Sunday, February 21, 2010

Mom's arrived!


I got up extra early yesterday. I couldn't sleep, because the only place I wanted to be was at the airport to meet my arriving visitor. The best visitor! Mom... Aw....

She got here safe and sound, we had the best hug ever at the airport, and she has been raring to go ever since! I am actually in disbelief. I have done this East Coast-to-Sydney thing many times, and I am always falling asleep at 5pm, losing things, saying things backwards. It's very difficult to adjust to a 14 hour time difference. But after only one coffee (one coffee!), she walked half the city in 90 degree heat, attended a parade, and stayed upbeat until we fell asleep after midnight. No jetlag here! Unbelievable.

I've already taken her to King's Cross, the Botanical Gardens, the Opera House, the CBD, Chinatown (where we watched the New Year's Twilight Parade. All parades should be at twilight! So lovely for all involved), and into Darlinghurst. She woke up before I did today, and we are off to an art gallery, and then to do the famed Coogee to Bondi cliff walk. One of my very favorite parts of this city.

I am so excited to share this place I love with mama!

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Sawatdee Kaa!


Yes! I’ve made it to my other home, Sydney. It feels so, so amazing to be here again, so comfortable and easy, but exciting because it’s been quite a while since I was holding chunky 50 cent pieces, changing platforms in Central station, and strolling past the pie shops (that's meat pies) at King’s Cross. But first, I have to tell you about Thailand. As in Brazil, I was pretty busy getting into all kinds of craziness, so writing wasn’t my top priority. But seeing as how I’m in Sydney for 3 months, I can take some time today, as I look out over the most sweeping view of the Opera House, CBD, and Botanical Gardens from high on a hill, to try describe the wildness and beauty of Bangkok.

Last I wrote, I was sitting in Joburg airport, waiting to check in for my flight to Doha, Qatar, where I would pick up my connection to Bangkok. I was mildly nervous that I would have to collect my bag, go through Qatar’s customs, and get to the gate for the Bangkok flight in under 55 minutes. But luckily, I found out that I was flying Qatar Airways the whole way, so there were no worries about bags or gates. I saw some backpacker-types while waiting to check in, the kind I came to disdain while living in Sydney. Australia is a Mecca for British and European kids who take a “gap year” between high school and college to travel around, avoiding the pending responsibilities with which college is about to present them. I used to see them take over the town of Bondi Beach, overflowing from the hostels with dirty t-shirts, bad sunburns, growing beer bellies, and unkempt hair, stumbling to the beach after noon, to keep on drinking and smoking and partying until they passed out at night, so they could start the process all over again. They were not my favorite thing about living in Bondi Beach, but they were a staple in the culture there, so I simply tried to avoid them as much as possible. But they did wind up giving me a bad taste in my mouth about “backpackers.” I fully expected to meet some in Salvador—which I did—and I knew that I would meet many in Bangkok, which is practically the capital of South East Asian backpacking destinations.

After check in, I went outside for some fresh air, and asked for a piece of gum from a guy I had seen on line. He asked where I was going, and suggested we team up and travel around together. I was a bit apprehentious about my new travel partner, but honestly did feel glad knowing that I would roll into Bangkok with another mind and set of eyes with which to figure out how to get to the city, where to spend the night, etc. His name was Shawn, he was in his mid-thirties, a sound engineer, who hadn’t been traveling in ten years. He was wearing no shoes—just socks—which I thought was a little odd, but hey, how picky can you be when picking up travel companions?

I slept for almost the whole flight to Doha, and was overly grumpy and gruff when I woke up. But truly beautiful was the sunrise from the plane over the deserts of Qatar. Clear, clean, purple and golden and open. Doha’s airport was lovely, if only because of the many windows and Islamic shapes that constituted it. The tops of the surrounding minarets began to glow golden as the sun rose. I even caught the moon between an airport building and a nearby Middle Eastern one, hanging low in the dusty blue sky, over palm trees and Cessnas. English accompanied the Arabic script on signs and signals, and it was difficult not to remark on how beautiful the shapes of Arabic are, even in this most sterile, official form.

Awake now from the chilly morning air, I boarded the plane from the runway with hopes of sitting next to someone interesting. And, as fate would have it, I did. I was sat between two chatting men. The 55 year old man sitting close to the window greeted me with the offering of a glass of Baileys, which, for some still unknown reason, I accepted (I’m really not one to drink on planes, or to drink at 8am). We toasted as new temporary neighbors, and almost immediately began exchanging stories of life, love, travel. He was a very charismatic Persian, who had a wonderful rags-to-riches story that began during the 1970s and ended with his current holiday to visit his brother in Vietnam. At one point in the flight, while we were watching separate movies and between napping, he took my left hand and began to look at it intently. Almost immediately, he started to laugh. I asked him what was funny, and he said he would tell me later. He gave me a palm reading, after which he turned over his own hand and showed me his palm, which was eerily similar to my own. We had almost the same palm! He showed me the Danish guy’s palm, and it was completely different. Very interesting…

We got off the plane, and walked to customs together. We exchanged emails as he booked a 4 star hotel, and, kind of oddly, he fished into his briefcase and presented me with a container of Iranian pistachios, a lovely gesture of friendship. Though, it forced me to be saddled with a cylindrical container of nuts—for which I didn’t have any room—for three days. Still I was grateful. Shawn and I checked our email to find out if we had heard from any friends with hostel recommendations. We had planned as little as each other, it seemed. As we looked online, a young woman with a large backpack approached us, asking us if we wanted to split a cab to Khao San Road. She informed us that this was the place where all of the backpackers flocked in Bangkok, and where we would most likely find a hostel quite easily. I looked around the airport, at the new script that was facing me, at the confusing maps, at the people behind the desks who were only peripherally helpful in answering simple questions like, “is there internet here?,” and we decided to head out to the taxi stand with Marta. The taxis lined up outside were brilliant, each one a different color from the Paas palate. We negotiated a price, and were directed to a hot magenta colored car. Despite having just come from South Africa, my American instincts held fast, and I attempted to get in the driver’s seat. They ride on the left in Thailand, too, it seems.

It had been rumored that the Thai people are exceptionally friendly, extremely kind, and extraordinarily fun. We pulled out from the airport maze of roads onto the highway, and our cab driver asked us where we were from. “Three continents!” we answered: Britain, South Africa, and the States. “America!?! You from America!?!” I was riding in the front seat, and instantly the people in the backseat seemed to melt away over his enthusiasm for my nationality. “You like music?” he asked. “Yes! I love music! I like music very much.” “You like Ervi Pressy?” I couldn’t understand. I asked him to repeat it. “Ervisss Pressry,” he said slowly. I thought, and it clicked. I began to sing: “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog, crying all the time…” The cabdriver burst into joyous laughter, and began to sing along with me, clearly phoenetically, but with no less knowledge of the flow of the song than I had. He yelled, “Jailhouse Rock! Jailhouse Rock!” and so we did a duet of another Elvis hit. He started to tap my arm excitedly, and asked “You know Horse o Risig Sun?” It took me a minute to translate this English into my own, but soon I got it: “There is a house in New Orleans…” He joined me for the high notes: “They call the Rising Sun!” We sang almost the whole thing. Next he asked if I knew “The Winters.” I kind of nodded, and yes’ed him, assuming that I just wasn’t understanding him. He started to sing a guitar riff, and I just sort of clapped along. He realized that I didn’t understand, so he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out several glossy sheets of paper. They were advertisements for concerts here in Bangkok: one for The Ventures, one for the Shadows. They were his two favorite groups, he told me. The best I could do was sing Hawaii Five O (which he loved), and try to let him calm down so I could look out the window as the dense buildings and lights of Bangkok approached. Ten minutes later, he tapped my arm and commanded, “Rolling Stones. You sing Rolling Stones. Now!” He put his cell phone on the console between us, and it began to turn out a scratchy version of Satisfaction. I sang along until the mp3 faded out. He started playing snippets of Ventures and Shadows songs, and then scrolled through the large collection of contemporary photos of members of the Ventures he had on his phone. I tried to move the process along, as we were on a busy highway and he was distractedly sharing his beloved photos with me. The Thai, if anything like this guy, really were friendly, fun people! The two in the backseat struggled to have a conversation over the multinational jukebox of fun in the front.

He turned off the highway and quickly we were on congested streets, three crowded lanes with a lot of swerving and lane sharing occurring. Though dark, the sidewalks and their shops seemed very busy, dimly lit but overflowing with goods and people. The cab driver pulled over next to a roadblock with cars already three deep to the sidewalk. “Ok, Khao San Road!” We narrowly avoided being hit by cars as we got out of the pink cab, collected our bags (which I held tight to me, not knowing what this crazy busy zone was like, especially at night), and walked through the mini-maze of parked cars toward the roadblock at the head of the nearby street.

That street was, indeed, the famous Khao San Road, Mecca for backpackers in South East Asia. Words can hardly describe it: flashing lights and signs from the pavement to the fourth story rooftops, advertising bars, clubs, restaurants, hostels, hotels, massage parlors, "massage parlors," convenience stores, liquor stores, drug store; racks of dresses, t-shirts and bags, shoes and sunglasses, books and jewelry in each place where the food vendors with carts of fruit, pastries, noodles, insects, crepes, stir fries, and soups were not. And people! A zoo of people, selling and buying: tall, thin, very pale people, with long blonde dreadlocks and stained “Singh” beer tank tops, languidly smoking cigarettes and chatting with more of their kind. Small women in pied “local" clothing, with three trays secured to various parts of their bodies, holding carved wooden frogs and running a stick down their back to make a croaking ribbit sound, like a frog. Hip, young dudes, covered in tattoos, with long unkempt black hair, sitting on plastic stools near spotlights that illuminated the collection of books containing the possible tattoo designs they had on offer. Crusty, older travelers, coupled by gender, walking in pairs in sensible sandals, with their arms clasped behind their backs until something in the carnival of wares enticed them enough to unharness their worn backpacks and dig out their wallets. Bright, tiny teenage girls in bright, tiny one piece jumpsuits and dresses, their straight hair in high pigtails above their overly made-up faces, holding menus for the restaurants, bars, music joints, massage parlors, and other services available to the farangs, to the Western visitors to Thailand. Picturing the crowds and wares and lights and signs and spectacle is only comparable to images of Times Square in the 1940s, a place at once seedy—full of vagrants and vagabonds—and magical—an impossible amalgamation of electricity, density, and desire.

Marta led the way as Shawn and I followed in apprehensive wonder, not sure whether to concentrate on all of the sights and sounds, on holding close our belongings, or on not stepping on toes. We wandered up and down and back up Khao San Road, looking for signs for hostels, popping in to price them and gauge their level of safety and cleanliness, and heading back out again to suss out the next one. Soon, my back started to hurt (my pack’s weight had somehow increased to 12 kg), and I imagined I was back on the beach in Islha Grande, wearily, desperately searching for a bed for the night. I was eager to put down my things, order a cold beer, and watch the parade of people and things go by. We settled on a triple room down a well-lit but ill-smelling alley, and, indeed, fulfilled my dream of beer and spectating. While drinking, Marta bumped into a backpacker friend of hers, who took us on a walk to Ram Buttri, a nearby street that was much more chill, far quieter, slower and dimmer than Khao San Road. As we walked past a row small shops and restaurants, I heard the somewhat obscure, LaBruto family favorite, doo-wop classic “Maybe” blaring from a trinkets shop. This uncanny moment, like so many others, instantly fell into the category of “Magical Music Moments Just for Nicole on Her Travels.” Shawn and I decided we would move there the following morning.

Marta left early in the morning, and Shawn and I woke around noon in the sweltering heat of Bangkok, a heat that air conditioners do little to alleviate. Their sound is merely a tease as sweat drips off your brow. We strapped on our packs and repeated the dance of wandering from hotel to hostel to hotel, trying to find the right balance between price ($3-6 a night) and comfort (i.e. not smelling like garbage or cat piss, having an A.C., not having random, lockless windows that open to empty courtyards…). We settled on a place, and headed out to fulfill our plan of getting the obligatory tour of museums and monuments over with (but not before a beautiful fresh Thai stir fried veggie lunch!). As we followed the map toward what we thought was the museum zone, we were stopped by an eager “guide” with a beat-up map of Bangkok on a tripod. He cunningly talked Shawn into a riverboat tour, and I, desiring a respite from the hot streets and a different view of the city on my first day here, agreed to it. The man flagged down a tuk-tuk (a roofed vehicle slightly larger than a golf cart, brightly painted and able to cut across traffic the wrong way down one-way streets), which bumped us along to a pagoda on a back street adjacent to the Chao Phraya River (around which the city was built.) We paid our fare for an hour tour that was meant to include a ride past the temples, down a tributary to "the floating market," along a canal past the jumping fish farm (?), and back out to the Flower Markets. We were led down to the long, thin, elaborately striped and roofed boat, and in we climbed. The outboard motor at the back roared to a start, and we were sent skimming and jumping along the surface of the river. The breeze was perfect as we soared past temples and monuments, bridges and hotels. Soon the pilot turned down a side waterway, and dramatically reduced speed. We found ourselves being led through a waterfront residential area, dense with small, rickety, wooden homes and large stone houses alternating spaces along the river. I saw people doing everyday things, like hanging their clothes to dry, playing board games, simply sitting and watching and waving as the boats went by (I saw Nanny’s Thai doppelganger!). The floating market turned out to be one boat with a woman selling the same trinkets as on the streets (ribbit! ribbit!), and the jumping fish, well, I thought I saw one, but I’m not 100% sure. Regardless, the ride was insightful and peaceful, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the people who lived along the river, what their jobs were, what they did when it rained, whether they ate dinner outside or inside, what with the mosquitoes and bugs they must get.

We docked at the Flower Market, at a little restaurant dock place, that charged 10 cents for us to walk on their planks and use their hole-in-the-ground toilet. Through the loud, busy market we walked, smelling spices, dried squid, pad thai, and body odor, attempting to see all of the minutia there was to take in on each 2x2 table. These things included millions of small, carved stone amulets, old clothes and glasses, magazines and books, plants and flowers, jewelry, buddha statues, gems, bags, toys, and, yes, false teeth. We wandered back towards the river, into an indoor market space, that was no less full of goods, just a bit less crowded with bodies. The sun began to set over the construction sites on the river, and Shawn and I headed back toward Khao San Road to meet his South African friend Steve for dinner. Steve was waiting for us at a bar, but he quickly brought us down a small alley to one of the few vegetarian restaurants in the area. Steve had been living in Bangkok for a year and a half, teaching math in English at a private school. These jobs, it seems, are easy for native English speakers to acquire. He had picked up a lot of the Thai language and had a really good understanding of how things operate. For example, he explained the cops-as-mafia scenario here. Police officers confiscate drugs at the border and arrest the carriers. Then they sell the drugs in the cities. Then they arrest the drug users in the cities. But if you want pot or meth or anything in Bangkok, you have to know a cop to get it. Interesting… Also interesting are the lady boys: they are gay boys, who know they are gay from the age of 6 or 7. They take on the habits of girls, dress in girls clothes, and aspire to get surgery to become girls. Until then, they are lady boys, who work in the nightclubs and brothels, sending money home to their rural families while hoping to meet that farang (foreign man) who will pull them from prostitution into a rich, girly life of luxury. He knew a woman who was pregnant, and when asked whether she wanted a boy or a girl, she said that she wanted a lady boy. A third gender alive and well in Thailand!

Following dinner, Steve took us to a very cool, hidden bar called Hippie De Bar, with “retro” lamps and seating, lots of plants, a pool table, cool music, and even an old TV-set-cum-fish-tank. We did the Thai bar thing, which is to order a full bottle of alcohol (in this case some kind of whiskey-rum hybrid), a bucket of ice, and mixers, as the boys took turns playing pool. We made tentative plans to hire a cheap chauffeured van so we would have a ride to the Thai pop music festival that Shawn’s other friends had told him about, and to which Shawn was defiantly going. At this time, I was unsure as to whether I would be going to Chaing Mai in the north the following day, or sticking around Bangkok for my whole time in Thailand. Perhaps it was the clarifying effects of the whiskey-rum, but that night I decided that it made very little sense to take a 9-hour bus trip, only to spend 24 hours in the destination, and head right back for a 9-hour bus ride to the airport to catch my flight on Monday. There was still much to do in Bangkok, including going to the Thai pop music festival in the country, and meeting up with the Kelly brothers, friend’s of Shaun McGrath’s and Phish fans from Sea Girt, whom I had somehow never met in NJ, but who have lived just outside Bangkok for over three years. I committed to staying in Bangkok. Shawn and I headed back to the hotel, with a tentative date set to meet Jack and Brian Kelly the following afternoon.

We woke up in the heat at 9am, and Shawn realized his wallet was missing. He went through absolute hell trying to contact South African banks on Thai pay phones, attempting to prevent his identity from being stolen. I sat in the shade, drank coffee, and had a fresh yogurt and fruit bowl, waiting for him to be assured that his card had been cancelled, and his backup one activated. It was frustrating, but I kept breathing, grateful that the tables were not turned.

We walked to the National Museum, and spent an hour or two learning the nation’s take on its own history. Innovative settlers, brave warriors, epic battles, rich meetings with Europeans, brilliant city planners, and fearless modern kings. Just as I was feeling sick of it all, we received the call: Brian and Jack were outside the museum waiting for us. We went out, and met up with big hugs. They had come with their dear friend, Nok, who was from Thailand, but fluent in English as well. The three of them discussed what we should do with the day: something typically Thai, but fun and exciting, and with not too many tourists. They decided to take us to the university where Nok studied forestry, which was hosting a big market that day. Glorious was that fact that Nok has a car, a really cool, new black pick-up, with ample seating for five. They drove us from the museum to the hotel, so we could gather our belongings and bring them with us, until we could ultimately meet up with Shawn’s friends, with whom we would be spending the night before we went to the music fest in the country the next day. Shawn tried to use a few ATMs near the hotel, but none worked. I could tell he was getting agitated, worried (a) that his stolen card was not cancelled and (b) that his new card would not enable him to get money. But I was so happy to be with Brian, Jack, and Nok, I just focused on the Thai pop music playing in the car, the government buildings Nok was taking us past, and the massive murals of the much-revered king that appeared all over the city outside Khao San Road. Riding around with them, things started to look more normal. I didn’t even realize it, but the overwhelming exoticism of the tourist version of Bangkok had infiltrated my perception, and was making me numb to details. Seeing a slower pace in other parts of the city gave me new insight into what Bangkok meant. Not surprisingly, the conversation in the car quickly turned to Phish, and Jack, Brian and I took over with discussions of concerts past, albums’ relevances, song lyric meanings, band member personality traits, and reasons we find the music so unique, so engaging. Jack put on a mix he had made for Nok with a lot of Phish on it, and we drove around, listening to Slave, Bathtub, DWD, and Hood, along the highways of the city, lined with empty lots, abandoned construction sites, small market stands, and the occasional Office Max or other mega-store.

Nok parked the truck at the university, and four of us bopped out of the car, excited by the prospect of food at the market. Shawn was far less buoyant. He was desperate for an ATM and a phone, and just about bolted off on a futile solo mission, when Nok grabbed his arm and offered to help him. She did, after all, attend this university, and would have a much better idea of where to find these amenities than he. Gracefully, she led the way to a phone, and then an ATM, as Brian, Jack and I discussed their experiences going to business school in Thailand, their future plans, their perceptions of the people and culture here, and their perceptions of home now. They were wonderfully interesting and insightful, as was Nok, who was able to join us once she got Shawn straightened out on the phone.

And Shawn took out some money! He was so relieved, and so were we, for him. Food time! We entered the market, and I was blown away. There were dozens and dozens of rows, intersecting dozens and dozens of other rows, each one dedicated to a different product category. Rows of food vendors alternated with a row of flower vendors, a row of clothes vendors, one of electronics vendors, one of jewelry vendors, one of heavy farm equipment vendors, one of massage vendors, one of leather goods vendors, then pets vendors…and back to another row of jewelry vendors, of electronics vendors. It really felt like an endless labyrinth of market stalls, with goods that were mostly very practical. It was easy to forget how we would ever go about purchasing all of these things in the States, without such a massive, collective venue for them. And Brian, Jack, and Nok were the best tour guides! Our focus was on food, and they were dead-set on having us try every weird Thai meat, sweet, and fried thing they had for sale. We had deep-fried breaded pork belly in a bag, pre-ripe green mangos, Thai BBQ-esque chicken skewers, Chiang Mai-style pork sausage with lemongrass and chili, coconut milk-based fruit gelatos, and these crazy green crepes with colored spun sugar that we rolled inside each crepe to make a kind-of green sugary burrito. Plus ubiquitous free pork rinds and green chili sauce between each new delicacy. And plenty more goodies I’m sure I’m forgetting. But they were all delicious, and I was quite full by the end.

As dark fell, we received a text from Shawn’s friends, who were waiting for us in Ari, a neighborhood in the city. The Thai crew drove us there, parked, and we all headed over to a table from which one woman jumped up and attacked Shawn. This was Simone, Shawn’s Australian roommate from ten years earlier in London, whom he hadn’t seen since. She lives in Jakarta, and was visiting her British friend Abs, who lived and worked in Bangkok. With Abs was her friend Ann, from Nashville, who also lived and worked in Bangkok. The throng of us had a beer, and walked to a street-side restaurant at which Abs and Ann recommended we eat. Despite our fullness, we managed to fit in some more food, this time from the Essan region in the north, known for their fresh, spicy food. Ann, at one point, started to rag on the Jersey shore. She was incredulous that we could run a surf school amidst all of the hypodermic needles she thought filled the water. And, in a weird moment, I realized that at this table of nine (Brit, Aussie, South African, Thai, 4 Americans, plus a Thai friend of the Kelly’s who had joined us), Jersey shore people were the majority. Crazy! It took all three of us to quell the "dirty Jersey" insistence that Ann offered from her big personality, but we did manage to win the hearts of those present with our tales of lovely, clean, family beaches. After the meal, Nok, Jack, Brian, and their friend left, as did Ann, leaving a crew of four (Abs, Simone, Shawn and I) to head out to Abs’ favorite nightclub, in the gay district of Bangkok.

We dropped our stuff at Abs’ sweet apartment (balcony! pool with fountain! wireless internet! vodka and soda!) and jumped in a cab. Abs instantly instructed the driver to put on some Thai music, and she immediately began to sing along wildly. She was hitting the cab driver’s shoulders, making him dance, yelling “Thaksin! Thaksin! We love Thaksin!” out the open windows of the cab (Thaksin is the corrupt prime minister who seduced the working class farmers with rebates, but swindled $2billion from the government, which was confiscated and frozen last year after his ousting, and whose trial was occurring in less than 3 weeks. Another coup and possible civil war were imminent, with upper and intellectual classes hating Thaksin, and lower classes adoring him.). Laughing uncontrollably at Abs's crazy display of support, we pulled up to this cordoned off street, which, not unlike Khao San, had lights and signs from pavement to rooftop, though they were less honky, more refined, with less people looking much classier. We grabbed a table at a bar called Tapas, and Abs ordered us a bottle of JWBlack, with soda and ice to mix. Between the six of us (two friends met us), it didn’t take long to finish. Included in the price was the cover charge to enter the club inside. She was clearly excited to go, telling us that it was a very, very cool place. And was she ever right! Upstairs in the warm, dim, modern space was a DJ, opposite a percussionist with four congas, two pairs of bongos, two snare drums, two cymbals, a high hat, a set of cow bells, and a set of wood blocks. He was playing along to the Latin-esque music the DJ played, with fresh, complicated pops and rolls that made dancing ten times more fun. Simone grabbed us another round of drinks, as Abs jumped behind the instruments and started playing the congas alongside the drummer. He smiled and laughed, and nodded in time. I joined him and Abs behind the set, and the three of us played and danced…. Abs decided we needed a break from this music, so we went outside and she led us into a bar with a stage, on which four young Thai guys in skinny jeans were playing emotional, fast rock’n’roll. In no time, Abs was up on the stage, in sunglasses, dancing along with the lead singer. He led the band into versions of Oasis and Sinead O’Conner songs, so Abs could be the proper lead singer. The rest of us were going nuts in the crowd, grabbing any one we could to make the dance party bigger. We were overheating, so we went back to Tapas to cause some more percussive mayhem before heading home. Abs—who was debating getting a tattoo on the street that night—decided that quitting her job of three years would be a better idea. So back at her place, Simone (and I [newcomer, still felt shy in the company of these raucous women]), proofread and edited Abs’ letter to her boss, explaining why she was giving her agreed three months before leaving.

On Thai pillows on the floor I fell asleep, and woke up feeling just fine, thanks to my strictly kept new habit of having more water than alcohol after each drink. We stumbled down to the pool for a morning swim. We lounged, and I realized my writing needed a bolster from some caffeine. Coffees were acquired, and we packed up and headed out for lunch. Abs’ neighborhood was so neat to walk through. It felt very normal and local, not unlike Woodside, Queens. Street vendors, shoe repair shops, different kinds of little restaurants, and an overhead sky-train thing right there. Commerce and community felt alive and well. We ate, and Abs negotiated with a cab driver to take us the 2 hours outside the city to Khao Yai, the site of the festival. Total cost: $50. Imagine the cost of a city cab from NYC to the Catskills!

The ride to the country was very, very beautiful. The dense city gave way to malls, which led into periodic strips of shops, which ended in large tracts of green, mountainous farmland. All along the way, passing enormous golden Buddha statues tucked into hillsides, we shared the road with the brightest, most cheerfully painted pick-ups, semis, and local busses you could imagine. It was like a scene from the Magical Mystery Tour. Simone brought her ipod and speakers, so Nick Drake and other ethereal singers accompanied us on our quiet ride. We slowly drove through a small town outside Khao Yai national park, and arrived at the fairgrounds just as the sun sunk behind the jutting mountains. Onto the back of a local, rickety shuttle bus we hopped, and in no time, the dirt road led us to the Big Mountain Music Festival. Abs had purchased (what she, in her non-working understanding of Thai on the internet, thought were) three spaces in a large tent in which we would spend the night. We bought tickets, and entered the incredible grounds of the festival. There were five staging areas, each with a different set of sculptures, lights, and theatrics surrounding the stage itself. The two main stages were most impressive: one had a giant ferris wheel behind it, with huge inflatable flowers on the stage, and a castle-like set behind it. The other was surrounded by cow-print rigging, with a huge cow structure above the stage, whose head wagged and eyes googled around in her head. The other stages were smaller: the round one had a giant spotlight above it, suspended by a crane, creating a UFO look; the circus one was under a huge tent, surrounded by 15-foot long bean bags in the shapes of vegetables; and the “dance arena” was a fifty-foot tall bamboo tee-pee like structure, inside of which the DJs played to the surrounding crowd. In addition to all of this were long, long rows of food and souvenir vendors, plus sprawling camp grounds set up with literally hundreds of rows and columns of army green two-man tents, all facing the same direction, across the hillsides. This space looked like nothing but a full-scale military operation. Though the music had been going all day, and sounded like it was heating up, we thought it would be a good idea to find out where our pre-paid tents were before we had too many beers. We made it to the place where we thought our tents would be, and realized that Abs hadn’t booked 3 tents at all, but rather 3 empty plots of land on which to set up tents. We laughed and laughed! Three 9x9 plots of grass and rocks, with no tents or sleeping bags. Luckily, a young man heard us cackling about our conundrum, and sold us his two tents for less than the cost of a plot. Abs bought them, anticipating her pending Hanoi-to-Istanbul motorcycle trip with her best friend. So with our accommodations in order, we marched off to acquire beer and meet up with Abs’ Thai friend Quad, who was at the festival and eager to take us to the best acts.

Quad met us near the cow stage, and took us to the castle stage for a performance by the most popular rock band in Thailand, Body Slam (great name, huh? Better than Big Ass, another big Thai band whose performance we, unfortunately, missed). Simone, who up until this point I didn’t really think was a huge Nicole fan, opened up to me about her festival experiences. She was a regular, it turned out, at Burning Man, Glastonbury, and Woodford, the New Year’s Festival in Queensland, Australia. I told her my concert war stories, and we bonded. And then, over beers, we started to analyze the emotive, rocking Thai lyrics that Body Slam was churning out. We cracked up, imagining just how accurate our “this is the night, my heart bleeds for you, one last chance for love…” lyric predictions were. Quad’s friends were HUGE Body Slam fans, and they loved how into it Simone and I were. Though the Thai crew loved BS, the event they were really waiting for was next, at the cow stage. T Bone is Thailand’s most popular ska band, I was informed, and in Thailand’s ever-growing ska music world, these guys were the big fish. A huge crowd gathered in anticipation. The cow somehow acquired a green, yellow, and red striped flag across her head, and T Bone and his band took the stage. Thai ska, it turns out, is not like any wave of American ska, nor is it like Jamaican ska. The dreadlocked, mixed race lead singer and his band mates—with guitars, bass, horns, and percussion—played the most easy-listening, mellow, poppy, reggae-influenced music imaginable. And the crowd was going crazy! Dancing uncontrollably, or else box stepping in pairs, with big smiles across their faces. The music was light and fun, and I danced wildly alongside Quad’s friends, which seemed like the right thing to do. Lord knows I have enough experience at concerts! It was definitely unusual to be at a reggae concert and smell nothing but beer and a cool mountain breeze. But it added to the atmosphere of good clean poppiness that the whole festival aimed to convey. At one point, while we were grooving pretty hard to a song with a riff T Bone borrowed from Take a Walk on the Wild Side, Simone grabbed my arm and pointed to the big screen next to the stage. She was jumping up and down with excitement! There, behind the T-Bone’s percussion set, was the drummer we had played with the night before at Tapas! We were dancing and making beats with him less than 24 hours earlier, not knowing he was the funky drummer for one of Thailand’s biggest acts. We were pretty impressed. We debated heading up to the stage and joining in again, but decided that we would let them have their moment at the festival.

After T Bone were one or two more Thai ska bands: fun, light, easy. Simone and I were getting bored by the end of the third one, so the group decided to grab some food at the Chinatown area of the food stalls. One weird delight were mini-hotdogs, boiled, then put into a plastic soda cup and covered with a mild, sugary chili/tomato sauce. After we were fed, we wandered around the grounds for a while, as most of the stages were being packed up. We knew that we had one last area to look forward to before we had to get a party going ourselves: the late-night DJ’ed “dance arena,” under the huge bamboo sculpture. One of us decided it would be a great idea to team up and carry a bale of hay over to the event, so carry it we did! We set it up just outside all of the dancers, who were still pouring in. Abs and I jumped on top and tried to rally the crowd to get more excited. But that was asking a lot, considering the crappy music and frequent abrupt stops the DJs’ performances included. Whole bad 90s pop songs, with speaking in between each one. I tried to start a glow-stick war with the scattered neon tubes I found on the ground, but the music wasn’t good enough for people to get it. So around 4am, we walked back to our tents, grabbing some plastic chairs and beers as we went. We partied for a while longer, and eventually fell asleep, with Abs, Quad and I squished in one 2-man tent, and Simone, Shawn and a bale of hay in the other.

I woke up covered in sweat at 9am, to the sound of a group of Thai kids giggling and oh-ing and ah-ing each others’ stories. I stumbled out, and went on a mission to find coffee. The sun was beating down already, and the cool mountain breeze had all but stopped, except to blow bits of dirt and dust across the path my mud-stained feet were taking. I felt like Lawrence of Arabia, crossing the barren desert with little hope of finding salvation. But there they were, two young Thai women, selling what Jack had described to me as “ancient-style coffee.” Starbucks should take note: over shaved ice, they pour a thick, syrupy coffee goo, and they top if off with sweetened condensed milk. It was the most delicious, refreshing coffee I’ve ever had (the hangover situation—plus the sweating in a tent situation—added to the amazingness of this experience, I think…). I bought one for everyone, and carried them in bags back to the crew, who were beyond grateful. I began to pack up the tents for Abs, and officially received the Most Useful Person award from the gang. Randomly, a guy on a bike-powered ice cream cart rang his bell as he rode by, and we enjoyed some cool, sweet popsicles for breakfast. The shuttle bus came by, and we—somehow much filthier and stinkier than our Thai counterparts—jumped on and headed back to find a ride to Bangkok. A big, cushy bus was leaving and had seats for us, so we hopped inside the pink-upholstered, pink window-curtained, pink ceilinged bus and napped all the way to the city.

Abs and Quad were tired and headed home, but Shawn, Simone and I decided to check out the J.J. Market. Brian and Jack had told me about them: allegedly, it is the biggest market in all of Asia! It operates on weekends only, and contained miles and miles of stalls, loosely grouped by what they sell, set up in a massive labyrinth of tented, semi-permanent stores. I knew I would be disappointed if I missed this spectacle while in Bangkok. So despite the stifling heat and humidity, we ventured into this weird world of commerce. Inside the maze was still and hushed, even with the constant stream of people filing past. The thin tarps overhead cast a quiet light on all of the wares. The winding breeze-less corridors seemed suspended in the humidity. We entered into a leather goods sections, turned and found ourselves in a house wares section (with the most beautiful gold-plated tea cups and plates, all stacked onto top each other). This turned into a beautiful lighting section, with all different colored and textured lamps, fixtures, and strung lights surrounding the pathway. One more turn, and we were in the pets section: a bizarre place where puppies, goldfish, hamsters, lizards, and squirrels dressed in circus outfits :( lined the corridors. The weirdness of it all started to get to us, so we tried to find a way out of the labyrinth. We emerged in a food vendors area, now sun-filled, but still breeze-less. We had some food, and decided we were losing steam. We tried to find our way back to our starting point, but it was near impossible, what with all of the twists and turns we had made inside the market. After 45 minutes of wandering, we made it back to the SkyTrain, and headed back to Abs’s.

Simone packed up her things, and we had a sunset drink on Abs’s balcony to toast her farewell. Shawn, Abs and I decided to have a chill evening, with some lovely curry (they had spaghetti and basil sauce!) at a local restaurant. It was my last night in Bangkok, and I realized I hadn’t received a famous Thai massage! So Abs pointed me in the right direction, and I had an hour massage from a strong but gentle woman, who I think was giggling about me to her friend, but whatever, it was a nice massage. We got back to Abs’s, and I wrote out a bunch of postcards. I packed up, thanked Abs and Shawn for everything, and fell asleep on the floor with my alarm set for 5:30am: I was getting up to meet Jack, Brian and Nok at a hotel to watch the Super Bowl at 6:30am. My flight was at 6:30pm. So I figured I would roll with the whole sleeping-less-than-4-hours-a-night thing and push it on my last night here, as well!

I arose groggily at 5:30, and headed out into the dusty light of morning. The security guard at Abs's apartment building jumped onto his moped and rode to the main street to hail a cab for me. Riding in it through the waking city was beautiful. I saw business people walking about; shopkeepers opening for the day; the dull, low, golden sunlight catching the turned-up eaves of the temples, waking the concrete apartment complexes and glassy corporate buildings. Bangkok looked more than ever like any other city. Not the cacophony of things, people, lights, sounds, and signs I encountered when I first arrived, but rather an urban place where quarters are tight, money matters, green is rare, and people, well, are just people, like anywhere else. I thought back to my first moments on Khao San Road, and how I wasn’t really able to process that experience until this moment. That piece of Bangkok would be like going to Times Square for a few days, and saying, “Wow, New York really is wild! There’s so much going on! I think I like it!” It takes seeing other parts of the city, and even getting away from the city, to begin to see what that city might really be, what it might be like to live there, or to be from there, or to visit from the outskirts to work or play…

I arrived at the hotel with my mondo pack, which reception packed away for me as they directed me to the 6th floor for the Super Bowl Party. It was an event/function space, which had been rented out by the NFL fan club of Bangkok. It cost $9 to get in, but included an enormous buffet of both Western breakfast food (pancakes, eggs, bacon, croissants, sausage…) and Thai food (noodles, rice, veggies, chicken, some kind of DIY milky, gelatinous dumpling soup…), plus all the juice and coffee 100 people at 6:30 in the morning could need. It was already into the first quarter when I arrive, and I spotted Brian, Jack, and Nok at a table. I grabbed a plate and joined them. They were rooting for the Colts, but I found myself rooting for the Saints, so I went with it. The NFL fan club members were great. They jumped, yelled, and cheered at every play, and frequently swapped money when unexpected things occurred in the game. One funny aspect was that the Thai sports network broadcasting the game showed only two commercials, for their own station, over and over… so no Super Bowl commercials! It was definitely all about the game for the people there.

Afterwards, we posed for a big group picture, and Jack, Nok, Brian and I headed out. They knew that I was eager to see a Thai mall (hey, I seen them in Rio and Cape Town. Leaving out Bangkok, known for it's craziness of markets and shopping, would have been a shame!), so Nok drove us to the older mall in Bangkok. The Rio mall was pure, a respite for the middle class; the Cape Town mall was fun and young, with overflowing nightclubs and chi-chi restaurants; and the Bangkok mall was a Thai marketplace, like so many I had seen, but surrounded by white tiles and escalators. The stores were a quarter of the size of stores in US malls, and there were just as many set up in the mall corridors and spaces below the escalators as in the shop spaces themselves. And, it turned out, prices were negotiable, just as in the markets. Nok gave me a lesson in haggling, and I walked away with beautiful pearls that really couldn’t have been less expensive. The stores in the mall, like the markets, was grouped according to goods sold. The crew took me to the electronics section, the gold section (amazing!) and the food court. After that, we walked through a tunnel filled with balloons in the shapes of dragons for Chinese New Year, into a sub-mall, connected to but more cramped and cheaper than the mall proper. It was a maze of malls, it seems. Time was running out, so Nok, Jack and Brian drove me to Khao San Road, which was very quiet. We wandered through a wonderful bookstore (Sydney, here I come!), and had some amazing sreet food down a back alley that I never would have found I had not been with the “locals.” Brian, Nok and Jack could not have been more insightful, generous, and excited to show me different sides of the place they live. And onto the airport bus I got! Exhausted, I napped a bit, and rolled out at the terminus. As the sun set in a clear sky over the shiny, new Bangkok airport, I boarded a red-eye bound straight for Sydney (the first direct flight on the whole trip!). I slept most of the way, and woke up in Australia on a rainy morning, excited to be home again.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Last days in Cape Town, and back on the plane

Sunday was the bicycle wine tour day. The company came very highly recommended by Leslie, who took a tour with them last winter. Chris, the good egg that he is, woke me up at 6:15am so that he could get me to the wine ‘n’ bike tour’s designated pick up spot in down town at 7. He is so generous! I know he’s an early riser, but I know I was asking a lot of him while he is on his holidays from school, despite his eagerness and assurance that it was no bother at all. We rolled up early, with the promise of breakfast at a cafĂ©, but the street was populated by only a very few vendors setting up for the day, rolling big dollies loaded high with boxes. No cafes open, no bike tour companies waiting for tourists. At first Chris dropped me off, but he had a change of heart, drove around the block, and waited in the car with me until some geared-up people arrived. First a British couple, then three German guys, and then Richard, the bike tour leader. Richard walked us to the train station, and told me that the only place to get breakfast was the McCafe. Luckily, I don’t think McDonald’s coffee is that bad, and neither was the lemon muffin I ordered. Richard bought the tickets, and led us to the train platform. I remembered reading online that riding the metro in Cape Town is “a real experience,” with the recommendation to pay the extra 60 cents for a first class ticket to ensure safety and comfort. We boarded the first class car, and chatted while trying not to dose off for the hour long train ride to the Stellenbosch wine region. I found out that the British couple were a pilot and “trolley dolly,” as she described herself, so I grilled them for worst case scenarios while flying. They were so chill about it, and this really put me at ease.

We pulled into the Lynedoch station, and Richard led us a few hundred yards to a shed where the bikes were kept. We were given snack packs, helmets, mountain bikes, and water bottles, and at 9am, we were riding along the train tracks on a gravely road towards the first winery. It was beautiful, and there was a very proper wedding going on. I tried pinotage for the first time: it is the varietal that was developed by a South African vintner, and they are very proud of the international renown it has been getting (though it was way too watery and light for my taste!). My game plan was to pour out most of the glasses I was poured, and counter with at least equal amounts of water, and it was successful. As we rode from winery to brandy producers to winery, I never felt tipsy or anything! This not only ensured my taking in of all the views, and my safety on the trails. I also was able to win the “Tour de France” competition that the Germans started amongst themselves. There was a very long at steep hill that was the culmination, and they were “impressed by my muscles,” and my ability to beat them up it. The fact that they took many smoke breaks and drank heartily at the wineries may also have had something to do with my victory.

The views were breathtaking, with incredible mountains, trees, vines, and animals all around. Our final stop was for lunch, where I had a smoked salmon salad, made almost entirely with vegetable grown on their farm. The last biking leg was the most fun, with extreme downhill runs over soft dirt and big rocks that formed jumps. Definitely adrenaline inducing! Another highlight of this trip was speaking with Richard, the tour guide. He really loved South Africa, and has spent most of his adult life moving around it, from rural regions to urban ones and back, understanding the people and land here. He is proud of the changes that have occurred, and sees a bright future for peace and integration. As well, he hyped up his pending trip: riding a 660cc motor bike from Cape Town to Cairo. Anyone interested in joining me? Sounds like an amazing time…

Somehow, we missed the train back, so we wandered around a farm market until our kombi from the city arrived. The ride back was through many townships, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether they might be as deceiving as the favelas were, where people lead content lives, just in a different setting. Clean laundry hanging out to dry, electricity lines to most houses, cars, playgrounds…

Chris and Ryan picked me up a gas station, and brought clothes along so I could get changed for the braai (pronounced “bry”) we were heading to. A braai is a South African barbeque, with pork and lamb chops, special sausages (vors), chicken, salads, etc. We entered the gated community where their friend Grant lived, who was hosting the braai. I met about a dozen of Chris and Ryan’s friends, who were so kind, genuine, funny, and gracious. Some were preppy, some were surfers, some were into the rave scene. All were interesting and engaging. Grant was an amazing host, continually refilling drinks and tending the grill perfectly. I met Leslie’s friend Daniel, who had an awesome sense of humor. Someone had brought a hookah, so we enjoyed strawberry shishah, beers, and wonderful food as night descended, and countless stars came out. Grant’s girlfriend made an incredible blueberry cheesecake, and I wasn’t shy about having seconds! All in all, it was a beautiful night, spent with friends, in the most chill way possible. It felt so familiar, almost like home. It made me realize that aside from the touristy things to do and beautiful beaches and mountains to frequent, I could easily spend a long time in Cape Town and be perfectly content.

I slept so well that night, and woke up with the hopes of hitting up the post office and taking a train to Simon’s Town, where I was told I could rent a bike and ride the 8 km or so to Cape Point, the southernmost point on the African continent, where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet, where countless sailors have feared to go, etc., etc. Chris and Ryan came with me to the post office, where we gave the woman behind the counter much “uphill” as we organized a bunch of packages. Chris and Ryan formed a stamp-licking assembly line. They were pros by the end, and contemplated going into business together. I guess they didn’t like the idea of me riding the train by myself, so they decided to ride along with me for part of the trip. And as it turned out, neither of them had ever ridden a metro train in South Africa! So I was happy to help enrich their lives by providing them with this experience, which I'm sure they would describe as “bleak.” As we headed to for the train, I did ask if they would rather just drive me, as the drive was 40 minutes and the train was an hour out and back. They said no, so on we went. We didn’t know how to locate the first class train, so as it pulled up, we started walking, then running to the front car. But as we got there, it started to pull away. Ryan jumped into a very crowded car, but luckily backed out before it gained too much momentum. We laughed really hard, and waited for the next (finding out in the meantime the location of the first class car). We rode along the sea all the way to Fish Hoek, where we transferred to a bus to Simon’s Town. The two guys rode with me all the way, just to make sure I would be ok. Once I was “safely” in a “cab,” they turned around and headed back to the city. It turns out it is 30km to Cape Point, far too long to ride to and fro at 2pm. So I got a kombi driver to take me out to the national park for a fairly pricey sum. But hey, I had no options, considering my desire to visit this amazing place.

We saw baboons on the ride out (scary! Wayne, the driver, said, “don’t be afraid, they only bite if you hold on too tightly to your bag as they are trying to steal it.” Thanks, Wayne…), and drove along sweeping cliff sides, through the park and up almost to the lighthouse at Cape Point. I was getting more and more excited, already able to see both oceans on either side of us. From the lot, it was a 20 minute walk up stairs and ramps to the lighthouse. I made it in no time, taking copious photographs along the way. Once at the top, I was amazed not by the merging of two oceans, but by the seamlessness between them. It made me realize how arbitrary human efforts to draw lines, divisions, and borders are in the face of something as commanding as the sea. And in South African, where all citizens were enfranchised in…1994. Borders and lines have real consequences, and come from real ideas, though “real” and “right” are not the same thing, nor are they universal. Boundaries are necessary for our different ways of life, but it is important to remember that their arbitrariness makes them very malleable, if enough people and things come together to make changes. This can occur consciously and unconsciously, making it important to be aware of the kind of life one wants to live.

Lucky for Wayne, I kept all this in my head. I asked him to take me to the Cape of Good Hope, just to the south west of Cape Point. It is the southernmost point, and it took everything in me not to cry! I went down to the water, and it jumped up and said hi, which I really appreciated. I couldn’t tell you now which ocean it was… probably both. It made my heart rush to picture a map of the world, and to picture myself on it; to think back to high school history class and remember learning about the importance of this place during the “age of exploration,” wondering if it crossed my mind that I would be there a couple of years later. Wayne took me past ostriches eating in the sandy banks along the Atlantic, and to Boulders Beach, where hundreds of weird, still, gawking two foot tall penguins were standing around on rocks and hills, as if waiting for a boarding call or a bus arrival. The only one doing anything was digging a hole under a bench. Hmm.

On the train home, I got in the nearest car. It was, apparently, economy class, and though I did get some stares from my fellow riders, everything was completely fine. Chris was grateful to god to hear from me, thinking I was long since kidnapped and on my way up the coast. I went for a swim in the heated pool at Chris’s apartment complex, had a delicious dinner courtesy of Chris and Jason, and we headed out for my farewell drinks at their favorite pub, Forries.

Forrester’s Arms is a very quaint pub, with a very big and beautiful beer garden in the back. Chris, Jason and I had lagers under the branches and little lights as we waited for Lauren, a good friend of Dan D’s, to arrive. I had no idea what she was doing in Cape Town, where she was from, or how Dan knew her. I just knew that he wanted us to meet up, so we made it happen. She arrived, and turned out to be one of the loveliest, most interesting people you could ever meet. She was in Cape Town working for FIFA (the World Cup is occurring here in a few months, and the country is completely abuzz), and knew Dan through work in NYC. We laughed, and talked travel, Cape Town, and New York. Ryan and Stasha showed up, and livened up the party. Then Grant and Daniel came, and we got downright loud! But I think it was a school night, so we turned it in pretty early, after a reflection session on the balcony.

The weather has followed a certain pattern since I have been in Cape Town: breezy and cool in the morning, warm and very windy during the day, and cloudy, cool, and windy at night. Not bad, but not ideal, either. Today, I woke up and there was not a cloud in the sky, it was still as a church, and the sun had already warmed the balcony by 7.30am. I stretched, and went out to check the cloud situation over Table Mountain, as my plan was to take the cable car up before I had to pack and head to the airport. I looked out, and not only were there absolutely no clouds, the mostly-full moon was hanging just above the mountain. Unbelievable! Ryan drove me to the cable car, and I headed right up. I took in some incredible views, of the nearby mountain ranges, the city, the beaches, the rocks, and clouds... After snapping lots of shots and making the round up there (it’s flat on top, hence “Table Mountain”), I grabbed a coffee and watched the moon set over the ocean, and thought about the east coast, where it was still out in the dark, about Hawaii, where it was probably just rising for the night. It really does connect us! And it’s so darn beautiful…

A cab back, a quick packing job, and goodbyes to the gang. Chris brought me back to the post office (I wanted to give more uphill to the people there), and to the airport. He is such a sweet, caring guy (sorry to blow your tough guy cover!), and I am so grateful to him and his friends for all of they did for me. I really hope to return the favor at home! We had a lovely goodbye, and I was on Mango Air to Joburg! That’s where I am right now, eating dried fruit, waiting for the Qatar Airways counter to open to I can check into my flight to Doha, where I’ll have an hour layover (yikes!) until my flight to Bangkok. I was looking up Bangkok hostels online, and upon consulting a map, I realized that Thailand is going to be a very different place than I’m used to! The streets look confusing, the street names look very difficult to pronounce, and I can’t read the Thai alphabet… but it will be a very cool feeling to again be out of my skin, which is a feeling I love. I guess I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t love it. People say that Asia is very different than Europe, Latin America, and the rest of the West. They live lives very unlike ours. So my first time in Asia will likely be interesting! Wish me luck on those long flights… I lost my gelsemium, and am not looking forward to flying without it.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

the perfect days don't stop

Today was just lovely! Woke up feeling fit and raring to go. Raring (http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?search=raring&searchmode=none). Maybe not that intense. I’m not super bright in the morning. Kind-of dumb, really. But once I had my coffee, I was alert enough to be excited for our morning at the Salt River Market. It is in a nearby suburb called Woodstock, and runs each Saturday in the summer. Ryan and Stasha go every week, and were excited for Chris and me to experience it. They are all so sweet in their excitement to find things that they think I’ll like (which they don’t know is almost anything, including a mall or a post office). We arrived to find many vendors with handmade clothing and crafts, and two huge semi-outdoor rooms with dozens of food vendors selling fresh baked goods, omelets and crepes, tuna burgers, wine, tapenades, biltong (dried kudu and beef)… standard lovely Saturday market fare! I had a make-it-yourself yogurt, fruit and granola bowl which was just perfect. We sat at long communal tables as French/Middle Eastern inspired music played from the large speakers, sort-of successfully creating the ethnic marketplace vibe the organizers were going for (though Ryan didn’t buy it: “What’s with this music, ay? Derelicte…”). We walked around the clothing and jewelry shops, and the boys were very patient with Stasha and my gazing and re-gazing.

We walked back to the little dirt lot on a side street where we had parked our car (Chris had to go the wrong way on a one-way to get there), and the attendant told us that if we waited for a minute, we could see the Coon Carnival. I wasn’t sure what that meant, though I could hear some band music in the distance. (Just looked this up and found the most poorly written, least informative Wikipedia article ever: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kaapse_Klopse. Here’s another take: http://www.rebirth.co.za/cape_town_coon_carnival.htm) I told everyone that we could go if they didn’t want the car blocked in, but they agreed that, no, it would be something I would likely enjoy. So we walked up this little one-way past some brightly colored, newly painted houses (though the roofs and brick fences were looking a little beat-up) and could see people waiting in the streets, and a group of people in glittering blue, silver, yellow and green in the distance. We parked ourselves inconspicuously under a tree, and waited for the band to approach and pass. The music sounded awesome: there were mostly brass horns and some hide-skin hand drums, playing complex counterpoints really tightly. We could see two cute kids in little glittery suits leading the way, and then older children in white band uniforms following. But they all appeared to be turning off the street and into a house about 15 meters ahead of where we were. So I left the gang to walk a little closer and take some pictures. I wound up getting wedged in between the band itself, a parked car, and two elderly people, as the band played their last song before taking a break for croissants, samosas, and fresh fruit. The man to my right told me to take as many pictures as I wanted, that they would even pose with me! “They” were men and women in shimmering band-type suits, whose entire faces and heads were painted with Carnivalesque patterns in silver, green, blue, and yellow glitter paint. They were so intricate! And those who weren’t playing music were dancing with vehemence. I looked around at all of these happy people, enjoying music and smiling, and I realized the tenuousness with which I found myself in this exact place at this exact time. Leslie’s friends, the market, the one-way street, the decision to go back and try another piece of biltong… and it all led to this gift, this bright shiny music surrounded by these bright shiny heads on a small street on a sunny day in Cape Town. And they were taking a lunch break, just like all the bands I marched in did. Their actions looked so familiar in this way, despite the fact that little else resembled my experiences in the marching band. Once the band stopped for their break, I asked my photo-friendly friend of the band was from this neighborhood, and he said no, they were from Bonteheuwel (thanks for the spelling, Chris!), but that they sometimes marched here. I asked if he lived nearby, and he was proud to tell me that his was the big pink house on the corner. There were people of all ages hanging out, and it felt like such a nice neighborhood, though Chris and Ryan didn’t seem to think it would be incredibly safe at other times of day. I’m not sure.

After this euphoric experience, Ryan and Stasha turned in for a nap, and Chris and I headed to the beach. Since I’ve gotten here, the temperature has been a little cool (low 70s) and with VERY strong winds, winds that you would expect to feel at the Cape of Good Hope. They have blown my bag off my shoulder, have impeded my ability to walk with ease. So the beach hasn’t been the best option for most days. Indeed, our time at Fish Hoek was characterized by a wind so strong, we left the beach because we weren’t dressed warmly enough to endure it for more than half an hour. But today felt a lot warmer and stiller, so to the Atlantic beaches it was! After briefly getting lost (and learning that South Africans call traffic lights “robots”), we drove over the mountain to the beaches. The water was the most vivid turquoise blue imaginable close to the sand, and the richest azure farther out. The afternoon sun made dancing diamonds across the whole sea. It was so beautiful. Cliffs line the beaches, and huge, soft rock formations make little coves along the coast, where people can enjoy the wildly soft, white sand sheltered from the wind. We parked on a cliffside at Clifton, and walked down to the sand. We set up camp, but realized we weren’t as sheltered as we had hoped. Every five minutes or so, warm winds would blow sand pellets at us. But it was worth it to be in the warm sun. I even went for a swim in the 12 degree water (55) (The Atlantic is clear, clean, calm and frigid. The Indian is cloudy, shark-infested, with big swells, and beautifully warm). I lost my breath from the cold, but stayed in long enough for a nice little swim. Chris and I walked along the beaches north for a bit, then went back up to the road to walk to Camps Bay, the next beach. It reminded me a bit of Sydney, with chi-chi cafes along the ocean-front street, and beautiful people basking in the sun under mountains rising out of the clear sea. But the mountains here are a big more majestic, though the cliffs themselves are less dramatic. We split a perfect pizza, with pancetta, avocado, and peppadew (semi-hot, semi-sweet little peppers that are so nice…), and headed back to the flat. I took a huge shower, and decided to go see Avatar 3D at the local movie theater solo while Chris watched Chelsea win the football game. He dropped me off, but it was sold out, and so was every single other movie. Luckily, the security guard I asked for directions to the theater mentioned that there was another theater, which, I correctly suspected, was an arthouse theater. So I bought a ticket for $3 for “An Education,” and a popcorn for $1.50. I was the only person under 60 in the theater, which, I guess, made sense for a Saturday night in hip Cape Town. As well, every single person in my row informed me that I was late as I excused myself past them. Every one! Funny, no? I was like, “Sorry…sorry…ok…I know…” I’m going to bed early to be at the meeting place at 7am. I am going on a highly recommended wine tasting tour on bikes tomorrow (21km!) in Stellenbosch, and I want to feel fit and rearing to go!

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 5th or 6th 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 (https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZB8L-mR0Y8y3A2WnomuQGblDmqpR-b2KXM9dfPtv1jmQm2z7mRCL4FXWybJs7qqVLxXG8-6LTpF1vzLQlMF0SIA1mE-GUnfX0Xv4rhJmGXM_mc23PafOOnNBLjMhHy5tBVr7tIwMdqvI/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 19th 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, 9th 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 20th 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 CafĂ© 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…