Preface              

If I had been born into a society that endorsed cannibalism, would I question my  society’s behaviors and values or would I simply be a “Happy Cannibal”? I would travel thousands of miles and to the farthest reaches of the planet before my experiences enabled me to answer that question – an answer revealed to me only after locating the source of wisdom and guidance that supersedes culture.

Prior to my journeys, I was satisfied, much like a “Happy Cannibal,” and living a comfortable life as afforded by the Western lifestyle; all my needs were easily met with the mere swipe of a credit card. However, I became dissatisfied with superficial contentment and needed to find a deeper meaning for my existence. I began noticing that societal pressures were dragging me into a lifestyle valuing materialism and pleasure over meaningful experiences and spiritual understanding. With these realizations, I turned away from worldly pressures, and instead followed a guidance that emanated from within my being. At the age of 29, I began my spiritual safari to “Escape from the Happy Cannibal.”

I decided to throw myself into the world and experience all that it had to offer. The moment I stepped away from the comfortable confines of my sheltered environment, I was confronted with my own naïveté. Not only did I not know the answers to the mysteries of life, I didn’t even know all of the questions. However, I carried with me at all times a desire for truth and a willingness to look objectively at the world and myself.

Travel was enthralling, and I discovered that roaming about the face of the planet offered many benefits beyond sightseeing. Although I initially traveled just to look upon spectacular landscapes, I quickly realized that the unique cultures and the fascinating people left the greatest impression and made travel truly rewarding. International travel afforded me the opportunity to learn about my world and, most important of all, to learn about myself.

My enthusiasm upon entering each country was akin to that of a child rushing toward his unopened presents on Christmas morning. With each stunning landscape, historical monument, and unique culture, it was as though a gift had been placed under the tree specifically for me and, quite similar to a Christmas present, each country was a bit of a mystery with many surprises once the wrappings were removed.

Visiting countries during times of change and even during revolution, I experienced lifestyles and mindsets that may never again be seen within those borders. Travel also exposed me to a variety of economies ranging from oppressive communist regimes to burgeoning free markets that together provided insight as to which systems correspond to human nature and which systems are most beneficial to mankind. The global variety of lifestyles, economies, and governments make the mere act of travel more akin to instant history.

Relatives living in a distant and unfamiliar land enlightened me regarding an essential part of my heritage. I was astounded by the manner in which these complete strangers received me. I lived intimately with relatives who had completely different mindsets and, often times, beliefs contrary to mine. Nevertheless, it was their incredible hospitality that revealed to me the essence of humanity and the aspects of life that should be cherished.

Charitable people throughout the world continually uplifted me with their generosity and selflessness. However, I also encountered the very darkest side of human nature when I crossed paths with thieves and brutal murderers whose actions showed little regard for the value of human life. Although I narrowly escaped being murdered myself, sadly, some of those around me were not so fortunate.

Travel also exposed me to a multitude of temptations – temptations that I had sheltered myself from in my home environment. But once the barriers to these temptations were removed, my weaknesses were revealed, and my struggle with temptation caused me to search for my ultimate source of moral guidance. It was only in the face of temptation that I could develop character.

Global travel taught me the significant influence of culture upon individuals and, collectively, upon societies; by experiencing these different environments, I also noticed the sway that my own culture had upon me – a revelation that disturbed me as though I should be guided by a source that was independent of the culture into which I just happened to be born. I slowly realized that my goal was to rise above my own cultural conditioning and to be remolded by a superior guidance. Only by confronting the truths about myself could I uncover the more important truths waiting to be discovered.

I never thought that my first trip to Europe would eventually lead to three long journeys and more than three years of travel but, once bitten by the travel bug, I couldn’t get enough adventure. Even in my wildest imaginings, I could never have envisioned the fantastic locations that I would experience. So, for those of you who cannot afford to take a year-long walkabout, allow me to share with you my experiences of wandering across the planet, as well as some insight into what I have learned.

The Culture of Samarhon

Ukraine & Eastern Europe

(August & September 1991)

I receive an enlightening introduction to Ukraine on the 22-hour train journey down from Leningrad. Several Ukrainians invite me into their compartment to discuss my travels within the Soviet Union and to answer the usual questions about the United States. Initially, I am hesitant to enter a closed compartment with several members of the “evil empire,” fearing that I might be knocked on the head or drugged but, as usual, my concerns are unwarranted. We adhere to Ukrainian tradition, which means that our first obligation is to drink several rounds of vodka. Perhaps I was correct about the drugging part after all; in my sheltered life, this is actually my first taste of hard liquor. (This is a tradition with which I will become all too familiar in Ukraine.)

As the Ukrainians continue to gulp the vodka, they become more animated with each toast. One WWII veteran keeps thanking me for the role of the United States during that devastating conflict. Yet another man just wants to shake my hand, and he can’t seem to shake it often enough. He has too much “fuel” in his system. Still, it is a very memorable experience and an encouraging welcome to Ukraine.

After arriving in Rovno, I can’t find anyone at the train station who speaks English so I venture onto the street to search for my hotel. I finally receive directions and I jump into a creaky old bus but, unknowingly, I travel beyond the hotel’s location. A helpful young lady recognizes my predicament and goes out of her way to walk this dazed and confused foreigner all the way to the hotel’s front door.

Rovno, a compact city of about 300,000 residents in northwest Ukraine, is surrounded by small villages and rolling farmland. The town center has a leafy park and a central square decorated with lovely flowerbeds, as well as the requisite statue of Lenin. I can’t avoid thinking that Rovno might be a pleasant place to live until I come to my senses and realize that I am still within the Soviet Union.

I have come to Rovno hoping to find some relatives who I believe are living in the area. My grandparents emigrated from Ukraine in 1928 and both were born in a nearby village. I will be the first in my family to visit this village since my grandfather’s return visit in 1963. At that time, he was dying from cancer, and he made the difficult journey alone across the Atlantic for a final meeting with his surviving brothers and sisters. He was in such bad health that he had to stop in Denmark for an emergency operation just to prolong his life.

I was not told that my grandparents were Ukrainian emigrants until I was a teenager. During the Cold War, such information was more likely to be concealed than celebrated. I remember an aunt warning me that I should never tell anyone that my grandparents were born in Ukraine. I suppose that it was a sensible precaution given the circumstances, but having to hide my ancestry was unsettling, and it left me feeling somewhat incomplete. Although we have no input into the formation of our ancestry, our ancestry is often instrumental in the formation of our character.

During lunch in the hotel restaurant, I am fortunate to meet three young men who are attempting to start a computer business. One of the men, Boris, speaks English and he offers to assist me in finding my relatives. Boris is in his early 30s and of Russian descent, and his demeanor is rather business-like. I can’t help but question the coincidence of meeting an English-speaking Russian in my hotel restaurant who is offering his time just to help me. I am suspicious, thinking that he is a local spy for the secret police, but as I spend more time with Boris, it becomes clear that his motives are sincere.

Boris escorts me to his apartment where I meet his lovely wife, Julie, and their young son, Anton. Julie is rather urbane for a young lady living behind the Iron Curtain. Although she sometimes has a sad countenance, she has a quick and delightful sense of humor. As they show me their two-room apartment, they can’t help but joke about the tiny, crowded apartments typical of Ukraine. They tell me they had grown accustomed to a much larger apartment and higher standard of living when they lived for four years in the Middle East country of Jordan!

Julie relishes the opportunity to practice her English, and my presence seems to awaken memories of better times back when they lived in Jordan. Boris and Julie both seem to have a pent-up angst that can only be shared with someone familiar with the world beyond the Iron Curtain. It is as though we share a common secret. Living outside of the Soviet Union has altered their mindset and given them a worldly perspective that is slightly detached from other Ukrainians.

Later in the evening, they insist upon taking me to a Ukrainian nightclub featuring a live band, which is really nothing more than a place to get inebriated while receiving temporary hearing loss. I think they would be compelled to bring me here even if they knew of my disdain for such environments. It is what they feel they are supposed to do for a guest in Ukraine.

I set off early in the morning with Boris and our driver, Alexi, to search for a relative in the village of Tesiv. The only information that I have is a photograph (and what I hope is his address). I am about to arrive completely unannounced on the doorstep of a distant family member, and I have no idea how I will be received. After all, our two countries have been on opposite sides of the Cold War for years, and my relatives are likely to have been subjected to vilifying anti-American propaganda. I fear an awkward encounter in which I will be treated indifferently or, even worse, shunned.

If a man dwells on the past, then he robs the present; but if a man ignores the past, he may rob the future. The seeds of our destiny are nurtured by the roots of our past.

~ Master Po , from the TV series Kung Fu

The attractive, serene countryside outside Rovno has widely-spaced villages and rolling farmland that extends beyond the horizon. The landscape is primarily treeless with the exception of scattered pockets of woodland and small groves of trees within the villages that provide shelter from winter winds. Similar to the Russian countryside, there seem to be more horses here than machines. It seems that I have traveled even further back in time.

We drive down a dirt street in the tidy village of Tesiv, stopping in front of a house where Boris proclaims, “theess eez zee HOWiss.” Sure enough, standing in the front yard is my relative, Peter, almost as if he is expecting us. Peter is a stocky 62-year-old man with a round face and a stern gaze that hides his gentle eyes. Boris speaks to Peter in Ukrainian and tells him who I am, but Peter seems suspicious, as if we are all part of a KGB plot. Historically, such concerns were not unwarranted, as simply having contact with a foreigner living outside the country was reason enough to sentence a person to a Siberian gulag or worse. However, the apprehension disappears from Peter’s face after I show him the photograph of himself that he had sent to my aunt in Canada.

Nevertheless, the awkward moment that I had feared is now upon us as we all stand facing one another with empty expressions.

Hitchhiker's Heaven

Japan

(June 1992)

Arriving in Japan, I know that I will once again have to spend money to travel. Japan is known to extract a heavy toll on the traveler’s budget and that is exactly why there aren’t many travelers here. My first task is to purchase a train ticket from the airport to Tokyo, which presents me with a new travel challenge – machines! It is not possible for me to decipher the instructions on the ticket dispensers because the Japanese writing uses the complex pictographs borrowed from China. As I stand befuddled in front of the machine, I can feel the subtle pressure of the hurried passengers rapidly piling up behind me. However, I am overreacting to the frenetic pace of those around me because the Japanese are foremost patient and understanding. The Japanese man standing behind me offers his assistance the instant he notices that I am foolishly trying to force money into the wrong slot. His courteous act is typical of Japanese behavior (and the selflessness of Japanese society will absolutely astound me).

The Japanese are also very hygienic and they keep spotless homes. A good example of the standard of cleanliness is the common bath in the Tokyo hostel that is maintained in a pristine condition. I quickly grow to love the Japanese bath and become addicted to the soothing tubs of hot water. I am not as impressed, however, with the method of cleaning myself before entering the hot tub. After all, there is only so much that you can do with a bucket of water while seated on a footstool.

Japan is an exceptionally orderly country but it often comes with a price in the form of rigid and inflexible rules. The periodic announcements over my hostel’s intercom cause me to wonder if I have stumbled into the realm of the “Stepford travelers.” The harsh tone of the announcements in Japanese and English make it clear that there are no exceptions. The announcements include “eight thirty p.m., dining room is closed; ten thirty p.m., lights out, go to your bed”; and “six forty a.m., time to wake up”!

Rule number one in the hostel is to remove shoes at the entrance and borrow a pair of shared slippers. For me, this creates problem number one because all of the slippers are far too small. I can only stuff my foot halfway into the largest slipper such that I walk around like I am wearing a child’s shoe. I will never succeed in finding a slipper that fits my foot during my entire stay in Japan.

I meet up with Takayuki, whom I first met in Istanbul, Turkey. We recall our first encounter when Tak was dazed and staggering from the drugs given to him by his Turkish “friends.” He returned home after the incident and began working in construction. We visit the observatory on the 45th floor of Tokyo ’s tallest building. Throughout the city, old and new buildings are intermixed, revealing an unexpectedly chaotic layout for such a structured society.

Tak and I meet up with Toru and Miki, other Japanese friends that I had met while traveling. Collectively, they are eager to be spoiling hosts and decide that I should experience authentic Japanese food. We visit a traditional pub where the entrées include rice, seaweed, raw seafood, and other unknown items that have washed ashore. They eagerly anticipate my reaction with each new dish and sit motionless with open mouths until I taste the food. I don’t find anything nearly as unpalatable as the bill. Nearly a $100 for mere samples, and most of it isn’t even cooked! My hosts insist on paying the bill in typical Japanese tradition, which saves them the embarrassment of watching me feign a heart attack.

(I was given the opportunity to return the hospitality a few years later when Miki visited my family in Tennessee. Surprisingly, Miki enjoyed southern cooking and became particularly fond of cornbread. In fact, I think she could eat her weight in that southern dish. At the time of her visit, she was attending college in Missouri and she had been separated from her culture for nearly a year. When I asked her what food she missed most from her native Japan, she confided rather embarrassingly that it was seaweed! I reckon you just can’t find good seaweed in Kirksville, Missouri.)

I set off alone to explore the main island of Honshu by hitchhiking toward Kyoto. Successful hitching in Japan requires a little insight into the Japanese mindset. The recommended method is to write your destination on a small sign along with the word “direction.” For instance, my sign is written in Japanese characters saying “ Kyoto direction.” Otherwise, it is said that only those who are going to my exact destination will consider stopping since the drivers will feel obligated to take me all the way to the location on my sign!

When I arrive at the freeway entrance ramp, there is already an Israeli traveler waiting to catch a ride. It is a bizarre scene, as the Japanese man who gave him a lift from the airport is determined not to leave until the Israeli catches his next ride. The man is continually talking to his wife on his cell phone and is torn between his need to get home and his “obligation” to help the traveler. In his desperation, he actually begins waving his arms wildly at approaching motorists and pointing to us hitchhikers – on an interstate highway! I fear that he might get really desperate and lie down in the road to stop a vehicle headed our way.

We decide to hitch together, and after two rides with truck drivers, a Japanese woman driving a car pulls to the side of the road. I am startled that a young Japanese female would take the risk of picking up two foreign men. In her broken English she responds to my inquiry by admitting that she felt “obligated” to pick us up since she had once been helped when she visited the States. Most of the Japanese drivers giving us a lift seem compelled to remain with us until we catch our next ride – that is until we insist that they leave. The mindset displayed by many of the Japanese drivers is extraordinarily selfless.

Escape from the Happy Cannibal

New Zealand

(June & July 1992)

The two islands of New Zealand together comprise an area only about the size of California yet the variety of natural beauty here rivals that of any country. New Zealand , which sits more than a thousand miles off the southeast coast of Australia , was the last of the world’s large landmasses to be colonized by the human race. Historians believe that it was not until 1,000 A.D. that Polynesian voyagers, most likely in outrigger canoes, found their way to New Zealand . The Polynesian settlers are the ancestors of New Zealand ’s indigenous Maori population.

Europeans began to venture into the region several hundred years later when they came searching for a mass of land in the Southern Hemisphere that was assumed necessary to “counterbalance the northern continents.” The first European to discover New Zealand was the Dutch explorer Abel Tasman in 1642. He never landed on the islands because his party received a hostile reception from the native Maori. A Maori war canoe intercepted one of his rowboats and killed four sailors. One of the dead sailors was taken back to shore by the Maori – possibly for dinner! Tasman feared the islanders and he left without ever stepping foot on either island. Captain James Cook “rediscovered” New Zealand in 1769 and received a much warmer reception from the Maori.

New Zealand is now friendly to all travelers, offering an organized network of hostels and budget tours that are unmatched in the world. I wrestle with the decision as to whether I should travel on my own or with an organized tour. Although New Zealand is renowned as a wonderful country for traveling by the thumb, during the winter season it is wet in the north, and cold and snowy in the south. Therefore, I sign up with the Kiwi Experience, a bus service catering to backpackers that tours both islands. However, I soon realize that I would rather be out there hitching even in the wet and cold. On the bus, we are isolated within our own cocoon, which minimizes the opportunity to mix with the locals and experience New Zealand ’s hospitable culture.

Wellington , the world’s southernmost capital, is the departure point for ferries to the south island, which has fewer people, as well as being home to the country’s highest mountains. The 12,000-foot peaks of New Zealand’s Southern Alps are as beautiful as any mountains in the world. The Franz Joseph glacier flows out of the Southern Alps and drops all the way down to near sea level amid subtropical vegetation. The glaciers in this area are the fastest moving in the world, traveling as much as 15 feet per day. They also manage to snub their icy noses at “global warming” as they are actually advancing.

Queenstown is an outdoor playground and offers every imaginable activity to experience the outdoors. After all, this is where bungee jumping got its start. The city is noted for its gorgeous setting on the shores of Lake Wakatipu with views of the aptly named mountain range “The Remarkables.” I stumble upon the annual winter carnival sporting a parade complete with Santa Claus and Christmas carols. Never mind that it is the middle of July.

Returning to the north island, I leave the Kiwi Experience to visit with Annie, a fellow traveler whom I first met in Europe . At the time of our first meeting, she had just finished her tenure as a nanny in England . Annie has a more conservative demeanor than most backpackers and her comforting smile and caring eyes practically advertise her compassionate nature. Annie is living in her hometown of New Plymouth where she is teaching high school English at a public school. She invites me to attend a school performance in which the children perform a variety of skits that are intended to celebrate the pre-European Maori culture. Fortunately, the exercise stops short of reintroducing the practice of cannibalism.
One could argue that the previous statement is jarringly ethnocentric, but it is true that prior to the arrival of Europeans in New Zealand , some Maori tribes did in fact practice cannibalism. At that time, the country was beset with constant tribal warfare such that violence was necessary just to survive.

Intuitively, I sense something misguided regarding the impetus for the children’s performance – as though the exercise will create divisiveness rather than unity. A more obvious example of misguided compassion is the movement by some New Zealanders to make Maori the official language for all of New Zealand ! I believe that it is derogatory to assume that the self-esteem of those with Maori ancestry can only come about by bolstering the image of the ancient Maori culture. People should not be defined by the culture of their ancestors but by the culture they adopt. My ancestral ties to the Soviet Union do not automatically bind me to the murderous culture of Lenin and Stalin. Perhaps New Zealanders should simply reinforce their mainstream culture that values the right to life, liberty, and equal opportunity under the law.

Although there is merit in celebrating the positive attributes of all cultures, political correctness seems to promote a mindset that “all cultures are equal,” and anyone who dares to criticize even a particular aspect of a culture is automatically labeled ethnocentric or even worse – a racist. However, an honest examination of culture does not vilify a race of human beings; it merely illuminates the positive and negative attributes of a specific culture. None of the world’s cultures should be free from scrutiny – including my own.

I am becoming more discerning of culture because travel has afforded me the opportunity to realize the effects that my culture has had upon me. Before traveling, I believed that people were primarily an extension of their individual natures, but after encountering the variety of cultures around the world, I believe that a more accurate statement is that people are products of their culture. Am I merely the product of the American culture? Such a prospect disturbs me as though ideally I should be shaped by a source that is superior to my immediate environment. Isn’t that what sets a searching person apart – a dissatisfaction with what the world has put into him before he knew what the world was doing?

The culture to which I want to belong is the culture that looks objectively at all cultures. It seems to me that many individuals are mere products of their culture because they blindly adopt its values without pause for introspection. Weren’t children fostered by parental support of Hitler’s Nazi regime conditioned to be “happy Nazis”? Aren’t the children born into cannibalistic tribes conditioned to be “happy cannibals”? After all, isn’t cultural conditioning a powerful part of all societal structures? Yet, lucky for cultural progress, among the conditioned will always be those who are willing to look objectively at their cultures, and if they were born into Hitler’s Nazi regime, they would question the values of Nazism; if they were born into a tribe of cannibals, they would question the values of cannibalism. I believe that the best culture is one that leads people beyond culture.

Even Jesus appears to have taught that humans must transcend their cultural conditioning; perhaps that is why He told His followers that they must be willing to hate their fathers and mothers, wives and children, brothers and sisters – and even their own lives. Jesus may have been referring to hating cultural conditioning – no matter where it existed. Maybe He used that strong word “hate” to emphasize the fact that His followers must value His teachings more than their relationships with those who are unwilling to relinquish prior cultural attachments: Only by separation from our cultures is it possible for us to adopt His new covenant. Ultimately for me, the break from culture that Jesus suggests is a break from the fallen world.

I believe that the lessons of Jesus were designed to encourage us to question our unquestioned values so that we will be open to positive change. Most people naturally resist change, even when change is for the better. Certainly, it feels safer to stick with the familiar values and beliefs that we have unconsciously absorbed than to step into the unknown and undergo a complete transformation. However, Jesus may have been asking us to question our culture’s values toward the goal of becoming more than just a “happy cannibal.”

THE REST OF THE WORLD

(December 1998 to August 1999)

Introduction

Gazing at a map of the world, I see two distinct regions I have not yet visited – Sub-Saharan Africa and India. Gradually during my travels, I have developed an increasing desire and willingness to explore the more dangerous parts of the world. This proclivity has come about after experiencing first-hand the rewards for venturing off the beaten path, as well as a realization that the actual risks are not as great as I had once imagined.

As I begin this journey, I am not the same wide-eyed tourist who began traveling seven years ago. I no longer look upon unfamiliar cultures with indiscriminate bewilderment, and I seek to examine more critically the underlying values and beliefs. Prior to traveling overseas, I believed that the diversity of cultures that existed around the world may have been the result of differences that existed among the races of people, but my worldview has evolved to where I now see that people everywhere are very much alike – especially in the sense that they are products of their culture.

I am now traveling to the “Dark Continent” with hopes of gaining an understanding as to why Africa has lagged behind the rest of the world, both socially and economically. By experiencing the lifestyles and cultures of Africa, I hope to dispel any racial stereotypes that might exist deep within me. I believe that such stereotypes are commonly held in people even when they are not expressed outwardly; many times, they lie hidden away in secret. I believe this is true because I have noticed those tendencies within myself. Even people who do not desire such a predisposition cannot avoid being influenced by the disparities in the world that are often coupled with race. Only by boldly confronting the sensitive and complex questions does one gain the understanding necessary to rid the subconscious of racial stereotypes.

I begin this third journey with plans to travel overland from South Africa to East Africa before flying to India. I intend to move about in Africa typical of a traveler (including hitchhiking) in order to meet the common African, and I will remain mindful of the hazards inherent to the continent. (Although the risks for travel in Africa are not as great as I once feared, I will discover that even the innocent tourist can be the focus of extreme brutality – including murder.)

Prior to my arrival in South Africa, every traveler uttered the same warning: “When you arrive in Joberg, get out quick.” Known locally as Joberg, Johannesburg has become overrun with thugs following the recent political changes that have swept the country. The city has an astronomical murder rate, and the downtown streets are practically lawless. Upon arrival in Joberg, I find myself hesitant to leave the security of the airport. I can easily envision thousands of black South Africans waiting outside to use my white skin as an excuse to take out their grievances against apartheid. (However, even my wildest imagination has not prepared me for the treatment that I am about to receive from Southern Africans.)

The airport’s tourist information booth contains brochures for backpackers’ accommodations, many of which provide a free shuttle from the airport. In fact, I don’t even need to pick up a phone since the hostels already have representatives waiting to pick up travelers. As we drive to the hostel in an old station wagon, I am greatly relieved that we don’t have to strap on bulletproof vests or travel with armed escorts.

The hostel is located in a converted suburban home typical of the “white” suburbs with a swimming pool, tropical garden, full-time guard, and a perimeter wall topped with razor wire; even the driveway has an automatic and impenetrable wrought-iron gate. The perimeter wall creates a secure enclave where the hostellers are lounging either inside the home or outdoors next to the pool. While I have placed all of my senses on high alert because of safety concerns, most of the other hostellers are smoking marijuana specifically to diminish their own.

I finally convince myself that it is safe to leave the security of this fortress and amble over to the nearby mall, but after strolling past several dozen homes – all of which have impenetrable perimeter walls topped with razor wire – I begin to question my safety. After all, I am walking completely vulnerable to the hazards they are trying desperately to keep out. Home security is big business in Johannesburg.

The shopping mall could easily be mistaken for “Anywhere, USA” with the exception of the numerous armed security guards stationed throughout the mall. The mall’s visitors are well-dressed and represent all of South Africa’s races, including whites, blacks, Indians, and the socalled “coloreds” (people of mixed race). South Africa’s multiracial population includes roughly 76% blacks, 12% whites, 8% coloreds and 2% Asian (mostly Indian). Within the mall, South Africa appears to be a harmonious integration of many races, but I know that beyond the white suburbs there exists another reality altogether.

Outside the mall’s parking area are several primitive street stalls that sell basic goods and provide essential services such as tailoring and hair cutting; this is the area of commerce for the blacks who can’t afford the merchandise and services inside the mall. It is the first evidence of the obvious discrepancy between the haves and have-nots in South Africa.

I set off to visit the black township of Soweto with a driver, a guide, and Claire, a thoughtful young traveler from England. Our guide, Stanley, is a black South African of small stature with a warm, comforting smile who occasionally escorts travelers into Soweto. Yesterday I feared stepping out of the airport, yet today I am heading into the epicenter of black repression!

The majority of black South Africans live in townships. Theirs is a legacy of past apartheid practices that created densely populated shantytowns as blacks were forced into small tracts of land. During apartheid, blacks were not permitted to leave their township without prior government approval. The end result of these practices translates into an enormous population of poorly educated and unskilled South Africans without much opportunity to break the cycle of poverty.

Soweto spans across a vast region with a handful of middle-class homes, a few tiny government row houses and, lastly, tens of thousands of shanty homes extending across the distant hills; it looks more like a refugee camp than the suburb of a modern and prosperous city. As we step out of the van, my first thought is for my personal safety, but, almost immediately, we are cordially received by the black South Africans. I wonder why they don’t want to string Claire and me up from the nearest tree, and Stanley explains that the locals understand that a few travelers go out of their way to see the appalling conditions in which most blacks live, and they see us as messengers to get the truth out to the world regarding their abysmal living conditions: They practically look upon Claire and me as missionaries.

The shanties are small huts constructed of tin roofing, plywood, cardboard, and any other readily available discarded material. Homes are closely spaced along the dirt streets and they resemble the throwntogether forts I made in my backyard when I was a child. I purchase some freshly grilled corn on the cob from a street vendor. The mother and her young son selling this food are amiable, treating me like any other customer. However, the young boy stares at Claire and me with innocent eyes, which is only natural because he probably hasn’t seen many white folks during his short life.

We are soon invited into a local pub housed in an overgrown shanty, and I can’t help but think that liquor is the last thing needed in this community. The locals are eager for me to confirm that their home brew is “great beer” but, as a non-drinker, I haven’t a clue. I drink the beer against my better judgment. This home brew probably tastes like any other although I have a heightened concern because of its unusual color and the unsightly froth that makes the concoction look more like a large urine sample than a palatable beverage. Hey, I wonder … no, they wouldn’t do that to me, would they?

Soweto is busy with activity, and walking along the dirt streets I feel some embarrassment akin to gawking at freaks in a carnival sideshow. However, all of the affectionate greetings from those I pass on the street awaken me to the fact that I am not a shallow spectator – I am regarded as a missionary man!

A woman invites us into the home she shares with her two sons. They are exceptionally courteous as they open their home to us. Their one-room shack with its dirt floor has no electricity or running water, but it does have a gas burner for cooking and a small television powered by a car battery. As we are seated, the woman asks us how many rooms are in the house. I know this is a loaded question and, because of the blanket that partitions the room, I reply, “Two.” She then chuckles and reveals that there are actually three rooms. Somehow there is a bedroom, kitchen, and living room in the shack that is the size of a small American bedroom.

I am struck by the openness of the woman and her two young sons. They have no animosity toward their white guests – none at all. Her two boys are youthful, innocent, and respectful. The entire situation is a shock to my preconceptions about how I would be treated by black South Africans. I expected South Africans to have a prejudiced attitude toward me, but now I see that I am the one with a prejudiced attitude – a mindset shaped by fear.

We then visit a new government building with modern construction that stands out from the surrounding shanties. The clean interior of the community center is well-maintained and completely free of the graffiti often found within impoverished neighborhoods. The citizens of Soweto show tremendous pride in the facility, and the local children share their enthusiasm by putting on a performance for us with singing and dancing. The community leaders are attempting to instill self-respect in the children of Soweto, and hopefully they will not forget to teach valuable job skills as well.

In an adjacent neighborhood, the former home of current President Nelson Mandela has been turned into an informal museum with memorabilia from the civil rights leader. The museum’s guide is a man born in Kenya who coincidentally attended college in my home state of Tennessee. We have an enlightening discussion about his experience as a black African attending a southern university during the 1970s. He tells me that his first experience with racism did not occur during his years growing up in Kenya (where there was no apartheid system), but rather during his tenure attending college in the United States. He had never even heard of the word “nigger” until he was a university student in Tennessee where he was occasionally on the receiving end of racial slurs.

The tour of Soweto is an unforgettable cultural experience and quite an introduction to South Africa. I entered South Africa mentally prepared to be the focus of hatred. However, my experience thus far has been quite the opposite. The South Africans relate to me with a genuine friendliness by which I am continually astonished.