From Super Bowl Sunday to Chipolopolo Madness

Classes have finally rolled around, after an enormous 2-month winter break, and it seems like I’ll be getting into the normal routine shortly. There’s still a lot on the to-do list in the near future including: Cape Town Stormers rugby match at Newlands Stadium which is only a two minute walk from my house (stadium depicted in the movie Invictus), Ajax Cape Town soccer match in the World Cup Stadium, Sunday concerts at the beautiful Kirstenbosch National Botanical Gardens (3 miles away), a visit to Robben Island where Mandela was held prisoner for ~14 years of his 27-year sentence, lunch at famous township restaurant Mzoli’s (which is like a Dinosaur BBQ, but they use the term Braai instead of BBQ), and a hike up Table Mountain which, surprisingly, still hasn’t happened.

Random UCT awesomeness: The main meeting point of campus, Jammie Plaza, includes a grand stairway (like those climbed by Sylvester Stallone in Rocky) where students eat and chill in between classes. Here, you can make new friends or hang with old ones and stare out from an amazing vantage point of the city – an absolutely vast, panoramic view of the surrounding areas that is eventually cut off by distant, hazy mountains (not to mention the comatose-inducing sunlight and 80-degree weather). Here, nothing is rushed, and time seems to lose its immediacy.*

Superbowl Sunday (well really Monday because it aired here from 1:30-5:30am) hit Cape Town with surprising energy at the local bar “Pig and Swizzle”, which became a haven for American G-men and Patriot fans. I give credit to all the Orientation Leaders who stuck it out the entire game, into the wee hours of the mornings, especially most who didn’t know the rules of American football. Like being teleported back to the U.S. for the day, trash talk, USA chants, and Giants/Patriots jersey were the rituals of the day. I was proud to where the Amani Toomer jersey that was good luck all the way through playoffs. It was great to see all the South/Southern Africans pick sides and get excited towards the end, especially during Eli’s epic game-winning drive – I would later find myself in their shoes during the African Cup of Nations finale. The celebration after the glorious Giants victory was a bit anti-climatic, as it was 5:30am, the bar was essentially closed, and people were just ready to sleep.

If the Super Bowl was like a wave of Onondaga Lake, then the African Cup of Nation (ACN) soccer finale was a tsunami here in the sports community. The Super Bowl made a small ripple through American students, those connected to American students, and the rare South Africans who actually watch football for enjoyment (considering the popularity of rugby), but in general was relatively confined and insignificant. The ACN championship pitted Ivory Coast against tournament underdog Zambia, which borders South Africa. Realizing a perfect opportunity to sport my Ivory Coast jersey, I proudly wore the Orange and Green to Pig and Swizzle, hoping to be embraced by other Didier Drogba-loving fans. Unlike the balanced Super Bowl group between Giants and Patriots fans, the bar was probably 99% Zambian supporters and I immediately received some menacing stares and dumbfounded looks. Within five minutes I shed and pocketed the jersey, not wanting to be stabbed as a casual Côte d'Ivoire fan. Some Zambians recognized my move with a thumbs up and other gestures of approval.

The atmosphere in the bar for the match was that stereotypical soccer craze that exists only in the American imagination. For an untraveled American, the only glimpse into this atmosphere has only been realized through TV coverage of celebrations in Rio de Janeiro after a Brazil World Cup victory, for example, or hearsay about intensely coordinated chanting from crowds at Manchester United games. On the way to the bar, we could here the cheers of fans from the street, leading us to believe we had missed a goal scored in the first few minutes. Making our way up the stairs to the bar, we realize the game hasn’t even started yet and those cheers were just the pre-game chants of Zambian supporters. The Pig (bar) was wall-to-wall packed with people – this time with few internationals/Americans – some being elevated, waving flags and leading the habitual “Chipolopolo aweh” chant in what seemed to be a cocaine-induced mania. The game began and the cheers continued, as every turn of possession seemed to carry the magnitude of a crucial third down play in the Giants-Patriots game.

The game was the classic 0-0 soccer tie all through regulation and two overtime periods, and would be decided on penalty kicks. Ivory Coast had two major chances, a shot that slipped right outside the post and a missed penalty kick by Drogba – the response to which was insane. Zambia also had a volleyed shot off a cross that hit the post and was cleared out. Even the PK’s brought the two teams to a stalemate, each making the first five, thus sudden death shots would determine the champion. After two sudden death conversions from each team, Ivory Coast conceded the first miss. Just when you thought it would end, Zambia missed, meaning another shot from each team. Ivory Coast missed again, Zambia converted, and became 2012 African Cup of Nations champs. Pure ecstasy reverberated through the Pig as Zambian supporters from all nationalities were embraced and joined the chaotic celebration.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that was the craziest sports celebration and display of fanhood I have ever been a part of. Immediately, people were up on tables, chairs, and other furniture shaking beers and spraying the packed room with rains of elation. Fans were shaking anything they could get a hand on, you could hear bottles breaking everywhere, and of course the Zambian “Chipolopolo aweh!” song was sung without respite (the best celebration song ever, which I still have to find). With the combination of wet floors, broken glass everywhere, and Crocs that have lost traction years ago, I feared for a brief moment that I would be trampled and suffer an excruciating death. Me, Lienda (who’s actually Zambian and a huge fan), and Nyasha group-hugged and were jumping around, holding the Zambian flag with others in the close vicinity. Eventually we left, although the celebration would go on; we could still hear songs and chants far down the street on the way home. All-in-all it was quite an absurd experience, granted that this celebration happened in South Africa, not Zambia or Ivory Coast. It was a good day to become an honorary Zambian.

*I’ve procrastinated on some pics but will add them soon

Sobering Moments, continued

We finally make it to St. James Beach after the delay and bout of uneasiness as we waited anxiously for the train besides Cape Town’s lesser-known Joker. The great thing about CT is that because there are so many beaches, it’s never overcrowded and it often times feels like you have your own private beach. The small sandy opening to the ocean at St. James was surrounded on both sides by staggered and distinctive rock patterns that were interesting to explore and sit on as waves crashed in. Feeling a little uptight after our first encounter of the day, talk about each other’s homes and short moments of uninterrupted rest eased our weariness (me, Petra, Giulia, and Seb). Suddenly, like being awakened by a glass of cold water to the face, a beggar approached a little more aggressive than most. After asking for the customary Rand handout, he starts to paw at my backpack without making a definitive grab, asking “What’s this? What’s in there?” Then without warning he makes a swing at my neck with his arm, halting the motion halfway through, as to scare me or force me to let go of my bag. At this point, feeling threatened, but not intense-heartbeat scared, I stand up gripping the bag and extend my arm as to shield my bag and push him aside. He immediately began to move on, recognizing the futility of his efforts to come away with a new bag or money, knowing that police was nearby and the risk overwhelming.

Abruptly, your focus shifts from careless conversations about summer vacations in the ADK’s and typical beach-bummin’ to intense confusion and disorientation. First, you think, “Wow, what just happened?”, then move to a period of the inexplicable silence between the four of us, finally (but gradually) return to the day’s carelessness. About five minutes after the novel situation, this older, Muslim man – his dress and his wife’s traditional covering was an obvious indication of his faith – walked by in front of us and said to me, “You mustn’t be afraid”, and continued walking away. The whole situation was really bizarre, and it felt like something that should’ve been in an M. Night Shamylan movie. The man’s words of guidance caught me in the middle of my state of disorientation, and the whole thing seemed rather dreamlike.

Enough adventures for one day, well, that’s what we thought anyway…

Disbelief and reassurance, oddly enough, coincided during our return trip on the rail as we witnessed fights, a loving family, police, and excited locals. A few stops back towards Cape Town, the train shuts down and people start rushing to the windows to see what the commotion was. I got a peak out and saw a giant crowd forming 30-yards down the station platform, learning from talk among the Metrorail regulars that a fight broke out. The train shut down for about ten minutes before resuming, but the four of us were unsure the size and seriousness of the fight. We make it to the next stop, train stops again, this time I get my head out of the window to see two police with larger rifles sprinting down the platform, right in front of my window. It was only about 5 seconds before two middle-aged women pushed us aside to get a closer look. For someone who has read a fair amount about apartheid/pre-Mandela South Africa, images like this conjure up rather frightening, visceral reactions: heavily armed South African armed forces and ATV’s (anti-tank vehicles) policing/terrorizing the township areas, indiscriminate killings like those during the 1967 Sharpeville Massacre or various other riots in Soweto. Again, I was caught in this moment of disbelief, thinking that perhaps I was seeing first hand the enduring prevalence of violence in these poor, overcrowded areas.

Just as my disbelief was reaching its climax, a mood of reassurance and comfort trickled in. The people at my end of the cabin were having a good laugh from the whole ordeal – I guess they see the Metrorail security similar to the way Americans envision Canadian Mounties, as dopey imbeciles. Looking out the window again, I see a man absolutely knocked out who is being carried away by a few friends – no idea if he was beat up bad, shocked by a police taser, drunk, or debilitated from drugs. Back to the cabin, we start talking to the family (mentioned in previous post from the Langa township), which includes mom, dad, and a son and daughter both about 5 years old. The dad was telling jokes about the rail security, talking a little about the rail and townships, and tickling his son on the stomach. The mother sat with the daughter opposite, and the daughter ended up falling asleep on Seb’s arm. The little boy would occasionally go over and tickle his sister trying to get her to wake. Again, conversing with family and watching the antics of the little kids, it was difficult to imagine they could come from such poor, and crowded areas like Cape Town’s Langa Township. The stop here was about 20-25 min., but gave us a feeling of comfort and reassurance in an environment of strange uncertainty. Just another example of the disparity between perceptions and reality that can often meet head on when coming in contact with Cape Town’s unique people and environments.

(I realize I haven’t updated about the 5 girls I live with and the freshman from Zimbabwe, Ngoni, but what can I say…bitches be shoppin’)

Next post: Road Trip (World's Highest Bungee Jump included)

Sobering Moments

Riding the Metrorail (aboveground subway system) home after what was supposed to be a lazy day at the beach, Seb, with one of his trademark, straightforward remarks said, “It seems like we keep having a really pleasant time, followed by a really scary time over and over.” His reflection exacted what me, Giulia, and Petra (two other roommates) had felt and experienced over the course of the day. There’s something about Cape Town and SA that occupies the grey space between poverty and plenty, comfort and insecurity, that’s really difficult to put your hands on. The Metrorail provides a perfect symbol of a public space that treads the middle ground of daily life here, where the oddities abound, and the people and incidents are often beyond my understanding. In fact, I could write an entire blog about the encounters on the Metrorail, though I have ridden it only three times. Here’s a rather brief introduction…

The rail operates all throughout Cape Town, but most students take it from the greater-campus area along the Indian Ocean side of the peninsula, where it makes stops at a handful of beautiful beaches and seaside towns. However, the rail is also a popular mode of transport for people coming from township communities, and it is rare to find many white people in its cabins. The most difficult part is determining what sort of socio-economic backgrounds certain people are coming from, whether they are beggars, working unskilled jobs, have desk jobs, or simply traveling somewhere everyday just to look for day’s labor. Often times you find yourself dumbfounded between the disparity of your perceptions and the reality. For example, there was a family (mom, dad, and a young son and daughter), who, based on clothing and behavior I had assumed came from an area of relative affluence (aka somewhere outside the townships). Turns out the family lives in Langa, Cape Town’s first and oldest township, which is way too overcrowded according to the father. Reading about SA and learning a little about poverty around the world, I had imagined areas like the townships to be a lump of people with an equal footing in poverty and despair. It’s interesting to observe the vibrant personalities and complexities of township life after coming in contact with an assortment of its people.

Here’s a small list of the people and things I’ve come across of the Metrorail: University professor who has traveled the world (previously mentioned), a number of musicians playing in the cabins working for tips – some really quite talented, a security guard, scores of vendors selling all sorts of foods, the family mentioned above, and a self-proclaimed preacher espousing his views - referencing Noah’s flood, the coming Armageddon, the United Nations as a false prophet, and some other Bible passages. A couple of middle-aged ladies were laughing hysterically at the preacher, who was really funny to watch, but he remained stoic throughout his brief sermon. The cabins are packed tight most times and the people are wide-ranging in age, wealth, and purpose.

Getting back to Seb’s quote and our day-trip to the beach, we were met with a number of provoking situations that immediately altered our frame of reference and left us temporarily speechless. It is like being at a high school party when the police show up and you know you’re screwed – your fun, yet unfamiliarly intoxicating night is immediately sobered by the seemingly dire consequences facing you. The unfamiliar incidents that occurred from Rondebosch (my town) to St. James Beach by Metrorail elicited the same type of reaction within each of us traveling that day (me, Seb, Petra, Giulia).

Our first sobering moment happened at the metrorail stop in Rondebosch, where we waited a looong time for the train heading to St. James Beach. Commonly enough, a bum approached me asking for a couple rand (SA currency), I said no, and then he proceeded to Seb with the same plea. Like most beggars he came with a tactic: the “You have everything, I have nothing” plea. At first it seems heartless to not give money to the more desperate beggars, but we’ve been told to avoid doing so in order to discourage the culture of begging in SA. After the initial exchange, the man started these slightly deranged mumbles, saying things like “You f******* pussy” and other phrases where we could pick out certain words among garbled gibberish. He was a white man who had just finished eating cupcakes and had crumbs and frosting all over his face – that mixed with something resembling a skin disorder around his mouth made him look like the Joker in the Dark Knight (even the hair was similar). That first transformation from an innocent plea to malicious gibberish threats left the four of us a bit on edge, not knowing whether an attack was coming or not. We had the comfort of strength in numbers and the mood of the locals was reassuring, seemingly passive about the situation – an indication of normalcy. Our conversations about the beach and the exorbitant temperatures that day became immediately silenced, leaving us speechless for a long and unnerving wait. The experience was chillingly real, instantly altering your state of mind from one of nonchalance to one of tenseness and insecurity. Unfortunately, this was only the first indication of what our day would entail.

The second half of the story is a bit too long to fit into this blog post, so I’ll be updating it soon. It’s kind of like the “to be continued” of a two part “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” episode. But I’ll leave you readers with some more upbeat plans I have for the upcoming week:

1. Yesterday, Tuesday Feb. 7, a bunch of students hiked up Lion’s Head to see the sunset and

full moon. The travel agency made it out to be a simple hike and didn’t give much cause for concern. There were a couple of freaky points on the mountains where you think you’re not afraid of heights until you have to take on some vertical climbs with ladder handles and chains. It was an amazing view, and felt like being an ant on an anthill with hundreds of other people going up the mountain.

2. Tomorrow, Thursday Feb. 9, a few roommates and others have an 8-person van rented until Sunday that we will be using to roadtrip through South Africa’s infamous Garden Route along the southern coast. Trip plans include the world’s largest bungee jump (216 meters) and this 3 hour kayak trip on Storms River, which starts on the ocean and meanders through this gorge with rocky cliffs. We may check out an elephant park, but some plans are still up in the air.

"Luck of the Irish" in Africa

I consider myself an extremely lucky person, not only in the fact that I’ve been blessed with the accompaniment of great friends and loving family for the first quarter of my life, but also with small things like getting the best professors in classes and clutch schedules. Fortunately, my luck has followed me here in Cape Town. The program and opportunities afforded through UCT have far surpassed my expectations, and I am forced to pick only a small sample of the variety of experiences available here. It has only been one week and I already feel like the remaining 4.5 months will go by leaving me wanting to explore more. I write this update after a night of planning a four-day road trip along the famous Garden Route along South Africa’s southern coast – a beautiful stretch of diverse landscapes, flora, and fauna. I hope to get a 10 person Volkswagen van, but we’ll see what happens tomorrow morning. I hate writing about my study abroad experience because I’ve said all these very cliché things like “a life changing experience” or “one of the most valuable blah, blah, blahs”, but it feels very bizarre actually doing so. It sounds rather cynical, but I didn’t exactly believe some of students’ other blogs I had read before signing up myself.

The “luck of the Irish” has again revealed its ambiguous, but familiar face for me in my housing and roommate placements. I live in an unbelievable Cape Town house that’s more like a small Cape Cod beach house or something, very quaint, but extremely welcoming place that I’ve become familiar with almost immediately. Secondly, I couldn’t be happier with the roommates I’ve been assigned to – as most get placed with other Americans (and the last thing you want to do here it talk about college life in America because a.) I’ve done it long enough and b.) there’s nothing unique about the conversations.) I’ll tell you a little about my roommates, but I can’t talk crap about them because I get the feelings they are reading my blog without me knowing nbd (no big deal). I really don’t have any negatives, but it is funny to find out who reads this – one of my orientation leaders (#shoutoutLienda) reads and supports an American perspective on her country. Anyways, here it goes…

First impressions: When I first met up with all the roommates on move-in day, I was a bit nervous that I had been assigned to a bunch of quiet, boring people and that I would have to hang out with people outside the house to have a good time.

I guess I’ll start with the guys. Before moving in, I felt a little like Paul Rudd in the movie “I Love You, Man” in that I met a lot of girls who I would to spend time with, but no guys I really could call my bros like those of the infamous UB broshack. I had wing-women before wingmen, which felt a bit emasculating. Oddly enough, my roommates Seb (Sebastian) from Brisbane, Australia and Emil from Copanhagen, Denmark are two of the most bro wingmen I’ve met here and really couldn’t think of any other guys I’ve met to replace them. They’ll probably read this and give me crap for being so “emotional” or “talking about my feelings”, etc, etc. Anywho, Emil is this really quirky Dane with a funny accent and tells funny stories/jokes and seems to always have something to talk about. He has three particular sayings that I find extremely funny: 1) “Awww, you’re so sweeeet” 2) “Fair enough” and 3) “Shit son” which is usual in response to me saying something very stereotypically American slang like “that ain’t cooool, dawg.” Summing up real quick, he is adventurous, quick with a joke, and a guy who knows odd facts and drinking games (the closest thing I’ve met to a Danish Keith McComb). Also, he has run a marathon and joins me and Seb on runs around town – I say this behind his back all the time, but he has the funniest running form which I gotta get a pic of before leaving.

Interesting discovery: Crocs are universally accepted as an ugly form of footwear, but I still hold firm to the belief that someplace, in some time, a girl will understand their true beauty and that connection will lay the foundation for an everlasting relationship. #CrocsSwag

Seb arrived later than most internationals, and all us roomies who had already moved in envisioned this wild fantasy about the Australian guy who we pretty much agreed would have the wildman swagger of Paul Hogan in “Crocodile Dundee” with the accent of Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin. He’s got some serious swag, but definitely not like the two molds envisioned. He does exhibit a bit of that unhurried Australian way of life, and his conversation has an unusual directness, which is uncommon for we Americans who tend to beat around the bush. I told him I have a tendency to beat way around the bush, but my roommates have already grown accustomed to my BS. It has been really easy and flowing conversations between everyone, and although I often feel like the center of attention by crossing lines and doing absurd things (like Uncle Joe at family parties), everybody has something interesting to add. Seb is the master of unintentional humor: the directness of his dialogue mixed with a funny accent and weird inflection points in his sentences always finds me dying in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation. Seb might be the happiest and most energetic drunk I’ve ever met and does some pretty epic things like dancing on random tables at the club – Australian Andy Adam?. He also takes a lot of candid videos and pics (there’s already two embarrassing vids of me).

A feel like title character Willie O’Conely from the Clancy Brothers song “Ramblin’, Gamblin’, Willie”, trailblazing on a streak of luck that follows me wherever I go. Here in the Cape, I got great roommates, a nice house, and a program that blew away all expectations. And so I thank sweet baby Jesus for the “Luck of the Irish”, even in the jungles of Africa (Note to Conese: I’m not referring to the Disney channel movie, so you and your half-chub can relax).

“So all you rovin’ gamblers, wherever you might be
The moral of the story is very plain to see
Make your money while you can, before you have to stop
For when you pull that dead man’s hand, your gamblin’ days are up
And it’s ride, Willie, ride
Roll, Willie, roll
Wherever you are a-gamblin’ now, nobody really knows”