This post has been in the works for a couple days now, but I was unable to post it due to Internet connection problems as well as data limits as will be explained throughout the post. Enjoy!

Greetings from the University of Cape Town in South Africa! With Internet connections limited in both their area and usage for now, I am not sure at what point I will be able to post this, but I figured I should still type it up now while it is all still fresh in my mind. Since I have not posted since the pre-departure post, I will start back in Indianapolis, the night before I left on July 7 and continue through the present, July 11.

July 7

11:00pm – 15 hours to departure

After a long day of checking lists off, packing up stuff at the apartment, visiting with grandmas that I haven’t seen very often over the summer, picking up Hannah from the airport, and dinner at California Pizza Kitchen downtown with that whole group plus Aunt Pam and the cousins, I was pretty exhausted. But as has been the situation with every other international trip I have taken, the whoa-whoa-whoa-wait-a-minute-think-about-what-your-doing feeling was in hyper drive, so much so I couldn’t even count my socks or t-shirts. As the minutes crept along at snails pace, I realized the weight of what I was doing: I’m packing up the essentials I will need for the next four and a half months of my life.

Whoa-whoa-whoa…

Eventually, sleep began to come on and having confirmed I had everything on my list at least laying somewhere close to my suitcases (minus a few random articles), I resigned to sleep at 2am, which then made it…

July 8

9:00am – 5 hours to departure

Having finished up the always wonderful, homemade biscuits and gravy tag-teamed by the grandma duo, I once again sat in the middle of the living apartment, triple checking my packing list as I actually packed the suitcases this time around. Though dealing with a cheap scale that seemed to have multiple personalities, I concluded that my to-be-checked bag was clocking in around 45 pounds with my carry-on around 21 pounds, well within the maximums of 50.5 and 26 pounds respectively for each bag. After a surprisingly relaxed last hour before we all loaded up for the airport, the two-car caravan pulled out of the parking lot around 11:40am.

1:00pm – 1 hour to departure

I stand in the Lids Locker Room in the main concourse of the airport watching the men’s Wimbledon final as I search for an IUPUI hat (a last minute epiphany I had standing in line at the Starbucks). After finding a hat that met my rather low fashion standards (no one ever looks good in an off red/maroon), I proceeded to the check out, finishing off my café mocha. Exiting the store, I go to throw away the now empty transport vessel of carbohydrates and lipids, I have one of those mental images that, for whatever bizarre reason, imprints itself on your mind in such a way that seems to stick forever. I had just consumed the last American Starbucks I would have for quite a long time. Having never been reliant on anything besides my beauty rest (just like building muscle, growing a consistently epic beard does require some effort of the body while unconscious), it wasn’t some reactionary fear of withdrawal, but rather a huh-whaddya-know moment in time, lasting for just the split second the cup left my hand and landed with a hollow thud in the recently emptied trash receptacle.

I only bring up this rather boring moment because I tend to have these huh-whaddaya-know moments occasionally and will probably reference them in future posts. These otherwise mundane moments are happening concurrently with a much more existential event, but these huh-whaddaya-know moments are typically what I actually remember, encapsulating the entirety of the event in a trice. But I digress…

As I gave the send-off entourage the final goodbyes and posed for pictures, I surprisingly was the only one still with dry eyes. Having shed tears for times of lesser importance, I walked towards the security line almost with some inkling of guilt, but at the same time realized that the caffeine of my mocha had kicked my already crazy sympathetic system further away from normal and Le Chatelier’s principle hadn’t quite caught up yet (yes, that was a shout-out to the nerds in the readership). Anyways, I continued to my full body scan, followed by a pseudo-full body pat down due to my apparently “hot kidney.” I only mention this because the TSA man who administered this security protocol had the most ridiculous haircut/mustache/soul patch/mutton chops combo I had ever seen. Ever…

Evvvvvveeeeeer…..

And that’s coming from a guy who knows a thing or two about keratinized protein style on the face. Of course I couldn’t ask for a picture, much less take a picture, of the guy, but it made the completely unnecessary and invasive maneuver almost worth it. The rest of the IND airport experience was normal as well as the short puddle jump flight to Detroit Metro airport (DWT).

4:30pm

As I wandered through the DWT concourse looking for food, I happened across a sign reading “religious reflections room.” Previously having the pleasure of using a similar room in the Seoul airport waiting for my flight to Mongolia, my desire to quickly find food increased proportionally to my curiosity as to this oft-neglected room in airport. After practically inhaling my food, I followed the sign down a narrow hallway to an elevator that looked like it was rarely used if not forgotten about. Upon exiting the elevator on the floor above, I was immediately met with the smell of fresh paint. Knowing that I had chosen the right button in the elevator I cautiously trod down the hallway and found the doorway to the room, blue tape around the frame for the utility man working further down the hall. Entering the room maybe twice the size of a normal bedroom, I found a dozen or so chairs arranged along walls with four compass bearings on the wall and floor and a few prayer mats haphazardly folded on two chairs. The only person in the room was a middle-aged woman who did her best to not acknowledge my presence, so I gently walked to a chair across the room to, well, “religiously reflect” on my trip. As I listened to a worship playlist on my iPod I had not listened to in a while, I unexpectedly starting crying, almost on the verge of weeping as I finally understood why my emotions had been at bay earlier: the one person that wasn’t at the airport to say goodbye was Dad, arguably the one person whose blessing and embrace I desired the most. Even as I type this, I find myself fighting off those same bitter tears. Whether due to my now readily noticeable episode or because she had to catch her flight, the other woman in the room left sometime during those 10-15 minutes, which gave my the privacy to clean myself up and not look like an emotionally unstable person walking through the concourse, a state of being that usually draws more security attention than I cared for or needed at the time. Reverting back to the reality of where I was, I checked my watch to discover I had 20 minutes to trek the entire length of the concourse to get to my gate for boarding. Now without emotions encumbering my faculties, I moved with haste to the indoor tram that could take me a little past my gate, but in certainly a faster time than walking the entire distance, arriving at the gate just as first class was boarding.

10:00pm 

Being 5’9” in certain situations has its perks and riding in the middle of a row in economy class for an 8-hour transcontinental flight is one of them. Though still unable to sleep for more than 20 minutes at a time, I was able to eat some decent food, read up some more on my South Africa and Cape Town guidebooks, and watch the new movie Safe House (Denzel Washington simply can’t make a bad movie). Traveling during the middle of the night relative to Cape Town, I knew I was in for some weariness as I disembarked the Airbus 330 at the Amsterdam airport. This began to show up as I stared at the departures boards seemingly for an eternity, perusing each line as methodically and quickly as possible given my short 2-hour layover total layover time. Thankfully for my sanity’s sake, I found my gate on about the third try of browsing the over lit LCD screens. Though only about a 10-minute walk, I came to the gate only to find every comfortable seat taken and the few unfortunate souls presumably finding themselves in my same predicament perched on the heaters along the wall. Not exactly the hour of relaxation I was hoping for, but at least I was able to connect to the Wi-Fi long enough to check emails, update my followers on Facebook, and Skype video call with Gloria if only for the couple minutes of bandwidth clarity it was afforded. Through another round of security at the gate and waiting on the tarmac, we took off on time headed, finally, for Cape Town.

July 9

1:00pm

Window seats are only worth so far as you have a sight to behold from 37,000 feet or can manage to use your allotted piece of the fuselage as an upright pillow, aided by the loosely packed pieces of cotton the airlines call a pillow. Unfortunately, for the window seat I had, I was unable to manage either. On the upside, I was sitting next to and behind a Dutch family of four who, even if they spoke English, did not display a desire to converse besides the universal smile, head nod, and slight laugh every human being is apparently born with regardless of his gene pool. So once again, leisure reading, short naps, respectable food, and another action movie occupied my now exhausted and as a consequence, slightly claustrophobic body, desiring nothing but to be done with flying. This was only inflamed by the fact that during the pilot’s standard greeting, I learned that the flight was actually 12-hours instead of the 8-hours I imagined even though I had looked at my itinerary countless times memorizing the details. It was as if my mind didn’t want to accept that fact until it inevitably had to as I clicked my seat belt on the Boeing 777 around my waist. It was going be a long night.

10:30pm

Landing exactly at the predicted time of 9:35pm local time, I had managed to find my checked bag intact, passed through passport control still on two feet, change out some money for my immediate expenses, and get through customs without even having to open my bags. I figured that the worst of it was finally over as I had prearranged for a taxi to pick me up from the airport and take me straight to the Carmichael Guesthouse where my new Swiss friends Yves and Valerie were staying up late for my arrival. As I turn the corner from the customs area, I observe many people some anxious and excited to see their relatives or friends and others less enthusiastic holding up an array of signs, all different fonts and sizes. Glancing at each sign, waiting for my brain to automatically register a hit for my name on one of the boards while trying to avoid the equally exhausted stampede of passengers heading for the exits, I suddenly find myself at the end of the line. No one was there with the name. In both a state of frustration and fatigue, I continue past them, walking all the way to the curb, hoping and praying that my sign will be somewhere. No such luck. I walk back to the line, now fighting upstream of passengers although noticeably less in numbers, I still cannot find the sign. Since the reservation stated the taxi would be here at 9:35pm waiting for me, I am forced to swallow the truth that the taxi is not there or I am so far in a daze that I cannot read anymore. Whichever the context was, I head towards the taxi station that CIEE had noted before was their preferred method of transport into the city. Trying my best to communicate with a driver who obviously had more sleep and a stronger accent than I had predicted, I mention that it was close to UCT and the driver then gives the impression that he knows where the road is. Still not confident in his ability as I get into the taxi, my fears were subdued when he turns the radio up and I recognize through the African accents the Christian lyrics of the songs. Even if he doesn’t know where he’s going, at least he’s trying to be a good Christian. Or at least give that impression to his passengers. With what little bits of the map I remember, we collectively find Wolmunster Road and after paying him the fare, am invited in by Yves through the telecom system. To save you from anymore boring details, I fill out the entry form, go upstairs to my room, and unzip my bags just long enough to ensure that my triple bagged toiletries survived along with the rest of my belongings. As I would find out the following day, the Internet was hit-and-miss at times, but eventually after connecting to the right network and paying the reasonable R25 (1USD~R8), I was able to send out the messages that I had arrived safely with everything going according to plan (except the slight taxi problem). At this point, the clock read 00h30 (they use 24-hr clocks here) and the instant my head it the pillow, I was out cold.

July 10

08h30

Considering that I managed to only sleep about 2-3 hours straight at any given time, I was rather refreshed and sitting in a gorgeous 4 seasons room awaiting my complimentary English breakfast of eggs, toast, sausage, bacon, coffee, freshly squeezed mango juice with garnishes of tomato and cucumber. Yves returned not even 5 minutes after I gave him my order with an amazing display of culinary excellence more fitting of the street side café in Spain I visited than a bed and breakfast in South Africa. Since I was much too hungry to return to my room to retrieve my camera and risk eating my supremely superb breakfast cold, I tried my best to keep proper table etiquette while I absolutely demolished every piece of food on the plate (including the grilled tomato which normally makes me gag even at the sight of it). With my gastrointestinal tract given full responsibilities it had not dealt with in 48 hours, I sat back and took in my surroundings. I was really here. Returning to my room in order to pack up for my 10h00 check out time. I held my breath as I checked out at the reception area, hoping that my card would go through. (According to JPMorgan Chase, South Africa is a “high risk” country and could therefore not put a travel notice on my file, but would “monitor its activity,” whatever that means. The card did in fact work.) Since I could not check-in at the UCT dorm for orientation until 14h00, I spent the next 3 hours uploading the heretofore pictures and videos of my trip starting at the airport, reading the Cape Times, and documenting almost every common area of the wonderfully decorated Victorian mansion and well kept garden. Offering his boundless hospitality again, Yves offered to drive me to the Graça Machel, named after Nelson Mandela’s wife. Checking in was not hard as there was just an orientation booklet, meal voucher, room key, and instructions on the first meeting, which would end up being the cell phone companies. Finding my way through the not so easily numbered apartment suites, I entered my room, already occupied by someone who seemed to have been there for some time as some of his belongings had already been unpacked. As I began to unzip my bag, my roomie walked in, Brad, who is originally from Connecticut and goes to Wake Forest. After the usual social niceties back and forth and spending a while to relax, we headed over to the dining hall for our first official meeting. This meeting ended up only being the two competing cell phone companies trying to pitch their product as better than the competitor. Being the level headed consumer I am, I decided for the one that claimed to have better coverage, but steeper international rates as the majority of its use will be local. Interestingly, this semester was the first time the other company was invited to give us their short-term contract pitch and probably due to their location, they gained the lion share of the students’ credit card numbers. Whether the coverage issue ever really becomes an issue is yet to be seen, but business 101 was proven again: location, location, location.

23h00

After a hearty dinner of fish, rice, vegetables, instant coffee, and (probably fake) mango juice, we had a short talk from Earl Erasmus, the Residential Coordinator for CIEE. The whole talk basically one thing: don’t go out and get so wasted that I have to be the one to come save you from yourself. This “pep talk” was followed by story after story of desperate student after another being simply stupid and not having any self-control or restraint. Nonetheless, the frat guys from Vanderbilt who I happened to sit with continued their pre-game plans and even some of the girls joined in and went for out to one of the local bars down the street. Besides the fact I am not a jacked up frat guy with his boyz, I was beyond exhausted to even think about going out. The only reason I mention this then is that there are definitely those individuals here who are not here for the sole purpose of intercultural exchange (if that even needs to be said). Furthermore, it did give me some anxiety about my housing situation, as I had not yet received my ID badge which gave the housing assignments. I slowly plodded across the open air courtyard back to my room to try to get some sleep. Sure enough, the moment I laid down and looked, I was staring at the ceiling with no drooping of the eyelids at all. Being the productive guy I am, I decided that I should probably start blogging about the whirlwind few days while it was all still fresh and that is where I am now.

Well sort of….

July 11

06h00

After writing about 3,000 words the night before, I once again had been staring at the ceiling for over an hour. Though given clear instructions on how to use our prepaid 100MB of Internet use at the Graça Machel, I was unable to connect to the Internet and thus, could not update my blog with anything or even check-in on Facebook. So while trying to avoid waking my roommate, I crept out of the room, laptop in tow, to try to catch up on the blogging that I had left unfinished the night before after realizing I couldn’t post it anyways. With breakfast nearing at 07h00, I made some small additions and edits and headed for the shower. Breakfast was again filling with sunny side up eggs, sausage, and a mushroom/onion mash or sorts along with the standard instant coffee and fake mango drink (but still a far cry from the spread I was given less than 24 hours earlier by Yves at the Carmichael). With breakfast consumed, I went upstairs to see what was up with my ID card. Though trying their best, the three men working the camera, printer, and computer seemed quite overwhelmed by their present duties and as such, was unable to get my ID before the morning orientation sessions started. To save you from all the boring details, the entire morning through 13h00 consisted of the same policies and procedures I had seen at least three times before with the occasional new fact thrown in, the introduction of the RA’s which was quite the show as their creativity was displayed through homemade videos of short skits introducing each RA with some American movie reference or cleverly recorded introduction from the seat of a toilet (or two…). Once again, health and safety was covered at length with even more stories shared for shock factor, but certainly true. At 13h00, with a stiff neck and now empty stomach, we broke off into our orientation small groups and led by an RA Namhla, we strode towards the heart of Cape Town to see this city we were going to be in for a few months. Airing on the side of caution, I did not take my camera along, but soon wished I had as just the sights were something to behold, much less the sounds, smells, and vibe of the city. Every corner we turned, some new discovery was made (though some were not as unbelievable since I had seen similar situations of the universal strife of humanity outside of the first world bubble). We ate lunch at a Eastern Cuisine market where I boldly took on the “curry chicken bunny chow.” a massive half loaf of bread hollowed out and filled with a curry chicken stew with chunks of chicken that almost spanned the entire 4in. diameter of the loaf. I chose this option with such resolve due to a random part of one of my guidebooks that suggested one should try the bunny chow in Cape Town if given the opportunity. Though with a Indian twist that was probably not what the authors of the guidebook were referencing, the bunny chow was no bunny chow. It was more like bear chow. I soon found out that the deep orange of the stew was due to a single ingredient, curry, and was not made for the weak at heart. Goaded on by my new friends, I could not finish the whole meal for the sake of both my stomach and my bowels. What made this meal even more exciting was the price; I had eaten beyond my fill of bunny chow, salad/coleslaw, and Coke made with real sugar for the unfathomable price of R36, not even equivalent to 4 US dollars. I moved with the group for the lack of another choice and continued meandering through the street, alleys, and gardens passing every building from the Castle of Good Hope to the more recent architectural marvels like the new stadium built for the 2010 World Cup that was hosted by South Africa. Fully aware that these words are simply words without some corroborating pictures or videos. I will certainly be trekking through the city more often as I learned right before we left for the afternoon city tours that I indeed was one of the six that was in a homestay, though still not having met the family (and won’t do so until Friday when I move-in with them!).

19h00

Sitting at a nice outdoor restaurant in Rondebosch, the region of the city right next to UCT, I was once again feeling the draw of my bed. The food this time around was a 150gram beef burger, well done, and seasoned with excellence I rarely have come across (even surpassing the best of Red Robin burgers). Spending now the last 6 hours with Namhla, I persisted with my questions about Cape Town from tipping procedures, music tastes, religious beliefs, and political parties while also sharing my American experiences of Disney World, Chicago traffic, flat, flat, flat, cornfields, and of course snow (a phenomena she had only seen once). These were interspersed among the barrage of other questions and conversations with the other 11 Americans in our group, but as the food went in, the conversations slowed as fatigue finally came on again with the slight breeze sending the occasional shiver down my spine. Looking more like elementary students than college students, we collectively managed to split the bill according to the individual orders and made the short walk back to Graça Machel.

22h00

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is now where I presently sit, typing with enough speed to keep my fingers warm as the only Wi-Fi with a legitimate signal is placed in the open air courtyard. With these now over 4,100 words, I am sure you will have plenty to digest over the next 24 hours as with another packed day and late night welcome dinner/dance party, may not be able to post again for a couple days. Hopefully by then, I will have access to unlimited Internet where I can post up some of the pictures and videos I have so far.

For now, as the farewells are given in South Africa…

 

Cheers!