(Un)ethical Tourism

Last night, two hundred or so international theatre academics, hoary and hip, climbed into buses and were shuttled to the Spier Wine Estate for dinner at Moyo, supposedly one of the biggest restaurants in South Africa.  As we walked through the rows of torches, black waiters in silk, cheetah vests and with electric white face paint ushered us in.  It was freezing, and there were blankets--with "tribal" patterns--draped over every chair.  My ceramic plate sat on a bamboo place mat; at the center of the table, a stronghold of Sauvignon Blanc and Shiraz.

The winelands of the Eastern Cape are remarkably like Epcot, I thought.

Luckily, I was sitting next to S from Lille and A from Perth.  While the black women in neon pink afro wigs and white wedding dresses belted tunes echoing The Sensations, we stuck our noses in chai.  Our cynicism had reached its limit, and we were cold.

But it's entirely hypocritical of me to criticize the trip to Moyo.  After all, this morning, I went on a private wine tour.  By the third day of the conference, the discourse had become rubbish, and this town, Stellenbosch, is miserable.  There was a tourism booth right in the center of the conference center, and I passively fell into its grip.  So, this morning, instead of sitting in tortuously uncomfortable chairs and drinking sour coffee while some dumb bell from Pretoria rattled on about multicultural ensembles, I fell in love with salmon wine (white wine made from red grapes; the skins, which give the wine its color, never make contact with the juice).

Banal as this may sound, the landscape down here is stunning.  On the Airport-Stellenbosch road, which is flanked by townships, I got lost in the green horizon.  The visibility level is uncanny.  Miles of rolling hills dotted with giant bonsai looking trees give way to charcoal and zucchini mountains.  Sure, in the desert, you can also see for miles, but there is no color.  So it feels like you're standing in the middle of the ocean, a two-dimensional eternity.  Here, the color of the landscape coupled with the erratic topography give you a unique sense of three-dimensional placement.  I felt positioned by my environment.

My guest house, the Caledon Villa, is the winner of the Stellenbosch excursion.  Every morning, I use seven pieces of fine silverware to eat breakfast.  The napkins are tightly wrapped--almost sadistically--and contorted into obelisks on the bread plates.  There are four miniature bowls of jam at the center of the table.  As she asks me how I'd like my eggs done this morning, Rene lights a candle before setting a pot of tea on top.  I start off with an appetizer of homemade bran cereal with a bowl of guava, pineapple, and slices of fine jambon (1. Big Spoon, 2. Small Fork).  The toast arrives in a carriage, and after buttering (3. Butter Knife) I smear on the jam (4. Tiny Spoon).  The eggs are never over-cooked (5. Big Fork, 6. Big Knife), and I usually squeeze them in between the toast to make a little sandwich.  By then, Johan, the friendly owner of the guest house, inches over to say good morning, and I fix myself a final cup of tea (7. Teaspoon) before retiring back to my glorious room, monitored by Queen Elizabeth.

I'm going to Capetown tomorrow and have been debating whether or not to go on a township tour.  EVERYONE I talk to (even Lonely Planet, source of all truth) stresses that it's "dangerous" to go alone or, worse, in the evening.  I asked the hotel managers about the train, and they said that, while first class is okay, it's "generally dangerous."  This must be how some Israelis talk about the Occupied West Bank.  Many of the Afrikaaners I've met map space through a discourse of fear.  Through this language, they carve out and dispose of chunks of their country.

Unfortunately, I'm ignorant and don't know any locals, so I don't know how to deal with it.  I want to see these places and to witness the appalling contrast between the wealth of Capetown and the poverty of the slums/ghettos/townships/shantytowns.  But the thought of taking a TOUR to a township zoo-ifies the whole experience, dehumanizing both the spectator and the object during the process.  After the tasting at Waterford Estate, I didn't think I could go any lower.  Maybe I'll out-immoralize myself after all...