South Africa - 6

I got into Johannesburg in the afternoon, a Sunday. I called the hostel and they told me a driver was waiting there at the airport, about to leave. They said his name was Jamma. He was wearing a blue shirt. To hurry up.

I found him. We walked back and he called to a skinny blond girl sitting on a bench. She picked up her hiking bag and Jamma took us to his Explorer and we got in and he drove into the city.

The girl was Polish. Her hair was greasy and pulled back into a ponytail. Her eyes were blue. Her face was sunburned. She smiled when I asked her questions. She’d been living in Scotland for four years, living on an island and taking care of horses and working at a restaurant. She took a couple months off for the winter and was going on an overland tour in a converted truck from South Africa up to Kenya. They’d stop at the big nature reserves and camp-out at night along the highway. There were a dozen other people going. The truck was leaving from the hostel we were headed to, from the Backpackers’ Ritz.

There was some traffic.

We got to the Ritz. It was at the end of a lane of big mansions and offices-inside-mansions. There were black metal fences and electric wire around each place. You could see off into the hills between each place. The hills were all trees.

There were two gates to enter the Ritz. Two fences. In between the fences were thick coils of razor wire, wrapped through bushes and tree branches.

The Ritz was in an old mansion.

A tall fat white-haired guy was working the desk. He had a scratchy low voice. When the girl and I gave him our passports he laughed at our pictures and asked what we’d been on. He explained where everything was in the hostel, how to get stuff, what was nearby. He said it like he was reading a list he’d had to read too many times.

There was a kitchen but the guy said there wouldn’t be any dinner, that he’s the cook but hasn’t felt like cooking for a while.

There was a pool in the backyard of the place, down by a guest house. The water was green. There were a few kids sitting around on the grass drinking beer. Some of them were on the same overland tour as the Polish girl. I walked down there and sat on the grass and didn’t know what to do. There was a girl lying off by herself on a higher part of the lawn. She had dark hair and dark eyes. I thought maybe she was from South America.

I walked up and checked my mail to see if my friend C. had made any more plans to come visit. She hadn’t written.

I walked out to the front porch. That same girl was sitting there smoking a cigarette. I went back in and bought a pack at the front desk.

She was French, it turned out. She was doing an internship in Jo-burg and was waiting to get picked up by a brother in this host family she’d stayed with for a couple weeks. A tall skinny Scandinavian guy came up and said something to her. He had short gelled hair and was wearing tight white jeans and an undershirt.

I left and walked back down the lane to a busy street. The bakery and the fruit stand and everything else was shut in the shopping center to the right.

There was a lot of traffic. A lot of nice cars. Only a couple people on foot. It was warm, balmy. They said it was safe around there.

I walked to a BP station. I bought some biltong – cured spicy meat – and a Mail and Guardian, which comes out on weekends, a couple potpies and a Coke.

I walked back.

The potpies had been sitting out at the BP and were cold. I heated them in the microwave. They got hot and soft.

The Ritz is at the top of the hill and you can see almost to downtown Jo-burg. I went to a picnic table in a garden and ate my pies and watched the sun go down and listened to an episode of Entitled Opinions.

My mom gave me a call from the U.S. I told her Frithjof was supposed to be getting into South Africa today and that I hoped we’d meet up the next day. I called the two numbers he gave me to call: the taxi driver Mike and the innkeeper Richard. Mike referred to Frithjof as the professor. He said he’d tell him to call me.

I was sleeping in a big circular room at the top of a tower of the mansion. There were a dozen bunk beds along the wall but only a couple people staying the night. The windows were dusty and some of the latches were broken. Only a couple opened. The ceiling was curved and the floors were wood. You could hear echoes of your voice when you stood at the right spot. The air was thick and hot when I first walked in there and put my stuff down.

I hung around the lounge after it got dark and kept reading The Wretched of the Earth. A girl came up to me and pointed at the book and said it was great. She walked out to the front porch to smoke.

I walked out there.

Her name was Lia. She was from Italy. She said she’d read Wretched of the Earth in French for a class in Paris. She’s doing a Masters on transgenderism in Africa. She took mini-bus taxis everyday from the Ritz to Wits University downtown to research in their library. She’d spent a while in Nairobi working on the same thing at a university there. She had brown hair and skin whose best description was…stereotypically…olive oil.

She told me to check out Andre Brink. That she’d read A Dry White Season and liked it. I told her about Waiting for the Barbarians.

I went up to the dorm to go to bed. I got under the covers and lied there. It wasn’t so hot anymore. Then a mosquito hummed by my ear.

I didn’t sleep much. The mosquitoes started biting. Then a couple people checked in late and unpacked their bags and got into their beds. Then a couple people checked out early and packed up their bags and left their beds.

In the morning there was a lady working in the kitchen. I ordered toast and beans and orange juice. The toast was white bread with some butter. The beans were heated up from a can. The orange juice was a concentrate powder mix.

I took my plate back to the picnic table and ate outside again. It was sunny and humid but not too hot yet.

I went back inside to read. The fat man from the day before was lying down on the sofa in the lounge. He was watching a history show on Scotland. He said he should get some work done and got up and sauntered out to the patio and smoked a cigarette. He had a dry hard cough while he smoked.

There was a chalkboard on the wall. It was supposed to list dinner on it. It said instead Thought of Day: The great nations have always acted like gangsters, and the small nations like Prostitutes…

A couple backpackers came to check-in. The fat man made fun of their passports.

I was going to go the mall and the bakery and wait for a call from Frithjof.

South Africa - 5

A driver named Malcolm picked me up the next day. When I tried to leave the hostel the key code for the gate didn’t work. They said they changed it and gave me the new combo.

Malcolm brought me back to the consulate.

He wasn’t allowed to park in the lot. He dropped me off and said he’d be waiting in a strip mall and to just give him a missed call when I was done.

I met with a large man in a red and white Hawaiian shirt. He led me down a hallway that had a very large and original Roy Lichtenstein painting on the wall.

There were a dozen TVs in his office, stacked on metal shelving, muted, playing news and commercials and daytime talk shows. A few of them were showing Tony Blair being questioned on the invasion of Iraq.

I wasn’t able to offer much help about the thing I was brought back to talk to him about. The man in the Hawaiian shirt said it was OK.

He led me outside. It was windy and sunny. He said he didn’t care. Whatever. I gave him my e-mail address. He gave me his card.

I called Malcolm and we got back on the highway. We drove past Khayelitsha again. There was a prostitute waving a yellow flag. The oldest game in town, Malcolm said.

There was a big brush fire ahead off the road. Fire trucks were pulled up near it. The flames were blowing close to the shanties.

I got back to the hostel. One of the American study abroad students called and wanted to meet with me.

I walked onto campus. A colored guy came up to me and mumbled something and sort of put his hand out. I thought he was asking for money but just said huh? He pointed at his wrist like asking for the time. I looked at my watch and told him and walked away and felt guilty but also suspicious.

I met the student. He had a bag of laundry with him.

We went to a place next to The Nook and got a table outside. He got an Appletiser. I got a cappuccino. The tables had white tablecloths and blown-glass vases with roses in them.

He wanted to show me a documentary he made the semester before. He took out his Macbook. It was red. It was the same red as his Lacoste polo.

A toothless black homeless man came up to us and put out his hand for change. We said we didn’t have anything. He walked away.

A little disheveled black kid came up selling long-handled wooden spoons and feather dusters. We also waved him off.

There were some Afrikaner girls sitting at a table across from us. One of the girls was slouched against the booth, laughing, sipping a milkshake. She had on the same kind of sandals that my girlfriend in Argentina spent several gratuitous hours shopping for in Buenos Aires a day before I flew home to Chicago.

He showed me the documentary. It was about a school in a colored township. There were interviews with a few kids and one of the administrators of the school. There were shots of the township. They were shot from inside a bus as it drove through the neighborhood.

We finished our drinks and got the bill. It came in a cigar box.

I walked to the art museum. There was a permanent collection of a lot of European-style painting and an anthropological section on African tribes from the region.

One of the captions on the wall read: “Young Thembu men dressed in their beaded finery and decorative head-cloths on their way to intlambe: a formal gathering of their peer group organized as an age association, which has important socialization functions and to which any initiated males and marriageable females belong.”

I walked upstairs. There were a lot of gray-haired white people looking at drawings on the walls. There was a new show opening of illustrations done by a couple early European settlers of Cape Town.

I was looking at a portrait of some Cape Malay slaves. An old lady came up next to me and said the slave girl’s hairstyle was very modern, like the mannequins in the fashion stores today.

The only non-white person was a kid on the museum staff helping set-up chairs.

It was a gathering of the Friends of the Museum. They took their seats and a younger man started explaining this illustrator and how gentleman in those times would be able to draw quite well and so on.

I stayed back from the chairs and just kept looking closely at the drawings.

A lady started coughing and staggered out to the hall. Her continued hacking echoed from the hallway back into the hushed gallery. Her cell phone then went off with the familiar Nokia tune and also echoed back into the hushed gallery.

I walked past the crowd and tried to get out. A lady, one of the Friends’ organizers, asked didn’t I want to stay for the talk?

I looked at her, paused. She said oh go on no you don’t.

I walked back to the entrance of the museum. There were a few monographs for sale. I saw one on Willie Bester, the sculptor. The guy at the front desk gave me a copy. I paid. Then I asked for a second one, for my friend C. who told me she was going to come visit me from France.

I walked a couple blocks outside of town, to a creek. The sidewalks ended.

I walked back downtown. I took a picture of a shadow of a tree on a white wall and noticed some guys down the street looking at me. I walked past them. One of them was selling mangoes. I asked for two. He wanted to sell me a whole box. Then he offered four with a fifth thrown in free for twenty Rand. I asked for two. He said five for twenty. I walked away.

I went to a Pick ‘n Pay and bought a couple pot pies and a big slice of watermelon. At the checkout the guy in front of me took out an old yellow plastic bag. The cashier took it like she expected to and put the groceries inside. I got up and said I’d use my backpack. It didn’t seem to be a big deal.

I walked back to the hostel and re-heated my curry beef pie in the microwave and ate it with the watermelon at a picnic table in the shade. I read some more of Waiting for the Barbarians.

A couple was in the kitchen near me. The wife asked where the milk was. Her husband said it’s in a plastic pouch next to the water!

I walked to a park. There were a lot of black people barbequing and hanging out. I didn’t see any white people. I got looks when I walked past.

I walked along a trail, under some trees, past rock sculptures. There were wildfire warnings on signs. I took some pictures, read. I saw some graffiti that said ZEITGEIST, which I’d talked about in a lecture in Argentina.

That night the undergrads called me up and invited me to an informal gathering of their peer group. It was a barbeque, a braai. Their dorm was down the road from my hostel.

I called them when I got there. We walked past a couple other dorms. A bottle was thrown out a window and smashed on the ground. There was hooting and yelling and people talking loudly and happily.

There was a security door to get into the dorm. It was a thick glass sliding door that opened in the middle and shut after a few seconds. It made a merciless whoosh when it closed. It seemed like the doors to a pressure lock of a spaceship or underwater research station.

The girl who met me said Bradley spent like several minutes with them emphasizing that these doors will hurt you very badly and you just have to be calm and step right through and not mess around.

We got up and stepped through and walked to the courtyard.

There were a lot of study abroad students milling around. One kid from Mexico. One from Iran. A lot of Americans. There was boerewors and potatoes and ostrich meat on the grill. There was some wine in plastic cups to drink.

A couple students came into the courtyard. A girl was pushing a metal grocery cart. She heaved it aside and they walked upstairs to a room.

We ate. Talked. I was going on and on to this one girl about this friend of mine C. who seemed like she was going to come visit me. I hadn’t seen her in person for almost a year and a half, and even that last time was just for a few hours.

This girl and I got to talking about relationships. She’s from a farm town in the Great Plains and said if she marries a lousy husband then that just must be Christ’s plan for her.

The Iranian kid was talking to an American about how big America is and the American said five thousand kilometers and the Iranian went “Five thousand kilometers…wheeumph!”

The American talking to him had long blond hair slicked back and held down with a sweatband. I asked him what he was doing at Stellenbosch. He said he’s in Arts, so he can do anything.

I left. The girl I was talking to walked me out and opened the threatening sliding door for me and gave me a hug and said bye.

I got back to my hostel and took down my clothes from the hangars and folded up all the paper and brochures and maps I’d gotten since I’d arrived. I was leaving for Johannesburg the next day.

I was going to there to meet up with Frithjof Bergmann. He was flying to Jo-burg from Germany the day after I’d get there. He’d sent me a couple e-mails with the numbers of the taxi driver and of the private house where he stays. Though he said I couldn't stay at the house because it's sort of a brothel.

In Stellenbosch they’d kept asking if I had accommodations and an itinerary with Frithjof. I just kept saying it’d be taken care of.

I made a reservation at the Backpackers’ Ritz, a hostel in the northern suburbs of Johannesburg. The biggest thing it's closest to is the Hyde Park shopping mall. They were going to send somebody to pick me up from airport.

Bradley had given me some laminated in-case-of-emergency contact info cards. I put one in my notebook, one in a pocket of my backpack and one in my shoe. I charged my phone. I got into bed and finished Waiting for the Barbarians.

I went to sleep.

South Africa - 4.2

We walked around the corner to the Slave Lodge, which is now a Cape Town museum about slavery in South Africa. The Keiskamma Altarpiece was there in the entrance hall for a few more days.

Bradley checked his watch and said we must’ve missed the noon canon, which is a canon that gets shot off at 12:00 and used to be a way to set your clock or watch but now is traditional and tends to frighten visitors and children.

The Keiskamma altar is in the style of the Issenheim altarpiece, which was made in France in the 1500s. It was made at a monastery that was treating people with ergotism. Ergotism in those days came from eating bad bread, with a fungus in it. Symptoms of the disease are divided into the convulsive and the gangrenous.

The Keiskamma piece was made mostly by women in Hamburg, which is a South African village in the Eastern Cape. The village is poor and a good number of people there have or have died of HIV/AIDS.

A girl from the village was working at the museum as a guide for the altarpiece. She told us all about it and with Bradley on one side and her on the other opened the heavy wide panels and showed all the scenes of the altar. She said all the books about the altarpiece were sold out but this video playing on the small television set on the pedestal to her left explained how it was made and was (the DVD) available for purchase. She said the altar’s been touring around the world but is almost done now, but that it’s too big to be put in the church in Hamburg.

We walked into the slavery museum but there was a rather unreasonable and ocularly-fatiguing amount of text on the walls and we got tired of reading and walked back outside into the sunshine.

We walked down Government Avenue, a leafy sidewalk away from traffic that goes past the national library and parliament and one of the president’s houses. Bradley and I talked about President JZ. We agreed that while he may well be a convicted rapist and doesn't know much about AIDS, he at least doesn’t disdain and talk above the poor people who’ve elected him – unlike his predecessor.

A flock of schoolchildren came at us. School’d gotten out. They were wearing baby blue blazers with some complex school crest over the breast and baby blue vests and ties. The boys were wearing wool slacks and the girls skirts. Most of the kids were coloured or black.

We waded through the children. I asked Bradley what language they were speaking. …English, he said.

We passed the Company’s Gardens, which was made by the VOC to grow food for the passing ships. It’s a public park now that’s lush and quiet and has a lot of tourists and homeless people sitting and hanging out and walking around inside it.

We got to the end of the path, back to a busy street.

I asked if we could get some coffee.

We walked down the street to the original Vida e Caffe, which is a chain all over the country now. It’s a simple chic café, with a big red awning out front. The design of the signs and menu have a like “Keep Calm and Carry On” British royalty PSA aesthetic. The logo’s a shield with a cross inside and a crown on top.

It’s near the art school of the University of Cape Town and near a lot of design and media studios. There was one kid sitting at a table inside with a greasy pompadour and a checker vest. On the wall was a big slab of cork with the Vida e Caffe escutcheon carved in bas-relief. There were designer t-shirts and bags for sale in the back near the bathroom. It was standard hipster fare: faded bright colors, precocious child-type illustrations.

Bradley and I got cappuccinos at a table out front. I faced the street and could see Table Mountain. The clouds had cleared and it was blue and clear and warm like a fleece blanket.

The coffee was served in a white ceramic cup that had the red emblem stamped onto it. It came on a white saucer with a tiny spoon and a square of Lindt dark chocolate.

There were some kids next to us at a table looking at fashion sketches and thumbnail photos in an album. The girl with the book had horn-rimmed Ray-Bans up on her curly hair. She was wearing a dark purple plaid shirt and black short shorts.

Bradley and I talked about what he studied and how he ended up in South Africa and how he did his PhD in Cape Town. The traffic was noisy. We had to speak up.

We sat in the shade and lounged and I looked at this enormous stone mountain glowing in the sun and thought how tiny Mount Royal in Montreal looks compared to this thing.

We walked back to Gov’t Ave. and went to the National Gallery. There were three shows on. The first in the front hall was a solo show on Alexis Preller, who was a 20th century white South African painter. His stuff is a cross between like Diego Rivera and Juan Miró and Thomas Hart Benton, but based on a lot of old African culture. Most of his paintings are portraits of objects that look wood-carved, with a lot of arcs of color floating around.

The next show was a photo exhibit on the four South African Nobel Peace Prize winners: Albert Luthuli, Desmond Tutu, FW de Klerk and Nelson Mandela. There were paintings and sculptures and photography by recent South African artists, too.

There was Mashego Segogela’s little wood sculpture-tableau “Satan’s Fresh Meat Market” – which has got black demons eating various human body parts and an angel in white filming things with a camera and a green shack with more limbs dangling as if to dry and cure and another demon working inside.

There were sculptures by Wille Bester like “For Those Left Behind”, which is a sculpture of a fat white police officer at a machine gun with a pit bull behind him, its mouth in a harness. They’re on top of a wheeled pedestal. The whole thing is made of old metal machine parts, soldered together.

The last show was called Dada South? and had some recent SA art along with the best European Dada stuff – like a sculpture of a Prussian officer with a head like a pig’s, dangling from the ceiling. They had some of John Heartfield’s photomontages for AIZ magazine that he made in the 1930s in Germany. They had the one called “Hurray, the butter is gone!” that has a German family sitting around their kitchen table all happily eating bolts and bullets and bike parts. There’s a portrait of Hitler in the background and the kitchen wallpaper has Swastikas on it.

The museum was closing at five. Bradley and I left and walked out to the gardens in front. The Southeaster wind was blowing but the afternoon was clear and bright.

A little kid ran past us. He’d dropped his green plastic lunch box and it was getting blown down the path just out of his reach. He kept running after it. It got blown underneath the fence around a statue. He squatted down and tried to reach for it but couldn’t. Bradley and I laughed and continued walking.

There was a hill straight ahead of us, in the distance, about a third as high as Table Mountain. I asked what it was.

It was Signal Hill, Bradley said. You can drive or hike up there and watch the sunset.

We drove up and walked around. You could see the new soccer/World Cup stadium near the ocean. There was a red ship in the harbor that goes and back forth to Antarctica. Another ship had printed on its side “PEACE BOAT”, and is apparently a floating NGO. Bradley said the Semester-at-Sea ship stops here too. One day he was near the waterfront and felt there were just way too many American girls everywhere so he looked near the docks and saw their large and entitled S-a-S ocean liner.

I asked him what he thought of the movie “Blood Diamond”. He said it was all filmed in South Africa, actually, even though most of it supposedly takes place in Sierra Leone. For the city scenes they just went to the parts of SA that look a little more run-down and black and typically “African”. The scene with Jennifer Connelly as she gets a cell phone call from a mortally-wounded-but-spiritually-redeemed Leonardo DiCaprio was shot at the V&A Waterfront, which was where Bradley and I’d be headed for dinner and a movie.

There was a partridge and her cheepers walking on the hill near us. I asked Bradley if he remembered how to say “happily ever after” in Spanish.

We drove back down and passed through Bo-Kaap, which is a Muslim neighborhood at the base of Signal Hill known for pastel-colored houses and hilly streets. On the radio there was speculation that Tiger Woods was in Cape Town for sex addict outpatient therapy.

We parked and went to the V&A Waterfront. It’s a luxury mall/hotel/office/apartment complex. Dubai World bought it a couple years ago for a billion dollars. Dubai World is about $60 billion in debt, these days.

We walked up to Primi Piatti, an Italian restaurant chain that, so it says of itself, “embraces creative exchanges and Urban Energy”.

We sat at a table that was outside the restaurant, as it were al fresco, but still inside the mall.

A waiter came over and took our order for some Sauvignon Blanc and a pizza with chicken and broccoli and sun-dried tomatoes. Another waiter came over and asked if we were being served. Their uniforms were day-glo orange jump suits.

We got our bottle of wine in a day-glo orange plastic pail filled with ice. A third waiter came over to see if everything was OK. The second waiter brought the pizza. Later the first waiter started clapping and bobbing his head and dancing around slightly. We were there early and the other tables were empty.

Some of Bradley’s students came up to us. They’d been at the mall shopping for the J&B Met, which is a big annual horse race that’s also kind of an informal fashion show where you’re supposed to dress either expensively or cleverly to the theme, which this year was In Full Colour. The Met is, so it says of itself, “A spectacle of glossy vibrancy and intense exhilaration enveloped in a cauldron of sensual excess that sets the pulse racing.”

The girls said they were having a hard time finding dresses. There was a compromise-suggestion of colorful scarf-wearing.

Our table was near one end of the mall and its big bay windows. You could see Robben Island, the old prison colony, in the distance, from where we sat on day-glo orange cushions, sipping our Sauvignon Blanc.

We finished and walked to the movie theater and met all the study abroad kids. We saw “Skin” a new feature-length South African film about a lady named Sandra Laing, who was born to white parents but had the darker skin of a coloured person. She grew up during apartheid and suffered all sorts of absurd racist things. In one scene her father – played by "Jurassic Park"’s Sam Neill – returns home after trying to get his daughter re-classified as white and sees her by the banks of a stream and stops on the other side of the stream and shouts, in close-up, “You’re white again!”

It was unclear just why the mother of the family was giving birth to coloured-looking children. The film made it seem like that it’s a possible genetic fluke, as if the recessive genes of an ancestor can just pop up from generation-to-generation. It really seemed like the mother was just having an affair with a coloured person but never got found out nor brought herself to admit it.

The movie got out and some of the undergrads wandered off to buy things and we had to wait for them to be herded again. A van came and picked us up and brought us back to Stellenbosch.

Joe had come and said he’d interviewed Carl Lewis that afternoon on his radio show.

We got back to Stellenbosch and the undergrads got dropped off at their respective dorms and were asking each other if they were gonna go out or what they were gonna do Friday and responding that no they had a big day and had a lot of laundry and some reading to do etc.

I got back to my hostel and shut the windows so the mosquitoes wouldn’t get in. I went to bed.

South Africa - 4.1

Bradley picked me up at quarter to nine. He was taking me to the U.S. Consulate and downtown Cape Town. They’d invited me there because of the video contest I won. The State Department had paid for my whole trip.

We drove in on another sunny clear day, past the vineyards and farms, past the ostriches and horses, past the prostitutes, past the still-being-built hangars of Cape Town Film Studios.

I told Bradley about the sand on the highway the day before. We turned off onto the N2, one of the big highways that go downtown.

We got in to the city, past the two big cooling towers of the old power plant, past a golf course. Bradley pointed out the neighborhood he lives in. Its old name used to be Driekoppen, which means “three heads”. A white colonist was murdered there in the 1700’s by three slaves. The slaves were caught. Their heads were put on pikes as a reminder.

We drove south around Table Mountain and got to the consulate by ten. We called ahead to let them know we were getting close. I said now they could light the sparklers for our arrival.

We pulled into the lot and got waved to a parking spot. A guy in a uniform came over and made us pop the hood. They call the hood a bonnet in South Africa. A lady came over too with a shammy cloth and stroked the trim of the car door and the handle.

We got out and I tucked in my shirt and Bradley put on a sport coat. We walked up, got buzzed in, emptied our pockets, went through the metal detector. We slid our passports to a man behind a glass panel. He gave us laminated clip-on badges. We had to leave our stuff, cell phones too, in little wood lockers in the entryway.

Our meeting was short. We sat at a circular table in the café/canteen, in a tall bright geometrically-arrayed-wood-design decorated atrium.

I was offered coffee. I refused. The person who offered seemed confused. How about a glass of water, she asked. I said OK. A couple other people came and talked with us. One man gave me his card. Another man ordered a panini and sat with it while we spoke then wrapped it in napkins when we finished.

I tried to explain why I was there. Who Frithjof Bergmann was, what he was doing, why I was going to Johannesburg to find him. I wasn’t able to give a simple answer, and they didn’t quite seem to buy it.

I talked about the video I made, for the contest I’d won. They said they hadn’t seen the video; it wasn’t coming up on their computers. Flash wasn't working.

They asked the person I came there with a lot of questions about what he was up to, where he was living these days, who he’s working with.

They invited me to come back the next day and meet with somebody else there. The man who’d given me his card said let me you give my card and gave me another one. I said OK I’d come back.

We were led out and opened up our lockers and got our stuff and traded our ID badges for our passports.

We drove back to the city center. The Table Blanket cloud was settling over Table Mountain and covered the sun and made it a gray day.

We drove through a rich neighborhood on the east side of the mountain, where even some European royalty have homes, where some other consulates are. Bradley said the Italian consulate’s in a mansion in this neighborhood. The street it’s on is one letter different from the street he lives on a few miles away. He said very regal and wax-sealed envelopes sometimes show up in his mailbox, especially around the holidays. He’s tried to say something to the post office, but it keeps getting messed up.

We drove up to Kirstenbosch Gardens, a big botanical garden at the base of the mountain. It’s got trails that slope up toward the mountain with beds of flowers and grasses and trees from around the country. We hiked up to the fynbos section, which is shrubland that only grows in the Western Cape. It’s so diverse that it forms one of the six floral kingdoms. Fynbos has got so many so many unique species it’s diverse as tropical rainforests.

We walked up to a lawn. A tour guide was coming down a trail with a few hikers. Bradley knew her. If clouds come up over Table Mountain the tours get cancelled and the hikers have to come down emergency routes.

The sky was blue and clear away from the mountain. The lawns of Kirstenbosch were trim and tidy and psychotropically green.

We walked back down and past a music pavilion. There’s a summer music series – sunset concerts on Sunday nights. There’s a big pitched lawn running down to a band shell. The concert that Sunday was going to be Lira Molapo with HHP and RJ Benjamin. Bradley was bringing his study abroad students there for it.

The place reminded me of Ravinia in Highland park, near Chicago. For the second time in Cape Town I felt like I was in the North Shore of Chicago.

We left and drove into the city. There were guys selling complex reptilian beaded sculptures at the stoplights just outside the garden.

We got lunch at Mariam’s, a Cape Malay Halal restaurant. We got salomis, which have got curries baked inside roti, a flaky flatbread.

I asked Bradley where the bathroom was. He pointed me to the back of the place. I walked in there and saw a sink, then a floor and some mats. No toilet. It was the prayer room. I walked back out and sat down.

We ate lunch and made a plan for the rest of the afternoon. Some of Bradley’s students were taking the train into town and were going to meet us at night to see a new movie that’d come out at the V&A Waterfront theater.

We were thinking of going to Robben Island but we called and tickets were sold-out. We left and headed for the Slave Lodge.

South Africa - 3

Cezanne picked me up in the morning in a VW rented from Budget.

We drove out of Stellenbosch on the R310, through wine country and green hills and stone mountains, past ostrich and horse ranches. There were prostitutes standing along the N2 junction, out in the sun, wearing bright short tight clothes, waiting.

Khayelitsha came up on the right. There were thousands of shanties made of corrugated rusty metal and faded cardboard signs and concrete and wood. You could see more of them all the way to the horizon. Wood telephone poles and concrete light posts were the only things sticking up above the houses.

The highway rose over a hill and we got near the sea. It was turqoise, streaked with lines of waves coming in. Sand was spilling onto the road from the dunes and the wind and we had to swerve and slow down.

It was getting overcast and rainy. Surfers were on the water, bobbing.

We drove down the east side of the peninsula to the national park, to Cape Point. We drove to the gate of the park. It was drizzling. The lady at the gate said it probably wasn't going to get much nicer.

Cezanne drove fast through the fynbos to the tip of the park. We parked at the stairway to Cape Point. There were dozens of big tour buses and vans and hundreds of tourists in shorts and hats and sunglasses. We walked up the stairs to the old light house.

Cezanne said he's done some TV commercials. He's never starred, but has been in the background. He did a Heineken one, recently. When he was little he was in a commercial as a tennis player.

I took some pictures in the fog and the mist. We walked down and drove to the Cape of Good Hope, the southwestern tip of Africa. I waited my turn and took a picture near the famous sign. We hiked up a trail and sat on the side of a cliff while the sun came out and the water turned a deep shining true blue.

We drove out of the park. We didn't see any zebras or ostriches or baboons or seals. I saw a lizard that I took a picture of, and people.

There was a stand set-up by the back gates with wood sculptures of giraffes and lions and other safari animals. There were different sizes of each sculpture, small enough to fit in your hand, or too big to fit in your car.

We drove up the west side of the peninsula, past seaside towns. There were don't-feed-the-baboons signs everywhere. There were more roadside vendors selling the same sculptures we'd seen before.

We drove along the M6 into Hout Bay. It's a toll road, along the cliffs. It gets closed sometimes because boulders fall down and crush peoples' cars and kill everyone inside while they're driving and sightseeing.

We drove past the look-out points and didn't stop. The sky was clear now and the sunlight bright and dense. My left arm was getting sunburnt while I sat shotgun.

We got into Clifton, a lavish South Beach-type part of Cape Town. It's a narrow strip between the sea and Table Mountain. Cezanne was listening to KFM, the pop station. A new Alicia Keys song about New York was getting a lot of airtime. I felt kind of trapped and suffocated as we waited in lunch hour traffic with the sea on one side and a wall of mountains on the other.

We got into the city bowl and parked near Long Street and walked to Greenmarket Square for lunch.

We went to a place called Kauai. It's a Hawaiian-themed wraps and salads and smoothies healthy fast food place. It's a South African chain. I got a Peanut Bliss smoothie delight and a chicken Moroccan wrap. Cezanne got a grilled oriental chicken salad and a Mango Bang fruit smoothie. We sat under an umbrella at a table out front along a pedestrian mall.

Cezanne got up and went to the bathroom. I heard a woman sitting nearby talking in a clear composed voice about why she lives in Cape Town and what she likes to do here and what she's looking for career-wise. There were two guys in matching grey tucked-in golf shirts sitting with her. One had a clipboard and was on the phone. The other was listening to her.

We got our food and ate. The waiter came over and asked if I was still busy. Yes, I said. He came back a while later but stayed near the entrance and looked to get my attention. I looked and he gave two thumbs up with a look on his face. I gave him a TU and he smiled and walked back in.

The girl who was talking had brown curly hair and pale skin and freckles and light eyes. She finished talking and the guys said they'd be in touch and now the other one was talking on his phone and they got up and left. She got up and went the other direction.

I asked Cezanne if you can tell the difference between a coloured person and a black person in South Africa. He said it's easy and started pointing out people nearby. But then it's more complicated than that because there's English-speaking coloureds and Afrikaans-speaking coloureds, and then blacks with all sorts of different origins.

Cezanne is an English-speaking coloured. He said his parents named him Cezanne because they were watching an arts show on TV about the French Impressionists after he was born and they liked the name. He said he's trying to get into the arts more now, feels like he should.

We drove back to Stellenbosch and I got dropped off at my hostel.

I laid down for a while then went and met Joe after his afternoon broadcast.

We met at The Mystic Boer and got Carling Black Label beers. I got a pizza with avo (avocado) and feta and bacon. Joe said South African's have a thing for feta cheese and avocado pears. We talked for a couple hours til after dark. We said bye and I walked home and went to bed.

Bradley was picking me up early the next day to go back to Cape Town and go to the Consulate.

South Africa - 2

A driver named Calvin was waiting for me at the gate of the Cape Town airport. My flight got in on time at 11PM.

We left, heading for Stellenbosch.

A little kid wearing a canvas jacket was standing on the median at a stop sign, his hand out. Calvin shook his head. The kid sat down on the curb and picked at his hair with a comb.

There was a Christian talk show on the radio. It was going back and forth from Afrikaans to English. The host was talking to call-in guests about how long they’ve all been serving the Lord.

I asked Calvin what Stellenbosch was like. Very conservative, he said.

We drove past walled neighborhoods, then out to a winding road through black hills. The only lights were out over the triumphant gated entrances to vineyards.

We got into Stellenbosch after a half hour.

Calvin slowed as some kids were walking down the street. He shouted "ahoy" at them.

We got to Banghoek Place, the hostel where I was staying.

Calvin walked to the gate with me, leaned his head close, and whispered the password for the keypad.

The front doors to the lounge were locked. There were some kids eating and one got up and walked outside and opened another gate for us.

Calvin led me in and pointed upstairs to number eight, my room, and gave me the key.

I didn’t know what kind of room I’d be staying in. I figured it’d be a shared dorm.

I opened the door.

It was a single room. It had its own bathroom, a queen-size bed with high thread-count white sheets that you really had to yank at to untuck. There were animal pelts on the floors and designer lamp shades made with recycled soda cans on the nightstands.

There was a brown gift bag on the bed.

Inside was a new cell phone, granola, juice boxes, a carton of milk, dried fruit, biltong (dried meat), peanuts, a bunch of bananas, and a signed welcome letter from Bradley.

I washed up and got into bed. A mosquito came in and was flying by my ear and keeping me awake. I turned on the lights and saw it on the wall and killed it with my slender edition of "Waiting for the Barbarians". There was blood on the cover.

I went to sleep.

* * *

In the morning I ate breakfast and read and drank some complimentary rooibos tea, which is grown in the Cape.

I looked around the place. A concrete wall surrounded the hostel. There were four wires suspended above it. It was an electric fence.

Bradley came at 10. I had been sitting on a sofa, waiting, looking towards the front gate and the street.

I saw a tall guy walking up. He was in the shade of a tree. I thought he was black. Then he got a little closer and I thought he was coloured. Then he came into the lounge and I saw he was white and tan. This was Bradley.

We walked through campus to his office. There weren't any sidewalks until close to the university buildings and student housing.

School had just started for the year. It was bright and hot and crowded. There were shorts, dresses and sandals. The buildings and lawns and students looked clean and well kempt.

Stellenbosch is one of the few South African universities that still teach in Afrikaans. The campus signs are in Afrikaans and English.

Bradley took me to his office and served me some more rooibos tea. He teaches geography at the University of Cape Town and works at Stellenbosch for CIEE.

He gave me a short version of the study abroad, welcome-to-Africa tips and rules. He went over my itinerary for the week, with some trips to Cape Town and some free time to wander through Stellenbosch.

Bradley had spent time in Latin America, too. I asked if he still read any Spanish lit. He said he liked post-coup Chilean stuff. He said it fast and it sounded like “Postkoochelean”. I remained quiet and nodded my head until I parsed the phrase and figured out what he meant.

We left to go eat lunch with one of his assistants, a recent-grad named Joe.

We went to a café called The Nook, a place painted what I guess would be Tiffany Blue and had thin chrome chairs on the patio and Death Cab for Cutie and Iron and Wine playing on the speakers. I felt like I was in the North Shore of Chicago.

The waitress came. Joe ordered a Thai chicken sandwich. I ordered a Thai chicken sandwich. Bradley ordered one, too. He made a joke about there being enough for three. The waitress didn’t get it. None of us looked at each other.

We sat and ate and talked. Joe studied philosophy, like me. Unlike me, he did what a self-respecting philosophy student should do and studied Greek and Latin. He’s written journalism, too. He’s thinking of doing a Masters in linguistics next year.

He’s the co-host of a popular afternoon-drive radio show. It’s a sports show where every so often the hosts go out and do something and bring listeners with and let the sponsors come on air and talk about what the hosts used as they did some interesting and amusing athletic outdoor thing.

We finished our sandwiches. We got more drinks. Me, a latté. Bradley, a cappuccino. Joe, another coffee with a side of honey.

Bradley left and Joe took me through the downtown.

The buildings are whitewashed and glow in the sun. Many of them are Cape Dutch style, with thatch roofs and tall curling gables.

It’s a tourist town, with big buses passing through the narrow streets. There’s Italian gelato, gourmet hamburgers, an Ernie Els restaurant called Big Easy, used bookshops and home ware stores and art galleries. One shop had large black women seated out front in traditional dress working on looms.

There’s old historical buildings still, like a magistrate’s court with a rose garden in front and the original town cathedral, called the Mother Church.

Joe took me to one of the campus bookstores. I couldn’t believe all the Routledge philosophy editions they had there. More than I’d ever seen in the U.S. or Canada.

We left and went to a bar Joe spends a lot of time at called The Mystic Boer. It’s got a lot of nostalgic Afrikaner stuff nailed to the walls like a TGIFridays in America. He said he DJs there sometimes, with CD turntables.

Joe left and I walked back to my hostel. Bradley came at six and got me for dinner.

Joe’s radio show had just ended, he said. We drove back downtown and parked and a guy in a neon vest came over and helped us pull-in. That was the car guard, the guy who tries to make sure no one steals your stuff while you’re eating or shopping or whatever.

Bradley said that a lot of car guards in Johannesburg are immigrants from other, usually Francophone African countries. He said they’re often well-educated and get brought here by recruiters for “job opportunities”. Bradley said there he just speaks French to them.

We went to the gourmet burger restaurant and met Cezanne there, another assistant.

Cezanne was a champion junior tennis player but blew out his shoulder just before university. He studied accounting but is now trying to get to Brazil to teach English.

Bradley said Brazil’s like a Creole South Africa.

Cezanne got to talking about tourists and how they expect there to be huts and tribes and spears and lions when they get to South Africa. He said he’s never been to a tribal village his whole life.

Bradley said people might complain how here across the street for instance there’s a Cape Dutch building next to a Victorian building, but that is just what makes this place what it is. And that there’s a Porsche SUV driving down this street, but shanty towns ten minutes away.

We drank white wine and ate our gourmet burgers and our French fries served in slim metal canisters.

Bradley asked for the bill. He said never let anyone take your credit card in South Africa. Even if you pay at a restaurant they’ll bring a machine out to you.

The waiter came out with the machine. We paid, said bye to Cezanne, gave the car guard a few coins and left.

Cezanne was coming in the morning to drive me to Cape Point, the southwestern tip of the continent.

I shut the windows so the mosquitoes wouldn’t get in.

South Africa - 1

I left for South Africa at the end of January.

The trip was a prize for the Exchanges Connect video contest that I won last year, for my short "A Friend in Nanjing".

The trip was supposed to be two weeks, but I extended the flight to be there five instead.

I'd been in Chicago a month since getting home from Argentina and my Fulbright grant before Christmas. It was cold and dark and bleak and I was ready to leave to go somewhere warm.

I chose South Africa - of the other countries I could've gone to - because: One, it's far away and justifies a free flight; Two, it's in Africa and I'd never been; Three, it's English-speaking and gives me some reasonable chance of getting to talk to people there unlike other far-off places like Nepal, Russia, Egypt, etc.; and, Four, I was trying to track down a philosopher, Frithjof Bergmann.

Bergmann was really the big reason South Africa loomed in my mind over other choices.

He's a German/American philosopher, a retired UMichigan prof who roams around the world trying to create what he calls New Work.

I studied New Work with one of Bergmann's former students - who's now a UIllinois phil. prof. I studied this in spring of 2006, just before I took my first study abroad trip, to China.

So this trip to South Africa wound up as this sort of grand - and grandly disappointing, in some ways - culmination, termination of a lot of things that began in 2006, or, to put it in a bit more general bildungsroman/coming-of-age terms, that began when I was an eager and confused and inexperienced student, and then resolved when I was a more cyncial, clear-headed, worldly young professional.

These thing I'm talking about that...came to term...were: deep personal relationships, a certain intellectual curiosity, a succession of traveling and scholarships and wandering through various continents.

* * *

I left on a Sunday morning. My mom dropped me off at the airport before church. She dropped me off as she had almost a year before when I left for Montreal, and soon after that when I left again for Argentina.

I was flying South African Airways, first to Washington, then to Johannesburg with a stop in Dakar, and then a last connection to Cape Town.

My first week in SA was planned by a study abroad director, Bradley. He works at the University of Stellenbosch, which is in a small city outside Cape Town. Bradley's also from Illinois, from a farm town west of my city, along I-80.

My flight from O'Hare was delayed and got me into Dulles with ten minutes to connect. After a long wait for the people mover to drive across the tarmac and get me to the right terminal, I had to run to the gate. I didn't check any luggage and just had a hiking backpack and a school backpack. I used to be self-conscious about wearing the school backpack in front, on my stomach, maybe thinking it looked weird or evoked pregnancy in some way, but it's just too convenient particularly when you have to run through an airport with two moderately-packed bags.

I brought a few books with me and a fresh Moleskine notebook my sisters gave me for Christmas. I brought Fanon's "The Wretched of the Earth" and Coetzee's "Waiting for the Barbarians", both of which had been sitting on my shelves in my bedroom for a couple years. I also brought Shaw's "Man and Superman" and Greene's "The Power and the Glory", though wondered if I'd read them as their socio-cultural relevance to South Africa was eyebrow-raisingly low.

The SAA flight was uncrowded. People had rows to themselves. My seat was next to two large women wearing puffy dresses who were talking on cell phones and didn't look at me. The stewardess told me I should move somewhere else. I went for seats by the window.

The pilot greeted the passengers in English and Afrikaans. On each seat was a blanket and pillow and a clear plastic zip pouch. Inside was a pair of brown socks, a brown nylon eye mask, a snap-together two-piece tooth brush, and a small tube of Aerodent toothpaste.

We took off in the late afternoon. Dinner was meatballs and rice, a roll, a butterfly-shaped cracker, cheddar cheese, a salad with raisins and beef, mint ice cream cake, and a Kit Kat bar. I drank ginger ale and mineral water.

I watched "District 9" on the in-flight, in-seat monitor. It's a South African film, funded by Peter Jackson, in which anthropomorphic crustacean aliens come to Johannesburg and are penned into a township quite obviously the same as those used against blacks and coloureds during Apartheid.

The film starts off nicely, using a verité style, in which all the footage is as if recorded right there in the world itself. But then that stops and the movie becomes some mild-mannered white guy trying to stand-up for the oppressed ugly dark things, with a lot of gun violence and immigrant jokes and an unfulfilling and ambiguous conclusion.

I tried to watch Steven Soderbergh's new movie "The Informant!", but the cabin was too loud and the headphones too weak to clearly hear so I turned it off and read and slept.

We got into Dakar early in the morning. The plane crew was swtiched and Sengalese airport workers wearing neon vests with large X's on them came on to clean the plane.

We waited on the runway for an hour. I got up and stretched and an American guy from San Diego started talking to me. He was working for a evangelical missionary business that does work all over the world. It was his first time in Africa too, though he'd be coming back in a few months to go to Kenya.

We took off at dawn. Kids were playing soccer in a dirt field along the runway. There were dull plain apartment flats near the airport and golf courses and pools and tennis courts near the mansions along the ocean.

In accordance with an unexplained WHO ordinance, the pilot said the plane had to be sprayed. He didn't say with what.

The flight attendants walked up the aisles, blue aerosol canisters in each hand, white clouds hissing out. The spray faded and evaporated into the air like the pilot's own explanation for such a measure.

We were sterilized. The cabin felt like the smell of fabric softener.

We were served breakfast. We got folded pancakes, a wedge of sausage, a hot tin of syrup, a cold croissant and butter. A fruit salad of an orange wedge, blueberries and raspberries. A sealed plastic container of orange juice, a container of berry yogurt, and a cup of tea.

The flight attendants spoke a prim, tidy English, while offering us drinks and meal choices and tea or coffee refills and duty-free shopping. They all wore perfumes and colognes, the odor of which trailed behind them and grazed your face like a long delicate scarf. I wondered if they did it on purpose, to reassure you of their presence and/or to counteract in its own highly chemical way the stale, airplane-food-flatulence-soaked cabin air.

We flew along the west coast of Africa, over deserts and beaches. I slept, and when not sleeping read "The Wretched of the Earth". There seemed to be something both appropriate and disgusting - or appropriately disgusting - that I was reading such a book seated in a jetliner, coasting above the clouds, being served food and drinks and multimedia entertainment, flying towards a really-not-much-more-than-a-glorified-vacation-getaway to Africa.

The pilot said turbulence was ahead, so lunch would be served early. We got a cold bowtie pasta salad with chickpeas, red peppers, and olives. A hot bowtie pasta with chicken and mushrooms and cream sauce. Some crumbly bread and Kiri cream cheese. A roll. An eclair for dessert.

We got to Johannesburg in the late afternoon. The city and the tall buildings were off in the distance, away over the hills and the suburban homes and their walls and swimming pools. The air was hazy and orange.

I had a couple hours to wait until my flight to Cape Town. I sat down in the red plastic chair of a Vida e Caffe, a new coffee shop franchise in SA.

A woman came up to me who'd seen me on the flight. She asked if my bags arrived OK. I said I hadn't checked any.

She said hers didn't come, and she's worried because the Tambo airport has a reputation for theft. Her bags wouldn't come until the evening, on another flight. She'd come from Iowa, where she was visiting her daughter.

She asked what I was doing, where I was going. I took out a map of the country in my Lonely Planet guide.

She pointed to Johannesburg and said "This is a terrible part of the world."

She and her husband live in the country, in KwaZulu-Natal province. They're not city people she said.

One of the VeC workers was dancing and strutting to some Afro-Latin music. She looked at him and shook her head and said he wasn't a Zulu.

She gave me her name and her number and said to give her a call if I pass through. She went back to her table, finished her coffee, and walked off without looking back.

I read some more, waiting, then got on the flight to Cape Town. It was the last of the evening.

Summertime is the rainy season in Jo-burg and storms usually build-up in the afternoons.

The plane took off into a thunderstorm. Lightning shone into the cabin as we gained altitude.

I was seated in an emergency exit row and sat next to the door and its large red tempting handle.

I started "Waiting for the Barbarians". I got tired and closed the book and fell asleep.