South Africa, Part II

Robben Island sits right of the shoreline to Cape Town, a thirty-minute boat ride. It is home to the prison where Nelson Mandela spent his time locked up with the many other politically outspoken of the time. The island was barren, small bushes shot up every once in a while, but the wildlife consisted of flies and seagulls. The buildings were faded, made of cement. This was not a welcoming place. When we got to the island, we got on a bus that drove our 11 am group around the island before stopping at our last stop, the prison. We were greeted by a former inmate, who told us what it was like to be locked up here for five years of his life. I assumed everyone would be depressed, some would go crazy, like the stories of Alcatraz. Instead, he told us of the confidence and power it gave those who were locked up. I guess it makes sense. Why would you lock up a whole bunch of men who believed in equality of the government? So they could continue to plot and talk about freedom? Good thinking. We walked down the hallway and saw Mandela’s cell, still exactly how he left it, pillow and blanket folded over a scratchy, gray mat on the floor, serving as a bed. A small stand with a single drawer and a bucket lined the wall of the cement floor, and bars covered the window that looked out over a small dusty courtyard. I admire the strength these men had to stand up for what they believed in. Mandela went without seeing his wife for 14 years before they would let her visit. And when she finally did, they were allowed one short hug, and then a large table where they sat on opposite ends of each other was their best form of connection.

When my alarm went off at 4 am Monday morning, I didn’t even think it was mine. Having gone to bed just two hours before, I was very confused, until I realized this was the day I had been waiting for. I shot out of bed, brushed my teeth, and picked up my pre-packed backpack for our morning of cage diving with great white sharks. No way were we about to do this. It’s what you see on shark week. It doesn’t actually happen to real people. And here we were, Jenn and I meeting a group of 10 others at the gangway, marching down the steps and out to a bus that was waiting for us at the port entrance. The two hour drive gave us all a little more time to catch up on sleep before we stopped in a quiet beachside town, mist still hanging on to the thick kelp washed up on the shell-scattered sand. An old squat woman welcomed us as we stepped into the small house, and a breakfast we weren’t expecting filled the kitchen table. Eggs, toast, cereal, fruit, yogurt, muffins. It was perfect. After we filled up (which was a bad idea for some), we walked down the road to the dock, where the Barracuda, our vessel for the day, sat rocking against the buoy. We climbed to the top of the boat, and were instructed to always be holding on with one hand as we pulled away. Soon we knew why. I guess I had forgotten our ship spent a day hovering out at sea, waiting for the waves to calm down. Now we were banging through them with speed, flying up in the air like a speedboat, being thrown around like a little raft.  Our anchoring point was off of Seal Island, the place with the biggest great white shark population in the world, the one plastered all over Shark Week on the Discovery Channel. Unfortunately, our videographer Johan told us, there were only 300 sharks left here, and only 1000 left in the world. They were being killed and sold on the black market for their fins and jaws, going for upwards of $100,000. He said we were lucky to see them now, because soon they would be gone.
As they pushed the cage in and chummed the water around our boat, we struggled to put on our full-body wetsuits and booties. Johan explained that our boat was now a giant floating dead fish, and we were the predators who had killed it. The shark was more afraid of us than angry or annoyed. Nonetheless, we would be taken out of the cage if we touched the off-limits orange rope or stuck our limbs past the vicinity of the metal bars. No petting. Good news to report: no arms were lost in the making of our adventure.

The cage, attached to the side of the boat, was split into six sections, with bars on top to hold and a bar beneath to kneel on. We swam across, equipped with masks and weight belts, to our spots. A rope tied with tuna heads was thrown in front of the cage, and as a dark shadow would come up from the deep, Johan would yell “Down divers!”, to which we would take a deep breath and force ourselves underwater. Scanning the world underneath was eerie. Much quieter than the surface, the green tint gave a visibility of only one or two meters. My eyes would quickly dart around until suddenly, close enough to touch (but not ACTUALLY touch) was a great white shark. It cruised by, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, depending on its curiosity. I heard the jaws music in my head. “Down divers!” Again and again I plunged underwater, using the bar to hold myself down. And shark after shark swam by. They said we saw at least six or seven on the day. The water was freezing, my wetsuit was rebelling, but I could’ve stayed in the water all day, jumping from boat to boat and into cage after cage. We ended out morning with a light lunch. Hot soup, rolls, more fruit, juices. We met the famous “Sharkman”, Mr. Michael Rutzen, who is also plastered all over Shark Week. After thanking everyone a thousand times, we loaded back onto the bus, and away from an experience I could check off my bucket list. Maybe I’ll put it on there again, just for kicks.

On our last day, I went to Two Oceans Aquarium with Travis, Eric, and Rolando. It’s kind of funny, because the ratio of girls to guys on this ship is so big, and somehow I ended up traveling with three bodyguards, and in a place where I would feel safe to run by myself, too! The aquarium was fantastic. Separated into the Indian and Atlantic Oceans, because Cape Point is the line, or meeting of the waters, there were many animals I had never seen before. There were glass walls separating us from sharks, stingrays, and turtles. There were black lights illuminating box jellies and moon jellies and upside down jellyfish. There were paintings and facts on the walls that brightened the whole room and made everything colorful. While we were there, our RA, Kelly, went diving in the shark tank, and we got to watch from the other side of the glass. The best part of the aquarium was that my friends were just as interested as me to see everything. I figured it would be like at home, where everyone waits for me. But no! We all had a blast. Educational AND fun. That’s my style. Plus, I got to touch shark skin. Did you know they’re trying to make swimsuits out of a material resembling shark skin now? See? Educational.

Our nightlife consisted of not drinking, dancing, and climbing trees and the giant lego man in the middle of port. We stayed out pretty late, but had a blast exploring, testing the policemen (there were so many of them on the streets of Cape Town). Turns out they don’t care if you climb statues. I hope that means they’re interested in catching thieves instead. During the day, it was easy to see the preparations that had been made for the world cup last summer. The buildings were painted fresh, the streets were clean, everything was orderly and laid out. Victoria Wharf, where out ship was ported in Cape Town, reminded me of a cross between Baltimore and Traverse City. It was a populated, but not overcrowded, beach town. Lines of little shops painted in pastels lined the waterfront, restaurants with outside seating were around every turn. The air was fresh here. Not at all humid, and breezy. It smelled clean, or sometimes like a food that’s pleasant aromas wafted all at once in our direction. We were tempted by gelato from San Marco’s and plain vanilla ice cream cones and cheeseburgers topped with some kind of bar-b-que/french dressing  mixture from Steers, the local fast food joint. The ice cream tasted like frosting. It was 40 cents. Needless to say, I ate more than I should’ve. Long Street was a half-hour walk we made most every day. By day it was a huge market, similar to what we saw in Manaus, except with less harassment. By night the streets lit up and tourists and locals alike came to the bars, which occupied every space along the road. Loud music and strobe lights emitted from some windows, the Purple Elephant gay bar stood on the street corner, surrounded by transvestites and flamboyanteers, and laid back bars spilled their patio chairs onto the sidewalks for people to sit. It was quite the sight to see.

And the end of our five days, it was easy for me to say my feet had never hurt more. But every step was worth it. Once again, I was traveling with new people, doing things I never thought I would do, and experiencing things I couldn’t imagine. I took over 500 pictures in South Africa, and I tried my best to load some before I gave up and skyped instead. Someday there will be a visual of what I’m talking about. For now, I guess, you’ll just have to take my word for it.

P.S. Congrats to my little brother for being accepted to Flagler College in St. Augustine! Maybe Mom and Dad will come visit more now that the self-proclaimed “Golden Child” has left the nest. Yeesh.