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.

Points of Contention

After enduring a weekend of rain, the 14th finally arrived and we nervously awoke to survey the weather. When the verdict proved to be slightly overcast but absent any rain, we breathed a huge sigh or relief and caught a Rikki to the Victoria & Albert Waterfront. We passed through a modestly-sized mall before reaching the Nelson Mandela Gateway building. Soon afterward, we boarded a ferry boat to make the 45-minute voyage through the choppy Atlantic to Robben Island. Our water journey proved memorable as our boat was tossed from side to side by one imperious wave after another. With a vantage point on the outside deck, we were quickly chilled to the bone by the crosswinds and blistering spray. Despite being seated away from the outside rail in the center of the deck, Kaberi still managed to be the only person on the boat to become drenched when a rogue wave set its sights on her pants. She was not amused.

Thrilled to be on solid ground once again, we boarded a bus on the Robben Island pier and set off on a tour of the island. The island first began as a leper colony and a leper church and cemetery were the first stops of our tour. Making our way around Robben Island’s southern coast, we came to the house where anti-Apartheid activist and Pan African Congress founder Robert Sobukwe's was imprisoned in isolation for years without a trial. From the Sobukwe house, we drove to the complex’s Maximum Security Prison where Mandela was jailed in a claustrophobic cell the size of a miniature tool shed. At this point, we learned that our tour guide was, himself, a former prisoner. We were further astonished to learn that island tours were led by both former prisoners and former wardens. The thought of being a prisoner and returning to the island to give tours side-by-side with one’s captors seemed unfathomable.

The ever-gloomy skies overhead and frigid crosswinds seemed an entirely appropriate backdrop to our visit. Learning of the conditions that the political prisoners endured – including inadequate clothing, boots, bedding and nourishment – proved to be a sobering experience. We walked through the cold, bare cells in one bleak, squat building after another. In one area, we saw signage indicating how prisoners were rationed food based upon their race. Stepping outside, we couldn’t help but notice the proximity of the shoreline, yet another aspect of the island to invariably torment the prisoners. Returning to Cape Town, we both felt seared and haunted by the excursion.

The following day, on Indian Independence Day, we retained the services of Shah (the friendly driver who originally picked us up at Cape Town airport) to drive us past Chapman's Peak and to Cape Point, the southwesternmost point on the African continent. As both an Indian and a native South African, Shah gave us a candid and compelling perspective on post-apartheid South Africa. His thoughts reinforced in our minds the unique position South Africa holds as a country where power transitioned from a colonizing minority to a native majority without a wholescale retreat or civil war.

Shah shared with us his belief that, in exchange for considerable financial consideration, a few prominent former political prisoners colluded with Afrikaaner officials to keep the country’s economic power in the hands of the white establishment. He went on to suggest that the otherwise well-intentioned ANC government was being set up for failure by its undemocratic predecessor and by entrenched white economic interests. In turn, the ANC fomented the mess through scattered incompetence and corruption. Shah also lamented the relatively-slow pace of change and unequal income distribution and presumed that future bloodshed was inevitable.

As our discussion unfolded, we enjoyed the passing scenery. We first drove to Hout Bay to see sea otters frolicking near the waterfront. Afterward, we advanced to the entrance of Chapman's Peak Drive, which was barred due to the threat of falling rocks loosened by recent rainstorms. Taking a different route through the wealthy Kommetjie area and through its neighboring township. The township was congested with corrogated tin shacks interspursed with a few concrete houses built by an Irish businessman cum philanthropist. Our observations of the stark contrast between the lives of the wealthy and the poor in such close proximity gave us much to consider in conjunction with our conversation with Shah.

A short drive later, we reached the end of the Cape Peninsula where savannah ended with rocky outcrops fronting dark green seas. We first jumped on the funicular railway to the old lighthouse at the peak above Cape Point. Alighting, we hiked around the major peak that dominates the landscape before discovering a smaller peak about 100 meters further south. We then hiked the path to an overlook to a smaller, second lighthouse at sea level where we were the only two looking out over the crashing waves below. After enjoying the peaceful surroundings, we made our way south to the Cape of Good Hope to join our fellow tourists in posing next to the prominent sign. The stark natural beauty of the area was undeniable. Our afternoon at Cape Point proved to be a welcome respite from the prior ten days of uninterrupted urban life.

Es-Cape-ades

The next day in Cape Town, our plans to visit the looming Table Mountain were dashed when we discovered that it was closed due to poor visibility and high winds (a subsequent visual inspection revealed a large circle of ominous gray clouds hovering at the peak). Thereafter, we called for tickets to Robben Island (where several prominent ANC political figures including Nelson Mandela had been imprisoned) only to discover that tickets were unavailable until the 14th. Rolling with the flow, we changed our plans midstream and decided to continue exploring more of the city itself. We confidently boarded our trusty local minibus and ventured to Bo-Kapp, a Muslim part of town identified by distinctive, pastel-colored houses. A resident of the area served as an informative guide and gave us a tour of the Bo-Kapp Museum before we made our way through the neighborbood on foot.

From Bo-Kapp, we stopped in at the Gold of Africa Museum to see the famous Golden Lion, which proved to be a little over-hyped in our humble opinions (the lion was roughly the size of a baby head of lettuce). We then walked over to the Slave Lodge where Kaberi took in the history of the slave trade as well as the memorial for slaves held in the lodge itself. From the Slave Lodge, we worked our way down Long Street to the South African Missionary Meeting House Museum (the first church to teach literacy to blacks) and the Palm Street Mosque (which we could only admire from the outside as it was closed to the public).

As we wandered along Long Street, Kaberi indulged in her desire for souvenirs, rationalizing that we were in the final stretch of the trip and could carry any purchases for the duration (Vik disagreed but was summarily ignored). We soon poked our head into the overwhelmingly-cheesy Pan African Market before finding a slightly more upscale retail venue. Vik staunchly opposed prospective purchases of beaded wooden fertility dolls or recycled soda-can toy cars, leaving Kaberi to furtively search for one or two items that would pass muster. We capped our day with a drink at the lazily-named Long Street Bar before catching a minibus back to Sea Point at dusk.

We awoke the following morning to a spectacularly-cloudless, sun-drenched day, and subsequently made a bee-line for Table Mountain. Having been closed to the public for several weeks for annual maintenance, Table Mountain greeted us with a seemingly mile long queue of apparently every other tourist in town. Despite arriving at 10:00 a.m., it wasn’t until noon when we finally managed to buy our tickets and stand in a second line to board the revolving cable car heading up to the mountaintop. Upon arriving at the peak, we were met by a fierce wind and incomparable views. We soon set off on an easy, two-hour hike to different vantage points of the sprawl below encompassing the city center and waterfront, Robben Island, Signal Hill, Lion’s Head and the Twelve Apostles mountain range. We were stunned by the beauty enveloping us and reveled in the picture-perfect weather conditions for Cape Town’s top attraction.

The next day was not nearly as clear as its predecessor, but we still chose to visit the Kirstenbosh National Botanical Gardens. As we arrived, we were dismayed to see the clouds rolling in behind us. Without missing a beat, the skies opened just as we were commencing our tour. Our guide was completely unfazed, however, continually jumping in and out of our golf cart to pick leaves and blossoms for us to feel and smell. We soon learned that South Africa’s oldest botanical garden housed one third of the world’s floral species and represented the first botanical in the world to be designated as an UNESCO World Heritage site. The most striking flower of the several that we saw was a colorful one named for Nelson Mandela. However, our favorite part of the outing came after the tour concluded, when we raised our body temperatures by sampling mugs of the Kirchenbosh Tea Room’s sinfully-rich hot chocolate.

On a slightly overcast day later in the week, we took the local train down to Simonstown to see the African penguin reserve. Unbeknownst to us, we chose to make the journey on a national holiday, National Women’s Day, and soon found that rail service was interrupted. Our train stopped in Fish Hoek, several towns north of our final destination, from where we were shuttled to Simonstown on an impossibly-crowded coach bus. From the bus stop, we walked through the center of town to Boulder Beach, an outpost located on the outskirts of town. While we admired the penguins in their natural habitat (especially the furry babies), we were overwhelmed by their stench. We sought olfactory relief on the walk back into town before stopping in at The Meeting Place for an upscale casual lunch. When the threat of rain from foreboding, overcast skies mounted, we quickly returned to the bus stop to reverse our course. The return journey seemed longer than we remembered, but our kindly fellow passengers reassured us that we were headed back in the right direction.

One of the most pleasant surprises of our stint in Cape Town was interacting with the locals. We found ourselves constantly chatting with friendly fellow passengers on various transport modes including trains, Rikkis (British-style fixed-rate shared taxicabs) and minibuses. The locals (of all skin colors) we encountered were exceedingly personable and helpful, and helped put our minds at ease about our reception in a former Apartheid state. We also managed to patronize a number of the restaurants recommended by local benefactors. We found that the city’s culinary scene did not seem to boast a fusion culture, but rather, focused on preparing a number of distinct cuisines well, including sushi at Tank, Indian at Bukhara, pan-Asian at Haiku, fresh continental at Savoy Cabbage, and African-influenced international at Five Flies, the restaurant where we belatedly celebrated our fifth anniversary. In Cape Town, we soon came to learn that neither a friendly face nor a satisfying meal were very hard to find.

Southern Comfort

From Dar Es Salaam, we made our way three hours south to the Republic of South Africa. Stepping down at Johannesburg Airport, we played forty-five minutes of hide and seek with the driver tasked with meeting us before finally chartering a car and driver on our own. Forty-five minutes later, we found ourselves on the doorstep of Kaberi’s vivacious Carleton friend, Kgomotso, in the charming and artsy northern Johannesburg suburb of Melville. After several rounds of ear-splitting squeals and exuberant bear hugs, Kaberi and Kgomotso finally settled into rapid-fire chatter that persisted throughout dinner and drinks. Vik’s intermittent renditions of sketches from The Chappelle Show acquitted him well with Kgomotso and contributed to the evening’s funloving tone. A few hours later, Kgomotso helped us ring in our fifth wedding anniversary as the clock struck midnight. With the night having flown by, we looked forward to a week with Kgomotso in Johannesburg at the end of our stay.

The next morning, we celebrated our anniversary by first taking a 90-minute South African Airways flight west to Cape Town and then making our way to Kgomotso’s flat in the northwestern district of Sea Point. The charming and vibrant apartment served as our headquarters for the next two weeks and we quickly made ourselves at home. Residing a mere block from the beach, we strolled along a grass-lined promenade featuring views of energetic breakers crashing along the rocks. Apart from the frenetic shoreline, the surroundings reminded us more than a little bit of Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive.

A block or so inland from the promenade, we discovered New York Bagel, an eclectic cafeteria-style haberdasherie with plenty of cheap food options and Internet-capable PC’s. Over the course of the two weeks (to Kaberi’s chagrin), we spent many hours uploading photos, making travel plans and tracking the Boston Red Sox quest to hand yet another division title to the bleepin’ Yankees. On our return walk home, we happened upon Woolworths, a South African retail hybrid of Sears and Whole Foods where we found microwaveable Indian butter chicken dinners which soon became our daily indulgence on rainy nights.

As it turned out, we were fortunate to have the luxury of time in Cape Town, especially since our arrival coincided with the city’s rainy season. Cape Town proved to be the single most fickle city we had ever encountered on a weather basis, far surpassing Boston or San Francisco with its vicissitudes. One friendly local confided in us that his hometown boasted four seasons in a single day, and his pronouncement was hardly an exaggeration. Nevertheless, we found that the city’s wet interludes were perfect excuses for holing up on Kgomotso’s sofa with a warm blanket and cable TV. Apart from one particularly-rainy night when we braved the precipitation by venturing out to the Victoria & Alfred Waterfront to see the newly-released Bourne Ultimatum, we mostly stayed dry indoors.

On our first sunny day in the city, we began our adventures by catching at the corner one of the throbbing-with-hip-hop minibus taxis making their way down Sea Point’s Main Street. We found the ride to be a rite of passage as we joined eight other passengers squeezed into a miniature van with an impatient driver and an attendant endlessly hustling for business. The 4 rand per passenger journey (approximately $0.53 each) brought us into Cape Town’s surprisingly-gritty downtown where we disembarked.

We soon made our way to Cape Town City Hall, the steps of which served as the site of Nelson Mandela’s first speech after being released from prison in 1990. After navigating the nondescript, gridlike streets, we found our way to the District Six Museum. District Six was formerly a culturally-vibrant but less affluent inner city neighborhood housing 55,000 “colored” (defined as non-white but not black) working class residents. In 1953, the neighborhood was razed by the despicable Afrikaaner government in order to create whites-only housing. The resulting international outrage over the destruction and forced resettlement was so great that the area never really developed. The District Six museum was housed in a former Methodist church that escaped demolition. It contained numerous photographs and personal effects of the former residents that gave us a real sense of their former lives. The museum space itself was dominated by a poignant map created by former residents documenting their homes and surroundings and a nearly complete set of street signs that were surreptitiously rescued from imminent destruction.

After our visit concluded, we set out on an uphill walk to Tamboerskloof to meet up with two of Kgomotso’s Cape Town friends, Cassandra and Jonji, who warmly welcomed us with a bottle of wine and a dinner invitation at Addis in Cape, an excellent Ethiopian restaurant run by a successful female Ethiopian entrepreneur. We reveled in the delicious meal and good company, and hoped that our auspicious start was a sign of more good things to come.

The Lion Sleeps Tonight

From Ngorongoro Crater Lodge, we continued our adventures with CC Africa and made our way to Klein’s Conservation Camp astride the Serengeti near the Kenyan border. Our 7:00 a.m. jeep ride to the Manyara airstrip was followed by another exciting journey in a diminutive prop plane (where we literally sat behind the pilot to enjoy a clear view out the front window). Our noon landing at Klein’s involved touching down on an airstrip simply marked with a black and white wind flag and a strip of grass matted flat by repeated plane landings. Our accommodations at the aptly-named Klein’s Under Canvas were located ten minutes away at a mobile camp site in the midst of the actual conservation area.

A bit unsure of what to expect from two nights in a tent with no electricity or running water, we were thrilled to discover that our lodgings represented a cavernous and thoughtfully-appointed canvas tent. We found our tent furnished with a comfortable bed, a working indoor toilet, a basin and large brass urn filled with gravity-induced “running” water, a ground-level outdoor shower deck (consisting of a suspended, upturned brass water container) and a private butler (named Moses) whose duties aside from parting nearby bodies of water included fetching boiling water for our showers.

After an efficient picnic lunch near the camp’s hub, we retired to our tent just before the skies opened to unleash a massive thundershower of spectacular force and fury. Over the next several hours, not a single raindrop encroached the inside of our tent while we were lulled soundly to sleep by the pageantry of the crackling skies above.

As luck would have it, we awoke just as the rains ended and just in time to make the scheduled 4:00 p.m. afternoon safari ride. Our capable guide Massek chauffeured the two of us in a convertible-roof Land Cruiser through the conservation area, a private concession area leased exclusively to CC Africa. Unlike our excursion in Ngorongoro Crater, the Klein’s safari ride afforded us the opportunity to off-road and approach the animals at unimaginably-intimate distances. Within mere minutes of setting out, we were graced by two families of African elephants with a baby in their midst and by a herd of curious giraffes. Seemingly everywhere we looked, a cornucopia of animals – ranging in scale and ferocity – emerged from the bush. The excitement that we felt the prior morning at Ngorongoro Crater was soon eclipsed by our amazement at the sheer number of animals sighted in the conservation area.

The pinnacle of our safari ride was soon to come. On the basis of a radioed tip from a fellow guide, we made our way deeper into the preserve to a clearing of tall grass. Nestled in the midst of golden stalks, we found a pair of enervated lions (a male boasting a conspicuous mane and a female boasting long eyelashes) several hours into their extended mating cycle. From Massek, we learned that during mating season, single-minded lions copulate every 15 minutes for three straight days, even going so far as to forego meals and extended sleep. We also found out that a single alpha male pairs with each of the females in his herd (lionesses actually initiate the process) on a rolling three-day basis. This responsibility invariably takes its toll as male lions have a life span 14 years shorter than their counterpart lionesses. When Vik remarked that this was quite a way to go, Massek nodded in knowing agreement.

As if on cue, the two lions on which we were eavesdropping began their activity. The two appeared to both share an exhibitionist streak as they ended up consummating three times in the twenty minutes during which our voyeuristic eyes were trained on them. In each case, the physical exertion phase of the mating lasted less than a minute (lions are not especially keen on foreplay or endurance). After the third coupling, a second male lion approached from the bush at the rear of our vehicle. Initially expecting a fight between two aggressive males, we were somewhat disappointed to observe the second lie down casually ten yards from the pair. At this point, Massek suggested that lion number two was the alpha male’s brother keeping a respectful distance after being summoned by his sibling. Throughout, Kaberi snapped away furiously, capturing no less than 250 shots in short order. After the show, albeit tired, we had to admit that we were not nearly as worn out as the lions.

The subsequent night drive was a bit anticlimactic, although we did manage to see bushbabies for the very first time. We summarily returned to the camp to make a bee-line for the warmth of the roaring nightly campfire. Huddled just out of reach of the flames, we enjoyed chilled drinks and handfuls of spicy Bombay mix as we chatted first with Ladislas, the camp’s acting director, and then with the Schiffmans, a funloving American family of five who inspired us with their annual tradition of exotic annual family vacations. After the staff coaxed us away from the fire and our enthusiastic conversation, we assembled for dinner in the mess tent.

Not surprisingly, considering our remote location, we found that our meals, despite the significant effort of the camp staff, did not compare with those we enjoyed at Ngorogoro Crater. The atmosphere and conversation, however, were nothing less than enthralling. Massek joined us for dinner and waxed enthusiastically about CC Africa’s ethical conservation and community-building efforts. His heartfelt testimonial was convincing, and we both felt quite pleased to have chosen a top-flight, environmentally-conscious operator.

After finishing dessert, we said our good nights and returned to our tent. After changing into long thermal underwear and fleece tops, we turned in for the night. In contrast with the chill of the night, our bed was delightfully warmed by the presence of a hot water bottle. Despite the lack of electricity, we lacked for none of the comforts of home; we enjoyed cotton sheets, soft pillows, a substantial duvet and, remarkably enough, overhead lights, powered by a large external tent battery. Feeling embarrassed by the extent to which we were “roughing it,” we gratefully fell asleep.

As the sun rose, Moses appeared outside our tent attired in a heavy winter coat and bearing a kettle of hot water for our outdoor shower. We could scarcely believe that we were actually taking turns stepping into 40-degree temperatures in our birthday suits to bathe in a canvas-enclosed shower stall. Drawing the short straw and the second shift, Vik unfortunately encountered rapidly-cooling water flowing overhead. Meanwhile, a wet and shivering Kaberi curled back into bed with a lukewarm water bottle desperate for heat from any source. Reverberating in the back of our heads, were the voices of our mothers warning us that this was exactly how one caught a cold.

After a quick breakfast of cereal and yogurt, Massek and our tracker Seleu took us through the conservation area where we checked in on the aforementioned lions who were still dutifully engaged in their business. Soon thereafter, we crossed the threshold of the Serengeti (meaning “endless plain” in the Maasai language) to witness the famed annual migration.

After a couple of hours of bumpy driving, we came across a massive clearing with wildebeest scattered in droves as far as the eye could see, their movements motivated by the search for water. Interspersed with the wildebeest in the inexorable march north to Kenya were zebras, antelopes and gazelles. A few miles up the road we observed several greedy vultures bickering over access to a recent wildebeast corpse. An hour or so later, with our appetites sufficiently tempered, we stopped for an uninspiring picnic lunch in the bush where we attempted to dodge sizeable animal droppings and swat away relentless tsetse flies.

The next morning, we were grateful to be able to sleep in until 8:00 a.m. (even resident early bird Kaberi enjoyed the extra shuteye) and to awake to warmer temperatures. After a more tolerable outdoor shower and lukewarm pancakes, our departure time approached. We said our warm goodbyes to the staff and bundled into the convertible Land Cruiser for the last time (at least for the foreseeable future). As we left the camp’s borders, we were struck by the vivid sight of three Maasai warriors from the nearby village, each brandishing a tall spear, walking together in the jungle. Once airborne on the return flight to Dar Es Salaam, we both agreed that the fertile landscapes passing below had exceeded our lofty expectations, hardly an easy feat in the seven-month mark of our travels.