Nelson Mandela’s House in Soweto

Soweto Street Art

Back of Nelson Mandela's House

Metal Street Art Depicting the Uprising in Soweto

At the end of 5 weeks, most of the 11 students will be returning to classes on campus.  However, Mark, Michael, and Justin will continue trekking north while taking classes online.  As we discussed our options, it made the most sense to fly south to the vineyards of Cape Town first, then start heading north.  At $250 one way, flights seemed expensive, so we decided to go by train.  After a piece of toast for breakfast (someone stole our eggs from the communal fridge), we all donned our rain jackets and headed for the train station to buy our tickets.  The sleeper train beds were booked solid (this is the high season for tourists on holiday), so we bought the only option remaining, 27 hour cushioned seats.

From the train station, we boarded a taxi van for Soweto, a suburb once known as a slum, now a destination for those who wish to visit Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu’s homes.  I was amazed by the revitalization efforts.  The neighborhood was full of colorful murals and metal artwork as well as memorial signage documenting the uprising against apartheid.  As we walked through the community, I envisioned Mark and I living comfortably in Soweto.  We toured Nelson Mandela’s home that he shared with his first wife Evelyn, a nurse, and his second wife, Winny, and activist.  Full of metals and award placards, the home was as much a testament to Winny as it was to Nelson.  I took particular note of the powerful quotes written on the walls:

"During my lifetime I have dedicated myself to this struggle of the African people. I have fought against white domination, and I have fought against black domination. I have cherished the ideal of a democratic and free society in which all persons live together in harmony and with equal opportunities. It is an ideal which I hope to live for and to achieve. But if needs be, it is an ideal for which I am prepared to die."

Across the street from Nelson Mandela’s brick house is a restaurant, so we stopped there for a late lunch.  The music playing was an eclectic mix of American gangster rap, R&B, and pop.  The sandwiches resembled an enormous hunk of angel food cake with beef piled into a hallowed out cavity, and contrary to the idea of losing weight in Africa, it seems I am bound to gain some- if not from the fried chicken and fish, perhaps from the mayo chicken sandwich and prevalent Cadbury chocolate bars.  As we ate, we watched the tour buses pull up to Mandela’s house.  Apparently, there is a booze cruise of sorts that tours Soweto (I think it’s name is officially the “Party Bus”), which is kind of bizarre given that it’s a historical neighborhood.  I wondered what people would think if Africans came to America and hopped on a Party Bus that toured Washington D.C. or Dr. Martin Luthur King’s neighborhood.

From the restaurant, we walked to the Hector Pieterson Museum which documents the uprising which took the life of a 13 year old boy.  When the government tried to force the Bantu speaking school children to learn Afrikkans (a Dutch-based language), there were student protests on the streets of the hill, and when the police got involved, they brought guns.  As I read his sister, Antoinette’s, quotes, I was filled with a heavy sadness for his family.  Hector has become a national symbol and now has his own holiday, the 16^th of December.

Outside the museum, Michael and Justin got their first lessons in bargaining.  Justin ended up with some necklaces and a wooden carving while Michael found some outstanding rock sculptures of a thinking man and a family of four.

The jet lag began catching up with us, so we made our way back to the hostel with a stop along the way for snacks.  Today is Mark’s birthday, so I had hoped to take him out to supper, but he was exhausted and crashed out as soon as we got back to the hostel.  I wanted to crash as well, but I had heard rumors about solar powered hot water for the shower and I had been smelling whiffs of Chaco foot funk all day, so I wanted to make sure it wasn’t my feet.  I shaved my legs in the sink where I knew I could get warm water, then winced as I turned on the freezing cold shower.  Much to my amazement, I learned AFTER the shower that there was in fact hot water; I was using the wrong dial.  I bundled up in wool socks and a fleece jacket over my pajamas, popped a melatonin and was just about to crawl into bed at about 5:30 pm local time when Michael knocked on the door.  The group had T-bone steaks ready for the grill.  Seriously?  You know I must have been tired and cold because I almost never turn down a steak.  What a sweet thing to do though!  This is a great group.