From Rio to Cape Town

Up bright and early, we had pressed sandwiches, coffee and caju juice, plus a lovely photo session. As we packed, Alessandro and I realized that, upon paying the bill, we would be left with only R$20 with which to get back to Rio. We had pre-paid our boat ride, but were unsure of how much the various busses we needed to get back would cost. Since there are no ATMs on Islha Grande, we hoped to find one in the town on the other side. Otherwise, we thought we might scrape it together after all! Or else be stuck in a random, dusty town on the outskirts of the city. We walked down to the dock, and waited until our boat’s name was called. We were brought to the schooners, which were all tied to each other side by side, and the dockhand pointed in to the 5^th or 6^th boat. We climbed—I with my big old pack on—over the decks and sides of 5 boats until we reached our green and white one. The ride felt significantly slower than when we had been on the catamaran, but we got there none the less.

We docked in the small town, and walked to find the bus stop. We passed a really nice looking acai place, whose product I longed for greatly (even after our big breakfast!). But our financial situation precluded the purchasing of the finer things, like plastic cups of sweet berries and ice mixed with granola. We asked a gentleman in a sandwich shop (which was playing the catchiest Brazilian pop music on full blast), and he told us that not only were we a block away from the bus stop, there was an ATM at the gas station! This seems to be a rarity in Brazil. ATMs are pretty much only in banks, and occasionally at a designated kiosk. None of this ATM-in-the-convenience-store stuff. It’s like the Louis CK sketch where he reminisces about “the old days,” when running out of cash meant just not being able to buy anything else (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UN0MpBQG3-E thanks, A!). We headed to this random ATM, and found a long line, plus a plaque on the wall that commemorated the presence of this, the first ATM in town. The mayor’s and town council members’ names were all inscribed with the date and a statement of town pride. It was a pretty remarkable thing to see! They finally felt they were on the map, it seemed. And, miraculously, my card worked. This had been an ongoing problem of mine in Brazil. Only special ATMs liked my card and would give me money from it. So we took out money and walked back to the bus stop (but not before getting that delicious acai I wanted!).

The first bus ride was just lovely. The day felt cooler, the windows were all down, the sun looked bright against the green hills and blue sea, and we were the only passengers on the bus. It dropped us off in a dusty town. I believe the word “hell” entered our discussion of it. It wasn’t that bad, really, just not a lot of energy. All of the buildings and businesses were old and fairly run-down, though there were a lot of people walking and standing about. We went to a covered area behind the bus depot, where we sat in the back row of a grid of plastic chairs which were sat, by row, on a first come basis. Everyone in front of us sat still and silent, as the faint sound of Latin pop music floated in from the attached restaurant. It felt very cinematic. In just the right amount of time for a situation to become awkward in a movie, the kombi into the city arrived. Alessandro saved a seat next to him in the close quarters as I loaded my mega-pack into the back. The ride was incredibly surreal. 97.5FM was playing, the “soft listening” station in Rio. “It Must Have Been Love,” “Ebony and Ivory,” “Three Little Birds,” and “Halo” played, as we drove past the small towns, industrial buildings, and fields of semi-permanent housing surrounding Rio (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TZtiJN6yiik). When we got close to the city, it was neat to see artwork on the highway pillars by the legendary Rio artist, Profeta Gentileza, whose motto, “Gentileza Gera Gentileza” (Kindness Begets Kindness), became something like a motto for people in the city (http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_JRHeC17m3j0/SsgxJmybWGI/AAAAAAAAAEo/uwxE-2bG_ug/s320/Profeta+Gentileza.jpg).

We arrived a subway ride away from downtown Rio, where I wanted to go to look for a DVD (and to hopefully catch that elusive Bonde!), despite the 40 degree heat (over 100) and my mega-pack. The DVD quest was a bust, and, natch, the line for the Bonde was super long, so Alessandro took me to an amazingly opulent 19^th century chocolate and coffee house before heading home. Man, did we look like bums in there! All sweaty with a huge backpack and t-shirts on… But the coffee was lovely. We got back to Alessandro’s neighborhood, and briefly headed over to Morrinho, as we had heard there were “lots of gringos” there. We chatted with a tour of elderly people from Denver, who would have barely make it down the dirt paths through the little buildings were it not for the help offered by the kids. It was nice to see it in daylight, though the football game had started so no one was really around.

We decided that a night out in Rio was in order, so Alessandro called a friend and we decided to meet in Lapa—the hip, bustling, young area—for drinks and maybe some dancing. I put on the black dress I mistakenly wore to the Lavagem festa in Salvador, and out we went to meet up with Simon and his friend Michael. Simon is a grad student at Berkeley, and Michael is a 20 year old from Hawaii who was studying abroad in Rio. It was interesting to see Michael’s perspective on things. He was eager to learn more about other cultures, to meet “locals” and attempt to witness/understand poverty. And to party, of course. We started with beer at a restaurant, then headed out to the rapidly filling streets for the good stuff. Drinking on the streets is legal in Brazil, and seems to be encouraged, judging by the numerous alcohol vendors that were out and about. Brightly lit carts bearing very visible permits were selling rather large, rather strong caipirinhas for R$5. We set ourselves up, and walked around outside the small bars, each playing a distinct type of music. The party, though, seemed to be on the street. The patrons and music overflowed from each bar, making a mess of people and sounds on the sidewalks. One didn’t even need to go inside to dance and feel very social. The four of us talked and people watched between a baile funky bar and a hip-hop/pop music bar, before heading to another area of Lapa to do the same thing outside a samba bar. The people dancing there were so good, I barely attempted to dance. Before we knew it, it was 3:30am, so we jumped on a bus and headed back to the neighborhood.

The next day was slightly rough given the previous evening’s cachaca intake. We had a big breakfast with three different juices, yogurt and granola, and the most glorious latke on the planet. The mission for the day was to go to the local airport and buy me a plane ticket from Rio to Sao Paolo so I could make my flight to Johannesburg on Tuesday. The internet wouldn’t let me buy it, so I had to, for the first time ever, buy a plane ticket at an airport. Seems weird, no? That we don’t buy plane tickets at the place we redeem them? We bussed it to Santos Dumont and got it. Then we walked past the huge, concrete, trapezoidal modern art museum, where we visited the gift shop, as well as another artsy store nearby. A walk along the waterfront promenade brought us to a bike trail, which led to the beach that the people in Alessandro’s neighborhood go to. It is along the bay, so though it’s not as “pristine” as, say, Ipanema, it had a very comfortable family vibe that was lacking at the flashier beaches.

The clouds and gusty winds started to roll in, so we went back to the apartment. That night, we got geared up in our rain clothes so we could witness the rehearsal of the samba schools. Every year for Carnaval, the various neighborhoods around Rio spend exorbitant amounts of time, money, and effort to coordinate their samba parade. Each one involves thousands of people dancing in unison in coordinated outfits to a song written just for this day. There are huge floats, bands of musicians, plus women in tiny, shimmering outfits and high heels leading each group of people in the dancing. The neighborhoods compete for the top prize, and have fan followings just like sports teams. When they march, one must purchase tickets to see the event, which occurs in the Sambadrome. But before Carnaval, the schools must hold a rehearsal, and these are free to the public. On this Sunday, three schools were rehearsing, including the much-beloved Mangueira. We missed the first, but arrived just in time to pack in with thousands of people in the rain to witness Mangueira’s crazy party. They played last year’s song on continual repeat as the people jumped and danced and sang below. The fans around us were going crazy, dancing and singing just as vehemently as those in the procession(though with a bit less talent!). Vendors in the stands were making bank, selling beer, soda, candy, pork rinds, and popcorn (which goes stale pretty quickly on a rainy night.). We stayed for most of the next school—Unidos da Tijuca—which was significantly smaller, but left to beat the rush to the busses.

My last day in Brazil. I spent the morning writing postcards (they’re coming!), after my favorite Brazilian breakfast treat: pao de queijo. Crusty gooey cheese bread. Mmm! We went to the post office, and I spent a small fortune on stamps. After popping into a few shops, Alessandro and I were off to the Jardim Botanico for some strolling through the gardens. We visited the sensorial garden, the succulents, the orchids, the carnivorous plants, and the rose gardens. I got crazy about smelling every orchid in the greenhouse! They are mostly all bred with specific smells, which I find so interesting. It looked like rain just as the gardens were closing, so we walked to the bus to go downtown. We were going to ride that Bonde once and for all! Fourth time’s a charm? We had a lovely coffee and cake break, and finally made it onto the empty Bonde. Rain was leaking in through the roof, but it was charming and thrilling none the less. We got out on the main street in Santa Theresa, the neighborhood that borders Alessandro’s neighborhood on the back side. We rushed into an eclectic looking seafood place to escape the chilly rain. There was interesting art on all of the dark-wood walls, and a table right by the window was open, waiting for us. I had a delicious “ginger batida,” which was simply ginger flavoring in a shot of cachaca. And we had fish mocqueca for dinner, which was pretty good. It was also nice to hear the jazz/samba quartet the restaurant had hired for the evening. Clarinet, upright bass, and two guitars. Plus the rain. Quite lovely! Afterwards, we walked a block to the small old cinema, and got there just in time for the 21:20 showing of “New York, I Love You.” We gave it a mixed review, though it certainly was entertaining, and funny to watch lots of footage of NYC, where we both lived, while in Rio. We met some of Alessandro’s friends on the walk home, and I began to gather my things to pack the next morning.

I woke up early, and packed my things without much stress (there really isn’t much to pack!). I said goodbye to my home-for-ten-days, and we walked down the long hill until we got a cab. A quick lunch in the airport, a big thank you and good bye to Alessandro, and I was waiting for the plane to Sao Paolo. I was bummed to be leaving Brazil, to be sure. I had had a really magical time there. But I was also excited to see South Africa, to meet Leslie’s friends and wander around Cape Town for a few days…

The flight from Sao Paolo to Johannesburg was one of the hairiest I’ve been on in a long time. We left in the dark in a rain storm. There was turbulence on the entire ascent, and it didn’t let up the whole flight. I kid you not: in the first 15 minutes of this 9 hour flight, I watched and listened as the wing of the plane was struck by lightning. Just like that! It lit up blue and sounded like the tearing crack of a whip. Great, I thought. Nine hours across the Atlantic Ocean in a storm with a bum wing. And I’m supposed to sleep?

I hardly got any rest at all, and arrived in Joburg grateful for my life, but exhausted. As well, I still had the feeling that I was in a foreign speaking place, and was avoiding talking to people. When I finally did ask a woman where the water fountain was, she looked at me crooked and said, “wah-da what? What do you want?” I said, “water fountain, like a drinking fountain…” She said, “I can’t understand. A water something?” I gave up and had to ask three other people before someone told me there were none (probably just to shut me up!). On the plane, I sat next to a college freshman who was going to study in Cape Town. He had never been on a plane before, so I told him (and myself) not to be scared, that all would go smoothly. I slept like a rock for that 2 hours, and arrived in Cape Town. I grabbed my bag, and walked out to the greeting area. As I dreamily reflected upon how I had never been picked up at an airport by someone I didn’t know, I heard my name being called. It was Chris, Leslie’s friend whom she had met on her summer trip to SA last year. He had generously offered to put me up during my stay, and to pick me up from the airport. We headed out to his car (of course, I went to get in the driver’s seat. They drive on the right side of the car here…), and he took me past the townships near the airport (townships refer to the underdeveloped urban living areas where black people were forced to live under Apartheid, and where many still do), and straight into the beautifully manicured Waterfront shopping district. It is a bright, shiny, affluent collection of upscale mall stores, quaint shops, and nice restaurants. I was mildly shocked by the pristine look of the Burberry store, the boutique style African art shops, and the roped walkways after being in Brazil. We ate at an outdoor sushi restaurant and enjoyed some lovely mojitos. It was then I realized how inexpensive South Africa is. For a sashimi tuna and arugula salad, plus two mojitos at this white tablecloth restaurant, I paid the equivalent of $19. I can’t think of anywhere in the States where this would be possible.

Chris and I went back to his apartment to meet his roommates. The apartment is really, really nice, 9^th floor, all clean and white with an open layout, and a balcony with the most unbelievable view of Table Mountain possible (Cape Town is surrounded by big, beautiful mountain chains, the most striking of which is Table Mountain, which is flat on top and offers magnificent views of the whole city and its surroundings). His roommates, Ryan and Jason, are very funny, and very accommodating. They made chicken for dinner, and we had a chill night in, drinking beers and getting to know one another. As well, they taught me a great deal about South African history and politics. At one point, we were talking about various countries’ policies towards indigenous people. I said, aiming to impress them, that aboriginal people in Australia weren’t granted the right to vote until 1964. Wasn’t that amazing, how recently they had been enfranchised? They were quiet for a moment, and soberly informed me that people of color didn’t get the right to vote until 1994 in South Africa, when they held their first democratic election and elected Nelson Mandela president. Somehow, this staggering fact escaped me. Sixteen years ago, Apartheid ended, and people no longer had to carry cards with their race on them in order to travel to different parts of the city, for fear of being detained indefinitely by the police. Chris and Ryan vaguely remember the transition, and have interesting feelings about it, considering that their parents were born during and raised in Apartheid, and, because of how they were educated, kind of miss it. Now, of course, in schools they teach that Apartheid was a very bad thing, that all people deserve the same rights. Which, of course, Chris and Ryan believe. But it is hard for people here to separate the current situation from the historical situations that led to them. Still, segregation exists, if for no other reason than that people believe “blacks live in townships, coloreds live in the Flats, and whites live in the suburbs. We really don’t have much reason to go to any other place than where we are.” Integration, it seems, is hard, especially when the government is trying to make non-racially based laws while at the same time giving added opportunities to people who have never had the right to attend university, apply for certain jobs, indeed, live in and move through different parts of the city. And changing people’s minds about the only reality they have ever known can be a hard thing to do, even when the rest of the world sees the situation as so cut and dry: racial segregation is not a good thing. This is not a universally held sentiment here in South Africa. Sixteen years is just not that long.

The next day, I asked Chris to drive me into the downtown area so I could visit the District Six Museum, which Alessandro had recommended I check out. Chris dropped me off nearby, on a busy street with a bookshop, inexpensive clothing shops, and DE Jones style crap stores (lots of cheaply made, mostly useless junk in bins and on shelves, which I love to explore) but I couldn’t find the address that had been indicated on the website. I went into the police station and asked, and a young man said he would walk me there. Patrick was very chatty, and made me play a guessing game as to where he was from, what languages he spoke, and what he was doing in Cape Town. I failed the game (DRC; French, English, and a little Portuguese; studying investment and computers), and he failed to bring me to the right place! He brought me to the actual District Six nearby. I finally called him out on his lack of knowledge about the museum’s whereabouts, so he walked me back and made sure I found it alright. Once inside, I was amazed. The museum was an old building, just one room with a wrap-around balcony as a second floor. The walls were covered with an eclectic mixture of text, maps, photographs, drawings. From the floor in the center of the room up to the ceiling was a large colored cloth, as well as a structure made of old street name signs. On the floor was an enormous map of District Six. The museum was wonderful to explore, and everything the curators included revealed more and more about the history of this place. District Six was a part of Cape Town centrally located near the busy docks. A wide mixture of people settled there, and a vibrant community developed. In the 20^th century, whites began moving into the prime real estate surrounding District Six, and by the 1960s, with Apartheid in full swing, the people who were living happy (though lower-income) lives there were evicted, and the mildly rundown buildings in which they lived were razed to make way for new homes and businesses for whites only. The people were dispersed to different parts of Cape Town based on their race (black; colored; Asiatic; white), and the most culturally rich place in CT was destroyed. A campaign began, however, to urge businesses not to build in District Six because of the atrocity committed. Apart from a whites-only university and a few houses, nothing was developed there, and much of the land is grassy lots with not development. In the early 90s, as Apartheid ended, organizations began campaigning for the repatriation of District Six to its former residents. The residents won, and were granted either ownership of the land there or monetary compensation, though little has been done to initiate building there. In the mean time, the museum serves as a community center for these former residents. The tapestry that hangs there is actually over 1km long, and bears memories of people who once lived there, embroidered onto the cloth by women in a local prison. The map on the floor has handwritten names at many of the addresses in District Six,a way for people to feel they are reclaiming their former homes and remember who their neighbors were, what it was like to move through the streets there. The pictures of the interiors of homes was amazing to see: they were well appointed, small but tidy, nice spaces. Not the “slum” the government portrayed it as. But even if it were a slum, it was a place where people lived important lives... (http://www.districtsix.co.za/frames.htm) I spent a long time at the museum, and jumped onto a few tours being led by former District Six residents who became museum educators. After leaving, I went back to District Six itself, where Patrick had taken me, and marveled at the empty fields in the heart of downtown (this downtown, though, was really small, with few shops, no tall buildings, a good amount of people though… the “city” part of Cape Town is just not that big, despite the sprawling surroundings.).

Walking back toward the main street, I saw a brightly colored building, with “Charly’s Bakery” painted on the side. I went in, and found a wonderland of neon cookies, rainbow painted cupcakes, and gold, pink, blue, and green cakes in all crazy shapes and textures. There were 5 women behind the counters, mixing and molding batters and doughs, talking on phones taking and placing orders. There was a mural on the wall telling the story. A young boy was hired to sweep the floors of a German baker’s business. He gradually passed on his knowledge, and Charly and his wife opened their unusual bakery, which instantly gained fame for the caliber of their product. It was very neat. (http://www.charlysbakery.co.za/photo-gallery/) After a heart-shaped cookie with neon green, blue, and pink stripes, I went into one of the crap stores, and decided on some bronze nail polish ($.80). Then, into a cheap clothing store to purchase an adorable flowered dress ($7. Crazy.). And into the bookstore for postcards. Chris picked me up, and we went for a drive through amazing mountain passes that recalled the desert vegetation of Arizona and the water-side cliffs of southern California. They winded through towns and around cliff faces, with the late-day light making the peaks and valleys and the plants they held glow orange. We made it down into the seaside town of Fish Hoek, on the Indian ocean, where a surfers had been eaten by a Great White a few days prior. The waves were blown out, but the light blue, 20 degree (68) ocean felt amazing on my feet. The Indian ocean! I’ve been there! It is so neat to think that I’ve been in three oceans. We walked along the beach, admiring the massive strands of kelp, the univalves crawling around in the sand, and the poisonous, vibrant Blue Bottles blobbing it up. The sun set behind the surrounding mountains, and we headed into town, to a, as Chris described it, “dodgy looking place” for some of the best fish and chips I’ve ever had! Surely the hake was caught that day. We drove back to the apartment through some lavish hillside neighborhoods, reminiscent of Beverly Hills. The views from the mountain roads, though, are just amazing. Higher and higher we climbed, and more stunning did the vistas become. We could see three mountain chains, two oceans, countless towns, farms, businesses…even a nuclear cooling station.

We got back to the flat and began to get ready for a big night out in Cape Town. Tiger Tiger, the boys’ favorite night club, was having a “Malibu” themed night. I asked what that meant, and they just said beachy. So I wore a typical Nicole beach outfit—skirts and tank with bikini underneath—and the pair of heels I thought would be necessary on my trip around the world. We arrived, but the line was at least an hour long. On it were a hundred people wearing either board shorts and dirty tank tops or mini denim skirts with flowered tops and flowers in hair. Some girls were wearing leis, which I couldn’t help but think seemed very un-Malibu. Regardless, Chris said I looked fine to go into the more “posh” club upstairs, called 91. Many of the clubs and restaurants here, it seems, can be found in malls or mall-type settings. Interesting… Like the line for Tiger was in a white tiled area at the top of an escalator outside closed shops. Chris took me on a dodgy route through some parking garages before we went through an unmarked green door and arrived at 91. It was very modern, black with mirrors and chandeliers. A DJ was spinning housey pop, and since everything—including drinks—is so inexpensive here, we wasted no time in ordering a round. After a few minutes, Jason and his friend Jason arrived, and the Café Patron began flowing! I danced with the 19-22 year old set non-stop, until after 2am, when the next DJ was coming on. They allow smoking in the club, which was rather shocking, but it was well-ventilated, so it wasn’t too obnoxious. The music got a bit repetitive as the DJ seemed to run out of tricks, but everyone was so happy to be dancing, they didn’t appear to mind. I was wishing for some hip-hop in there, but apparently it doesn’t go over well in clubs here. At 2:30, the old lady (me) made the call to call it a night. Requisite burgers were acquired at the light-night food place, which was a mob scene. We barely got our order what with the pushing and fighting at the counter! The whole crowd was, as Ryan would say, “derelicte.”

The next morning was not an easy one, despite the fact that I have taken to heart the advice to drink a glass of water after each gin and tonic. Not my head, so much, but my stomach. Not happy. Chris had a doctor’s appointment, which gave me time to recover. By 1pm, I was feeling fine. We decided that the nice day called for a nice outdoor activity, so we drove over to Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. They are a huge tract of land at the foot of Table Mountain, with giant gardens of different kinds. The Braille Trail was lovely, with a rope all along the path and informative signs in English and Braille. We decided to keep heading higher in elevation in order to obtain the best possible views. Up through the Protea Garden we went (national flower….they even wear it on sports teams’ uniforms!), until we discovered a little set of stone stairs. We climbed them, and they soon turned into a dirt trail with wooden slats for stair-like traction. Up and up they went, until it was clear that we weren’t in the Gardens anymore. The vegetation looked indigenous, dryer and more appropriate to a desert climate. Chris warned me of the very dangerous snakes along the way. We turned around after many minutes of climbing, and realized that we were on a serious hike up the mountain! The terrain was changing, getting more rocky as we increased our elevation. Soon we were walking along a ridge along the mountain, which eventually took us around to the other side, where we could see the vineyards and small towns to the south. It was so beautiful! We walked almost to the top of the stairs, and were inspired to have a rather heady conversation about the origins of the universe. It was definitely an unexpected turn considering our sorry states a few hours before!

We took a short cut back to Kirstenbosch, then back to the flat. Ryan, his lovely girlfriend Stasha, Chris and I decided on burgers for dinner. We went to their favorite place, which had an amazing selection of very gourmet burgers and Lindt chocolate milkshakes. And so inexpensive! Getting here might cost a bit, but once here, the cost of living is significantly cheaper than the US, cheaper than Brazil. They were laughing, making fun of each other, having fun… On the radio came “Love Generation” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0NSeysrDYw). At first I started singing along in my head. And then I remembered the last time I heard that song. I was in Leslie’s car, driving back from NYC having just retrieved my Brazilian visa and changed my plane ticket from Calcutta to Cape Town. The air was warm, the sun was setting over the city and NJ, and there was a streak of rainbow in the clouds above the industrial buildings along the Turnpike. I rolled down the window and felt so free! Excited to be finally going, and doing this thing that I had wanted to do for so long… and here I was, in Cape Town, part of the way along, having an amazing time, hearing that same song ,with friends, laughing, moving through places and receiving so much love and kindness and generosity. I feel so humbled by the universe to be given this opportunity.

I went home after that and worked like mad on this blog posting. I needed to catch up, so it wouldn’t weigh on me anymore, so I could let go of thoughts I was holding in order to be able to write them down. It feels really good.

Tomorrow we are going to the Salt River Market, and then hopefully the beach! I need to get my tan on a bit more…