Just Now

African Experience

2009-05-25T17:50:00.006+02:00

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...

2009-05-18T03:05:00.017+02:00

(... 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

2009-05-12T14:28:00.022+02:00

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!)

2009-04-22T21:34:00.012+02:00

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

2009-04-08T19:44:00.009+02:00

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

2009-03-29T20:03:00.000+02:00

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...

2009-03-13T20:10:00.016+02:00

(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.

Voor Trek

2009-03-09T14:37:00.023+02:00

The Voortrekker Monument: a blonde haired, blue eyed fantasy of the colonization of South Africa.

I was immediately reminded of an exchange between Owen Wilson's and Bill Murray's characters from The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.

Zissou: It's a documentary! It's all really happening!
Ned: Well, then damn you for that.

Now, before I begin an incredulous tirade, I'll ramble into a tangent:

I'll admit, of course, the creation of any piece of art brings with it issues of cultural representation, especially art that aims to depict historic events. History is written by the winners.

Recall, the ghost in Hamlet charges his son, "Remember me"; Hamlet pleads to Horatio,

[...] And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,
To tell my story. [...]

Hamlet's struggle is a model of revisionist history. We sometimes lose sight of this fact because Hamlet is a play, a narrative; we know the ending of Hamlet, and so we view its linear progression of events as simply the way things happen. We say - as we, unfortunately, too often do in life - that's just the way things are. However, Hamlet's decision to avenge his father's murder is not simply a choice between action and inaction. If we place ourselves in the story as citizens of Denmark, depending on Hamlet's actions, history can be written in one of two ways.

Lets say we're Danish school children twenty years after the events of the play. If Hamlet avenges his father's murder we learn that Old Hamlet was murdered by his brother. If Hamlet chooses to demap himself, or never works up the courage to confront the usurping dominant cultural authority of Denmark, his uncle, the king, we merely learn that Old Hamlet died, and was succeeded by his brother - a discourse that oppresses the Hamlets' through an erasure of their history. Actually, we'd ultimately be learning a Norse history (strange to we fictional Danes) of the triumphant union of Sweden, Denmark, and Norway under Fortinbras. But my point - Hamlet chooses to subvert the history his uncle purports. He begs Horatio, tell my story. Hamlet's legacy is preserved through the art of storytelling, both in context of the play, and within in the literal construction of a play text by Shakespeare.

History is not a science, it's an art. Or maybe art is the footprint of someone's history. It has a specific source. It is of one group, and excludes others. This idea spurned a debate later in the day that culminated with one of our host drivers exclaiming exasperatedly, "but I've studied this history! All of those events actually occurred!" I do not dispute that statement. However, not only is the winner's history recorded, but it is done so in a certain way; I'd argue at the Voortrekker Monument, this is done with a special bravado.

These are panels housed within the Hall of Heroes. I'll just leave it at that.

Now, I'm no authority on the Voortrekker Monument, so I'll first let the official website provide commentary for this, um, historical frieze, I think it said. The description touts the marble carvings as

Tales of heroism and perseverance, illness and death, defeat and conquest, friendship and treason [...] Not only does the Frieze depict the birth of the Afrikaner nation, but also the contact and relations with the Black Nations of the interior during the 19th century - for these nations also a time of internal power struggles and a fight for survival.

Birth of the Afrikaner nation, huh? Doesn't American history have a cultural artifact of a similar title?

Hey, it was Woodrow Wilson's favorite film. That guy had fourteen points, right? ...Couldn't be that bad.

Okay, but the point is, the Voortrekker Monument was like if the designers of the Apartheid museum went back in time on opposite day. Seriously.

But it was pretty cool to look down on the Hall of Heroes from the top of the monument.

It sort of gave you this feeling that you could plummet at any moment.

I don't really know what else to say, so I leave you with our own beautiful rendition of the Hall of Heroes, starring Salome and Eden as the Zulu warriors. Voortrekkers not included.

Voortrekkin'

P.S. We did go to Union Buildings in Pretoria as well. It was a beautiful view.

Ou Tr To Th So We To

2009-03-02T23:03:00.018+02:00

Yesterday we were able to make our first major excursion away from Johannesburg.

Soweto is an abbreviation for "South Western Township" (like TriBeCa, right?) and is technically still part of Johannesburg, but that statement receives a laugh and a head shake from most of the locals. A remnant of Apartheid's township system, it was originally created as an eviction camp, or ghetto, to facilitate the relocation of black Africans.

I had arranged for the American group to be picked up by a new friend, Buhle, but we soon realized that when she had asked if the Americans wanted to come, she had meant three people, not the seven of us who showed up. Additionally, Buhle had brought two friends, Cam and Sivu, so there was no way we were going to clown car ten people. Keep in mind, no one here drives vans, or SUVs - all of the cars are incredibly tiny. The woes of being in a driving city!

We called a cab to follow. Forty-five minutes, and two-hundred eighty rand later, we were in Soweto.

The plan was to go to an outdoor event, but when we arrived the venue (essentially a tall, tarpped-off area of pavement surrounding a local trendy-clothing shop) was still sparsely populated and we were told things would be ready in half an hour. Something about African time was mentioned. This gave us some time to tour the neighborhoods and a nearby park. Buhle grew up in Soweto, and some of her family still lives there so she was an excellent guide.

Our friend Zuma.

A house.

Very Looney Toons-esque, hey?

On the way out of the park.

"Working Together We Can Do More"

We attracted a lot of attention during our tour; many people were curious to know where we were from and why we were there. Along the way we learned the greetings Sawubona and Sanibonani. People were very surprised to hear the words coming out of our mouths. The three South Africans asked us several times if we felt unsafe. The truth is, I've felt more unsafe in Deep Ellum than I did in Soweto. (I later told this to my friend Muzi, who incredulously replied, Wait, what did this guy just say?!) Maybe it's my naivete.

After our spin around the block, we returned to the scene of the party. Things were in full - well, half full - swing when we returned. Two DJ's had set up and music was playing. I sampled my first Savanna Dry Cider - it was pretty tasty, and it wasn't my last. Additionally, they were serving traditional African food - Boerwurst. Ha. Ha. Although perhaps not authentically Sowetan, along with the cider, the cool air, and the warm sun, Boerwurst really hit the spot.

Eventually, a live band began to set up. To warm up the crowd, a mic was passed between an MC and a poet. It wasn't the greatest. However, who are the visitors to complain? I don't know who mentioned that Eden was poet (perhaps Eden herself), but that sent Buhle off to find the MC, to alert him of the visiting talent. Soon after, Eden was in the middle of the crowd, introducing herself and representing America well. She performed a two minute poem and the crowd loved it. I think that was the highlight of the night. Finally, the band was ready to play, and took the stage declaring themselves as "REBIRTH". They were a crowd pleasing mess of shedding and stripping.

Afterwards we went to Cat's Pajamas - a local latenight favorite - for some rib pizza (delicious) and then retired to International House.

Mopani, Mo' Problems

2009-02-26T20:27:00.002+02:00

Last night we went out to Gamadoelas: Exotic African Restaurant for dinner in celebration of Paul's 21st. Now being the adventurous Americans that we are, we decided to order some crocodile to get the night started.

"Cubes of tail meat, deep fried in a light batter" - a cool R 59.95

Let me just say, it was dee-lee-cee-ous. Contrary to popular belief, it don't exactly taste just like chicken. I would describe the flavor as a mix between chicken and seafood. Chicken of the sea? Except, it doesn't taste like canned tuna. Both plates of crocodile were quickly devoured by the table.

But it wasn't enough.

While the last of the croc was being devoured, Bennett and I discovered a very special item on the menu: Mopani Worms.

Worms. You can eat them. Only R 39.95.

Gonimbrasia belina. If I didn't know any better, it almost sounds like Italian. "Could I suggest the Gonimbrasia belina sauteed in a light bechemel for sir and belisima?"

Our Mopani worms came in a quite spicy "peri peri sauce". By quite spicy, I really mean, so spicy that you can't taste anything but the peri peri. The skin is very tough and crunchy; the more you chew, the grainier the texture becomes. I'm reading on the wiki page that they may still contain bits of undigested leaf when prepared. Wikipedia says their taste is reminiscent of tea leaves. No. Glasses of wine were downed by some after only sampling half a worm. It was not pleasant.

However, our taste buds were relieved with the arrival of our entrees. The kudu buck venison (pan fried with a dried fruit and spice sauce) I had was incredible.

This evening marked a much needed departure from my many incarnations of chicken and vegetables.

Love Will Tear Us Apartheid Do Anything for Love

2009-02-15T09:47:00.002+02:00

Yesterday for Valentines day, the Americans went to the Apartheid museum.

I'd like to go on a tangent for a moment to illustrate something about my understanding of Apartheid before visiting the Museum; I hope this does not offend. In 2000, Disney Channel made an Emmy award-winning TV movie called The Color of Friendship.

This is my earliest recollection of the concept of Apartheid. At the time the movie came out I was twelve years old. So, in fact, I didn't really know what Apartheid was, I had just heard the name. I had a vague understanding that it had to do with race and South Africa. I never watched the movie.

I also remember around this time hearing the lyrics "Who rocks the party. That rocks the body?".

Now, I've had the same set of friends since kindergarten and we have many long standing jokes.

One day, my friend Andrew and I were over at my friend Ryan's playing GoldenEye on N64. This particular afternoon, "Who rocks the party? That rocks the body" was being chanted over and over again. Somehow in the middle of it all, Andrew and I began singing "Who rocks the 'Partheid? That rocks the 'Partheid". Out of nowhere, Ryan, one of the most happy-go-lucky people I know wheels on us and with intensity unseen in a twelve year old chides - "Do you even know what the Apartheid is?". We had a fit. He was so serious. We assured him, of course we know what the Apartheid is.

"Do you even know what the Apartheid is" has ever since remained a catch phrase to denote overly serious intensity.

The point I'm trying to make is, I really didn't know what the Apartheid was in any sort of real way. I still don't. Even after the museum, although I can say I have gained a certain knowledge and appreciation, I'm still absorbing and processing things about Apartheid and it's effect on the present moment every day. I feel at this point that anything I would have to say about my experience of the museum would ultimately be reductive. However, I believe everyone found it to be an eye-opening experience and will probably take the rest of our stay to digest it.

Braai, the Beloved Country

2009-02-14T10:25:00.016+02:00

Last night we were invited to a Braai by Aimee from our performance class.

Monumental for two reasons: one, first Braai obviously; two, first time we had set foot in anyone's home since arriving in South Africa.

First off, the house was gorgeous.

The food was fantastic as well - wurst, kabobs, humus and pita, potato salad. Inspired by complaints about the salsa we've been eating Joburg, I made peach guacamole for the Americans.

It was a nice change of pace - the Americans hitherto hanging out in bars and clubs. Once again, references to California were made - Bennett remarked that Aimee's father posted at the grill reminded him of every surfer dad he knew back home.

After eating, there was dancing - frequent and hilarious juxtaposition of American music. However, we are fortunately getting exposed to South African music as well. As dancing died down guitars were brought out - Bennett supplied his own. We were entertained with music ranging from classic rock, to bad nineties, to Tenacious D. Bennett and I kicked it off with an attempt at both parts of "Wish You Were Here". I'll keep practicing.

Highlights of the evening: Group sing along to "Satisfaction", a round of anthems: South African, US, and Israeli, and Paul, Aimee, and Wiseman tanzing to a very beaty Hava Nagila.

Wonderful evening.

Help! or Money (That's What I Want)

2009-02-09T13:05:00.007+02:00

I've been through the orientation packet for South Africa a couple of times. There's one section entitled

USING AN ATM
ATM fraud is one of the most prevalent crimes in South Africa. At ATM's, never let anyone interrupt you, never give out your PIN, and if your ATM card goes missing or is "swallowed" by the machine, cancel it immediately. Most crime at ATM's is committed under the guise of help. Be prepared to be rude to anyone who persistently tries to "help" you.

So, me being, naive thought, yeah, that sounds like a pretty good warning - I'll keep that in mind. You know, not really thinking about it very much. Well, apparently over the weekend, Ari was flustered by just such a person and just found out that 800 USD was withdrawn from her account. (That's a little more than R 8,000 - so they guy made off with a bundle). I mean, that's a lot for dollars to begin with.

It shook me up, but only in an abstract way. It still isn't anything that I have experienced. It seems unreal because everyone has been so nice so far - we comment daily on how beautiful everyone is, how much fun we're having, and how much we enjoy the energy of this place.

It was a wake up call, yes, but, I still want to say - no, no, it's not really like that. It hasn't been.

Moves in Mysterious Ways

2009-02-09T11:18:00.005+02:00

We decided to join the cast of "The Game", a physical theatre piece, for their warm-ups this weekend to get a little taste of the movement department pre-first week of class. Here continues the trend of things feeling familiar, but being ultimately very different.

Adlerites, think of spirals, Joanne's and Jenna's classes, and ballet rolled into one. Yeah, that - but on crack. I know some of us joked about making a high energy dance routine out of spirals first year. Well, they beat us to it. It's everything you enjoyed about the energy of movement class first year, mixed with the form of second and third years. I want to do this back home!

You could have made a slip-and-slide out of the sweat afterward.

Best of all, the studio is the entire 14th floor of a building - the long walls on either side all windows. It's like New York, but less cramped. Open air, free, amazing, exhausted, sore.

Ari, Karen, Eden - after class

Much Ado About Nothing

2009-02-07T18:30:00.008+02:00

This is not another attempt at a clever post title.

However, it sort of describes my feelings towards cricket after watching for a couple hours. Maybe if I learn more about the game I could get into it, but I think this is doubtful. Now, I have had the debate back in Texas over whether or not soccer is an engaging sport - some have problems with its pacing, etc. - but cricket...god, it's tedious. What makes it so much worse is that all of the fielders look bored themselves. There's the air of lethargy about them. And when a big hit is finally made, no one seems to have been paying attention - half-hearted attempts at retrieval are common. The enormous field is a pretty fantastic space though.

That was my morning. In the afternoon I took a trip with Nathan (an American masters student also living in International House) and Tom (...fuzzy on the details) to the botanic gardens, about twenty minutes from campus. Tom's friend Taryn was playing Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing in the park. The space was cool - looked like a walled bowl.

Apart from the blazing South African sun, I really enjoyed the production on a whole. The lovers were fantastic. Benedict was actually played by Nick, a cast member of the aforementioned Africa: Ma Ma Yo. Hilarious. However, I was sad to hear some ad-libbing around forgotten lines of the senior members of the cast. I'm talking about actors in their fifties - I would think they would be the more experienced. Wince.

Afterward, we strolled around the garden. Nathan and I thought these vomiting statues were funny. I don't know, we got a kick out of it. This Yak/Wildebeest (or whatever it is) especially.

The gardens are beautiful. I definitely want to come back with the rest of the group.

Yo-yo Ma? No! Ma Ma Yo!

2009-02-06T17:54:00.004+02:00

This week we've been trying to see everything at the Wits Theater. The theater houses three different spaces - a large theater, an amphitheater, and a black box space.

Our first experience was a musical adaptation of Cry, The Beloved Country. Very interesting - a lot to take in. I was struck by the way some of the performers moved on stage. The best I can say right now is that it was not American - reductive and obtuse, I know. Hopefully, I will be more articulate as my exposure increases.

Other performances we saw included a one man show entitled Kung Fu Krazy - wonderful characters - physical work was superb - and another physical theatre piece, The Journey - once again, physical training seems incredible. The Journey was performed by second years - I'll tell you, no second years I've ever seen could move like this. One thing I've been noticing is that, when put into context with the theatre I've been seeing here, things in America seem a lot safer. I mean both in terms of acutal safety and artistic choice.

My favorite show by far, however, was a hilarious politosatrical piece - Africa: Ma Ma Yo. Just imagine the feeling of "The Compleat Works of WLLM SHKSPR (abrgd)", but about politics surrounding African and South African art making and culture. Amazing. Entertaining and thoughtful.Watching theatre here has been a blast!

New Slang

2009-02-04T15:00:00.004+02:00

Here's a little introduction to South African slang and colloquialism

Just Now - in a bit

Now Now - not at all now, later

Is it? - Most similar to our "Oh really?" or "Oh yeah?" (passive confirmation)

A: I really enjoyed the show.
B: Is it?

Braai - (rhymes with sky) barbeque, or BBQ if you will

Hectic - used in place of intense, i.e. that was hectic

Dodgy - used in place of sketchy

Bottle Shop - liquor store

Robot - traffic light, i.e. pull over at the next robot

More to come I'm sure.

I am Sam

2009-02-03T17:05:00.006+02:00

American influence is far reaching.

Our arrival to Johannesburg happens to coincide with Freshman Orientation or "O week" at Wits. The "Silly Buggers' Party in the Alley" (more fondly remembered by some as "two rand vodka night") was our first university social event. Who are the Silly Buggers? Well, I saw their booth while touring the club fair tents and...yeah, I got nothing.

It was an interesting experience to say the least.

So this is what college on a campus is like.

Steppin' Out

2009-02-02T11:37:00.000+02:00

Not having a car in a driving city is a problem.

However, we've managed to get out of the semi-claustrophobic situation of being stuck on campus.

A recap of some outings -

When Karen got into Joburg we went to Fontana Chicken: Famous Roastery. (Roastery?) Chicken is good here and I've noticed chicken burgers are a fast food staple. Now, roommates, think about the price of a quarter chicker from Texas Rotisserie. A quarter chicken at Fontana is R 16.90 or roughly 1.69 USD. Ridiculous. Fries (chips) are about the same as home- R 9.90 for a small.

The next day we went to Old Melville for lunch with our program director, Greg. We ate at a Portuguese place that, we found out half way through the meal, shares its kitchen with the place next store. Aparently the sister restaurant has a couple addtional options. Strange. I got squid and chips and a beer for about R 33/3.30 USD. We decided to try Carling Black Lable beer to get some local flavor. A couple days later I learned Black Lable is merely a failed US brand.

Side story: The day we went to Melville my card was declined at the market and at the ATM. Earlier at the market we suspected electricity failure, but when I called Bank of America later they told me they had placed a block on my card due to some suspicious transactions. Before I left I called to tell them I was going to South Africa. Aparently despite my notification, they didn't put two and two together when transactions from Heathrow came up on my account. It took 45 minutes to fix. At least they're prudent.

Later, back at the ranch, we became quickly board again. Some one realized that the Super Bowl would be starting at 1 AM our time and so we desided to walk to a gas station to get beer and snacks. Without Wits student IDs yet, it took some manuevering to get past security, but Karen, acting as liason, managed to persuade them to let us in and out. Out on the street there were a few startling instances of forgeting that traffic is on the left side of the street, but we made it to the gas station/Woolworths in one piece. To our dismay there was no beer. I bought some Haagen-Dazs which I realized afterwards was more expensive than the same portion in the city. Later, we all situated ourselves in the International House TV room, but could only find PGA golf. We killed some time watching the Cape Town auditions for Idols, and then took naps, finally found the channel for the Super Bowl, but it was scrambled. The girls went to bed and Paul, Bennett and I watched some laughable E!'s sexiest women special that used an incredible amount of illiteration. Then for some reason we watched half of xXx with Vin Diesel and finally retired.

It was 3 AM.

Lost in the Supermarket

2009-01-31T20:00:00.000+02:00

Shortly after dropping off my stuff, I went with Thabo to "Campus Square" - a 5-10 minute drive away - to get groceries and to buy airtime for my program issued South African cell phone.

There are three major options for buying groceries: Pick n Pay, Spar, and Woolworths. I blindly opted for Pick n Pay.

Now, I'm used to grocery stores existing as stand alone structures back home; in New York they at least occupy a single floor of a building. So, it was very strange to find that Pick n Pay is situated in the middle of a mini-mall. Other differences - most produce and some bread has to be weighed/priced and receive a sticker from attendants in the store. That concept isn't completely foreign to me, but it is more common place here. I wonder if having weight sticker stations creates more jobs across the store. Maybe? Brands are obviously different here; Thabo helps to navigate that. Also, a lot of eggs are not refrigerated in the store. I'm reading that keeping them at room temperature helps them to crack more evenly and doesn't thicken the white and yolk. News to me.

Before I left I kept telling people, yeah! it's ten rand to the dollar there! everything is going to be so cheap! However, the question was raised, how much does a gallon of milk cost? I'm still fuzzy on conversions (lbs/kg and l/gal) but it seemed that prices were similar to Chinatown - except the selection is more like Jubilee. I payed about 30 USD for a first round stocking of the kitchen - I would pay 60 USD in the city. I don't know, something's cheaper here. More price comparison to come, but I suspect the dollar will go a long way.

I mentioned airtime before. I payed R 55 for...well, 55 points of airtime. We'll see how long that lasts. I'm not sure whether pre-payed is the norm or whether it's just most convenient for students abroad.

It was nice to get out and see a fraction of Joburg before returning to an unmoved-into room. I made grilled cheese and then succumbed to jet lag.

Heart of Darkness?

2009-01-31T10:00:00.017+02:00

Out my window on our descent, Africa was completely hidden by clouds. As we got closer I could see the spires of few towers poke though, but that was all. The land remained cloaked until we were fifty yards above the tarmac. For such low visibility, it was the smoothest landing I can remember.

Finally, South Africa - almost. Passport check went smoothly, but my bags were some of the last off the plane. I felt anxious for the first time wondering if student who had come to pick me up were getting tired of waiting. Not to mention my flight got in at 6:20 AM, so I had made them get up incredibly early. I dragged my unwieldy luggage out of the claim and after a moment of scanning, found my sign - "Welcome NYU". Two students had come to fetch me - Thabo and Romy. Anxiety quickly melted - the reception was very warm.

On the plane I had thought about the car ride to the university. I told myself I would try to be engaged, ask them what this and that thing was, be glued to the window, and let them know I was excited to be there. When we pulled out of the parking garage and started off, the plan flew out of my head. I don't know what I was expecting, but I was immediately silenced. There was so much to take in. Everything seemed so familiar, but different - strange, but welcoming. The city looked like my experience of a city, but then there was so much green as well. It certainly wasn't like Dallas or New York city, but I felt like I had experienced something like it before. It was only later that the I (and my fellow Americans) would begin to compare it to California. It's uncanny sometimes how alike alike it is in facade. I felt self-consciously unsocial the whole way to Wits, but Thabo and Romy seemed content to keep the conversation moving. Thank god for them.

The drive up through campus (an actual campus!) to International House was equally stunning. Great architecture, trees, - everything looked so lush. Beautiful.

All other options for studying abroad seemed to pale.

I'm so lucky to be here.

Nighttiming

2009-01-31T00:30:00.003+02:00

The flight from Heathrow to Johannesburg was far less restful. British Airways is cramped.

Additionally, I had to listen to man wax lyrical over the powers of psychology. This monologue - the first of many - droned on for about two hours.

Fortunately, it wasn't directed towards me. Unfortunately, he was talking at a blonde twenty-something sitting right next to me. At one point a self help book actually emerged from his carry-on. It works, it really works he insisted. The power of the mind ... control destiny ... get people to do what you want ... work for you ... I know ... I know, right? You wouldn't think, but ... you should really read this.

(Self-efficacy, no duh.)

I think he was trying to be impressive. I was sort of disappointed that she was going along with it for so long - and giggling - but then again, she was sort of trapped on the plane. It was quite the performance from both of them. I jotted down a note-to-self; most of the things you speak about at length are probably very self gratifying and equally uninteresting. Shortly after, I took stock of the ring she was hiding under her arm. Hm. Quick glance. Him too. Oh boy. Business cards were exchanged - for business of course.

My TV screen was broken. Once we cleared the Mediterranean there were no lights to be seen. I ate my "chicken ratatouille" and tried to sleep.

Ten hours is a long time. I lost my flight-pillow behind the seat. It felt even longer.

8 1/2

2009-01-30T18:00:00.002+02:00

Hours to kill at Heathrow.

Terminal 5 is an oasis of entertainment - a weigh station before your far less colorful gate. As someone with weaker currency, I found it especially well constructed: a gallery of interesting things I can't buy. Tangible fantasy. A perfect checkpoint on the road toward African mirage.

Ten minutes of window shopping was about all I could handle.

For some reason the main stairs to the lower waiting area eluded me. While trying to find my way down, I attempted to take a direct route towards the only flight in sight and wandered into Gordon Ramsey. I stood their dumbly as a convincing hostess asking me if I wanted I table. I had eggs Benedict. And toast. Oh, and some coffee, too, please. I read Coatzee (Disgrace) for an hour and a half over breakfast - highlight of the layover.

And yes, there was a flight of stairs at the back of Gordon Ramsey - no matter that it cost fifteen pounds to use them.

I bought internet and slept the rest of the day. Traveling without moving.

Long Day's Jouney into Night

2009-01-29T18:00:00.004+02:00

tl;dr

My flight left at 6:20 PM.

The day was spent packing, but that was second priority. I have been trying to finish David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest since first year and had promised myself I would be done with it before I left for South Africa. Some things, like packing, are easily done last minute - not the case with Infinite Jest. The morning and early afternoon were interspersed with fifteen minute bursts of reading amidst throwing together about 70 pounds of cargo. Leaving the house with the book unfinished was putting me more on edge than fears of forgetting something or pre-travel jitters. The Entertainment: a good distraction?

Despite car-sickness, I tried to plug on through the last 30 pages. If I had known I would would end up taking it on the flight anyway, I wouldn't have ignored my family the entire ride to the airport.

Mom asked, are you nervous? do you feel excited? - my confession was, I didn't feel much of anything besides paranoia that my parents thought I had no idea what I was doing. (This of course completely in my head). Beyond that, the whole prosepect of the trip was surreal - sedating. It was strange when she asked; It was as if I had never really thought about it before.

Check-in was deserted so our prudent arrival time at the airport was for naught.

I said goodbye to my family. Pretty standard, save my sister's cautionary farewell: never look a monkey in the eye.

Post secuirty check point ritual: I wave to my family again (and again), receive a call from Dad five minutes later at the gate, and call once again to say, I'm boarding. Quick texts and calls to friends, finish Inifite Jest (after all these years), and I'm off.

I love flying at night.

The flight was about as uneventful as the the prim British woman I was seated next to. We exchange smiles and nods to each other. I always have this false premonition on my way to my seat that I'll wind up next to some talkative, intelligent, and gorgeous companion and that we'll have gorgeous and intelligent things to say to each other. Foiled again.

Luckily, Elegy was an in-flight movie option - so Penelope Cruz was an adequate substitution.

I had some plain plane-beef and slept the rest of the way to a drizzley Heathrow.