A Very Toothy Christmas

Marnie and I could be forgiven for thinking the ocean has something against us. Unseasonably gloomy weather descends upon the coast whenever we even think about a beach trip. First Mozambique, then Cape Town, then Sossusvlei in Namibia. So when the hotel manager in Mossel Bay sang the familiar tune of, “I don’t understand, it’s usually so beautiful this time of year”, knowing glances were exchanged.

We spent the afternoon lazing about our room before heading into town, a blanket of clouds completely obscuring the Indian Ocean barely a mile away. Inspired by “Christmas Story”, we ate an early dinner at a Chinese restaurant. An Asian fella checking the place out rudely insinuated that the white owners couldn’t make authentic cuisine. Your loss pal, more sushi for me.

The pub up the road was serving three local draught beers, including Mitchell’s excellent Raven Stout, so naturally I got to enjoy all of one before the taps all went kerplunk simultaneously. Back in the room, watching yet another crappy made-for-tv Christmas movie, our shark tour operator texted to inform us we were meeting at 6:15 in the a.m. as opposed to the expected 8:30.

So I’m feeling pretty cranky on the boat, having been deprived of my hotel breakfast, the pungent smell of fishy chum in the air. The blazer I was wearing was more appropriate for a day of yachting, previous assertions of the warm, calm waters of Mossel Bay leaving me ill prepared for the conditions. Given our luck in Simon’s Town, I fully expected to sit bobbing on our smelly barge for three hours before heading home. So when our annoyingly upbeat tour guide called out “shark!” I nearly fell out of my seat.

A family of six was going to be first in the cage strapped to the side of the boat, but the father wussed out, so I was deputised. Entering the cage last, the big Afrikaner guy next to me was reluctant to make room, smooshing me uncomfortably into the corner. The captain threw the bait rope into the water, pulling the rope from left to right across the cage. He called out for us to take a breath and duck under water.

The freezing water would have been enough to take my breath away, but the thirteen foot shark coming right at me, mouth agape, was quite enough to do the trick. In that moment I couldn’t help thinking, “This is what it’s like to be eaten”. The shark got within three feet of the cage before turning around the corner. In shock I gulped a good helping of sea water, lwhich left me feeling quite green for the rest of the trip.

My remaining fifteen minutes in the water were much calmer. As I discussed with Marnie, being underwater is actually quite surreal, like watching a Discovery Channel special in 3D. It’s not till you come back to the surface and see that dorsal fin thrashing in the water that it seems real. Marnie had a more adventurous ride than me, the big female they call “Sharkira” taking some time to gnaw on her corner of the cage. In total, five to seven sharks visited the boat (they couldn’t identify a couple), including a frisky one late on that was launching out of the water at the bait .

The pressure of seeing the sharks lifted at last, our luck seemed to change. The sun finally emerged, and we basked by the hotel pool all afternoon before enjoying the sunset with a bottle of wine down at the Point. A campground and restaurants line the seafront, revellers watching the surfers and drinking sundowners from the comfort of their festively decorated tents and campers.

The skies clouded over again on Christmas Eve as we set off for Plettenberg Bay. The drive up the Garden Route was beautifully scenic, with scenic elements of the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York and the canopied hills of Rwanda, all set against the backdrop of the Scottish western highlands. Plett itself is a pretty little resort town built into a hillside overlooking the Indian Ocean. Our hotel sits right at the intersection of river and ocean, divided by a long spit of land known as Lookout Beach.

Our hotelier informed us that a surge in that aforementioned river nearly swept the hotel away three years prior. An expat Dutchman of some advanced years, our host gave us an exhaustive list of activities in the area, but the drizzly skies dampened our enthusiasm for much recreation. An interesting if somewhat insistent guy, our Dutchman was also very forgetful, routinely asking us the same questions and greeting us each morning in incomprehensible Afrikaans.

The most we were able to accomplish was a walk around uptown to find somewhere to eat dinner. The Kitchen Café had a special holiday menu that included turkey, and we were served by another friendly expat, this time an Englishwoman, who understood our longing for snow and Christmas cheer. We ended up drinking far too much wine and playing pool in the bar upstairs, surely a Christmas Eve first (the poolsticks, not the booze).

We made our way to the beach at last on Christmas Day, the sun only cooperating sporadically. I braved the frigid ocean waters only briefly, each step into deeper water stinging like razor blades. A large rogue wave finally forced my hand, and I dove in, feeling a bit like a skater who plunged beneath the ice. In this way, at least, I got my dose of festive holiday weather.

Later we borrowed a kayak from the hotel and paddled across the river’s mouth to Lookout Island. Crossing the dunes, I stopped to take a picture of a fledgling seagull, causing momma seagull to divebomb a few feet above our heads. I found this hilarious; Marnie, less so.

The restaurants that stay open book up early on Christmas day, so we decided to once again go for Chinese fare. In honor of Ralphie’s father, I did indeed dine on Chinese turkey, though from the somewhat more glamorous confines of our patio overlooking the bay.

So it wasn’t our ideal Christmas season, but it could have been worse. We got to play with Jaws, had a somewhat festive meal and took a dip in the Indian Ocean on Christmas day. Turning onto the highway leading to the airport, a traffic cop cheekily waved and yelled at Marnie, “Goodbye, I love you!” Love you too, my bru, but unlike Santa, don't expect me to return next year.

The Un-Christmas: Part Two

At long last, it appears I found a South African who embraces the Christmas spirit. Leaving the house the other day, a garbage truck was making its weekly rounds. One of the crew spotted me and approached the gate, muttering something inaudible over the roar of the truck’s compactor. I was only able to make out something about money and Christmas presents.

Repeating, what he said was, “Please you must give me money for Christmas presents.” I must have forgot to wash the “ATM” off my forehead again, because I’ve rarely had a conversation with a black South African that didn’t end in a request for cash or a job. My initial response is usually guilt, until I remember a conversation we had with a white woman in Namibia. She recalled how beggars would approach her at traffic lights in her beater car, ignoring the black guy in the Mercedes just behind her, knowing that guy would tell them where to stick it.

I didn’t tell the guy where to stick it, nor did I mention that he was lucky to have a cushy government job in a country with (unofficially) 35-40% unemployment. Neither did I mention that I need every rand I have, given one of his compatriots saw fit to steal my debit card info. Last week I noticed some purchases in the UK being made on my account, and I’m fairly certain about not leaving the continent recently. Since the dodgy transactions began shortly after purchasing Whisky Live tickets online, I can only assume someone at WebTickets stole my info and sold it to someone in the UK. As you can imagine, my Christmas generosity is wearing a bit thin, imaging someone enjoying a lovely holiday in Greece at my expense.

I could have told him all that, but instead I just said, “Buddy, I just rent here…”

The city has been relatively pleasant the past few days, having largely emptied out this past weekend. Marnie and I are exchanging our meagre gift offerings this evening before heading off tomorrow to spend our Christmas on the beach in Plett. Thursday I get another shot at seeing a Great White, which has me thinking about some interesting holiday movie ideas (Jaws VI: Festive Feeding Frenzy--“Santa, we’re gonna need a bigger sleigh…). We decided not to make dinner reservations for our time away, so we very may well be eating “Chinese turkey” for Christmas dinner.

I mention all of this not to complain. Okay, maybe a little bit. But the bigger point is that when the malls are packed, a mere dusting of snow has backed the highway up for two miles, and the relatives have worn out their welcome several hours previous, know that Marnie and I would love to be there suffering with you. After all, to pilfer shamelessly from one of my favorite holiday specials: Christmas day shall always be, just as long as we have we.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

So THIS is Christmas?

In her assessment that South Africans hate Christmas, I initially thought Marnie was being a bit harsh, biased perhaps by her longing for the familial comforts of being home for the holidays. On reflection, she may have something.

Admittedly, my own view is tainted by the current Grinch-iness I find myself in. The Kirsteins, the family we rent our flat from, are getting divorced and selling the house. I take no pleasure in gossiping about the misery of others, but the resultant chaos and lack of consideration towards us in the past month is taking its toll. Home turnovers in South Africa typically take three months after a deal is done, so our living situation won’t be affected, apart from the inconvenience of being booted out of the flat for open houses on short notice. In better times, being “part of the family” had its benefits, but right now I just wish for the privacy of our own space.

Then there’s the weather. If this had been Ohio, we would be buried under four feet of snow, given the torrential thunderstorms we endure like clockwork every night. This has the bonus effect of knocking out the satellite TV, punching 15-20 minute holes in every show we watch. Not that we would be watching Christmas shows, such is the dearth of festive programming around here. By now Marnie and I would have been watching Christmas movies for a month solid, but DSTV isn’t showing any holiday fare until the week before the big day. Apart from some truly horrid made for TV films (the last refuge of the D-list actor) and the seasonal cooking shows on BBC, we are in a Christmas dead zone here.

It seems the Christmas spirit extends only so far as commerce, with holiday commercials and newspaper adverts appealing for consumers to part with their rands. The malls are certainly decked out in all their plastic evergreen glory, but the patrons don’t seem to reflect the festive décor. This Santa perched atop a security wall in Parkhurst would have won the neighborhood, nay regional, home decorating contest by a mile. That's just sad.

The only “Merry Christmas” we’ve heard was from a security guard when we were leaving the museum at Maropeng, Marnie nearly launching out of her seat to enthusiastically return the greeting. I think she frightened him a bit. A month ago I was startled to hear “Joy to the World” in four part harmony outside our flat window. The carollers were quickly shooed away by the maid, though I was strongly tempted to call them back. And I hate carollers.

The best insight on the matter has come from Marnie’s “waxologist”, who lived in the US for twenty years, and quite correctly predicted we would hate the holidays here. She pointed out that most people can’t afford presents, and many businesses stay open, so Christmas is just another work day. For the more fortunate, many choose to head for coastal resorts, since the holiday period coincides with the school summer holidays. We decided to spend four days in the Garden Route area of the Western Cape, and listening to others’ holiday plans, it seems as if the majority of Johannesburg is joining us. Quite how Santa is supposed to find you at a beach resort I’ll never know.

But the most depressing thing is the lack of that feeling, the sense that everyone is just a little bit friendlier than usual, the coziness of bundling up against the cold, the chill that runs up your spine when a choir sings “Oh Holy Night” (that’s a choir, not Celine or Mariah—showoffs). Every Sunday, I read a column by an ex-pat South African living in New York City. Last week she chose to criticize the over indulgence of the festive season in the States. She has a point—we eat too much, drink too much, spend too much. What she doesn’t acknowledge is that if you take that all away, December 25th in the US still means something to people, usually something about faith and family and being decent to one another. In South Africa the 25th is just a Saturday.

Fake Plastic Trees

The first time I walked by this tree, I did a double take. Most motorists driving by wouldn’t notice, and I suppose that’s the point. Whether because it’s an eyesore or because they don’t want someone gutting it for the copper wire, this cell tower has been decked out as a palm tree. I originally thought it was a one off, but have since seen other “trees” hiding in the city.

The Cradle

Apologies for the blog title, but no need to worry, Marnie is not “with child”. For too long we have put off a trip to the Cradle of Humankind, a mere hour outside Joburg, and home to some of the oldest hominid remains ever found. As an anthropologist, neglecting this visit would be unforgivable in the eyes of Marnie’s physical anthro colleagues, whom I affectionately refer to as the “bone nerds” (no need to take offence, as Marnie is assuredly a “culture nerd”).

So Friday morning we puttered off westward in the Barney-mobile towards Maropeng, a museum chronicling the history of mankind. If nothing else, it was a great opportunity to escape the chaos of the city, and breathe some clean country air. In a lot of ways, the communities just outside the Joburg outerbelt remind me of Windhoek in Namibia—tidy clusters of upscale housing and shopping centers in the middle of nowhere.

We arrived at Maropeng a half hour after opening, with only a few cars in the parking lot. I read they’d had some financial difficulties of late, with rumors of government mismanagement (In South Africa? Never!). Some larger arrived later. The tour begins with a boat ride representing the elements that formed the universe. Unfortunately, the curtain of water flowing across the tunnel didn’t quite stop dripping in time, and the walls protrude a bit too much for a large mammal like myself, leaving me with a damp head and a sore back. We continued across a bridge inside a swirling tunnel, the “vortex” of the forming universe. The vertigo effect just about put both of us on our backsides.

As we were to find out, these were not the only attractions at Maropeng intended for people smaller than ourselves, and I don’t mean midgets. A lot of the exhibits, with their animated and interactive displays, are aimed at kids. That said, the displays on hominid remains and the evolution of man have a more mature bent, and the reminders about how we are harming the world and ourselves don’t exactly let you leave feeling all warm and fuzzy about the future. Speaking of, the exit itself is symbolic, the modern façade at the rear contrasting with the rustic entrance at the front, demonstrating man’s evolution through time. Nifty.

We headed south to the Sterkfontein Caves, excavation site of Mrs. Ples and Little Foot, hominid fossils aged 2.5 and about 4 million years old, respectively. It turns out that Mrs. Ples is actually a juvenile Mr. Ples, our guide taking pains to point out that fully developed male brains are larger than females’. This was to be an unfortunate running joke, each sexist comment followed by the sound of Marnie’s teeth grinding softly in the dark of the cave beside me. Having been mined out, the caves aren’t so spectacular in terms of formations, but watching the larger members of our group play Twister through tight crevices proved entertaining enough.

Marnie may have come to the Cradle for the bones, but I came for the booze and grub. Roots restaurant, at our hotel Forum Homini, is rated in the prestigious Eat Out magazine top ten. In addition, a wine tasting is held the first Friday of every month—Oak Valley winery in our case.

Our accommodation was one of the fifteen “caves” built into the mound surrounding the pond next to the main lodge. The rooms are super sheik, the highlight being the enormous glass encased shower. One wall of the shower features doors that you can open out onto the lawn, for showering “au naturale”. Since the gloomy weather wasn’t favoring tanning by the poolside, we made due with pickling ourselves with scented salts and oils in the room’s enormous bath.

I really thought I loved to gorge on good food and drink, but the wine dinner at Roots and breakfast the following morning have caused reason for doubt. We were told to arrive for dinner at seven, but an hour and several glasses of wine later we hadn’t been served a lick of food. Oh how that changed. After an “amuse buce”, three white wines and accompanying courses, a palate cleanser, three reds and three more courses, our bellies had swollen to planetary dimensions, our eyes floating in their sockets. Finally, at 11:15 PM, we staggered back to our rooms and collapsed on the bed.

Our five course, hour and a half long breakfast the following morning proved equally daunting. Some of the food was amazing, like the duck breast and confited leg in smoked cherry sauce that perfectly complimented the Pinot Noir, or the smoked salmon blinis with caviar at brunch. At some point, however, Marnie and I agreed that we’d rather have one big plate of something to gnaw on and be done with it. I used to think the French and Spanish had the right idea with their long leisurely meals, but having done it, I venture they just have too much time on their hands.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go rub some lotion on my newly formed stretch marks…

Thanksgiving

The common denominator between November in South Africa and Ohio is the steely gray color of the sky. The difference is that the ladies here are shopping for bikinis instead of sweaters.

Marnie and I did our best to celebrate Thanksgiving yesterday, despite being limited by kitchen equipment and ingredients. The swinging sounds of “Rat Pack Christmas” played in the background as we munched on Marnie’s cheese dip. Sitting in a tank top and shorts, I had a hard time getting into Deano singing about the weather outside being frightful, but was reliably misty eyed by the time Frank crooned “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”.

We originally were going to settle for a roast chicken, but I managed to rustle up a small turkey from the local butcher. We decided to forgo the pumpkin pie for apple wrapper (or as I refer to it, “appa wappa”), and couldn’t be bothered to hunt down sweet potatoes. None of this seemed to matter much to our stomachs, bloated to bursting point, nor to the tryptophan induced turkey coma which followed.

Our normal post gorging viewing of “Love, Actually” was replaced by a movie about genocide in Rwanda. How horribly depressing. Later on, flipping through the channels, my heart fluttered as I turned to the Lions game on ESPN. Football on Thanksgiving, in Africa. God bless America, and her huge international media conglomerates.

In the spirit of the day, I give you things Marnie and I have to be grateful for:
1) We haven’t been mugged. Yet.
2) We haven’t had to pay a bribe. Yet.
3) No such thing as Black Friday in South Africa.
4) It was warm enough yesterday that we almost turned on the AC.
5) When the Somali guys won’t stop asking Marnie to get them a white wife, and the Kirstein kids won’t stop screaming, we have each other.

And, to keep things in perspective, some things YOU can be grateful for:
1) Police whose main purpose is to actually protect you, as opposed to shake you down or threaten arrest.
2) Electricity that, downed power lines aside, is on 24 hours a day. Note to Eskom—if you’re planning a power cut, perhaps you should TELL someone.
3) (Semi) competent government officials. If you think the BMV is bad, try South African Home Affairs.
4) Not having to live behind ten foot walls and electric fences.
5) And most importantly, we’ll be home soon.

Wildlife Watch: Zoo Lake

After a week’s worth of dreary cloud filled skies, the heavens finally parted this weekend. Since the wife was off in Mayfair earning her Somali culture merit badge, I decided to hoof it down to Zoo Lake.

This large body of water is, not surprisingly, not far from the Johannesburg Zoo. Why anyone in South Africa would want to go see animals in a zoo is anyone’s guess, but I understand it’s quite a fine institution. As for the lake itself, you’ll often see joggers running the path around it, fishermen watching their lines bob from the shade under trees, or those seeking a moment of quiet reflection on a park bench. On weekends it gets quite busy, with families flooding the braai pits and jungle gym. It’s one of the few public spaces in Joburg that is shared equally between blacks and whites—not surprising given the lack of green space in the city.

The water gives refuge to some interesting water fowl. Egrets nest in the trees on the island in the middle of the lake, while common and Egyptian geese cruise the shallows. The red faced fella is a moorhen, whose calm demeanor on the surface belies its long yellow legs paddling furiously beneath the water.

When I’m feeling the itch to get out of the house, but don’t have anywhere to go, Zoo Lake is definitely top of my list.

Whisky Live

Last week saw the arrival of an early Christmas of sorts for me, in the form of the Whisky Live festival in Sandton. This is a three day festival of Scotch, Bourbon and grain whisky producers, with dozens of boozy offerings to try. The US incarnation of the event is only held in NYC, usually mid-week, so this was to be my virgin voyage to whisky paradise.

My wingman for the first evening was fellow Yank Mark Murphy. Having ordered a Johnny Black and water at dinner previously, I knew was not allergic to the brown stuff. We were greeted by the peal of bagpipes and the typical South African lack of organization at the entrance. After being herded through the doors and collecting our tasting glasses, we stood temporarily stupefied by the bounty of softly backlit bottles on display in dozens of stands. We pushed on into the fray.

Our first stop turned out to be the best. Near the entrance stood the modest Penderyn Welsh whisky stand, in high contrast to the sleek modern display across the aisle at Macallan. The woman there poured us a couple of drams and casually mentioned that she also made the stuff. After a double take, I realized I’d read her profile in Whisky Magazine. Gillian is one of the only female distillers in the world. I bounced some questions off her about future plans to expand and she produced some new make spirit for us to try, the stuff that comes straight off the still before wood aging—sweet nectar for whisky geeks like myself.

And so we proceeded on, me with the delusion that I would be able to talk shop with master distillers at every stop along the way. Not to be so, unfortunately. We arrived shortly after the doors opened at six, but by seven the after work crowd had arrived in full force, turning the convention center into one huge pub. Luckily, most of the mob descended on the big brands (Johnny Walker, Chivas Regal, Macallan), but they were still lined up four deep at even the smallest distillery stands.

Not all drinks reps are created equal. In fairness, I didn’t talk to them, but the mini-skirted girls in front of the Jameson’s tent probably couldn’t tell me a whole lot about the production process. Likewise the guy who said that Buffalo Trace was Tennessee whisky, which is odd since Marnie and I drive past the distillery every time we drive through Kentucky. Luckily, no amount of misinformation could take away from the great drinks on offer, including the chocolaty Glenmorangie Signet, the Compass Box’s Peat Monster paired with sushi, and Ben Riach’s Cape of Storms tapped directly from a barrel with a whisky thief.

The next two nights were to be a welcome respite from the crowds, having purchased two tickets for master classes with my favorite whisky writer, Dave Broom. The first class was a tasting of six very different malts from Speyside in northeast Scotland, Dave’s point being that there are really no such things as “whisky regions”, only individual distillery character. Though the first to arrive, I allowed several large groups to bully their way to the front and dominate the conversation. I did manage to get Dave to sign my copy of his new book and spoke to him briefly.

The next night I quite stubbornly parked myself right in front of the entrance, sitting in front row. The class demonstrated how to pair various styles of whisky with the seasons, the same way you might drink white wine in the hotter months and reds when its cooler. This included a very tasty An Cnoc served chilled in a champagne glass and a smoky Lagavulin served with biltong. I got an incisive question in, and was able to get a pic with Dave and asked him about his experience at the Cape Town version of the event.

You have to understand that I don’t get a chance to talk whisky much, apart from boring Marnie or the person at a party unfortunate enough to ask about the subject. Yes, I see the life draining from their faces as I ramble on about worm tubs versus shell and tube condensers and the merits of various wood finishes. I just choose to ignore it.

It was like a little kid getting to meet Santa Claus. Or maybe not Santa Claus, but his publicist. Or the editor of The North Pole Gazette. You get my point. Merry Christmas to me.

Back to Society

Hey, we're back from our weeklong stint in Namibia, diving headlong into a busy week. Marnie is feverishly playing catchup on her research, and Furniss family friend Mark Murphy is in town for a few days. I'll be attending the Whisky Live festival in Sandton later this week, my mouth watering at the prospect, my liver cringing. Check out the details of our trip on the Namibia tab. The pic above is from our trip to the dunes (obviously).

Booze

I miss beer. Not that they don’t have beer in South Africa, there’s just not a lot of variety, and what’s here ain’t great.

I’m normally a proud practioner of “when in Rome”, and there certainly is no shortage of awesome South African wines at ridiculously cheap prices. Pinotage is the country’s grape varietal claim to fame, but our hit or miss experience with them back in the States has put us off trying more of them over here. Mostly we stick with red blends—Pepper Pot*, Rupert & Rothschild Classique and Chocolate Block being personal faves. The problem is chunky reds go down like maple syrup in this heat, and adding ice or chilling it as locals do seems sacrilegious.

A restrictively high import tax makes getting my beloved Scotch an expensive proposition, though there are supposedly some very nice brandies down here. My one experience with them was while visiting our friend Cassie in Pretoria, who instructed me that real men take their Klipdrift brandy with cola and ice. Er, no Cass, real men drink good liquor that doesn’t need to be diluted with sugar water. If it tastes good, you shouldn’t need to put additional flavoring in it (I’m looking at you, Corona fans). There is a very nice single grain whisky, Cape Bain’s Mountain Whisky, which tastes like a lightly wooded bourbon. Tasty, but hardly the drink of choice to accompany brats and football. Or boerewors and rugby, in my case.

So, back to beer. Until we frequented the Paulaner Bier Garden and Mitchell’s Pub in Cape Town, I had been content with the meagre offerings of SAB Miller, the beverage giant that dominates most of southern Africa. Per usual, the beer of choice here largely falls along racial lines, with blacks preferring the locally brewed Castle and whites leaning towards Namibian Windhoek or pricey imports. Unfortunately, most imports are green bottle Pilsners, meaning you’ve got a fifty-fifty shot of opening one that smells like a cat peed in it.

Of the local macro-brew offerings, the Hansa Marzen Gold is marginally more flavorful than the standard watered down lager, while Castle Milk Stout is probably my favorite. There are a number of micro brews in the country, though they are mostly down around the Cape, and finding a pub or bottle store that sells them is nigh impossible. In fact, the Zululand Brewery’s Zulu Blonde famously won "best brew" at a festival in England, but good luck finding it outside of Kwa-Zulu Natal. The zesty little fella to the right is Forester's Lager, which required exhaustive investigative skills (or an internet connection) to track down.

So when Marnie and I return in a few months, and you find me passed out on the couch in the middle of the day with a pile of bottles at my feet, you’ll know why. It’s not gluttony—just making up for lost time.

*Pepper Pot is available at Whole Foods in Columbus, for those willing to partake

The Shakedown

Now who would ever want to cause trouble for these lovely ladies?

It was bound to happen. In the nine months we’ve been here, through numerous traffic checkpoints, Marnie has never had any trouble. So I suppose she was due.

The ominous warning signs were there early in the week, when the police were sniffing around Sahra’s restaurant looking for bribes. Though Marnie has never asked Sahra directly, she thinks the cops turn a blind eye towards the khat chewing in the restaurant in return for a little something on the side. For the uninitiated, khat is a leaf that is chewed like tobacco, with an effect like radioactive caffeine. It’s very much a social drug and isn’t debilitating, but was made illegal here when non-Somalis started chewing it.

The police have also been ratcheting up roadblocks, both in Mayfair and in general. The intent, as stated by the police, is to get unsafe vehicles off the roads, catch drunk divers, seize guns and drugs, etc. Unfortunately, the real purpose is money, as in collecting unpaid traffic fines and taxes for the government, and shaking down foreigners for bribes. Turns out these multi-purpose traffic stops may be unconstitutional as well, but you know, it’s all in the public interest.

So on Wednesday Marnie was in Mayfair dropping off her assistant Sowdo when the police flagged her down. Usually the cops check Marnie’s documents and wave her through, but this time the policewoman wanted to perform a search. Though annoyed, Marnie didn’t say anything when the woman rummaged through her purse, including opening her wallet to see how much cash she had. Marnie’s pillbox, containing everyday headache relievers, aroused temporary suspicion. The stop was nothing out of the ordinary—just your typical plodding, annoying, South African procedural BS. Then the woman said she was writing Marnie a ticket.

She cited the fact that Marnie didn’t have what is the equivalent of a car registration, though Marnie realized later the cop hadn’t actually asked to see it. When we bought the Corsa, our dealer said it wasn’t necessary to have the document on your person, that the registration sticker on the window was sufficient. When Marnie explained this, the woman chided, “They are not the police--they are car dealers. Why didn’t you ask us?”

Marnie explained the registration was at home, and that she could call me to get the number. The cop said I would have to bring the registration in person, which might have taken a while, given it’s a couple hours walk to Mayfair from Parktown North. The cop said she was arresting Marnie and driving our car to the station. Marnie would have to plead her case to the magistrate.

Naturally, Marnie was having none of it. What followed was a circular conversation, whereby Marnie explained that she was unaware of the law, but could get the registration number, and the cop insisting she would have to take her downtown. In the meantime, another policeman is searching the car, pulling off interior panels. He said to Sowdo that Americans “don’t understand”, and asked why she was with Marnie. Sowdo replied that Marnie was “her sister”. You gotta love that girl, she’s a real pisser.

After several more minutes of repeating nonsense, the policewoman walked off with Marnie’s passport, which I can attest is the most helpless feeling in the world. After deliberating with her partner, she said that Marnie should get in her car and go home. What she meant was “It’s obvious you’re too stupid to know you are supposed to bribe me, and there’s a long line of other people I need to shakedown for money, so you may as well leave and stop wasting my time.”

We found out from Dr. Landau, super anthropologist extraordinaire of Wits University, that the requirement to have your registration in the vehicle is a relatively new one, and he had been harassed about it a few times himself, before getting a certified copy to keep in his car. It would be nuts to keep the original in there—someone could easily steal the car and have a crooked official transfer it into their own name. Then again, common sense isn’t this government’s forte.

So Marnie escaped her first brush with police corruption unscathed, and without having to pay a bribe, which the Somalis were all very impressed with. If nothing else, it bought her a little street cred. It also underlined the fact that, despite being “privileged” whites, we are still very much foreigners in this country.

Edit:Purple Trees

Now that's how the purple trees should look, when they're not drained of color by stifling heat. I have since learned these are the ubiquitous jacaranda, imported from South America a couple of centuries ago. So if you're ever in Brazil, and think to yourself that the local florae looks a bit familiar, no, you're not crazy.

Hodge Podge

Apologies for the late post this week, but dreary weather and a dodgy stomach bug had me contemplating writing my will more so than a blog post. Unfortunately, the same rains that have cleared the air, returning my runny nose to standard operating procedure, have also kept me mostly trapped indoors. As a result, I present some random ruminations on life here. Here goes.

--Five South Africans walk down the middle of the road. That’s not a set up for a punchline, but rather the situation that regularly occurs when driving through the back streets of Parktown/Parkhurst. Around four or five, when all the domestic workers are walking home, driving morphs into a real life game of Frogger. Naturally, dirty looks are your reward for daring to attempt to use the road for its intended purpose. Why not use the sidewalk, people? It’s there for your walking pleasure!

--The security in Joburg, in addition to obscuring the beautiful architecture, makes finding an address a real pain. When we initially came to look at our apartment, we drove past the property several times. Mostly, you’ll catch a glimpse of a thatched or tiled roof peeking above the ubiquitous beige security wall. The lack of defining features causes many homes to have large address signs on their exterior walls, some more elaborate than others. The street layout in the area is mostly a Manhattan style numbered grid, making the address sign “61 Third Avenue” sound like a swank night club. Which would be clever, except every other home has a sign just like it.

--There’s a great steakhouse a couple of blocks away from us, but you’ll never see us walking up there after dark. This is more due to Marnie’s paranoia than any real security concerns, but she does have a point. Street lighting is nearly non-existent here, or at least non-functional. A Parkhurst residents association recently attached a balloon and “birthday card” to a light pole, having complained to the city that it was broken a year prior. When a reporter called the city for comment, they sent out a crew to repair the light. Good job boys, you only have an additional three hundred plus lights to repair in the area. Literally.

--It’s a good thing Marnie and I enjoy each other’s company, because we generally dine alone. Back home, an early dinner for us would be five thirty or six. The last couple of weeks you could hear our conversation echoing around the empty restaurant at seven. You would think being the only people in the restaurant would guarantee speedy and efficient service, but not so much. People have drinks earlier here (sundowners), then eat at eight or nine. While drinking and driving is the norm here, neither Marnie nor I have any desire to put our police bribery skills into practice, which usually means an early night. Party people, we are not.

--To wrap it up, congrats to Lizzy for adding to the ever growing nephew list with William Thaddeous, whom I have tentively nicknamed Thaddeous Maximus. Be comforted that when our little nephews Will, Jack and Colton are wailing inconsolably, they are only screaming for their cool Aunt Marnie and Uncle Dan in South Africa.

Who's the Bus?

In every Anglophone country, there are some nuances that need to be heeded. Like in the US, a fanny refers to your posterior, whereas in Britain it refers to the female bits on the flip side. These differences can certainly lead to uncomfortable or embarrassing encounters. In South Africa, one of the most difficult things to adjust to is the vocabulary of race.

As I was strolling to the grocery the other day, a man called to me from across the street, “Hey Boss.” Sigh.

This is generally how poor blacks address whites, and inevitably comes out as “bus”. I hate this, because 1) here is a fellow human being presuming to put himself in a subservient position simply because of the color of our skins and 2) I have never been, nor do I aspire to be, “the Boss”.

Anyway, after asking how far it was to Midrand (another 10 miles, good luck with that), and explaining that he was very tired from walking, he asked if he could wash my car. Or clean something. Anything. I explained that I lived in a rental, wished him luck, and went on my way.

How then, do South African whites refer to blacks? I’ve heard Ivan and Paul refer to address as “my baba”. Which, if you’re wondering, is exactly what Ivan calls his infant daughter. There was nothing patronizing in it, and the persons in question never took offence, but it pretty clearly demonstrates the power dynamics in this country.

Particularly cringe-worth to us is the term “coloured”. This is a catch all phrase used under Apartheid to include anyone who didn’t identify as white or black. This includes a whole slew of ethnic and racial groups, from Malaysian descendants to the indigenous San. The majority of coloureds speak Afrikaans, and therefore feel a kinship with whites. They largely live in the Cape, so luckily the term doesn’t come up often, though Marnie and I are slowly weaning off our PC induced panic faces when we hear it.

Unfortunately, an American racial slur has followed us across the pond, namely the n-word. Our trainer buddy Waz once referred to “my n*****s in America”. An American novel about black house workers in the South, “The Help”, is making the wifey rounds down here. Claire raved about the book, noting the similarities between South African black domestic workers and “your American n*****s”. Now Claire doesn’t have a racist bone in her body, and was quite embarrassed when we told her how taboo that word is.

So to hip-hop artists and others who think that there’s an appropriate context for that word, note that they haven’t quite got the message over here yet. So, you know, knock it off.

Note: Normally I disagree with using nonsense characters or otherwise editing out words, mostly because it affords them a power that they don’t deserve. That said, I realize not everyone feels that way, thus my n-wordage.

Spring is in the Air

It appears the warm weather is finally here to stay, and with it comes the awakening of Joburg. Though desperate for a rain storm to clear the sinus swelling allergens from the air, I can certainly appreciate how everything is blossoming into life.

My newfound bravado when walking the streets prompted me to take my camera out for a stroll—not the little incognito camera, but rather the big sniper rifle version with the zoom lens. If the street dwellers don’t like it, tough, I’ll just snap their picture and steal their souls. Run for your lives, mwah-ha-ha!

Anyway, it’s hard not to be taken aback by the lurid Technicolor landscape that has become our neighborhood. They have purple trees here. Egad, man, did you hear me, purple trees! What’s next, magenta colored tap water? Neon green dirt? Unfortunately, I waited to take pictures until after the hottest day of the year, leaving the vibrant purple blossoms looking dirty gray in the big picture above.

What makes all this biodiversity particularly impressive is that none of it is native. In fact (Everybody duck and cover, incoming factoid!), Joburg is the largest man-made forest in the world. Dutch farmers moving inland from the Cape (Voortrekers) planted the first trees on the open savannah, and later mining companies followed suit. Now you know.

Gym Weirdos

When you think about it, paying money to run in place on a treadmill, when you could just as easily run outside and actually GO somewhere, is weird. Paying someone to allow you to lift weights, when a great many employers will pay YOU to lift heavy objects, equally weird. So, in principle, gyms are pretty odd institutions. That said, our gym in Johannesburg has its own particular flavor of weird.

At the Planet Fitness in Craighall Park, which we frequent 2-3 times a week, there are two camps—the Big Guys, and the wannabe Big Guys. Unless you’re a woman, in which case the goal seems to be the ability to disappear when you turn sideways. Or to hang around the popular equipment in packs, gossiping incessantly, thereby rendering everyone else’s attempt at personal fitness as futile as your own.

The Boy Guy group contains several sub-categories. There are there rugby okes, with their punk mullets and teeny shorts to show off waxed thighs thick as Virginia hams. Then there’s the Body Builders Guild and the Trainers. The only major difference between the two is that the Trainers are usually talking to Guild members when they should be paying attention to their client—usually some poor middle aged wifey whose arm is about to part from its socket.

The tie that binds these fellas, apart from the fact that their necks are as big around as my thigh, is their universal disdain for anyone who can’t bench press a Cape Buffalo ten times. Everyone else is a waste of valuable gym resources. I may have wiggled my way into acceptance, however, as one of them asked me for a spot last week, which I took as a great honor.

I make an exception for one trainer/body builder, our boy Wazi Zulu. In addition to having the coolest name ever, a shirtless Waz is enough to elicit shouts of, “Dear God, what muscle is THAT?” Marnie took some sessions from the Waz, whose favorite motivational technique was to call her “lazy”. He’s good for a laugh and flirts with the ladies, but instantly goes deadly serious when using his favorite word--train. As in, “You must train with me. Must train hard. Training make you big and strong.”

So that leaves the rest of us, the wannabes. When you think about it, it’s remarkable more of us don’t die in there, given the vast majority have absolutely no idea what they’re doing. Take the new money black guys. Growing up in townships under apartheid, I’m guessing there wasn’t gym equipment available on every street corner. And if you haven’t grown up using them, some of these machines can be a little intimidating, as evidenced by the guy doing triceps extensions who looks like he's trying to milk a cow whilst hopping up and down .

The more worrisome group is the elders. Some of the older boys have a hard time letting go, lifting weights so heavy I cringe waiting for something to snap. Two guys in particular come to mind. One is a Charlton Heston dead wringer who only has one gym outfit and will sit on a piece of equipment for a half hour doing the same exercise. Hey dude, there’s other machines for that, it’s called cardio.

The other guy is a balding gorilla with a barrel gut who obviously used to be one of the Big Guys. He is the type who likes to grunt loudly and bang weights around so everyone can see how strong he is. When he gets really excited, he starts counting loudly in his thick Afrikaans accent: Wahn! Twooooo! Threy!

Both these guys like to chat up the Big Guys, and I’m afraid one day they’ll pass me on the way out of the gym on a gurney. Hey fellas, if the weight you’re using is enough to lift YOU off the seat, IT’S TOO HEAVY.

I would be amiss in not mentioning the weirdest of the gym dwellers: Bagel Lady. This beanpole woman runs on the treadmill with two bagels in each hand, which is just as baffling as it sounds. Why, Bagel Lady, why? Some things, we are just not meant to know.

White Dude Walking

Attention, people of the greater Parktown North/Parkhurst/Rosebank metropolitan area: I am just a white dude. Walking. Just a white dude walking. No need to stare. Thanks.

Yes, I have a car. I could drop Marnie off in Mayfair and have the Corsa for the day if I so choose. Apart from the fact that we need a really good, hard rain to wash the pollen out of the air, I really enjoy walking around. It’s the best way to see a place, after all. Plus, my pictures would come out all blurry driving past at 60 k/hr (about 37 mph—I still can’t think in metric).

The annual crime statistics came out last week, and our police precinct was dead last in every major crime category in Guateng province. So, given that I’m a lone guy and not a lone girl, and that I’m walking around at 11 in the morning and not 11 at night, I’m not particularly worried about being mugged. Besides, I tend to leave my “bling” at home when I’ve gone walkabout.

I’m admittedly more self-conscious about this having just returned from pedestrian friendly Cape Town, where seniors and school kids roam the streets with impunity. Oddly, the staring is not race biased, as I get as many puzzled looks from white rugby moms driving through the neighborhood as I do black domestic workers passing through. It used to be I’d just shoe gaze until the awkward moment passed. Now I stare back, burning a hole into their skulls until their guilt instinct kicks in and they finally look away.

I seem to have less trouble over in Rosebank, where the mall and numerous shops necessitate more people walking around on the streets. To the people who have stopped me to ask for directions: thanks for making me feel like a local, as well as a normal human being.

This is a bit of a touchy subject for me, given that I’ve had trouble walking around back home in posh Bexley as well. Jogging around the neighborhood, or just walking a couple blocks down to the pharmacy, I often get weird looks from people thinking I’m casing their mansion, or moronic school kids yelling at me and throwing trash out their car as they drive past. We spend umpteen million dollars on gyms and bike paths to encourage exercise, but if someone wants to use their own two feet to go about their daily business, it’s seen as weird. Bi-pedalism rules, people!

Not So Close Encounters

The next morning we set off from the harbor towards Seal Island. Stepping on board, my first though was not, “We’re going to need a bigger boat,” but rather, “We’re going to need a bigger cage.” The shark cage is plenty wide enough for the two people meant to be inside it, but is only three feet or so deep. That doesn’t leave a whole lot of room to shrink away from whatever is lurking on the opposite side.

Unfortunately, that was not to be necessary. In one way, the tour was very much like “Jaws”. You know the first three quarters of that movie, where you don’t actually see the shark? It was exactly like that.

Instead of floating yellow barrels or the ominous beep of a tracking device, what you see is churning water and circling sea birds. When a shark misses on its first attack, the seal will jump repeatedly towards the shark’s tail, hopefully spinning it in circles and churning the water enough for it to escape. While this sounds impressive enough, witnessed from a couple hundred yards away, it doesn’t look like much.

Seal Island itself isn’t much more than a big smelly rock where a bunch of seals and sea birds hang out. Seals leave the island to feed in small groups, leaping on the surface to confuse the sharks. The Great Whites patrol around the “Ring of Death”, where the sea bottom drops out abruptly around the island. In the early morning, the seals can’t see the sharks below, but the sharks can see the outlines of the seals above against the sky. Our guides get a little nervous when seals get too close to the boat, given once an attacking shark leapt from the water and landed on their outboard motor.

Good story, and in theory very plausible. The problem was, the high winds of the previous day dredged up silt from the bottom, making for poor visibility and crappy hunting conditions. There were four or five attempted attacks, but no breaches, no kills and no visible sharks. We dragged a seal decoy around the island trying to get a hit, but no dice. As the sharks’ hunting time came and went, the cage was lowered and baits were put out on lines. A young Swiss guy and I wet-suited up and were told to be ready to hop in at a moments notice.

Two hours later and I’m starting to feel like a bratwurst someone left on the grill. The sight of a right whale and a large pod of dolphins earlier had heightened expectations, but the prolonged nothingness that followed grew tedious. In fact, one crew member had fallen asleep when the bait rope flew through his fingers. He yanked frantically to pull the bait to the surface, but the shark had bitten through the rope.

Fresh bait was put out and we prepared to get in the cage. Having never scuba-ed before I was fairly panicked, and the initial chill of the water doesn’t do much to alleviate the sense of shock. Two regulators were lowered from a tank on deck, and we were told to watch the end of the bait rope. Underwater, I could see (or rather couldn’t) that was going to be a problem. The rope was only fifteen meters long, but visibility was so poor that the end wasn’t visible.

Added to this, water kept creeping into my facemask, and a tear in my suit was allowing cold water to creep up my back. After ten minutes my hands started to shake, but as the captain had said, we didn’t get all dressed up for nothing. The Swiss kid and I exchanged the occasional questioning glance, but neither of us spotted anything. A couple of times I though I saw a dark silhouette round the boat on his side of the cage, but that was surely wishful thinking. After fifteen minutes, our guide tugged on our respirators and we disappointedly exited the cage.

An Irish couple gave it a go for a few minutes after us, but we never got another hit on the bait. The crew claimed that until the previous week the boat had spotted sharks every single day since March. Super timing by the Shaffer clan once again.

The next day Marnie and I weren’t too sad to be heading home. I’m sure the Cape is a much friendlier in peak season, but it didn’t seem to care for us too much. Despite Capetonians’ protestations otherwise, Cape Town is a nice place to visit, but Joburg is a great place to live.

At the Tip of the World

The shark tour operators must know a little something about the weather, because the next morning the wind was rattling the window panes overlooking the harbor at breakfast (They told us the next day the weather varies drastically on opposite sides of the bay). The sun was shining, though, and we took a leisurely drive south down the coast to the Cape of Good Hope, the place where two oceans meet. It turns out the currents actually mix at Cape Agulthas east of there, and the Cape is not the most southerly point in Africa, but there’s no need to let some science nerds ruin a good time.

Also inside the park are monuments to Portuguese explorers Diaz and Da Gama, which align to point towards Whittle Rock, a submerged rock threatening to ships. There are apparently dozens of shipwrecks littered along either side of the Cape, but we must not have looked in the right direction, because we failed to spot any. What we did spot were numerous ostriches feeding on grass in the sandy dunes. Beach ostriches—that’s just weird.

On the way back into town, we stopped at Boulders Beach. Simon’s Town is home to one of only two penguin colonies in Africa, though you have to pay to access the beach where they swim. Though tempting, the cold waters, the hordes of Japanese tourists and the earthy smell of penguin poo left us watching from the safety of the boardwalk. There is admittedly something hilarious about watching them waddle around in single file--the penguins, not the Japanese tourists.

We had an early dinner and retired for the night, given our shark tour departed at seven sharp the next morning, and as the brochure said, boats don't wait. We were both nervous that night; Marnie hoping she wouldn't be seasick, and me hoping I wouldn't freak out being in the water with a fourteen foot killing machine.

Red, White & Bubbly

We looked forward to our wine tour on day three, if for no other reason that it was not weather dependent. So naturally, it was a gorgeous day, and once we were several miles out of town, the mountain finally came into view.

Our guide, Graham, turned out to be an ex-pat Scotsman, so we were never short on conversation. After a boozy sampling of champagne, three whites and three reds at De Grendel, we had a lovely lunch at Simonsig winery. Graham altered our plans to incorporate visits to two wineries whose product Marnie and I enjoy (Classique from Rupert & Rothschild, Chocolate Block from Boekenhoutskloof), followed by dinner in Franschoek at Le Quartier Francaise. It was a great rebound from two disappointing days.

We rescheduled our Robben Island tour for the Friday morning before the drive down the Cape to Simon’s Town, and for once the weather cooperated. Though we didn’t have time for a trip up Table Mountain, as promised, the best views of it were from the harbor. Unfortunately, the upper deck of the boat fills up quickly, so we enjoyed the view below decks with the rest of the riff-raff.

After a bus tour around the island’s periphery, we were lead through the prison proper by a former inmate, Benjamin. Ben somewhat sheepishly revealed he had been convicted for a failed rocket attack in 1980. The big draw is of course Mandela’s cell, which isn’t much to look at. Hearing the personal experience of a former inmate was amazing, but for my money the Apartheid museum is still the one must see attraction in the country concerning “The Struggle”.

Later that afternoon, we ran into the Indian Ocean for the second time in as many weeks. Skipping past surfing holes and seaside resorts on the jagged coastline, the navy destroyers of Simon’s Town harbor soon came into view. Our B&B, the Cheriton, sits atop the hill backing the town, named (ironically enough, if you’re from Lancaster, Ohio, anyway) Mount Pleasant.

My heart sank when our host Denise informed us the shark trip had been cancelled for the following morning due to weather. Gazing at the sunshine streaming over the placid bay waters, we were confused, to say the least. Relief followed when she informed us we could reschedule for Sunday.

Tiny Simon's Town isn't exactly an all hours party city (plus it would really suck walking up that hill with a few drinks in you), so after an early dinner, we tucked into the extensive movie collection on offer to guests of the hotel. Naturally, given the over 500 choices available to us, we watched two "Marnie Movies", that we've seen dozens of times. Some guys may think that one viewing of hairy British strippers in "The Full Monty", or snarky fashionistas in "The Devil Wears Prada" is enough, but not me!

Cape of Storms

Sometimes, you try to kill two birds with one stone. Sometimes, you only get one. Sometimes, you miss both. That was our Cape Town trip.

The timing of our trip was to coincide with the end of shark season on Seal Island and the beginning of spring in the Western Cape. Flying in, it was pretty clear the latter was not going to happen.

When he discovered the passage around the tip of Africa to India in 1486, the Portuguese explorer Diaz christened it the Cape of Storms. His successor, Da Gama, renamed it the Cape of Good Hope. More cheerful, perhaps, but certainly less accurate.

Mountains don’t seem to care for Marnie and me. As in Tanzania with Kilimanjaro, Table Mountain was entirely enshrouded in what the locals refer to as the “tablecloth”. I wish I’d taken a picture of the clouds from the plane, as they were among the more surreal I’ve ever seen: completely smooth on top, like fondant icing on a wedding cake. Or something less girly, perhaps.

Catching a cab from the airport, we engaged in a conversation that was to repeat itself numerous times on our trip. Upon hearing that we lived in Joburg, our driver winced, giving us that, “you poor bastards” grimace. Capetonians are more terrified of Joburg than foreign tourists, and aren’t shy about telling anyone who’ll listen about how great their city is.

They do have a point. The lack of razor wire and electric fencing is immediately evident, revealing beautiful Cape Dutch architecture. Overall, it’s much cleaner and safer than Jozi, as the numerous Yankie and Aussie tourists we heard must agree. It was nice not being the only white person walking on the street. Add to that the pleasures of the water and wine country, and you’ve got a nice little package.

The problem being, the first two days, we didn’t do anything but hang out at the mall and shop. The Victoria and Alfred Waterfront certainly has everything a shopaholic could desire, but we tend to get shopped out easily. High winds and choppy seas cancelled our trips to Robben Island and up the cable cars to Table Mountain.

We had heard nothing but wonderful things about the food in the Cape, but my exhaustive reconnaissance of the area's best revealed nothing but duds. Trip Advisor, it turns out, is fallible after all. Many thanks to the barkeeps at the Paulaner Bier Garden, the Bascule Whisky Bar and Mitchell’s Brewery, for easing the pain of our soggy blues.

Wildlife Watch: Pintailed Whydah

Well, we’re back in sunny Joburg having survived the stormy seas of Cape Town. Unfortunately, the Capetonian spring comes a month later than the rest of the country, so while I’m typing this now in a t-shirt and shorts, it was mostly sweater weather down south. And while it rains all winter long there, we are still yet to experience any rain at all in over three months. The monsoons will be arriving shortly, I’ve been told.

Marnie is particularly glad to be back, her chilly bones finally returning to standard operating temperature just this morning. With Eid this week marking the end of Ramadan, the Somalis should return to their normal schedule, and she can finally get some work done. She never can win with the Somalis on food though—they normally ask her to partake in heaping platefuls of greasy spaghetti and rice, but during Ramadan they ask her why she isn’t fasting.

Having left you lovely folks with a picture of a feathered friend, I thought I’d mark our return with this little guy we spotted in Simon’s Town at our hotel. This particular Whydah was a feisty bugger, chasing off doves three times its size and attacking its reflection in the kitchen windows as we ate our breakfast. As you can imagine, the long tail makes for quite the dramatic effect in flight.

The full story of our trip will be coming along shortly. Till then, I’m off to the pool to drink some daiquiris. Not really. Maybe a beer. Or five.

Wildlife Watch: Crested Barbet

For the last post before our week long detour to Cape Town, I thought I'd get everyone in the mood for some game watching. The return of warm weather to Jozi has hastened the return of some of our feathered friends from Botswana and Mozambique. This little guy was singing away in the tree behind our flat.

Naturally, just as the beautiful weather returns here, we head to the still chilly Cape. Before you go blaming the trip organizer, I'll metion the planning was held hostage by the migratory patterns of Great White sharks. By the middle of September, the warming waters in the Cape send the sharks eastward to Mossel Bay, and with it their high flying "Air Jaws" act you may have seen on the telly. So there.

Anyway, I look forward to the fine wineing and dining down there, in addition to the natural wonders on display. Cape Tonians consider themselves a breed apart from those "busy Jo'Burgers", so it will be nice to soak up some of that chill vibe. Expect an in-depth recounting next weekish. Later gators.

Idiots, Unite

Sometimes, you just have to sit back and admire this country's ability to cut off its nose to spite its face. A month and a half after the World Cup, and all the congratulatory back slapping for a job well done, South Africa is poised to throw all that good will away.

Enter week two of the Cosatu strike (Congress of South African Trade Unions—they love acronyms down here), with 1.3 million government workers striking for an 8.6% salary increase and R1000/month housing allowance, to the government’s 7% and R700 offer. Initially, they had the backing of the public, but, oh my, how things have changed.

Pregnant women are being turned away from hospitals by unruly mobs, all non-critical patients have been forced to go home, and two premature newborns died when they were not fed or tended to all day. A mob burst in on a doctor preparing to operate on an unconscious patient. He bravely refused to leave, and thus condemn his patient to death. I could go on…

The medical union’s response? If the government cared about the livelihood of its employees, this wouldn’t happen.

On the education front, children are being blocked from public school buildings, which are now manned by retired teachers and student volunteers. There have been several instances of principals being threatened or assaulted, and the union is advocating that teacher’s shut down private schools as well, so that everyone can “feel their pain”.

In a delicious slice of irony (I like mine a-la-mode), several education strikers were injured when police opened up with water cannons and rubber bullets. I wonder, what kind of treatment did they receive at the hospital?

Eager to get in on the bully act, the ANC has grown tired of journalists exposing their corrupt awarding of government contracts and their swanky life styles. So instead of cleaning up their act, they are proposing a bill to criminalize the publication of “state secrets”, creating a media tribunal to try suspected journalists.

In the States, the National Archives decide which information is classified. Guess who will get to decide in South Africa? Who will be appointed to the tribunal? The A to the N-C. Judge, jury and executioner all under one roof.

There has also been a recent spate of rhino poaching, with 180 having been killed in the last year. Guess what folks, the people who come here on safaris, they aren’t spending their hard earned money to come see the charming, protesting city folk, THEY’RE HERE TO SEE THE ANIMALS.

Fans of logic, beware, there’s no place for you here.

Back "Home"

Apologies for anouncing our return so late, but you blink on Tuesday, and suddenly it's Thursday. Anywho, we're back safely, nicely browned in my case and red and peeling in Marnie's. For a full recounting of our trip, see the Mozambique tab beneath our photo. Cheers.