It has left most people grasping for a sense of belonging and put untold pressure on the family structure.
No matter how we try to compensate for it we can’t. We have been delivered out to the world
singular.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Divide and conquer.
Perhaps the cruellest trick the age of science and the western world has played on us was taking away community and isolating us.
It has left most people grasping for a sense of belonging and put untold pressure on the family structure.
No matter how we try to compensate for it we can’t. We have been delivered out to the world
singular.
It has left most people grasping for a sense of belonging and put untold pressure on the family structure.
No matter how we try to compensate for it we can’t. We have been delivered out to the world
singular.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Day 4 - The Cahuna.
I’m driving a beat up red truck in 40+ degree midday heat in Botswana, southern Africa. My head bobs up and down with every bump in the road like a dashboard doll. Sweat runs down my back. There’s no aircon and the warm wind has flushed my face, hands slip on the steering wheel.
Here’s to hoping everything goes well when I get to where I’m going. There is protocol to adhere to. Etiquette. I’m fetching my Great Grandmother and her entourage in South Africa where they are waiting for me at their homestead. I will fetch her; someone else will deliver her back home. We will tend to all her needs whilst she stays with us. We will make her feel like a Queen.
I’ve been to her house only once before and I wasn’t the driver. The person in question spent hours getting lost and asking locals who barely spoke English for directions whilst the rest of the people in the car systematically lost their marbles and screamed at one another. It was a nightmare that I don’t want to repeat so I asked my teacher to give me directions. They were vague: turn right at the big tree on the right hand side of the road just after the spaza shop in the third small settlement that you reach after crossing the border. Keep going till you see a church that has a big “no smoking” sign painted above it. There is a small Cell C kiosk not far from there. Drive between the two and keep going on a dirt road till you find some bushes on your left…. I smile and nod even though I have no idea what the man is on about. He draws a picture: there is the school, there is the spaza shop. It’s easy, he says. I can't help but trust him.
The car groans with every gear change and chugs along like a wounded soldier. Progress is slow and deliberate but I don’t mind. I love this landscape. It has the same spirit as the place where I was born in Johannesburg and a part of me will always prefer this to Cape Town. This is real to me: thorn trees, tall dry grass, koppies in the distance, mud huts and small settlements dotted along the road. Woman wander with umbrellas to keep the sun off. Donkeys drag about. Goats follow the white lines in the middle of the tar, hypnotised by its length. Chickens flutter and scream as I swerve and miss potholes. The sun a bonfire asking for drumming. There are no walls here. Nothing separates me from nature except the grey road I'm on. I'm connected to this place and it brings a joy into me that I can’t contain. The bush waits for me whilst I speed along to go and fetch my Great Grandmother.
At the border post the guard eyes my beads out suspiciously:
“What is this you’re wearing?” she says with a frown. “Are you a Sangoma?”
“I am,” I say and smile.
“Yoh!” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t believe you koko. Look at your hands.” I pick them up and turn them over.
“What about them?” I ask somewhat perplexed.
“Huh uh, they are too clean. You are not a Sangoma. Sangomas are dirty always!” I laugh as I turn to head back to the car.
“Just wait,” I say, “I will be back later, then you will see.” She shakes her head and chews on her pen as I head out.
Over the border and I’m back in South Africa. I turn right and follow the curving road. Forty five minutes later I’m there: a tree, a kiosk, the cell c shop. I find the house without much hassle and park at the front gate. Her homestead consists of a couple of buildings: the outhouse, main house, an ndumba (sacred space of the ancestors), a shrine by the gate. She lives with numerous family members who all stick their heads out when the car pulls up and then disappear again like dassies. I dawdle in the car as they register my arrival and hurry off to tell her. It is protocol for my spirit to greet her first as a sign of respect, and so they put down a mat for me at the place where she is seated. One of her daughters wave at me to come in; she is ready. In a second my spirit escapes my body and runs into the house where much loud greeting and acknowledging takes place. It's only when I resurface that I realise that the radio has been on and that I’ve been competing with Mariah Carey’s “Dream Lover” for my Granny’s attention. She smiles and claps her hands when I am done, exchanges words with her daughter.
Now understand: the woman speaks not a word of English. I have been taught an official greeting which I employ and which she responds to, but besides for that my Tswana is limited and her English is non-existent. A series of hand gestures follow. They’re happy to see me and ready to go – their bags are by the door. I load them onto the back of the truck as her daughters pile on as well. Small black faces appear from around the neighbourhood to come and see the white woman who is paying homage to the person at this house. Some reach out to touch me. A couple of the young ones cry because they’re not used to white people yet.
My koko is riding shotgun with me and so when everyone is ready two of her daughters appear at the side of the car ready to help her in. I don’t know how old she is but she's the shortest woman I've ever come across. She literally can't get into the truck and her daughters have to boost her from behind. Each of them grab a foot and finally she clambers onto the seat like a baby onto an enormous bed. I am a giant, she a little girl. This is "Tshwene", I remember, her official title meaning baboon in Sotho. It's a reference to the spirit that she works with and today I recognise it in her. My Granny is a cross between Yoda and a tokolosh I think and smile as I pull away and she delves into her snuffbox for a good dosage of nicotine.
We drive. The language barrier makes for silence. Twice she mentions names of people involved in our lodge, enquiring if they will be there when she arrives. No, I say to the first inquiry. Yes to the second. She smiles, looks pleased with herself. Her four daughters are now wrapped in cloths on the back of the truck talking and gesticulating amongst themselves. This heat hurts even the locals.
Back at the border post my previous assailant’s eyes almost pop out:
“You are Mrs Bones!” she shouts arms in the air when we walk through the door and we all laugh. I have to fill out 3 of my travel companions forms because only one of her daughters can write. When I’m done I hand back their pieces of paper so they can sign it. Granny just holds out her thumb which makes no sense to me until the woman behind the counter produces ink and takes their prints. We hurry back to the car. Again the sister’s boost her into her seat. She clambers in and shuffles about to get comfortable. More snuff is taken. We drive through a puddle of yellow butterflies on the dirt road back into Ramotswa. We pass Chankos, a shop we visit frequently to buy tobacco and ingredients for traditional dishes and drinks. We drive past small shops, a petrol station. Traffic increases. We hit a couple of potholes and her daughters heave about on the back of the truck.
When we get back to the lodge all hell breaks loose. Their bags disappear instantly off to their sleeping quarters; chairs are brought and put in the shade. Tea and coffee arrive. Strings of Sangomas and Malombos fall down in small heaps at her feet greeting her profusely. She smiles and laughs uproariously when we present her with gifts. Joy flows out of her.
Over the course of the weekend she does her work with dignity and integrity. She is stern but kind, powerful but small. Everything comes easily to her. From the moment she arrives we become a meaningful community, one with clarity of purpose and a drive to succeed. She unites us by merely being there.
She is Tshwene. My Great Grandmother.
Here’s to hoping everything goes well when I get to where I’m going. There is protocol to adhere to. Etiquette. I’m fetching my Great Grandmother and her entourage in South Africa where they are waiting for me at their homestead. I will fetch her; someone else will deliver her back home. We will tend to all her needs whilst she stays with us. We will make her feel like a Queen.
I’ve been to her house only once before and I wasn’t the driver. The person in question spent hours getting lost and asking locals who barely spoke English for directions whilst the rest of the people in the car systematically lost their marbles and screamed at one another. It was a nightmare that I don’t want to repeat so I asked my teacher to give me directions. They were vague: turn right at the big tree on the right hand side of the road just after the spaza shop in the third small settlement that you reach after crossing the border. Keep going till you see a church that has a big “no smoking” sign painted above it. There is a small Cell C kiosk not far from there. Drive between the two and keep going on a dirt road till you find some bushes on your left…. I smile and nod even though I have no idea what the man is on about. He draws a picture: there is the school, there is the spaza shop. It’s easy, he says. I can't help but trust him.
The car groans with every gear change and chugs along like a wounded soldier. Progress is slow and deliberate but I don’t mind. I love this landscape. It has the same spirit as the place where I was born in Johannesburg and a part of me will always prefer this to Cape Town. This is real to me: thorn trees, tall dry grass, koppies in the distance, mud huts and small settlements dotted along the road. Woman wander with umbrellas to keep the sun off. Donkeys drag about. Goats follow the white lines in the middle of the tar, hypnotised by its length. Chickens flutter and scream as I swerve and miss potholes. The sun a bonfire asking for drumming. There are no walls here. Nothing separates me from nature except the grey road I'm on. I'm connected to this place and it brings a joy into me that I can’t contain. The bush waits for me whilst I speed along to go and fetch my Great Grandmother.
At the border post the guard eyes my beads out suspiciously:
“What is this you’re wearing?” she says with a frown. “Are you a Sangoma?”
“I am,” I say and smile.
“Yoh!” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t believe you koko. Look at your hands.” I pick them up and turn them over.
“What about them?” I ask somewhat perplexed.
“Huh uh, they are too clean. You are not a Sangoma. Sangomas are dirty always!” I laugh as I turn to head back to the car.
“Just wait,” I say, “I will be back later, then you will see.” She shakes her head and chews on her pen as I head out.
Over the border and I’m back in South Africa. I turn right and follow the curving road. Forty five minutes later I’m there: a tree, a kiosk, the cell c shop. I find the house without much hassle and park at the front gate. Her homestead consists of a couple of buildings: the outhouse, main house, an ndumba (sacred space of the ancestors), a shrine by the gate. She lives with numerous family members who all stick their heads out when the car pulls up and then disappear again like dassies. I dawdle in the car as they register my arrival and hurry off to tell her. It is protocol for my spirit to greet her first as a sign of respect, and so they put down a mat for me at the place where she is seated. One of her daughters wave at me to come in; she is ready. In a second my spirit escapes my body and runs into the house where much loud greeting and acknowledging takes place. It's only when I resurface that I realise that the radio has been on and that I’ve been competing with Mariah Carey’s “Dream Lover” for my Granny’s attention. She smiles and claps her hands when I am done, exchanges words with her daughter.
Now understand: the woman speaks not a word of English. I have been taught an official greeting which I employ and which she responds to, but besides for that my Tswana is limited and her English is non-existent. A series of hand gestures follow. They’re happy to see me and ready to go – their bags are by the door. I load them onto the back of the truck as her daughters pile on as well. Small black faces appear from around the neighbourhood to come and see the white woman who is paying homage to the person at this house. Some reach out to touch me. A couple of the young ones cry because they’re not used to white people yet.
My koko is riding shotgun with me and so when everyone is ready two of her daughters appear at the side of the car ready to help her in. I don’t know how old she is but she's the shortest woman I've ever come across. She literally can't get into the truck and her daughters have to boost her from behind. Each of them grab a foot and finally she clambers onto the seat like a baby onto an enormous bed. I am a giant, she a little girl. This is "Tshwene", I remember, her official title meaning baboon in Sotho. It's a reference to the spirit that she works with and today I recognise it in her. My Granny is a cross between Yoda and a tokolosh I think and smile as I pull away and she delves into her snuffbox for a good dosage of nicotine.
We drive. The language barrier makes for silence. Twice she mentions names of people involved in our lodge, enquiring if they will be there when she arrives. No, I say to the first inquiry. Yes to the second. She smiles, looks pleased with herself. Her four daughters are now wrapped in cloths on the back of the truck talking and gesticulating amongst themselves. This heat hurts even the locals.
Back at the border post my previous assailant’s eyes almost pop out:
“You are Mrs Bones!” she shouts arms in the air when we walk through the door and we all laugh. I have to fill out 3 of my travel companions forms because only one of her daughters can write. When I’m done I hand back their pieces of paper so they can sign it. Granny just holds out her thumb which makes no sense to me until the woman behind the counter produces ink and takes their prints. We hurry back to the car. Again the sister’s boost her into her seat. She clambers in and shuffles about to get comfortable. More snuff is taken. We drive through a puddle of yellow butterflies on the dirt road back into Ramotswa. We pass Chankos, a shop we visit frequently to buy tobacco and ingredients for traditional dishes and drinks. We drive past small shops, a petrol station. Traffic increases. We hit a couple of potholes and her daughters heave about on the back of the truck.
When we get back to the lodge all hell breaks loose. Their bags disappear instantly off to their sleeping quarters; chairs are brought and put in the shade. Tea and coffee arrive. Strings of Sangomas and Malombos fall down in small heaps at her feet greeting her profusely. She smiles and laughs uproariously when we present her with gifts. Joy flows out of her.
Over the course of the weekend she does her work with dignity and integrity. She is stern but kind, powerful but small. Everything comes easily to her. From the moment she arrives we become a meaningful community, one with clarity of purpose and a drive to succeed. She unites us by merely being there.
She is Tshwene. My Great Grandmother.
Let it go.
Western culture is the only one in the world that focuses solely on gathering and hoarding.
All ancient cultures know the importance of emptying out and letting go.
All ancient cultures know the importance of emptying out and letting go.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Day 3.
Sleeping is hard when the three people with you wake up at 3am and break out dancing and singing. The mozzies don’t help. Neither does the fact that this place rarely cools down. I’m exhausted when I wake up but the altitude might partly be to blame.
More beading. A drive to Ramotswa to buy ingredients for traditional marula beer. Much organising as other doctors start to arrive and do shopping for food, goats and chickens. Everything needs to be in order by tomorrow when our Great Grandmother arrives from South Africa. She is our big Cahuna, a Sangoma of great stature and knowledge, the oldest living member of our lodge and by far the highest ranking. She is also the smallest. (When she sits on a chair her feet don’t touch the ground.)
When jobs are doled out I offer to go and fetch her from her home in a small hamlet across the border the next day. It entails an hour and a half drive there, getting cross the border and getting back, and possibly waiting around for Granny to finish packing for an hour or two. But that’s tomorrow.
Uncharacteristically we attend a cocktail party at the University of Botswana in Gabarone to witness my teacher’s father honorary doctorate ceremony. He delivers a moving presentation and lecture about his work over the past 40 years and we all marvel at the astonishing life he has lived. Everyone living at the lodge is surprisingly clean which is fun in itself.
By the time we get back it’s 22h30 which is way past the witching hour when you live in the sticks. We fall into bed immediately, knowing full well that sleep will not be indulged over the next couple of days.
This is it people. It's all going to become blurry from here.
Day 2.
Wake up in Africa. Tea. Run. Cold shower. Spend the day beading and making preparations for the coming ceremony. For the next day or two there are only four of us living here: the two initiates, our teacher and yours truly. It’s blissful and quiet. Birds call from the trees. Bees buzz around the kitchen. Mosquitoes and flies invade us from time to time. The sun calls back every inch of moisture he can find and by lunchtime the mud pools are almost completely dried out and the sky sears us with brightness.
On Friday hoards of the initiates' family members and friends will arrive and more doctors will come. Both the thwasanas have big eyes. Anticipation burns in them. They know from experience that whatever is about to happen will be big, probably extremely taxing, will involve very little sleep and change the course of their lives forever.
We chat, giggle at each other, make light of what’s about to happen. The lodge is cleaned, swept, chairs are washed, more mattresses bought for visitors. We are slowly gathering momentum. Soon things will come to a head.
In the evening the four of us huddle around a gaslamp quoting “The Walrus and the Carpenter” and “The Jabberwocky”.
If this is Wonderland, I am the Queen for today.
On Friday hoards of the initiates' family members and friends will arrive and more doctors will come. Both the thwasanas have big eyes. Anticipation burns in them. They know from experience that whatever is about to happen will be big, probably extremely taxing, will involve very little sleep and change the course of their lives forever.
We chat, giggle at each other, make light of what’s about to happen. The lodge is cleaned, swept, chairs are washed, more mattresses bought for visitors. We are slowly gathering momentum. Soon things will come to a head.
In the evening the four of us huddle around a gaslamp quoting “The Walrus and the Carpenter” and “The Jabberwocky”.
If this is Wonderland, I am the Queen for today.
Day 1.
No sleep. Sit up at 5am. Pack last things, eat, my bowels tap dance about 5 times in the next half an hour in anticipation of a flight I really don’t want to take but have to to get to where I want to go asap. The extra set of keys I made for the Ex (who is coming to feed the cats) don’t actually open the door and so I drive to Melkbos at 6am to drop my set at his house.
Back home Rox is waiting. My bowels do the jig one more time before I take a Spasmend and hop in the car. Traffic fucking traffic. Drop and go. The Spasmend hasn’t touched sides and as my spirit once tried to climb out of my body whilst in transit on a plane I’m only slightly concerned. Find airport clinic and have a Valium shot which makes everything just dandy. Lovely flight. Picked up by friend going the same way at OR Thambo Airport, Johannesburg, and hit the road to Botswana. Still calm as a cucumber even though she overtakes like a racing car driver.
Arrive at borderpost five hours later, just as the rain sets in. Huge dubble decker grey clouds that resemble the oros man merge overhead. Thunder. Lightning. Damn I missed this place! The air smells fresh, it’s still warm even though it’s pouring with rain. Instant homecoming party. By 7pm we arrive on the farm and the Valium finally wears off. Greet everyone, have some tea. Carry belongings down to the lodge in the rain. Mud splatters up my legs and within half an hour of being there I’m already filthy. This will be a consistent state of affairs for the rest of the week.
Pass out at 9pm in a mudhut at the bottom of a farm in one of the most beautiful countries I’ve ever visited, thankful for the discovery of a mosquito net. Water spiders sit flush against the wall. A small oil lamp burns deep into the night and I fall asleep to the sound of frogs gurgling their songs in a dam on the farm next door.
Back home Rox is waiting. My bowels do the jig one more time before I take a Spasmend and hop in the car. Traffic fucking traffic. Drop and go. The Spasmend hasn’t touched sides and as my spirit once tried to climb out of my body whilst in transit on a plane I’m only slightly concerned. Find airport clinic and have a Valium shot which makes everything just dandy. Lovely flight. Picked up by friend going the same way at OR Thambo Airport, Johannesburg, and hit the road to Botswana. Still calm as a cucumber even though she overtakes like a racing car driver.
Arrive at borderpost five hours later, just as the rain sets in. Huge dubble decker grey clouds that resemble the oros man merge overhead. Thunder. Lightning. Damn I missed this place! The air smells fresh, it’s still warm even though it’s pouring with rain. Instant homecoming party. By 7pm we arrive on the farm and the Valium finally wears off. Greet everyone, have some tea. Carry belongings down to the lodge in the rain. Mud splatters up my legs and within half an hour of being there I’m already filthy. This will be a consistent state of affairs for the rest of the week.
Pass out at 9pm in a mudhut at the bottom of a farm in one of the most beautiful countries I’ve ever visited, thankful for the discovery of a mosquito net. Water spiders sit flush against the wall. A small oil lamp burns deep into the night and I fall asleep to the sound of frogs gurgling their songs in a dam on the farm next door.
Warning
WARNING:
Now I would love to tell you all the gory details of what transpires on a weekend like this, but as I’m sure you will notice in my entries there will be key elements that I am purposefully excluding.
Sangoma ceremonies are sacred and I could never do it justice by writing about it (although I promise to do my best!). Also, I am forbidden to divulge the finer details about what we do to anyone, especially on the internet.
But the essence of what it feels like, that I can share.
Here goes.
Now I would love to tell you all the gory details of what transpires on a weekend like this, but as I’m sure you will notice in my entries there will be key elements that I am purposefully excluding.
Sangoma ceremonies are sacred and I could never do it justice by writing about it (although I promise to do my best!). Also, I am forbidden to divulge the finer details about what we do to anyone, especially on the internet.
But the essence of what it feels like, that I can share.
Here goes.
The Wild North.
My ancestors seem determined to get me to Botswana.
Yes I have no money. Yes I’ve just come back from the US where I spent 6 months travelling like a woman of luxury. Yes I should stick around and get a job, but a friend has offered to help me pay for my plane ticket to Jozi and I’ve gotten a lift from there to just outside Gabarone where there is a beautiful farm that I attempt to visit around this time once a year for the past 8 years and I’m going, come hell or high water.
The itinerary includes the final ceremony for two Malombo thwasanas, after which they will be fully qualified doctors. It also includes a yearly ritual of closing and re-opening for our lodge. It is a ceremony of thanksgiving. There will be dancing, beading, hard work, lots of people 40 degree (and up) heat, and the most beautiful blue sky you’ve ever laid eyes on.
Nothing in the world can fill me up in quite the same way. That place is where I find my community.
I’m comin home Pappy!
Yes I have no money. Yes I’ve just come back from the US where I spent 6 months travelling like a woman of luxury. Yes I should stick around and get a job, but a friend has offered to help me pay for my plane ticket to Jozi and I’ve gotten a lift from there to just outside Gabarone where there is a beautiful farm that I attempt to visit around this time once a year for the past 8 years and I’m going, come hell or high water.
The itinerary includes the final ceremony for two Malombo thwasanas, after which they will be fully qualified doctors. It also includes a yearly ritual of closing and re-opening for our lodge. It is a ceremony of thanksgiving. There will be dancing, beading, hard work, lots of people 40 degree (and up) heat, and the most beautiful blue sky you’ve ever laid eyes on.
Nothing in the world can fill me up in quite the same way. That place is where I find my community.
I’m comin home Pappy!
Monday, February 15, 2010
So long Marianne
I'm off then!
To the land of Botswana where I will spend the week wireless (in the most extreme sense).
Happy tidings to you all, I'll be back on the 23rd with detailed updates.
Till we meet again,
Alice
To the land of Botswana where I will spend the week wireless (in the most extreme sense).
Happy tidings to you all, I'll be back on the 23rd with detailed updates.
Till we meet again,
Alice
Lovers lost.
My korean neighbours are very sweet. They spend alot of time playing ping pong in their lounge and by the sounds of it they're rather competitive about it. I could be wrong about that, my Korean is non-existant. My assumption is based purely on the amount of screeching I am privy to, living right across the hall you see.
For the rest Mom cooks up enough garlic to ambush the vampire headquarters of Tableview and take them out instantly with one waft of her pot.
All hopes of taking a vampiric lover have been dashed then Universe.
(I hope you have something even better up your sleeve.)
For the rest Mom cooks up enough garlic to ambush the vampire headquarters of Tableview and take them out instantly with one waft of her pot.
All hopes of taking a vampiric lover have been dashed then Universe.
(I hope you have something even better up your sleeve.)
Rivers and rivers.
Tomorrow I go to Botswana for a week. It’s a yearly custom, everyone from my Sangoma lodge goes to ground, attend the necessary ceremonies, connect back in.
My memory of being there last year is of sitting in the bush crying because my relationship was falling apart and I already knew that some kind of separation was unavoidable. It was the beginning of the end, but it still took another 5 months for me to gather enough strength to leave and go overseas.
I’ve been crying for a year.
I think that’s enough now.
My memory of being there last year is of sitting in the bush crying because my relationship was falling apart and I already knew that some kind of separation was unavoidable. It was the beginning of the end, but it still took another 5 months for me to gather enough strength to leave and go overseas.
I’ve been crying for a year.
I think that’s enough now.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Becoming a shaman then is, in the last analysis, nothing but an extension of inner purification. The more transparent the inner world, the more transparent the outer, and the greater the power of magic.
Purification, Transparency and Magic are the core words of shamanism.
-Shamans, Healers and Medicine Men
by Holger Kalweit
Purification, Transparency and Magic are the core words of shamanism.
-Shamans, Healers and Medicine Men
by Holger Kalweit
Travel
The supreme principle of being is the change back and forth between accumulation and emptying, filling and purging, space and emptiness.
The greater the emptiness, the greater the shaman.
- Shamans, Healers and Medicine Men
by Holger Kalweit
The greater the emptiness, the greater the shaman.
- Shamans, Healers and Medicine Men
by Holger Kalweit
Friday, February 12, 2010
Run Lola Run
Going for a run on the Blouberg boardwalk on a Friday afternoon turns out to be not that great.
Where there are usually a myriad of people frantically jogging, running and cycling up and down the beach, today there were zero none besides for yours truly.
The reason?
It’s Friday afternoon and they all have a social life.
Universe,
If you're out there, hear my plea!
You can send in the horses now.
I’m done with being singular.
Where there are usually a myriad of people frantically jogging, running and cycling up and down the beach, today there were zero none besides for yours truly.
The reason?
It’s Friday afternoon and they all have a social life.
Universe,
If you're out there, hear my plea!
You can send in the horses now.
I’m done with being singular.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Dress.
Every time you go off in search of new outfit you return with a collection of items that are all two sizes too small. Why, do you ask (the one sane person over there in the corner) would you do that? Ah. Yes. Why indeed.
The truth is that I have nothing to do with this decision you see. It’s my tricksy mind that does the work. Once the conscious part of my brain realised that I no longer fit into a size 38 it closed up shop and stopped communicating. Things have never been the same between us. It refuses to come shopping with me which means that when you meet me in a mall all I am is an empty vessel, a zombie of sorts in desperate need of clothes that fit.
It's like a weird kind of stroke obliterated the part of my mind that knew that I could in fact be even larger than I had feared I could become and there was nothing I could do about it.
I now have an entire wardrobe filled to the brim with things I can’t wear. The most loaded item is a beautiful black dress I bought for a small fortune and that I’ve never worn outside the confines of my room. Do you have that dress? The one you buy because one day you’ll fit into it and when you do you’re going to look just gorgeous and so it sits in your cupboard year after year and every time you see it you’re reminded of the devilish pact you made and it depresses you to no end because the chances of you ever looking good in it becomes slimmer by the day...
The dress looks at you as if to say: “You’re a money waster, lard ass,” at which point you start humming a little upbeat tune and quickly pick up the stretchy pants you wear most days that still has a label in it reading size 38 but you know just know that it's gotten much much bigger over the last12 years...
And then you one day my friends, one day you come back from a long and lovely trip from abroad and you fit into your clothes, and you’re not sure if it’s the trip that did it or the part where you pined yourself half to death but you don’t care because either way it worked and now all you have to do is to hold on to it, hold on to your new body that’s at least 2 sizes smaller than it has been in the past 10 odd years without obsessing over it.
And perhaps when you go to that wedding next month, perhaps you can throw on a little black dress you've been hanging onto, just in case.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Book me.
A book fetish can be a curse at the best of times.
I travelled the width and breadth of America lugging an assortment of soft- and hard covers with me, some of them bought believing that I would otherwise “never see them again” and that this was a “once in a lifetime opportunity” having briefly blocked out all knowledge or recollection of amazon.com and Kalahari.net
The smell of a brand new book beautifully bound, or an old one discovered in the back of a hidden shop and brought to light like a long forgotten poem to an old lover. Each one is a world within a world, a secret to some greater puzzle. What’s not to like.
I can hear the wild call of The Bookshop over the noise of a building site, hear the soft whimper of a discarded novel left lying under a hostel bed like a used-out whore whose services are no longer needed. They entice me.
I returned from the US with no less than 20 odd new collectables. Now when I use the term “collectables” I use it very loosely. I could have picked up “Fearless Fourteen” by Janet Evanovich in South Africa easier than genital warts from the postman yet the lure of buying it at a little shop in San Francisco was too much for me. (Besides for that I was bored and needed something to read you see.)
And so my collection grows. It’s my pride and joy. I love looking at them, running my hands over their backs, categorising them from time to time. They are my collection of orphans, and I am a very proud parent.
During my second week in residence in Stellenbosch I discovered a quaint little bookshop a little out of town that stocked an enormous amount of old Afrikaans poetry books. In high school I was an avid drama student and once a week would attend class with a wonderful woman called Aletta Gericke, an old stalwart of South African theatre with a passion for literature. She single-handedly educated me in South African authors and gave me a love for their work and the sound of it rolling around in my mouth. There they were, a collection of books I hadn’t seen since 1992, all nestled together in a bookcase by the entrance. I simply had to have them, regardless of the fact that I haven’t worked in about 10 months and still don’t have a job and my money is starting to run extremely thin I simply closed my eyes, reached out, took their little hands and told them to come home with me.
We’re friends now. Every morning when I traipse into my office they wave and I wave back. Sometimes I softly caress them, a look of pride glinting in my eyes. Some nights they even join me in the bedroom.
Yes. I believe this is called a fetish people.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Week 2
Few things brighten my day like when I meet someone new and interesting.
In the spirit of community I slipped letters under all my new neighbours' doors urging them to be kind to my cats and to call me up if they like. Now: asking a Capetonian to call you (especially by slipping a letter under their door) is about the same as spitting into the wind and hoping it will transform into a piece of cheese. That's right people, it's just not going to happen. Well, true as bobbery, my one neighbour called me! (She turned out to be from Jozi though, and so my world can keep on spinning and the planets are still aligned.)
What a nice yet tiny lady. Her head reaches all the way up to my thighs when she stands on her toes on top of a chair. She has electric blue eyes and her jeans must be a size -0. Freshly divorced she moved into my block 3 months ago to be closer to her new lover who's an ah-tist. That's how she says it, with that look that says "he's really exotic-like, you know?" She's a feisty little ball of dynamite, I'm sure she drives men completely crazy. The smallest little hot elf lady I ever did see.
We drank Rose and talked about men and art and Afrikaans people and Melkbos and sales and Christianity and all and all whilst her two kids watched Ice Age and complained about how loud we were talking. More Rose, more talking. She has great furniture, the kind that sidles up to you and says "hi" in a languid kind of way that makes you wonder why you don't have the same couch in your house because it seems it just utterly belongs there.
Now I'm not big on kids but hers are kind of sweet. The little girl had two stick on tattoos on her arms and was wearing silver shoes with heels. Her little brother was falling happily all over the show and eating his food off the floor with glee whilst we sipped Rose and giggled.
Nice lady, nice kids, nice neighbours! Praise be for that. Naturally no one else called. They must all have been living in Cape Town for longer than 15 seconds and known that it would be downright wrong to communicate with me in any direct way. I've seen some of them though. They duck and hide, but they can't get away from this sharp Mama. Right across from me is a Korean family whom I've seen only snatches of, but they seem really kind even though it sometimes feels like they spend their days cooking too much garlic and play ping pong past the reasonable hour. That sound... it could drive one over the edge.
Ok, so there's one part of a new story. I've made a new friend. Now all I need is a couple more I guess. Then the fab new job and the hot new man.
Any day now people...
In the spirit of community I slipped letters under all my new neighbours' doors urging them to be kind to my cats and to call me up if they like. Now: asking a Capetonian to call you (especially by slipping a letter under their door) is about the same as spitting into the wind and hoping it will transform into a piece of cheese. That's right people, it's just not going to happen. Well, true as bobbery, my one neighbour called me! (She turned out to be from Jozi though, and so my world can keep on spinning and the planets are still aligned.)
What a nice yet tiny lady. Her head reaches all the way up to my thighs when she stands on her toes on top of a chair. She has electric blue eyes and her jeans must be a size -0. Freshly divorced she moved into my block 3 months ago to be closer to her new lover who's an ah-tist. That's how she says it, with that look that says "he's really exotic-like, you know?" She's a feisty little ball of dynamite, I'm sure she drives men completely crazy. The smallest little hot elf lady I ever did see.
We drank Rose and talked about men and art and Afrikaans people and Melkbos and sales and Christianity and all and all whilst her two kids watched Ice Age and complained about how loud we were talking. More Rose, more talking. She has great furniture, the kind that sidles up to you and says "hi" in a languid kind of way that makes you wonder why you don't have the same couch in your house because it seems it just utterly belongs there.
Now I'm not big on kids but hers are kind of sweet. The little girl had two stick on tattoos on her arms and was wearing silver shoes with heels. Her little brother was falling happily all over the show and eating his food off the floor with glee whilst we sipped Rose and giggled.
Nice lady, nice kids, nice neighbours! Praise be for that. Naturally no one else called. They must all have been living in Cape Town for longer than 15 seconds and known that it would be downright wrong to communicate with me in any direct way. I've seen some of them though. They duck and hide, but they can't get away from this sharp Mama. Right across from me is a Korean family whom I've seen only snatches of, but they seem really kind even though it sometimes feels like they spend their days cooking too much garlic and play ping pong past the reasonable hour. That sound... it could drive one over the edge.
Ok, so there's one part of a new story. I've made a new friend. Now all I need is a couple more I guess. Then the fab new job and the hot new man.
Any day now people...
(The view of Table Mountain from Bloubergstrand.)
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Week 1.
A move, a birthday the reacquisition of two cats and a downright nasty case of pms. It’s been quite a week.
Alice has officially settled down in one spot which continues to feel rather unreal. Boxes have been unpacked, crockery neatly stacked in kitchen cupboards. Nails have been whacked into walls and familiar pictures hung whilst the cats slowly feel out the neighbourhood and the local birds hold their breath.
The first week was privy to two parties: One for me and one for me Ancestors. Friends came over, brought presents, ooh'd and aah'd over the new flat. Plants arrived, a new mat for the front door. A blondie shirt, a small pink wallet with a gold lining. I put down medicine to chase out the old and bring in the new. It’s amazing how quickly you can become part of a place.
I applied for a real job this week, a full time placement, a nine to fiver. I’ve never had one of those. I’m officially 34 and I’ve never had a full time job...
Slowly I solidify. Different parts of me melt back into one another to form one blob of liquid. I become grounded. Let’s hope I don’t dry out and turn to stone before the end of the week.
Could it be true? Could this be it? Is life about to get dull and boring again?
Please Universe, please say it isn’t so.
Alice has officially settled down in one spot which continues to feel rather unreal. Boxes have been unpacked, crockery neatly stacked in kitchen cupboards. Nails have been whacked into walls and familiar pictures hung whilst the cats slowly feel out the neighbourhood and the local birds hold their breath.
The first week was privy to two parties: One for me and one for me Ancestors. Friends came over, brought presents, ooh'd and aah'd over the new flat. Plants arrived, a new mat for the front door. A blondie shirt, a small pink wallet with a gold lining. I put down medicine to chase out the old and bring in the new. It’s amazing how quickly you can become part of a place.
I applied for a real job this week, a full time placement, a nine to fiver. I’ve never had one of those. I’m officially 34 and I’ve never had a full time job...
Slowly I solidify. Different parts of me melt back into one another to form one blob of liquid. I become grounded. Let’s hope I don’t dry out and turn to stone before the end of the week.
Could it be true? Could this be it? Is life about to get dull and boring again?
Please Universe, please say it isn’t so.
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