Neil in Zim: Holiday break and a weekend in Cape Town

Nothing is spookier than being on an empty campus. The silence is deafening, the darkness is blinding, and I feel like the killer can come out at any moment. I like to think that I proactively set myself up to avoid the killer. When I was in university, I would make sure my schedule was different every day, slightly changing my path to class and avoiding going to the same places – because that’s how they get you. They keep track of your schedule to figure out the best time to attack. And I guess that’s true for any criminal – they find vulnerable people and take advantage of their weaknesses. My weakness is not knowing how to keep my mouth shut. If a stranger were to approach me in public with the intention of scamming me, I would simply give them all the information they ask for without realizing they are about to rob me.

I was in Cape Town this past weekend, with my friend Chris (from college, thank you for hosting me), which is allegedly the most dangerous city in all of Africa. Over three days, we explored all of Cape Town’s most gentrified areas. The morning after I arrived was a hike up Table Mountain, up a trail called Platteklip Gorge, which Google claims is only 2.5 km but to me seemed like 25. Within 10 minutes of hiking, I was huffing and puffing – much like the Big Bad Wolf, except if the Big Bad Wolf had asthma or something and could not climb up rocks. While Chris and his roommate, who I assume have the endurance of ostriches, were making their way up the mountain, I stopped several times to catch my breath and reflect on why I made such a decision to hike. It was a near death experience, one of the most demanding hikes I have ever had to tackle – physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, socially, and fiscally. On my second rest break, I reflected on what Mindy Lahiri (from Mindy Kaling’s The Mindy Project) did when having to weigh herself at her OBGYN appointment – she morphed into her alter-ego whose warrior-name is Beyonce Pad Thai. That morning hiking up the mountain, I channeled Beyonce Pad Thai, telling myself that I am strong and can do anything I put my mind to. Which apparently wasn’t true because after making it up about three-quarters of the mountain, I turned myself around and made it back down, greeted by a small coffee shop that served chai. I wonder what the top of that mountain looked like – I bet there were the penguins that people kept telling me I could find Cape Town, and perhaps also a lot of white people in Patagonia’s – but I guess there are just some things humans (me) were never meant to figure out.

The rest of Cape Town felt like a fever dream. It felt like a vacation place for Americans and Europeans – the roads and architecture seemed like it was taken out of parts of the Mission in SF, the Loop in Chicago, and what I image the UK or Netherlands look like. If you can’t tell if I’m insulting or complimenting Cape Town, it’s because I, too, am unsure how I felt about it. We went to several restaurant/bars where bands were playing live music, including a saxophone/piano/guitar/drums ensemble that played Summertime from Porgy and Bess, All of Me by John Legend, Camilla Cabello’s only decent song, Havana, and Careless Whisper. The next few days were spent in a lovely contemporary art museum (the Zeitz MOCAA), a lot of coffee shops, and a few small markets. I also ran into one of my advisors from clinic, Lars, and we had avo toast in a cute farmer’s market for breakfast. Apartheid seems to still be alive in Cape Town and even though white people make up 7% of SA population, they certainly know how to continue segregating so that they take up most of the space.

We found ourselves at really nice hotel in Cape Town where we were hoping to have afternoon tea. Everyone in the hotel looked quite sad, especially the kids. The hotel was in a gated area, and after entering we had to walk about half a kilometer before reaching the entrance. Sitting outside on the benches, waiting for taxis, was this white family – they were all dressed in Burberry and LV, but the kids looked trapped. I saw a man in the hotel who looked homeless but was likely wearing Balenciaga. I wondered if they’d ever seen what poverty looks like.

Later that day while walking down an empty street in Cape Town, a lady came up to us and asked, “do you know this area?”

“No, so sorry. We are brand new here and are also trying to find ourselves around,” I responded. I immediately realized that she could likely be the killer, or the killer’s accomplice. I expected her to walk away, pull out a pager of some sort, and tell her crew that we were prime targets. Instead, she kept walking, minding her own business. Strange, I thought.

Coming back to Zimbabwe was relieving. Zimbabweans are kind, friendly, and hospitable. You can sense it in the music, the conversations, and the way people greet you. In fact, they make it a point to know that they are hospitable – I am pretty sure every advertisement I have heard about Zimbabwe has referenced how hospitable Zimbabweans are, no matter where you go. You can be in someone’s house, at the market, in the bathroom, or literally in the sky (Air Zimbabwe’s slogan is Zimbabwean hospitality in the skies), and they will be hospitable. The only bad thing that comes with hospitality is that people have to perceive you.

I keep feeling like everyone keeps staring at me and am not sure if I’m being paranoid or if people are just looking out for me. It makes me feel like a foreigner – which, I guess I am – but having to Google How to hand wash clothes is enough of a reminder that my American identity is extremely apparent. Is that sad that I had to look it up? Don’t answer that. I would use the school washer, but it makes me dump in water every 5 minutes of the 1 hour, 45-minute cycle. Isn’t it the washer’s job to produce its own water? There are two 2-litre bottles that sit right on top of the machine dedicated for the filling up and dispensing of water into the washing machine. One of the bottles is a Mazoe bottle, a popular drink in Zim. It comes in several flavors, including orange, cream soda, peach, and blackberry. The first time I had Mazoe was two weeks ago at a braai (barbecue). I poured a cup of blackberry Mazoe for myself and nearly choked – it tasted like cough syrup. How is everyone else drinking this, I thought? People were smiling and enjoying themselves while eating, while I was suffering an acidic taste down my esophagus.

“I guess this is what I will have to deal with for the next year,” I told one of the TAs.

“Wait, did you drink straight Mazoe? You are supposed to dilute it with three parts water, one part drink,” she responded. The students stared at me and laughed – apparently every American has made the same mistake so far.

My favorite place to be stared at is at the market. I went to a small bazaar a few days ago filled with vegetable stands and merchants. I was greeted with a fist-bump and a “Hello, how are you doing?” Followed by, “Do you want sweet potatoes?” The market was filled with so many people and vegetables which all costed $1 USD (the vegetables, not the people).

“NI HAO,” yelled a lady. How did she know I could speak Mandarin?

I wish I responded, “Zao shang hao,” but instead started laughing. I was later told that although my skin complexion isn’t the give-away, it’s my extremely straight, black hair, which apparently makes me Chinese.

I recently re-watched Parasite and I couldn’t help but think that I am like the clueless mother – she isn’t capable of doing much, is short, and a little ignorant about how the world works. Though the movie is commentary on classism in Korea, I found myself paralleling a lot to my current life in Zim. Most notably, that poverty is complex and sometimes unknown to those in it.

The school dog, Bhonzelda, is crazy. Since campus is quiet because of the holiday break (which ends in a week I think), she keeps following me, sometimes in a cute way, but other times in a stalker-like way. She has poor eyesight especially in the dark, so when she spots me across campus, she sprints in my direction thinking I’m a stranger, ready for attack, until she realizes it’s me. Her sprint is a gallop, much like a horse – and I think it’s because she wasn’t raised around other dogs. Since the Head of School is not around, she doesn’t have a room to sleep in – so she walks with me to my room at night and sits outside my door. I don’t know for how long, but I know it’s for a while since I hear her scratching at her back (she has skin problems). Bhonzelda acts in strange ways but has been a source of adventure and excitement. How did you get into the office and find me in the kitchen? Where did you find a chicken leg? Why are you barking at tree? Many questions that I likely don’t need answers to, but perhaps she knows something about the tree that I don’t.