Days Twelve to Fifteen
The last part of the trip was two days and three nights on safari. During the days we went out on game drives, and we stayed in a house that butted right up against Kruger National Park and had its own private pool and chef.

When I’d learned that we had the option of adding several days of safari to our trip, I got myself tied up in knots deciding whether or not I should go. An extra 1K was a lot of money, and the idea of driving around in a hot vehicle with a bunch of people for hours on end just to stare at some animals that may or may not show up sounded an awful lot like my version of hell. But maybe I was being shallow and clueless? 

So I systematically grilled everyone I knew who had once lived in African and/or gone on a safari. Everyone, every single person, said I should do it, so after a few more days of agonized waffling (I knew I was being ridiculous) I decided to go for it. I’d probably never be in South Africa again, so why not. The worst that could happen was that I’d hate it for three days and then it’d be over. Whoop-de-do. 

Kruger is about the size of Israel and completely fenced in, which actually kinda made it feel less wild even though the park is, I assure you, totally wild. When members of our group would wander a bit too far when we stopped for potty breaks at the unfenced-in stations, our guides would get visibly agitated, and the one time we were watching a far-off leopard lounging in a tree and our guide got out of the car to hand out cold drinks to us and then then the leopard decided to drop out of the tree, the guide shot back into the vehicle in a flash.

How long would it have taken the leopard to get from the tree to us? we later asked. Four to five seconds, was the answer. 

Aside from that, nothing much of note happened.

We didn’t get to see any lions taking down impalas — we didn’t even see any lions, for that matter. Our drivers mostly kept to the paved roads with short dashes down dirt roads to check out river beds and watering holes.

The elephants were fun — I wished I could’ve just sat there for hours watching them — but our stops were short. We had to keep moving and looking.

Because, see, a safari is kind of like thrift shopping. Maybe you’ll see something, and maybe you won’t, but the fun is in the hunt. (If you like thrift shopping.)

Some of the animals we saw: elephants, a cobra, wildebeests, kudu, warthogs, impala, water buffalo, giraffes, leopard, hippos, baboons, crocks, zebras, assorted birds, etc. What we didn’t see: lions, rhinos, and anything killing anything.

just a couple weeks too late

It wasn’t all driving. We stopped at an elephant museum one day and had lunch in a touristy-kitchy-educational place. Another time we paused mid morning for a snack of rusks and thermoses of hot tea. 

Staying at the private house and having a private chef was an event in its own right.

Our chef would come out to introduce the different parts of the meal, and the servers would stand against the wall while we ate and visited. 

giving me Downton Abbey-esque vibes

The menu was pretty incredible: multiple courses, cocktails and appetizers, lots of game (impala, kudu, and ostrich, as well as tuna tartare and escargot).

this magical little machine brewed the coffee AND frothed the milk

Servings were small so I never felt overfull, and the meals were absolutely delightful, but you know what? I can only do fancy for so long before I get hungry for honest fare. When I think of all the food that we had in South Africa, it’s the simple homemade meals that the women at St. Benedict’s served to us that stand out to me. That was the food that truly fed me — and that I want to recreate in my own kitchen. 

last night in South Africa

Am I glad I went on the safari? Yes, absolutely. The animals were fun, but even better than the animals was getting to see more of South Africa.

Up until that point, we’d been stuck in cities, so getting to see the river beds, scrub trees, sunsets, and red dirt of Kruger — to feel the cold morning air and the blistering noonday sun — and then driving to and from Kruger through the Limpopo mountains, fields of orange groves, and small towns was a whole experience unto itself.

coming down out of the Limpopo Mountains

That’s the part I loved. 

The Last Couple Travel Days
We left Kruger, bussed to Jo’burg, and then hopped on an evening flight for our 8-hour trip to Doha, Qatar. I was seated next to the window, penned in by two young, friendly women, their laps full of computers, blankets, and cords.

Almost immediately, I felt panicky. My shoes were too tight. I was hot. I couldn’t breath. I needed to pee. I had to take my contacts out. I felt full. I couldn’t move. I was thirsty. I couldn’t drink (because then I’d need to pee more). I needed to find my evening medicine. Finally, I got up to go to the bathroom (which was a process, considering how long it took them to dig themselves out) where I peed, popped a Xanax, and then went back to my seat and promptly passed out for the next six hours, thanks be to the pharmacuetical gods.

For the next 13-hour flight I once again had a window seat — nooooo! — but Seth, upon hearing how miserable I’d been, voluntarily swapped his aisle seat for my window seat, at which point I was so relieved and thrilled that I threw my arms around his neck and tried not to cry.

That’s the flight when I figured out that drinks were free on international flights and celebrated by having a gin and tonic and two glasses of white wine.

This same time, years previous: a food-filled weekend in Brooklyn, ippy, the quotidian (11.30.20), Thanksgiving of 2018, Chattanooga Thanksgiving of 2016, Chattanooga Thanksgiving of 2015, pot of red beans.

Day Eleven
Sure enough, when I showed up soon after six the next morning, the winery gate was open.

photo from the night before because, once again, I left my phone behind

I spent the next hour running the perimeter of the vineyard, circling a pond, and weaving back and forth through the rows. I peered through the wall into the backyards of fancy houses and their tennis courts and manicured gardens. And then I came upon a low walled-off area on the far side of the vineyard. I circled it until I came to the entrance. It was a graveyard, each plot covered with a gently arching concrete pad; the names were Dutch, and the dates were from the 1780s to the 1880s. What was South Africa like for those people? I wondered. How did they experience it?

***

After breakfast, we headed to Muizenburg Beach. Several of the guys were going to go surfing (Muizenburg Beach is supposed to be one of the best spots in the world to learn to surf) and persuaded me to join them. 

^{photo credit: Rene Hostetter}

The three of us newbies went together for a lesson: it was about $30 for an hour and a half lesson, a board, and a wet suit, which is horrible, by the way. Thick, soggy wet, and tight, once I had it on, there was no way to adjust it — the thing snapped onto my skin and wouldn’t budge which immediately made me feel claustrophobic and panicky. I actually had to slow my breathing and give myself a little lecture about not being a wuss and then just keep moving.

^{photo credit: Rene Hostetter}

Our instructor taught us everything on land: the parts of the board, proper foot positioning, how to ride the wave (paddle paddle paddle, feel the wave, paddle paddle paddle STAND UP), and then had us practice several times before letting us even touch the water. 

He also taught us — and this was the very first thing he explained — the meaning of the shark flag.

There was a marine lookout up on the side of the mountain, he said, and if the flag was white, it meant that no sharks had been spotted and the water was clear. A gray flag, the one that was fluttering the whole time we were in the water, mean that no sharks had been spotted but the lookout folks couldn’t see into the water. A red flag meant SHARKS, sirens, and an immediate evacuation. A green flag meant that sharks had been spotted within the last hour but it was safe to be in the water. 

Friends, I am not comfortable in water. Also, surfing is hard. The waves were relentless and big (to me, anyway) and the board, which was strapped to my ankle, was crazy heavy. Surfing, I decided, was like trying not to drown while being chained to a weapon. 

^{photo credit: Rene Hostetter}

I was able to ride the waves in just fine, but I never got to my feet — not even close. I simply didn’t have the upper body strength to do a pushup, immediately tuck my feet under my body and then stand up, all in one smooth motion while zipping along atop a wave. I was, however, able to ride the waves in while kneeling just fine. That was fun.

^{photo credit: Rene Hostetter}

After a half hour or so, my arms were like jelly. I ditched my board and settled for just jumping/diving through the waves . . . until I got a horrible charlie horse in my calf. The instructor was right beside me and held my hand while I breathed through it. But then, while I was still doubled up in pain, I got the exact same charlie horse in the OTHER calf. Unable to straighten either of my legs, there I was, massaging my legs and half-crying all while trying to stay afloat.

As soon as my muscles relaxed enough for my legs to straighten, I swam-limped ashore. The instructor guessed the cramping was due to the cold water, and maybe, I added, because I’d run for an hour that morning. My calves were wicked sore for days.

beachside fish-n-chips

The second part of the day was spent at the V&A Waterfront, a big ol’ mall type-a thing.

South Africa’s four Nobel Peace Prize recipients

That night we stayed in a hotel next to the airport in preparation for the next morning’s early flight back to Jo’burg before we headed off on our next adventure . . . 

Having my Sunday supper in the hotel hallway so I wouldn’t disturb my roomie with my crunching.

. . . safari!!!

This same time, years previous: kale pomegranate salad, monster cookies, two Thanksgiving things.

Day Ten
Some nuggets from the morning’s conversation revolving around how we might be more involved in social change where we live:

“There are ditches we slide into,” Andrew said, “like believing that if we do something, it has to happen for everyone. Instead, it might be better to ask: Where are the pockets where something can happen?”

Someone in our group mentioned that we gather strength from taking action together — we don’t have to do these hard things on our own — but I said that our need to do things as a group, to be in agreement with the people we relate to, can actually be a tripping stone. Many times, acts of resistance are done by individuals, not communities. And since countering power isn’t exactly a pleasurable activity, waiting for a whole group to take action together might be foolish, especially when our social circles often consist of the people with the power.

“The answers are not found in the voting booth,” Steve said. “It’s the day before election day and the day after that is our political act. We don’t need to keep giving our agency away. I want you to feel a bubbling of creativity inside your guts. The struggle is the struggle is the struggle, and it’s sacred. It’s fun. I’ve done my stints in jail, and it was fun.” He grinned. “We sang a lot.”

***

A few weeks back, when I announced on social media that I’d be traveling to South Africa, another cheesemaker who follows my YouTube channel, asked if we could meet up. He had some cheeses for me to sample, he said. When I rounded the corner and saw him standing there in the parking lot, it was like seeing an old friend.

We visited for well over an hour, and that conversation — making that connection with another cheesemaker, as well as the fact that he took the time to come see me — was one of the most special parts of the whole South Africa trip.

***

Remember how Iziko challenged us to see, judge, act? Well one thing I was seeing, or not seeing, rather, was that there were no white people doing manual labor. Everywhere we went, it was Black and brown people serving the food, mowing the yards, driving the buses, doing the street work.

Even at the convent, the nuns and office administrators were white while the people serving our food and vacuuming the halls and doing the gardening were Black.

***

We spent the afternoon debriefing up on Chapman’s Peak.

We were encouraged to write down events that stood out to us in the last couple weeks, as well as make note of the things we wanted to do when we returned to the States in order to link the two worlds and provide accountability for our future selves.

***

That evening we walked to a winery for supper.

Cape Town is loaded with vineyards and wineries. Weekend culture is climb a mountain, hit a beach, kick back at a winery.

I ordered* apps for our end of the table: breads, cheeses, and meats, as well as ostrich carpaccio, which is raw meat, thinly sliced, and absolutely delicious.

For dessert, I suggested our end of the table get one of everything and then share. 

Usually, restaurant desserts are a little meh, but every single one of the desserts was out-of-this-world delicious. Example, I am not normally a custard person but the panna cotta with passion fruit sauce? To die for. And the cheesecake with lemon curd — be still my beating heart.

We were the only group in the dining room, and we were jolly-loud, but after a white family of four was seated at another table, someone pointed out that the older gentleman kept turning around in his chair and shooting daggers at us. 

In South Africa, it was explained, Black people are considered boisterous and loud while white people are calm and quiet. (These stereotypes exists in the US, too, yes? Yes.) It didn’t matter that some of the white people in our group were louder than anybody in the restaurant, or that the topic at hand was a friendly theological debate, or that another white party had been seated in the same room and was whooping it up merrily. The fact that our group included some Black people meant that we were the problem. On his way out the door, the guy actually turned to our group, swore, and then snapped, “I hope you’re having a lovely evening,” before stomping out. So there you have it: a snapshot of apartheid’s afterlife in all its cheerful glory!

When we had entered the winery, I’d noticed some people were running along the paths, so on our walk home, I asked the guard at the vineyard entrance what time the gates opened in the morning and whether or not I might come run there. “Of course,” he said. “We open at five. Maybe I’ll join you!”

***

*One of the servers at the winery was white!

This same time, years previous: how we homeschool: Jen, the quotidian (11.25.19), the quotidian (11.26.18), in my kitchen: 7:35 a.m., the day before, a treat, Thanksgiving of 2012, Thanksgiving of 2011,