Monday, October 31, 2016

The Old Biscuit Mill

The mill itself in front of Devil's peak

One of my first experiences in Cape Town was going to the Old Biscuit Mill. Every Saturday since 2006, the market briefly opens its doors from 9:00 to 14:00. Although it's on the other side of town and a bit on the expensive side, making the trek is never a bad call. The OBM's mission is to let local creators show off their passions and promote sustainable, local "microenterprises." The result is a fun, beautiful, tasty Saturday morning. Here's my tour:

Always start with the food

A large portion of the Old Biscuit Mill's 100+ vendors sell food in the Neighbour Goods Market. Here you can find anything from quinoa burgers to exotic mushrooms to sea salt caramel ice cream. Surprisingly, the prices are fairly reasonable. The taste–spectacular.

 Vegetarian sushi... "CARBS" is right

 To get some of this seafood, you have to time your approach; it takes about 15 minutes to cook and is finished by the crowd in seconds

 Sushi salads (the plate furthest to the left has salmon sashimi in place of beef)

 An Argentinian steak burger stand

Above is a great example of the culinary diversity in the Neighbour Goods Market. In addition to the South American staple you see here, I've spotted food from Korea, Italy, Japan, France, China, Spain, and more. Anyways, on to my favorite three stalls:

For the Americans in the room, that's under $12 for a dozen oysters

 They ask, "Please return the tray"
#1 - Oyster platter
This is one of the numerous advantages of being right on the ocean: fresh, delicious oysters for less than a dollar each. If you want to sweeten the deal, you add champagne and bring the total to $7 for half a dozen. They have lemons but no crackers.

 Biltong: a South African delicacy
#2 - Biltong bowls
Like the Old Biscuit Mill itself, biltong has had my attention since the beginning of my Cape Town experience. Biltong is made from dried and cured meat, typically beef. I would describe it as making beef jerky out of beef jerky. It is extremely dry, sometimes to the point of being brittle, but packed with flavor. There are countless flavors to experience; at another stall, you can even get biltong made of tuna.

The percentage climbs gradually to 100%

Atypical flavors like chai and chili compliment the more common hazelnut and sea salt

 Free samples
#3 - Chocolate emporium
In a separate wing of the Old Biscuit Mill, a chocolate factory lures young and old alike. The chocolate cove offers the exact percentage of dark chocolate you want as well as around a dozen ingredients. The smell is incredible and wafts out into nearby stores. If you are trying to fulfill
lifelong dreams while you're there, they offer tours.

If you have enough time to hit more than three stalls, you can look at the arts and crafts for hours.

For your garden


 Potted succulents at about $1 each

 This is where it starts to get expensive

Designer shirts that cost more than I've spent on clothes this year (not saying much)

In case you wanted a... fancy lamp thing


Designer purses that cost more than I've spent on purses in my whole life 

You can really find pretty much any artisanal product at the OBM. If you are thinking of one in particular and haven't seen it yet, you are about to.

Local produce

$1.60 espresso 

"Coconuts For Africa"

 I wasn't lying about the quinoa burgers










 An armada of taxis for once you've had your fill

Hope you brought your phone

Saturday, October 15, 2016

A gym in the sky and a street in the dirt

After about 7 weeks in Cape Town, I have developed the beginnings of a routine.

I recently joined a gym located on the 5th floor of a wellness centre. The facilities are incredible: weight machines with electronic interfaces that count your reps and pace your movement, pristine free weights and dumbbells, an impeccable view of the city, and a sauna are just some of the amenities. Singing up for a month-long membership was about a dollar a day and we were asked, "Are you students or models?" The other gym goers are all incredibly fit, mid-thirties, white mountains with nice suits and funny accents, presumably the models. Though quite intimidates, a few friends and I try to go a few times a week. Apart from this, weekdays usually follow the following formula:

I start my day with an hour-long commute to the Refugee Centre, where I work four days a week. After a few hours there, the other non-South African interns and I walk out of the Wynberg Shopping Centre and onto the Main Road for lunch.

The Main Road is an assault on the senses. Every few feet a vendor peddles their wares, shouting over each other and the noise of car horns. They sell spices, books, biltong, watches, belts–anything you could spend less than $5USD on without thinking. Most days, a young boy follows you begging for money or food. Some days there are adults as well, unaffiliated. The population here is almost entirely black. About a block away, fancy restaurants litter the street bordering a beautiful park. Here, near the entire population is white.

This is the biggest sensory overload. The smell of spices and the noise of cars is not new to me, but dire poverty so close to up-scale restaurants and parks is astonishing. Less than 5 minutes of walking takes me from an area where I couldn't overspend if I tried to one where half of the menu is offensively overpriced to American eyes.

Back at work, I spend the majority of my time interviewing refugees to determine if they qualify for assistance from the Refugee Centre. Due to reduced funding, the criteria is now exclusive and demanding. I often find myself listening to stories of homes being burned, families being murdered, and no food on the table with no avenue to help. Many refugees flee their home country only to find xenophobia, sickness, poverty, and illness when they arrive.

An hour-long bus ride back takes me to Tamboerskloof, where I and the other members of my program live. The name is a mixture between a tamboer, meaning a drum and often used by the Dutch settlers to talk about native African drums, and kloof, described as the space between two cliffs or a ravine. It is a "safe" neighborhood populated mostly by older Afrikaners. The view from our house is extraordinary. At night, you can see the twinkle of city lights and the massive looming shadow of Table Mountain.

And this is very emblematic of the 'Mother City.' It is incredibly beautiful with a personality to match, but it is most certainly a segregated city. The legacies of Apartheid are still casting their shadow and there does not seem to be a 'way out' or 'way in' for many. Because South Africa has the highest income inequality of any country in the world, this may in fact be the most pertinent example of inequality in a major city that there is. To say this isn't based on race simply because Apartheid ended is naïve. Though black South Africans are legally allowed to use the same facilities and live in the same places as whites today, they often do not. For most the barrier merely changed from a legal one to an economic one.

My routine may not reach the highest heights or the lowest lows, but it definitely takes place in two cities.


Saturday, August 13, 2016

GEICO Award



Thank you to the lovely folks at both NSCS and GEICO for helping me study abroad! Below are the essays I wrote for the competition. I am ecstatic right now! As a millennial, it means a lot to write something about your aspirations and have someone not think you're crazy. Decide for yourself:

NSCS GEICO Award

1. Describe how you exemplify 3 of GEICO’s core values: Integrity, Service, and Growth.

From my perspective, these three values are core, and therefore irreconcilably intertwined. To say that service can happen without integrity or integrity without growth is hard to picture. To show this, I will tell a story about a time I grew–a growth motivated by integrity and centered around service.

I was less than thrilled when I learned I would be moving to India for my senior year of high school. India would be the first country I had been to where I could not speak the most popular language. The devastating poverty in combination with horrific pollution and widespread corruption gives India the potential to be a scary place. Not only that, all I had seen were montages of malnourished children squatting in garbage heaps. Death and disease seemed to haunt every alley.

Upon leaving the airport, I realized I was wrong. New Delhi was the most living city I have ever seen. The hustle and bustle is without comparison. Everywhere you look, there are people. Sometimes you look into a bush to see one man giving another a haircut. Occasionally, a motorcyclist would weave in between two cars holding a ladder or with a bag full of chairs on his lap. The streets may not have been clean, but they were certainly alive. Everything I was expecting to find in India was missing–until I signed up for a service program.

The American Embassy School of New Delhi had numerous service organizations, one of which was called “Make a Difference” or MAD. It’s goal was to help impoverished children learn English. Entering their home, the nearby slum, was everything I had imagined of India. The first thing that hits you is the smell. I will not go into detail, but to a person raised in the “first world,” I was out of my comfort zone and a little afraid. I tiptoed around the piles of mud and ducked below plastic tarps on strings. The best walls were made of two-by-fours; the rest were made of sticks, sheet metal, and string. The entire place looked temporary and seconds from collapsing. I quickly grew to regret my decision to join MAD.

Then, I looked more carefully at my surroundings. A mother was preparing lunch for her daughter over a tiny campfire. Children were popping out of every gap, only to disappear into the neighboring alleyway. This place was a home to hundreds of people; it was a community. I realized the absurdity of my disgust. I was worried about getting my jeans dirty while scores of children gathered around, desperately trying to learn English in the hopes that they could be employable. Not only did it put things into perspective, it changed my life.

For years I honestly believed people my age only did community service to look good for applications. I thought service was one of those things you are supposed to say you enjoy, yet privately view as a burden. Surrounded by those children, I realized what it can do for you: provide an opportunity to grow. The belief I am most ashamed about is that I believed I was the teacher. While service is usually a privileged-unprivileged relationship, it is certainly a two way street, and my life is the one that changed more dramatically from "making a difference."

Since that moment, I have continued to give my all in the effort to make my communities better. To me, giving up a Sunday to teach Hispanic children how to swim is a selfish act. I know I am technically 'helping' in the traditional sense, but I do it because I know I will grow and because I know the experience will make me better equipped to do more in the future. Integrity, service, and growth are not just buzzwords, they are what drive me towards my future and motivate all that I do.


2. Why did you choose to pursue the undergraduate degree that you did? Please discuss your professional aspirations and how your undergraduate degree will help you achieve these goals.

My aim is to improve the lives of people in the most effective way possible; I want to play to my skill set. For me, this means bridging gaps and bringing people together. Due to my background growing up overseas, my talents drove me to pursue global studies, anthropology, and language courses for the bulk of my undergraduate education. Professionally, this leads me towards a few different paths. My ultimate goal is to work for the U.S. Department of State, and I am pursuing the degree that will best prepare me for that lifestyle.

In an increasingly globalized world, a degree in Global Studies might seem redundant, but I argue it is one of the highest areas of illiteracy in common knowledge today. Especially in America, we are constantly exposed to aspects of different cultures and ways of life. For example: watching TV for 15 minutes you might see an actress from India, watch a commercial for Mexican food, hear two British accents, and take-in breathtaking mountain scenery from Norway. It would be easy to fool yourself into thinking you are experiencing different cultures, but one important thing is missing. Almost all of these experiences were Americanized or performances of cultures tailored to a specifically American audience. Realizing exactly what you can and cannot know from your perspective is something that took me a very long time to understand.

This idea, often called normalization, is also a fundamental aspect of anthropology. We each wear a pair of glasses through which we see the world. Understanding how those glasses manipulate our vision allows us to better interact with people from other cultures (or countries). Something you may consider normal could be extremely strange or even nonexistent in other cultures. On a global scale, this can cause serious problems. One example from "Dancing Skeletons" by Kathy Dettwyler is the CARE intervention in Mali. CARE, an aid group, planted carrots and gave vaccinations to children in rural Malian villages. However, due to the cultural factors, the children were not eating the carrots and vitamin A deficiency persisted. Here, simply taking the time to understand the culture could have made a global interaction much more effective.

Another barrier to effective global interactions is language. I speak Spanish, I am studying Japanese, and I hope to begin working on Dutch/Afrikaans later in the summer and fall. I chose Japanese because it is not only a language family I have no experience with, but a culture I have had no contact with. Japanese language classes have been a fantastic lesson both in communication and linguistic anthropology; I have learned about a language and culture I would have otherwise never experienced. As for Dutch/Afrikaans, I am moving to the Netherlands in June and studying abroad in South Africa from August to December. My father is already fluent in Dutch and I will have almost half a year of immersion in the two related languages. I am excited to see what this language teaches me. Finally, Spanish has already taken me to South and Central America multiple times, made me great friends, and provided me with incredible opportunities stateside.

In summary, I hope to help bridge gaps in people separated by nationality, culture, or language. From there I will do my best to effect positive change and serve my country via what I do best.

Saturday, August 06, 2016

(Old) Zeeland

Living in New Zealand for two years always bugged the geography nerd inside me. What continent is this? Which one is Mt. Doom? Where is Old Zealand? Almost five years later, I found my final answer.

Zeeland, or the place that makes New Zealand new, is a profoundly quirky province. The similarities to Kiwi country stop there. Here, the homeless are bilingual, mussels are cheap and the bridges will actively try to kill you... but more on that later.


Like much of the Netherlands, about 1/3 of Middelburg, Zeeland's capital, was destroyed during WWII. To this day, however,  it is still unknown whether German bombs or French artillery caused the devastation. I posit the Dutch thought, "well it's flattened anyway; no use pointing fingers" and quietly–yet efficiently–started rebuilding.


Despite the destruction, the Middelburg of today overflows with history; you can see at least one massive tower from every point in the city. There is so much history, in fact, that a humongous church was presumably the best location for a carnival. This was a jarring contrast to the empty, malodorous grass fields that host American festivals.

The cage nearly caught the wall a few times

I couldn't help but grin at the thought of the seedy, unorganized fairs in America secretly hiding a massive international carnival empire.

A Dutch scam, probably

After wandering around aimlessly for a bit, we decided to go on a boat tour. Honestly, this decision was made because we had no idea what else to do in Zeeland. We squeezed into a boat and started debating where the boat would go. The canal only went about 30 meters in each direction before a three-foot-high bridge spanned the gap. There's no way they would risk decapitating everyone, we thought.
Eend! (Translate that)

Since the instructions were in Dutch and the scenery was eye-catching, this was actually a very real possibility. Even my Dutch-speaking father zoned out and nearly face-planted a bridge. 

All-in-all a successful day trip, especially given neither one of us had a clue what there was in Zeeland. That is not an understatement. We actually only went because of the name.


Saturday, July 23, 2016

Nederland impressions

Featuring a tiny man setting the sails
Having only touched down 13 hours ago, the majority of this new country is still a mystery. I have noticed a few things: 
  • There are no curbs on the streets
  • You scan your groceries yourself before checkout (they trust you didn't steal)
  • Biking is serious business
  • Food is very serious
  • Bakeries are serious businesses
  • Dogs are more sophisticated than tourists
  • Dog walking is serious business
  • Everyone is very tall
  • Dutch sounds made-up and is 50% readable

I will give more information when I have learned more. Expect a serious post.


A quiet bustle Saturday morning

Wednesday, June 01, 2016

Rural Connectivity: A response to BlazeWifi

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with railroads. On an otherwise silent day in Yankton, South Dakota, a train's powerful bellow made me tug on my dad's leg, begging him to drive me to the railroad tracks. We emerged from the car and I counted the carriages–sometimes to over 100 (no easy feat for a three-year-old). Visiting my grandparents in Tryon, North Carolina, merely changed the scenery and who had the burden of letting me loose to watch the locomotion. The trains shook the whole house.

Then the trains stopped running.

An artery was severed, and the effects were noticeable. The lights in cozy little stores went dark and the cracks in the sidewalk stopped being fixed. Today, the tracks are overgrown and rusted, but rural connectivity is alive–robust and evolved.


I now live in Tryon, but I have made some notable stops along the way: New Delhi, India, for two years; Washington, D.C., for a few summers; Wellington, New Zealand, for two years. Moving around showed me Tryon does not have the advantages in infrastructure or notoriety a capital city enjoys. However, though the portraits on our walls have stopped shaking in the night and travelers are a bit less common, we are more connected today than ever. We do share the most important resource of all: the internet.

This summer, I am working at an outdoor adventure company in the area. I completed my interview over Skype, sent the paperwork over email, and heard of my acceptance while hundreds of miles away. My story is not unique; the company employs multiple New Zealanders (myself not included) who heard about the nearby Green River and went halfway around the globe to see it. During training, I learned my coworkers came from places like Utah, New York, Texas, Alabama, and more–I was the only local.

What is even more astounding is those who come to see the area. I have met people from at least a dozen states and a handful of countries in the last week alone. While everyone's stories and motivations are different, they often share a common thread: they were inspired by the breathtaking photos or videos they saw on the internet.

Being a nomad offers me a unique perspective in observing the town. I usually come back to Tryon every two years, and each time the accumulation of each tiny change stands out to me in a way I am oblivious to when stationary. I thought the end of the railroad would be a deadly blow. Each time I return, however, the town proves me wrong.



I know how cliché this will sound, but every time I come back I am impressed by Tryon's resilience and ability to live beyond its borders. The local high school teaches Mandarin Chinese and operates a biodiesel generator that runs on sunflower seeds it grows on its own farm. Kids teach themselves instruments and origami from YouTube videos. Online classes have made tertiary education a reality for my peers who work full-time jobs. The Tryon Daily Bulletin, also known as "The World's Smallest Daily Newspaper," has gone digital. I even applied for the community foundation's scholarship program from India. BlazeWifi is looking for the ways the internet changes rural communities. The answer, in my experience, is providing a renewed connection to the world and bringing new energy to the rural lifestyle.

Although trees have fallen across the tracks and the heavy iron nails are now just souvenirs, this town is far from disconnected. If anything, Tryon's charm now has a much more intentional way of attracting wanderers than being a nameless pitstop on the way to a bigger, better town. While the illustrious news stories focus on how technology will shape our cities, the real change is happening in rural connectivity.



Reboot

Wow, this sure is a relic! Almost 5 years later, I hope to begin posting regularly here on a variety of topics. Stay tuned; you will find out as I do.