Two weeks ago, the black South African township of Langa hosted a rally for the country’s Human Rights Day, and I was in attendance. With elections coming up this month, many major political parties came out in full force to proclaim their undying devotion to the causes of human rights and freedom from oppression.

The African National Congress (ANC) — the party of Nobel Peace Prize winner Nelson Mandela — entered the arena (a traffic circle) in full regalia, complete with an 18-wheeler that opened up to reveal a full sound system and stage. The soon-to-be president of South Africa, Jacob Zuma, graced the hundreds of supporters with his presence and a long speech mostly in Xhosa, one of the South African click languages native to the crowd clad in ANC colors of green, yellow and black.

At one point between remembrances of those killed during the struggle against apartheid and exhortations to continue the fight for equality (i.e. Vote ANC), Zuma made a reference that caused many in the crowd to suddenly take notice of four individuals sitting on the ground in the front row. Some awkward laughing ensued, while the four of us tried to hide our obvious outsider status — murmuring “Viva ANC!” at each word spoken by a future president accused of both rape and corruption.

So there it was. It wasn’t the fact that my three friends and I weren’t clad in complete head-to-toe ANC get-ups, or the fact that my $2 imitation Ray-Bans looked deceivingly real and expensive in a township of corrugated iron shacks. It was much more easily defined than that: We were the only four whites in a sea of colorful people. We were, by far, the minority and stuck out no matter how many times we tried to fist pump the air in solidarity with the crowd.

And as we say to each other every time we see a cockroach crawling on the floor or realize that “just now” does not at all mean “now” here, it was a moment of “Oh yeah, This Is Africa (TIA).” (Shout out to Leo DiCaprio, who coined the fabulous phrase.)

They call South Africa the “Rainbow Nation,” full of different races, colors, creeds, etc., all happily melding together like in those awkward posed pictures on college brochures. Yet students walking around the campus of the University of Cape Town are right out of the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog, plus mullets and rat’s tails (which are apparently all the rage, along with head-to-toe Billabong attire) — when I venture down the hill from where UCT sits, I find an entirely different world which changes from block to block.

The largest legacy left behind by the apartheid regime is not necessarily the poverty and inequality that leaves vast portions of the population unemployed, homeless and deprived of access to health care or education, but a pervasive sense of racism among most citizens — though, of course, it is not openly admitted. Distinctions were drawn between Africans (Blacks), those of mixed ancestry (Coloureds) and Whites through housing zoning and separate but admittedly unequal facilities. Though apartheid officially ended 15 years ago, the lines are still drawn.

As international students, we have had unparalleled opportunities to cross those barriers and experience each of the races and cultures. While it has been an intensely rewarding experience, it has tested our group in ways we didn’t even consider. We take courses teaching us about the different cultures in Cape Town, learn two new languages, and take field trips that range from eating Gatsby’s (look it up and you’ll see why I can’t look at Blimpie’s the same ever again) to attending traditional Xhosa funeral ceremonies and donning wide-brimmed hats for cricket matches.

Crossing the boundaries brings with it an inherent change in circumstances, dress, language and rules of etiquette. As non-South Africans, we feel it is our duty to take everything as it comes without using preconceived notions. We try to blend in no matter where we are, though as soon as we open our mouths people identify us as American (and chant “Yes We Can!”).

The most difficult part, however, is switching between the five-star hotels and fancy dinners — luxuries that literally cost a third of what they would cost at home — to the street right outside where hordes of children approach us asking for money or food. There is no hiding behind our American accents or hesitant use of our rudimentary knowledge of Afrikaans and Xhosa. It can’t help us when we are called out for being what we are: privileged.

The hardest thing to accept is that, even though we may eat pap and ostrich and start saying things such as “Is it?” instead of “Really?,” no amount of pretending will justify the fact that we are seen as foreigners, both in race and nationality. And the dozen or so elderly supporters sitting in plastic deck chairs behind us at the rally already know this.

So when I felt I needed to scream a little louder to call the attention of the press corps surrounding Zuma, I made those old ladies behind me proud … and made Page 2 of the newspaper the next day. TIA.