Rather than ruminate on all of the things I will miss upon leaving South Africa in two weeks, or all of the ways I will have to readjust to life back in the United States, I’ll take this last bit of collective blog space to take a retrospective look at the study abroad experience as a whole. (I’m sure the latter issues will be covered ad nauseum in the blogs to follow, anyway.)
The prospect of trying to identify all of the subtle ways that our time here has shaped my perspectives on social, political, and economic issues is daunting for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that the impacts of the experience aren’t likely to set in fully until long after I touch down on the other side of the Atlantic. But one thing about which I am quite sure is that our position as study abroad students and NGO interns has given us a very unique perspective on South Africa’s racial, political, and socioeconomic issues.
By now, the discoveries we’ve made regarding the social dynamics and financial situations that most South Africans experience should be evident from the preceding entries. We all have been involved in activism, research, and individual service over the last three months, providing dozens of opportunities to see and participate in human rights struggles on the ground level. But we also have seen another side of the country that is dramatically different and jarringly incongruous with the other. It has been commercial, corporate, political on a national scale, and generally accessible only by the well-to-do: mornings spent within the sheltered, aesthetically pleasing walls of UCT, lunches in the wine lands, afternoons perusing the tourist trap tables on green market square, nights on the town in Claremont and Obs.
Having been able to not only see but engage in both realms of life in Cape Town has been inimitably eye-opening and entirely the result of our position as study abroad students – not quite residents, but certainly not tourists.
On any given day, we might walk the litter-lined streets of Khayelitsha on home visits with the Olive Leaf Foundation, take in a rugby match at Newlands stadium, walk to Pick ‘n’ Pay for groceries on Main Rd, and jog the uphill path to the Cecil Rhodes Memorial on the side of Table Mountain. We might be asked for just a few rand by the stooped man outside the convenience store or have to teach a classroom full of Xhosa-speaking ninth graders how to multiply with fractions. We might lock our bedrooms, the back door, the front door, the door gate and the front gate, and then step out onto Loch Rd to see the ADT security patroller glide past on his bike as we head off to the Jazz Festival in town. We’ve been privy to the inside workings of the electoral system through our connections to the Independent Electoral Commission, we’ve wandered inside the gates of the national Parliament during the annual Budget Address, and we’ve walked the dizzyingly commercial halls of the Century City mall at Canal Walk.
Perhaps the best example of how we perpetually challenged the accepted socioeconomic roles and traversed the line between traditional social classes would be our routine of travelling to the beach on weekend afternoons. On a sunny summer day, a group of us would walk from our suburban Loch Rd. house to the far side of the Red Cross building on Klipfontein Rd, where we’d flag down a minibus taxi to ride into Cape Town. We’d sit squashed between people chattering in Xhosa over the thumping bass of American R&B music for the fifteen-minute ride to the city taxi rank. Then we’d jump out to find the Camp’s Bay line, which we’d take another twenty minutes north to the heavily commercialized strip of tourist beaches. I never could shake the sense of irony that accompanied our stumbling out the side door of the rickety minibus and onto that sun-soaked, palm-lined stretch of ritzy, beachfront cafes. Wealthy Europeans in their straw hats and white linen pants would inadvertently do a double take when we emerged from behind the accelerating minibus. Their expressions tended to mirror the ones we received now and then when we boarded a minibus full of men and women from the townships. Do you know what you’re doing?
Economically, political rhetoric has split South Africa into “two economies”; the First Economy includes the wealthy financial capitalists that interact on the global market, and the Second Economy incorporates the country’s struggling majority, which suffers from as high as 40% unemployment and perpetually impoverished conditions. Unfortunately, such a black and white approach to viewing – and trying to improve – the country has only deepened the divide between the rich and poor, between the traditionally white population and the once-lawfully-subjugated majority.
At times it is this very dichotomy, this bizarrely cruel separation between the “two South Africas” that has driven us to question our purpose (or our role) here. It is the stuff that keeps us up at night, talking in circles about the social and economic change that many parts of this country sorely need. Being able to appreciate – rather than solely lament the gaps between – both “sides” of society in this country has forced us to grapple with feelings of hypocrisy, guilt, and despondency. How can we see the heart-wrenching plight of the masses in the informal settlements, and then turn around in good conscience and walk into a swanky club on Long St. Friday night?
It has been a delicate and emotional venture, learning to find the appropriate mindset to balance the feelings of responsibility and excitement, while also keeping a level head regarding the realities of life in the developing world. We’ve had to find the ways to profess our dedication to social progress, while still inevitably reaping the advantages of our status as (comparatively) wealthy, white, Westerners. Coming to terms with these paradoxes without growing complacent or overwhelmed by their scope has taught all of us a lot about both this place and ourselves.
In the past three months, we have seen these distinct sides of South Africa, as well as all of the many shades between. We’ve seen more of this country than many people who’ve lived here a lifetime have seen. As relative outsiders, our vision has not been clouded by years of internalized Apartheid-era racism and classism, and we’ve been able to understand and appreciate the richness of the diverse nation and geographical paradise. Though we could undoubtedly stay another twenty years and still learn something new everyday, I feel we are poised to leave here in two weeks having acquired a very real, very genuine understanding of a magnificent country.
Our role as observers and sometime-actors in South African civil society has often invited curious inquiries about the nature of our visit and our impressions of the city. Capetonians – especially those we’ve met from the townships – are always eager to hear us compare their country to our own, and when we’ve responded emphatically that we find South Africa to be a wonderful place, many people seem genuinely surprised. Is it? They’ll ask incredulously, as if expecting us to get to the punch line. But after three months’ immersion into the culture, character, and geography of the Western Cape, I know that I can sincerely say—
Yes. It is.
Rhodes Memorial Sunrise
