1) It is one of the great ironies of life that Africa produces some of the best coffee in the world, and then everyone drinks Nescafe instant coffee. I have drunk more Nescafe in the past six weeks than ever in life. Where is the Ethiopian blend that Starbucks sells? Oh, right--it's at STARBUCKS, in the U.S. And here there is only Nescafe. I think that could come up on Judgment Day, guys.
One of the guys in my group was complaining about it, because it gets served at every mid-morning break, and I explained that you can't think of it as coffee, it will throw you off completely; you have to think of it as a drink unto itself. "Awesome, Nescafe!" I find that it's much more palatable that way. And honestly, if you put enough cream and sugar in anything, it will taste OK. Much like you can't taste the nail-polish-remover vibe of Egyptian vodka if you mix it with enough mango juice.
2) Bakshish. Bakshish means tipping, and EVERYONE gets bakshish. The culture of bakshish is what makes Egyptian life go round. You bakshish the guy who cleans the room, the guy who picks up the laundry, the guy who brings back the laundry, the guy who gives you directions on the street, the guy who walks you to your destination because you didn't bakshish him when he just gave oral directions, ad infinitum. I think the first gesture little kids learn here is the upward-turned palm: "Bakshish?" Sometimes we are just the Ugly Americans who refuse to bakshish, like on our field trip yesterday when this woman was standing at the door of the bathroom so she could push the button on the automatic hand dryer for you. We were all like, united we stand guys, there is no bakshish for that.
3) Insh'allah. It punctuates every sentence, because an Egyptian will never tell you he is going to do something without adding "Insh'allah" at the end--"if God wills it." So my friend Michael and I throw Insh'allah into every conversation now, whether it makes sense or not, and I may not be able to break the habit when I get home. "I wonder if it's used for puntuation, like Americans use 'like,'" I speculated one day, and Michael immediately launched into a whole riff on it: "And she was, insh'allah, 'Why you can't answer your phone?' and he was, insh'allah, 'Bitch please,' and she was insh'allah 'Oh hell no.' Insh'allah." Today Michael and I are going to sneak into the Hyatt to go swimming. Insh'allah.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
First Day of School!
I started Arabic classes today. It's an incredibly hard language, and I don't want to be presumptuous, but I might be good at it, people. The conversational teacher thinks so. She appreciates that I am willing to make mistakes in oral conversation, which has really always distinguished me as a language learner: my ability to make mistakes. But I have learned to say "I am not Egyptian" in Arabic. In case anyone thought I was trying to pass.
And so the second phrase I'd like to learn is "Back the f**k off" which until now I've had to use in English, and I feel it would be so much more effective to communicate with people in their native tongue. Because we are DAWs (see post below), some people were trying to get a little handsy in the bazaar yesterday. I ignored it when it was just people stroking my hair and even when someone grabbed my thigh, mostly because I couldn't see who it was, but when someone pinched me from behind, I said "F**K OFF" very loudly. (The asterisks are for my dad, folks, he likes to believe I don't use words like this and I like to humor him.) And it seemed to do the trick.
Egypt was partially redeemed, though, when we took a boat ride on the Nile and ate mangoes and apricots. I have to say I geeked out a little. Everyone thought it was cool, because it's the Nile, but they'd have thought the Amazon was just as cool, whereas I was like "This is where the baby Moses drifted! This was all blood once! Those reeds could have been where Miriam hid to watch him!" Yeah, I Bible-geeked on these poor people, who basically humor me without really knowing what I'm going on about. Except for one guy who is doing his grad work at Baylor and also grew up Southern Baptist and between the two of us we can name all the books of the Bible, the 10 plagues of Egypt (that one was all me--we were stuck until I remembered boils), the Old Testament kings, and we were both sword drill champs as kids. I don't think I need to tell you we've really established ourselves as the cool kids in this set.
Cairo is wild and chaotic and energetic, it sounds like a block party every night, with horns honking and people yelling and music playing, and it's great. I can't get over how different it is from my travel in South Africa, though--we are not encouraged to mix with locals, we have a security guard with us at all times, they won't let us out of the building where we study during our lunch break--in fact they won't even let us linger on the stoop--and we have to let someone know where we are at all times. We are the State Department's delicate desert flowers, apparently, but I'm sure my parents aren't the only ones breathing a sigh of relief.
Oh, and our Fourth of July celebration is--wait for it--at the British International School! Could it be any more perfect that Independence Day is being celebrated with the Brits?! Apparently the American Embassy is being reupholstered or something, there's some reason it's not there this year, so the Brits kindly offered their facility. We're going because we're fiercely patriotic and, you know, free booze.
And so the second phrase I'd like to learn is "Back the f**k off" which until now I've had to use in English, and I feel it would be so much more effective to communicate with people in their native tongue. Because we are DAWs (see post below), some people were trying to get a little handsy in the bazaar yesterday. I ignored it when it was just people stroking my hair and even when someone grabbed my thigh, mostly because I couldn't see who it was, but when someone pinched me from behind, I said "F**K OFF" very loudly. (The asterisks are for my dad, folks, he likes to believe I don't use words like this and I like to humor him.) And it seemed to do the trick.
Egypt was partially redeemed, though, when we took a boat ride on the Nile and ate mangoes and apricots. I have to say I geeked out a little. Everyone thought it was cool, because it's the Nile, but they'd have thought the Amazon was just as cool, whereas I was like "This is where the baby Moses drifted! This was all blood once! Those reeds could have been where Miriam hid to watch him!" Yeah, I Bible-geeked on these poor people, who basically humor me without really knowing what I'm going on about. Except for one guy who is doing his grad work at Baylor and also grew up Southern Baptist and between the two of us we can name all the books of the Bible, the 10 plagues of Egypt (that one was all me--we were stuck until I remembered boils), the Old Testament kings, and we were both sword drill champs as kids. I don't think I need to tell you we've really established ourselves as the cool kids in this set.
Cairo is wild and chaotic and energetic, it sounds like a block party every night, with horns honking and people yelling and music playing, and it's great. I can't get over how different it is from my travel in South Africa, though--we are not encouraged to mix with locals, we have a security guard with us at all times, they won't let us out of the building where we study during our lunch break--in fact they won't even let us linger on the stoop--and we have to let someone know where we are at all times. We are the State Department's delicate desert flowers, apparently, but I'm sure my parents aren't the only ones breathing a sigh of relief.
Oh, and our Fourth of July celebration is--wait for it--at the British International School! Could it be any more perfect that Independence Day is being celebrated with the Brits?! Apparently the American Embassy is being reupholstered or something, there's some reason it's not there this year, so the Brits kindly offered their facility. We're going because we're fiercely patriotic and, you know, free booze.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Dirty American Whores
OK, so there are a few posts below that I wrote while in Cape Town but just put up. I'm in Cairo now, where I've been since Wednesday night. We're at a kind of shady hotel, but in a really good neighborhood, since as one of the program coordinators told us, as Americans we're automatically considered upper class, and class is VERY IMPORTANT to Egyptians. I am always aware that being white and American opens a lot of doors, and it's good to openly acknowledge it, but not necessarily in a "GOOOOAAAAAALLLLL!" kind of way. I mean, she was really psyched to let us know that we were all upper-crust as far as the unwashed masses were concerned.
We are also, of course, Dirty American Whores, forthwith shortened to DAWs, in their view. I mean the women in the program, of course--the guys are fine. But the women wear pants, and short sleeves, and we are bare-headed. And those of us who have been to other countries are like whatever, we know that's how we'll be viewed, you ignore it and go about your business. But some of these poor girls are out of the country for the first time and they can't understand why they're being stared at. I very helpfully explained, "We are the Dirty American Whores. Embrace it. And remember that since you can't understand what they're yelling at you anyway, you can let it roll of you." It is funny, though--you can immediately pick out those of us who have been out of country and know that we are objects of interest because we are American women, and those for whom it is a brave new world.
What I have also realized is that it's really hard for American women to be discreet, even when they want to be. We have all been talking about how short-sleeved shirts are usually cap-sleeved, and V-necked, and pants sit low on the hips, so even as you aim to be conservative in your dress--no one's trying to wear a burka, we're just trying not to draw undue attention--you're kind of hampered by American fashion choices. Oh well. Dirty American Whores. And what makes it worse it that when someone smiles at me, I smile back. Women don't do that here, they look away because no one should smile at them, because you shouldn't see them. But I am cheerfully American, and I have a Pavlovian response to smiles, even skeevy ones--I smile back. Whatever, I know I'm a cultural ambassador, blah blah, but they need to know there's another way.
I have been glad, though, that I dyed my hair a darker brown. The blondes are definitely drawing more stares. Although "more" is really relative at this point.
Classes start Sunday. We're just kicking around getting the lay of the land until then. There are some very cool people in this program, which makes all the difference.
We are also, of course, Dirty American Whores, forthwith shortened to DAWs, in their view. I mean the women in the program, of course--the guys are fine. But the women wear pants, and short sleeves, and we are bare-headed. And those of us who have been to other countries are like whatever, we know that's how we'll be viewed, you ignore it and go about your business. But some of these poor girls are out of the country for the first time and they can't understand why they're being stared at. I very helpfully explained, "We are the Dirty American Whores. Embrace it. And remember that since you can't understand what they're yelling at you anyway, you can let it roll of you." It is funny, though--you can immediately pick out those of us who have been out of country and know that we are objects of interest because we are American women, and those for whom it is a brave new world.
What I have also realized is that it's really hard for American women to be discreet, even when they want to be. We have all been talking about how short-sleeved shirts are usually cap-sleeved, and V-necked, and pants sit low on the hips, so even as you aim to be conservative in your dress--no one's trying to wear a burka, we're just trying not to draw undue attention--you're kind of hampered by American fashion choices. Oh well. Dirty American Whores. And what makes it worse it that when someone smiles at me, I smile back. Women don't do that here, they look away because no one should smile at them, because you shouldn't see them. But I am cheerfully American, and I have a Pavlovian response to smiles, even skeevy ones--I smile back. Whatever, I know I'm a cultural ambassador, blah blah, but they need to know there's another way.
I have been glad, though, that I dyed my hair a darker brown. The blondes are definitely drawing more stares. Although "more" is really relative at this point.
Classes start Sunday. We're just kicking around getting the lay of the land until then. There are some very cool people in this program, which makes all the difference.
Still in top form
A couple of recent incidents, just so you don't think I've lost my form:
1) Father Terry drove me out to Khayelitsha recently and was asking after my (nonexistent) romantic life. And I was saying, you know, I don't stress about it too much, but it's a little disheartening, because I'm funny, I'm bright, I'm pretty cute--and then I realize that he has only ever seen Traveling Shannon, which is to say Scrub Shannon, with no makeup and a baseball cap and wind jacket. And I am inexplicably seized by a desire to make it clear that I Do Not Always Look Like This. So I blurt out, "I mean, you haven't seen it here, but at home I'm totally cute! I have good hair and my clothes fit and--I'm really cute with a little bit of effort!" And he, poor man, is saying, "Yes, of course you are!" And I think, I am an ASS. Really no way to salvage that one.
2) I was waiting for the elevator the day we left for Cairo and we had the morning free. I'm feeling particularly buoyant, listening to my iPod; I have just run 5 miles, so I'm feeling strong and high-spirited, if a bit flushed and sweaty, and I am heading to the swimming pool, so I am wearing my bikini top and short shorts. And the iPod is playing booty-shaking music, so I doing the full-on booty-shaking dance, because I think I am alone in the hallway--until I turn around, mid-dance move, and three guys in my program are staring at me. Fortunately the elevator arrived then to swallow me in my ignominy. Because I am an ASS. And damn you, Ciara, for making such irresistible booty-shaking music.
1) Father Terry drove me out to Khayelitsha recently and was asking after my (nonexistent) romantic life. And I was saying, you know, I don't stress about it too much, but it's a little disheartening, because I'm funny, I'm bright, I'm pretty cute--and then I realize that he has only ever seen Traveling Shannon, which is to say Scrub Shannon, with no makeup and a baseball cap and wind jacket. And I am inexplicably seized by a desire to make it clear that I Do Not Always Look Like This. So I blurt out, "I mean, you haven't seen it here, but at home I'm totally cute! I have good hair and my clothes fit and--I'm really cute with a little bit of effort!" And he, poor man, is saying, "Yes, of course you are!" And I think, I am an ASS. Really no way to salvage that one.
2) I was waiting for the elevator the day we left for Cairo and we had the morning free. I'm feeling particularly buoyant, listening to my iPod; I have just run 5 miles, so I'm feeling strong and high-spirited, if a bit flushed and sweaty, and I am heading to the swimming pool, so I am wearing my bikini top and short shorts. And the iPod is playing booty-shaking music, so I doing the full-on booty-shaking dance, because I think I am alone in the hallway--until I turn around, mid-dance move, and three guys in my program are staring at me. Fortunately the elevator arrived then to swallow me in my ignominy. Because I am an ASS. And damn you, Ciara, for making such irresistible booty-shaking music.
The State Department has plans for me
So we had a day-long orientation for Cairo, where I will be studying Arabic for two months, on Monday. There are 30 of us, and the group is weighted a little more heavily toward grad students than undergrads, so we have already sorted ourselves into the "over-25s" and the youngsters. At one point in orientation, the girl next to me said, "I'm really glad to see there's an age spread." "Yeah," I agreed, "I was afraid everyone would be 19, and I'd be the old lady at 30."
"Oh, but you look young, so you'll be fine," she said.
I LOOK young? You know I almost stabbed her in the eye with my pen. I AM young. Ridiculous child.
Orientation included a panel that should have been called "The State Department Has Plans for You." Turns out it is costing them about $17K a head for each of us this summer, and the panel was about career options in--surprise!--the foreign service. They've probably got retinal scans and blood vials on all of us already.
Here's the thing: I am an academic crackhead. EVERYTHING is interesting to me. When they spoke about careers in foreign service and how you would have to study Arabic for at least 10 years to be proficient, I go, "That is AWESOME! How much would I love to do that? I could totally be in the foreign service!" And I have to remind myself that I have that reaction to every new career option that comes along: I could totally be a historian! Or a clergy member! Or an attorney! Or a public health specialist! Or an AIDS educator! Or...and then I have to remind myself, Self, you already know what you are really, really passionate about, so let's not get sidetracked. But it's hard, because I feel like I am dominated by my inner 4-year old who is like "I want to be an astronaut and a ballerina and the president of the world" and doesn't realize those first two are mutually exclusive careers and the third doesn't exist.
So I will probably not join the foreign service. But let's not rule anything out.
"Oh, but you look young, so you'll be fine," she said.
I LOOK young? You know I almost stabbed her in the eye with my pen. I AM young. Ridiculous child.
Orientation included a panel that should have been called "The State Department Has Plans for You." Turns out it is costing them about $17K a head for each of us this summer, and the panel was about career options in--surprise!--the foreign service. They've probably got retinal scans and blood vials on all of us already.
Here's the thing: I am an academic crackhead. EVERYTHING is interesting to me. When they spoke about careers in foreign service and how you would have to study Arabic for at least 10 years to be proficient, I go, "That is AWESOME! How much would I love to do that? I could totally be in the foreign service!" And I have to remind myself that I have that reaction to every new career option that comes along: I could totally be a historian! Or a clergy member! Or an attorney! Or a public health specialist! Or an AIDS educator! Or...and then I have to remind myself, Self, you already know what you are really, really passionate about, so let's not get sidetracked. But it's hard, because I feel like I am dominated by my inner 4-year old who is like "I want to be an astronaut and a ballerina and the president of the world" and doesn't realize those first two are mutually exclusive careers and the third doesn't exist.
So I will probably not join the foreign service. But let's not rule anything out.
Last Day in Cape Town
Today was my last day in Cape Town. I walked around the botanical gardens, went for my last cup of coffee at Seattle's Best, where they were so sad to see their best customer go that my coffee was free, and chatted with Father Terry. Before I left, I said, "I want a blessing." I mean, that's part of the gig as a priest, right? I figured he'd just rattle off a brief prayer in his offices, but he said, "Meet me down in the cathedral." He put on his collar, and then I knelt in front of the altar in this great church that has been such a voice for justice and joy--in short, such a voice for the gospel, in this broken, beautiful place. He made the sign of the Cross on my palms and forehead, and said, "In the name of the God who created you, the Christ who died to redeem you, and the life-giving Spirit who breathes on you" before speaking a blessing over me. Seriously, Anglicans do it up right. When they bless you, you know you've been blessed.
Then we walked out in the brightness of day, and he hugged me and said, "All right, girl--safe home. Take care of yourself. And don't be too good." I believe I will keep him as a friend, which is the very best thing I could have brought back from South Africa.
Headed home in the evening. 48 hours until I head to DC and then to Cairo.
Then we walked out in the brightness of day, and he hugged me and said, "All right, girl--safe home. Take care of yourself. And don't be too good." I believe I will keep him as a friend, which is the very best thing I could have brought back from South Africa.
Headed home in the evening. 48 hours until I head to DC and then to Cairo.
Shoes and Jackets
My mom and some of her friends sent money so I could buy winter coats and shoes for all the kids at the group home where I have been volunteering. So now every kid has a coat and shoes, and they are ridiculously cute.
Working with the kids has been an interesting experience. In some ways it's been very like working with homeless kids in the U.S.: same emotional outbursts, same desire for affection, same core loneliness. And frustratingly, same lack of expertise on the part of many caregivers. The caregivers at this home are wonderful, nurturing people, but like at home, childcare doesn't pay much, so you're not getting people with masters' degrees in child development. I've already posted on how they discourage volunteers from holding the babies because "they'll get spoiled," so now let's talk about education.
There are 4 school-aged kids at the home, but only two are in school; two are basically being home-schooled, minus the education part. The two who are in school are woefully behind. Ani is 7 and her brother Ctaum is 6, and one day when they got home from school Ani was supposed to practice writing the numbers 1-10 and their names on the chalkboard. She did that, although she's just copying from a chart because she can't read yet, and then she started making up nonsense words, stringing together letters and saying "What does that spell?" Then a new one: "What does this spell?" She was really enjoying herself, until one of the caregivers snapped, "Ani, you are not taking it seriously. If you're not going to copy your lessons, go in and take a nap."
If you have a modicum of child development knowledge, you know what she was doing is a critical preliteracy step. She is making the connection that these squiggles we call letters are each associated with a sound, and when you string these sounds together you get words, and words have meaning. And you learn to make nonsense words before you make real words. Frankly she should have been doing it at 4 or 5, but since she's finally doing it now, let's not shut it down.
In another instance, I was working with CarRlo, who is 7 and has only been at the home a month or so. "He doesn't know anything, he hasn't been to school," one of the caregivers said in his hearing. "He doesn't even know his numbers." Well, true enough, CarRlo can't write every number. But if you put a pile of crayons in front of him, he can count them all. If you take some away, he understands that you have less. If you add some, he understands that you have more. He has the basics of numeracy and he's actually pretty sharp; he just can't yet associate the amount with the number that stands for it.
It is frustrating to watch this and know these caregivers, so well-meaning and so loving, just aren't equipped to help these kids the way they need. And as a visitor and a white person, I can't jump in and say "No, what she's doing is an essential part of learning" or "Actually, he knows quite a lot." I say it to the kids quietly when I get a chance, and I tell the caregivers in private about what I've observed and what might be done to help them. But they're not well-educated themselves and they don't know how to assist kids who have so many gaps--kids who remind me so much of their Star of Hope counterparts.
It has made me really, really glad that Phenias is at KIPP, and really, really despairing that there are just not enough KIPPs for every kid in the world who needs one.
Working with the kids has been an interesting experience. In some ways it's been very like working with homeless kids in the U.S.: same emotional outbursts, same desire for affection, same core loneliness. And frustratingly, same lack of expertise on the part of many caregivers. The caregivers at this home are wonderful, nurturing people, but like at home, childcare doesn't pay much, so you're not getting people with masters' degrees in child development. I've already posted on how they discourage volunteers from holding the babies because "they'll get spoiled," so now let's talk about education.
There are 4 school-aged kids at the home, but only two are in school; two are basically being home-schooled, minus the education part. The two who are in school are woefully behind. Ani is 7 and her brother Ctaum is 6, and one day when they got home from school Ani was supposed to practice writing the numbers 1-10 and their names on the chalkboard. She did that, although she's just copying from a chart because she can't read yet, and then she started making up nonsense words, stringing together letters and saying "What does that spell?" Then a new one: "What does this spell?" She was really enjoying herself, until one of the caregivers snapped, "Ani, you are not taking it seriously. If you're not going to copy your lessons, go in and take a nap."
If you have a modicum of child development knowledge, you know what she was doing is a critical preliteracy step. She is making the connection that these squiggles we call letters are each associated with a sound, and when you string these sounds together you get words, and words have meaning. And you learn to make nonsense words before you make real words. Frankly she should have been doing it at 4 or 5, but since she's finally doing it now, let's not shut it down.
In another instance, I was working with CarRlo, who is 7 and has only been at the home a month or so. "He doesn't know anything, he hasn't been to school," one of the caregivers said in his hearing. "He doesn't even know his numbers." Well, true enough, CarRlo can't write every number. But if you put a pile of crayons in front of him, he can count them all. If you take some away, he understands that you have less. If you add some, he understands that you have more. He has the basics of numeracy and he's actually pretty sharp; he just can't yet associate the amount with the number that stands for it.
It is frustrating to watch this and know these caregivers, so well-meaning and so loving, just aren't equipped to help these kids the way they need. And as a visitor and a white person, I can't jump in and say "No, what she's doing is an essential part of learning" or "Actually, he knows quite a lot." I say it to the kids quietly when I get a chance, and I tell the caregivers in private about what I've observed and what might be done to help them. But they're not well-educated themselves and they don't know how to assist kids who have so many gaps--kids who remind me so much of their Star of Hope counterparts.
It has made me really, really glad that Phenias is at KIPP, and really, really despairing that there are just not enough KIPPs for every kid in the world who needs one.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Apartheid
I went to the Apartheid Museum the other day, which is a really good way to recognize the absurdity of racialized laws, and also a good way to make you feel that your own country has its crap to deal with, but hey, you're not South Africa, and that's gotta count for something.
Honestly, a lot of the stuff at the museum just brings home how awful American segregation was because there are so many parallels, and somehow you can get so outraged at other people's flaws and forget your own. That way lies madness, friends. And self-righteousness, which is the same thing. So I'd be in the museum going "They separated out the black children and gave them inferior educations--that's AWFUL! Oh, yeah, we did that too." "Look at how they didn't allow people of color to choose where they lived and they paid them less...wait, never mind."
But the craziest part was that when they assigned race to people after the apartheid era began in 1948, and you had to carry a pass book that said your race and where you were allowed to live and work, etc., so much of it was arbitrary that people could, and did, successfully appeal. "I'm not colored, I'm white" and then they'd win. By the way, the prize is getting to be human.
So speaking of colored, that was one of the three main castes under apartheid: white, colored, and Bantu , or black. Colored was the in-between caste: people of mixes origins. While they had nominally greater rights than blacks, they still suffered discrimination, relocation and most of the other ills of apartheid, and were a significant part of the liberation struggle. I've heard it suggested several times that the colored are the people who have suffered the most psychologically, although perhaps not materially. Under apartheid, they were too black to be white, and now that the ANC is running things, they are too white to be black. It's like having a whole social class of mixed-race kids, and they never know where they belong.
Father Terry--you will remember him, children, as the priest who *didn't* arrange for me to meet Desmond Tutu--is colored. He married a white woman when that was still illegal. I believe in order for it to be OK--and this is where we truly see the absurdity of the race laws--she had to voluntarily give up whiteness and become colored. Incidentally, can you even imagine what a weapon that could be in a marital spat? "I gave up being white for you and you can't even walk the damn dogs?" Wow.
I went with him yesterday to drop off some donations to a parish in Khayelitsha, a township outside Cape Town. He was talking about the parish priest, who is black, and the great work he is doing, and then added "He's a great chap, but he's said that colored people have no culture, so I really want to kick his arse." Now, aside from the fact that people saying "arse" is always funny, and that he said it somewhat in jest, there was an undercurrent of hurt there as well. The apartheid government did a really good job of pitting tribe against tribe and black against colored, and they are still reaping the whirlwind.
This country is beautiful and wretched, with such big problems and such vast potential. Like all of us, I suppose.
Honestly, a lot of the stuff at the museum just brings home how awful American segregation was because there are so many parallels, and somehow you can get so outraged at other people's flaws and forget your own. That way lies madness, friends. And self-righteousness, which is the same thing. So I'd be in the museum going "They separated out the black children and gave them inferior educations--that's AWFUL! Oh, yeah, we did that too." "Look at how they didn't allow people of color to choose where they lived and they paid them less...wait, never mind."
But the craziest part was that when they assigned race to people after the apartheid era began in 1948, and you had to carry a pass book that said your race and where you were allowed to live and work, etc., so much of it was arbitrary that people could, and did, successfully appeal. "I'm not colored, I'm white" and then they'd win. By the way, the prize is getting to be human.
So speaking of colored, that was one of the three main castes under apartheid: white, colored, and Bantu , or black. Colored was the in-between caste: people of mixes origins. While they had nominally greater rights than blacks, they still suffered discrimination, relocation and most of the other ills of apartheid, and were a significant part of the liberation struggle. I've heard it suggested several times that the colored are the people who have suffered the most psychologically, although perhaps not materially. Under apartheid, they were too black to be white, and now that the ANC is running things, they are too white to be black. It's like having a whole social class of mixed-race kids, and they never know where they belong.
Father Terry--you will remember him, children, as the priest who *didn't* arrange for me to meet Desmond Tutu--is colored. He married a white woman when that was still illegal. I believe in order for it to be OK--and this is where we truly see the absurdity of the race laws--she had to voluntarily give up whiteness and become colored. Incidentally, can you even imagine what a weapon that could be in a marital spat? "I gave up being white for you and you can't even walk the damn dogs?" Wow.
I went with him yesterday to drop off some donations to a parish in Khayelitsha, a township outside Cape Town. He was talking about the parish priest, who is black, and the great work he is doing, and then added "He's a great chap, but he's said that colored people have no culture, so I really want to kick his arse." Now, aside from the fact that people saying "arse" is always funny, and that he said it somewhat in jest, there was an undercurrent of hurt there as well. The apartheid government did a really good job of pitting tribe against tribe and black against colored, and they are still reaping the whirlwind.
This country is beautiful and wretched, with such big problems and such vast potential. Like all of us, I suppose.
Hitching a Ride in Soweto
So you immediately know Johannesburg, consistently rated one of the most dangerous cities in the world, is an entity unto itself when you get to the airport. There, amidst the food stalls and tourist kitsch, is a place where you can drop off your gun--because so many city residents are armed. Presumably you can pick it back up on your return to Joberg. That's some municipal service, I tell ya.
I stayed at one of the only, if not *the* only, backpacker hostel in Soweto. It's really just a house, run by this really enterprising young guy named Lebo, who turned his parents' old house into a hostel, and it's great for getting a feel for the area instead of just trundling around on the day tour.
I had another unfortunate run-in with my sense of direction. I walked to the Hector Peterson museum, which is about 10 minutes from Lebo's. Now since Soweto streets are not often marked, and in fact do not always exist, the directions went something like "So cross this vacant lot, and then there's this footpath--well, not really a footpath, it's like a dirt mound, and you'll walk by that and climb the hill and cross the train tracks." The only way I found the place is that it's housed in an old church, so I could follow the steeple. The museum commemorates the student uprisings that started in 1976 over the introduction of Afrikaans as a language of instruction for black children, and ended up giving the liberation movement its second wind when so many of the leaders were in exile or prison. So I went to that, and then to Mandela's house, and Tutu's house, and I buy some stuff at the craft market and now it's getting on toward dusk, so it's time to head back to Lebo's. Except here's the thing. Vacant lots all kind of look the same, and there are lots of places to cross the railroad tracks. So I am wandering all over Soweto. And people are incredibly kind--they stop to ask if I am lost, and if I need a lift, and I'm all brave and confident like they say you should be, saying, "No, no, I'm fine, thanks." And then I notice that this particular vacant lot has children foraging for scrap metal, which Lebo's does not, so I've hit a slummier area. Another car stops and a man and his wife say, "Are you lost?" Yes, I say, but I'm sure I'll find it. "Are you safe?" they ask. Well, you probably know better than I do, I think, but I nod enthusiastically. They offer a lift, I decline, they drive off. I head back towards the museum.
One of the craft sellers at the museum recognizes me, and asks again if I am lost. Yup, I am, I say, and since I can't remember the name of Lebo's street, which probably doesn't *have* a name, I'm just going to sit there until Lebo comes looking for me. So this guy says, My brother and I will give you a ride. You bought something from me, we are friends now, is no problem. And for a minute I think, there's a chance I could end up in pieces in one of the countless vacant lots in Soweto. But you gotta take chances. So I let him drive me home--which he actually did, because sometimes people are lovely.
One of my favorite sites in Soweto: children flying kites they have made out of sticks and plastic trash bags. Aren't we marvelous creatures?
I stayed at one of the only, if not *the* only, backpacker hostel in Soweto. It's really just a house, run by this really enterprising young guy named Lebo, who turned his parents' old house into a hostel, and it's great for getting a feel for the area instead of just trundling around on the day tour.
I had another unfortunate run-in with my sense of direction. I walked to the Hector Peterson museum, which is about 10 minutes from Lebo's. Now since Soweto streets are not often marked, and in fact do not always exist, the directions went something like "So cross this vacant lot, and then there's this footpath--well, not really a footpath, it's like a dirt mound, and you'll walk by that and climb the hill and cross the train tracks." The only way I found the place is that it's housed in an old church, so I could follow the steeple. The museum commemorates the student uprisings that started in 1976 over the introduction of Afrikaans as a language of instruction for black children, and ended up giving the liberation movement its second wind when so many of the leaders were in exile or prison. So I went to that, and then to Mandela's house, and Tutu's house, and I buy some stuff at the craft market and now it's getting on toward dusk, so it's time to head back to Lebo's. Except here's the thing. Vacant lots all kind of look the same, and there are lots of places to cross the railroad tracks. So I am wandering all over Soweto. And people are incredibly kind--they stop to ask if I am lost, and if I need a lift, and I'm all brave and confident like they say you should be, saying, "No, no, I'm fine, thanks." And then I notice that this particular vacant lot has children foraging for scrap metal, which Lebo's does not, so I've hit a slummier area. Another car stops and a man and his wife say, "Are you lost?" Yes, I say, but I'm sure I'll find it. "Are you safe?" they ask. Well, you probably know better than I do, I think, but I nod enthusiastically. They offer a lift, I decline, they drive off. I head back towards the museum.
One of the craft sellers at the museum recognizes me, and asks again if I am lost. Yup, I am, I say, and since I can't remember the name of Lebo's street, which probably doesn't *have* a name, I'm just going to sit there until Lebo comes looking for me. So this guy says, My brother and I will give you a ride. You bought something from me, we are friends now, is no problem. And for a minute I think, there's a chance I could end up in pieces in one of the countless vacant lots in Soweto. But you gotta take chances. So I let him drive me home--which he actually did, because sometimes people are lovely.
One of my favorite sites in Soweto: children flying kites they have made out of sticks and plastic trash bags. Aren't we marvelous creatures?
Monday, June 11, 2007
Soweto!
So the blog silence has been because I have spent the last four days in Soweto! Soweto, site of the student uprisings of the 1970's and '80s that gave the liberation movement its second wind when most of its leaders had been jailed or exiled; Soweto, synonymous with resistance and struggle; Soweto, slum of the world.
No, no, kidding on that last part. But Soweto is fascinating in its contradictions. Some parts look like fairly well-kept lower middle class neighborhoods: brick houses, cars in the driveways, well-tended lawns, kids playing in the street. Many of the houses were built around World War II when the residents had to rent them from the government--blacks weren't allowed to own property--but they've now become homeowners, and it's a sign of prosperity to have made renovations to your house, like replastering it or replacing the tin roof. Then a block away will be vacant fields where kids scavenge for scrap metal to sell, and at night the sky gets heavy and hazy with smoke as people start their fires because there's no electricity.
There are many things to say about Soweto, and I will touch on some of them in future posts. But here's one that stands out:
I ate kota, also known as bunnychow. Yeah, exactly. It's designed to be heavy, substantial food for very little money--5 rand, or about eighty cents. For that you get about half a loaf of bread filled with mashed potatoes, unidentified meats, chicken feet--the FEET, people, not a drumstick, not attached to a leg, just the feet, complete with little chicken toes and little chicken toenails--and some vegetable stew, all crowned by a piece of American cheese and a slab of bologna. When I ordered it at one of the little roadside stands where it's sold, the lady thought I was mistaken because white people never eat it. She kept trying to redirect me to the sandwiches. But I had been told that my Soweto experience would not be complete without eating kota, so I ate it. I ate it all. I even ate what little meat I could find on the creepy little chicken feet. And here is my conclusion:
Black people are not nearly angry enough.
We all know that in the U.S. we did the same thing: during slavery, whites gave whatever was left over of the animal to blacks. And I have always focused on the creativity and ingenuity of American blacks in taking that meat and making delicacies out of it. But having now eaten some of these inferior cuts of meat, which here was called "boysmeat" (i.e. the meat you would feed to your house boy) I say again: you should be much, much angrier than you are. Really, it should be a rallying point. And while people have done a great job of making it palatable, even tasty, I mean there's no lack of effort here, you can just tell it's not good meat. Taco Bell would reject this meat, is what I am saying. And by the way, you can pile anything you want on top of tripe and it in no way diminishes or disguises the fact that it's sheep intestines. The tough chewiness gives it away every time. Yeah, I've eaten that too.
No, no, kidding on that last part. But Soweto is fascinating in its contradictions. Some parts look like fairly well-kept lower middle class neighborhoods: brick houses, cars in the driveways, well-tended lawns, kids playing in the street. Many of the houses were built around World War II when the residents had to rent them from the government--blacks weren't allowed to own property--but they've now become homeowners, and it's a sign of prosperity to have made renovations to your house, like replastering it or replacing the tin roof. Then a block away will be vacant fields where kids scavenge for scrap metal to sell, and at night the sky gets heavy and hazy with smoke as people start their fires because there's no electricity.
There are many things to say about Soweto, and I will touch on some of them in future posts. But here's one that stands out:
I ate kota, also known as bunnychow. Yeah, exactly. It's designed to be heavy, substantial food for very little money--5 rand, or about eighty cents. For that you get about half a loaf of bread filled with mashed potatoes, unidentified meats, chicken feet--the FEET, people, not a drumstick, not attached to a leg, just the feet, complete with little chicken toes and little chicken toenails--and some vegetable stew, all crowned by a piece of American cheese and a slab of bologna. When I ordered it at one of the little roadside stands where it's sold, the lady thought I was mistaken because white people never eat it. She kept trying to redirect me to the sandwiches. But I had been told that my Soweto experience would not be complete without eating kota, so I ate it. I ate it all. I even ate what little meat I could find on the creepy little chicken feet. And here is my conclusion:
Black people are not nearly angry enough.
We all know that in the U.S. we did the same thing: during slavery, whites gave whatever was left over of the animal to blacks. And I have always focused on the creativity and ingenuity of American blacks in taking that meat and making delicacies out of it. But having now eaten some of these inferior cuts of meat, which here was called "boysmeat" (i.e. the meat you would feed to your house boy) I say again: you should be much, much angrier than you are. Really, it should be a rallying point. And while people have done a great job of making it palatable, even tasty, I mean there's no lack of effort here, you can just tell it's not good meat. Taco Bell would reject this meat, is what I am saying. And by the way, you can pile anything you want on top of tripe and it in no way diminishes or disguises the fact that it's sheep intestines. The tough chewiness gives it away every time. Yeah, I've eaten that too.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Off to Jo'berg
I am heading to Johannesburg tonight for a few days, and am staying in Soweto. Will post more from there.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Ships Passing in the Night
So apparently I've barely missed several chances to meet Archbishop Tutu. My mojo for meeting famous people is waning. I'm entirely blaming this on Father Terry, though, who has been hanging out with him all week. They saw "Amazing Grace" together, they were at a funeral, and Tutu officiated at Friday morning mass, which is, I don't know, THREE MINUTES from where I stay and I would totally have gone, had I known. But did Father Terry mention it? No, he did not.
So when I took him to task for this, pointing out that it was a long-held dream to meet the archbishop and he might have given me a heads-up, he said, "I had no idea! You should have told me!"
Now on the one hand, I like that Tutu is apparently just one of his boys and he forgets that he is, you know, a towering moral figure and Nobel Prize winner. However, when you're talking regularly with a pilgrim who has come 12,000 miles because of her fascination with the South African freedom movement, you would think it would occur to you to let her know when her hero is around.
"But you should have said something!" he insisted. Look, Father Terry, says I, I didn't say anything because I thought it was a pipe dream. It would be like if you came to America and told me you wanted to meet President Clinton; I probably can't arrange that for you. If, perchance, I am having lunch with Bill, I would probably tell you where to be and when. If you came as a student of the civil rights movement and I was having coffee with John Lewis and Andy Young, I don't think you would specifically have to tell me you'd like to meet them for me to know that would probably be a big deal to you. I'm just saying.
So I said look, since you favor explicit requests, if you're having a friendly game of cards or a round of drinks with Mandela, I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO MEET HIM. Geez.
So bummed. I was this close to receiving communion from Archbishop Tutu. I would have talked about that for the rest of my life. For that reason alone, you can probably all be grateful that I missed it.
So when I took him to task for this, pointing out that it was a long-held dream to meet the archbishop and he might have given me a heads-up, he said, "I had no idea! You should have told me!"
Now on the one hand, I like that Tutu is apparently just one of his boys and he forgets that he is, you know, a towering moral figure and Nobel Prize winner. However, when you're talking regularly with a pilgrim who has come 12,000 miles because of her fascination with the South African freedom movement, you would think it would occur to you to let her know when her hero is around.
"But you should have said something!" he insisted. Look, Father Terry, says I, I didn't say anything because I thought it was a pipe dream. It would be like if you came to America and told me you wanted to meet President Clinton; I probably can't arrange that for you. If, perchance, I am having lunch with Bill, I would probably tell you where to be and when. If you came as a student of the civil rights movement and I was having coffee with John Lewis and Andy Young, I don't think you would specifically have to tell me you'd like to meet them for me to know that would probably be a big deal to you. I'm just saying.
So I said look, since you favor explicit requests, if you're having a friendly game of cards or a round of drinks with Mandela, I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO MEET HIM. Geez.
So bummed. I was this close to receiving communion from Archbishop Tutu. I would have talked about that for the rest of my life. For that reason alone, you can probably all be grateful that I missed it.
Touring
So I've been quite touristy lately--went down to the Cape of Good Hope the other day, where Vasco de Gama sailed around Africa to complete the trade route to the East. Bartolome Dias had tried before and failed, naming it the Cape of Storms. When de Gama made it around, it was rechristened. All those fifth-grade lessons on the conquistadors really do come back to you.
The Cape of Good Hope was long believed to be the southernmost tip of Africa. Actually, Cape Argullus a few miles away is, but it's not nearly as good a name or story as Cape of Good Hope, so we'll keep believing the myth. So I have stood at the end of the world. You know how when you're younger you make lists of "Things to Do by the Time I'm 30" because you'll be so old and decrepit by 30 you won't be able to accomplish anything significant after that? Standing at the end of the world was on mine. Check that one off the list. And it was just as cool as I had imagined it would be. Some of the dreams you had at 16 you look back on later and think, "Why on earth did I ever think I wanted to do THAT?!" But sometimes it's just as satisfying as your 16-year-old self had hoped.
I went on a day-long safari on Saturday at a game reserve about two hours outside of Cape Town. It's so strange to see animals just wandering around like they belong there. Giraffes, lions, cheetahs, ostriches, antelope, rhinos, zebras, wildebeest, it was like the road show of The Lion King. What's disconcerting is that it doesn't feel like Africa--it feels like being in a movie of Africa. You half expect Meryl Streep and her Afrikaaner accent to pop up. You drive past a herd of zebra and say, "Wow, it's just like 'Out of Africa,' except not so long and boring!" I guess that's because Africa has taken on such a mythical quality for us that even when you're here, it feels a bit like living in a myth.
There were several Americans on this tour. Let's start with the bearable one--and yes, that was singular. The guy next to me was a very interesting man, in town for the World Association of Newspapers convention. "Oh, which newspaper do you work for?" I ask. The New York Times, he replies, and explains he is not a journalist, he is on the business side. "So you were part of the Times going digital?" I ask. He confirms. So I did what any of us would do: I launched into a tirade about Times Select. I'm like look, you're basically making me pay for Kristof and Friedman and occasionally Dowd. Who the hell reads Krugman? Or Rich? And I can't even remember the others. It's only after he takes me to dinner and gives me his card to keep in touch that I find out he is the PRESIDENT of the news division. I harangued the president of the news division of the New York Times about the $8 a month the Times online costs me.
People, I think we all know there's a change a-comin'. I think he heard me, and through me, the will of the people.
This brings me to the other tourists, who are the reason the world hates Americans. We really are dreadful in groups. I won't dwell on the woman in the "It's good to bee Grandma" shirt festooned with bees, or the chain-smoker, or the couple who talked loudly about how they couldn't figure out their camera while everyone else was trying to listen to the tour guide. No, I think I'll just leave you with this exchange:
Loud American Tourist: The Africans, how many of them have AIDS now?
Me: Well, it varies by country. South Africa and Botswana have the highest rates at around 25%.
LAT: Yeah, and just think about who's fixing our meals.
Wow. I mean, wow. I thought we were past all that. Does she know you can't get it from toilet seats either?
NY Times guy said later that my face was priceless, so Kim, you'll be glad to know I haven't lost my inability to keep my thoughts from appearing on my face.
The Cape of Good Hope was long believed to be the southernmost tip of Africa. Actually, Cape Argullus a few miles away is, but it's not nearly as good a name or story as Cape of Good Hope, so we'll keep believing the myth. So I have stood at the end of the world. You know how when you're younger you make lists of "Things to Do by the Time I'm 30" because you'll be so old and decrepit by 30 you won't be able to accomplish anything significant after that? Standing at the end of the world was on mine. Check that one off the list. And it was just as cool as I had imagined it would be. Some of the dreams you had at 16 you look back on later and think, "Why on earth did I ever think I wanted to do THAT?!" But sometimes it's just as satisfying as your 16-year-old self had hoped.
I went on a day-long safari on Saturday at a game reserve about two hours outside of Cape Town. It's so strange to see animals just wandering around like they belong there. Giraffes, lions, cheetahs, ostriches, antelope, rhinos, zebras, wildebeest, it was like the road show of The Lion King. What's disconcerting is that it doesn't feel like Africa--it feels like being in a movie of Africa. You half expect Meryl Streep and her Afrikaaner accent to pop up. You drive past a herd of zebra and say, "Wow, it's just like 'Out of Africa,' except not so long and boring!" I guess that's because Africa has taken on such a mythical quality for us that even when you're here, it feels a bit like living in a myth.
There were several Americans on this tour. Let's start with the bearable one--and yes, that was singular. The guy next to me was a very interesting man, in town for the World Association of Newspapers convention. "Oh, which newspaper do you work for?" I ask. The New York Times, he replies, and explains he is not a journalist, he is on the business side. "So you were part of the Times going digital?" I ask. He confirms. So I did what any of us would do: I launched into a tirade about Times Select. I'm like look, you're basically making me pay for Kristof and Friedman and occasionally Dowd. Who the hell reads Krugman? Or Rich? And I can't even remember the others. It's only after he takes me to dinner and gives me his card to keep in touch that I find out he is the PRESIDENT of the news division. I harangued the president of the news division of the New York Times about the $8 a month the Times online costs me.
People, I think we all know there's a change a-comin'. I think he heard me, and through me, the will of the people.
This brings me to the other tourists, who are the reason the world hates Americans. We really are dreadful in groups. I won't dwell on the woman in the "It's good to bee Grandma" shirt festooned with bees, or the chain-smoker, or the couple who talked loudly about how they couldn't figure out their camera while everyone else was trying to listen to the tour guide. No, I think I'll just leave you with this exchange:
Loud American Tourist: The Africans, how many of them have AIDS now?
Me: Well, it varies by country. South Africa and Botswana have the highest rates at around 25%.
LAT: Yeah, and just think about who's fixing our meals.
Wow. I mean, wow. I thought we were past all that. Does she know you can't get it from toilet seats either?
NY Times guy said later that my face was priceless, so Kim, you'll be glad to know I haven't lost my inability to keep my thoughts from appearing on my face.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Less Than Two Weeks Left
For the last several days, I've been debating whether to head for another country. Maybe to Namibia to see the sand dunes, or over to Zimbabwe to raft Victoria Falls and then come back through Botswana.
Confession: I am a passport stamp junkie.
In fact, I'm disappointed that they no longer put those colorful exotic stamps on your passport. I want as many as I can get.
And realizing that has made me realize something else. We all have status symbols we revere. For some, it's Gucci shoes or a Prada handbag. For others, the opposite--a certain simplicity of wardrobe that suggests the wearer is too absorbed with the grand and lofty things of life to be bothered by something so frivolous as fashion. For me, it's the passport. A well-worn passport suggests sophistication, worldliness, a certain cultural hipness, a propensity for risk-taking.
This is as unfounded and trivial a way to judge someone as judging them by their handbag would be. Well-worn passports also suggest great privilege, both the time and money to travel the world in a way most people will only ever see in books.
It is easy to condemn other people's status symbols, but hard to own up to your own. On safari yesterday, I met a very interesting guy whom I later had dinner with. He's originally Chilean, educated in the States, and is the president of the news division of the New York Times. I like to think that I would be friends with him no matter what his station in life were, but I have to admit that I mentally checked off all the status symbols he hit (international background: check, Choate for prep school: check, Ivy League undergraduate and graduate degrees: check, well-traveled: check, and double points for the Times affiliation). And having checked them off, thought, "I could be friends with this guy." I'm not proud of that.
I didn't come to Africa to raft the Zambezi or hear Namibia's roaring dunes. I came because I think this country is at an extraordinary crossroads as it decides that kind of nation it will be and reckons with its legacy of injustice and oppression. I came to see what the church is doing. I came for the people--people who are doing everything from tentatively starting dialogues to those who are in the trenches of land reform and AIDS.
I want to go to Johannesburg and see the apartheid museum and the site of the Soweto uprising. I want to stand in the place where the Truth and Reconciliation hearings were held. I do want to see Namibia's sand dunes and Victoria Falls, and I will come back to see them. But not this time. For now, I stay in South Africa.
Confession: I am a passport stamp junkie.
In fact, I'm disappointed that they no longer put those colorful exotic stamps on your passport. I want as many as I can get.
And realizing that has made me realize something else. We all have status symbols we revere. For some, it's Gucci shoes or a Prada handbag. For others, the opposite--a certain simplicity of wardrobe that suggests the wearer is too absorbed with the grand and lofty things of life to be bothered by something so frivolous as fashion. For me, it's the passport. A well-worn passport suggests sophistication, worldliness, a certain cultural hipness, a propensity for risk-taking.
This is as unfounded and trivial a way to judge someone as judging them by their handbag would be. Well-worn passports also suggest great privilege, both the time and money to travel the world in a way most people will only ever see in books.
It is easy to condemn other people's status symbols, but hard to own up to your own. On safari yesterday, I met a very interesting guy whom I later had dinner with. He's originally Chilean, educated in the States, and is the president of the news division of the New York Times. I like to think that I would be friends with him no matter what his station in life were, but I have to admit that I mentally checked off all the status symbols he hit (international background: check, Choate for prep school: check, Ivy League undergraduate and graduate degrees: check, well-traveled: check, and double points for the Times affiliation). And having checked them off, thought, "I could be friends with this guy." I'm not proud of that.
I didn't come to Africa to raft the Zambezi or hear Namibia's roaring dunes. I came because I think this country is at an extraordinary crossroads as it decides that kind of nation it will be and reckons with its legacy of injustice and oppression. I came to see what the church is doing. I came for the people--people who are doing everything from tentatively starting dialogues to those who are in the trenches of land reform and AIDS.
I want to go to Johannesburg and see the apartheid museum and the site of the Soweto uprising. I want to stand in the place where the Truth and Reconciliation hearings were held. I do want to see Namibia's sand dunes and Victoria Falls, and I will come back to see them. But not this time. For now, I stay in South Africa.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Rite of Passage
For those of you worried that at 30, my marriage prospects are waning, fear no more. Emmanuel has stepped in the gap. Or something.
Emmanuel teaches African drumming with his friend at my hostel on Thursday evenings, and last night I took his class. By the way, when the other drummers are drunk British guys, it doesn't take much to be the standout of the group. Anyway, I go, because I am all about blending in with the local culture. (On the local culture note, someone said to me the other day, in tones of genuine consternation, "You really don't speak any Afrikaans?" I was like mmm, you do realize it's basically a Dutch patois used exclusively in this nation? I mean, it's not like I don't speak the lingua franca. Which, in fact, I do, because it's English.)
Anyway, back to Emmanuel. Turns out he is from Congo. I tell him about Phenias. He gets really enthusiastic about this and insists that I tell him more, because the Muhimbaras might be long-lost family. Seems unlikely to me, but what do I know. Then he asks if I have children with Phenias. No, I say, I would be in jail were that the case, and explain again, painstakingly, that Phen is 11. He watches wrestling and wears my pajamas when it is cold. He is my heart, but he is not a marriage prospect.
This apparently opens the door for Emmanuel, though at this point I am unsuspecting. He tells me he wants to know more about his potentially long-lost relatives and asks if I'll go for a beer with him on Long Street, which is basically Cape Town's Bourbon Street and is a block or two from the hostel. What the hell, it's Africa, take a chance, I reason. Besides, I'm carrying Mace in case it goes left on me.
We end up at a place called Dubliners--because when you're in South Africa, you should totally hang out at an Irish pub. Better yet, an Irish pub with a one-man band covering '80s hits. This is when Emmanuel decides to profess his undying love for me. I must stay in Africa, he implores. We will get married and MOVE BACK TO CONGO and help rebuild it! Congo needs young, bright people who are tired of the fighting to rebuild it, he says enthusiastically. I agree, but I don't think I should help rebuild it by living in a failed state rapidly approaching the Hobbesian existence in which life is "nasty, brutish and short." I think I should rebuild it by sending money to aid agencies and conscientiously reading the foreign coverage in the New York Times.
So he is pressing his suit, and I am giving brush-off answers and trying to make it clear that I am far more interested in the soccer match on TV between Japan and Germany, which I am regarding as a referendum on the respective success of the Axis powers. (Japan won narrowly, 2-1, which seems about right. But it was Germany's B side. When Germany brings its A-game, everyone else can just leave the field. I am just using soccer as a metaphor here, people.) All this against the backdrop of the one man band playing Billy Joel songs and "I Shot the Sheriff," while donning a Rasta wig and hat. I am drinking my beer as quickly as possible--and you guys know how I feel about beer, I'd as soon drink cold pee--and of course because it's an Irish pub, the drinks are twice as large as anywhere else. Damn alcoholic Irishmen. I then insist I have to get back to the hostel because I have a mythical early morning appointment. We part only when I assure him I will come to hear him play at Zula's on Monday night. I don't know where I'll be on Monday night, but I know where I won't be--Zula's.
I'm kind of annoyed too, because I really just wanted to talk about the Congo with him. Really I just wanted to talk about Phen. Do you hear that, Cheeky Monkey? I talk about you to everyone! You're a legend here!
Emmanuel teaches African drumming with his friend at my hostel on Thursday evenings, and last night I took his class. By the way, when the other drummers are drunk British guys, it doesn't take much to be the standout of the group. Anyway, I go, because I am all about blending in with the local culture. (On the local culture note, someone said to me the other day, in tones of genuine consternation, "You really don't speak any Afrikaans?" I was like mmm, you do realize it's basically a Dutch patois used exclusively in this nation? I mean, it's not like I don't speak the lingua franca. Which, in fact, I do, because it's English.)
Anyway, back to Emmanuel. Turns out he is from Congo. I tell him about Phenias. He gets really enthusiastic about this and insists that I tell him more, because the Muhimbaras might be long-lost family. Seems unlikely to me, but what do I know. Then he asks if I have children with Phenias. No, I say, I would be in jail were that the case, and explain again, painstakingly, that Phen is 11. He watches wrestling and wears my pajamas when it is cold. He is my heart, but he is not a marriage prospect.
This apparently opens the door for Emmanuel, though at this point I am unsuspecting. He tells me he wants to know more about his potentially long-lost relatives and asks if I'll go for a beer with him on Long Street, which is basically Cape Town's Bourbon Street and is a block or two from the hostel. What the hell, it's Africa, take a chance, I reason. Besides, I'm carrying Mace in case it goes left on me.
We end up at a place called Dubliners--because when you're in South Africa, you should totally hang out at an Irish pub. Better yet, an Irish pub with a one-man band covering '80s hits. This is when Emmanuel decides to profess his undying love for me. I must stay in Africa, he implores. We will get married and MOVE BACK TO CONGO and help rebuild it! Congo needs young, bright people who are tired of the fighting to rebuild it, he says enthusiastically. I agree, but I don't think I should help rebuild it by living in a failed state rapidly approaching the Hobbesian existence in which life is "nasty, brutish and short." I think I should rebuild it by sending money to aid agencies and conscientiously reading the foreign coverage in the New York Times.
So he is pressing his suit, and I am giving brush-off answers and trying to make it clear that I am far more interested in the soccer match on TV between Japan and Germany, which I am regarding as a referendum on the respective success of the Axis powers. (Japan won narrowly, 2-1, which seems about right. But it was Germany's B side. When Germany brings its A-game, everyone else can just leave the field. I am just using soccer as a metaphor here, people.) All this against the backdrop of the one man band playing Billy Joel songs and "I Shot the Sheriff," while donning a Rasta wig and hat. I am drinking my beer as quickly as possible--and you guys know how I feel about beer, I'd as soon drink cold pee--and of course because it's an Irish pub, the drinks are twice as large as anywhere else. Damn alcoholic Irishmen. I then insist I have to get back to the hostel because I have a mythical early morning appointment. We part only when I assure him I will come to hear him play at Zula's on Monday night. I don't know where I'll be on Monday night, but I know where I won't be--Zula's.
I'm kind of annoyed too, because I really just wanted to talk about the Congo with him. Really I just wanted to talk about Phen. Do you hear that, Cheeky Monkey? I talk about you to everyone! You're a legend here!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
