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.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
