Theyyam: Where Gods Come Alive at Night!

Did you ever dream of meeting God face-to-face? Perhaps you’ve yearned for a divine blessing or spiritual advice? In the North Malabar region of Kerala, India, you have the chance to do that—and then some.

It’s 8 PM. Night has just fallen when we arrive at the Kallumthara temple. A throng of people stand at the perimeter of a paved square in front of a shrine. The air is heavy with smoke. A smatter of drums accompanies the shrill, penetrating tone of a kurumkuzal horn and the clang of cymbals. I make my way to the front.

Two orange-faced ethereal beings twirl their roly-poly bodies in a wobbling dance between the rows of drummers, stopping only now and then to bless someone in the crowd with their silver wands.

Mesmerized, I creep closer, shedding my sandals at the barrier, not caring if they get lost or stolen. The drums beat in time with my heart. I’m trying to make sense of what I see, but it feels unreal, as if I had stepped into an alternative world. The mythical divine creatures—gods in a mortal body—stand at the side of the shrine, sermonizing, handing out personalized advice to one individual after another. The devotees listen with their eyes pinned. And then offer money, not as an exchange, but as an act of devotion.  

As the hours pass, more and more people arrive. There’s free food and stalls selling ice cream, toys, and bottles of water. When I take a rest and sit on a low wall, a group of young boys approaches me. I’ve heard them discuss among themselves how to say “Where are you from?” in English. After contemplating different options for a few minutes (and sometimes getting it right), one boy asks me, “Your country from?” I chat with them for a while. They make fun of me. I joke with them. We laugh together.

My husband comes to find me. “An elephant!” he says excitedly. “They brought an elephant!” We cheer with the crowd as a life-size elephant on wheels is pulled into the square, its ears flapping and its trunk swaying. It looks alive, but it’s not. It doesn’t matter; everyone celebrates this holy animal as if it were real.

From far away, between the trees, a parade of flashing kaleidoscopic lights draws nearer, accompanied by booming staccato drumming and loud voices. At first, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. An amusement park? A carnival? As the parade approaches the shrine, colorful dancers come into view. The young girls (or perhaps men) are made up like dolls. They’re dressed in wide frilly skirts and carry halos of blinking neon lights. These beautiful goddesses dance through the crowd, bringing smiles to everyone’s faces.    

And the party is on!

A DJ has set up a booth a bit further afield. Both men and women, young and old, get up and move to modern Indian hits while confetti shoots from cannons and rains down over them. I get pulled onto the dancefloor by a group of young women. We don’t need a common language to communicate; we just enjoy the moment.     

Back at the shrine, a trio of birdlike gods (Garudan Thookam) have appeared. Their yellow faces and long beaks are as gorgeous as they are frightening. When they dance, they spin so fast, hopping from leg to leg, their striped skirts become a blurry wheel of colors. Behind them, fire breathers in straw dresses hurl projectiles of flames to the sky. The confetti on the ground catches fire and scorches their bare feet.

It’s now well past midnight. Four a.m. The celebration hasn’t stopped since we arrived eight hours ago. It’s just been one amazing, otherworldly performance after another.

An angelic-faced young man in an extravagant costume beats the large drum that hangs from his neck. He chants a melancholic tune. Then he twirls into a euphoric dance before he bows down in front of the shrine. This invocative ritual depicts how a mortal man transforms into its divine self.

I join a torch-lit procession that follows another deity through the woods to a nearby house, where the deity blesses the inhabitants with flower petals.

Back at the shrine, gods painted in white with black stripes perform a ritual dance, where the temple priests try to light their coconut-husk skirts on fire. Sparks fly as the gods try to extinguish the fire by spinning around and around, and stomping out the embers with their bare feet. As the sun is about to rise, these Gulikan Theyyam don impossibly tall crowns and balance them on their heads as they dance around the square.

By now, it’s close to 7 a.m. I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. A metal-eyed god steps out to perform his ritual, the Bhairavan Theyyam. The story behind the ritual, I’m told, is about how Lord Shiva was cursed when he nipped off one of Brahma the Creator’s heads.

And then—one of the highlights of the night (now morning)… The Khandakarnan theyyam. With a mask that looks like a mix between a frog and a bird, this is a ferocious deity whose role is to protect the devotees from evil forces. Dressed in palm leaves, with a dozen burning torches tied around his body, the Khandakarnan moves aggressively around the square. He spins rapidly until all the fires attached to his body fly off, one by one. The heat inside his costume must be unbearable, but he continues twirling and twirling, while pieces of the burning torches fall off all around him, threatening to light the spectators on fire. According to legend, this performance is a divine blessing that dispels fear, wards off negativity and brings prosperity to those who witness it.

Once all the Khandakarnan’s fires are extinguished, other deities—one with giant silver fangs—appear on the scene and perform rituals with swords and money.

I wish I understood the story behind it all, but I don’t. I can only observe in amazement.

At 8 a.m., we decide to go back to our guesthouse (the Gangadharam Tiny House) for a rest.

When we return hours later, at 5 p.m., the celebration is still ongoing. Unbelievable!

A goddess in fiery red wearing a chest plate with women’s breasts and an immense gloria of palm leaves stands upon a stool, giving what sounds like a sermon or a mantra. Raktha Chamundi?

Behind a reed wall, another deity prepares for his theyyam. His face is black with bulging eyes, four ears and a long black tongue. He blesses the devotees that cluster around him with flower petals and takes a shot of HoneyBee Indian brandy, before he’s pulled into the masses of several dozens young men who dance and jump around him.

This deity (Sasthappan?) pushes his way through the cheering mob to a priest standing by a large vat filled with water and marigold petals. A few men grab his arms and hold him back as he struggles to get to the vat, but the men are stronger and once again the deity disappears back into the crowd. This repeats a few times until the priest offers him a live hen. The deity blesses the bird with water, and—holding the squirming hen in his hand—dances around, pulling its feathers, throwing them into the air.

Suddenly, the deity slits the hen’s throat and throws its head onto the ground. The men pull the deity back into the cheering crowd.

Meanwhile, the priest sits by the vat and splashes the water around in time with the drums until the deity returns and blesses the priest with his sword before—once again—he’s pulled back into the throng of young men.

The priest splashes the water faster and faster. When the vat is almost empty, two more priests come to help him tip the vat over. As the water runs out on the ground, the priest lays immobile on top of the vat, until the other men carry him away.

The ritual comes to an end, and the deity returns to share blessings and spiritual guidance to the devotees.

Now, another deity appears; this one wearing a square dress, framed by a larger square piece of fabric. A similar ritual starts over with the crowds, a hen, and another vat of petal-filled water. Trance. Drumming. Cheering crowds.

It’s been 24 hours since we arrived, some 28 hours since the theyyam started, when the celebration finally draws to a close.

Exhausted but happy, I’m filled with immense gratitude. I feel like we won the lottery!

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We were so lucky to have discovered the Kallumthara Temple of all places. Many other temples have a schedule of 8-10 hours, or they are overcrowded like Andallour Kavu, where we also spent a couple of nights among tens of thousands of devotees.

A huge thank you to the amazing Vijesh A P and Ritesh from the Kallumthara Temple who responded to our request for information and provided us with all the details we needed to make this a life-changing experience.

I can’t pretend that I know everything about—or even completely understand—the theyyam ritual. I’ve done my best in interpreting what we saw an experienced, but there might be mistakes in the text, and I apologize for any misconceptions or blatant faults. They were absolutely not deliberate.

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About Theyyam

Theyyam is a religious ritualistic performance practiced at village shrines and local temples from October to May in the North Malabar Region of Kerala and some parts of Karnataka. This thousands-of-years-old ritual is believed to predate Hinduism. Originally, theyyam was an animalistic tribal ritual, a worship of nature spirits: animals, plants, etc. In the last several centuries, theyyam has incorporated symbolism from Hinduism and is now a celebration of many Hindu deities and legends. In addition, it features local deities such as Bhairavan, Kandakarnan, Gulikan, Chamundi, Kuttichathan, and Thamburatti. Some rituals (like the one we attended) still involve blood sacrifices.

Interestingly, the theyyam rituals must be carried out regardless of whether or not there is a captive audience!

The theyyam performers are always men, never women. They are often from a specific (low) caste, and their training begins at a very young age. They spend years learning the legends, the dances, songs, and mantras, how to make their costume, accessories, and ornaments, and how to paint their faces. This divine occupation is often handed down through family lines, from father to son, generation to generation 

For the rituals, the performers paint their faces in intricate orange patterns and don elaborate costumes, awe-inspiring masks, and fanciful head-gear to represent the different deities. It’s believed that by placing the mudi (headgear) onto the performers’ heads, they enter a state of trance, which allows the immortal spirits of the deities they represent to enter their bodies and they become one with the gods. This way, mortal men become gods and goddesses and can perform ritual dances, share divine revelations, give blessings for prosperity, and take away earthly worries.

Music is a fundamental part of the Theyyam ritual. The constant staccato drumming and the whining sound of the kurumkuzal horn crescendo and fall in line with the story. Other traditional instruments include the chenda drum, elathalam cymbal, instrument, and veekkuchenda.

Please remember, theyyam is a religious event, not a show. Be respectful. Wear appropriate clothing and take off your shoes when entering the shrine area. If you take photos, do not use flash. And—most importantly—mingle with the locals!

Donations

There’s no entrance fee to theyyam. However, I would suggest that if you attend one, to leave the temple a donation. It’s not expected or required, but absolutely welcome.

Check the times and locations for local theyyams at https://www.dtpckannur.com/theyyam-calendar. But make sure to contact the organizers before arriving at a temple to confirm, as the dates and times may have changed.

Book Launch – The Transmigrant

You might not know this, but I’m not just a travel blogger. When work and responsibilities keep me stranded at home, I travel through the world by putting words on paper. (Well, a screen, but you get what I mean.)

Many of the places I’ve been to and the people I’ve met have influenced my writing. For example, the Naga Sadhus in India, the fishermen in Puri, and the Buddhist monks in Bodhgaya. As you can tell, India has made a huge impact on me, so no wonder that when I finally published a novel, it was about Jesus in India. Long story short, it’s based on a true story uncovered by Russian adventurer Nicholas Notovitch in 1880, who found scrolls  in Ladakh about Jesus studying Hinduism and Buddhism in India, Pakistan, and Nepal during those so-called “lost years.”

More a spiritual tale than a religious story, I hope you will check it out. It’s been compared to Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet and Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha.

Praise for the book includes:

“An inspired narrative and vibrant living tapestry that humanizes Jesus in a sensitive and delicate way”

“A captivating and powerfully related account of Jesus’ early years.”

“[This] vivid narrative deploys the methods of fiction to get at a truth about Jesus that history too often ignores.”

“The Transmigrant will transport you to that ancient cosmos of biblical times with such searing vividness, you will swear the story is unfolding before your very eyes, you will swear that you are witnessing a cinematic event.”

Buy it on Amazon

 

The Black Hand of Havana

“What was I supposed to do, man? He offered me $7 an hour, when I knew I could make over $1,000 a night selling drugs, you know what I mean?” Alberto laughs, exposing his last three teeth.

The biography of Alberto, “Mano Negra,” is both fascinating and sad. After spending a couple of hours in his company we were left speechless with sorrow. And confused, because how could we feel sorry for a murderer? No doubt, he had brought his bad fortune on himself.

Alberto was never good for anything. Growing up he was lazy, didn’t want to work and spent his time looking for trouble. In Fidel Castro’s Cuba, unemployment was a crime, and soon enough Alberto was thrown into prison for being a dangerous (i.e., idle) person, serving a 4-year sentence.

But then, out of the blue, his fortune changed. In 1980, when tens of thousands of Cubans were fleeing their country in boats chartered by Cuban-Americans, Fidel Castro saw his chance to embarrass its eternal antagonist. To rid his country of thousands of dangerous criminals and the mentally ill, Castro released them from prison and shipped them across the ocean to the United States.  A heartfelt gift that not only embarrassed the Jimmy Carter, the then-president of the United States, but robbed him of the his second term.

Alberto ended up in Arkansas with a lovely Catholic family who helped him organize welfare checks and food stamps. God had thrown Alberto a lifeline and given him a chance to start on a new path. But for the 28-year Alberto, fresh out from prison, freedom was blinding. Instead of building the foundation for a new life, all Alberto wanted to do was to party from morning to night. The handsome Cuban got drunk, conquered women and made new friends in the nightclubs and bars of the early 80’s Arkansas. He tried drugs – marijuana, cocaine and crack – and just like Tony Montana (played by Al Pacino) in Scarface he learned how to make easy money to support his lifestyle by selling the illegal goods. So when his honest American friend offered him a good job with the decent salary, Alberto declined. With $70,000 in his pocket, he was already making good money.

And that’s where his luck ran out. In 1983, in a heated agreement with another crack-head, Alberto raised his gun and shot his friend. For some unknown reason, he wasn’t charged with homicide. But a few months later, in Tacoma, Washington, he shot and killed another man. This time the law wouldn’t look the other way and sentenced Alberto to ten years in Folsom state, a maximum security prison in California. But Alberto is a friendly guy and made new contacts. When he was released he just continued peddling the same merchandise. Only this time, the police had him under surveillance, and he was caught with 7 oz of cocaine and $8,000 in cash. The US authorities, who had finally realized what category of refugees Fidel Castro had sent them, made a list of all the Cuban delinquents who had managed to screw up their private American Dream and deported them straight back to their communist hell.

“We will give you $25,000 if you go,” the Americans promised. But all Alberto got was 100 Cuban pesos (about $4) and a set of clothes from the Cuban government. Then he was left to fade away on the streets of Havana, sleeping on park benches and scavenging for food and clothes out of the garbage cans.

“Did you ever go back to drug-dealing?” I asked.

Alberto shook his head. “No, the laws are too strict here, it’s not worth it. But you know what? Everyone says I should just forget about those guys that I killed, that it was so long ago. But I can’t. I’ve killed two human beings. I know what I’ve done and I’m paying for it every single day of my life.”

The Never-Ending Revolution

“Welcome to hell!” The Cuban man laughs and extinguishes his cigarette on the stoop where he sits, adding to the ever growing piles of garbage on the streets of Havana.

When we ask a thirteen-year old kid, “Are you happy?”, the answer is a nod and a shake of his head. Yes and no. Yes, because he is a child, can play, and has his whole life ahead of him. No, because he is always in want of more. More (and better) food. Clothes without rips and shoes without holes. A roof over his head that doesn’t threaten to fall down on him while he is asleep.

Fifty-six years after the Cuban revolution, where Fidel Castro, his brother Raul and Che Guevara, joined by hundreds of rebels, claimed the power, the failure of its ideology is a fact. While most Cubans will agree that the revolution was necessary to get rid of the corrupt president Batista who ruled the country with aid of the American Mafia, they’ve also had enough. Life is tough. There is a lack of everything but rum, pork and white bread. One has to stand in line, sometimes for hours, just to buy basic necessities such as toilet paper and soap. And that is only on those days when they are available. Most of the time they’re not. Similar to the once living standards of the former Soviet Union, life here sucks.

Still, the battle-cry of “Viva La Revolucion” is painted on the walls of kindergartens, schools, bus stations and factories. Che Guevara’s face adorns buildings, mopeds and t-shirts. And the TV-anchors mention the revolution at least once in every clip, whether they speak about sports, politics or music. The Cuban brains are washed, tumble dried and ironed from morning to night, day in day out, year after year.

It’s a land not devastated by war, but by the senseless governing of a selfish leader, who has let fertile fields overgrow and left his people starving. Where you have to stand in line for everything, every day. And the taxes you pay don’t depend on your income, but on your trade; you’ll pay the same amount whether you make any money or none. And although anyone can buy a new car for the reasonable price of USD $250,000, with the average monthly salary at $25/month, it would take a mere 833 years to pay it off. That is, if you forsake eating and other “hobbies.”

With increasing tourism, this will undoubtedly change. You can already see the cracks in the establishment, brought on by the loosening ties on free enterprise. Since Raul Castro took over the reins in 2006, the country has made small but firm steps away from communism toward capitalism. Despite ridiculous taxes, any cook can now open his own restaurant. Home owners are allowed to rent out rooms to foreigners. Bicycle-rickshaws can give rides to tourists. And people are catching on to the fact that providing good service will make them more money. The locals may never be as rich as the foreigners with their fancy sun-glasses and smart phones, but at least they may be able to afford good quality shampoo or an hour on the internet (after standing in line for a few hours to access the state-owned service). And as the world witnessed during the imploding of the Soviet Union, when you give people a finger of freedom, they will grab the entire hand and will never let go.

So does money equal happiness? Of course not. But as a European or American it’s easy to forget how lucky we are to be able to fulfill our basic needs. How fortunate we are to have access to the internet, free speech and news from the rest of the world. How great it is that we can travel when we want, where we want. And vote in democratic elections.

A fisherman in the French-flavored town of Cienfuegos confides: “All the tourists think Cuba is paradise, but it really isn’t.”

No, Cuba isn’t paradise. Although “hell” might be a slight exaggeration.

This is Cuba

The lazy rays of the morning sun caress the dilapidated buildings of Havana, as if offering them a last sigh of hope before they crumble to dust. In the hallways, the scent of guanabana and pineapple lingers, and in the distance, the click-clacking of horse hooves on cobble stones remind you that you’re not in New York City any more. This is Cuba.

Strolling down narrow sidewalks, you pass women in snug lycra dresses queuing up to buy eggs and pig trotters. A man sticks out his head from a hole-in-the wall shop, beckoning you to buy one of his pork sandwiches for 25 cents. You decline with a smile; God knows what part of the animal was used for that funny-looking meat.

High above, long clothes lines adorned with jeans, shirts and underwear flutter in the wind, keeping company with the grandmothers who spend their entire lives on the balconies, gossiping with their neighbors about the life below. They watch you take a photo and ask if you could spare some money, perhaps even a soap? As you turn away, you bump into an electric blue 1953 Buick in immaculate shape, and wonder why five slaughtered pigs have been heaped into the back seat.

“Senor, taxi?” You shake your head at the young bicycle rickshaw driver. “No, not now, thanks. I’m just walking.” And you wonder if it was wise to tie such a heavy boom box to his bike, adding a few extra pounds to the cargo, then you realize that music will make the day go by so much faster. Through an open door, you glimpse a family crouched up in front of the TV, while their maid is scrubbing the floor. Next-doors, the bar is packed with men, women and children at 11 o’clock in the morning. Ten cents will buy you a shot of cheap rum, but a can of soda costs six times more. You wonder if the government trying to keep their people drunk so they will forget they are hungry.

Shouts of “panadeeero” and “leeeechuga” wake you from your contemplations; peddlers of newly baked bread and lettuce pass by with their wooden carts laden with merchandise. You’re starting to get hungry. What is there to eat today? You opt for a sandwich with cheese that most likely did not come from a cow or goat or any of those usual suspects. It just tastes funny.

The salsa music that flows from the tourist bar is inviting. You give up your pledge to live like a local and settle down at a table among other non-Cubans to enjoy your cup of strong coffee.

It tastes just wonderful.

Top 10 Things to Pack On A Long Trip

Packing for a long-haul trip is very different than for a weekly getaway. Every ounce counts when you have to schlep your backpack around on trains and buses, and walking from hotel to hotel looking for the best deal. You need to choose carefully what to bring in order to pack a compact bag.

Everyone is different, some make do one t-shirt and two pairs of underwear while others prefer a wider choice of outfits. Some people travel ultra-light with a small day-pack, while others require some modern conveniences to make the trip more enjoyable. The list below is a result of having traveled on a tight budget for several months in both Africa and Asia. I could swear by this list.

1. Microfiber towels. Not all hotels (hostels/guest houses) supply towels. A microfiber towel may have a bigger price-tag, but it’s extremely light and dries in no time – even in humid conditions. Make sure it’s big enough to cover your A great brand is Seat to Summit.
2. Silk sleeping bag liner. Most hotels provide a sheet and a pillow, but sometimes that’s all they provide. Sometimes there’s complete bedding, but of dubious cleanliness. In those cases, a silk sheet is indispensable; feather light and super-compact into an apple-sized package. It is easily washed and dries in minutes. We have used Grand Trunk Silk Sleep Sacks for years.
3.  Pocket knife. Millions of applications – to cut open packages, peel fruit, cut off ropes, open beer and wine bottles, fasten screws and clean your nails. Etc, etc, etc. Victorinox Swiss Army knives  are the best, but any cheaper brand will also do.
4.  Spoon, fork and a small plastic bowl with a lid. There are going to be days when you just want to prepare your own food, like oatmeal or yogurt with fruit, or a tuna sandwich. Disposable cutlery breaks easily and can be difficult to find, especially in countries that only use chopsticks. Bring your own spoon, fork and bowl to make your own meals once in a while. Light My Fire has a cool
5.  Whether you need to cool off with a wet scarf around your neck, shield your head from the rays of the burning sun, or just need a napkin or hand towel – bandanas fit in your pocket, or can be tied to your belt, and are easily washed. You can buy bandanas pretty much anywhere.
6.  A roll of isolation tape. Fixes cuts in your backpack. Temporarily mends your shoes. Holds up the mosquito net. You won’t travel far before you need it. Make sure you buy a good quality roll of duct tape, such as Reflectix.
7.  Mosquito net. Keeps malarial mosquitoes, flies, spiders and cockroaches out of your bed. In countries with high prevalence of malaria, the local markets sell great nets for a dollar or two. If you want to get one ahead of time, a Mombasa net should do the job. Make sure you buy a net with cords from four corners, so that you can hang it easily, no matter what is available in the room. Don’t forget to bring extra string.
8.  Walkie-Talkies. If there are two (or more) of you traveling together, walkie-talkies are a great way to communicate in distances up to a few kilometers. On many occasions one person will have to stay in place with the heavy backpacks, as the other goes looking for a hotel, train tickets, a taxi, and so on. It’s much more convenient and cheaper than SIM cards and work from the moment you land. We like Motorola’s
9.  iPad Mini (or other preferred tablet). On journeys to more than one country, the tablet can hold all travel guides in eBook format. No need to print out electronic visas, flight reservations or hotel vouchers. You can take screen shots of Google maps, online directions, wrestling schedules, phrases in local languages, etc. – you’ll never have to take notes again. And of course you can access email and the internet in all the free wifi restaurants, bars and cafes around the world, and take photos with your new local friends. I’m not a dedicated Apple-fan, but the iPad Mini was invaluable on our last 5-month trip in Asia.
10.  Business cards. Bring the ones you have or have some simple cards printed with your name, email address, blog or web site URL, Twitter and Facebook handles to share with to people you meet. Some travel acquaintances grow into lifelong friendships, and you never know when you will meet again and where. Vistaprint is an inexpensive printer.

And, personally, I would recommend bringing at least two pairs of underwear.

Getting Ready to Enter the Danger Zone!

“So you’re going to South Africa? Aren’t you scared? People get shot there every day!”

“Did you hear about the plane that crashed in Libya? It came from South Africa!”

“I heard of a guy who went swimming in South Africa, and almost died from a parasite infestation!”

Yes, I’ve heard all that. Every single day. In fact, of anything anyone says to me about travelling to South and West Africa, 98% is warnings. I shrug it off, people are always scared of what they don’t know.

But then it hit me – what if I’m being overly confident? What if I’m one of those persons who hide their head in the sand and refuse to see the dangers? Maybe. But I don’t think so. I guess only time will tell.

As I said to Eduardo, I’m not really scared of getting sick or being mugged. I hope it doesn’t happen, but it won’t be the end of the world. It won’t stop me from eating street foods, travelling to remote locations or interacting with the locals. Getting kidnapped is another story, however, so the thought of going to Northern Mali and crossing the border into Algeria through the operating grounds of the Al Qaida does raise a red flag.

Then again, when we’re there, curiosity might overpower the sense of fear.

I’m not promising nothing. And I’m not scared.

Cape Town – in which country are we, again?

Cape Town is like a parallel Universe. It looks like Anytown; Auckland, Amsterdam, Zurich, and Boston. The city is clean, organized and modern – it doesn’t even have a unique smell . But beyond the brilliant surface it really is South Africa, the Rainbow Nation.

Our trip started two days ago with a 20-hour flight from New York to Cape Town via Johannesburg. Arriving in Cape Town, Eduardo’s first comment was “It doesn’t look interesting.” And it doesn’t. The personality is more British/Dutch than African, with its terraced Victorian houses, boxy gray office buildings and glass-walled high-rises. They even have a Waterfront shopping center that looks like a larger New York South Street Seaport.We could just as well be in New England, and all the Africans on the streets could be immigrants.
On the way from the airport, we passed by a shantytown with thousands of plywood huts with corrugated tin roofs, which sadly is more what we expected South Africa to look like. But downtown Cape Town, cowering beneath the impressive flat-topped Table mountain, looks more like a brand new doll house.

I’m not sure if it’s because I grew up reading white South African writer Andre Brink’s books about (and against) the apartheid era, but it’s hard not to notice the divide between the rich, mostly white people who own businesses and the poor, mostly blacks and coloreds (an accepted name for the rest). It just seems unfair. With only 20 years since the dissolution of apartheid, large steps have been made, and there’s a definite respect between the different groups. But I guess I just wish the power would lie with the original countrymen.

Thank heavens for the World Cup! Because with the World Cup all South Africans seem to come together in their support for Bafana Bafana! Go South Africa!

World Cup Fever!

Since first landing in Johannesburg, one thing is clear – this country is ablaze with World Cup fever! Everywhere you go businesses are promoting the World Cup. All advertising has a flavor of football, shop windows display South African flags with digital countdowns of days and hours until kickoff. People on the street are wearing their yellow Bafana Bafana t-shirts in support of the South African national team. All pubs, restaurants and shops show football matches on their flat screen TVs.

In Cape Town, street signs are pointing towards the stadium and the locations for the free public screenings of the matches. In the ticket sales hub, long lines of folks were camping out for two days in wait for releases of new tickets for the Cape Town matches where most of the South Africa matches will take place. The food stores even have free tastings of foods from all the 32 participating countries, one country per day – today Swiss cheese fondue, tomorrow Slovakian potato cakes.

Even the newspapers are full of World Cup stories, for example that the sangomas, healers, were brought to the Johannesburg stadium, Soccer City, to bless the venue and the World Cup, and make sure that everything goes well and stays secure.

Two days ago, we spent a whole day in line with a bunch of South Africans, waiting to buy more tickets. Although the wait was long, this was one of the highlights of the trip so far. The South Africans are good people. They are friendly, calm, patient, and generous. As they say, they don’t expect any terrorist acts during the World Cup because they don’t have any bones to pick with any other countries. They just get along with everyone.

We’re getting increasingly caught up in the excitement. Thirteen more days until the games start. And we just picked up our tickets two days ago. Sheer joy y muchos goles!!

Arriving by Police Escort in Nelspruit

Nelspruit may not be on everybody’s must-see lists when traveling, not even those traveling in South Africa. But besides the non-existent scene, this town sits on the threshold to Kruger National Park, and hosts four matches of the 2010 World Cup, so it is on the map, and yes people do come here.

Eduardo and I ended up in Nelspruit after driving (sometimes in circles) from Johannesburg through dense fog, heavy rain and through a rainbow arch. Reaching the town well after dark, and not seeing a single sign pointing towards the town center, we decided to ask for the way at a gas station.

“Sorry, no, I don’t know Van Wijk Street, but I’ll take you to the police station, and you can find out there.”

Incredibly typical for South Africa – everyone’s nice. Everyone’s beyond helpful. So this South African gentleman drives has BMW ahead of us to the Nelspruit police station and asks the policemen to assist us. I’m not sure if there’s no crime in Nelspruit or the policemen were just bored, but they actually escorted us through the town to Van Wijk Street (Van Wyck, for us New Yorkers).

And we arrived at our hostel by police escort…