Africa for one of three reasons:

 

1. To save Africa – Because Africa is helpless and can certainly be saved, especially by foreigners.
2. To “Do” Africa – Because Africa is cool and cool places must be visited at a neurotic pace, like a hot dog eating contest.  If I don’t cage swim with sharks, climb table mountain, bungee jump, see African penguins, and take a winery tour in these two days I have in Cape Town, I am going to be miserable the rest of my life!
3. To study in Africa – Because maybe I can get college credit, while doing a little number 1 and a lot of number 2.

 

I’d like to think that I am not squarely in any of these categories.  Rather than “doing” Africa, I’d like Africa to “do” me.  I am trying to think of a joke to attach to this sexual reference, but I think I’ll just leave that one up to your creative imaginations.  I’m just trying to breathe in Africa, see what it smells like, and let Her move me.  So far, I have been moved to attend to my logistical concerns: set up a bank account, figure out how to transfer money cost effectively, figure out which car I am going to buy (more on that soon), and try not to get dead.  All of these things have been going very well.  However, I have been losing the battle against jet-lag.  Actually, I haven’t just been losing, I have been getting owned.  Until 2 nights ago, I haven’t been able to sleep for longer than 3.5 hours at a time.  Two nights ago, I slept for 13 hours.  Last night, I slept 0 hours.  I feel like I am wrestling Hulk Hogan (in his prime).  Naturally, I would be inclined to give him the old-fashioned eye poke followed by a flying elbow drop off the top rope.  Instead, I find myself in a headlock, pressed up against Hulk’s sweaty man breast.  It’s not a good situation.