Schmuckumentary

“Anong gagawin niyo doon, sir? Magvo-volunteer?”

That was the bank teller’s response when I told her I needed my bank statement for my South African visa application.

I get it. Maybe she pictured famished villagers seeking help from a UN relief camp. Maybe she imagined lions casually crossing roads while people in tribal attire beat bongo drums in the distance. Sure, some of these things exist. But Africa is also home to (surprise!) high-speed internet, modern cities, and people who build their lives just like anywhere else.

I’ve been fascinated by countries for as long as I can remember. I would watch The Amazing Race and then proceed to the library the next day, looking up whatever city they had just visited. I lived vicariously through them, imagining what it would be like to run through the streets of India or hike a glacier in Argentina. I had this massive geography book, the kind with glossy pages and colorful maps, and I would spend hours tracing the borders of countries with my fingers, memorizing their flags and capitals. So when I saw a photo of Table Mountain majestically rising from the ground, I knew I had to go to Cape Town.

I scheduled my solo trip to South Africa just in time for my 25th birthday. When people asked why I was going alone, I joked and told them it was to welcome my quarter-life crisis.

First of all, if you’re only making it to 50, that’s a midlife crisis. And if you die even younger, well, the math gets more complicated. So what does a quarter-life crisis really mean? Some existential dread caused by realizing you’re no longer fresh out of college but still not old enough to have figured your whole life out? If anything, every single day of adulthood is a crisis. Sometimes it’s big (“What am I doing with my life?”), sometimes it’s small (“He didn’t put a smiley face on his text.”), but it’s always there. So off to Cape Town I went, not for the clichéd soul-searching, but because I wanted to see it with my own eyes.

*****

I should have known things wouldn’t go smoothly when I woke up on the day of my flight with a mild toothache. A little discomfort, but nothing a paracetamol couldn’t handle. My excitement was enough of an anesthetic, anyway.

Except, at 25,000 feet, excitement was no match for the pain slowly building up. I doubled my dose of painkillers. Still nothing. So I did what any responsible adult would do: I had a glass of wine. And then another. And another. And another.

Somewhere in the haze of my self-medication, I forgot you’re not supposed to mix pills with alcohol. And that’s how I woke up in Africa on my birthday with a brutal hangover and a raging toothache.

At the airport, I schlepped my luggage to the medical clinic in search of a dentist.

Of course, there was no dentist. That would be too easy.

By the second day, the pain had become unbearable. I was popping pills like an addict just to function. The hospital near my hotel had no dentists on weekends, so I dragged my medicated self up Table Mountain, determined not to let my stubborn molar ruin my trip.

Table Mountain is as majestic in real life as it is in photos. From the base, it looks regal and imposing, a natural fortress towering over the city. But from the top, it’s something else entirely. The world stretches out before you. Clouds rolling over the cliffs, the Atlantic Ocean crashing below, Cape Town sprawling and alive. It was breathtaking.

Or maybe that just was the meds.

A sudden downpour greeted us as I rode the cable car back down. I had to physically restrain myself from belting out that song by Toto.

I bless the rains down in Africaaaaa!

The next day was my safari tour. By some miracle, my painkillers worked long enough for me to marvel at rhinos, hippos, and zebras. I saw lions feasting on the remnants of their latest kill. Staring at the bloody bones, I wondered: do lions also get toothaches? And if they do, how do they deal with it? Probably not by venting to their mothers over the phone, which is what I did later that night.

My mom, ever the worrier, was convinced I’d have my tooth extracted with a rusty drill. “Magpareseta ka na lang ng gamot. Dito ka na lang magpabunot. Baka di tumalab ang anesthesia,” she fretted.

Mom, they named the hospital after the guy who performed the world’s first heart transplant. I think they know what they’re doing.

On Monday, I finally saw a dentist. The verdict? A cavity. The tooth in question has been already been filled thrice. I asked the dentist what else could be done, because I was really, really, really in pain.

“Well, you have two options,” the dentist said matter-of-factly. “One, you can have your tooth pulled now.”

“What’s the other choice?”

“Or you can have it pulled at home.”

I had never had a tooth pulled before. The pressure, the cracking, the sheer violence of it… I was convinced my gums were being torn apart.

“Are you okay? Is it painful or are you scared?”

“Scared,” I blurted out through my numb, half-open mouth, then laughed on the verge of tears.

It didn’t seem to matter to her, and with one final, forceful tug, my tooth was out.

If you ever need a tooth extracted in South Africa, it’ll cost you 500 rand. That’s 1,700 pesos and a chunk of your soul.

You’d think that was the worst of it, but no. Because this trip was apparently a Lemony Snicket novel. My next adventure was cage diving with great white sharks, an experience I hadn’t originally planned, partly because of ethical concerns.

On one hand, it’s a unique chance to observe these predators up close. On the other, there’s the issue of chumming, the process of throwing buckets of blood and fish guts into the water to attract the sharks. It’s a practice that can condition sharks to expect dinner whenever a boat appears and can potentially alter their natural feeding behavior.

I was also worried they didn’t have a wetsuit my size. So I spent days in an internal debate about whether to go at all until the day before my flight, when I finally decided, Fuck it. I’ll already be there. Might as well dive in.

And there I was, submerged in the Atlantic, face to face with one of nature’s apex predators. It was exhilarating. And then I realized I had made a mistake.

You see, dumb me didn’t rent an underwater camera. Instead, I wrapped my phone in a Ziploc bag, thinking it was enough.

I thought I was being a genius. But as it turns out, stupidity is the father of this invention. The moment I dunked my makeshift waterproof case into the ocean, I watched in horror as tiny bubbles formed inside the bag. It was like a slow-motion disaster.

Idiot, idiot, idiot! I could’ve rented an actual underwater camera for 200 rand. I could’ve done research. I could’ve, at the very least, put my phone in an actual waterproof case instead of trusting a bag meant for sandwiches. Now, instead of capturing breathtaking footage of sharks gliding past me, I was left with a fried phone.

*****

As I learned from a fellow traveler during my Winelands tour, foreigners vacationing in South Africa can get a tax refund at the airport on purchases of 250 rand or more. Perfect, I thought. I’ll just buy my new phone here.

Except I couldn’t.

The lady at the Apple Store (yes, Ate Bank Teller, they have iPhones in Africa) swiped my card and frowned. Swiped again. Still nothing. She looked at me, trying to be polite.

“Your card was declined,” she finally said.

I am never one to lose composure, but internally, I was in full breakdown mode. Later, I learned that my card had been compromised and some lucky thief had used it for a shopping spree. They bought groceries. They dined at restaurants. They even bought furniture to redecorate their house! I wasn’t even mad at that point; I was impressed.

Meanwhile, I had four more days in Cape Town and whatever cash I had left. I budgeted strictly: money for food, money for pasalubong, and money for calling my bank, which, ironically, hurt my wallet the most.

Being a natural introvert, I’ve always been comfortable traveling alone. I actually prefer it most of the time. No need to coordinate, no small talk, no debates over where to eat. But this? This was different. I had no phone. No money. No backup plan. For the first time in my life, I felt alone in a way I hadn’t before. Not in the peaceful, reflective way. But in the Tom-Hanks-stranded-on-a-desert-island kind of way.

I just needed a hug.

*****

During the height of the Age of Discovery, European explorers braved the unforgiving waves of the Atlantic in search of the East. They risked their lives, sailing into the unknown, driven by the promise of riches from the Spice Islands. Nutmeg, cinnamon, ginger. Things we now take for granted were once worth entire fortunes. Men endured scurvy, shipwrecks, and mutiny for these tiny luxuries, determined to make their bland medieval gruel taste like something, anything other than despair.

Finally, after weeks of storm and struggle, they reach their journey’s halfway point and carry on with renewed sense of optimism as their ships turn around Cabo da Boa Esperança.

The Cape of Good Hope.

Our tour van weaved through the foggy roads of Cape Point, the air thick with salt and history. The tour guide spoke through the mic as he played a game of True or False.

“Is Cape Town the southernmost point of Africa?”

Geography nerd that I am, I answered, “No. It’s Cape Agulhas.”

“Good,” he said. “So why do I bring visitors here? Because I want you to remember: once upon a time, you sat in a classroom reading about this place. And now, you’re here. How many people can say that?”

He was right.

I stepped out of the van and took a deep breath. The oceans stretched endlessly before me, the waves crashing against the rocks. There it is: the sign that marks the end of a journey, a pilgrimage to a place that reassures.

Cape of Good Hope. A landmark that once meant salvation for weary sailors, a promise that the worst was behind them.

I breathed in the mist and tasted the salt in the air. Soon, from a teardrop or two.

I wasn’t crying over my ruined phone, or my credit card, or the sheer unluckiness of my entire trip. It was a moment of quiet realization.

Life will throw storms your way. It will make you feel lost. It will take things from you: your comfort, your money, your sense of security. But while some crises may drown you, some crises might just lead you to capes that remind you why you keep going. A place that reminds you that no matter what, the world is still beautiful.

I’m twenty-five now.

I’m just twenty-five.

I sail on with good hope. Always with good hope.