African Experience

On the final session of the storytelling lab we took as a part of our applied theatre studies, one of my colleagues - a fellow American - announced that storytelling was the "most African experience" he'd had through the university, and the only training he received here that he could not have gotten at home.

My colleague, the American, forced a blush when he uttered the phrase "most African experience," laughed sheepishly; he may have even said sorry. My question was, then, why say it at all? Perhaps more importantly though, what elicited this this apologetic performance? I can only speculate.

I suspect it had something to do with political correctness; so ingrained in Americans, we use it as a substitute for specificity. My other thought is, although my colleague, the American, had absorbed a certain amount of knowledge from our studies here, he was unprepared to reorient his frame of reference.

I have two objections to the idea of the "African experience": one is practical, and the other, I suppose, political. I will be hard pressed to keep politics out of the practical.

Practically, I don't think of storytelling as particularly African. The idea of narrative is a consideration of most artists, even if ultimately they chose to reject it. However, there's something about framing a class, that essentially deals with narrative, as "storytelling" that allows an American visitor to Africa to derive other meanings. I think it is safe to say that what my colleague, the American, was seeking lie in ideas about African tradition: a strange mythology of primal origins and native forms.

Yes, we were exposed to, and I believe enriched by hearing stories from communities and cultures that were not our own. But when push came to shove, we did not learn a style of oral presentation unique to Africa. It was not the same as learning, for instance, a Bunraku or Kabuki style of presentation. As a class, we did not learn a technique or a style in which we were all expected to perform. In fact, each performer was lauded for their own style. Each performer brought stories for their own communities and cultures. There was nothing inherently "African" about the class itself.

By confusing form (storytelling), with content (stories from communities within the African continent), I believe my colleague, the American, produced a reductive picture of Africa for himself. My political objection to identifying the class as an "African experience" is derived from this reduction. To label the class as African, without taking into account that we heard stories from a myriad of other reference points, is dangerous. We heard stories from Jewish points of reference, from Portuguese Roman Catholic points of reference, American stories, Greek stories, stories from Swaziland, Lesotho, Kenya and on into infinity. There are so many labels you could placed on the stories we heard: religious, national, racial, gendered.

What gave the class its magic, however, was the personal weight each performer invested in the stories they chose to tell. That's not to say the stories were all overtly derived from each performer's traditions, upbringing, cultural history; however, each performer brought something of themselves to their storytelling: a unique style that was personally reflective and reflexive. I believe my colleague, the American, confused the beauty sharing stories with the fictionalized, racialized, exocticized beauty of the "African experience" - a mistake that I fear perpetuates the reductive idea of what it means to interact with and experience an American.

Perhaps it's a little vain...

(... a little artery)

"Old endgame lost of old, play and lose and have done with losing."

Just wanted to share a few shots from a production of Beckett's Endgame that my friends Kieren and James directed - and that I crewed on: building sets, ushering, and other odd jobs (la-dee-dah). Earlier in the semester I had the opportunity of working on Joseph Heller's Clevinger's Trial with these fine gentlemen.

A revamp of the ash bins.

Kieren James Reid: if that's not directing, I don't know what is.

Fellow American, Ari, also photoing.

Muzi and Nick; Clov and Hamm

Liesel (co-designer) and Brigette (Nell)

William (Nagg) and Pam (um...director's girlfriend? fluffer? Pam told me that was rude.)

"Ari! Stop distracting my actors"

Nagg emerges.

We Got Game

The first weekend in May we went to the Pillanesberg game reserve - about a two hours from Wits University. The drive was pleasant I mentioned several times how much the terrain reminded me of west Texas, receiving vague head nods from Greg, our South African program liaison - but, hey, it was exciting for me. Beautiful countryside - hills and mountains topped with scrubby brush, and sky for miles.


Everything seemed so picturesque. BUT THEN!

Moments after entering the camp, we had our first wild encounter. Unwittingly, the group had stumbled upon a pack, and had invaded their territory. Lucky, the car I was in was able to scoot through the danger zone unscathed. Unfortunately, the trailing van, carrying Tsepo, the second accompanying Wits faculty member, and the other five Americans had a different fate in store for it. Suddenly, the pale skinned beasts - rotund enough to be taken for an albino subclass of the Big Five - turned on the vehicle. The male leader grunted savagely as he defended his kin's territory by forcefully...placing a chair in front of the van? As I turned to look from my safe vantage point, I recognized the charging bull who had begun shouting at Tsepo - none other than the Afrikaaner patriarch. (Those of you who are thinking, Afriwhater? - White oppressor, architect of apartheid, etc.) Racial encounter, ahoy!

A brief description of Tsepo should be inserted here as well; he has been sighted at campus lectures drumming on tables in nostalgic protest, proudly bears the "Fuck the Rainbow Nation" slogan on his chest, prefers Malcolm X to Barack Obama.

Recipe for disaster.

The man sweatily growled that this was their camp site, and that we were driving through the middle off it, and did we not see that there were electrical cables in the pathway?! I was left wondering why Greg had not received the same tirade.

Lucky, Tsepo was the bigger man - figuratively, that is, for the Afrikaaner was living up to the "fat farmer eating meat" stereotype I was recently alerted to by guest lecturer Jo Ractliffe. Our crew's van peaceably backed away and drove to our camp using and alternate route.

Later, one of the Afrikaaner women scuttled over and with an air of conspiracy offered her apologies. "I just wanted to apologize for the men's behavior. We're going to be here the weekend, too, and I don't think we want to wait around wondering whose going to throw the first punch." Well, so, I guess it was sort of an apology.

Although, no punches were thrown, we did reference and discuss the incident (and other racial quandaries) with Tsepo the rest of the weekend. Such talks were often imposed and always lengthy to the delight of some and the dismay of others.

Despite the encounter, we had a great weekend full of game drives, braais, campfires, and hikes - topped off with de-luxe accommodations. Did somebody say "Executive Tent"?

And now, requisite animal pictures:

Fun With Zuma (On Display!)

Today is election day here in South Africa - a holiday of sorts. School is canceled and we had a day off from the show.


Monday night, in preparation for the election, my friend Salome and I took the completed piece to the Wits School of Arts and hung it off of the second story cat walk. Its new resting place is directly above another art piece on the first floor whose subject is also Zuma.

Salome inspecting our work.

Necessary (?) pretentious portrate of an artist.

If Nick Warren Gray is reading, those are weight bearing knots.

It hasn't been taken down, so I'm really happy. And people have been talking about it. I even got a chance to speak to some people about it as a spectator. I have not claimed the piece because, as mentioned before, there are some (possible) legal consequences.

Most likely Zuma will be elected, so I'm hoping the piece will gain an extra layer of meaning once the presidency is announced.

When we were at WSOA Monday night, two art students approached us about another project they want to do with the Zuma election poster. They have collected 16 posters; each poster will go to a different artist to play with. Then, all sixteen would be exhibited together. (The significance of sixteen being the sixteen different legal charges brought against Zuma).

I thought it sounded like a really exciting project to be a part of if they decide to go forward.

Fun With Zuma

This week's big news: charges of corruption against Jacob Zuma have been dropped two weeks before South Africa's presidential election. Over the past five years, Zuma, the man many South Africans have resigned themselves to believing will their next presedent, has been charged with corruption, racketeering, tax evasion, and rape. Despite some celebrating in downtown Johannesburg, many are grim and their is a growing air of uncertainty surrounding this election.

However, supporters of Zuma's party, the ANC, seem un-phased - to the dismay of many.

But really guys...


...y so srs?

How can you argue with a smile like that?

(I was told afterward that both possession and defacement of this poster are illegal; I have yet to confirm. I can't imagine its any worse than the "Fuck the Rainbow Nation" and "Fuck Zuma" t-shirts I see floating around WSOA.)

Apartheid Museum: An image

All visitors to the Apartheid museum are familiar with the symbol of its entrance, an image intended to immediately transport the spectator:

However, if one engages with the entrance from a few meters back, a different story emerges. Since visiting the Apartheid museum, one image has perplexed me above all the rest. In light of my inability to fully appreciate the contents of the museum, it may be odd to say that the image I've had the most difficulty understanding is actually not intended to be a part of the narrative of the museum.

This image is more complex; the conjunction of these three symbols creates a dialectic linking the past and present together and forms a challenging depiction of the normative/non-normative binary.

Several things are at play. Most obviously, for anyone standing at the site, there is a regulation of space. This is the most noticeable aspect of the construction of the entrance's intended narrative and exists within this relationship as well. It can be read as a three fold delineation of space between the international Handicapped symbol, White, and Non-White. Another reading, when considering the division of space between museum and non-museum, suggests a binary between White/Non-White and the international Handicapped symbol.

What, then, does the symbol White/Non-White stand for? Does Non-White begin to become conflated with an idea of whiteness? The Apartheid term "honorary White" seems appropriate here.

When placed against the international Handicapped symbol, this inclusive White category connotes able-bodiedness. It is important to remember that, for example, the word White does not only stand for color, or race. Words are symbols; symbols can stand for people; symbols can stand for space. Within the juxtaposition of these three symbols, Able-bodied begins to be conflated with Whiteness.

It is my contention that, assuming all questions of difference (race, color, gender, sexuality, etc.) are a cultural construction, these categories can be encapsulated within the notion of disability. Those that are defined as being other than the norm are perceived to have some kind of deficiency - a disability that displaces them from the normative category.

Separate entrances for disabled patrons of the Apartheid museum?

I'm transported.

It's almost as if I was there.

Pizza in the morning, pizza in the evening, pizza at supper time...

(Check out Voor Trek, published out of order - a perhaps less pizza related entry, but none the less, hopefully a decent read)

It's about 8:00 PM, I'm sitting in my room, hungry, and I did not make it to Pick N Pay to get groceries today. Now normally I would just hop online and visit Charly/Steve's for a steaming pizza from just blocks away or Seamless for a buffet ranging from Texas Rotisserie to Carl's Cheese-steaks to L&L Hawaiian barbeque - a smorgashbord at my fingertips. Tax figured in...adjustable tip added to your order total...and for returning customers, your credit card number is stored! A few pushes of a button and your food is calling your cellphone and asking you to come to the lobby so that you can race back up to your room and consume it. I can usually have spam musubi within fifteen minutes of ordering it.

But I'm not in New York. I'm not sitting on the couch with wireless internet with ten tabs pulled up on Firefox, streaming video, and downloading music all at once. I'm stuck behind the Wits proxy server. I'm chained to the wall by Ethernet. I can't even cook and watch YouTube at the same time anymore. It's 8:00 PM and I'm hungry.

Then I remember the dilapidated circular attached to my fridge by a thin magnetic strip. The brochure reads, Delivery Xtreme: Melville, fourth edition, valid until May 2009. "For you favourite meal served at home..." it coos. I flip through. It's pretty beaten. There's the Xtreme shop, Sushi, Sushi, Sushi, Nandos (tempting), Fontana, flip, flip, flip, Indian, Indian, Shwarma, flip, flip, Steers, flip, McDonalds (what?), flip, flip. And then I spot it: what I've been searching for...a good old fashioned pizza place. Well, maybe not old fashioned, but I was instantly excited about the prospect of ordering pizza.

But then doubt strikes. So many things seem different. I'm used to just giving an address. How do you get things delivered to a place surrounded by security checkpoints? Does my dorm even have a street address? If it does, I don't know it. How will my food arrive?! What if I don't give adequate directions?

I really want pizza. I go to the Charly/Steve's web site. The music there triggers a Pavlovian response in me. I'm not even being cute about this. I think all of my roommates salivate when they hear the dulcet tones of the gently pulsing, electronic theme music of Charly/Steves.

The Delivery Xtreme website is...well, let's just call it a developing website. I put on a brave face and call the number. Pulse. Pulse. Even the ringing tone in my South African cell phone sounds weird to me. A woman answers. I tell her I want to order. She says she'd like to register me. Register? Why?! I'm thinking. I just want a pizza. I'm not trying to vote for Zuma. I give her my phone number, which I have to look up. I, then, spell my name, give my address - which is more like a vague gestalt of locational type details - and then, finally, I am cleared to order. I say, I'd like SC09. She seems puzzled, but I've followed the instructions in the circular - give the code of your order. I repeat, SC09. CS? No, SC. So, I guess I was wrong; we talk about what exactly I'm trying to order. Yes, I'm trying to order from Scooter's Pizza. Yes, a Chicken Tikka pizza with a deep base crust. Yes, I mean a thick crust. No, that's all. No, nothing to drink. Thanks, what was...

And then my phone runs out of air time. Luckily, you aren't charged for incoming calls, so the transaction was continued two minutes later. Now I was glad to have registered. She confirms my order and says it will be there before ten 'til nine. Not bad.

---

Okay. The pizza's here. It's essentially what we call a small- they called it a large, but that's only 30 centimeters. I walk up to the lobby and I end up paying R 90. Opening the box. Hm. Interesting looking. I taste it...They weren't kidding. It's Chicken Tikka Pizza. Wow.

Looks great under my florescent lighting, eh?

Now, I think I should explain my choice a little by talking about my experience of pizza in Johannesburg. Thus far, I have had many exotic, not so South African pizzas. My first, which I'm not sure anything can top in extravagance, was a smoked salmon, caviar and sour cream pizza. The next thing I tried was "Mexicana", which we ate with chutney. Bizarre. I had to explain to the South Africans that Mexicana was nothing like a Mexican pizza in Texas, which is basically a taco on a pizza. One girl asked me what a taco was; Her boyfriend asked me what Mexicans were like. Oy. The third pizza I had was a Rib pizza, previously mentioned. It's like a barbeque pizza, but way better than any kind of barbeque pizza I've ever had back home. So, now Chicken Tikka. I'm still eating it. I think I'd give it a seven out of ten. Third best pizza I've had here.

I'm going to go finish it.

P.S. Where are the bagels in Joburg? Seriously.