One day I will be 80.
My fine lines will have given up hope and succumbed to old age, exhausted and drained from a lifelong battle with fancy skin care products.
I will be old but not gray, as my sister will use her walker to come over and colour my hair in brilliant shades of sunset rouge and cinnamon brown that will remind me of the wild rolling hills I saw in South Africa....as a dear friend and I drove from Joburg to Durban singing Bob Marley and The Pet Shop boys at the top of our lungs.
One day I will be 80.
And although my memory may not be what it once was, I will not forget the heart-wrenching poverty in Soweto, and the tears I shed at the Apartheid Museum, thinking about how different my life, and the life of my sisters would have been had we been raised in South Africa's unfortunate apartheid era.
One day I will be 80.
And although I may not have the strength to get out of bed, I'll recall the energy I felt while surrounded by 85,000 others, from every corner of the world who came to South Africa in soccer celebration. That is the energy that will carry me through my days.
But most of all, when I am 80, and I am sitting on my wrap around porch watching the sun set on the beach, I will think about South Africa's Cape Town. The 12 apostles that sit perched on the surface of the ocean, the phenomenal view of a city on the sea from the top of Table Mountain and, of course, the rolling R's of the Capetonian accent.
South Africa.
I came, I saw, I batted a few eyelashes, and I left.
Until the next great trip abroad,
I remain,
Priscilla
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Royal Treatment
Its 11:00 a.m. and Nessa and I are having brunch at this delicious little Kensington market meets Distillery District kind of café in a schnazzy part of Joburg where I’ve been staying. I have to admit, I’ve been quite spoiled in my first week here. I’m staying in a HUGE two storey loft, have my own bedroom, bathroom and maid. What can I say –life’s good.
I don’t know what it is here, but people have been treating us like princesses. Case in point: Nessa and I decided to check out a place called Zar, in Joburg’s downtown core. It’s a bar located on the rooftop of a hotel and boasts spectacular views of the city. When we walked through the hotel lobby doors we were greeted by two doormen that escorted us to the elevator to take us up to the bar. The venue was impressive, contemporary décor, and stunning rays of purple and blue light filled the space.
The moment we arrived into the nightclub it was like everything stopped. The place was pretty packed, but it was 90% men. So the presence of two women walking seemed to be instantly noticed by all. Within literally one minute a host appeared out of nowhere and advised me that a man in the VIP area has requested to take a photo with me. I was a bit stunned and asked for the person’s name, and the host responded with a French name that was unknown to me. Seeing the lack of response on my face, he advised me that he was a famous soccer player who had played with David Beckham –“surely Miss, you must have heard of David Beckham”. I said yes, but still did not know who this person was. Moments later he appeared and introduced himself, and another host came out with a box containing a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and asked me if I would like champagne. Nessa and I both shot one another a look of astonishment, and said sure. We all began to engage in conversation about South Africa, the World Cup and nightlife in Joburg. Throughout the conversation I kept glaring over at the DJ booth and shook my head at his lack of skill. The mixes were terrible! In fact, there was no mixing! One song overlapped into another in ways that made less sense than the chocolate flavoured bubble gum I saw at the airport. Even people on the dance floor lost their rhythm. I made a few comments about the music, and seconds later Mr. Soccer player and the club owner had the DJ sent over to the table and was introduced to me. He asked if there was any particular music that would be to my liking and I hinted that anything was better than the terribly mixed “all things crunk” that he was playing. We all laughed about it and shortly thereafter he took it up a tiny notch and the music got a bit better.
As the night went on, more and more soccer players, newscasters and others who seemed to be big timers in South African circles approached us requesting photos, making conversation and offering more and more glasses of champagne that I politely refused. The host came by periodically to ask if the music was to my liking, which I found hilarious.
By the end of the evening we had been given tickets to the next two soccer matches and offers to fly in a private jet to the neighbouring city of Durban to catch yet another game.
But that was just the beginning.
When we got back to the loft, a colleague of Nessa's, who happens to be the Prince of a nearby country and relative of Nelson Mandela sent Nessa an email inviting us to be his guests and stay at the home of the African royal family.
I’ll be sure to keep you posted as the South African adventures continue.
Priscilla
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Soweto Township
There are no words.
That’s what I’ve been telling myself these past 5 days since I arrived in South Africa.
I’ve had a mild case of writer’s block, which, in my experience can only be cured by the occurrence of an epic moment, something that happens that touches your soul, and inspires passion, re-conceiving that special transformation of thought and feeling into words on paper.
Let me go back to the beginning.
I woke up quite early this morning to take a trip into a township just outside of Joburg –it’s called Soweto. Having seen widespread poverty in India, I felt prepared for what I might experience in South Africa.
I was wrong.
No matter how often you’ve seen it, as long as there has been a span of time in between, you realize that you never get quite used to seeing people living in poverty. This time around, the impact hit me just as hard as it did the first time.
Our guide pulled up to an open space lot covered with reddish brown dirt. The lot went on a downward slope containing miles and miles of rundown shacks divided into vertical sections and separated by dirt road alleyways. Before going into the township our guide explained that it’s best not to give anyone cash in hand, but to instead offer to buy food. I immediately wondered why, and my mind went back to India where organized crime rings employ street beggars and collect their proceeds at the end of the day. It was not advisable to give them cash because the money went into the hands of mob bosses rather than the beggars themselves. I asked the Soweto guide why cash donations were not recommended, and he simply said that there is a chance that cash would be spent on frivolous items at a nearby shopping centre rather than on the necessities of life. This, he explained, was particularly true for Soweto’s youth who, in spite of being poor and at most times hungry, desperately wanted to be “cool” and sport updated clothes and costume jewelry.
As we walked a 15 year-old boy approached me, introducing himself as Otto and welcoming me to Soweto. He had a cocoa brown complexion with freckles and light brown eyes. I noticed he wore a single earring in his right ear with a blinged out stone in the centre. Otto was definitely one of the cool kids. I immediately began to tease him, asking whether he wore the fancy bling to get noticed by some young lady that’s caught his eye. He confessed that yes, he had a girlfriend, and was hoping one day to marry her. At that moment I noticed about 5 other boys of the same age who burst out laughing at Otto’s remarks on marriage. They shouted at me that he was far too young to even think about marriage and a couple of them fell on the ground holding their bellies in laughter.
The group of us continued on with the tour and the guide brought us down the dirt alley and into the home of an older woman. The house consisted of wood board siding and a rusty tin roof. When we walked into the house, there was nothing more than a plastic board floor, some shelves that held bowls and plates and to the right was an old, old mattress that was falling apart at the seams. That is where this woman and her 5 children slept –on a single run down mattress. The house had no heating system, and the tiny gas tank that existed in the corner was used to provide heat for cooking. I saw frustration in her eyes as she looked at the well-dressed tourists in front of her.
My heart bled.
With no nearby food stands I had no other option but to give this woman cash in hand, which she accepted graciously. Even though I gave her just about all I had, I felt guilty. Guilty for standing there in her home wearing my expensive sunglasses and designer jeans. I understood that the cost of these items could likely feed this woman and her family for months, but this initial guilt deepened as I realized that would not be enough. This woman and her family was just one of the hundreds and hundreds of people in this part of Soweto who are in need. And one of billions worldwide. How on earth can anything I do suffice when there are so many others who need the same, if not more?
Compassion for me is an emotion, and like all emotions she rests sleeping in the bottom of my heart, waiting for an opportune moment to arise. As she lays there in silent slumber, the heart forgets just how profound her impact can be felt when she awakes. Today I promised not to let her sleep so soundly anymore.
It’s 1:00 p.m. and we are now leaving Soweto and heading towards the Apartheid Museum, dedicated to telling the story of South Africa’s once legalized system of racial segregation and it’s abolishment thanks to the efforts of the country’s greatest leader –Nelson Mandela.
I’ll write my thoughts on that experience in a separate post, I think I’ve shared enough emotions for one day.
:)
Priscilla
That’s what I’ve been telling myself these past 5 days since I arrived in South Africa.
I’ve had a mild case of writer’s block, which, in my experience can only be cured by the occurrence of an epic moment, something that happens that touches your soul, and inspires passion, re-conceiving that special transformation of thought and feeling into words on paper.
Let me go back to the beginning.
I woke up quite early this morning to take a trip into a township just outside of Joburg –it’s called Soweto. Having seen widespread poverty in India, I felt prepared for what I might experience in South Africa.
I was wrong.
No matter how often you’ve seen it, as long as there has been a span of time in between, you realize that you never get quite used to seeing people living in poverty. This time around, the impact hit me just as hard as it did the first time.
Our guide pulled up to an open space lot covered with reddish brown dirt. The lot went on a downward slope containing miles and miles of rundown shacks divided into vertical sections and separated by dirt road alleyways. Before going into the township our guide explained that it’s best not to give anyone cash in hand, but to instead offer to buy food. I immediately wondered why, and my mind went back to India where organized crime rings employ street beggars and collect their proceeds at the end of the day. It was not advisable to give them cash because the money went into the hands of mob bosses rather than the beggars themselves. I asked the Soweto guide why cash donations were not recommended, and he simply said that there is a chance that cash would be spent on frivolous items at a nearby shopping centre rather than on the necessities of life. This, he explained, was particularly true for Soweto’s youth who, in spite of being poor and at most times hungry, desperately wanted to be “cool” and sport updated clothes and costume jewelry.
As we walked a 15 year-old boy approached me, introducing himself as Otto and welcoming me to Soweto. He had a cocoa brown complexion with freckles and light brown eyes. I noticed he wore a single earring in his right ear with a blinged out stone in the centre. Otto was definitely one of the cool kids. I immediately began to tease him, asking whether he wore the fancy bling to get noticed by some young lady that’s caught his eye. He confessed that yes, he had a girlfriend, and was hoping one day to marry her. At that moment I noticed about 5 other boys of the same age who burst out laughing at Otto’s remarks on marriage. They shouted at me that he was far too young to even think about marriage and a couple of them fell on the ground holding their bellies in laughter.
The group of us continued on with the tour and the guide brought us down the dirt alley and into the home of an older woman. The house consisted of wood board siding and a rusty tin roof. When we walked into the house, there was nothing more than a plastic board floor, some shelves that held bowls and plates and to the right was an old, old mattress that was falling apart at the seams. That is where this woman and her 5 children slept –on a single run down mattress. The house had no heating system, and the tiny gas tank that existed in the corner was used to provide heat for cooking. I saw frustration in her eyes as she looked at the well-dressed tourists in front of her.
My heart bled.
With no nearby food stands I had no other option but to give this woman cash in hand, which she accepted graciously. Even though I gave her just about all I had, I felt guilty. Guilty for standing there in her home wearing my expensive sunglasses and designer jeans. I understood that the cost of these items could likely feed this woman and her family for months, but this initial guilt deepened as I realized that would not be enough. This woman and her family was just one of the hundreds and hundreds of people in this part of Soweto who are in need. And one of billions worldwide. How on earth can anything I do suffice when there are so many others who need the same, if not more?
Compassion for me is an emotion, and like all emotions she rests sleeping in the bottom of my heart, waiting for an opportune moment to arise. As she lays there in silent slumber, the heart forgets just how profound her impact can be felt when she awakes. Today I promised not to let her sleep so soundly anymore.
It’s 1:00 p.m. and we are now leaving Soweto and heading towards the Apartheid Museum, dedicated to telling the story of South Africa’s once legalized system of racial segregation and it’s abolishment thanks to the efforts of the country’s greatest leader –Nelson Mandela.
I’ll write my thoughts on that experience in a separate post, I think I’ve shared enough emotions for one day.
:)
Priscilla
South Africa
My quest to see the world continues…..
About a day and a half ago I commenced the long, long trek to South Africa to visit a friend of mine who is working there for the summer. And, of course, to engage in the hooplah and mayhem known as the 2010 FIFA World Cup.
The journey began with an overnight flight to London where I had a 12 hour stopover and a chance to see the city for the first time. Anyone who knows me is aware of my mild, ok, SERIOUS obsession over British accents. I can’t pinpoint precisely why, but I absolutely ADORE them. Everything said in that accent just sounds right. Think about it –picture a New Yorker who approaches you and says “1+1=4” –you'd call them an idiot and walk away right? But a British person who affectionately says “Dawling, stop scratchin your head about it, 1+1= 4” -but of course!
The city of London itself is beautiful, perhaps I lucked out by arriving on a gorgeous sunny day, but London is just so romantic. Cobblestone roads, ancient European architecture, double-decker buses and of course –friendly people who speak with lovely accents. Did I mention the accent? A facebook friend of mine acted as my tour guide and we walked around the city visiting Piccadilly Circus, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the Thames River and engaging in some fine outdoor dining in Covent Gardens. Not surprisingly, I fell in love with London. It was like a whirlwind romance that lasted 12 short hours before suddenly abandoning you, leaving you feeling heartbroken yet desperately yearning for more. (Sigh) I cannot wait to go back.
I returned to Heathrow airport to catch my connecting flight to Johannesburg. As I entered the boarding area, I was not prepared for the scene that appeared before me. Hundreds of men and a few women filled the boarding area decked out, I mean DECKED OUT head to toe in soccer gear. As I walked in I saw nothing but a sea of people wearing jerseys from England, France, Ghana, the US and more. Men had their faces painted with team colours, women and children carried flags representing the team they supported most. It was fanaticism at its finest.
I sat next to a loud group of London born Jamaicans who's banter had me trying to conceal my laughter as they went back and forth between their English accent and random bits of Jamaican patois. Ironically, we were seated together on the flight and spent the next 11 hours talking and sharing knowledge about history, culture and music. I’m the world’s #1 self professed lover of 80s music, and as the plane made its descent into Johannesburg, I switched my iPod to Toto’s classic hit “Africa”, while the Jamaican born Brits sat next to me singing the reggae hit “Hello Mama Africa, How Are You, I’m Feelin Fine and I Hope You’re Fine Too”. I shook my head and laughed.
It was 8:00 a.m. when we landed and the pilot reported a frigid temperature of 8 degrees celcius. The airport was freezing! I got my luggage and went through the gates where I was met by at least a dozen young women who screamed “Welcome to South Africa!” World Cup fever hit me instantly. Johannesburg welcomed the world with huge ribbons advertising the games. South Africans greeted their guests with warmth, offering FIFA welcome packages and tour guide information. The airport had massive displays of soccer nets and kids took turns practicing their best shots. It was clear that Joburg was ready to host the world.
In spite of not having slept in nearly a day, the buzz and excitement masked my fatigue. I dropped off my bags and my friend and I headed to Nelson Mandela square to watch the games live on the big screen in an open air fan park where hundreds and hundreds of locals and tourists gather to watch the games. The airport boarding area was nothing in comparison to the groups of fans in the square who not only had their faces painted, but sported curly afro clown wigs spray painted to represent their team’s colours. I even saw one woman wearing nothing but a large flag drapped around her! Considering that it was about 5 degrees celcius, I’m sure you can guess what part of her anatomy was uh, pointing outward –lol.
We kept the festivities going and by night we found ourselves at a club where the DJ played nothing but American crunk music, dancehall reggae and every song ever written by Toronto’s own Drake –the locals and tourists couldn’t seem to get enough of it and sang every line of every verse at the top of their lungs. Drake is a worldwide phenomenon.
Midway through the night I left Nessa to go to the restroom. When I returned, I realized that she had been accosted by a tall fair-skinned man with long dreadlocks. I made nothing of it, as she is very beautiful and I'm quite accustomed to hoards of men doting on her whenever we get together. She's a well educated young woman, proudly Jamaican (the only person who sports a Jamaican flag at FIFA events even though The Reggae Boyz didn't make it to this World Cup), and has lived and worked in over 10 countries around the world. She's the perfect marriage of brains and beauty -that's Nessa. Back to the story -when the tall dreaded man turned around I thought he looked vaguely familiar. Moments later another dreadlocked man approached us with a bottle of champagne and handed us glasses. Nessa toasted to hopes that The Reggae Boyz would make it to the next World Cup and we all said cheers. They then casually introduced themselves to me as Rohan and Ziggy, sons of the late great Bob Marley. Leave it to Nessa to attract the only other Caribbean blood in the club (something about that line sounds like a rap song, "Caribbean blood in the club").
I left Nessa and the Marleys and walked over to the lounge area where it was a little less packed and met a guy from California named Rico. He's a die hard soccer fan and has attended the past few World Cup games in South Korea, Japan, Germany and now, South Africa. As we were talking he indicated he was with his two friends who were clearly intoxicated and against the wall doing some hardcore grinding with a couple of South African women. In the middle of our conversation one of them started making out with his bump and grind partner, and he rushed over to stop them. When he returned, I asked him what was up with the "kissing prevention patrol" move, and he explained that although they are 3 young attractive single guys, someone has to be on watch. This isn’t Germany, South Africa has one of the world’s highest HIV rates and each night one of them has to be sober enough to stop the others from engaging in high-risk sexual behaviour. Before I even had a chance to respond Rico darted off again as his other friend was walking outside of the club holding his dance partner’s hand. I thought to myself, it takes a man to come to Africa to curb what would otherwise be a month-long trip full of one-night stands and other debauchery, wow.
It’s now 4:00 a.m. and I am exhausted and cold. Most South African homes are not insulated, so when indoors you have to dress in layers and keep a heater near the bed or sleep with an electric blanket to stay warm. Thank goodness I have both.
I have one rule about travel, I never leave home for colder weather. By coming to South Africa during their winter season I have clearly broken my one cardinal rule –but damnit it’s the 2010 World Cup, and so far, it’s been worth it ☺
Tomorrow –it’s Safari time –stay tuned!
About a day and a half ago I commenced the long, long trek to South Africa to visit a friend of mine who is working there for the summer. And, of course, to engage in the hooplah and mayhem known as the 2010 FIFA World Cup.
The journey began with an overnight flight to London where I had a 12 hour stopover and a chance to see the city for the first time. Anyone who knows me is aware of my mild, ok, SERIOUS obsession over British accents. I can’t pinpoint precisely why, but I absolutely ADORE them. Everything said in that accent just sounds right. Think about it –picture a New Yorker who approaches you and says “1+1=4” –you'd call them an idiot and walk away right? But a British person who affectionately says “Dawling, stop scratchin your head about it, 1+1= 4” -but of course!
The city of London itself is beautiful, perhaps I lucked out by arriving on a gorgeous sunny day, but London is just so romantic. Cobblestone roads, ancient European architecture, double-decker buses and of course –friendly people who speak with lovely accents. Did I mention the accent? A facebook friend of mine acted as my tour guide and we walked around the city visiting Piccadilly Circus, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the Thames River and engaging in some fine outdoor dining in Covent Gardens. Not surprisingly, I fell in love with London. It was like a whirlwind romance that lasted 12 short hours before suddenly abandoning you, leaving you feeling heartbroken yet desperately yearning for more. (Sigh) I cannot wait to go back.
I returned to Heathrow airport to catch my connecting flight to Johannesburg. As I entered the boarding area, I was not prepared for the scene that appeared before me. Hundreds of men and a few women filled the boarding area decked out, I mean DECKED OUT head to toe in soccer gear. As I walked in I saw nothing but a sea of people wearing jerseys from England, France, Ghana, the US and more. Men had their faces painted with team colours, women and children carried flags representing the team they supported most. It was fanaticism at its finest.
I sat next to a loud group of London born Jamaicans who's banter had me trying to conceal my laughter as they went back and forth between their English accent and random bits of Jamaican patois. Ironically, we were seated together on the flight and spent the next 11 hours talking and sharing knowledge about history, culture and music. I’m the world’s #1 self professed lover of 80s music, and as the plane made its descent into Johannesburg, I switched my iPod to Toto’s classic hit “Africa”, while the Jamaican born Brits sat next to me singing the reggae hit “Hello Mama Africa, How Are You, I’m Feelin Fine and I Hope You’re Fine Too”. I shook my head and laughed.
It was 8:00 a.m. when we landed and the pilot reported a frigid temperature of 8 degrees celcius. The airport was freezing! I got my luggage and went through the gates where I was met by at least a dozen young women who screamed “Welcome to South Africa!” World Cup fever hit me instantly. Johannesburg welcomed the world with huge ribbons advertising the games. South Africans greeted their guests with warmth, offering FIFA welcome packages and tour guide information. The airport had massive displays of soccer nets and kids took turns practicing their best shots. It was clear that Joburg was ready to host the world.
In spite of not having slept in nearly a day, the buzz and excitement masked my fatigue. I dropped off my bags and my friend and I headed to Nelson Mandela square to watch the games live on the big screen in an open air fan park where hundreds and hundreds of locals and tourists gather to watch the games. The airport boarding area was nothing in comparison to the groups of fans in the square who not only had their faces painted, but sported curly afro clown wigs spray painted to represent their team’s colours. I even saw one woman wearing nothing but a large flag drapped around her! Considering that it was about 5 degrees celcius, I’m sure you can guess what part of her anatomy was uh, pointing outward –lol.
We kept the festivities going and by night we found ourselves at a club where the DJ played nothing but American crunk music, dancehall reggae and every song ever written by Toronto’s own Drake –the locals and tourists couldn’t seem to get enough of it and sang every line of every verse at the top of their lungs. Drake is a worldwide phenomenon.
Midway through the night I left Nessa to go to the restroom. When I returned, I realized that she had been accosted by a tall fair-skinned man with long dreadlocks. I made nothing of it, as she is very beautiful and I'm quite accustomed to hoards of men doting on her whenever we get together. She's a well educated young woman, proudly Jamaican (the only person who sports a Jamaican flag at FIFA events even though The Reggae Boyz didn't make it to this World Cup), and has lived and worked in over 10 countries around the world. She's the perfect marriage of brains and beauty -that's Nessa. Back to the story -when the tall dreaded man turned around I thought he looked vaguely familiar. Moments later another dreadlocked man approached us with a bottle of champagne and handed us glasses. Nessa toasted to hopes that The Reggae Boyz would make it to the next World Cup and we all said cheers. They then casually introduced themselves to me as Rohan and Ziggy, sons of the late great Bob Marley. Leave it to Nessa to attract the only other Caribbean blood in the club (something about that line sounds like a rap song, "Caribbean blood in the club").
I left Nessa and the Marleys and walked over to the lounge area where it was a little less packed and met a guy from California named Rico. He's a die hard soccer fan and has attended the past few World Cup games in South Korea, Japan, Germany and now, South Africa. As we were talking he indicated he was with his two friends who were clearly intoxicated and against the wall doing some hardcore grinding with a couple of South African women. In the middle of our conversation one of them started making out with his bump and grind partner, and he rushed over to stop them. When he returned, I asked him what was up with the "kissing prevention patrol" move, and he explained that although they are 3 young attractive single guys, someone has to be on watch. This isn’t Germany, South Africa has one of the world’s highest HIV rates and each night one of them has to be sober enough to stop the others from engaging in high-risk sexual behaviour. Before I even had a chance to respond Rico darted off again as his other friend was walking outside of the club holding his dance partner’s hand. I thought to myself, it takes a man to come to Africa to curb what would otherwise be a month-long trip full of one-night stands and other debauchery, wow.
It’s now 4:00 a.m. and I am exhausted and cold. Most South African homes are not insulated, so when indoors you have to dress in layers and keep a heater near the bed or sleep with an electric blanket to stay warm. Thank goodness I have both.
I have one rule about travel, I never leave home for colder weather. By coming to South Africa during their winter season I have clearly broken my one cardinal rule –but damnit it’s the 2010 World Cup, and so far, it’s been worth it ☺
Tomorrow –it’s Safari time –stay tuned!
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