Minibusing, Volunteering, and Dining.

My minibus cherry has been popped! It had very much been built up, so it was a bit anti-climactic. You stand on the side of the road and keep an eye out for the bus with the right sign for your trip (in our case, Bellville). The sign is similar a street sign, white with black block letters, and stuffed on the dash. Every minibus that passes honks and slows down - as if to ask you if you need a ride; the hawker sticks his head out the window and yells and hollers, trying to convince you get in their bus. We successfully waved down our Bellville minibus and hopped in. Our bus had no hawker; just the driver - a bald man of about 50. Stephanie sat in the front seat, next to him (the best seat in the van), while Lee Anne and I sat in the third row, behind the only other passenger. I passed up R10 and the driver passed back my change of R2. There was swing music on the radio. The whole ride was one that consisted of incessant honking, swerving in and out of lanes, and slowing down then speeding up rather quickly. It got interesting when he threw the van in reverse (on a 3 lane semi-highway) to pick up a passenger he had missed.

At a stop light, I looked out the window to my right and peered into an old, beat-up, 4 door. A baby, who was probably about 18 months old, was sitting in the front seat with just a seat belt on. There was a flash of judgment ("that is so unsafe) before I aptly settled into, "Mom probably can't afford to feed her baby, let alone buy a car seat." As we headed out of Rondebosch and crossed into Athlone the spray paint graffiti on the sides of delapitated buildings became more commonplace. Litter was strewn about like day-old confetti.

The minibus dropped us off on the side of a dusty and dirty road. The bits of glass on the side of the road came in all imaginable colors and looked like a sad mosaic. When we arrived at Saartjie Baartman, to volunteer, we had to pass through the locked gate and barbed wire. We were signed in by the two armed guards. Saartjie Baartman is a one-stop center that provides wrap around services for women and children. There is a DV emergency shelter where women can stay for 3 months for the first stay and 1 month for each subsequent stay. They also have 10 transitional living apartments. There is Gender Dynamix, which works with, and for, the LGBTQ community. There is REACH, which deals with sexual assault and sexual harassment. There is childcare and the substance abuse program; HIV/AIDS counseling and legal advocacy. There are parenting and life skills classes. Saartjie Baartman is housed in an old school. The halls are wide and hollow. The floors are dusty and filled with broken glass. The offices and meeting rooms are warm and full with flowers and paintings on the walls. Among other things, I was able to sit in on a house meeting with the women who are living in the emergency shelter. One woman had a bruised eye; another woman's head was wrapped in gauze. Their trauma is current and in your face. I was aware of being an outsider - a white foreigner with a funny accent that doesn't know Saartjie Baartman or Cape Town. The issues, however, are the same. Disagreements about shelter guidelines, cleaning schedules, and dinner time. They are not provided with enough opportunities: they need work, income, somewhere to go after Saartjie Baartman so they don't have to go home and risk being killed. The women seemed discouraged yet passionate; tired yet hopeful; dejected yet searching for empowerment.




When waiting for the minibus back to Rondebosch, there was a moment or two where I consciously felt unsafe. We were standing on the side of a road, when three or so men happened upon us and just stopped. They had been walking down the street, but inexplicably stopped right by us. They were speaking a language I could not understand; their eyes darted to us and away from us. One man was rifling through his backpack. My IMPACT trained eyes were fixed on his hands, waiting to see what he came up with. It ended up being a plastic shopping bag, and our minibus home picked us up before there could be a concrete resolution (peaceful or otherwise). While on the minibus ride home (this one was much more crowded and far more rickety; at any given moment I thought a tire may fall off) I kept replaying the nervous situation, and my privilege, through my head. Although I am a woman and may feel uneasy now and again while walking down a street alone at night in Boston, I generally feel safe. I am not forced, because of history or financial circumstances or the government's discriminatory laws, to live in an area in which I feel unsafe. My sense of safety and security is a luxury that many do not, and will not ever, know.

Once we got dropped off by the Red Cross Hospital, we trekked it across the Rondebosch Commons. We were racing against the storm clouds. The wind was whipping like I haven't yet seen it - so windy that it looked as though the sky was raining garbage.


Tonight Lee Anne and I went to Bo-Kapp Kombuis, a restaurant at the top of the hill in Bo-Kapp. The food was phenomenal (they serve traditional Cape Malay cuisine) and the view was astounding (the entire restaurant is windows -- perfect views of Table Mountain and the entire city below). The owners, and spirit behind the restaurant, Yusuf and Nazli greeted us warmly and were sincerely welcoming. They spoke to us about their history and culture and food. It was at Yusuf's insistence that Lee Anne and I dove into our crayfish curry, rice, and rooti with our bare hands. No eating traditional Malay cuisine with utensils! I had never eaten a fancy-ish meal in public with my hands -- it was oddly and excitingly liberating. After dinner we stepped out on the balcony and took pictures of the sunset behind Table Mountain. Before leaving, both Yusuf and Nazli welcomed us to the family and hugged us as we said goodbye.