9 am.
I've broken the cardinal rule of travelers. "Never eat street food." I ate chicken gizzards yesterday, off the streets of Kliptown in Soweto. I was hanging out with my co-counselor N and she bought me some. I could hardly say no. But I seem to have made it through the night with my intestines in one piece. I stayed the night in Soweto after touring Kliptown. A few of the kids from camp recognized me in the tour bus and waved at me from the street. One of them was still wearing his camp shirt. Judging by the holes and dirt on it, you could tell he hadn't taken it off since camp ended. Kliptown is, quite literally, a shantytown. The houses are made of corrugated metal and tin, and everyone shares a few outdoor taps. There's communal porta-potties as well, and most of the children run around dirty and barefoot. It was surprisingly small, less than one square mile of shacks. The associate director of the community center said that there's usually one grandma taking care of 12 children because the parents have been killed by AIDS. N's sister is HIV+. She announced it to me this morning. Death seems to be a familiar thing to South Africans. N's other older sister passed away in April, of a "headache". The death certificate lists the cause of death as "natural causes." No 31 year old otherwise-healthy woman dies of natural causes. She left behind a son that N and her remaining 2 sisters take care of. His father had been killed a few years ago by a carjacker who shot him at close range while his 9 month old baby watched in the backseat. [Photo: Kliptown.]
N's house in Soweto is worlds above the shacks. She lives in a nice safe neighborhood in what seemingly is a middle class home. But she shares her full sized bed with her sister and her nephew, and her brother sleeps on the futon in the same room. There is no running water inside the house. Only a tap in the backyard and a flushing toilet outdoors. No shower or bath facilities exist. Not even a sink in the kitchen. They heat up water in a kettle every morning and sponge bathe themselves. They live simply, but well. The men here are -aggressive-. The word "love" also seems to be thrown around lightly here. I've gotten a few marriage proposals. There is this South African belief that having sex with a younger man will youthen your appearance. It's also a South African belief that if you have big breasts, it's because you've had a lot of sex. [Photo: N dressing her nephew for school.]
I've been sitting in a minibus for the past hour, waiting for it to fill up so I can go to Lesotho (pronounced Leh-soo-too). That's the other travel rule I'm breaking. I'm traveling by local minibus taxi alone. But I'm in a taxi filled mainly with women, so I'm not feeling too endangered. I don't anticipate the ride being pleasant though as the seats have no padding, the vehicle doesn't seem like it has great suspension, it's a 6 hour long ride, and its cramped. I'm starting to doubt the wisdom of this choice. But Lesotho is so remote that no trains or buses run there. This is my only option.
[Photo: Friends from the minibus - Kefuoe, Lebohang, and Motselisi.]
Later. 10 am.
Been here waiting since 8 am. Seriously considered asking for my money back in an attempt to go to Jo'Burg to take Greyhound to Bloemfontein, and then take minibus from there, but realized that greyhound would not be leaving till 4 pm. That and, I couldn't get my money back. The passengers have started chatting though. I suppose this is the "true" experience since I'm with the locals and I should be more appreciative. Patience is not the ability to wait. It is the ability to wait with a good attitude. I, obviously, am not patient.
[Photo: I watched this view for 3 hours as I waited inside the taxi.]
Even later. 7 pm.
After the most horrifying ride in which the minibus broke down twice and we had to switch taxis in Ladybrand (where I lost my hat), I'm finally in Lesotho. I would not recommend traveling long distances by minibus for any backpacker. The presence of a backpack alone makes it a struggle. I sat for 8 hours squashed into the corner with my backpack in my lap. Then I had to sacrifice the water in my Nalgene to help cool down the radiator in the overheated vehicle.
[Photo: Broke-down palace.]
They dropped us off outside of Lesotho and I had to get off and walk across the border with my backpack. I felt Mexican. I arrived in Maseru (the capital of Lesotho) on foot and was planning on going straight to Malealea where the lodge is, but it was too late for the minibus taxis to be running. A lady offered to take me in her private car for 300R, but I balked considering that a minibus in the morning would be 17R. Instead I checked into Lakeside Hotel, a seedy little place. Do not stay here. Ever. First of all, there is no lake. Secondly, the loud pounding music coming from next door doesn't particularly assure me of the hotel's clientele. I suppose I'll venture out and check the dinner menu.
[Photo: Border between Lesotho and South Africa.]
9 pm.
I don't know why I was so shocked to see a small roach in the bathroom, but I was. My penchant for chocolate has done me in as my stash melted all over the inside of my bag. My sleeping bag liner caught the brunt of it. Whereas falling asleep enveloped in the smell of chocolate sounds heavenly, I realized it would attract roaches by the hundreds. So far, my original idea of losing weight in Africa hasn't happened. The daily chocolate bars may be why.
10 pm.
My boogers are black. Am still hating my new Lonely Planet guide and intensely desiring my old Let's Go guide.
12:30 am.
Someone is rattling the doorknob of my room. Am hoping desperately that it's a drunken person who is trying to get into the wrong room. Am scared =(.
