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Sunsets on Hayman island were quite lovely.

I’m mostly speculating here: we missed a large number of them. We were so jet lagged that we were often in our room by dusk, impatiently watching the last bit of light disappear from the sky so we could justifiably crawl into bed.

I don’t know if two childless adults have ever cheered the arrival of 7:30pm as much as we.

On one or two nights we managed to stay awake and watch the sky turn dark. The turquoise of the water would turn a deep indigo, the blue sky slowing fading into a hazy shade of orange and periwinkle.

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And all the shy, nocturnal animals would emerge. If you’ve seen a possum stateside, you already know that they are one of the more terrifying mammals in existence. They look like a hybrid between a Skeksis and the scary face that Alec Baldwin makes in Beetlejuice. #childofthe80s

But in Australia, they were downright adorable:

It’s like Sanrio got a friggin hold of them.

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Even the bats were lovely; we’d pass underneath a tree, hear a soft rustle, and see one fly out of it, flapping its giant leathery wings in the fading light.

Wallabies, a notoriously shy creature during the daylight hours, would begin to descend from the hills looking for food at sunset. They’d freeze when they saw us. We’d stare at each other for a few tense seconds before they’d bound off, covering huge distances in a few quick jumps.

This was what we had been missing.

One evening, we managed to see all of it. We’d decided to go on a walk before dinner (in an effort not only to see the island at sunset, but also to keep ourselves awake for long enough to actually enjoy an evening meal). We headed down the beach, following the shore as it curled away from the resort.

We’d managed to catch low tide, and waded in the warm water, gesturing to little creatures with our toes. Growing up in Florida, I’ve developed a nasty habit of reaching into the water and picking up whatever I find interesting in order to show it to Rand.

Thus I was scolded for the umpteenth time to “Put that hermit crab back where you found it. Its terrified.”

But then you went and did the EXACT SAME THING, didn’t you, Rand? DIDN’T YOU?

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And Rand took photo after photo of me, which made me self-conscious, but also sort of happy. It’s nice to know that even when your hair is a mess, and your skin is breaking out from sunscreen, and you are wearing a sundress that was last laundered in your hotel room sink (ditto for your underwear), there is someone who still thinks that you are lovely.

Thankfully, some of the photos were in silhouette, which makes everyone look better.

I guess the evening wasn’t incredibly eventful. We walked along the beach, looked at the water and thought deep thoughts: -

“I should start breeding miniature horses.”

-

“I wonder what a marshmallow factory smells like. Good, I bet.”

-

We watched the sun disappear, and started heading back to the resort. It was nearly dinner time.

Suddenly, I stopped.

“Oh, my god.” I said in a shocked whisper.

“What is it?”

“I just realized … I do like holding hands and long walks on the beach at sunset.”

Not gonna lie: this realization caught me by surprise.

-

I just needed to stay awake for long enough to realize it.

Street sign, fully heeded.

-

I’ve been to London a good number of times. We usually go at least once a year, sometimes twice, and the total number of trips Rand and I have taken there are numbering close to a dozen. I’m started convincing myself that I’ve seen all the city has to offer. I’ve been to tons of its museums – mainstays like the British Museum and more obscure ones like the Old Operating Theater and herb garret and the London Transport Museum. I’ve visited the Globe, and the Tate Modern, and the Tower of London; I’ve spent way, waaaay too much time shopping in Covent Garden and wandering around Borough Market.

I figured I’d seen London. Been there. Done that. Eaten those. Right?

But sure enough, every time I go, I uncover another corner of the city that I never knew existed. Some magical neighborhood that I’ve never even heard of, much less seen. This time, it was London’s east end – a collection of hip and quirky neighborhoods packed with independent shops and restaurants, street musicians and giant murals.

It was a wonderful reminder that, despite all my trips there, I’ve seen only the tiniest bit of this massive, diverse metropolis. There’s always something new and magical to uncover. Stores to browse in. People to meet. Cookies to eat.

Here are ten photos from our trip to London’s East End.

—————

1. Street sign for Brick Lane, as if the eponymous masonry wasn’t enough.
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2. Cheeky self-referential street art.
   
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3. Steaming paella near Notting Hill.
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4. Dinosaur, Einstein, and eyeball murals.
   

   At least, I think it’s Einstein. I guess it could also be the Fonz.

   -

5. Rand mashes a bagel into his face at Beigel Bake, on Brick Lane.
   

   “RAND …  chomple-gobble-smack … HAPPY.”

   -

6. The most glorious door knocker, ever, near Columbia Road.
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7. Taking the criticisms of a neon sign a little too personally.
   

   Oh, hush. It’s not about you. You only have one, and last I checked, it was rather clean.

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8. If a book can have a chip on its shoulder, this one would.
   

   Disclaimer: half of the pages are blank. KIDDING! I’m kidding. Kidneys are delicious, y’all.

   -

9. Bacon street murals.
   

   Note the total absence of bacon.

   -

10. Obligatory snuggle photo of me and Rand, Columbia Road Flower Market.
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One of the things I love about any friendship is when you create shared memories together. It pushes you from the realm of merely “people who get along” into the world of “people who have been through some shit together.” It opens up the door to inside jokes and stories that begin with, “Remember that one time …”

I love traveling with other people. I realize it’s a risky venture – that sometimes you can encounter people who are cranky or not particularly adventurous, or who whine because things aren’t like they are back home (note: if you encounter someone like that, it is perfectly acceptable to lure them into a McDonald’s and them abandon them there. That’s the whole point of a McDonald’s: abandoning people).

But sometimes, you find people who you can spend a day with, and it is seamless and lovely and fun. And afterwards, you can say to them, “Remember that one time …” And you all delight in your little bit of collective history, and anyone within earshot will realize that you are tied together by more than just a common love of bearded men and baked goods.

And, to their credit, they don’t murder you every time you stop right in front of them and take a photo (yet, miraculously, manage to not get a single photo WITH them).

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On a rainy weekend in London, we went to the Columbia Road Flower Market with our friends Ruth and Justin. We made a few memories, laid the foundation for a few inside jokes. Nothing particularly eventful happened. Nothing exceptionally memorable or scarring or damaging. But it served, like so many things, to add another layer of depth to our friendship, to make it a little bit grander and richer than it was.

And from now on, I suspect that every time I think of that market, I’ll think of them, too.

The market on Columbia Road is smaller than the one we strolled through in Portobello. As you’d guess from its name, it has more flowers (and fewer antiques). Both markets are filled with vendors who operate rain or shine, and since it’s London, there’s very little shine.

-

But who are we to judge? We are from Seattle, after all.

Because of this, the Columbia Road Flower Market felt vaguely familiar. The stalls and the sellers milling about (often with the same woolen hats and gloves with cut-off fingers that are so popular back home) could have been plucked from our own Pike Place Market.

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Before I proceed any further with tales of our adventures, I would like to take a minute to note something about Ruth’s taste in men. Mainly, that it is absolutely stellar. See, she seems to prefer socially-conscious, dark-haired gentlemen with beards.

Obviously, she’s a romantic genius.

The first time I met Justin, I told Ruth that he was an absolute charmer, and she nodded gleefully before warning me to back off or she’d cut me (I might be dramatizing the events slightly, but whatever. It was delightful.)

She and Justin put up with us for a good three hours or so, which is no small feat. We’re exceptionally annoying. I’m constantly distracted by the promise of cake …

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And Rand and I are both continually stopping to take photos of nothing in particular.

-

I was seriously taking a photo of nothing. And then Rand took a photo of me, taking a photo of nothing. We should both be abandoned in a Mc Donald’s, I swear.

-

Then there’s Rand’s tendency to disappear three or four times without any warning. Ruth and Justin didn’t seem to really mind that, either.

Rand, enjoying his favorite pastime of wandering off.

-

My beloved is sort of like a four-year-old in that respect – take your eyes off him for more than a few seconds, and he’ll vanish. I keep thinking that I need to get one of those kiddie leashes for him, but the only ones they have in adult sizes are studded leather, and that communicates something very different, so …

Anyway. About the market.

-

The principal items sold there are flowers, which is kind of miraculous, if you think about it. It’s such a superfluous thing, but everywhere people were bustling about, buying bouquets and haggling with vendors, who were shouting out prices with such precise repetition that it sounded pre-recorded.

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We walked past stand after stand, breathing in chilly air perfumed by the many blooms.

-

We popped into stores, pressed our noses against window displays, and demolished cupcakes and cookies for a good cause.

And I regretted not getting the pug mug.

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-

We got overheated between the warm stores and the cool air, and made cracks about my brain tumor.  (I guess you had to be there.)

When we felt tired, we wandered into a pub, where we sat at the bar and ate french fries and talked about upcoming weddings and Halloween costumes that required facial hair and older brothers who live in the U.K. and who are absolutely real and not at all fictional. And then we went headed off in our separate ways.

Like I said, nothing crazy happened, nothing disastrous or hilarious or cringe-worthy. We just had a nice day with Ruth and Justin, that one time we went to the Columbia Road Flower Market.

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The other day I did an excellent job of keeping my mouth shut while a distant in-law explained to me how television was bad for children. The comment had been prompted by my admission that I’d spent the morning watching Yo Gabba Gabba with my nine-month-old nephew.

Now, before all of you start raising pitchforks and torches (where did you even get those, by the way?) and storm my office, let me be clear: I know NOTHING about babies. He was teething and freaking out and the show looked almost educational and the host was a vivacious black man in a skintight orange suit (which was totally captivating for both of us), so I think my actions were pretty damn defensible.

Plus, television did an excellent job raising me, so who I am to deprive a new generation of that?

Still, I smiled as I was scolded for delaying my nephew’s cognitive development and leading him on a path to sloth and criminal activity, or whatever. I AM A PILLAR OF RESTRAINT. There might even be some truth to it, as I’m sure that plopping a kid in front of a television for hours on end isn’t a great idea.

But let’s be honest: children who don’t watch TV are just weird.

Later, they will grow up to be adults who suck at bar trivia and are alienated from their friends because they don’t understand cultural touchstones and just stare blankly when you quote Cheers (don’t tell me that stuff isn’t important, because otherwise I’ll have wasted my life).

I should know: I married someone who grew up without regular access to TV.

There are days when we have discussions during which I’ll prattle on about something and he will just stare blankly at me.

Me: Sorry. Did I just go all Cliff Clavin on you?

Him: I don’t know what that is.

Me: Cliff Clavin?

Him: Yeah. Who is that?

Me: Cliff … from Cheers?

Him: I’ve never seen that show.

Me: I … zuh … WHAT?

Him: Oooh, wait. Is that the show that Frasier came from?

Me: I … leave. Just leave … now.

Him: What? … because I’ve never seen Cheers?

Me: And also because I’m pretty sure you’re an alien posing as a human to learn our weaknesses and I’m not sure I can be married to you.

This is how our lives go. Rand gets roughly 1/10th of the jokes I make, which sucks, because I guarantee you I am delivering some quality humor and it is WASTED ON HIM. I sincerely think he might not be from this earth.  Although, really, any alien impostor worth his salt would have enough good sense to brush up on Cheers.

The other day, he had the pleasure of being on the other side of this discussion. He was thrilled that we were going to be in London on a Saturday (a rare occurrence), which is when Portobello Road Market is open.

Rand: Baby, we can go to Portobello Road.

Me: Wonderful. I will buy all the mushrooms!

Rand: No, like from the movie.

Me: What?

Rand: You know … (begins singing) Portobello Road / Portobello Road / Street where the riches of ages are stowed …

Me: Dude, is my tumor acting up or something? Because I have no idea what you are talking about.

Rand: From Bednobs and Broomsticks? When they visit Portobello Road?

Me: Nope. Never seen it.

Rand: Zerk … gah … No. How? How have you never seen Bednobs and Broomsticks?

Me: Said the man who’s never seen The Wonder Years.*

(*Later, Rand noted: “I did see part of it once. And I was like, ‘Why is he talking over the show?’”)

So Rand forced me to watch this video on YouTube, which was confusing, but did teach me that Angela Lansbury has great gams.

Portobello Road is, as the song suggests, home to the world’s largest antique market. I can only assume that it is always mobbed, because even on the chilly, rainy day that we were there it was packed.

-

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There were all sorts of delightful things that I didn’t know I needed there. Like a dollhouse. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked at my child-free, 30-something life, and thought: damn it, I need a dollhouse. I am fairly certain having one would not at all make me seem creepy and weird.

-

And I also need some tiny little musical instruments, too. So the dolls living in the dollhouse have something to do.

-

While we walked, Rand would occasionally sing bits from the movie’s song. The lines fit perfectly, and there was something comforting about the fact that this strange and bustling market hadn’t really changed all the much in the last century or so. You can still find the same mix of antiques and cheap reproductions. There are people looking for deals and sellers looking to get rid of their wares, very often under a grey London sky.

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Anything and everything a chap can unload
Is sold off the barrow in Portobello road.

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Tokens and treasures, yesterday’s pleasures
Cheap imitations of heirlooms of old

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Dented and tarnished, scarred and unvarnished
In old Portobello they’re bought and they’re sold

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You’ll find what you want in the Portobello Road.

We probably should have bought this.

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I walked with him in the rain, listening to him sing. He draped an arm around me as we browsed the strange collections, and even saw a thing or two that reminded us both of our childhoods – a rare thing indeed.

-

I realize that TV made me who I am, and a lack of it made Rand who he is. Either way, I think it’s safe to say that my dear nephew will probably be okay. He just needs to find the right person to compliment his life.

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Even if it’s someone who doesn’t understand what he’s talking about half the time.

—————-

The Essentials on Portobello Road:

• Verdict: Yes. If you’ve checked out the touristy bits of London and want to see something a little different, head here. The surrounding Notting Hill neighborhood is pretty damn charming, too.
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• How to Get There: We took a cab, but there are tube stations that can drop you off fairly close to here, too.
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• Ideal for: Antique-hunters, window shoppers, people-watchers, and anyone who loves a long walk (usually in the rain).
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• Insider tips: The market gets very crowded, so try to go early (before 10am) or late (after 1pm). Things start to close down in the mid-afternoon. Many of the stalls and sellers are open rain or shine, so you can even go when it’s grey out, but bring an umbrella and wear comfy shoes (the entire market spans about 2 miles).
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• Nearby food: There are a few restaurants along the street, but they get positively mobbed during the market. You’d be better off grabbing a bite and eating while walking, but be warned that I was screamed at by some crazed shop owner for having the gall to stop in front of her shop and take a few bites of cupcake.
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• Good for kids: I’m going to lean towards no. Little ones will probably get very tired and bored. Many of the toys they’d see are antiques, so they can’t touch or play with any of them. Wee ones in strollers should fare just fine, but note that the market gets very crowded and noisy, and maneuvering through all the people could be very difficult.

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To this day, I have fond memories of my English class senior year of high school.

Even though it was (ahem) a little while ago, I remember it acutely. Our teacher was a gentleman named Mr. Willems, who remains to this day one of the best instructors I’ve ever had. He was fond of cardigans and sweater vests, spoke French, and would occasionally make us popcorn or bring in cream puffs and show us film adaptations of whatever we were reading at the time.

He’d ask questions of the class, and when no hands would pop up, he’d say (often en français), “If there are not volunteers, there will be victims.”

A few years ago, when I learned of his death, I put my head down on my desk and cried.

He taught us many, many things, but above all, he taught us how to read.

I should clarify: most of us had been reading for a solid decade or so, but Mr. Willems taught us how to really read and enjoy books. How to scrutinize chapters, how to analyze characters, how to follow the arc of a story, and how to find the themes and symbolism therein.

Even now, I find themes and patterns everywhere. I search for them well beyond the pages of a book, in the every day happenings of my life.

If you read the blog regularly, the themes will pop out to you: Mortality. Travel. Romance. And the recurring motif of cupcakes.

Recently, I realized that I had one more thing to add to that list. I’m not sure what to make of it. It happens time and again, both during my travels, and at home:

I get yelled at by strangers. Like, a lot.

No, I mean, a lot.

To the point where I have almost started finding it funny. Almost.

Usually, I am yelled at by women. They tend to be middle-aged, or slightly younger. Often, they yell at me out of the blue, when a dozen or so other people have committed the same imaginary infraction they are accusing me of, or when I am simply trying to be nice.

There have been several this week.

One happened at a baseball game with friends. I’d gotten up to use the bathroom, and was returning to my seat. My friends politely stood to let me by.

“HEY LADY,” came a voice behind me. “SIT DOWN.”

I turned, my mouth half open in shock, at the drunk women seated behind me.

“Stand in between at bats,” she snapped.

She yelled at me for standing. At a baseball game. AT AN EFFING BASEBALL GAME WHERE NOTHING HAPPENED AT ALL UNTIL THE VERY END WHEN WE LOST.

Keep in mind, everyone in our row was standing. EVERYONE. But she yelled at me, and only me. Because that is how this theme plays out.

Two nights ago, I walked into a restaurant bathroom and opened the door to a stall. The woman inside had neglected to lock the door.

She screamed. Which was totally understandable.

She quickly slammed the door. On the other side of it, I frantically and repeatedly apologized.

“Ugh. IT’S FINE,” she replied, clearly annoyed. “I guess I didn’t lock it.”

“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “that happens to me all the time.”

“I said IT WAS FINE. WHY ARE YOU STILL TALKING TO ME?”

Honestly, you’d think after the intimate moment we’d just shared, she’d have been a little more gracious. Lady, you cannot get mad at EVERYONE who sees your vagina. I bet you must be pissed off at half the western seaboard by now.

See? There I go getting nasty about it.

The thing is, these interactions upset me, and the pithy little comebacks that occur to me, much much later are some of the few things that make me feel better. I wish I could just ignore it when strangers yell at me. I really, really do. But instead I often find myself feeling terrible, and am occasionally inclined to cry.

But I think I’ve found a solution. It involves cupcakes. Obviously.

I discovered this when Rand and I were wandering down Portobello Road, through its eponymous market, on a particularly rainy Saturday in London.

It was miserable, but that didn’t seem to stop the crowds. We wove through scores of people, getting slowly drenched, when we came across Hummingbird Bakery. I’d had dozens of people recommend the chain to me (it has several locations throughout London), so we popped inside.

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The bakery was magenta, and all kinds of adorable:

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We stared at the cakes, asking a few questions. Red velvet and vanilla were their most popular flavors, and I opted for the latter (I almost always go for a simple vanilla cake, since I think it best represents what a bakery has to offer).

-

We walked back out into the bustling street, as content as two people in love and wielding cupcakes can be (i.e., very).

I pulled out my camera, and asked Rand to stop a moment, so I could a photo of him eating the confection. I took two photos – taking a total of 5 or so seconds – before the screaming began.

-

“EXCUSE ME. EXCUSE ME!”

I turned and found a woman so close to my face that my eyes had trouble focusing on her. Her voice was shrill and proper, and rang in my ear. I took a step back so I could see her better. She wore an enormous fur coat and looked like a current-day Debbie Harry. (I later learned that she was the owner of the fur shop that sits adjacent to bakery.)

“YOU CAN’T EAT HERE,” she screeched. I paused, looking around. I was standing in the middle of a street that was closed to traffic. There were people milling about everywhere. Many of them had cupcakes.

“YOU CAN’T EAT HERE,” she yelled, again, inches from my face (interestingly, I realize now, I wasn’t even the one eating the cupcake. Rand was). “That’s a restaurant,” she said, pointing back to the bakery, “THIS IS A SHOP!”

I wanted to point out that it was actually the middle of the road, but instead I just shrugged and said, “Okay,” and wandered off, taking a bite of my cupcake. This seemed to catch her off guard, as she huffed for a moment and then walked back into her shop.

Later, the absurdity of our exchange hit me full force. The woman in the fur coat had come running out of her shop, into crowds of people milling about, and stopped to yell at me, and no one else, for pausing a moment in front of her establishment. She yelled that I couldn’t eat in the middle of the street (an absurd request) and I wasn’t even eating.

But when it happened, it barely rattled me. And then I realized why: I was about to eat a cupcake. The cake turned out to be only decent (Rand’s was far better), moist but a little bland, and in desperate need of some salt to give the flavor height.

Still, even this mediocre dessert brought me solace. Perhaps that’s why I’m so fond of them. With all the crazy, with all the yelling and anger in the world, it’s nice to encounter a bit of sweetness.

I don’t get why strangers yell at me. I’ve tried analyzing it without much success (and dear Mr. Willems is no longer around to offer ideas). I doubt I’ll ever figure it out. It just seems to be one of the common recurrences of my life.

Fortunately, so are cupcakes.

Thank goodness my life is full of sweetness.

-

Do you remember the interstitial sketch from Monty Python where John Cleese would say, “And now for something completely different?”

That seems like the perfect way to start off today’s post. Because today I am moving away from South Africa to tell you about the few brief days we spent in London. And I am not going to talk about the very important but nevertheless depressing things that I have talked about for the last few weeks. No mention of rape, or murder, or bombings, or anything like that.

No. Today’s post will about something completely different: bagels.

These weren’t ordinary bagels, though. They weren’t even spelled normally.

Rand and I found ourselves in Brick Lane on a rainy Sunday. We’d just come from the Columbia Road Flower market and started walking, with no real idea where we were going, and that’s where we ended up.

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The neighborhood feels a little like Brooklyn – it’s quirky and hip, with narrow alleyways and buildings constructed from – what else? – dark red bricks. Despite all our visits to London (we must be nearing a dozen now), we’d never been in this part of town.

There were murals all over the place.

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We strolled, impervious to the rain (it’s one of the few superpowers granted to those who live in the northwest), passing shop after shop selling bagels, advertising them with the rarely-seen alternate spelling of “beigels.” Some of the signs made me giggle, because I am secretly 12 years old.

Hee.

-

-

I mean, come on: everything said “HOT SALT BEEF ALL NIGHT” in giant letters. I couldn’t not laugh at that, people. I’m not made of stone.

Rand noticed a large line gathered outside one of the shops – the very alliteratively named Beigel Bake Brick Lane Bakery –  and gravitated towards it.

-

“I need to check that out,” he said, and promptly got in line.

The place seemed to sell only one thing – fresh bagels, sliced open and filled with “hot salt beef” (which turned out to be what we would call corned beef. If that’s something you’ve never had, think of it as being like pastrami, but moister, sliced thickly, and minus spices like peppercorn), and a slap of tangy yellow mustard.

(Note: further research suggests they also serve cream cheese and lox on their beigels, but the salt beef seems to be their most popular seller.)

A few minutes later, he emerged, bagel in hand.

It wasn’t entirely dissimilar to a New York bagel, though there were differences. The center hole was virtually non-existent, and the bagel looked softer and lighter. More like a very fresh roll.

Rand took a tentative bite.

“Oh, my god,” he muttered, in such a tone that I was unable to tell if his reaction was positive or negative.

“What? Oh-my-god good or oh-my-god terrible?”

“This … this might be the best bagel I’ve ever had.”

Rand took a bite. And then he took another. And another.

-

I ripped it from his hands and examined it. Theoretically, I should have hated it. I take my bagels with cream cheese and some smoked salmon; they are not to be used as sandwich bread, ever. I didn’t know what hot salt beef was at the moment, but was fairly certain I wouldn’t like it. And I generally hate yellow mustard.

But … the best bagel my Jersey-born husband had ever had? I had to take a bite.

And … holy cats, you guys. The bread was soft and chewy and absurdly fresh, but the exterior had a nice sheen and a bit of resistance. The meat was moist but not soggy, flavorful, and the tangy mustard cut into it perfectly.

I took another bite, before relinquishing it to my husband.  The line out the front now made perfect sense.

“So?” Rand asked. “Isn’t it the best bagel you’ve ever had?”

Maybe. I don’t know. Like I said, bagels, for me, are best served with a light smear of cream cheese, and a bit of ice cold lox on top. This sandwich of his absurdly good – that was indisputable. But was it a bagel?

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I’d have to say no. It was something completely different. But still pretty damn great.

Vicky’s BB, Khayetlisha.

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In writing about South Africa, I wanted to finish on a high note. I really did. But I’m at the end now, and this last post about our trip deals with stuff that is, in no uncertain terms, heartbreaking and tragic.

I’m sorry. In the wake of the last few weeks, I really wanted to talk about something lighthearted. And I promise, I will. I’ll tell you about the crazy London hotel in which we got hopelessly lost, about the wonderful bagels we had there and the markets we went to with friends. I will tell you about Australia and the damn birds that kept stealing our breakfast, and the day I swam with sea turtles, and how my husband kept telling me, in spite of how self conscious I was in a bathing suit, that I was beautiful.

I can’t wait, actually – I think talking about all of that would be really, really good for my heart and my soul and my long-suffering brain. Just thinking about those trips makes me smile and realize how damn charmed my life is.

But right now, in the wake of all of the tragedies of the last few weeks, I have to tell you one last story from South Africa: it’s about Vicky Ntozini. As sad as it is, she deserves to have her story told.

Thandis, our guide and driver for our township tour, told us about Vicky as we drove towards the popular bed and breakfast that she owned in Khayelitsha in the Cape Flats.

Many people were forced to move here under the Group Areas Act (one of the many segregationist laws of apartheid, this act pushed people out of their homes, and into townships according to race). The name of the town – Khayetlisha – comes from the Xhosa word for “new home”.

Today, Khayetlisha is one of the largest townships in South Africa: its population is nearly half a million. Life there is by no means easy.

Two little girls walk down a dirt road in the Cape Flats.

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70% of the population live in shacks of wood and corrugated metal. One in three has to walk more than 200 meters to get to a fresh water supply. Roughly a quarter of the population under the age of 35 is HIV-positive. Less than 10% of the homes there are “food secure” – a term used to describe when people are getting a proper amount of food and nutrients (this report on the topic of food insecurity is pretty fascinating, but please note that it is a PDF). About half the population is unemployed.

Crime is rampant, and police officers have refused to investigate certain cases out of fear for their own safety.

While we enjoyed our visit there, and the people we encountered were very friendly, I don’t want to sugar coat it: it’s a rough place to live.

Some horses graze on the outskirts of Khayetlisha.

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But Vicky was determined to make this township a better place for her and her five children. In the late 90s, (when she only in her mid-twenties), the roots of her B&B began to form when she opened up her home to tourists and students, in hopes of helping them understand township life a little better.

By 2012, the year of Vicky’s death, her B&B had six rooms (including two master suites) and had amassed a great deal of positive press. It was mentioned in Lonely Planet, and the reviews on Trip Advisor are stellar. Guests noted Vicky’s amazing hospitality, her delicious cooking, and how welcomed they felt by her and her family.

Vicky was intent on teaching foreigners what life was like in her town, and led numerous tours throughout Khayetlisha, including trips to schools and traditional Xhosa ceremonies. She helped arrange volunteer programs for a number of guests who were interested in helping out, and worked closely with many NGOs. Through connections she’d made, Vicky solicited donations for food, supplies, and equipment to the township. She even helped organize gifts deliveries for children during Christmas.

We listened intently to Thandis’ story. Listening to all that Vicky had accomplished was comforting in light of everything we’d seen in the last few hours. It started to seem like there was a chance for real change in the townships.

“So,” asked one of the English sisters on our tour, sensing something was amiss in our guide’s tone, “what happened to her?”

Thandis’ reply was blunt.

“Two months ago, she was murdered.”

We collectively gasped. He explained that Vicky had been stabbed to death (apparently in front of several of her children. One of the older ones who was home at the time begged him to stop.), allegedly by her husband, in the B&B that she had built. After the struggle, he ran into another room and tried to kill himself.

“Was he jealous of her success?” one of the sisters asked.

“Yes,” Thandis said. “How did you know?”

To us outsiders, this was the obvious motive. But to those who knew Vicky and her husband (who is often mentioned in many of the reviews as being a kind and gracious host, seemingly supportive of his wife’s endeavors) this was unfathomable.

We pulled onto the side of a dusty dirt road in Khayetlisha.

“Here is Vicky’s Bed & Breakfast,” Thandis said, pointing to a brightly colored two-story building in front of us. It was a step up from the shacks we’d seen lining the streets, but it had the same corrugated metal exterior. It looked welcoming and comfortable, but not entirely out of place in its surroundings.

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“And that was where she planning the restaurant,” he said, gesturing to a pile of cinder blocks not far away, “before she was murdered.”

The pile of blocks was heartbreaking. I have no doubts that Vicky had moved a number of them there herself. This was a woman who had literally built her business from the ground up.

Thandis opened the driver side door.

“Now we’ll go inside,” he said.

We sat, stunned.

“What? Inside the building where she was murdered?” gasped one of the sisters. Thandis calmly nodded. His intention was not, I think, to shock or upset us. Rather, I think he simply wanted to show us the reality of what was happening in the townships.

So we went inside.

Have you ever been in someone’s home right after they’ve died? The loss in the air is almost tangible – you feel like you could reach out and touch it. It hangs over everything, settling on tabletops and window sills and even on people. And you feel like if someone doesn’t open a window, the weight of it might crush you.

That was what it was like inside Vicky’s B&B. Apart from the patina of sadness and shattered dreams, it wasn’t an unpleasant place. The interior was slightly worn, but very clean. There were wood panels on the walls, and a mishmash of bright paint everywhere else. It was like a 70s rumpus room crossed with a cheesy Mexican-themed restaurant.

“This is Vicky’s daughter,” Thandis said, gesturing to a previously unseen teenager in cut-off shorts. “She will tell you about the bed and breakfast.”

I don’t actually know if I can properly articulate how heartbreaking it was. This was a kid – a friggin kid – who had just lost her mother six weeks ago. She’d seen it happen (at the hands of her own dad, no less) and was suitably shell-shocked. Her eyes had a faraway look, and her expression wasn’t so much sad as it was resigned. This was her life. This was how things were.

She walked us upstairs and showed us around. It was bright and slightly crowded with furniture.

The two English sisters sit in Vicky’s B&B. They’d brought colored pens for the kids.

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There was a communal sitting area with a few couches arranged around a coffee table, and the occasional lounging house cat (they went almost unnoticed amidst the scattering of stuffed animals throughout the room).

A TVand DVR player took prominence in one corner of the room (the B&B rose to prominence during South Africa’s World Cup, after all) and the guest rooms and bathroom were off of this main living area. On the walls were dozens of framed newspaper clippings about Vicky and the B&B, thank you letters and awards, and a handful of photos, including one of Vicky and her husband that I kept sneaking glances at.

Vicky’s daughter stood, staring fixedly at a spot on the ground just off to left, and told us the history of the B&B and of her mother. She obviously didn’t go into detail about her mother’s death, saying only that “In November, Vicky passed, and now her children run the B&B.”

I wanted to say something to her – in hindsight, I really, really wish I had – but chickened out. I mean, what the hell do you say to a kid who’s lost both parents to the violence of the townships? Who had witnessed it with her own eyes? Someone who had three younger siblings (one as little as 5) that she would now have to raise with the help of her oldest sister?

“I’m sorry for your loss”? Really? Would that cut it? Or would it just sound ridiculous coming from a privileged American? It probably would have been better than nothing, but I opted for the latter and said not a word.

The kid deserved better from me. And from life.

The English women were more forthcoming, asking questions and offering words of consolation.

“What do you want to do when you grow up?” one of them asked.

There was a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of light in the kid’s eyes, but it vanished so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it. She explained that she wanted to be a nurse, but it sounded hollow. What had once seemed attainable with her mother around was now an impossibility.

When Vicky died, another victim of the domestic violence that plagues the townships, she seemed to take hope for a better future with her.

“You’ll all have to take care of each other now, won’t you?” one of them ventured, delicately. Vicky’s daughter didn’t reply.

She invited us to take a look around, and then retreated. I don’t remember if she went downstairs, or simply stood in the corner of the room, staring at the floor. Either way, she was both there and not. (Not unlike her mother, whose presence and absence could be acutely felt.)

One of the many ads and clippings around the room. From every angle, Vicky was looking down at us.

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We poked our heads into a few of the rooms.  I hope you’ll forgive me for not taking too many photos, but given what had happened here, I thought it would be rude to do so.

The suites were nice, clean and cozy. They reminded me of a guest bedroom at my aunt’s house.

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One of the master suites.

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The immaculate bathroom in one of the master suites.

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This keychain was particularly heartbreaking:

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We stood about in an uncomfortable silence. Rand’s face captures it well.

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We tucked a few rand into a donation box, thanked Vicky’s daughter (who was downstairs, looking more comfortable in the company of several older women and a few children – I assumed all were relations of Vicky’s.) and walked back to our van in silence.

After a few minutes of driving, we began to talk, at first in clipped observations …

“That was so sad.”

“She accomplished so much in such a short time.”

“What is going to happen to those kids?”

… eventually leading to a long discussion with Thandis about domestic violence in the townships. It is a growing problem, but one that goes largely unreported. Thandis revealed himself to be incredibly progressive, noting that if the townships were ever going to thrive, men needed to start regarding women as their equals.

He noted that even in tribal life, women worked, so the notion that they couldn’t do so now wasn’t just antiquated – it was flat out wrong.

One of the English women said that what the townships needed were women’s organizations that help the abused. I nodded, mutely, but felt that the problems were far more entrenched than that. Some sort of women’s help center would be wonderful, sure, but it would be akin to trying to put a new coat of paint on a burning house. The first thing that you need to do is put out the damn fire.

I stared out the window, at the dusty landscape, and thought about how extraordinary Vicky was, but how her tragic death was all too common. She was another woman who had met a violent end in the townships. I thought about her children, and her grieving teenager. 

I tried to tell myself that there was hope for them. That their mother could still serve as an inspiration to them, even in her death. That they could triumph over all of it, and continue Vicky’s legacy.

I had no basis for any of it. It was just a pipe dream that entered my head as we passed mile after mile of shack-filled townships, my mind’s way of putting a coat of paint on a house that was already engulfed in flames.

Debris on the side of the road in one of the townships in Cape Flats.

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Rand and I have been talking a lot about entitlement lately. It’s something that comes up a lot for both us. I think we’re both incredibly scared of forgetting just how damn lucky we are.

Every now and then, I take a minute think about how charmed my existence is: how every single day is full of beautiful things and people and good health and the occasional cookie or four.

I think that when life gets cushy and nice, it can be easy to lose perspective. To look at all the wonders of your life, all the lucky breaks and acts of charity from others, and suddenly start thinking that you’ve somehow deserved it. That you’ve earned it, and that if people have less than you, it’s because they’ve managed to muck things up for themselves.

But that is complete and utter bullshit. You can sit on your butt and live a cushy life if the circumstances are right. Or you can work your fingers to the bone day in and day out and have absolutely nothing to show for it if the circumstances are wrong. Life can be stupidly unfair, and if we are lucky enough to have the good things outweigh the bad, then we’d better take a minute, or an hour, or several long years, to acknowledge that.

And, hell, if we actually have those several long years in which to do that? That’s once more thing to add to the “good” list.

Rand and I try to do this. We try to keep each other in check. To remind ourselves that we’ve hit the jackpot time and again. How lucky we are that the kid we fell in love with in our 20s has grown into the person we still love – passionately, dearly, often obnoxiously- now that we are in our 30s. That he managed to crawl out of the copious hole of debt he had, and now is the head of a company that’s doing okay. That even the scariest moments of our life turn out to not be brain cancer.

It’s why I don’t play lotto: because it would just seem greedy in the face of all of this.

While we were at the Kloof, I worried about entitlement a lot. I worried that the wonderful things around me would start to seem commonplace. That I’d become impossible to please, and impossible to be around. When we got back to Cape Town, I told Rand that I needed to get some perspective on things. I needed a reality check.

And so we got one, in the form of a township tour.

The townships are a result of apartheid. As the government moved to segregate different races, and establish “white-only” areas of major cities, people were moved to the outskirts of town, into communities now known as townships.

The townships, in adherence with the Group Areas Act (one of the many heinous laws passed under apartheid), were divided by race. Sometimes families would be split up if it was determined (by a governmental panel) that one family member was of a different race than the rest.

Our tour was recommended to us by a South African colleague of Rand’s - he noted that the money that we’d pay would go directly back to the township. We were picked up at our hotel at about 10am by a gentleman named Thandis, who was from one of the townships we were about to visit. He was in possession of a bright smile and deep dimples that we saw only once, and he spoke with a sort of melodic cadence, as though he was reading a poem and playing just a little too much attention to the meter.

I liked him instantly.

The first place Thandis took us to was the District Six Museum, which I mentioned briefly in my post about the history of apartheid. District Six was bustling community in Cape Town, home to 60,000 people of different racial backgrounds. Under the Group Areas Act, the land was declared a “whites-only-area” and the residents were removed from their homes, and pushed to the outskirts of town and into townships. Their homes in District Six were demolished.

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The museum traces the history of District Six and what it was like for the people who lived there, putting a very personal face on who was impacted by apartheid. The floor of the museum is an enormous map of neighborhood, with handwritten notes dispersed throughout from its former residents.

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Old street signs can be found everywhere in the museum (it might have been my favorite touch).

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It also discuss the future of the area: many former residents of District Six (and their descendants) are planning to move back to the area thanks to the Commission of Restitution of Land Rights.

From there, we drove to several of the townships outside Cape Town: Langa and Guguletu.

I didn’t know what to expect – at the time, I had only a dim understanding of how they came about (note to self: maybe next time, write a historical post about an area BEFORE you visit). My first impression of the townships was this scene, which I snapped through the window of our tour van:

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I had no idea what was going on. They don’t really teach you this stuff in grade school – at least, not in the states.

What I later realized was that in the townships, the atrocities of apartheid became distilled. Poverty was rampant. If you weren’t white, you’d be taxed at a higher rate, received a lower wage, and would be limited in the type of jobs you could hold. There was nothing to aspire to, no promise that life would reward you for intelligence or hard work. Under the Bantu Education Act, funding to schools was limited, and a new generation of children were taught that the best they could hope for would be to work a menial job for a white elite.

Given that it is from this dire situation that the townships arose, I suppose it’s a miracle that anything grew out of them. But they did grow – and rapidly. The population of the townships skyrocketed, and some of the largest cities in South Africa are found in these dusty outskirts. More than a million people live in these areas, just outside of Cape Town.

Thandis pulled the van by the side of the road, and ushered us out, to a spot where a young woman was standing in the shade of a small shack. She had a bored expression of her face, paying half attention to an array of sheep heads on a table near the road, and some meat roasting on a grill nearby.

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Thandis explained that this was a common quick meal in the area – you’d stop at one of the little stands and grab some of the cooked meat (kind of like fast food). The heads were thrown right on the grill, which burned the hair right off, but the brains were discarded after cooking (which surprised me. Italians eat it.)

Later, I’d look down and see the jawbone of a sheep in the dirt at my feet – evidence of a long-ago finished meal.

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We walked on, and Thandis introduced us to a young man named Luvuyo, who, after seeing how we struggled with his name, insisted we call him Lu.

Lu had a deep voice and a bright smile that belied an inherent shyness. His English was impeccable, and Thandis explained that Lu was part of a program that he had founded that trains young people in the townships to become tour guides.

Looking at Lu’s broad cheekbones and flawless skin, I found myself wondering how old he was, and finally, unable to guess, asked him. He was 26, but could have passed for much younger. He was dressed not unlike an American college student: plastic sandals, sweatpants, and a polo shirt.

Lu was remarkably professional. He told us a bit about life in the townships, emphasizing the economic problems: unemployment rates were staggering, housing was massively overcrowded, poverty everywhere.

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As we walked, some children ran up to us, taking our hands and swinging them. One little boy grabbed Rand’s hand and my own and, after testing to see if we would hold his weight, began to flip over. Afterwards, he smiled brightly at us and held out his hand in request of payment.

“Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head. I’d heard that this is common in the townships, and giving the kids money – tempting as it is – only encourages begging. The best thing to do is give them school supplies (of which they have a dire need), but we had neglected to bring any with us. So I waved the kids off empty-handed, and felt like an asshole.

Lu walked us and our tour group – two English sisters their husbands (all pensioners) – into a small home. The walls will cinder block, and the floor was concrete. There was a sparse living room area with a few picnic tables and benches. It felt damp and chilly inside, and reminded me of our family’s basement when I was a kid.

There were two bathrooms in the home, and three bedrooms. Lu directed us to one. The English women and I looked at each other. We already felt intrusive (this was someone’s home!) and now we were going to walk into their bedroom with our cameras in tow.

“If you want me to go first, I can,” I told the sisters. “I’ll just be the ugly American.”

They nodded. So I walked in. The room wasn’t that small – about 12 feet wide and 16 feet long – but it was packed to the gills.

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There was a full-sized fridge, a hotplate and toaster oven for cooking, and three twin beds (only two are visible in my photo, but another is just off to my right).

A man was sitting on one of the beds and as we accumulated in the doorway, he waved us inside. There was an older woman in the room as well, who sat folding laundry. We spoke to the gentleman on the bed, who explained that he and his family were on the waiting list for their own government-funded home, and that he was unemployed. He had come to Cape Town from his home village further north.

I asked him how long he had been in the city. 19 years, he replied. All that time, he’d been looking for work. There were no jobs to be had.

We all collectively gasped as his answer. I nodded my head towards the woman folding clothes, and asked if they were related. He shook his head, and explained that there were three families living in this one room. I nodded, thinking that perhaps this was a miscommunication. He must have meant three people from different families, right?

But no, he meant three families. In one bedroom. He slept on a twin bed with his three children. In the adjacent twin bed slept a family of 6, and there was another family of 5 on the bed at the end of the room. 16 people, one bedroom.

We stood there, mouths dangling open, when Rand walked in.

“Hi,” he said brightly, and went to shake the man’s hand. The man looked at Rand, concerned, and asked him why he had let the women walk in front of him into a room.

“Wait, what?”

“Why do you let the women go first? They should walk behind you.”

“Um … no,” was all Rand said.

“He likes the view from behind better,” I joked, because I like to ease cultural tensions by making them worse. The man stared at me blankly. I’m not entirely sure he understood me, but I suspect speaking for my husband wasn’t exactly jiving with this guy’s world view.

The English women and I exited the room soon after, while the man held Rand behind and gently scolded him.

“That one,” I heard him ask, “is your wife?”

“Yup.”

“You can’t let her walk in front of you.”

We headed back to the living room, leaving Rand to gently explain gender equality on his own. I tried to wrap my head around the fact that 16 people lived in that small room, and that an able-bodied and multilingual (if totally antiquated) man could be out of work for two decades.

Lu explained that roughly 60 people lived in this home amongst three bedrooms, and sharing two bathrooms. At night, mats would be laid out in the living room so that people from the different families could sleep out there. He noted that this did not apply to young women and girls, who would stay in the bedrooms near their families.

I did not think anything of this exemption until I considered it later.

Lu noted that this type of housing fell into the middle of the spectrum for the townships. Some residents made their homes in corrugated metal shacks or shipping containers. They had no running water or electricity, and had to use communal toilets and showers.

One of the men on our tour asked if we had ever been to India, and noted that there the situation was far more grave. “People have nothing but a plastic tarp to protect them from the elements. They would LOVE something like this.”

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Some shacks in the Cape Flats. Note the port-o-potties and the nearby herd of goats eating trash.

Better government-funded housing is theoretically available, but the waiting list is decades long. Lu explained that his parents were on it, and he refused to sign up, because he didn’t want to continue the trend of grown children being on the same waiting lists as their parents. The implications of it were too depressing, too hopeless.

Some of the more modern government housing, with bathrooms, running water, and solar power.

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Children play in front of some of the newer housing in the townships, for which the waiting list can be decades long.

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The vast number of people in the area has led to many problems. Families live in tight quarters. Water pressure is a problem, as is sanitation. The sewer and electrical systems are over-taxed, leading to flooding and fires. Houses often burn down.

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Drug use is prevalent, rape is an epidemic, and the murder rate is slightly worse than D.C.’s.

Ending apartheid did not solve these problems – and it would be naive to think that it would. After generations of oppression and subjugation, simply changing a few laws on the books won’t fix a problem that is systemic. You can redact the Bantu Education Act, but that doesn’t mean schools will suddenly appear, fully funded and well-supplied. You can remove the laws preventing someone from having a better job, or those that restrict them from earning a decent wage, but that doesn’t mean jobs will present themselves, or that money will appear in the bank.

This is the legacy of apartheid.

That’s not to say that there is no hope in the townships.

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Lu explained that even when people got jobs, and were able to buy homes (as opposed to waiting for government housing), they didn’t leave the area. They bought houses in the townships. These nicer homes – which were about 400,000 rand (about $40k U.S.) were in a part of the township affectionately referred to as “Beverly Hills.” He noted that there wasn’t any animosity between the people who had homes in Beverly Hills and the rest of the town.

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Just across the street from “Beverly Hills” are a collection of shacks with no running water or electricity.

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There are people who are hell-bent on making this part of South Africa better. Thandis, our tour operator, had founded numerous organizations in the townships in an effort to improve housing and education, and to create jobs. He was training a new generation of young people like Lu, giving them jobs and hope for their future.

Still, seeing what life is the townships was like was grim and eye-opening. I couldn’t look at anything the same way – certainly not the city of Cape Town, which was just a few miles away, but might as well have been another planet.

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I went to the townships looking for perspective, for a greater understanding of what in South Africa was like for so many. It made me acutely aware of how easy my life is, how comfortable, how free of worry. Even the sad days, even the difficult or ho-hum ones, aren’t that bad for me. I always have enough food to eat. I’m not dying from the elements, nor do I live in fear of being raped or murdered. This isn’t because I’m more deserving of my life, or because I’ve work harder at it. It’s purely circumstance. It’s dumb luck.

The people in the townships who are out of work for decades, the kids playing in the charred wreckage of someone’s home, the women being brutalized – we could be any of them.

I had asked for a reality check, and I had gotten one. I just hoped, as we drove back to our waterfront hotel with its beautiful views, and then from there, went back to our lovely and comfortable home, that I wouldn’t lose my new-found perspective.

Kirstenbosch Botanical Garden, Cape Town, South Africa.

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I’m not a plant person.

I suppose that’s far better than not being a people person. Or not being a dog person. Or a cat person. (For the record, I am two of the three. I’ll let you guess.)

It’s not that plants and I have a bad relationship (except for blackberry bushes. Those assholes hate me), it’s just that we aren’t compatible. I shouldn’t be around anything that depends on me for nourishment, yet will quietly die without so much as a scream or a whimper.

The only house plant that we have is a poor, limp … you know what? I don’t even know what kind of plant it is. It’s a poor, limp, long-suffering green thing named Nigel.

I did this to him.

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But after a visit to Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden, just outside of Cape Town, I started thinking that maybe, maybe I could be a plant lover. Or, at the very least, a plant liker. Or maybe just less of a systematic plant-murderer (for Nigel is the sole survivor in a veritable chlorophyll-tinged bloodbath).

Kirstenbosch is a 15 minute drive from the Cape Town waterfront, at the base of Table Mountain. We took a cab, for which I’m certain we overpaid (but it was still only about $10 or $15, so we didn’t fuss).

Even the drive is lovely.

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The breeze that runs over Cape Town doesn’t reach Kirstenbosch, and we found ourselves wandering around in the searing mid-afternoon sun.

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There are dozens of paths and trails which crisscross the garden. If you are in excellent shape and somewhat insane, you can supposedly follow one of them up to Table Mountain. The hike takes several hours.

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We didn’t do that. Obviously. (We found the panorama at the base of the mountain to be lovely enough for our needs, aaaand we had the added bonus of not getting heatstroke.)

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Also, please note that my husband is wearing jeans. JEANS.

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Still, it wasn’t too long before we started to wilt.

And by “we”, I mean “I.” Rand doesn’t even look like he’s breaking a sweat.

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I suppose there’s poetic justice in that, considering what I’ve done to Nigel all those times. (It usually goes like this: we return from a trip to find him half dead. In response, I pour way too much water on him. He springs back to life for a little bit, then starts to wilt again. Rand insists I throw Nigel out. I refuse. The cycle continues. I am a monster.)

But even in the searing heat, even for the brief time that we were there, Kirstenbosch was beautiful and idyllic.

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And romantic as hell. Or it would have been, if we hadn’t all been slowly melting. And, you know, photobombing one another.

Also, in Sam and Dina’s defense, we started it.

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Plus, there were five of us, which is a weird number of people to have on a date. Or maybe it’s not. I don’t know what kids are into these days.

And on that note, I give you: Firebush.

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Regardless, the company was lovely. Really, when I think back to all the people I’ve gotten hot and sweaty with …

You know what? I’m just gonna stop there. Before I start giving “horticulture” a new meaning.

Rand cries fowl.

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Kirstenbosch is one of nine botanical gardens in South Africa. It was founded in 1913 with the goal of preserving the country’s many species of flowers. Even today, almost all the plants in the garden are indigenous to the area. Which doesn’t sound like a huge deal until you realize that there are more than 22,000 indigenous species, all of which can be found at Kirstenbosch.

If you have time, try documenting all 22,000 species. Be sure to do it in the searing hot sun. Don’t take any breaks or drink any water.

No, I’m kidding. You shouldn’t do any of that. You’ll die.

Botanically speaking, Kirstenbosch is one of the most diverse places on the planet. It also has one of the highest levels of edemism (i.e., species that exist no where else) in the world. The whole place is basically a Benetton ad for plants.

Behold: ENDEMISM!

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The garden, along with several other protected areas which constitute the Cape Floral Region, were declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2004.

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Even for someone as nonplussed about plants as I am, it was a great way to spend an afternoon. The garden almost made me rethink my attitudes towards flora.

At the very least, I might start remembering to water Nigel. Maybe. 

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The Essentials on Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden:

• Verdict: Yes! Even if plants ain’t your thing, it’s an absolutely stunning spot.
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• How to Get There: We took a cab, which wasn’t terribly difficult or expensive. The problem was getting a ride back to town – we had to have someone call us a taxi and wait for it to come out (had we been pressed for time, it would have been problematic). Supposedly though, there are often a few cabs lingering around to take tourists back to town.
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• Ideal for: horticulturalists, wanderers, plant enthusiasts, and picnickers.
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• Insider tips: Consider heading to the garden on a cooler day or earlier in the morning to avoid the searing mid-afternoon heat. There are daily walking tours at 10am, Monday-Saturday. And in summertime, there are outdoor concerts on Sunday nights (these require advance ticket purchase, and often sell-out, so if you wish to attend, do plan ahead).
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• Nearby food: There is a Moyo restaurant inside the garden (we stopped in for drinks and snacks before heading back to Cape Town), as well as a few other cafes.
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• Good for kids: Absolutely. The garden has plenty of wide open spaces where little ones can run around. Just make sure they don’t eat any of the plants. I repeat: DO NOT EAT THE PLANTS.

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I have a problem with mixing up beauty and goodness. I am fully aware of how bad this is.

I mean, I’ve seen Snow White, guys. I get that the evil queen can be both hot and, well, evil.

But I still have trouble getting my head around that fact. I just can’t get past the fact that something can look one way, and be totally different. (For the record, the converse is not true for me: I don’t assume that everyone and everything ugly is evil. Even though I’ve had some I’m-wearing-sweatpants-today-and-I’m-in-a-rotten-mood moments that would affirm that idea.)

Sometimes beautiful things belie their horrible true selves. That’s the case with Robben Island. I know that awful things happened there. The relics remain: the narrow cell where Nelson Mandela spent the better part of two decades, the limestone quarry where he and other prisoners slowly went half blind as they worked in the searing sun.

But, in spite of all of that? It’s still incredibly beautiful. And that’s a hard thing to reconcile.

We headed out to Robben Island on a sunny and windy afternoon, leaving from the station at the Cape Town waterfront.

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The ferry ride takes a half hour or so, and ours was brutal. The captain was either a novice, a sadist, or possibly unconscious. We sped through the water at a dizzying pace, cutting across huge swells that sent our ship rocking. I tried looking at the horizon (which I’ve heard is a great way to fight motion sickness – wink-wink) but the swells were so big, I couldn’t actually keep the horizon in sight. It kept dipping above and below the window as we rocked.

Here we are, fresh faced and happy, at the start of the journey.

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And then we arrived. Somewhat green and shaking, but intact. It seems absurd to complain, though, when one is about to tour a former prison.

Robben island is slightly more than 7km from Cape Town (about 4 1/2 miles) and the waters are shark-infested, with rough waves crashing against a rocky shore – so swimming to the mainland would be incredibly difficult. This made the island an ideal place to put people you didn’t want to deal with.

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It is named not for any individual, but rather for the Dutch word for “seal”. For centuries, long before Mandela or his political brethren were locked away on the island, it was used as a prison by Dutch settlers, and later it housed a leper colony.

And later still, a leper graveyard.

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Starting from the 1960s and up until 1991, thousands of political prisoners were held at Robben Island, many without trial.

The first half of our tour took us around the island by bus, where a thin, handsome-to-the-point-where-I-couldn’t-talk-to-him guide named Thanbo gave us some background on the island and its more famous political prisoners. He alternated between points of seriousness and joking – which was delightful and confusing. When an infant on the tour started to cry, he joked, “It’s okay. We’ve all been there before, even if we don’t remember it.” Then he’d launch straight back into the atrocities of apartheid.

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We stopped by this enclosure – a solitary, freestanding cell that sat opposite a long row of cages. We stared, horrified, trying to figure out what they were for. Thanbo explained that the smaller cages housed the many guard dogs that were used on the island. But the small, freestanding cell was where Robert Sobukwe was held in solitary confinement – having no contact with other prisoners – for nearly a decade.

On the left, Sobukwe’s cell, and on the right, the rows and rows of cages where the guard dogs were held. (Apologies for the crappy photo. It was taken from the bus.)

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Sobukwe was a political activist and an outspoken opponent of apartheid. He established the Pan Africanist Congress (a South African liberation organization) and was its first president. Sobukwe was charming, educated, and an excellent orator – so naturally authorities saw him as a threat.

During apartheid, non-whites were required to carry passes – essentially identification cards – which dictated where they could and couldn’t go. These passes were kind of like passports – allowing blacks, Asians, and multi-racial individuals into “white” South Africa. The passes limited where someone could and couldn’t go, and you had to have the pass with you at all times.

In 1960, there was a nationwide protest against the Pass Laws, and Sobukwe led a march to a local police station, in defiance of the laws. He willfully showed the officer his pass (which did not give him permission to be in the area he was presently in). He was arrested, and sentenced to three years in prison (normally, the sentence for such an offense was only 6 months).

After he served his sentence, he was sent to Robben Island. He hadn’t been convicted of any further crime, but he was imprisoned on the island through an amendment that allowed police to hold political dissidents without due process for up to three months. When the three months were up, another clause was added – called the Sobukwe Clause – which allowed the Minister of Justice to extend a prisoners’ term annually. Through this perversion of justice, Sobukwe was held at Robben Island for six years. He served almost a decade in prison for supposedly being in an area where he wasn’t allowed.

Can we take a moment to talk about how messed up that is? I mean, hell, when a clause is named after you to KEEP YOU IN PRISON, that’s a pretty serious sign of unjust oppression.

You can read more about Sobukwe here (his story is fascinating and heart-breaking). He died in 1978 from lung cancer. He had a great deal of difficulty receiving medical care, as he was still under house arrest. The government restricted his movements to the point that hospital visits were nearly impossible.

We left Sobukwe’s solitary cell and drove to the limestone quarry. Hard labor wasn’t abolished until the 80s; Mandela and other political prisoners had to work there for hours each day, crushing rocks. This lead to long term health problems (many of them had damaged vision as a result of working in the bright sun, and the dust that was constantly irritating their eyes. It effected their respiratory systems as well).

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Notice this small pile of rocks that sits in the quarry – Mandela and his fellow political prisoners place a rock there every time they return to Robben Island. It started the first time Mandela returned there.

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Our bus tour lasted about 45 minutes. We stopped briefly to take in the views of Cape Town from the island. Like I said, it’s beautiful.

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It becomes very easy, for a moment, to forget where you are. You start to think of it as just a sun-drenched island, the sort of place where you bend your knee and snuggle up to your sweetie for a photo.

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But beauty and goodness aren’t the same thing. We were about to be reminded of that yet again.

After our bus tour, and a brief break, it was time to see the inside of the prison.

The barbed wire fence is still up around the perimeter.

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Even on Robben Island, segregation was prevalent. No white prisoners were held on the island. Black prisoners were fed a different diet than their Asian or mixed-race counterparts. It’s all just so … blatant.

Notice that black prisoners received less quantities of basically everything, and no jam or syrup.

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Political prisoners were kept separate from the convicts (because when they were incarcerated together, the political prisoners began to educate and recruit the convicts to join their cause. A fact that I kind of love).

Our prison tour began here, in a large communal cell.

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This small, thin mat was resting on the ground. Our guide explained that when Mandela was first sent to Robben Island, this was what he had to sleep on.

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Regrettably, I didn’t catch our guide’s name. He was a former prisoner at Robben Island – as are all the guides for this portion of the tour. Judging by his age, he couldn’t have been more than 20 or so when he was first incarcerated. His crime was that he had been part of an anti-apartheid organization. A undercover government agent had trained with him in Botswana, and later bumped into him – by chance – in South Africa, and turned him in.

It was the sort of miserable luck that made us all cringe. He didn’t, though. I suppose he’d come to terms with it.

By the time our guide had arrived, in 1981, mats like the one above were no longer used, and working in the limestone quarry had been abolished. Things were not great by any means, but they had improved. They now had the support of the Red Cross, and had cots to sleep on. They had access to books (though it was limited, so they would spend hours transcribing important ones so they could read passages whenever they liked), television, and even video games.

Our guide explained that there was a schism between the younger generation of prisoners and the older ones (“Were they our parents, or our colleagues?”). The elders often complained that the young ones were too noisy, spent too much time on silly diversions.

They all agreed on chess, though. The games brought both generations together, but apparently cheating was rampant on both sides (another fact that I love).

It was here, at Robben Island, where Nelson Mandela wrote portions of his book, The Long Road to Freedom. Several attempts were made to smuggle the book out, and it was confiscated a number of times. Fortunately, there were duplicate copies of the book; our guide explained that one was even hidden in this courtyard.

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The middle window was Mandela’s.

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Mandela’s presence looms large over Robben Island. To an American, at least, he’s the most notable political prisoner to be incarcerated there. His story – and his eventual rise to become the first black president of South Africa – is tragic and inspirational.

Mandela’s prison cell at Robben Island.

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But our visit to the island reminded me that Mandela wasn’t alone in his suffering, or his triumphs. Our guide may have arrived at the island when conditions were far better for inmates, but his tale was still a heartbreaking one. His anecdotes painted a picture of young men trying to still enjoy life within prison walls, under the gaze of their older, hardened counterparts. He told us of the pranks they played on guards, the frustration of trying to get soap to lather while taking a saltwater shower, and the hours upon hours they spent transcribing books.

He put such a personal face on the experience that I felt like I knew him; and still, I couldn’t bring myself to ask his name. I just listened and nodded feebly, and wondered if he was still haunted by this place.

How could he not be?

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These questions went unasked, unanswered. Our tour concluded, and we walked outside, to a sky so blue, it didn’t quite look real.

We left that beautiful and horrible place, and went back to Cape Town, with its touristy shops and vibrant waterfront. But Robben Island stayed with us long after we left.

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I suspect that’s true for everyone who’s been there.

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The Essentials on Robben Island:

• Verdict: Absolutely. It’s a crime (no pun intended)  to visit Cape Town and not see this place.
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• How to Get There: Your ticket includes a return-trip ferry ride which leaves from the Cape Town Waterfront. Getting to the waterfront itself is very easy (if you can’t walk from your hotel, see if they offer a free shuttle, or take a cab – they’re very reasonable in CT).
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• Ideal for: history lovers, political scholars, activists, and anyone who is socially conscious
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• Insider tips: The ferry ride over can be very rocky, and the sun and wind are aggressive – we chose to sit inside for the ride there and back. The first half of the tour is by bus, and the second half requires a little bit of walking – but it’s fairly relaxed, so even if you are nursing a bad knee (which one of our group was), you should be able to manage. The entire tour – including the trip to and from CT – is about 3 hours. Be sure to reserve and print your tickets ahead of time. They do sell out, and are non-refundable.
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• Nearby food: There is a small snack shop on the island, and you will have some time after the tour to pop in there, and see the gift shop. But I’d suggest having lunch or breakfast before you go. There are plenty of places on the waterfront.
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• Good for kids: There were some children on our tour. The wee ones slept through most of it, and the older ones looked bored stiff. Use your discretion, but note that anyone under the age of 12 might find this place excruciating.