Day 363

Marnie and I are notoriously anxious travellers. The night before departing, we rarely sleep more than a couple hours, but this time the insomnia started a couple of weeks beforehand. It goes without saying we’re both feeling a little edgy.

The combination of relentlessly soggy weather along with the Kirstein kids destroying the satellite TV receiver means Marnie and I have nothing to do but obsess about packing. We fill a bag close to bursting, remembering later there’s something in there we still need--all the way in the bottom. With a borrowed scale, Marnie weighs each bag, redistributes the weight, repeats. Until we’re checked in and see our luggage scoot off down the conveyor belt, we won’t relax. So for now, we spend each moment checking off each mental note in our heads until there is nothing more do but wait, and pace.

In time, I will become nostalgic for this place, but for the past month, I’ve just wished each day was the next. I suppose I’ll miss the jacarandas in springtime bloom, my avian friends, the ample selection of exotic meat products. I might even miss a person or two. But right now, when people ask us if we’re ready to go, we tell them that it’s just time.

I thought it would be appropriate to end this blog with the first picture I took in this country, the same one I used in my first post here. Just like now, we were sleep deprived and frazzled, albeit for very different reasons. Looking out into the dark chaos of downtown Johannesburg, those two crazy kids were scared senseless, with no idea what was about to hit them. The difficulties of getting simple things accomplished in Africa. The rainy season. The dry season. World Cups and labor strikes. Walking with gorillas, swimming with sharks. The Serengeti, the Kalahari. And those crazy Somalis.

But for now, enough with the adventures. Now is the time for friends and family, for living in a home instead of a fortified compound, for driving on the right side of the road, for people competent (more so, at least) at their jobs, for police who actually protect people, for Super Bowls and decent ice cream and real coffee (ohhhhh Starbucks!). And maybe, time for just a little sleep.

See you on the other side of the pond,
Dan and Marnie.

Somali Farewell

Somali food is gooood. Fortuitously so, since a heaping mouthful also provides me with an excuse to smile and nod when I clearly don’t understand a word the Somali guy across from me just said.

When we arrived at Sahra’s restaurant in Mayfair at 10:30 in the morning, the place was still very quiet. The guys stay up all night chewing mirra, and don’t usually rouse from slumber until around noon. The women were already busy cooking for Marnie’s going away party.

Waiting was her favorite Somali dish, chabati (the sweeter pancake cousin of canjeero) along with some spiced mince and potatoes to scoop up with it. The women sat around a bowl of beef filling, stuffing dough to make samoosas in classic construction worker style—one person to do the work and four people to tell them they’re doing it all wrong.

As the fellas slowly awoke from their zombie trance, I got drawn into conversation with two very atypical Somalis. Allale is an older gentleman and wicked smart, blessed with a rare self awareness of his own culture. The conversation can be a bit one sided, as I discovered during a discussion about Somalia’s national dish that incorporated a folk story about conflict with Ethiopia, the Great Rift Valley and plate tectonics.

Yasin is an aspiring rapper in his twenties, his upbringing in Zambia resulting in his fluent English and worldliness. He operates a lingerie shop, but dreams of moving on to the US or UK. Somalis like Yasin really are heartbreaking, as you know he is capable of so much more, but is limited by his opportunities here, and is an outsider in his own community.

Our conversation was interrupted by a police visit outside. From across the street, we observed the fracas of Somali guys shouting at two cops. I personally wouldn’t mouth off to somebody holding an assault rifle, but the guys are pretty used to this type of treatment by now. Abdihakim, a Marnie interviewee, was being threatened with arrest for refusing the cops entrance to the restaurant on the grounds that they didn’t have a warrant. The cops apparently decided that getting their bribe wasn’t worth the hassle and let Abdihakim go.

The party moved across the street, where the aforementioned samoosas were being served with mendazzi, a cardamom spiced donut, and halwa. Halwa is a sticky confection somewhere in texture between jello and jelly, and takes hours of continuous stirring to produce. Somalis love the stuff, but the version we’ve had in Columbus wasn’t the best. This, however, was buttery, caramelly deliciousness. I wish I could describe it better, but it really is an alien substance.

The guys spread out on blankets and pillows on the ground, while I mingled awkwardly with the ladies. Marnie and I, ravenous, wondered why no one was eating. Eventually the women started plating up food for the men. They had been waiting to be served. Rough life. The social distance between men and women takes some getting used to, as the opposite sexes don’t tend to socialize.

On the flip side, the men were roughly shooed off by Sahra after they ate, so that the women could take their hijabs off and party properly. Opened minded dudes like Yasin and me got to stick around and see some Somali booty shaking. Marnie got decked out in a loaner dirac, a traditional, very colourful dress. To see the women without their head covers, dancing in Technicolor flowing dresses, was to see an entirely different aspect of Somali culture, and I feel priviledged to have witnessed it.

The evening wound down with well wishes and tearful goodbyes. Jacqui has promised a farewell braai Monday night, but I doubt that it will be nearly so colourful, or emotional.

So, what's Dan gonna do?

Golf, was the answer that Marnie would give to people who asked how I would spend my time here. I was perpetually offended by this inference of an extended vacation, when really my intention this year was to find out if writing was something I could foresee doing full time. The verdict? I really enjoy writing, and I still think there are a few more short stories or a novel floating around between my ears. But making a living writing full time is hard, and some of the unrepentant snobbery I’ve encountered on my writing forum has put me off a bit. None of us are Hemingway yet, people—lighten up.

So finally, after a year in South Africa, I dusted off my war clubs for a round of golf at Parkview. The early summer sunrise, whilst maddening from a sleeping perspective, at least makes getting 18 holes in before 10 am very doable. The course itself isn’t instantly recognizable as “African”, apart from the hadedas, Egyptian geese and Guinea fowl that graze on the fairways. That, and the groundskeepers, whose repeated attempts to sell you baggies of stray balls they’ve found is very African indeed.

The layout is fairly straightforward, with holes straddling either side of a creek bed. Or maybe not so straightforward, as I somehow conspired to miss the four hole loop accessed by a passage underneath a road cutting across the course. I played the two holes back to the clubhouse before I figured out my error, and was too embarrassed to walk all the way back across the course to play the missing holes. On the upside, my final score was about twenty strokes lighter than it might have been otherwise.

I started off brightly enough, just missing my par putt on the first hole. Then the two guys in front of me waved for me to play through, and I promptly one-hopped my drive into the road. The driver was not to make another appearance for a while. The best holes are 1-7, south of another road that bisects the course, offering dramatic views of Brixton tower downtown. The surrounding homes of Westcliff and Parktown give a country club type of feel, and there are some lovely par threes for those who have tired of smashing their drives into the creek.

On 6, a foursome in front of me waived me through yet again, and this time I tucked a cute chip in close for a tap in par, thus avoiding any further embarrassment. Considering I hadn’t golfed an actual round since October of 2009, I thought I played respectably. Especially since I figured out, with comical results, that the distance markers are in meters, not yards. The only problem is now that I’ve had a taste, I’ll have to wait for Ohio to thaw out before I get the chance to embarrass myself again.

How to Pack a Vuvuzela

Apololgies for the photo above. We couldn't resist--it's like a virus. Congrats to the Buckeyes on their bowl win, and thanks for the rather unnecessary heart attack. An easy victory? What fun is that?

So much for a calm, relaxing final week. I’ve spent the majority of my time running around tidying up loose ends, in classic headless chicken style. The down time in between is spent on my cell phone cancelling contracts, holding for someone who will inevitably transfer me to someone else. Planet Fitness is notorious for continuing to charge customers after they thought their memberships had expired (fine print and all that). So despite notifying their customer service line, the reception desk and head office of our intention (in writing! in duplicate!) to quit the gym, I fully expect to be charged for another month’s membership after we leave.

Finding someone to buy our car was simple enough, but the process of transferring ownership has proved educational. I was hoping to avoid the soul sucking drudgery of another visit to the traffic department. But somehow, after nearly a year’s worth of clean driving, Marnie managed to get a speeding camera ticket last month. I found out through a traffic fine hotline (as usual, the government is only efficient when it comes to collecting money), but a physical ticket was never mailed to us. We could just ignore it, but then the guy who buys our car would be on the hook for it. Or conversely, he could just not transfer ownership, and rack up a bunch of traffic fines in our name, thus turning us into international outlaws on par with Julian Assange.

Our apartment is slowly reverting back to the spare shell of furniture and appliances in which we originally found it. The fridge looks distinctly collegiate—all condiments and no food. The pile of stuff we’ve accumulated in our time here now sits in a menacing heap on the couch. Despite giving the majority of our clothing away to the Somalis, the task of fitting an assortment of awkwardly shaped African crafts into our luggage is daunting. Here’s hoping that it all survives the passage through the notoriously sticky fingers of OR Tambo’s luggage handlers.

Speaking of Somalis, Marnie has been taking our giveaway stuff to Mayfair this week, and my handy downs have proved quite a hit with the guys. Literally. One of Marnie’s friends tucked the clothes into the trunk of his car for safekeeping, and another guy thought he was taking the lot for himself. Fisticuffs ensued. Unfortunately, no one can be found to fit into my flipper sized shoes. The Somalis are throwing us a going away party on Saturday, which should prove a stern test of my listening skills. As if comprehending them isn’t trying enough, they tend to all speak at once, the voices dribbling over each other like the sound of ducks at a pond. Marnie’s used to it, but all I hear is quack quack quack.

Despite all the chaos, we did manage one last meal at the Grillhouse the other night. With our bellies grumbling at the prospect of large hunks of grilled meat, the waiter delivered our wine, only then telling us the kitchen wasn’t open for another half hour. Grrrr. The clock is ticking on you, South Africa, and you’re making it awfully easy to leave.

South Africa 2010? Done.

Seeing the photo above, I originally feared that the inevitable xenophobic wars had begun downtown. Turns out it’s something called “fireworks”. Whew.

I hate year end retrospectives. Firstly, they inevitably end up being reminders of horrible things that have happened. For every Chilean miner there is an unpronounceably named Icelandic volcano or horrific Gulf oil spill. In South Africa’s case, for every successfully hosted World Cup, there is a violent labor strike or widespread rhino poaching. I’m sure one of these years there’ll be 100% global employment and worldwide peace, but I’m not holding my breath.

Secondly, the really horrible stories tend to stick around. 2009 wasn’t exactly stellar for the global economy, but that didn’t keep this year from sucking, did it? Likewise, Mugabe rigging elections and refusing to rescind power the previous year hasn’t prevented the same thing happening in Cote D’Ivoire in 2010. The beat just rolls on and on.

So it is with reluctance that I attempt to summarize our year in Africa. In the course of backing up our laptop, I’ve recently been reviewing footage of the amazing trips we’ve been on. We both agree that the Rwanda/Tanzania trip was one of the greatest of our lives, with our trek to see the gorillas in particular deserving of a second go around. Having known very little about it before venturing there, Namibia startled me with its stark beauty and user-friendliness. For Africa newbies, you could do worse than the weird intersection of rolling sand dunes, oceanic water sports and German culture that is Sossusvlei on the Namib coast. And I finally crossed Great White sharks off my bucket list in Mossel Bay. So, you know, a slightly above average year travel wise.

On the down side were those stressful few days involving that aforementioned volcano, and the relative disappointment of our trips to the seaside. But, as Marnie pointed out to me, we’ve experienced more fantastical voyages than most people experience in a lifetime. And even during our most desperate hours trying to escape the isle of Britain, the way strangers came together in adversity boded well for mankind. The tasty ale at the pubs probably didn’t hurt either.

On the “domestic” front, things were pretty ho-hum. Marnie went to Mayfair six days a week, and not having the car, I mostly explored the neighborhood on foot or read and wrote in the apartment. Much like at home, we settled into our little routines, with gym in the mornings, coffee and an episode of “Come Dine With Me” in the evenings, and pizza from Espresso on Friday.

The major exception to this monotony was, of course the World Cup. I’ll never forget the way the country adopted Ghana as its team after Bafana was knocked out, or how surreal it was hearing a whole stadium singing the Star Spangled Banner in our little African corner of the world. The overwhelming feeling of goodwill, the shared desire to show the world that it was wrong to doubt South Africa, was intoxicating. Too bad it didn’t last. As many have commented, South Africa would benefit from hosting the World Cup every year.

I honestly figured we’d be mugged at least once during our time here (knock on wood), but the police proved to be much more of a nuisance than the criminals. I have a hard time feeling sorry for people here, apart from children and immigrants. Whites living in palatial mansions behind electric fences and driving Ferraris have the audacity to wonder why the black help, whom gets paid little and respected even less, might want to rob him. Blacks who are woefully unqualified for their jobs violently strike for increased benefits despite diminishing returns on their part (decreasing school pass rates, stagnant crime rates, horrible hospital conditions). And above all, a government accountable to no one but itself, seemingly intent on looting as much as possible for their friends and families before moving on to the next corrupt scam. But then again, there is the oasis of sanity that is Cape Town.

I wish I could tell you what South Africans do on New Year’s Eve, but Marnie and I stayed in as usual, recreating a lacklustre version of our traditional Christmas Eve dinner. The fact that most of the city is still off somewhere on holiday should theoretically make going out safer, but in my mind that just gives the drunk guy in the Land Rover more room to get up a head of steam before he plows into you. At midnight, we spied a few fizzling fireworks from our apartment window, through a curtain of rainfall.

With two weeks left here, Marnie is nearly done with interviews, and I’m just winding down the hours. It seems there’s nothing left to see or do or buy, at least not within a two mile radius. I’ve consoled myself with college football, and tonight, for the first time in a year, I will get to see my beloved Buckeyes play. You can take the boy out of Ohio…