Shoop Shoop
I'm so scatterbrained today, I'll never be able to write up a cohesive narrative or summary of my three weeks in South Africa. This isn't everything. This isn't enough. But I'll try...
I finally smelled jacarandas on this trip. I read about them all the time, but I've never actually seen them. Turns out they are purple, and they fill the air with honey.
What You Can Get with 100 Rand (or $10 USD) in Cape Town (Proper)
- A roll of film, the last one the chemist on Kloof Street has in stock, as a matter of fact.
- 10 scraps of scrapbook paper and 10 envelopes on an art store near The Labia (he he, pronounced "lobby-uh." It's an artsy movie theater.) Three cheers for makeshift Christmas cards.
- A used copy of "The Miracle at Santa Anna" by James McBride, at a beloved vinyl shop.
- A milkshake at Long Street Cafe, even if it is a special order of Milo, banana and Horlicks.
While I was in South Africa, the world carried on. Helen Suzman died. Israel declared war--and the SAfrican press makes no bones about naming civilian victims and violent aggressors. Getting the first word of the war in that way made it really hard for me to sit still during Bush's final press conference this morning...
PJ and I saw a white woman taxi driver in Bellville station. Hell froze over, but Cape Town stayed hot. I guess that's why koeldrank is so important; especially since a hot drink like instant coffee is so bitter and so inescapable. I always make it light and sweet beyond recognition, but nothing kills that coffee-powder-from-a-can taste. Except maybe Amarula.
I will never understand why Capetonians love Rihanna but turn up their noses at Table Mountain. I guess it's all about perception. Rihanna, there, is a fun imported act, and the mountain is where sweaty European tourists spend their time. Speaking of perception, I laughed to myself every time I heard the phrase "But at least we're not in Africa." Yes, the sun is hot, and yes, there may be some political corruption here--but imagine how magnified these problems would be if we were in Africa. I guess I can see where the confusion comes from. I've never had better Indian or Malaysian food than I have had in the Western Cape. Maybe some people really do think they're on an island in the Pacific. I'm sure the beaches would be just as beautiful on any Pacific Island. And that the seafood would be just as amazing--oops, I became a flexitarian.
I never thought I'd be comfortable enough with a significant other to be able to make jokes about poop or vomit-covered shoes, or about the people with B.O. on taxis. But I am there, and it is wonderful. Rolling down the hills of Kirstenbosch, causing a raucous in a a very serene, very peaceful nature reserve, is wonderful. Feeding one another naan and Moroccan veggies is wonderful. Wonderful, wonderful. Even though I threw up and bled on the same unlucky pair of shoes, even though I smoked too many Cohibas and my throat swelled up for two solid days, even though we become more violent and derranged people when we're alseep, it was wonderful, wonderful. Aunties gossiping in Afrikaans as well.
I cried more on the plane to Dakar than I thought I would.
Today was my first day back in Ripon, and at work. No complaints... But now I'm back at home and I can't stop listening to two songs: Regina Spektor's cover of "Real Love" and "African Sky Blue" by Johnny Clegg & Juluka. It's like the plane to Dakar all over again.