So, a week or so has passed and I've not posted anything. I will admit after the first few posts I got burnt out and find blogging rather exhausting. Additionally, I've been mulling over what I want to write in this exact post because the experience I had last weekend was undoubtedly the strangest experience (hence the blog post title) I've ever had. And for my mere 25 years of life, I've had quite a few strange experiences, especially abroad. However, this one definitely takes the cake.
So, our first weekend here (June 10th for reference) we got an invitation to go to "lunch" in a nearby township with our newly made American friends, Kaity and Tim. For those who do not know what a township is, a township is a South African slum or a shantytown. During apartheid those that were non-white (Black, Coloured and Indian) were systematically moved out of the urban areas and forced to live in on the outskirts of town in these settlements. It should also be noted that during apartheid these three ethnic groups did not live together in the newly made townships, rather each group made up their own. During apartheid the living conditions in the townships were abominable and crime was rampant, with the government raiding the townships without warning and inciting widespread fear and terror (for a good, and true read on this experience try Kaffir Boy by Mark Mathabane, and it will make you cry - its a window into the realities of growing up in a township during apartheid, written by Mathabane who lived outside Johannesburg during apartheid - he now lives in DC). Still, today these communities are extremely poor. The houses basically consist of tin and anything else (sometimes concrete blocks) there is available. More often than not electricity and basic plumbing do not exist. It would be hard to give you the entire history of these communities in this one blog post, so you'll have to read up and/or visit one for more information, but I just wanted to give you the basics now.
Right, so back to the story. We went with Kaity and Tim, and our newly made friends, JP and his brother Eugene, both from Rwanda originally and students here at UWC. When we left school, I was under the impression we were going to get a quick bite to eat and then head into Cape Town proper for most of the afternoon. This is by no means the way the day went. We arrive in the township, Gugulethu (which means "Our Pride") about 20 minutes away. Now, l have spent time in slums all over the world and Gugulethu was not much different than many of the places I've been, when merely looking at it from inside the car. My privilege punched me in the face, as I stared at the tin shacks, children playing in the streets and laundry hanging out. However, I was not prepared for what the next few hours in this townships would be like.
So, we arrived at famed Mzoli's, a braai restaurant. Braai means "barbacue" in Afrikaans. So, Mzoli's is a world renowned braai place, known to foreigners and locals alike as some of the best meat in all of South Africa (it even has its own Facebook page!). On the inside Mzoli's is just a butcher shop, with huge hunks of meat behind the counter, where we just pointed to enough meat for an army, and then brought it back to be grilled. Then we went outside, and our lovely local friends insisted that we get beer to go with the meat. Seeing as it was barely 11 AM, our response was that we didn't need any as it was too early. But, they insisted that it was tradition to consume braai with beer. So, we got in the car, and drove around the corner to this store in what looked like the back of someone's house and bought 1 six pack of beer for the five of us. This however, was not enough and before we knew it more and more beer arrived. So, we went back to Mzoli's beverages in hand. By this point it was probably half past 11 AM and we went to find a place to sit. In front of the restaurant there were many people selling gifts, alcohol, and strangest of all, hooded sweatshirts and t-shirts that said, "Gugulethu" on them. In the back of the restaurant there was an open seating area with at least twenty tables and an awning on top.
So, this is when things started to get weird. So, the first thing I see when we enter the seating area is a large group of American students with post-it notes on their foreheads, a few Black South Africans, and a group of hipster white South African in the corner smoking. At first, I was very confused by this many white people in this very impoverished community, and thought it was not quite the setting for an ice-breaker type game, but who knows. After sitting down, I noticed there's a DJ playing house/techno music over the loud speakers and more and more people started showing up. The majority of these people were foreigners, wealthy and white, but some were South African (Black and White), some where speaking languages I didn't know, smoking hooka, and drinking excessive amounts of alcohol for a Sunday morning. (Soon we learned this was the place to go after church). So, we were all sitting there, and I was just blatantly staring at this bizarre crowd. People were outside with their BMW's and Mercedes Benz's talking amongst themselves, and all kinds of people were there. It was the strangest thing ever, all of a sudden we were in this huge party! Some people were dressed to the nines, others hipsters, others in regular clothes. I could not stop staring. There we were in this township, at this crazy party!?
Finally, our meat came on a huge platter all lathered in sauce. No utensils, just our hands. So as I stuffed my face with meat I contemplated my surroundings. What on earth were all these people from all over the world doing here? In a township, that historically and systematically segregated people for so long? Was it the meat? Was it the party? Did people here come to the slums to party? I still haven't truly figured it out why everyone was there, but supposedly it was the meat. It has also become a tourist attraction, yet I still have my own reservations about such a tourist attraction especially in a township. It is difficult to properly articulate all that was Mzoli's but the strange juxtaposition of such a celebration in such a impoverished community struck me. I wondered what effect these parties have on the township? How are tourists viewed? While I finished eating I never came up with the answers to these questions, and still haven't a week later, and I probably never will find answers to these questions, but one thing is for sure I will never forget this experience at Mzoli's, and just how bizarre it was (even more so than a Spanish Film Festival, at a Russain Cultural Center in Kathmandu, Nepal). What I have told you is my experience, but in reality the Mzoli experience defies words.
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