Unless you have an airplane, it’s not exactly easy to get to Port Alfred, on South Africa’s windswept Eastern Cape coast. On this trip, at least, it felt like a test of will.
The flight school we’d visit suggested a guest house as opposed to the bland traveler’s hotel in town–for the same price I’d be right on the dunes, in the quiet. The high fence and locked gate brought into focus the deep divide between haves and have-nots here. My payment for the night, around $65 USD, would go farther in this town so easily for a family trying to get by. That divide rode an electric undercurrent during my entire stay, one I did not want to shake, necessarily, but probe further, and understand. My colleague and fellow traveler on this trip, and the business at hand, made it nearly impossible.
Our guest house had no mini bar in each room, no alcohol to be found there, which made him angry though he couldn’t say it in so many words. He could only complain about resetting the wifi, and the fact the hostess offered to iron his shirt, instead of providing a board in the room. So when we went out for a Windhoek at the local pub before dinner, I could hardly drink mine. The bitter taste tinged the beauty of the sunset.
Only the next day, when we toured the school, and talked to students eager to fly, did I smile. And who wouldn’t be charmed by the rows of snipped ties honoring students flying solo, hanging from the ceiling of the pilot’s lounge?
So much to do…to correct the fact that those students didn’t truly reflect the colors of the faces all around them. At least the dream of flying an airplane knows no race–only the privilege to begin. How to make that change? By acting in ways so that we will no longer be party to the problem…and not accepting it anymore as our reality.
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- View of the dunes from behind the wall, Port Alfred
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- The pilot lounge graced by the clipped ties of soloed students
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- Sunset tinged with an electric undercurrent, Port Alfred