No cream, no sugar-- taking it straight.

27.08/2009

Ahh, full of vital energy, my kinetic potential of life here has risen to new levels. I cannot even describe how for once, I felt like I belonged here. It started off, kind of normal—with my usual wake up call at 7:15 am- snoozed a few times until 7:40, showered, and went off to call for 9am. From learning about Christianity- my baptized religion, for what seems like the first time, to learning about Print Production in FAM2010S from a jaded journalist who really could give a shit about a bunch of varsity students. My creative vibes got moving, nonetheless and my brain felt alive for the first time since Vermont. In Vermont, I always felt like my creative inhibitions were a sacred part of myself, somehow juxtaposed between the mountains, the cold and the stigma behind the naturalistic ideal of life out of the state. I felt like, you wanted to be a writer; Vermont was the place you found that part of yourself. So I did, for my first year and brought those fundamentals I learned in the small vicinity of Bennington, across the Atlantic, to Cape Town.

I had taken interest in Ubunye during O-Week, orientation my first week of settling in. They promoted themselves as a student run organization that used its resources to set up different schools of media for the townships that surrounded UCT. I immediately took interest in learning more- signed up and waited.

Time in South Africa is something of a lost arch. Somehow disoriented in Pandora’s box, time is paralleled between a maybe and sometime. By the time I heard back from Ubunye it was the 5th week into the term and I had to juggle so much out of the way in order to become involved, but deep down I knew it would be worth it. Or so I was hoping. As todays early morning evolved into the earlier parts of the afternoon, I got an SMS from Chrizane, the head director of the Media School telling me my tutor time is open and that we have a confirmed ride into the township- and to be ready at the Jammie stairs by ten past one. Excited I barreled through the meridian, the large amount of people that congregated at the Jammie stairs for the usual meridian performance of some MTN promotional band (somehow, commercialism never escapes any possible opportunity) and waited. Chrizane, against the South African time standard was ten minutes late of punctuality, but pretty much, on time. We ventured down Main Rd for Tracy, our ride into the township where we would be teaching. Tracy has been in Cape Town for 7 months, coming from the western coast of the states, San Fran, CA.

She drove Chrizane and I, along with a girl from Kansas, mhm, her name… is a blank, but we all ventured together. Since I only just joined and gotten involved, the three other girls seemed pretty involved about the project, talking about organization amongst the volunteers and the concept of responsibility, the concern for funding and the anxiety for writing our own exams before the Spring break. We finally arrived, at about half past 2. The townships that I saw on the way there were picturesque out of a slum movie. Coming for the idealistic, commercial being of the UCT region, the real, down to earth, hardships of places where our school was, it was like stepping into this space between the past and the present. A dividing line stood between myself, Cape Town and what was currently in front of my eyes. The houses were packed closer than any amount of hotels you ever owned on Baltic Avenue in your best game of Monopoly. Stray cats meowed to the chilly sun as they took homage to rooftops and garbage cans, just as desperate at the people that occupied the streets. Graffiti took major art form, in expression of struggle, the dark times of apartheid and the racial division that still stands strong in economical flows throughout the area. The division of white and black stands strong and proud, on both sides—and it was quite evident that I was the odd many out.

The four of us pulled into the Sophumelela Township School at the end of their day of school, as they stood in the courtyard, in full uniform and staring at us. Four white girls from the University step out of the transport taking eminence amongst their simplistic and almost archaic sense of being. Lost, as they were confused, we found the nearest teacher in order to find our learners for the afternoon. Chrizane found a kind woman dressed in jeans and a bright red sweater, her books and registers clustered and clutched tightly into her body. Her smile was as welcoming as American apple pie and her inquisition to our presence was as excited as a little boy who just discovered science in his backyard. She was eager and determined to help us find our learners. Some of the kids, aged in between 13-18 were already involved in the program, so the other volunteers has a better idea to what was going on than me.

Sophumelela carries that old schoolyard ambience that perhaps you see in good independent films that depict a 1960’s British school yard with a tetherball pole, lacking the tetherball and string while also having obsolete classrooms divided obscurely with a singular indication to room number only. They get straight to the point in lacking fancy education attaches (e.g. anything electronic, modern desks or titled floors…) This is raw education carries more of a close reality that is being instilled early on as opposed to 23-24-year old American college graduates that haven’t even seen any other than luxury, a sports utility Utopia of plastic overconsumption an a constitution of ignorance is bliss.

As soon as we were settled in a classroom, we stood before a room full of learners who sat in their dark blue uniforms, the sun shining through the windows and what stood between us and them was a gregarious sense of class, preponderance and titillating speculation. Chrizane is a local South African, relating more to the learners than myself. As she began the lesson plan, I stood before these 20-25 learners totally dumbfounded that I was were I was. The dirty wooden floors, the faded green chalkboards and the clusters of bland wooden tables that had their accompanying scattered chairs around was my audience in stead of being on the other side, looking at the speaker.

Teaching is flipping scary. It’s intimidating and it’s not easy. On the other hand, I’ve been in their shoes in terms of being a student looking at the teacher to run things, to hold structure and to be the source of stability—this was not my time to buckle and feel like my shy, introverted self. Hell, I am in their shoes every single day at varsity, staring blankly at my Professor with the eyes of a bad hangover and the weight of my brain holding me back from any defining ideal of participation. It wasn’t a time where I could really think about what I was going to say- it was a time to just let the punches roll. We introduced the learners into the very basics of journalism, the inverted pyramid of information (Who, What, Where, When, How) and what the purpose of having news is. Most learners source of news was limited to what they had at home, what their parents exposed or not exposed them to and what their friends talked about. As a final project, we want the kids to produce their own newspaper, with our guidance and advice we want them to be able to hold onto something tangible, to bring home and to hopefully cherish as a piece of themselves for their rest of their lives—or at least for the time being. We broke them off into the various sections of their paper. 4 groups divided into Business, Politics, Scandal/Gossip, and Sports. With 4 volunteers, our plans next week are to take our own section, have our group produced 2-3 articles and then publish them in the paper. We guide them into basic news writing, how to write in proper English and how to captivate a reader while building trust with society. They seemed so excited. And motivated. And amazing.

At another townships a few over from where we were, the headmistress was shot in the head last week, due to student rebellion. She was killed. You never get too comfortable here, ever.

“Nice tattoo!” one of the older girls said as she grabbed my wrist and gazed at my tiger lily as if it were sitting her own garden. She is doing a story about crime and her interview—or main source was her friend, who sat alongside her and was mugged last week on her way home from the township. To these children, it seems like a way of life where they don’t fret over it, they accept it as an aspect of how they live but they still carry that sense of hope of making a difference or at least for someone to make a difference for them.

Since I am away for the semester I cannot contribute actively to our school paper at SUNY but another volunteer in Ubunye had a brilliant idea to have our contribution to our home paper, be their contribution. And this idea excited the learners past belief. Their faces lit up brighter than Las Vegas from space and their glee glowed through their veins faster than they could even handle.

“When you guys write up your stories we’re going to give you disposable cameras so you can have pictures that help tell your story,” Chrizane said to a group of quite and absorbent girls. When she said that we would give them cameras, their reaction reached the excitement of a 13-year-old American girl seeing Britney Spears or the latest boy band for the first time. Covering their dropped jaws, their white teeth dazzled against their espresso skin- their eyes widened like the parting of the Red Sea, an unexplainable divine phenomenon. Their excitement was about how they could change their lives instead of being excited over the admiration of a corporate entity. The difference and culture clash begins to really take the main stage here.

“Melissa comes all the way from New York! And she is going to help you guys write the best stories you can so that you can see them in print and take them home and have your very own paper,” Chrizane motioned towards me as the entire group of learners now looked at me as they were meeting their face of America, in real life, for the first time.

I never felt such a yielding to my intelligence or my purpose, or even of my defining elements—and for once, someone looked up to me.

The feeling is actually pretty blank- speechless—liberating. I will never trade that feeling for anything material, any amount of money or any benign article, it was the realist moment about living in the present, living in the moment and sucking hard on the juices of the now.

One of the best moments of our session today was at the end, when two shy girls with their blue overcoats and side bags approached us as we gathered our own bags. She handed us this stationary that had bright colored and poignant red strawberries in the corners. Folded over and neatly written were lines of poetry, a personal emancipation of her inner-self, her confession of her emotions stood before us, complete strangers to her. Skimming quickly, I looked up, “this is beautiful. Did you write this yourself?” She nodded and kind of bowed in embarrassment. I flipped the next page backward to find only more of her poetry and as I keep flipping, I found her notes to our session, my words of advice on her small notepad.

Her eyes told me so much. They held a conviction, a truth, a story of struggle and sadness but a pair of glimmering hope that was exemplified by the ink that sat before me on the lined pages of these pieces of parchment. “Can this go in?” Her dark colored hands motioned towards her words and her eyes locked with mine.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Nothing is more perfect.”

The afternoon sun was hiding behind the mountain, as the parted in new directions with new destinations for the next seven days until our next meeting. Their assignment was to think about why type of articles they want to write for their section and to think of a title for their paper. Our assignment is a big more challenging, finding enough funding for the printing, the ability to bring the learners some pencils and paper (most of them had nothing to write with or on) and an afternoon snack—along with getting more organization going amongst ourselves. While this can be very stressful and make it seem like things aren’t worth all the strife and struggle, it’s moment of poetry that make things slow down and make the bureaucratic semantics feel like a needle in the hay.

Assimilation of the absent minded.

25.08/2009
Assimilation has been on my mind lately. Different cultures require different standards, expectations and ideals. I carry on here day to day, doing pretty much the same things that I do in New York- waking up, usually after 5 snoozes on my alarm, grudgingly going into the shower, heading to class, absorbing massive amounts of information, being overwhelmed, walking back from class feeling confused about life, questioning where or who I am, thinking what I should have for dinner, going for my nightly run, finishing my work out, eating what I thought of about eating, and studying until sleep takes over- and so the cycle beings once again.

The thing about life that I love the most is that it is yours and that you have the ability and the tenacity to change it at your will. So back to assimilation—what will make me more South African? Will it be how I say things, using slang, adhering to the accent…? Will it be what I begin to eat? How I dress? What I do on my free time? I don’t think so. I know by definition ‘to assimilate’ is to take in (information, ideas, or culture) and understand fully. Mhm, that gets my brain warm with thought. Let’s analyze. If I assimilate to the information of South Africa, I can study-, which I do religiously every single day. If I adhere to their ideas, I believe that is a vague assertion- what type of ideas? Political? Religious? Culturally? Mmh. That I am unsure of. If I assimilate to the culture, I will be doing all of the lifestyle concepts I mentioned earlier. Technically, in my mind, I feel like I have been assimilating well. And I’m glad that I got that off my chest. Sometimes, when you walk so far to school, you get stuck on these notions that just get glued into your brain until you get work them out.

I am going to the opera tomorrow night. I’ve been waiting for this specific one to commence at Baxter Theatre, next to lower campus. It’s sung in Italian and it’s a love story- ahh, sounds perfect for a monotonous Wednesday evening. Aside from that, my concentration has been on writing paper after paper so I feel that even my blog entries are becoming more technical sounding and more academically structured. I guess education does rub off. I’m currently working on my first feature article for my Production class. That’s eating up a lot of time and research time.

Thursday we are having a braai (BBQ). Everyone has been under so much stress the past few weeks that it is much needed!
This weekend is the last weekend for shark diving. I’m there. Last weekend I went to the Assembly, a local music venue/bar. Pictures will NOT really be posted due to intense intoxication and the possible embarrassment to my parents and family and most importantly, my reputation. Heh. I clicked on my camera the next day and was informed that I bought three CDs (which I found in my purse stacked along with flyers and pamphelts on car insurance & cable TV), I danced with some kid in high school and apparently thought that I could sing like Lady GaGa. I can’t forget the huge cut on my knee from tripping out of a taxi at 4 am… (SORRY, QUIG- YOU DID TEACH ME BETTER! I’M JUST STUPID. Hey, as you read this, you know that I didn’t drink and drive and all of my fallacies, are funny and innocent.) Oh, vodka- you have taught me my inhibitions can be pushed aside for a while.

*For those of you that do not know, Quig is my mom who is most likely cringing, laughing and shaking her at this blog entry... !

All for now. More updates this weekend. Cheers!
-Mel

1 Month Reflection...

19/08/2009

It’s been some time since I last wrote. Things have gotten challenging with my timetable and having a social life, that the computer doesn’t really seem to be that important any more. Or at least, I’m trying to stay away from it…

Either way, I have to update once in a while. Nothing too exciting lately, just straight lectures and studying. Last Wednesday was my friend from North Carolina’s birthday so we gathered up everyone that lives around us and went out for a nice dinner on Long St. Mama Africa was everything the name implies- full of African culture, dark romance, and mysterious sounds, it created an atmosphere I only dream of re-creating. 20 of us reserved a table and looked so foreign in such a home driven restaurant, but none of us cared. The walls were decorated with gigantic paper mache lamps in shapes of crocodiles and springboks. Dimly lit and very nicely heated, it gave us a sense of African cuisine. The menu: your arrangement of wild game e.g. crocodile, ostrich, springbok, calamari. Other dishes (aka the vegetarian dishes) were a vegetable bake which was the dish I got, full of beans, cheese, carrots, mushrooms all baked into one dish- very, very tasty. Another option was the stuffed butternut squash, which one of my friends had and was very tasty as well. I did figure that I was in Africa and that I need to try as many things as I can while I am here—so I sucked up my vegetarian morals and had some ostrich, a delicacy in Africa. Needless to say, it resembled the taste of steak and rumor has it, you can’t overcook ostrich because it’s so tender, apparently. I couldn’t get the nerve to try a reptile so I stuck to my sampling of ostrich, washed it down with my merlot and went about my way, deep into conversation.

Sunday, the 16th, marked my one-month anniversary of being in South Africa. As I walk to and fro school everyday, I think about what I have learned and what is different from home, what I miss and what I don’t miss,etc. My list always changes and very few things remain staple, but as I recall it goes as follows:

I MISS:
1. My bed. 2. My kitty. 3. My family, of course. && friends. 4. Uncommon Grounds bagels. 5. Bomber’s. 6. Grey Goose. 7. Gasp! NY heat. 8. The smell of my clothes after they get out of the dryer. 9. Being familiar with things.(this something that you take for granted when you’re home. You don’t know what you’re so accustomed to things that once you removed from everything you know, it’s habit to go back to what you do at home. In other countries, if you do that, you are more lost).


WHAT I’VE LEARNED, so far.
You have to ask for the cheque at restaurants, otherwise you sit there for an hour, looking lost and wondering. Saying bye is an insult. American is perceived as everything horrible but something everyone envies. Tabloids are called glossies. Magazines are called just Mags and men’s magazines are called Lad Mags. They love entertainment news, especially from the states. To go is called take away. You have to ask for tap water if you don’t want still, but most order still, not bottled. It rains in winter. And it rains an awful lot- and it’s horrible. Horrible is actually an understatement. When a shuttle bus sloshes you on your way home from lecture and from head to toe you are solid water, you begin to wonder what the desert fells like and how great it would be. For the rooibos capital of the world, that’s really the only tea they have. That and Ceylon and of course green. Bah, no oolong, no white and not very much herbal. My tea addiction is lacking. You press your coffee you don’t use automakers. If you ask for a large coffee, you get blank stares- let’s reiterate, long Americano or short Americano. Either way, you order anything with American in the name and you are one, which warrants the blank stare nonetheless. Most java drinkers like cappuccino or straight espresso. They drive on the other side of the road and I still after a month always ask, why are they on the wrong side of the road?! The only SUV car I’ve seen is the Land/Range Roover, no Escalades, Yukons, Navigators, etc. Tiny cars, usually Volkswagen or BMW. South Africa LOVES COCA-COLA. It’s almost as if they need it to survive. AIDS is a very, very, very real thing here, not just something you hear about if you are in school and learning how to use a condom in health class. A professor at UCT, who was supposed to be my production prof, died last week from HIV/AIDS. There is daily testing free on campus and throughout the town. It’s scary and realistic, something that America should start concentrating more on. Much more homelessness, very many people who literally curl up on the street side and snuggle with the cement wall with a tattered blanket, some have corrugated cardboard and if they are lucky, a knit hat. Whenever I go out to eat and don’t finish my meal, which is almost always—I give my leftovers to a lonely man on the street. You don’t know what happiness looks like until you see a face of a starving, cold man see food for the first time in weeks. You also understand the definition of being grateful and charity. The Internet isn’t as big here as it is home. Most people check the Internet on their phones than on laptops. Fancy electronics are not very popular because they are expensive. Cops carry rifles on the regular, in shopping malls, the grocery market, etc. Frightening, but scary for someone like myself not really used to seeing a fully armed large black man greeting me a pleasant morning with a rifle pinned to his side the size of my body. Needless to say, you greet back with enthusiasm.

Saying, “Ill see you later” means nothing. You have to add in when or a guess to when. So you say either I’ll see you just now, I’ll see you now now, or I’ll see you now. Just now= in a few days. Now now= in a few hours. Now= maybe I’ll never see you or maybe I’ll see you in a week. A very strange concept that I’m still adjusting to.

No matter how much Americans try to blend it, our backpacks and sneakers make us stick out peanut M&Ms compared to regular M&Ms.

I hate, absolutely hate, how people smoke everywhere. That’s one thing I love about home in a way. Here, there are no smoking laws in regards to restaurants or bars or the streets. And almost everyone smokes so smoke is everywhere. My asthma wants to rebel against my body already with the dry humidity let a lone the great smell of cancer streaming up to my nostrils every ten feet.

I’ll never talk in Celsius or kilos or anything metric. I have tried and it just leaves me confused. Numbers have never been my thing.

The only night people don’t drink is Monday and that’s only if you are sick or have a family emergency. Sundays you are not allowed to buy alcohol. Wine is sold in the market but beer is sold in bottle stores. Social lives are super important and if you’re not in, it’s hard to get in—but when you have an American accent, it makes for interesting conversation ranging from ‘did you vote for Bush?’ to ‘what the hell is this football thing?’

Ahh, that’s all I can remember for now. Spring break is in 2 weeks and I’m thinking of going to Africa Burns, which is considerably comparable to Woodstock 1969 minus Janis Joplin and the LSD. You drive 2 hours north of Cape Town and camp in a cell phone restricted area for 4 days, without shower or anything electric and just listen to the coolest music, hang out with friends and hike. It’s going to be a blast! I’m pretty stoked. I was considering ending up to Egypt for the week, but flights are too pricey and I’m going to see if I can get a discount for a ticket more towards December when I’m out of school and I have a few weeks before I head back to NY. Shark diving is a possibility this weekend, finally. After a week and half of rain and being sick, I finally get to see a shark an inch or so away from my face. Other things on my future agenda, sky diving, bungee jumping, tenting on Table Mountain and scuba diving.

I hope things in NY aren’t too warm and that things are winding down for the Fall.
Cheers,
Mel

Science amazes me.

09/08/2009

This weekend was gorgeous, finally! After pretty much a solid week of rain, the sun shined right into my window this morning and I couldn’t be more excited. Not only is today Women’s Day, but also it’s a Sunday where tomorrow we have no lectures. Three-day weekends are the best. At 7 am this duck that decided to perch itself next to my window and sing for the world to hear, woke me up, grudgingly. I tried to fall back asleep for a few more hours and he was just not having it- bah. Ben attempted at murder but throwing one of our lemons from the lemon tree that grows on the garden patio at the duck and his accomplice. Ben negatively failed but succeeded in throwing the lemon at the neighbors’ roof.

“Ohhh, shit!” When Germans swear, it cracks me up, every time.

Andrew and I decided that today we were going to the Botanical Gardens in Kirstenbosch. We gathered Ben and Jessica to join us. We called a taxi and went into one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. The entrance way was confected with indigenous looking statues, mostly of naked women- mhm, and of strange animals that may or may not be a cat/bird? After the entrance, you feel completely enveloped into something unreal- or at least something that you thought only existed in movies and books. Time stopped. Your heart fills with this feeling that everything in the world that ails you, doesn’t matter—you are here, in this sanctuary of beauty, peace and serenity. And that is all that matters. If you feel stressed or depressed or anything- go there to make things make sense. If I ever get married (god forbid) it will be there. And I don’t care how much it costs every guest to fly there; it will be worth every penny when your soul and body finally get a chance to meet.

It was like I was 10 again, being the tomboy and climbing trees. They have numerous hiking trails, natural waterfalls, picnic areas and amazing plants. Some were healing plants, some were just beautiful flowers that bathe in the South African sun, others are just strange, amazing—but strange. As we discovered new things, I just couldn’t actually believe that a place like that actually existed. And better off, I was standing in the heart of it. We took a moderate hike higher so that we could see parts of the city (another weekend I will go there for a sole purpose of hiking—the trails looked awesome!).. but the city view we saw from a low elevation was remarkable.

When those points in life seem unbearable, where you really think you’re not going to get through it—all you need is some great new perspective that will vivaciously help you. I came to South Africa not expecting the cliché. I suspended any other preconceived notion and just dove right in. As I stood in the middle of a stream today, watching crystal clear water naturally flow off of rocks, I could feel the world resting in my hands. I could see how the earth was created and why, I could see why we all must be decent to each other and why sometimes when things just are too much, you need to take a step back and think, the world is a huge abyss of creation- be apart of it. Get your hands dirty and feel what is around you. That’s usually the problem- you need to ground yourself again. In the hastiness of everyday life, people forget their surroundings, what is happening outside of their bubble. Stepping away from it will not only pop it but also prevent it from ever getting enough oxygen to fill up again.

After spending a few hours, we all decided we were pretty hungry. We called Mark, our new taxi man to come fetch us. We went to Cavendish and at Osumo, a great little smoothie/health food place. So fresh! The cool thing about food here when you order, you get the correct portion size and the dish usually doesn’t have anything but the main concentration- so no chips or fries, sometimes salad. Being healthy is everywhere. And I love it.

The rest of the afternoon I worked on a paper drank tea and relaxed. Happy Woman’s Day to me!
-Mel

Religious eschatologies.

Again, another collection throughout the week.

05/08/2009
August, aye? Wow, time does seem to take flight. Week 2 of lectures—ahh, what can I say? Is it holiday yet?
I forgot how tired I get going to class everyday and packing in tons of information, not to mention digesting it all and applying it to the realities of this so called life.

More rain this week- add more wind, darker and gloomier during the day. Oh, winter.

I’ve been thinking more and more on what I want to do AFTER college and when I am forced to grow up and not just live vicariously through lectures. Peace Corps? Maybe.

06/08/2009
Religion class got me thinking about my ethics and my own moral, self-judgment. In ancient Persia, when you die you go through a three-day journey of self-judgment. You cross a bridge that can either lead to heaven where life is full of great music; beautiful smells and it will be your eternal paradise or the hot, uncomfortable realities of hell. The trick was that the path is narrow and in the middle of the journey you are met by a spiritual being, Daena. Daena could be either a beautiful figure or an ugly one, depending on how you have held your image within yourself your entire mortal life. Daena would show you your ethics, your morals and make a clear divide on what is right and wrong. If you saw Daena as beautiful, then you held respect for yourself, you led a morally correct life and you were then brought into the House of Song or heaven. If your Daena was ugly, the bridge broke and you fell into the underworld- that smelt horrible, the noise was unbearable and it was dark for eternity.

This leads me to questioning whom my Daena look like and what would happen in the middle of the bridge? In the underworld you were then met by all of your druj or all of your lies and wrong doings in life. They surround you forever and you never are rid of them, the true punishment of falling through the bridge into the flames of hell.

Is it horrible if you do not accurately know what world you would be taken to? I feel like you should know what type of life you have led and you should be able to see your own self-judgment before you meet Daena. Yet, I still struggle in seeing the truth or any clarity.

Are you blind your whole life until that three-day journey, where you finally realize it and by then it’s too late to make a difference? And what if you do realize you were morally wrong a part of your life but you calibrated into a revitalized spirit and devoted your life to a morally correct lifestyle? Are you still deemed to meet the ugly Daena?
Long weekend this weekend. August 10 is Women’s Day. No lectures. It’s supposed to be nice- a great break from the week of rain. I’ve almost been here a month and to me, it seems like I just arrived.

I shall venture this weekend to new places. I’m determined to get off of Main Road for a while. Maybe by the end of the weekend I can figure out what my Daena will look like. Let’s hope it’s not in my reality for a few more years—yikes!
I met an interesting character today at Café Le Grind. He was looking for someone to make his documentary about his journey throughout South Africa while he donated stationary to underprivileged villages. The 45-day journey cuts into my UCT research, therefore and regretting my decision, I had to decline a great opportunity of really seeing South Africa. Something like that is what I’m looking for and what I ache to do. He was a great guy though.

“Africa is like a bug under your skin and before you know it, you’ve devoted your life to it.”

Le Grind has great coffee. And an excellent atmosphere that helps to absorb some more Cape Town culture, hospitality and intellectual thought.

Cheers for now,
*Mel