Grey rock domes pierce the low skyline, held up by massive square foundations. Minarets flank each aging tan dome. They are decrepit. Trees grow on their sides as time and weather as stripped all adornment from the buildings.

Shoes from those who enter adorn the ground outside the each building. These are the tombs of the Muslim rulers of Hyderabad in the 15th to the 17th centuries.

Hyderabad has a long history of muslim rule. Prior to the Mughals there existed the Delhi Sultanate in the north of the country. From it spawned the Qutb Shahi rulers of Hyderabad. The remains of their kingdom can be seen today in their splendid tombs. Seven in total on the site, with the last one unfinished—that king was overthrown by the Mughals. Nearby is Golconda Fort, situated on a hilltop, that protected the Hyderbadi state until the Mughals. I plan to go their soon.

The tombs were made to be a heaven on earth. Inside each tomb is a certain eery quiet, and a tomb with Arabic script sheathed in colorful cloth. But each tomb is empty. The true burial place lies below in the substructure of the tomb, designed to keep the king free from disturbance.

You can enter the actual tombs below, hewn from the rock underground, where light does not enter. Even with a candle, you cannot see more than a few feet. It is quite a sight.

They are the largest film studios in the world, here in Hyderabad. Ramoji film studios are sprawling and tacky. A certain unreality permeates. Buildings are entirely plaster and fiberglass. Houses are only facades and a set that combines a hospital with an airport as well as a school indicate the extent to which one structure can be used for multiple purposes. There is even a fake hollywood sign to complete the scene. If there is one thing that ties Indians together and is cultural stable, it is a love of film, Bollywood, Tollywood and more.

But this fakeness and tackiness devolves the studios into a cheap trick. It’s entertainment, such as a circus with a juggler and two midgets, resembles a park designed for 6 year olds and feels like America at its worst. There’s a wild west, a “fundustan” Anyways, a couple of photos I’ll post here.

From the Red Fort in Agra you can see the Taj Mahal. It stands alone over a green shrubby distance, shimmering white as heat waves flicker through the sky.

The building grows more impressive as you approach it. Looming, imposing and engulfing you as you approach it.

In July my tour group with AIFS toured through Agra in our hermetically sealed air condition van which provided the perfect excuse for Indians to stare at us through the windows. It is an odd stare that you receive as a foreigner. It is a stare that is not fleeting and is not ashamed. It is a stare out of intense curiosity and little knowledge of Western norms. They do not retract the stare when you stare back.

At one traffic jam a group of monkey handlers brought their monkeys up to our van and demanded payment for the photos we took. My window, which could not lock, was forced open. With cameras it is important to make sure you do not have to pay for what you capture. Many tourists sights, along with having prices for foreigners often 10 times that of Indians charge extra for cameras. Usually, though, you can get away with lying that you do not have a camera.

The fort is almost equally impressive building, used by Mughals to safeguard their empire. Like some things in India the entrance over the moat is marred by the putrid smell of sewage and garbage. As a city, Agra is nothing special. It’s only attraction for tourists are its sights. Because this was a planned tour, we felt like real tourists, guided around with little context about the places we visited.

From Agra we traveled to Jaipur, a fascinating city.

Ghandi’s tomb stands alone in the Rajhat city park aligning the old city. A strip of green in a city of full humanity. An eternal flame flickers above his black monument where visitors are not allowed to retain their shoes. The flame only contributes to the sense of a palpable sauna in the Delhi midday heat.

From Ghandi’s tomb we went to Old Delhi and took a ride on a bike-rickshaw. These two seaters are staples of Indian transport and are dirt cheap. They benefit from being small enough to navigate hair raising traffic and back alleys. Delhi’s old city follows the path of the old river bed and is a byzantine maze of streets.

We saw the Mecca Masjid, the largest Mosque in India, designed with a capacity of 25,000. There we had the interesting experience of making fast Indian friends who loved to take photos of us, and with us.

Three feral dogs approached us in the midnight gloom. Scruffy and ragged but not menacing. As we exited the Delhi airport with our tour guide for the next week, a Mr. Surhinder Singh, we were told to expect many more of these dogs. I immediately thought of the rabies shots I could have gotten in the states.

Our hostel, a decrepit YMCA, was our first experience in India. As a plus though, it had AC. (Never underestimate this invention).

The next day, July 13, was full of sightseeing and experience.

Smell assaults you. Shit, piss, and garbage. There are other smells also, the smell of spice and street vendors’ ware, mouthwatering yet swarmed by interminable masses of flies. The air here is thick, buttery with myriad scents. The heat, oppressive and, in some places, in the 100s with high humidity.

Rickshaws buzz down the streets. Tuk-tuks (autorickshaws), cars, bicycles, people all together form a chaotic and terrifying mess on the roads. There are no street signs and traffic lights are a suggestion, sometimes.

As a foreigner you cannot drink the water. It is inevitable that most of us Americans will get sick from the food/water eventually. Multiple bottled waters is a must.

The brief intro into this sojourn in India is that I am a student at the University of Hyderabad goings with AIFS, a program that brings American students to India. There are six people on our program. Five girls and I, so an interesting dynamic. Amazing and fun loving people all. We spent the first week traveling the cities of Delhi, Agra and Jaipur, which comprise a tourist hotspot known as the “Golden Triangle.” Other Americans combined (along with token internationals) are maybe 60 people. A great bunch of fascinating individuals, I am deeply in debt to their company.

PASSOP has been rather interesting lately. Negotiations have been ongoing with the Western Cape Provincial Government (WCPG) about the lawful/unlawful proposed eviction of residents of the De Doorns Refugee Camp, mediated by the South Africa Human Rights Commission. Being in government meetings and playing a role as an intern where you actually are important and have to think on your toes rather than make coffee is quite hectic!

Government wanted to close the camp by May 31st and give the residents the options of:

1.Assisted Repatriation
2.Assisted Reintegration
3.Assisted Resettlement
4.Or, Lawful Eviction

There are between 361-430 residents remaining in the camp depending on who counts. At its inception there were 2,500+

The bone of contention is whether each Camp resident would be given R1000 to assist in options 1,2 or 3. PASSOP is fighting for that money, WCPG refuses to give it. There may be some precedent for the cash payment: members of the Bluewaters camp were ordered to be given the money by a judicial ruling. However, the status of De Doorns refugees is somewhat different so this ruling might not apply. WCPG also contends that a cash payment may inflame residents of the impoverished local townships (If they see sums of money being given to foreigners: Zimbabweans…)

There are other issues. Allegations are that from PASSOP and the De Doorns camp committee (consisting of elected residents of the Camp (Government suspects that they may not be fairly elected–PASSOP asserts they were) that residents have had their belongings thrown out of tents and their tents removed unlawfully. WCPG contends that some of these resident may have unrightfully claimed tents after their original occupants left. Further complications are over a headcount. WCPG claims 361 residents are there based on a night headcount (when the workers return) and has forbidden entry to all those not on that list. PASSOP contends that this is still incomplete as many workers spend overnight at the farms for work. PASSOP claims that intimidation has been used by municipal officials (different from provincial government) to get the refugees to leave. The logistics of returning the refugees back to Zim or to local townships is mind bogglingly complex. WCPG, frustrated with PASSOP, wants to bypass PASSOP and negotiate with the refugees on an individual level.

Personal tensions have flared up between lead actors on either side (no names), and antagonism only makes these issues more intractable. I cannot say that I endorse either view and cannot attest to the veracity of claims on either side, nor write what I really think of the negotiations because of possible implications.

The issue may well go to court in a long and protracted legal battle. The true losers are the refugees, whose farm contracts have ended and who must now wait as their field of dirt turns to mud in the winter rains. As their money runs out for food. And as they remain at the camp with few options and little hope.

Tomorrow I hike Table Mountain with Matt, Nick, and Tom(I can’t really count how many times I’ve done this)–Every hike is amazing, either with fog shrinking visibility down to just meters in front of you, or bright clear days where you can see the entirety of Cape Town to the Hottentot-Holland mountains, shimmering scraggly blue on the distant horizon.

The difference is that we’ll be hiking over night, where on the mountain during wintertime (it’s the southern hemisphere) temperatures can sink to just above freezing. It should make for an interesting time, considering that when I was up last Friday, Tom and I made the horrible decision to hike down off trail in the dark. Climbing down cliff faces in the dark is not wise decision and leads to things like almost falling

As the semester winds down, I’ve found it difficult to find time to post. Now that finals are over for me (last one was Wednesday) and my probable pitiful performance in them (they were Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and I didn’t really study), I should have a bit more time to post. A post is in order criticizing UCT’s course setup…

Welcome to Durban, the land of Curry and Spice where everything is nice.

On the edge of the tarmac we got into our car, a piece of shit Kia Picanto. The airport, which had opened only two weeks earlier, had a clean shine for the world cup.

And we got the hell out of Durban.

We took our car up to Pietermaritzburg, the historic capital of the KwaZulu Natal Region. From there we progressed to the Drakensberg (lit: “Dragon Mountains” in Afrikaans) to our backpacker led by a curious man named Ed. The Drakensberg are a stunning mountain chain that hug the border of Lesotho and are rightly a UNESCO World Heritage Site. They helped protect the kingdom in its recurring wars with the British Empire.

Fantastic hiking is what the area is known for. Tranquil mountain valleys and plateaus overlooking an infinite land define the mountain chain. We spent two nights and hiked both days there.

Our second day we drove to an area named “The Amphitheatre,” for the formation the mountains make. There we hiked to view Tugela Falls, the second highest waterfall in the world. And once we stood at the end of the path, a giant boulder and sheer cliff walls blocked us any further and we looked at where the falls were but we saw nothing because of the heavy fog.

——-
That same day we trekked up to Swaziland, only to find the border post closed. 8pm. One remaining border post closed at 10pm, an hour and a half away.

Two police bakkies pulled us over as we accelerated down abandoned back roads to the last border post, our Kia Picanto struggling to maintain speed up hills. A routine stop, though they were confused why three Americans would be traveling in North-Eastern SA near the border.

As we sped up again, a sign warned us, “High Crime Area: DO NOT Stop.” We made it to the border post at 9:30 to find the South African side a chaotic mess: people frantically pushing each other get their passports through to the two open tellers. No semblance of a line. No semblance of order. Typical.

At 10:10 we made it to the Swazi side where calmness and order presided.

There’s not a whole heck of a lot to do in Swaziland.

Declared “TBA” on the Swazi calendar is the famed reed festival where the king has every girl aged 15-19 walk to his palace (yes, walk from the entire country) to dance half naked for him. He then selects one to be his new wife. King Mswati currently has 14 wives and 23 children.

We stayed in the Mlilanwe Nature Reserve, a beautiful park where you can drive and walk around seeing animals such as Zebra. From there we visited the capital city of Mbabane, walked up and down the main street, and declared that there was not much more to see.

We saw the Sibebe rock, the largest hard rock in the world. The gate guard was quick to inform us that the largest rock in the world (in Australia) didn’t really count because it was sandstone. As we all know, only granite is real rock.

We got to the entrance to climb it and were told we would have to pay. “But for you, I could charge local rates,” the guard said. Still, no.

After two nights we booked it down to Durban, spent the night there trying to find good curry and spent a little (though definitely not enough) time on the beach. Gorgeous! Unlike most of SA it’s warm in the winter, being on the Indian Ocean coast. The city has a distinct vibe from the rest of SA, with a touch of the subcontinent due to the indentured servants brought over from India to work the sugar cane fields.

Going to KwaZulu-Natal and Swaziland next week! Met twee baie lekker mense, Chelsea and Matt. To see Durban, the Valley of 1000 Hills, Pietermaritzburg, KwaZulu-Natala National Park (A world heritage site w/ second highest waterfall in the World (tugela falls)! Then up to Swaziland. I’m stoked.

Hell work week is now over. Pizza party at Liesbeeck. Stayed at a farm outside of Liesbeeck Wednesday after a going to joint with a nice jive, the Melting Pot–open mic night hipster stuff.

Also, it’s getting really cold here! Not really compared to the States. There are two differences, however. When it gets cold here it rains, and cold rain is awful. Second, no one has central heating so you can never get warm.

———- Forwarded message ———-
From: braam hanekom
Date: 5 May 2010 22:51
Subject: passop statement on de doorns camp closure.
To: William Kerfoot
Cc: [email protected], [email protected]

“We are shocked and appalled that government officials have told displaced Zimbabweans they need to leave the camp by the 17th of May. This is extremely reckless in light of the evidently high frustration levels in the community. The displaced have suffered great emotional distress and much financial loss, thus many lack the confidence to reintegrate and the ability, means and resources to relocate or repatriate. It is unacceptable and an attempt by government to intimidate them into leaving.”

Cost of eviction: Even after an expensive and protracted legal battle, the City of Cape Town was only able to force eviction of the displaced in Blue Waters on condition that the City provided R1000 per person. The blue water’s camp residents were displaced in 2008 and had refused several offers of assistance to reintegrate, relocate or repatriate. The De Doorns camp has just over 1000 residents. We believe that by offering financial assistance to the displaced to leave, government will save much money. Currently the government is wasting R250000 a month on unclean and badly maintained toilets and a security company that has failed to protect people.
–Every four months costs the equivalent as offering R1000 incentive.

Unfair treatment of De Doorns displaced: In contrast the displaced in De Doorns (who were displaced in November) have been offered no assistance and are rudely told by officials that they are not refugees. (Only the Department of Home Affair’s refugee status determination officers can identify who is or is not a refugee).

Current climate: This week SANCO held protests and demanded the removal of a local councilor accused of inciting xenophobic violence. These protests clearly show the dangers against the displaced are still very real. While threats against foreigners were made as recently as last week, government has now announced that they intend on shutting the camp on the 17th of May.

Our opinion: Closing the camps without financial assistance neglects human rights and neglects the safety of the displaced. Provincial government should take responsibility to ensure the safety of the displaced and ensure that they are provided with basic assistance before any closure is considered. We further believe that only the courts can order an eviction and that any legal battle will waste government money and prolong the process of reintegration.

Looks like my article on Zimbabwean Refugees was picked up by a media outlet:

The State of Zimbabwean Refugees”>href=”http://www.ngonewsafrica.org/2010/04/state-of-zimbabwean-refugees.html

The State of Zimbabwean refugees
Posted by NGO News Africa on: Monday, April 26, 2010

Also published here Tuesday in a slightly abridged version by University of Cape Town’s student newspaper, The Varsity:

Bishop Tutu spotted!

Yesterday, we attended a Catholic Mass at the Saint George’s Cathedral in the city center (known as the “city bowl”). It was no ordinary mass, but one commemorating Anti-Apartheid Bishop Michael Lapsley who lost both hands and an eye when he opened a letter bomb sent by the Apartheid Government twenty years to the day in 1990.

Bishop Tutu was in attendance, along with important functionaries from around the world. Tutu, along with Lasley, gave short speeches. About half the attendees were Americans on my CIEE program–apparently word on the grapevine spreads quickly about Tutu!

After mass, we attended a reception in the courtyard outside, eating the free breads, cheeses and pastries(yum) and of course looking for Tutu.

As we were thinking of leaving, he appeared, sporting that goofy-gremlin like style of his that’s so well known.

“Now’s my chance, now my chance!” I remembered thinking

Matt whispered from behind me, “Let’s go up there, now. Get close to him.”

We interposed as he was moving to the breads and cheeses and got two vaguely dismissive hand shakes, like “who the hell are you.”

Also yesterday we attended a COSATU (the most powerful labor union in SA) rally at the Good Hope center in the city bowl. Nothing but pure “criminalize labor brokers, and power to the people stuff.” Us white American selves looked far too bourgeois to fit in.

Later that same day I was at a poker night with some South African friends I had met through the student newspaper here, the Varsity and I was bragging about my day: “I bet you can’t guess who I just shook hands with.”

“Who?”

“Desmond Tutu”

One of them said something to the effect of, “Oh, we’ve all shaken his hand. He even slapped my knees and gave me a gremlin laugh.” I guess Tutu gets around. What a man!

Now it’s time to start my two 3,000 word essays, one due tomorrow and one due Wednesday.

Every Wednesday at 1pm the Bhakti yoga society hosts a guest lecturer or spiritual gatherings in the Richard Luyt room of the student union. For the past three weeks I’ve gone to these.

Today, for some spiritual nourishment, I chanted “Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Hare Hare Hare Rama Hare Rama Rama Rama Hare Hare” exactly 108 times.

As much as I like the provocative talks and spirituality, those are not the real reasons I attend. I’m not a spiritual person, though I enjoy the philosophical backgrounds behind spirituality. I do, however, rather like the Indian food they provide.

Free food does in fact exist at UCT (though it’s much harder to find than at UR), you just have to know where to look.

Ah, the glory of free, delicious Indian food.

The cobbled streets here are lined with painted houses. As it turns evening, the Muslim call to prayer rings out from minarets nearby. The undulating sound reverberates off the pastel buildings, whose colors shimmer in the sun’s dimming light.

You can forget yourself in Bo-Kaap, the colorful district adjacent to Signal Hill and the city center. Residing on the side of a hill, Bo-Kaap has a distinct feel from all of Cape Town, and is not quite like anything in all of South Africa, perhaps the world.

Bo-Kaap is the traditional Cape Malay area, established by former slaves that were brought in by the Dutch from the Indian Ocean region. They were the skilled artisans and craftsmen. Unlike the sad story of District Six, which was bulldozed by the Apartheid government, Bo-Kaap survived in the same form as it when was first made in the 18th century. The houses are painted every pastel color imaginable. Perhaps Apple took their color scheme for their iPods directly from the houses.

Bo-Kaap ranges from quaint, friendly and peaceful, to slightly sketchy. On the edges of the district are buildings that resemble American projects and gang graffiti, one of which reads, “Bo-Kaap West Side”.

From the top of Bo-Kaap, you can see the city bowl quite well. Another thrity minute hike up, and you’re on Signal Hall.

Blue Waters “Internally Displaced Persons” Camp closed last Monday, the 6th, the High Court in Western Cape Province having signed an eviction order.

We should have been at the de Doorns refugee camp, about two hours away where 1,500 people live. But monitors have been forbidden to enter the camp to observe the conditions there. Ironically, Bram the director of Passop, is still allowed in, but one man can’t do a monitoring project for human rights all by himself and the authorities at de Doorns know that. Who exactly called this order is a bit of a mystery.

About 200 people still live at Blue Waters. They refuse to move, saying that the surrounding townships are too dangerous. Some even hold the fantastic hope that they will be transferred to Canada. No one really knows where those who have left have gone. Many are likely homeless.

So far the authorities have been judicious with the refugees at blue Waters. The camp is to be closed, but the police haven’t forcibly removed them yet with tear gas. I don’t pretend to know all the political complexities behind these issues.

The term “internally displaced” is a bit of a misnomer. While the people there were indeed displaced by Xenophobic violence in may 2008, they are originally from other sub-saharan African countries. The situation there is a bit better than de Doorns.

Yesterday I went with PASSOP to the Blue Waters Camp. We arrived in the evening and we told by the police that because of the darkness we could not tour the site. Instead, we spent part of the night in the township visiting the head of the local PASSOP branch and in a shebeen in someone’s house in the township, a rather interesting and neat experience.

Above you is a finger hold, jutting just an inch from the cliff face.

The rock face taunts you. If you could only reach me, it says, you could get to that next foothold. You jump to reach it, pushing up with all your force. It is a desperate move. Your finger-hold grip slips. The sudden weightlessness and the short rush of wind around you is overwhelming as you fall.

Or, you would fall a rather painful 20 meters to a rocky ground.

The person below you holds the rope tightly, right arm down, left arm up, so that the rope bends around the clasp to provide maximal friction.

And you hang there in your harness, in mid air. Time to try for that ledge again.

—–

My friend, Dan Bressler bought a land rover here from a University friend of his who studied at Tulane with him. Four of us went rock climbing at Silvermine las t Thursday, part of Table Mountain national park, near Muizenberg. It was quite exciting. There’s basically no regulation or oversight here on safety precautions, which can be kind of concerning. Unfortunately, Laura lost her camera, so no photos! :-(.

The bane of my existence.

My bike has had three punctures so far. All of them have been in the rear tire. The first time, the tire was replaced with a new one, the second time it was patched, and after the third puncture it’s been sitting outside the dorms with it’s lovely puncture wound since mid March.

So today I walked the 5 km down to the bike shop in Claremont to get my bike’s rear tired replaced (the third repair). Fixed fine, works fine, no leaks, and I ride it away from the shop.

I ride ten minutes and suddenly I hear kuh-lunk, kuh-lunk, kuh-lunk. Oh, fuck. I walk it back to the sop and get there ten minutes before it closes. The fourth puncture, rear tire again.

It’s back to the bike shop again…

It is a ghost town. The shops are closed, the windows shuttered and the interiors gutted.

But it is not an abandoned ghost town. People do still live here. Their livelihoods, however, do not.

This is the town of Vic Falls.

When you enter Zim be prepared to encounter the most aggressive and desperate haggling. Anything and everything is for sale, your shirts, your socks, your shoes, your hairbands, your food, but most importantly, your US Dollars. And don’t go to them, they will come to you. In Vic Falls we found ourselves walking around with a veritable harem of hagglers. It was like a game of hot potato as we tried to convince them that we did not want anything. Also, make sure you don’t show anything of value, like your camera–that’s a recipe to drag LOTS of attention to you.

In Zim the first thing you’ll notice are Zimbabwean dollars, everywhere, which are utterly useless (A truckload couldn’t buy you a loaf of bread in 2009). Not anymore!

Ever want a 100 Trillion Dollar bank note? In Zimbabwe, you can get one for about one or two US dollars! Yes, the currency actually has value, if only to trade with the few tourists.

And tourists are what Zim is starved of. You can see the infrastructure is there. Throughout the country there are backpackers. In Vic Falls, there’s an extremely helpful Backpacker information center. In Bulwayo there’s a very helpful Black Rhino safari group. There are vibrant (well, used to be vibrant) shops and markets throughout.

We went to a restaurant in Vic Falls. My meal of steak, vegetables and sadza was $1.50, and that included wait service and dishes. We were given a very informal township tour by a local who we met a supermarket. I also had the delight of arm wrestling a Zim guy after convincing him that I did not have any old shirts to give him.

Crossing the border from Zam to Zim we met a Brit and recent Uni grad, Chris Lynch. He’s doing the incredible Cairo to Cape and has been on the road since November. He’s been to the most hair raising places, from Sudan to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and I can only say that I am fantastically jealous! I am, however, not at all jealous of that monstrous backpack of his.

The train from Vic Falls to Bulwayo leaves maybe everyday at 6:30ish and is anywhere from a 12 to 18 hr ride. There are many instances where you actually roll backwards on the tracks (a ‘wonderful’ feeling) or stop for long periods of time in the bush.

We entered Bulawayo and were picked up at the train station by Christine, an old white (surprising) lady who runs a hostel with her husband and we scheduled a safari for the next day, at $70 USD per person for a full private catered day out with a professional hunter at Matobo National Park. Although we did not see any Black Rhinos (what the park is famous for. That and Cecil Rhodes’ grave) we saw a rather curious hippo, some fleeting Giraffe and some truly incredible San/Bushmen Rock art.

ATMs do not work in Zimbabwe, not just for Mastercard. Rumor has it that the government put a block on ATMs just for Bulawayo, but I find that hard to believe. I asked our guide how they saved their money. The answer: They don’t. So we spent our time in the city futilely ATM hopping–conveniently an excellent way to see the city.

Bulawayo is a beautiful city, full of wide avenues originally designed for a horse and buggy to do a u-turn in. The buildings are quite nice too.

Since we could not withdraw cash we nearly failed to exit the country. Things became so hectic that our guide began contacting his personal friends to ask if they could loan us money. Hayley considered kicking a police officer so that she could get deported. Finally, Christine, our hostel owner, convinced Greyhound to let us on the bus and we could pay once we got to the South African side. We got on just as the bus driver started the bus! We’re also $60 in debt to Chris, who payed for the backpacker.

Next a 14-15hr bus ride and 3hrs at SA customs!

So we entered Zim through the Vic Falls entrance. Yes, this is really the border police station. (The actual customs station is a real building beyond the hill)

At a glimpse, Zimbabwe is a country with great potential. It’s people are friendly peaceful and innovative, its cities have decent infrastructure for both business and tourism, and some of its public utilities work (debatable), surprisingly. There is a very posh, and I mean posh in the imperial British sense, hotel at Vic Falls. Banks and ATMs are everywhere (more on that later), the road system isn’t a total disaster, and you can actually take a train from Vic falls to Bulawayo, cockroaches and all, despite it taking about 18 hours (by minibus: 6hrs).

But statistical indicators, and actual life, are more ominous. According to the Fund for Peace, Zimbabwe is number two in the world on the Failed State Index, as of 2009, right after Somalia. That is, the government is so ineffective and weak it exerts little or no effective control. The central ZANU-PF (Mugabe’s political party) has limited authority over the outlying areas. Unlike Somalia, however, the country is actually quite safe to travel in and to walk around in, even at night, which is a pleasant surprise. It’s been said that if the Zimbabweans were not as easy going, they would have overthrown Mugabe years ago.

(Looking out from the Vic Falls hotel.)

That’s not to say Zimbabwe’s government doesn’t exert any influence. It’s perceived tentacles seem to infiltrate daily life, even outside of the country (The Zimbabwean refugees at De Doorns fear Mugabe’s Intelligence Agency.) People within the country will not speak about Mugabe in public. The consequences are too great.

And Zim is poor. It has the lowest measured GDP (PPP) of every country in the entire world at something like $200 per year per capita. Poverty is everywhere. As a tourist, people treat you like royalty because they know you have money.

Lusaka, how does one describe it? Polluted, Soviet-esque, Grey, heavily Christian. Africa.

We had some random experiences there. Stumbling upon a meeting place for the African Union, Parliament, playing Soccer with Zambian youth at a Church, going to the market (called Arcades). As well, any Zambian in a car will call to you and shout “Taxi?”

Zambia has a small economically important Indian population–mostly Shopowners and restaurateurs.

At our hostel, goods were known to go missing. Oddly enough, they tend to get replaced when one complained to the staff–like my Mosi beer which conveniently reappeared when I had a lengthy discussion with the guard/ handyman, John–a bright lad of 20, who complained that dowry for wives had doubled to 200,000 kwatcha, or about $50.

People love Obama. If anything, the first sentence they speck to you usually follows this pattern…. mumble mumble mumble Obama!? mumble!

From Lusaka we traveled to Livingstone by bus, a 7 hr journey. The Bus station is not for the faint of heart–you have to steel yourself for the barrage of bus offers and stares. We were also treated to a complimentary fire-and-brimstone sermon on the Mazhandu Family Bus Service, bus.

It would be about two days by train. Trains by the way, look as if someone took them off the tracks, burned them. Dissembled them and reassembled them with junk parts. Highly ill-advisable.

Livingstone is a more touristy location due to Victoria Falls. Victoria falls are hectic. Thousands of gallons a second, mist so intense that there is constant torrential rain (you can’t bring a camera close to the falls!). Pictures do it more justice than words.

We planned for things to go horribly horribly wrong, and that’s exactly what happened.

On arrival at Lusaka International Airport, we expected a $30 charge for a travel visa, a requirement to enter the country.

Wrong.

The government changed it to $50 per person a few weeks back. It MUST be paid in US dollars, not the local currency, the Zambia Kwatcha. ATM’s only distribute kwatcha. There are about 4700 kwatcha per dollar. You can imagine bills racking up into hundreds of thousands of this play money.

The travel visa desk took our passports until we could withdraw the requisite cash. I decided to go use an ATM to get Kwatcha out and then convert it to USD. To do so, I had to exit the airport.

Wrong move.

Mastercard is NOT accepted in Zambia, only Visa cards. No cash, no travel visa.

Now I had to return to the arrival section of the airport without a boarding pass. I spent the next few minutes arguing with security about how idiotic their system is. They wouldn’t let me back in until a member of the travel visa desk arrived and Kristin removed the money.

Problem solved, and on our way to Chachacha Backpackers, in Lusaka. Three of us, Hayley, Kristin, and I.

Flying to Lusaka, Zambia in a couple hours. Then to Victoria Falls. Ether Zimbabwe or Botswana thereafter! (by bus) back to Joburg. I’m expecting things to go horribly, horribly wrong. That’s all part of the fun.

Back March 28-29th ish

This past weekend my History of Southern Africa Class went on a field trip to a local historical sight near the Afrikaans town of Pniel, about an hour North East of Cape Town.

The “historical sight” happened to be located on a wine farm, Solms Delta.

Our tour consisted of a brief look at a couple old buildings on the farm as well as the vineyard. Then we settled down to the real business, free wine tasting.

Next stop was a short trip to the Church in Pniel, where us students, and the professor, were all inappropriately drunk while the Pastor gave a lecture on the town’s history. I’ve never felt so sacrilegious before in my life.

The image is of the Church. The old slave bell can be seen at right.

For those who are interested, here’s a post on beer/wine in South Africa.

You’ve Got:
Castle
Black Label
Hansa.

These are all mediocre lagers produced by SABMiller (that’s the American miller). SABMiller is about 90% of the market, so its pretty much a monopoly.

There are also some others, but South Africa has no microbrewery movement like that in the States or Europe.

Windhoek, a Namibian lager
Mitchell’s (hard to find)
Savanah hard apple cider
Amstel Light
Heineken
Dreher

That’s about it.

Then there’s wine, which you can pick up for as low as 14R a bottle (a little under $2!) As a rule of thumb when buying cheap wine, the more Afrikaans and less English on the bottle, the better.

Sunday night I was at the De Doorns refugee camp 2 hours outside of cape town. 3,000 (now down to about 1,500) people have been crammed on to a rugby field since November 09 when they were forced out of townships because of Xenophobic violence (There are some suspicions among Passop that the CIO, the Zimbabwean intelligence agency may have sparked unrest in order to dig out Zimbabweans that had fled the country for political reasons).

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/21/world/africa/21safrica.html

They are surrounded by barbed wire and work 12hrs per day for $6-7 dollars a day at farms. In a month they’ll be out of work once the farms shut down for winter. The UN has abandoned the site, and the local government sometimes shuts down water access and hasn’t cleaned the portable toilets in a month in attempts to force people out. More tents are locked up in a government building nearby and are not being removed for use. According to Braam, the director of Passop, there is obvious corruption along the line. Moreover, the site was reportedly set up by two UN employees, one of which had no prior experience. There is no access to medical care and no facilities for bathing. Prostitution is the most recent development, probably to supplement wages. Children have not been to school since entering the camp. Cooking is done out of propane tanks, so tents routinely burn down.

They have only one electrical access point and the whole system is jerry rigged thereon out–someone was nearly electrocuted while I was there. It is a most wretched place. There is no forseeable solution.

Spent the weekend with a family in the township of Oceanview, about an hour south of Cape Town, near Simonstown. Residents of Oceanview were forcibly removed from Simonstown in the late 1960s when the government proclaimed it to be a whites only area. Before the township’s founding it was just scrubland. A fascinating experience, though not a whole bunch interesting to report on. I did, however, get a haircut from a Nigerian in a small tent for R20 while I was there.

It’s a very slow pace of life there and not particularly impoverished. Nevertheless, two students on the program got all their belongings stolen while there. There were six Americans in the house, although we were only supposed to be two. Cumulatively, there were five beds in the house and nine people, but hey this is South Africa so it worked out somehow.

Looking out from the house. You can see the haircut tent to the right outside.

Seven of us rode in the back of Neil’s “bakkie.” Also, apparently using seatbelts is an insult to the driver’s abilities.

A soccer match in the township.

Neil at the beach.

Haircut time.

Tomorrow I leave, with CIEE students others, to the Oceanview coloured township!. Google it, it’s in the western cape. As far as townships go, it’s well off. probably because during apartheid, coloured were considered a step above blacks.