Africa 2011
Jobless once again, we ventured to southern Africa to conduct research for Nicole's Master's thesis.
She wrote 77 pages outlining a path toward nonviolent, democratic change in Zimbabwe.
I wrote this - a rambling collection of visions and vignettes inspired by our time in the cradle.
She wrote 77 pages outlining a path toward nonviolent, democratic change in Zimbabwe.
I wrote this - a rambling collection of visions and vignettes inspired by our time in the cradle.
14 August 2011
In two days, Africa.
Here we are, my peace-building wife and I, comfortably drinking Modelo at home in Brooklyn. Cleaning house. Getting ready to fly 20 hours to South Africa, spend two days in JoBurg, bus 16 hours to Zimbabwe for four days, spend another 16 hours on a bus back, then fly to Cape Town to unwind. Master's thesis interviews, African sunsets, legit chow, fresh air, new friends and old, writing, and two weeks of challenge after challenge – gonna be a game-changer. I'll keep you posted.
In two days, Africa.
Here we are, my peace-building wife and I, comfortably drinking Modelo at home in Brooklyn. Cleaning house. Getting ready to fly 20 hours to South Africa, spend two days in JoBurg, bus 16 hours to Zimbabwe for four days, spend another 16 hours on a bus back, then fly to Cape Town to unwind. Master's thesis interviews, African sunsets, legit chow, fresh air, new friends and old, writing, and two weeks of challenge after challenge – gonna be a game-changer. I'll keep you posted.
18 August 2011
Johannesburg
After a series of delays and 15 hours on a plane, we’re in Johannesburg! Dinner last night was amazing! Eating pap, a doughy mash cake of corn, hand-dipped in African spiced oxtail, as well as yam pap with stewed whole catfish (guts and all - tasted like sucking crawfish heads!), along with two tall, cold Castle Lagers was a mighty start to Africa! Incredible! Jet-lagged and beat, we headed back to the hotel after, Nikki studied, and I smoked some pipe under the Southern Cross and a new sky of stars, the ancient smell of our continental cradle mingling with my tobacco.
Johannesburg
After a series of delays and 15 hours on a plane, we’re in Johannesburg! Dinner last night was amazing! Eating pap, a doughy mash cake of corn, hand-dipped in African spiced oxtail, as well as yam pap with stewed whole catfish (guts and all - tasted like sucking crawfish heads!), along with two tall, cold Castle Lagers was a mighty start to Africa! Incredible! Jet-lagged and beat, we headed back to the hotel after, Nikki studied, and I smoked some pipe under the Southern Cross and a new sky of stars, the ancient smell of our continental cradle mingling with my tobacco.
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Today, it’s winter. Yesterday was too, but as an Arizona native and swamp-assed Brooklynite, it’s fucking crazy to wear a sweatshirt in the middle of August! After a breakfast of minced meat with fried eggs on toast, we called our new friend and taxi driver Richard for a ride to the Apartheid Museum. Goddamn. White people are the scourge of the Earth. What the U.S. did to the American Indians the British and Afrikaners did to black South Africans a hundred-fold. Colonialism is a fucking disease from which man still hasn’t recovered. Look what happened here, Ireland, the Caribbean, Latin America, everywhere. It’s the reason the West’s so fucked. The root of the problem. I admire the hell out of this country for standing up and fighting, people of every race, sex and creed, for freedom. Wish we’d do the same in the U.S. Only there the apartheid’s economic. We’re all convinced we’re free because we have CNN, fast food, and sex on TV. Bread and circus, to quote Dr. Gonzo. But we still can’t live where we want, our schools and neighborhoods are segregated, our leaders are corporate puppets who represent the rich, and the failed, faceless machine of capitalism dictates our definition of “the pursuit of happiness.”
I digress. To my right-winged readers, please pardon me. To the rest, we’ll plot the revolution later. For now, I’m off to dinner with two great minds: my beautiful wife, and social activist, Dr. Dale T. McKinley.
I digress. To my right-winged readers, please pardon me. To the rest, we’ll plot the revolution later. For now, I’m off to dinner with two great minds: my beautiful wife, and social activist, Dr. Dale T. McKinley.
21 August 2011
Hip-hip Harare! We’re in Zimbabwe!
This was going to be a fairy tale, because getting here was anything but, only the reality is, Zimbabwe is one hell of a complicated place. Yes, we sat 16 hours on bus, stood 3 hours in immigration and customs, had to pay $30 for a visa, and were hustled out of $15 for a 4-block cab ride from the bus station, but it’s been more than worth it. After we arrived, we hunkered down in our hotel room with a bad taste in our mouths left by the racist cabbie who, as our bellman friend Daniel said, “charged the color” of our skin. We ate ramen made with our tea kettle and caught up on sleep - 3 hours first, then 12 more. When we woke, we were determined to take this place with our teeth and “make this city like us,” as Nikki said, later wisely adding, “Never judge a city by its transit hubs.”
Hip-hip Harare! We’re in Zimbabwe!
This was going to be a fairy tale, because getting here was anything but, only the reality is, Zimbabwe is one hell of a complicated place. Yes, we sat 16 hours on bus, stood 3 hours in immigration and customs, had to pay $30 for a visa, and were hustled out of $15 for a 4-block cab ride from the bus station, but it’s been more than worth it. After we arrived, we hunkered down in our hotel room with a bad taste in our mouths left by the racist cabbie who, as our bellman friend Daniel said, “charged the color” of our skin. We ate ramen made with our tea kettle and caught up on sleep - 3 hours first, then 12 more. When we woke, we were determined to take this place with our teeth and “make this city like us,” as Nikki said, later wisely adding, “Never judge a city by its transit hubs.”
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What we found downstairs was far from the land of milk and honey I was going to sarcastically paint in this entry, but beautiful nonetheless. At immigration, I first noted knee-high barb-wire protecting flowers around the public restrooms. That same barb-wire protects the grass on both sides of the path outside our hotel. To live in a place where this is the common space norm has got to have an effect upon one’s psyche… Not to mention the random guys on the side of the road with WWII-issue machine guns and rifles that resemble A Christmas Story, talking on cellphones and warming themselves beside fires at the 8+ unnecessary police checkpoints our bus was stopped at in the barren land between the border and Harare. Thankfully, we’ve only spotted one such armed guard in the city.
As for the rest of our drive in, the countryside was like the rest of our stay has been, simultaneously breath-taking and utterly depressing. Drooping, collapsed and cut power lines dotted the landscape with indigenous huts and shabby houses, donkey-drawn carriages and wild asses, goats and cattle everywhere, surrounded by ant hills, 3 and 4 feet tall. Men carving towering elephants on the side of the road, some of the finest woodwork I’ve ever seen, in the middle of rural Zimbabwe, cut off from everything - to sell to who? Or simply to fill their time with art and beauty? Trailers piled 15 feet high with furniture, refrigerators, fuel, and supplies of all kinds from South Africa. Ancient trees, wise and wide as more than a dozen men. And pigeons… Pigeons are everywhere! Where did they come from? No matter where we go, the Earth’s the same, but it’s not. People too.
Waiting to leave immigrations, road-weary and the sun rising, a blind man climbed onto our bus with a cane and a Coke can filled with change. He sang one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard in a language I didn’t recognize, shaking the can in time. As he passed us, I added two rand to his instrument. Then he did the most amazing thing, fading his voice into silence as he walked off the bus. His wife met him there, took him by the arm and helped him back to where their child was sitting. And I wept.
As for the rest of our drive in, the countryside was like the rest of our stay has been, simultaneously breath-taking and utterly depressing. Drooping, collapsed and cut power lines dotted the landscape with indigenous huts and shabby houses, donkey-drawn carriages and wild asses, goats and cattle everywhere, surrounded by ant hills, 3 and 4 feet tall. Men carving towering elephants on the side of the road, some of the finest woodwork I’ve ever seen, in the middle of rural Zimbabwe, cut off from everything - to sell to who? Or simply to fill their time with art and beauty? Trailers piled 15 feet high with furniture, refrigerators, fuel, and supplies of all kinds from South Africa. Ancient trees, wise and wide as more than a dozen men. And pigeons… Pigeons are everywhere! Where did they come from? No matter where we go, the Earth’s the same, but it’s not. People too.
Waiting to leave immigrations, road-weary and the sun rising, a blind man climbed onto our bus with a cane and a Coke can filled with change. He sang one of the most beautiful songs I’ve ever heard in a language I didn’t recognize, shaking the can in time. As he passed us, I added two rand to his instrument. Then he did the most amazing thing, fading his voice into silence as he walked off the bus. His wife met him there, took him by the arm and helped him back to where their child was sitting. And I wept.
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22 August 2011 (a.m.)
Harare
So yesterday we conquered our fear, went down and had an amazing day. We walked to Harare Gardens, an unkempt but gorgeous park, bought bananas and maputi (smoky popcorn of African maize) from a man with an amazing smile, ate them and soaked in the day. Then we walked to the embassy, and on our way to the President’s house, stopped at a grocery store, where we found delicious samosas, hot as hell chilis in oil, fresh, homemade roti bread, all kinds of African beers, and Two Keys Whisky from Scotland and South Africa, bottled in Harare. Funny thing is, it tastes and smells like tequila, the roti looks and tastes like handmade tortillas, we were called gringos walking into the grocery, and the front page of the paper reads, “Adios Cde Rex,” in honor of recently deceased Commander Mujuru. Thus, the analogy of Zimbabwe as South Africa’s Mexico to the north persists beyond immigration…
Harare
So yesterday we conquered our fear, went down and had an amazing day. We walked to Harare Gardens, an unkempt but gorgeous park, bought bananas and maputi (smoky popcorn of African maize) from a man with an amazing smile, ate them and soaked in the day. Then we walked to the embassy, and on our way to the President’s house, stopped at a grocery store, where we found delicious samosas, hot as hell chilis in oil, fresh, homemade roti bread, all kinds of African beers, and Two Keys Whisky from Scotland and South Africa, bottled in Harare. Funny thing is, it tastes and smells like tequila, the roti looks and tastes like handmade tortillas, we were called gringos walking into the grocery, and the front page of the paper reads, “Adios Cde Rex,” in honor of recently deceased Commander Mujuru. Thus, the analogy of Zimbabwe as South Africa’s Mexico to the north persists beyond immigration…
22 August 2011 (p.m.)
Zimbabwe has a way…
In light of and despite its challenges, it’s gonna be hard to leave Zimbabwe. First off, Mugabe’s house isn’t a house, it’s a fortified compound surrounded by 20ft-high walls topped with razor wire, armed guards on every corner, and no visible sign of living quarters. The only way in is on the back of a scud missile. Secondly, his institutionalized racism only seems to have brainwashed a small portion of the country, as most the Zimbabweans we’ve met are lovely people. Thirdly, he’s a glaring fucking hypocrite who tied his country to the US dollar and feeds his people an endless stream of American love songs. I haven’t heard Bon Jovi’s “Always” this much since the 7th grade. That or Michael Bolton. “I said I love you, but I lied. ‘Cause this is more than love I feel inside…” What do all these looping love songs mean? Couples. They’re everywhere. In the face of so much lacking, people here make time to love each other and their children. Throughout our stay we haven’t seen one kid act out. Why? Because they’re never neglected. They’re always cuddling in the arms of their father, or swaddled in a wrap on mama’s back. Family’s all that matters, and everyone’s included, contrary to what Mugabe and his shit head Black Africa cronies might desire.
About the money… It’s crazy to travel half the world to see people waving wads of US dollars around like they’re nothing. Maybe it’s because a loaf of bread used to cost billions of Z-notes, or maybe it’s that they’ve learned what we still haven’t - that money itself is worthless.
In the grocery store, the manager, customers and clerks crowded around our passports, leafing through them, marveling at the nationalist pictures on each page. “Your passports are nice like your money,” one of them commented. The manager said it made her disappointed of hers, adding, “I’ll tell them to change our passports. Maybe they’ll put my picture on every page, in different poses,” and we had a laugh in spite.
Zimbabwe has a way…
In light of and despite its challenges, it’s gonna be hard to leave Zimbabwe. First off, Mugabe’s house isn’t a house, it’s a fortified compound surrounded by 20ft-high walls topped with razor wire, armed guards on every corner, and no visible sign of living quarters. The only way in is on the back of a scud missile. Secondly, his institutionalized racism only seems to have brainwashed a small portion of the country, as most the Zimbabweans we’ve met are lovely people. Thirdly, he’s a glaring fucking hypocrite who tied his country to the US dollar and feeds his people an endless stream of American love songs. I haven’t heard Bon Jovi’s “Always” this much since the 7th grade. That or Michael Bolton. “I said I love you, but I lied. ‘Cause this is more than love I feel inside…” What do all these looping love songs mean? Couples. They’re everywhere. In the face of so much lacking, people here make time to love each other and their children. Throughout our stay we haven’t seen one kid act out. Why? Because they’re never neglected. They’re always cuddling in the arms of their father, or swaddled in a wrap on mama’s back. Family’s all that matters, and everyone’s included, contrary to what Mugabe and his shit head Black Africa cronies might desire.
About the money… It’s crazy to travel half the world to see people waving wads of US dollars around like they’re nothing. Maybe it’s because a loaf of bread used to cost billions of Z-notes, or maybe it’s that they’ve learned what we still haven’t - that money itself is worthless.
In the grocery store, the manager, customers and clerks crowded around our passports, leafing through them, marveling at the nationalist pictures on each page. “Your passports are nice like your money,” one of them commented. The manager said it made her disappointed of hers, adding, “I’ll tell them to change our passports. Maybe they’ll put my picture on every page, in different poses,” and we had a laugh in spite.
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23 August 2011
My wife, my hero.
Last night I wept again, only with pride after watching Nicole interview and converse with two gentlemen from ZINASU, a democratic student union 350,000 strong, and a viable model of an alternative to Mugabe’s totalitarian regime. She was magnificent, in her element like I’ve never seen her, doing what she’s meant to do, right where she belongs. We sat by the pool discussing democracy, human rights and the future, and my wife shined, an educated, sympathetic peer from the other side of the world talking shop with two dedicated freedom fighters. It affirmed what didn’t need affirming, everything we’re doing here, everything she’s done in quitting the bank and where we’re headed. Afterward, over shots of whisky, I was moved. Then we had a football-fueled dinner with more of her countrymen at the Zim Café, half a chicken for her, oxtail liver for me, and Lion beers for both of us. It was the beginning of the rest of our lives, our last night in Harare.
My wife, my hero.
Last night I wept again, only with pride after watching Nicole interview and converse with two gentlemen from ZINASU, a democratic student union 350,000 strong, and a viable model of an alternative to Mugabe’s totalitarian regime. She was magnificent, in her element like I’ve never seen her, doing what she’s meant to do, right where she belongs. We sat by the pool discussing democracy, human rights and the future, and my wife shined, an educated, sympathetic peer from the other side of the world talking shop with two dedicated freedom fighters. It affirmed what didn’t need affirming, everything we’re doing here, everything she’s done in quitting the bank and where we’re headed. Afterward, over shots of whisky, I was moved. Then we had a football-fueled dinner with more of her countrymen at the Zim Café, half a chicken for her, oxtail liver for me, and Lion beers for both of us. It was the beginning of the rest of our lives, our last night in Harare.
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24 August 2011
Planes, trains, and automobiles - Harare to Cape Town in 22 hours.
After a late afternoon tea by the pool, we caught our bus back to Jo’Burg last night, two new Kearnsies in a world ripe for our taking. Alive. For the first time in years I feel completely empowered. Changed. How remains to seen, but not the same.
Deep in the bush outside of Harare, in the ink black Zimbabwean night, the sky smoked fiery orange kilometers ahead of us. The biggest uncontained fire I’ve ever seen raged past, and I fell asleep. Immigrations and customs flew by and I slept most the way to South Africa. Then, we watched the sun burn the day’s first light, African earth red over the high veldt as a lone elephant plodded down the roadside. Again I slept, and in Jo’Burg we caught a taxi to a train to our plane to Cape Town, where we met our brother Lyndon. Now begins the decompression, the assimilation of what’s happened and calm before the storm. The future is tomorrow. For now, fun.
Planes, trains, and automobiles - Harare to Cape Town in 22 hours.
After a late afternoon tea by the pool, we caught our bus back to Jo’Burg last night, two new Kearnsies in a world ripe for our taking. Alive. For the first time in years I feel completely empowered. Changed. How remains to seen, but not the same.
Deep in the bush outside of Harare, in the ink black Zimbabwean night, the sky smoked fiery orange kilometers ahead of us. The biggest uncontained fire I’ve ever seen raged past, and I fell asleep. Immigrations and customs flew by and I slept most the way to South Africa. Then, we watched the sun burn the day’s first light, African earth red over the high veldt as a lone elephant plodded down the roadside. Again I slept, and in Jo’Burg we caught a taxi to a train to our plane to Cape Town, where we met our brother Lyndon. Now begins the decompression, the assimilation of what’s happened and calm before the storm. The future is tomorrow. For now, fun.
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26 August 2011
Cape Town
She’s done it again. This morning Nikki brought five bags full of books and school supplies to a primary school in Nyanga, a township outside Cape Town. The teachers and principal were speechless and the kids went wild, singing her the South African national anthem. Again, watching her shine ignited my soul with pride and inspiration to take this world by the teeth, in my heart and arms. Her endless selflessness writes our destiny more and more everyday.
Afterward, I planned my tattoo with Lyndon, a Bushman cave drawing of a shaman storyteller for my forearm. A man of more Bushman blood than the rest of us, he chose it for me earlier this year, while Dr. Seuss’ Oh the Place You’ll Go, a book we introduced him to today, inspired the one he’ll get tomorrow. Then we went to Fish Hoek, where we ate indescribably delicious shrimp and veggie samosas by the sea, followed by calamari, fish and chips, penguin watching, cappuccinos as big as my face, ostrich farms, and Amstels on the beach at Cape Point, watching the tide splash over the rocks at the end of the continent like fireworks in the sunset.
A wild night of sightseeing and deep conversations followed. We drove around the peninsula, watching night fall on every side of Cape Town, then went to Spur, a Southwest-themed family restaurant/bar with American Indian memorabilia painted on the walls. I felt at home, only there wasn’t enough turquoise for real Southwestern kitsch. Nikki spotted cheap, thimble-sized Jameson shots and we had three apiece, accompanied by copious beers. Even bought a shot for our new server friend, Brighton. What a name! Lyndon, Brighton, Hilton, Belief, Blessing - names down here are amazing!
Cape Town
She’s done it again. This morning Nikki brought five bags full of books and school supplies to a primary school in Nyanga, a township outside Cape Town. The teachers and principal were speechless and the kids went wild, singing her the South African national anthem. Again, watching her shine ignited my soul with pride and inspiration to take this world by the teeth, in my heart and arms. Her endless selflessness writes our destiny more and more everyday.
Afterward, I planned my tattoo with Lyndon, a Bushman cave drawing of a shaman storyteller for my forearm. A man of more Bushman blood than the rest of us, he chose it for me earlier this year, while Dr. Seuss’ Oh the Place You’ll Go, a book we introduced him to today, inspired the one he’ll get tomorrow. Then we went to Fish Hoek, where we ate indescribably delicious shrimp and veggie samosas by the sea, followed by calamari, fish and chips, penguin watching, cappuccinos as big as my face, ostrich farms, and Amstels on the beach at Cape Point, watching the tide splash over the rocks at the end of the continent like fireworks in the sunset.
A wild night of sightseeing and deep conversations followed. We drove around the peninsula, watching night fall on every side of Cape Town, then went to Spur, a Southwest-themed family restaurant/bar with American Indian memorabilia painted on the walls. I felt at home, only there wasn’t enough turquoise for real Southwestern kitsch. Nikki spotted cheap, thimble-sized Jameson shots and we had three apiece, accompanied by copious beers. Even bought a shot for our new server friend, Brighton. What a name! Lyndon, Brighton, Hilton, Belief, Blessing - names down here are amazing!
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27 August 2011
Rugby, football, tat shop chats and late night tats...
Lyndon’s a man who knows and loves his city. From endless badass chow to wine tasting, driving tours, and the best tattoo artist in the Cape, our South African brother is showing us a time like no other. Jam-packed full of blast after blast, it’s just what the doctor ordered before this semester’s shit storm. Emphasis on the FULL. Right off the plane we ate badass burgers with Windhoek Lagers (a Namibian beer, Lyndon’s favorite), followed by concrete-thick milkshakes. Thursday we stuffed ourselves at the Eastern Food Bazaar, an open-air series of food stalls stocked with Middle Eastern and Asian delights, from Souvlaki to Chinese, curry to dosas, and bunny chow, which I got. Curried lamb overflowing out of a massive chunk of hollowed bread, it’s a traditional South African boat anchor of a meal. Needless to say, we didn’t eat again the rest of the day. That’s been our pattern since we landed.
Rugby, football, tat shop chats and late night tats...
Lyndon’s a man who knows and loves his city. From endless badass chow to wine tasting, driving tours, and the best tattoo artist in the Cape, our South African brother is showing us a time like no other. Jam-packed full of blast after blast, it’s just what the doctor ordered before this semester’s shit storm. Emphasis on the FULL. Right off the plane we ate badass burgers with Windhoek Lagers (a Namibian beer, Lyndon’s favorite), followed by concrete-thick milkshakes. Thursday we stuffed ourselves at the Eastern Food Bazaar, an open-air series of food stalls stocked with Middle Eastern and Asian delights, from Souvlaki to Chinese, curry to dosas, and bunny chow, which I got. Curried lamb overflowing out of a massive chunk of hollowed bread, it’s a traditional South African boat anchor of a meal. Needless to say, we didn’t eat again the rest of the day. That’s been our pattern since we landed.
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Until today. At noon we went for pizza and beer to watch the New Zealand rugby team (again, Lyndon’s favorite) take on Australia. What a wild game… fucking STRESSFUL! It doesn’t stop! These cauliflower-eared bastards ceaselessly beat the living hell out of each other for 40 minutes straight, then do it again for a second half. It’s madness! I love it!
Sadly, New Zealand lost, but the day still young, we spent the next four hours at Johnny and Sons, a small two-seat tattoo shop attached to a house with a smiling pit bull named Brutus. We were waiting for Jason, a Cape Town institution, chatting with some of the most colorful characters we’ve met. Louis, a lunatic with a thick accent and flexible tactical baton, knows more about America than we do, from conspiracies to police brutality. Angela, a self-tattooing badass artist in training is tough as nails and sweet as hell, while Jason is a soft-spoken, hard-working world-class craftsman of ink who doesn‘t eat, equally obsessed about every tattoo that comes his way. And the place was teeming with old seamen. Johnny, the namesake father and old-school tattooer, carried a liter of Black Label beer through the shop between clients, while another cat in a small stocking cap, long white beard and droopy wrinkled face hit on Nikki. One of the highlights was an old dude with a massive ship on his belly, walking on a cane. He claimed there’s no proof smoking causes lung cancer, it’s just a myth created by America to cut into Cuba’s tobacco market. Said he couldn’t quit smoking or drinking ‘cause he’d go into shock and die. “Poison keeps me alive,” his toothless lips lisped. What a role model...
Two liters of Black Label and four hours later, we were hungry and still not tattooed. So we left for food before the football/soccer game at Cape Town Stadium, built for the World Cup. The plan was to come back after and get inked. Meanwhile, we shared a Gatsby - more quintessential South African fare, a massive loaf of French bread filled with chicken, salad, French fries and spiced tomato sauce. Again, we were stuffed. Then we froze our asses off watching the Kaizer Chiefs from Soweto play the Cape Town Ajax. Good god the revelry! Fans parading the streets, dressed in capes, blaring vuvuzelas, honking horns and hanging out of car windows… no matter how hard, football’s life, and people love it.
Shivering cold, we got back to Jason’s at 11 o’clock, ready for ink, and sure enough, so was he. Lyndon went first, cutting the little fellow from Oh the Places You’ll Go into his upper arm. Then I went under the needle at half-past midnight, and by half-past three, my Bushman storyteller was carved on the wall of my write forearm.
Sadly, New Zealand lost, but the day still young, we spent the next four hours at Johnny and Sons, a small two-seat tattoo shop attached to a house with a smiling pit bull named Brutus. We were waiting for Jason, a Cape Town institution, chatting with some of the most colorful characters we’ve met. Louis, a lunatic with a thick accent and flexible tactical baton, knows more about America than we do, from conspiracies to police brutality. Angela, a self-tattooing badass artist in training is tough as nails and sweet as hell, while Jason is a soft-spoken, hard-working world-class craftsman of ink who doesn‘t eat, equally obsessed about every tattoo that comes his way. And the place was teeming with old seamen. Johnny, the namesake father and old-school tattooer, carried a liter of Black Label beer through the shop between clients, while another cat in a small stocking cap, long white beard and droopy wrinkled face hit on Nikki. One of the highlights was an old dude with a massive ship on his belly, walking on a cane. He claimed there’s no proof smoking causes lung cancer, it’s just a myth created by America to cut into Cuba’s tobacco market. Said he couldn’t quit smoking or drinking ‘cause he’d go into shock and die. “Poison keeps me alive,” his toothless lips lisped. What a role model...
Two liters of Black Label and four hours later, we were hungry and still not tattooed. So we left for food before the football/soccer game at Cape Town Stadium, built for the World Cup. The plan was to come back after and get inked. Meanwhile, we shared a Gatsby - more quintessential South African fare, a massive loaf of French bread filled with chicken, salad, French fries and spiced tomato sauce. Again, we were stuffed. Then we froze our asses off watching the Kaizer Chiefs from Soweto play the Cape Town Ajax. Good god the revelry! Fans parading the streets, dressed in capes, blaring vuvuzelas, honking horns and hanging out of car windows… no matter how hard, football’s life, and people love it.
Shivering cold, we got back to Jason’s at 11 o’clock, ready for ink, and sure enough, so was he. Lyndon went first, cutting the little fellow from Oh the Places You’ll Go into his upper arm. Then I went under the needle at half-past midnight, and by half-past three, my Bushman storyteller was carved on the wall of my write forearm.
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28 August 2011
A Proper Braai
In South Africa, people don’t BBQ or grill, they braai, and today we were treated to a perfect one at Lyndon’s friend Richenda’s apartment in Gordon’s Bay. She’s amazing, a wise old soul, wildcard and delightful hostess. We also met Marlese, an inspiringly bubbly, youthful young lady, and Mandy, a woman with lively hair and an infectious laugh. It felt like a Sunday with family, Lyndon in his element, filling the braai with dry grape vine trunks for proper coals, flipping the grill rack with all sorts of meat, from beer-soaked chicken to lamb chops, steak, and three different kinds of boerewors (sausage), including “blue meat” ostrich. Inside, the ladies crafted snacks of mixed fish on toast, curried split peas, roti, roasted potatoes with veggies, salad, chocolate muffins, sautéed bananas, and pineapple mousse. Again, we laughed ourselves silly to African jokes (How do you hide an elephant in the fridge?… You take everything out and put the elephant in), filled ourselves to bursting, and drank ourselves to sleep. At least Lyndon and I did. Nikki stayed awake chatting with Richie about changing the world, while he curled up on the couch and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
A Proper Braai
In South Africa, people don’t BBQ or grill, they braai, and today we were treated to a perfect one at Lyndon’s friend Richenda’s apartment in Gordon’s Bay. She’s amazing, a wise old soul, wildcard and delightful hostess. We also met Marlese, an inspiringly bubbly, youthful young lady, and Mandy, a woman with lively hair and an infectious laugh. It felt like a Sunday with family, Lyndon in his element, filling the braai with dry grape vine trunks for proper coals, flipping the grill rack with all sorts of meat, from beer-soaked chicken to lamb chops, steak, and three different kinds of boerewors (sausage), including “blue meat” ostrich. Inside, the ladies crafted snacks of mixed fish on toast, curried split peas, roti, roasted potatoes with veggies, salad, chocolate muffins, sautéed bananas, and pineapple mousse. Again, we laughed ourselves silly to African jokes (How do you hide an elephant in the fridge?… You take everything out and put the elephant in), filled ourselves to bursting, and drank ourselves to sleep. At least Lyndon and I did. Nikki stayed awake chatting with Richie about changing the world, while he curled up on the couch and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
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29 August 2011
Win(e)ding down…
Today, wine country. But first, a national treasure. Lyndon Metembo. Our brother is a sage. His presence not only relaxes, it inspires peace. On being measured by a higher power in death, he says, “I hope to be able to say I’ve exhausted every blessing I’ve been given.” Exhausted. What a humbling call to action… And as a storyteller, his observation that national history runs through the story of every family changed the way I look at narrative. My work may never be the same.
As for the wine, he knows that too. We hit two wineries - Diemersfontein for coffee Pinotage, and Fairview for house-made cheese, cheese, and more cheese, not to mention wine and an amazing pourer named Lyn. Her accent and sense of humor were lovely, as was her gyrating wiggle dance and the “rule of tongue” she taught us, that if your teeth squeak when you run your tongue across them, your drinking tannic wine. Thanks to her, I walked out of Fairview with a less than fair ability to see.
Win(e)ding down…
Today, wine country. But first, a national treasure. Lyndon Metembo. Our brother is a sage. His presence not only relaxes, it inspires peace. On being measured by a higher power in death, he says, “I hope to be able to say I’ve exhausted every blessing I’ve been given.” Exhausted. What a humbling call to action… And as a storyteller, his observation that national history runs through the story of every family changed the way I look at narrative. My work may never be the same.
As for the wine, he knows that too. We hit two wineries - Diemersfontein for coffee Pinotage, and Fairview for house-made cheese, cheese, and more cheese, not to mention wine and an amazing pourer named Lyn. Her accent and sense of humor were lovely, as was her gyrating wiggle dance and the “rule of tongue” she taught us, that if your teeth squeak when you run your tongue across them, your drinking tannic wine. Thanks to her, I walked out of Fairview with a less than fair ability to see.
After sundown, we ate our last dinner in Africa on the front porch of Hillcrest, the lights of Cape Town flickering between us and Table Mountain. Leftovers from the braai, reheated by the braaimaster himself, were just as delicious as yesterday, maybe more so because our journey’s coming to an end. Tomorrow’s the start of my semester, only we board a plane for Jo’Burg at twenty to two, then a flight to New York at half-past eight. The day after we get back to the city I have class from 10 to 9. Friday my first of two internships begins and the shit hits the fan. Only the shit’s fine chocolate and I have a sweet tooth. Fuck an umbrella, it’s time for my just desserts.
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7 September 2011
Infection
We’ve been back for a week. New Yuck City. The Big Shitty, land of milk and honey. Africa scarred me. Literally. My Bushman tattoo got infected by a dirty pair of long underwear and the cooling breeze of every air vent I found in Cape Town the day after getting inked, not to mention the carved nature of the tat itself. As the writer he depicts, my stories are my scars…
Infection
We’ve been back for a week. New Yuck City. The Big Shitty, land of milk and honey. Africa scarred me. Literally. My Bushman tattoo got infected by a dirty pair of long underwear and the cooling breeze of every air vent I found in Cape Town the day after getting inked, not to mention the carved nature of the tat itself. As the writer he depicts, my stories are my scars…
18 September 2011
Reviews, Retractions, and Reevaluations
Three weeks in, this country's spoiled rotten. We have a historic distance from domestic conflict, and conflict unites. You don't want what you don't know you don't have. That's the difference. Everyone here expects something, what they think they deserve. Speaking of which, I made a statement about the treatment of black South Africans under apartheid being worse than that of American Indians. That's bullshit. American Indians will NEVER get their country back. The majority they once were has been butchered down to an alcoholic, diabetic and destitute few. It's an undocumented atrocity for which there's been no reciprocity. Just ask the Buffalo.
The trouble with traveling is it fractures home. "Home is home," as the woman at the Zimbabwe bus station said, and it's true. Home is home, but where's that? Arizona? Brooklyn? South Africa? It's getting harder and harder to tell. Honestly, I feel most at home here, in words.
All the broken bottle, razor wire and electric-topped walls in Africa make me wonder if they really do a thing. I wanna test their circuits with raw meat, see if it cooks. Hell, on that note, I could use my arm. Only it's healed. The infection's gone beyond skin deep. Now it's in my blood.
As for the African beer that's been there, here's a rundown:
Castle Lager / Draught – The most popular South African brew. Good. ***
Castle Milk Stout – Awesome dark beer. Think Guiness, but creamy. *****
Hansa Pilsner – Zimbabwean, brewed and bottled in South Africa. Good. ***
Black Label – The South African drinker's beer. Big bottle, funky taste. **
Windhoek Lager – Namibian. Lyndon's favorite. Better than Castle. ****
Phoenix – From Maricius. Great name, not a bad lager. ***
Lion – The beer I miss the most. Zimbabwean lager with a helluva lot going on. *****
Bohlinger's – Boring Zimbabwean beer. **
Savannah – Hard cider. Not a beer, but nice with breakfast. Sweet and strong. ***
Reviews, Retractions, and Reevaluations
Three weeks in, this country's spoiled rotten. We have a historic distance from domestic conflict, and conflict unites. You don't want what you don't know you don't have. That's the difference. Everyone here expects something, what they think they deserve. Speaking of which, I made a statement about the treatment of black South Africans under apartheid being worse than that of American Indians. That's bullshit. American Indians will NEVER get their country back. The majority they once were has been butchered down to an alcoholic, diabetic and destitute few. It's an undocumented atrocity for which there's been no reciprocity. Just ask the Buffalo.
The trouble with traveling is it fractures home. "Home is home," as the woman at the Zimbabwe bus station said, and it's true. Home is home, but where's that? Arizona? Brooklyn? South Africa? It's getting harder and harder to tell. Honestly, I feel most at home here, in words.
All the broken bottle, razor wire and electric-topped walls in Africa make me wonder if they really do a thing. I wanna test their circuits with raw meat, see if it cooks. Hell, on that note, I could use my arm. Only it's healed. The infection's gone beyond skin deep. Now it's in my blood.
As for the African beer that's been there, here's a rundown:
Castle Lager / Draught – The most popular South African brew. Good. ***
Castle Milk Stout – Awesome dark beer. Think Guiness, but creamy. *****
Hansa Pilsner – Zimbabwean, brewed and bottled in South Africa. Good. ***
Black Label – The South African drinker's beer. Big bottle, funky taste. **
Windhoek Lager – Namibian. Lyndon's favorite. Better than Castle. ****
Phoenix – From Maricius. Great name, not a bad lager. ***
Lion – The beer I miss the most. Zimbabwean lager with a helluva lot going on. *****
Bohlinger's – Boring Zimbabwean beer. **
Savannah – Hard cider. Not a beer, but nice with breakfast. Sweet and strong. ***