Bye Bye Armenia, Hello Georgia

Tblisi is my next mission. But how to get there? I had asked a local to phone the buscompany a few days prior to inquire about timings they would pass through this village. I am sure they would, as it is on the way, and I do not see the point of backtracking to Yerevan. They said 8:30. So, I limp to the busstop at 8 in the morning, and not to my shock, I am told there is no bus, but there would be one in the next village, but no, they do not know what time and the old lady suggests I hitchhike there.

I do, but I learn it is a mistake accepting a lift from a truckdriver, as it goes slower than cars and I have no idea it will take us an hour to the next village. I sit in the truck with my bag on the seat between me and the driver and our conversation runs dry after about twenty minutes as we do not speak each other’s languages and we just stare peacefully in front of us in silence. After about another twenty minutes, he grabs something from behind and offers it to me, I cannot quite see what it is and assume he is offering me chewing gum again. It is not gum. It is a condom. I look at him in disgust and have an angry go at him, pointing at the cross in the front “what kind of Christian are you?” He obviously does not understand my English, but I can assure you, he does understand more than just a gist here. He pulls an apologetic face and gestures he will not come near me. I know he will not bother me (he has asked for consent after all), but it will never seize to puzzle me how and why certain men act in such a way.

 At arrival he suggests to have a cup of coffee together, but I make sure I hop on a local bus to the station within seconds. At the station I am told I have missed the bus to Tblisi and after some back and forth, I am told one will arrive in two hours. I am not in the mood for hitchhiking anymore, so I decide to get a ticket for this one, and it finally arrives with another hour and a half delay. Bus is a big word here. It is another Mashrutka, full, so I am placed on a little plastic stool in the middle, which sends me in all directions with every turn until someone gets off and I can sit down on a proper chair.

I can tell Tblisi is more modern than Armenia, as when I walk into a pharmacy, they are actually familiar with the concept of blister plasters and have me remove the closed plasters that I had bought the day prior. The damage to my body from the visit to the forest is, besides some scratches and insect bites, the biggest blisters I have ever seen. One has opened on one foot and causes me terrible pains for a while (I had no idea an open blister can hurt this much!). On my other leg I have a painful knee and for the next two weeks I walk up and down stairs in a funny way (one step per two feet, instead of two). So all in all, unpleasant, but manageable, especially after I have bought a new pair of sandals.

It is early evening now and I am too excited to be here to go straight to my host and I find a free walking tour. Major Tip: any city you go to, type in the name of the city and ‘free walking tour’; they tend to be very good and just tip the guide at the end. In the next few days, I also go on the ‘alternative tour’ of Tblisi and the ‘hidden Tblisi’ tour, which are both fun and show different places with an explanation of its history and for entertainment one of the guides impressively whistles perfectly to ‘Carmina burana’ and another classical piece.

 It is funny how quickly you get used to the local prices. The taxi is at least a tenfold of the busprice, so I think hard if it is worthwhile taking it, until I realise it will cost me just over two Euros...

My host lives out of the centre in a newly built block of flats and she has recently purchased her apartment. It is sterile and comfortable. She is a career woman, she does not fit the picture here, as the country is ruled by a conservative Christian ethos, just like Armenia (but different branch of Christianity). Even though she cares less about what her environment thinks, she also does not feel comfortable hosting guys, as it will set off talks from the neighbours. 

Tblisi is charming and they have understood that tourism is a great provider, as the tourist information centre is well prepared for any questions in English and most of all the old central neighbourhood is clean and filled with quaint little cafes, but I do not notice many locals in that particular area. The city is known for its many balconies, churches, the ancient, the Soviet style and the new, with a fortress overlooking it all from the hilltop.  

Armenia II: The hike

My first stop after Yerevan is lake Sevan. THE lake in Armenia and mentioning it will be met with enthusiasm by the Armenians. The first thing to do there, I realise on arrival, is a visit to the monastery (9th century) on the hill, which gives a beautiful view over the lake. Armenia's main tourist attractions seem to be monasteries set in high and therefore scenic locations. 
Sevan feels like a somewhat run down seaside resort, except it is still very much a popular place. I walk for a while, as part of the lake I am is used for various motored water sports. Unfortunately both the temperature in and out of the water is too low for me to muster the will to actually swim. So off to Dilijan, which is referred to as 'Armenian Switzerland'- I go there for its nature. 

I accidentally hitchhike there, as I am just standing on the side of the road to wait for a mashrutka that certainly would show up at some point, when a truck stops and offers me a lift. Two friendly guys drop me off where I need to be. Or at least...It is a little confusing, as there is no indication to where a centre might be or any tourist information. I had randomly written down a name of a cheap hotel, so I go looking for it and find it quite quickly, where I am settled into a quiet, shabby room. There is neither much help tourist wise nor much English spoken, except for 'yes there is a lot to see, pay a taxi and he will take you there'. Other visitors seem to be lazy Armenians, who find breathing in the fresh air enough exercise. At the restaurant, I introduce myself to a young couple from New-Zealand (always funny how abroad you can just address complete strangers, as you are doing the same thing) and inquire about their plans. They have come to do some serious hiking and I ask if I can come a part of the way to do some less serious hiking. My goal is a beautiful lake (not for swimming), which would be about a four hours walk and we can go in the same direction for a bit and then at arrival I will take a taxi back. I never put my hopes up too high when it comes to couples as they might change their mind about stuff and then forget to inform me. However they do show up the next morning for breakfast, but to illustrate my point, when one of them gets bread and I ask to get some for me as well, she comes back and then casually says "sorry, I did not manage to get a third one" (as the difference between two and three is a tough one to manage, I imagine!), but then again, it is only four hours, I will not need much food anyway. 

We set off and after about an hour we part ways. I have an offline GPS route on my phone, I recognise the signs put up and I have paid attention to how they read the map, so I am confident, in spite of my lack of sense of direction. I walk for several hours, and twice lose quite some time, as the paths are overgrown and I have missed the turning and find myself in the middle of the woods, where it is very hard to get my bearings, but eventually encounter my way back to the path. I am about half an hour away from this infamous lake, when my GPS tells me I am not going in any direction, that in fact I am not even walking on a path (which I clearly am). I walk about half an hour back, to see if I missed a turning, or have not seen an indication, but the walking signs bring me back to the same (non existing, but somehow clear and broad forest path). It now starts to rain. Both the battery of my phone and the extra one I had brought with me are now empty. The rain gets worse. No wonder Noah's Ark's story is from around here...I decide to just keep following the path. The lake should be not too far. The path however goes on for a long time, much longer than half an hour. I am now soaked. The path eventually leads to an open field in the forest, which looks familiar. This means I have backtracked through a different route. This means I have walked here before and I could instead just try to find my way back, as it is clear I will not find the lake. This means that my goal is now not the lake, but getting back before dark. To my joy, I find the signs on the trees and start the walk back, which cannot take more than three hours. I find three more signs and turn where I need to turn and follow the winding paths in the thick forest. Then I come to a fork in the road. There is no sign telling me whether to go right or left. Up the hill seems sensible to me, as I know Dilijan is in a valley, so certainly after reaching the top, it is a question of going downhill. The forest opens a bit and then I feel the heavens are attacking me with little perfectly round icy balls. Hail !! When I finally make it to the top, I turn right and.... I am back in the open field I had found myself in before. 

I change my goal from getting back before dark, to getting back before it gets too late, as the darkness now starts creeping in. Somehow, before leaving, I had thrown a small bike light in my daypack, which now comes in handy, even though I discover quickly they are made to be seen on the bike, rather than to see with. All I can do is take the same route through the forest again, until the signs stop and turn right instead of left there. I do so, but it is rather steep and my knee on one leg starts to hurt and my foot on the other gives me pain. This path does not really lead anywhere, but a small stream, and I cannot walk easily here, this is not a path anymore, so I make my way back up to where the fork was. In short: the paths do not seem to lead me anywhere helpful, I am wet to the bone, have no food left, but can drink from puddles and streams, the wildest animals here are wolves, but I am pretty sure they will not come out in this weather. I reckon it will take about three days before anyone will be missing me (think I was a little optimistic there)  and I know that people who have gone missing on holiday in the last few years in the Netherlands have slipped and broken something and would only be found when it was too late. I know I will not be one of those, I am not scared, but will have to keep going. Remotely I see a light, so I decide to follow that light, even though I will now have to go across the forest, with no paths to follow. In front of me it looks like a wall of darkness and if I can just get beyond that, I will see something, however behind every wall of darkness there is another one. The light is still there, but does not seem to get closer. The walk gets steeper and steeper and I hold on to plants, trees, but a lot of the branched on the ground are so wet, they fall apart when I step on/grab them. Gravity seems to be on my side, as I barely ever fall over. When I do and land on my behind on a rock, I look at the sky and know it will be light in about two hours and decide to stay seated. I doze off many times for a few minutes at the time with vivid dreams. It has now stopped raining, but everything is wet and humid, so drying does not happen fast. When the light comes in again, I resume my climb down. I had stopped at the right point, as it is even more steep here with less to hold on to. I finally make it down, where there is a stream. I now aim for getting up on the other side, as getting to that top, being so high, would certainly give me a view and I would then know where to walk to. When I finally make it to the top, I see forest in front of me. I see forest at the back of me. I see forest on the left. I see forest on the right. No signs of civilisation. The light I saw before has disappeared (it was of a building on another mountain). This forest surely would end at some point. So I I climb another hill top. And then in the corner of my eye, I see a small, but clear path. A path is a sign of civilisation. I now make it my task to follow this path, hoping it will not just end at a waterfall or so. It does seem to do so and I am about to get annoyed, when I see I have to cross this stream and the path will continue. I now have lost track of time. I eventually reach an open area and where the mud paths are bigger. I can see jeep tracks on it, so definitely signs of civilisation. However, the question remains: which way? I just about see a sign in the distance and walk towards it. It says: "lake 7 km". I think I am OK with not seeing the lake. I now need to walk right into the opposite direction, but there are still a few choices of turns to take and still no people. I wonder if it is late afternoon, as it starts to get slightly darker. Spending another night out is probably not a great idea. 

I keep walking. I suddenly then see a human. I call after him, offering him money if he drives me back to the village. "no no I am here with friends, it is a difficult drive" and in fact there they are, sitting around a table, packing up their camping stuff. I get emotional and they immediately invite me over. Luckily two of them speak good English and I explain I have just been walking for, as it turns out 24 hours. They make me tea, give me their leftover food, take off my shoes, wash my feet and put plasters on them and give me dry socks and hang some of the clothes and shoes next to the fire. With the shoes off, I now know I cannot muster another hour of walking. Without asking me, they make a space in the car and drive me back to my hotel, where they had not even noticed that I had gone missing. I do the three things I had been thinking of the whole hike- and please note the deep thoughts I had: I take a hot shower, sleep a few hours, then get a pizza and then go back to bed with my book and continue my journey the next morning.

ARMENIA. The first few days

Armenia. There was no particular reason for me to visit this country, but also not a particular reason not to. Armenians are not known for many things, I was only able to come up with the genocide, first country to be Christian (301 A.D.) and a number of people of Armenian descent (Kasparov, Cher, Kardashians, Kevorkian (dr death), Egoyam, Aznavour..), but none of them born here….

After a very long trip, I made it to the eighth floor of a large Soviet style block; concrete, rust, nothing repainted, the hallway faintly smelly, but my host assures me from the Soviet times means 'new'. The apartment itself is very tidy and clean. People from three generations occupy the three bedrooms (but three are on holiday). The three daughters are all over 25 with a good education and a professional job but moving out happens once you are married and then often into the household of the husband’s parents. Despite of equal rights, for women, marriage is still the main goal and a big worry is still "what might the neighbours say?" when it comes to the women. So no males are hosted in this household.

I can see the outlines of Mount Ararat from the window. Not any mountain, as this is where Noah landed with his arc after the flood. Armenians consider it 'theirs', even though it is in Turkey. In fact, Armenians claim they are directly descendants of Noah; his grandson Japheth was the grandfather of Hayk (who went to Babylon and fought against Nimrod according to the mythology) and the Armenian name for Armenia is " Hayastan".

My first day in Yerevan is fully packed; genocide museum (too much reading, they can learn a few things from Holocaust museums), a visit to the Ararat factory (their famous brandy-recommended) with tasting and a three hours guided tour through the city. During the tour it becomes obvious that there is a lot of history (occupation by the Persians, Ottomans, the Soviets, introduction of Christianity etc) but not a crazy amount to see. It is a fairly modern city with little architectural aesthetical design.  

The highpoint is the fountain show at night, when the public fountains jump high and low, backlit with coloured lights and music (bit like fireworks, but calmer).

Day two is spent outside the city, where I meet my 'friends' for the day on the bus, a Russian, a Spaniard and two French. We visit a temple (a copy of a Roman one) and an Armenian church in the mountains which makes for picturesque photos.

Even though the population is small, barely 3 million (and about less than double that amount in the diaspora), they very much have their own language. It is not related to any other language and has its own alphabet. I am incapable of making out anything and stick to my learnt words, such as "hello", "thank you", "I don't eat meat"... Obviously everybody speaks Russian as a second language-not that that helps me in any way. Tourists are not an unknown phenomenon, but there does not seem any desire to rip me off (taxi drivers need a little negotiating, but give in fairly quickly), and overall I feel safe and plenty of old ladies trying to help me. Transportation happens mostly in ramshackle minivans which sit 12 (and stand a lot more in the evening). They have official routes and numbers, but this is not indicated, so you need to know. A fare costs less than a whopping 20 cents. Food has been good so far, with grandma cooking me lovely meat free meals (smoked aubergine, rice stuffed peppers) and the fruit is wonderfully sweet and juicy.

The Armenian Genocide:

I don't have the time to give a proper researched account of the Armenian Genocide, but I do think it is important to have an awareness, so in case you are interested, I copied this from a website, which reflects on what the museum represented:

https://www.history.com/topics/armenian-genocide

The Armenian people have made their home in the Caucasus region of Eurasia for some 3,000 years. For some of that time, the kingdom of Armenia was an independent entity: At the beginning of the 4th century A.D. it became the first nation in the world to make Christianity its official religion.

But for the most part, control of the region shifted from one empire to another. During the 15th century, Armenia was absorbed into the mighty Ottoman Empire.

The Ottoman rulers, like most of their subjects, were Muslim. They permitted religious minorities like the Armenians to maintain some autonomy, but they also subjected Armenians, who they viewed as “infidels,” to unequal and unjust treatment.

Christians had to pay higher taxes than Muslims, for example, and they had very few political and legal rights.

In spite of these obstacles, the Armenian community thrived under Ottoman rule. They tended to be better educated and wealthier than their Turkish neighbors, who in turn grew to resent their success.

This resentment was compounded by suspicions that the Christian Armenians would be more loyal to Christian governments (that of the Russians, for example, who shared an unstable border with Turkey) than they were to the Ottoman caliphate.

These suspicions grew more acute as the Ottoman Empire crumbled. At the end of the 19th century, the despotic Turkish Sultan Abdul Hamid II – obsessed with loyalty above all, and infuriated by the nascent Armenian campaign to win basic civil rights – declared that he would solve the “Armenian question” once and for all.

Between 1894 and 1896, this took the form of a state-sanctioned pogrom.

In response to large scale protests by Armenians, Turkish military officials, soldiers and ordinary men sacked Armenian villages and cities and massacred their citizens. Hundreds of thousands of Armenians were murdered

In 1908, a new government came to power in Turkey. A group of reformers who called themselves the “Young Turks” overthrew Sultan Abdul Hamid and established a more modern constitutional government.

At first, the Armenians were hopeful that they would have an equal place in this new state, but they soon learned that what the nationalistic Young Turks wanted most of all was to “Turkify” the empire. According to this way of thinking, non-Turks – and especially Christian non-Turks – were a grave threat to the new state.

On April 24, 1915, the Armenian genocide began. That day, the Turkish government arrested and executed several hundred Armenian intellectuals.

After that, ordinary Armenians were turned out of their homes and sent on death marches through the Mesopotamian desert without food or water.

Frequently, the marchers were stripped naked and forced to walk under the scorching sun until they dropped dead. People who stopped to rest were shot.

At the same time, the Young Turks created a “Special Organization,” which in turn organized “killing squads” or “butcher battalions” to carry out, as one officer put it, “the liquidation of the Christian elements.”

These killing squads were often made up of murderers and other ex-convicts. They drowned people in rivers, threw them off cliffs, crucified them and burned them alive. In short order, the Turkish countryside was littered with Armenian corpses.

Records show that during this “Turkification” campaign, government squads also kidnapped children, converted them to Islam and gave them to Turkish families. In some places, they raped women and forced them to join Turkish “harems” or serve as slaves. Muslim families moved into the homes of deported Armenians and seized their property.

Though reports vary, most sources agree that there were about 2 million Armenians in the Ottoman Empire at the time of the massacre. In 1922, when the genocide was over, there were just 388,000 Armenians remaining in the Ottoman empire.

After the Ottomans surrendered in 1918, the leaders of the Young Turks fled to Germany, which promised not to prosecute them for the genocide. (However, a group of Armenian nationalists devised a plan, known as Operation Nemesis, to track down and assassinate the leaders of the genocide.)

Ever since then, the Turkish government has denied that a genocide took place. The Armenians were an enemy force, they argue, and their slaughter was a necessary war measure.

Hippopotamus

 St Lucia is my next stop, I decide. Not on the original itinerary, but recommended as a place where hippopotamuses roam the streets and you better get out of their way, as they kill more people than lions and sharks combined do. One small issue however...how to get there? Nobody has any information, as everyone seems to drive around in their own car, so simply have no idea. Finally someone seems to know something. "Tuba Tuba" he says. I guess he must mean the name of a bus. When I get to the taxi rank in Durban, I say 'St Lucia'. Only when I say Tuba Tuba, the guy gets what I am saying and puts me in the right taxi. When I say taxi, I mean a van that sits sixteen passengers and leaves when it is full. I am always the only white person on it. Actually, white people don't know about it, or will ask me if I am safe, telling me I am brave. The passengers are just people who have no car and are going to wherever they need to go to for a cheap price. It is one of those situations where I ask myself whether that is a racist question or not. The rich are overwhelmingly white. The poor are overwhelmingly black. Some poor people use crime to make a living and most people in big cities have had some experience (people of any colour), so people, especially whites have become extra careful, as the colour of the skin might create expectations on how much there is to gain.

When we arrive, I see dusty roads, people trying to sell things everywhere, a bit of chaos. I am a little surprised, as I see no tourists or hotels. The lady that sat next to me on the bus helps me out. I have arrived in the town of Mtubatuba. St Lucia is another taxi ride away. In fact, I enter another world: a long street full of hotels, restaurants, bookings agents... Too much of this kind, in truth. I check in at the cheapest place, which is a hostel that is falling apart, smelly and a bit spooky and the receptionist cannot give me any information on anything. I sign up for a game drive (you know the kind, you drive around and get out of the car to play scrabble, snakes and ladders, drafts etc. Just kidding. Animals!). The vegetation is different, as it used to be wetlands. Most animals I have spotted before: zebras, kudus, steenbok, buffaloes... It is just me and a couple, so a very chilled day. I, however do not spot hippos. Apparently, they walk the streets in summer, not in winter (which we are having here now), as that is too cold. Funny, if you think about it. They live in the water, because their skin is too sensitive for the sun and need cooling off all the time. They cannot swim though. I heard that about 800 hippos have died in Kruger park, due to the drought (in fact saw a dead one there). It is fine, as seen many hippos elsewhere.

Always on the go, I want to go to Coffee Bay on the Wild Coast, but as usual, nobody can tell me if there is a connection, including the hostel in Coffee Bay. Convinced that I can do it, I leave at 6AM looking for a local taxi to take me back to Mtubatuba. A car stops, thinking I am hitchhiking. The driver tells me to be careful, as I cannot trust those blacks. "Why not?" "they'd rape you" "white men don't?" (I know, not a great response). The minivan in Mtubatuba fills up after two hours. I chat a bit with other passengers and learn a few Zulu words, as in this region most people are Zulu. In Durban I am referred to one shared taxi, then another and I finally find my shared taxi to Mthata. Six hours of loud South African gospel music does not turn me religious, I learn. People always help me at arrival; someone will grab my backpack and walk it to the next shared taxi I need to take. As strange as it sounds, it has never worried me when they do, as they are just trying to make sure I get into the right direction. A woman helps me here and if I can please visit her at work, so that her colleagues can see her new friend. There is still some status to be had to have a white friend, or even better: a white girlfriend. Regularly, when I just ask for information, or just have a chat. people  (esp. men) will ask for my phonenumber. It doesn't matter that I am abroad they just "want to chat". I suspect there is a bit of surprise in my approach-ability.

Coffee Bay is not easy to reach, but has developed itself in some backpacker paradise. The hostels have a cosy atmosphere with bonfires, a bar etc. I meet people here that have been traveling for years (with rasta hair and a joint in their hand). Coffee Bay allegedly got its name when in 1893 a ship full of coffee beans shipwrecked here. Some of the beans did take root and grow, but the salty soil was not suitable for them.I get a warm welcome at the hostel, as they knew I had been trying to get there all day, and they upgrade me so I can get a good night sleep. This evening thee boys, aged 8-11 are dancing, moving their hips and behinds in a way that makes me jealous, I wish I had those moves! We are now in an area where the majority is Xhosa (please, the x is a click sound) and these boys are getting ready to go into the mountains for a month to undergo a circumcision ceremony. After that month they cannot dance like that anymore. I am told (by an outsider) they are collecting money, as they need to buy cows and goats for slaughter as part of the sacrifice, pay the circumciser etc. They will live in grass huts in seclusion and only eat certain things in that month. My narrator tells me they will eat their foreskin. I have however not found any other source for this (and he has never witnessed it). I did however found that boys have died or ended up in hospital, due to complications.
The hostel trains locals so they cam eventually manage the place themselves.

I meet a Scottish guy and we undertake a hike the next day to the 'whole in the wall'. As often, the destination is just an excuse to go on a long hike. The arrival point is a massive rock in the sea with a natural gate in the middle. The sea is far too cold and has strong currents, so swimming is not an option.
Early evening we cross the river and find a different Coffee Bay. An unpaved square with lots of male youngsters ready to get drunk. The shop is small and you cannot see anything from closeby, as the products are at a distance, behind bars.

I enjoy an evening with a few drinks, turn down the hostelmanager and get ready for another ridiculously early rise the next morning.

Slaying Dragons

The backpacking trail is very well laid out here. Every hostel has a small free book in which tips and hostels are mentioned; superhandy, as I can then call them on my way there. The Bazbus picks up tourists at hostels and delivers them at hostels in other towns. It runs at certain days and times, so one needs to book it a day ahead. I immediately decide to try to avoid this bus as much as possible, as it is almost as if we are not supposed to mix with locals. Also, it is more costly. Drakensberg is hard to reach on public transport, I have little choice. The pick up point is only a 15 mins walk from my host in a quiet neighbourhood in Johannesburg, but he insists I take an uber nonetheless. Safety above everything.

Two daytrips are undertaken here. Daytrip one is an all day hike into the mountains to the 'amphitheater' (natural shape of the mountain range). I can keep up, but struggle, like I always do with having to jump over certain gaps etc. The higher we get, the more snow there is and half the group (4) decides to turn back, because it is getting too dangerous on the slippery path along the steep slope. Four of us continue. The front man literally has to make footsteps in the snow in which we then step. It feels like a very long hike and when I think we are finally there, we still have to cross a snowy plateau, where with every step you don't know how deep your foot will fall. Half the time at least knee deep. I somehow manage to make it to the end, but now we still have to walk all the way back. I tell the guide sternly to stay with me. He and I arrive a good hour after the rest, which gives us time to chat a long time about life etc. and I receive an invitation to hang out together. Still a little naive, it takes me a while to realise it is the 'all night' type of hanging out (He was a lot directer with another girl in the group, he just asks her for a one night stand- so subtle to ask two women simultaneously). The hike was clearly too much for me, as I get sick on he drive back, but my stubbornness is stronger than my fitness!

The next day I take a trip to Lesotho, which is a lot more chilled. A quick visit to an elementary school, drinking locally brewed corn beer (disgusting), staring at vague rock paintings of the San people (first civilisation here), lunch on the top of a mountain, a visit to a traditional healer (sangoma-she does not heal me, but talks about her job and calling). 

Lesotho is poor. Not much electricity (a few solar panels), mostly self sufficient (a relative term) farmers, unpaved roads, high percentages of AIDS/HIV and only a third of the kids will be able to afford secondary school, keeping in mind that this daytrip was only slightly cheaper than one semester of schooling.
Lesotho has stayed independent and not suffered the apartheid regime. However, all the resources (the dam, diamond mine) belong to South Africans and the biggest export product are men who go and work in South Africa.

I would like to stay on in Drakensberg, but the connections are not great, and there is a lot more to see, so moving on. 

Durban is my next stop, but only for the night, last minute, I find a local host.

"Before we go anywhere, I need to stop by a flat to collect rent. Do you mind witnessing it?" asks my hostess. We go into a dump of an apartment block where I then watch her bark and point at a man for not having paid part of the rent. He naturally raises his voice to defend the accusations, to which she sharply comments that he shouldn't disrespect her and she will kick him out.
I don't know the backstory, but I do know this is a very uncomfortable situation. I don't see a landlord and a tenant. I see a white woman putting down a black man because she has power over him.
"Black men don't respect women" she explains in the car, when I say she screamed at him.
She obviously is no racist "but the country is going downhill, blacks think differently, we need to teach them how to deal with things" The phrase " I am no racist, BUT..." is one that I hear more often. Always convincing.

Well, she buys half a loaf of white bread and gives it to a black beggar. When another beggar comes along, she yells he needs to share his bread. He is clearly very hungry and I suspect mentally not together. He doesn't react. She grabs the bread out of his hands and divides it in two and gives both half. Of course, she is doing more than I do, but this is patronising of the worst kind.
Her whole way of talking and approaching things is abrupt, loud, blunt with an attitude as if she cannot be wrong.
E.g. "do you like walking and running?" Me: " I am not into running". "I SAID running AND walking."
"You want to see downtown?" "Sure". "No, you have to say: yes please that would be great, I am doing you a great favour, you are lucky, you know"

This is her nice side. At the house she orders the (obviously black) cleaner, Theresa and handyman Alex around in a way that is too much for me. She criticises Alex for not having worked for her on Tuesday. "You are working for someone else, aren't you?" He went to the hospital with his brother. "that does not take all day." Theresa explains the hospital is far away and waiting for a doctor takes hours. "I did not ask you, I need to hear it from him. And why are you sitting in the front?" She quiets down when I say that I had wanted her to sit in the front of the car.
I burst into tears when I am alone with the cleaner, as I have never experienced anyone talking to their staff like that. She tells most whites are like that- something which is confirmed by other blacks I randomly ask.
I am ashamed of my crying, as I am only witnessing this for a number of hours, these people have to live it.

I know there is no point going against my hostess as this is how she grew up here (I remark occasionally that one cannot generalise) and she won't accept any disagreement. I hate every minute of her, but
don't entirely regret this experience, as this is the face of South Africa that is still very much in existence. I have been able to avoid it, by finding black hosts and overall open-minded people. 

That is also a subjective term, as this lady would certainly count herself as one, as look how good she is to other people.

She is a bit worried about me.
"Do you realise you have a hearing problem? You don't always react when I talk to you."
" I don't think I do", I respond. I suspect that my senses are trying to protect me.

my way

Back to me

The group has been left behind, time for exploring South Africa my way.

Johannesburg is not pretty. I never quite get a feel for it, as it is stretched out and I move around by car or taxi. I stay for four days with three different people and enjoy my regained freedom. Busi picks me up and within ten minutes in the car we have a more enticing conversation than I have had with 24 people over eleven days. She tells me that about 25 years ago, me sitting next to her in the car could only have meant she was driving me around in my car. I notice straight away that everyone is being labeled immediately; white of British descent, white of Afrikaner descent, Jewish, Xhosa, Zulu, low status, high status. .. Busi wearing a headcloth (a doek) would make people approach her differently than when she does not.
At night she takes me to Freedom Station, a squat-like place where people from all backgrounds come together. I listen in to a fascinating discussion of the bookclub (did not know the book) and the excellent jazzband that performs. This is in Sofia town, a neighbourhood from which blacks have been removed during apartheid.
Most of my time in Jo'burg is spent thinking and learning about apartheid.
I take a four hours cycle tour in Soweto (South-Western Township), a neighbourhood to which the black population has been moved since 1904. I have read about apartheid and such over the years, but being in the actual place does bring up emotions. We see 'houses', which are basically a room made out of corrugated iron, but there are also bigger, more beautiful houses- often people don't want to move out, once they have made money. We were told there are about three million people living there, google claims about half of that. The saddest part is when we get to 400 newly built apartments, in which 400 families were supposed to be moved into, as part of a project to help the poorest, post-apartheid. At the last minute the council decided to rent them out, which was not affordable and therefore these flats have been empty for six years. Anyone who does try to rent a place, won't be safe and some broken windows are visible.

I visit the Apartheid museum, which displays the history of the nation. I need to leave after two hours, as I cannot take in more; I will never get my head round understanding why one group abuses another. I also visit the Voortrekkersmonument in Pretoria, which tells the history of the Boers that had settled in the Cape , but then moved to the interior of the country (1836), as they wanted to escape British rule. This is known as the Great Trek. This museum is interesting, as it tells the story of one particular group and just follows their narrative. It is not presented in an offensive way, but it is important to keep in mind that the history of the locals is ignored and these boers are the architects of apartheid.

It is strange we never learnt about this in school, as these first settlers are essentially the Dutch. They landed on the Cape in 1652 as a colony for the ships to refreshen. These people are known as Boers, which in Dutch means 'farmers'. They believed in slavery and used the bible to justify it. Descendants from these people are called Afrikaners, they still speak a form of Dutch called Afrikaans (which is very understandable for me-up until 1925 Dutch was an official language, then it became known as Afrikaans).There is no further relationship with the Netherlands or the Dutch, even though their religion for example is still Dutch reform. I have not gotten any negative press from anyone. Throughout history in South Africa, the Afrikaners fought the Zulu's and the British who had taken ownership of the great parts of the land. Eventually the Brits and Afrikaners came together to form the Union of South Africa and influenced by Nazi doctrine, apartheid became a fact. I realise this is a very poor summary, but the focus of the blog lies elsewhere.
I will however take an element of this to my classroom. In 1976 a serious student demonstration in which the black students demanded education in their own language, rather than that wretched language of the oppressor, was bloodily shot down. This was an important moment, ads more protests followed and the outside world realised something was seriously wrong when a child was killed by the police. Here you can see how language and identity play an important role. There are now eleven officially recognised languages. Nowadays some people are upset that Stellenbosch university is not 100% Afrikaans speaking, but that the government demanded that it teaches in English as well...

In the evenings I go to the theatre with Elliott. The plays are about post-apartheid South Africa, one is interesting, but somewhat boring with unconvincing characters, whike the other (mooi street) hits all the right notes-even if I dont get all the references.
Elliott is a theatre maker and a critical thinker and we speak for hours about politics and history. He states that apartheid might be over, there is still a strongly social economic apartheid. The rich are overwhelmingly white, the poor overwhelmingly black. It is harder to create new businesses or grow ideas, if you have no money to invest, while the ones that do have money can keep growing. A lot of people still hold on to the mentality that working for a white person is better.
The last person I stay with is an Afrikaner. I have noticed that a lot of Afrikners are blunt and at times unpleasant. Dwayne is the opposite of this; he is welcoming and generous. He works as a psychologist to bridge cultural differences at work. Unfortunately we dont spend enough time chatting, but he believes in a brighter future.  His friend ttells me that due to positive discrimination he cannot find a job as a white male in his field of geology,  so will have to lesve the country. Dwayne sees it in perspective "it is a negative on a personal level, but hopefully helps to reset the balance."
We hit the pubs and we bump into the Elliottt and co. Small world after all.

Help! I am in a group

Botswana is hard to travel through without a car and every activity is expensive. I find an overland tour that takes me to the places I want to see and seems a bit less expensive than doing it by myself. I am a bit nervous about it, as I am very used to travel by myself and at times let myself be taken to places by locals, while here I will be stuck in a group for eleven days. It might however be nice not to have to arrange everything and I might meet some cool people. Unfortunately all my worries come more than true. The group consists mainly of Australians (and kiwi's) who have come mostly in two's and click together- at times I feel like I am in highschool again, but not in a good sense-. They have no interest in me and barely evoke any interest from me, with hardly any chances to talk to locals. We have to put up (and down) our tent every day and the big drop in temperature, for which I am not prepared (so so cold!!) means that I feel unwell from day two onwards, but hardly anybody seems to care. In short: I am not quite myself and from day one I am counting down towards the end of this part of the trip.

We visit the Chobe National Park, where we drive around in jeeps, trying to spot the wildlife (game drive) and I see giraffes, elephants, zebra's... Actually more enjoyable than that is a boat tour we take early evening, from which you can see buffalo's, hippo's and other animals feed themselves on the waterfront. This lies at a meeting point of Zambia, Namibia and Zimbabwe and they have fought each other for it, as it is such an attractive tourist destination.

The highpoint of Botswana is the Okavango Delta, wetlands with a lot of wildlife. We are transported in mokoro's, canoe type of boats in which you sit with a second person and a so called 'poler' moves the boat forward by standing in the back and pushing a pole through the water. It is pleasant and beautiful, we camp on an island and in the evening the polers come together and sing traditional songs and dance humorously to it. This is the highpoint, as we don't see that many animals on our three hours hike through the dry savannah, but we admire the hippo's from the water. I spend a significant amount of time talking to Dreamer, one of the polers (both here and in Zimbabwe names as Always, Rejoice, Comfort seem to be the norm).                                                                               It is amazing how we have brought our tents, our own food and have each paid a whopping $160, but the polers still have to live of tips and use their own boats. Dreamer tells me about his life. He had a girlfriend with whom he had a baby, but the baby died after five months. I tell him that we have few baby deaths and it is very tragic. He says it was sad, but that it happens to others as well, so that made it easier. His girlfriend also suddenly died, leaving him with another child, that is now being raised by his mother and one of his sisters. He has never been to school, but his daughter does go to school and if she does well on her exam when she turns twelve, she will probably go to secondary school.

We then carry the trip on to South Africa, where we make a few panoramic stops (but it is incredibly misty) to then arrive at the famous Kruger park. We engage in a full day safari, spotting four out of the so called big five (lions, rhinoceros, elephant, buffalo - we miss out on the leopard, but we also see impalas, hyenas, zebras, wildebeests, kudus, baboons....). I enjoy this, but with an old crappy camera, my pictures are quite disappointing, but well, life should not be lived through a lense!