We're Not in Kansas Anymore

The other day I had the most pleasant experience: I took a flight.

When I showed up at the airport everything was orderly, and there wasn't even a queue. The flight had a departure time, so I knew when I should get to the airport, and the airline agent had all of my ticket information for me when I arrived. She even offered to take my bag all the way to Johannesburg for me!

On board I surprised to learn that my seat, 20B, was just that: my seat! The whole thing! I didn't even have to have a baby on my lap. I was offered coffee en route, and didn't have to dehydrate myself because there was a lavatory on board. Ahh such luxury. There was no music, let alone blasting music, and nobody was walking the aisle prosthylatising (ironically I wasn't preying the entire time that we didn't have a head-on with oncoming traffic).

Namibia and South Africa has been much like this: Not Africa. The first signs of Not Africa were spotted as I got into Lusaka about three weeks ago. Working traffic lights, malls, fast food chains, and not only lane markings on the road but people following agreed-upon traffic laws.
The difference only became more pronounced as we ventured further in to Not Africa. Windhoek was a modern small city with glass skyscrapers, parks and other public works, and signs marking the notable tourist attractions. It even had the B1: a four-lane divided highway.

And Cape Town was as if Disneyland opened a South Africa Land inside California Adventure.
But I'm glad I'm ending my 27-month stint in Johannesburg, a small pocket of Real Africa still exists here. I'm staying in an inner-suburb neighbourhood called Yeoville, a highly mixed bohemian/rastafarian/working class community where I've only seen five white people in the last three days, including myself. There are street vendors hawking pirated DVDs, blasting music from shops, and bars and restaurants where local people go.

Though I am looking forward to my flight today to Istanbul. It's so long, I might even get a free meal!