South Africa: 12/12/07

After one last walk on the beach at Bulungula we got into the old Landcruiser for the rough two and a half hour journey to the paved road junction. Along the way we picked up and dropped off various people who emerged from the shadows of small round huts, or rondovals, that spotted the country side. We would exchange simple formalities as new passengers climbed in the back with us, but most of the them only spoke the local Xhosa dialect, and we would smile as the clicked their tongues while the spoke. 

The junction consisted of one makeshift shop which sold warm drinks and a small selection of fruit, but there were probably 50 people standing around. None of them seemed to be doing much; women and children sat in the dirt, groups of men huddled together in conversation, their eyes twitching about as though they were being watched by unseen observers. When we stepped out of the Land Cruiser it felt as though the record skipped, and all eyes turned to the two caucasian westerners being dropped off. We cautiously situated ourselves away from the largest group of 20-something men and we watched our driver, Rufus, pull away. 

No more than two minutes had passed before our 'Taxi' arrived. One of the notoriously famous mini-bus transports that would take us to Coffee Bay. The mini-bus itself was more like an old, narrow mini-van that smelled of body odor and upholstery that had never been cleaned. We squeezed into the back seat with our bags, the volume of the stereo went WAY up with Africaans Hip-Hop, and we were off , again, dropping off and picking up passengers who dotted the side of the road. 

In such a transport, safety is a non-factor. The driver raced down the windy, two-lane road, swinging the wheel wildly to avoid the potholes. Actually, they were more like small craters than potholes, a few of which could have swallowed the entire front end of the vehicle. The driver couldn't have been more than 18 years old, and he split his time equally in his respective lane, and the lane of oncoming traffic. But he never slowed down. The music was deafening and the smell of fuel and exhaust gave both Shanon and I headaches and made us want to vomit. All the while we clung to each other in fear. 

At one point there were eight people on board (including the driver), along with an infant who sat quietly on her mother's lap in the front seat. We must have been moving at about 120-140 kph, or 70-75 mph, and coming around a long, sharp turn, when the driver slammed the brakes hard, narrowly avoiding a renegade cow that had wandered into the road. Minutes later it was a dog. People came and went, one had two large crates full of empty beer bottles which he kept stacked in his lap, another with a club foot who carried an old wooden crutch under with one hand, and an old splintered cane in the other. The exhaust became stifling the further we went, and I strained to keep a small window propped open to try and get fresh air. I could feel brain cells retiring from duty and my head reeled.

We passed large groups of people lining the road. All of them seemed to be waiting for something, but no one seemed to be in a hurry. No one except our driver. We would find out later that it was Pension Day, or pay-day, and that everyone was waiting to collect money. What they did for a living, or who paid them remains a mystery, but people gathered en-masse for their stipend.

What a ride. The green hills carry on in every direction as far as the eye can see, and whizzing by the the Xhosa communities we got a chance to see the heart of a Wild Coast community, home of Nelson Mandela, from the backseat of a hell-spawned mini-bus.  

Reflections of the World

Even though we did our best to provide an overview of our experiences while we were abroad, it wasn't always easy to keep the blog updated. This week I've been thumbing through the journal I kept while we were traveling, and laughing at some of the ins and outs of a daily life in far away places. In the interest of keeping these memories alive, or at least in my own interest of self preservation, I've decided to take some of the entries from my personal journal and recreate the experiences here, in hopes that we might all laugh, cry, feel inspired, whatever.

I don't think I'll keep to a chronological order, at least not for now. I fact, the order will likely be random and intermittent, depending on what I feel is  good story to share at the time I choose to share it. Anyway, if anyone still frequents this blog, I hope you find these small insights worth the read. 

Cheers-

Jared 

India: 1/6/08

We met a kid from Israel this morning on the streets of Cabal. He had just arrived in Mumbai the night before. His face was tense and he asked us if we knew somewhere safe to eat, and then followed us down the street to an American style coffee shop. He was 19 years old, traveling alone, and seemed terrified of being in India. Shanon and I thought of the Israelis we encountered in South America, all moving around together in tight networks and finding guest houses that catered specifically to their nationality. But here in Mumbai, this young, solo wanderer hadn't located any 'friendly' faces, was certainly on edge and afraid to eat the food, and admitted that he was ready to leave after 14 hours.

--

Leaving our new friend behind, we caught a taxi and headed an hour north of Mumbai to the train terminal. From the back seat of the car we experienced our first glimpse of the dismal conditions in which people live, in this, the country's most thriving and wealthy metropolis. The small shanty's and lean to's sat directly on the sidewalks so that people's door-steps consisted of the curb and the street. Some were corrugated tin constructions, others were merely old tarps suspended from the concrete wall that backed the roadside neighborhood. People bathed, ate, and did their laundry right there on the asphalt, as small children with no clothes wandered just a few feet from the rushing traffic. We passed thousands of people living like this over the course of just a few miles. Poverty like we've never seen, and the biggest culture shock of the trip so far.

--

We were definitely a spectacle at the train station, and the only caucasian people in sight as far as we could tell. People passing us stared hard. Blatently. Some directly at Shanon, some directly at me, occasionally at both of us. Some would see us and then say something to the others standing close to them, after which a whole group would be staring at us. Sometimes they would point and laugh as they stared; of course we assumed they were laughing at us. Unsure how to react, and growing wary of the eyes on us, I tried my luck at staring back, but it was like trying to stare down a statue. It was a strange feeling, to say the least, and we tend to get it everywhere we've been so far in India. We are strangers in a strange place. As we waited for the train people flooded past us, and the rats scurried along the filthy tracks. It smelled of urine and human shit, and there is no doubt that we aren't used to getting around in this country yet. We feared the worst as we waited for the train. Miraculously, after about an hour of waiting, our train arrived and we climbed on-board.--safe at last from the gawkers and packs of teenage boys who move around together like packs of wolves. Safe at last from that station. 

Now aboard the train, an older couple next to us seem to be complaining to each other about our bags taking up so much space under the blue, vinyl bench, and upset with the fact that we were in the wrong seats when they boarded. We crammed our bags back as far as they would go and offered to move to our respective spots in the tiny berth, and that seemed to satisfy them. We think. Our first encounter with the Indian Railway.