What is “Reality”? 2015 in Review

What is “Reality”? 2015 in Review

“Back to reality”, I  mumbled to myself as I roamed the Oslo airport in search of a place to camp out during my five hour layover before my flight back to the United States after a 6-month, 4-continent, 19-country trip basically to… everywhere.  After a couple laps, I stopped somewhere to charge my laptop (grimacing at global dust cloud emanating off my backpack), then propped my feet up to combat the swollen ankles that I tend to get on long flights and settled in to watch towering Scandinavians select packs of bacalhau (dried fish) to bring abroad for Christmas gifts.  As soon as I got comfortable, I remembered an email from a friend that I received a couple months ago and how meaningless the end-of-trip, “back to reality” phrase is for me these days. “What is your ‘real world’? I ask because everyone who is away from their home refers to their home and job as the real world. I’m sure you’ve heard this before? ‘When vacation is up, I’ve got to go back to the real world.’  I don’t want a real world.  I’m addicted to living in the ‘other world'” For most people, “reality” and “real world” means alarm clocks, breakfast on the go, deadlines and to-do lists.  I think I responded that my real world was my backpack but I didn’t live 2015 entirely out of my backpack.  In addition to visiting ~25 countries, I earned a PhD, I got hired for a “real job” and somehow people flew me to Brazil, Colorado, China, South Africa and New Zealand to do an assortment of professional, responsible things.  None of this was part of a larger strategic plan… most of it just happened. “I cannot be still for long.  There is a riot in me all the time.  A needy, restless voice my heart endlessly urging me onward.  I ache for new experiences and my hunger for adventure is boundless.  My entire life is a perpetual loops of longing for something else” -Beau Taplin, Something Else Well maybe it wasn’t part of a plan, but it probably has something to do with my inability to sit still, my desire for new perspectives and perceived need to exploit the flexibility of a research position that could be done from anywhere before I commit to a “real job”.  I guess it’s obvious that I like to collect new experiences but according to my star charts, I’m on the hunt for greater meaning.  So I’m some sort of philosophizing pack rat.  I guess greater meaning is what I’m trying to achieve by writing this post, trying to digest some of the hundreds of memories from 2015 but I’m officially stumped.  Facebook failed to help me… their simplistic attempt to construct my “year in review” had six photos, two of which were in the same place, with the same person.  There’s no way I spent one third of this year in one place, or with one person.  Sorry Facebook, but my slightly schizophrenic life isn’t so easy to summarize.  Here’s my best attempt to briefly present some of the highlights and hypothesize about what it might mean going forward. A Year in Review In February, I experienced my second hospitalization abroad with a broken bone in Peru but surgery went swimmingly with the help of my amazing brother who somehow kept up with the coco-chewing porters and evacuated me out of the jungle.  Subsequent travels continued uninterrupted thanks to the help of an old friend, and I even pulled off a faculty workshop at the University of Sao Paulo.  In addition to reuniting with three Brazilian friends from my past, I met up with into a guy that I used to teach nerd camp with who just arrived in Brazil with the intentions of starting a skate tour company and doing some bio-med start-up things.  I told him jokingly, “Back then, I had no idea that you were cool enough to move to another country! But then again, back then, I doubt I’d see himself here either” and we both smiled because kindred spirits often hide in plain sight. After about a month of self-imposed hermitude, as a one-handed cat lady, miraculously, I finished writing my dissertation.  After a short road trip through some new states in the south, after placing my dissertation on my advisor’s desk, I regained enough sanity to defend my dissertation and somehow became Dr. Foote.  Placing the capstone on 22 years of education was a bit anti-climatic… I filled out a few forms, left the day after my presentation and spent my graduation day on a sailboat in the Florida Keys, instead of wearing a funny hat and announcing the world that...

Long Term Travel & Simple Secret for Meaningful Life

Long Term Travel & Simple Secret for Meaningful Life

While Christmas is the capstone of the holiday season for many Americans, I always preferred Thanksgiving and up until this year, it was the one holiday I always made it home for. I love how its a holiday you smell before you celebrate it.  I love  how a lazy morning watching the Macy’s Day parade suddenly turns into a chaotic rush of pre-party preparation in the kitchen. I love nibbling on breakfast in preparation for the big feast. I love how my mom thinks about modernizing her menu each year but has to keep mashed potatoes for my cousins, Uncle Bo’s cornbread, Billy’s devil eggs, broccoli for my sister, pecan pie for grandma to an extent that the meal remained the same for decades. I love how the holiday is centered around a big meal so no one has to worry about buying gifts or dressing nice since everyone’s zipper is going to be tight after eating anyway.  And I don’t even eat turkey! This Thanksgiving, there was no turkey, there wasn’t even time to Skype my family and it definitely wasn’t in America, but it did involve giving thanks (who would have thought?).  So it took traveling abroad to reconnect with the true spirit of the holiday that I usually forget when stuffing my face back home.  I woke up in Amsterdam on the couch of an old friend that I didn’t know I’d see again but a 14-hour layover gave us the chance to catch up. I took a moment to thank the dozens of strangers who have shared their couches with me over the years, and the universe for unexpected opportunities to cross paths with some of these people again. Instead of being woken up to the smell of turkey, I had to drag myself to the airport before dawn. I stopped at a convenience store to pick some stroopwafel and satisfy a craving that I’ve had since my last visit to the Netherlands. I felt grateful that I had the freedom to eat carmelized waffle cookies for breakfast and a job that I can do from anywhere so I have the funds to indulge in small luxuries like these and that I’m worldly enough to know what stroofwafel is! I passed quickly through immigration, thankful for my American passport that gets me most places without a hassle and being born to a middle-class family who gave me the education and support I need to make a life of travel possible. The short flight to Morocco passed quickly and I landed in Casablanca grateful for another visit to my favorite continent, where I immediately felt like I was in another world. Instead of Amsterdam’s digital clocks ticking away the seconds and constant stream of trains, I had a few hours to spare before I could take the train to the city. I drank a terrible tasting cappuccino at a basic cafe, got 10x overcharged the cost of a local SIM card but relaxed knowing that spending a few extra dinars won’t ruin my trip. After waiting a few more hours to catch a train Mohammedia, I arrived to my couchsurfing host with frazzled hair and tired eyes but his crazy hair and warm welcome put a smile back on my face. Although his home was humble, he treated me like a princess, with fresh, foamy mint tea and a homemade tangine. We chatted for a few hours and then he let me crash around 6 PM. I feel asleep grateful that he let me have exactly what I needed (blankets and a place to pass out for 14 hours!) and his incredible generosity even though his house lacked some of the things I took for granted for twenty years… clean, running water, essentially unlimited food (if there’s ever a natural disaster, my dad’s cabinet can keep you alive for at least a few months!) and heat in the winter (an unthinkable luxury almost worldwide!). “Happy” Although I’ve basically essentially traveling for the past 1.5 years, this 6-month trip has my longest continuous journey through some of the most “complicated” countries and over the greatest distances. I hopped back and forth across the equator and bounced between 18 countries (Vietnam, Hong Kong, Macau, China, South Africa, Swaziland, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Malawi, Tanzania, Kenya, Italy, Tunisia, Turkey, New Zealand, the Netherlands, Morocco and Spain) on 4 continents. While most of it involved general wandering, I taught a three-week course in China, gave some academic talks in South Africa and interviewed (successfully) for a job in New Zealand. I celebrated my 27th birthday in Vietnam, where a night bus dumped me on the streets of Hanoi at 5 AM where a pouty, tattooed lady named Ling Ling...

Traveling Zanzibar: Not Your Ordinary Island

Traveling Zanzibar: Not Your Ordinary Island

Zanzibar. The image I had in my mind of this island off the Tanzania coast was a cliché combination of white sand, turquoise water and bungalows built for tourists. I almost considered skipping it- why pay more for a slightly better beach when I was quite happy listening to the Indian Ocean under the palm trees and watching locals play football at beach near Dar Es Salaam.   “YOLO, YOLO” (You only live once”, tour guide Nikka advised me. Ok, not using the teenage abbreviation but essentially conveying the same message. “Ok, ok, I’ll do it”, I replied then strategically added, “you haven’t let me down yet” so I could watch his reaction to see if I really was making a good decision or he was just trying to get rid of me and the rest of the tour group for a few days. He seemed genuine. The ferry ride seemed to qualm some of my fears. Despite taking the fast ferry, tourists were a small fraction: isolated dots in a sea of swirling fabric with bold African prints, punctuated by bedazzled headdresses for the women and embroidered neutral colored hats perkily perched atop the men. Arrival in Zanzibar had a healthy dose of African chaos. Porters in reflective vests climbed over each other to offer their services helping with luggage. Staff from the boat yelled a warning, “Negotiate your prices before hand! Only trust official porters!”, but with a kind of half-smile that suggested they knew they were throwing us to the wolves. Zanzibar is part of the “United Republic of Tanzania” but we still had to fill out immigration forms (because more paperwork is ALWAYS better) then waited behind women who were unloading boxes from their heads, bags from under each arm and babies off their backs as their husbands stood uselessly, unburdened by their sides from the obligatory “baggage check”. Of course, most people got an automatic chalk check before they even began to unzip, except for the unfortunate souls that they arbitrarily decided to torture with an extended inspection. We did our best to make a beeline through the swarm of taxi drivers waving their keys in our faces then hopped in the van for a 50 kilometer drive from our entry point in Zanzibar Town to the Nungwi Beach, the location of the majority of resorts on the island. I was pleasantly surprised that the drive still felt like Africa: barbershops, cows hauling carts holding up traffic, people taking naps and elaborately carved door frames propped up against palm trees collecting dust as they wait for a buyer. We bump along, squeeze through one-way bridges and get stopped at a gate by a policeman that holds us up for an hour, trying to charge us for a driving a vehicle with a registration sticker that expires today. . The driver refuses to satisfy his ridiculous request and we proceed, eventually veering off on a side street through ramshackled huts selling half-inflated beach toys and backyards of people trying to catch their kids for bath time. We pull up to a gate, which opens to the touristy bungalows, sapphire swimming pools and attentive staff that I expected to see. I dumped my bags in my hotel room, looking past the king sized bed, flower petals and towels folded like swans to let out a squeal of glee to see a pillow (the past two weeks, I’ve been camping and using a makeshift cushion out of clothes stuffed into my sleeping bag cover). I kick off my shoes, ignoring the receptionist’s sea urchin warning and head barefoot to the beach. I traverse the beach in a squiggly path, trying to avoid the teenagers waving pamphlets selling snorkeling trips or (if you get closer to overhear) marijuana “Spice up your holiday with some Malawi-wowee! Welcome to Paradise Fun!”. I’m slightly mystified to see the elegant, statuesque Maasi men on the beach, with sea breezes rustling their red and black checked robes. They looked extremely out of place, hidden behind aviator sunglasses, when it seemed like they belonged drinking cow blood in the bush. I dismissed their presence as a photo-op for tourists, but it made even more sense when I later learned their involvement in sex tourism. On my walk back, more out of boredom that anything else, I allowed myself to be intercepted by one of the infamous “beach boys”. He found out pretty fast that I wasn’t going to pay $30 to be stuck on a boat with tourists for a sunset booze cruise. We started chatting in the shade of a hotel overhang and after he learned a bit about...

Adventures of A “Muzugo” in Malawi

Adventures of A “Muzugo” in Malawi

One of the most common misconceptions people have about Africa is “all of Africa is the same”. Almost every time I cross borders overland, I’m amazed at the kind of changes that some imaginary line can introduce. Malawi was no different. First, I noticed an increase in population density (Malawi has almost 14 million people in just 118,000 square kilometers compared to Zambia which has about the same population in an area seven times the size). While nothing seems crowded after my month in China, there was a consistent string of little villages, to an extent that it made finding a lunch spot or even a non-discreet bush toilet a challenge even for our driver TK has been perfecting his picnic spot spotting abilities for over a decade. The Land Where People Materialize Out of Thin Air Our first day in Malawi he picked a place that fit two out of three usual characteristics (clean, shaded, away from villages)… or so he thought. When we unpacked the first couple chairs, we saw one kid peeking curiously from the road. Before we knew it, a dozen of his friends gathered, shyly hiding behind a dead tree but very blatantly watching our every move. “Ignore them, ignore them” said Nikka, as he quickly chopped carrots, since Nomad Adventures has a policy against giving leftover food to villagers since word travels fast and they don’t want the locals to expect a free feast every time they see a truck. A few minutes after the young children started gathering, a herd of cow hopped over the hill made by the elevated train tracks. The teenage herdsman paused to investigate what we were doing but seemed to decide, regretfully, that he should follow his cows. Tailing the bovines came another clump of preteen boys wielding small wooden clubs accompanied by mangy dogs. They surrounded us, spaced out in the nearby field, watching us hungrily between the tall grasslands. “Oh goodness. It looks like we might be the ones eaten at this meal”, one of the Belgians commented. Nikka’s chopping accelerated audibly and we awkwardly clutched empty water bottles and nervously looked around for potential defense weapons. After ten or so minutes, the preteens got bored and the hunting party moved on but the first clump of young kids didn’t move an inch until our truck left them in a dust cloud. “Sharing is Caring”: Relentless Entrepreneurs Who Convince You to Strip Time and time again, this lesson that “empty spaces in Malawi aren’t actually empty” seemed reinforced. You go for a swim at the beach of Lake Malawi and one guy appears to welcome you to his country. Before you know it, his brother, Happy, joins the group. Then it’s his cousin “Name is William. Business name is Georgie Peorgie”. Another kid pushes them aside to hold our hands. “I’m No Hassle. Come into my shop. T.I.A. (“This Is Africa”)… free looks and you have all day”. Another doesn’t wait until we finish our swim and dives into the water and pulls out a handful of bracelets for sale (still not sure how he kept them dry). You tell them you don’t have any money and this excites them more. “Hakuna Matata. No problem. What do you have to trade? Maybe your watch? Sharing is caring!”. These twenty year olds are relentless and successfully had us stripping and swapping T-shirts, hats, socks and headphones for their woodcarvings, bracelets and necklaces. I ended up trading an old digital camera for two custom tailored pants and a magnet. While I’m sure I could have bartered harder, it provided an afternoon of activity, which involved marching around the village to pick out the fabric, finding two tailors (sharing is caring!), meet the boy’s mother and his friends… etc. The Wild West of Africa? Malawi mystified me in other ways. The buildings looked better constructed than in Zambia but the small towns gave off an eerie deserted feel like an old Wild West mining town (especially because they have “Gold Depot” shops). The paint was faded or peeling and chunks of the buildings seem to have been broken off. Many of the structures had boarded up windows and doors, with tattered sheets blowing in the breeze. Locals would be hanging out at one or two shops, or shooting pool at an outdoor billiard table under a thatched roof. The other half was completely deserted, as if haunted by ghosts. I was especially entranced by the “tea shops” I found in every town. “People in these parts can’t possibly be drinking enough tea to warrant a shop”, I thought to myself. When I asked the tour...

“Africa’s Not for Sissies”: Travel Zambia Overland

“Africa’s Not for Sissies”: Travel Zambia Overland

“This is NOT a luxury tour”, our tour guide Nika roared his welcome to the trip, his glassy eye adding to the intimidation factor. “Meet Bertha, our home for the next three weeks. She is NOT a bus, and doesn’t come with air conditioning, curtains or mechanical shocks for specific purposes. She’s a truck, equipped to carry 945 kg of supplies, absorb the shocks of East African roads and protect us from the wildlife. On this journey, we will have to deal with many challenges: corruption, dangerous insects, less than ideal accommodation and sometimes, harsh conditions”. He paused for emphasis and sternly added, “Africa is not for sissies, especially this region. This trip is designed so you can see the real Africa, but it won’t always be comfortable. Are there any questions?” The driver TK silently reinforced what Nikka was saying, standing like a bouncer at an inner city club, glowering at us over his bulging biceps. The eight of us shake our heads solemnly. There’s an retired Australian couple who are “expert overlanders” continuing their journey that started in Cape Town, five Europeans of holiday (a blonde Belgian couple in their early 30s, two tattooed Germans with a classy choice of hats, one Middle-Aged Austrian man who polishes off an average of 4 cans of beer before lunch) and me. The truck is pretty roomy because it’s designed to accommodate eighteen but we all scramble to find our seat belts as the truck starts lumbering out of the driveway. Life On the Road The subsequent three days could be the definition of living hell for some people. Three days in a hot van with picnic lunches on the side of the road. One day the bugs were so bad that it seemed they ate more of us, than we ate of our lunches. For the first two days of our tour, the main attraction for the first two days was a traffic jam in Lusaka (the capital of Zambia… we didn’t even get out to explore the city) and an evening activity of spider killing (mostly for the people in hotel rooms) and devising creative ways to take showers without water (our second rest camp shut off all water). The roads delivered an extra-strength “African massage” so by day 2, the Belgian girl and I donned our sports bras, to minimize unnecessary bouncing as we levitated off our seats and crashed into the metal sidewalls. The African sun shone brightly on our laps, and dust flew into the windows. We learned to shut our windows at every stop so monkeys won’t climb into the truck and steal/”shit” on our stuff. We learned to always close our tents to keep the monkeys, spiders and other insects out. We learned how to check for elephants, hippos and lions before leaving our tents for a midnight bathroom run (they actually recommended we hold it). We learned how to disassemble our tents to prevent rolling scorpions into our hand, which someone on the last trip figured out the hard way. We learned about the supremacy of the bush toilet. South Luangwa National Park “Everything in Africa bites but the safari bug is worst of all” -Brian Jackson Our main stop in Zambia was South Luangwa National Park: Zambia’s pride and joy. The park is known for its hippos and leopards, and they estimate there’s one leopard for each square kilometer of the 90,000 km^2 park. Our camp was right along the South Luangwa River, where we could see elephants crossing in the distance. Often these wildlife encounters weren’t so distant: a hippo walked straight through camp when we were eating dinner, elephants feasted a few yards from the bar, a sivet (African cat) made an appearance when the boys were drinking a beer and the whole camp was a play place for the yellow baboon. We did an morning guided walk through the park where a camouflaged guy named Jimmy guarded us with a rifle as Herman (a white native Zambian and lover of the bush) explained how to identify various tracks, feces, plants, insects, birds and more. These walking safaris are more about learning and seeing the small details that connect various elements of the bush ecosystem, instead of getting close to the big game (for safety reasons). However, we still spotted plenty of zebra, giraffes, elephants, impalas, warthogs, hippos, crocodile and dozens of species of bird. After a relaxing afternoon, we set off on a sunset game drive that provided an opportunity to get closer to these animals and see a variety of others. Before the sun set, we were lucky to see a leopard...

First Foray into “Real” Africa: Traveling Livingstone, Zambia

First Foray into “Real” Africa: Traveling Livingstone, Zambia

“Africa is mystic; it is wild; it is a sweltering inferno; it is a photographer’s paradise, a hunter’s Valhalla, an escapist’s Utopia. It is what you will, and it withstands all interpretations. It is the last vestige of a dead world or the cradle of a shiny new one. To a lot of people, as to myself, it is just ‘home.”  ― Beryl Markham, West with the Night My plane skidded above dried, toothpick-esque trees and skidded to a stop on a small landing field at the Victoria Falls airport, surprisingly small for servicing one of Africa’s top three attractions. I joined the hoard of wheeled suitcases, walked by a sign that denoted the area where ebola inspections should have happened, cringed at some nasty pictures of ebola symptoms and passed quickly through the immigration line. I scanned the hand-written signs of taxi drivers for various resorts in my area. Not seeing my name, I asked the information desk if there was a place I could call my hostel. “Ahh… the landlines are down. If you buy me airtime, you can use my cell phone”. I crossed the airport to the only airport shop, a lady who sold snacks, handicrafts and airtime in a space as small as a closet. “You want to call a hostel in Zambia? They won’t pick you up here. Cross the border and call them as soon as you reach Zambia side. Norman will help you”. She ushered me outside into Norman’s white cab. I skeptically followed. “Welcome to the REAL Africa!” bellowed Norman after he heard an abbreviated version of my story. “I won’t move to South Africa if my life depended on it. More opportunities maybe, but no safety, man. You have to be alert at all times.” We passed through the small, touristy Victoria Falls village and he dropped me at the tired-looking gates of border patrol. The officers mechanically stamped my passport, gave me a white piece of paper, collected by a man 5 yards away then waived me to on the dusty road to Zambia. I jumped on the sidewalk to avoid laden, transport trucks and hopped behind a couple women with baskets on their heads, admiring the sexy hipsway that accompanied their walk. Meanwhile, I cringed under the weight of my backpacks and sweated, regretting the three layers of leggings, legwarmers and multiple shirts that I piled on back in the cold of Johannesburg. We walked across a rusted bridge, waived away the men trying to get me to bungee jump off of it and took a picture of the waterfall as I straddled the country line between Zimbabwe and Zambia. I repeated the border control procedure, then looked around the dirt parking lots for a phone to call my hostel. Someone directed me to the police station where a couple guys my age lounged outside in broken recliner office chairs. Eager for a distraction, they offered to help, “take a seat, take a seat”. I carefully balanced myself on a stool, and kept my bags close, since the guys advised me that the baboons that circled around us loved to steal things. Time flew as the guys gave me recommendations for my time in Zambia, advised me to check out their grandfather’s mountain resort (“you can stay for free”), taught me a few Tonga phrases and drooled with envy at my life. Kelly, the guy in the police officer, begged, “take me with you! I can fit in your backpack!”, he insisted as he yanked off his shoes and emulated climbing in. After about an hour, I remembered my mission and we called up my hostel. “What happened? He was waiting for you at the airport all afternoon. Usually we don’t pick people up from the border but we’ll send him along”. The driver came, and the two police station boys didn’t let me go without big hugs, elaborate handshakes and determined reassurance, “Katie, you’ll stay at the backpackers? Two days? We will visit you!” After welcoming me with a cheek-to-cheek smile, the driver explained the confusion. Apparently he had been waiting at the Livingstone Airport… “we looked up your flight information- Hahn Airways arrival at 15:10 from Johannesburg. There were no planes landing at 15:10 and we never heard of that airline. We thought you might be arriving on a private jet, but even then it would be registered”. He dropped me at the hostel but not without a wink and a “what are you doing tonight?”. “Well, I definitely owe you a beer for waiting for me all day,” I replied. We made plans to meet back up and I entered the...

Going with the Flow: Traveling South Africa

Going with the Flow: Traveling South Africa

Sorry for the long delay in updating my blog- for whatever reason, I was relatively uninspired when it came to writing during my time in South Africa.  It’s not because my month here hasn’t been thought-provoking- actually, it’s the exact opposite.  It’s a huge country, incredibly diverse, in what and who it contains, which makes it difficult for an outsider to completely understand and/or describe.  After traveling South Africa, I quickly realized nothing about this country is simple.  When it comes to employment, whites complain that affirmative action initiatives make it impossible for them to find jobs, blacks complain that their opportunities are limited because whites still have the highest paying positions.  The Apartheid and accompanying Bantu Education act (which prevented blacks from getting an education above what was needed for them to work as laborers) weren’t that long ago.  The xenophobic attacks on new African immigrants are an ongoing issue, and generally speaking clashes in the townships amongst people cramped together but all coming from different places, different values and different ways of living.  It’s a country with first world infrastructure (deceiving at face value) but third-world politics, with a significant amount of corruption. Since it’s my last morning in this crazy country, I have two extra hours before my plane takes off, I decided to down a second cup of instant coffee and write something.  That being said, yesterday was a crazy adventure and my mind is a bit fuzzy and still recovering.  After two days of severe food poisoning, I made an ambitious attempt at recovery: a damp, cold 12 km hike/rock scramble in the snow-covered Drakensburg Mountains.  I was dropped off alone at a smoky pool bar where I shared a beer with the South African equivalent of rednecks then spent hours in the cold drizzle waiting for a bus that was two hours late.  Around midnight, I successfully made it to Johannesburg Park Station just in time for insane adventure trying to find a hostel, hidden between industrial buildings.  Thankfully, my cab driver was the sweetest man who didn’t dump me on the streets of the city and eventually we were able to penetrate its fortress gates (he even offered for me to stay at his place if our efforts failed) so I’m leaving South Africa with my warm, fuzzy feelings about the country restored, even if I’m not happy about the atypically cold temperatures that make me a little delirious, as well as sleep deprived.  You are forewarned. For a bit of (boring but necessary) background about this journey that got me here.  I came to South Africa because I was offered a post-doc research position at the University of Johannesburg, looking at teacher training workshops in the famous Soweto township.  I was recruited by an enthusiastic but vague Brit retired professor who had been involved with the South African Institute of Physics.  Although I accepted the position after my defense in March, I was a bit skeptical that it was even real when they failed to produce a contract or provide me with useful information in the five months prior to my arrival.  But with some skillful flight coordination for my teaching gig in China, I was able to arrive in the country without paying a penny.  I figured I wanted to see South Africa anyway so what did I have to lose? “I love Johannesburg.  Every time my plane comes in to land, circling over the scruffy yellow mine dumps, the thin, thrusting skyscrapers and glinting glass of central Johannesburg, the snaking motorways encircling the city, the turquoise spangles of swimming pools and psychedelic splashes of bougainvillea in suburban gardens, the serried ranks of new township developments mushrooming out to the open veld, and the rashes of untidy squatter settlements, my chest tightens with excitement.  Jo’ burg is in your face, and overfamiliar from the moment you touch down” -As old as history itself, Sue Armstrong I arranged a workaway, tutoring 10th graders math in a township near Pretoria so I was close enough to check out the situation at the University but not tied to a sinking ship, so to speak.  I loved the area immediately.  I loved the subtle beauty of the grasslands- boring and barren at first glance, but containing a rainbow palette of warm hued vegetation.  Even though I haven’t been on a “real” safari yet, I’d encounter zebras, springboks, wildebeest on “average” hikes through nature reserves or private property.  I adored listening to lyrical melodies of Zulu and related African languages, laughed at the local slang (they call traffic lights “robots”) and the dainty accent that made me feel like adding “Cheerio!” to the end every conversation. I loved the spirit and spunk...