Garden Route

Gas prices are expensive at 9.71 Rand per Liter - that's $4.89 / gallon for all of us customary people. (And that was last week - who knows what it is now). Gas stations are always open. Four, maybe five men stay up late, ready to make it possible for you to leave. It must be a lonely job.

Bright fluorescent lights break the monotonous darkness of a rural South African night with a flash, bang, and wizz. Magnesium Fireworks blinding my eyes with their obviousness in the night sky. So unlike the poor tin shacks we pass. Hidden except for the gleem of the moon sliding off corrugated tin, too poor for teh Goddess of the night sky to stay. A man wearing an Engen (one brand of gas station) hat proptly meets us at the pump, his eyes awake, pupils dancing in the spotlights of the gas station. We're the only customers - and have been the only one on the road for the past four hours. It seems he was waiting for us.

I think "Howz ca neone b wake?" in thoughtspeak still groggy from the nap I was taking in our comvee, head bent in that awkward sleep position, drool beading at my lip. Groaning, I will my eyes shut, "why would anyone want to be awake. It's 12:37. I'm in the middle of South Africa, close to Lesutho, the mountain kingdom. We're miles away from anything remotely like home. This is Affrikanner's country. Inside the comvee I burry my head deeper into my blanket, revelling in its safety, knowing that only the window separates me from a world I don't know. I'm a child in a new territory who is given a thimble full of brandy to keep my mind at ease.

I'm not even thinking about the attendant who must be cold. I'm not even worrying about where I am or what it's like here. I'm concerned with me.

463 km. Oomfrontaine to Knysa. We're not even there yet and it's been 3.5 hours. Slow Traffic and police. I beg for lumbar support. Geography games collapse as we deplete our limited knowledge of international destinations. We name geographical points in an alphabetized program: you call out something that begins with the last letter of the last Geographical construct "Essex." Some one drops the X factor. I bet no one in Maryland knows that they're county can be 'dropped.' Game over, no one has any knowledge of Chinese Geography. The game goes on even as the endless South African planes whip by our car. Grasses coming up to your waist. The Greeks got it wrong, the Allysian fields are in Southern Africa. But we are ignoring them, instead turning inward, playing games and learning about each other. Even when we do look out the world spins by at 120 km. We dont even see the polieceman until he pulls us over. "do you know how fast you were going" "120 kmp - just as the speed limit states" "You need to come with me" Apparently as a 'mini cab' we had different rules. The polieceman could offer no documentation. Our driver swore, he lives to far to challenge this one in court. Soon enough we were rolling on, huge cumulo nimbus clouds building and dischargind electric currents like our private theatre production. But soon the constant thrum of the moter and the tit tit of soft rain, lulls weary travelers heads to sleep. I notice the 'Empty" light inside the dashboard. A sign flashes by- Next Stop - 2 km.

"Could you check the tire pressure and fill her up with low grade" This time a woman fills us up. Her skin is dark, so different from her smile: bold and bright, so refreshing after the stale travel in the van. She is a big woman, tall and round, dressed from head to toe in blue, even the bandana around her hair was blue. I tried my new language skills (more on that later) "dumella ume." Awkward smile. "I don't speak Susutho. I abashedly resort to English and carry on plesentries. I am curious about the taxis that are all around us. Hundreds of them, constantly moving and honking, picking up and dropping off, transportation for the poor, in a country where rural infrastructure is for the wealthy. She tells me that it is a "Park and Ride" She uses it as well to take the 1.5 hour trip back home. "I get home just in time for my husband and children. I must cook and clean for them." She ends the conversation by pulling the pump out of the car. 583 Rand. She turns to the tires. None of my gas station conversations get far, they are always moving and I cannot risk missing a bathroom break.

This bathroom is spotless. Overseen by a local entreprenuer, it is maintained by donations from patrons. I could be in any bathroom all over the world, only difference is that here condoms on the walls are free - you don't have to pay for them. There's also that problem of neil diamond: they leave his CD on repeat. Never in America.

Stocked with snacks we head back to the car. The woman who had pumped our gas moved on. It was impossible to call out thank you, I dont know if should would have heard it anyway.

No gas this time, just a pit stop. We slam the door shut, a thousdan pounds of sliding steel closed firmly into place. I walk to the store where I hear something...voices, rhythems. Sh sh, thum, sh sh thum. Ka. Shuffles and voices from behind the gate. I step in side, seek two liter beer bottles littering the floor, shaddowd by two dancing gas attendents. Engene again. Blue Uniform Again. Tribal Dance - first time. "Shiyakooo_oool" Left knee kick, sholders back. Right knee kick. Sway , sway. "Umella, umella, stigovinia, omida." I join in, hands on sholders, right dip, up, up, up. Soft, slow but powerful. Hips thrusting over and over, a rhythem beling desire. "Its a song about freedom Mdellie said. "we xhosa men be in battle, but would need to go home." His friend chimed in grinning. "We would need to see our wives." Sex is sex. Everyone wants it.

We pull out from the last gas station bladders emptied. I want to go back and dance again, to be under the gas station spotlight, the seemingly one living place in rural south Africa at night.

Xenophobia (Sorry for the spelling, typing fast)

There is a lot to discuss, but I want to put things in perspective for everyone about Africa, about South Africa and about what I am doing here.

First things first. I started this trip thinking I am going to Africa. What a mistake. What the hell is Africa? Is it a thing that Joseph Conrad discusses in a book on the darkness of this continent? Is it a place where colonialists sought their fortunes? Is it a single continent where everyone is totally underveloped without hope always hungry with catholic charitites always doing a story on it. What about violence, is it a place of genocide of military dictator ships and violence in ever which way?

Africa is a label that the west adopted during colonial times and has grown and become adopted even here on the continent. As soon as I say I'm from America three twenty somethings here in Lesotho ask me for a couple bucks because they are hungry. They know the western story, all Africans are poor and need western aid in order to be civilized (I'm extending how bad it is so you can see it, its much less obvious this idea about Africa, but just as strong). They're not hungry, but they know they can make a quick buck becuase that is what they think I want to see.

The whole concept of Africa, as one group. Youjust cannot lock in 54 countries to the same mindset. It's wrong. I am not in "Africa", I am in South Africa. The whole idea of Africa is a silly one. South Africa is not like the rest of the continent. True it is part of the same continent, but THEY ARE NOT ONE IN THE SAME. I am in Africa the continent, but the concept is a construct imposed by others. And although this concept is based in some truths, it is wrong to extend them everywhere.

The reason that I bring this up is because you have undoubtedly heard about the violence occurring here. The 'Xenophobic' attacks and the fear that people have. The concern that S. Africa will slide into a whole system of violence and we will be just like Kenya a few months ago. Two things. The violence is real, but not to be mistakn for a general direction. Second, S. Africas situation is not to be confused with other situations on the continent. Please do not read into these stories asif they are an extneiton of the violence in the Congo or in Zimbabwe. Turth these events impact those here in S.A. but they are not related in the same way.

A man came into our appartment last night. He was wearing a Yankees baseball cap, his nose was flat and larger than my fathers - which is saying something. His beard was thin, and unkept as is the tradition for most of the men that I have met here. 6 foot eleven, the man was an nba player if he had been born in the USA. But he had not. He was rwandan. Fleeing his country in 92, he left to find work. In 94-5 he went back to rwanda to fight in the war there. This was the time of the rwandan genocide. I don not know for which side he fought. I do not know if he killed tutsi 'cockroaches' or if he himself was considered part of an infestattion. I do know that his passport denies him entry to rwanda, which does not look good. I am inclined to think that this man stanidng a few feet from me participated in a genocide. I am afriad and curious. Curious if this man really is such a man. Unbelievable. Genocide, here in my host fathers home.

He came to share a beer and his worries. As a rwandan he is afriad that he will be attacked. The rest of the house with whom he was staying had left the area. He was the only one left. Too afraid to use public transportation, he stayed at home, claiming he was unable to do the job requested of him from his employer. What to do? He showed us his documents and asked us the question. "Can you call your government to air lift me out of here" He asked me the american to do what no gov't did during a genocide in rwanda, help?

I did not know what to do. Loss of words met by frustration. Who am I to help you. I'm 21 years old, I dont work, I dont know your country I am a visitor, what Iam I to do. What Am i to do. I am a passer-by, I am not a part of this, they are not coming for me...how similar all this seemed. Its a poem written on the walls of every holocaust meuseam, of every book about genocide, of every point about human indifference. I must help, it is my duty not only as a spiritual person, but because it is what I would have wanted if it were me. Because few did it for the jews. Few did it for us.

I called the only contact that I had, our travel agent. She is part of Methodist church who is housing refugees there, until the violence blows over. We established a ride for him and the next day brought him there. It wasn't a permanent solution, but it was all that I could do. I was so fucking helpless. As we all feel so many times when we read all of these things on-line. Twot things had become real. The fact there there are real problems in south africa affecting everyone, and the fact that genocide was real and this man was a participant either as victim or as perpetrator. But in the end when he pleaded with me, begged even for me to help him, he was a human being. I couldn't judge - he deserves life just as much as I do.

The next day at the church I spoke with a Zimbabwean. We sang that dispatch song, elias - it has some of the Zimbabwean language Ndebele - it was a way to make contact to breach difficult subjects of violence of displacement. His name was Charles. He had left 2 weeks ago at threats from Mugabe's party that he would be killed. He is an open supporter of the opposition party. Charles left in a hurry. As a welder, it would be possible for him to find work in the new construction done for the world cup. Three days into south Africa he telephones his wife. His first born son has been murdered. Mugabe's men have killed him to get to Charles. Death is alive here in Southern Africa. I touched it with my head and we prayed together for peace. Charles was told he must leave the township or else he would be killed. 'DO Not REturn!"

Does anyone want him?

I tell you these stories of despair so I can explain to you that these things are real, but they are not the only stories coming out of S. Africa. A town ship rose up against the minority of people who are conducting the attracts. The whole community surrounding them and demanding that they give back their loot and to apologize to the people that they have harmed. (This was a town where some people had looted foreigners places, and tole them to vacate the premises. The community demanded justice. And that is exactly what they got.

My host father pointed to his gunshot wound in his lower abdomen. This, he said, is from criminals, just as what is happening now. You see, it is not this, he says pointing to his skin below his left eye, black dark brown like Swiss chocolate at 66& cocoa, that matters. You, he touches my arm, are white, but he points to his heart, but we are same. brothers.

He then offerers me the use of his car at any time...provided we pay for petrol.

The Rwandan returned next door after spending a few nights at the church. We spoke to his friends for some time. Someone asked where he was from. "guess" he said. "I dono, joburg? Zimbabwe? You look like your from here?" Exactly. skin is a ridiculous determinant for who you are.

That is what I want to tell you. Despite the violence, you don't hear about the good things, the way that communities have come together, the way that people have fought against the ridiculous ness about race. Good things are happening here. We're doing well. Violence might be occurring, but its declining, and the country is ashamed, black and white. and they are pushing it to stop.

Seconds flit at this internet cafe.

I'm not getting any older...and you aren't either

What the hell. You expect that as you get older, you get this sense of understanding. That people can look at problems with wizened eyes, and laugh about how silly we're all being. No. I guess I should have looked at world politics to figure that one out. I guess I just had hope that people would be able to leave their fruitless frustrations behind and work together to find something they could both agree upon.

We get sucked into this mode of thinking, and it's so annoying. Everyday, in and out, its the same arguments that we make against the same old people. We cannot accept anything new. Is this because our brains are 'hardwired' now? Can we really not understand or learn things in a new way? Are we stuck in this rut, forever running our minds in circles without any clear focus on what the problem actually is.

Fuck.

I'm not going to be like that. I'm going to listen to others, try and understand where they are coming from and what they want. Then I'll do the same for myself. Try and really understand what I am looking for and what my goals are. Its so easy just to get in this mode of disagreement. Everything sounds like we are trying to get at two different goals, but maybe its just that we want the same things and have different ways of getting there.

Sit down and talk. Be honest. You might get screwed, but tell you the truth, you'll find a better way if you do it with honesty.

Open up and don't be so rigid.

You Said Your Name Was What?

The emcee at Comedy Café crossed himself, giving praise to the comedy Gods and checking to see if the planets are just so aligned. He was three for three. A man named Roosevelt Swift, a dancer for the royal ballet theatre had shown up to provide comic entertainment between sets, a petite French girl with big bouncing curls named Fred sat in the front row, and me, a Jew ‘froed American, who just happens to live in that same state as that international idiot sitting in an oval office. The emcee had landed in comic heaven.

Roosevelt took a good thrashing, although I cannot even begin to think what it would have been like as a child. The playground must have been a battlefield. Strange Name + Dancing Skills = playground mincemeat.

As the night wore on, the jokes did too. I do not remember most of them, as I have taken up that ole’ English sport: drinking excessively and quickly. After my second pint, my gift for gab was unleashed. As this was my first time going to a night event by myself, I was feeling slightly lonely and longed for some sort of companionship. I ordered a third pint and plopped down next to two South Africans in the front row. We exchanged pleasantries.

“Is it not just disgusting weather today?”

I hate those kinds of conversations. Luckily, we broke the ice with a thorough pounding of the American president…and then went on to pummel Paris Hilton and Britney Spears (clearly equal evildoers). I found out that they had come to England to make some money and explore Europe. I had come to spend some money and explore Europe.

We were fast friends.

I lingered at the bar during intermission to hear a few jokes from the comics standing around making playful banter. I joined in with the best of them. The beer prevents me from recalling my words exactly, but the response I immediately wrote in my dairy. In sloppy drunken cursive: ‘when are you goin’ up man?’

That’s right. I am a comic, but I already knew that.

A man came over to our table just as I had returned, his shaved head gleaming with excitement.

“Hey,” he said to my South African companion, we’ll call him John, “Have I met you before?”

“Umm… I don’t know, where do you work, my shiny headed friend.” I’m ad libbing for effect, I’m a comic remember.

“Out by Camden.”

“No that’s not it, I work in the City. Oh, but I do live out in Marylebone.”

“Yeah, no, I’m over in East London…” Then he added nonchalantly, “do you attend any fetish parties?”

Without a blink of the eye, John replied, “Can’t say that I do.”

And this is why I love London

As the acts came and went, the crowd became tighter; laughing when the jokes were good, and trying to hide our shame when they were not. Regional jokes flew over my head; just where is Crawford? But thoughts of England were soon displaced by midgets, Amsterdam and Dildos, with a capital ‘D’! Could anything get better?

The last beer drained and the bill paid, I rose haltingly and stumbly from my seat in search of a good Kebab and a night bus home.

Talk, Talk, Talk

I plug my Skype headset into the computer, bending underneath my desk, bum up like a flag in the wind. International calling is never an easy ordeal, it always requires some crawling around on your knees, but at least it is cheap. I look around the office at the other workers; they’re silently working at their desks or gabbing away on their own headsets about conflict diamonds or the impending Pakistani implosion. We are all on telephones at some point or another. It’s the only way to communicate with foreign governments or contacts. Putting thoughts into an email takes twice as much time as a quiz buzz, not to mention the information is easily misconstrued. When you’re dealing with sensitive issues – source protection, oil funds, blackmail – it is best not to leave tone up to interpretation.

Yet, emails fly around the office like nobody’s business. My boss fires them off at a dizzying pace. Where does she find the time to do any work? Most of them come forwarded with the lines, FYI written on top of them. No note. No personal touch. Just information. That is how Global Witness is. Rosie, my ‘next-door’ neighbour if you will, is an amazing worker. She can go on for four or five hours at a time without uttering a single word. But it leaves little time for personal communication. The other interns are not as focused. We have idle chat on the computer – google’s chat feature makes everything so easy. Face to face communication almost seems impossible. The quiet work area is not conducive to loud American banter. Even the tearoom is fairly quiet – unless there are free cakes…and lately there have been free cakes.

The other week during free cake time was fantastic. One of the girls working on international finance systems (specifically, policies regarding transparent and just ways of creating economic growth in developing nations) and I had a pleasant chat on sovereignty. What’s interesting is that all the conversations at Global Witness are so highbrow. Everyone is such a fantastic thinker with new ideas bouncing around their heads all the time. It’s absolutely fantastic. Of course, discussions regarding Congolese slavery cannot go on forever, and eventually the talk devolves into marijuana and children.

“Can you smoke pot and be watching a child at the same time?”

No, I think not.

Since the office is so small, it is difficult to find a good place to have a meeting. Meetings go on all the time behind cubicles or in the break room. Planning committees write grant proposals and prospectus reports, while team leaders receive feedback from their staff. Few formal documents exist, but everyone is always carrying around notes. Notes from your boss, volunteer, or from yourself.

Talking with my boss, Claire, is easy. She’s bubbly, like me, and is easily excited by new things. I like bringing up new ideas with her. It seems relaxed and informal, even though it is a formal relationship. I wish that I felt that way about the directors. They seem to be fairly aloof, but I guess that is in the nature of directors. Charmian is incredibly intimidating. As a powerful woman, she often reminds me of Hillary Clinton. Whenever we speak, I feel as if I am being patronized. It is the tone of her voice and the way that she cocks her head to the side when she looks at me, as if I was some ‘American Idiot.’ I know that she does not really feel this way (I overheard her saying to my boss that I was incredibly helpful). Yet, I just cannot shake the feeling.

Yet even that feeling begins to leave as we take the conversation to the pub -all pretences drop away at the door – it is truly an English organization. As the ale flows, so too do our mouths. Constantly joking and ‘taking the piss’ out of each other, we break away the cold walls that are put up at work. When discussing corruption that leads to human rights abuses, there is a need of some sort of isolation. You have to put up some protection. At the pub it all goes away. We start to buzz and hum, excited to have done a full days work and ready to enjoy the fruit of our labour.

Strangers and Rants

Stand up tall
so the wind races through your hair
do not slouch or bend or crawl
rise up, smile back - show them you care
choose your grapes wisely
let them sit in the sun
drink them down
the day is won

I am feeling slightly reflective at the moment - the sun is beginning to set and my voice is quieting down, resting from a day of gabbing and of exploration. Here's my reflection on having lunch w/ a random person I met in the tube...wtf? How does that happen

Who are you? Who are you? Who am I? Why are you here? Who are you to me? How did we meet? Questions I posed to a stranger who now has a name. I met him on the tube...he happens to be a gay priest. Chances 1:9999999999999999999999....9999 Insane. Insane. The question though is not so much who is he, that doesn't really matter. He is human, I am human. Why are people afraid to have lunch w/ strangers. Why do we ignore each other? Why do humans fail to see that we can communicate w/ each other just by smiling, just by being a pleasent voice to a cash teller. Why can't we just treat each other as humans. Not rich, not poor, not a cleaner, not a class divided society. Why do we have technology that drives us apart? How can we get closer? Do we want to?

Hare Krishna Who?

Hare Krishna Hare Krishna

Krishna Krishna Hare Hare

Hare Rama Hare Rama

Rama Rama Hare Hare

For some reason I did not equate ISKCON, with Hare Krishna. ISKCON was some temple destination for Pop culture class, not that airport cult that reprogrammed adults to sit and praise God. I saw Hare Krishna as a strange and dangerous ideology. I thought it was a free love, free punch, kind of organization. Last year I watched hundreds of teenagers, without shoes, pull an enormous mansion-sized carriage full of white robed Hare Krishna’s (as I called them) singing on the National Mall in Washington D.C. My own confused look was mirrored by parade goers everywhere…what the $£%^ is going on with that huge thing, and, wait a second… is that a Hare Krishna, I thought they would shrivel if they came into the light.

It’s clear that I was misinformed, ignorant, and judgmental. But I had heard some nasty things. Oliver Sacks writes in An Anthropologist on Mars about a patient with a brain tumor who became so embroiled in Krishna Consciousness, that it was only possible for him to function while singing or swaying in tune to Krishna Mantras. He gave away thousands of dollars to the organization, only to be left deaf, blind, and dumb.

Yet, when we stepped into the temple, I felt completely at home. I wasn’t expecting that. I was ready to fend off unwanted charity drop bags with strength and honor. I would use Judo to protect my wallet and my sanity from being stripped away by cultish fanatics offering punch. It was strangely peaceful there. I walked around, touching the guilded walls and asking questions about the doll-like Gods sitting on the alter.

“We change them twice a day. They have their morning clothes, and their night clothes. It is ritual.” Ok, I thought, whatever gets you closer to enlightenment.

The soul is an eternal spiritual object. Together, the soul, with the mind and body, creates a human. When I ‘die’, I am not speaking of my soul. My soul will live on, transferred to another body of sorts. And this process will continue until I have reached enlightenment and can join God.

I don’t think I buy one word of that.

But I do believe that every soul, every individual is important. The color of your skin is does not matter (unless you are green and asking for my leader). I recognize that my mind and body are awfully demanding of my soul. Listening to that still small voice is so difficult with the deafening roar of my belly and the endless jabbering of my mind. The woman who sat with us and explained Krishna Consciousness seemed not to have that problem. She could listen to sirens and be overjoyed. The world seemed so simple and easy to her, as if there was nothing that could possibly go wrong. She seemed happy and content, feelings that I so often strive for, frequently missing the boat.

It was her relaxed and carefree that really turned me on to ISKCON, converting my hostility to a curiosity and interest. I want to go back and learn more, trying out a mantra or two, or joining them for dinner. I think I might even try the punch.