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Travel

Goodness at the Cape of Good Hope

October 23, 2010

I was grouchy when we got to the Cape of Good Hope.

I dislike being cold, and I dislike being uncomfortable. With howling winds and near-freezing temperatures, suddenly I was both.

But Cape Point is a spot of such remarkable beauty, I was won over.

This is where whales slide through the choppy waves at tugboat speed, while dolphins mimic synchronized swimmers. The baboons are as plentiful as house cats and bees are the size of ping-pong balls.

A short hike leads to the very tip of Africa. Technically this isn’t where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet — that’s somewhere to the east — but I’m not so sure. Staring at the waves churning and thrusting in every direction, it certainly looked like this is where two bodies meet, mingle and have a party.

 

Africa’s ubuntu

October 23, 2010

There’s an old saying that a single straw from a broom can be broken, but together they are strong.

The Africans call that ubuntu, the philosophy that we are all part of an interconnected web, rooted in acts of kindness and generosity. It means that the way we treat others is more important than our individual accomplishments.

Basically, you can’t be human all by yourself.

I’m seeing ubuntu everywhere as I travel throughout South Africa.

At Bulungula, a woman shared a piece of bread with her son, who in turn, tore it into four more pieces and gave it to his friends.

Inside a local shebeen (bar), the revelers happily slung a paint can full of sorgham beer my way, offering me a sip.

In Johannesburg, a generous couple fed me, opened their home to me and basically treated me as if I was family.

While trying to find the correct minibus in Durban, my friends were told the correct bus was located several blocks away. “Hop in,” the minibus driver said. “I’ll take you there.”

Those simple acts of kindness are hard to resist, and I’ve found myself being a little more open, letting my guard down more than usual. I finally gave in completely yesterday in Durban, when a man approached me on the street. He pointed at my oversized, reusable Nalgene water bottle.

“Can I have a sip?” he said.

It caught me off guard, so I asked him to repeat what he said.

“Your water. Can I have a sip?” Then he elaborated, “I have been eating the peanuts. They are very salty.”

He was a worker who shuttled people into the minibuses all day long. He worked on a block far from any cafe, restaurant or store. There really wasn’t any other water nearby. And even though the wary, distrusting part of me was screaming no, I handed the bottle over.

He drank nearly all of it, handed it back and beamed in delight. Then he said, “Sala,” which is Zulu for “Stay well.”

 

On bravery

October 22, 2010

I didn’t feel very brave when we encountered two puff adders flinging themselves across the hiking trail in TsiTsikamma. The deadly snakes were either in the throes of passion or the throes of violence — or perhaps a sadistic combination of the two.

Deborah walked right up to them, mere inches away, where snake venom could easily meet toe.

I was too nervous for that. As much as I wanted to get closer to the action, I couldn’t seem to make my feet go. So I stood back, relying on my camera’s zoom function to snag a few photos.

I did not feel very brave then. And because I endlessly compare myself with others, I wondered what was wrong with me. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I spit in danger’s face? Why was I such a wuss?

I thought about this for a long time, long after we made a wide path around the sexing snakes and walked away.

I’ve decided that courage wears different faces. Even though I can toss my worries away long enough to skydive, I don’t necessarily have the same kind of courage it takes to get within inches of unpredictable reptiles.

I also think this trip takes a lot of courage. Sometimes simply asking directions of a stranger, trusting them to send me in the right direction, can be an act of bravery. Sometimes it means walking into a laundromat, a post office or a grocery store when you don’t speak the language. Sometimes just venturing out of my hostel feels like the most brave thing in the world.

And that’s OK.

 

Having a (dead) whale of a time

October 20, 2010

Our first morning in Bulungula was the start of The Very Bad Smell.

It was a briny and acrid scent, kind of like fish and garbage and feces, all tinged with the sourness of death.

A man from the village explained simply, “Dead whale.” He said it with a shrug, as if it happened all the time.

“Oh, of course,” I said. I shrugged in return and nodded, as if I should have known better.

The mammal had washed on the beach about three weeks before that, but it had taken some time for the decay and bacteria to form an horrible stew.

The villagers pillaged this gift from the sea, sawing off layers of fat, meat, bone. The rest of the carcass remained next to the surf, all rotting blubber and organs, bleached by the sun, washed by the waves, slowly returning to the ocean — a massive beast turned smudge on the shore.

The Very Bad Smell wriggled its way into our huts when the wind blew a certain direction, which, thankfully was not often. When it did, I only shrugged, as if being downwind from a gutted whale corpse was just a typical part of my life.