A Little Nelson Mandela, anyone?

Our awesome English teacher, Claire, wrote this epic tale of our encounter with Nelson Mandela while in South Africa. Yes, it is the Nelson Mandela I am speaking of.

Here it is. The Story (deserving of a capital S, even).

I thought that my life as a history teacher had reached its pinnacle a few weeks ago when the girls spontaneously reenacted the Battle of Blood River on the actual battle site (I literally asked Heather how it could possibly get any better), but I have to admit that this recent event may have trumped it.

Yep; it's big. But you probably already know how it ends. If you're so anxious you can't wait for the punchline, skip down to the * * *. Only if you're really anxious. It's got a pretty good lead-up...

Our story begins on a fairly normal Traveling School day: we were driving from Durban to the largish city of Umtata, and we had made arrangements to camp about thirty kilometers outside Umtata, in the small traditional Xhosa town of Qunu (famed for being the childhood home of Nelson Mandela). It was cold and windy: really cold, really windy. Maybe, just maybe, if our collective karma points were sufficient, we could sleep in the rondavels there. We crossed our fingers. When we arrived, we found that we could, in fact, sleep in the rondavels.

Excellent.

Umtata is home to the official Nelson Mandela museum, so we awoke early the next day planning to learn all about one of the most famous men in the world. We discussed who he was and what he did, and then we decided to spend the day contemplating the 'genesis of greatness' (not my phrase, unfortunately; it is coined on the back of his autobiography), and we piled into the truck.

And as we were driving back out our little dirt road, Japhet driver slyly asked me, 'Did you know that he's around here?'

I did not know that he was around there. No one knew that he was around there.

WHAT?

So I did the only logical thing to do: I leaped out of the truck and sprinted back down the little dirt road to ask the woman of the complex what exactly was going on. She told me that Nelson Mandela (yes, THAT Nelson Mandela) was in town ('town' being an exaggeration), that he was meeting up with the ex-president of Zambia (Kenneth Kaunda, another legend), and that she knew where they were. At this moment, just for divine effect, I imagine, three police cars drove by, sirens blaring.

WHAT?

She sent her friend to guide us, and we embarked on a most ridiculous chase. (Cue to racing, adrenaline-inducing background music.) Imagine, if you will, a truck the size of a large U-Haul making its excited way toward Nelson Mandela over the winding dirt roads of rural South Africa. Seventeen female faces plastered to the windows of this truck. The screams. The exclamations. Four teachers marveling at how this could possibly actually be their job. Thirteen girls marveling at how this could possibly actually be their lives.

And then the truck stopped.

We were in a tiny parking lot in the middle of nothing but rich and rolling hills, and 300 yards away from us, a group of about fifty people were massed around what looked to be a memorial of some kind. We sat in the truck and waited. In silence. Absolute silence. We were far enough away to be unobtrusive, but we were there, nonetheless. And as we sat in our pulsing silence, a small black car, escorted by a few police cars, passed our truck. We could just make out the shadowy figure sitting in the back seat.

'That's Nelson Mandela,' everyone felt the need to whisper at least twice.

The car passed us, joined the mass, and then. Oh, then. A white head, THAT white head, emerged from the car. 'That's Nelson Mandela,' we all whispered again, just for good measure.

And then a policeman told us we could go closer, if we wanted to.

IF WE WANTED TO?

We quickly (still magically silently) disembarked and virtually tiptoed our way toward the famous white head. We got to the group, and people moved to let us in. And then we just stood there, all of us wearing the typical Traveling School outfit (some kind of fleece, mildly stained pants, and flipflops), and watched. There he was. THERE HE WAS. He spoke to a few reporters, and moved to his car. We were on one side of his car; he was on the other. NOTHING between us but his sleek black car.

We stood ten feet away from him.

Him, NELSON MANDELA.

* * *

WE STOOD TEN FEET FROM NELSON MANDELA.

* * *

And he stood there, and we stood there, and the surreality of it all was overwhelming. Astounding. Inspiring. Bewitching.

He got in his car. Throwing decorum to the wind, we waved frantically. (The windows were tinted. We have no idea if he waved back. We've decided that he did, though. He seems like the kind of man who would wave back.) The car departed.

And that was that.

Unbelievable.

Just thought you guys might want to know the full story...

In high praise of serendipity,

Claire