I had a suboptimal introduction into South Africa, entering from Maseru, the capital of Lesotho, into the part of the country described to me as the country’s Kansas. The Free State of South Africa is cows and cornfields and conservatives. It is a staunchly Afrikaans region and one of the most segregated areas of the country. I was not particularly interested in seeing the Free State capital of Bloemfontein, but it is a necessary jumping off point for other South African destinations. Seeing ostriches on the drive in was an added bonus. Those are some seriously freakish and majestic creatures.
What would have probably been a pleasant, if unexciting, stay in this city was tainted by my bizarre lodging experience. The building itself is a converted water tower divided into rooms by aluminum siding. In the center of this trailer park-esque set-up was the owner’s wall-less, ceiling-less, door-less bedroom. From the front entrance and common spaces of the hostel, the owner is in perpetually full view in his single (I’m not surprised) bed, with a cigarette in his hand and a hot water bottle on his crotch. When he offered to pick up my bus ticket for the next morning and returned with a ticket for a few days later, I became convinced he was trying to abduct me. I locked myself in my room for 24 hours with a sewing project and a jar of peanut butter before deciding that trapping myself in a building with this man was counterproductive. I finally ventured out into town for some food, and as I walked around, nearly a dozen white shop owners, who spied me from their storefronts, walked out to warn me about how I was going to be robbed and knifed and assaulted. I wondered if it was my backpack or the fact that I was wearing a t-shirt in winter that gave me away as an outsider, but it was actually the fact that I was out walking on the sidewalk rather than driving in a car. I should backtrack and say that not only was this in the middle of the day, but Bloemfontein is probably one of the safest cities in South Africa, but likely with the most paranoid (and racist) population.
When I finally did get my bus out of there I headed for Pietermaritzburg. I stayed in a gorgeous old house with a kind owner and two huge, beautiful Afghans of the dog variety. The owner made the guests a fantastic dinner and offered us a “Canadian treat” on the house. I was sure he was going to fill the little glasses he set on the table with maple syrup. Nope. Ice wine. Who knew there were two Canadian treats?
Also staying in the house was a high-strung Oregonian couple spastically circling the globe. They hailed from my favorite city that I’ve never been to- Eugene!- the running capital of America. Coincidentally, I was in Pietermaritzburg for running-related purposes- to see the Comrades, a 54 mile ultra marathon.
I have little interest in the Olympics that are about to take place, but watching thousands of runners, the vast majority of whom are not professionals, running literally all day, was an inspiring sight to see. Dozens of countries were represented in the race, as well as people of all ages and abilities. The race changes direction every year, significantly altering the physical impact of the course. This year’s race was an “up run,” which is exactly what it sounds like. I watched at the finish line, and unlike other races where runners kick in the final stretch, most of the people I saw just sort of mosied into the chute, limping, bleeding, and covered with the salt of evaporated sweat, but euphoric. However, the last few minutes of the race are quite intense. That’s because12 hours after the starter pistol goes off, the race is declared over. Although the first person to cross the finish line after 12 hours (technically the first non-finisher) each year becomes something of a local hero, a symbol of the spirit of the event, for the rest of the people still out on the road after 12 hours, every kilometer they ran that day is erased from the records. So at 11 hours and 55 minutes, it is like the finishers, the crowd, the announcers and those still running are all conspiring to get as many people as possible across the finish line before the course closes.
One of less inspiring aspects of the Comrades were the powder pink Asics shirt that slews of women spectators sported reading, “I would run, but who would be supporting him?” Watching the beginning of the race on TV in the morning, I also saw the female leaders getting boxed in and tripped by a pac of men who would do anything short of Jock Semple style manhandling (brush up on your Boston Marathon trivia) to avoid being passed by a woman. Other than that, I had nonstop chills (the good kind) for the rest of that day.
What would have probably been a pleasant, if unexciting, stay in this city was tainted by my bizarre lodging experience. The building itself is a converted water tower divided into rooms by aluminum siding. In the center of this trailer park-esque set-up was the owner’s wall-less, ceiling-less, door-less bedroom. From the front entrance and common spaces of the hostel, the owner is in perpetually full view in his single (I’m not surprised) bed, with a cigarette in his hand and a hot water bottle on his crotch. When he offered to pick up my bus ticket for the next morning and returned with a ticket for a few days later, I became convinced he was trying to abduct me. I locked myself in my room for 24 hours with a sewing project and a jar of peanut butter before deciding that trapping myself in a building with this man was counterproductive. I finally ventured out into town for some food, and as I walked around, nearly a dozen white shop owners, who spied me from their storefronts, walked out to warn me about how I was going to be robbed and knifed and assaulted. I wondered if it was my backpack or the fact that I was wearing a t-shirt in winter that gave me away as an outsider, but it was actually the fact that I was out walking on the sidewalk rather than driving in a car. I should backtrack and say that not only was this in the middle of the day, but Bloemfontein is probably one of the safest cities in South Africa, but likely with the most paranoid (and racist) population.
When I finally did get my bus out of there I headed for Pietermaritzburg. I stayed in a gorgeous old house with a kind owner and two huge, beautiful Afghans of the dog variety. The owner made the guests a fantastic dinner and offered us a “Canadian treat” on the house. I was sure he was going to fill the little glasses he set on the table with maple syrup. Nope. Ice wine. Who knew there were two Canadian treats?
Also staying in the house was a high-strung Oregonian couple spastically circling the globe. They hailed from my favorite city that I’ve never been to- Eugene!- the running capital of America. Coincidentally, I was in Pietermaritzburg for running-related purposes- to see the Comrades, a 54 mile ultra marathon.
I have little interest in the Olympics that are about to take place, but watching thousands of runners, the vast majority of whom are not professionals, running literally all day, was an inspiring sight to see. Dozens of countries were represented in the race, as well as people of all ages and abilities. The race changes direction every year, significantly altering the physical impact of the course. This year’s race was an “up run,” which is exactly what it sounds like. I watched at the finish line, and unlike other races where runners kick in the final stretch, most of the people I saw just sort of mosied into the chute, limping, bleeding, and covered with the salt of evaporated sweat, but euphoric. However, the last few minutes of the race are quite intense. That’s because12 hours after the starter pistol goes off, the race is declared over. Although the first person to cross the finish line after 12 hours (technically the first non-finisher) each year becomes something of a local hero, a symbol of the spirit of the event, for the rest of the people still out on the road after 12 hours, every kilometer they ran that day is erased from the records. So at 11 hours and 55 minutes, it is like the finishers, the crowd, the announcers and those still running are all conspiring to get as many people as possible across the finish line before the course closes.
One of less inspiring aspects of the Comrades were the powder pink Asics shirt that slews of women spectators sported reading, “I would run, but who would be supporting him?” Watching the beginning of the race on TV in the morning, I also saw the female leaders getting boxed in and tripped by a pac of men who would do anything short of Jock Semple style manhandling (brush up on your Boston Marathon trivia) to avoid being passed by a woman. Other than that, I had nonstop chills (the good kind) for the rest of that day.
After the race, save for visiting the spot where Ghandi was infamously thrown off a train, there wasn’t much else for me to do in this city. My next plan is to get a visa for Mozambique in Durban and continue on my way. Admittedly, I didn’t do South Africa justice in my measly week there, but I’ll be literally surrounded for the next two years and will have ample time to explore.
