Maria learned she doesn't like oysters . . .or rude conversations

Today, I learned that I don't like oysters. 

I love how there's always something to do and someone to do it with here. Immediately upon walking into the house this evening, I was offered a dinner invitation. Naturally, I enjoyed a lovely sushi dinner around a candlelight table with some co-eduacators. 

This morning, I rode a horse on the beach with Isabel and her friend from home, Kate. My horse, Viva, was more interested in eating grass than anything else. When he did want to roam, he decided to walk in his own line. Of course my horse would be the one to skip to the beat of his own drum. My horse also enjoyed biting other horse's butts and kicking other horses in the face. Ironically, Viva means life in Italian. While I was holding on for dear life as my horse trying desperately to throw me off, I laughed at the metaphor. Life can be quite the difficult ride, beautifully wrecking havoc. 

After my scenic ride through rough waters and breezy winds, I found myself taking selfies with a camel named Isak. He did not seem to be phased by his forever growing fan club. Rather, he was more concerned with obnoxiously chewing his grass. 

Thursday evening, I found myself laughing and falling while attempting to follow beach yoga. There truly are no words to describe how peaceful i feel when waves are crashing at my toes. While holding warrior pose, I could see dolphins swimming in the distance. Fifty years from now, I'll still laugh about the sand storm we got stuck in, trying to find ice cream after yoga. I couldn't believe how easily the wind swept me off my feet, I was practically flying. Unable to walk to Camps Bay, we sought shelter in a country club for retirees.  No one seem to pleased that we were crashing the scene. 

                                                                           

In my time in Kaapstad, I'm learning to criticize and question everything. This has helped taking the good with the bad. Yesterday, I was enjoying some lovely palella at Old Biscuit Mill. I overheard a group of white people discussing the economy of South Africa. They were angry that foreigners, particularly Americans, come in, criticizing the treatment of the poor. One women was saying how the economy needs the poor to survive, how economic disparity is good for the government. As my only economic knowledge comes from the preparation of my last paper, I only knew enough to be rubbed the wrong way but the conversation. I was neither knowledgeable about the subject or brave enough to have a vocalized opinion on the matter.  The conversation continued to move onto how unpleased she was to have housing money poured into Gugulethu. She didn't seem too pleased that money would be used to help a community where a home is a few pieces of tin and a communal toilet down the road. Another spoke of how easily the South African impoverished will accept handouts, waiting for others to help instead of taking matters into their own hands. It's funny how easily they think someone can overcome poverty. As if those living in informal settlements, such as Gugulethu, can get the education necessary to overcome such struggles. As if education is a main priority to those who go to bed hungry at night. As if children ask to be born into families that cannot afford to put a proper roof over their hands. At the end, one of the men pointed out how they were all privileged white people as if it made the entire conversation better. Well, it didn't. I hope my complete look of disgust made it clear that I did not agree with this particular group of whites in a public area where blacks are picking up garbage while whites are spending a few hundred rand is enough food to stimulate vomit.