Looks

After a string of fair weather days, the rains have returned, and with Marnie off in Mayfair helping to prepare some Somali food in Sarah’s restaurant, it seemed a good opportunity to catch up on my writing.

Marnie and I have joined the Planet Fitness gym, a huge complex with all the amenities one would associate with the Lifestyle chain back home. Though we got a ridiculous deal given what an equivalent facility in the US would cost, South Africans have it even better. Jacqui informs us that through health care plans people here pay an initial fee to join a gym without any further dues, though one can drop additional cash on a personal trainer like Jacqui does. Marnie and I met with trainers for a free initial “fitness assessment” as part of our membership, which is essentially a sales pitch for that trainer’s services. Marnie’s trainer Kumi, while an otherwise nice guy, had a blunt appraisal of Marnie’s fitness. I might have made something of it had his biceps not been as big around as my head, which leads me to the crux of this post.

Criticizing someone’s appearance is more acceptable here than I am normally comfortable with, albeit it generally occurs behind their backs. Those of means care a great deal about how they look, and this is reflected in the amount of time and money spent on gyms, hair salons and fashionable clothing. Cosmetic surgery is relatively cheap, and apparently “surgery and safari” vacation packages are quite popular. Noticing that a number of the ladies frequenting this house seemed to have been genetically blessed in the chestal region, I was rather embarrassed when Marnie had told me that they had been “enhanced”. Perhaps I can purchase some peck implants and save myself some time in the gym.

South African Culinary Reference

Biltong: Jerky, often in the form of wild game (ostrich, kudu, etc)



Boerwors: (ie wors) Similar to biltong, in tube form. Think SlimJim



Koeksisters: Dense, donut like, sticky confection



Monkeygland sauce: A chutney based steak sauce. Has absolutely nothing to do with monkey parts



Peri-peri sauce: Spicy Portuguese hot sauce

Meet the Kirsteins: Claire

OK, so technically Claire is a Sandelson (nitpickers). In addition to Jacqui and Paul here at the house, Claire is mother to Stacy and stepmom to Dean and Barry. Her husband Neville is a golf instructor at the World of Golf and former South African champion. He's managed to produce three single digit handicapper sons, though I understand they didn't do so hot at the Houghton tournament on Sunday. They are apparently aquaintances of such golf dignitaries as Ernie Els, Tim Clark and Trevor Immelman, if those names do anything for you.

So, back to Claire. Claire is originally from Glasgow, Scotland, but moved to South Africa when she was very young. She converted to Judaism to marry her first husband, though there's not much evidence of it around the house apart from the odd yiddish phrase thrown into casual conversation. Claire helps Jacqui with her table linen business, which is actually starting to bear fruit in terms of sales and placement in stores (website soon to come, hopefully). She also volunteers at Children of Fire, a charity for child burn victims, though she hasn't had as much time since the business took off.

Claire has been etremely generous in helping us since we arrived. Non-citizens require a vehicle registration number to own a car here, necessitating a trip to the dreaded Home Affairs office. Our dealer hires someone to assist in the process, but he stood us up twice. She offered to take us herself, and several hours later we had our certificate at no cost, without a single bribe offered. When she found out that the dealer was going to charge us R750 (about $100) for what turned out to be a free service, Claire called the dealership and chewed them out. My kind of lady.

Wildlife Watch: Bulbul

Not another bird! Sorry, but until we take our first trip into the bush, this little guy will have to suffice. This is the dark capped bulbul doing his best Sinatra for the ladies. Unfortunately, he enjoys doing this between five and six in the morning. Marnie and I are gradually adjusting to the fact that people get up early to take advantage of the daylight and are mostly in for the night by dark (around 7), so perhaps this is a blessing.

Though not evident by the picture, the bulbul has a bright yellow bum that he shows off by flitting his tail as he sings. Something to keep in mind for the single fellas out there.

A Day Out In Parkhurst

While Marnie was getting her hair done, I thought I'd try my hand at a little photojournalism. Parkhurst has a lot of lovely restaurants with outdoor seating intermixed with high end interior design, antique and food shops (thus my previous comparisons to Grandview in Columbus). As it was lunchime, there were quite a few people about, and I discovered that I'm not as bold behind a camera as is necessary. In addition, I took the long range lens for the camera, and was thus unable to take wide angle shots down 4th Street without standing in the middle of the road. Ah well, live and learn.

Quickly frightened off by my human subjects, I retreated to the relative safety of the nearby park and Pirates sports club. Sadly, this park, like many parks back home, has become a haven for the homeless, so I largely kept my camera to myself. Once back on the road side I was able to take a pic of the sports club, with the tower in Hillbrow looming ominously in the background. If you ever are in a position to look straight up at this structure, you are in the wrong place. Run!

The Somalization of Marnie Shaffer

It would appear that either claims of the suspiciousness of the Somali community have been greatly exaggerated, or my girl has quite a way about her. Probably a bit of both, methinks.

Yesterday Marnie had a girls day out with her Somalis in Mayfair. She met her friend Sahra at her restaurant (her home) and got to help in the kitchen. After going for her henna tattoos, the ladies went to purchase a scarf and skirt. Marnie had wanted to have just her feet painted, but her request was lost in translation, and she got a bit more than she bargained for. I think she comes across as more gypsy than Somali in her outfit, but cute nonetheless. Naturally the sight of a white woman done up in henna was quite the hit on 8th in Mayfair, and Marnie quickly had a group of admirers following her.

Far from struggling to find women to interview, Marnie is awash in Somali women eager to tell their story. They desperately want people to know what is going on in the community. For instance, the night before Marnie visited, the police came to the restaurant and rounded up five Somali men. They released them- after they had collected about a thousand rand. They could complain, but to who? And if something actually happens to the officers involved, the informants become targets themselves. This, unfortunately, is just the tip of the iceberg of what these people endure.

Gloom and doom aside, Marnie had a blast yesterday. I understand the henna will fade away. Eventually. I hope.

Walkabout

I haven't written in a few days due to various reasons, the prime one being the construction crew at the house sealing the roof. They've been pounding on the roof for the last two days, but it appears that all the effort was for nought as a torrential downpour last night resulted in water bursting out of every seam under the veranda. After a rather heated late night phone call from Ivan, the crew is back today to finish the job.

Not wanting to languish another day in the apartment, it occurred to me that laptops are, in fact, a portable device. The result of this insight is me slurping down my Chai tea frosty at Lulu's, surrounded by many important looking people typing assuredly important things into their laptops. It occurred to me too late that I should have brought my camera, but then not everyone likes having close ups taken when they are sipping on their lattes.

Given that Marnie is once again with her Somali ladies in Mayfair, I was left to hoof it around the town, so I walked over to Rosebank to attain a "man bag". Like Marnie, I am quite the reluctant shopper, but I also realize that toting my purchases around the streets in shopping bags is like saying, "I have just purchased a shiny new object. If you like, you could hit me over the head with a brick and take it. Thanks for not stealing my shoes so that I can walk the rest of the way home."

After having visited seemingly every shop in Rosebank, I finally ventured into Wooly's- Woolworths for the uninitiated. Now this is not the discount department store you may remember from the States. During the apartheid years British retailers Marks and Spencer wanted to operate in South Africa, but didn't want the negative press of doing business in the sanctioned nation. The result is Wooly's, which is nearly identical to M&S (think of a more upmarket version of Target with a trendy grocery as well). Naturally, they had what I was looking for.

I walked the fifteen minutes back to Parktown to complete my errands, which included picking up a street map at the gas station, replenishing our wine supply and inquiring about some scotch at our friendly liquor merchants, picking up a Chinese take away menu and stopping here for a coffee to update the blog. It's all very trivial stuff, but it gives me something to do away from the flat. And you guys thought I wouldn't have anything to do here...

Meet the Kirsteins: Ivan

Ivan (he's the big one), like most white South African men I know, is one large mammal. I blame it on all the rugby in this country, but he claims he's a midget next to those guys (country boys, he tells me). Anyway, Ivan is the quiet and easygoing counterpoint to Jacqui's frenetic verve. The kids tend to swarm him when he arrives home from work, and he strikes me as a very patient and attentive father, which isn't always easy when the both kids are in top gear at the same time.

Ivan and two of his colleagues were top earners at a large advertising firm, but broke off to form their own company. Their timing couldn't have been worse, as the global economy took its nosedive shortly thereafter. They weathered the storm, however, and things are beginning to look up. For one of their client's grand opening, the boys selected some wholesome young girls to attend and promote the place. FHM is considering doing a photo shoot. Rough gig.

Ivan is not as accomplished a golfer as the lads on Jacqui's side of the family, so I'm hoping we can play together without embarrassing myself too much. He is currently training to run a 5K, and will attempt to teach me the nuances of rugby this weekend.

The Compound

The metal roof pops and groans as the early morning sun warms its surface, and the chirping of the birds is interrupted only by the occasional (ok, sometimes frequent) cries of little India. It is a rare moment of idyll at 36 3rd Ave. Then the buzzer sounds, the security gate rolls slowly to one side, and the non-stop carousel of characters in and out of the house begins anew for the day.

This house was originally built in the 40's, but Jacqui and Ivan bought it several years ago and completely transformed it. Over the course of two years the house was gutted and its stucco walls expanded on either side, the result being a home of resort like quality. Though certainly a gorgeous home, it is people that make this place hum. The interior is all cozy light walls and dark wood, but it's out back where the action takes place. From early in the morning until dark this is the social hub for an extended network of friends, family and business associates.

A long veranda follows the entire the back wall of the house. Underneath young Ethan screams along on one of his vehicles, followed closely by India tottering dangerously close to the steps down to the pool and picking up anything that isn't nailed down. Jacqui's mom Claire sits at the long dining table, cutting and organizing fabric for napkins and placemats. Jacqui has a cell phone mashed to one side of her head as as she simulataneously yells at the kids and entertains multiple visitors, her "free" hand gesticulating wildly with a cigarette as if conducting the madness surrounding her. Then the buzzer sounds, the gate rolls slowly open and another cast member joins the show.

Wildlife Watch: Weaver

This handsome little devil is the Southern Masked Weaver. He has been busily tidying up his bachelor pad to attract some attention from the ladies. I've seen a few of them checking the place out, so I think he's making some headway.

Apologies to those expecting something a little more exotic, but we are in short supply of lions and wildebeests in the city.

Meet the Kirsteins: Jacqui

All conversations about our kind host family begin and end with the family matriarch, Jacqui. Possessing the energy level of five normal human beings, Jacqui is the whirling dervish at the center of the hurricane that is the Kirstein family household. This includes husband Ivan, brother Paul, kids Ethan (5) and India (18 months), helpers Vicky and Edward, along with a bevy of daily visitors (and two very hapless American tenants). Jacqui's day usually begins at 5:30 am and ends whenever she drops.

In addition to her duties as head of household, Jacqui and Ivan are starting a business selling table linens with designer fabric imported from the US. A year in the buzz is largely by word of mouth, but plans to expand are well in the works. All of the fabric is cut and stitched in house, and in my humble opinion is top of the line stuff at a fraction of the price of mass produced crap back home. Jacqui also does a sideline in clothing design and hopes to develop a small range of yoga wear, in which she has enlisted our considerable Googling skills for ideas.

When not spinning on her head, Jacqui enjoys a drink on the beautiful back patio, which is well deserved. She has gone out of her way to help us furnish our place, and it is her 3G card which is allowing me to post this, for which I am very grateful.

We apologize for the disruption in service. Your regularly scheduled program shall commence.

Apologies for the lengthy delay. Our kind landlords offered to let us use their 3G card, but nobody seemed to have the startup disk for the software. Late last night I figured out how transfer the files from one laptop to another and set up the connection. Sweet Hallelujah.

As you can see, our car is purple. P-U-R-P-L-E.

Given our options, however, it suits our needs just fine. The hotel arranged for our driver Sam and another worker familiar with the area (Jenny, I think?) to drive us to some dealerships. The first dealership was where we were introduced to our purple Corsa, but we didn’t want to jump at the first chance. This led us to the seedy dealerships in Brixton. Luckily, our man Sam was savvy to dealer tricks and steered us clear of the lemons. Later that day, without having seen a single other car worth test driving, we returned to seal the deal with dealer Jim, an extremely racist but otherwise helpful guy.

Getting around is not nearly as bad as we had dreaded, but challenging nonetheless. I know from our shuttle excursions through downtown that it’s not a place that either of us hopes to ever drive. Pedestrians dart out into traffic at random, and the cursed mini buses swerve violently in and out of lanes and are liable to come to a screeching halt any time they see a fare. The northern suburbs are of course less frantic, but the general mindset everywhere seems to be hyper aggressive and rush hour is bumper to bumper. As Marnie has noted, this seems to suit her natural driving style just fine.

A few days ago I braved the roads for the first time, albeit a short drive through neighboring Greenside. No one was injured in the process, though I did get hooted at (which is the preferred nomenclature to honk) several times for driving cautiously. Thick skin is quite the asset on the roads of Jozi.