DAY 137: After the seven-hour flight -- which included a screening of Intolerable Cruelty, some of Disney's The Haunted Mansion, some Super Nintendo and hardly any sleep with all the noise coming from the rowdy Argentine rugby team onboard -- I touched down in Cape Town, South Africa's international airport, five time zones ahead of Buenos Aires (seven from New York City). The weather was grey and rainy but I knew things would be looking up; for the first time ever in The Global Trip 2004, I was in an English-speaking country and didn't have to think so hard before speaking. However, little did I know that morning that I'd be in prison by that evening.

THE PASSPORT CONTROL LINE WAS PACKED, but there was no way around it. While waiting, the line attendant told me to get my passport and return ticket ready -- which was a problem because, planning to travel overland to Namibia out of South Africa, I didn't exactly have one. This requirement wasn't unheard of; I needed one to get into Ecuador and one to get into Brazil. Both these times, people warned me in advance so I could buy a refundable return ticket so I wouldn't be surprised at the customs line upon entering -- like I now was. Looking ahead at people at the counter ahead of me, the passport officer stamped their passport and their outbound ticket.

When it was my turn, I explained my situation with the only thing I had: a ticket from Windhoek, Namibia to Harare, Zimbabwe via Johanessburg. The woman interrogated me with my further travel plans, but in the end, stamped what I had and let me on my way.

I TOOK A SHUTTLE BUS INTO TOWN with a couple of Argentine girls, a couple of Swedish guys and a couple from Austria. Riding on the modern highway passed shantytowns and mountains, and through Cape Town's modern city center, I arrived at The Backpack, one of the better budget accommodations in town for about $15 (US) -- three times more than what I normally paid in South America, but still cheap for Cape Town. I got a dorm bed in the secure complex with a bar/cafe, living room, swimming pool, kitchen, courtyard, laundry and internet.

There was a group of Americans checking in before me, taking up a lot of time. Ingmar, the check-in guy of Dutch descent apologized for the delay.

"No problem, I have all day," I told him.

"That's a good attitude to have; you're in South Africa now."

SITTING AT THE BAR, I befriended Derek, an Englishman living in New Zealand on holiday who, like many others, had rented a car for his stay in South Africa. He offered me a lift to the waterfront on his way to a museum. I sat on the left side of the car, which rode on the left side of the road and was dropped off right by Victoria Wharf, an oceanfront pier and shopping/dining complex constructed in an old Dutch motif. Cape Town was founded by the Dutch in 1634 and much of its influence is still evident in modern day, from the physical features in some of the people to the language Afrikaans, the South African language heavily derived from Dutch. The African influence wasn't eradicated though, and I heard it right away when I encountered an African acapella group singing and dancing for a crowd. Hearing their spiritual melodies, it had really sunk in that South America was behind me and Africa had begun.

VICTORIA WHARF WAS THE EMBARKATION POINT for my first excursion on my first, and rainy day in Africa: Robben Island, the former concentration camp-like prison-turned-World Heritage Site and museum where political prisoners such as Nelson Mandela were once help captive during the racist age of apartheid. The Robben Island Museum at the ferry station had exhibits about the turbulent era in history, with phtographs, old anti-apartheid propaganda posters and touch screen video presentations.

A jet catamaran took me and about three dozen tourists to the site, about ten kilometers off shore through shark-infested waters -- convenient for the former wardens when threatening the prisoners with no chance of escape. Once on the island, we hopped on a bus where our tour guide Dan explained the stories of the different sites of interest.

Robben Island has an intriguing past, from being a waiting station for early explorers, a leper colony, a criminal prison, a political prisoner prison (and sometimes simultaneously both) and a military base. Dan told us the story of Robert Sobukwe, a political prisoner that was sentenced to four years in a small, fenced off house by himself without any privileges to talk to anyone -- not even the guards. It ultimately led him to throat problems and insanity. Four years without talking, man -- if only we could give that sentence to someone who deserves it, like Joan Rivers or Fran Drescher.

After a visit to the quarry, where prisoners were forced into hard manual labor, Dan asked, "Who wants to go to jail?"

Everyone replied positively.

"Before, people were forced into jail with handcuffs and now times have changed. People will pay up to one hundred fifty rand to go."

THE BUS BROUGHT US TO THE FORMER MAXIMUM SECURITY PRISON, where we were greeted by Pheneas Poho, a former prisoner-turned-tour guide who, now free, lived on the island in one of his former warden's big houses. The prison tour started in a big room where Pheneas was once held captive during his stay from 1985-1990. He slammed the door dramatically and began his tour lecture.

Pheneas explained how when he arrived in 1985, conditions were much worse than when he was freed. For example, in the beginning they had to sleep on hard cement floors and were only allowed to send out a letter once every two months. With protests and hunger strikes, they managed to get the privilege to send out a letter once a month and even received bunk beds -- they looked a lot like ones I had been in at backpacker hostels.

Pheneas ended his briefing by saying that we were stuck on the island with him and that, "The only way to your freedom is to ask me questions." Having experienced the life of the prison firsthand, he was full of stories and wanted us to tap into them. I wasn't sure if he was trying to be funny -- if so, his delivery sucked -- but he was locked up for five years in that hell hole, who knew just how bitter he was?

Someone beat me to the question I had in my head: "Why were you sent here?"

"I am from South Africa, and I love South Africa. I had to help liberate it. And for that, I was put in here."

DESPITE THE LACK OF MANY QUESTIONS, the walking tour continued around the prison grounds. Pheneas continued his stories about the horrors of Robben Island's prison days, including the time a man with a broken leg was still forced to work hard in the quarry -- ultimately his leg was amputated. Working in the quarry even without a broken leg was hard enough; the reflective glare of the limestone bouncing the intensity of the sun was so bright, it was the reason Nelson Mandela had to have eye surgery after his release.

Other stories spoke of the sadistic mindset of the prison wardens. During the time when violent criminals were mixed in with the peaceful political prisoners, the wardens gave rewards to the criminals for beating up on the innocent. In another story, two prisoners were forced to dug a big hole in the ground -- only to have the warden bury them alive in it with their heads above ground so that the wardens could piss on their heads, forcing them to drink their urine.

FROM SECTOR B, we entered the building of jail cells for those in solitary confinement. In Cell #5 remained a blanket, table and chamber pot -- the actual items used by Nelson Mandela as part of his long 27-year imprisonment. After everyone had their turn at a photo (picture above), Pheneas ended the tour down the hall -- but not without asking again for questions that would ensure our freedom.

"I have a question," I said, raising my hand. "Did you have any interaction with Mandela when you were here?" (Good question, huh?)

He said that although they were both in the prison at the same time, they were in different sectors and he didn't meet the soon-to-be-next-president until February 11, 1990 when then newly-elected president FW de Klerk freed all imprisoned for their anti-apartheid political ideals.

Having earned my freedom out of Robben Island prison, I was released -- only to have those who didn't ask anything follow right behind me.

WALKING PAST THE PENGUINS that often shored on the island, I was back on the wavy catamaran ride bound for the mainland -- many people got sick in seasick bags. I wandered the waterfront area until I took a taxi back to Long Street, the main strip in the backpacker district full of clubs and bars, including Mama Africa -- I assumed it was related to the backpacker bar of the same name that I had been to in Cusco, Peru.

The Backpack hostel's bar/cafe was just as lively as any of the ones on Long Street and that's where I hung out for the rest of the night with beers and a frikadel, the South African version of a hamburger with plenty of pepper mixed into the ground beef before grilling. I played pool with Amy, Clair and Graham from England until -- exhausted from jet lag -- I went to sleep in my dorm bunk.

The bunk beds in my dorm reminded me of the ones I had seen in that big prison room on Robben Island and as I laid my head in my pillow, I was glad I was a free man, finally travelling in a new continent.

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