Activities meet academics

Nelson Mandela's Cell

Robben Island

Emma, Senior, Seattle

Our stomachs plummeted as swells containing massive waves threw our ferry violently up and down as we navigated the furious Atlantic towards Robben Island, just offshore the Cape Town coast. We stood on the top deck looking broodingly over the rolling waves, some searching for a distant horizon to relieve the pangs of sea sickness in their bellies. The gray sky threatened rain while frigid wind sliced through bundled coats. A humpback whale's dorsal fin cut suddenly in front of us. Disappearing almost as quickly as it came, the tail of a great white shark vanished into the surf.

The immensity of our visit to Robben Island, particularly as a result of the opportunity to listen to the first hand account of the experiences of Tom Moses, a political prisoner, is indescribable. Tom's retelling contained intimacy, vulnerability and honesty. He spoke in a deep, commanding voice, but as his story wore on his eyes glazed over with emotion. At the heart of his speech were values of reconciliation and of strength. He spoke freely and passionately of the political prisoners resilience. Then he moved us all with stories of their refusal to break under intense physical and psychological torture and after each story reiterated the fact that regardless of what the prison guards did, “it only made [the prisoners] stronger”.

Tom's impassioned speech was cut short by stout old American man standing at the back of the cell where we sat during the tour.

“Excuse me, when are we going to see Nelson Mandela's cell? Could you please hurry up. I don't want to miss my boat.”

Silence smothered the shocked inhabitants of the room, people craned their necks backwards searching for the owner of the crude nasally voice. We sat, stunned, appalled at the rudeness of the mans words. Tom came out of the far away place his story had resided and back into the present suddenly. He blinked a few times, seemingly to gather his thoughts and looked about at the startled people before him who moments ago had been frozen, rapt with attention. Unfazed, he smiled and agreed to carry on with the tour. Looking around at each other, we could hardly believe what had just happened. We muttered back and forth, enraged, trying to comprehend what thoughts must have been going through the minds of both Tom and the American man. Our tour ended leaving us with a distinct sense of incompletion and emotional whiplash. The last few minutes constituted of a quick walk past several identical cells, one of which was indicated to be Mandela's. It was nothing special, had a small gray mat in the corner and concrete walls. We hardly paused and exited blindly into the sun filled afternoon. Most of the tour trickled down the road towards the ferry but we, and a few like-minded tour attendees stayed behind to talk to Tom. He patiently and thoroughly answered all our questions until we were forced to leave before we truly did miss our boat. We thanked him profusely and shook his hand moved beyond words, then reluctantly began the walk back to our ferry.

The emotional exhaustion I experienced after visiting Robben Island is difficult to comprehend. I walked away from the tour and abruptly broke into tears, overwhelmed by my admiration for Tom. A brave man who, like countless others, served years of imprisonment on trumped up charges of terrorism or conspiracy for his work for the African National Congress to end the apartheid.

In the end, Tom left us with a snippet of his vast unknowable capability and willingness to forgive those who had grievously wronged him. I was struck by his positivity and uncompromising belief in a future where complete equality is a given and the dream of a South African Rainbow nation is a reality.

View from Table Mountain

Table Mountain

by Katie, Senior, Seattle

Along the western Cape

where the ocean kisses the southern shore
Tall, It rises
under cloudy skies
above the city: Cape Town
The great Table Mountain.
Between thick bush
our trail was carved
- on flat packed dirt
- over trickling streams
- in the shade of small damp caverns
we shake our way around the base
the base of Table Mountain.
16 sets of feet
one after another
our path turns up
on a stairway of stone
climbing the gorge
up Table Mountain.
Apple cores and runaway peanuts
farmers tan and sweaty brows
mist and sun breaks
A dassie comes to say hello.
On our hike up Table Mountain.
We reach the top
in a thin cloud of fog.
But it soon clears
revealing the land below.
On top of Table Mountain
We see crashing waves
Robben Island
Scattered houses, like jumbled pieces of a lego built city,
We marveled at the distance we had come.
before descending in our footsteps
from wence we came.
Down from Table Mountain
Down on 16 sets of feet
One after another
Down on that stairway of stone
Back on flat packed dirt
back over trickling streams
under shade of those small damp caverns
back through the bush
to the base of Table Mountain
Above the city of Cape Town
Under shady skies
Tall it rises
on the southern shore
of the western Cape
The great Table Mountain

Township Tour

                                          Jane, New Hampshire, Junior

 

We’ve just left the town of Knysna, South Africa. We’re driving the Garden Route, stopping at grassy campsites (some with trampolines!) along the way until we reach our final destination, Port Elizabeth, and depart by plane to Jo’burg.

We’ve been whale watching, stargazing, holding creative and hilarious talent shows, rushing to pack up in short, frequent rain showers, learning about infectious diseases to prepare for our science final, and delving further into My Traitor’s Heart, and The Poisonwood Bible.
 

Our last day in Knysna we toured a Township just outside the city. A township, or informal settlement, is a place where, historically, black or colored people were forced to live during apartheid. Today, most townships are still predominantly black.
 

Our tour guide, Ella, showed us the problems and success stories of the slum. Many adults depend heavily on alcohol, yet want a brighter future for their children, and are sending them to school. We drove in, up rolling dirt hills and past one-room houses crafted from wood, tin, and plastic tarp. Laundry hung from lines, pink and green, yellow and purple shirts flying in the wind. Fat, brown cattle walked slowly through the road, stopping only to swing their horns and bray at dogs, who tucked their scruffy tails and disappeared into the closest doorway. Green grass sprouted everywhere, and the river spiraled out through Knysna, beneath the hills. Neighbors called to each other, and children danced barefoot in the street. We visited a small grocery store, stocked with every soda, candy, and baking material you could imagine. We visited a preschool, with two separate classes, and children aged one to six. They greeted us in song, tiny voices chanted in perfectly accented English. We colored, read, and put together puzzles with them.
 

Driving to our last stop, we saw the new houses being built, two room, painted peach or sunset orange, with sturdy, white roofs. Our last stop was our tour guide’s house. She served us tea, drummed and sang with us, and taught us sayings in the African language of Xhosa. We left, feeling inspired by Ella’s compassion, and her ability to find hope in unlikely places.

 

Roadside Memorial in Cape Town