 Skyline of Jozi We hear all these things about Africa being the “Dark Continent” and that it is full of sick, poor and dying people. That is not my Africa. My Africa is full of life, love, music, warm breezes and beauty. I have had the opportunity to travel to Africa four times in 14 months. “Africa” is too broad of a term—we are talking about an entire continent here. I have now been to seven countries (there are more than 50) and each country I go to is unique and each region within each country is diverse. It all started in June of 2006 when a South African grad school friend, Kelly, asked if I wanted to take a holiday with her and her family in Mozambique and the Kruger National Park, South Africa. I couldn’t turn the opportunity down, and it has changed my life forever.
I love the smell of Africa, when I get off the plane in South Africa I can smell the smoke of the fires on the high plains (veldt fires) and the people and the dust. I love the feel of Africa, being able to backpack or fly into some new country and the sense of untouched wilderness and the feeling of adventure. I am fascinated and devastated by the history that brought this continent together and torn it apart. Every time I go to Africa I learn something about myself through the amazing people that I meet and the incredible things I see. Africa represents true vibrant life to me. It doesn’t hide anything; it doesn’t hold back; it is true.
I start this story in the Rainbow Nation, South Africa. The first thing people think about is apartheid and Mandela, and maybe crime, but what about the World Cup of 2010? And the fact that South Africa now has one of the most progressive constitutions in the world? Many people ask me about poverty, and AIDS, and orphans, and racism. I try and focus on the kindness of people that I meet, the joy that I see and experience when I am there, as well as the hiccups and fun of Africa Travel.  Photo taken on an earlier trip in July 2007 in Soweto, a township outside of Johannesburg, South Africa. These handmade trivets were arranged on a table outside of a church. RED AND GREEN CHANNELSCustoms in African countries are not always the most pleasant places. Going through the airport in Johannesburg on this day in October 2007 is calm and civilized compared to other countries I have entered. I have grown accustomed to the soft shuffle of feet and hand baggage and occasional quiet conversation in various languages as we wait in the long lines for our entry stamps in our passports. Everyone rushes from the plane and lines up in their respective category—Nationals, African Passport Holders, Other—and we all wait. A strong human smell adds character to the otherwise sterile environment. The lighting is soft, almost dim. The floor, ceilings, and walls are cold but not unwelcoming. The whole experience feels very solemn, like a preparatory state. I wait anxiously, butterflies in my stomach, as I have, on occasion, had to deal with a customs official on a power trip. This is the beginning of a four-week, seven-country trip through Africa, and I anticipate that there will be many more long uneasy waits in custom lines. I hear the lyrical South African accent from a customs agent sing, “Next person in line please,” and with a visa and a stamp I gain entry to baggage claim. It’s not over yet though…. The only colors that really stand out in baggage claim are the vibrant red and green of the customs channels against a brown background. I quickly gather my large, blue, mostly empty suitcase and my burgundy backpack and enter South Africa through the Green Channel with no problem. There is a paper that I hand off to the official claiming that I have no goods to declare and I am off. South Africa is pretty light on its paperwork—in some countries there are stacks of colorful papers you must fill out. I am slightly uncomfortable in Joburg; sometimes I am downright terrified. Locals refer to the city of Johannesburg as ‘Joburg’ or sometimes ‘Jozi’, which I find to be a quant little nickname for a frightening city. Joburg is a beautiful city, especially this last trip with the jacaranda trees in full bloom. It is high on a dry grassy plain and the air always seems to be choked with the smoke of veldt burns, or grassfires. The sun is painfully bright and sparkly, and I always mix up north from south because the angle of the sun is opposite of what I am used to. On top of the disorientation of crazy sun angles, jetlag and fatigue, I really don’t like the feeling that any moment on the streets of Joburg could be my last. I could be carjacked, kidnapped … even when I am safe and sound in the apartment, someone could break in. The crime is that bad. Everyone I know has some sort of story of being tied up, hijacked, mugged, etc. People in the predominately white northern suburbs build tall walls to keep everyone out, but instead it has the effect of creating a prison, because no one can see what occurs during a break in. I fondly refer to my friend Kelly’s house as “The Compound”—her family gets a good laugh at that. They have guards at the entrance of the neighborhood, alarms on the tall walls surrounding the property, barbed wire, alarms on the cars, alarms on the house. There is a “mission control” room that houses the security monitor of the cameras all around. The final nail in the coffin is a prison gate that you close in the hallway to lock yourself into the back bedrooms at night. I just about shat myself late one night when the neighbor’s alarm went off. And Kelly, one night, accidentally closed the gate without checking the key, which was across the room. We were locked in. Only potential robbers could let us out. 
 The prison gate that keeps us safe at night from bandits. You get over it though. You learn to be street smart and all those terms that we use in the States. You even almost start to forget about it, until your taxi driver starts talking about how he and his passengers were robbed at gunpoint the following week. *sigh* Then, once you get over the terror, it’s like you get this rush, this feeling of adventure when you go to the grocery store … what could happen this time? Am I going to be beat to death? And then all the fear disappears into giggles over words like ‘robots’. The first trip to South Africa, on the way from the airport to The Compound, I couldn’t figure out why Kelly’s mother kept speaking of the robots. I expected to see large metallic figures with moving arms directing traffic. They are what we call traffic lights. This was the first of many new phrases I needed to pick up, others include “boot” for trunk, “hoot” for honk, “globes” for light bulbs, and—my favorite—“costume” or “cozzie” for a bathing suit. Look for a new installment every other week here at gtweekly.com/africa . Next up: Nairobi, home of the golf bag birds, airport giraffes, and Julius...
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