Durban farewell

With the clock ticking on my time in Durban, I began the process of saying painful and much-despised goodbyes. All day on Thursday and Friday I ventured around the city, visiting hangout spots and homes, saying farewell to the places and people that adopted me so warmly over this past month. After an exhausting day of adventure throughout the city, my farewell practice with the UKZN rugby club, and a night out with Lauren and friends, I received a golden ticket in true Willy Wonka fashion. My friend had invited me to watch Bafana Bafana (South Africa’s national soccer team) play a friendly against Zimbabwe on my last night in Durban.

Held at the Moses Madhiba stadium, Durban’s World Cup venue and one of the Cup’s primary architectural achievements, I walked from the beach to the nighttime game, crowds of people flooding the sidewalks, all drawn by a centripetal force towards the gigantic orb of a stadium. The energy was palpable, overwhelming: everyone had an instrument of some sort, a noisemaker, at the very least a flag or an article of national apparel. Entering the stadium, I was immediately lost in the excitement, drowned in the enthusiasm and high spiritedness. This was not only South Africa’s first real test on their home turf in the lead-up to the World Cup, it was also a rare meeting with South Africa’s dissimilar northern neighbor. Hundreds of thousands of Zimbabweans live and work in South Africa (often facing intense and sometimes violent xenophobia) and they too showed up in impressive numbers at the brimming venue.

When South Africa drew a penalty within striking distance around the 40-minute mark, Bafana cashed in on the opportunity, the perfectly placed ball sending the crowd into a roaring state of euphoria. When a well-conceived cross was deflected by a Bafana striker into the back of the Zim goal midway through the second half, the crowd again erupted with energy, shaking the foundation of the sturdy structure and leaving me again in awe of the power of football in this country.

With the World Cup fast approaching, I can’t help but regret the fact that I’ll most likely not be in South Africa during the contest. In light of the Togo incident at the Africa Cup of Nations, there has been increasing global concern, some of it justified, over the safety and security of teams and tourists coming to South Africa during the competition. Having stayed here for the past month, however, I think that security should not be a major issue during the event itself. As long as tourists are able to use common sense and adopt many of the same precautions that would be expected in other international cities, like New York, I think that all will go without a hitch. Considering the energy and positivity that I perceived at Moses Madhiba, and the intense national pride that the country has taken in the World Cup, I have no doubt that the competition will be truly spectacular.

Returning home that night – Bafana having won 3-0 – I took a deep breath and inhaled the city one last time. The buildings, the streets, the homes, the faces. I breathed in Durban’s signature hot, humid air, warm wind blowing against my cheeks through the car’s open window. Past Steve Biko campus of DUT, up towards Durban High School (DHS), past Jack Rabbits on my right and later Davenport Square to my left. Finally I climbed the steps to 286 Lena Ahrens. Home, sweet home.

Different faces of race

It’s almost impossible for me to have any prolonged conversation here in South Africa without unconsciously thinking of the issue of race. In such an incredibly young country – a country that only less than two decades ago began the long and difficult process of healing and reconciling after apartheid – it should not come as a surprise that almost all in-depth discussions I have with people relate either directly or indirectly to race and racism. A couple of ruminations on some of these discussions:

First, while it may seem easy for me to claim that I come from a much more racially equitable society than the one I’m encountering in South Africa, I need to remember that historically this was far from true. Apartheid, which literally means “the state of being apart”, can in many ways be compared to “separate but equal” conditions in the United States, a state of affairs that was enforced legally via Plessy v. Ferguson until as late as 1953. While the constitutional amendments that laid the foundation for black legal equality were laid in the aftermath of the Civil War a century earlier, it wasn’t until Brown v. Board of Education that the concept of separate but equal lost its legal acceptability in the United States. It then took over a half century for a black politician to rise to national prominence and eventually seek and ascend to the office of the Presidency. This is all to say that change comes slowly. In the case of the United States, it took over a century and a half to achieve some measure of racial equality. But even despite these superficial indicators of America’s racial progress, the U.S. is far from the post-racial nation that it sometimes is portrayed as.

While obvious differences exist – from the degrees of economic development and historical backgrounds to the racial and demographic breakdowns of the two nations – I’m convinced that for profound and deep-seated societal change to take root in South Africa, the same ingredient that the United States has experienced will be necessary – time. South Africa has managed to take sweeping strides in the right direction; while I’m often distressed or enervated by things that my friends say – both black and white – I can only imagine how much more fair and equitable today’s South Africa is compared to the pre-1991 society. Taking its recent past into account, it is nothing short of a social miracle that South Africa is as stable, democratic and multiracial as it is. But the older generations, many of whom lived the majority of their lives during the apartheid era, cannot simply forget the past and erase it from their collective memories. Younger generations too face obstacles in overcoming racial divide; for one, enormous wealth and education disparities persist along racial lines. These disparities serve to perpetuate de facto neighborhood segregation, causing youth to be socialized and brought up in communities mainly composed of people of like race. Drawing cross-national (and admittedly incongruous) comparisons, I still believe that only time will be enough to heal the wounds of the past, remedy persisting inequality and secure a better future for this “Rainbow Nation.”

Another observation: When I first arrived in South Africa I was shocked to hear that people of mixed race are still referred to as “coloreds”. During apartheid, it wasn’t only blacks and whites that were separated from each other – so too were “coloreds” and Asians, both of whom comprised significant percentages of the population. Asians and “coloreds” were kept apart via formal and informal neighborhood zoning, the remnants of which can still be seen widely in South Africa’s cities. I swallowed the references to the “coloreds” uncomfortably, finding the continuation of the term upsetting. But why was the appellation causing me such discomfort? I think it’s mainly because of the political incorrectness that the term carries in the U.S. But on further reflection, I’m left wondering if our own labeling tendencies in the U.S. are not perhaps even worse. Most Americans tend to call people of mixed heritage (black and white) black, even if their skin complexion is lighter than that of many so-called white people. Americans will often look to indicators such as hair texture in their attempts to define people of uncertain racial descent (growing up I can recall having countless discussions with friends about whether or not NBA point guard Jason Kidd was black or white). People of mixed race in the U.S. are oftentimes not even recognized as such, forced to adopt one single racial identity. To bring the point home on the national front – I can recall countless times hearing President Obama being referred to as a black man, the first black president, a model black leader, etc. But Obama isn’t black; he’s half black. He’s also half white. Why is it that we often ignore that fact and simply box him into the category of “black”?

In light of this problematic tendency in the U.S., I must apprehensively ask whether a term like “colored” (with its South African meaning of someone of mixed racial background) might not in fact be more just and accurate of a term. Classifying someone strictly as “colored” admittedly has its problems in South Africa – the population has always had immense difficulty being accepted by either whites or blacks, trapped in between by their racially heterogeneous make-up. But at least South Africa has a space in between where coloreds can in fact belong, whereas in the U.S. it seems that persisting notions of white purity lead Americans to classify people who aren’t 100% white as black, latino, or whatever else they may be, forgetting or excluding their other racial ethnic heritages.

I’m inclined to say that both the U.S. and South Africa have considerable ways to go in accepting and truly coming to terms with the identities of people of mixed race. Rather than feeling compelled to box people into simple and homogenous racial categories, we as a society need to accept a deeper diversity than mere superficial color, recognizing and respecting the distinct ethnic and national backgrounds of all individuals.

A toast to the eastern coast

With just over a week left before I return to the cold northeast, I elected to spend my last full weekend in the southern hemisphere on a road-trip along the eastern coast, visiting and staying in three small waterfront villages north of Durban.

At the first stop – Salt Rock – I stayed with my close friend Justin’s uncle and aunt, former Johannesburg residents who relatively recently moved to the coast. Their home, which was a mere kilometer or so from the ocean, was nestled in thick layers of plant growth, trees reaching directly over their front porch and animals at times seeming to share the abode with its human inhabitants. On the first night, we roasted chicken outside, the sounds of unfamiliar creatures crowding the humid night air. Talking late into the night, I was so exhausted when I retreated to my hut that I didn’t even notice the legions of lizards that scurried around the wall and ceiling.

The next day marked my arrival in Ballito, the eastern coast’s wealthy, resort-like seafront town. Waking early in the morning, I had my inaugurating surf experience, paddling my newfound friend’s board far into the ocean before trying to imitate other surfer’s techniques – pick up speed, ride the wave, get your feet on the board, balance – and make my return to land. I managed to get my knees on the board (and for a brief moment, one foot), but all in all the experience left me further in awe of the athletes who manage to compete in this exasperating sport.

At night, I ventured inland with some friends from the Netherlands to Karibu farm, a livestock farm that serves scrumptious, home-cooked/raised meals on weekend evenings. The whopping plate of ribs that I devoured, with a tall glass of Namibian “Windhoek” brew, left my stomach and mind in delight. I arose the next morning to catch some more of the sun’s rays at Shaka’s beach, a renowned waterfront area that covers most of Shaka Town. Named after Shaka Zulu, the famous Zulu conqueror, Shaka Town was a pleasant little seaside village, presenting a nice and cheap backpacker accommodation as well as a couple of delicious and economical seafood restaurants.

Returning to Durban on Sunday night, I was perfectly refreshed for my last week in my new South African home. I was graciously welcomed back to my lovely home on 286 Lena Ahrens, spending a pleasant night catching up with housemates and taking in the still-stunning view of the city.

A rugby white lie

After an exciting day of exploring Durban’s Indian quarter with my friend Happiness, we took a taxi bus back to UKZN and proceeded to walk home. Passing the Kwazulu-Natal varsity athletic field, I stopped dead in my tracks: there was a full-sided, well-supplied rugby practice going on. I tore down towards the pitch and approached the man who I knew, without asking, was the head coach – his presence and voice exuded an unquestioned sense of authority and charge. With a couple of harmless white lies, I convinced him that I was studying abroad at the University and he subsequently invited me out to have a trial practice.

Sprinting back home, Happiness laughing at my childlike glee in getting a chance to play formal, contact, South African rugby, I picked up my gear and was back at the pitch in minutes. Again, and perhaps much more so than in my previous South African touch rugby experiences, I was blown away by the sheer talent and knowledge on the players assembled on the field. On defense everyone advanced in a perfect, gap-less line, making swift tackles that were immediately followed by efficient two-man rucking. On offense, the line was spread the width of the field, players cutting and shifting positions as the ball swiftly traveled between players’ hands. It was truly a sight to behold, such incredible power and speed combined with unmatched organization and structure. I was definitely below the talent bar of most of the players, but the coach appreciated my effort and invited me back out to practice on Wednesday. Looking forward to it!

AIDS: Trying to see beneath the surface

In the West, it is tragic but true that South Africa – and sub-Saharan Africa as a whole – is frequently associated with the expanding HIV/AIDS worldwide epidemic. South African government long drew attention for its denial of the virus’s severity, promoting traditional herbal medicine as treatment; recently, under the presidency of Jacob Zuma, other problems have come to the forefront. Zuma, who was nearly convicted of raping a teenage girl, has obstinately refused to have himself tested for the virus, setting a distressingly bad example for the country’s legions of sexually active and at-risk young men and women. In a country where the disease is so heavily stigmatized that only a fraction of those who have contracted HIV are tested and diagnosed, the president’s irresponsible refusal to be tested is ensuring that nothing changes too quickly. To make matters worse, Zuma stated in court that after having relations with the significantly younger girl, he simply took a shower and “cleansed” himself of the virus.

I’ve continually heard from friends here that the situation is improving, that government policy is beginning show signs of amelioration and increased awareness. Nonetheless, a number of occurrences and phenomena have managed to seize my attention.

First, while over one in four South African adults are believed to have HIV/AIDS, I am yet to meet or hear of someone who has the virus. I’ve met an impressive amount of people here, made a considerable number of friends, but not once have I heard of anyone I know having HIV. Centering myself around the University of Kwazulu-Natal, this could certainly be one way to account for this – being a prestigious institution, it would most likely cater to a wealthier and more educated population, one that is in general less likely to contract the virus. Secondly, this could be because I’ve spent most of my time in large cities, rather than in the townships where the disease is supposed to have the highest degree of prevalence. Lastly, however, I can’t help but wonder if this has something to do with the intense stigmatization of the virus. Maybe people are just less likely to get tested and in turn know that they have the virus. Obviously, it is similarly possible that stigmatization causes people who know they have the virus to not disclose this fact, while still acting responsibly and not putting others at risk.

This morning, on my way to the coffee shop, I witnessed a troubling incident. Walking past a schoolyard, I stopped and overheard a teacher yelling at a number of students for teasing a fellow student – it had not been your average tease, however. The teacher was yelling at three boys for making fun of another boy for having HIV. “Why would you say that he had HIV? That’s ridiculous!” the teacher had yelled. I stopped dead in my tracks, not believing my ears. As I observed, I wondered what could possibly have caused the boys to say such a thing.

Was calling someone HIV positive a common insult amongst the youth, like being “gay” or “retarded” used to be when I was in elementary school? I’m inclined to believe that what I heard was a serious aberration and that such occurrences are very uncommon, but I have little way of actually knowing. As an outsider it’s difficult to tell, to get beneath the stigma and understand how the virus is seen here.

The Circle of Life

Walking to the Univeristy of Kwazulu-Natal early this morning for a rendezvous with a professor, I found my regular path obstructed – not by construction, traffic or inclement weather. Rather, it was a force of a different sort that left me dead in my tracks – monkeys. In the middle of my accustomed route to school lay at least a dozen monkeys dancing and frolicking, teasing each other from treetops, swinging from branch to branch with breathtaking nimbleness. Frozen in place, I contemplated my next move. Do I brazenly walk straight through the middle? Turn around and find an alternative route? Try to sneak my way through the bushes unnoticed? Finally, I decided on a course of action and stealthily tried to drift past them unperceived. Foolish thinking on my part. Taking no more than a few steps, the monkeys became motionless, eying me suspiciously. Petrified, I looked up into the sky – at least another dozen were now scrutinizing me from the branches above.

Having had no prior experience with monkeys, aside from gaping at them through zoo bars, I was clueless about how to react. Reaching slowly through my backpack, I located a large bag of peanuts and gently tossed them onto the road. Intrigued, the primates diverted their attention away from me, one after the other scrambling towards the dispersed nuts. Seizing the opportunity, I cautiously reversed out of their midst into a clearing a slight distance away, exhaling with relief. After calming down, I sat down on the grass to watch the impressive creatures. While monkeys to me represent something utterly foreign, the peak of exoticism and mysteriousness, locals here live amongst them as we in North America live amongst squirrels. In fact, I wonder how people here would react if they came across a crowd of squirrels blocking their road – would they too stop and stare in wonder?

Personally, from my biased North American perspective, I’m inclined to believe that South Africans would not harbor any fascination for America’s most prevalent rodent. The little, ugly, grey nuisances litter our trashcans, pester our picnics and nibble on just about anything they find. Monkeys on the other hand strike me as brilliant ad formidable animals – sprinting on all fours, leaping from branches to faraway treetops, clinging easily with one small hand to plants towering meters above the ground. Perhaps it is their human resemblance that captures my attention most; it’s easier for me to imagine monkeys conversing, drawing affection, possessing some degree of higher intellect. The breed that prevails in this part of South Africa – the Verved – is distinct for its thin physique, incredible quickness and impressive agility. The males can be distinguished from the females in a rather easy manner. The females have ruby-colored genitalia, while the males have large, conspicuous, bright blue testicles – veritable blue balls.

After my morning monkey excitement, I had a pleasant afternoon at the beach where I encountered yet another type of unfamiliar species. Littering the shores, almost as numerous as the post-noon swimmers, were hoards of transparent jellyfish, some extending over a foot in diameter. Washed onto the sand, the ones I observed looked as if they were struggling to survive out of their natural habitats, their tentacles falling limp and droopy under the dry, burning heat. Swimming out rather far, I had the not-so-unique pleasure of suffering my initiating jellyfish sting – a sharp bite that pricked my left ankle above the heel. Returning home that night, my flatmates laughed at my interest in the strange sea creatures – again, something that was entirely foreign to me was a regular spectacle in their daily lives.

This morning I struggled out of bed at an ungodly hour to accompany Justin to the pre-sunrise beach. As a hardcore surfer, Justin regularly wakes up as early as 5:00 a.m. to catch the early morning waves and beat the noontime crowds. Arriving at the deserted beach, I dove into the waves, treading water as the sun peaked its beams over the horizon, flooding the seaside city with first light. Watching Justin cut and swerve through the powerful waves, navigating their currents with spectacular agility, I too wished that I had grown up surfing. I lazily floated back to shore and lay half submerged, allowing the powerful waves to rush towards me and throw me under their powerful cover.

As the sun grew increasingly prominent in the distance, I walked along the beach to take in one of Durban’s premier tourist attractions – uShaka Marine World. Containing impressive collections of seals, penguins, sharks and all sorts of fish, I spent my morning observing their movements, watching them swim about. I was even selected to pet and take a picture with one of the older male seals, a distinctly amusing experience. Around noon, it was time for the main event – a spectacularly orchestrated dolphin show. Having never visited any of the States’ premier aquariums, the show left me breathless, in awe of the elegant marine creatures’ remarkable synchronization and rapidity.

Oftentimes, countries diverge not only in their natural climates but also in the types of life forms that their local environments can sustain – the animals I’ve come across in the past few days all strike me as incredibly alien and peculiar. Having never lived by the ocean or shared a path with a primate, I never cease to be amazed by things that locals here find completely unexceptional.

Without Africa's "Blessing"

I arose unhealthily early this morning (to say “I arose at the crack of dawn” would be a lie, for the Durban sun rises at 5:00 a.m.) and ventured downtown to meet with Blessing Karumbidza, a renowned scholar of China’s influence throughout Africa. At 7:30 – our meeting wasn’t until 8:00 – I’d already arrived at our rendezvous spot when a man in a long, colorful dress approached me and furtively asked if I needed any drugs. Playing the part all too well, I shook my head and was about to go sit elsewhere when I heard a loud cackle erupt from the supposed drug dealer – Blessing had been bluffing.

The successful practical joke was a suitably atypical introduction to an equally unique intellectual. Trained as an economic historian with a research focus on rural agricultural sociology, Karumbidza grew up in Zimbabwe but has been living in South Africa for the past decade. Last year Karumbidza had his contract discontinued at the University of Kwazulu-Natal for attempting to organize campus workers and demanding that they receive more equitable wages, but he’s managed to remain remarkably active in Durban nonetheless, conducting research and taking part in various NGO initiatives. Fluent in Zulu, Shona (his native language) and with an eloquent command of the English language, my interview with Karumbidza lasted several hours and got to the very core of my research question of how South African’s view Chinese presence and influence in their country.

Prior to arriving in South Africa, I’d suspected that perceptions of the Chinese here would be determined largely by factors such as occupation and socioeconomic background. I conjectured that while perceptions of the Chinese might take on a degree of ideological and political grounding among the higher rungs of society, among lower and middle class South African’s, direct economic impact would be the main determinant in conceiving of the Chinese influence. Karumbidza listened intently as I explained my thesis before describing his own views and research observations. He argued that because of China’s pretext for being in Africa – that it is here to help lift likewise developing nations out of poverty – and because of China’s lack of a bad track record and historical guilt on the continent, only a tiny portion of South Africa’s population would chose to frame Chinese influence in South Africa in any sort of ideological way. Unlike the West in Africa, the Chinese carry none of the historical baggage of past failures and exploitation. Thus, South African’s perceptions of the Chinese depend almost entirely on how their individual economic livelihoods have been influenced by Chinese engagement on the continent.

Recognizing this differentiation, many of the seemingly aberrant interviews I’d conducted in the past made considerably more sense. When we wrapped up the interview, Blessing provided me with an extensive list of contacts relating to my project, offering to provide an introduction to anyone I wanted. He then proceeded to personally drop me off at the SATWU (South African Textile Workers Union), introducing me to the director so that I could set up an interview. South Africa’s textile industry is currently only a fraction of what it used to be and China is largely to blame. In a number of interviews I’ve conducted, people have mentioned the crippling effect of Chinese imported textiles and clothing, and it will truly be a “blessing” to be able to meet the current director of SATWU.

"The Athletics Capital of Africa"

On the topic, again, of athletics – the greatest cross-cultural unifier known to man – I thought I’d note two notable and revealing experiences. First, last night I went to the pool with a white friend of mine to swim some lengths, and on our way there, the topic of race came up. Treading carefully, I asked my friend about the question I’d pondered in my last post – why does rugby remain a predominantly white sport, and soccer an almost entirely black sport? Entering the park in which the pool is located – as he was giving me a, “Well, that’s just the way it is” explanation – we came across a group of some 20 or so young men that were engaged in a game of pick-up soccer (it goes without saying that they were all black). Indicating that I was keen on joining the game, he somewhat reticently agreed, demonstrating a degree of reluctance or uncertainty. Upon entering the game however, with one of each of either side, such thoughts were quickly left behind.

While the players were initially somewhat surprised by our desire to participate – even warning, “This is not rugby, don’t hurt anyone!” – they welcomed us into their game, learned our names and passed us the ball frequently, even despite both of our greatly inferior skills. In fact, the level was so high that I resorted to the only face-saving mechanism that I employ when I find myself severely out of my league – avoid easy plays and only attempt very difficult maneuvers. This way, when I mess up I can retain some amount of dignity (when I haven’t played basketball for long periods of time, I always make my first shot a long-range three pointer. It makes my air ball considerably less conspicuous.). But as I was saying, even despite our terribleness we were warmly received, something that appeared to genuinely surprise my white friend. After about an hour, exhausted and overheated, I indicated to him that I’d be ready to hit the pool, but he signaled that he wanted to stay a little longer. When we finally left, he told me that he’d never had that much fun playing soccer, that throughout school he’d only played with other whites. We’re planning on going again tomorrow afternoon.

What does my friend’s transformation reveal? I think that its evidence that people are naturally inclined to fear and avoid the unknown, and if they think that resentment or hard feelings lie behind a certain door, they will simply leave it closed. Having grown up playing mostly rugby, my friend had passed that same pick-up soccer game countless times on his way to the pool, not once even considering attempting to join. Not knowing how they would react to him joining – and perhaps fearing that they’d discriminate against him – it had always been simpler to avoid the prospect entirely. This country seems to have an incredible capacity for reconciliation, however, and I can’t say that I’ve knowingly felt that I’ve been discriminated against at all while here in South Africa. Oftentimes, people will appear to be giving me unfriendly or malicious looks, but the moment I smile at them and whip out a relaxed “Sawu-boh-na” (Zulu for “How are you?” – sorry about the spelling butchery!), they immediately reciprocate and smile, uttering a pleasant “Shap-shap” (It’s well). Perhaps they too fear that I will greet them with unpleasant looks or bitterness, much as my friend had been unsure about how he’d be received in the soccer game.

Secondly, and on a slightly less pensive note, last night I played my first basketball game here in South Africa. I left the court not only impressed with the high-level and diversity of the players, but also inspired to perhaps engage in a future project. Basketball has remained relatively unpopular in Africa compared to soccer, and I can’t say I’ve seen more than a handful of courts in the past week. Last night, however, people of all ages, races, and economic backgrounds showed up to Durban High School to take part in a formal pick-up game. When I was in Soweto – aided by Cedric’s insightful comments – I couldn’t help but perceive the dearth of athletics among the youth – the one high school basketball court that I came across was deserted with broken backboards and one missing rim. In a community with such a dire need as Soweto, it struck me that the impact of a free youth basketball camp or workshop would be enormous. If I could get some funding together, along with perhaps another eager organizer, I could utilize someone like Cedric and set up a basketball not-for-profit. The kids I met in Soweto all seemed abound with energy and enthusiasm, and what better way to channel that momentum than with a sport like basketball, in conjunction with life skills or leadership courses.

Durban Urbanite

I’ve never been much of a fan of bus travel – I think largely because traveling by bus always seems to be strangely expensive and impractical in the US – and my overnight trip from Joburg to Durban last night was no aberration from this indisposition. Trying to sleep, cramped into a tiny seat surrounded by people eating smelly fast food, with overhead speakers playing music until past 3 a.m., I didn’t get a minute of shut-eye on my journey to Durban. When I finally arrived at the station at 7:00 a.m., my host, Lauren, kindly came to bus station to pick me up and transport me to our common abode in Berea near the University of Kwazulu-Natal. Setting foot in the home, I felt that all of my hopes and desires had been fulfilled. The large house, which is leased by four (perhaps five) South African university students, has a stunning view of the city and Victoria harbor – the main focus of my research. A mere several feet from my bed, I have a comfortable, shaded patio where I can recline on a chair and write or read while looking above Durban’s skyline into the depths of the Indian Ocean.

After settling into the room that I share with Justin, a post-grad student about to receive his masters, I set off to the University of Kwazulu-Natal, where Lauren works as a coordinator of the Durban International Film Festival. She graciously introduced me to her array of interesting colleagues before escorting me to the University’s Center for Civil Services, where I had a couple of meetings set up with researchers from the University. Talking to various players within CCS, I conducted a number of rich and engaging interviews and obtained many more potential contacts from my interviewees. Leaving the University around noon, I elected to hop on a bus and attempt the short trip to the downtown waterfront area.

Getting off at the Workshop – a vast shopping district with indoor and outdoor vendors selling everything from traditional Zulu garb to computer chips – I set foot in an energetic and bustling downtown that overflowed with diversity and vitality. After talking to a couple of local workers outside the immense colonial post office, I proceeded to check out some Chinese shops clustered on West Street before finally settling down to a delicious afternoon lunch of curried chicken at one of the districts hundreds of Indian restaurants (Durban has the largest population of Indians in any city outside of India). The medium-spiced curry burned a hole in my mouth, and it was only later in the afternoon that I felt my taste buds coming back to life.

I made it back to the University just in time to play a 7-on-7 game of pick-up touch rugby with friends that I’d met earlier in the day. The level was intimidating, but I jumped right in and tried to learn as I played, correcting mistakes as they were pointed out to me. It struck me that nearly every player on the pitch, regardless of age or experience, would probably be knowledgeable enough to serve as the Williams coach (no offense to Bruce, the Williams coach). It just goes to show the incredible disparity in rugby ability and popularity between the South Africa and the U.S. The game itself was incredibly fun, and I only retreated back to Lauren’s place after a diving attempt at a try left my two knees bloodied and burned from the prickly grass.

Walking home, I thought more about my initiating rugby experience in arguably the best rugby nation in the world. It had been fun, no doubt, but I couldn’t help think about the racial breakdown of the people I’d been playing with. Just over half were white, while the remaining players were both black and Asian. While this would be an impressively diverse crowd in the U.S., in South Africa, where over 90% of the population is non-white, it made me feel somewhat uncomfortable. To make matters worse the soccer pitch next to ours was being played on by an entirely black crowd numbering over 30 players or so. While I absolutely love the adrenaline and competitiveness of rugby as a sport, I’m conflicted by the historical baggage that it appears to carry here in South Africa. To be fair, the group I was playing with was in fact very diverse. But it was far from proportionally representative of the population here. And even if it was, why wasn’t there a single white person playing soccer with the 25-30 black athletes on the pitch next to us?

Come to Soweto!

After a late night out with friends that I’d met at the mall earlier yesterday, I rose at the crack of dawn to meet Cedric, a British owner of a tourist company that connects Joburg’s foreign visitors with contacts in Soweto with whom they can explore the vast “city within a city.” Driving into the townships, Cedric provided a fascinating explanation of why South Africa’s national sports teams – in particular their soccer team – have been competing at such a low level in the past decade or so. To summarize, he relayed that since the end of apartheid, persisting segregation in the school system has caused immense funding disparities between predominantly white schools and those that are mostly black (reminiscent of the zoning and busing debates in the U.S.). As a result, most schools in townships like Soweto, where the vast majority of the 4.5 million South Africans are black (all but five, according to my guide), have been forced to cut or eliminate spending on school athletics, in turn crippling crucial feeder communities from providing and grooming talent for national athletic teams. Cedric’s analysis, which he’s backed up with research on the spending patterns of Soweto’s elementary and high schools, is further bolstered by the fact that South Africa’s two white-dominated sports, cricket and rugby, have not been subject to the general slump of the nations other sports.

Once dropped off with Eunice, my gregarious and charming local contact, we slowly made our way through Soweto’s winding alleys to her home. The one bedroom abode was home to her and her two adolescent children. Getting to know her son Dropkyl, I learned that his two favorite songs were the Tupac classics “Dear Mama” and “Hit ’Em Up” – he was flabbergasted when he saw that I could rap nearly the entire first verse of “Dear Mama.” After walking for about an hour to Para – one of Soweto’s central congregating areas that also happens to be the home of the largest hospital in the southern hemisphere – Eunice and I decided to hop on a bus to Kliptown, another of Soweto’s numerous sub-neighborhoods. Arriving, I impetuously decided to buzz my hair off (after all, it was getting pretty warm), and we checked out a number of local markets and shops.

One shop that we entered was actually run by a group of Chinese immigrants. But to my surprise they were of an entirely different breed than the “Huaren” I’d encountered at “China City” the previous day. The ancestors of the Jian’s, the owners of a popular Kliptown market, first came to Johannesburg in the late 1920’s as construction laborers working on developing South Africa’s railroads. When their project was completed, the Jian’s, who had had their first son in South Africa, decided to settle in Johannesburg and start a grocery business. Two generations later, their grandchildren were running the successful market, taking on 6 black employees with whom they converse in perfectly fluent English. “I’m really trying to learn their language, but it’s hard,” Zhang Jian, the Jian’s eldest grandson, told me. “I wish I could speak to them in their native tongues, but some speak Tsonga and others Zulu, so it’s not that easy.”

Prior to my departure, I’d read accounts of South Africa’s Chinese population that generally broke them into two categories – the Chinese that are continually arriving post-apartheid for commercial reasons, and those that are descendants of the Chinese that came as indentured workers in the early 20th century. Interestingly enough, the latter category of Chinese are legally characterized as black, entitling them to post-apartheid compensation and affirmative action-like benefits, while the more numerous new wave Chinese immigrants are put under the same Zulu umbrella term for whites – “mungu”.

Soweto itself was difficult to grasp, if not simply for its sheer enormity then for its overwhelming sense of community. Johannesburg’s residential and commercial sectors seemed to emit a pervasive sense of insecurity: people rarely walked places (almost never after dark), individual houses were surrounded by towering gates with electric wire, and almost all homes employed private security firms to deter break-ins. Soweto, on the other hand, despite its status being perhaps the most renowned slum in the world, felt as if it was brimming with life, energy, and – surprisingly – trust. Noticing that Eunice’s house barely even had a lock at the lone door, I asked her what she fell victim to burglary. Rather than say the police – an organization that nobody seems to favor in South Africa – she reassured me that if someone stole from her, her community would find them and bring them to justice. “Someone will know who it is and tell a community leader, and eventually I’ll get it back,” she told me. “Here in Soweto, I never worry about my safety.”

Returning to the hostel after a long day of exploring the depths of Johannesburg’s largest township, I feel like I’ve learned much more about South Africa as a country. Johannesburg’s city center may be an economic and commercial hub, but Soweto truly felt like the city’s beating pulse, the true heart of South Africa’s largest city.

Joburg: China Central

Setting foot in the homey Pension Idube – the guesthouse that I’d been recommended to stay at – I immediately felt that I was among warm and hospitable company. Trish, the owner and operator who’d grown up and lived in the same Melville neighborhood where she’d later opened her hostel, was incredibly kind and welcoming, ensuring that I was comfortable and settled in before introducing me to the other guests and her employees.

The following morning, Trish offered to take me out in Joburg and we ventured around the downtown area before heading, on my request, to “China City”, an enormous wholesale shopping center whose name befits it. Entering the complex, two South African bodyguards armed with rifles inspected us thoroughly. Once in the sprawling mall, I sparked conversation with numerous Chinese storeowners and clerks (all of the storeowners in the complex, asides from a handful of Indians, were indeed Chinese). When I asked general questions about their experiences in South Africa, they gave me similarly general, but not altogether negative, replies. They all agreed that their lives had become much more prosperous since coming to Joburg: despite their putting in shorter working hours, they all said that business was booming and that it was rather easy to save a large portion their earnings.

But the last thing that they unfailingly mentioned, usually in hushed and considerably anxious tones, was how they were never safe in South Africa, how they feared for both their lives and their earnings. One Chinese storeowner cited a remarkable statistic: in 2007 alone, there were over 30 cases of armed robberies in “China City”, with 8 of them causing at least one Chinese casualty. The same man, who grew up in Nantong in Jiangsu province, told me that last year his son had been beaten by a former South African employee of his who he’d fired after he’d been caught stealing. Another Chinese storeowner who I approached framed his insecurity in terms of the inefficacy and prejudices of the police. “While I know that the police in China aren’t perfect, I don’t even feel like I should call them here. For one, they are definitely going to ask me for money, but even worse, because I’m Chinese I don’t think they’ll even help me.” The two aforementioned rifled guards at the entrance, who Trish confirmed were part of a private security force, suddenly made much more sense.

It’s not clear if the Chinese that I talked to were actually reflecting true discrimination, or whether they were simply unaccustomed to the relative lawlessness of South African public security. Living in China, despite the complete disorganization of the traffic laws and overzealousness of the street hawkers, I rarely felt even remotely unsafe – it wasn’t unusual for me to walk, bike, or take a taxi home in the wee hours of the morning, half drunk and half asleep. But in the days since I’ve arrived here, I must confess that I’ve felt unsafe and insecure on several different occasions. In Joburg, where de facto neighborhood segregation runs rampant, anyone and everyone who can afford to live in a gated house and pay for security does. Break-ins and car thefts are common, while I’ve been told that nighttime muggings are almost guaranteed in certain neighborhoods. In fact, Trish strongly discouraged me from walking even the 4 blocks to a strip of restaurants last night, advice that I might actually have heeded in hindsight.

Considering the precarious feelings that I have when walking around the city, I’m tempted to ask whether the Chinese I spoke to at “China City” are, as I said earlier, simply unaccustomed to life in Joburg, which in turn causes them to feel that they are being targeted by criminals simply because of where their being Chinese.

While I think that Chinese unfamiliarity with local conditions plays a part in the sentiments they expressed, I don’t think it quite captures the entire picture. When I’ve asked South Africans about their impressions of the Chinese, a question that I ask almost every person I’ve met thus far, the answers I obtain have contained words ranging from “shrewd” and “cheap”, to “uncivilized” and “dog-eaters.” In fact, one of my car drivers yesterday dwelled to such and extent on the fact that Chinese eat man’s canine friend that I wondered if that’s all he’d ever heard about them. When I journeyed to a more upscale mall later in the day, these sentiments were often even more pronounced, probably relating to the fact that “China City” undercuts the mall’s prices over fivefold (a t-shirt at “Boom, Boom, Boom” cost 190 rand/$24.75, while similar stylish t-shirts at Nantong Clothing could be purchased for as low as 25/$3.25 rand. The owner of “Boom, Boom, Boom” – a young Afrikaner male – said that the Chinese were hurting his business by selling cheap quality clothes that often directly ripped-off fledgling South African-designed brands; a black clerk in his shop put it less lightly, half-jokingly telling me that she feared that “the Chinese will take over South Africa.”

Out of curiosity, I decided to never initially engage in Mandarin with the Chinese storekeepers, instead opting to gauge their grasp of English, one of South Africa’s official languages. Their abilities ranged from utterly none-existent to barely being able to respond to a politely asked, “Where are you from?” It's possible that this should be seen as an indication of the reluctance among the Chinese of Joburg towards adjusting to or even learning about the local lifestyle of South Africa. This speculation, along with a number of very distasteful comments that some storeowners made about their African employees’ lack of work ethic and untrustworthiness, indicate that perhaps the Chinese are putting themselves in a position where they are indeed being targeted more than other populations. For this to change, perhaps the storeowners in “China City” will have to step out of their commercial comfort zones and make more of an attempt to learn English and integrate themselves and their businesses with the rest of Johannesburg.

My first taste of Africa

To claim that my flight from JFK to Accra was eventful would be a gross understatement - barring actually crashing into the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, everything that possibly could have gone wrong did.

My neighbor Philip, with whom I had numerous prolonged and engrossing conversations, had not been home to Ghana since 1999, a year before the millenium. This anticipation, along with his general fear of aviation, caused him to nervously shake his knees periodically, preventing me from catching even a wink of sleep during the entire 10 and a half hour flight (not to mention the fact he was at least as tall as I am, making our mutual arm rest a virtual war zone). Roughly halfway through the flight, nature asked that I answer its call, prompting me proceeded to the restroom at the rear of the plane. Waiting in a queue (of 5 people! what if it had been an emergency?), I noticed an altercation brewing between the flight attendant and two completely inebriated Ghanian males. The men were alternating swigs of a tall handle of vodka - something that in my opinion should never be found on a plane - when one of the men stumbled face-first onto the floor, head coming very close to dislodging the exit door and launching me and 5 other terrified passengers into the frigid mid-Atlantic. Not an hour later, Philip and I were torn out of a pleasant conversation by a piercing shriek that sounded from somewhere in first-class. The flight attendant later revealed to us that the cry had come from a man who had just discovered that his aged father had died sleeping by his side. By the time we finally touched down on African soil – and the deceased had been carried off of the plane – I stepped off the cursed jet and could but pray that the flight wasn't indicative of how my month-long adventure was going to pan out.

My prayers were clearly answered, as my two hour layover in Accra proved perhaps the most hospitable and entertaining airport experience I've ever had. After managing to escape the interminable line at customs by pretending to be in cohorts with Becky, an American UNESCO representative with whom I'd chatted on the plane, I was befriended by a young airport worker named Cinde who made it her task to ensure that I enjoyed every second of my two hour stay in Ghana. After escorting me to obtain my transit ticket to South Africa, Cinde asked if I was hungry (When am I not?) and she and her friends led me to get some breakfast at one of the many street vendors outside of Kotoka Airport. The beans with chips and tomota-ish paste poured on bread was exactly what I needed after two consecutive putrid Delta-provided meals. We ate while conversing in wide cultural generalizations about Ghanian soccer, Canadian hockey (which I had to explain to her and her friends) and what she called the strangeness of the Chinese language.

After six hours on a nearly deserted Air Namibia flight over more of the Atlantic, Angola and Botswana, I descended the airplane steps onto South African soil, an aggressive, almost tangible odor striking my nostrils harshly – here I was! Unable to find the taxi company that my Johannesburg contact had recommended, I took a chance and succumbed to one of the many private drivers that had been soliciting me - moments later, I found myself whizzing down the highway, my safety and whereabouts in the hands of a complete stranger. Thirty three hours after departing from my NY home, I finally perceived the Johannesburg skyline looming distantly on the horizon, the outline of it's impressive skyscrapers enclosed between two sharp, green mountains on either side of it.