Day 4: When I grow up I wanna be your hero.

We walk everywhere. And it is this that allows us to really see Pretoria as the civilians live in it. We walk among them, weave through them, wave at them. We’re a part of the scheme of their lives, bumping into them and even feeding them.

I love everyone that I pass. Madison and Matt walk ahead of me as we walk along the sidewalk. Matt leads the way, walking at a quick pace; Madison follows behind him, vigilant to stay at his heels. And I walk casually behind, the kind caboose, waving at everyone who passes me by and wishing them a happy hello.

~|~

We woke up around 9:15 a.m. and everyone met at my house. Matt and I ate an apple with organic peanut butter (by the way the fruit is a perfect, melt-in-your-mouth, crunch-at-the-same-time, juicy delight), and by 10 a.m. we were ready to head out on our trek to the President’s house.

The entire way there we walked in our linear formation. I was enthralled at every little thing. And for an hour we walked through the city of Pretoria. We could easily have been mistaken for South African citizens, venturing on foot throughout our own city. And it seemed as such; no one made a big deal of us upon first glance. But when you smile kindly as they pass you and as you pass them, their face morphs from something serious into something sweet. I’ve never seen such smiles on faces like these before – they’re brilliant, they’re genuine, they absolutely love your smile! The bid you hello and ask how you’re doing, and you smile your hi, tell them you’re just fine, and ask them how they’re doing, too.

A bland American exchange is beautified here in this city of racial separation. You are ordinary when you look at them like they are no ones; but you suddenly become regal when you acknowledge them with a glad face. Gestures don’t go unappreciated where they are rare. I can’t describe the transformation that occurs: here a smile is a pleasant gun that does not kill but rather awakens. The effects were too good, so I smiled all day to everyone, and I waved to everyone else.

There is racial segregation everywhere, not by official, legal standards, but by the society itself. It doesn’t want to mix itself. In the town center down the road, there is a white area and a black area, especially at night. Young white people hang out around the bars and lounges in the little square pavilion behind the main road.

The main road is the blacks’ area. The difference is stark. Where the white people are dressed in the latest winter fashions, the other side does not put on quite a display. There are beggars on every corner, there are men selling little knick-knacks for small change. The sense of foreboding is rawer on this side; I wear my purse

in front of me, and I hide my phone in my coat’s inner pocket.

On a larger scale, the town is divided. As you near the president’s quarters, the houses of stucco stand proudly behind snooty, spiked iron gates. Black gardeners and cleaners, men and women, work outside in the lawn or on the front porch – in their green uniforms. The trees are more elegant, the grass is greener, the roads are cleaner, the essence is of a better-than-thou quality. This increases as you make your way up the hill – the hill upon which the president lives.

The embassies are lined along a road, big grandeur houses with black workers keeping themselves busy around them. The route is scenic – even in winter.

We reached the president’s house but were not allowed to enter (duh). So we walked along the gate to his office headquarters. The pictures on Facebook can do all the talking. To say the very least, it was like a royal castle – huge and serious, looking down from the hill, with closed eyes at the lowly citizens below. Maybe one day it stood with a reason to be proud, but anymore, I don’t know.

There were small vendor shops, lining the road in front of the castle. Tables were filled with intricate, authentic African decorations, bowls, salad utensils, masks, figurines, jewelry – everything! I made Matt and Madison stop at every single table with me while I picked up everything and wondered at it. I loved everything, and I wanted everything.

Gigi would love these salad throng things! Mother would love this bowl! Lexi would so want this bracelet, and Lisa would love this one, too! I want this for my house – on my desk, to hang on my wall!

I promised the vendors I would be back, I didn’t bring any cash with me.

We walked along, taking pictures of everything pretty. And we sat on the wall, looking out over the president’s gardens, for a while just enjoying the 65 degree winter.

~|~

We took another route home, again walking in our typical formation. I didn’t understand why we were in such a hurry to get back home – nothing was waiting for us there. I, of course, waved at everyone and smiled some more hellos.

We decided lunch was a must, so we found a shopping center to eat at. Along the way, we met George, who asked us where we were from and what we were doing in South Africa. And then he asked us to please bring him some food.

“I’m very hungry, very, very hungry,” he said in a thick accent. And he looked it. Skinny as a beam pole and toothless. We made no promises, but nodded quietly and said good-bye as we crossed the street.

The villa we decided to dine in was obviously for the upper class. We were still in the nice part of town – white people were everywhere. We went to Hombaze African Cuisine restaurant to eat. It was definitely

African food. I ordered something called Joff Rice and grilled chicken? Something like that. It was some kind of jambalaya kind of thing with a big hunk of grilled and seasoned chicken.

It looked delicious! And I would have swallowed it whole, but George’s toothless grin and his complaints of an empty belly were with me throughout the entire meal. I ate a third of what was on my plate and told myself that I was full enough, the rest would go to him.

I know. I know that if I keep doing this giving away thing, I’m going to be broke by the end of my time here – or worse, before the end of my time here. I’m sure that as this becomes cavalier and just a part of life to me, I’ll be able to ignore their pleas.

But right now, I can’t. I can’t look at his face and deny him of food when I know that he must be hungry. I don’t need any more food. I come from the land of abundance. I couldn't swallow another bite – it wasn’t food anymore to me, it was shame.

We each had some left over from our meal, so we asked our kind waiter for a “take-away box” – they are not to-go boxes. They are take-away boxes, and they have no idea what you want when you ask for a to-go box.

I carried the bag, and we, after some stops along the way in the villa, made our way over to George.

“George! George! Where are you George?!” I called.

We spotted the gangly man, and brought him our gift. He took it, telling us he was surprised that we brought it, he didn’t think we would. And then he tells us about life in South Africa.

“The economy is very bad,” he says. “No jobs. You see, I – I work here and watch the cars, but –”

He pulls some change from his pocket. “This is what I get. It’s not enough. You see, this –“ and he holds most of the change in two pinched fingers – “this is what I pay to get home. Do you see the tin,” (he says tin in a very thick accent, and we have no idea what he’s saying. He realizes this and leads our eyes to a sheet of tin atop a building), “That is on the roof of my house. No floor. When it rain, I must pull the plastic over the tin, so no rain.

“The economy is bad,” he says. He explains to us in a hard-to-understand accent the city before Nelson Mandela came. He talks about the white and black people having their different jobs. The black people must work from eight in the morning to eight at night, and they were not allowed to be in the streets after that – they had to go straight home or they were arrested.

But then, he says, Nelson Mandela came and made it all better. His accent grows thicker, it seems, and understanding him grows more difficult. But he explains further that now things are not so good. There are no jobs for the black people.

“I have two children to feed at home. They go to school. When they come home I must feed them. So this,” he holds up the bag of food we have brought him, “this very good. I must give them some though. I don’t care if I get some – my children very important to me. Their mother died some years ago, so I take care of them now. I have one girl, who is thirteen, and one boy, who is eleven.

“I ask for the people to help me. Some do. Some don’t. A white lady give me five hundred rand every Wednesday. But she is in Canada for the month. Another man give me some money, but he is in the Ivory Coast now.

“God bless you for this meal. The children will be happy. I did not think you would come back. But you did. God bless you. If you can go to the bank and see what you can give to me – please. There is a bank, you can take out the money, over there. Go, and see what you can give to me, please. God bless you.”

We, of course, could not go and withdraw any money for him. So we parted and left him to deal with his own life in his own way without our further influence.

Madison was frustrated that he had asked for more when, out of the kindness of our hearts, we had given him our food. Matt shrugged off the situation, already immune to the normalcy of it. I, however, was heartbroken. Even if his story was a lie, his situation made me somber. I was so sorry that I couldn’t give him more. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was, to ask for his forgiveness, to make all kinds of promises that I would do everything I could for him and everyone like him when I was able to – when I was older and had money. I would do it. I wanted to promise him. But we left him standing there, and we were already on our way home.