John’s Blog

The trip back from Mozambique was really nice. The highlight was the two guys we picked up at the South African border: two South African guides who work at one of the game reserves here. They’d been backpacking around southern Africa for six weeks, and we drove them a few hours into South Africa. They shared many amazing stories about walking and camping their way through Mozambique, and we shared a campsite with them and a fabulous dinner, then breakfast, over the fire.

On the way back, I was hoping to get a renewed 3-month tourist visa, but had been warned that it might not be that easy. In fact, it wasn’t. So I spent the last two mornings heading down to the office of Home Affairs downtown Johannesburg. Usually people hire someone to take care of this bureaucratic work, but I went myself, thinking that I was longer on patience and persistence than on funds to hire someone for theirs…

But I have a new theory about why expats don’t go to home affairs on their own: it’s actually kind of a scary part of town. I decided to take a taxi instead of driving because I don’t know my way around that part of town to drive, and wasn’t sure where I would be able to park. I think ultimately, this was a good decision, but on foot from the taxi station to the Home Affairs office was quite a gauntlet: small sidewalks, lots of people, many of them standing around scanning the crowd, and me the only white person I saw until I got into the government building.

Now, I’m an overly-cautious and actually pretty paranoid person in general, so perhaps I was being hyper-sensitive, but there were at least three distinct times when I felt like I was starting to be targeted: sometimes discreetly, sometimes not. One guy got up in my face and started threatening me - my sense is that he was trying to “play” on white fear rather than actually intending to carry through on his threats, but instead of sticking around to find out, I ducked into the nearest store with a security guard at the door. Another time I was jostled, and it seemed pretty intentional - the guy leaned into me, and just after making contact with me shouted in the direction I was walking. I assumed this was a signal to someone further up the sidewalk, so once again, I ducked into a store and waited before continuing. The other time, I just felt like I saw too many people walking at the same pace as me - across the street, behind, in front, and decided to buy a candy bar in a nearby shop to break up my pace.

Although being white made me really stand out in the crowd, I might not have been able to so easily evade a perceived danger by walking into these stores if I looked different. (I’d also shaved, so I looked less like a bum than I sometimes do) Anyhow, I don’t want to make it into more than it is - it’s just my experience, and my impression, but I was definitely on-guard and still pretty nervous. People do warn about downtown here, and near bus stations are usually pretty sketchy areas. It was actually, more than anything, exhausting to expend so much energy watching and worrying. When I was missing one document and had to come back the next day, I thought “no problem - I know the routine now.” But the next morning, I was just not in the mood to go through it again yet… but since my visa was expiring soon, I kinda had to do it. Overall, it was not as bad as it might have been, and now that I know what I’m doing, I’ll definitely do the same routine when I go to pick up my new visa (as opposed to driving or hiring someone).

That’s all for now!

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I’m writing from a nice air-conditioned room in Xai-Xai, Mozambique. The walls and ceiling are white and tall, the room is furnished with simple but nice wooden furniture, and I’m looking across the room to an open window and the Indian Ocean just about 50 meters away. Yesterday morning I woke up in Maputo - the capital of Mozambique. This has been a road trip from the get-go - a rented car from Johannesburg took us the 6 or 7 hours to Maputo. Two nights there in nice accomodations like these, and then about 3-4 hours to Xai-Xai yesterday. The climax of this drive was the last 30 or 40 minutes, when we descended into the Limpopo river flood plain. It was quite spectacular to pass so quickly from jungley-looking villages along the highway into an enormous, expansive, flat plain.

Mozambique has been wonderful. Right from the border it felt much closer to Congo or Cameroon than South Africa. This includes the inconveniences (very limited access to internet, a larger number of beggars/hawkers/etc, more challenging road conditions - both the physical road and the increased unpredictability of other drivers, more police checkpoints, pedestrian traffic on the highways, etc), but also some advantages: car theft is apparently very common here, but overall the place feels (and, I believe, is) much safer than Johannesburg. The seafood is amazing and cheap (as well as the beer) and the people are incredibly nice.

Speaking of people, I’ve had to make an adjustment here because my Portuguese is non-existent. I’m just not used to living places where I don’t speak the language! This is not due to a large repertoire of foreign languages, but rather to conservative choices in travel destinations. Generally, I really only go to the Francophone world. I have enough Spanish to hack my way through those situations, and although I had some unanticipated problems with the English in South Africa, I think those have been smoothed out a great deal. I just don’t like feeling speechless and helpless.

But who does? On my way into town today, I stopped at a stand that looked like they were serving food. Either the young girl there either didn’t speak Portuguese, or my two-word sentences were too mangled for her to decipher (or she was just intimidated and didn’t want to try to understand me). At any rate, we awkwardly waved goodbye after having muttered mutually incomprehensible phrases at each other (under the watchful eye of passers-by), and I got in the car and drove off, muttering now to myself. I thought, “this was a real cross-cultural experience - and this is why people don’t do it more often.” Nothing happened. No real communication took place. She wanted to understand me, I think, and I know I wanted to understand her and to be understood, but it just didn’t happen. There’s something very heavy about that experience: I guess maybe it makes one doubt in the conviction (which most international travelers share, I would think) that we can all understand each other, get along, and live together in harmony. The problems are so complex, and sometimes the barriers feel impossibly great - even for the most basic kinds of communication.

After that, I found a little restaurant on the main drag in the city (of Xai-Xai - as opposed to the place I’m staying on Xai-Xai beach, which is about 10km out of town), and managed to get pointed to the small central market. There I sat and had some rice and kidneys with a beer. Market life was swirling around me, and several people tried to speak to me: the girls who were serving me food (with whom I ended up commincating mostly through hand gestures - thank heavens for charades…), the “mama” who ran the bar where I sat to eat (I just stared stupidly at her), and some random passers-by. This felt much better - although perhaps it’s just because of the beer…

I wrote a bit the other day about the drive to Maputo. Here’s that:

The countryside is glorious between Johannesburg and Maputo. Joburg is quite high in altitude (6000 feet or so, I hear), and since it’s “winter” here it is quite cool and dry there. After an hour or so on the road east out of town, you stop seeing factories and mines and start seeing large rolling hills which are brown right now, but I’ve seen pictures of them covered in lush green during the summer months. After a couple more hours the road starts a long descent. The vegetation changes slowly, and there are more and more farms of various kinds (rice, then oranges, then eventually bananas). The air also gets slowly more heavy and moist. We received many warnings about the crossing the border by car, but it went quite smoothly, although it did take some time. It was getting dark by the time we got out, but still Mozambique’s dramatic landscape was perceptible, and other differences between here and South Africa were quite apparent (besides the language difference): many more people on the highway on foot or on bicycle; vehicles generally moving more slowly and less predictably; more small, rickety stands on the roadside… I was surprised to see that they drive on the left here, like in South Africa. This observation led me to look around and find this amazing blog post about this question, for which I had never found any satisfying answers!

I’m not sure when I’ll be able to post this, but I’ll plan to write more as the trip goes on!

A gentle rain is falling outside. I never really knew what that expression meant. Maybe it’s just the contrast: there are some wicked storms here, and I’ve seen large hail on several occasions in my short time here. Oof! As I was writing there was just a long, loud roll of thunder that shook the house! The rain is still gentle, though. I heard the other day that lightning strikes are much more common here than elsewhere, which I totally believe. There is a reasonably-sized lightning storm most days.

But that’s not at all what I’d meant to write about. More than one person has told me that South African dogs are racist. “Even the dogs are racist,” it was phrased, I believe. But I’ve been thinking about this.

When you walk a dog here, it is very clear that most black people don’t like dogs. Some flinch away, some coolly cross the street to avoid the dog, some crinkle their nose at the dog - I heard a black woman say, “don’t bite me!” to a dog as it passed - but black people rarely act comfortable, much less affectionate, towards dogs. And who can blame them? Dogs were definitely a part of the violent and repressive apparatus of yesteryear (as they were in the U.S.), and they continue to be quite literally a barrier between the haves and the have-nots. Part of the “front lines,” if you will.

But here’s the thing: wouldn’t a conscientious dog-walker steer clear of people who look visibly disconcerted by the dog? In fact, it seems to me that it’s both conscientious and strategically sound to go so far as to lightly scold the dog if it lunges (as dogs sometimes do, even if in an eager, friendly manner) toward someone who you don’t know. Strategic because it makes it seem as if the dog could potentially be a danger, which is something you actually want people to believe about your dog here. But the resulting lesson would be taught very efficiently, especially since dogs can smell tension and anxiety, both in their owner and in others: black people are different than white people. They aren’t friendly. They don’t like you.

Most whites here actually have dogs - again, for security purposes, in addition to the other reasons people and animals get together - and so they are generally quite comfortable around them, and often fawn over them (like people in the U.S. do).

Then there’s also the question about whether or not dogs actually “see” racial difference. I don’t think that matters. Whatever sensory or social data dogs use to distinguish between groups of people - smell, voice, gait, etc - I’m sure there is plenty of it that leads them to perceive a division along the same lines we perceive them (with plenty of exceptions, of course).

But my point is this: here, you don’t have to train your dog to react differently to blacks and whites. In fact, I’m not sure how you’d manage to keep your dog from learning the differences, unless you never took it out. But isn’t that true about all of us? The barriers between us are invented, but they are also real. We make them real, despite ourselves.

Now the rain has stopped. The light is beautiful - golden. Most days I’m amazed to be here.

I was perched on a ladder with a clippers in one hand. I thought two things: the first, “this would be a really stupid way to die.” I always think that when I’m further above the ground than I can jump. I guess they call that “afraid of heights.” The second (related) thought was, “this is a very strange variation on a very domestic scene.” I’ll explain.

Most people who live in houses here have gardeners, and therefore are rarely perched on a ladder with a clippers. The wages are very low for this kind of labor (i.e. labor that black people do), so it’s not considered a “luxury” thing, which is how I think of it in the U.S. It’s also not a “luxury” thing because there’s a security element to having a gardener. First, it’s good to have someone around during the day when you’re away to deter possible evil-doers. The second issue is the one I was specifically dealing with that day with my clippers. I was clearing the plants away from the electric fence wires, so that they don’t short out the fence. Snip snip. A strange combination of pastoral home life and high-stakes high-voltage life-and-death stuff. Although I had switched the fence off and unplugged it, and it apparently hadn’t been working anyhow (because of the plants, presumably), it was unnerving. Terrifying, actually (and not distracting me from my fear of heights at all). All around, you see signs on the fences, with a skull and crossbones (usually) and the word everyone in Johannesburg knows in English, Afrikaans and Zulu respectively: “danger, gevaar, ingozi.”

I was also afraid that I was going to inadvertently snip an important wire of some kind and create a worse, more expensive problem. It all worked out fine, though - no death, either by falling or electric shock, and no cut wires…

Another lifestyle thing that I’ve discussed with a few people here is the car culture. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen so many fancy cars, or in such high proportion (and it’s not like I’ve never lived in New York City…). I’m not much of a car person, but I can tell a flashy one from a more simple model, and I know that the many many Mercedes, although more unassuming and less shocking than, say, the Ferrari convertibles buzzing around, are an expensive ride. What’s so befuddling to me is the juxtaposition between a culture of fancy expensive cars, and the constant talk of car-jackings, “smash-and-grab” crimes, etc. (you can probably guess what “smash-and-grab” means, but to be clear, sometimes a person on foot will punch through the window of a stopped car and steal stuff from it). Maybe there’s some reason that these things go together and I’m missing it: defiance on the part of the “haves” in the face of car-related crime? Defiance on the part of the “have-nots” related to a pre-existing flashy car culture? I feel like there must be some symbolic struggle taking place on the battleground of the streets and cars (in addition, obviously, to the more literal battle between rich and poor).

I was riding my bike home from the University the other day, and rode by the fruit-sellers as I came into my neighborhood. These guys are amazing - usually three or four at a time (depending on the time of day), the same guys every day, holding fruit or other small items in their hands and coming up to the car windows to sell them. They are always energetic, always smiling, and very charming. If your window is up, they’ll plead with you to roll it down a little, just to talk. At least they plead with me when I’m in the car, but I’d imagine my lack of blasé “attitude” probably makes them think they can wear me down even if I don’t want to buy anything.Anyhow, this particular day I spotted a white man in his 50’s with shoulder-length blond hair leaning out of his car with both palms to the sky, saying to the fruit guy “I’m sorry - I haven’t got anything on me now…” I just caught that snippet, but a line I use much of the time. For some reason, it made me focus on the people in the cars. As I rode by, I looked to see that every car had white people in it. This is absolutely not the rule in Johannesburg, as there is quite a large black middle class and even a black elite. It just so happens that I live in a particularly white neighborhood.

But even in my particularly white neighborhood, all of the fruit guys are black. As are all of the construction guys. And the gardners, car guards, etc. This is no surprise, and probably not news to anyone. But what struck me today was that, after only having been here for a couple of months, I had gone weeks without feeling uneasy about this fact. I can’t believe how normal it feels to me now. Although I can remember how uncomfortable it made me when I first came to South Africa, now I’m totally used to it - adapted to this reality. This day, I found myself imagining my parents visiting and what their reaction might be. I actually wondered if it would feel to them like a throwback to the U.S. when they were very young - before the civil rights era. I have no idea how things looked or “felt” back then racially, but there must have been a time where the U.S. was at least more like this than it is now.

And I wondered how long it took people to get used to the changes in the U.S., when they happened: the end of slavery, the official end of Jim Crow, etc. Because I seem to have adapted to “the way things are” very quickly. Why, then, are societies so slow to change? Is it a question of which direction things are changing? (i.e. for me, a white English-speaking male, it is much easier to get used to a segregated society where white English-speakers are on the top of the hierarchy, whereas I might be slower to adapt to a segregated society where I was systematically excluded or impeded)

Now that I’ve thought it through (and deleted a couple paragraphs worth of musings), it makes more sense: I’m only one person, and an entire society can shape me very quickly. For a small group of people to change an entire society - even if generally, on some level, that society wants to change (and I’m not saying they do…) - they are fighting the battle that I have already lost: the battle to maintain a perspective on the status quo and its dysfunction, despite a large-scale willingness on the part of the majority to not see.

I suppose I’ve always been a bit wishy-washy - “slippery” as I was sometimes called in Kinshasa - shifting easily in and out of intellectual, moral, or social paradigms. People in Kinshasa also called me “adaptable,” which I suppose is the positive spin on wishy-washy. Maybe when you’re “adaptable,” you need to be careful where you spend your time - and what situations you adapt to…

For my friends and family who haven’t given up completely on my blog, I’m doing well, and back to practicing the piano (at last)! Thankfully, after all of the years I’ve studied, that isn’t such an easy habit to break.

Arrived home, I opened my computer and changed my browser preferences: from Wits, I need to use a proxy server to get around a firewall.  Firewall.  What an interesting term.  I bet most people that use the web have heard it many times, and I bet only a tiny proportion of those people really know what it is.  I would explain it to you, but I’m afraid I’d only reveal my own ignorance…

I got on the bus to head back home, and was lucky enough to get to ride a double-decker city bus for the first time.  I quickly went to the top floor, in part because of a childish giddiness at things that are new, different, and high, but also because it was pointed out to me that in Joburg, being one story higher as you go down the street would be an amazingly different experience.  For those who don’t know, Joburg is a city of walls.  Most streets have only concrete or brick walls as a facade all the way along, with the different plots distinguishable only by walls of different heights, colors, and textures.  Of course, I’m only talking about the wealthier parts of the city, but those parts are pretty much all I see (and I have a feeling the same is true for most expats, and many white people from here).

I did have a conversation with a colleague at Wits today, and got another offer to go check out a more “African” (i.e. “black”) part of the city.  This was really nice, even if it never happens.  You see, I’ve heard many people complain of another kind of “wall” here - they say that it’s very difficult to make friends with locals, and that people generally seem hesitant to invite foreigners into their circle.  I actually think the same is true in the U.S., generally speaking.  I know that I’ve had friends in the U.S. from other countries who have said the exact same thing about Americans - one of the most common anecdotal complaints about American hospitality is that an American can easily say, “hey, we should do lunch sometime!” and never ever follow up.  (I’ve also known foreigners who probably felt totally snubbed or ignored by me…)  I get the feeling, though, that this is the case in many countries.  (with some notable exceptions: the movie Raising Arizona is one of my favorites to quote, and H.I. tells his wife, when his jail-escaped friends want to spend the night, “you gotta have a little charity - ya know, in Arab lands, they’d set out a plate…”  In Morocco, I heard many a tale of a foreigner who met a Moroccan on public transportation, received an insistent invitation, and ended up spending several nights - even weeks - staying with the person’s family, eating with them every meal.  Again, my evidence is only anecdotal…)

But back to my point: walls.  Once inside the walls that face the street, there is often another maze of thick walls (usually accompanied by beautiful, well-kept gardens) before you get to anything “livable.”

Yes, walls.  And fences.  I was musing as I walked home from the bus stop that before I came here, if someone said “electric fence,” the image that popped into my mind was a chain link fence with a huge warning sign and skull and crossbones that would zap you if you touched it.  When I really think about it, I realize that this image comes from cartoons, as it is accompanied with the image of some character, limbs thrust out spread-eagle, hair frizzed out around its head, with an electric buzzing sound and little lightning bolts spreading out from its body.  Now, I’ve already learned more about real electric fences than I ever cared to know.  Here the electric fences crown the concrete walls - razor wire and metal spikes are inferior forms of wall-top security, and just as common as electric fencing.  As for what it looks like?  I could describe it, but take a look here, and see for yourself! (and it’s an authentic South African security company…)

But to get back to my bus ride - it was pretty cool.  There were indeed many things hiding behind those walls and fences… my trip wasn’t long enough to get the full effect, but I’m going to have to take one of those buses for purely touristic purposes…

“Wits” is the affectionate nickname given to the University of Witswatersrand (pronounced “vitz-vaht-urz-rand”). That’s my “home” in Johannesburg. Right now I’m in a very clean shared office with a huge window facing the Johannesburg skyline (I think my building is actually somewhere in the left side of that photo). It’s a little noisy (traffic, sirens, voices, etc), but I’ll take the noise that comes with a nice view, fresh air (despite the traffic), lots of light, and a secure but central location.

The University is a really interesting place. It’s close to downtown, so it has very tight security - you get an ID card that activates heavy metal turnstiles, and once you’re in, a guard checks your ID to make sure it’s actually you. This is a great system, though, because once you’re inside, it feels very very safe. The campus is quite large - I only really know East Campus, of which my building is on the southern edge. The middle of East Campus has a kind of “mall,” comprised of a huge pillared neo-classical building as a “head” (facing north), several large grassy “commons,” surrounded by libraries, academic buildings, and a student center called “The Matrix.” The grounds “step” downwards as you head north, and the “mall” ends in a pool (I haven’t tried to go and swim in the pool, but am planning to make a habit of it soon enough!). Beyond the pool, the campus continues downhill to other sports facilities and fields.

The main library is in this mall, and is very good - again, with turnstiles for security, equipped with wireless internet, computer labs, and study rooms. There’s also a special library for African studies across the mall which is a great spot. I’ve only been there once, but it was totally silent and filled with studious-looking people. The building is beautiful, too, adorned with orientalist art, the books arranged around the walls and in aisles, but not stacked over a person’s head, so you can see all around.

I’m affiliated with a research center for African Studies here (that’s where my office is), and I realized the other day as I was talking to a colleague here (a post-doc from South Africa who did her degree in England) that I’ve spent most of my academic career as “the Africanist” in French departments. It’s fun now to be with Africanists of many disciplines - literature, anthropology, politics, etc.  I mean, it’s a lot like when I was in New York in that generally everyone is here sitting silently in their offices reading and writing, but the water-cooler chats and occasional coffee or lunch appointments make a huge difference.

But the really cool thing about being at Wits is that it is a way to really be “in Africa” (as opposed to in a locked car or a well-guarded home or restaurant). Walking through campus, one really sees South Africa’s amazing diversity. I was really shocked by how many people around here are ethnically Indian (I’m not sure how many are of Indian nationality, or are Indian-South Africans, or what…). There seems to be a much larger proportion of Indians in the student body than in the population as a whole, and it seems like a huge portion of the university staff is Indian. When I was here during orientation week, there was a sort of “club fair” where different student groups had booths set up, and it was amazing to see the number of people in the Muslim student’s organization, the Hindu student’s association, the Jewish student’s association, various specific countries had student groups (I’m assuming these are the countries with the largest immigrant or visiting student populations: Zimbabwe, Kenya, etc… Anglophone southern Africa, I suppose), and a dazzling array of activities! I thought of auditioning for the choir, but decided against it.

Also, the ride to school from where I’m staying is really fun - I get to take taxis and buses, eavesdrop on conversations in languages I can’t even identify, occasionally meet a fellow student who gets on or off the bus at the same place I do, etc. I’ve found good lunch spots on campus, have a couple friends already, and seem to be making real progress in my research and writing! I do have an international trip planned in the next month, and will be sure to get some photos and blog about it (eventually, although it’s going to be a hectic trip…). More soon!

South Africa has eleven official languages. Since I fancy myself a “language person,” I figured I should take a stab at one of them while I’m here. Afrikaans seemed like a good choice, because it is very close to both English and German, and my access to native speakers wouldn’t be complicated by the socio-economic and cultural desparities (made very obvious by my skin color) that took so much work to overcome in the Congo. I’ve even bought an Afrikaans-English Dictionary since I’ve been here.

The other logical choice was Zulu, for several reasons. First, it is just one of the most recognizable and sexy African-language names - Shaka Zulu, etc. It really makes people think of Africa. Second, it is a bantu language, like Lingala, and my Lingala teacher not only recommended Zulu as a follow-up to Lingala, but indicated to me an excellent textbook (in the same series as his Lingala book), which I bought and brought with me. Third, it means that when people ask me “is it one of those click languages?” (the #1 most common question when I tell people I’m studying Lingala) I’ll be able to say “yes!” Or maybe just say “no” in Zulu, which is “cha.” (the “ch” denotes an aspirated click, one of the three distinct click sounds in Zulu, denoted by the letters “c” “q” or “x”)

But what I’ve discovered so far is that understanding English is enough of a challenge here! Besides a couple weeks in Ghana two years ago and a couple weeks in Jamaica some time before that, I’ve actually never been to an English-speaking country outside the U.S. This means that I have a terrible time with both accents and expressions that are not idiomatic to the U.S. When I was studying in Cameroon and met Anglophone Cameroonians (Cameroon is officially bilingual - French and English), I always spoke to them in French just because it was easier (and this was not at all because my French was stellar!).

This morning on my way to campus, I took a taxi (which they call “Kombi” here, as the do in Kinshasa - after a long speculative conversation, I looked up the etymology of this word and found out that it comes from the German “Kombinationskraftwagen,” a nickname for the VW “type 2″ vehicle, which was designed as a “combination” passenger and cargo vehicle, and that they also use the word Kombi in Latin America). I’ve slowly learned the system, and to get the driver to stop where I need to get out, the phrase I’ve mastered is “after robot.” Not “after the robot,” which I tried, but had to correct, and I have to get the accent right or they’ll just go “huh?” which is probably what the Americans who are reading this are thinking. “Robot?” It took me many times seeing this word painted in big letters on the road leading up to a stoplight for me to realize that it actually means “stoplight” here. Actually, I don’t think I deduced it - I think I had to ask.

But this is just one of a myriad of expressions that pass me by all day every day - and in my native language! A sampling of other such things: “loo” for a toilet (pretty well-known, I think), “let” and “hire” are used where I’d say “rent,” then one of personal favorites is “geezer” for a water heater (I think that’s what it means…). In my water polo practices, “keeper” means goalie, “chapter” means quarter or period, and it took me some time to realize that the term “broo” sometimes meant me: it’s like “bro,” or as they say here “mate.” In the U.S., I’d say “dude” or “man.” (for some reason I’m not crazy about the terms “bro” and “buddy” - not sure why, but I never use them)

Then there are expressions that are familiar (or familiar enough), but much more common here than in the U.S.; often these are grammatical variations. To ask how someone is (the equivalent of “what’s up?” one of my favorite expressions which practically doesn’t exist here), you ask, “how is it?” (a much more experienced friend writes it “howzit?” to reflect the pronunciation) To register surprise at a fact, people say “is it?” which I knew from Indian friends in the U.S. One answer to “howzit?” which I actually mistook for a Zulu word because I received it in reply to the Zulu “unjani?” (”howzit?”) is “sharp.” And when I heard it, I would have spelled it “shah.” (that’s why I thought it was a Zulu word) People say this all the time. And “cool.” And “awesome.” But “sharp” seems to be the hip one. Strangely, “cool” and “awesome” are not really hip - they’re much more “common” and tame here, and play the role in South African English that is played by words such as “fine” or “nice” in the U.S. Kind of “mild-mannered 40-something married mother” vocabulary, in a way that isn’t exactly jarring, but appears in contexts where it is something between sweet and silly…

So that’s my “adventures in English.” I do think I’ll casually pursue Zulu, especially if I can find some people who will actually talk to me… I think I’ll stay attentive to Afrikaans, but not really try to immerse myself. We’ll see.

Well, I’m taking a stab at starting up my blog again. We’ll see how long it lasts. I’m back in Africa, but my life is significantly less interesting than it was in Kinshasa - at least for public interest, I think.

I’m in Johannesburg - a city that a friend described as perpetually “almost Western.” It is a wonderful city in many ways, and has pretty much all of the modern conveniences of the so-called “first world”: wireless internet, cafés and restaurants, freeways, a well-maintained park system, etc. There’s even a nice pool near where I’m staying, and I’ve joined a water polo team!

But it is always obvious that one is in Africa: hearing the local languages all the time (Zulu, Xhosa, Tswana, and others - I can’t tell them apart, mind you, but I can tell them from English and Afrikaans, the other local languages); seeing the way many people have to fight to get by: selling coke and newspapers to three lanes of traffic at a stoplight; people on foot in the middle of nowhere - not in the desert or the jungle, but in those urban “nowheres” that you don’t even notice until you see someone there on foot: a freeway off-ramp or median, or a huge mall parking lot. Also, here I’ve experienced something I never had to deal with in Kinshasa: the parking guards, who find you a spot, watch over your car, and then direct you as you’re leaving, all for the small, unofficial and thus unregulated fee of a few Rand…

But what prompted me to start up the blog tonight of all nights was my trip to McDonald’s. There’s a drive-thru here and after an evening water polo practice, I had a real hankering for a couple of big burgers and some hot fries. It’s all in the details, I think. I was pulling in to the parking lot (a task that is not trivial for me here, since traffic patterns are the opposite here - you drive on the left like in the UK) and got even more confused than normal, because there was a huge yellow arrow (with the golden arches above it) pointing out of the lot precisely where it seemed I was supposed to go in. I read the words on the arrow, and it said, “Welcome.” After a pause, I crept forward and looked at the paint on the pavement, which clearly showed an arrow pointing into the lot. So I continued.

Next I circled around, thinking that I might park and eat inside, but decided against it since it was already quite dark, it was a neighborhood I don’t know, and most people seemed to be in groups. So after once around the parking lot, I got in line for the drive-thru. There were three windows with people manning them: one to order, one to pay, and one to pick-up. I didn’t mind this at all, since the speaker systems they have in the U.S. tend (infuriatingly) not to be conducive to communication.

I looked at the menu and saw two burgers I didn’t recognize: the “Quarter Pounder Deluxe” and the “McFeast.” Both looked and sounded tempting, but in my experience with “typical” African burgers, they aren’t really “what I crave.” So I decided to stick to my guns and get a Big Mac and a Quarter Pounder with Cheese. I pulled up to the window and after some pleasantries, began my order: “I’ll have a Big Mac.” Her response stopped me in my tracks: “medium?” I have no idea what the expression was on my face, but it took me some time to respond. “No, I want a sandwich - a Big Mac. No meal.” She said, “do you want a medium or a large?” After some stammering, I decided on a medium Big Mac. The rest of the misunderstandings were fairly typical for a fast food place (”no, I want two burgers, different kinds, with fries, but no drink”) but they were exacerbated by accent differences and - well - by something else, too. It just took a very long time to get this across to her. I basically had to redo the whole process at the next window because the guy’s computer apparently wasn’t connected to the one where I had just ordered. After a similarly long conversation, I finally paid the right amount and at the next window, with no further ado, got some killer burgers and fries.

I had a similar experience trying to phone-order Pizza Hut in France a couple summers ago, but that’s another story… it will suffice to say that if you’re in France and you want what we in the U.S. call “a medium pizza with mushrooms,” at the French Pizza Hut, you need to order “une pizza margherita à quatre personnes, supplément de champignons.” (a margherita pizza for four people, with a supplement of mushrooms) It doesn’t seem like it’s that different, but it was a long conversation getting from what I was saying to being understood…

So, maybe I’ll check in from time to time. Maybe not. We’ll see! I do have a trip to Kinshasa in the works, and will definitely report from there…

So some of you may have noticed my blog posts dwindle away and now stop completely. Part of the reason is that I didn’t want silly posts about my boring daily routine in Paris to obscure the more interesting adventures I had in Kinshasa and elsewhere. Also, I haven’t been recording music (in great part because I left most of my equipment in Kinshasa), and most of the playing I’ve been doing has been hashing out stuff on piano and guitar all by myself, so nothing really worthy of publishing…

And very soon I’m heading back to the U.S. at long last, and I’m planning on sending my blog into temporary retirement. The only reason I’m posting, actually, was because I had this idea: since I am planning to be having fabulous adventures in the not-too-distant future, I thought that I could make an email distribution list of people who will want to know when I start blogging regularly again - which will probably be when I head back to Kinshasa (or somewhere equally exciting). I’m planning on making this list from the people who have left comments, so if you’ve never left a comment before, you can leave one now and I won’t publish it (or your email address), but I will add your address to this list and let you know if the blog gets stirred up again.

Thanks everyone for reading along! It was a great time. And please click on the links to the right to see and hear multimedia and read about my Kinshasa adventures!