Some Reflecting

After two vodka tonics, and a most delicious Bloody Mary, I touched my flip flopped feet back down into New York's 30 degree weather, nearly freezing my newly painted toes off. Was told I looked like a Spanish girl by a JFK security man, and didn't know what to think of it, but told him thank you, and happy holidays. After a comedy of errors with the Amarula I brought back duty-but-certainly-not-trouble-free for my parents, a doll at Delta made my very day. After a ridiculous missed flight, rescheduling of a flight, chipping nails, checking and re-checking of baggage, I finally got back on my LA bound plane. I'm glad to know that my general good sense of humor remained with me throughout the whole ordeal.

At the risk of sounding self indulgent, and narcissistic, (but really who are we kidding, this is a blog), I am learning to be in love with myself, and the journey. Which is to say, the territory (such as airport security, and diarrhea) that comes with. On the way back, I heard for the first time Oscar Peterson's rendition of If I Were a Bell. It is an exuberant, stomach fluttering song about falling in love. And love, I think, is what makes you do crazy things, amazing things, like time traveling, hurtling through air, the underground, the parking lots we call freeways in Los Angeles.

And goodbyes? Weren't too hard, really, since I said see-you-soons.

Elated.

Africa Part 13

Remember when I said I had few qualms about trying food that is local and might put me at risk for... nausea and vomiting? First day in Assin Kruwa, I was hungry. The caution that I threw to the wind, should have been put right back in my pocket. Ate a little something called grasscutter, a large rodent also called a "cane rat" with some fufu. Foul. The closest thing to rotted flesh I have ever tasted. The next day, I wished I didn't. Arjun blames Togo, but I think it was more along the lines of a shigella, or salmonella. Either way, I am going to term it "Ghana-rea" :)

We walked to about 6 churches to tell folks about the Village Bicycle Project, where we target women to teach them how to ride bikes. Worship is such an interesting thing-- some do it with dance, some murmur, some shout. Interestingly at Disco Jesus Church (I know), they didn't show weekly screenings of Saturday Night Fever. Anyway. Back to the bikes. Yes. I helped to teach them. With a shitty bike to learn on, and a considerable language barrier, (even though one day, all the kids of the village huddled around me to teach me Twi), it was quite a challenge, but seeing progress was definitely worth the flailing and gesturing, but mostly the histrionics from wanting to communicate SO badly.
I got to know the latrine pretty well. After my 4-5 days of expelling matter from my body, I wasted no time in replenishing. I had this disgusting oral rehydration solution, (like Gatorade, only disgusting), but also this delicious corn porridge. Creamy, savory, and a-maize-ing! Hahah!! The tomatoes are of a strange shape here, but also delicious. And on the drinking: Guinness here is a special "foreign extra" brew. A little more bitter, and more sour, even. Not so sure that I like it. But Alvaro, I like. This is a mindblowing passionfruit soda, about which I am QUITE passionate. Other beers, tend all to be one syllabled. Club. Star. Stone. Lamp. (Actually not Lamp, but thought that was funny).
Cape Coast found me feeling guilty, but marveling at the beauty unseen by those enslaved. Saw both the Elmina and Cape Coast slave castles, and have a lot of feelings on that still undeveloped but brewing. Will pour it out, at some point.
My last days in Africa were spent in Accra, with friends old and new. Friends that I had met in college, on planes, and through other friends. Fun-derful. What do I remember? The most amazing breakfast, of plaintains, jollof rice, fried chicken and salad. The DuBois Center. Getting my hair braided, and loving the company so much I got my fingers and toenails painted too. (electric blue and blood orange, respectively). Gorgeous batiks, and smiles even more beautiful.

Africa Part 12

On Thanksgiving during the day, I was in Accra, sorely missing the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. It is the first year of volunteering at that gig that I've missed in 12 years, and what a lot of thanks giving. It seemed fitting that on that day in Ghana, I worked on my personal statement for school. At night, I joined Arjun and his Peace Corps squad, renamed ourselves Team Latrine (potty mouths that we are), and managed to snag 3rd place in trivia night. (Even across an ocean, I am still a fiend for bar quizzes). That the win-two-pitchers-of-beer round was "Name that musical" found me nothing but helpful. We won that beer. Learned a lot that I otherwise would have been clueless about as well: what USB stands for, and what "the ashes" are in terms of cricket. Trivia night might be well said to be the equivalent of speed dating in knowledge. I'll think about that more and develop it at some point.

Day after, we walked to Togo. The Ghanaian border town Aflao is so close to the Togolese border, and a three hour tro-tro ride from Accra. Crossed over with considerable ease, and was happy to see the ocean again. West Africa. Is. Sweltering. Not speaking Francais in a Francophone type country was a bit of a toughie, but 1) this presents a new goal to aspire to, and 2) we'll see how good my theatrics can get. The Grande Marche was quite a sight to see, a flooding of wares and food items. I tend to throw caution to the wind for better or worse when it comes to food. What's a little diarrhea and vomiting, really? Had fried cheese cubes, and baguette, grapefruit juice type shenanigans and a darned good time in Lome.

A bit on transportation: In Ghana, there is something called the "tro-tro". Van bus type vehicles which are usually beyond the point of repair, they are the primary form of transportation for those sans their own car. i.e., most people. Depending on where they're going the "mate" or person who rallies people into their tro, flashes a gang sign of a hand symbol. They seem to all have the same voice. Usually 20 seatered (I think) there's a clown-car-effect where you really always have quite a few more than that. I think there's something kind of nice about it, despite the heat, and sweat, and what not, that for a portion of life, you are with complete strangers who are going the same direction. And that's something in common, so maybe you aren't such strangers after all. In Togo, the main mode of transportation are moto-taxis. And what I've learned about transportation in West Africa is that if it will go wrong, if it can. It did. But not that badly. Morale was high as we began the journey to Togoville, toward Aneho. Not as high when we realized we actually were supposed to be in Agbodrafo, 10km earlier. Just great. But adventuring we went! After a leg of those 10km on the back of a mototaxi with one of the most humorless men Id ever met, his bike broke, and while he was off fixing it, I became the third person on the moto with Arjun and his driver. Fantastic. So after being ripped off repeatedly (once again, the French language thing, but also the looking Chinese thing), we proceeded to yet another form of transportation. Pirogue. Which is a canoe. And ours, ferried by Antoine, our Charon of Lake Togo, slowly leaked water. :) Yup.

We left Togo after one last night dancing in Lome, at numerous dance club type places. My first time being pulled over in West Africa transpired as we were happily gallivanting that night, as well. Grazing in the gravel down Rue de 13 Janvier, I was indulging in the Celine Dion/Barbra Streisand ballad Tell Him, until we were stopped by the po. It had NOTHING to do with my singing, and everything to do with the fact that these officers were drunk and wanted some bribe money. 40 minutes and some freakin CFA later, we were back on our way. Inebriated, armed people with a frighteningly enlarged sense of entitlement are extremely troubling to me. But on with the dance, says Lord Byron, and we did go on.

Back on the Ghana side, I met a man who spoke amazing Mandarin, and was better traveled in China than I was. It was wonderful to hear the language. Apparently there are quite a few Chinese folks in Ghana. There are grocery stores, and restaurants, and my beloved fried dace with black beans, which I havent been able to find in America! Overjoyed. And off to Cape Coast we went.

Africa Part 11

Taught poetry at Thusanang Trust as a continuing education program for preschool teachers. The unit was on communication, and I hope I communicated the emotional reservoirs that are poems, and poets and people. We read Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden, and if I had my way I would have assigned them poems to write about their parents as well, following our discussions. How beautiful that morning was, wondrous and humming with life.

How fast its been, 3 months that sprinted by. I had one last Sundowners with a Franschhoek merlot up in the clouds on my flight. Parting and its sweet sorrow made my heart heavy, especially when Tani, the lady who runs the little goodies shop across from Bjatladi Youth Center, pressed into my hands a little cake. "For the road." So I meet to part, and part to meet, and am reminded of that Kerouac quote: "But no matter, the road is life"
Life life life. I seem to have used the word quite a bit in all these postings, but most obviously in this one. Recently as I was about to leave, I felt the appropriateness of S&G-funk's line, "I'm empty and aching and I dont know why"-- But I think now I do. It could be that with the end of this time in SA, I felt that I couldn't change these kids' lives, but they have changed mine more than they may know. What I have done I suppose is change their days, challenged them with anatomy lessons and dance: a departure from doing nothing. And a day qualifies as life, I suppose. For this I feel a little..."remorseful" isnt the right word. "Bad" is too elementary. "Guilty"? Maybe. But really, what I am is grateful.

Africa Part 10

This weekend, I slept under Orion's belt, sword, and other belongings, twinkling in the pitch. Waking up in the middle of the night was wondrous--I had always known intellectually that the stars moved, but 3 hours later, discovering that really they had, was an awakening. If nothing else, being in South Africa has fired up a desire to camp and hike, and invite myself outdoors much more. Hiked up Blouberg Mountain today, and I must say the experience has been trying and triumphant, exhausting and exonerating. Probably obvious is the former word in each set, but freeing in the sense that I had never spent a night outside like this before, and that I helped welcome the sun with salutations at dawn. The gushes of wind atop the rock were strong enough to lift the hair off my shoulders and back-- making me feel lighter.

I can't imagine not writing in journals, blogs, on napkins and receipts. Looking for ways to aptly describe the shades of green and terra cotta on this mountain--depending on time of day-- is a mental challenge that engages me as much as hiking, and rock climbing. The latter-- almost like a dance, negotiation and placement of weight, speed.. I'll definitely do it more when I'm back. The day long hike on our 2nd day on the mountain ended with a breath-arresting sunset, but before then a view that practically went into Zimbabwe. And what else do I remember?
-butterflies like white confetti on and about the cliffs.
-the mindfulness of hiking
-seeing from the top villages where it was cloudy that day, and villages where it was not, so high up that the clouds seemed attainable. Where does the sky begin? Meaning, how high up is considered sky? I think we were there.

Sometimes during these hikes I would wonder where all the balance I garnered from tango went. I am not a fast, nor graceful hiker, but I enjoyed it. Even falling flat on my backside was strangely comforting to me, in tat I didnt care how good I was supposed to look. It was freeing even, to be able to just slip and sit on the ground, like a child.

I think really what I love about hiking and camping, is that the whole time is a big grand opportunity to take care of those around you, in different ways, or the best way you know how to. Some of us cooked, and cleaned, others made tea, and campfires. Sometimes it's really just waiting for someone on the trail, or lighting their way during a night walk. It is just so human.

Africa Part 9

On the weekend in Joburg:

Stop #1? Apartheid Museum. These were a pretty emotional 3 hours for me, faced with footage, and photography, interviews, and posters. Coming out of the building was almost cathartic, walking on into the light of the afternoon. Although apartheid in many ways is still operating. Lots to think about, to be sure.

Stop #2 Lebo's Soweto Backpackers. A beach themed rastafarian type joint (those seem to happen to me a lot these days), it was a great place for pool and foosball in the evening. Before then, I had a short soccer stint with some 10 year olds at the field across from us.

Stop #3 We certainly painted the town-ship that night, stepping out to a dance club called Ozone. Danced right onstage after a girl pulled me up with her. I had no time to protest and so I didn't-- Reacted with the music and came down shaking after shaking everything I had. I am glad I got over myself and just enjoyed. Dance emancipates, man. 4 hours of it, especially. I felt thoroughly freed, albeit exhausted, climbing into bed that morning.

The next day, we went on our Soweto bike tour: four hours examining landmarks of such a politically charged area proved incredibly insightful and moving, literally and figuratively. I used to cycle with my dad on weekends for hours on end-- and it was wonderful getting my bike legs back. We went through Orlando West, and East, Meadowlands, saw the homes of Winnie Mandela, Nelson of that same last name, and Desmond Tutu, tasted sorghum beer from a surly looking shebeen, and had snacks that I won't easily forget. Chewed on some cow cheek, which other bikers found unsettling, but was of little issue for me since a year ago in China, I ate cow eyeball.

My 24 hours in Soweto felt so amazing and alive--I hope I get to come back at some point for some reason. Maybe I'll make a reason.

Africa Part 8

Up and down Cape Town: Highlights 10-9 to 10-16

-Within an hour of arriving in CT, I felt more irie, heard more shouts of "Ja!" and "RASTAFARI!!" than in all of my life combined. First amazing experience of the trip? A reggae cd release party in Khayelitsha, the largest township in the Western Cape area. Since we were operating not only on African time, but also musician time, and stoner time, (the whole place was overwhelmingly and quite tastily cannabis-ed), the projected start time was more of a joke than anything. So there we were, in Peter Tosh Hall (how apt) with a dirt floor, red, yellow, green, and a roof that was more of an idea than a protective covering, jamming it. By the end I was delirious. (The end was around 3AM), and could not wait for the rest of the week to unfold, telling myself it was anything like this, I'd be thrilled beyond words.

-CT reminds me of a number of cities have I loved. The V&A Waterfront likened itself to Long Beach, the area surrounding Observatory was quite like Brooklyn, and San Francisco for the hills, houses, and weather. Although I've never been to Chicago-- the wind.. enough said.

-Finally, I got my milonga. After weeks and weeks of teaching tango in the schools, I finally found myself in a dimly lit hall with DiSarli playing. You learn quite a large deal about people from dancing with them: their sense of rhythm, how they listen to your momentum, weight, and the music. I felt sanity crawling back into my body. So far, every time I've tried to dance in a foreign country (all two times now) it rained. Shame. But I went on, on both occasions. Milongas here are from R20-R30, which means roughly between just under $3 to a little over $4. A much less obsession to have than in LA. But then again, both are cheaper than cocaine, so I should consider myslf lucky and thrifty.

-Wine tasting for the first time! Stellenbosch is a charming place, that which reminds me a bit of Santa Barbara, (the State Street portion), and I learned so so much about the poetry of reds, whites, roses.

-Kalk Bay and Simon's Town were some kind of beautiful- seeing the ocean after so long was invigorating to say the least. And the penguins!!

-Raced the sun in order to watch it rise as we schlepped up Table Mountain-- Shame however, that our moves were a little slow. Still, it greeted us as we sprinted through Kirstenbosch early in the morning. Went up Nursery Ravine trail, and down Skeleton Gorge, clambering through rain soaked terrain. Dangerous? Maybe. Fun? Absolutely. Breathtaking was the view from the top, where I could see Robben Island, and about seven shades of blue in the sea. Thereafter, time on the beach. Sand here is white, and gorgeous.

-Since some of my favorite places are museums, I made it a point to visit a couple. Spent the morning in the District 6 Museum, a place of immense healing and affirmation for the folks who were forcibly removed to crappy areas of the cape, (read: ghetto) and I found it beautiful to see the interviews, photos. The South African National Gallery was also gorgeous, with its sculpture, photography, paintings.

-Robben Island was amazing. And sobering. And inspiring.

I think I ought to have more to say, and I do, but this game of blog-catch up is over. For this entry, at least. Pictures will come... eventually, if you behave!