The End of an Annum

Hey.

Howzit? You’re still here?

I probably would have given up waiting for that one last blog post by now. It’s been, what, a month? More than a month! What gives?

Ag, man…eish! It’s been hectic. In the past 30 days, we’ve driven across the US in a rented car, purchased a new car, moved back into our house, installed new carpet in our house, moved our stuff back into our house (which involved hoisting a sofa bed up through a third-story bedroom window), painted nearly every wall in the house, ordered internet service, cancelled internet service, ordered different internet service and a whole bunch of other stuff that required the focus of a blinkered thoroughbred…all while learning how to live in America again.

Sure, we’ve taken time out to enjoy time with family and friends, but until now there just hasn’t been a quiet moment to reflect on the past year, on the experiences we had, on the life we lived in South Africa, on that which was there but now is gone.

Truthfully, several quiet moments have likely come and gone. Instead of filling them with contemplation or remembrance, I played Words With Friends or watched a very sensationalized and very tape-delayed Olympic event. Shame on me. Loathe to admit in writing what I already know to be true, I’ve been putting off this task, as if not summarizing the past year would somehow leave the door open to a swift return to life in South Africa, as if these very characters would fashion themselves into nails and forever seal shut our portal to Pretoria.

As if the 8,000-mile, 16-hour flight didn’t do just that. That is, once we actually took off.

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Last Day Revisited

So, you’re right. It’s been quiet lately. These last few weeks flew by, filled as they were with farewell dinners, suitcase stuffings and what what what.

I feel like we haven’t been able to put a bow on the year.

But, if you’re looking for an eloquent tribute to the past twelve months of this wild and crazy life, I’m afraid this post will disappoint you.

I only have a moment to tell you about the rare opportunity we are now experiencing: the chance to have not just one, but TWO final days in South Africa.

See, even though we said our goodbyes, cried our tears, delivered our dog to cargo, checked our six bags, cleared immigration and boarded the plane, we never actually left the country.

Our flight was cancelled at 23:15 last night. Bad fuel valves. We were…stranded?

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Have You Seen the Taal Kraal?

Yesterday, one of my colleagues, a young woman from Zimbabwe named Joy, asked me about ten gallon hats, cowboys and John Wayne. While her inquiries were clearly in jest – the mock-galloping gave her away – I really wasn’t surprised by the questions. As strangers in a strange land, we’ve become popular targets for interrogation.

This is despite the fact that (the very best of) American culture is regularly imported here by way of B-grade Hollywood films, sitcom reruns and Royales with Cheese. The opportunity to grill a real, live American about anything from the supposed superiority of Starbucks to driving on the other side of the road to “Why do your Republicans talk so much about ‘freedom’ when they insist on taking it away from women/minorities/immigrants/gays?” is often too difficult to resist. Shame that we still don’t have good answers.

Without conducting the scientific research necessary to confirm, I’d say that the two questions we get most often are these, and I quote:

  • “When are you people leaving?”
  • “Have you seen the rugby?”

The first question, you must understand, is not meant to be rude. We like to think of the phrase “you people” less as an arbitrary, disdainful lumping and more as a term of endearment. As if the word wonderful was accidentally omitted. Still, we’ve been getting the question for the better part of six months now …

As for the rugby question, until recently, we could not supply a satisfactory answer. While we became avid supporters of the Springboks during the Rugby World Cup last year, we couldn’t see one of those matches in person because, well, they were all in New Zealand. Now, however, all attention is on the Super Rugby league, and we have our own team here in Pretoria: the unfortunately named Blue Bulls.

It was time to see the rugby.

Thanks to the gracious organizing efforts of Quintus and Christa Smit, their daughter, Marni, and Marni’s boyfriend, Giancarlo, we scored tickets to a Bulls v. Crusaders match at Loftus Versfeld Stadium.

Crouch. Touch. Pause. Engage. Blue Bulls & Crusaders preparing for a scrum.

Loftus during Blue Bulls matches is informally, yet fittingly, known as the “Taal Kraal.” Taal is the word for “language” in Afrikaans, and kraal is the word for “corral.” In essence, by going to a rugby match at Loftus, one is effectively surrounded on all sides – corralled in, as it were – by Afrikaans. And I mean Afrikaans Afrikaans. The Boers love themselves some rugby! And they love to talk about it. In Afrikaans.

Don’t get me wrong, we understand why people like the sport. I enjoy the strategy, something I learned to appreciate while watching and discussing World Cup matches. (As it happens, the match we saw featured several players from the Springboks side, as well as the All Blacks, as the Crusaders are from New Zealand.) Jenny, bless her, loves the muscular men with the thick thighs. When she spotted Victor Matfield, I thought she might rush the pitch and hurl herself into his arms, nuzzle his werewolf beard. Never mind that he is actually retired and his appearance was as a business-suited sideline reporter.

Blue Bulls & Crusaders players compete for the ball during a lineout. (not pictured: Victor Matfield)

But, the point is, rugby – especially Blou Bulle rugby at the Taal Kraal – is a white thing. I think fellow American Ryan Brown said it best:

… don’t let Invictus convince you otherwise: rugby is whiter than a Wilco concert and always will be.

So it is. And, so what? So is ice hockey, eh?

At least we got to experience an authentic slice of modern Afrikaner culture. At least we got to openly and enthusiastically support men with Blue Bulls … jerseys.

At least we people got to see the rugby before we left.

March Madness, April Fools’ and the Cuteness Overload that was Boom-Boom’s Party

I didn’t do anything tricky. I didn’t try to convince Jenny that we won the Mega Millions Lottery. I didn’t tell Indie that her arch nemesis, Mr. Nasty Tinkerbell, was hiding in the bushes. I didn’t even write a blog post confessing that this whole time you thought we were living in Pretoria and going on safaris we were actually living in Peoria and going to Steak ‘n Shake.

OK, I did trick Indie with the cat thing.

But, I didn’t do anything for April Fools’ Day this year, mostly because I was up too late with March Madness the night before. It’s a crippling disease, being a Kentucky basketball fan. I caught the bug in 1998 when we moved to Lexington and the symptoms get worse every year. Even Jenny has a mild case from time to time.

Saturday night’s game started at just past midnight here in Peoria Pretoria. By the time the adrenaline wore off, my heart resumed a normal rhythm and every possible recap and analysis piece was read, it was 3:00am. Which is approximately the time the national championship game will tip off on Monday night Tuesday morning.

I’ll be there! #BBN

March Madness. For real. Where did the month go?

UK's Anthony Davis & Doron Lamb after beating Louisville

I know it began with the music of the night because I remember that Jenny and I saw a quite nice performance of “Phantom of the Opera” at the gaudy Montecasino. And, I know it ended with a performance of the Kentucky Wildcats beating Louisville in the Final Four. But the rest?

Well, one of the major highlights was an all-too-short visit from Jaimie and Zach – a visit that fooled the daylights out of Indie, who seemed sure that the pack was back together again. We’ll have more of an update on that ASAP.

What I want to tell you about now, though, is not the wild night of pasta making, not the multinational cocktail party, not the book launch, not the breakfast with the old gang at the guesthouse, not the exhaustive quest for a pair of real basketball shoes in a country that knows only rugby, soccer and cricket…No. Those are fine stories, but what I really want to tell you about is Boom-Boom’s party.

Boom-Boom is a girl. She is now six-years-old. She has an older sister, Dimakatso (or Katso, 15), and a younger brother, Siboniso (2). The father figure in her life is a sweet man from Swaziland named Alex. Alex lives in a shack in Mamelodi with Boom-Boom, Katso, Siboniso and the children’s mother, the one and only Ephney.

Of course, Boom-Boom isn’t her real name. Her real name is Vuyokazi, but she got the nickname “Boom-Boom” when she was a chubby little baby. See, “fatty boom-boom” is the not-so-nice name given to the overweight in South Africa. Even though she’s now a skinny six-year-old, the Boom-Boom moniker seems to have stuck.

When Ephney told us that she was planning a party for Boom-Boom’s birthday, we were excited. Jenny had been thinking about sewing a little dress or outfit for her, and the birthday party would be the perfect occasion, and deadline, for her work.

Jenny consulted with Ephney on style and color, shopped for the perfect fabrics, cut out tiny patterns on the dining room table, spent many nights hunkered over the sewing machine and had a very fun fitting session with the client one afternoon in Mamelodi.

As the day approached, we coordinated with Ephney on logistics, helping to deliver payment to the municipal park where the party would be held, driving down to the central business district to fetch the giant birthday cake and making an early, day-of run out to Plasticland for additional party buckets. It was all coming together.

With Ephney’s friend Kate, Kate’s daughter and niece, we arrived at the park ahead of schedule and began to organize the party site. There was just one problem: The minibus taxis Ephney arranged to transport the partygoers from Mamelodi were late, very late. We only had the tables and chairs rented for two hours, and the five of us were already an hour into the “party.”

Eventually, the party arrived at the park. Not party as in a group of people, though that is accurate enough. I mean party as in more than twenty screaming, singing, dancing kids who somehow managed to cram themselves into a 12-seat minibus.

It was a sight to behold. Here were a couple dozen, excited, free township kids arriving at a public park in a white neighborhood in Pretoria. Awesome. Sure, the other kids at the park were mixed and playing well together, but this was just so fun to see.

And then…

And then there was Boom-Boom.

Boom-Boom (left) looking too cute in her new outfit (by Jenny) and wings

In her polka-dot top, pink stretch pants and matching headband, she was cuteness personified. Jenny’s outfit was a success. And so was the party.

Boom-Boom's birthday party at Zita Park

Boom-Boom getting ready to cut the cake (which she did, with a giant knife, to the horror and delight of the other kids)

Our little buddy, Andries

What Andries will look like as an adult, the never-smiling Kendrick Perkins

Just kidding, Andries...you've got a great smile

As you can see, I served as the official photographer. Ephney wanted to make sure we shot each kid individually. But, by the time we started doing that, most kids were in swimsuits, as there was a nice pool at the park. So, I now have a computer full of photos of kids in swimsuits. I hope I can clear customs on the way home…

Boom-Boom & friends on their way to the pool

Happy family

You Got Questions, We Got Answers

Inquiring minds want to know. In our last post, we asked you to ask us…anything. A few of you did, thank you, and we have some answers.

See below for our responses to questions ranging from what it’s like at our jobs to gender differences to fruits, trees, haircuts, politics, what we will miss the most and more. Hope you enjoy!

What does business attire look like in the downtown area? What are the gender differences in clothing?

Ryan: Honestly, we’re rarely in the Central Business District (CBD), so I can’t answer this question specifically. But, if we’re talking business attire at the university, I’d say it’s more relaxed, but that’s true of most academic environments, I think. Except at the stuffier business schools…

As for gender differences, it seems that, as usual, women dress much better than men. Even the students follow suit: the female students are most often in cute little dresses, or at least well put together; the guys are sportier and wear more denim. And the white guys wear waaaaay shorter shorts. That whole “rugby thing.”

Jenny: I like how work attire for women is more flowing and cool, i.e., appropriate for 80-degree weather, yet still dressy here. There is a bit of a girliness here to women’s styles that I’m not completely down with though—lots of lace, ruffles, and floral fabric. Sometimes I think women seem as though they’re headed to a garden party rather than the office.

What was your experience from a working perspective?

Ryan: Well, though I do spend the majority of my “work” time in the offices of the Centre for Human Rights, I’m really a volunteer, so I don’t know if I can truly capture a “working perspective.” However, I will say that in many ways I find the work culture here more relaxed than in the States. That’s not to say that nothing gets done; it does. The Centre has been a well-respected academic institution and international NGO for 25 years…they’re doing something right. In fact, you should go ahead and Like our Facebook page.

I suppose the biggest difference I’ve noticed in my small work world is that there seem to be fewer meetings here. Or, at least fewer scheduled meetings. There are ad hoc get-togethers, but not the kind of regular, block-your-calendar team or staff meetings to which I’m accustomed. It could just be a difference in how this place is run, though.

Jenny: As far as office climate, people don’t hesitate to make time to be social here. Right away, people made the effort to get to know me, and that felt great. Teatime is a must, both mid-morning and mid-afternoon. My Type-A personality has a hard time with this, but I think I’m getting better at putting the work aside for a few minutes per day. Ryan would say this experience will serve me well back in the States.

How do men treat Jenny?

Ryan: Pass. No, wait! … Sorry, definitely pass.

Jenny: On runs, they are noticeably silent when Indie is with me. (She’s a commanding force!) But when I’m running sans dog, there are more whistles and puzzling comments—more like what sometimes happens in the States.

Describe in great detail all of the trees that you have seen.

Jenny: That’s a tall order. The flora here is a passion of mine. See Ryan’s previous post about the purple jacaranda trees for which Pretoria is famous. I also love the fever trees with their lime green trunks and round, yellow flowers, and the leopard trees with their namesake bark, acacia-like green leaves which turn red in Spring, and spiky yellow flowers.

Babobabs

But maybe my favorite is that decidedly African tree—the baobab. They can live up to 3,000 years (this is true!), and can grow large enough for 40 people to sit beneath one. They look like they’re upside down (their shape looks like their roots are in the air). The story goes that some African tribes believed that, at the beginning of time, the baobabs were upright, and too proud, and that they lorded over the lesser trees. This angered the gods who uprooted them and thrust them back into the ground, but this time with their roots upwards. Now evil spirits haunt the sweet, white baobab flowers, and it’s said that anyone who picks their flowers will be killed by a lion.

Ryan: I don’t see trees; I see forests.

Do you both wear shoes less?

Jenny: Actually, more in the house: Our floors are usually dirty from having the windows open 24/7. But funny you should ask—the Afrikaner children (even some college students) don’t wear shoes, even at the mall, the grocery store, and to class. “No shoes, No service” is not a credo here.

Ryan: Hmmmm…no. About the same. I suppose if I wasn’t going to “work” most days, I would wear shoes less. The weather, since September, has certainly been accommodating enough.

What habits have changed in your daily hygiene?

Jenny: I wash my hair less often.

Ryan: Nothing major. I smell Jenny’s hair less often.

What is Indie afraid of that is strange?

Ryan: Well, she continues to be afraid of thunderstorms, aluminum foil, trash bags, etc., which some may consider strange. The thunderstorms here, by the way, are at a professional level. Chicago thunderstorms are bush league, in comparison. The lightning strikes and thunderclaps are so sharp, so piercing, so percussive that we humans are often jolted.

Jenny: Can I talk about what she’s NOT afraid of? I’m delighted that she’s assertive enough to go after mongooses, cats that wander into the yard, and giant birds with long beaks called hadedas (that are not well-loved here). She’s come into her own in Africa!

Indie is NOT afraid to lie in the bushes outside our flat

What fruit have you had too much of?

Ryan: Ah, this is the beauty and (mild) frustration of SA: It’s difficult to find a fruit when it is not in season. We once asked for limes at a very nice produce shop and they looked at us like we were aliens. “We will have limes in three months, when it is time for limes.” Roger that.

Right now, the mangos, nectarines and Cape peaches are impossibly delicious.

Jenny: Again I want to answer a different question; sorry. I’ve had too many Greek salads. They’re on every (and I mean every; this is not an overstatement) menu.

Ryan: If feta cheese was a fruit, it would always be in season.

What will you miss the most once you return?

Ryan: Everything. The people. The lifestyle. The proximity to outdoorsy activities. The proximity to awesome animals. The weather. The excitement that comes with a young democracy that seems very close to either getting its shit together or falling off a steep cliff.

Jenny: Stella Nkomo, the wonderful woman I work with. Mangoes every night after dinner. 80 degrees every day. Eating dinner outside. The stars in the southern hemisphere. Biking with zebras. Toads hopping around on my kitchen floor. Never having to make my own bed, change the sheets, iron, or do the breakfast dishes. Buildings with hallways that are open to the outside. Our housekeeper cleverly and subtly putting us in our place.

What was the most striking generalization that you had about SA before you left that has changed?

Ryan: We won’t have to sleep in a tree house? There are no lions in the streets?

I suppose that since we had been here before as tourists, we had something of an idea of what we were getting into. Still, I suppose I thought it would be “harder” to live here. I didn’t think we would have as many creature comforts or opportunities to explore as we have had. I think I was naïve, in a sense.

Jenny: That most white people here were in favor of Apartheid.

Do you stay out of politics in conversation?

Ryan: Ha! No. Jenny probably wishes that I would. Early on, I would introduce the topic just because I was still trying to figure out the players and the histories and the positions, etc. Now, it’s interesting to hear where people fall on the spectrum, what they would change, who they support, whether they harken for the “old days” and what what what, as they say here.

Of course, you often can’t talk politics without talking race. That’s where things can get fascinating. What words do people use? Syntax says a lot, even when people are trying to talk politely or in what they think is a PC style.

I like, for example, when a white South African begins a conversation with a statement about his/her own status as an African, someone whose ancestors came to the continent multiple generations ago, then later refers to black people as “Africans.” Wait…just a second ago, weren’t you all Africans?

On the flip side, many black South Africans seem to be holding on to old stereotypes about whites. See how that white person is dressed? He doesn’t like blacks. White people don’t know how to do things. Good times.

Back to politics…I’d say we have enjoyed many good conversations about the state of affairs here, from discussions about the ANC, President Zuma, Julius Malema, opposition parties, elections, service delivery, etc. And, as you may imagine, having an American president by the name of Barack Obama has prompted a number of exchanges, as well. He would certainly win reelection here.

Jenny: No. See Ryan’s comments. He takes the lead on this.

Were the things that you were fearful of, now just common daily occurrences?

Jenny: Driving stick-shift in a right-drive car. Negotiating prices. Getting people to understand my American English. Walking somewhere.

Ryan: Yeah, driving. Sure, I had driven on the left side of the road in a right-drive car before, including on the narrow, windy “roads” in Ireland and Wales, but Pretoria is a the poster child for suburban sprawl. I’m from Grid-System Chicago, dammit! Don’t give me curlicue streets whose names change from robot to robot!

I was also nervous about Jenny traveling to campus alone everyday. Crime is a big concern here, especially gender-based violence. Fortunately, we live on the education campus and there is a shuttle that runs frequently to the main campus. Even if I wasn’t also working on the main campus, I would feel secure knowing that Jenny had safe transport.

Barbershop experiences?

Jenny: It’s crazy fun. You have the run-of-the-mill gay men, and the young women who can give you tips on everything fashionable. But here you also get all the free lattes, bottled water, and wine you can drink. And they are quite entertained by our accents and try to imitate them. My stylist works hard to try to teach me Afrikaans, and writes on her mirror with a marker so I can see the words spelled out. It makes for a fun afternoon. I try to go as often as I can.

Ryan: That’s what she said. No, really, she said that. And, I agree.

Does the cape really look like CA? If so, in what way?

Ryan: Um, yes? I can’t claim to have a lot of exposure to the California landscape (I think I’ve been to LA once, San Diego once and the Bay Area twice), so I can’t say for sure. But, the juxtaposition of green, rocky mountains/cliffs and blue, shimmering ocean waters seem quite similar. Some call Cape Town “Africa’s San Francisco” because of shared qualities like fog, relative tolerance, scenery and the island prisons off their coasts.

Cape or Cali?

Do Ryan’s jokes work in SA?

Ryan: Do they work anywhere?

Jenny: Big no.

Are there stray cats, I only recall you mentioning dogs.

Jenny: We have one in particular who likes to come into the yard to taunt Indie. She’s a dirty, matted white Persian who we’ve nicknamed Nasty Tinkerbell. She boldly drinks from Indie’s outside water bowl when the sliding glass door is closed.

Ryan:

What does an average bookstore look like?

Ryan: A lot like US bookstores, except more expensive. Trade paperbacks are easily a time-and-a-half more than US prices. I think we paid almost twice as much as we should have for a Lonely Planet guide to Ethiopia, for example.

The bookstore-with-attached-coffee-shop model is popular, especially in malls. The biggest chain (I think) is Exclusive Books, and they sometimes have a Seattle Coffee Company next door. The biggest differences are that the stores here often will have a significant Afrikaans section (not sure about other official languages) and an insignificant periodicals section. I take that back…the section is big, the selection is not.

What about an art museum, art scene?

Ryan: Yes, there are a couple on campus, but I can’t say that we’ve done a lot of exploring. We have been to some live stage performances in Joburg, at the Market Theatre, and plan to see a production of Phantom of the Opera in the coming weeks.

It’s Not Mytrekker, It’s Not Yourtrekker…It’s Voortrekker. And, it’s Freedom.

OK, I admit it: I learned most of what I know about the world by watching SportsCenter.

I learned, for example, that games aren’t played on paper, they’re played inside television sets. I learned that if a person is unfazed by pressure, he is as cool as the other side of the pillow. I learned that if a man is motivated enough, he Could. Go. All. The. Way.

I also learned that the legendary Lithuanian basketball giant is not Myvydas, not Yourvydas, but Arvydas Sabonis. Knowing this, it makes sense that the giant, toaster-looking shrine to Afrikaner history on Proclamation Hill, overlooking all of Pretoria, is not the Mytrekker, not the Yourtrekker, but the Voortrekker Monument.

At least, I think that’s how it goes. But, since all the photos below were shot with my iPhone, maybe we should call it the iTrekker.

Regardless, Jenny and I set out last Saturday morning to visit the Voortrekker Monument, as well as the newer Freedom Park, which was designed and built as a tribute to democracy and the South African and continental leaders who fought for independence and self-determination. Some say it is the yin to Voortrekker’s yang, but we’ll get to that in a bit.

First, a bike ride.

And, my first ride since I spilled at Nkomazi.

On the "Intermediate" trails at the Voortrekker Monument

It wasn’t exactly the confidence booster I needed. See, the grounds around the Voortrekker Monument have three kinds of mountain bike trails: 4×4 track, the easiest; single track, for intermediate level riders; and black diamond, for crazy people. We tried to stick to the single track, but with the tall brush and minimal signage, I think we sometimes found ourselves on the wrong rock-hopping, ravine-spanning, cliff-jumping paths. And, did we mention that Voortrekker is on Proclamation Hill?

Looking UP towards the Voortrekker Monument from the bike trails

Knackered and sweaty from our ride, we set off to see what was so hot about the toaster. With tight hamstrings and burning quads, we faced the first of the Voortrekker’s many staircases.

Ascending to the Voortoaster

The whole idea of the monument is – and I will quote the official website here so as not to incite the volk with a misinterpretation – to commemorate “the Pioneer history of Southern Africa and the history of the Afrikaner.” I suppose it does that. It certainly does relate a history. But, as those who have some familiarity with the history of the Afrikaner, both ancient and modern, can attest, the story part of that history has many sides. I’m not sure how many were presented inside the Voortrekker Monument. I think I’ll leave it at that.

What I am sure of is that the monument is much more interesting, and much less like a kitchen appliance, up close than it is from a distance. The façade, while fashioned from a relatively drab stone, has an incredibly intricate detail and multiple, subtle lines. Its hulking frame stands firm, but it also strains upward toward the heavens, as if appealing for divine blessing. The sum of all these parts evokes senses of strength, pride and reverence. Of manifest destiny.

Voortrekker, stretching into the heavens

For each emotion conjured on the outside, the inside invoked three more. The true purpose of the place became instantly blurred. It’s a church. It’s a museum. It’s a mausoleum. It’s the Halls of Justice. It’s a secret lair. It’s a…

It’s everything. It’s visual history of the Great Trek. It’s flags of former territories. It’s a sunbeam on an empty tomb. It’s panels and dioramas. It’s mannequins and oxcarts. It’s guns and knives. It’s Boers and Bantus. It’s battles and bloodshed. It’s spices and spirituality. It’s sculptures of serious men.

Inside the Voortrekker: The Historical Frieze and Belgian glass windows

It’s time to leave.

After a short spell overlooking the city from the parapet near the top of the monument – we spotted the grassy field on campus where we walk Indie every morning – we grabbed a snack and lit out for Freedom Park.

Freedom Park is…well…a lot. Again, just to stay relatively neutral on all this, I quote the official website: “Freedom Park is the creation of a memorial that narrates the story of South Africa’s pre-colonial, colonial, apartheid, and post-apartheid history and heritage, spanning a period of 3.6 billion years of humanity, to acknowledge those that contributed to the freedom of the country.”

All things to all people, ne?

Officially opened in 2007 (from what I can gather), Freedom Park is a beautiful, thoughtful, peaceful and, on the day we visited, deserted place. Though there was another car parked in the lot, Jenny and I didn’t encounter another soul up there. (Except for the gardeners, whose weed whackers sometimes shattered the otherwise serene atmosphere.)

We meandered along the curving walkways, around the S’khumbuto (a siSwati word meaning “place of remembrance”) and Wall of Names, which serve as memorials to the conflicts of South Africa’s distant and recent past.

The S'khumbuto at Freedom Park

Inside the S’khumbuto is the Gallery of Leaders. We wanted this to be more. As it is, the only exhibit consists of ceiling-to-floor banners depicting African leaders who fought for national independence and racial equality. Oh, and Che Guevara. Perhaps for his role in Angola.

However, with no one around to explain things – granted, we did decline the tour guide – the park was kinda mysterious. Well designed. Important. But, somewhat elusive.

And that brings us back to the question of whether Freedom Park is the intentional antithesis of the Voortrekker Monument.

Eish. Not for me to say.

If I had to say, I’d say this: Some of the accounts offered at the Voortrekker could use a counterbalance, methinks, but Freedom Park does not necessarily serve that purpose. Nor should it. There’s already enough tension still hanging in the air, even up in the hills atop which the parks are perched, about history and its revisions. Freedom Park plays a different role, one that it will hopefully grow into over time. And one that, hopefully, more people will pay to see.

Otherwise, the next engraving on the Wall of Names will be that of Freedom Park itself. Except no one will care enough to bring flowers.

Flowers at the Wall of Names, Freedom Park

The Gogos Want a Picture of their Chickens

Some time ago, after we had only been in South Africa for about a month, I posted a description of our “new normal.” Now, nearly five months in, it is safe to say that our new normal is infinitely stranger. It’s just that we don’t always notice.

Until it slaps us in the face.

Take this:

The other day, I came home from work (from a volunteer consultancy position, that is), wrestled with an energetic Indie, and heard the following from Jenny:

“Oh, by the way, the gogos want a picture of their chickens.”

The scary thing is that I knew exactly what she meant.

When my mom and my Mike were here, they observed that our patterns of speech and word choices had already changed, both in subtle and occasionally dramatic ways. We’ve previously blogged about things like “howzit?” and must vs. should, but now we are truly speaking like locals. Well, almost.

I’ve started using “Heita!”, a sort of township greeting, with the security guards and gardeners on campus, and we’ve both started using the phrase, “Is that fine?” (with a necessary lilt on the word fine) when confirming a date/time for a meeting, when requesting an outside table at a restaurant or just generally when asking whether we are allowed to do something.

But the “gogos and chickens” comment takes us to a whole new level.

Fortunately, there is a simple explanation.

You may recall that we celebrated Jenny’s birthday twice, once at Moyo and once in Mamelodi. In Mamelodi, Ephney introduced us to some of her neighbors — two older women, grannies, or “gogos” — who have in their mattress-coil-fenced yard a few (free-range, shall we say) roosters and chickens that became the subjects of some photos I took that day. Because the gogos were so kind to us and had asked me to take several photos of them and their house, I decided to have a dozen or so photos printed for Ephney to share with them, including one of the chickens.

However, as she was riding the train home one day, Ephney let one of her friends peruse the photos. That friend, for one reason or another, wanted to keep the photo of the chickens.

Your guess is as good as mine.

So, Ephney gave the remaining photos to the gogos and told them that there is also one of the chickens. What she didn’t tell them is that her friend took it. Instead, she told the gogos that we have the photo of the chickens hanging on our wall. Yeah…not yet.

“How are your white people?” the gogos asked Ephney the other day. I suppose she said we were fine, but what they really wanted to know was whether they could get that picture of their chickens.

Yes, of course. I will print another one just now.

The gogos' chickens