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?
Monday, June 18, 2007
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!
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