The policeman walks up to the car, rips out the keys with an angry huff and strides back to the police station at the airport. My illegal taxi driver smiles and shakes his head, in an effort to calm the situation down and assure his nervous passengers, a muslim family and myself. Our driver then runs out, chasing the policeman, in an effort to retrieve his keys. So much for trafficking myself into Colombo, Sri Lanka’s largest city and former capital.

I had arrived into Bandranaike Int’l Airport on Six pm on Sunday amidst an atmosphere of rain, wind, rain, rain, sweat, heat, and more rain. My flight was 36 hours, including a 12 hour layover in London visiting Peter N. and the British Library, as well as seeing the eminently queer Bahrain Int’l airport—with its throngs of, well, men. Everywhere. Bengali, Arab, South Indian etc. In hordes.

Stepping out of the airport, I turned left as my hurried self written instructions indicated, and walked through the throngs of people hailing taxis and waiting for relatives down to the end of the airport where I expected a shuttle bus to the main bus station, where I would catch Bus 187 to Colombo. 

A Sri Lankan approached me on the bus as I expected to settle into an unpleasent three hour public transit sojourn to my house in Colombo.

“Going to Colombo or Negombo?” he asked.

“Colombo. I’m taking the bus.”

“My friend has a car. AC. Very nice. 1000 rupees—he will drive you”

I say no and hesitate. 1000 rupees, about eight dollars, is cheap for the two hour ride, and certainly beats the bus. “Yes” I change my mind.  

He escorts me off the bus and we walk in the shadows past an airport policeman to his friend’s car. This is not a sanctioned taxi ride. After a few nods with his friend, who turns out to be an airport travel services employee operating an illegal taxi service on the side, I hop in the passenger seat.

On our way out, we pick up the muslim family. I then see the policeman stride up to the car.

In ten minutes our driver returns, visibly cowed. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. I ask him, “Baksheesh?” Indeed, there’s nothing a good bit of bribery can’t fix.

So the ride in was a bit stressful, but the reward was good conversation with the muslim father, who worked in Saudi Arabia for a few American families. Most of all, I get to see Sheela and my future housemates!

And, holy hell, I think. Will it ever stop raining?

Hi all,

A couple days ago, I moved into my apartment here in North East D.C. at 4 and V. It’s a nice place, a row house with a few roommates. Marc, who works nights at Dominoes, Roland, GW grad student and Trey, a research assistant at the Federal Reserve.

Now: NPR! All Things Considered, (well, mostly opinions!) Orientation was Tuesday. I shall start Monday at 7am sharp. That’s 27 minutes before sunrise,and means I’ll wake earlier than I’ve ever consistently woke up in my life. Ideally, I’ll bike to work–if I can ever get my bike out of the shop.

A few days before I was to leave the country, I got sick with the flu. I called in to work (actually, I realized I didn’t even have the school’s number, but eventually I found it) saying I would be sick. The assistant answered my call, told me to feel better, and insisted I take medicine or go to the hospital. Medicine, hospital? That’s a bit strange.

My supervisor called me an hour later. She asked if I had taken medicine or had gone to hospital. What’s with this hospital business? She made it a point to say that they desperately needed me and expected me in later that day.

Reading online, I found that it’s quite uncommon for a Korean to miss a day of work or school on account of being ill. So be it. I’ll go into school and I’ll infect the entire classroom.

A few days before I was to leave the country, I got sick with the flu. I called in to work (actually, I realized I didn’t even have the school’s number, but eventually I found it) saying I would be sick. The assistant answered my call, told me to feel better, and insisted I take medicine or go to the hospital. Medicine, hospital? That’s a bit strange.

My supervisor called me an hour later. She asked if I had taken medicine or had gone to hospital. What’s with this hospital business? She made it a point to say that they desperately needed me and expected me in later that day.

Reading online, I found that it’s quite uncommon for a Korean to miss a day of work or school on account of being ill. So be it. I’ll go into school and I’ll infect the entire classroom.


Why do all Korean women wear heels? And yes, even on planes or when they know they’re going to be walking on dirt all day?

Koreans have funny ways of walking across streets. You will see people calmly walking and then, suddenly, they spot that the crosswalk is green! They sprint! Kids old ladies, doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter that the crosswalk may have just turned green either. The run looks more like an incredibly fast paced shuffle, usually because they’re carrying bags. Anyways, it’s not weird that they run to/across crosswalks. There’s just something odd for me about the manner in which they do it.


Seoul’s subway is a fascinating aspect of the city. For one, it’s huge. Two, it’s so big, with 10 subway lines, it even covers other cities, like Suwon, with a population of 1 million. Many of the cars have lcd televisions built into them which display advertisements and the like. Most stations, as well, have some type of lcd technology whereby they accurately depict the location of previous trains. It’s pretty cool and efficient as hell.


Cereal and Beer

Cereal is a problem here in Seoul. Why does it cost $5 a box? And why is it all sugary and tasteless? If you like knock off frosted flakes, though, you might be in heaven.

Not to mention milk. It’s more than double the price of the U.S.

And beer. There’s nothing exciting on this front, with the possible exception that larger grocery chains are carrying more exotic foreign labels—especially in the foreigner districts! Generally, you’re likely to find Hite, Hite D (Dry Finish), Cass, Cass Red, OB Golden, OB Max, and Hite Stout. With the exception of Hite Stout, they’re all pretty much interchangable. None are particularly bad, it’s just that they’re all American lager type clones. Hite Stout, is a halfway decent stout, not offensive on the palate.

These will all cost about $1 a bottle.

In the average grocery store, for foreign beers, you’re almost guaranteed to find Hoegaarden and Budweiser. I’m not sure why, but these beers are universal. Foreign beers will usually cost at least double the local stuff.

I’m looking at the Secret Council of Fort William’s very secret notes from 1780. All hand written, almost indecipherable. Big loopy letters like the declaration of independence.

They come in giant bound volumes, each surrounded by a grey box, which is knotted closed.

Although I’m now in London, I feel as if I should write a bit about life in Seoul. I arrived in South Korea on the 27 of August and departed three weeks later on September 17. For me it was three great weeks to live in Seoul, three bad weeks to work in Seoul. But, more on that later.

Now that I’m out of the country, I feel that I can talk more freely. And I have the energy and will to do so.

Seoul is a city that still shows signs of its recent and ongoing industrialization. Called the miracle on the han river, it’s truly and incredible city, massive yet densely populated with. It does a good job of holding all these people and tall apartment buildings dot the often hazy sky—which I’m not sure is pollution or fog, though I suspect it is a mix. The subway runs frequently and quickly, following a neurotic timetable. Indeed, timeliness is godliness in this country. And this neuroticism knows little bounds.

I remember my first week at Evan English School. I had 20 minute classes. 15 of them. Yes, I counted, 15 classes a day. It was utterly exhausting, darting from room to room with a little basket full of a boatload of books, my only instructions being to do “review” with the kids with books they had already finished that I had no time to look over.

Suffice to say, I got very adept at introducing myself to a bunch of kids. Who am I, What’s my name, where do I come from. That, and playing games with them. Until, of course, I was instructed by my supervisor that I was no longer permitted to play games with them. Which left me with…. a whole bunch of finished textbooks I had never seen before.

Point of this description is to say that once every 20 minutes were over, if I did not stop my instruction at exactly 20 minutes past once I entered, my supervisor would hurriedly march down the hall, enter the room, and inform me that I was late to the next class! I was late! It was more of an oddity than anything; timeliness taken to a rigid and stressful extreme.

I will tell the tale of how I went from London to Korea in a few hours but, for now, I pour over old books at the British Library. I am amazed at the wealth of material here. (I’ll also tell more about my scholarship in a bit).

It’s incredible how the Cape of Good Hope (Modern South Africa) and British India were so interconnected. The correspondence from Fort William (Modern Calcutta/Kolkata) to London is replete with references to the British Cape of Good Hope. In 1799, the British had just conquered South Africa. So that year marks the first year of their colonial rule there. That’s when my study of South African newspapers for my thesis commenced. The Governor of General of Fort William wrote to London of his reception from the governor of the Cape of Good Hope a letter that the new colony “was in great want of proper timber.”

The Governor-General of India sent timber as well as rice, which was “very scare and very dear” and other goods to the fledgling colony with his own initiative, separate from London.

Since every boat that went to British India made a stopover in Cape Town, these colonies were intimately connected. South Africa was an eminently strategic acquistion as it straddled all shipping lanes to and from the spice rich East Indies.

A happy and prosperous British India required a happy and prosperous British South Africa.

Hello all!

This is my first post from the bustling, busy-busy city of Seoul. I’ll just start off with a quick layout of the first few days here.

I left early in the morning on Friday, the 26th from Bradley Int’l. The school pays the cost of the flight, which is a standard feature of the contract and quite a nice perk. I arrived here in Korea on the 27th at about 3:30 pm Korean Standard Time. I’m thirteen hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time. So, if it is 1pm on the east coast, it’s 2am here in Korea. Likewise, if it is 5pm here in Korea, it would be 3am in Missouri.

The flight was uneventful, though I met an American couple who were traveling to the southern Korean city of Cheongju to teach English. The flight over from Chicago O’Hare to Seoul was pretty much composed of entirely Koreans or young Americans, of whom I presume were all going to teach English in Seoul.

My recruiter’s—the contractor who helped match me up with an English school here—driver drove me to the hagwon (Hagwon means private English school in Korea). There, I met the director of the school, who doesn’t speak English, which is a bit ironic. He showed me the school and then drove me to my apartment. All the directions are in Korean, including addresses. Moreover, street numbers are assigned based on the order in which buildings on the street were built, not one where they are on the road. Even further, this numbering system is often irrelevant since most building don’t actually have their building number on them. Imagine the confusion if I were to get lost!

I spent Sunday wandering around the Mok-Dong district of the city, the district where I live and work. I found a few grocery stores, so I know where I’ll be doing my shopping.

Monday I began work. The director picked me up at 11:30 and we arrived at work 10 minutes later. I was there until 9. A long day! At the end of the day, I walked home. A short walk, perhaps 15 minutes.

So, I’m just getting settled here and I don’t know anyone yet, but hopefully that will change.

Look forward to more blog posts! I’ll make them more interesting about adjusting to life here and culture in Seoul. I’ll certainly talk more the hagwon (school), too—of which I have a lot to say but want to hold off on because of some rather interesting occurrences that have taken place there.

That’s all for now folks!

We entered the 1000 Pillared Temple and were blessed. The monk applied the red mark on our foreheads, the KumKum. Us. Grimy, dirty, ignorant, shorts wearing Americans.

We entered temples were photographed. We were given more than the usual stares. The next day we appeared in photos and articles for at least two local papers. We were the tourist attraction.

Three hours outside of the city of Hyderabad lies the small city of Warangal. It has little tourist influence. The city lies at the heart of the Telangana region of the Andhra Pradesh Province, a hotbed of separatist politics for the Telangana minority in the province.

We arrived in the city, assaulted by child beggars and the scent of piss and cow dung, and moved from the train station to our hotel. Rooms booked at R130 per night per person, or 2.5 dollars. No AC, no Western Toilets and the usual myriad of scents wafting up from the alley behind.

There were eight of us that went, a good crowd of Americans, a Thai and a Mexican.

We made an early start to the town of Melugu, a further 75km from Warangal. It is a small town of maybe 5000 people, whose existence is solely reliant on the main road that bisects it. Cows, like elsewhere idle in the streets. Nearby, however, is the Ramappa Temple and the lake that sits 2km away.

Isolated and desolate, the temple sits in a green field with evidence of restoration. Like everywhere in India, we did have some odd company. A insane man, whose name sounded roughly like “Byah,” was our “security guard” until we convinced him that we were going to call the police.

Other Indians we more helpful. A bunch of guys transported us on their motorbikes. It’s a treat fitting 4 people on to one small bike. Since we were such a big deal, we had cheers with “thums up” (a drink like coke) at his small cellphone shop. We ate food with our hands a restaurant so spicy that I could not open my eyes.

A flood of students scurry into your classroom, hurried and shushed. It’s 11:20, twenty minutes after class’s scheduled beginning.

The professor has just walked in.

The students stand up and address the professor as Sir or Madam.

Every day I lose more faith in India’s higher education system. The University of Hyderabad is ranked number 1 in India as a postgraduate institution. But contrast this ranking to actual University academics and you get a much different image. In class, Some students have a maturity level similar to high school students. Male and female students frequently sit separate. Students pass notes in class and do not engage the professor. There is little real discussion in class, and this is a graduate level University. Students are receiving their Ph. D and their masters degrees, but often do not seem ready for such critical thinking. I must emphasize that many students are mature and competent and these issues are not the fault of the students, but rather a result of the structure of Higher Education here.

Professors do not help much for education. Here is a line for line quote from my Dalit Politics Professor in a 500 level second year masters course.

“it’s a fragmenting, it’s a fragmenting, fragmenting, fragmenting if you talk of inequality you can talk of inequality within the dominant class, but a graded graded inequality it’s a political social that graded inequality. That graded inequality is the one, secondly. It is not the division of labor. Division of labor is a universal. Division of labor, division of laborers is different, division of laborers is different my friends, it’s a very theoretical. So that division of labor. Graded inequality. …it’s a labor that is continues laborers, it is a ‘laterlite’ situation. It’s a compartments, it’s a vertical, not a horizontal. It’s a very interesting that ambedkar formulation. To get a the caste system annihilation, of caste theory it is a very two thing, the two things are simplistic.“

Not entirely sure what he was getting at with this thought.

In Women’s History in India we have started presenting seminar papers. On our first day, three students presented their papers. Each went up to the podium, opened their papers and read. Monotone, droning thick accent. They did not look up once. They did not make eye contact. Atrocious English. After each reading our Professor berated the class for not discussing the paper. I’d be surprised if any of the students would respond, either they were passing notes in class (which happens) or did not undertsand a word, like us.

Critical thinking among the majority of Indian students is lacking. Here Education is frequently based on wrote memorization so students can repeat information and dates back but cannot analyze information and readings. This difference of focus from the western system reflects itself in grading exams and emphasis in class.

Students Protested yesterday Today about the University not giving out Fellowships that were promised–essentially Scholarships for studying here and for the lack of transport to South Campus, a 2km walk to Main Campus.

The Pro-Vice Chancellor came out to meet them, The bald guy, dressed as a Brahman. He acceded to all their demands. The Vice Chancellor convientely left the University that day.

The Protest was led by a cooperation of political bodies on Campus and the Students’ Union. They marched through campus attracting students. Consequently, most classes were cancelled.

You can tell when the monsoon is coming in. The sky darkens, the air changes its smell. What was once a sunny day is covered with a deep gray overcast as imposing clouds roll in across the horizon.

This is monsoon season, where Hyderabad receives about seven or eight inches of rain, deposited often in the humid, languid afternoons.

The monsoon is a rain that drenches and is unlike any rain in the states. Sweeping bursts of rain, a torrential downpour. Lightening follows, striking the land around you. Sharp bolts pierce the clouds. Their glow flares in the gloomy sky. Reverberations of thunder rocket afterward.

Running out in the monsoon is a wetter experience than anything I’ve ever been in before. The roads turn into rivers. Feral dogs cross the street in front of you, scampering for shelter. Monkeys hide in tree canopies. All wildlife other than the dogs is out of sight.

The monsoon washes away the filth on the street. Effluent and waste travel to lower elevations.

With the monsoon, like clockwork, the power goes out. Usually for less than thirty minutes, though unusually for hours. Sometimes the newly installed generator kicks in, sometimes not. Usually when the generator does we work, we either have the fan, the internet or the AC working.

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…