I was burned out. I’ll admit it. Sometimes we need a break, even from the things that we love.

Writing has never felt like a chore, but after 8 months I decided to breathe and stop documenting for a moment. Writing a blog is funny that way though, as it is an impossible race against time. For as soon as you are “all caught up,” life happens, time happens, and then immediately you are behind.

As time slipped onward I attempted to fill my literary void several times, yet each time I would start and felt as though I was focusing on the negative.

I focused on the fact that our 10-hour bus ride from Lilongwe to Nkhata Bay was supposed to leave at 7:30am, but didn’t leave until 10:30am. I focused on the three hours spent marinating in the heat and diesel fumes, the dust mixed with sweat to form a dirty film on our exposed skin and the loud altercations around us (some of which involved hugs, while one led to one man being led away in handcuffs followed by a group of some 40 onlookers).

I should have been writing about our taxi driver, Francis, who wouldn’t stop thanking us for ‘choosing him’ to drive us into the city. I should have been focusing on the kindness of the Malawian people that earned the country’s nickname, “The Warm Heart of Africa.” And captivating beauty of Lake Malawi, along with the pleasant tunes of local musician ‘Michael Mountain.’

“How big is the lake?” – Michael Mountain | Lake Malawi

Long buses and the desperate need of a shower are easy to forget; such situations are easily remedied with a little pizza and a lot of soap.

Table Mountain | Cape Town, South Africa

Table Mountain | Cape Town, South Africa

Others aren’t so easy.

I cried when I learned that six men burst into my friend Jeffrey’s apartment, beat him and stole what little valuables he had, all because he was born in a different country.

Such injustice overshadowed the delicious treats at the Neighbor Goods Market in Johannesburg and the splendid views from Plettenburg Bay. Or the fact that we walked a real, live cheetah named Chester.

Sand sculptures | Plettenberg Bay, South Africa

Sand sculptures | Plettenberg Bay, South Africa

Hanging out with Chester the Cheetah | Plettenberg Bay, South Africa

Hanging out with Chester the Cheetah | Plettenberg Bay, South Africa

Kayak Water Polo | Knysna, South Africa

Kayak Water Polo | Knysna, South Africa

“I never knew of a morning in Africa when I woke up that I was not happy” – Ernest Hemingway

I don’t know what Africa Hemingway visited because there were plenty of mornings in Africa during which I awoke to unhappiness. There were plenty of days that I struggled with the fact that I was a bystander in an unjust world or was simply frustrated by how bad and unnecessarily complicated transportation infrastructure can be.

Yet, I stayed.

And I could not be happier that I did.

“Mr. Barack Obama Mobile Shop” | Tanzania

Sometimes you get stung by a jellyfish in Zanzibar (yes, that happened), but only because you are swimming with dolphins (that also happened).

Swimming with dolphins | Zanzibar, Tanzania

Swimming with dolphins | Zanzibar, Tanzania

Dolphins are magnificent creatures. So inquisitive and sleek. They always look like they’re smiling, yet in a much friendlier way than leopard seals. As a small pod made a high-pitched squeak and descended into the cobalt depths below us, I felt a sharp pinch on my forearm, not unlike your ordinary bee sting. As I kicked towards our tiny wooden boat (unequipped with life jackets and captained by a man who doesn’t know how to swim – TIA) a harsh sting seared across my back. The other guy on the boat pulled a long translucent tentacle off my back and began pouring a water bottle on me. Once the pain, and screaming, subsided and was replaced by a consistent itch, I was not exactly anxious to hop back in the water. But with a little (a lot) of encouragement from Michelle, I did.

Flying into Zanzibar, Tanzania

Flying into Zanzibar, Tanzania

It took me another month to realize it, but I had been focusing on the sting of Africa, rather than admiring its beauty. Even then, there is a big difference between looking at dolphins from a boat and jumping in; there is a big difference between interacting with them and treating them as animals in a zoo.

Most people that I met in Europe were impressed, if not astonished, that Michelle and I had spent several months on the continent. Most people had never left the dock, if you will.

I am by no means disrespecting such people, or think any less of them. It’s expensive to travel Africa. Transportation is usually difficult. Infrastructure is lacking. Proper healthcare is in serious need – people should not be dying and the rate and the ages at which they are.

Yet, amongst all of that exist the most positive, friendly people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.

What I’m trying to say is that I know this world would be a better place if more people left the dock, if more people were able to travel, to Africa and beyond.

Simba on top of Pride Rock | Serengeti, Tanzania

Simba on top of Pride Rock | Serengeti, Tanzania

Terrace Martin said that when Kendrick Lamar, “…came back from Africa, things changed and he was a different man” (Complex Magazine).

Serengeti National Park

Serengeti National Park

I’m not Kendrick Lamar, nor do I necessarily view myself as a “different man” because of Africa alone, but I recognize that I have certainly changed.

When we landed in Athens I was overwhelmed by all of the large tour groups, the American study abroad students, as well as all the letters I had only ever previously seen atop fraternities and sororities.

Temple of Poseidon | Athens, Greece

Temple of Poseidon | Athens, Greece

Trees in Athens, Greece

Trees in Athens, Greece

Original Olympic Stadium | Athens, Greece

Original Olympic Stadium | Athens, Greece

Michelle told me that I could either accept my new environment and enjoy it, or allow myself to be shocked by culture.

Sunset in Oia | Santorini, Greece

Sunset in Oia | Santorini, Greece

I let it get the best of me several times, but it was easy to forget the mob of tourists clamoring over a stone wall to get a glimpse of the picturesque white and blue metropolis of Oia, as we zoomed freely around Santorini on an ATV. Or when we wandered Folegandros, a quaint farming island home to around 500 people.

Karavostasi | Folegandros, Greece

Karavostasi | Folegandros, Greece

Folegandros, Greece

Folegandros, Greece

We left the gorgeous Mediterranean coast for the Swiss Alps, strolling through the farmland surrounding Nyon with my cousin Megan, Tim and Kate. We had lunch on the riverbank in Geneva and meandered through a castle. Personally, I don’t think anything could top Gimmelwald though; a tiny town perched atop the base of the most beautiful mountains I’ve ever seen.

Swiss Alps | Mürren, Switzerland

Swiss Alps | Mürren, Switzerland

After a brief stop at Lake Lucerne we stepped off the train in Zurich to a familiar (bearded) face. I met Mladen in October in Quito, Ecuador, and while you will never see most of the people you meet abroad again (that is the sad reality of travel) I told him I’d make it to Switzerland someday.

Château de Chillon | Veytaux, Switzerland

Château de Chillon | Veytaux, Switzerland

He showed us around Zurich – we grabbed a drink above an artificial surfing pool (one of the strangest and coolest things I’ve seen in quite some time) and then ate dinner on the riverbank.

I was exhausted. 9 ½ months had finally caught up to me. It was an awesome end to an incredible adventure.

So here I am, sitting 36,000+ feet in the air, about the do what I have dreamed of for months. I do not mean that I dreamt of going home in yearning, but more so in a sense of anticipation, of imagination.

Who was I to be when I stepped off the plane? What would it feel like? Was I going to be nervous? Excited?

Would I be ready?

Though I can’t answer all of those questions, at least not yet, I know that I am ready.

I am happy. I am content. I am confident. I am excited about life and what is to come.

I know that I will never stop traveling. I can’t. I won’t.

Most importantly, I know that this adventure is not over – it’s just getting started.

Thanks for reading.

Update: I’ve been home for a little over a week now. Each day feels less and less like a dream, yet the whole thing is still surreal. Last year feels almost imaginary, as if I was transported back to the summer of 2014.

I have loved seeing friends and family. I cherish To-Do lists and the slightest bit of routine. Though, I know that on some dreary winter day, I’ll be yearning for a warm spring day atop Lion’s Head or maybe even a bustling hostel in Buenos Aires.

For now, I’m just living. And I couldn’t be happier about it.

Thanks for the adventure.

I ended up traveling for a few days with a group of cool backpackers I met in Swakopmund and while my time in Namibia ended on a low note, sleeping under the stars in middle of nowhere was breathtaking.

Entering Zam sign

As the plane touched down onto the tarmac in Lusaka, Zambia, I breathed a sigh of relief.

My friend Julia picked me up at the airport – not only was it nice to see a familiar face, but it was refreshing and fascinating to talk to her about Africa, being that she had been living/working in Lusaka for the past seven months.

We pulled into the first gas station just outside the terminal only to be told that it was out of gas. Fortunately, Julia works for a flight charter company so we puttered over the smaller hanger to fill up and hangout with some of the engineers. Everyone was so friendly, but one particular man named John spent nearly an hour conversing with us and telling us hilarious stories (most of which seemed to end up with him at a disco).

As we drove down Kalingalinga, the main street in this part of town, I was transported back to Nicaragua and the Dominican Republic. We passed ‘compounds’ of dilapidated buildings and plenty of street vendors selling everything from bed frames to cell phone airtime and live chickens. Though I had been in Africa for roughly a month and a half, this was perhaps the first time I felt like I was actually in Africa.

That night we grabbed pizza with Jacques, a cool, kind South African pilot before hopping on a bus (which broke down twice) to Livingstone. Justin also went to UW, though we never knew one another during school – it’s funny to think how far we’ve come from those days sitting in lectures on campus. Here we were, three kids from Seattle in the middle of Africa walking back from dinner when we happened upon Limpo’s Pub & Restaurant – the colorful lights and thumping music seemed inviting so we decided to check it out.

We were the only foreigners there, and were thus personally welcomed by probably a third of the bar. People would come up, shake our hands, smile and ask us how we liked Zambia. People here are so friendly.

Before heading out to Victoria Falls we met Mike from Philadelphia, who works for Grass Roots Soccer (an organization I was hoping to connect with, but logistically it never panned out). Once we reached the falls a winding path guided us through the trees and while the skies were clear and blue, the mist from the falls began to fall like thick rain.

Knife Edge Bridge

Knife Edge Bridge

Soaking wet we sloshed our way down some stone steps to the “boiling pot,” a cauldron-like outcrop in the river that seems to be ever stewing, just below the picturesque Victoria Falls Bridge. We basked in the sun for a bit and then strode back up the steps through a troop of baboons. They move like humans, sitting upright on benches, yet they are able to leap up into the treetops with ease. We were told not to have any grocery store bags visible, as the baboons have learned that they possess food, however, they didn’t seem to pay any attention a particular blue plastic bag, emblazoned with a black silhouette of Rambo holding a rocket launcher and the words: “No man, No law, No war, Can stop him.” How or why this particular Hollywood war hero ended up on plastic bags in Zambia is beyond me.

Victoria Falls Bridge

Victoria Falls Bridge

Many find Lusaka to be rather boring or uneventful, however, I disagree. It did help that I got plugged into an awesome community of both locals, who had been rooted here forever, and expats, who seem to come and go as often as the aforementioned John goes to the disco.

I went on a test flight with Brad, who comically flipped the instruction manual open in the cockpit as he started up the small, six-seated Cessna aircraft. This is the same man who saw Black Hawk Down when he was 12 and decided that he was going to fly helicopters for a living. This is also the same man who organized a mini-bus to take 15+ Mzungu’s (“white people”) on a pub-crawl around Lusaka.

View of the farmlands around Lusaka

View of the farmlands around Lusaka

I wanted to head down to Lower Zambezi or down to Lake Kariba, but transportation proved difficult and accommodation expensive, so instead I opted to duck into Botswana for a few days to go camping in Chobe National Park.

Elephants crossing the river

Elephants crossing the river


I met plenty of interesting people. I saw a herd of roughly 1,000 buffalo, along with hundreds of elephants. I even saw a small group cross the river, the strong adults ushering the baby elephants through the swift water to a lush island to eat sweet grass. I saw crocodiles slither along marshy reeds and hippos bob up and down, their eyes acting as periscopes above the murky depths. However, the most memorable part of Botswana was camping in the bush.

At about 5am, I awoke to darkness and a powerful roar, ripping through the otherwise cool, silent morning air. Repeatedly, these long blasts echoed across the bush. Lions? I thought to myself, as I laid awake in my tent, my eyes wide open, and my ears sharp and alert. Elephants? My heart rate accelerated as my imagination danced around.

After a few minutes the bush slumped back into a peaceful trance, as I turned over and fell back asleep.

Lions, as it turned out, had been roaring a few hundred yards from our camp early that morning. We hustled through a quick bite to eat and then down the dirt road, where we found fresh footprints. Minutes later we found what had woken us up – one male lion and two lionesses sat majestically in the early morning sun. The male and one of the females stood up, and strode powerfully behind a bush where they laid back down to take a nap.

The fact that these mighty creatures had been so close to our camp was alluring, yet slightly frightening.


I had to pass through Livingstone again on the way back to Lusaka so I decided to make a pit stop at the Zimbabwe side of Victoria Falls. Something about the colossal sheet of water falling perilously over the edge is mesmerizing.

Victoria Falls

Victoria Falls

Double rainbow on the Zimbabwe side of the falls

Double rainbow on the Zimbabwe side of the falls

The night before I was to head back to Lusaka I noticed on the bottom of a TV that Chipolopolo (the nickname of the Zambian national team) was to play Malawi on Sunday, which also happened to be my final day in the country. “How fitting would it be if I ended Zambia in the same fashion I concluded Argentina?” I thought to myself.

Usually national team matches are played in Ndola, yet a quick search indicated that the game was to be played in Lusaka in a small stadium hardly ever used for international competition (which might have to do with the fact that the match was to be played on a date that was unapproved by FIFA).

My buddy Chase, who has been living and working in Lusaka for nearly eight months now, and I split a cab there with a few other backpackers. As we neared the stadium, the crowds thickened and the road worsened. We jumped out and meandered toward what we thought was the entrance. A stadium official escorted us around the backside of the stadium to another entrance (which was equally overcrowded as the first) and to the front of the line. I didn’t feel right about cutting the line, as it was pretty evident that we were receiving special treatment because of the color of our skin, but I just went with the flow. Some of the other fans in line were not pleased with what was happening, while others were amused.

Once we squeezed inside we moved to the far side of a warm concrete grandstand and found some empty space, which didn’t stay empty for long – stadium capacity is said to be 5,000 but I bet there was at least 6,000 fans in attendance, many of which stood atop the bleachers. Just as the game kicked off the group in front of us asked a photographer to take a photo of them with Chase and me (two tall, white, bearded Americans). We politely entertained the absurdity of the situation, shifted around to fit everyone in the frame and smiled.

After the third or fourth time this happened I started joking with the photographers that we wanted commission for our role in the operation, but I was ignored.

Zambia was much faster, bigger and more talented than Malawi, thus the game was pretty one-sided, but entertaining nonetheless. All of the merchandise vendors sold some Zambian gear, but mostly scarves and knick-knacks emblazoned with logos from European clubs – Chelsea, Manchester United, Barcelona, Arsenal, etc.

Soccer is huge here. On the day that Chelsea won the Premier League, half of Lusaka strutted around in their blue jerseys. On any given day, every other person walking down the street is wearing a jersey from the UK or Spain. Passing through a small town in the middle of nowhere on the way to Livingstone, I saw a small chalkboard outside a humble wooden shack, with a thatched roof that advertised it was playing the UEFA Champions League game on TV.

While the quality of play wasn’t exceptionally high, nothing like the groups crowded around the small TVs see in English Premier League games, the friendly was competitive. Zambia won 2-0 – the first goal came from a haphazard rebound, but the second from a brilliant cross and header.

Zambia (green) vs. Malawi (red)

Zambia (green) vs. Malawi (red)

While I was disappointed that there were no coordinated chants or enthusiastic songs, the crowd was pretty lively. One particularly animated fan in front of us seemed to be pulling Smirnoff Ice’s out of nowhere, though he clearly had never been taught how to properly consumer said Ice on one knee – after he nearly came to blows with a photographer and another fan, we decided it was best not to educate him and let him go about his business.

As the stands emptied out Chase and I received high five after high five – I must have given hundreds of fist bumps that afternoon, but my favorite moment came when one guy wearing an Arsenal jersey pretended to interview Chase about the game with an invisible microphone.

We eventually found our cab, though getting through traffic to the main road was another story. There are no orange cones, no detours and no traffic officers, unless you count the dozens of drunk fans directing traffic.

All I can say is that if you want to experience Zambia, go to a soccer game.

I loved Zambia. It is certainly an interesting place, even comical at times, but I can honestly say that the people are among the friendliest I have ever met; it was actually just declared the most peaceful country in Africa in the Global Peace Index Report.

I don’t know how to approach the following situation appropriately, but I think it is something that needs to be addressed in order to fully understand my experience in Zambia. In fact, I think it is imperative to understand that for the first time in perhaps my entire life, I was in the minority. Wherever I went, typically, I was the only white person.

And frankly, it was rather refreshing. Wandering through Kamwala Market in downtown Lusaka, no one tried to solicit us goods, no one asked for anything (except for the occasional high-five); I wasn’t treated like a tourist, or a white American male, or anything else – I was treated just like a normal human being.

In the year 2015, it feels odd that I would even need to bring up race, but I think it is important to talk about, rather than ignore. It can be difficult to be different. No way would I compare my experience to that of anyone else in any other country, for I have never been mistreated or discriminated against because of what I look like. For me, it was a glimpse into what could be.

Whether you accept it or not, there are plenty of glaring issues back home in the states and many of them, unfortunately, have to do with race. Humans consciously mistreating other humans out of fear of differences – even in the country that declared that all human beings have the right to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness,” xenophobia exists.

But where desperation, despair and discrimination dwell, so do hope, dreams and reconciliation. I have hope that one day our great nation will truly come together as one. Until then, I urge you to appreciate “different,” smile at strangers and take a genuine interest in the lives around you.

I think you will be both happy and hopeful in what you discover.

[Note: Thank you to everyone that made my experience in Zambia as awesome as it was – Julia, Justin, Brad, Jacques, Anna, Ben, Geoff, Chase, Mike from Philadelphia, John & the two dudes that drove the minibus. I will be back someday.]

And for those of you not on Facebook:

Just over 8 months ago I woke up in Granada, Nicaragua, nervous for what lay ahead. Today I am proud to say that, while certainly very difficult at times, this has been the most amazing 8 months of my entire life.

I cannot thank the University of Washington, the selection committee, Brook Kelly, and Mr. Bonderman for this opportunity.

At this moment in time, my Bonderman Fellowship has officially come to an end, however I fortunately get to travel with my best friend Michelle​ for a some time before returning home.

There have been plenty of ups and downs (some much worse and some much better than others), but I wouldn’t change a thing, for I have learned that every little decision we make affects our life path and those paths of others around us. This is not to say that we must worry about every tiny, trivial decision, but rather to rejoice in life’s amazing moments as well as the journey it took to reach each one.

Just because this journey is technically over, I know now that it will never really end. On that note, I am going to keep writing, so if you’re interested please keep reading!

Thank you to all those who have given me support along the way, encouraged me to take a leap of faith and listen to the stories I tell even when I’m on the other side of the planet.

We did it.

Fifty years ago, District 6 was a lively, vibrant community, with a pleasant view of the harbor and access to the city center. During apartheid, its 60,000 inhabitants were forcibly removed from the neighborhood and each and every building was bulldozed to the ground. Today, it is a blank space. A large, vacant lot of dirt. A blemish, a hole in the city.

Today, many of its residents and their children and their children’s children, live in townships as a direct result from apartheid. I walked through Langa, the oldest township outside of Cape Town, in order to get a glimpse into the life of its citizens.

A local guy took me into the community center, which provides sports, arts and activities for the youth. We passed by local businesses: car washes, electronic repair shops, food vendors, etc. I was doing pretty well until I was invited into one of the homes; I was hesitant for I felt that doing so was stepping over some invisible line of courtesy/privacy, but after reassurance from a man who lived there I stepped inside a small, bright turquoise room that appeared to act as a kitchen and the living room. I was shown into a bedroom, where three families live. Three families – one bedroom. Each family has one bed, which is used for storage and sleeping (the men sleep on the floor and give the beds to the women and children).

It was heart-breaking. I couldn’t believe it.

Why? Why me? Why them?

Questions flooded my mind as we walked down the street to a compound of nicer, government-built, single-family dwellings, which hopefully each of the families living in the previous house will one day have. Hopefully.

As much as I have described the harsh realities of South Africa, there are plenty of amazing things happening here as well. Amid those tiny houses in the township were kids laughing and playing, as kids do. I guess I usually need to hash out and digest the harder things via writing, thus I find myself wrestling with such issues here in this space. I have met so many amazing, kind, and generous South Africans. Caring people, who go out of their way to help others. Up until this point, whenever someone asked me about my “favorite country so far,” I didn’t have an answer, but I do now.

I don’t know what it is, but amidst all of the backwards thinking (which we have plenty of back home in the U.S. as well), all of the sadness, all of the heartbreak, emerges hope, happiness and pride. I absolutely loved South Africa and cannot wait to return. But until then, I wish the Rainbow Nation and all of its people peace and courage.

Thank you for having me.

Table Mountain at dusk

Table Mountain at dusk

Lions Head at sunset

Lions Head at sunset

As we exited Windhoek in a cramped Land Cruiser, the smooth paved roads and clusters of concrete buildings disappeared, replaced by a long, bumpy gravel/mud road. I went back and forth between chatting with Michael, our guide, and falling asleep.

As time moved from one hour to the next the scenery began to change. One moment we passed through a lush mountain pass and the next we were in the middle of a beige desert.

The car pulled into the tiny, dusty settlement of Solitaire, which reminded me of the town in the movie Cars, albeit this not only had to do with the desolateness of the town but the fact that colorful abandoned cars decorated the road. Solitaire boasts “Namibia’s best apple pie” – no disrespect to the kind woman who made it, as it was tasty, but it has nothing on my mom’s or my grandma’s apple pie. [note: I’m looking forward to Thanksgiving already]

Solitaire, Namibia

Solitaire, Namibia

We awoke very early the following morning for another jarring drive across the desert to Sossusvlei. Once inside the park we reached a point in the road at which Michael stopped the car and pointed to the top of a massive sand dune – “That’s Big Daddy dune,” he said to me, “And you’re going to climb it.”

The other two passengers opted for a smaller dune, so I eagerly hopped out and started off across the hard clay as the car drifted out of sight. Something about being alone in the desert, knowing that the task ahead of me wasn’t easy, filled me with adrenaline. Without hesitation I clambered up the first sandy slope, sliding what seemed like one step down for every two that I took.


By the time I had reached the first ridge, sand had filled every ounce of empty space in my shoes and the wind was whipping fiercely over the ridge. I trudged on, attempting to delicately place my feet on the sand, so as not to sink through, while at the same time pressing hard enough to propel myself up the dune.

Climbing Big Daddy Dune

Climbing Big Daddy Dune

The sand felt prickly as it smashed into my legs before plummeting over the ridge. And then, all of a sudden, I had made it. I turned around – beautiful, sandy, quiet nature stretched out in all directions.

Namibia is the closest I have felt to stepping foot on another planet.

View from the top of Big Daddy Dune

View from the top of Big Daddy Dune

I took off my shoes, and went off galloping straight down the face of Big Daddy into Deadvlei (“Death Valley”). When I reached the bottom I could see blurred black figures, silhouetted against the light, dry, cracked clay, the orange dunes and royal blue sky. I thought back to sitting at my computer nearly a year ago, revising my itinerary after I had been awarded this crazy opportunity.


When I saw photos of these strange, magnificent, beautiful dead trees I knew right then and there that I was going to Namibia.

I wandered amongst the dead forest for quite some time, just basking in the splendor of the scenery (and the intense Namibian sun). I was content.





While Namibia is the closest I have ever felt to stepping foot on another planet, it is also the closest I have felt to stepping foot in Germany. Swakopmund is a small town just south of the Skeleton Coast; it’s also where I met Jay, a laid back dude from Marin, CA who studied economics and then once upon a time found himself in Namibia and never left. Today he runs a tour company and creatively dabbles in the clothing industry as often as possible.

I hopped in Jay’s bright orange land cruiser and sped North up the coast to a shipwreck – the Skeleton Coast takes its name from the many ships that have run aground here. Rough seas, no landmarks (as the desert runs all the way up to the beach) and poor visibility, due to consistent heavy fog, make up a recipe for disaster (not to mention that back in the day, even if you did make it ashore, civilization was still miles away).

Further up the coast we explored a small salt pond, as well as some rocks that sound like metal if you hit them. We made it all the way up to Cape Cross to see a massive colony of sea lions, before hiking up a large hill to peer out over the landscape. In short, it looked like what I picture Mars to look like: a bumpy collage of reds, beiges, greys and oranges.

On the way back to Swakopmund we passed through a small German vacation town that is without running water or electricity, but full of eclectic colorful beach houses (all of which have giant water tanks on top of them). No more than 20 minutes later, as we neared the city limits Jay pointed out a much larger, denser group of dwellings. These too are without water and electricity, however, they are not colorful vacation homes, but rather small shacks initially made up of reclaimed garbage from the landfill, which today make up the Democratic Resettlement Community.

Namibia is an interesting (and sometimes befuddling) place. Even just moving East out of town the landscape already looked different: flat nothingness, divided evenly between the sand and the sky comprising the Norab National park. Just inside the park I noticed that this “nothingness” was dotted with black tubes that seemed to be randomly scattered on both sides of the road.

“Test sites,” Jay said, pointing the tubes, “…for uranium.”

As it stands now there is one fully operational uranium mine inside the park, another that has almost completed construction and a third will start construction in the fall, as it was awaiting the results of an environmental impact assessment, (hence the black tubes sticking out of the ground) which it undoubtedly passed.

As for the nearly operational mine, when the project started ‘Swakopmund Uranium’ labeled itself as a local company. Today, a Chinese power corporation owns Swakopmund Uranium, meaning that once completed 1,000+ Chinese will own and operate a uranium mine in the middle of a national park, with little to no supervision. With the mine also came a massive influx of the Chinese population in town, as well as the redistribution of the town’s resources. For example, the large black pipe runs next to the road all the way out to the site funnels town drinking water to the site (which is estimated by some to use as much water as the rest of Swakopmund combined).

"Proudly sponsored by Swakopmund Uranium"

“Proudly sponsored by Swakopmund Uranium”

Though with all that said, the town is essentially split on the issue – the main division coming between money and conservation.

While I don’t know everything about the entire situation, it is hard for me to support a project that sits a matter of minutes away from the “moon landscape,” an incredible myriad of deep, twisting, rocky valleys and dry riverbeds. [note: I think the entire situation could make a really interesting Vice episode]

Namibia is naturally pretty, but with such a sparse population density it is incredibly difficult, some may use the word ‘impossible,’ to get around without a car. So I found a cozy hostel in town and prepared to devise a plan.

Sunset in the desert

Sunset in the desert

Into Africa

After spending a week at Botshabelo and an afternoon at the Apartheid Museum (which was mind-blowing and really well put together) in Johannesburg, I had decided to become a tourist for a few days and see what most people come to Africa to see: wild animals.

Wil sunset

After a quick flight I landed at the Skukuza airport, which looks like if Anthropolgie had designed an airport in the middle of nowhere in the South African bush. I then hopped into an open-air, custom game drive Land Rover and was whisked away down a bumpy dirt road.

Lion Sands is this odd combination of modernity and rusticity; you may eat delicious food and even check the occasional march madness score (when the internet decided to work), yet you weren’t allowed to walk around at night by yourself as leopards and elephants often wander into camp.

We saw a few kudu and impala (antelope-type creatures), as well as some warthogs on the way in, but that was just the beginning.

I have never found myself so interested in nature before, and now I just can’t get enough. I certainly have plenty of stories about my time in the bush, but I would rather save my words and show you the beautiful photos. But first, before I do that, I just wanted to thank all of the amazing people I met along the way, especially Enock and Noel, our guide and tracker. These two men are incredible at what they do – Noel once spotted a chameleon the size of my thumb on a tree…in the dark. Thank you for an experience that was truly ‘once in a lifetime.’ I never imagined I would see nearly every character of The Lion King in real life.

Enjoy diving into Africa.

watering hole elephant + rhino wild dogs zebra rhino + bird lioness hornbill guinnea fowl impala herd hyenas buffalo elephant blue birdantelop couplebird colorful giraffe lioness pride leopard shoulders leopard open mouth sunset


I stepped off the plane, collected my backpack and meandered out into the public waiting area. Joseph was there to greet me with a smile and a firm handshake. As we walked to the car he informed that it was “about a two drive to Magliesburg,” where I could buy groceries for the week, and then another 10 minutes to Botshabelo.

Apparently there was some serious miscommunication as I was told that the organization was “near Johannesburg” and had booked a hostel for the week assuming that I was commuting each day, as nothing had been said otherwise. At this point, I am unfazed – this is Africa, after all.

I purchase a SIM card at the grocery store and straighten things out with the hostel as best I can, hanging up just as we pull off the paved highway and onto a long, bumpy dirt road. The group of young boys playing soccer freezes as we pass the lumpy field, instead smiling and waving at our car. The game prompted me to ask Joseph about the World Cup, and its impact on the country. Disappointingly, he confessed that “…it was here, it was great, and now it’s gone.” While most of the money stayed in the big cities, the World Cup did touch Botshabelo for one afternoon – “Danny, one of the players on Portugal’s team came to play soccer with the kids one day ’cause they were training nearby. He stayed the whole day. He had a blast. And it meant a lot to the kids.” Not a single news outlet picked up the story; most of the world will never know of this superstar’s generosity, but Botshabelo will never forget it.

I am shown to my room on the bottom floor of a nice, tidy wooden farmhouse, adjoined by a deck to a smaller, neighboring house. After I unpack my groceries I step out onto the porch to soak up the sun and peer out of the now deserted soccer pitch. Just then a friendly woman emerges from the other house.

Visitors' house

Visitors’ house

Jane is getting her masters degree in social work – interning for a semester at Botshabelo is her final project. I was supposed to have my induction meeting, but was quick to learn that hardly anything here is on time. Jane was kind enough to show me the ropes and took me on a quick tour of the grounds.

The Cloete family purchased this giant farm in 1990, trading their affluent suburban neighborhood for a plot of land that knows no form of discrimination and opening their new home to strangers in need of one.

House in the village

House in the village

Early on the family faced plenty of obstacles, everything from startup costs to being raided by local rifle-wielding farmers who threatened the family’s lives if they continued to help “non-whites”. Today, 25 years later, Botshabelo is home to 200+ children (roughly 2/3 of which have no family left and live here permanently) and another 800+ people in the village, which sits behind the school and main child-care facilities. Anyone in need of a home is welcome at Botshabelo, regardless of race, religion, gender, background, age, sexual orientation; anything. The community offers children education through 9th grade, as well as recreational sports, three meals a day, a bed, clean clothes and a bath once a day.

The Botshabelo School

The Botshabelo School

Marion and her daughter Leigh were planning on coming over for tea that night, but news arrived that one of the grandmothers in the village was sick. We grabbed flashlights and made our way down the path to the village, accompanied by a group of the oldest, biggest young men and Bothsabelo’s pack of dogs (even if you have four legs and a tail you are welcome here), several of which seem to take a real liking to visitors.

On our way there we saw a massive tarantula on the path, which Marion carefully moved into the grass (she really does love everything and everyone). As it turned out the sick elderly woman was non-compliant with her ARVs (antiretroviral drugs, which fight HIV/AIDS) – while I was to have a proper induction tomorrow, my eyes had been propped open; this is reality.

House in village

House in village

The following day marked six months exactly since I had left home. Jane, Leigh, Marion and I sat down in the living room of my house for my induction, only to be interrupted a few minutes in by a man from an NGO offering free circumcisions. The NGO is backed by John Hopkins University and can bring a mobile clinic to Botshabelo to perform the surgery for free.

Marion was ecstatic. Circumcision drastically reduces the risk of disease, though the only good, safe, reliable clinics are expensive. If my eyes had been propped opened last night, they were thrust wide open this morning – sexual abuse runs rampant in the area. Marion and the staff are able to protect those living within the orphanage housing as best they can, but children as young as seven years old are sexually active in the surrounding community.

We resumed our conversation for another 15 minutes or so before a young man appeared on the porch – minutes later he was given a home in the village. Some time after that a little boy limped into the room after scraping his knee. Marion went into “mom mode” – she dropped everything, gave him a hug and told him to run up to the clinic to get cleaned up. I realized why my meeting never happened – the Cloetes are ambassadors, managers, facilitators, guardians and parents. They truly love these kids.

Most of the children from a disturbing background – they may have been starved, raped, abused. Some have birth defects due to drugs/alcohol. Some even have HIV/AIDS. Yet each is special in his/her own way. Each is part of the family at Botshabelo.

I played soccer that afternoon. The field is littered with holes, rocks and a few trees, but that all is just part of the game – more than anything the young boys find pure joy in soccer. Wisdom, one of the math teachers at the school, joined in as we ran around for an hour and a half in the boiling South African sun.

5am hit me like a sack of bricks the following morning, but I dragged myself through the dim, early light to the massive, stale bunkroom. All of the boys were already up and hustling about, getting ready for school. Many, especially the ones I played soccer with, already knew my name and greeted me with a smile.

No matter the time of day, whenever Maza (one of the most adorable little guys I‘ve ever met) saw me, he would come running with a giant smile on his face. I broke up a dozen fights (the amount of energy that kids possess that early in the morning is astounding) and made sure that each boy did his share of chores.

Group of kids

Some of the older boys sat hunched over tiny, bright screens, charging their tablets, phones, etc. At first I was confused – the community barely scrapes by, how do these kids afford this kind of technology? Jane informed me that some of the kids have relatives who buy them presents. I was still baffled at the fact that people who can’t take care of their own children (or nephews or nieces, etc.) would splurge on a smartphone.

After a conversation with Jane, I took a step back – why am I any more deserving of mindless escapism than these kids? If anything, they deserve a break from reality.

Gift, the head teacher/principal of the school dropped by my house around noon to inform me that I would be talking to the 9th grade class about traveling – the “Botshabelo Travel Channel” as Marion had coined it, aimed at showing these kids what else is out there.

I had never properly lectured/taught anything before, but I strolled into the class confidently with a rough plan in my head. I introduced myself and asked if the class wanted to see some photos. “Yes!” they replied eagerly. I sat down and roughly 30 kids piled on top of the desks peering over my shoulder as a photo of the Eiffel Tower stared back.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

“China!” – The Great Wall appeared on my screen. “New York!” – I found a photo of the Statue of Liberty.

We cruised through photos of Seattle, Barcelona, etc. Any photo that had to do with soccer was a hit, so I showed them more from Argentina. I stood up, closed the computer, their eyes shifting from the colorful images to me, and told them I wanted to do a writing exercise.

“Where do you want to go, and what would you do there?”

“It doesn’t even have to be a real place, I ensured them, just use your imagination.”


Everyone was staring at me, so I drew a rough map of the world.

Nothing. I kept encouraging them to speak up.

Finally a young boy named Benjamin spoke up, “Barcelona – to watch FC Barcelona play against Real Madrid.”

Five more minutes of silence and then another girl in the front row chimed in, “I want to go to America so Rihanna can teach me how to dance.”

“Brazil to play soccer.”

“Botswana to play soccer.”

“China to see pandas.”

While the ideas started flowing, I noticed that most were very similar to each other, either borrowing what a classmate or I said. These kids are smart and independent, but they didn’t grow up being taught to be creative.

“America to work.”

I had assumed one of the kids would say something along these lines, but it hurts so much more to actually hear it. It hurts that our reality, the same reality that so many of us complain about each and everyday, is a dream for these children.

As I walked around, attempting a more individualized check-in I noticed that most either had nothing written down or had just tried to copy my drawing of the world map.

Slightly defeated I thanked them and sat down as their math teacher came in, only to learn that half of the class didn’t turn in their mid-term math exams. There is no family history of education; there was no one to teach these children the value of education – it’s mind-blowing.

After 20 minutes or so I silently exited the classroom, whereupon I ran into Gift.

“Is it always so hard? Teaching?” I asked him.

He chuckled, “Yes, but keep in mind that Easter break starts in one week…It’s a hot afternoon…You had no chance.” I sat down in my living room to digest what had just happened. That was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I wasn’t expecting a 30-minute life-changing classroom sequence, but Hilary Swank did make this kind of thing look way easier.

When Jane returned from town she and I took some of the kids (and a handful of dogs) on a walk up to the cemetery. We passed the tin shacks, the piles of broken glass and continued up into the hills. As we got farther away from the village, it got quieter. The silence was refreshing. We passed through a rock formation/medicine wheel that Con (Marion’s husband) built, and through tall, straw colored grass to the local cemetery.

Walk up to the cemetery

Walk up to the cemetery

One of the boys (who is about 9 years old) took us to his father’s grave, which he and his brother look after. The dirt was swept flat, surrounded by a small, tidy rock wall and had bright yellow flowers in a glass bottle in the middle.

It was beautiful and raw. I have stopped counting how often I feel like crying here.

We reached the edge of the village just as a thunderstorm began rolling in. I listened to the rain pelting the roof as I drifted to sleep that night.

As usual the next morning came too quickly, but fortunately there were less fights today. I’m exhausted – kids are so tiring. I am so impressed by everyone here – I think love helps keep this place running and the desire to do the right thing. I was supposed to have a meeting later, but it never happened so I took a nap and wrote in my journal. I noticed that the heavy metal pole that serves as the cross bar on the soccer goal had come loose and was falling off every time a ball hit it, so I enlisted Harold’s help.

Harold came to Botshabelo two years ago. He was living in Botswana when he was diagnosed with two types of cancer and full-blown AIDS. The doctors said he wasn’t going to make it, as he laid in the hospital, withering away. He successfully completed his chemo treatments so one of his best friends took him out of the hospital and down to Botshabelo. It was nine months before Harold could get out of bed on his own – Marion checked on him everyday, fed him and gave him ARVs to keep the disease at bay.

Over a year since he took his first step out of that bed under his own power and onto the road of recovery, Harold’s T-Cells have stabilized at a healthy level and he takes care of all the maintenance here. He would like to go back to Botswana, but as he put it, “It’s hard to leave the place that literally saved your life.”

By the time we got down to the field the kids had already managed to nail the metal pole into one of the wooden side posts and were attempting to apply a metal bracket to add stability, only using rocks and their hands – these children are so independent. We thanked them for their start as we took over with power tools; the construction leader of the group took a seat in the shade, pulled out a phone and started playing “I’m Different” by 2Chainz.

Playing soccer after fixing the goals

Playing soccer after fixing the goals

The following morning at inspection, Gift came into the bunk room to tell me that I would be teaching English at 7am, as one of the teachers had to go to a meeting in town, so I ran back to my house to throw on my only button-down shirt and a pair of khakis.

When I walked into the 2nd-grade classroom, the teacher handed me two, one-sided worksheets – I am going to need to get creative to fill the entire hour of class I thought silently.

I spent 15 minutes teaching and the other 45+ attempting to restore some type of order to the state of chaos. I broke up a dozen fights. Kids were walking around, both on the floor and on desks. Some would just get up and leave class. No one listened to me unless I yelled, and even that wasn’t a guarantee. It was the most I’ve screamed in a long time, maybe ever.

The 3rd graders were better behaved – we actually got a few things accomplished, which was really rewarding (I taught them how to read a compass on a map!). That said, there was still no shortage of fights and no shortage of shouting.

My respect for teachers grew infinitely that day. To any of my former teachers/professors that may be reading this: my hat is off to you and your profession.

I returned to my house, sweaty and tired, only to find out that while I was teaching someone (one of the kids) had somehow broken into my house and stolen my shampoo out of the bathroom. (Later that night, just as I was about to make dinner I would learn that they also took my dry pasta).

Shampoo is cheap, but it was an eerie feeling knowing that someone had entered my house. I am not sure how they got in, as my doors/windows were locked, but fortunately they didn’t get into my room. As I mentioned before, this is the reality in which I am living – these kids are in survival mode. Take one particular child, for example: his dad is in jail for murder and his 12-year-old brother is a criminal/drug lord/gang member. I would say the deck is stacked against these kids, but that is a severe understatement and injustice to the situation.

The following day could not have come at a better time, as Jane and I were set to spend the day volunteering at the Rhino & Lion Nature Reserve. We entered a ‘staff only’ area, set our bags down and then set out with our new friend Dennis to feed some types of birds and antelope. We hung out with Dennis for a while – he was so excited to show us around.

At point, he had us duck under a preliminary fence and then opened up the owl exhibit so we could see inside better. He also offered to let us hold the python, but couldn’t find the keys. As the day wore on, things got even wilder.

We helped Tajtana, a woman who lives in San Francisco, but volunteers here as much as possible, clean/spruce up a concrete compound area that is currently housing two polar foxes that managed to break the fence of their old enclosure. We scrubbed, swept and put down fresh hay, while the foxes were in the enclosure – they were fairly timid, until we left, at which point they began frolicking through the hay.

Most people come to Africa for the animals/nature, thus most tourists never experience the other side: the people. Dennis is as friendly as anyone I’ve ever met – many Americans assume that we are disliked around the world, but I can tell you the opposite is true here. Everyone seems to love the U.S. and is fascinated by our people, our culture and our history.

The next thing I know, we are entering an enclosure that is home to “Oslo,” an adolescent lion, who seemed rather sleepy on this cloudy afternoon. His belly rose up and down, rapidly with each breath. I approached slowly, and then reached out to stroke his soft fur. He felt like a teddy bear. I was petting a lion. A real, live, lion.

Lion selfie w/ Oslo

Lion selfie w/ Oslo

Growing up, cheetahs were my favorite land animal, so when I kneeled down next to “Eddie,” I was in awe. He purred like a house cat as I stroked from the back of his head to his shoulders.

Chillin with Eddie the cheetah

Chillin with Eddie the cheetah

I told you the day got stranger.

We then helped Tatjana clean an enclosure that belongs to two lynx cubs, something (we later learned) that visitors are usually never allowed to do. The lynx were a bit feistier than the other cats, but one even crawled onto my lap. Keep in mind that the reserve is open; there were guests walking around, taking pictures of the animals and I was casually inside the enclosures, with the animals. It was crazy.

Lynx cub

Lynx cub

Behind the animal crèche is a large grassy area, fit for picnics…and cheetahs. In order to display the animal’s strength and speed, they brought a large winch sort of thing, with a water bottle attached to the end of the coiled rope. With the press of a button, the winch wound up the rope (like many vacuums used to do with their cords) and the cheetah went sprinting after the bottle. It was amazing to watch her run – they are gorgeous animals.

We got to go into the black leopard cub’s enclosure as well, just before the sky opened up and poured rain. The guests vanished, running for the cover of their cars. Just like that we had the place to ourselves, so Dennis took us into one last enclosure to meet “Milo,” an adolescent white tiger. He was beautiful.

Hanging out with Milo the white tiger

Hanging out with Milo the white tiger

As we were going to leave, we could hear Oslo calling for Milo being that the two are good buddies and sleep together when it’s stormy, so Dennis opened the door and let Milo out.

We walked a white tiger, off-lease, to another enclosure so that he could hang out with his best friend, who is a lion. I can’t make this stuff up.

We stopped by the breeding center on the way out to see the big boys (and ladies). Those cats were massive, and they had that ‘wild’ look in their eye. Walking up and down the fence, stalking passersby. It was a little frightening, but all the more intriguing. And to think, the only thing I paid for all day was gas and food.

It rained all night, so the walk to church Sunday morning was a bit mucky, but I wanted to experience it. The small tin room, regardless of the dirt/partially-carpeted floors, regardless of the fact that the pastor could only afford to buy two candles, regardless of the mud, was alive with energy and lots of singing, dancing and drumming. While I didn’t necessarily agree with the style in which the message was delivered, the pastor did make an interesting point, “You can be angry for a minute…even an hour…but do not be angry all day. Forgive.”

Dancing at church

Dancing at church

Taking turns playing the drum at church

Taking turns playing the drum at church

After all that I saw, experienced and lived here at Botshabelo, I am grateful. I am humbled. I am blessed. But one thing that I most certainly am not is angry. I already miss playing soccer in the hot afternoon sun. I miss coloring with kids. I miss their smiles, their jokes and their laughter. As I said goodbye to Marion and the rest of the family, she gave me a hug and I told her I would come back someday. She said I better, as I “now have a home in Africa.”

Thank you for reading!

If you want to learn more about Botshabelo feel free to visit: http://www.botshabelo.org/

You can also watch the documentary made about Botshabelo here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U05_-w76RDs

As the plane swung low over the cape, a dark rectangle shape appeared in the distant haze – Table Mountain though slightly hidden by lingering smoke drifting from neighboring wildfires into the city, was in sight.

I made it. Phase two, of my adventure. I had always dreamed of coming to Africa and here I was, wandering around Cape Town. I took an afternoon to acclimate and then headed straight out to Robben Island – currently it is a museum and place of remembrance, but it once housed a maximum-security prison and plenty of political prisoners.

Exiting the harbor we were treated to a magnificent view of the Cape Town ‘City Bowl,’ the metropolitan area tucked below Table Mountain and Lion’s Head/Signal Hill (I thought people were talking about a bowling alley for the first 48 hours of my time here). The only comparable experience I had was visiting Alcatraz, but as we approached it became evident that this place is much larger. In fact we boarded buses to zoom around the main sights of the island. I sat next to a man named Itu, who is from Johannesburg, but is planning to quit his traditional business job to start a produce farm. Our tour guide seemed like she was having a bad day, plus Itu’s camera wasn’t working, so Itu and I spent most of the tour reflecting on what we were witnessing and I became the tour photographer.

We passed the lime quarry, where the prisoners were forced to toil for 8+ hours a day; where human beings were reduced to numbers. Today, a pile of rocks lies where the entrance once stood, symbolizing the power of the human spirit and its ability to overcome.

Once off the bus we were able to enter the maximum-security prison and meet our guide, Kgotso, who served seven years on the island for his involvement and affiliation with the ANC and anti-apartheid activities. Kgotso was such a nice guy; he spoke with conviction and charisma. He talked about the terrible things that happened on the island, spending time in the tiny, windowless solitary cells, and then with a sly smile, disclosed the prisoners’ sources of information: “…new prisoners,” he chuckled, “and sympathetic guards, whose names will never be revealed for they trusted us and we trusted them.” Kgotso also played in the Robben Island Football (soccer) League, whose governing council served as kind of a trial run, as those incarcerated knew that someday their time would come to lead this nation.

Inside Robben Island

Inside Robben Island

Walls of Robben Island

Walls of Robben Island

We walked through a maze of tall walls and barbed wire fence into a narrow hallway in a smaller compound. One of the cell doors was open, and a thin mat lay in the corner beside a tiny table. The cell once belonged to the late Nelson Mandela, who served 18 years of his 27-year sentence on the island.

Mandela's jail cell

Mandela’s jail cell

As we approached the gorgeous, modern V&A Waterfront, packed with tourists flocking to its fancy shops and restaurants, the whole experience seemed surreal. The last political prisoners were released from the maximum-security prison in 1991, the same year that I was born.

Clock Tower | V&A Waterfront

Clock Tower | V&A Waterfront

The following day I decided to hike up Table Mountain, the iconic backdrop of an iconic city. It was a blistering hot day, but we set up the steep stone steps anyway. Several hours later I was standing atop Cape Town – on one side the urban metropolis crept up the coast, while clouds spilled over the coastal peaks on the other.

View from Table Mountain

View from Table Mountain

Table Mountain from the V&A Waterfront

Table Mountain from the V&A Waterfront

I wandered around the ‘Gardens’ neighborhood, passing through Company’s Gardens, a sort of park, and the Slave Lodge. Today the lodge is a museum dedicated to remembering the tragedies of slavery, and prompting society to fight ongoing slavery around the world, but it once was the very place where slaves were imported, held and sold (it also later housed the supreme court).

Before I headed out of town to relax near the beach for a few days I awoke at 4am and stumbled outside in the dark, hopping into a shuttle fan before I fell asleep for a couple hours until we reached our destination: Gansbaai – the great white shark capital of the world.

We stepped into a neat, tidy building where a movie was playing on TV depicting Mike Routzen swimming freely with great whites. Photos of Brad Pitt, Orlando Bloom, Matt Damon, Mark Wahlberg, etc. adorned the walls. We would not be doing any free diving today, but rather doing so within a small metal cage attached to the side of a boat.

The swell seemed pretty good sized as we rolled up and down on the way out of the harbor. The boats do not feed the sharks, however they do chum the water – while it seems harmless and in the name of science, nature conservation, etc. I feel as though luring a wild animal to mechanical craft is probably not the best idea. That being said, I have always wanted to see a great white shark up close.

I clambered into my thick wet suit, strapped my snorkel mask on and slid into my section of the cage. The water was ice cold. I’ll admit I was nervous. And shivering.

At the word of the guide we were to release our knees and push ourselves underwater to the bottom of the cage.

“Down!” he shouted. I couldn’t see a thing. The visibility was terrible. Unable to hold my breath very long in the frigid water I popped up.

Several meters out in front of me I saw a fin of a two-meter long great white. Unfortunately that is the only thing I saw due to the poor weather conditions, but I saw one nonetheless.

While I was hoping for more, I can’t complain, as I am very lucky to have even had the opportunity to get in that cage. Having since watched the video of the whole ordeal, the shark actually touched the cage; we still just couldn’t see it. Bottom line, I was able to witness one of my favorite animals, wild in the ocean.

I have been very fortunate and met plenty of amazing people along my journey. One such person is Gavin, a member of room 343 on our Antarctica ship, who so graciously allowed me to crash at his place in Cape Town while he was out of town. There I met Jafrey, a kind man from Malawi, who talked to me about soccer and his life.

Prior to heading to the other side of the country I came back into the city where I met Teriann and Lauren, two cool Australian girls. We hiked up Lion’s Head, which frankly was easier and way more fun than the constant stone steps of Table Mountain. When we reached the top, we sat down and enjoyed the amazing view while talking about travel, South Africa, etc.

South African history is still very recent and very raw. The country still has a lot of glaring problems, mainly due to existing racial tension and inequalities. I am by no means disparaging all of the amazing people I have met here – everyone has been so friendly and welcoming. I would also like to acknowledge that the U.S. has plenty of our own problems, many of which similarly are linked to racial tension and inequalities.

South African is beautiful, gorgeous, stunning. Yet it is broken, divided, blemished. Not unlike many parts of our planet

Sunset Beach

Sunset Beach


Though, they don’t call this place the Rainbow Nation for nothing – I have met people from Zimbabwe, Democratic Republic of Congo, Malawi, Israel, Germany, Zambia, as well as plenty of locals. This place and its people are truly beautiful. I have a hard time picking favorites, but without a doubt this is my favorite country I have been to on my adventure thus far.

I love South Africa.

Sunset Beach

Sunset Beach

The lights flashed to the deep, thumping beat, the crowd entranced by the rhythmic blur of sticks, palms and fists pounding furiously away at drums of all shapes and sizes.

La Bomba is a sort of Argentine Blueman Group, with less entertaining gimmicks, and more original art. They started as a small act, charging 5 pesos (about $ .50) admission to a handful of customers. Today they perform weekly for thousands of people, and while the price has risen (80 pesos today), the vibe remains unchanged.

La Bomba

La Bomba

I met up with a group from the ship – though it had only been two days since we left the boat, it was nice to see everyone again. In fact, a few of us had spent the day wandering around San Telmo, checking out the government palace (which is bright pink), as well as various antique markets. The show was really cool and the crowd was full of energy, cheering and clapping excitedly whenever a particularly favorite tune came on; I even saw a guy who looked like a young Brett Favre.

Casa Rosada

Casa Rosada

I love Buenos Aires. Walking down the warm streets, I felt as though I was back in Rome, or Spain. The architecture is pretty and the food is delicious. The city is massive – even moving about the popular neighborhoods takes time. I spent most of my time in San Telmo (a cheaper, youthful neighborhood), Recoleta (upscale, European feel) and Palermo (artsy, what I deemed the “Capitol Hill” of Buenos Aires).

One morning, I strolled over to the cemetery, famous for its exquisite architecture and lavish crypts. While I noticed some similarities, this cemetery was much more intimate than the one in Santiago – the narrow walkways did not allow cars, and although the backdrop consisted of modern apartment buildings and billboards, the copper statues and stone pillars (some hundreds of years old) seemed to transport visitors through history. I walked around, peering at the different plaques and busts, trying to imagine what some of these people were once like. I even happened upon Eva Peron’s tombstone, a prominent figure in the advancement of women’s rights in Argentina.

Cemetery in Buenos Aires

Cemetery in Buenos Aires

On the way back I found a favorite sandwich place in Recoleta – I think I had a half dozen of them by the time I left Argentina.

Being that I was in the same country as one of the “New Seven Natural Wonders of the World,” I decided that I had to travel all the way up to the Brazilian border to see Iguazu Falls. While the falls themselves are immaculate, the whole operation was unfortunately really touristy, and overly crowded. The best part of the day, however, was when I was about to get away from the crowds and head underneath the falls in boat. Everyone got totally soaked, which was awesome, but to be honest my favorite part was after the boat ride, as I simply sat peacefully on a quiet rock, peering out on the spectacular bit of nature in front of me.

Devil's Throat | Iguazu Falls

Devil’s Throat | Iguazu Falls

I was told to be at the bus at 3:45pm, so I started wandering back around 3:00. Shortly thereafter, I took a peek at the map to make sure I was headed in the right direction and took another look at my phone to check the time.

4:15, it read.

I clicked the phone off and back on.


I was baffled. I could have sworn it just said 3:00. There’s no way – maybe my phone froze or got water on it? I wasn’t sure what happened, but what I did know was that Apple was telling me that I was 30 minutes late. I hustled back to the entrance. I halfway decided that even if the bus were waiting for me that I would hop in a cab to avoid being yelled at by those who had been waiting for what now was almost an hour.

I passed through the gates. No sign of the bus, so I hopped in a cab. Just as he turned on the engine I asked for the time.


I showed him my phone – that is Brazilian time he replied in Spanish. My phone, though always on airplane mode had somehow added an hour, most likely on the boat when we passed within a few yards of the Brazilian riverbank. I apologized, hopped out of the cab and went back to the entrance – turns out I was five minutes early.

When I returned to Buenos Aires I decided to stay the weekend in hopes that I could find a ticket to a soccer game. River Plate is perhaps the most successful Argentine soccer club, having won 36 league titles. They are also the rivals of the most prolific Argentine club, Boca Juniors.

After confirming with a few different sources I determined that the best, safest way to attend a match is to go through a tour agency. The next thing I know I found myself tromping down the streets in a sea of red and white, the impromptu parade slowing, and then jumbling up behind the first of three security checkpoints.

In regard to safety, away fans are currently not allowed to attend games. Furthermore, security blockades are set up in a three-block radius around the stadium where ticket holders are patted down. That being said, I’m not quite sure who set up the zoning permits for the area, for as much precaution the league takes, someone decided it was a good idea to put a firing range literally across the street from the stadium (a place where water is served only in cups as to prevent fans from using the bottles as projectiles). So after being searched, frisked and scanned into the stadium, loud gunshots rang out as we climbed the worn concrete steps to our seats.

We had arrived plenty early, so fortunately we were seated in the shade. I looked into the empty bowl of white and red seats, which were soon filled. Just before kick off the rowdiest group of fans entered to the beat of drums, while, simultaneously, hundreds of banners of all sizes sprung up around the stadium.

Estadio Monumental Antonio Vespucio Liberti

Estadio Monumental Antonio Vespucio Liberti

Quilmes was the significant underdog, however, they came out quick and strong against the bigger, stronger River Plate. Twice River scored, and twice Quilmes answered.

Four goals and plenty of action, I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to Argentine soccer. Though I did hope that I would be able to squeeze in a Boca Juniors game before I left the continent.

At first I was angry, as I watched the grey question mark blink on the otherwise blank screen. Then I was sad, as I may have lost most of my nearly completed Antarctica blog post. Then, I let go.

There was nothing I could do about the computer as I sat on the bus headed to Mendoza, so I laid back and dozed off. I walked into my hostel, sweaty and tired, when I heard a familiar voice, “Sorry, people from Seattle aren’t allowed to check in here.”

I whirled around to find Ed and Kaylen (two of my friends from the ship) sitting at one of the breakfast tables. After my technological difficulties, it was an awesome surprise.

Being that it is too expensive and highly difficult to fix any sort of technology in Argentina, let alone an Apple product, I chose to wait until South Africa to investigate and enjoy the moment.

Mendoza is much bigger than I imagined, yet it still has a small town vibe. I decided to grab a public bus with two awesome people from the hostel to Norton Winery, one of the largest and highest-end ‘bodegas’ in the area. We were greeted by tall, heavy wooden doors and a group of friendly tourists, who were mostly from Texas. While it may come as a surprise to many, after an afternoon at Norton, I think I actually like wine now.

Old machinery at Norton Winery

Old machinery at Norton Winery

The next day we rented bikes and rode around to a few different wineries and a wine bar. While we started out as a small group from the hostel, we met two other groups of backpackers waiting for the bus, so we joined forces and Ed became the official, unofficial tour guide.

I must admit that my favorite thing I did in Mendoza was go bowling, at the recommendation of my good friend Sean. Though it is located on the main street, it is pretty easy to miss as it is underground. The bowling balls are smaller, and without holes, perhaps slightly bigger than a bocce ball. Everything is manual meaning that you keep your own score, there are mirrors above the fault line and real people running back and forth setting up the pins and rolling the balls back down the alley to you. We went twice – it was that awesome.

Ever since I first put Argentina on my itinerary I had hoped to attend a Boca Juniors soccer match, and on my last day on the continent, I got my chance.

Obtaining a ticket in the legendary La Bombonera is notoriously difficult, thus it didn’t come as much of a surprise when the only ticket I could get through an agency was a lower deck seat by itself. All I cared was that I had a way in.

We made our way through the various security checkpoints and into Section L. The seats were even better than I ever imagined. It was as though I was right on top of the field. As kickoff neared and the stands filled in, I was surrounded by a group of awesome families – they all knew one another and had been sitting in the same seats for years; it reminded me of UW football games. They were so friendly as I told them about my trip and as we talked about soccer. I am very pleased how far my Spanish has come in five months.

The rowdiest group of fans entered the stands behind the goal just a couple minutes before the game started, waving dozens of blue and yellow flags, banging on drums, leaning over the edge of the upper deck and leading the entire stadium in a boisterous rendition of the team’s anthem. They asked me if football games were like this back home.

“Yes,” I replied, “but we only raise one flag.”

Every single one of the 40,000 people in attendance knew every word. A bobbing, humming sea of blue and yellow, anxiously waited behind glass walls and barbed wire – the field reminded me more of a high-security hockey rink, rather than a soccer pitch.

Boca just had a game a few days ago against a team from Uruguay, so they came out a bit conservative in an attempt to slow the game down. In hardly no time at all though, they intercepted a pass and countered, played the ball into the middle and scored.

The stadium went bananas.

The bobbing sea of blue and yellow had erupted into monstrous swell, and the hum of anthem grew ever louder. My new Argentine friends tried to teach me all of the cheers and dances, as the entire stadium bounced in unison. Maybe I just caught River on a bad day, but I found the Boca fans to be much more spirited/wild, yet at the same time more respectful. They didn’t contest every single call. Nor did the incessantly badger the ref. Yet their energy level was unmatched. Unlike sports back home, hardly any of the fans left their seats at halftime.

Boca ended up winning 1-0 and frankly I could not have asked for a better experience. It was everything I wanted, and more. I would love to continue writing about soccer – something about the game and its storied culture fascinates me.

Boca Juniors v. Atlético de Rafaela | La Bombonera

Boca Juniors 1 – 0 Atlético de Rafaela | La Bombonera

The next morning I grabbed dinner with Jared and a few other new friends just before heading to the airport. It hadn’t really donned on me that I was about to say goodbye to Central/South America, a place I had called home since September.

As my cab flew down the freeway, the sky was burning in a sunset of pinks, oranges and reds. The driver weaved in and out of traffic, taking full advantage of the narrow shoulder. And the smell of burning tires wafted through the open window. It was fitting, to say the least, as it reminded me very much of the drive into Granada, Nicaragua nearly six months ago.

Park in Mendoza

Park in Mendoza

South Africa requires passengers to present “proof of onward travel,” which for someone such as myself who is backpacking without a definite plan can be slightly tricky. I purchased a cheap bus ticket, so for all intents and purposes I was planning to bus from Johannesburg to Gabarone, Botswana on May 18th.

However, when I reached the Qatar Airways ticket counter I was informed that typically an international airline ticket is required. All of the horror stories I had read about on various travel blogs flashed through my mind. I explained my situation and stated that I had read online that a bus ticket would do.

The next thing I know I was escorted behind the ticket counter into a back office, boarding pass in hand, to print out my bus ticket in order to avoid any sort of complication at the South African border. There is no chance this would ever fly in the states. I thanked them for their hospitality and headed upstairs to security, where I recognized Mike and Rachel from my Norton winery tour.

The next thing I know I was sipping sparkling wine in the VIP lounge area, having entered as their guest [thank you both for your generosity!].

After a brief stop in Sao Palo, Brazil, I met two nice guys from the Philippines who work on cargo ships – among other things they told me stories of being chased in the Red Sea by pirates. I’ve learned that I enjoy speaking up and just asking people how their day is going because I never know whom I will meet. I wished those two a safe flight back home, and then caught my last connection to Cape Town.

As the wheels touched down on the runway, and I peered out on the surrounding landscape, it suddenly hit me: I made it to Africa.


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