The end, for now

Our flight didn’t leave Capetown until 10 pm, so I had some time to kill on Wednesday. I went with Dixie and Melanie to the aquarium and had my own shark encounter; much less dangerous than the one some of the people in the group did while I was boozing it up at the wine festival. The kelp farm was magnificent, relaxing and hypnotic.

Then Melanie and I went back to Oude Moulen school and visited with Sandy. We sat in on a couple of classes and Sandy and I spoke about trying to do a book or film study in January/February. I’m really disappointed again that I’m not teaching 9th grade. This joint project would work so well with their curriculum and the way I teach, as it is, I dread playing catch up and trying to create three new courses in two weeks. However, that's not what I want to write about. I want to write about leaving Capetown.

When I was leaving Capetown on the plane in the dark, I regretted that I couldn’t have one last look at Table Mountain. How did I know that the wine festival would be the last day it wasn’t covered in clouds? I wanted one last look at Robben Island, the Waterfront, the Check Inn, Xolani, Richard, the townships. I wanted one last look before it all faded into the clouds of the sky. I don’t feel like I said a proper goodbye to a place that has wormed its way into my own story. I have become a collector of stories, but it’s not until the plane lifted away from the runway that I realized what I have been really doing is writing my own story.

Ok, so this is when I cry. Of all the people, it was hardest to leave Xolani. He has become a good friend and if I could pick someone to adopt as a brother, it would be him. He and I shared many good moments and he’s the only one who ever picked up on my mood at seeing or being somewhere. I appreciate his kindness and his generosity, sharing his story and becoming part of mine.

Since I have returned home, people have wanted me to sum up my trip in 2 minutes or less. Rich is right, they don’t want to hear the whole story and they are already getting tired of me saying, “When I was in South Africa…” I obviously can’t sum up the trip in two minutes or less, those of you who have been reading this know I’m more than a little long winded.

What I can say is that to me South Africa is a juxtaposition of anachronisms, just when you think you understand a piece of South Africa there’s something that doesn’t fit. The Mercedes in front of a township shack. The flat screen TV in Vicky’s and our wonderful dinner, and Thandile eating our leftover chicken in the kitchen. The slave lodge museum with a room dedicated to old children’s toys. South Africa is the third world and the first world right next to each other, not just in neighborhoods, but literally across the street. It’s corrugated steel shacks and brick houses with carved wooden doors. It’s racists and hope. It’s diamonds and smileys. It’s scars and gaping wounds. It’s beauty and danger. It is South Africa. Yes, I know that waxed on, sorry for the sap, but there it is. There’s my impression in “two minutes or less,” so to speak.