I WANT TO GO TO THERE...

Tonight we hiked Lion’s Head, one of the peaks overlooking Camps Bay and Cape Town. Before tonight, I had no idea how was this was supposed to resemble the head of a lion. Kevin tried to explain it in terms of “Lion’s Head” vs. “Lion’s Rump” and I actually bought into it for a little while. Until someone pointed out it is actually supposed to look like a lion-sphinx (my favorite animal?). We started the trek up around sunset and had the most gorgeous views of the water as we made out way. Once we got to the top, we could turn and see the sun setting to our left and moon rising to our right at the same time. It was a full moon and it looked massive as it rose over the city lights. Everyone brought picnics and wine—because climbing dangerous peaks under the influence is always advisable. Here are a few pictures that don’t do it justice…

I LIKE MY CHEETAHS LIKE I LIKE MY WINE…

After celebrating our housemate Annabelle’s birthday last night, we struggled out of bed to go to Stellenbosch for the Spier Wine Harvest Festival. To quote my (completely unpretentious) copy of “South Africa’s Winelands: A Visitor’s Guide”—courtesy of a Monday night dinner delivery from Taylor Corr—“Spier’s historic Cape Dutch buildings and beautiful riverside gardens set the stage of a permanent celebration of the finer things in life: delicious food, superb wine, fine art, and music.” Couldn’t have put it better myself. Which is why I didn’t. Really though, this place had everything you could ask for from a wine festival: awesome live music, people mashing wine grapes with their feet in big vats circa “I Love Lucy,” delicious food, generous wine tastings, and a ton of really cute South African babies running around. Quick aside—I half-jokingly (not to mention loudly) said something about “wanting to steal one the babies” because she was so adorable. Literally seconds later, a man gets on the mic to make an announcement asking everyone to look around because a family can’t find their little girl and is really worried. FML. Thankfully they found her within a few minutes—keeping her face off a milk carton and mine off South Africa’s Most Wanted list.

Kidnapping allegations aside, this wine festival felt like a hippie-chic vineyard in Napa. Just as I was starting to forget, I was reminded of why Africa is far cooler than the states will ever be. And here it is… There is one key difference between the wineries in Stellenbosch, South Africa and those in Napa, California: CHEETAHS. Unfortunately, I don’t mean the run-away success that is the Disney pop group, “Cheetah Girls.” I mean real live cheetahs. Speir is home to the Cheetah Preservation Project that works to…preserve cheetahs in the form of a project. Basically, local farmers were frustrated with cheetahs killing their livestock and had busted out their Remington Bull Action Rifles (which God created on the third day to fight the dinosaurs… and the homosexuals) to take matters into their own hands by shooting a lot of cheetahs—which is slightly problematic, because they are endangered. But the farmers didn’t know what to do because the cheetahs were killing off their livestock and effectively their livelihood. But to play cheetah’s advocate for a second (not that I advocate cheating, EVA—love you) their natural habitat was being infringed upon by the spread of farming in the region. So some people established a cheetah conservation fund to raise money for breeding and raising these huge Anatolian guard dogs that scare away the cheetahs just by barking. Which, as we all know, prompted the South African Cheetah Population/ Baja Men joint collaboration in the catchy tune, “Who Let the Anatolian Guard Dogs Out?!” The program is working really well—since it was introduced, livestock losses have been reduced 95%-100% and the cheetahs are alive and well.

To make an already long-winded story just a little bit longer, while still keeping it kinda brief—Elle and I got to pet a cheetah!!! There is an outreach program at Spier Vineyards, and the proceeds go towards the Cheetah Preservation Project. At petting zoos in the states, absolute best-case scenario is petting goats or feeding some rabbits. But we actually got to pet Jack, a beautiful and surprisingly soft cheetah. The guidebook was right, Spier really does celebrate the finer things in life: cheetah and wine. A great pairing.

THE SQUEAKY CHAIR INCIDENT OF 2010

Disclaimer: This is pretty unrelated to South Africa. It probably relates more to the perils of global warming and mayonnaise on Asian consumer markets… But as the song goes, “This is my blog and I’ll ramble if I want to.”

Today it was brought to my attention that I have the mental maturity of a 7^th grader. I noticed that whenever I do something that makes a noise that could be mistaken for passing gas, I feel the need to let everyone around me know that it was not actually my digestive system... I choose to communicate this by blurting out the name of whatever inanimate object actually made the noise. Case in point: In the shower when the shampoo coming out of the bottle makes a funny noise, I instinctively shout “SHAMPOO BOTTLE!!” Regardless of the fact that nobody else is actually in the shower to judge me for the noises that could have been misinterpreted as the aftermath of a baked bean eating competition. Anyways, this habit is fine when I’m alone…but not so much in public places. Which brings me to today… Today, I went to the UCT library for the first time. As someone who is on a first name basis with the graveyard shift cleaning crew at Leavey, I can say from experience that UCT has a great library: comfortable workstations, plenty of outlets, good lighting, collegiate ambiance etc. At first glance, everything is great, except for one fatal flaw that turned out to be my undoing. I walked in, did a lap to scope the territory, and saw an empty desk near an outlet in the middle of the main room. Jackpot. I beelined for this desk (all’s fair in love and library), threw my bag onto the table, and plopped down into the chair. From this chair, sounded the strangest noise I had ever heard. It was bad. And Momma didn’t raise no fool—I knew exactly what was running through the minds of the library patrons when they heard that ungodly sound… So what did I do?? I chose to clear the air (pun intended) by shouting “SQUEAKY CHAIR!!” at the top of my lungs…in a library.

On the bright side, I think it speaks volumes about the kindness of the people of Cape Town that nobody immediately escorted the poor, gassy, girl with Tourrets (read as: me) outside of the library. But to be honest, they probably would have if I hadn’t run out of the library at mach 4.

ALL PART OF THE (GAME) PLAN

We hit up Old Biscuit Mill Market this morning and had a lovely brunch featuring lox latkas, a perfectly rare roast beef sandwich and chicken on the most delicious bread ever (we shared?). Then we immersed ourselves in South African culture by having a “braai” at our house. A braai is the South African equivalent of the American BBQ. But it means different things to different people. For most South Africans, I think it means a few friends and a grill. For us it meant inadvertently purchasing 4 kegs, a funnel, and 7 meters of plastic tubing (collegians should be able to do a frattastic addition problem in their head to figure out what the last 2 equal), and then inviting 100 of our closest friends over. A stunning example of cultural relativism. This was meant to be a pregame for the Cape Town Stormers rugby match that our program got us tickets to. Great in theory, but not so much in practice. After 4 straight hours of “braaing,” the pregame turned into the game, and the postgame turned into a nap. Whoops.

I'VE BEEN TOLD I LOOK LIKE GEENA DAVIS...

Today was our first day of volunteering! A few weeks ago when we went to our interview with Ubuntu, the group that works with HIV positive children, the woman who was supposed to be interviewing us never showed up. Brilliant interview strategy. We were told that things had fallen through and there wouldn’t be an opportunity to volunteer with this organization. Ellen and I were really bummed but we found another group that needs help at Youngsfield Refugee Camp. We weren’t sure exactly what we would be doing, but we were told that there were families of refugees whose children couldn’t go to school here. So we interviewed and signed up to go every Thursday afternoon to teach English.

After class we drove out to the military base in Wynberg, another neighborhood of Cape Town, where the refugee camp is located. During the car ride over, we talked with Emma, one of the coordinators who has been working with the refugees at Youngsfield for the past year. Emma told us that the families we were about to meet were all Somali refugees who had been living in one tent on the military base for almost the past 2 years. They were forced to leave their homes in May 2008, during the xenophobic riots in Cape Town. During these attacks, mobs killed 62 foreign nationals and drove 35,000 people from their homes. Although some of the people who were displaced moved back to their homes, it was unsafe for a lot of them, so they moved onto the military base in Wynberg. However, the military has the authority to throw them out of their tent on the base at any time they deem fit—regardless of the fact that Somali families really have nowhere else to go. The fathers leave the military base to work when there is work available—but these instances can be few and far between. In one of my classes today we talked about the unemployment rate in South Africa, and coming from the United States it is unfathomable—estimates hover anywhere between 40 and 52 percent. Recently, the fathers of these families have been able to find work picking fruit and are making about 70 rand a day, or the equivalent of $10. The cost of living is lower here, but not that low. Right before we drove over to Youngsfield, Ellen and I had a relatively cheap meal and it was over 70 rand for the two of us (granted, this wasn’t exactly a light fare—we’re growing girls?). For these fathers to try and support their families of 8 on this meager amount is ridiculous. Emma said that one of the biggest issues they face is food. She explained that as volunteers, their budget is very limited and it sets a precedent by bringing food for the kids every time they come to teach. But how can you teach a child who is hungry? The kids are getting one or maybe two meals a day of all starch, so Emma has been trying to bring sandwiches of some sort to hand to the kids during break. She said she didn’t want us to feel obligated as volunteers to bring food for the kids, but it would really help if everyone could pitch in. This is great news because I always really identified with the pitcher in “A League of Their Own”—probably because we both have red hair and a budding professional baseball career.

The guard at one of the gates let us onto the military base and drove to one of the farther-reaching corners until we got to the dirt road leading to the tents. We parked and started unloading the pencils, crayons, worksheets and books from the trunk of the car and looking off in the distance we saw these three little figures sprinting towards us. From that far away, all you could really make out was their big smiles—and I’m sure that is all they could see of us too. As they got closer to us, they slowed down (this is Africa, therefore it is hot) and walked up to us to say hello for the first time. Right away, they gave us all big hugs and introduced themselves, some more timidly than others. We met Said, Ouwa, Bindi, Gamar, and countless other little ones. We played some icebreakers and sang songs with the kids—I may have pulled a muscle trying to bust out a high kick while leading “Daddy Shark.” I kinda blurred the distinction between refugee camp and cheer camp. I’m sure it happens often. After that, Emma handed us each a piece of paper with the name of the child we had been paired up with. I was paired up with Ouwa. She is 7 years old and absolutely fearless. There is one tree on the part of the base surrounding their tent. I looked up at it and asked her Ouwa liked to climb trees (big mistake). I glanced back down to hear her response and where Ouwa was sitting a second ago, there was now just a patch of dirt. I looked back up at the tree and Ouwa was halfway up the trunk and was clearly not stopping. As riveting as my conversation with the dirt patch was, I decided to follow her up the tree (bigger mistake). As I got closer to the top branch where she was sitting, I started to see a huge, and potentially dangerous, hole in my logic. I figured that if these branches could support Ouwa, I should be fine. But after I put myself out there on a literal limb, I realized that although these branches could definitely support a stick thin 7-year-old girl, this was just not a population subset that I fell into anymore. When we got back on the ground, my patch of dirt had never looked so good. Ouwa and I did some English worksheets for awhile and she practiced writing out letters and hearing the sound they make. Ouwa knows her ABCs and understands the sounds they make. She is incredibly smart, so excited to learn, and just has the best attitude about it. It kills me to think that this is the only “school” she will have for the week. Refugees are technically allowed to attend the public schools in South Africa, but the issue is that the kids here aren’t up to speed with the basic curriculum so even if there are any openings, they can’t take them. The goal of the program is to get them caught up so that as soon as a space opens in the grade they are supposed to be in, they can start attending regular school. With kids like Ouwa, I think that will be no time at all. I already can’t wait to see her next week.

EUGOOGOOLIZING FOR MY LAPTOP BATTERY

Due to some technical difficulties, it has been a while since I blogged last. My computer battery died completely. Not the kind of death where you can just plug it in, but a very dramatic, very unexpected death. This took away the portable aspect of my laptop. Which wouldn’t be a problem at home, but our room here only has one outlet—a feat of architectural brilliance. Anyways, it took a while for my laptop battery to get here. Which shouldn’t come as a surprise since the Apple representative helping me on the phone spent a solid 5 minutes in silence looking for “Africa” on the drop down menu listing countries. A lot has happened since last time I wrote so I’ll just stick to a greatest hits list:

1. Spent our last night on the Garden Route at the Starlight Hostel in Plettenberg Bay—I mention this is case anyone reading this happens to find themselves in Plettenberg on a KFC World Tour or en route to the East Indies (people have ended up in weirder places), you have to stay at this hostel. It The dorm rooms resembles a ski lodge it is run by a man named Hercules—both of which are perks that are few and far between in Africa. He said that Hercules is his given name—so apparently it is sheer coincidence that he looks like Stone Cold Steve Austin. He hired this Brazilian bar boy named Gus who just got to South Africa 2 weeks ago and makes him wear a uniform that I probably shouldn’t describe in a public forum.

2. Saw Goldfish in concert—Two Sundays ago, we went to a club in Camps Bay called La Med, it is right on the beach and has a large outdoor section where people can sit outside on lounges. Goldfish are these 2 South African DJs that were playing. They are amazing. The two of them mix electronic music while playing saxophone, keyboard, flute and bass—it is amazing to listen to and even cooler to see live. They call their music “Electro-Jazz” and if you like either genre of music whatsoever, you have to check them out. This might take all the bandwidth in Africa, but here you go: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTkSbOGHffY

3. Old Biscuit Mill Market—The past 2 Saturday mornings we have gone to the Old Biscuit Mill Market. This place has effectively replaced the void in my week left by Saturday morning cartoons in a way that I never thought was possible. It is the foodie equivalent of back-to-back episodes of Recess and Pepper Ann. At the risk of turning this into a food blog…. This place is incredible. It is a gourmet farmer’s market with absolutely everything you could imagine—artisan breads, seared ahi salads, flatbread wood fired pizza, falafel, Belgian waffles, springbok sausages, incredible mojitos and the most incredible roast beef sandwich I’ve ever eaten—just to name a few. Outside, there are big bales of hay and inside there are long tables with tall candles in wine bottles. Everyone just sits around all morning, and well into the afternoon, eating and drinking and schmoozing. It’s a really tough life. Oh and Darth Vadar and a Stormtrooper were at the Old Biscuit Mill last weekend, which is exactly what farmer's markets in the states are missing. We could learn a lot from South Africa.

4. My data was finally captured!—This is great news because before I was studying abroad, without actually being a student. Since I had registered along with everyone else, I was under the crazy impression that I was enrolled in classes. Wrong. So wrong. I checked the online version of Blackboard here and it turns out I am not technically a UCT student. So I went in to the enrollment office on campus to ask what the deal was and the woman there informed me that my “data had not been captured.” Being my data, I can only hope it was out there toppling statues of Saddam and evading capture, but I really needed it to be in the computer. Every time I raised my hand in lecture I expected someone from the cuts to shout, “She doesn’t even go here!!” at which point my professor would transform Tina Fey and tell me to go home. Disaster averted. We are now 2 weeks into classes, my data was finally captured, and I am officially a student here.

5. Hemisphere—Last Thursday we went to this club called Hemisphere on the top of the 32-floor ABSA building overlooking downtown Cape Town near the waterfront. At Hemisphere and a lot of other clubs here, there is a dress code and guys can’t get in without dress shoes or a collared shirt. Right before we left, Connor decided to hop in the cab and join us—which was wonderful news, except he was wearing jeans, lace up Vans and a flannel. A hipster in Los Angeles, and a peasant in Cape Town. We decided we’d just talk to the bouncer and have a couple of girls flank him on our way in. We walked up to the bouncer and he took one glance at Connor, whipped out his radio and called for backup, saying, “We’ve got a man here in trainers.” The first time that has ever happened in the history of trainers or calling for back up. Another big bouncer rolled up and we started talking to him, trying to use the standard “We’re-silly-Americans-who-don’t-know-better-and-wear-trainers-to-clubs-and-even-sometimes-while-skiing” card. But it wasn’t working so well. Until Connor reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of chewing gum. I have never seen anybody’s face light up the way that bouncer’s did when he saw this chewing gum (well, at least since last week when Danny found out about the all you can eat night at the Chinese restaurant around the corner). He started eyeing the pack of gum and then, almost timidly, asked Connor if he could have a piece. Connor became an instant celebrity. The other bouncer saw the gum and tripped over himself trying to get to Connor to grab a piece. It was all smooth sailing from there. The bouncers ushered us into the elevator, but had Connor asked, I am fairly sure they would have carried him up the 32 flights of stairs, while shirtless.

6. Kirstenbosch—Spent Valentine’s Day at Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens. They have an outdoor summer concert series and everyone brings picnics and wine and sits outside listening to the performance. The gardens are absolutely beautiful. They look manicured and wild at the same time and a Table Mountain is the perfect backdrop. I am sure it could have been really romantic—had Ellen not been my date, and had the band playing not been Jamali and Friends. Once we arrived, we learned that Jamali was the winner of the South African version of making the band. Picture Destiny’s Child and 3LW singing Aretha Franklin covers. And when they said Jamali and Friends, they really weren’t kidding. The performers were Jamali and literally anyone they were friends with: friends of the family, MySpace friends, friends with benefits…Point being, I’m not sure exactly who they were but they definitely weren’t professional singers. Moral of the story, if you are looking for a South African contribution to music, definitely check out Goldfish and run for cover when you hear Jamali.

JUMPER? YEAH THAT'S NOT COMFORTING AT ALL.

We woke up this morning in Wilderness and had a yoga class on the beach at our hostel. I wanted to ask the teacher if she goes by Professor McGonagall because at one point I thought Brett might have transfigured himself into a salted pretzel. After yoga we loaded up the van and left Wilderness for Civilization. Well, it was actually for Tsitkama National Park, which also could have been pretty aptly named as Wilderness. On our way we passed the bungy jump at Bloukrans bridge—it is allegedly the highest static bungy jump in the world at 216 meters. This bride already sounds high in theory and seeing it in person made me really apprehensive about this whole bungy jumping business. Danny referring to it as “stimulated suicide” probably didn’t help either. We decided we would try to zip line and then see how we were feeling about the bungy jump. So we got to Tsitkama and all got strapped in to the zip lining gear. The part that clips onto the zip line felt like a carrying around a poorly concealed weapon in a holster, which also makes today the closest I have ever come to feeling Texan. We went zip lining over the waterfalls and rain forests in the park. Seeing everything from above the canopies today was beautiful and a really different perspective than kloofing through the canyons with Steve.

On the ride back from zip lining, we realized that we would have to squeeze in bungy jumping today so that we will have time to drive back to Cape Town tomorrow. Elle and I weren’t really mentally prepared to hurl ourselves off a bridge since we usually only do that on Tuesdays, so we made Danny throw on some pump up music. He started off with T.I.’s “Bring ‘Em Out” because we are apparently a junior varsity high school basketball team. Danny has been dead set against the stimulated suicide that is bungy jumping this whole trip, but once he started playing Major Lazer, I think everyone realized that we are actually here in South Africa and only have one chance to try new and exciting things. Like knitting and flinging ourselves off bridges. So Danny made the last minute decision to bungy jump with us too.

We were the last people to sign up before they shut down for the day. Will, Brett, Danny, Ellen and I walked over to the bridge while Heather and Sophia cheered us on from the bar where they could watch our jumps on the televisions. To get to the place on the bridge where you jump, there yet another bridge which felt about as stable as the Soviet Union in 1987. And 712 feet is a long, long way to fall when you are looking down, so this whole process was mildly terrifying. Once we got to the top of the bridge, my mindset totally changed. They were playing really loud techno to pump everyone up and everyone who had bungy jumped was really excited, and also still alive. As soon as they strapped my ankles in, I knew it was too late to turn back, or even pivot—ankles are pretty key. They helped me hop over to the edge of the bridge and looking out all you could see was the gorge and sky. I was terrified. They started counting down from 5 but I knew that I couldn’t let myself think about it, so before they got down to 1, I jumped. The first few seconds of the free fall I didn’t even know what I was looking at, and then it was a rush of sky and trees and ocean. On the rebound from the bungy cord, I shot back up and then down again and all I could think about was how incredibly silent it was. Finally, after the third bounce, the bungy went taut and I realized I was hanging from my ankles 700 feet from a bride. Looking around and seeing the canopy of trees underneath me, and seeing the river run past and the ocean out in front, I felt like the only person in the world. That made it feel like I could change the world too, if I wanted. I finally realized what everyone meant when they said it was an empowering experience. And then I couldn’t stop laughing.

During the car ride back, all of us were still so excited from the natural high of the jump, or maybe from the glue we sniffed…(if you are future employer and reading this, I’m kidding). We drove into Plettenberg Bay for dinner, which the guidebook described as “the San Tropez of Africa.” It was a very pretty town I figured out where they got the San Tropez analogy when I saw 2 KFCs on the main road—the fried chicken ratio is spot on.

WILDERNESS

Today we went kloofing! “Kloof” is the Afrikaans word for “canyon” and none of us knew exactly what kloofing entailed before today. Basically you do anything you can to get through a massive canyon—scamper from rock to rock, swim through pools of water, dive off ledges, trade your firstborn childf or a topographic canyon map. Anything. Our guide’s name was “Steve” and after traversing a canyon with him, I can only assume that “Steve” is a family name and he is related to Steve Irwin. I mean, Ellen DeGeneres is Ellen’s great-grandma and both are related to Ellen Page, so I am pretty sure that’s the way it works. Steve led us through a small piece of the largest rainforest in South Africa—he had the most immense knowledge about the environment and told us that raptors, crown eagles (the man-eating ones), and leopards all inhabit it. After a short hike, we arrived in the canyon where we were going to be kloofing. I can’t even begin to describe how beautiful it was. Massive gorges surrounded us on either side and a river ran along the way through the middle. But the water in the river wasn’t like anything else I have ever seen before. The entire river contains a mineral called tannin that stains it to make it the color of a dark tea. I suggested we seize the chance and stage a Boston Tea Party reenactment, but nobody would sack up and be Thomas Hutchinson and there wasn’t a good place to build the harbor replica. Next time. The tannin in the water made it dark enough to perfectly reflect the canyon above it, and even though it was a strange color Steve said that it came from the mountains so as we swam through it we could drink it too.

The whole time we were kloofing, Steve told us these incredible stories about all the things he has seen and done here. With stories like this, there is a tipping point where being a bad ass turns into being a dumb ass. Now, in order to recognize when this moment came for Steve, you have to understand that we had a 2 week orientation to orient us with things about Africa that cannot be orientated from the states. The better part of this 2 weeks was devoted to informing us of the pitfalls and perils of driving to Namibia. They used scare tactics, propaganda and the KGB to drive their point home. In South Africa, the Namibia talk is the equivalent of the birds and the bees talk in America. Except scarier because there are no euphemisms—just straight up Namibia. We were all sat down in a big room and the head of our program, Quinton, told us horror stories about groups of students who decided to drive to Namibia…and never returned…Well they did return, but not by car. Some of these kids literally had to be airlifted out. Quinton made it clear that only degenerates and American study abroad students would think driving to Namibia was a good idea. Now fast forward to us kloofing through a canyon, 2 weeks later, with Steve at the forefront. About half way through the canyon we took a break and he chose this moment to inform us that not only did he drive to Namibia—he hitchhiked through Namibia…with his 7-year-old daughter as his travel companion. As soon as Steve said this, the look on everyone’s face was like a god had fallen. Or we had just realized that the man leading us through this canyon and telling us where it was “safe” to jump from 16 meter tall ledges into water was actually completely off his rocker. Or maybe even a Republican. I mean, who knows what else he was hiding? Miraculously, we made it through our kloofing experience and got to our hostel in a town called “Wilderness.” It’s on this expansive, untouched beach with lots of trees and foliage—points to the people who named this place. Not necessarily points for originality or irony, but points nonetheless.

RIDE YOUR OSTRICH AND EAT IT TOO

We took off today in the Frat Mobile! Driving stick on the left side of the road didn’t turn out to be the biggest challenge we faced on the road. The thing that took the most getting used to was the fact that we are “driving in a nation of elderly Floridians” as Danny put it. Nobody in South Africa is in a rush to get anywhere. And it makes sense; everything is so beautiful here that you can’t help but slow down and look. Every time we turned a corner I felt like we were in a completely different place. From white sand beaches, to rolling green mountains (looked so much like Middle Earth that I mistook Sophia for Gandalf), to vineyards—the scenery was incredible. But probably the best thing about driving in Africa is that it is very conducive to the best road trip game of all time: Hey Cow. Tracy Davis is the patron saint of road trips and sore throats for introducing me to this game. It’s a little complicated, so don’t feel bad if you don’t get it the first time around. There is a learning curve with this sort of thing. Whenever you see a cluster of cows on the side of the road, you roll down the window as fast as you can and yell “HEEYYYYY COOOWWWW!!!!!!!” at the top of your lungs. For every cow that turns their head you get a point. Sounds easy, right? WRONG. When you are flying down I-5 at 90mph (trying to get through the middle of California before it rubs off on you and you think cow tipping is an Olympic event), the only way a cow is going to turn its head and hear you is if it happens to see a fly in the other direction or pensively tilts his head to better ponder the impact of global warming on rural communities in Vietnam. This would make the game seem pointless, right? WRONG AGAIN. It makes it even better. Now take this already wonderful game and imagine it in Africa. “Hey Cow” suddenly becomes “HEEYYY OSTRICH!!!!” and “HEEYYYY BABOON!!!!” both of which abound on the side of the roads here. And on the off chance you haven’t already seen the reaction of a flock of ostriches when you are driving at an Africa appropriate pace and yell “HEEEY OSTRICH!!!!” out the car, let me tell you—they flip out. Pandemonium ensues.

We finally arrived in Oudtshoorn—a place whose dual claim to fame lies in the fact that it is the ostrich capital of South Africa and also the only city where no two inhabitants agree on the pronunciation. We knew we were there because the signage on highways in this country is great, there is zero room for confusion. Whereas in America, there are the green and white highway signs that denote that gas, lodging or food is available; here the signs kick the specificity up a notch or seven. There are green and white signs with big ass trees to denote big ass trees. And there are green and white signs with people riding ostriches to denote places where people ride ostriches. We pulled over into one of these farms and Danny rolled down the window and said, “Hi, we want to ride ostriches, race them… and then eat them.” Subtlety apparently doesn’t apply to signage in South Africa or Danny at ostrich farms. I want him to take his show to the road and use this winning line at an elephant sanctuary or an orphanage.

Our guide took us out to feed some of the ostriches and shared a few facts about them that might have been considered “fun” in some settings—like bar mitzvahs and funerals, but not right before you are about to ride one. Not only can they run at speeds of up to 85 kilometers per hour, they can also kill a lion with their nail. Then he led us to an ostrich pen with yet another sign that said, “Ride a bird at own risk.” Perfect. Now ostriches can’t even fly, so before this trip, I envisioned ostrich riding as somewhat of a leisurely activity—like riding a pony. I pictured us riding these ostriches sidesaddle with a glass of chardonnay in hand. Not the case. It was less like ostrich riding and more like ostrich drag racing. As soon as you put your legs on either side and grabbed a wing in each hand, the ostrich farmers gave them a big slap on the tush and they sped off like roadrunners dodging ACME anvils. Naturally, I named mine “Kevin” and we became quite close. After we had gotten our fair share of ostrich riding, we watched the professional ostrich jockeys at work. Jockey No. 2 was riding the lovechild of Seabiscuit and Roadrunner and killed the competition. Then we saw a pair of nesting ostriches—the male and female take shifts sitting on the eggs. I didn’t ask, but don’t worry, I’m sure the female still does the cooking, cleaning, and knitting when Sports Center is on. Then we stood on the ostrich eggs (1 egg can feed 20 people, or 1 Taylor Corr) and held them. Afterwards we had a lovely meal of ostrich carpaccio, smoked ostrich on baguettes and ostrich meatloaf. After an accidental 60km detour, we made our way back to Mossel Bay, where we stayed in an old train car on a beautiful beach that had been converted into a hostel. I felt mild pangs of guilt thinking about Kevin and our dinner, but it could have just been the carpaccio.