it’s back on and going orff!

March 27, 2015March 29, 2015 by Sasha ♥ 1 Comment

Time flies doesn’t it? 2 months ago I arrived. And in another two months I’ll be flying out again. How much has happened in just a few short months. Apologies that the blog posting has not been as regular. Maybe it’s uni assignments or weekends away or maybe it’s also because my life here is much less ‘the tourist’. Relationships are solidifying and therefore becoming more personal. Yet there is lots to tell…and load shedding is back on which means more quiet time to write.

I was invited along on a lighthouse hopping tour to Napier and back with my housemate and her friends two weeks ago . When I accepted the offer it had sounded like a very civilised, relaxed two days of sightseeing. Little did I know it would involve a preliminary adventure. After some messaging back and forth Jenny told me to get to the pick up place we would first have to take a taxi- an infamous South African taxi. At first I was like “yeah! awesome! finally!” but then I realised we’d have luggage and one or two valuables. hmmm…. What’s the game plan Jenny? So she gave me the low-down that morning. “You’re going to act cool, very cool, like you’ve done this many times. But at the same time you’re going to be very aware – aware of those around you and of your stuff. Hold onto your stuff. Give me your cards” (she stuffs them into her buttoned shirt pocket) “Nothing is going to happen but if it does we just give them our wallet.” Ummm ok….. She looks at my pulley bag and shakes her head. hmmm… I better go the backpack option. Don’t look so mug-worthy then.

After a re-pack we’re off and at a cracking pace. Jenny sees a taxi – white, stickered, music pulsing mini-bus – and holds out her hand like a pro calling out “we’re going to the macdonalds!”. Yes, yes we are. The screechy door is ripped open and the gaatjie (hacking noise + “eye chi”) bounds out. It’s like entering the Cango caves but now with some serious luggage and pace. Head down and move fast because the taxi’s already moving. The Gaatjie dives in and we’re all in, door grates shut. I look around. Mostly ladies. Phew. But don’t relax just yet. I realise although I may think there is little threat inside the vehicle I was now hostage to the driver who was taking full advantage, ducking and weaving and swearing at cars not getting out of his way. (Don’t they know he owns this road??). I’m sitting on a foamed bench and next to me is another seat that folds up for extra space. Let’s see how many people can fit hey. Jenny hands over our payment to the gaatjie who’s doing the multitasking dance – calling out to people on the street in his booming resonant voice, tuning the ladies in and outside the vehicle to which they respond with “oooooh!”, cracking jokes with the driver whilst seamlessly taking money and giving change. He falls into a debate with the woman next to him – is the smell he can smell KFC or fish n chips? Now it smells like fish…but now like chicken….what does she think? No no no he thinks it’s fish n chips. But maybe it’s both? – I sit back, soak it all in and smile at the lady next to me who reciprocates – a moment of bonding between two strangers, two people in a taxi. Quaking with home grown kwaito (local hip hop) as our gaatjie leans out the window again to tell the ladies how fine they’re looking today, we finally arrive at our stop. After an awkward scuffling which involved me clambering over the lady who’d taken up the fold up chair and Jenny launching herself over her with her bags fighting an exit path we emerged, a little scruffed up but still looking cool, very cool, and smiling on the inside. Yo, what a ride!

And so our weekend begins. The next two days we chill. Long open roads winding through the rocky, muscular mountain range and then straightening along shrubbery, we arrived after 3 hours in Napier (“Napeer” emphasis on 2nd syllable). It’s a quaint regional town close to the southern coast of the Western Cape which services neighbouring farms and houses a small number of locals, farm stores and cafes with local produce. You could almost hear the chickens and cows next door. Culinary highlights were the massive ribs for dinner – me gnawing away on their meaty goodness on a table almost exclusively vego – the breakfast spiced sausages and the farm baked bread (yes I may have had one or two crumbs) that looked like a large …e hem…phallus. A long walk through the veld (“feld”= field) to talk and think about life and the next day along rugged, whooping windy coasts cleared the lungs of the smog and grime that settles in when you live in the city. Climbing up 5 ladders to nearly be blown off the top of the lighthouse (another oh&s cracker) combined with some singalongs, long chats in the car and the best night’s sleep since I’d arrived in SA made me a very happy camper.

And just as well because the following week I was back at the home affairs department to sort out my citizenship/visa extension. For those of you who are saffas I’m sure you’ll know what I mean. For those who don’t all I’ll say is – waiting, waiting, waiting, forms, being grumped at, waiting, waiting, being pushed into while waiting, being told one thing by one person and then another by another, being told you need to go somewhere else and then wait again, until finally you leave with your heart and eyes racing ready to spit your story and anger out to anyone who is nearby. Needless to say I didn’t need much more pumping up to walk with a ‘don’t even think about it buddy’ attitude to get safely to my car past wolf whistlers and hang-a-rounderers of Wynberg.

The weekend after I’m invited to a Tanzanian women in Cape Town women’s evening fundraiser. And it was just around the corner at Woodstock Town Hall. Off I trot in my short tropical floral t-shirt dress (dress code was wear colour) with my phone tucked into the side of my knickers (I mean where’s a girl to hide these things??). I arrive to a delight for the senses. These women know how to dress! The hall was a labyrinth of reds, golds, blues, greens – silky head scarves matching or supplementing the flurry of colour in their long dresses. It was all about conveying a sense of celebration and excitement and they did that also in their movements. Even before I’d sat down, some of the women were up and moving. And I mean moving – arms in the air, hips a-swinging, rambunctious singing and stomping. I was keen to film them but then I realised my phone was ‘inaccessible at the moment’. Could I sneak it out? Better not. Bathroom run it is! By the time I’d got back my table was empty and the programme was about to start. hmmm… I’ll move to the kids table I think. Kids are always chatty.

The night unfolded smashingly. From the guest speaker who preached to us about women banding together and empowering each other like we were at a real African church service ‘Amen sister!’, to the children asking me ‘Aunty, aunty! Are you from India?’, to the impromptu dancing – people just couldn’t sit still when they heard music-, to us gobbling steaming spiced rice with chicken and finally everybody up and dancing – whole bodies in- and exhaling the music through large movements – no self consciousness, young and older alike, all just enjoying- enjoying the feeling of enjoying the music, of moving your hips and sharing that feeling with those around you. A little boy kept running up to me and feeling my legs; his mother said ‘ooooh! See he already likes the white women!’ and we all had a chuckle.

It was a new experience for me being the ‘different’ one. I noticed people looking at me – a curiosity sometimes joyful and other times hesitant or even suspicious. But before I knew it a velvet-skinned high cheek-boned beauty had grabbed my hand and then another and then we were all twirling each other around and laughing big belly laughs. We danced and we danced until my feet and my booty ached, and then the rnb music came out. Oh dear! So on it went until a handful of people were left. The next week at work the lady who invited me tells me they were all speaking about me afterwards – who was that white gal with those moves?! Yiiiieeeh, dis gerrl can dance y’all! (Jenny is teaching me gangsta-speak)

Go to: https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B0H91V5eCkkjbmlpb05Pd0dYYjg/edit?usp=docslist_api
for a video of the partying going off!

The week ended at Kirstenbosch gardens watching a stage of saffa musicians jam against the frame of table mountain and it’s fluffy cloud table cloth. Although we had a jig to Beatenberg it was Gangs of Ballet that knew how to work the crowd and get everyone singing, swaying, tearing and cuddling. It’s funny, at home if you go to an open air concert, parking anywhere remotely close to the venue is just impossible and human and ca
r traffic afterwards makes you sometimes wish you never even went. Thanks to some nifty car park spotting and driving I was home 30 minutes after it ended with plenty of time to bask in the warm fuzzy feelings of the day. Life here is so damn good.

natural light and all its colours- part 2: the r word

March 10, 2015March 10, 2015 by Sasha ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Race. It’s tricky to talk about. The word alone feels icky to me. In the last few weeks I’ve experienced and heard stories that I don’t know from home. There have been times in this blog when I’ve wanted to talk about race but it’s felt wrong, un-pc, like when mum and dad told me as a kid to not join the crowd in calling the Italian kids at school wogs. Dad easily says the ‘blacks’ (his upbringing?) but I hate that the main signifier is colour. It feels disrespectful and rude. Am I really reducing someone down to a colour, what’s on the outside? Why not just categorise people by toe nail length and ear lobe size? But then how do you speak about this topic that is so topical here still? I wonder why it feels so uncomfortable to talk about and for me in particular. Is it my upbringing, Australia, travel experiences, dad’s random new friends he’d meet out and about and bring home? But then I think why shouldnt we talk about race?! Shouldn’t our different races and cultural backgrounds and practices be celebrated? Has the history of oppression in relation to race around the world unreturnably coloured the word race negatively ? Is it possible to rebrand ‘race’ with positive connotations of identity, community and connection, and in countries like SA?

Talking with Jenny’s mum at a family lunch (the braaied lamb was to die for!) I say I don’t really think we see race back home but then I question it. Maybe the terminology is just different – we say “cultural background”, but we often talk about where your grandparents were from not what colour they were. Dad thinks it’s because the majority of Australians are white (is that true?) All things considered I can say we have never had a formal system of classification to the size and scope of SA (though we certainly have our shameful history in relation to our first peoples which continues today. I hear this morning of WA shutting down remote communities. Really?!). But I still can’t believe that just over 20 years ago people walked around here with ID books stating their race. Dad loves to tell the story of when he went to the government office to register my birth and when asked what colour i was: black, white, coloured, Indian, he replied she’s pink- the guy thought he was taking the piss.

From conversations with people here I’ve learned that especially in Cape Town race classification continues in a different way, informally. A visitor at the service tells how Varsity (University) lecture theatres and common areas bear clear signs of segregation. There’s even jokes about where people sit on the main steps of her uni – in the shade the blacks, in the middle the whites in the blaring sun (trying to turn black?) and in half shade, half sun the coloreds. We theorise that people are attracted to comfort and who they know but it also raises the question of how to break this cycle and tackle the burden of intergenerational trauma. How does the country in general move forward when people say it is stuck? One of the counsellors says emphatically “Why should I think about what happened to my grandmother?” but is it that easy to shake off? Another says we need to start all over again with our children’s children. Laura the local intern says the country may need to implode to regenerate. Wow such strong words.

The most recent experience re race was at a club on the weekend. Amid the usual vodka, gyrating (who me?) and a creepy 60+ y.o. man who openly admitted he was there to pick up and “did I have a boyfriend?” (yikes! My own fault for being curious) I met a voluptuous velvet skinned mama with a serious twinkle in her eye. I had knocked her whilst getting too involved with my booty dance and so the apology led to a d&m (as it does). She asked do we all know each other from work (about the group I was with)? When I said no she did the dramatic pull back of the head with a lopsided eyebrow crunched look. It seems a mixed race group is a rareity here, that is unless you work together. She whispered to me if I ever needed a place to stay I should stay with her (hmmm..was she flirting with me?) and(/but?) tonight she wanted to pick up a white guy to mix things up. There was something about that that I wanted to celebrate but I was also disturbed by. Was that really her criteria?

It seems mixed race couples are still uncommon here. I hear a story from Jenny about her double date couple friends – one black, one coloured, who, after dating and battling their parents for acceptance for 3 years broke up a year ago from the pressure. How desperately sad is that? A modern day Romeo and Juliet. A German counsellor at work dating a coloured guy confirms this saying most mixed race couples are European (Swiss, German etc) South African rather than both local. She shares that her boyfriend is struggling to find a sharehouse. Apparently many people openly state on their ad ‘looking for white professional’. He’s professional and now he’s got a white looking profile pic. She says the first thing a person puts on their CV here is race. Seems strange to me until I learn that, unlike before, the affirmative action (Black Economic Empowerment (BEE) or now Broad Based Black Economic Empowerment (lots of Bs and 2 Es)to be more inclusive…) laws now mean the darker you are the more likely you are to get a job.

Jenny says she’s in favour of BEE: people have been oppressed for so long, they need a ‘leg up” and support to become part of the workforce. My South African family disagree. For them being of Indian background means they were and are now again stuck in the middle. They say even if their children get top marks they are not guaranteed a place at university or a job. I consult dad for the ex-pat opinion. He’s in favour of BEE but he struggles to see how the country can heal and prosper if its most knowledgeable and skilled people are leaving. He sums it up by saying if you are sick, do you care if it’s a black or a white doctor? No. You just want the best doctor.

I can see the points of view of all three – it’s societal and yet it’s also so personal. Dad’s point is also flawed – wouldn’t the best doctor probably be white because 20 years ago you couldn’t even study to be a doctor if you weren’t white? It feels complex and I wonder what the answer is to the problem created by a system that so crudely upset the natural order of things. How do you improve the standard of living and skills of those previously disadvantaged whilst moving beyond the structure and labels of race? I’ve heard people talking of mentorship and I’d love to engage more in discussions but I still feel very much like an in outsider in this conversation. There must be a way and maybe people are already doing this at a grassroots level.

My own experience comes when out for dinner with a new friend who asks me “What’s your background?” Me: “dad’s South african and mum’s German. What about you?” Standard reciprocal conversation. But I can feel the deep intake of breath, the narrowing of eyes assessing what I was asking, what to share. I realised then this isn’t a straight forward “Irish and English background” answer here. It’s laden with subtext and connotation. After a 15 minute explanation – “well mum is this and dad is that and my grandparents are this so technically I’m coloured”, he tells me his family are all teachers not just because of their intelligence and passion for education but because there were no other options for them at that time. Can you imagine? I ask him what percentage of colour you need to have in you to be classed ‘coloured’. He says how ever you look on the outside. He laughs that you now need an escort with you to look at records in the Research Office because someone went in and set records alight when they discovered colour in their heritage. The irony is he says you can walk down the street and the ‘black’ guy on the other side of the road could be more white than you. I think about my granny born in Robertson (I teared up a little when driving through there on my Garden Route tour) near Cape Town struggling to make a living, technically Cape Malay but given a golden ticket from my grandpa who signed her affidavit as white. To be limited by your skin colour. I can’t imagine that. I want to call myself coloured to honour her.

natural light and all its colours

March 9, 2015March 10, 2015 by Sasha ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

I finally saw a lion!

It seems I should change the name of my blog. Although only weeks ago (and I realise I’ll jinx it now) since our last load shed (is that the verb??), it feels long ago; yet everyday I’m grateful I can put on the kettle and cook when I want to – small thrills! In general I feel more grateful here. Or at least I think I am. I’m trying to figure out whether this place or my end-date slowly approaching makes me more grateful or whether I’m just happier here – maybe it’s all three. Yes there are things I miss from home – my friends and family of course, Aldi steak (does that count?), singing along to Phantom of the Opera and Michael Bolton with Wallsy (we won’t ever admit to this if asked), walking to the tram fearlessly in a short skirt and heels at night which of course leads the girls and me to the Carlton Club, the diverse food and restaurants, my gym sessions (yes even that bloody sled!), …ok so the list is rather long… but here I regularly catch myself mid conversation as though watching from afar thinking “how bloody great is my life?!”, “Is this all really happening??” This week I’ve noticed the half way point is coming up and it feels like things are moving into a different space. My weeks are busy here, yes with touristy things but I’m feeling more and more a sense of home.

About two weeks ago I decided I needed to see more of Cape Town and its surrounds. As much as writing is enjoyable, days can go by like watching reality TV, observing not doing. I managed to wangle a space on a Garden Route tour and was last minute invited along to a meetup going to crystal pools. 12 of us hiking the hour with inflatables in our backpacks to reach dark glassy pools framed by rocks, lush green and gentle waterfalls. After some help from an enthusiastic full body action blower-upper my huge elephant round lilo (with headrest) was ready for launch. Paddling, drifting, bronzing, maybe even an on-water arm wrestle and finally some eating with a view from the edge of a plunging fall topped off a smashing day, not to mention the obligatory Savannah cider to recharge the batteries in Camps Bay. biltong and coffee breakfast. Thanks Hugh! The second trip took me out of greater Cape Town for the first time since I’d arrived. As those of you have done tours before would know – there are tours and then there are tours. Europe on Contiki with Caity in 2006 – 19 countries in 21 days (or something like that) although super fun because we were on it (Whoop! “Go Charlie it’s your birthday…”is that not the words??) was well…I’ll just say lots of women with lots of bus time and not much sleep ain’t a good thing. On this tour we sat only to 11th in a mini-van rocking Bokbus (company logo printed) cushions and our guide, Benjamin, full of stories and generosity. We hit the road at 6am to pick up our group – Austrian couple, German guy, American guy, US astronomy students (interesting!). With the initial awkward introductions out the way we drove to Oudtshoorn (cool name right?), in Cango Caves we squished through (Australia would have an OH&S fit) crevices with a guy in Birkis’ shoe falling off and smacking someone in the head, eating marinated ostrich skewers with a complementary Amarula mint shot in our oil lamp lit backpacker paradise. Over the next two days I watched a terrified ostrich have a bag thrown over its head, then throw a guy riding him (as you do) off its back, him narrowly missing a big pile of poop goop (yes the whole thing reminded me of Guantanamo Bay…umm no thanks!), hugged and fed saved orphaned Elephants – shout out to you Sally!- and watched as my comrades one by one plunged to their deaths (jk) via bungee cord (not me this time). The last two days I zipiideee zip lined with my new friend Welcome (Xhosa: Wamkelekile – my new fav word), fought my way through the forest of Tsitsikamma National Park, got my eyes salt-stung by Plettenburg Bay’s delicious Indian Ocean and finally drove into the Garden Route Game Reserve listening to “In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lions…” (I’m not joking! Benjamin aka Mr Cool) to hang out with the Rhinos, Lions, Elephants, Kudu, Giraffes, Buffalo and Wilderbeerst, which (sorry buddy!) we ate for dinner from the buffet sent from heaven.

But it was the little things that made this trip special. From the getgo I bombarded Benjamin with questions – yes I was that person on the tour but everyone else was a bit shy so what was I to do?! I realised talking to him how quickly things are changing here including cultural practices and identity. It may be that in a few generations’ time people like Benjamin won’t exist. I even got a free Zulu lesson “Sawubona” “Kunjani” “Ngiapila” “Gi ow togo” (written how you pronounce with emph underlined) trans: Hello, how are you, I’m well, my name is Thoko (some of you may not know I have a Zulu middle name). Speaking with Benjamin (who btw speaks 6 languages because everybody does (!!)) I felt like I was speaking to Benny Hlongwane (pron Shlonggwani) my dad’s very dear friend who gave us a personal Soweto tour in June. Both speak in the African accent my former housemate Firdi used to impersonate so well through stretched energetic lips. This draws attention to their white toothy grins that contrast against their black-brown skin (Benjamin says if you take a photo in the wrong light all you’ll see is teeth :)). Amongst the historical and geographical knowledge he imparted, Benjamin tells me about his two boys both studying and his smile widens with modest pride. He also tells me about when he was ambushed in his hotel room and had to knock on his tour group members’ door to get help after battling out of his restraints (he cracks up when he tells about their reaction to a black guy in his underwear knocking on the door at 3am). He tells me about the new car he bought that lasted only 3 hours in his mate’s locked up area (insurance hadn’t been sorted yet – ouch!). What strikes me is how he laughs – a contagious full faced “ha hehehe” – even when telling the saddest stories, a way of coping I think that comes with wisdom and acceptance that some things are out of our control and if you can’t laugh about it you might just cry.

Towards the end of the trip Benjamin tells me about where he’s come from – his life and upbringing in Soweto- and how he had worked during the day and studied by correspondence at night to get to where he is now. He thinks children today don’t make the most of opportunities they have and he’s sad about the drug and alcohol problems. As if on cue we stop at the lights in Oudtshoorn to a gathering of street kids. One in particular I notice probably about 8 years old leans down towards his faded zip hoodie shutting his eyes to breathe in deeply the fumes in the milk carton hidden inside before putting the clown mask of cheeriness back on to beg for more money. A man in child’s body..glazed eyes moving in and out of focus, a creepy salaciousness to his leering, and yet the sweetest baby face. It gives you shivers. What hope do these kids have?

There are times on trips when you feel that thrill, a flooding of gratitude and awe. Yes we did lots of great things but for me this moment came when driving through the Klein Karoo mountain range listening to Benajmin’s deep, resonant, harmonic zulu tribal song CD watching hitchhikers, thunderous mountains, cows and the red-orange-cream dirt against the green to brown shrubbery go by. I could identify with my mum the night she was in the bukkie (ute) in the middle of nowhere with dad asleep beside her listening to the drums coming closer thinking “This is Africa!” (though I was in less danger of being eaten). We are zulu warriors! Benjamin our guide Sally Zip lining I’m climbing (can’t you tell??)

For full photo story (loving google right now!) go to: https://plus.google.com/116613978178941901390/stories/fd1591d0-41ff-3883-81e1-632dec1db4fa14bfe6bd4ca?authkey=CN-HjfWEl6vNvQE

The lights are on but…the lift is stuck

February 25, 2015February 25, 2015 by Sasha ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

For more photos please see:
https://drive.google.com/folderview?id=0B0H91V5eCkkjakZMUHpOczBEbzA&usp=sharing

We are set up. We have our skottel, our kettle and candles but electricity has been on all week. Go figure. I’m not complaining! Last week was politics week with a hint of danger, romance (I saw 50 shades – does that count?) and set to the soundtrack of afro soul. My good friend at home says to be careful to not overschedule myself and at the time I said “don’t worry! I’m fine. I just need to make some more friends here”, but it seems she was right. Today writing this I can feel the delicious exhaustion that comes with seeing lots and resting little. There is just so much to do and see. Early night tonight I think.

Last Thursday was the infamous ‘SONA’ (State of the Nation) which I had heard about all week on the radio. I can’t remember anyone having an opening of parliament party at home to watch Tony Abbott speak, but here it’s the thing to do and with drinking games – two shots for every time Zuma mentions Eskom (to skill up on the rules for next year see http://connect.citizen.co.za/630/how-to-get-through-sona-2015/)- forget Eurovision! This is where it’s at. I set myself up in my pjs with headphones and cup of 4 roses tea on the couch (ripper party hey!).

The first thing I noticed was the bright colours. Melbourne’s propensity for the dalmatian look here was ‘out’. Fluorescent greens and pinks crowned with several pieces millinery glory punctured the thick air tense from an hour of waiting and offered a cheery contrast to the increasingly frowny faces of the speaker(s) and ANC (party in power). It seems the speech was an hour late to start because of a scrambling of the internet in the parliament that had been declared a violation of the constitution and needed to be reversed. who dunnit?! Once President Zuma’s speech began I was almost pleased he was interrupted because of the endless stream of welcomes (was he hoping it would fill half of his designated speaking time?). The interruption was the EFF party always dressed for battle in scorching red overalls raising ‘points of privilege’ (‘why hasn’t President Zuma responded to the issues they’ve raised 4 times now?!). it became a row between speaker and party whilst the President possibly took a nap or had a whisky. Who knows?! The mexican wave of interruptions continued until security and police stormed in to remove them while the camera looked away. This prompted the follow up fight between the DA party (in power in Western Cape) and the exhausted speakers about police and firearms in parliament buildings. so then the DA stomped out. (ummm is there anybody left??) Without any acknowledgement except for a lizardlike smile President Zuma resumed his position in front of a half-empty auditorium. it was as though his whole speech had been filmed in one shot and then cut into pieces, either that or he really had napped in between; it felt like a year 9 English presentation read word for word. At one point he even pronounced apartheid as a-pa-thight (emphasis on the ‘a’). I thought he was saying he was hungry. At 930 my battery died but I didn’t really mind. The circus had ended and the speech had the familiar rattle off of stats and self congratulatory flavour of ours at home. [See http://mg.co.za/article/2015-02-13-an-eyewitness-account-of-sona-2015 for a more politically knowledgeable journalist’s account of SONA and here’s a parody video of the EFF’s removal: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqQ0S36wIF8 (I’m not sure if such an event should have been put to a salt’n’pepper song so apologies in advance for any offence) and here is a hard hitting burn of Zuma re SONA: http://youtu.be/BcDIF8AmcX4%5D

Since SONA I’ve asked people their thoughts and my initial eagerness for a juicy conversation about its dramas, which tends to be the flavour of political conversations at home (what’s tony done now?!), has been met with a deflated sadness. Jenny and the internet (no not wikipedia) tell me the real stats: 87.5% South Africans between 18 and 25 (not studying) are unemployed, 42% if you include up to 30 years and 17% of over 30 year olds. In SA under 35s constitute about 66% per cent of the total population. The current official overall SA unemployment rate is 24.3%. (I hear streaming ABC radio that same week that Australia is fretting because it is at a record high of 6.4%.) The common response to SONA 2015: people are sad that this is the national and international portrait of their new and fragile democracy that they have fought so hard for. They are also tired of the corruption, the talk and the lack of real positive change. I realise for them the soap opera I saw was their homes, their healthcare, their jobs and their children’s lives. I thought about what mum and dad would have been thinking if they had stayed here and were planning their retirement.

On the phone with mum and dad they talk about a doco they’d seen about the Born Frees. They’re the young generation born after the vanquishing of apartheid. Dad particularly liked when the young people said they were taking action into their own hands because “you can’t wait around for politicians!”. Some have decided to turn run down Joburg buildings into cafes. In my month here i have seen smatterings of amazing grassroots action. My Harvest of Hope vege box (delicious, especially the bunch of naturally varied sized carrots freshly pulled from the dirt), a community summit on fighting sexual violence held in Delft held by hard-working NGOs (more on that next time), the #Make.Change campaign as part of the Cape Town Design Indaba expo where creatives make customised flatpack tables to raise funds for the Kannemeyer Primary School in Grassy Park. Even Jenny’s sister’s boyfriend is working on an idea where young people can express themselves on designated local graffiti walls (project called the wall which the poster in the design battle was for). i wonder if people know of others and wish to share in blog comments?

It comes back to the people, people with passion, gusto, opinions, action. It feels like the ‘just chill out!’ laid back way of being from home is an ingredient left out of the African cake. When people in the service tell me a story (it’s constant!) they talk-sing, the head and the arms conduct for emphasis and their opinions are fact. You wouldn’t argue with that tone…unless you’re a taxi driver. Ester at the service tells me she told off her taxi driver for speeding that morning “Hey you driver! Are you mad? You can’t play with my LIFE like that!” to which he turned around and whilst in full flight exclaimed “You messin with my bread and butter!” Shu! She wobbled into the service that day proclaiming her thanks to the lord. But I digress..

I feel like there is an energy, a momentum here because people show energy even in the smallest things. it’s rare that you hear of people spending a whole day veging on the couch. People walk a lot, they take multiple taxis to get to work, lug home heavy shopping bags over kilometres against the hurricane-like Cape Doctor winds; I saw someone two weeks ago pulling along a crate with suitcases on top by a rope attached to a metal spear (yes the spear did shock me but I think dad would be impressed by his improvisation- hey dad?). Some people even get up everyday to beg at the robots for money despite the dejavu of closed windows and shaking heads. To take this in a very different direction I’ve even noticed this difference on tinder and (I did it) okcupid and yes, even the old fashioned face to face way of meeting friends. People thought I was bad at home for occasionally double booking in one night, here that might have to become standard just so I have time to cook! call me miss date-a-rama. I’m wondering what went wrong back home between us gals and guys. Here if online the majority write to you, the majority want to meet you face to face (or at least have a whatsapp flirt), the conversation always covers a double shot (also common here – single shots are out) of politics and saffa issues and I’ve even had my car door opened for me. I told you people have energy here (that’s a fair hike cos cape town can be hilly)! But that’s enough or I’ll be over sharing.. (Did I make this blog public??)

On another note last week I had my first brush with the law; I went to court (just for a visit :)). We walked inside the large grey building of Wynberg court through a turntable to the broken bag scanner and a flurry of guards swiping down people with wands. On another floor we walked past the area with the sexual offence defendants, boys dressed nicely lounging on wooden benches with the ‘what do you want?’ look. Survivors have a separate area to wait with children’s play area (yikes) but they have to walk past the area with their attackers. Wow if my skin prickled at the sight of them, how must they feel?! We visit an open court (sexual offence cases are closed to the public). All in Afrikaans, my trusty colleagues aka translaters helped me understand that the head bowed, fidgeting defendant charged with robbery received a 300 Rand fine and 5 days jail. His protest is his drug habit – he can’t pay the fine. I WONDER how he’ll pay it?! We realise the cells are underneath us, bailed defendants are seated amongst us and the guards have no guns. The marketing lady at work says she went to court for a theft case once and the guy who did it was seated opposite her. Awesome. Even better when a policeman leant across to speak to someone with his gun laden hip in the guy’s face. My supervisor says there have been instances where people have been shot when a perpetrator has stolen the guard’s firearm. Where’s my pepper spray/tazer when you need it?! Our hunger for juicy cases goes unfulfilled; case after case is rescheduled – a witness isn’t there or a defendant’s address is no longer current because his step mother won’t let him live there (yes, there was finger pointing and angry, under his breath, threats thrown at her). Unfortunately the most exciting thing that happened for us was when the severe young judge reprimanded a lady in front of us saying something about “hand” and “mund” when she yawns. I think she was channeling Judge Judy.

The Afro Soul element of the week was delivered courtesy of Francesca my new flamboyant singing teacher. Housed in a building splashed inside and out with artwork in true Woodstock style, I readied myself for the challenge as I walked up the two flights of raw wooden stairs. Before I can say ‘hello’ (I may be exaggerating), I’m thrust the microphone and embarrass my way through a shaky version of jealous by labyrinth- no, not the official version; the karaoke version – for the whole building to hear (did she need to turn the volume up that high??). It’s that moment when you realise that your version sung in duet with the car radio sounds nothing like your solo. I felt like I had been asked to nude up. My voice was like a waterfall, fizzing and drops of water flying in different directions, a wriggling toddler let loose and amplified. She thinks my voice is lovely. a good start. but I must exercise my diaphragm. So we ha ha ha ha ed and tssssssssed our way up and down scales while she asked about Melbourne, and what music I like. Task for next week: sighing while falling down to the ground (maybe not in public) and practising indie arie’s song video. afro soul. yeah! I’m slowly turning into an African.

The final ingredient to the week was a good dose of suspense and danger. Shirley and i headed back to the hospital to run a debriefing with the sexual assault centre counsellors there. 6 women telling the gruelling stories of their day-to-day. I must admit I did derive a little pleasure hearing the story about a counsellor telling a pregnant survivor’s mother to ‘grow up and be a mother’ when she was carrying on. You tell her sista! On the way up to the conference room I’d thought ‘gee this lift looks a bit rickety but Shirley’s going in. Must be fine.’ Well not 2 seconds in on the way back down there was a BANG and the lift crashed to a sudden stop. it took my thoughts another 2 seconds to catch up as the others in more or less time came to the same realisation. we were stuck in the lift. i looked down at my hands in fascination and saw that yes they were shaking. I grabbed hold of bumi (the birthday girl – great present!) whose large motherly hands engulfed mine. no hesitation or weirdness. and i smiled a tight smile. yikes! Over the next 45 minutes we yelled through the crack of the door and a kind person tried to pry it open with a broom. no luck. we called the lift company, the nurses station (who popped up at about the 20 miinute mark to see if we were still there and had oxygen…wtf???), we then moved onto selfies and group photos, and tried to keep the conversation going ‘what are the plans for the weekend?’, ‘what are you doing for your birthday?’. at one stage one of the counsellors who had just come of 12 hour night shift even considered taking a nap on the floor. how long was this going to take?! Another day in Africa they said. When finally the doors opened some of the women threw themselves out the door and onto the floor face down due to the long skirts and the big step from being stuck between floors. Only then did i realise how scared they must have been. Another lady who had been silent throughout the ordeal firmly indicated I should go before her. ‘Ai man’ (pronounced ‘mun’), nothing like a bit of dra (family reference for drama). We hug each other now when we meet.

PS. I’m not going to write about 50 shades. Watch it, don’t watch it. Up to you. All I know it was bloody funny watching it with a guy dressed all in grey for the occasion to my left, a squirming single mum to my right who scoffed Maltesers in the sexy scenes and in an auditorium with lots of giggling (and possible sighing) of ladies (and surprisingly about 20% men). My favourite though was the puffs of smoke hazing the view from a person’s (post coital?) e-cigarette. really?!

steadying current

February 19, 2015February 20, 2015 by Sasha ♥ 2 Comments

For more photos please go to: https://drive.google.com/folderview?id=0B0H91V5eCkkjbmk2cnA2NE1CV3c&usp=sharing

I’m on the couch sneezing and coughing my way along from a -too much fan on me at night -cold. we’ve had so little load shedding this week (president’s state of the nation address thursday may have something to do with it – more on that next week) that i was surprised to see ‘no internet connection’ come up half an hour ago. I’ve settled into life here a little more this week and i knew that was the case when rocking up to work greeting my new friends Annabelle, Ester and Kerrie (counsellors and admin) felt like the normal start to a day. I’ve definitely felt more safe here this week. I’m not sure if it’s that I know more about the place now or whether I’m just getting used to it. Either way it’s good and I feel a little silly and self-indulgent for devoting so much time in my blog to my fearfulness. but it’s all part of the process hey.

Last week was a week of culture. And cape town put on a good show. it started with a design battle hosted by friends of design in heaving thursday night bree st – 3×3 designers given 30 mins to design posters based on a theme. I ate my 20 rand microwave warmed bourie(local sausage) roll (minus roll) slathered in creamy mushroom sauce (to die for but nonetheless a strange combination), cheered and clapped at the right moments and happy-snapped their designs while missing my sister and thinking about how great a graphic designer she’s going to be.

on the friday i was whisked off to a quirky japanese dance theatre show in stellenbosch by jenny’s friend micah. stellenbosch is basically a city built around an afrikaans university. even though it has the usual African dichotomy of the ‘have’ and the ‘have less’ sides of town, it is smaller, quainter and more homely with a main street humming with cafes, bookshops, boutiques and bars. I was told we were there when all the cool people hang out – late afternoon. I think the nicely dressed couple on the table behind was on a tinder date. micah, super friendly, expressive and open about his thoughts on life made an ideal conversation partner as we ate butter and spice braaied smoked half chicken with red cabbage and mint salad from a restored old school cafe/restaurant with organic fruit and veg, coffee and snuggle corners and then we went shopping. micah forced (;)) me to enter the very hip cotton on shop (familiar?) because today was too warm for pants. i mention this event purely for all the lady readers out there because of the sales attendant. Tall, smooth creamy mocha skin, dark fall-into-my-depths eyes with a definite twinkle, snuggly beard calling out ‘touch me!’ (are you surprised steph?!) …. delicious south african man. I considered asking him out during our brief flirt until I saw him fold a hoodie with a ringed left hand. Bugger.

the evening was spent drinking a free local sparkling rose – god it was good – snuggled under a blanket in the second row of a green-surrounded amphitheatre, watching a dizzying, outrageous Japanese dance theatre piece. loud punchy music with short videos interspersed with men dancing and dancing together, skits playing up south africa – ‘a for… b for … c for …l for (couple cleaning, the lights going off and jumping into bed together, lights coming back on and back to cleaning, lights going off again and back into bed…) ‘loadshedding and o for…’ (man jumping across the stage with one shin tucked up into his shorts) ‘oscar’. the audience pretty much spat out their wine.

on the way home we fell into a happy silence until the gps directed us to go past mitchell’s plain. it is something i was wondering about gps use here. you can’t just follow it blindly and take the quickest route. especially at night. micah told me that there are areas you avoid; you never stop on the side of the highway even during the day and that police patrol bridges and some now have a roof and sides covered because people have been known to throw rocks to make you swerve so they can hijack you. he said his cousin had been hijacked and tied up in his own garage and his car used for a bank robbery. it’s just their reality he says. they got lucky. that night I’m alone in my flat and i shut all the windows. rather sweat.

The next night I hit up a meetup at spier wine farm. On my way (I check out all the bridges and) i drive past khayelitsha and langa townships: colourful aluminium shacks pressed up against one another jostling for space amongst the dust, most with lines of electricity joining a central maypole, some with satellite dishes. looking at the kilometres of lives lived in this way is a smack to the chest. Spoilt first world foreigner pity. I’m not quite sure what i do with that yet. Or how i feel about what i feel. The wine farm is just 5kms up the road. It is a constant mindfuck here; you’re asked to switch from first to third world and back again within minutes and adjust your feelings and activities accordingly. It’s like watching an arthouse film from a gold class cinema recliner. but here you’re in the movie and and people don’t go home to their mansions and perfect lives (but are they really??) at the end of a shoot. How does your heart keep up with this?

I’m jolted out of my drive by the large white gates of spier wine farm. It sports a big lily padded lake with a water fountain surrounded by well watered grass patched with couples and families soaking the afternoon sun like happy lizards. There’s a powerful calming energy from the sombre watchful mountain range in the distance- I could stare for hours. Halfway through the evening of wine mixing and juicy burger ravishing i slip away from the group to secretly meet up with him again in the softening light. Steady, unjudging, real; he’s like a firm hand on your shoulder. I drive home listening to the classical radio station, calmly alert.

Last week I had my first clients. I wasn’t sure how i’d go. Would there be stuck silences like with my first client last placement where all thoughts would freeze in my head? would i, to recover, blurt out questions or statements that afterwards I’d play over and over in my head scolding myself? With that in mind I ferociously tackled my reading on the weekend- the mega-manual from the service and notes from last placement. And slowly my grip on the books loosened and my shoulders released. The more i read the more it felt an old favourite book off the bookshelf. The morning of my first client I wrote out a running sheet for the session and befriended by this, my bulging notes book, confidence (how bad can it really go?!) and a decent dose of nerves I welcomed the lady I had the privilege of counselling. I won’t say I didn’t sweat or that my brain wasn’t switched on high (at one point I even thought ‘what the hell am I doing??’) but i kept my cool and calmed the self doubter in my head. She even seemed to have less to say. When asking my client at the end what aspects of the session worked for her she replied ‘all of it! Can I come again next week?’. I drove home a little quicker that day looking a bit like a gangsta with local hip hop pounding in time to my pouting head nods.

So far I’ve had two outings on main road Woodstock on foot (if you want to be a true local you have to mingle with the locals right?) The first time I wore my travel belt under my top (no one was going to mug me!) but I felt a bit silly especially when ferreting around for my phone in a shop (no one should be digging around down their pants in public!). I had had a short list of things to get: wireless keyboard – ‘we don’t have any’, fish shop – shut, 5 Rand shop – also shut, mugging – none. Not a complete loss.

My second outing was more successful (minus the ending). I had decided the night before that the iphone minus 20 (just kidding Zinz) my sister had kindly lent me for the trip needed a permanent rest. so i headed across to the trusty cash crusaders on the corner. i could buy a samsung galaxy s3 mini for the same price as a large huawei (but what is this huawei??). upon perusing the camera my new friend Tamzyn (Tammy) came across the previous owner’s undeleted photos: man posing next to motorbike with heels and suspenders, man with one leg on a wooden box in jockstrap… which we giggled over at the counter. So i left with a different phone and a desk which we wheeled across the road in front of people revving their engines at the sometimes optional red light (robot. My bad). in the car park i was handed over to Christian the security guard from the Congo. ‘I helped you yesterday when you were parked in right?’ with a french lengthening of his vowels, so we start our chat with an immediate familiarity. turns out he is an author writing a fictional piece about life and morals with a spiritual bent. he reminded me of over qualified taxi drivers back home. he chuckled about promoting his book in Australia and offered up the secret to passport applications (bypass the Dept of Home Affairs and go straight to the Constitutional Court!) before breaking into an animated french conversation on the phone.

in the afternoon it was time for the 5 Rand (55 cent) shop on Main Rd which i knew was going to be an experience and even the road there didn’t disappoint. it seems there is little point to having robots for pedestrians. people cross when and where they like, with or without kids, their eyes strong, assessing the gaps for dashing opportunities. taxis, buses and cars drive swervy lines on straight roads. In the shop it was similar. but this time someone wanted to grab my skottle (gas bbq) kettle. No way! i had my money tucked between my jeans and knickers (btw this is not the same as that damn money belt where you have to fiddle with a zip) and watched as two scruffy girls caused havoc with ‘hey Chinaman, where’s the valentine’s day mugs?!’ (hmmmm) and ‘don’t yell at me!’. ‘shu!’ (mum and dad you know this noise)…it was happnen here.

My final stop was spar (which is not a wellness facility). i had tasked myself with trying out the key supermarkets here in my first month. this was the last. The first had been the pick ‘n’ pay near my work which I discovered was heaving anytime of day. it was a steady battle amongst locals interspersed with loud American medical students and a few others to make it through the bustle. The low ceilings made the space feel hot and tight and I used my trolley to carve out a pathway through. The pick ‘n’ pay at canal walk mall (otherwise known as canal walk minus the c) was like aussie kmart and coles in one, spacious and bright with clothes and appliances and a large selection of health food items for prices that at home would be normal but here are crrraaiizzzeeee. here the demographic were the well dressed types who liked malls. woolworths was in the same price category but for the whole store. preened ladies coming from yoga with perfect make-up; confident ladder climbing types with chins up and bulging wallets; families with stirn eyebrowed mums scrouring the shelves followed by the ironed casual shirt dad saying ‘no darling’ to children in the trolley. i noticed that almost all their veg was pre chopped and bagged for today’s ‘busy lifestyle’. i bought kingklip for dinner that night and made it dad’s way ovenbaked with tomatoes, garlic, onion and chillis doused in butter. mmmm…. two helpings. I hear from jenny that Woolworths has copped some slack from the local Christian community for selling halal hot cross buns last year. i don’t know where to start with that one.

So my final supermarket was kwikspar…to kwik shop (couldn’t help it guys sorry). here I felt a little more comfortable again amongst students, professionals and a mix of cultures. i didn’t need much so i got my new phone out to take some photos of common saffa items not so common at home while being stalked by security. common observations from all supermarkets. 1) biltong is standard including kudu biltong. throw it into your basket as you wait in the queue like some smarties. 1b) if you like the biltong and want to combine its flavour with random other things no need to diy. you can practically buy anything biltong flavoured 2) lots of double cream yoghurt mmmm…. 3) meat, lots of meat and if bbqing you’ll be happiest in the dedicated braai sections 4) you cannot buy zucchini larger than your middle finger, nor is its name zucchini- it’s marrow 5) one person will scan your shopping, one will pack (into bags you pay for) and one will help you put them in your car for a tip 6) 1 ply toilet paper is commonplace here; anything more will cost you around 80 rand (9 bucks) for 9 rolls 7) if you like sauces move to South Africa. I have never seen such heavily laden sauce aisles. (I now understand dad’s pantry at home!)

i arrived home loaded up and was greeted by the chirps of the local children in the yard eager to chat. Sarah-Marie with a head of braids tied back into a thick bundle says she wants to have children one day but doesn’t want to get married. in fact she already has babies in her tummy. hmmm… She’s 8. I turned to look at the other children and felt a scuffling hand at my pocket. it was a hand wriggling around the top of my leg more than searching, almost like someone trying out something they’d seen but hadn’t yet mastered. i look down to Sarah-Marie’s little arm retreating from under the laundry basket I was holding and her running off to my ‘do not…..!’ there was nothing there to take. but she did take a bit of my heart. An 8 year old girl in my apartment block. ‘shu’. I feel sad that I now keep my distance.

So my supermarket shopper review process has confirmed what i thought. Like Coles and Woolies back home I want to support the big money grabbing corporations as little as possible. I google search organic fruit and veg and I find Harvest of Hope. It’s a Khayelitscha NGO that trains local people in organic farming so they can farm for themselves and sell to the public. About 80 rand a week will get you a box of veg per week delivered that will feed 1-2 people and a good feeling about yourself. You can even do a tour of their garden. My first box arrives Tuesday.

Ps. Interesting thing I heard this week on the radio: Mugabe the Zimbabwean dictat…I mean president fell on stairs at the airport. 27 of his guards punished for not preventing it. Immediately following Mugabe demanded all pictures of him to be taken down. This of course prompted a flood of doctored photos of him moonwalking, surfing etc with the hash tag #mugabefalls. Feel free to add your own or take a look.

sparks flying

February 8, 2015February 10, 2015 by Sasha ♥ 3 Comments

balcony picnic with questionably titled SA food item

Studio_20150209_002106 — Charcoal restaurant dinner with my new Swiss friend

so I’m writing this as the power comes back on. we’re at stage 2 load shedding today but I’ve learned to check the eskom website everyday as yesterday was stage 3 which means 3 areas all had no power at once instead of just 2. It’s quickly become a part of the day-to-day. we dash to put the kettle on just before it starts and sit on our newly astroturfed balcony with new (for me) friends and candles (hopefully laura won’t come a-knocking… no open flames allowed!) talking about adventures, new jobs and juicy issues. maybe a small part of me is even enjoying this load shedding.

I’m chuffed about the positive response to my blog so I’m keen to do the next instalment. I want to be up-to-date and writing less retrospectively. Thanks for reading and for your support everyone!

So lots to tell. I got my car last week. yes the cubby hole (glove box) falls out onto the floor when you open it and there’s a ding on the right back side of the car. I think that’ll just make me blend in. Most cars around here sport a knock or a scratch as though it were a freckle and makes you more African. But that may just be my imagination. I’m excited. I’m no longer bound to the flat and am like a caged zebra snorting and kicking at the ground itching to stretch the hooves (ok my African metaphors may need some work…can you stretch hooves??). I’m happy. except when the boot doesn’t open. after a concerned phone call and an explanation of the mechanics of the locking mechanism (blonde moment?) i was good to go. i was instructed on the safety associated with cars. No, not how to indicate (something that is used inconsistently here) or parallel parking but things like: you must always put your handbag in the boot so they can’t ‘smash and grab’ (yikes!) and you must keep windows shut and doors locked (‘warthog” – family joke). lucky for the aircon. it was 32 degrees today. so now i’m free to weave and swerve in traffic as the locals do. whoop! I love the pace of the roads here. you snooze you lose.

i went to a book launch last week. a lady whose dad was involved in the anti apartheid struggle and exhiled to the UK was speaking with a former judge and friend of her father’s about her autobiography. it felt like my dad could have been friends with them and reminisced and cracked jokes with them over a castle beer. i left with her book signed plus a stack of others under my arm and a new friend’s number in my phone feeling happy about taking part in what the city has on offer. at the lights (here: robot (??)) I encountered a man. it was dusk so my radar was up and i felt someone approach from behind. he smiled when i looked back at him revealing huge gaps between his teeth which he seemed to slurp saliva through in order to prep his mouth for what was to come. he was stooped with dirty clothes and a backpack on his back. he croaked that he’s looking for a wife. would i be interested? after a second of processing I burst out laughing, the full blown tip your head back cackle laughing. but then i realised – he was for real and i had just laughed in his face. he asked if i had a rand for an old man who’d lost his wife 2 years ago but all i heard was him repeating his proposal. I hurredly declined and began to cross the road only to realise that’s not what he’d asked. it felt like a smack in the guts. what old man hobbling along with a cane and missing teeth should be begging? where is his glorious retirement, his family, his well deserved luxuries? but he’d already gone out of sight. i considered doing a lap to find him in my car but i didn’t and instead went home feeling like a bad person.

i had my first day at placement last week too. it is definitely going to be different work from at home. i received a chugger of a folder with reading material on the service, legislation, rape in SA and trauma interventions. As I flick through it I mentally high fived myself for finding a placement that is so organised but also realised I was going to face some big stuff. I had a long chat with my new supervisor, Shirley. She’s a lady able to play the line between gentle listener and spirited personality, short, blonde and she knows her stuff. She was keen to know what had brought me to this placement and what I was expecting. I decided pretty quickly that she was cool. Shirley talks to herself when she’s on the computer and says shit and fuck a bit and when she told me to come in late the next day she became my new favourite person.

the next morning i heard the story about the oz family in stellenbosch. I wondered how i was going to cope with these stories and feel safe. i decided I would stop reading the news at least for a while to settle in. they were killed by an axe to the head. i saw in a doco at home about khayelitsha township that that’s the prefered gang method of violence. they go for the head. arghhh. i decide to look look up self defence classes.

my fear across the day steadily increased. I visited the sexual assualt centre at the hospital where I heard about mothers being complicit in the sexual assault of their daughters because of poverty and to a meeting with other bodies that work in the sexual assault area – police, doctors, lawyers, hospital administration etc. on the way home i picked shirley’s brain for safety tips and how she copes with the day-to-day. in the afternoon i read a case file to start prepping for my first clients. yikes. the woman had suffered not just one but multiple assaults by people known and unknown to her; from my conversation with another counsellor i learn this isn’t rare here. that was followed by a meeting with the court support coordinator who with blazing eyes told me one after another shock stories.

i left that night my senses on high alert and doom settling into my gut. what the hell was i doing here? this is madness. i felt like when i watched paranormal activity and wanted my mum and slept with the light on for a month (did i mention i was 26 then?). it did have to be the only day i was approached by a homeless man wanting some money on my way to the car. i was already halfway to panic level so when he started walking towards me my heart hit sprint mode. ‘should i put my bag in the boot? should i just jump in the car and lock the doors? is there anyone else around? should i give him some money? should I run? arghhhh! don’t overreact. be cool. be cool’. i threw my bag in the boot and dived into the front seat, slammed my finger on the door lock button and smashed the accelerator- nothing but away! on the drive home i had to grip the wheel to steady myself and breathe. all i wanted to do was move. move into another neighbourhood, move out of the placement, maybe even move home. I jumped on skype doctor. it was 2am at home but my poor parents exhausted from working a big week of markets patiently ‘held back my hair’ as I vomitted out all my fear – gang rapes, multiple rapes, living near a street of regular muggings, hijackings, flying bullets. this is not the africa you left!

it’s interesting how quickly you can lose the plot. i felt like this was de ja vu of my first night but this time it was like i was the scared child and the perspective-keeping wise adult that knew it would pass all in one. talking with my parents i noticed my initial panic subsided quickly when given the airtime and i had a clear plan for exploring my options. that night i went to the hairdresser (who was super rough and nearly ripped chunks of hair out. aaauuwww!) but the similarity of the ritual to something from home, a good sleep and of course the chat with my parents seemed to be the morphine i needed. i came to my senses. i was not in a gangland warzone. i was not living in a squatter camp (more pc: informal settlement) or township. my family and friends who patiently listened to my worries were right. i needed to give myself some credit. i am savvy and i have good instincts. i’ve travelled before. gosh i’ve even managed a situation in rome with a false armed gypsy man trying to steal my best mate’s bag. yes we almost got ourselves in deep shit by following him but still (:)). my supervisor had said international students often become paranoid for a while and then settle. yep. that was me. that night I was in the flat alone and slept right through.

The antidote to my week of adrenalin was a weekend with my new swiss friend from the book launch. That Friday we went out for a drink in the afternoon sunshine of Gardens. My sister and I had stayed there when we came out in June and thought it was beautiful. Yoga places, cute cafes and health food shops sprinkled along streets clogged with parked cars. We even went to the place where Zinz and I had had our first meal – ‘phat’ oreo milkshake in 1 litre globe glass with a juicy burger. this time I went for my paleo (called banting here)-friendly sparkling water and a roast veg salad. it was the perfect afternoon to compare travel stories and gush about Cape Town. when paying i added just under a 10% tip (total 124 rand and I said 135) only to be reprimanded by the waitress – was i from overseas? was there anything wrong with the service? and oh just so you know here in SA it’s customary to give a 10% tip if the service was good. ummm..thanks for the great service?! so we left and i thought next time i might try somewhere else. woodstock was growing on me more and more.

In stark contrast that night we went to a beautiful restaurant in the same area – charcoal -thanks trip advisor!. Picture a little cottage lit up in a dark road where the waiter sees you coming and welcomes you as you walk through the gate. Through the two large solid timber doors we entered a gently lit lounge/dining room set up with cushioned benches around the walls and filled with a mix of romantic whispers and friends laughing (the only thing missing from my date was a man!) We chose a corner where both of us wriggled to get comfy and grinned at each other. the grinning was further encouraged by the local wine that was sent out for us and the menu that comprised south african food choices. Dad’s recommendation of kabeljou fish was available but would have to wait for another time. we were going meat. ostrich and the kudu. and it melted, it dissolved into salty, sweet, juiciness in my mouth. after we’d solved the problems of the world the bill came out. $35 AUD each and even less in franc. We gave a 15% tip and smiled. i think i’ve found my happy place.

power’s out

February 6, 2015February 6, 2015 by Sasha ♥ 18 Comments

So it’s my first week in africa. I’m writing this on my tablet keyboard which tends to skip/double a letter now and then and the shift key is a pain so apologies in advance for the lack of capitals. i’ll do my best to edit but i’m also keen to just speak from the heart and make it real. I’ve never wanted to write a blog. it seems a bit too flashy; too ‘look at me’ but i’ve realised it doesn’t need to be like that. I feel like my time here should be documented somewhere. it is after all a family legacy i’m continuing which goes back to my great grandmother who lived in robertson just outside of cape town. i feel like my parents’ time in south africa was cut short; they left because they had two young girls and were frustrated by the man-made disaster around them that didn’t seem to be changing. little did they know that nelson mandela would be released from prison in just a few short years. i feel like mum and dad could have taken on the world. they are the dynamic duo. german nurse feisty with a new idea around every corner and south african social worker charismatic, wise and, together with strong principles of justice, throwing parties for all sorts of people not allowed to meet and mingle. mum and dad left here at 33 and 40 years old respectively and i now start my time in cape town at just under 31.

so i’m sitting here in my new flatshare in woodstock cape town. we have no power because the power company didn’t maintain the machines or something (not surprising to my flatmate) and so today the ‘load shedding’ stepped up a level. It’s when electricity is shut off at different times each week to different parts of the city to ensure there is enough electricity. funnily enough i heard about this 6 months ago on a visit here and thought today in the car, gee we’re lucky; looks like we dodged that. then the news came on the radio. so I’ve decided to -as my mum says- make it a feature and use the time to write my blog. (but seriously, where am i? no electricity?? what am i going to eat..?)

so i arrived to the faces of a family i didn’t realise i had here. it’s great how you can reconnect with old friends when you travel. they even had one of those cheesy signs that said my name. wonderful stuff. Sugan knew me when from when i was born up to 3 years old. on saturday i hear the story from his mum of when he and his brother were young and came along with us to a ‘white’ beach. a patrol officer copped it from my mum when he told us the boys weren’t allowed to swim in the water. and when he didn’t budge we all stormed off. go mum! i told you they could’ve changed the world.

i had to reflect in our conversation over dinner that although the airport looks the same as any other, there are many people here in cape town that will never come here to fly anywhere. in fact when we started talking about what happens in the hospitals and trauma clinics here, i learned many people may not even survive because there aren’t the resources. and yet i can jump on a plane and be home in 30 hours. wow.

so i think someone out there wanted to create a good story for me about my first day in africa. my lovely family friends and i arrived at night in woodstock to drop me off at the flatshare i’d found through gumtree back home one night. picture different coloured concrete houses surrounded by concrete or metal bar fences with spikes, tooting horns and commotion and men hanging around on the main street just down from the apartment block. from the outside it reminded me of the one time i delivered food to a government housing complex for a program through vinnies. but it was the 30 something lady a little stumbly, in tattered clothing holding the screeching metal security door open that was meant to keep the ‘bad-ies’ out that gave me the all over hot prickly feeling. the apartment and my flatmate were warm and welcoming, but i couldn’t get over the hairiness of the neighbourhood. that night i stayed with our family friends in their suburbian house and pondered over what to do.

it’s precisely these moments that can make or break a trip. not only where you live, but who with, what they do, where and who with can mean awesomeness or not. it felt like a test to see whether i could leave the niceities of australia and embrace the african lifestyle. what a cliché. but i felt worried. all the metal bars in houses although keeping you safer are a constant reminder of a threat lurking. i felt far from home and the days when i’d head to the gym in the morning and see we’d forgotten to lock the door. so i scoured the internet and wrote my emails to people on gumtree in the hope that maybe something else would come my way.

the next evening i returned to woodstock to have a look around. i felt sheepish, like the spoilt ‘I’m a celebrity; get me outta here’ type, but i wasn’t sure i’d be able to relax and live in the area. in daylight things looked different. the apartment looked even cuter, humble and cosy with wooden floors and lots of light. My room was huge (especially without all my stuff at home) with a clear view of the majestic mountain that watches over cape town. The inside of the complex had grass and flower beds across a large area filled with the shrieks and giggles of local children which the lounge with a record player and and lie-in-me couches looked out at. although the main street was bustly and filled with the notorious saffa taxis, we saw there were a number of banks and shops that yes, did have severe burglar bars, but nonetheless continued to operate. my new flatmate, jenny, was heading out to an artsy bar in the neighbourhood with some friends that night. she laughed when i told her my goal was to leave SA sounding like a saffa. lekker man! (pronounced ‘mun’). needless to say i moved in the next day.

people are friendly and open here. even the petrol station attendance yusuf became my friend today. I’ve also met laura, maria, zena, diane in my building and had a good chin wag. Laura runs the body corporate so i’ve gone up for a few visits and managed to secure a car space for next week. in the meantime Zena’s lending me hers. People are generous, they share about themselves here; they like to tell their story. people wave when you let them in on the road and move over to let you overtake. yes their load may not be secured, they can stop suddenly in the middle of the road and weave dangerously in and out of lanes in vans that have questionable servicing but they call out to people – do they want a lift?-, people say hello and introduce themselves if they haven’the seen you before, and there’s a general bustle and atmosphere of aliveness. for a place that has little in some ways it has a whole lot of heart and personality. i like it.

interesting fact from jenny today: the minimum wage here is about 7 rand an hour. my parmesan cheese from pick ‘n’ pay cost 48.

loadshedding.co

African adventures