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.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
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.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
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!
Sunday, March 7, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
The Middle
The sun is shining, and Vancouver looks gooood.
From my 17th floor perch, I can see the city all dressed up in its Sunday best as it prepares to welcome hundreds of sweatsuit clad olympic hopefuls. The mountain tips are peeking out the top of the clouds, the grey sky has finally changed back to blue, the winter air smells of rain and pacific ocean salt.
I'm home.
--
At first, it was hard to be here. At first all I could think about was the white sand beaches and sweltering noonday heat I had left behind. I had dreams of limestone holds and peeling right handers, I could still taste the mango sticky rice and chicken tikka masala.
And when I looked out the window, everything was grey, and cold, and rainy, and I didn't think I wanted to be here. What was I coming back for? What about this life could be better than the one I just left?
Then, on Sunday afternoon, I walked my little brother down the street to catch his bus back to school.
"Ok. See you next week!" with a smile and a hug he was off.
And that's when it hit me: I actually WILL see him next week. Because I know where I'm going to be next week.
I will still be here.
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I am going to be in one place long enough to make plans. I am going to be in one place long enough that goodbye doesn't have to mean forever anymore.
Back somewhere where you don't need to say goodbye, just 'see you later'.
Amazing.
Suddenly, little comments mean something completely different to me.
Wow, you're blonde!
My hair is indeed lighter - and you know that because you've known me for longer than a month. Which means I don't have to tell you my life story. You're already a part of my life.
I remember that!
You remember things, because we have a shared past. And a shared future.
Let's hang out at my place.
You have a place where we can hang out, and it's actually yours, not a hotel room or a shared room in a guesthouse. It's yours.
All the comments that seemed so offhanded before, all the sentences that just used to be words...now they're something more than that. Now they're a reminder of how wonderful it feels to be part of something. To share.
And although I know my love for the road will never leave me, although my full time job will always be to adventure and wander and experience, although I will never stop wanting to challenge myself with new suns and borders and faces, this has been a pretty long shift.
So I'm going to take a coffee break for a few months, and enjoy THIS part of my life. Spend time with my family and friends.
Live.
Check ya later.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks for coming on the ride with me. Thanks for your support and your words of encouragement - they helped!
The stories written here are just a few of the thousands that have made up this last year. And for the price of a beer or a cup of tea I'll share a few more with you, face-to-face.
Or you could buy a plane ticket instead. Go make your own stories.
Just a thought......
From my 17th floor perch, I can see the city all dressed up in its Sunday best as it prepares to welcome hundreds of sweatsuit clad olympic hopefuls. The mountain tips are peeking out the top of the clouds, the grey sky has finally changed back to blue, the winter air smells of rain and pacific ocean salt.
I'm home.
--
At first, it was hard to be here. At first all I could think about was the white sand beaches and sweltering noonday heat I had left behind. I had dreams of limestone holds and peeling right handers, I could still taste the mango sticky rice and chicken tikka masala.
And when I looked out the window, everything was grey, and cold, and rainy, and I didn't think I wanted to be here. What was I coming back for? What about this life could be better than the one I just left?
Then, on Sunday afternoon, I walked my little brother down the street to catch his bus back to school.
"Ok. See you next week!" with a smile and a hug he was off.
And that's when it hit me: I actually WILL see him next week. Because I know where I'm going to be next week.
I will still be here.
For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I am going to be in one place long enough to make plans. I am going to be in one place long enough that goodbye doesn't have to mean forever anymore.
Back somewhere where you don't need to say goodbye, just 'see you later'.
Amazing.
Suddenly, little comments mean something completely different to me.
Wow, you're blonde!
My hair is indeed lighter - and you know that because you've known me for longer than a month. Which means I don't have to tell you my life story. You're already a part of my life.
I remember that!
You remember things, because we have a shared past. And a shared future.
Let's hang out at my place.
You have a place where we can hang out, and it's actually yours, not a hotel room or a shared room in a guesthouse. It's yours.
All the comments that seemed so offhanded before, all the sentences that just used to be words...now they're something more than that. Now they're a reminder of how wonderful it feels to be part of something. To share.
And although I know my love for the road will never leave me, although my full time job will always be to adventure and wander and experience, although I will never stop wanting to challenge myself with new suns and borders and faces, this has been a pretty long shift.
So I'm going to take a coffee break for a few months, and enjoy THIS part of my life. Spend time with my family and friends.
Live.
Check ya later.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks for coming on the ride with me. Thanks for your support and your words of encouragement - they helped!
The stories written here are just a few of the thousands that have made up this last year. And for the price of a beer or a cup of tea I'll share a few more with you, face-to-face.
Or you could buy a plane ticket instead. Go make your own stories.
Just a thought......
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Tainted Love
As the longtail pulled up to the rocky beach and the calls of 'take!' and 'slack!!' filled the air, it felt as though I had never left.
Tonsai beach loomed up in front of me, it's limestone cliffs and jungle growth glowing in the sunlight just as they had that first week in Thailand, so many weeks ago.
Within a few hours of my arrival I had secured a home and was sitting around a plate of chicken and rice with a group of 'old' friends. By the day's end I had climbed a few routes and found a means of employment.
Everything is the same as the first time.
And yet everything has changed.
I am not the same person I was when I first left home almost a full 365 days ago. I am not the girl who landed at an airport in Thailand and decided "maybe I'll try rock climbing for a few days. That could be fun."
I have changed in ways that only the open road can change a person. I have grown in ways that only a backpack home and a 'plan-not-to-plan' can let you grow.
I. Am. Different.
That's why we travel, I suppose. So that we will push our limits, so that we will know a side of ourselves we could never see from the comfort of our couch. So that we become something new; dare I say it something better?
Or maybe ignorance really is bliss.
---
Today I got an email from Bex, a beautiful and inspiring woman whose passion and dedication have continually astounded me. She's in Kolkata right now working with Deepa.
As I sit in my tropical paradise, alternating between drinking ice coffees and climbing rock ladders to heaven, she is elbow deep in the chaos of the City of Joy.
As I lay back on a cushion and watch the sun setting out over the turquoise blue waters, she makes the daily trudge past naked children and bleating cows, through crowded streets and up a stuffy cement staircase to the cries of 35 children in an enclosed space.
My greatest frustration in a day is not sending a route. Hers is trying to help a little girl learn to speak while surrounded by noise, filth and apathy.
Last time I was here, I didn't know. I didn't know that in some places in the world half a city sleeps in the streets each night. I hadn't stood at the foothills of the Himalayas and had my breath taken away. I hadn't ridden a wave or felt the power of sending a route. I didn't know what a family of five living on $10 a month looks like. I had never been dirty before. I had never been hungry before. I hadn't witnessed outright bigotry, I hadn't rocked a baby to sleep in the back of a rickshaw as her 17 year old mother sat smiling beside me.
I hadn't met Deepa.
Do all of these experiences mean that it should be harder for me to enjoy the beauty of now? Should I feel more guilty smiling in my little corner of the universe?
Because I don't.
I just feel luckier.
Which is why I'm going to check out until the end folks. This will be my last post from paradise. I'm about to dive in headfirst and enjoy these last moments of the journey without outside contact.
See you when I get home.
Tonsai beach loomed up in front of me, it's limestone cliffs and jungle growth glowing in the sunlight just as they had that first week in Thailand, so many weeks ago.
Within a few hours of my arrival I had secured a home and was sitting around a plate of chicken and rice with a group of 'old' friends. By the day's end I had climbed a few routes and found a means of employment.
Everything is the same as the first time.
And yet everything has changed.
I am not the same person I was when I first left home almost a full 365 days ago. I am not the girl who landed at an airport in Thailand and decided "maybe I'll try rock climbing for a few days. That could be fun."
I have changed in ways that only the open road can change a person. I have grown in ways that only a backpack home and a 'plan-not-to-plan' can let you grow.
I. Am. Different.
That's why we travel, I suppose. So that we will push our limits, so that we will know a side of ourselves we could never see from the comfort of our couch. So that we become something new; dare I say it something better?
Or maybe ignorance really is bliss.
---
Today I got an email from Bex, a beautiful and inspiring woman whose passion and dedication have continually astounded me. She's in Kolkata right now working with Deepa.
As I sit in my tropical paradise, alternating between drinking ice coffees and climbing rock ladders to heaven, she is elbow deep in the chaos of the City of Joy.
As I lay back on a cushion and watch the sun setting out over the turquoise blue waters, she makes the daily trudge past naked children and bleating cows, through crowded streets and up a stuffy cement staircase to the cries of 35 children in an enclosed space.
My greatest frustration in a day is not sending a route. Hers is trying to help a little girl learn to speak while surrounded by noise, filth and apathy.
Last time I was here, I didn't know. I didn't know that in some places in the world half a city sleeps in the streets each night. I hadn't stood at the foothills of the Himalayas and had my breath taken away. I hadn't ridden a wave or felt the power of sending a route. I didn't know what a family of five living on $10 a month looks like. I had never been dirty before. I had never been hungry before. I hadn't witnessed outright bigotry, I hadn't rocked a baby to sleep in the back of a rickshaw as her 17 year old mother sat smiling beside me.
I hadn't met Deepa.
Do all of these experiences mean that it should be harder for me to enjoy the beauty of now? Should I feel more guilty smiling in my little corner of the universe?
Because I don't.
I just feel luckier.
Which is why I'm going to check out until the end folks. This will be my last post from paradise. I'm about to dive in headfirst and enjoy these last moments of the journey without outside contact.
See you when I get home.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Livin the Dream
You know when you're a kid and you dream of that perfect vacation?
I remember as a little person, lying on my bed looking at magazine pictures of people catching waves on perfect white sand beaches, with little bungalows dotting the shoreline, and thinking to myself "how much cooler would I be if I could do something like that?"
I guess I just got a whole lot cooler.
------
Indonesian paradise, a few friends, a couple of beers, a beachside guesthouse and some waves.
It wasn't a traditional Christmas, but it sure was an amazing one.
The day would begin with the sunrise, as the sound of water lapping the shoreline roused me from a night being rocked to sleep in a hammock stretched between two palm trees.
Gradually the team would emerge from their respective abodes, rubbing sleep from their eyes and reaching for a cup of coffee.
Ten minutes later, boards tucked under our arms we would head down the beach to the waves that rolled and crashed in the distance. Allegedly the swell wasn't that great for those of us endowed with natural talent. For a beginner like me the magic of a first surf trip was enough to keep any and all complaints at bay.
A few hours of battling the waves, with a few explotives uttered under my breath as mother nature continually attempted to drown and bash me against the reef was all worth it for the two waves I would catch each morning, as the sun rose over the jungle covered hills that surrounded us.
Returning to our temporary home, the rest of the morning would be spent eating breakfast, sitting in lounge chairs, watching the water, catching rays, and generally enjoying the easiest and most beautiful moments life can offer.
Afternoon surf time: do it all over again.
Come back from the second session of the day, play scrabble, laugh, drink a beer.
Get invited to a local mining party (food and alcohol complementary...we thought we'd all died and gone to heaven...Jack Daniels and giant prawns on the house? Merry Christmas indeed!!)
Stumble home from the party arm and arm with friends, and collapse in a heap on the sand in a fit of laughter.
Lie back under the southern hemisphere stars, mesmerized by the fact that the sky above is completely different from the one at home.
Laugh some more. Make a few memories.
Move from sand to hammock, and let the wind rock you to sleep.
---------
The days we dream of, the nights we will remember forever.
The moments I never thought I'd be lucky enough to live.
Pack up those backpacks kids....
I remember as a little person, lying on my bed looking at magazine pictures of people catching waves on perfect white sand beaches, with little bungalows dotting the shoreline, and thinking to myself "how much cooler would I be if I could do something like that?"
I guess I just got a whole lot cooler.
------
Indonesian paradise, a few friends, a couple of beers, a beachside guesthouse and some waves.
It wasn't a traditional Christmas, but it sure was an amazing one.
The day would begin with the sunrise, as the sound of water lapping the shoreline roused me from a night being rocked to sleep in a hammock stretched between two palm trees.
Gradually the team would emerge from their respective abodes, rubbing sleep from their eyes and reaching for a cup of coffee.
Ten minutes later, boards tucked under our arms we would head down the beach to the waves that rolled and crashed in the distance. Allegedly the swell wasn't that great for those of us endowed with natural talent. For a beginner like me the magic of a first surf trip was enough to keep any and all complaints at bay.
A few hours of battling the waves, with a few explotives uttered under my breath as mother nature continually attempted to drown and bash me against the reef was all worth it for the two waves I would catch each morning, as the sun rose over the jungle covered hills that surrounded us.
Returning to our temporary home, the rest of the morning would be spent eating breakfast, sitting in lounge chairs, watching the water, catching rays, and generally enjoying the easiest and most beautiful moments life can offer.
Afternoon surf time: do it all over again.
Come back from the second session of the day, play scrabble, laugh, drink a beer.
Get invited to a local mining party (food and alcohol complementary...we thought we'd all died and gone to heaven...Jack Daniels and giant prawns on the house? Merry Christmas indeed!!)
Stumble home from the party arm and arm with friends, and collapse in a heap on the sand in a fit of laughter.
Lie back under the southern hemisphere stars, mesmerized by the fact that the sky above is completely different from the one at home.
Laugh some more. Make a few memories.
Move from sand to hammock, and let the wind rock you to sleep.
---------
The days we dream of, the nights we will remember forever.
The moments I never thought I'd be lucky enough to live.
Pack up those backpacks kids....
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