African Odyssey: Report 15

After two full months away, on Monday, August 12th, I arrived back in San Antonio, Texas. Complete was a road trip covering seven African nations, over 4,000 miles of road, and 15 African Odyssey emails.

I have loved writing the updates, and I wish I could have written more. But I only included what seemed interesting and somewhat novel. Many more things happened, many more people were a part of the trip and my experiences, and many great stories were left untold.

What have i learned? Who knows. Life is, always has been, and will continue to be. Same as it ever was and will be, I imagine.

One thing I certainly do feel is a deep comfort in seeing that things in the world are not so bad. Africans, at least in these seven countries, have enough to eat, wear clothes, and survive just fine. While they don't have much stuff, that do have what they most need. That reassures me. And, they are quite happy people. Living lives not altogether different from yours and mine.

In 2001, Mexico taught me that being poor is not the same as being sad, just as being rich is not the same as being happy. Ironically, I had to relearn that lesson here in Africa nine years later.

As I often used to tell people post-Mexico: make a list of the five happiest people you know. Now make a list of the the five richest people you know. Compare the lists. Is it the same people? Probably not.

Nations are the same way. Economics have little to do with happiness - just ask the Japanese, who kill themselves more despite being an economic miracle over the past century. Malawi, the poorest country we visited, was also our favorite for its friendly people and beautiful land. Zimbabwe was a close second for those same reasons, despite being two years removed from economic collapse.

Don't be fooled, however: rich people aren't all bad, as we all know. The ampunt of U.S. aid in these places is huge, and really dwarfs the rest of the world. While the Chinese are busy buying up African companies and resources, the U.S. Is busy sending a parade of white SUVs filled with middle class aid workers, NGO organizers, and doctors. I come home more patriotic for all that we do in the world.

And now, in honor of Africa, I say my Africa-inspired multi-denominational prayer/statement, crafted in Kenya, a nation of many religions: Christians, Muslims, and taditional believers:
"Dear God, or lack of God, or unknown being who we may never know; we thank you, or lack of you, for life, food, and shelter, which you may or may not have had a part in giving or creating for us; may we enjoy all that is, was and will be or not be. Thank you."

African Odyssey: Report 14 - The Age of Hype

"Don't worry about it. We live in the age of hype. Everything's about the next big thing, or the new superstar. People just can't be happy with what there is, what is good," I told Chemeli as we sat on the bench overlooking one of the finest beaches in the world.

And with that, began the game, Over-Hyped. Who or what is over-hyped? What better way to pass the time in Diani Beach, the white sand beach, the Cancun of Africa. Who would think that this deserted stretch of beach would attract some of the world's rich and famous? Bill Gates flies his personal jet here. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie became "Brangelina" during a secret trip to the area. During the World Cup, Jose Maurinho, coach of Real Madrid, vacationed here with his family.

"Lebron James is over-hyped.." I said. "Everyone wants to say he's going to be the best ever, but if he has one knee injury, he might not even make the Hall of Fame."

"Miley Cirus. I mean, she's not even a good singer," Chemeli fired back. Although Chemeli grew up in Kenya, she was more Muzungu than Chris or me. Being the daughter of the Kenyan ambassador to America, going to high school and college in the States, will do that to a girl.

"Global warming." Chris chimed in. "I mean, enough already."

Out of the blue came Chemetai's voice. Chemeli's twin sister, the Nairobi native, was not to be outdone: "The Meet the Fockers trilogy. Twilight. Shoot, all sequels."

"Zanzibar." Chris said. Yes, having been there only days before, i agreed. The name is mythical, but there are simply too many stinky Europeans in sandals with socks walking around for it to seem all that romantic or mystical.

"Twitter!" On this, we were all in agreement.

Soon, we turned to a new category: Under-Hyped.
"The beach" I said.
"The stars" one of the twins chimed in.
"Is being twins overhyped or underhyped?" I asked.
"Definitely underhyped." they answered in unison.
"Samuel!" said Chris.On this, we all agreed. Samuel, our personal chef for the past two days, provided by our beachfront villa, could make seafood like no other.

After 14 days on the road, after spending a grand total of $150 over 14 nights to camp or stay in the cheapest hotel in many towns, Chris and I had arrived in the lap of luxury. Samuel cooking a daily menu of fish, shrimp, and crab. A warm blue ocean. Nowhere to be except at the table for the next game of scrabble, spades, or gin.


Under-Hyped: the beach in Kenya and its beachfront villas. Following two weeks of heavy driving, immersion in local cultures, and being a Muzungu in the land of no Muzungus, a couple days of lazy comfort on the nicest beach you've never heard of was just right

African Odyssey: Report 13 - Flora and Two Muzungu!

Flora and Two Muzungu!

Flora is a typical young black Malawean. 25 years old, she works at the local cafe, making coffee, serving drinks, and baking cakes for loyal customers. When Chris and I sidled up to the counter, Flora served us homemade cake and a fresh pot of coffee. In the beautiful but rustic port town of Nkata Bay, population 10,000, on the shore of Lake Malawi, this amounts to luxury.

As Chris downloaded his emails over the wireless signal (the only one in town), I starting playing Mastermind at the counter with Flora - after all, there were no other customers. Six hours later, after many a Mastermind game and even a round of Trivial Pursuit, we were now invited to dinner at Flora's house.

After a trip to buy fresh fish (caught on the lake) the feast was on. Fried chumba fish, veggies, and plenty of enzima - an African cream of wheat-like substance that you use in place of cutlery, napkins, and probably also toilet paper. No forks, folks. Let me tell you, your hands smell like fish for days after a meal.

Flora lives in a very humble apartment block, one that appears more like a dormitory that has seen much better days. 17 one-room units were packed together haphazardly yet tightly on the propery. Dinner was cooked in the hallway; no kitchens here. Her neighbors were... well, interesting. They ranged from Flora to a DJ, from a family of 3 living in one room to a very friendly drunken woman who stumbled by about every five minutes. Despite it all, Flora maintains an even keel, giving away her extra enzima to the hungry ones and helping the lush to find her room.

As we ate dinner, however, Flora's story quickly became much more interesting. Married at 17, to a rich husband of 26. The rich fiancée, a Doctor, payed a lubola of many cows (lubola = wedding payment, see Report 8, previously). The happy couple soon had a baby boy. However, after increasing signs of problems and an ever more apparent wandering eye, Flora finally confronted her husband. Violence resulted. The couple soon parted ways.

His violent behavior would have resulted in jail time in the U.S.A. However, in Malawi, Africa, as a husband who had paid a handsome lubolo for his wife to become his property, he was granted full custody and guardianship of the child. Flora's son, now 6, lives 30 miles away with his father, who remarried his lover a month after the divorce was finalized. Flora was forced to start a new life minus her child, husband, and any finances from her former spouse. If she had not agreed to any of the conditions, the ex-husband could have demanded that her family pay him back the lubolo.

After dinner, it was time to see the town with Flora's friends, Malawi style. Before long, Chris and I were debating politics with David, playing pool with Sovier (what a name!) and on the dance floor in an informal Nkata Bay pub crawl. All without seeing another white person. The amazing thing is that Nkata Bay is a town with a large European and foreign communities. The coffee shops, dive shops, and internet cafes, catering to foreign tourists, are owned and frequented by white South Africans, Brits, and Germans. The same shops are staffed entirely by black locals. Economic colonisalism, Soviet called it.

The two groups mix like oil and water. They don't. They seem to interact for work, but not pleasure. When Chris and I walked through the streets in the black areas of town, we were such a novelty that every small child would yell out the word for white person: "Muzungu!"

Thanks to Flora, two Super Muzungu got to see a slice of real Malawi life, from tales of struggling to get by to enjoying a Friday night with friends. Something not all muzungu get a chance to experience.

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 12 - NO STUFF!

If there is one thing lacking in Africa, it is... everything. There just isn't enough stuff to go around. And when there isn't enough stuff to go around, the little stuff there is gets really expensive. It's absurd, especially when you think how little money the people who live here make. If I consider it expensive, it must be otherworldly to most of them.

It is Economics 101, supply and demand, but on a very personal level. As a great writer, Jared Diamond, said: people in third world countries are always asking him "Why do white people have so much cargo?" I.e. why do they always have so much stuff with them when they arrive?

Our first experience with the lack of stuff was in Zimbabwe. We arrived to the gas station, with about a quarter of a tank of gas left, happy to spot the lighted sign on dark, distant horizon. However, as we arrived in the well-built, large gas station, we realized a fatal flaw: it had no gas to sell. A gas station with no gas. They did have Coke, however, or a few bags of chips, if you are interested. But really, what is a gas station with no gas?

I suppose the answer is that a gas station with no gas is an African gas station. Because, days later, in Tanzania, we had what was somewhere between a tragic and comedic experience. With our gas tank dropping below half full, we proceeded to pull into four straight empty gas stations, all about 100 miles apart on the semi-deserted road. The largest road in Tanzania, mind you, connecting the Indian Ocean ports with all of central Africa. We ended our day finding gas at the last station, 32 miles on reserve, 372 miles traveled on the Honda's twelve gallon tank.

But wait, it gets better. Literally the day before, we had cruised into the gas station, 365 miles into our tank, hours without having seen a gas station. Cruised, in that the motor was dead, we were out of gas, and we were on a downhill, with a head of steam, coasting into the only gas station in town. Luckily this one did have gas.

Gas is not the only scarcity, however. Ravenous one day In the middle of rural Tanzania, we stopped in the largest town for miles around - a small roadside community of perhaps 2,000 with scores of tiny stores and market stalls. However, there was only one restaurant, a tiny room with a woman cooking and her three brothers serving as waiters. However, this restaurant's menu consisted of rice and beans. With no sauce, salt, or other options. So, making lemonade out of lemos, I went to the store next door and bought a big bottle of hot sauce. Suddenly we were eating dirty rice and beans. At the end of the meal, we gave the burgoning eatery our large leftover bottle of hot sauce. One of the brothers excitedly grabbed his crotch, put his other hand in the air, and shuffling in circles, dancing and singing "Chili Sauce! Chili Sauce! I am so happy! I am so happy!" Never have I seen one so happy with so little.

Other stuff is also hard to come by - like t-shirts. If you ever want to come back home to the USA with a massive amount of handicrafts, carvings, and memorabilia, simply pack a bag with old t-shirts and come to Malawi. In the rural areas, every craftsman you meet is willing to either sell or barter - do you have $10 or perhaps an old t-shirt? When I couldn't find the change to make a deal happen ($5 was not enough for what I was buying), the carver asked me if I could give him anything. I went back to the car, emerged with a USA stars and stripes pen, and the deal was struck.

Wear a soccer jersey for a day in Africa, and you will have multiple people offer to buy it off you. Literally the shirt off your back. Unfortunately, for me, soccer jerseys are keepsakes, otherwise I would be coming home with a mother lode of priceless carvings.

They don't even have enough money. Printed money, or coins. Try to pay, and they don't have change to give you, so they offer you a little sweet or make you buy more. At the office to buy boat tickets, where a ticket across a body of water costs $35, the woman couldn't make change for me to buy in dollars. Umm, why do you quote your price in dollars when you don't have change for a $50? Shouldn't you at least have change for your customers so they can buy a ticket?

Money, food, gas, clothes. I didn't even mention the lack of asphalt to pave roads, or cars to drive on them, or even bicycles to ride around. Stuff is hard to come by here. Want to get rich? Just get lots of stuff to Africa, where there is lots of stuff they can trade you for it. Make it affordable stuff, and you could sell as much as there is money here. How odd to think that actual things could be more valuable than money...

Afican Odyssey: Report 11 - Wembe United

Wembe United


William Kamkwamba is not your average high school graduating senior. In his hometown of Wembe, young William is a mogul: his home has the only electricity, he owns the local soccer team, and he will soon open a maize mill. He just graduated from the African Leadership Academy, my friend Chris's school in Johannesburg, South Africa, and will soon head to Dartmouth on a full scholarship to study Mechanical Engineering.

Yet William did not start out going to top schools, he did not grow up reading every book in the library. His hometown doesn't even have a library. And before William's non-profit foundation paid for the materials for a school building last year, his elementary school met in an open field, under the shade of trees, in a circle around their teacher.

William grew up in his extended family's small compound of tiny earthen-brick buildings with no electricity. Today, there is not even a fence, as no fence needed when there is tall African grass and no neighbors for thousands of feet. At the age of 13, William decided he wanted electricity. William's town is located 7 kilometers down a dirt road, far away from the nearest city. Unfortunately, electricity in Malawi only runs along the major roads (both of them).

So William went to the small collection of books known as the village library, looked up electricity, and set about building a windmill. Because, as he says, "There is much wind in Malawi." Soon, he had installed hand-built electrical boxes, amplifiers, and circuit breakers in his entire house, powering light bulbs (to study with) and a radio and television.

Within a couple of years, when word of the crazy invention spread, William's windmill brought international reporters and visitors to his small town in Malawi. A best-selling book and international fame followed. When we asked to see the original circuit breaker, William replied matter of factly "Oh, I'm sorry, that is in the museum in Chicago." By that, he meant the Museum of Science and Technology in Chicago, Illinois, as part of an exhibit on WIlliam's windmill.

Amazingly, as much as he has traveled the world, William is still a young man from the village. Or, as he would say, his "virrage." You see, in the spoken Malawian language, "R" and "L" are interchangeable. Meaning that village becomes virrage, Malawi becomes Marawi, and Malaria (no laughing matter) becomes "Be carefur not to catch mararia." William listens to "rocal Marawian leggae music." Decipher that, if you can.

To the townspeople, William is somewhat of an oddity - clearly nobody comprehends the good William has done for his hometown. The new school, materials paid by the Moving Windmills Foundation. He started the soccer team because the youths in town didn't have enough to keep them occupied, and he saw them getting involved in crime. Mind you, most of the "youths" on Wembe United are older than William.

The young children of the village know William not for his international success, but rather as the one who brings the "Azungu!" ("White People!") As we walk the dusty roads through town, towards the unpaved central road, a crowd of young kids appears and starts chanting "Azungu, Azungu!" like we are some sort of famous sports team coming out for kickoff.

The contrast between international fame and village boy remains stark in his home - a crisp photo of William shaking hands with the President of Malawi hangs in a small frame on the grubby living room wall, above worn out couches and a dirt floor. On the opposite wall, another photo of William on a panel of honor at an international meeting of the minds hangs next to a wall calendar, open to June 2008.

After his mother, who speaks no English, prepares us a traditional meal, which we eat with our hands, she brings out the guest book for us to sign. This year alone, hundreds of visitors have visited the tiny home at the end of a dirt. We sign on the same page as the American Ambassador to Malawi, who was there only days before.

After a small contribution to the Moving Windmills Foundation on behalf of the Oil Barons Society of South Texas, we are off, yet another azungo to have come to Marawi to visit the the famous windmirs.

William's Best-Selling Book:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Boy-Who-Harnessed-Wind-Electricity/dp/0061884987
William's Wikipedia Page:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Kamkwamba
William on the Daily Show (my personal favorite):
http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/wed-october-7-2009/william-kamkwamba

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 10 - Big Roma

"Goooooooal!" the crowd screamed with delight, crammed three deep to the chicken wire retaining fence surrounding the dirt field. I had to stand up and scurry quickly from my crouching position in front of the fence, as it appeared the leaning support pole might snap at its base. I didn't want to become another statistic in the hundreds of fans who are killed by a collapsing stadium fence each year around the world. Zambian second division football simply wasn't worth risking my life.

Driving by the large crowd only moments earlier, Chris and I simply had to stop and watch some of the spectacle. As outsiders, with pale skin, a camera and a vuvuzela, we were immediately escorted to one corner of the field. A six foot tire was laboiously rolled to the side, the chicken wire detached, and suddenly we could walk through to the field.

A V.I.P. Entrance! We were close enough to touch the players, and immediately next to the Big Roma Fan Band, i.e. a guy with a drum. It seems being a foreigner is enough to get you field-side access in Zambia.

After the goal, the scoresheet would read: Big Roma 1 : Casco 0, goal scored by Victor, number 9 on Big Roma, in the 5th minute of play. However, nobody in the crowd of around 2,000 was shouting Victor. As he ran to the corner of the field for a full squad choreagraphed celebratory dance, the crowd shouted "Go USA!".

I scratched my head and asked: "Huh? Why USA?". One of the Big Roma fan club/entourage/former players section turned to me and said: "We call him USA because he plays like Landon Donovan: he is fast, runs hard, and scores many goals."

This is a change up there with global warming and the Mayan prophecy of 2012. Being called "USA" used to mean being the worst player on the field, the one who couldn't trap the ball or shoot. In 2010, after World Cup in South Africa, people in rural Zambia now think of the USA as label of soccer brilliance. US soccer has surely never received higher praise. "Go USA!"

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 9

Arriving to Victoria Falls, the biggest tourist mecca in Southern Africa, felt like making a landing on an alien planet. The hip hostel bar, full of white patrons who sat transfixed watching a rugby match on tv, appeared to be a mass of zombies. How could they know our shock: in the last 48 hours, we had seen only one other white person, in a passing car? Masvingo, Zimbabwae, population, 112,374, was very different than this little corner of backpacker "heaven" (hell?).

It all began two days before, with our arrival in Great Zimbabwe National Park. The $15 entrance fee seemed steep, even if it was a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the greatest in Southern Africa, according to sources. The $3 for the tour guide, however, was the greatest value in all of Africa.

We were told we'd get the best tour guide, Tino. He proceeded to wow us with his great knowledge of history and culture, as well as his friendliness. Who knew that the king had hundreds of wives and concubines, to whom he could call out by number from the top of his hilltop palace complex. "Number 20, come here now!" Or that in Zimbabwe, if you want to marry a woman, you must first pay her family a dowry or "lubalo" of anywhere from $5,000 to $100,000 (U.S. dollars!). Tino is still paying off his wife's $8,000 lubolo six years after the wedding. This in a country where starvation was not uncommon as recently as 2008.

After our tour of the Great Zimbabwe Ruins, we were so impressed by Tino that we asked him to go have lunch before we left town. Little did we know that the invitation would end over an empty bottle of rum at 6 am with Tino, his cousin, and his uncle. From grocery store to bar, dance hall to outdoor bbq, we experienced a day with the common Zimbabwaen.

First, it was happy hour at the local bar, near the bus depot. It was payday for teachers, so far too much of their monthly pay draw of $160 disappeared over suds as they hollered with friends at leopards chasing after poor antelopes on the National Geographic channel. It is a strange sense of irony watching footage of African animals via an American channel via a satellite in space, all back to a tv in a bar in Africa.

Next was my personal favorite, Bar Eden. They sells Cokes and beer out of the main shop, while a outdoor area next door lets patrons bring their own meat to cook, all while blasting Congolese music videos over a projector screen. Our personal chef, Thomas, made a fire, cooked our chicken and veggies, and cleaned up. When Chris handed him a $5 tip for over 3 hours of service, he clapped his hands in appreciation.

Finally, at the Liquids bar, I turned to Chris and realized: I had never been in such a foreign place in my entire life. Chris and I were the only foreigners in the bar, and the only white people. I had never heard a single song being played before. I didn't recognize people's dance moves. I had never drank the beer we were drinking. I didn't recognize the videos playing on the tv. The locals talked with a different accent and intonation. I was out of my element, but thanks to the company of Chris and the hospitality of Tino, I was completely at ease and enjoying the nightlife of Masvingo, Zimbabwae. Population, 112,374, plus 2 very out of place yet at home Americans.

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 8

The first fist bump accurred at the toll booth. "This is gonna be awesome!" Chris said to me, our closed fists colliding. Our African Road Trip had offcially begun. Five countries over three weeks. New experiences awaited.

An hour later, the first new experience was soccer by the side of the toll road. But the mood was different. Roadside soccer is always fun - but not as fun when you are forced to play because your car has broken down. We were now making lemonade from lemons. The closest directions we could give the tow truck was "under a nameless bridge on the toll way, north of Johannesburg."

Luckily, we had Courage. Not courage, but Courage with a capital C. A student in Chris's school, Courage thought he was getting a free ride to his native Zimbabwae with us. What he got was a free ride 187 kilometers north of Joburg and no further. Luckily, Courage proved to be a good soccer player in the roadside game, and he also told us stories of his native land. Apparently, in some if not many people's minds (or at least Courage's) Zimbabwae's much criticized Robert Mugabe is not a brutal dictator but a misunderstood puppet leader. He even wants to quit, but his supporters won't let him for fear of the ensuing chaos. I don't believe it all, but Courage certainly lives up to his name to defend a known killer like Mugabe.

But back to the car. When you are stranded by the side the road, there is no creature on earth you'd rather have help you than an Afrikaans male. They are big and bulky in the style of a corn-fed Nebraska offensive lineman, except that Afrikaans just happen to play rugby instead of football. With necks thicker than the head above, these men are bred to move a rugby "scrum" and haul farm equipment about. They settled central South Africa by wagon in the 1840s; obviously, they can fix stuff with their hands.

Unfortunately this may also say something about the lack of size of the very head on top of the shoulders - these are the founders of aparteid and Africa's version of the KKK. Or maybe they are just like protectionalist farmers in the USA, afraid of "others" who might disturb their world. Afrikaans believe they are God's chosen people, and defend their culture as such. They are certainly not the only tribe in the world to make such a claim. But there is a racial component to their world view not unlike Southern farmers.

Enter our next character in the one act play entitled "Stranded": Hanny. Hanny will be playing the part of our saviour, in the form of a large, white Afrikaans auto mechanic. When asked if he could fix our car on a Saturday, Hanny responded "Well, yeah, sure, since the rugby match just ended I'm free.". Thank goodness the match was over, because priorities are priorities.

Hanny took obvious pleasure in fixing the car. This clearly was man verus machine, and it was his own personal challenge to get our car up and running again. He would not let the car beat him.

Within minutes of entering the shop, Hanny had diagnosed our problem, but he did not have the correct part to fix our problem. He did, however, have "A plan." Hanny took the old, broken part, ripped it in half, and proceeded to weld it together with the generic part that he did have in stock. A hybrid part was born. Seeing this man was a marvel: a blowtorch in one hand, melting iron in the other, and a cigarette in his mouth all the while. I am honestly not sure if he lit the blowtorch with his cigarette or vice versa. Eventually, after an hour of welding, he turned and said "Chris, you are free to leave."

As we left the shop, Courage remarked: "That is why you have to do what you love in life; you could see how proud he was of creating a new part and fixing the car."

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 7

"Robert, meet us down by the stadium and we may have good news for you." With that, I hopped on the park and ride bus towards Royal Bafokeng Starium in Rustenburg. The USA Ghana game was only 90 minutes away.

Robert had driven me, along with 7 or 8 friends, in his van, to three different USA games around the Johannesburg area. During the drives, I had bonded with Robert. We had hours to talk about what guys talk about on road trips - women, soccer, life. Also, the guy was an amazing driver- where others took 5 hours getting home from USA-England match, Robert got us home in around two hours by using back roads. Turns out he used to make deliveries for a company, and so he knows every back road in the area.

Due to his work, he had not been able to see a match at the World Cup. Naturally, I had an idea to make sure that he did see one. On the park and ride bus to the stadium, I quickly discussed my plan with Chris (my friend in Johannesburg) and we agreed to split the ticket price. I next found an extra ticket available - at a price of around $120. However, when we called Robert to tell him the plan, his first reaction was our safety: "Let me make sure that I can find a safe place to park the van and someone to watch your things." What a reaction- responsibility and restraint I would not have had. The ticket would have to wait.

Robert is from Soweto, an all black area about 10 miles outside of Joburg. Much like Africans in South Africa, Soweto has come a long way in the past 30 years. Begun as a distant all black labor camp for the Joburg mines, it now houses 3 million people in a variety of homes, from shanty shack to suburban mansion. There are now B&Bs, cafes, museums, and even the crown jewel of the World Cup, Soccer City Stadium.

When I asked Robert what he liked to do, he said "Invite some friend over to drink a few and watch soccer." Drink Jamison and watch on his 42 inch plasma tv, by the way. Sounds a lot like what I like to do back home. I was impressed - South Africa is doing pretty well if van drivers in Soweto have tvs like that and drink Jamison Irish whiskey. Robert also pays for his girlfriend of six years to go to University in Cape Town.

Eventually, Robert met us outside the stadium having parked the van securely. The first person Chris and I approached, we asked for a ticket, any ticket.
The response from Nick the Englishman, "Who is it for?"

We pointed to Robert, "Our driver - he's a great guy and we just want to get him in the stadium."

"Is he a nice guy?"

"He's great - that's why we want to get him in."

"Ok, I have one extra ticket and you can have it. For free. It was given to me yesterday, and the guy told me to make sure it went to a nice person."

We tried to insist on paying him something, bu he said he had paid nothing for the ticket and wanted nothing for it. And so it went. Robert got into the game, for free. I recon you could sit outside the stadium for 1000 world cup matches and never once be given a free ticket. Count me as a believer in kharma, and on this day we had good kharma.

-Matthew

African Odyssey: Report 6

"What's the best thing to eat here?" I asked the Indian man sitting at the head of the table. "Oh, you are not from here, are you? You must try the curry, the curry in Durban is famous." Of course it was - that was the whole reason we'd stopped at the random restaurant on the side of the road. We were following road trip rule #73: always stop at a crowded restaurant, even If you are not hungry.

The next thing we knew, I was sitting at table, with Joe Bird, talking to the nicest group of Indian South Africans known to man. They had invited us to sit with them, had ordered our food for us (the famous Durban Bunny Chow curry sandwich) and began asking us all sorts of questions about the USA.

The table of ten was one large family- Neville and his wife and three kids, aunts and uncles all from Durban, and his nephew Bradley and wife from Johannesburg. The family told us all sorts of stories - how their relatives came from India, along with thousands more Indians, to work in the Durban area around 1900 (including one Mohatma Ghandi) and what I was like being both Indian and South African. They didn't know any family back in India, but they did know generally where their family was from. Sounds a lot like my family coming to Texas from Germany.

As the night wore on, I realized how much I had in common with Bradley. He and his wife had been dating for five years and married for three, like me and Eileen. They had done long distance dating from Johannesburg to Durban, a five hour drive. Durban is even a lot like Houston - a hot coastal town with spicy food and humid summers. Bradley's wife is a career woman, and he had changed cities due to her burgoning career in joburg (much like me). In all, I had met my SA match, a soccer-loving 32 year old who loves to travel.

By the end of dinner, after not being allowed to pay, we were headed to Neville's flat. "Flat" being a nice way of saying luxury apartment in a great neighborhood with a view of the Indian ocean from the balcony hot tub. However, this was no Hilton family with luxury suites and no values. Neville had grown up, with his four brothers and sisters, the son of a priest. They all grew up in Phoenix, a notorious Indian township segregated under Apartheid, with a dirt floor and little to no possessions. Neville started his own clothing company, and the rest is history. Some of his less moivated brothers still live in Phoenix. None of this is lost on him and the family, however - they prayed before our meal at the Curry House, and in reference to his life, Neville was ever careful to give thanks to God.

By the end of the night, after coffee and much conversation, Joe and I left having made our first local friends. It is often posible to travel months and not be invited to a someone's home; this was a special night. We left promising to see each other again, with an open invitation to Texas for all.

When Eileen arrived on Thursday, I told her the story, and she instantly wanted to meet Bradley and his wife. So, last night we went to Bradley's house in Johannesburg for dinner with his parents and in-laws. Bradley promised us that his wife would make us curry so good, so spicy and hot, that "For the next day, you have to put the toilet paper in the refigerator!"ac

African Odyssey: Report 5 - The Dream Weekend

Sometimes, the planets align, the universe is calm, and the Milky Way stops rotating just long enough for everything to be just right.

In the next three days, the soccer gods have shined on me. This weekend will be my equivalent of soccer nirvana.

Step 1: Thanks to Joe "Bird" Freeman, who I had not seen since my days at Yale, I am in Durban, coastal south Africa, preparing for the Portugal vs. Brazil match this afternoon. Joe provided the ride, the hotel room, and the ticket to the game. So to Joe I say, obviously, a big "You Rule." All I had to do was help out with driving! And to Andy Slater, who cancelled on the WC 2010 trip and left Joe with an extra ticket, a big thank you, also!

Step 2: Tomorrow, at 6 am, Joe and I will wake up and drive north 8 hours, to rustenburg for the USA vs. Ghana match. For the 4 game tickets, my own purchase, I thank US Soccer.
Step 3: The cycle is complete on Sunday, when Chris Bradford and I head out to Bloemfontein, four hours from Joburg, for the England vs. Germany grudge match. Chris, I thank you for the ticket and the ride, this is going to a classic European match.

Three of the best soccer matches I'll ever see, all in three days. It's going to be exhausting, but wow, what can I say. WC 2010 is by far exceeding all expectations. At this point, I might as well stop going to soccer games because it'll all be downhill from here on out, the rest of my life.

One more time, let's hear it: Go USA!

African Odyssey: Report 4 - Adios, Papa

Today, my father Carroll will make his way home to Texas, so I send him home with best wishes and the attached photos.

We have had a great time here. We have traveled to the four corners of the nation, from zulu hut to cape town bay. And as two Texans, you know that wherever we go, when we leave, everyone who cares to listen knows we are from Texas. A nation, a state, and a state of mind.

Dad has been here to share lots of great conversation, experiences, and cultural exchanges. He takes the initiative to talk to literally everyone, and this really does give you a great insight into the psyche of the nation. From train engineer to school teacher, farmer to lawyer, Afrikaaner to English, rich to poor, we have heard from everyone. And in every situation, he ends the conversation with his million dollar question, "Are you optimistic about the future of South Africa?". We have gotten only one very negative response, and about 57 positive answers, which bodes well for everyone here.

So dad, I ask you, upon your return to the United States, are you optimistic about the future of South Africa?

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 3

June 23, 2010

As Gameday 3 arrive for the teams, the very real prospect of either win or go home sets in. The French, the North Koreans, and others have already experienced this bitter taste.

The South Africans, despite having little chance to move on in the tournament, shifted their focus from advancing to merely playing well and giving their nation something to be proud of. Their opponent, the French, did exactly the opposite. Thus, France returns on a long trip home with glum faces - as usual for the French, I suppose. The South Africans, on the other hand, are happy and content with their effort, the score, and the rest of the cup to come. Ahhh, the joy of perspective. This morning all of South Africa awoke to sign of "Well done, boys" and "A great ending!". Their team's fine display gave them something to cheer about, and this will keep the vuvuzelas blowing and the fans showing up for the remaining games, which only get better with time as the tournament progresses. Hooray! There is nothin woes than a disinterested host nation.
And so, the South Africans go about finding their new team to root for the remaining two weeks. Many are choosing Argentina for their attacking style so far in the tourney. Many choose Brazil, because they are Brazil (soccer's version of the Lakers or Yankees, except nobody hates them). Many Afrikaans choose the Ditch, given their Dutch heritage. Many English SAers will inevitably support England (despite their play, which has been anemic).

I will be pulling for the United States to become the adopted team of the people. After all, on soccer we are a good underdog. We have struggled to come back and get ties in our first two games. And today we can win the hearts of many a fan with a good effort. Many here are already cheering for us - I know because they tell me so.

Win, and we're through. Lose, and we're out. Tie, and all bets are off. Folks, the knockout rounds have officiallly begun for the USA. We are four wins from the World Cup finals. Frankly, if we can't beat Algeria, we don't deserve to move on past the group stage.

This is must see tv. And, look for the Texas flag, now hoisted on a pole, in the USA section.

That's me - I've got the only one!

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 2

June 18, 2010

World Cup Fever has officially hit South Africa. There is nothing you can say except that the World Cup is everywhere, and it hopes to unite the nation. As I arrived at OR Tambo Int'l Airport last Wednesday, I was greeted by a mariachi band, playing live in the airport lobby, as well as greeters, much like you see at Walmart. The entire airport, nee the whole nation, is dressed up nice with large welcome posters and the obligatory Coca Cola ads.

And if there is one thing that says South Africa 2010 like nothing else, it's the vuvuzela. As my taxi sped down the newly completed highway from the airport towards town, I was greeted by mobs of thousands, dressed up in various outfits and lining the roads, blowing their own horns. What an odd sight, people literally just standing on freeway overpasses, exit ramps, and street corners all dressed up and blowing the vuvu. Had they nothing better to do? Some, I suspect, did not. Only later did I come to learn that 12:00 noon, Wednesday June 9th was National Blow Your Horn To Support Bafana Bafana (the South African team) Day. So it wasn't all just for me...

The next morning, my first in South Africa, I was awakened by the sound of a vuvuzela at 5 in the morning. I kid you not. Believe the hype.

Further, the hopes of South Africa rest rather firmly on this event. For anyone who has seen the movie Invictus, the parallels are obvious. In 1995, just five years after the end of aparteid and one year after the first free and open elections, newly elected President Nelson Mandela got the nation behind the Rugby World Cup. South Africa won the tournament, and fears of civil war were quieted.

Now, in 2010, the Soccer World Cup seeks to do nothing less than unite the fractured nation and races to a new level. Fiveteen years after the end of white rule, the decendants of British, Dutch, and Africans almost uniformly seem to want to move on past race, and start worrying about the business of making all of South Africa a better place. Their may be deep seeded stereotypes or racism, but every South African you meet certainly says all the right things.

As one very nice White South African told us, "Just like they supported our rugby, we're going to support their soccer." He didn't mean it in a racist or negative way - in South Africa, rugby is a traditionally a white sport, and soccer a black sport. And if you are measuring progress in numbers, the SA Springboks rugby team, ranked first in the world, now regularly starts six black players, up from only one in 1995.

Another great benefit of being at the World Cup is that people from around the globe are here. The Dutch in their orange. Every bandwagon follower in Brazil's yellow. The English in their pale white.

One Mexican man, interviewed at the airport by MTV, was dressed in the traditional Mexican peasant garb of a pancho and sandals. He reported to the interviewer that he had sold all of his earthly possessions to fly to South Africa and watch his beloved TriColores team. He had no idea where he was staying or how to get into games, but if there is any justice in this world, he will be just fine.

Finally, at the USA vs England game in Rustenburg, I saw a new kind of fan. The American fan. Dressed as Rocky, draped in the American Flag from Rocky 3, where he fights the evil Soviet, Ivan Drago. In costume as American icons Abe Lincoln and Ben Franklin, not Britney Spears or Michael Jackson. Wearing a Davy Crockett coonskin cap. These are not soccer moms. They are a new breed of soccer fan from the USA. Patriotic as you can be, while supporting the world's game, soccer. And in numbers ten times more than at Germany in 2006. They make me proud. Proud to be an American, and proud to cheer for our nation.

So today i say: Go USA!

Matthew-

African Odyssey: Report 1

June 15th, 2010

Johannesburg, South Africa, it turns out, is very similar to how you might see it portrayed in the movie Tsotsi. A large, sprawling town not entirely different from Houston, Texas, with some added hills and less vegetation. Perhaps like a less glamourous LA. At any rate, it is a car city. It takes 45 minutes of driving on highways and major roads to get from the airport to almost any destination - at a distance of over 10 miles. Shopping streets and districts are scarce, with indoor shopping malls preferred for security reasons.

The neighborhoods are nice - with trees, greenery, and avenues easy for driving. However, one thing is very different from Houston or LA. Growing up in Houston, our family never locked our door when home. If we went out of town, we would lock the front door, but leave the side door open. Any theif wishing entry had only to brave our german shepard dog, Ziggy.

However, in Johannesburg, things are different. To gain entry into my friend Chris's house, you have to pass through a minimum of 4 separate locked doors. First, there is the gate. Then, inside the gate, 4 feet later, a heavy, thick wood security door. This gets you into the courtyard. Once there, you now have another metal gated door, which gets you to the actual door to the home. 4 different keys to get you into the living room. And this is in a nice neighborhood. If Chris were to get scared on night, he could also lock the gate and door with access to the sleeping quarters of the house, and then additionally lock the gate and door with access to the master bedroom. The master of the house, therefore, would be separated by 8 keys and locks from the street. Oh, and there also is a secutiry system who advertised prominently on the door "Armed Response Guaranteed."

While the locks provide security, they also make leaving the house a lengthy proposition. Going to the corner store? Add 5 minutes for leaving the house unlocking and locking, as well as 5 minutes for getting back in. As safe as this makes one feel, it also makes one feel quite isolated from whatever may be going on outside.

However, this caution seems merited. On my first night out in Johannesburg, at the Fifa Opening Concert featuring Shakira, I had my new South African cell phone promptly stolen out of my pocket. The next night, a friend had her purse stolen while at a bar. And two days later, in today's paper, a twelve year old who writes a weekly World Cup article mentioned that while at his first World Cup match with his father, his father's cell phone was stolen! It appears I am not the only one with the problem!

This episode infuriated me because in a lifetime of traveling the world, I had maintained a perfect record of never being stolen from. I did, however, manage to catch the thief red handed, but only after he had managed to pass my phone to a friend. This led to an intersting episode in the Orlando Pirates Stadium Police Office, where racial relations were obvious and strained (more on this in future episodes). While a fascinating cultural experience, I somehow think I would have enjoyed watching Shakira's hips lie than talk to a police officer whose "Trainee" badge did not inspire confidence in me.

South Africans, when told of the episode, all replied in the same way: only a foreginer would bother reporting such a routine incident to the police.

Matthew-