We were driven to a tiny but well recommended lodge just upstream from the falls. ‘Clever’, was to serve as our guide during our stay. His expertise of the African fauna and flora, as well as his political astuteness, proved remarkable.
The tall, broad faced lodge manager enthusiastically greeted us and promised we would be cared for like royalty. He personally showed us our “chalet” which was tucked away in the trees and about 100 feet from the Zambezi River. To describe these accommodations as “luxurious” does not do them justice.
Our days were filled with the typical “African Safari” activities. In the mornings we would be taken on “game drives” where Clever skillfully sought out wildlife and exposed us to the drama and tranquility of the African bush. Evenings were spent cruising the Zambezi, drinking wine, eating hors d'oeuvres, photographing native water life, and watching breathtaking sunsets on the African horizon.
People might be starving in Zimbabwe – but we weren’t . Someone described the modern African Safari as “one long meal interrupted by game drives”. That's about right. We ate on the banks of the river with numerous servers catering to our every need, efficiently, politely, and, in a state of quiet desperation.
In the past, this beautiful lodge was usually fully booked. Now, due to cancellations, it was only half full and reservations were drying up. One could sense the foreboding behind the “professional cheerfulness” of the staff. In a country with 80% unemployment and inflation in the millions of percent, losing one’s employment is no casual concern.
Midway on game drives we would have drinks and snacks. On occasion, Clever would cautiously delve into politics shaking his head at the harm done by “the old man in Harare”. This big proud man would look away as he expressed his fears for the future of his lodge “family” and beloved country.
One morning we traveled to the predictably magnificent Victoria Falls. Nearby, thin people strolled the streets hawking all manner of African crafts. Concerned, I paid too much for a small soapstone carving that I didn’t really want. Suddenly, we were surrounded by groups of distressed people literally begging us to buy their wares.
A teen age boy walked a mile with us trying to convince us of the value of a small stone elephant. His clothes were clean but old and ill fitting. His eyes were dark, sunken and pleading. Fearful of being mobbed, we tried to ignore him. He began to beg for money “for food, so I can buy food”. I am haunted by this young man today. Five dollars would have been nothing to me but a windfall beyond belief for him. Giving into fear, I put my humanity on hold.
The morning of our departure, the lodge manager let his practiced facade slip. As we made our final good-byes he surrounded my hands with his big black ones and, smile gone, eyes pleading, said “pray for us, please, pray for us.” And we do.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Travel to Zimbabwe May 7, 2008
It was with some trepidation that we got on a British Airways flight to Zimbabwe. Arrangements were made and money traded hands, or at least went from one electronic tally collection to another. All was in readiness, we were assured. But in this strange new cyber world, we realized we had not spoken to a soul. Could the Cape town travel agency website with a nice picture of agent “Robyn” really be Cape a front for a clever scam artist name Bruto?
The other concern was Zimbabwe itself. There had been problems there for some time; circumstances were increasing dreadful for the poor Zimbabweans. The economy was suffered inflation of 1000’s percent – some said millions. It was not our intent to travel in a politically unstable country. We just wanted to get the best view of Victoria Falls which, we were told, was on the Zimbabwe side. Our arrangements were made in March; by the time we arrived in May, there had been an election gone bad and tension was palpable. As it turned out, the hostilities did not interfere with our trip. We were quite safe. At the same time, we found ourselves witness to personal tragedy in the making, and no longer have the luxury of classifying Zimbabwean people as anonymous “others”.
We traveled with a lot of American dollars, about $1000 dollars between us, in small bills. As a practical matter, the Zimbabwe currency was next to useless. Our son, a frequent traveler in Zim assured us that US dollars would work everywhere. He encouraged us to have enough on us uncase of unforeseen circumstances which I assumed included a bribe if necessary. Use of credit cards was not recommended since you had no idea what exchange rate you would be getting. Just to get in the spirit of things, I put two hundred dollars in my shoes. James Bond has nothing on me. OK. Maybe a little silly but it was reassuring to me.
The flight from Jo Berg to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe was pretty much like any other. We could see the falls in the distance as we approached the airport. They looked a little like a small cloud sitting on the African plain. It was the mist from the power of huge amounts of water falling long distances.
Our customs declaration had asked us, among other things, how much cash we were carrying. Conspiracy theorist that I am, I wanted to lie. Our travel agent informed us that entrance to the country would probably cost 30 USD per person, but that this could change. We of little faith were concerned that that amount might “change” to just what we were carrying. Burt, the ever-wise legal mind, pointed to the word “perjury” on the form and we decided that the truth would set us free. Maybe broke, but free.
The airport was small and, perhaps more to the point, quiet. A single airstrip and a single building that had seen better days. We were rounded up and led into a large room with two desks up in front. Then things got confusing. It was necessary to go to the first desk and present your passport and pay your “Visa Fee” which did indeed turn out to be USD 30. There a man wrote out a receipt, by hand, stamped a bunch of things and referred you to the second person. Again a form was laboriously filled out, a rather fancy looking visa was issued and attached to the passport and some more stamping took place. Finally, you could go to the back part of the room to sort through piles of luggage, hopefully finding your own.
To say this process was slow would not do justice to the experience. We were about 6th in line; there were perhaps 80 people behind us. It was almost half an hour by the time we obtained our visas and “entered” the country. I have no idea how long it took the people and the end of the line.
After retrieving our bags, and seeing nowhere else to go, we passed through a door into another equally dismal room – but this opened to the outside where various forms of transport waited. Now was the moment of truth. Were we to be met, or were we abandoned? Glancing to our right we saw a tall, dark, smiling man, wearing the khaki uniform of a tour service holding up a white board with our name on it. His greeting was pleasant and enthusiastic – so was ours as we tried to hide our relief.
It turns out we had nothing to worry about. Our experiences with all the lodges we stayed at, all the game drives, boat trips and transport among lodges were flawless, in both Zimbabwe and Botswana. We met nothing but delightful people anxious (too anxious?) to serve and see that we were comfortable.
We were loaded onto a van with, as our driver cheerfully pointed out “African air conditioning”. The windows were open. Our trip took about an hour on a tree lined two-lane road, which we shared with a few other cars, a lot of pedestrians, and donkey carts. We drove through the town of Victoria Falls and to a transfer point.
There we were met by a Toyota 4 wheel drive truck and transported by a man who introduced himself as “Clever, but I’m not clever”. The last several miles to the lodge were on a bumpy, dusty dirt road through the trees and underbrush. Other than birds, we didn’t see animals on this short trip, but we knew for sure we were no longer in Sacramento. We were in the bush of Africa, or, as Burt put it, a million miles from nowhere
The other concern was Zimbabwe itself. There had been problems there for some time; circumstances were increasing dreadful for the poor Zimbabweans. The economy was suffered inflation of 1000’s percent – some said millions. It was not our intent to travel in a politically unstable country. We just wanted to get the best view of Victoria Falls which, we were told, was on the Zimbabwe side. Our arrangements were made in March; by the time we arrived in May, there had been an election gone bad and tension was palpable. As it turned out, the hostilities did not interfere with our trip. We were quite safe. At the same time, we found ourselves witness to personal tragedy in the making, and no longer have the luxury of classifying Zimbabwean people as anonymous “others”.
We traveled with a lot of American dollars, about $1000 dollars between us, in small bills. As a practical matter, the Zimbabwe currency was next to useless. Our son, a frequent traveler in Zim assured us that US dollars would work everywhere. He encouraged us to have enough on us uncase of unforeseen circumstances which I assumed included a bribe if necessary. Use of credit cards was not recommended since you had no idea what exchange rate you would be getting. Just to get in the spirit of things, I put two hundred dollars in my shoes. James Bond has nothing on me. OK. Maybe a little silly but it was reassuring to me.
The flight from Jo Berg to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe was pretty much like any other. We could see the falls in the distance as we approached the airport. They looked a little like a small cloud sitting on the African plain. It was the mist from the power of huge amounts of water falling long distances.
Our customs declaration had asked us, among other things, how much cash we were carrying. Conspiracy theorist that I am, I wanted to lie. Our travel agent informed us that entrance to the country would probably cost 30 USD per person, but that this could change. We of little faith were concerned that that amount might “change” to just what we were carrying. Burt, the ever-wise legal mind, pointed to the word “perjury” on the form and we decided that the truth would set us free. Maybe broke, but free.
The airport was small and, perhaps more to the point, quiet. A single airstrip and a single building that had seen better days. We were rounded up and led into a large room with two desks up in front. Then things got confusing. It was necessary to go to the first desk and present your passport and pay your “Visa Fee” which did indeed turn out to be USD 30. There a man wrote out a receipt, by hand, stamped a bunch of things and referred you to the second person. Again a form was laboriously filled out, a rather fancy looking visa was issued and attached to the passport and some more stamping took place. Finally, you could go to the back part of the room to sort through piles of luggage, hopefully finding your own.
To say this process was slow would not do justice to the experience. We were about 6th in line; there were perhaps 80 people behind us. It was almost half an hour by the time we obtained our visas and “entered” the country. I have no idea how long it took the people and the end of the line.
After retrieving our bags, and seeing nowhere else to go, we passed through a door into another equally dismal room – but this opened to the outside where various forms of transport waited. Now was the moment of truth. Were we to be met, or were we abandoned? Glancing to our right we saw a tall, dark, smiling man, wearing the khaki uniform of a tour service holding up a white board with our name on it. His greeting was pleasant and enthusiastic – so was ours as we tried to hide our relief.
It turns out we had nothing to worry about. Our experiences with all the lodges we stayed at, all the game drives, boat trips and transport among lodges were flawless, in both Zimbabwe and Botswana. We met nothing but delightful people anxious (too anxious?) to serve and see that we were comfortable.
We were loaded onto a van with, as our driver cheerfully pointed out “African air conditioning”. The windows were open. Our trip took about an hour on a tree lined two-lane road, which we shared with a few other cars, a lot of pedestrians, and donkey carts. We drove through the town of Victoria Falls and to a transfer point.
There we were met by a Toyota 4 wheel drive truck and transported by a man who introduced himself as “Clever, but I’m not clever”. The last several miles to the lodge were on a bumpy, dusty dirt road through the trees and underbrush. Other than birds, we didn’t see animals on this short trip, but we knew for sure we were no longer in Sacramento. We were in the bush of Africa, or, as Burt put it, a million miles from nowhere
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Domestic Help
We all think what we are used to is "normal". In South Africa domestic help is “normal” and, indeed, expected. To those of us suddenly dropped into this culture it requires an adjustment and not just a little soul searching.
My son and daughter-in-law have a full time (5 days a week, 8 hours a day) housekeeper, Penelope, as well as a one day a week gardener/handyman, Body. They pay the housekeeper 140 R or about $20 dollars a day. This is more than the going rate. The gardener earns 100 R a day in addition to housing in the small separate room in their back yard. As a trusted individual, his duties also include simply being available for my daughter-in-law and her children as extra security when my son is traveling on business.
Everyone is pleased with this arrangement. Penelope and Body have fair and reasonable employment at easily afforded rate. If, however, they required the kind of wages paid in the U.S. there would be no employment. As a The ambivalence of this situation is bewildering to a diehard liberal in favor of “living wages” such as myself. Penelope is supporting an ailing husband and living in a tiny hut in a township some distance away. She spends 25 Rand (and 2 to 4 hours) a day on taxi transportation. By U.S. standards, this is dreadful. She is pleased.
The upside of this for my son’s family is that the house is never dirty. Really. I don’t remember seeing any dust, anywhere. Cobwebs, truly you are joking. The white marble floors would not be my first choice with two very small children but not to worry, they are mopped practically every day. Rugs are vacuumed daily – not that once around the center of the room I tend to do, but the move the furniture kind. Bathrooms glisten and windows shine. Dirty clothes unfailingly find themselves washed, sun dried, ironed, and replaced in drawers and closets. Beds look lovely with ironed sheets and my grandson goes to school with pleats in his jeans.
The relatively small garden and floral areas around the patio are weeded and constantly cared for; cars are washed regularly and if the latch on the patio door is stuck, or switch needs to be replaced Body is there with his screw driver.
The other side, of course, is that there are often people in the house when you would like to be alone. Want to pick up an afternoon T.V. show? The living room is getting daily clean up. The kitchen is being polished when you’d like to make a snack. And, when you leave a pair of shoes at the base of the stairs, they won’t be there when you get back. I’ve have many a panicky moment searching for something that I need right now only to find it in the one place I know I would never put it – where it belongs.
It does bring people together. Sometimes this isn’t so good. I have seen domestic servants treated with remarkable condescension and callousness. On the other hand, it has helped us to see the magnitude of the problems of the poor more clearly. They had a wonderful live-in-maid last year. “Greta” was in her mid-forties but looked younger. She showed up on their doorstep fleeing very difficult situation and desperately in need of work. She was reliable, hard working, non-complaining and the only one who could coax my little granddaughter down for a much needed nap in the afternoon.
When my son returned from Christmas in the U.S. they were informed that Thembie had died – from Pneumonia. Just like that. She had not been feeling well when the left, but all assumed with a little rest she would be better. The magnitude of her illness, or the consequences of no affordable medical care hadn’t occurred to them. This kind, pleasant woman had taken a long taxi trip to Durban, where she had family, and simply died.
This year we have been concerned for Penelope and her family. Xenophobia took over the townships as poor unemployed people looked for a scapegoat and zeroed in on “foreigners” who they felt took their jobs and their homes. It isn’t true, but all of us when we are down and out have a tendency to go after the weakest among us.
It turns out Penelope and her family are Zimbabwean, and had good reason to fear for their lives. Despite the fact that Penelope has resided in South Africa for decades Jeff insisted that if she and her husband were identified as “foreign” and harassed, they were to claim sanctuary in Jeff’s home. Things have calmed down, but we all still worry. When you live with those whom poverty affects so dramatically, you are touched and frustrated and sometimes afraid. But you can’t pretend these things only happen to those ubiquitous anonymous beings – “Someone else.”
This is how it is here. A lot of cheap labor. In homes, malls, stores, wherever you go you always see people, invariably black, sweeping, mopping, polishing. The country is remarkably clean and tidy. If you raised wages, unemployment would be even more crushing than it is. But it still rankles to realize that grown adults are supporting themselves cleaning luxurious large homes while earning two to three dollars and hour. It is difficult to see so many people living their lives so close to the edge.
My son and daughter-in-law have a full time (5 days a week, 8 hours a day) housekeeper, Penelope, as well as a one day a week gardener/handyman, Body. They pay the housekeeper 140 R or about $20 dollars a day. This is more than the going rate. The gardener earns 100 R a day in addition to housing in the small separate room in their back yard. As a trusted individual, his duties also include simply being available for my daughter-in-law and her children as extra security when my son is traveling on business.
Everyone is pleased with this arrangement. Penelope and Body have fair and reasonable employment at easily afforded rate. If, however, they required the kind of wages paid in the U.S. there would be no employment. As a The ambivalence of this situation is bewildering to a diehard liberal in favor of “living wages” such as myself. Penelope is supporting an ailing husband and living in a tiny hut in a township some distance away. She spends 25 Rand (and 2 to 4 hours) a day on taxi transportation. By U.S. standards, this is dreadful. She is pleased.
The upside of this for my son’s family is that the house is never dirty. Really. I don’t remember seeing any dust, anywhere. Cobwebs, truly you are joking. The white marble floors would not be my first choice with two very small children but not to worry, they are mopped practically every day. Rugs are vacuumed daily – not that once around the center of the room I tend to do, but the move the furniture kind. Bathrooms glisten and windows shine. Dirty clothes unfailingly find themselves washed, sun dried, ironed, and replaced in drawers and closets. Beds look lovely with ironed sheets and my grandson goes to school with pleats in his jeans.
The relatively small garden and floral areas around the patio are weeded and constantly cared for; cars are washed regularly and if the latch on the patio door is stuck, or switch needs to be replaced Body is there with his screw driver.
The other side, of course, is that there are often people in the house when you would like to be alone. Want to pick up an afternoon T.V. show? The living room is getting daily clean up. The kitchen is being polished when you’d like to make a snack. And, when you leave a pair of shoes at the base of the stairs, they won’t be there when you get back. I’ve have many a panicky moment searching for something that I need right now only to find it in the one place I know I would never put it – where it belongs.
It does bring people together. Sometimes this isn’t so good. I have seen domestic servants treated with remarkable condescension and callousness. On the other hand, it has helped us to see the magnitude of the problems of the poor more clearly. They had a wonderful live-in-maid last year. “Greta” was in her mid-forties but looked younger. She showed up on their doorstep fleeing very difficult situation and desperately in need of work. She was reliable, hard working, non-complaining and the only one who could coax my little granddaughter down for a much needed nap in the afternoon.
When my son returned from Christmas in the U.S. they were informed that Thembie had died – from Pneumonia. Just like that. She had not been feeling well when the left, but all assumed with a little rest she would be better. The magnitude of her illness, or the consequences of no affordable medical care hadn’t occurred to them. This kind, pleasant woman had taken a long taxi trip to Durban, where she had family, and simply died.
This year we have been concerned for Penelope and her family. Xenophobia took over the townships as poor unemployed people looked for a scapegoat and zeroed in on “foreigners” who they felt took their jobs and their homes. It isn’t true, but all of us when we are down and out have a tendency to go after the weakest among us.
It turns out Penelope and her family are Zimbabwean, and had good reason to fear for their lives. Despite the fact that Penelope has resided in South Africa for decades Jeff insisted that if she and her husband were identified as “foreign” and harassed, they were to claim sanctuary in Jeff’s home. Things have calmed down, but we all still worry. When you live with those whom poverty affects so dramatically, you are touched and frustrated and sometimes afraid. But you can’t pretend these things only happen to those ubiquitous anonymous beings – “Someone else.”
This is how it is here. A lot of cheap labor. In homes, malls, stores, wherever you go you always see people, invariably black, sweeping, mopping, polishing. The country is remarkably clean and tidy. If you raised wages, unemployment would be even more crushing than it is. But it still rankles to realize that grown adults are supporting themselves cleaning luxurious large homes while earning two to three dollars and hour. It is difficult to see so many people living their lives so close to the edge.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Driving
Driving, after you have done it for awhile, is a combination of habitual patterns. What way to look, how to turn, what to expect of other drivers, which way to maneuver the shift. It is almost effortless, automatic. Unless everything is changed and our habitual patterns work against us instead of for us.
Thus has been the case for me when traveling the roadways of South Africa. Driving on the other side of the road is one thing, but there is a whole different culture and feel to the process that throws habitual patterns on their head.
I do not have a good reputation for driving in this country. My first experience last year was not impressive. My son had admonished me keep the doors locked, stay on the left side of the road and not hit any pedestrians. Being an obedient mother, I followed all instructions carefully. I burned out the clutch instead.
Something about diesel engines having less torque and therefore it is inadvisable to start on a hill in third gear. Who knew?
So far this year I have made several trips to my son's preschool and to the local shopping center with no incidents - at least none that would be visible to anyone outside the car. I find the experience, shall we say, less than relaxing. It probably isn't good for my blood pressure.
The streets are relatively narrow and other drivers cross over the center line routinely not just for passing but to avoid double parked cars, people in the street -there are a lot - and occasionally, I'm convinced, just to confuse those of us who go into spasms of confusion upon seeing the headlights of another vehicle come toward us.
While in general the traffic rules are the same, there is a different rhythm, a different feel to how situations are handled - a different culture if you will. Among other things, you do not wave another driver ahead of you - you blink your lights. Waving is likely to be viewed as strange if not cause for arrest.
My son's concern about hitting people is no small issue. There are people in the streets continuously. Rarely is there a sidewalk and those without cars who can't afford taxis - and that is a lot - walk on the side of the road. Not just in rural areas, but in the high traffic urban areas. To avoid them one frequently finds it necessary to cross over the center line. In addition, at most traffic lights there are all sorts of entrepreneurs trading goods for a few Rand. Practically anything can be had - clothing, produce, newspapers, toys, flags, chargers, you name it. Often there is a person who, for a Rand or two will allow you to dump all of your car trash into his big plastic bag.
If these people knew just who was in the driver's seat of my daughter-in-laws Renault,they would show a healthier caution.
"Oo wee, oo wee, How are you today" a man calls to me as I wait for the light to change. That's South African for "Hey lady, want to buy some oranges?" "Not Today", I call back. American for "Its all I can do to maintain a semblance of control of this mechanical beast - there is no way I can simultaneously do my grocery shopping".
An added wrinkle is the "robots". That is South African for traffic lights. They are pretty similar to ours - red, yellow, green and all that. But not infrequently they are out of order. And, because the capacity for power generation has not kept up with the need there is frequent scheduled "load sharing" which is a euphemism for "power outages". Everyone in a specific is without power - homes, businesses and, yes, robots. Not so hard on the smaller two lane streets but on major intersections (think Watt and Fair Oaks) no lights would seem to give rise to chaos.
Everyone says that when this started it was quite confusing - but people do adapt and it is interesting to watch how people find ways to be quite civil and somehow keep track of who's turn it is. Occasionally a car gets stranded out in the middle of the mess with no one giving way, but the process actually works reasonably well. Naturally I avoid driving during load sharing because I know exactly who would be in that car helplessly stranded in the middle of the intersection.
When my husband arrives in two days, I will gladly relinquish the driver's seat and take up the shotgun (and chief backseat driver)position.
Thus has been the case for me when traveling the roadways of South Africa. Driving on the other side of the road is one thing, but there is a whole different culture and feel to the process that throws habitual patterns on their head.
I do not have a good reputation for driving in this country. My first experience last year was not impressive. My son had admonished me keep the doors locked, stay on the left side of the road and not hit any pedestrians. Being an obedient mother, I followed all instructions carefully. I burned out the clutch instead.
Something about diesel engines having less torque and therefore it is inadvisable to start on a hill in third gear. Who knew?
So far this year I have made several trips to my son's preschool and to the local shopping center with no incidents - at least none that would be visible to anyone outside the car. I find the experience, shall we say, less than relaxing. It probably isn't good for my blood pressure.
The streets are relatively narrow and other drivers cross over the center line routinely not just for passing but to avoid double parked cars, people in the street -there are a lot - and occasionally, I'm convinced, just to confuse those of us who go into spasms of confusion upon seeing the headlights of another vehicle come toward us.
While in general the traffic rules are the same, there is a different rhythm, a different feel to how situations are handled - a different culture if you will. Among other things, you do not wave another driver ahead of you - you blink your lights. Waving is likely to be viewed as strange if not cause for arrest.
My son's concern about hitting people is no small issue. There are people in the streets continuously. Rarely is there a sidewalk and those without cars who can't afford taxis - and that is a lot - walk on the side of the road. Not just in rural areas, but in the high traffic urban areas. To avoid them one frequently finds it necessary to cross over the center line. In addition, at most traffic lights there are all sorts of entrepreneurs trading goods for a few Rand. Practically anything can be had - clothing, produce, newspapers, toys, flags, chargers, you name it. Often there is a person who, for a Rand or two will allow you to dump all of your car trash into his big plastic bag.
If these people knew just who was in the driver's seat of my daughter-in-laws Renault,they would show a healthier caution.
"Oo wee, oo wee, How are you today" a man calls to me as I wait for the light to change. That's South African for "Hey lady, want to buy some oranges?" "Not Today", I call back. American for "Its all I can do to maintain a semblance of control of this mechanical beast - there is no way I can simultaneously do my grocery shopping".
An added wrinkle is the "robots". That is South African for traffic lights. They are pretty similar to ours - red, yellow, green and all that. But not infrequently they are out of order. And, because the capacity for power generation has not kept up with the need there is frequent scheduled "load sharing" which is a euphemism for "power outages". Everyone in a specific is without power - homes, businesses and, yes, robots. Not so hard on the smaller two lane streets but on major intersections (think Watt and Fair Oaks) no lights would seem to give rise to chaos.
Everyone says that when this started it was quite confusing - but people do adapt and it is interesting to watch how people find ways to be quite civil and somehow keep track of who's turn it is. Occasionally a car gets stranded out in the middle of the mess with no one giving way, but the process actually works reasonably well. Naturally I avoid driving during load sharing because I know exactly who would be in that car helplessly stranded in the middle of the intersection.
When my husband arrives in two days, I will gladly relinquish the driver's seat and take up the shotgun (and chief backseat driver)position.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The Haves and the Have Nots
Jesus said "the poor will always be with us". Seems a bit out of character but no doubt true in all places and all times. Here in South Africa (and I understand many parts of the world) the contrast between the poor and the wealthy is staggering. The rich - which includes whites and since the end of apartheid,some blacks and "coloreds" - live often in palatial luxury. Large homes with pools, marble flooring, lovely gardens, all that cheap labor can provide. The poor - which is the majority of the population -live in dreadful "townships" to which they were assigned under apartheid. The houses if you could call them that are generally scrap wood and corrugated metal construction of a few square meters, crammed together with dirt walking areas between them. There is no heat, no plumbing. They live on remarkably little income.
The government is rebuilding some areas in small houses that apparently do have some basic amenities. But that is a slow process and has touched a small minority of township residents.
The wealthy drive everywhere - BMW's, Mercedes are common here. Interestingly, there is no real public transit available to the rich, which, I think, makes this a difficult country for tourists. The poor take "taxis" which are vans that criss cross the cities and the country and are inevitably full far beyond the recommendations. They drive fast and dangerously and accidents are common and devastating. Seat belts - surely you jest. One might be tempted to suggested the government should regulate this mode of travel - forbidding the overcrowding of vehicles and requiring some adherence to quaint customs like speed limits. Of course, that would increase the cost of this mode of transport and put it out of the reach of many who depend on it. So what do you do?
I suppose it is human to flaunt one's wealth - but here it seems there is an unusual amount of flaunting. There is such a dividing line between people - and one wishes to make it very clear which side one is on. Perhaps it is just that labor is so cheap that having all sorts of people do all sorts of chores for you makes economic sense - and of course employs people who are desperate for work. But sometimes I feel like a queen bee being attended to by all sorts. Its an awkward feeling.
In parking lots, there is always someone directing you to a open parking place. In restaurants there are always people ready to whisk off your empty plates the moment you are finished. Careful about picking up you bread -the bread plate will disappear. We have a maid and a gardener, and all sorts of service people arrive at our complex every day to attend to assorted needs. There is a man who opens the exterior gate for us when the power is down or just as a courtesy.
The poor consist not only of native South African individuals but now with Zimbabwe in such dire straits, persons from that country who have crossed the border and are desperate for the basics of life.
The poor often live in squalor within short distances from those who would appear live opulently, wastefully, and with unlimited resources. This mix, inevitably, has a dark side. Crime. It is economic crime. People are not interested in harming you, but they will if it comes to it. But in your car, in your home, you must always be concerned about crime.
We live in a complex of about 25 luxurious homes. The complex is surrounded by ten foot mortar walls that are topped with an electric fence. The only way in is through a central gate occupied by a 24 hour guard. In addition, the homes have bars on the windows and sliding metal gates on the doors. A visitor must push a button and be buzzed in. The homes are all wired with intruder alarms that are linked to a service.
The alarm in our house covers the exterior of the house as well as downstairs since we all sleep upstairs. My granddaughter was stirring a few nights ago and I decided to take her downstairs so she would not wake her parents. Jet lagged, I was awake - but apparently not awake enough. I forgot the alarm and three steps down a piercing alarm went off and soon thereafter an armed guard came speeding to our house and was beating on our door. Her parents woke up.
We live in a gilded cage. We are dependent and in fear of those less fortunate than us. To be honest, it is difficult to see a way out of this for the time being. But clearly when we simply assume "the poor will always be with us" it is not just they who suffer. As the U.S. continues its steady progression to a greater chasm between the haves and the have nots, it would be wise for us to learn this lesson.
The government is rebuilding some areas in small houses that apparently do have some basic amenities. But that is a slow process and has touched a small minority of township residents.
The wealthy drive everywhere - BMW's, Mercedes are common here. Interestingly, there is no real public transit available to the rich, which, I think, makes this a difficult country for tourists. The poor take "taxis" which are vans that criss cross the cities and the country and are inevitably full far beyond the recommendations. They drive fast and dangerously and accidents are common and devastating. Seat belts - surely you jest. One might be tempted to suggested the government should regulate this mode of travel - forbidding the overcrowding of vehicles and requiring some adherence to quaint customs like speed limits. Of course, that would increase the cost of this mode of transport and put it out of the reach of many who depend on it. So what do you do?
I suppose it is human to flaunt one's wealth - but here it seems there is an unusual amount of flaunting. There is such a dividing line between people - and one wishes to make it very clear which side one is on. Perhaps it is just that labor is so cheap that having all sorts of people do all sorts of chores for you makes economic sense - and of course employs people who are desperate for work. But sometimes I feel like a queen bee being attended to by all sorts. Its an awkward feeling.
In parking lots, there is always someone directing you to a open parking place. In restaurants there are always people ready to whisk off your empty plates the moment you are finished. Careful about picking up you bread -the bread plate will disappear. We have a maid and a gardener, and all sorts of service people arrive at our complex every day to attend to assorted needs. There is a man who opens the exterior gate for us when the power is down or just as a courtesy.
The poor consist not only of native South African individuals but now with Zimbabwe in such dire straits, persons from that country who have crossed the border and are desperate for the basics of life.
The poor often live in squalor within short distances from those who would appear live opulently, wastefully, and with unlimited resources. This mix, inevitably, has a dark side. Crime. It is economic crime. People are not interested in harming you, but they will if it comes to it. But in your car, in your home, you must always be concerned about crime.
We live in a complex of about 25 luxurious homes. The complex is surrounded by ten foot mortar walls that are topped with an electric fence. The only way in is through a central gate occupied by a 24 hour guard. In addition, the homes have bars on the windows and sliding metal gates on the doors. A visitor must push a button and be buzzed in. The homes are all wired with intruder alarms that are linked to a service.
The alarm in our house covers the exterior of the house as well as downstairs since we all sleep upstairs. My granddaughter was stirring a few nights ago and I decided to take her downstairs so she would not wake her parents. Jet lagged, I was awake - but apparently not awake enough. I forgot the alarm and three steps down a piercing alarm went off and soon thereafter an armed guard came speeding to our house and was beating on our door. Her parents woke up.
We live in a gilded cage. We are dependent and in fear of those less fortunate than us. To be honest, it is difficult to see a way out of this for the time being. But clearly when we simply assume "the poor will always be with us" it is not just they who suffer. As the U.S. continues its steady progression to a greater chasm between the haves and the have nots, it would be wise for us to learn this lesson.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Arrival in South Africa
It was a long trip. 27 hours from the time my first flight left the ground until my last one touched down. If we want to add in the trips to and from the airports, assorted waiting, the slow process through South African customs etc., we can up that number to just about 31. I remember thinking somewhere over the Sahara - "my, this takes a long time". Of course my kids do it with two young children so who am I to act put upon. And when one considers the historical difficulties of traveling long distances - days and days of mind numbing boredom, sea sickness, really awful food - somehow sitting in my own little space with a significant list of entertainment options and edible,if not extraordinary, food served by pleasant individuals; it really is inappropriate to whine.
But I can't help thinking how nice it would be if my son and family would move someplace relatively close - say, London.
My first flight was from Sacramento to Minneapolis. The person sitting next to me was a Muslim. My initial reaction was, and I am definitely not proud of this, "oh my gosh, we're in trouble". The fact that his small daughter was sitting next to him and his wife and young son were on the other side of the aisle mitigated my sense of danger. (So did my own good sense which did eventually kick in). At first we didn't talk (is he not allowed to speak to strange women? What do I know?)
He was reading the Quoran in some Arabic language. I was reading a cheap paperback mystery called "Between a Wok and a Hard Place". I had another book in my luggage called "Founding Faith" I dearly wished I was reading that. I felt pretty airy-fairy.
Then the ice breaker. He spilled his orange juice - some on me, mainly on himself. He could not apologize enough. I called the flight attendant who handed us an extra beverage napkin. We looked at each other with the same sense of frustration mixed with amusement. Funny how two people so very different can have the same reaction to the same situation. What does this say?
Finally I prevailed upon them for something more substantial and we were provided with a pile of little napkins and then a blanket so he did not have to sit in a puddle as we travel across the country.
And then we talked. A very nice man. They'd been visiting relatives in Sacramento and were on their way home to Detroit. He was from Pakistan but had lived 14 years in Scotland - perhaps I noticed the Scottish lilt in his accent. (Once mentioned, I did indeed). His 5 year old daughter had diabetes and they were concerned for her. We discussed diabetes, and sick children and hopes for our children and fears for our children. And, except that he was readying the Quoran and I was reading a cheap mystery, we had a lot in common. I would have liked to talk religion with him (why wasn't I reading that other book) but never felt there was an opening. Nonetheless, nothing like a bit of simple conversation to break down irrelevant barriers.
The trip from Minneapolis to Amsterdam was on a brand new Air Bus with unbelievable entertainment options. All kinds of movies on demand. How do they do that? The wiring in that airplane must be staggering.
One hardly feels one is in Holland when one is in the Amsterdam airport. Signs are in English (smaller dutch underneath) and they will take dollars or Euros. The only real clue was that the shops sold bulbs and wooden shoes as well as the usual tourist paraphernalia.
One more 11 hour flight over the African continent and I finally arrived in Johannesburg. Nice flight. Customs a hassle. They are not speedy to begin with. I got myself in the middle of the pack but the last half of the pack was pulled off and sent through the "South African Passport" gates. That left me - you guessed it, just about dead last. Remarkably - and I do find it remarkable - my luggage made the journey and looked just about the same as it had when I turned it in in Sacramento.
Finally, there was my son and my grandson - who had fallen asleep in his stroller waiting for me - and suddenly, it was all worth it.
But I can't help thinking how nice it would be if my son and family would move someplace relatively close - say, London.
My first flight was from Sacramento to Minneapolis. The person sitting next to me was a Muslim. My initial reaction was, and I am definitely not proud of this, "oh my gosh, we're in trouble". The fact that his small daughter was sitting next to him and his wife and young son were on the other side of the aisle mitigated my sense of danger. (So did my own good sense which did eventually kick in). At first we didn't talk (is he not allowed to speak to strange women? What do I know?)
He was reading the Quoran in some Arabic language. I was reading a cheap paperback mystery called "Between a Wok and a Hard Place". I had another book in my luggage called "Founding Faith" I dearly wished I was reading that. I felt pretty airy-fairy.
Then the ice breaker. He spilled his orange juice - some on me, mainly on himself. He could not apologize enough. I called the flight attendant who handed us an extra beverage napkin. We looked at each other with the same sense of frustration mixed with amusement. Funny how two people so very different can have the same reaction to the same situation. What does this say?
Finally I prevailed upon them for something more substantial and we were provided with a pile of little napkins and then a blanket so he did not have to sit in a puddle as we travel across the country.
And then we talked. A very nice man. They'd been visiting relatives in Sacramento and were on their way home to Detroit. He was from Pakistan but had lived 14 years in Scotland - perhaps I noticed the Scottish lilt in his accent. (Once mentioned, I did indeed). His 5 year old daughter had diabetes and they were concerned for her. We discussed diabetes, and sick children and hopes for our children and fears for our children. And, except that he was readying the Quoran and I was reading a cheap mystery, we had a lot in common. I would have liked to talk religion with him (why wasn't I reading that other book) but never felt there was an opening. Nonetheless, nothing like a bit of simple conversation to break down irrelevant barriers.
The trip from Minneapolis to Amsterdam was on a brand new Air Bus with unbelievable entertainment options. All kinds of movies on demand. How do they do that? The wiring in that airplane must be staggering.
One hardly feels one is in Holland when one is in the Amsterdam airport. Signs are in English (smaller dutch underneath) and they will take dollars or Euros. The only real clue was that the shops sold bulbs and wooden shoes as well as the usual tourist paraphernalia.
One more 11 hour flight over the African continent and I finally arrived in Johannesburg. Nice flight. Customs a hassle. They are not speedy to begin with. I got myself in the middle of the pack but the last half of the pack was pulled off and sent through the "South African Passport" gates. That left me - you guessed it, just about dead last. Remarkably - and I do find it remarkable - my luggage made the journey and looked just about the same as it had when I turned it in in Sacramento.
Finally, there was my son and my grandson - who had fallen asleep in his stroller waiting for me - and suddenly, it was all worth it.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Tomorrow at 9
Tomorrow morning I say goodbye to my husband and get on at Northwest Flight to Minneapolis. Imagine. I've never been to Minneapolis. I keep getting it mixed up with Milwaukee. I'm not sure if 40 minutes in the airport counts as a visit to a city - that's all I have.
I'm armed with a map of the place so hopefully I will make the connection to the second flight, KLM to Amsterdam. Finally, after a 4 hour layover I will be on a plane again to Johannesburg arriving there at 9:00 P.M. on Thursday - Joburg time, and noon Thursday, California time.
Its a long trip. As far away as one can get from Sacramento without treading water. I only go because that is where my grandchildren are growing up. As far as they are concerned, it is perfectly normal to grow up in South Africa. In fact, neither of them knows any differently.
Had someone told me years ago that I would have grandchildren in South Africa, I would never have believed it. Funny how life works out differently than you plan.
I'm armed with a map of the place so hopefully I will make the connection to the second flight, KLM to Amsterdam. Finally, after a 4 hour layover I will be on a plane again to Johannesburg arriving there at 9:00 P.M. on Thursday - Joburg time, and noon Thursday, California time.
Its a long trip. As far away as one can get from Sacramento without treading water. I only go because that is where my grandchildren are growing up. As far as they are concerned, it is perfectly normal to grow up in South Africa. In fact, neither of them knows any differently.
Had someone told me years ago that I would have grandchildren in South Africa, I would never have believed it. Funny how life works out differently than you plan.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Preparation for a long trip
Soon I will leave my comfortable home and set out for Africa. Its my second visit to Johannesburg. It is a world so very similar and so very different from my own. The reason for this trip is not a vacation, or a cultural experience (although both of those will occur). I'm going to visit my grandchildren and their parents.
Its our own fault. My husband and I. We had visions of our son marrying the girl next door and living somewhere down the street or at most across town. He married a woman from Mexico and lives in South Africa. For future reference - South Africa is as far away from Sacramento that a person can get without treading water.
But we are the ones who introduced him to the ups and downs of international travel at a very vulnerable age. He was 16.
We had taken a 6 week trip to Europe, pre-children, back when it wasn’t so fashionable and you really could do it on five dollars a day. It impressed us enough that we decide our children must be exposed to these experiences. In 1989, we made arrangements to exchanged houses for a month with a family in Harlow , England.
The trip got off to a rather auspicious start. Our daughter, Cheryl, was 12 and truly excited. Our son, Jeff, was 16 and cool. My husband’s father drove us to the airport and dropped us off. The first leg of our trip was a puddle jumper to get us to SF. As we waved good-bye and watched his car recede, our daughter mentioned that she “wasn’t sure but thought that maybe she might have possibly left her purse in the car.” Which is 12 year old speak for “I definitely left my purse, including my passport in the car.”
Alas, this was pre-cell phone. A payphone call to Grandma insured that Grandpa would make a quick reversal when he got home. But would it be in time? My husband paced sidewalk in front of the terminal while the rest of us sat in the little plane and tried to formulate plan B.
The stewardess, (That’s what they were in those days) was preparing to raise the staircase when, looking for all the world like a foot ball linebacker, my studious, bespeckled husband emerged full speed from the terminal clutching a purse under his arm and leaping for the staircase with a vigor I had never seen before. Talk about a major whew.
The four of us strolled toward the SF terminal laughing about the bullet we had just dodged, when Cheryl felt her shoulder tapped from behind. The pilot, no less, was standing there with her purse in his hand. “Did you forget this?” he asked.
My daughter did not have a passport in her possession again until well after her 18th birthday.
This same trip included a defining moment for our son and his eventual vagabond ways. We decided to spend a couple of days in Paris. Anyone who has traveled with a 16 year old knows that there is inevitably, a little, shall we say - tension. It is understandable. Here is a very cool person forced to be in extended company with, his parents. And not any parents – the dorkiest parents that nature has seen fit to produce. Lets have a little empathy here.
The first morning in Paris we said to him “Here – take money – go see Paris – leave us alone for awhile.” Sort of “Teenager, quick, leave your parents, take care of yourself - while you still know everything”.
Well, he did. He had a wonderful time. He mastered the metro (subway) in no time, climbed Notre Dame, went up the Eiffel Tower, had ice cream near the Champs Elise , found a sandwich shop for lunch and was actually able communicate, a little, using his high school French. It was an epiphany to him. Different languages really work in different countries.
He came back for dinner that night more enthusiastic than he had ever been about anything. He found his true self - A man of the world, a traveler extraordinaire. He hasn’t been the same since.
He spent half his college Freshman year in Mexico, learning Spanish. He met a girl there. He spent his Senior year in Spain. He met another girl there, who was German. He then spent several years in Germany working for Daimler-Benz. His return to California was a brief as possible. Just long enough to get a Business degree from UCLA. And get married – to the girl he met in Mexico. And to have a son. And then off they go to the very tip of South Africa, lock, stock, and Grandson.
Like I said, it was our fault.
Its our own fault. My husband and I. We had visions of our son marrying the girl next door and living somewhere down the street or at most across town. He married a woman from Mexico and lives in South Africa. For future reference - South Africa is as far away from Sacramento that a person can get without treading water.
But we are the ones who introduced him to the ups and downs of international travel at a very vulnerable age. He was 16.
We had taken a 6 week trip to Europe, pre-children, back when it wasn’t so fashionable and you really could do it on five dollars a day. It impressed us enough that we decide our children must be exposed to these experiences. In 1989, we made arrangements to exchanged houses for a month with a family in Harlow , England.
The trip got off to a rather auspicious start. Our daughter, Cheryl, was 12 and truly excited. Our son, Jeff, was 16 and cool. My husband’s father drove us to the airport and dropped us off. The first leg of our trip was a puddle jumper to get us to SF. As we waved good-bye and watched his car recede, our daughter mentioned that she “wasn’t sure but thought that maybe she might have possibly left her purse in the car.” Which is 12 year old speak for “I definitely left my purse, including my passport in the car.”
Alas, this was pre-cell phone. A payphone call to Grandma insured that Grandpa would make a quick reversal when he got home. But would it be in time? My husband paced sidewalk in front of the terminal while the rest of us sat in the little plane and tried to formulate plan B.
The stewardess, (That’s what they were in those days) was preparing to raise the staircase when, looking for all the world like a foot ball linebacker, my studious, bespeckled husband emerged full speed from the terminal clutching a purse under his arm and leaping for the staircase with a vigor I had never seen before. Talk about a major whew.
The four of us strolled toward the SF terminal laughing about the bullet we had just dodged, when Cheryl felt her shoulder tapped from behind. The pilot, no less, was standing there with her purse in his hand. “Did you forget this?” he asked.
My daughter did not have a passport in her possession again until well after her 18th birthday.
This same trip included a defining moment for our son and his eventual vagabond ways. We decided to spend a couple of days in Paris. Anyone who has traveled with a 16 year old knows that there is inevitably, a little, shall we say - tension. It is understandable. Here is a very cool person forced to be in extended company with, his parents. And not any parents – the dorkiest parents that nature has seen fit to produce. Lets have a little empathy here.
The first morning in Paris we said to him “Here – take money – go see Paris – leave us alone for awhile.” Sort of “Teenager, quick, leave your parents, take care of yourself - while you still know everything”.
Well, he did. He had a wonderful time. He mastered the metro (subway) in no time, climbed Notre Dame, went up the Eiffel Tower, had ice cream near the Champs Elise , found a sandwich shop for lunch and was actually able communicate, a little, using his high school French. It was an epiphany to him. Different languages really work in different countries.
He came back for dinner that night more enthusiastic than he had ever been about anything. He found his true self - A man of the world, a traveler extraordinaire. He hasn’t been the same since.
He spent half his college Freshman year in Mexico, learning Spanish. He met a girl there. He spent his Senior year in Spain. He met another girl there, who was German. He then spent several years in Germany working for Daimler-Benz. His return to California was a brief as possible. Just long enough to get a Business degree from UCLA. And get married – to the girl he met in Mexico. And to have a son. And then off they go to the very tip of South Africa, lock, stock, and Grandson.
Like I said, it was our fault.
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