We're Ba-ack (Coming Soon To A City Near You)

We made our North American landfall on the eastern coast of New Jersey at a little past 2:30 in the afternoon on Thursday, the 13th of September. Our unforgettable around-the-world journey had comprised 221 days, 23 countries, and over 80 distinct cities and towns. Along the way, we had met up with over 40 friends and family members. Our cumulative air miles travelled were enough to circumnavigate the Earth's Equator three times. We had seen beauty, generosity, opulence, suffering, squallor and resilience. We were humbled, touched, enlightened and exhausted. Given Kaberi's fondness for itemization and Vik's penchant for irreverence, we thought it only appropriate to conclude this blog with a list. We hope you enjoyed the ride in pictures and in words.

French Connection

Our around-the-world trip culminated in Paris. Even though it was hardly our first visit (Vik spent several months there as an expatriate many moons ago, and Kaberi had made numerous trips to the City of Lights over the years), we still found a number of new experiences to share. Having timed our stay to start on a Saturday morning in order to frequent the weekend markets, we started our day at the antique fair of St-Ouen in the northern outskirts of the city. We walked through the narrow alleyways crammed with bric-a-brac displays and past larger streetside buildings housing more upscale stalls. We soon found two shops specializing in antique prints where Kaberi picked out an unusual orchid print dating from the 1850s as well as a set of 1901 collectors’ cards depicting several cities we just happened to have visited in recent months. After first stopping off at the hotel to safely stow our new-found treasures, we then proceeded to continue into central Paris. We next made our way to the 8th arrondisement to have lunch at Lauderee, a fancy tea shop specializing in French macaroons (which Kaberi would describe as light as air and nothing like the dense American version). Between us, we split a towering salmon club sandwich and an assortment of mini-macaroons while taking in the gilded molding and charmingly fussy décor. Invigorated with the sudden rush of sugar, we strolled through the Tuilleries to the L’Orangerie, an ethereal museum featuring eight wrap-around works from Monet’s Water Lillies collection. Unlike the smaller versions of the works we had seen elsewhere, these masterpieces were each easily thirty feet long. Displayed simply with one to a curved wall, each painting made us feel as if we were in the midst of a quiet pond in Giverny. The scale and subtle colors entranced us as we admired the magnitude of each creation. Seeing these paintings for the first time was easily the highlight of the day. Exiting L’Orangerie, we soon found ourselves before the large ferris wheel on the eastern side of the Place de la Concorde. Overcome with the desire to do something completely silly, Kaberi cajoled Vik into taking a ride to the top to see Paris from the air. At the apex, we could see the glass pyramid and main courtyard of the Louvre to our east, Sacre Couer to our north, the Arc de Triomphe to our west and the majestic Eiffel Tower to our south. Our overpriced ride (roughly $28 for two for twenty minutes) took us on four revolutions with which to enjoy Paris with a beautiful blue sky backdrop. Remaining in the first arrondisement, we revisited a restaurant that we had discovered on our last visit to Paris. We chose one of the ubiquitous corner cafes for a glass of wine and watched Parisians and fellow tourists wind their day to a close. Our dinner at Livingstone didn’t live up to our fond memories, but we still found it impossible to be disappointed with the day. The next morning, after breakfast at our hotel, we relocated ourselves to a rental studio apartment in the 7th arrondisement located literally less than a stone’s throw from the Eiffel Tower. With a kitchen now at our disposal, we decided to explore the Sunday morning food markets, first walking to Rue Cler and then continuing on to the organic market at Sevres-Bablyon. Wandering the stalls of fresh produce, cheeses, breads and wines, we stopped to purchase figs, freshly-baked pain de mie and chevre cheese. Our subsequent excursion to the Les Puces des Vanves market proved much less fruitful than our experience from the day before. As we arrived, we found the vendors were packing away their wares and folding up their tables. In the afternoon, Kaberi visited the gorgeous Museum d’Orsay (fashioned out of an old railway station) while Vik remained at the apartment to research health insurance options (proof that our journey was in its final stages). We met back at the apartment before heading out for a traditional and casual French dinner in the neighborhood. With most Parisian restaurants closed on Sundays, we settled on a tiny hole-in-the-wall eatery offering an authentic country meal prepared by a warm French grandmother. As we walked back, the Eiffel Tower, lit up the night sky and served as our beacon to home. The next day, we headed to Saint Michel in the 6th arrondisement, Vik’s old haunt, and one of Kaberi’s favorite neighborhoods in the city. Here, Kaberi continued to indulge her new obsession with macaroons (which have summarily replaced cupcakes as Kaberi’s guilty sweet pleasure of choice), Vik patiently followed his wife from one establishment to another, including Gerard Mulot, Pierre Herme, Paul, and Cacao de Chocolat. We then ventured across the river to the 4th arrondisement to Place de Vosges, billed as the most romantic square in Paris. Happening upon an unoccupied park bench, we enjoyed a casual picnic of tuna baguettes and mini-macaroons. Attempting to walk off some of the caloric damage, we focused our attention on searching for the hard-to-find Passages in the 2nd arrondisement. Triangulating the locations from our multiple tourist city maps, we soon found the discreet, unmarked entrances. Our efforts were rewarded with supreme examples of vintage Parisian architecture; recently renovations of the arcades celebrated the detailed enclaves of wrought iron, gleaming wood, intricate mosaics and old-fashioned lights. As Kaberi continued on to walk rue St-Honore, Vik begged off from yet another afternoon of girlfriend duty. On our last day, we started off with fresh baked goods from be, Alain Ducasse’ boulangerie in the 17th arrondisement. Grabbing a pain au chocolate for breakfast and a baguette to go, we continued to the Rodin Museum located just east of the Invalides dome in the 7th arrondisement. Situated in a gorgeous garden, we admired exquisite statues of The Thinker and the Gates of Hell before venturing inside to see The Kiss. After Vik teased Kaberi about her obsessive picture taking (marked by endless snapping away from every possible angle), we finally moved on to enjoy a quick lunch nearby. In the afternoon, after simply strolling the streets of the 6th and 7th arrondisements, we headed to Mariage Freres for tea. Entering into a corner store, we were greeted by floor to ceiling displays of tea tins from around the world. After sipping green and black varietals in the tea room, Kaberi agonized over which tea to purchase before the journey home. Kaberi justified her decision to buy tea in France at exorbitant prices (rather than at the source in the more affordable tea hubs of India and China) on the basis of the superior aesthetics of the French packaging. With our last night, we ventured to the Eiffel Tower (where else?) where we closed our evening by laying out on the grass of the Champs de Mar to watch the nightly light show. Despite the overall exhaustion we had accumulated with eight months of travel under our belts, we had managed to realize an excellent conclusion to our trip. Even Vik, who wears his distaste of Parisians as a badge of honor, had to admit that he had thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Irish Eyes-A-Smiling

After a hellish two-hour RyanAir flight where several ill-tempered children seemed to be concentrated around us, we touched down in Dublin airport. Keeping with form, Dublin’s skies were gray and overcast. Our moods brightened immediately, however, when we were welcomed into the country by a smiling immigration officer with a charming brogue. Stepping outside, we were soon greeted not only by cool, brisk air – a welcome change of pace from recent sweltering days spent in both Dakar and Lisbon – but also by the celebrated Irish friendliness at every turn.

After boarding an airport express bus, we were delivered in the late afternoon to the suburb of Ballsbridge just southeast of Dublin’s city center. Unbeknownst to us when we booked it, our hotel, the Dylan, was a brick manor converted into a chic, vogue boutique hotel recently discovered by Hollywood. Its former guests included Keira Knightley and Daniel Radcliffe of Harry Potter fame. During our stay, the “stars” from the movie Superbad conducted press interviews in the Dylan’s restaurant. The next day, Kaberi saw our hotel’s outdoor bar in the background of publicity photos for the movie on People.com. Enjoying our brush with surreal hipsterdom, we settled into our top-floor suite with plentiful windows and mirrors, Frette sheets, wifi, plasma television, iPod speakers and heated bathroom floors.

After a rejuvenating shower, we again focused on satiating our hunger (with the day’s frenetic travel schedule, our day’s food rations had consisted of nothing more than stale airport muffins). Consulting the Dylan’s friendly concierge, Patrick, as to the best local venue for fish and chips, we were directed to The Cellar, an upscale stone bar in the basement of the Merrion hotel. Skeptical that we weren’t being given a recommendation for a local pub, we nevertheless were swayed by Patrick’s claim that The Cellar’s chef there had won European awards for his preparation of traditional fish and chips. Patrick’s faith was soon affirmed; our meal was absolute perfection, with light, perfectly-battered fish, crisply-fried chips and a tall glass of chilled cider. As we toasted our first night in Ireland, we had a good feeling about our next few days.

As Kaberi turned in for the night, Vik migrated to he lobby library for an 8:30 p.m. EST (1:30 a.m. local time) live fantasy football draft. Settled in the swankiest of surroundings with urban hipsters walking past, Vik matched wits with his Stanford buddies at the start of yet another football season.

Atypically-clear blue skies greeted us the next morning and Kaberi ushered a groggy Vik as quickly out the door as possible. We first walked across the street for a heart breakfast of French toast and scrambled eggs at The Espresso Bar. Fully fueled, we then made our way down Grafton Street to Trinity College to see the remarkable Book of Kells, the oldest surviving texts of the gospels estimated to be over 1,200 years old. In a small entry hall, a series of informative exhibits presented the painstaking techniques used to create the books in medieval times. Up a set of stairs, on the next level, we were able to marvel at the detail and texture of colorful pages of the actual books on display behind glass. Afterward, we walked to Trinity College’s aptly-named Long Room to take in the splendor of its arched wooden ceiling, perfectly spaced busts of historical figures and bookcases overflowing with antique books (Kaberi was quite crestfallen at not being able to take photos).

Reemerging to newly-overcast skies, we strolled down O’Connell St and noted the passing statues and monuments, including a grinning James Joyce, a jubilant Jim Larkins, the post office building that served as the headquarters of the Irish resistance and the tall steel Spire built to commemorate the Millenium. At lunchtime, we reached the Dublin Writer’s Museum where a self-guided audio tour introduced us to the vast and prolific literary tradition of Ireland comprising such authors as Joyce, Goldsmith, Shaw, Wilde, and Behan.

At this point, Vik’s late night caught up with him and he begged off for a nap. In the meantime, Kaberi retraced her steps down O’Connell Street to retake photos under the reappearing sun and see the Abbey Theatre, the site of several celebrated literary debuts. After a jaunt through the Temple Bar area and a quick pitstop at Queen of Tarts, she made her way to the Dublin Castle and City Hall. The eclectic building styles of the old British administrative buildings were certainly jarring, not the least of which was the disconcerting Statue of Justice who lacked blindfolds and uninterestedly held her back to the city of Dublin (a telling metaphor for life under British rule). As the afternoon passed, Kaberi concluded her exhaustive walking tour with a search for an imminently-wearable Irish sweater and a stoll through Merrion Square to see the charming door knockers of Ireland’s who’s who.

A few hours later, we arranged to have a much-anticipated dinner at The Tea Room, the trendy restaurant of the Clarence Hotel, which is co-owned by U2’s Bono and The Edge (their investment rescued the Clarence from certain destruction some years earlier). As lifelong U2 fans, we were keen to check out the establishment (whose exorbitant room rates precluded our staying there) and to scan for the influences of its owners. Upon arriving, we thought that we had stumbled upon the wrong place. Looking tired and dull, with monotonous wooden paneling everywhere and no trace of cool interior design, the Clarence was not at all what we expected. Thankful that we had stayed elsewhere, we quickly seated ourselves in the hotel restaurant (which looked to be fashioned out of an old church nave) for dinner. Kaberi enjoyed the sampling of chef’s specialties from the market menu while Vik’s bland pasta entrée proved unimpressive. Afterward, we injected some much-needed personality into our evening by finding a nearby bar for a pint of Guinness and traditional Irish music.

The following morning, we spent hours on-line struggling to secure accommodation in Paris the following night due to the concurrent opening game of the 2007 Rugby World Cup. With the memory of Durban fresh in our minds, we fretted about once again having to change our itinerary to work around a pre-existing event. Luckily, our eventual solution did not require changing our plane tickets; we instead fashioned a piecemeal itinerary that comprised stays in three different parts of town.

Setting our sights once again on Dublin sightseeing, we headed to Chester Beatty Library to see its impressive collection of ancient religious texts and artifacts from around the world. Impressed by the breadth and age of the private collection, we spent an hour perusing the exhibits. Shortly thereafter, we stopped for lunch a brief lunch at the Mermaid Café before hiking out to the Guinness Storehouse on the far west side of town. Our progress was interrupted by Kaberi’s frequent stops to admire the architecture of several churches along the way. Upon finally arriving, we had to laugh at the ludicrousness of shelling out 28 Euros (nearly $40) to take a Guinness promotional tour. Only the excellent views from the seventh floor Gravity Bar with a pint of Guinness in hand made the visit worthwhile. After a stop at the ground floor Guinness store where Vik indulged in an out-of-character rugby shirt purchase, we hopped on two different local buses to return to our hotel on the other side of town.

That evening, we attended Dublin’s Literary Pub Crawl, where the promise of beer and charming Irish storytelling trumped the need to rest our ailing soles. Led by two occasionally-schmaltzy actors, the tour brought us to a number of pubs frequented by famous Irish authors and featured reenacted excerpts from their famous works. Between the heavy brogue and the quickly-paced delivery (Ulysses in particular), we couldn’t always follow what was being said. Yet, the experience on the whole was a lively and pleasant diversion for the night.

On our last day in town, we used the precious remaining hours to locate a pub in the Temple Bar area for a final, traditional Irish meal. We then caught an airport express bus to make the surprisingly-slow return journey to the airport. While our time on the Emerald Isle was all too brief, we nevertheless found that we had accumulated a surprising volume of memories over the course of our three-day stay.

European Imports

With only partial success in catching some shuteye on the long-delayed four-hour flight from Lisbon to Dakar, our patience wore increasingly thin on a less than triumphant arrival into the Portuguese capital. First, we were made to wait on the tarmac for an extra 45 minutes while the captain waited for a gate to free up. After deplaning and clearing immigration, we discovered that our luggage was nowhere to be found. After 90 minutes of back-and-forth with the lost luggage desk, we finally learned that the airport baggage handler had simply forgotten to unload the luggage from the plane. By the time we made our way out of the airport, it was 1:30 p.m. (putting us roughly six-and-a-half hours behind schedule). We thankfully arrived at our nicely-appointed hotel in Lisbon’s central Avenida district, the Hotel Britania, shortly thereafter. Our need for an early check-in had long since diminished and we instead focused on getting some much-needed rest.

After the rocky start, we quickly settled into our new surroundings. As the only surviving 1940’s Art Deco hotel designed by the famous Portuguese architect, Cassiano Branco, the Hotel Britania boasted interior space that was equal parts comfortable and charming. Pouring ourselves into a plush king-sized bed, we took a quick cat nap before planning an urban dinner excursion. Having inadvertently fasted for the previous twenty-four hours, we were especially ravenous. Unfortunately, our timing conspired against us as virtually every restaurant in the city was closed on Sunday. Only after much reconnaissance did Vik finally manage to locate sustenance; he convinced an Indian restaurant catering to tour groups to open its kitchen two hours early on our behalf. Back at our hotel, we enjoyed our carryout meal atop our private sun deck with prominent views of the setting sun.

The next morning, after breakfasting in our hotel’s historic bar, we made the atypical decision to patronize Lisbon’s uber-touristy hop-on, hop-off double-decker bus. Having only one day to see the city in all of its glory, time was at a premium. While we would normally eschew stock tours, we relented just this once in the name of pragmatism and efficiency. After catching the bus a block away from our hotel, we ventured upstairs to bask in the sun and open air. With a backdrop of bright blue skies framing Lisbon’s prominent landmarks, we had to sheepishly admit that our vantage point was not without its advantages. Ever the diligent photographer, Kaberi marveled at her sightlines while wondering how to once again enjoy such height without actually having to board an inconspicuous red bus for tourists.

We made our way down the Avenida de Liberdade taking in a surprisingly large number of monuments and statues commemorating major persons and events in Portuguese history including Plaza Restauradores, Terreiro do Paco, Marques de Pombal and Parque Edwardo VII. The bus also whisked us through the redeveloping Alcantara waterfront area and past multiple monuments dedicated to great maritime expeditions and 15th and 16th century discoveries. The most impressive sight of the day was, by far, the UNESCO-designated Monestario de los Jeronimos, a prominent example of elaborate Manueline architecture. Our grand plans of stepping inside the Monestario were temporarily put on hold until we returned the following week.

After having our fill of the bus tour, we alighted in the Baixa district to make our way up the charming, old Elevador de Santa Justa. Covered with flowery lattice work reminiscent of the Eiffel Tower (it was designed by a disciple of Eiffel) and comprising two circular staircases and wood-carved compartments, the elevator provided a brisk upward journey to an open-air pavilion with commanding and sweeping views of the city and the waterfront. Shortly thereafter, we continued down the block to catch Lisbon’s Tram Number 28, famed for weaving a picturesque route through the inclines of the Barrio Alto and the formerly-Muslim Alfama districts. Navigating impossibly-narrow streets and unannounced corners, the tram soon revealed magnificent views of the Castelo and one or two cathedrals overlooking the water below. In addition, the alternating beautifully tiled homes snd itricately carved sculptures on buildings provided much to admire along the way. As late afternoon approached, we proceeded to walk the Avenida de Liberdade and admire its complicated stone sidewalk designs before returning to the hotel.

That evening, we hailed a taxi to the Barrio Alto, the hub of Lisbon’s nightlife. Walking uphill through narrow and winding alleys, we finally located our dinner spot a few steps away from a funicular landing. Heralded as a venue for Lisbon’s foodies, the restaurant Oliver offered a nine-course, prix-fixe degustation menu. The small portions brimming with flavor quickly awoke our palates without making us feel stuffed. Delighted by each bite, we quickly gained an appreciation for modern Portuguese cuisine. After dinner, we descended the sparsely-lit Gloria staircase before walking back to our hotel. Strolling after dinner while observing the passing activity proved to be a fitting ending to a very full day.

The next morning, after an early morning treat of pastéis de nata (traditional Portuguese egg tarts), we caught the 7:00 a.m. intercity train from Lisbon’s Santa Apalonia station to Portugal’s northeastern port city of Porto. As the train approached the destination, we caught a glimpse of Porto’s distinctive and celebrated waterfront district where red-tiled buildings were arranged in neat rolling tiers above the shoreline. After a short metro ride to Porto’s sleek white and glass airport, we checked in for our flight to Dublin. Our forty-eight hours in Portugal had seemingly passed in a flash. We were thankful we had a night scheduled back in Lisbon the night before we returned to the States to see our friends Kris and Handy and to further indulge in some of Lisbon's fine offerings.

The Door Of No Return

Once we arrived at the South African Airways check-in counter at Johannesburg Airport, we unceremoniously discovered that, in the process of re-issuing our tickets, we had been bumped to a later flight, one that put us into Dakar, Senegal at 2:00 a.m. Realizing that we would be in for a long night, we tried to make the best of the eight hour flight, indulging in a hot dinner, a seat that reclined fully to a horizontal position and a bevy of passable movies. When the plane finally touched down and its doors opened, we were rudely returned to reality. 80-degree temperatures in the still of night and the overwhelming smell of sweat assaulted our drowsy senses. After retrieving our luggage from a disheveled carousel, we dodged errant mosquitos and gnats to locate the courtesy shuttle to our hotel. Stepping outside, we once again found ourselves in the third world.

We awoke the next morning at 10:30 a.m., and quickly scrambled to call a guide recommended by Cassandra. An hour later, Djibril, a lanky young man with a demure smile, met us in the hotel lobby. After the requisite introductions, Djibril ushered us into a rundown car waiting outside. Making our way to the port of Dakar, we passed a small, unimposing downtown area marked by crumbling stucco buildings and throngs of colorfully-dressed pedestrians on dusty, windblown streets. At the deep green water’s edge, we boarded a rusty government ship bound for Goree Island, a UNESCO World Heritage site. Goree Island houses a former slave house that represented the final departure point on the African continent for millions of slaves. As a former American history teacher, Kaberi had insisted that the island and its tragic Door Of No Return be included on our itinerary.

We learned that approximately twenty million slaves from all over Africa left from Goree Island. The surviving Slave House was one of thirty on the island, with each holding up to 200 men, women and children for up to ninety days at a time (until buyers in Louisiana, Brazil, Cuba or the West Indies materialized). The weighing area, holding cells, isolation chamber (used to punish those who resisted) were all cramped and claustrophobia-inducing. Hearing the experiences of the slaves – families being divided and auctioned off to buyers, slaves being tethered to 5-pound weights to prevent aquatic escapes, sick slaves being thrown to the sharks, young African girls being forced to have sex with their captors etc. – proved to be infinitely more gutwrenching than we expected. The resident guide at the site was particularly poignant, vowing to share the story of Goree Island every day of his life so that the horrible history would never be forgotten. In the onsite memorabilia room, we saw shackles used to bind a slave’s arms as well as displayed photos of visiting dignitaries such as Pope John Paul II (who offered an apology for the Vatican’s role in the slave trade), Nelson Mandela, Presidents Clinton (both of them) and Bush the Lesser.

The following day, Djibril took us on a whirlwind tour through the city of Dakar. Our first stop was lunch at Chez Loutcha, an authentic spot well off the tourist treadmill where we enjoyed a typical Senegalese lunch in the company of only African patrons. Next, we hopped in a wellworn cab to the Sendaga Market to stop at a fabric store owned by Djibril’s friend. In short order, and over much protest, Djibril and his friend had Kaberi fully outfitted in a somewhat unflattering canary yellow and brown traditional Sengalese three-piece dress (Vik stopped laughing briefly enough to try to document the moment but, to Kaberi’s great relief, our temperamental camera decided not to cooperate).

Managing to finagle her way out of the dress, literally and figuratively, Kaberi purchased a few yards of brightly-colored blue and green printed fabric as a way to commemorate our visit to Senegal and to give Djibril’s friend some business. We then headed to the Sumbudan arts and crafts market located near the seafront, where we braved the overpowering stench of raw sewage from a nearby canal. Our lack of interest in the wooden bric-a-brac coupled with the unending calls from the relentless vendors compelled us to make a hasty exit. On the way back to the hotel, Djibril took us to the Door of Return monument, a modest counterpoint to Goree Island welcoming the African diaspora back to Senegal.

In the evening, we met up with Djibril to have dinner at Just 4 U, a local night club well-known as a prominent Senegalese live music venue. We arrived to learn that we had missed hearing Youssou N’Dour (Senegal’s most famous singer whose music we had first heard in Cambodia back in March) by a day as he was the headline act for the following night. Waiting for the night’s music to commence, we enjoyed a delicious traditional meal of fish and rice. Unfortunately, the music still hadn’t started a few hours later when time rolled around for us to return to the hotel to for our airport shuttle.

Our departure from Senegal unfortunately proved to be our worst airport experience outside of Switzerland and all too consistent with the worst stereotypes of a third world country. Stymied by crippling traffic, our 10:30 p.m. shuttle took nearly 60 minutes to make the 10-kilometer (6-mile) journey to the airport. When we arrived at Dakar airport itself, we found a massive human traffic jam spilling out of the front door of the terminal. As Senegalese security officials stood by idly, hordes of people with carts of luggage in tow attempted to push their way through a single door from both sides. Thirty minutes later, we battled our way inside only to find similarly chaotic, endless lines in a sweltering check-in area lacking any semblance of signage.

After finally locating the proper TAP Portugal queue, we learned that the gate agents had not yet started the check-in process. With hundreds of people in line, we had difficulty understanding why. After querying one of several undermotivated airport employees, we finally determined that there was no demarcated priority check-in. Being told to wait near the agent desk, we nearly caused a riot when an unpleasant Spanish woman started yelling to anyone within earshot that we had cut the entire line. At that point, we uttered silent prayers that handguns were few and far between in Senegal.

Fortunately, Kaberi approached a sympathetic gate agent who agreed to call us first when the boarding process began. With his assistance, we checked-in at 12:30 a.m. after spending 60 minutes in line with the Spanish woman from hell. We then proceeded to spend another 45 minutes in the immigration queue, delayed in no small part by our particular immigration official’s decision to take a restroom break midway through his shift. The humidity and close quarters did little to buoy our spirits or diminish our desire to leave the country with all due haste.

Rushing to make our way to the departure gate, we scarcely had time to catch our breath. Thinking we would arrive to find the boarding process underway for our 2:00 a.m. flight, we were soon very dismayed to learn that our plane had not yet even landed in Dakar. It would end up taking another three and a half hours before the plane finally arrived, putting us on track to reach Lisbon no less than four hours late. As much as we had enjoyed seeing Goree Island, we were hardly saddened to leave Senegal behind. Boarding the plane, Kaberi remarked that Dakar made Bombay look like Tokyo.

Fault Lines Of A Color Divide

While we often partook in the best that modern Jozi had to offer after hours, we came to South Africa to also get a sense for the country’s troubled history. To this end, first on our agenda was a visit to the Apartheid Museum. Upon arriving, we were made to use separate entrances (one for Whites and another for Non-Whites). We both found the museum to be an incredible tribute to the dignity and resilience necessary to overcome a horrifyingly-inhumane condition.

Nonetheless, we found it difficult not to be enraged by the depravity of the Afrikaaner regime (which was tacitly supported as a hedge against communism by both the U.S. and the U.K. during the Reagan and Thatcher administrations). Apartheid atrocities, just to name a few, included the butchering of black schoolchildren in Soweto in 1976, the torture and murder of activist Steve Biko during imprisonment and the cowardly assassination of Chris Hani while he stood in his driveway after purchasing a newspaper. The intensity of our feelings as total outsiders underlined the strength and character of a Mandela to both forgive and indemnify his white tormentors.

After experiencing one graphic exhibit after another, the bad taste in our mouths magnified when we caught a potential glimpse of contemporary race relations in South Africa. Observing a guided school tour of the museum, we noted that black schoolchildren were engrossed by the guide and the displays while their white counterparts stood around gossiping with one another.

It was only when we came to the final wing of the museum (devoted to reconciliation) that our moods brightened. A victorious photograph of the Reverend Desmond Tutu casting his vote in the 1994 democratic elections perfectly represented the ideals of the Apartheid Museum. In the picture, Tutu is seen flashing his trademark wide, irrepressible grin while he triumphantly raises his ballot in the air. After exiting the exhibition hall, we paused for reflection at a sign asking us to consider what it meant to be able to walk away with freedom.

Moments later, our enthusiastic Soweto tour guide, Mandy, picked us up in the museum parking lot. Mandy came recommended to us via the Rough Guide; it was only after meeting her that we learned that she was the first black woman tour operator in South Africa. After giving us a candid and unsanitized perspective on post-Apartheid life in black South Africa, Mandy took us to lunch at Windy’s, a Soweto lunchtime institution. During lunch, we met two amazing native Sowetan women who talked with us about their community’s capacity for forgiveness and generosity. In keeping with the theme of the discussion, one of the women invited us to stay with her the next time we visited South Africa.

Filled with good food and warm feelings, we made our way to the Hector Petersen memorial. Petersen was the first student killed during the 1976 Soweto school protests. A famous photograph of his dead body being carried away by an older boy with his grieving teenage sister astride garnered international outrage and today graces an exhibit wall in the Apartheid Museum. Over thirty years later, Petersen’s sister spends her days at her brother’s memorial and, surprisingly, often poses in pictures with visiting tourists. Although we would have never initiated such a request at a memorial site, we were honored to stand next to the girl in the famous picture and to express in person our appreciation of her suffering.

Next, we visited the Mandela (Mandigo) homestead where we saw an eclectic collection of memorabilia, including photographs and press clippings, honorary degrees and personal effects (including the shoes from his prison days as well as the first pair he bought himself after his release). We were terrified to hear that Mandela’s children slept on the kitchen floor because their room at the front of the house had been bombed on more than one occasion. We also learned that, after his release, Mandela spent ten nights in the family home before having to move for both privacy and security reasons. Mandy drove us past Mandela’s ex-wife Winnie’s house (a woman she still held in high esteem despite some dubious conduct) nearby before continuing with the tour.

We proceeded to the Regina Mundi church, which was the epicenter of the 1976 protests. Because political organizing was unlawful, the church provided a space where students though they could gather safely. Unfortunately, the students overestimated the decency of the Afrikaaner authorities; the police forcefully raided the church causing widespread chaos and bloodshed. We walked carefully through the church, pausing to observe several bullet holes in the ceiling and a marble altar smashed by an angry rifle butt. We also saw the famous black Madonna and Child painting with a stylized map of Soweto at its underside. Ironically, the poignant painting was commissioned by the head of DeBeers (a man who will have much to account for in the afterlife). He created Soweto’s shack housing for the express purpose of keeping his black workers from taking time off to visit their remotely-located families.

Our last and most emotional stop of the day was at a shantytown section of Soweto named Kliptown. Mandy told us that most tourists never venture into Kliptown to talk with the residents out of fear for their personal safety. As a result, most stand by the freeway voyeuristically taking pictures of the settlement. Our experience, however, was quite the opposite. By making our way into the shantytown on foot, we had an intimate vantage point of the gentle dignity of the community’s denizens.

One of Kliptown’s resident teenagers showed us around, walking us past very modest ramshackle homes, a make-shift restaurant, a small corrugated tin shack and several outhouses. Looking inside the dwellings to see furniture, tablecloths and other personal touches as well as talking with various relatives and neighbors underscored the permanence and vitality of Kliptown. While some of the local adults looked at us curiously, the community’s toddlers were less restrained in their greeting. One small girl barreled straight into Kaberi before throwing her arms around Kaberi’s knees and grinning sweetly. Several children held our hands at every stage of the visit. All in all, the experience was quite moving. At the end of the walk, Vik gave our sensible young guide some money to buy fresh oranges to share with all of the children in the development.

Our dinner with Kgomotso that evening was filled with much talk about contemporary race relations in South Africa. We especially appreciated hearing her perspective on growing up in Soweto during the 1976 rebellions. Her firsthand recollections helped give context to much of what we had seen earlier in the day. It was a powerful conclusion to an emotional day and a wonderful visit to South Africa.

Jozi and the Pussycats

With our time in Cape Town coming to a close, we prepared for a two-day sojourn in Durban, South Africa’s third largest city. Durban is known primarily as a subtropical beach destination as well as the hub of South Africa’s Indian culture (Gandhi honed his philosophy of nonviolent resistance of satyagraha here). The day prior to our flight (when Vik’s ability to secure two nights of midweek accommodation proved surprisingly difficult), we learned that all the rooms in the city were sold out for a librarians’ convention. Left with little alternative, we truncated our time in Durban by an entire day. While Vik spent the next few hours questioning the need for librarians to convene (he could only imagine the scintillating Dewey Decimal conversations conducted in hushed tones), Kaberi chose to castigate Vik for devoting undue attention to fantasy football draft preparation. Suffice it to say, our respective positions were not in accordance. Our twenty-four hours in Durban unfortunately proved to be rather unmemorable. Our guesthouse was located in the staid Berea neighborhood above the city center and we did not have enough time to devote to exploring the city’s more redeeming cultural locales. We did, however, manage to find Kaberi some inexpensive traditional Zulu beaded jewelry and sample Durban’s trademark delicacy of bunny chow (Indian bhaji served in the center of a hollowed-out loaf of bread) before whisking ourselves back to Johannesburg. Our jubilant return to Joburg (or Jozi as it is affectionately called by its denizens) began with dinner with Kgomotso at the Portuguese Fish Market in Melville. We had a lively night of conversation recounting our Cape Town exploits before turning in early, knowing we had a full week remaining to enjoy each other’s company. The next day, Kgomotso and Cassandra took us out to the Newtown district to partake in a quintessential part of Jozi’s renowned music scene, the Joy of Jazz festival. Cassandra’s uncle’s college roommate happened to be the bassist for the night’s featured act, the Count Basey Orchestra. Despite having never met him before, Cassandra first managed to usher five of us backstage with one of the band’s saxophonists before procuring complimentary tickets to the show. Figuring that we were already playing with the house’s money, Vik shamelessly led us to front row dead center seats in a sold out venue. For the next ninety minutes, we enjoyed the Count Basey Orchestra’s inaugural South African performance. Even Vik, who admitted to not being much of a big band fan, was blown away by the musical virtuosity onstage. After sleeping in the following day to recover from our eventful night out, we indulged in an afternoon of mindless American filmed entertainment (the Steve Carell vehicle Evan Almighty). That evening, we made our way to a yuppified part of town for a westernized African meal and another night of live music at Moyo. One of our dinner companions was Kgomotso’s friend C.J., a transplanted South Side Chicagoan who identified himself as an African born in America. C.J. brought Vik up to speed with his notions of scientific socialism while concurrently sharing some of his distinctive new-age pronouncements (Vik’s favorite: “I’m totally in me right now”).  We used the better part of the following day to make travel arrangements for our subsequent two weeks in Europe. By the time we finally purchased discount airline tickets and booked hotel rooms in Lisbon and Dublin (a slower process than one might expect with an intermittent network connection), it was two in the afternoon and time for lunch. Kgomotso and her ex-husband Matthew then took us out for a memorable meal at the landmark Nambitha’s restaurant in Soweto (South West Township). Filled with almost exclusively with black South Africans, the restaurant offered an authentic atmosphere in which to sample samp, pap and a host of other traditional dishes. On the way home, we drove by the Nelson Mandela homestead in a preview of our forthcoming Soweto tour. Early the next week, we successfully relocated to a Melville guesthouse after a little bit of drama (the Afrikaaner owner of our first choice lodgings basically told us to go elsewhere when we mentioned that the much-advertised wireless Internet connection did not work). Having promptly complied, we found ourselves thoroughly exhausted a few hours later after walking all over Melville with our bags in tow. After we finally settled into Tama Rumah in the late afternoon, we enjoyed a late lunch/early dinner before resting on our hard-earned pillows. Later in the week, we explored three different Melville hipster spots for a combination of meals and boutique shopping. We had soon worked out a system whereby we’d enjoy a meal together at a trendy spot. Thereafter, Vik would patiently sit and read while Kaberi mainly window shopped. By the time evening rolled around, Vik could plead for time off for good behavior. One evening, Vik successfully begged off on hearing Angela Davis speak locally at Wits University. Attending the lecture together, Kaberi and Kgomotso agreed that it was only appropriate that they were listening to Dr. Davis speak more than a decade after their days of on-campus activism at Carleton. In so doing, they both reaffirmed a friendship that picked up seamlessly where it had left off in a prior life.

Grape Expectations

After two lazily-paced weeks in and around Cape Town, we embarked upon a drive to South Africa’s renowned wine country for the weekend. Our accommodations at the Le Quartier Francais boutique hotel in the upscale hamlet of Franschoek had come highly recommended by Cassandra who had even gone so far as to secure for us a suite at the exclusive Four Quarters wing at a 30% off-season discount. Despite some initial trepidation, Vik was coerced into doing the driving (on the opposite side of the road, to his chagrin, in a country with a formidable contingent of aggressive drivers). Fortunately, with a map in hand, we were able to make the one hour northeasterly journey with relative ease.

After passing by the prison where Nelson Mandela was transferred after his incarceration on Robben Island, we arrived in Franschoek at ten in the morning. Once on the Le Quartier grounds, we assumed that we would merely drop off our bags before soliciting some local advice on which vineyards to visit. To our surprise, however, we found that our room was ready and that we were able to check in immediately. Once we entered the threshold of the more 1,000 square foot suite with separate living and sleeping quarters, heated floors, old-fashioned fireplace, double plasma televisions and mini-bar stocked with complimentary bottles of local wines, ciders and champagne, it took all of our collective willpower to even consider leaving the premises.

After a scrumptious lunch (included in our nightly rate), the lush winelands nestled in the nearby valleys of several rugged mountains range beckoned us. Over the proceeding afternoon hours, we sampled reds, whites and even schnapps at several Franschoek vineyards, all within a twenty-minute drive of our hotel. We found that we enjoying our stay to such a degree that we extended our stay for an additional night in order to have the entire weekend to enjoy and explore the picturesque countryside.

That evening, we made our way to Haute Cabriere to enjoy the gastronomical delight of a delectable three-course meal paired with the perfect bottle of red wine. Upon leaving the vineyard, we looked up to behold the brightly-shining stars in the crystal clear southern sky. As we stood gazing at the unfamiliar constellations of the Southern Hemisphere, we both noted that we had never seen such an impressive and brilliant array of stars. Walking back to the rental car in the brisk evening air, we greatly looked forward to returning to the warmth of the blazing hardwood-fed fire in our room.

The next morning we arose to a private breakfast on the balcony and a lazy day in the suite. Despite the secluded nature of Four Quarters, the hotel grounds were situated near the town’s main street. We took a leisurely stroll down Huguenot Street, listening to the street musicians and poking our heads into various boutiques. For the remainder of the day, the arsenal of DVDs available had us engrossed in quality movie after quality movie, including Born Into Brothels, Little Miss Sunshine, Bobby and Hotel Rwanda. Primarily to give our weary eyeballs a rest, we went out for a quick dinner that didn’t quite compare with its predecessor.

When Sunday arrived, we bid a fond farewell to our suite. On the way back to Cape Town, we stopped at a few vineyards in Stellenbosch (although several others that we drove to ended up being closed on Sunday). Our short drive back passed without incident and Vik let out an audible sigh of relief as we pulled into the rental car return lot. Our romantic weekend had been a perfectly-relaxing and satisfying getaway.