Deep Inside of....

A Parallel Universe.

That's what life feels like in a 250-soul strong village on the edge of the ocean, a two day walk from the nearest road, a 15km walk from your closest neighbours.

Living in thatched huts built on layers of compacted dust, waking up to the sounds of roosters crowing and children crying, eating whatever you were lucky enough to pull from the water that day.

A permanent salty-tinge to your flesh - for fresh water is not just a luxury but rather a nearly non-existent commodity, so forget the idea of a shower.

A new concept of beauty in a world without mirrors - clothed in brightly patterned pareos and bare feet, hair uncombed and flowing in the wind, no make up, no soap. Natural, normal, fresh and free.

A constant smile on your face - for who can frown in a world where the sun is always shining, the trees drip with mango and jackfruit, the fish are abundant and the jungle hugs you tightly on all sides.

A constant sorrow in your heart - for who can be truly happy in a place where dysentery is the primary medical concern and only 3 adults in the entire village are literate? Who can be satisfied in a corner of the universe known to and ignored by the government, rejected by the rich, where citizens are left to wallow in their poverty without ever a hope of overcoming it?

Without ever being able to conceive of a life in which everyone is healthy and hydrated, everyone can read and write, where every parent can demand something better for their children than they had for themselves.

A parallel universe.

----

----

Here in the village, the people wake up and go to work just like we do in Canada.

...only their job is to toil under a blazing sun in order to grow the rice that will feed their ever-expanding families.

Here in the family homes women become pregnant and deliver their children, just like we do in ours

....only here the birth happens on a dusty floor with a midwife and a scream, not in a pristine hospital with a doctor and a nurse and the safety of sterility.

Here in the heat of a sunday afternoon the children gather to play soccer on the school field, just as we did when we were kids.

...only their school is a two room bamboo hut with a chalkboard and two teachers for 100 students

Here people work, they live, they play, the learn.

They feel and smile and laugh.

Just like we do.

They are the same as us.

And yet they are totally different.

And every day when we wake up and turn on our coffee makers and our TVs, as we drive to work in our leather-interior SUVs, sit on a patio to have a beer with a friend, go to yoga, go climbing, go live our daily existences...as we do all of these things, here and now; on the other side of the world something completely and utterly different is all happening at the exact same time.

And it blows my mind.

This.

Is.

Africa.

A Day in Paradise:

It begins at sunrise.

The sound of waves lapping at the shoreline a few meters from your tent pulls you out of sleep and into a dream.

Rubbing sleep from your eyes, stretching out the muscles that still ache from yesterday's climb, you step out of the little grey tent to greet the warmth of another day in paradise.

White sand and bits of coral tickle the undersides of your feet.
A gentle breeze kisses your suntanned skin as you step into your bikini.

Five steps down the dunes and you plunge into the clear turquoise waters, warm even at this early hour of the day. You do a few strokes out towards the rocky islands that dot the horizon, then turn back to shore.

You slowly make your way to the one bungalow that stands on your secret island. A bungalow where piping hot coffee and toast with jam and nutella sits waiting for you.

Eat up.
You will need all the energy you can get for the big day that lies ahead.

Morning routine complete, stomach sufforcified, you head back to the tent and grab ropes, quick draws, shoes and harness.

Gear in tow, you move to the fishing boat that waits for you at the shoreline, its yellow and orange painted hull bobbing in the gentle Malagasy waves.

White birds of paradise dance overhead, and as the boat heads away from shore, you spot dolphins playing in the swell a few meters away.

After a morning of climbing on a sacred island where the former kings of Madagscar have been buried, the same citrus-hued comes to collect you and bring you back home lunch. Of course the food is ready and waiting when you arrive.

You eat.
Then you nap.
Then you wake up and snorkle around your home for about an hour. In this hour you spot a turtle, a giant purple octopus and about seventy five different varieties of tropical fish weaving in and out of the corals that spread out below you.

You step out of the water. Stand in the sun for about five minutes until your bathing suit is dry and the salt beings to itch your ever-darkening skin.

Grab the gear. Go climb some more routes.

When your arms and fingers can no longer take it, you go swimming again. Or read a book. Or play the guitar. Or talk to the other 6 climbers who share your paradise home. Or just do....nothing.

As the sun begins to set, you all gather together for a meal and a strong glass of rum and mango punch. Tonights dinner features a squid and five fish with an unpronouncable name. All were caught only a few hours earlier>.

Share a few laughs. Watch the sky change from deep blue to purple to black. Witness the rebirth of ten thousand southern hemisphere stars.

Wander back to the little grey tent.

Sleep.

Rinse.
Later.
Repeat.


Welcome to Nosy Andatsara.



Welcome to Paradise.

Struggling to Summarize

Hey kids.

How I have been neglecting you all! My sincerest apologies for the lack of correspondence. I assure you that it has not been intentional, but, as can be expected, the poorest continent in the world does not exactly include reliable internet connections.

The adventures have been many, but tragically the opportunities to share them with you all have been limited.

So instead of giving you the tidbits as they were lived, I will attempt to summarize the incredible journey through South Africa that I have just experienced.

True Beauty South Africa.

That's what they call it.

And 'they' are entirely correct. It IS.

Truly.

Beautiful.

After two weeks of climbing in Rocklands, we took to the road, with the goal of driving along the coast for a while, then up into the Drakensburg Mountains to finally end up in the infamous gated city of Johannesbourg.

Every turn brought with it a new landscape, new colours, new shapes, new thoughts and shaken ideas of the way this world spins.

South Africa is nothing if it is not diverse. I have never before experienced such rapid changes - literally turning a corner to be transported from the lush forests that inspired Tolken's Lord Of The Rings into the arid yellow savanah that I had always pictured when I thought of Africa. Moving from the rich European-style cities of the Garden Route to the thatched roofs and traditional mud huts inhabited by the Zulus of Kwazulu-Natal. Afrikaans and English replaced by the impossible-to-imitate clicks and clucks of the Khosa language. White faces gradually completely replaced by black ones. And layered over all the changes, the one constant feeling that this is a country I will never understand and never feel completely comfortable in.

Climbing and driving your way through a country allows you to observe the movements of a people with a sense of detachment - while South Africa is arguably one of the countries that I have seen the most of (in terms of kilometers) it will also remain one that I have seen the least of (in terms of interactions with the people).

Maybe its because every house has a gate and an alarm, and every guesthouse requires six keys before you can access your room. Maybe its because we never spent enough time in one place to really get to KNOW people. Maybe its because most of my observations of this country wer from behind a windsheild with the aircon blowing and an iPod playing favourite songs on the car stereo. Maybe its because the culture of fear inherent in the words 'South Africa' have a tendency to stop exploration in its tracks.

Whatever the reasons, the result is the same: South Africa remains a mystery to me. Its people did not welcome us with stories and smiles, I did not wander the streets to find untouched gems nestled in alleyways. I could never really understand when people explained the ways in which race presides over rationality here.

I could never really get a sense that I had actually BEEN in South Africa, the way I have been in some of the other worlds I have visited.

So would I recommend this country to another interpid traveller?

Yes. Most definitely Yes.

It's a world worth witnessing, it has a thousand layers worth trying to unravel. Emphasis on the word 'try'...

And perhaps when you come here, you will be able to dig a bit deeper than I did...find out what South Africa is really all about:::and then tell me what I missed.

And if not, we can always just have a chat about all the beautiful things that we saw here. All the majesty and mystery that exists in this True Beauty South Africa.

Next stop: Madagascar!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Rainbow Nation

political correctness disclaimer: I write this post having spent only two days in Cape Town after two weeks of camping in the north of the country. I do not pretend that my views are well-researched or anything more than a surface level observation of an incredibly complex country. However.
This blog is a chance for me to express the things I witness on the road, the way that I see them. And so far, this is what I see....
______________________________________



I suppose it would be impossible to come to South Africa without noticing it.

Black.
White.
Coloured.

Race.

I guess maybe I take racial differences for 'granted' (is that even the right word for it?) coming from a country like Canada. Skin colour has never been a factor in my descriptions of people. I've never considered a person's colour before their name.

But we ain't in Vancouver anymore Toto.

Here?
Here things are different.

The other night, I was chatting with one of the guys who works at our backpacker lodge.
His name is Andre.
Here, people would call him "a White south african. His name is Andre"

(Skin tone first.
All else second.)

As Andre and I sat chatting about the impossible-to-ignore-issue of race, I didn't really know how to phrase my question.

Are groups really as racially divided as they seem? I asked hesitantly



It's just that this country makes you *pause*.. really... racially sensitive. was his carefully worded response



"Racial Sensitivity."

I guess one could call it that.
Personally I would call it something else, but maybe that's just my own brand of racial sensitivity training talking.

And it's not even that bad in Cape Town. Here, I've seen some (albeit few) interracial groups. I've even noticed a couple of wealthy Black south africans (gasp!)

But when we were in Clanwilliam (the little country town closest to e slice of climbing paradise we call Rocklands), the divisions were so visible you would have had to be blind, deaf, and dumb (pun intended) not to notice.

Black = Poor. Dirty. Tired.

White = Rich. Clean. Privileged.

And certainly White and Black would never dare mix.
Certainly not.




When you travel, you try to accept places as they are. Avoid judgement. Accept that things are different in different places and you can't always understand them. Just try to 'do as the locals do'.

But this?
I don't get this.
I don't get it, and I cannot accept it.
And I definitely can't mimic a local.
So I'm going to keep calling my new friend 'Andre'. All other descriptors be damned.




You know, they call this country The Rainbow Nation and I think I'm beginning to understand why.
They sure do pay attention to colour here.

This Is Africa...or is it?!?

When I first started rock climbing, I met all kinds of self-proclaimed 'travelling climbers'.

People who journeyed around the world finding new spots to climb, new pathways to the skies, seeking out views unseen by most of the world.

These people piqued my curiosity.

Travelling to climb.

I love to travel.

I love to climb.

Maybe I should try that.

Thus began the journey to Africa, to a place called Rocklands on the edge of the Western Cape in South Africa. A place where sandstone boulders spread as far as the eye can see, their red and black-streaked beauty interrupted only at the horizon, where the Cederburg mountains climb to the sun-kissed blue skies above.

It is beautiful here.

And yes, the climbing is incredible (and HARD!).

And yes, I'm having the time of my life.

But here's the thing.

I'm not really travelling.

At least not yet.

In my head, Africa was a place where barefooted women wrapped in bright coloured cloth walked along dusty roads, their licorice skin glistening in the sunshine, a pile of belongings balanced on their heads.

In my head, Africa was a land where people moved to a different beat, where the rhythm of the drums spoke to your heart and the mid-day heat left you gasping for air.

Instead, the Africa that I am living in consists of campsites filled with climbers from around the world. We eat pasta and rice. We speak English, Spanish and French. We go rock climbing.

We do all kinds of fun things, and none of them have anything to do with Africa.

Don't get me wrong, I'm loving every second of this experience. Friendships made, muscles tested, personal boundaries pushed.

But travelling?

I don't think so.

Stay tuned.

I'll let you know when the real journey starts.

This time for Africa

Round two.

After a brief session of financial and emotional recuperation in the relative calm of that place I call 'home', the adventure is set to begin anew.

Four months.

Two (maybe three) countries.

One continent.

Waka Waka.

See y'all in Cape Town!

Movement

Misguided. Lost. Searching.

How much of our day is spent deciding what the next step will be, how much of my time is wasted planning, pacing, perusing my options....

A few months ago, I was having a conversation with another of the beautiful people in my life. This particular friend had recently attended an art exhibit where a painter had come up with an unusual concept: A Blank Canvas.

Stupid right? That's not art.

And yet...

As my friend explained to me, that white square represents something deeper. That white square represents our lives. You can paint anything on it - any colour, any pattern, any idea. And so the artist, like so many of us, remains paralyzed in the face of the endless possibilities. Unable to move forward for fear of painting the 'wrong thing' for fear of making that white endless everything into nothing. Or at least the wrong something.


Today, that white square screams to me. Where do I go from here?

Surrounded by the most beautiful world I have ever known, I awake each morning to comfort and clean sheets, to the sounds of birds singing in the cherry trees outside my bedroom window. I turn on my coffee machine and the kitchen fills with the smells of western warmth.

I turn on my computer - one of the two I have, one for work and one for play. I turn on the lights. I turn on the music, the heat, I sit on my couch and eat my fresh fruit and museli as I compulsively switch from one song to the next in search of the notes that will get my day going.

Excess.

I check my email. A note in my inbox from a friend on the other side of the world. A friend who works in the streets of Kolkata each day, believing that some things can be changed.

A friend who has decide what to paint on her canvas.

Hers is painted the ruby reds and peacock blues of India. The gold and black of the Kali temples, the yellows and greens of saris and rice paddies. She has chosen to spend her days battling for justice in a world where justice doesn't have carry the same meaning as it does here.

She has chosen.

And I sit here in my complex web of western guilt, my comfortable little home where everything is clean and I feel entitled not to choose anything. My white world that never demands a choice.

Paralyzed in the face of endless possibilities.