Knocking on God’s Window

Grunt… Life over here is not always easy. Work is hard and hours are long. It is essential to continuously attempt to escape our routine. Gasp!

You wanna come with us to Blyde River Canyon next weekend, she asks with a soft voice over scrambled eggs and toast. Yes please! Days go by, and I swim underwater for most of them. Down below, things appear to happen slower than they actually do. Distorted sounds come to me sporadically and caress my sluggish body. From time to time, I stick my head out of the water, in the fresh air, in real life. Gasp! I go visit my friend in the evenings at the orthopedic surgical ward. Ouch! With his leg in a thick splint, sheets stained with his own blood, I play around his bed with his crutches. Hip, Hop. Hop, Hop.

I’m still counting you in for this weekend end, she asks in an email on Thursday. Yes please. That’s The Thursday, the Million Dollar Bar one. I am still uneasy with the surrounding world the following day. Yet, all of a sudden it’s Friday again. I like those. There are a few rituals inherent to them that are close to my heart. Friday wear, bi-weekly Friday meetings, Friday afternoon corporate drinks or pre-weekend entertainment… This week’s is extra special: we are celebrating the end of my friend’s stay at the hospital. So we all go out for diner in a French restaurant. Yes, pretentious frogs. That night was a tough one, little sleep, many thoughts and incomplete ideas fighting their way through my head. I wake up at dawn, just after the fifth hour of Saturday. I cook some “bugnes” and sprinkle icing sugar on top. I leave half of it in a bowl for Fish and I rap up the other half in a towel for the road trip.

Housemate! Fish is my housemate. I gave him that nickname two weeks ago when he gave me my first lesson. Fish is a swimmer, he used to do competitions. The swimming pool we go to is very awkward – at least it is to me – as they don’t seem to put any chlorine or chemical element to keep it clean. The water is more or less salty. You get used to it. No, I did not say the pool was not cleaned.

Just at the beginning of the eighth hour, I am already having a mocaccino in a mall next to my house waiting with a friend for the shoe-repair shop to open. It doesn’t. We go to the airport to grab her friends and their rental car. A petrol-blue Chico, the ancestor of the polo. Here we go again, four neat trippers, spoiling gas across the land. We drive all day under the sun, we take our time and stop whenever something’s to be seen. We have lunch on the shore of a small lake and eat trout. Slowly we roll up the mountains surrounded by magnificent views. What are we looking at? Waterfalls and cliffs. The sky and forests. Africans and tourists. We reach a backpacker at dusk and walk under the moonlight, down to a local eatery. One thing is for sure in South Africa, whenever you go to the restaurant, you are always surprised.

 - I’ll have Hake and Calamari… with rice please.
 - No, it already comes with rice. You have to choose between vegetables and chips.
 - Are you sure? It says “served with rice, vegetables or chips”.
 - Yes. I’m sure.

Of course when the dishes arrive without the rice, we have to ask. Oh there was a mistake on the menu, she said, you had to choose between the three.

In the morning I wakeup with my hair like what have you done. I order cinnamon pancakes with maple syrup. Careful! One in the middle of the pile has bacon in it. So where do we go from here? Hike, watch, gaze. We visit God’s window (famous from The Gods Must Be Crazy), a few falls, the famous potholes, and we bathe in a spring a few meters away from a 300m waterfall. In the middle of the afternoon we split. Fifty, Fifty. Two to Kruger Park, and us back to Josie. Soon after it starts to rain as a grey night arises. We loose ourselves. The journey back is long and physically unpleasant. Pain in the neck and mud on the wheels. Long discussions and hot tunes make it more bearable. About an hour before the final destination, my copilot gives up and falls in a deep yet entertaining sleep: her lifeless head meandering around in the cockpit like a Japanese ghosts taken straight out from these fancy horror movies.

At the end of the road, of the journey, I step out of the car in the parking lot and I realize it is all over. The fun, the sun and our ephemeral freedom. Then I take a deep breath… I hold it… and I dive.

Days go by, and I swim underwater for most of them.

Gasp!

The Million Dollar Bar or a Midsummer Night’s Tale

Imagine that:

If you look at a globe, it seems like I live right on the edge of the planet, underneath you all. Eish! From here, looking south, feet in the ocean, one can only stare at the emptiness of a desert of water …

Thursday night on the corner of the Earth, I was feeling like the world was spinning fast. I just hoped I could hold on and be part of it. Hold on to what I had: just gravity. I needed something, anything, to take me out of this routine. A reality I could grab on to. So I called a friend.

At home I stayed in the dark while listening to music. She was late but it was all right: the melody filled the gap. Hush! At last she appeared on the doorstep. A silent silhouette in the shadow of the hall light, knocking on the door like an unexpected mouse.

As we drove away on the motorway, I could see her mind was somewhere else. She was having a conversation with herself or with somebody close to her heart, imagining replies and intonations. I stopped to check the map again, she emerged, probably waken up by the disrupted purring of the engine. So where are we going again, she asked. As far as I can. No, an unfamiliar bar lost in a maze of streets, a place which name means Blue Tangerine in Afrikaans. Nowhere.

In a dark street, I finally saw it. Hanging at the balcony of a one storey building. From down there, it was only an orange and blue room, with dim lights, wrapped in wreaths. We tried to get in but the door downstairs was locked. At first we thought it was closed, so we started walking in the street, meandering on the side walk between people sitting there. After a few meters we realised there was a few of them: unfortunate people; men sitting in wrecks with doors open waiting for time to slip away. Is it safe to walk around here she asked. No, it did not look like it. Eish !

We tried to enter the Blue Tangerine again. Somebody helped us to open the door and we climbed up the heavy stairs. There, we sat on the edge of the terrace, squeezed on a bench, next to strangers. There was a cool breeze running in the air, and around us was the immensity of a night sky. Hush!

The moon was full and I felt better.

But we had to leave already. Yes, unfortunate. We dived back in the gloomy alley and jumped in the car. I gave a coin to the “parking attendant” and noticed he was holding a golf club in his hand. I wondered if it was for defence, for attack or for style. I did not ask. In the moment I didn’t care. All I was thinking was that the world was spinning fast. I just hoped I could hold on and be part of it. Hold on to what I had: Just her, and she was not mine.

I imagined that.

(Three sentences are modified dialogues from the movie Million Dollar Hotel)

Africa’s Most Important Economy Heading Towards Dark Times?

Financial Times – February 18 2008 – William MacNamara

“But the shock of January’s power cuts, when Eskom, the state-owned power utility, cut supplies to homes and businesses across the country in response to an electricity shortage, has hit growth forecasts. Rationing has been introduced in some areas and the shortages are expected to last at least until 2013.
A slowing global outlook has also clouded the prospects for South Africa’s commodity-weighted economy. The rand has fallen more than 10 per cent against a weak dollar since the beginning of the year. Continuing uncertainty over power supplies to the mining sector, which is the country’s biggest foreign exchange earner, has weighed particularly heavily on the currency. […]
The power crisis is likely to shave growth by about half a percentage point, to 3.7 per cent, in 2008, according to independent estimates by economists at Standard Bank and JPMorgan. The government estimated 2008 growth at 4.5 per cent in October last year. Mr Manuel planned for small surpluses over the next few years to cushion the economy against a future downturn, but they are now likely to become deficits, as pressure mounts to accelerate infrastructure spending. President Thabo Mbeki’s government has already authorised a $70bn (£36bn, €48bn) infrastructure spending programme ahead of the 2010 football World Cup, but the inability of Eskom to meet electricity demand in January showed vividly how inadequate infrastructure can choke growth. […]
The current account deficit, which was 6.5 per cent of gross domestic product in 2006, could widen to about 8 per cent this year, according to several analysts. Commodity exports are likely to weaken as mining companies struggle to maintain production levels, while imports related to infrastructure spending grow.[…]

South Africa’s economic performance is important to the rest of the continent, given that the country contributes roughly a quarter of Africa’s gross domestic product.”

And let’s not forget the upcoming presidential elections of 2009, with the very controversial Jacob Zuma - head of the ANC – currently favorite in the run. (see South African Arms Deal and Jacob Zuma rape trial)

To Do List for this Weekend

• Pet a Lion Cub. Done
• Manage to get out of the water on a wakeboard and stand on it for more than 5min. Done
• Paint.
• Get to the top of the highest building of the African Continent. Done
• Go to a concert on a sunny afternoon and chill in the grass. Done
• Eat oysters. Done
• Send emails around to Art galleries and Artists/Teachers in major Art Schools for www.dejavu-production.com. Done
• Play golf. Done
• Get some rest and spend a morning lingering in bed.
• Buy this book on Design I have been looking for, for weeks. Done
• Avoid sunburns. Done
• Avoid muscle ache.
• Get replies from Art galleries and Artists/Teachers in major Art Schools. Done

Déjà Vu or a Sister’s Postscript

Bash! Flash Back. When did she say she was leaving again? Next Sunday I think.

It’s Friday. On the verge of the weekend, the weather has significantly warmed up. In the car the air heats up quickly and I can feel the burn of the sun on my hands clung to the steering wheel. There is a lot of traffic and the air con’ covers the sound of the radio playing annoying tunes. I arrive late at the airport: my sister is already out, waiting for me sitting next to an Italian tattooed man. I drive her back as fast as I can. I can’t do much. A mouthful of exasperation right there.

We leave for Soweto in the evening. Four of us, a phat squad in a Chevy, lost on the mingled highways. In the night, like last time, we drive through the crowded streets of Soweto. Yes, exciting. Lebo’s backpackers is still there, flanked in a painted wall which surrounds a railway and a large grassy playground. Welcome back, says Maria, and it feels like home. Unlike at my previous visit, the hostel is empty. It’s nice too. We light a fire and sip while chatting with the owners. Maria calls us for dinner and we all sit around a table, eating a home cooked meal, like a multicoloured family. We talk about load shedding, life in Soweto and the backpacking business.

Yes, meet Bobby, 3 months old, 40cm high, black bastard dog. Sweet as candy, playful and jolly, with mean white teeth that tickle your big toes. A mouthful of life right there.

Soweto by night, for your eyes only. Lebo and Maria take us out in the township. In the bar, in the club, people chat and share. After that, there’s the moon, the night and the bed. A dry room, a bottle of water on the floor and alarm clocks ringing at the wrong time in the morning. At breakfast, Bobby chews my calves and the pockets of my shorts. At ten, we leave on dodgy bikes for the tour. It is mainly a repetition of what I have heard and forgot since last time. We visit a shack and talk to a fortune-teller/healer. In her crib we found a little girl who has just woken up. Huge eyes and plump cheeks. She climbs on the table and hugs the big mama leaning on the table. A mouthful of affection right there.

When it’s all over, we say goodbye from the car. Tommy – a permanent resident whose brain works differently – tries one last time to convince us to stay. It’s nap time. Once at home I fall asleep and only wake up to go to the restaurant: Browns, it’s renowned. My housemate and I are invited, courtesy of my sister. I treat myself with langoustines, four of them, meat soft like baby’s bellies. Heaven in a plate. A mouthful of a tasty dish right there.

After that, the plan unfolds as expected. House “Beach Theme” party for a friend’s birthday, then when leave for the city centre and the Carfax – a club I had wanted to go since my arrival but somehow never managed to go to or find the necessary motivation. It’s good there. It’s a good life here. I don’t drink tonight, so I drive everybody back, in the early morning, going fast on that lit bridge, it feels like a video clip of Jamiroquai.

Then I loose track of time. The music, the bed, the sheets, the sun, the birds, the nap, load shedding, stretching and yawning in bed. It is mid-day already. It’s Sunday already. My sister is leaving in six hours already. We have breakfast in a nice white restaurant under the sun and a light tree. Before going home we make a stop at the mini-golf.
At the end of the day, of the weekend, of her holiday, I drive her back to the beginning, where it all started. I take her bags out of the trunk and I give her a big hug, one that means I won’t get another one from you in a while. She enters the terminal, a little more loaded with the crafts she bought. I had almost forgot, it seems like weeks ago, Durban, the Market, and she disappears.

Bash! Back to the future. Now it’s over, she’s gone.

A Weekend in the Life of Two Fertility Statues

Blap! Blap! Blap! Friday afternoon and we are in the dark again. Load shedding: it’s not easy.

When enough hours in the day have passed, I grab my keys, the shopping list and my roommate, and off we go to the mall. We buy chips, napkins and caramel sweets in large quantities.

After the shop closes we rush to the airport and pick my sister up. On the way back we follow a car that looks familiar, someone we know. It is unexpected but we have a drink with him anyway; I’ll have a Mcumbelo please.

It is still early but we are already late. Back at the house I take a shower and chill quickly. Before long we are in this amazing house having a braai – barbecue for South Africans- with rose wine. For the desert, he has cooked peach-mousse-au-chocolat. Others are insistently calling me to know when we’ll be in the club, Where you at. They are eager, so I tell them we’ll meet them there. An hour and a half later, we do. Balloons stuck to the ceiling, champagne in the glasses – first time here – and blood on the dance floor.

The following evening is all eyes on our housewarming party. I dress like a dog who’s been messing around in a pile of clothes.

Some people come, some don’t. I have fun with my friends and forget about the rain. Policemen knock at the door at half past three, they want a drink. We offer a beer that they refuse. Suddenly it is next morning and we travel to Zoo Lake for a breakfast buffet. It is still early but we are already late, Sorry we don’t serve breakfast anymore. We eat duck samosa and peri peri egg roles before going on the lake to row for a minute.Part of the plan was to visit the lion park. No, we don’t. Too late. Again. “It’s ok, it’s alright, I got something that you gonna like.” Rosebank’s African market. I lose my sister in the elevator and find a couple of fertility statues on a dusty shelf.

- How much?
- 180R each.
- And for both?
- Hm, how much would you pay?
- 300R.
- Give me 220R.
- Let me go get my cash.

I take the mama and the papa, rap them up in newspapers and carry them around in a dirty plastic bag. I buy them a dozen of steel guinea-fowls and a pipe. I dig African crafts.

We drive back home slowly at the end of the afternoon and chill quietly while listening to music. For diner we discover a fish restaurant quite delicious, eat oysters, prawns, a sea bream and calamari. We finish the evening drinking Guinness in a fake Irish pub with a loose guitarist doing Dire Straights covers in the night.

I go to bed and stand still, head on my pillow. On each side of the mattress: the fertility statues. I can feel their apprehensive excitement of spending their first night in their new home. Then I fall asleep.

Brush Strokes and Afterlife – or – The Cruelty of Age Discrimination

“Art is a jealous mistress and if a man has a genius for painting […] he makes a bad husband and an ill provider.” R. W. Emerson

Afterlife, after here. My next life, my next job. Where do we go from here? If I continue down the path I have been taking, at the end of this mission I will end up asking myself the same questions I couldn’t answer four months ago.

Today I contemplated a first option: the most unlikely and of course the most attractive. It’s been sitting in the back of my mind for some years now, but I never considered it seriously. Now, for some reason, it doesn’t seem as utopian as it did. May be I got accustomed to the implications, may be I lost track of what people are expected to achieve, may be I can’t remember as clearly as before what I want to become and why. Besides, I just started to understand and admit that I will not win the rat race, I have become to fat. Rack-a-tack-tack.

Go back to school and get a degree in fine arts. No, become a full time creator. Live solely on my imagination and my skills. No, earn a living by being fully dependent on other’s will to waste money on superficial and expensive things.

America. Study in the School of Art of a top University, may be in New York –to add fun to the fun – and get a bachelor’s degree in two years. I am a man with a plan. $60,000 to $80,000 for the degree. I am a bamboozled man.

Back to basics. Paris, France, my home town, my shelter. “Les Beaux Arts” one of the most prestigious Art School in the world. The admission tests seem very tough but I can cope with that. And then shock! Get out. Students must be at most 26 years old on the day of admission. All my hopes suddenly crumble down.

I’ll be starting to save – or rather find – money. Approximately 100$ a day as of today.