It's go time.

Howdy folks,

I wish that I could have sent more blogs in the past few weeks, but I have either been in places where mentioning the word internet doesn't register in anyone's vocabulary, or I have been quite busy getting my spiritual thang on. In the past few weeks I have: found my teacher to train me in the xhosa tradition (mpondo tribe) to become a sangoma, met amazing people who have been an instrumental part of me finding my teacher, visited multiple sangomas from different traditions, found my homiest home, which is in Swaziland fyi, saw 4 out of the big 5, visited muti markets in Joburg (there is not a more hectic place in the world than these markets), and did my process work training (super awesome). My training will be really intense and I won't be able to use the internet for the whole time most likely. The training will be in the Transkei in a rural mpondo village. There is no electricity, plumbing, or McDonalds (NOOOOOO!!!). The place is amazing, my teacher is amazing, and I will be there anywhere from 6 months to a couple of years. I'm not really sure how long it will take, but let's hope I learn quickly. I will be in a very safe place doing exactly what my heart wants to do. I wouldn't rather be doing anything else in the world. I love it. I will keep you updated when I can. Thank you all for your prayers and kind thoughts.

Sweetness

Life is sooo good.  I can hardly believe it.  South Africa is AMAZING.  I love it.  Cape Town is AMAZING.  I have climbed Signal Hill, the Lion’s Head, and Table Mountain.  Each one of these climbs began with me just opening my door from the hostel and then walking to the mountain.  No cars, no trains, no cable cars, no nothing.  Each walk has a beautiful story with meaningful experiences.  Some stories have no words.

 

I have now met quite a few South Africans and many of them have invited me to various meals, events, and other social situations.  The hospitality here is something that even southerners don’t know about.  I have spent the last 5 days with Niall Campbell, a Sangoma from Botswana who currently lives in Cape Town.  The experience has been unbelievable.  For some strange reason, his schedule magically opened up and I was able to spend almost all day with him every day.  He is an amazing man with such incredible stories, wisdom, and love.  Conversations with him have strongly challenged my perspectives on life.  I thought my way of looking at things couldn’t get much weirder, but it appears my weirdness knows no bounds.  How can African traditions be so different from the native traditions in North America that I know?  I thought I could approach the African traditions in a similar manner as I have those in North America.  Wrong.  Not only is it different, but sometimes it is antithetical to what I have previously learned.  Well, maybe this Niall guy doesn’t really know what he is talking about.  But, then why do so many people around here seem to agree with him, including me?  Why does this part of me light up inside when I hear him talk about things that I normally disagree with?  Damn.  I hate it when my ignorance introduces itself to other people without my permission.  I am sinking deeply into the unknown.  In this place, fear is the gateway to understanding.

 

Did you know that people are happier over here?  It’s true.  I’ll tell you how I know.  When you smile at someone, it is the most natural thing in the world to have him or her smile back.  Sometimes, people don’t smile back.  There are many possible reasons why: I don’t know you, I’m busy, I don’t feel like it, I didn’t notice, smiling causes an expedited wrinkling of the face, I don’t have nice teeth, I might send the wrong impression, I smiled last week…   No matter what the reason, I generally believe the person’s happiness in that moment is not very strong.  In the United States, I have smiled at quite a few people.  I’m creepy like that.  And, I have had many mutually smiley experiences.  However, in Africa, not only has the percentage been much higher, but the quality is different as well.  On some occasions, when I smile at someone, he or she will look back and smile so big that I feel their heart hugging mine.  In that moment, everything disappears and only love exists.  It is an amazing experience and it happens daily in South Africa- at the bookstore, in the parking lot, on the street, in the hostel, from a security guard, to the parking attendant, to the homeless person.  And I must say, it has been happening more frequently with black people.  That is scary to say.  Is that racist?

 

I have been thinking a lot about fear and danger recently, especially in application to the above experiences.  It is way more dangerous in South Africa than in the U.S.  There is no doubt about it.  It is dangerous to go outside at night, even for the locals.  It is dangerous to walk many places alone in the daytime.  And, there are many places where you just don’t go, ever.  This goes for almost everywhere in South Africa.  Generally, the U.S is just much safer.  To quote Niall, “Even Lucifer prays before he comes to Africa.  He reminds God that he once was an angel.”  So why are these people so damn happy?  Shouldn’t they just be scared all the time?  I think it has a lot to do with people’s relationship with fear.  In the U.S, we have so much investment in fear.  We must be safe at all costs, we must insure EVERYTHING, we must have a back up plan for our back up plan, we must never get ourselves into a situation where we feel afraid.  We are afraid of fear.  Don’t they say that the greatest trick the devil ever played was to convince the world he did not exist?  And so it is.  How much of my daily life is devoted to avoid fear or prevent loss?  I will focus on anything that will prevent me from feeling afraid- TV, my job, hobbies, exercise, reading, writing…  If life is not lived in a way that creates true fulfillment, then you are avoiding loss.  “But I have responsibilities, I have bills to pay and kids to feed.”  “Hmmm.  Maybe you’re right.  Maybe your responsibilities are more important than you…Maybe not.”

 

Consider an alternative.  In South Africa, people know that they are taking a risk every time they walk out the door.  They can be mugged, beaten up, raped, shot… whatever Fate has on the dance card.  This is a very real possibility.  One of my tourist friends was mugged, another had a knife pulled her, a friend of a friend got shot in the face last week.  This was all in Cape Town, which is one of the safer big cities in South Africa.  Even with all of the possibility of danger, people look fear in the face and continue to live their lives.  There is an amazing acceptance of fear and death.  People die.  I’m going to die.  You wanna have lunch?  There is a tremendous amount of freedom when accepting one’s own mortality.  I am taught every day how to do this by different people who live here.  There is something so primal about being here that it reminds me about the essence of life.  Facing fear and death reminds me of what is really important in life.  By facing fear, it loses its power and there is true freedom.  This freedom can make you smile so wide that you remember what life is and show it to the world.

Guardian Angels

I am hesitant to write about this story because I don’t want my mom to freak out, but I suppose that I will write about it anyways.

 

I decided to go to a festival the other day that was about 100km away from Cape Town.  I made arrangements with the same guy that I am trying to buy a car from to fetch me (South African lingo) at 2:00pm.  At 2:30, he was not there, so I texted him to ask where he was.  No response.  I then called him at 3:00.  No answer.  I decided to take the train instead, which takes 1.5 hours to a place called Paarl, which is allegedly 15 km away from my final destination, at which time I would take a taxi the remainder of the way.  Sounds pretty good right?  Well, here’s what happened…

 

First of all, the train is sketchy and it is flat out dangerous after dark.  I left at 5:00pm, which would allow me to get to my final destination by 7:00, which is when it gets dark.  So, I hopped on the train with my enormous backpack (I have my tent, all my clothes…) and I was the only white person.  I am basically announcing to everyone that I am a tourist, I’m alone, and I may not know where I’m going.  I decided to talk with the people next to me about the world cup that will be held in South Africa because I really wanted to know what they think about it and I thought they could help me if anything went wrong.  Maybe if other people saw that I was talking with the locals, they wouldn’t hassle me.

 

About an hour into the ride, and after talking with probably 8 different people about their opinions about the World Cup, I started talking with people about my plans to take a taxi from Paarl to Worcester (my final destination).  They explained that taxis don’t operate after 6pm outside of Cape Town.  At this realization, the people with whom I had been talking became very worried and they began talking with each other quickly in their native tongues.  I wasn’t quite sure what all of the fuss was about.  I could just figure it out when I get there.  WRONG.  The woman across from me explained, “Whatever you do, don’t leave the station when you arrive in Paarl until you have made your plans.  There are security guards there.   It is a very dangerous place.”  Another person on the train suggested that I walk immediately to the police station to wait there.  At this point, most of the people on the train were talking frantically on their cell phones, checking numbers and advising me on different options.  I decided that I would either stay overnight in Paarl in a hotel that was nearby the station or use transport from a friend of a guy on the train, who was happily charging an amazing amount of money.  During all the commotion, I called my contact at the event in Worcester to ask if she might be willing to pick me up.  We have been emailing for a long time and she has been quite helpful in helping me plan my trip.  When I told her where I was, she sounded surprised and explained that it was a long ways away from Worcester.  I told her that it was only 15 km away according to google maps.  She didn’t really respond to this assertion, but said that she would look into acquiring a car to pick me up.

 

At this point people on the train have spread the news and there are approximately 30 people who are now offering their opinion about what I need to do.  Everyone in the car knows that I am from the U.S, have an enormous bag worth a lot of money, and might be stranded.  Then I hear a really loud noise when the train tries to start again from one of the stations. The train nudges forward and then abruptly stops.  At this point people start talking about whether or not the train is broken, which apparently happens quite often because people steal various cables underneath the train while it stops at the stations.  10 mintues go by, no movement.  20 minutes go by, no movement.  30 minutes go by, nothing.  Then a load of people get out of the train and go into the station.  I ask the people nearby what is going on and they explain that the train is broken and that it can not be fixed.  They will be calling buses to pick us all up from the station.  I am now 20 minutes from Paarl in a place that has no hotels, no taxis, and no police stations anywhere near that I could go to.  Instead, I am in a train station with 200 passengers who are incredibly poor, overworked, hungry, and pissed.  I am still the only white person.  I am carrying valuable things: cell phone, atm card, money, tent, clothes, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, glasses…  People are robbed for the shoes on their feet in South Africa.

 

At this point, before getting off the train, there are three colored women (a term that South Africans use to describe people who are not only solely or white, but of mixed race) that have emerged as the main people who are concerned with my well-being.  One of them said, “Stay close to us, we’ll protect you.  If anyone starts bothering you I’ll just tell them that you are my boyfriend.”  I received a call from Ashleigh, the contact in Worcester, and she agreed to come pick me up.  Praise Jesus! However, the women that I was with decided that it would be best for her to pick me up in Paarl 2 stations away because it is dangerous and very complicated to drive to the station we were at without knowing the way.  My new friends called their friends and arranged a ride to come pick all of us up from the station we were at and take us to Paarl to drop me off.

 

At this point, people were informed that buses were being deployed to the station to take everyone to the remaining stations.  200 people are packed inside the station, nudging to get to the front.  The women told me explicitly that I was with to stay extremely close and not flash anything valuable.  45 minutes went by, still no ride and no buses.  People in the buses started getting agitated and a few folks started yelling.  Then I heard a crash and more yelling.  People smashed the door to the station and others were breaking random tables and chairs.  I was already fearful and this was not helping.  To my relief, a bus pulled up.  At the site of it, a stampede ensued, as people flooded out the door to the bus.  There was probably only room for about 70 people on the bus out of the 200.  Not good.  People who were on the bus started pulling their friends from the outside up and into the bus through the windows.  People then started smashing the windows on the bus to make it easier for their friends to get in.  At this point the bus was entirely full and the bus driver was telling people that no more people could fit.  This did not go over very well.  Two guys proceeded to crush the door by slamming into it multiple times and then managed to break it off its hinges.  With the door broken, the bus could not go anywhere.  Now people were even more enraged.  While people continued damaging the bus, I was busy trying to make myself disappear.  It didn’t work.  A few minutes later, another bus arrived.  Can you guess what happened?  The exact same thing.  Only this time, the bus driver had a tazer and was shocking people who got unruly, which was everyone.  Again people smashed the windows, broke the door and shattered the windshield.  No one was going anywhere.  All I could do was watch, pretend like I wasn’t urinating on my inner thigh, and make incomprehensible conversation with the people I was with.  One of the women asked me, “How are you feeling?  You seem really calm.”  I told her I was freaking out on the inside, but I didn’t want anyone to see that part.  She said that was a good idea.

With no more buses to destroy, a new target was needed.  The banter among the people around me increased and I was wondering what they were talking about.  I asked my new friends and they said that they were talking about me.  OH SHIT.  My internal organs simultaneously fell to the floor of my body.  At that very moment, one of the women I was with exclaimed that she saw our ride pull into the station.  We all half walked and half jogged to the car, threw ourselves in, and peeled out of there.  I was safe.

 

These three women saved me.  I am so grateful to them.  We talked about what I should refer to them as when I write about them and we agreed that they should be called the three guardian angels.  And so they are.

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.

Wittle Stowies

Did you know that when there is a car crash in Dubai that leaves blood on the street, they will block off the section until the street is fully washed to prevent cars from driving over the spilt blood?  I was informed of this by a cab driver, who justified these protocols by saying, “It’s because we are human here.”   I wasn’t quite sure how to take that comment.  Was it the result or his poor English, a comment about how other people are less “human,” or something else?  I still tipped.

 

While waiting at the airport in Dubai, I engaged in conversation with this man who was from Baghdad.  I don’t think I have ever spoken with anyone from Baghdad before.  He was so nice to me.  For some reason this was surprising.  Wouldn’t he hold at least some resentment towards my country and perhaps me by extension?  I couldn’t detect either one.  Not only did we talk for about 1 hour, but a few minutes after I left our conversation, I was walking towards my departure gate and I hear someone yell my name behind me.  I see him running down the crowded terminal holding my cell phone in his hand.  “You might need this” he said.  All I could do was touch my heart in gratitude and smile.  He understood.

 

When I was about to arrive in Cape Town, I was talking with a local and inquired about buying a car.  He explained, “Just don’t buy a car from a black guy.”  This comment just made me stop.  I was speechless, a phenomenon that occurs at about the same frequency as I change residences.  Finally, a real, live racist Afrikaaner.  I have found the type of person where if all people of this variety were just removed from society, things would function a lot more peacefully.  The cities would be safer, black people would like white people, white people would like black people…you know, peace.   So, like a good white person, I decided to intervene.  Minorities can’t be the only people standing up for their rights, reminding the majority of their rank and privileges.  It’s a responsibility, a civic duty.  I could talk about that topic for a long time.  So, to ease my way back into the conversation I asked, “Have you had bad experiences with that?”  He replied, “Well, you see my wife is black and she would never buy a car from a black guy.”  WHAT???  Did I hear him correctly?  I feel like I just got splashed with ice cold Reality Check Gatorade as I see my quarterback fumble the snap with one second remaining.  How do you explain that?  My natural tendency towards dilettantism and verbosity would like to attempt to tackle this monster, but this one just ran me over.  I have a lot to learn.  

Paradox

So, this is my first official blog.  Ever.  Actually, I don’t think I have written something down for purposes other than recording information or attemping to look smart for an academic or vocational pursuit since High School.  To be honest, I wasn’t really sure how often I would want to spend any time on my computer writing while I am in South Africa.  Today however, I find myself awoken at 5:55am by a tune entiteled “entertainer,” courtesy of my new phone that decided to tout its digital song for reasons that transcend my logical mind.  “Why didn’t you go off yesterday when I needed you, you Blackberry imposter I acquired from Craigslist?  Why have you decided to cockadoodle in a room of 15 backpackers without my consent?  Aren’t you considered to be a SMART phone?  If so, there is a grave misunderstanding about who you really are.  You and my jet-lagged self are going to throw down, Cape Town style.”

 

So, I think I am going to be posting different stories and thoughts about my trip on this blog.  Is this already implied?  Damn, give me a break, I am new at this. For me, discussing my general experiences from Time’s high horse is not that interesting to write about, so I’m basically not going to do that unless I don’t have much time and I need to remind you, the reader (family, friend, blog enthusiast…) that I am alive.  Oh, and there might be a way for you all to add comments about my postings if you are inclined.  For now. the responsibility of learning how to do this lies with you.  My Internet is operating at approximately the speed of sloth and I am currently devoting all of its power to opening pictures of a house I might rent in Cape Town.

 

Do you think I should begin every paragraph with the word “so?”  Hmmmm…

 

So, I mentioned I was jet-lagged.  This may have something to do with the fact that I began my journey in Portland, flew to SFO, waited for 2.5 hours, flew for 16 hours over the north pole to Dubai, waited for 14 hours, and then flew to Cape Town, another 9 hours.  I slept for about 6 hours total during this time, and this is not the kind of sleep you write home about (or maybe it is because I just did.  HA.  I love you clever witticism).

 

So, flew on an airline called the Emirates and it was friggin’ sweet.  “Would you like an exit row?” Yes please.  “A warm towel sir?”  Yes please.  “Lamb kofta or other Mediterranean goodness?”  Yes please.  “Another mango juice?” Yes please.  I’ll just take one everything.  Perhaps the greatest thing that happened however is that I was talking with the flight attendants and in-flight neighbors about Dubai and was wondering what I should do there.  At the conclusion of the flight, the cabin hostess said, “I could show you around if you would like.”  Yes please.  After departing I went all over Dubai via taxi and train with her who was originally from Lebanon.  She talked about a lot of different things, but I want to focus on one part in particular.  I know this trip was going to provoke many questions regarding race and nationality, but I didn’t know that it would begin so soon.  To paraphrase the flight attendant, “The Indians and Pakistanis are the worst on flights.  Did you see that bathroom?  They are so dirty.  How can people live like that?”  Upon challenging these assertions, I was met with examples to provide support for these stereotypes, “Flights that go into Dubai that have these people on them are much dirtier than other flights.  I know, I clean the toilets.”

 

Hmmm…  That got me thinking about the ABC’s of racism.  I remember this pneumonic tool from college.  “A” for affect, or the feelings held about a particular race, gender, age...otherwise known as prejudice.  “B” for behavior, or the actions that one takes that are harmful to someone else based upon “A” and “C”.  “C” for cognition, or the beliefs / thinking patterns that are held about a particular race, gender…  I think it’s funny that I learned about Cognitive Behavioral Therapy in the same fashion.  I suppose the intent is that through analyzing and skillfully manipulating one’s feelings, thoughts, and actions one can become less “racist” and more psychologically balanced.

 

So, here’s a Lebanese woman, who gives me a justification based on personal experience for her prejudice against Indians and Pakistanes.  Is she making these conclusions based on faulty evidence?  Is what she says true?  Partially true?  If it is true or partially true, does that mean that there is some fact or tendency present in what she is saying? Does that mean that prejudice may be the child of truth?  Is she a truth teller?  But, prejudice is bad right?  She’s just an ignorant racist right?  Hmmm… this is not as easy as ABC, 123.

 

Who am I to be talking about this?  I am a white man from the United States.  You can’t get much higher on the social rank ladder than this folks.  This analogy implies that I have climbed to the top and know something about the previous rungs and my relationship to them.  WRONG!!!  Try, again.  I’m pretty sure it is the absolute opposite actually.  What is rule #1 when you are in a precariously high position?  Don’t look down.  You could get freaked out about what you see, lose your balance, and fall off the ladder to your certain doom.  It’s the same for the social rank ladder.  If I really look at the people with less rank than me, I could panic and die.  Talking about these issues in an analogical fashion is much easier for me.  The reality is that I am scared to admit how true this is for me.