Traveling is addictive. After living and breathing a new city for two months, I was hooked. I understood why the community college teacher from Arizona that I met during my first week had saved every penny for two years just to afford a three-week, cross-Africa bus tour. It’s worth it.

When I realized this—the awesomeness of traveling—the world suddenly felt impossibly large. Buenos Aires, Jerusalem, Cairo, Shanghai—there is so much to see!!! My new Master Plan is to save up and take on South America and southern Africa during the summer I graduate from college.

But I have to say, since coming to the States, my momentum has been significantly halted. Things that seemed so worthwhile in Africa—taking a year to see the world, finding fellowships to do research at international NGO’s—collided suddenly with the traditional expectations of a student at a competitive, high-achieving, US college. Traveling abroad no longer appeared to be a necessity, but a luxury.

Here, college kids feel a constant need to work all day every day—and I’m totally one of them. Take for instance the whole idea of a summer internship. I mean, who does that? What kind of people say “Okay, I have been absolutely killing myself at school for the last nine months and now what I think would be the best use of my vacation time is to deprive myself of even more sleep by…working more.” 

And the cruel thing is the best years for traveling—right after college—are also when you’re most willing to kill at that horrible first-year professional job, because (hopefully) by the time your youth expires you’ll land that sweet corner office and all the benefits that come with. Traveling seems like a childish indulgence—an expensive diversion from that path to success.

My problem is absolutely not with kids who pursue professional jobs—full disclosure, I too hope to one day be professional and successful in some yet-undecided field. But THIS is my problem: why does the choice between seeing the world and pursuing a career have to be so black and white? Why do I get crazy looks when I tell someone I want to spend a year in Africa; why does everyone seem to think that the only people who travel are hippies, indecisive rich kids, judgmental rebels and those kids who pledge to forever donate 15% of their income to the country of Bangladesh?

Someone help me out here…WHERE IS THE MIDDLE GROUND?

In high school, I had a history teacher named Mr. Baldwin. He was one of those campus legends—he had a ‘Don’t Tread On Me’ tattoo on his left arm, gave multiple-multiple choice quizzes (each answer A, B, C, and D had its own set of additional a, b, c, and d options), and firmly did not believe in traveling. Mr. Baldwin argued that if you read guide books, watched movies, and immersed yourself in the literature of a place, it was as good as being there.

Now, I don’t agree. No Frommer’s guide or Lonely Planet can truly capture the beauty of the view from Table Mountain, the fruitiness of a Fairview sauvignon blanc, or the bafflement of witnessing Khayelitsha’s poverty for the first time. But Mr. Baldwin did have a point about reading. When I showed up to Cape Town, I knew virtually nothing about the city. As the weeks went on, I experienced the warmth of its people, the distrust between blacks and whites on the streets, the conflicts between African immigrants and native Cape Tonians, yet never really understood what they meant or how they came about. People I met would name towns in SA where they were from, and I would nod along despite the fact that I had zero knowledge of the country’s geography. I mean, at least I knew who Mandela was…

Thus, as much as I learned about my temporary home, the depth of my cultural experience was ultimately limited by the fact that I was learning on the fly—like showing up in Shanghi and trying to ‘pick up Chinese.’

So I never discovered the answers to some things—like the fact that so many South Africans I met were so politically incorrect. After a few drinks, the risque jokes would start flying! Coming from America where you get corrected if you forget to say “he or she,” it was a weird culture shock. I never quite understood why South Africans were so liberal when they talked, especially given the fact that the country had only recently emerged from an epic civil rights battle—apartheid. 

I know not every societal mystery has a corresponding article or book or movie that will automatically explain all. But without basic knowledge of a place, your cultural puzzle will always have gaping holes. Long story short: before you visit another country, make sure to at least read the Wikipedia page.

After 21 hours of flying and one charming conversation with a US customs officer who kindly let me carry a bottle of wine in my suitcase despite the fact that I’m not yet 21, I’m finally home sweet home. It’s good to sleep in my bed, see the family, and hear the sweet sounds of the NJ Turnpike.

And what about this blog? Now that I’m no longer chronicling my days at Ubuntu Africa and weekends in Cape Town, is the narrative over?

Not yet. Henry Miller once said “One’s destination is never a place, but a new way of seeing things.” You can’t go to a place like Cape Town and not come back with a new outlook on a few things—traveling, culture clashes, the absurd price of Starbucks coffee. 

But I know that in four short weeks, the insanity that is my junior year at Princeton will commence and I’ll be sucked into an Orange Bubble full of friends and good times but also GPA worries, internship hunts, and the hum of my constantly-buzzing Blackberry. And the worst would be if one day I turn around and think “Hey, remember that one time I went to Africa…?” 

So in an effort to make my internship not just a fleeting adventure but a lasting experience, I’m going to document some of these perspective changes, if only because in a few weeks or months I want to be able to look back at this blog and remember that if you walk past Nassau Hall, the world gets a whole lot bigger.

When family friends spend a night at my house and are leaving the next morning, my family has this ritual where we stand on the driveway and wave to them until their car turns down the street and around the corner. When I was younger, I remember running down the sidewalk after my uncle’s car until I couldn’t see it anymore, saying bye until the laaast minute.

Last night as my friend Andreas drove me to the airport, we passed the front door of Capetown Backpackers. And sure enough, standing outside and waving were my friends Dean and Clark, who have been there since the beginning. And I turned in my seat and waved to them until our car turned the corner and they passed out of sight.

The wonderful thing about staying at a backpackers is that you get to meet people that you never would have met otherwise. Cape Town has become such an intern hubbub in the last few years, almost like an overseas New York or DC. It would be easy to exclusively hang out with other young twenty-year-olds who hail from Western colleges and who—while very diverse—have all had pretty similar experiences.

But where else could I have met someone like Dean, the bartender at CTB, who drinks more than anyone I’ve ever known but who is also making his way through the entire works of J.D. Salinger? Or Dudu, who works the night shift and used to be a child soldier in the DRC? Tess, who got dangerously angry when hungry; Andreas, who would great me each day by screeching ‘JAMIE’ in a strained falsetto; Ronny my German friend—together, Jill and I taught him a dictionary of essential English words like ‘biddies’ and ‘bromance.’ Or Clark, the twelve-going-on-twenty-something-year-old Taiwanese-South African whose profession alternates between digital publishing and butt modeling and spent six years in a boys’-school-induced coma. And of course, my favorite red-wine-drinking, pasta-sauce-hating, Express-only-wardrobe roommate Jill. Road trips, restaurant outings—Clark would always forget who our water was and Ronny would always order enough for six—making fun of Dean’s music choices—these are some of the things about this city that I will miss the most.

Traveling is always tough because you fall in love with a place and its people only to leave it too soon. Andy, the owner of the Backpackers, says that’s okay—he says you make the best of people when you have them and don’t stress over holding onto them after you leave—if you do, you’ll do a disservice to all of the people you still have to meet in the future. It’s a live-in-the-moment kind of philosophy.

I know I’ll be back in Cape Town one day—and I can only hope that sometime, somewhere, I will run into my friends again. Even if I don’t, in small ways—riding a BMX bike, eating macadamia nuts, flashing my blinkers after passing someone on a two-lane highway—they will always be with me. Plus if all else fails, there’s always Facebook.

Photos: Top: clockwise from left, Clark, Ronny, Andreas, Me, Jill, Tess; Middle: Dean, left, and Andreas; Lower left: from left, Clark, Me, Dudu, Anita; Bottom: from left, Me, Ronny, Jill, Tess, and Clark.

 Today is my last day at Ubuntu Africa. As excited as I am to see my family, leaving this place, the staff, and these kids, is difficult. I spent part of the morning reading my first blog posts—my beginning days at the center, impressions of Khayelitsha—and thought about how much I had learned and how much I had experienced.

One thing I’ve realized is that two months just isn’t enough. Only in the last few weeks have the kids really started to recognize who I am, expected me to be there every afternoon, started teaching me Xhosa (in exchange, I teach them “Indian” or Malayalam, the language my family speaks). Only now have I started to learn big-picture things about the organization and where it wants to go in the next few months and years. I’m jealous of Jessica and Mallory who get to spend a year, two years, embedding themselves in this place.

But who am I to complain? I got to spend two (fully funded) months working at a place where I wasn’t just a nameless face but the member of a family; where I could work with smart, committed people who were motivating and inspiring in ways I hadn’t expected or encountered before. I could suggest my own ideas, pursue my own projects, and I truly felt as if my work was valued and that my presence in the office was appreciated. All-together, not a bad way to spend a summer.

Leaving Cape Town is a whole different story—a whole different heartbreak—which I can deal with later. But for now, as you say in Xhosa, hamba kakuhle, sala kakuhle, or ‘Go well, stay well.’ 

Photos: Above, me and Constancia after meeting our first day; Middle, me and Pelokazi, one of my favorite kids; Below, interns and kids.

On Friday, Whitney went to a presentation in Stellenbosch given by a man named Frederick von Heyer. From February until June, Frederick has been traveling down the Western coast of Africa…on his motorbike.

Check out that route! And he made this trip completely on his own. From reading his blog and talking to Whitney, I’ve heard some pretty insane stories—Frederick found himself face-to-face with AK-47’s in the Congo, was dragged down the road by a distracted mini-bus taxi driver in Mali, camped in the bush near Al Qaeda territory in Timbuktu, and carried his bike across rugged terrains, rivers, and more.

Best of all, Frederick also used his trip to raise money for Ubuntu Africa. People were able to pledge by kilometer or just give a donation. 

As I prepare to leave Cape Town tonight, I’ve been thinking a lot about traveling—why we do it, what we hope to take away, and what we leave behind. For Frederick, his trip was about much more than the physical route. He says: “This is a trip through Africa on a bike, it’s not about the bike or riding a bike…It’s really about life, about going out there and letting it happen, anywhere, in what ever way and learning from it, it’s about doing it differently, and about leaving the security of what i’m accustomed to behind and voyaging through the uncertainties of this unpredictable continent. It’s about having faith in my self and others.”

Constancia Movadza and I have been interning together at UBA for six weeks now—our arrival and departure days are almost identical. She grew up in Zimbabwe and will be a junior at Amherst College in Massachusetts this fall. She’s also one of the best and most interesting people I have met in this city. In our interview, Consta talks about going to school during her country’s economic downturn, the culture shocks of an American university, and why she knows she’ll return to Zim.

“Culture shock—the individualism in the United States was unbelievable. I come from a place where…we’re very together. I call my friends mom, mom. I come from a place where friends are family, neighbors are family. And in the States…Amherst is a very small school, I may not know you but I know your face. I sit across from you in the dining and I say hi. But people are very standoffish. It’s almost taboo to say hi to someone who you’re not friends with. I think that was the biggest culture shock—learning to not greet people when they cross you on the path even though they sit right next to you in math. I think I’m still not used to it—I don’t know if I will ever be.”

Click below to read the full interview!

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Before leaving the States, I distinctly remember one of my prime worries about living in Cape Town for eight weeks: would there be hot water? The only other experience I’ve had in a developing country is my family’s biennial reunion at my grandmother’s house in South India. Maybe it’s the rural environment, maybe its the 26 other people who are also living in the house, but for those weeks, hot water is definitely not guaranteed. 

But asking if Cape Town has hot water is like asking if London has hot water. In many ways, this place resembles a more adventure-y version of a European city—wine tours, fancy restaurants, shark cage diving! I’ve often heard people commenting “Oh, Cape Town’s not the real Africa.”

Cape Town’s Victoria and Albert (V&A) Waterfront

What does that mean? As my friend Molly, one of this year’s Princeton in Africa Fellows, mentions on her blog mollywithoutborders, “I dislike when people claim that Cape Town is not the “real Africa.” It’s as if they’re saying that the “real Africa” must be poor and black.” 

Intrigued, I started a conversation with my co-worker Constancia. Consta grew up in Zimbabwe and will be a senior this fall at Amherst College in Massachusetts. Tomorrow, I’ll post my interview with her, where she talks about growing up in boarding school, culture shocks of America, and why she can’t imagine living anywhere but Zim.

When we were discussing the ‘African-ness’ of Cape Town, one thing that Consta said struck me. She asked, “Do you mean our culture and the way we talk and receive you? Or do you mean our development?” And that’s the thing. Maybe Cape Town is more developed than most other African countries. But in its culture—the warmth and friendliness of its people, the slower pace of life, and yes, its dysfunctional nature—it is so completely African.