Introductions.

The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of culture shock and academic overload. Living in a house with six Germans has me sitting at our dinner table nightly, following the conversation with my eyes, trying to read body language and inflection as if I was observing animals out of habitat. Then I exit the German household after learning a few dirty phrases and strut into a street with a Xhosan percussion of clicks and honks from white mini-buses with “sexual seduction” or “will the real slim shady please stand up” printed across the front. Modernity has really taken hold in some odd forms… Then the Afrkaans chimes in from behind thick gates, pulsing with electricity. This blends nicely with the breeze of ocean, cooling from the back of the neck down to my dusty toes. I walk a mile to school and there the other Bantu languages plus pretty much every other European tongue slips into the race of who can express themselves quicker. I slither between the noise and try to make sense of action incorporated with accents. To be honest, it’s far beyond confusing.
The politics of being human caught up with me as I stood in a local karaoke bar, sweaty with the post performance glow of “Ain’t Too Proud To Beg” by The Temptations. I had just been rejected from my occasional training at the fashion department on the 2nd Avenue campus in PE, apparetnly the program is far too rigorous to be enrolled in any other classes. My disappointment was tremendous. I attempted to ease the pain with a dress, a drink and some too true red lipstick: the classic Maddy remedy. I ended up chatting with a lovely Xhosan man when an Afrikaaner decided to pour an entire pint down my back. I was not pleased so I attempted to retaliate with a beer pour down his extensive torso but I was returned with a quick twist of the wrist and a shove to the ground. He told me, “to know my place.” I told him to go to hell and left in a furry of frustration and disappointment. I found myself, once again amazed at the blantent attempt to keep the "old South Africa" alive with the mentality of apartheid. It feels like traveling back in time...but its so currant and stands so aggressively in your face from nights out on the town to class the following morning. Its a vibration that shakes through everything.
The next week followed me with decades of notes on South African history of group rights and multi-nationalism pride. It was, for the lack of a better word, weird. I traversed past the monkeys on campus, clutching my apple and into the brilliance of weekend that lead me to my first African hip hop show and a pod of 50 plus dolphins, playing in the warmth of a cloudless morning.
Zwede provided me with raw, clean material for so many stories but one truly stuck out among the up and coming African rappers of this country. This was my first African hip hop show. it was African culture influenced by African-American culture which was in turn inspired by African culture. Modernity once again, huh? It was beautiful. There were three mics, two guitars and more talent in the smallest venue I’ve ever seen. I spent six hours enjoying the company of this township and I would like to think it could say the same. I was properly introduced to AZAPO and the art of being African in South Africa…a conversation I will never forget. I wont go into detail because the whole afternoon and evening was fuzzy with the notion that change is occurring so rapidly that most times we will never catch up. I left with my Xhosa name: Ncmisa, which means “the one that makes you smile”. Acceptance has got me floating and the weight of cement rubble and tin shacks has pushed me back down to the sizzling grill of South African life.
The adventure took yet another turn when I added ceramics and I was introduced to a fully South African art class, exploring the inspirations of the beach onto molded platters for future occasions. These people are teaching me Xhosa, humor and how to sing among traditional African songs. They are awesome and one of their grandmothers is cooking me dinner next weekend. Brilliant.

T.I.A.

I was surpried with my first road trip to Jeffery's Bay this weekend, which is about an hours drive outside of PE. Two Irish girls, Sarah D and West Side Sarah, rented a dodgey VW Fox that putted all the way there to a lovely little cottage fully stocked with numerous cockroaches. The other two California girls and myself introduced the Irish Sarahs to "Mexican" food in down town J-Bay, which is to say that we scarfed down spicy meat with copious amounts of melted cheese and some South African excuse for sour cream. The girl's loved it and I made mine edible by splashing it with enough hot sauce to make an elephant sweat. Then I made friends with a wonderfully beautiful woman who was in fact the owner of the resturant. She turned out to be quite smitten with us ladies and generously bought us several rounds of tequilla shots. We all made a pathetic attempt to speak Spanish and then she taught a few dirty words in Xhosa before the strobe light was turned on and we left. Next we stumbled in to a barn blasting a nice medley of Afrikaans line dancing music and early 90s RnB. There was a thick layer of baby powder on the wood floor, making it a keen location for taking long, sweeping strides and spinning your partner with ease. We finally headed home to a kitchen covered in cockroaches and being the wild child I am, I decided to take charge of extermination duties. I caught them with a cup and piece of paper, and Britta flushed them down the toilet. These bugs hiss like nothing I've ever heard and after about twenty minutes of this, I got quite nausiated and passed out in a steaming hot room. It was awesome.
After some retail therapy and our car trouble right outside of PE, I had a party (which pretty much seems to be a theme thus far) and played poparazi once again. Saturdays are good here: beach during th day, Braais at dusk and beers into the late night. Sundays are way better. I awoke, still sporting the grass and red dust on my feet and was swooped for a concert at Victoria Park. I was fortunate enough to have been brought by the guy that knew everyone who was playing, so I shook hands and introduced my self to the entertainers before they stepped on stage. I don't know how, but I've allready managed VIP status here. There was a full orchestra that opened with Circle of Life no less while the beautiful Balla Brothers harmonized. These young men are like the African barbershop trio that you always wanted a serenade from...or maybe that's just me. They had my on my feet, dancing and clapping my hands to the glorious clicks and percussion-like tongue of Xhosa. My first experince at a live African show was a hit. This tradition continued with church at six. NMMU has an awesome pastor and equally awesome band that backed 4 singers with some serious pipes. The sermon was deleivered to hundreds of youth, mostly my South African peers at school. The topic was grace and my word, I have never felt so at home in a church. It was incredibly beautiful, moving really, so I made a point of making friends to go with next Sunday. Dinner was then cooked for me while I practiced my Xhosa and disscussed the possiblities of another road trip, this time to Cape Town in March. Three weeks deep and I continue to be amazed...

Atmosphere

The air is charged here with a smokey, vanilla bean musk that that simmers against the shoulders off all those who live and pass through here. It's prescence in thick and grasping as I stumble in my sandels into the most tense situations of my life. 15 years out of Apartheid, and the segregation is still stagering. The electricity wavers and lights go out, candels are lit and conspiracies are shared about what will take place the day the Nelson Mandela dies in the struggling new South Africa. The passion and frustration built up within each citizen is loosing patience, no matter the ethnicity or claimed heritage. I have come to this country with the intent of learning and listening to all perspecives grow in a nation that has been pigioned-holed by the rest of the world.
I stared classes this week and all seven of my history classes are with the same teacher: a closed-minded, biased-opinioned, older Afrikaner man. His family came down to here from Holland as one of the many first Dutch settlers who fought the British colonial rule in the late 19th century. He grew up under the National Party government who implimented the incredibly racist laws of Apartheid and the inlfuence is extrememly apparent. He stands at the front of each class and tells a history that is insulting to education as a whole, not to mention the local and international pupils that sit before him who have been taught to quietly nod in the venue. Everything that exits his mouth is tainted with a racist distaste for all those who aren't one of his "people". Having been raised in a situation where it is culturally encouraged to ask questions, I take pride in politely breaking his lectures with inquiries of these "truths" he speaks of. He sweats nervously and skirts the question, unaqqainted with the prospect that I wouldn't just eat what was put on the table in front of me. This is daily occurance, as frustrating as it may be, is leading me to discourse I have never experienced before. It has stired the youth here, from P.E. and all over the world, into conversing about the past and what tomorrow will bring for us to scuplt with. It is forcing us to unite over different backgrounds and opinions to get down to the structual issues that fester at the root.
To lighten the load of this incredibly intense situation, I come home to a house full of lovely German people, 2 guys and 2 girls. On any given night this group grows by 20 to 30 young adults, all enjoying the local wine and beer while all sorts of meat sizzles on the grill, making a classic South African bree scene and my home for the next year.

The Crew

Y'all will be happy to hear that despite the strange undertones of life in South Africa, I have made wonderful friends here with the other American, international and local students who live in Annie's Cove or nearby. These people are hilarious, sarcastic as hell, beach-loving, get-groovin kinda folks so I fit in perfectly. It's been hot as hell here with the occassional wind that will knock you on your ass (I'm not kidding) so my first experiences with the Indian Ocean have been awesome. The water is teal, the sand white and the sun glorious. It's been about 30 or so degrees here (that's 90ish for us Yanks) and yes, I have nice lobster glow goin on. Even my feet are sunburnt. The days here start early and end late here. Climatizing to a new habitat has taken many morning trips to Greenacres for bedding, Spars for food and beer and School to orientate myself on its rediculous campus. Get this: the university is on a wildlife reserve so monkeys are can be spotted daily on your way to and from class. But beware, they bite...hard. It's basically a bunch of pretty brick buildings in the middle of a jungle. How appropriate, huh? The afternoons are spent rewarding myself with copious amounts of sunscreen and plentiful wave jumping. The evenings are a continuation of celebration with Bree's (South African BBQ), beers and dancing at various spots downtown. I keep waiting for someone to wake me up. The most absurd thing is while the rest of the international students stay in this little village of apartment dorms which are nice, I received a room in a LARGE house just a block away. I will be living here with 6 Germans, 3 girls, 3 guys and 2 of which I've met: Elmar and Christophe. They're histerical. My room is lovely with a big closet (whoop, whoop!) and located right next to the enormous back yard where we Bree and play poker. Tonight I played with 13 men as the only female (7 German, 5 South African and 1 American) and was one of the lst 4 standing...pure luck I tell you! Pray that I get just as lucky trying to find a bike so I don't have to walk everywhere.

Odd Arrival

I saw Africa for the first time out a circular window, 3 hours out of Joburg. After the intense envelopement of the plane by thick, white fog, the land of vast desert, rich forest, curvacious river beds and suprising oasis presented itself. I nearly lost my delicous, freeze-dried airplane lunch I was so excited. The clouds were sparce and cottony and the land a visably untouched for kilometers. It was so comforting, like the warm hand of your mother rubbing the length of your back.
We landed, I sweat alot and immediately began to burn my pasty San Fransician skin. This is were things got tricky: after a lot of hustle and bustle and 3 days of traveling, we landed in Joburg, got delayed, got a little robbed (well, Amanda did) and kept trucking towards our final destination of Port Elizabeth (aka PE). As anyone who has studied abroad will tell you, the issue communication is a garganchuin problem. NMMU (Nelson Mandela Metropolitan Uni) was not notified by the CSU to pick us up, so we waited. And called ever possible number to get a hold of someone in South Africa who knew something about where we were going. And finally a very friendly man named Shareef picked us up in a ghetto white van and drove us barefoot to Annie's Cove where we were supposed to stay. We got there, exhausted at quarter past 10 at night only to be yelled at (in Afrikans) by the man who runs the place. He slammed the door in our face and we sat there stunned by the "greeting". Shareef, our driver, being the wonderful man he is, told us not to worry because he was going to find us a cheap hostel near by to sleep and shower at. He also explained that Maurious, the prick mananger, was quite racist and didn't like the fact that Shareef, an South African of Indian decsent, brought us unanounced into the grounds. I was pissed before, but now I was livid. It might not have been a proper introduction to my future home for the year, but it was an accurate one. And as friendly as most are in this city, it's turbulent history of Apartheid is still quite obvious.

Stop Numero Uno: Spain

It was the layover of a life time in the beautiful city of Madrid. The two girls I was traveling with (from my CSU program) and I spent a jam packed 17 hours in the streets, snapping photos and smiling upwards. The delerium of spending a full day and night with out fresh air filled us as we wandered the skinny cobble stone streets and sipped cafe con leche in the afternoon sun to keep our blod shot eyes open. The street signs were painted on porcelain plaques at every corner, adding to the ambiance of century-old facades, ranging from rustic pink to a refreshing white, all decorated with beautiful black iron detail. I hate to say it, but Madrid makes San Fransisco look shabby. The one way streets were immaculate and free of homeless...at least in Sol, where we roamed for the first few hours. It is also home to the absolutely and positively most posh palace I've ever seen. It as well worth the 3 Euros and epic dressing room alone. I strained my neck for 45 minutes to stare at the ceiling that had been molded to replicate some gorgeous foreign jungle. The entire room was alive with intricate designs on everything from the swirling marble floor, up the flowery wall paper to the by far most incredibly alive ceiling I've ever seen. I wanted to take pictures but the stern security carried a gun and I wasn't interested in testing his patience. We continued our adventures with a long walk through the park, visiting the conservatory for the King's birds and the only statue of Diablo himself. And I must say, that guy's got nice thighs.
As the sun set, we stumbled in to the train station that housed a steamy botanical garden and finished the night with beers in lucsious little bar. At this point I hadn't slept but I had visited 3 airports, took 2 trains and had my first glorious experience with with Europe. I guess the city developed a crush on me because the customs officer almost didn't let me leave. We both agreed afterwards that taking your picture two days after you get your wisdom teeth pulled is not a good idea. We laughed and I passed through the-5th-element-meets-little-mermaid-airport once more with the knowledge that my feet would soon be on South African soil...