Hello my lovelies! Although this is completely irrelevant to the rest of this post, I feel the need to tell you about the weather here of late. Now, we all know that weather is a "safe topic" and something people are told to talk about when nothing else is left to say*. Fear not weather: this time, the limelight is all yours! As I'm sure you know, we are in the middle of winter here in South Africa. When I was in the Ithala Game Reserve, which is about five hours north of here, it was 2 degrees Celsius our first morning there. Yeah... Then! This past weekend, wait for it.... 90 degrees Fahrenheit; talk about a range! Too bad I don't have any shorts here anymore. It was sweltering?!**
As promised, below you will find the link to my Google+/Picasa web albums from my various excursions and adventures. It's been a long, fun ride and I feel lucky to have gotten to share it with so many people. I still can't believe it's almost at an end-- a begending! Ever picture in every album is captioned to give snippets of information about the location and what's going on. Hopefully, the viewing will be spectacular and you'll be able to see everything clearly. If not, let me know!
1. The Chateau
Thought it would be a good idea to start off with some mouth-wateringly good photographs of my favorite eatery in South Africa-- a patisserie of course!
2. V ZA
These are all pictures from around mid-May to mid-June when I was able to travel a bit further out towards Pietermaritzberg and the Midlands (the range of foothills below the famous Drakensberg Mountain Range) and then also a bit of traveling around Kloof with some friends and a visitor.
3. in&around KLOOF
Photos from the beginning of my cousin Jasmine's trip to South Africa, where we explored Kloof, Hillcrest, Durban, and all the fun ins and outs around the towns.
4. Kingdom Animala
Behold, the Ithala Game Reserve and Jasmine and I's five hour drive there and our eleven hour drive back again. The trip was full of thatched rooves, zebras, bushpigs, and giraffes who really didn't care (in a good way!).
5. Cape Town, Day One
Plane ride, Bo-Kaap, the Stadium Guest House, Signal Hill, the Two Oceans Aquarium at the Victoria and Albert Waterfront, and a puppy!
6. Cape Town, Day Two
Exploring the V&A Waterfront, Robbin Island Museum, the Craft Market, the Redline Bus Tour, St. George's Cathedral, the South African Museum, Castle of Good Hope, Parliament, Company Gardens, and several bays, beaches and viewpoints.
7. Cape Town, Day Three
The Old Biscuit Mill, Oded's Kitchen, LOTS of food, a ritzy art shop, Canal Walk at Century City, more delicious food and sweets, Exclusive Books, Mug & Bean, Table View, beaches :]
8. Cape Town, Day Four
Butterfly World, Anura Vineyards, Franschhoek: town and winery, Franschhoek Cemetery, Boschendal Vineyards, Hillcrest Berry Farm, Spier Winery and grounds.
9. Cape Town, Day Five
Kirstenbosch National Botanical Gardens, Groot Constantia Winery, Hout Bay, Simon's Town, Fishhoek, Kalk Bay, the Brass Bell, St. James, Muizenberg, Tribeca Cafe, Boulder Beach, Baboons, and Cape Point (where two oceans meet).
10. Cape Town, Day Six
The Plattekilp Gorge Trail to the summit of Table Mountain, "At the Top" Cafe (home of the world's worst coffee), Rock Dassies (Hyraxes), high tea at the Mount Nelson Hotel, voted best high tea in the world by several respectable associations, and our last night in Cape Town :'[
* Mrs. Dashwood: Hush, please. That is enough, Margaret. If you cannot think of anything appropriate to say, you will please restrict your remarks to the weather!
[LATER]
Edward Ferrars: I trust I find you all well?
Marianne: Thank you, Edward, we are all very well.
...hella awkward pause...
Margaret: We've been enjoying very fine weather.
[Marianne nudges her]
Margaret: Well, we have!
Edward Ferrars: Well, I-I'm glad to hear it. The roads were very... dry.
**this is a new composer I've been following lately who is bloody brillant! Feel free to check out his website or the video I found him through which features puppies in high definition!
Friday, 17 August 2012
Tuesday, 7 August 2012
All the small things
So,
here's the deal guys: because I have been such a naughty little
procrastinator, I have decided that the most word-economic manner of
catching you all up on the fun times this side of the globe will be
to write teensy, snippet-reviews of all the important events,
complete with picture albums and playlists to fill out the vision in
your heads :]
EMPIEZA
UNO
My
good friend Megan and I went to see the Imperial Russian Ballet when
they were in town with her family—sister, mother, sister's
boyfriend's mother, you get the idea. The Moscow-based performance
corps truly outdid themselves that evening! The opening was a
semi-garish (merely because it was more modernist* and the music of
the harsh, operatic variety) excerpt that left the audience uncertain
as to what to expect next. However, the second set of selections was
much more classically dominated. Durban's Look Local website says:
“...Artistic director Gediminas Taranda, a soloist of the Bolshoi Ballet brings creativity and innovation to the company’s classic productions. The company consists of outstanding Russian trained dancers and also leading artists from European and American companies.
The
Durban programme features Carl Orff’s Carmina
Burana in
the first act and scenes and extracts from classical masterpieces in
the second act which include Walpurgis
Night
(the
one-act ballet from the opera Faust), the Adagio
from
Scheherezade,
the Grand
Pas de Deu from
Don
Quixote
[the
ballet] and
Jacques Offenbach’s Can-Can
Surprise.”
Most
Moving: the female soloist performing Dying
Swan from
Swan Lake
Most
Winsome: forest scene with impish male half-animal, half-human
tricksters
Most
Awesome Moment of my Life**: tallest male dancer cross dressing for
the Can-Can and trying to woo my favorite male dancer (who also
happened to be the shortest corps member I believe)
Megan
and I spent a good majority of the production in titters, trying to
decide which of our two favorite male dancers we would be marrying
that evening. In the end, I chose the one playing a mischievous,
Bacchanal fawn playing the Pan-flute. Note, the two favored young
men had the most roguish grins and couldn't have been taller than 5'
9” (or 175 centimeters, for my metric readers). Unfortunately,
there wasn't an opportunity after the show to woo them in person, and
the programs for the show were outrageously expensive***.
The
final highlight of the evening in my eyes was the location. The
building itself had a stunning interior (did I mention the café
where Megs and I had coffee and some B-1 chocolate cake!? Nom, nom,
nom, nom...) and was situated just across the street from Durban
City Hall. This is a marvelous old
building that I would love to explore some more in the future. Lots
of detailed, minute statues all over the stone facade and simple, but
elegant lines. All in all, a city treasure.
------
*What
do I mean by “modernist” in this sense? Well, let's see. Very
harsh, unnatural RED lighting, wavering, slightly-nightmarish music,
sudden movements placed between abrupt stillness, and patternless
unitards. Get the idea?
**within
the ballet itself, of course!
***another
one of my least favorite things about the country. I mean, you're
already paying to get in and
see the performance! The least they can do is give you a little
background on it—it's PAPER for goodness' sake!!
DOS
All the fun MEDIA
related events in my life seem to have come to a head in recent
months. For anyone who knows me a little better than the
stranger-level (which, would be cool, since you're reading my blog
and all...) will know that I struggle to say the least, with
all technological affairs. However, I feel it strangely necessary to
share with you all my most recent discoveries, my plunders of the
virtual realm! For those of you with too many internet-based
addictions already, please, save yourself now and skip this
section—you're welcome.
“How I Met Your
Mother” (HIMYM) is one of the best written shows on television at
the moment. It has several qualities I admire, firstly, Neil Patrick
Harris, secondly Neil Patrick Harris and thirdly! Well, I'm sure you
get the gist. Additionally,
this show marked my introduction to Jason Segel, an
exceptionally talented young actor and writer (most recent work, The
Muppets 2011). In both men, I adore their fearlessness and, In
Segel's character, the sweetness. Every woman wants sweetness in her
life; deep down, I think every man does too. I also love rooting
against Canada throughout the series—I promise this
Canada-bashing is all in jest, my friends.
Other television
exposure includes the first season of ABC's “One Upon a Time” and
the subtle mental nudge to finally finish “Dawson's Creek.” The
former was intriguing as a concept, though the script was
devastatingly weak. P'raps since viewership has increased, their
budget will have also increased, allowing them to hire better
writers. We can always hope. As to the latter, no progress has yet
been made. I suppose I just really want to know whether Pacey “wins”
in the end. Because, as HIMYM has taught me, there is always a
winner and a loser in a break up.
Keeping on the
video topic, here's a really nerdy fascination. I have completed,
finally, my second complete viewing, via YouTube, of A Very Potter
Musical, a fan-made musical production co-written and starring
Darren Criss, better known for his appearances since AVPM on Fox's
“Glee.” The music, mostly done by Criss, is simple, sweet, and
addictive like nothing else you've tried before. His musical work
beyond Potter extends into soft rock and acoustic numbers with
semi-theatrical vocal and where guitar is heavily featured. He also
has solo covers of his songs from AVPM,
available in HD on YouTube. Ladies,
get ready to swoon!
In the realm of
classics, my gigs with the BBC, of late, have really swept me away.
It's actually quite horrid: I'll finish watching Emma, or
some such lovely flippancy and then facebook message someone coming
across far more formal than I ever intended! One other point
I must be unquestionably clear upon is that the BBC's six hour
version of Pride and Prejudice, starring Colin Firth
and Jennifer Ehle, remains the greatest version to date, bar none! No matter how hard she tried, I could never really believe Keira
Knightly to be a Miss Bennet.
Now, for those of
you who also enjoyed this level of theatricality, character tension,
and romance, there is another mini-series you simply must devour!
BBC's North & South, based on the novel by Elizabeth
Gaskell belongs on the A-list. Promise me you'll take a gander soon?
There is absolutely nothing wrong with taking this promising waltz
back to the industrialization period of England*. I also found the
work to be quite politically charged.
Lastly, for those
of you longing for a more cozy, fire-side affair, fear not! There is
yet another mini-series for you. I haven't had the opportunity to
see the one for myself yet, but it is definitely on the docket for my
yuletide movie schedule this year! It's called Cranford. Set
in a fictionalized British town of the 1840s, the show features one
of my favorite actresses, Judi Dench in yet another BBC novel-based
series. Having won several awards for acting, direction,
costume design and more, the show returned with a brief sequel,
Return to Cranford that aired around Christmas-time and met
with much success.
Switching topics
completely, I have one final confession to make: I'm reading a web
comic. How on Earth, you might ask, did this addictive habit begin?
And how on Earth did I find this particular one out of the myriad of
hundreds upon thousands that occupy that invisible stratosphere
called the internet? On my drive to Ithala (a game reserve Jasmine
and I visited that I will tell you allll about very soon), Jasmine
showed me a two-hour, annual, stand-up set from a podcast she follows
called The Nerdist. Through
this completely random happenstance, I found and fell in love with my
new favorite comedian: Hampton Yount. Feel free to check out his website and download his free CD from one of his recent live
shows! Just
remember—this is comedy: people are intended to be offended and
swearing will occur. Watch out for little kids!
Anyways, after
doing a little research on this awesome performer, I found out that
he and his brother Clay, an artist, have been maintaining a web comic—Clay
doing the art, and Hampton writing the dialogue and storyline. It's
been around for a number of years now, so I started waaaay back at
number one and
am up to 2008 at the moment. I am inching my
way, comic by comic to the more recent additions. Though
semi-grueling, it is incredible to be able to really see visually the
development of both the artwork and writing so instantaneously! It's
like an entire archive, at my fingertips. If we could but replicate
this in the literary realm, how much easier my research would become! Don't get me wrong though—I''m still a hardcore advocate of doing
things the old fashioned way, aka, using a book's index (that's what it's
for!).
------
*now,
isn't this oddly well-timed with the opening of the 2012 Olympics in
London? If you didn't catch it live (it started quite late at night
for me, not sure what time it started back in the States), there's
bound to be about a gazillion versions on YouTube—fret not!
TRES
A bit about my
recent experiences in “the big city” : Durban
Some time ago, I
went to House of Curries on Florida Road, a very posh little
neighborhood near the water's edge in Durban, and ate bunny chow. Now, I can tell you right away that this in no way involved bunnies!
Rather, bunny chow is the name given to a particular Indian dish that
is said to have originated in Durban. Imagine a thick loaf of bread;
now, cut it in half, scoop out the inside, and fill it with curry:
voila?! BUNNY CHOW.
More in the realm
of food: I've recently kindled an obsession with the local frozen
yogurt shop, also on Florida Road, called Wakaberry (think Muppets:
waka-waka-waka!!). It's pretty much the only dessert you can eat and
then still pretend to feel good about by saying a) it's not really
ice-cream and b) it has fruit on top, so it must be good for me. A
win-win in my book.
Also, if anyone
in the Durban area is actually reading this, I loved
the Essenwood Saturday Market—so many amazing shoes, crafts, CDs,
paintings, foods, et cetera. I must return and if not soon, do it
for me, Durbanites.
Recently, I've
had more exposure to the downtown music 'scape. The groovy scene
where it all goes down. Not too long ago—the last Monday of
August—I had the good fortune to be out on the town with some of my
favorite Durbanites* enjoying a meal at Billy the B.U.M.'s to cure
the Monday-night blues. During the meal, Luke mentioned that a
friend of his was playing in a band down on Wilson's Wharf. For my
Bay Area readers, this is Durban's version of the Embarcadero, though
a bit less upscale in some ways. We agreed to check out the gig
after paying the bill (note: not paying “the check;” that's a
strictly American phrasing I try to avoid here'bouts).
Well, if anybody
knows how restaurants in South Africa work, you'll know that they
always take much longer than you think they will and that the service
is generally pretty laid back (that's my nice way of saying “don't
tip your waiters”), though not quite as bad as Spain in that
regard. As it was, by the time we got to Zack's
the
band we had originally gone to see had been off stage awhile. Still,
the next band was setting up and we decided to stick around for a
drink or two. Some of the gang went to find seats, and myself and a
few others were chatting over some cider by the bar. After the first
song, I went to go see if I could cop a squat with the
others—somehow, we'd scored front row seats and I sidled into one
of the chairs as quick as I could. This group was a standard
three-piece indie affair: guitar, drums, bass, with the bassist
doubling as lead singer and the guitarist providing backup vocals.
Song number two was about to begin when the bass player looked up and
saw me. Can you imagine how shocked I was? We'd met before! Jordi
Bruce Van Dyk: part-time bass player for Scarlet Hill,
part-time waiter at Sam Brown's Homegrown Café! If you haven't
heard me rave about this place before, feel free to do so here. The other band
members include David Daniels (Guitarist/Backup Vocals) and Bryn
Scott on drums.
Though
still a bit rough to the trained ear, the group has a cohesive sound
and some solid originals that could really get them places if they
continue. I also think a lot of credit goes to whoever is
photographing them in their “shows” and “untitled” albums on
the facebook page. I'll try and find that name for you if I can. In
the meantime, here's a recent track they've put up on soundcloud. I
saw this one live and it was pretty awesome!
Well, needless to
say, after their performance, I was definitely down to stay for the
next band (even though it was a Monday night and all my friends with
day jobs were giving me death glares). And ohmigoodness, am I glad I
did! The next act really spiced things up—an eight-piece,
co-ed, jazzy group. A complex setup with a simple name: Brass Rock
Every
member of the band was nailing it. On fire, people! Mind
you, I've seen a fair share of live performances and this is saying
something. Their vibe was totally groovy—personally, I'd love to
get rich quick so I could ship them overseas to play at all my
events. Please check out their page and the mini-recording at
the bottom. If you get a chance to peruse the bios at all, you'll
realize the individual members are just as eclectic as their
musicality. Now, I don't have spotify, but I'll also include the
link for that here as well—you'll have to let me know if it works.
But
seriously folks, this is a band to watch for! I was livid when we
left. That's how good we're talking.
------
*I
was gonna list out everyone's name, but then realized that they would
just be names to most readers, and could be considered an invasion of
privacy to those mentioned.
QUATRO
In other news, I
have some new and exciting treats on the way for you all. Part of
being a lazy writer means taking lots of pictures instead. I like to
pretend I'm an amateur photographer on a semi-regular basis. In that
regard, there will be not one, not two, but!—okay, okay, I'm
joking, just two, haha—photoblogs posted to the site very soon to
help summarize and visualize the larger trips I've taken. One, to
the midlands surrounding the famous Drakensberg Mountains of
KwaZulu-Natal and a second giving a day-by-day account of my trip in
and around the Cape with my cousin and godmother Jasmine.
Lastly, there has
been a new addition under the roof: a second Africanis dog. Her name
is Rowe and she's about two years old and settling in nicely with
Abiqui. Welcome home, pup!
Tuesday, 10 July 2012
You Know I'm Back
My dear, dear friend
So long has passed since last I wrote I
hardly know where to begin. I found myself trapped in the
procrastination cycle—the more I thought about writing again, the
more I realized I had to catch up on and so, I would wait for the
overwhelmed feeling to pass. Usually, this meant I would delve into
my latest fantasy or sci-fi novel, or perhaps even while away the
afternoon catching up with an old TV show I'd long since abandoned.
Either way, my procrastination skills are in peak condition, meaning
my punctual writing priorities have fallen woefully to the wayside.
And there is much to tell you :]
If I'm going to go about this
pseudo-chronologically, or at least with chronological intentions,
then I had best start around mid-May.
Saturday, May 12th
It was the weekend—that blessed,
blessed weekend after the
last day of classes. Of course there were exams to look forward to,
but those weren't for a few weeks at least; there'd be plenty of time
to forget to study and subsequently freak out later. But for now, it
was time to celebrate!
I'd
had the most wondrous good luck during the term to befriend several
multi-instrumental young men: one of these, perhaps the best
of these, is our connection. Daniel* told me, perhaps five minutes
into our acquaintanceship, that he played guitar. Being the pompous
little twat that I can be, I shrugged this information aside, saying,
“Yeah, you and everyone else.” Well, I was about to be quite the
abashed little snot.
You
see, Daniel forgot to mention that he had a hook. And that hook was
named Sophia...
Since
finals weren't yet looming and classes had stopped, my friend Summer
and I decided to go see Daniel, our mutual friend, perform at a place
called St. Clements in Durban.
St.
Clements ended up being a charming little place: cafe and plant
nursery by day, breezy outdoor concert venue and art shop by night.
At any time of day, they have pastries, making it a definite win.
However, getting there turned out to be the night's biggest
challenge. A couple hours into late afternoon, I phoned Summer to
see what she was wearing that night. It's a good thing I did,
because that's how I found out she wasn't going, even though we'd
made our plans weeks ago. But there wasn't time to get my
chick-angst on. I needed a plan. I needed to plot! If I was going
to see this show, then by golly I had to do
something about it. I wracked my brains for a game plan.
And
now this is where I get to whine. This, this is why I hate Durban.
More specifically, this is why I hate South Africa. Anytime I want
to get somewhere, see someone, or do something, I have to whip out my
negotiation tool box. I don't even have a shadow of independence in
this place. For everything, I have to deal, barter, bribe, or
impress the somebody who can take me somewhere. Why? A few reasons,
that of course end up stacking themselves against me. The first
reason is my own fault: I can't drive stick. I've learned and
practiced a bit, but I'm nowhere near competent enough to drive
myself through the spaghetti monster of a maze that is the Durban
freeway. Second, despite the fact that Durban and its suburban
outcroppings are part of the third largest port city on the
continent, it has no comprehensive, efficient, cheap, or safe public
transportation system. Translation: you kinda need a car to get
places. And this is really something I'm not used to; thank you
California for spoiling me with your lovely, easy to use systems.
And thanks UCSD for the free bus pass :] Third, most women I am
acquainted with don't drive. I would say the approximate age range
we're looking at in my sample is 17-28. To get your license here,
you need to be eighteen, but hardly anyone actually gets their
license then. At least, hardly anyone I've met at school. And
fourth, the gender divide here as such makes it pretty certain that a
fair majority of my friends are women. What are we left with? No
public transport and a very, very small female only pool of drivers
that is even further diminished to females living in or nearby my
suburb. Problem.
...Solution?
Megan.
Megan
was a girl I had met briefly several times. She has the class before
mine at the ballet studio I've been going to. In between our
lessons, while I was putting on my shoes and she was taking hers off,
we would chat etc. It wasn't long until we exchanged numbers; she
said we should hang out soon.
Now,
fast-forward to Saturday night: me, desperate, friendless, and
itching to go to this promised-to-be-epic night of music! I do the
only sensible thing I can think of then, by going through everyone
remotely nearby in my cellphone contacts. By the time I got to the
M's, I had my speech prepped and ready to go. The conversation went
something like this
Me:
Hey Megan! What are you doing tonight?
Megan:
Oh well, I was planning on catching up on some study—
Me:
No you're not.
Megan:
But I—
Me:
No you're not. It's a Saturday night! You're
young and remember that time we said we should hang out? Let's make
it tonight! There's this awesome concert happening in Durban and—
Megan:
All the way out in Durban? Checks, man...
Me:
Let's do it!
Several
bribes and phone calls later, Megan, Stacie, and I were heading out
in Megan's car to St. Clement's. I was going to have my night.
And
what a night! The place was decked out in every kind of
old-fashioned loveliness: fairy lights were strung from tree to tree,
lighting the little tea tables below with their soft, amber glow.
The stage was set, complete with drums, guitar, and three tall mics,
waiting. But of course, not every plan I concoct is flawless. I had
forgotten to book a table and there wasn't standing room that didn't
block the people sitting or the waiters. So I casually walked
around, scoping the place out. I'd hardly begun my search when a man
and a woman sitting a larger table asked us if we needed seats; their
friends had been unable to make it at the last moment and they had
not one, not two, but three
extra seats. Can you say “purr-fect?”
 |
| probably my favorite April Fool's prank of all time |
Our
rescuers, Alain and Susana, ended up being not only generous, but
fabulous conversationists and foodies. It also proved to me, yet
again, how small the world really is. Not only were both parties
fluent in Spanish (what are the odds of running into other people who
speak Spanish in Africa?!), but Susana is actually from Spain! We
had a lovely time talking about my recent trip there and why she had
moved to Durban of all places. Alain—which is ironic, since I'm
pretty sure that's the name of my high school Spanish teacher's
son—was even familiar with my university back in the States!
Seriously, what are the odds? He and I also agreed on one other
important thing... In the midst of the show (which I promise to get
to), we saw a waitress streak past with two plates of fruit-topped
cheesecake. Both Alain and I's eyes followed her trail. We looked
at each other are were like, um, whoa, whoa, whoa—we need
cheesecake! Stat**!
As
if a perfect night couldn't get any better, there was the performance
itself. Let me tell you, these ladies know how to dish it out!
Natalie, the sexy, minxy alto; Sophia, the bright fresh soprano; and
Jessica, the melodic lead. The girls were a smashing success. The
first half of their set was strictly a capella, but even that had
quite the range: “I'll Fly Away” from O
Brother, Where Art Thou?
to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” What truly impressed me was the
arrangements they did themselves, in particular, their coffee and tea
number. Additionally, they were dressed to the nines: these adorable
little boatneck red dresses with a black ribbon to cinch the waist.
Iconic. And while they did a few Andrew Sisters numbers, they had a
different kind of vibe themselves... more sassy, more edge. They've
got a bite to them. That is something I absolutely look for in my
favorite groups—it sets them apart and makes you question that
sugar-sweet exterior. It complexifies them and we all love a good
mystery.
And
when you thought you couldn't bear to love them any more than you
already did, the second half of the show began. They had each
changed into a more gray and black toned, grungy looking outfit and
brought the boys on stage with them: Alex Smillie on the drums and
Daniel Basckin on electric guitar. And well, let's just say I was
proven wrong. Because he was really, really good.
I promise to write again very soon. I just really felt that it was time to break this little impromptu hiatus of mine and give you something real to start with again. I've missed you.
Promise.
-----
*I'd
toyed for awhile with the idea of assigning all my characters in
these anecdotes pseudonyms. My choices in the early stages went
something like this: Alain = “Little Rock,” Susana M. = “Tobit
S.” Stacie = “Sutton,” Megan = “Welsh,” Summer =
“Season” But then, you know, I decided to be honest instead.
Essentially, I decided to run the risk of looking like a jerk. Go
figure.
**Since,
you know, saying “stat” after something like you're in a hospital
makes it super imperative.
Saturday, 5 May 2012
Money, Inflation, and Headaches
 |
| they call it a coffee headache for a reason |
Money
the
useless proliferation of paper, coin, or electronic currency with the
general assumption that they denote value. Not a system based in
reality.
Where
Americans would usually say “register” or “cashier,” South
Africans say “till.” Another thing South Africans are
particularly adept at saying is strike.
And chanting for change. I did some chanting of my own this past
week before our 4-day weekend. A small group of students, many of
whom are friends of mine, are trying to raise the student body's
awareness of UKZN's flagrant breach of contract with its employees.
Various staff members, lecturers, and tutors have not received their
due payment since the beginning of the year (January). News flash
people: it's APRIL. Adriana, a Russian philosophy professor I keep
randomly running into (I even saw him a music club over the
weekend—ugh!) was telling me, “Oh yes, there's probably some poor
cleaning lady starving somewhere.” That's a philosopher for you
though—a fatalist.
Or in this case, more likely he would describe himself as a realist.
In
response, many lecturers have simply not shown up for the classes
they are supposed to be teaching, until they are paid. The same is
true of tutors—and is the reason our tutorial (the equivalent of a
college discussion or section meeting) was cancelled last week.
Those in the drama department were the first to “get vocal” about
what was going on and, as their just reward, the first to be paid in
full. Three cheers for the drama!
On
a smaller scale, the few students who were aware of what was going on
took it upon themselves to make a ruckus, make some noise. Those
marching carried painted signs and the stragglers passed out flyers
explaining to issue. One of the leaders bequeathed the tambourine to
me—thank goodness
I'd
had those tambourine lessons senior year of high school from my boys
in the band (John Spencer, Jordan Gorenberg, and Vincenzo DeLaRosa).
I quickly put it to good use, playing in tandem with the drummer to
set the pace for our chants, like “A Fair Day's Work is a Fair
Day's Pay!”
I
don't know if you've ever marched in a protest before, or
participated in some other form of political activism but WOW is it
exhilarating. What a high. It's nerve-racking at first; you have to
let yourself break away from that panicky feeling of “I shouldn't
be doing this... now I'm one of them”
and other negative internal dialogue. As the words scrape your
throat in their haste to get OUT THERE you begin to stop thinking how
you might be one of them
and realize that you're one of us.
Who
knows how events will pan out. But at least I can feel that I've
done something. Said something. And hopefully had an impact—the
life goal of a writer and artist.
Whenever
I think about protests, or change, I still hear this song. Thanks,
dad. And now, as the Occupy movement in the States may seem to be
dwindling, I would love for them all to hear this, very different,
song.
Inflation
the thing
physics students hope for desperately with every atom of their being
after a test. Also the thing that caused the pre-Nazi riots of
1922-1923
and still has people pulling their hair out.
As I've
mentioned before, on the whole, South Africa does not feel or look
like a “third world” or “underdeveloped” nation. However,
I've also mentioned the complete lack of governmental/nongovernmental
infrastructure. This has far-reaching and unexpected results.
Specifically, I have to be aware at university (varsity) that I'm
being exposed to a strange cross-section of the country since only
2% of the population ever receives a form of higher education. On
top of that, those who do have the opportunity to attend university
are not of exactly equal caliber or capability. And here's where it
get's messy.
A good
friend of mine in my Comparative Literature and Culture module
(class) introduced to me to my colloquial vocab word of the week:
o-jive. Since so few people even have the possibility to go to
college, the high schools in certain areas (presumably poorer areas)
hugely inflate their high school exit exam pass rates and term marks
(grades). Meaning, for undergraduates, someone with straight A's
from one school will not be academically equal to a student with all
A's from another school*. Result? Academic doctors and masters
recipients are asked to teach class 'normally,' while somehow
accommodating this huge disparity in education between their
students. In addition to creating a course that is digestible for
such a wide array of students, grading those students' work must be
another headache entirely... Unlike my massive home university in
California, the professors themselves actually do the majority of the
grading here.
More about
grading as it applies to my life: because the course I'm taking is
interdisciplinary, about every week or so, occasionally two weeks, a
different professor in their expert discipline will teach that
segment of the course. So, for instance, we just did a
long—two-week—session on Disgrace, a Booker Award winning
novel by South African Nobel Laureate J.M. Coetzee (“coat”-Z-uh).
I'd never heard of the book myself, but I figured that because, ya
know, I'm not South African. But apparently, none of my peers were
familiar with it either. Published in 1999, the work is still quite
recent which may account for the lack of renown. The novel we read was also poorly received by the South African government at the time of publication, which is euphemistic code for they said he was a racist swine. So... He moved to Australia? But then, the author
is the only person to ever receive the Booker
Award twice so he's pretty important! (When he got the Nobel Prize, the government was like, "Haha, just kidding about all those insults, you're totally a South African!!")
Anyways, we did that section
of the course for two weeks, reading, analyzing, and discussing the
novel, its reception, and its literary merits. All our essays and
homeworks were graded by Dr. Darren and now? We're in a new section.
New topic, new grader. The downside: no chance to build a steady
relationship with a consistent grader. Welcome to my life!
Headaches
the
useless excruciating, anonymous attack on the brain by the evil
forces of pain.
Most likely sent by the emperor.
How to fight the
common headache according to moi: therapy cooking, baking, and
eating. Obviously. Lately, I've been dappling with soup as a genre;
it's one of those things I don't make too often but constantly crave
in the winter. Autumn has settled over KZN and it's high time I yank
out my creativity toolbox again and get souping! I've had two
successful pots so far: a potato, celery, carrot, corn,
navy-bean-based stew with lemon and cayenne AND my moroccan butternut soup. Experimentation is the key to success.
Saturday, 21 April 2012
It's all Greek to Me
THE
GREEKS
in
1616 in Shakespeare's play Julius
Caesar,
as spoken by Servilius
Casca to
Cassius after a festival in which Caesar was offered a crown:
CASSIUS:
Did Cicero say any thing?
CASCA: Ay, he spoke Greek.
CASSIUS: To what effect?
CASCA: Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but, for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it.
CASCA: Ay, he spoke Greek.
CASSIUS: To what effect?
CASCA: Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again: but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but, for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if I could remember it.
William
Shakespeare, The
Tragedy of Julius Caesar (1599)
Taken
from the ever pragmatic and miraculous Wikipedia
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| wild rye, growing in a field courtesy of Wikipedia |
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| note, the chandelier is composed of tiny, golden crosses as well |
In between making sure the resident small people didn't light anything on fire, I split my time making awkward small talk to the Russian man who stood beside me at the back of the church and pretending to sing in Greek, which I'm apparently a natural at. Afterwards, several people tried to greet me in Greek and were very confused when I told them I wasn't Greek or Russian or South African. Language barriers + religious service + foreign country = GOOD TIMES. I remember asking the Russian man if there was a name for the über sparkly crown the archbishop of South Africa was wearing. I did mention that the Orthodox Archbishop of South Africa was there, right? Maggie was very taken with [His Eminence Damaskinos Archbishop of Johannesburg and Pretoria], for whatever reason, haha. I dare you to go look up his picture. It'll definitely put this in perspective... Anyways, Mr. Russia said, "Uh, no; I think it's just called a 'crown'" much to my disappointment. But seriously guys, it was like one of those ginormous, slightly bulbous fabric pieces that looked like it had been through a bedazzler or two.
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| Natalie celebrates Pascha |
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| the fam, post-Pascha (I still can't believe Natty made it that long!) |
--The Kissing of the Hand--
ANECDOTE
I'm at the back of the church. The service has, for all intents and purposes, ended. The congregation forms a languorous column to the archbishop to receive... what exactly? I quietly decide to defer and linger inconspicuously near the final row of pews.
A heavy-set, be-tweeded older woman totters down the side aisle, clutching five chunks of whole-wheat fresh bread and an egg, and inquires, "Aren't you going up? You must!" A nearby friend of Carina's, a sweet young lady from Zimbabwe (Melanie), joins in, "It's Easter, just go," smiling sweetly. I reply with a string of paltry excuses, "No thanks... it's fine... I'm not orthodox..." after which I am unceremoniously shoved into the line, continuing to chat with the old woman.
"What am I supposed to do?" I whisper frantically. "Don't I have to kiss something?"
"Heh?" she squawks.
As it turned out, I didn't really ever end up having to kiss anything. At the front, there were two enormous woven baskets, one filled with the red eggs and the other with the tufts of brown bread my companion so glamorously sported earlier. I made some sort of graceless bow and made off with my spoils, one chunk of holy grain and one sanctified egg.
She is waiting for me. What can I do, but go along with her, arm in arm, out of the church, down the hill, and to one of several ready-and-waiting tables for the middle-of-the-night feast (most of which I couldn't take part in, being vegetarian and all). I ended up sitting next to her second son, a film and television studies lecturer at one of the local universities, while she ranted about how her first son and his wife left early. During my brief time at the table, I learned that she's a half-Scottish migrant to South Africa and her husband is a minister from Greece (what the folks there call "the Greek connection;" this is also the reason everyone is very confused and disappointed when they learn we are in no way Greek). Melanie also happened to be seated across from me at the table, alongside her husband. While the gang slurped at their lamb and cream stew, I munched on part of a loaf of bread with the red eggs literally baked into the top. Very strange, but very pretty.
Eventually, Ben and Carina and the small people come to a consensus: it is time to go. After saying several lengthy goodbyes to people I barely know, and exchanging the traditional kisses on the cheeks, I was able to extricate myself from the gathering, go back up the hill, get another squashed lift back to the ranch, and fall into bed around quarter to four in the morning...
- - - - -
THE
FRENCH
Since
my last post, I have achieved monumental success in the
“finding-things-with-only-a-sub-par-excuse-for-the-internet” that
we have in South Africa. Just apply whatever the standard for
technology was ten years ago, or more, in the United States to ZA.
Ergo, not everything is online. To this, I would normally resign
with a snotty and sarcastic “le sigh,” a turn of phrase I
co-opted from my boyfriend and has since become one of my favorite
things to type. And speaking of sighs, [warning:
you are about to diverge into tangential train of thought], the other
day when I was in the kitchen with Maggie, I could have sworn
a teenager had taken over her tiny, three-year-old form. I don't
remember what it was, but essentially I had told her she couldn't
have a treat until she finished her lunch, to which she deigned to
reply with a lengthy, eye-rolling SIGH
OF ETERNITY.
I'm not going to bother trying to convey how difficult it was not to
fall on the floor laughing.
Anyways,
back to my monumental success story! This past Wednesday marks my
second ballet class in nearly five years. For the sake of time,
here's my condensed dance history: [tap, jazz, hip-hop, minimal
ballet: six years], [break], [primarily ballet, en pointe part-time:
four years], [break], [musical theatre: three months], [break],
[swing dancing: almost a full year -- casual ballroom dancing: less
than a year]. When I left the U.S., I was dancing anywhere from 2-4
nights a week. Not dancing is like misplacing your reading
glasses—it keeps things in perspective, in motion. After ruling
out the existence of any true ballroom dance community here, it was
onto the hunt for a prospective ballet school. From the time I
started college, basically, I've been toying with the idea of getting
back into ballet but haven't found the right time/studio/lack of
excuses to do so. Now, after endless, fruitless google searches,
I've stumbled upon a lovely instructor named Diana, a woman in her
mid-sixties who teaches ballet out of her garage. The anticipation
and nervous feelings melted away as soon as we started bar, like a
calmness was being breathed back into me, slowly. I love swing. I
love tap and jazz and hip-hop and hustle. But there is something
different about ballet. A different aura, perhaps. Whatever it is,
it is soothing.
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| image courtesy of justinday |
Other
news related to the Frenchness in my life: I have somehow become a*
Master of the Roux—not to be confused with Rue from the Hunger
Games. Not only the roux, but also the gluten-free roux (I'm sure
I've mentioned that Ben has Celiac disease). You dream it, I'll
cream it! Lemon Parmesan sauce, a base for a creamy tomato basil
soup, pesto cream sauce, a basic bechamel, and on and on. Suddenly,
it was simple. I can't explain it. But there are many
YouTube
videos that can, I'm sure.
*the
use of the indefinite article here is intentional; you can surely
become a master, too :)
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| this is Abiquiu, hoping to celebrate Pascha |
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