Much needed vacation

It’s been awhile since my last post and, if I have to be honest, that may be the case for the rest of my service (15 months, in case you were wondering). Things get harder to write about in the outlet of a blog. I have less original thoughts and observations about life here; the bizarre and exciting have become the mundane. And even those aspects of Beninese culture and its people that I still find surprising, hilarious, frustrating, or confusing seem unworthy of repetition here. You’ve all heard my gripes. Conversations among volunteers increasingly breach the bigger subjects- not what comprises their culture but why it is that way, not why we came here but why we stay, which are wholly different. Some of what I’d like to write here might seem insensitive or politically incorrect to you, you who know what you do of Africa from MSNBC special reports, Oxfam newsletters, and glossy coffee table books. I hate to have your opinion lowered of me before I can get back to America and do it myself.

So. It was high time for a vacation. I had gone 10 months without boarding a plane, probably the longest time in my life. Even the flight from Accra (Ghana) to Johannesburg felt luxurious. Getting from Cotonou to Accra, though, was an ordeal. We (Brigitte, the other volunteer I was traveling with) had to take a series of taxis through Togo and Ghana totaling 8 or 9 hours, at least 3 of which were on dirt roads, to reach the airport in Accra. Each country seemed to be sequentially better—cleaner, more developed, less chaotic—than the last, until arriving in South Africa felt somewhat like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia. Or when you go to the optometrist to be fitted for glasses and the doctor flips through lenses that go from blurry to tolerable to crystal clear until there is the one that fits just right. Development is my home. Unfortunately, we didn’t look too much like we belonged: we looked pretty haggard after 30 straight hours of travel, our red dirt-caked clothes and faces characteristic of life in West Africa not fitting in to the June winter of South Africa.

Our two-week vacation was spent half in Cape Town and half in Johannesburg. Cape Town is a stunning city sandwiched between the iconic Table Mountain and the picturesque coastline. Even in a country of extraordinary history and a true melting pot of cultures, Cape Town is a gem. It has the eclectic architecture of a city that has seen influence and rule by several different European powers before adopting its own character and style. In some areas, vacant buildings and open fields stand as a tribute to the black tenants once forcibly removed from their homes during the reign of Apartheid. Murals dot the landscape and the rocky crevices of Table Mountain serves as a constant background.

Day one of our vacation was spent marveling at things like sidewalks, marked road lanes, cold weather, and shopping malls; relearning how to use eyeliner and straightening irons; and buying weather appropriate clothes to replace the rags that pass as our clothing in Benin. Cape Town was a blur of omelet breakfasts, sushi dinners, vanilla lattes, shared oogles at the posh and polished South African women, and sightseeing.

Just off the coast of Cape Town, near where the joining of the Indian and Atlantic Oceans causes some of the most dangerous currents in the world, is Robben Island on which Nelson Mandela was imprisoned. The tour of the island and prison blocks was given be an ex-political prisoner, in our case one who was held up until 1994, when the prison was shut down and all its prisoners released. We saw the cell where Nelson Mandela slept every night for almost 20 years, the court where revolutionary minds that would greatly shape the new South Africa came together, and the spot where Mandela hid the manuscript of Long Walk to Freedom before another prisoner in transport was able to smuggle it off the island (Mandela would later name that man his Minister of Transport). One day was spent climbing Table Mountain, a hike that starts off in direct sunlight at the foot of the mountain and ends in biting cold, mist, and fog at the top. We made the estimated 2 ½ hour hike in just over and hour, thawed our bones with hot chocolate at the top of the mountain, and took a cable car down.

The week spent in Cape Town was prior to the start of the World Cup so we were able to see the steady stream of fans of all nationalities flood South Africa streets and bars, donning the colors of their flags and, more likely than not, a vuvuzela, the long thin horn that is fan favorite there. They may be the only thing I don’t miss about South Africa, but then again if I had to pick between the mind-numbing buzz of a thousand vuvuzelas and the ruckus of Benin—bleating goats, moto traffic, and screams of “yovo! yovo!”—I’d choose the former.
Even those whose national teams did not make the Cup came. We met a lot of Irish who claimed they were there to cheer for whoever was playing France. South American team pride dominated the crowds, even though there were more Americans there than any other nationality, about 150,000. I have a theory that Americans were lower key and less patriotic because if you paint your face, wear your flag as a cape, and sing your national anthem obnoxiously loud in enclosed public spaces and you’re American, you’re a jerk. If you’re, say, Ghanaian or Slovak or Uruguayan, you’re just patriotic.

The second week of our trip was spent in the Johannesburg area. Though Brigitte and I had made reservations at a hostel, long story short, they did not work out and we were left opening day of the World Cup scrambling for a place to stay. Thankfully we were put in touch with a friend of Brigitte’s family friends who made our trip nothing short of perfect. I saw two games—USA v. England and New Zealand v. Slovakia—but we more or less followed all the games, which were conveniently at 1:30pm, 4:00pm, and 8:30pm daily: lunch, happy hour, and dinner. We thought we ate well in Cape Town, little did we know the wonders Johannesburg would hold. Our host Tim has a knack for finding the best of the best so in a week’s span we had the best mojitos, pasta, hamburgers, fries, strawberry daquiris, lattes, and braai (South African barbeque) South Africa--if not all of Africa--has to offer. Not to mention a fair share of wine. The week was a pretty perfect blend of boisterous crowds and electric atmospheres, and calm nights of good wine and good conversation. The last two days we spent at Tim’s house in the bush. Imagine a golf course, clubhouse, and spa in the middle of a safari park (removed of large carnivores) and houses dotting the landscape shared with warthogs, giraffes, zebras, antelope, ostriches, and exotic birds. You’ll have to see the pictures. It was the kind of thing that was too awesome for words—seeing wildlife from the window of your bath in the morning and hearing the calls of different animals while barbequing at night.

South Africa is more than interesting; it’s an anomaly within the African continent. The wealth and development, as far as I can tell, are centered around at most twenty cities, and apart from them the expansive savannah is dotted mostly by wildlife reserves, shantytowns, mining towns, and villages. Each city feels like an oasis of sorts, and traveling between them is making the switch from developed world to developing and back in a matter of hours. The South Africans we met were friendly and incredibly hospitable. I can’t say I would’ve enjoyed my trip as much had I come straight from the land o’ plenty, but coming from Benin, it was like the Emerald City.
Leaving South Africa was… is devastating too strong a word? Suffice it to say I almost missed the flight buying wine in duty free and we took full advantage of the free alcohol on the flight back to Accra (where we would have to sleep in the airport till daybreak and then start the hellish 9 hour journey back to Benin). Thankfully before leaving we stocked up on creature comforts like Doritos and crunchy peanut butter to ease the transition back to life in village. Also thankfully we made it from Accra to Cotonou when we did; riots in the capital of Togo have caused it to be declared too dangerous for PCVs to travel within the country, so other Benin PCVs currently on vacation in South Africa will have to stay in Ghana until Togo is declared safe to traverse.

And so here I am now, lucky to hear about the score of a World Cup game or see snippets on a small fuzzy TV screen, sweating out half my weight in water a day, and eating food that may change in color but rarely in texture, consistency, or taste. The kind of food that looks the same coming up as it does going down, if you know what I mean. It’s good to be back.