Robben Island & NYU farewell

On our last day as a group, NYU sponsored a visit to Robben Island.

Yabonga--now we know where our program fee goes. Or, perhaps I should say dankie (Afrikaans) since we’re on the Cape.

The Western Cape is South Africa’s only province ruled by the primarily white opposition party.

It was wet and freezing, but the 45 minute ferry was reminiscent of the jaunt from Woods Hole to Martha’s Vineyard which filled me with a warm nostalgia.

Appropriately, Robben Island emerged at the last minute, a gray ghost wrapped in a cape of fog.

There’s actually not much to the island, save for the prison; what’s so special is what happened inside the walls.

Nelson Mandela and his fellow countrymen(men truly; women were held elsewhere) thrived under brutal conditions for nearly 30 years as political prisoners.

Maybe 30 years doesn’t move you.

But imagine 30 years’ incarceration for seeking this:  the right to have a home on land you rightfully own, the right to be educated in your own language, the right to determine your own, ethnically rich identity rather than be arbitrarily labeled on a mandatory ID that kept you from existing as a person in any meaningful space. 

Basic human dignity is what South African’s of color were denied.

So, imagine 30 years of your life stolen in the pursuit of dignity.

Yet, Mandela and Co. thrived because they had the great wisdom and patience to know that the young men within the prison cells would one day lead the nation.

Today, they do. 

And they are bolstered by an education delivered by their elders while serving time in what soon was widely known as “The University.”

On the return ferry, the mist lifted and the tone of the day relaxed with a group visit to Groot Constancia, the Cape’s oldest vineyard (c. 16-something).

We actually had quite an informative tour. For instance, should you wish to divulge this little factoid while hosting your next wine and cheese soiree—80% of the world’s cork comes from Portugal.

Who knew!

Traditionalists opposed to the use of synthetic cork (or worse, the wretched screw top!) may want to boast that the cork harvesting process is supposedly sustainable (supposedly being the operative word).

Personal disclaimer:  I could not care less how the wine is sealed but Kyle (our fabulously British wine educator) coaxed us all into verbally acquiescing that the “POP” of a cork, is, indeed, quite a pleasant sound that fills one with a warm anticipation of the impending libation.

Forgive me for prattling about cork.

We had a farewell dinner at Mama Africa, where the game meat was succulent and the wine (from Groot!) flowed liberally. 

That’s surprisingly chewy but delicious crocodile.

  

 

The festivities continued with dancing at a club called Zula, which we all may or may not have slightly regretted the next morning.

Or, entire next day.

Regardless, it was a perfect last hurrah.

Love from Cape Town.