they call me hop-along

When we left off, preparations were in full swing for the play. Now it is finished. A week has passed. Last week seems so far away. Time jolts forward, and those friendships and relationships are immediately obsolete. No one thought to create a contact list, or to pass around phone numbers. The constant whir of 46 cast members, 7 crew, two directors, and a handful of designers comes to an abrupt silence as spring break hits. It is cold and rainy, the South African version of London, and there are no classes, I don’t have to teach this week. I sit in my pajamas until the sun threatens to set and I read. I have finished two books in 5 days, which is a lot for me.

But I get ahead of myself. The play, FrontLines. Since many of you have asked about it, I will indulge:

The play clocked in at extensive 3 ½ hours. We started at 7:30pm and the show ended just before 11pm. That is long, no matter how you look at it. The question, though, is, was it a captivating 3-½ hours? Most have said yes, it was (however, they would have preferred it to be at least 45 minutes shorter). I am inclined to agree with them. It is hard to maintain energy and focus for that long.

The play had no traditional plot, no characters to follow; instead the play detailed the course of war. There were 12 chapters, that moved from recruiting, to leaving, training, waiting, fighting, doubting, winning and losing, longing, on through suffering, dying, returning, and remembering. In addition, we followed the months of the year, detailing the significant events of each month in our world’s war history. Briefly: January (Tet Offensive), February (Dresden Bombing), March (Mai Lai, Operation Iraqi Freedom), April (Fall of Saigon), May (Gallipoli), June (Soweto, Tiananmen Square), July (Somme, Paschendaele, Srebrenica), August (Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Desert Storm), October (Somalia, Cambodia, Afghanistan), November (Armistice Day), December (Nanking Massacre, Christmas Truce). --These, I know, are sometimes overwhelmingly vague titles, Afghanistan? That’s a country, not an event. Also, since 24 chapters are not enough, we had what we called Meditations, on Africa, the Middle East, the Holocaust, and The Soldier. Plus, the opening and closing moments of the play. Total: 31 chapters. You see the difficulty in making a play of any length less than 3 ½ hours.

Yet I hope the show was more than a mere history lesson. Three projectors splashed images onto white drapes to illustrate moments, and bring our telling into reality. But our performance was a collage of letters/monologues, poetry, dance, song, drums, and images.

I did a lot of speaking, and a lot of singing in this play. Oh yes, I sang. For the first time in 6 years, since senior year of high school, I sang in front of an audience.

(I think I stopped singing because it became something that people told me to do, as opposed to something I wanted to do. Robin, sing for us, I’ll play the piano! No, that’s okay, I don’t want to. But you MUST! So, in college I stopped telling people that I could carry a tune, and instead only lived up to my songbird namesake in the comfort and safety of my own apartment (as Aurelia can attest to).)

In FrontLines, I sang in groups, I sang solo. In English mostly. But the solo was in Hebrew. When I forgot my words (or rather, the order of the syllables), which happened frequently during rehearsals, I would make up Hebrew. (The song came after a 30 second quick change, and I had to climb up a rickety ladder onto a shaking platform at least 2 ½ meters in the air, so I think it was reasonable that I was flustered.) Our director said that no one would really know the words except for her and her mother, which was reason enough to get the words right, never mind that our play fell over the Jewish New Year!

I spoke two pieces that I had written: one about the American view of “Africa,” the other about my family and our history in wars. I spoke a conversation that my dad and grandma had through letters while he was training for Nam. I told the story of September 11th, as written by a 22 year old girl from North Carolina, who happened to be in the hotel across from the WTC when the planes hit. This piece was commonly called, “the longest speech in the play,” because it was, and when after closing night, we were all joking around, people called it, “the longest speech in the play that put us to sleep backstage every night.”

With so much to do and remember, we all kept the show running order securely in our camo-pant pockets, with notes upon notes scribbled into the margins. Chapter 4: Waiting, enter SR, run & pose & tableaux, Dad/Gma, exit SL. Chronicle 6: May (Gallipoli) Waltzing Matilda, USR w/ Nhlak. By the end of the run, our papers were weak at the folds and tearing from use upon use.

What always comes from the intense process of rehearsals and performances are some really great friendships. Formed out of necessity, out of the need to make a process more enjoyable, and out of the need for greater meaning. I only knew a handful of the cast before we began, mostly because I had been their tutor! But now I know 46 new people. It is the extension of a community, and that is really exciting.

But with the show done now, the community must change. We go back to our routines. The UKZN kids go back to UKZN. The DUT kids go back to DUT. The divide returns. The spatial divide. It takes 10 minutes to drive between campuses, and much more to walk. Not easily conquerable by the busy or car-less.

So this past week has been strange, slow, and lonely, in comparison to the past month. Of course, this week is like many of my weeks before the play, but now it feels different. I thrive on the busy, hustle bustle of life, jumping from one thing to another. It gives me stress, yes, but sometimes I like that. Now I am adjusting back to having time to cook decadent meals (tonight was a pumpkin and butternut curry with tomatoes, onion, and garlic, seasoned with Indian spices until it had a sharp kick, served with rice—my favorite meal) and read books in bed.

But this week has not been all bore. In fact, it has been incredible.

I should note, however, that one of the reasons I loll in bed so much is my injury. I have, for lack of a better explanation, busted the soft tissue in my right foot, causing great pain when I walk, or otherwise put any pressure on my foot. When did this injury happen? Wednesday. Opening night. I was only able to get an appointment for the physiotherapist on Friday, when I was told what was going on in my foot (how it was swollen by one centimeter, which is a lot for feet, and that the cells were pretty much exploded on themselves). I was taped up like Misty May Treanor at the Olympics, except it was her shoulder, and my foot, and sent on my way with instructions to be good to my feet, stay off them as much as possible, and elevate. I borrowed Sarah’s crutches, and hobbled around Durban. I enjoyed the crutches because they kept me off my foot, or at least walking slowly, and they were a great spectacle.

At Rotary, they now call me hop-along.

It has been nearly two weeks. I went back to the physio after the play, and she noted definite improvement, which is exciting, but it still hurts a hell of a lot sometimes.

Today was the first day I really put my foot to the test. I went to Frisbee. Not the fun mess-around 3:30 team that I usually play with, but the 2pm buff guys who compete nationally. But I kind of had to go, considering that I am competing in the buff guy tournament this coming weekend in Jo’berg. Aka: The South African National Ultimate Frisbee Tournament. After the running of today, I hurt, but I am planning not to walk until Friday, so hopefully I will be able to run on Saturday and Sunday, for 6 games. Yikes. Luckily, there are 18 of us going, for a game that requires 7 a side. So we have an outrageous number of subs, which makes me feel better about sitting out more than I would like. Prawn Bunny! (Good thing Bunnies hop...?)

But, again, I get ahead of myself.

Monday and back to Rotary. September 21st was our club’s visit from our District Governor, Natty Moodley. In Westville tradition, our club performs a play in our DG’s honor. This year, I was conscripted to write the play. I chose, Where the Wild Things Are, a children’s book by Maurice Sendack. Our DG was the main character, Max, and did a brilliant job bouncing around in a wolf mask. The whole thing is unrehearsed. Through narration, I led the entire Rotary club in being forests that grow, oceans that tumble by, and wild things that roar their terrible roars. All in all, everyone made a complete fool of themselves, which was the goal.

Tuesday was a day in bed, reading and reading.

Wednesday held a trip to the Barnyard Theatre and a production of “Dancing Queen,” a musical review of the songs of ABBA and Queen. Otherwise known as entertainment for entertainment’s sake. Nothing memorable. Inviting no critical thinking, in fact, it encouraged the exact opposite, a shutting down of the brain in a wash of belted lyrics on strained voices. This theatre sells out nearly every show. People pack in from all over the province. This is the kind of theatre that thrives in Durban. Crisis.

Thursday was a day that I had been looking forward to for quite some time. Heritage Day, a national holiday. And the Ladysmith Black Mambazo concert. I really lucked out on Computicket, the online ticketing service, and scored Sarah and I front row seats, to the tune of R200 (but it was worth it). The concert was 4 ½ hours long, and showcased 12(?) musical groups from all around Africa. Highlighted in the line up were Ray Phiri, Ladysmith, and Johnny Clegg (who is known here as the White Zulu).

Before the concert, there were a series of music workshops happening at the convention center, I went to the one Ladysmith was hosting. Joseph Shabalala, the founder and leader of Ladysmith, spoke and answered questions. The first question he received was not so much of a question as a request. A woman, from California, had trained nearly 25 young girls (and two boys that looked like girls with their long flowing locks), in “your native music” and had brought them all to South Africa, decked out in beads, to compete in the Soweto Isicathamiyia Festival. She wondered if, maybe, “You could fulfill the girls’ dream of singing with you?” Clearly it was her dream, more than the youth’s. But Joseph said yes, and they sang together. Afterwards, the California girls were invited to perform in the concert that evening… where they sang “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Really? Seriously? Horrendous. Please choose something not as stereotypical, and not as commercial. But the guys of Ladysmith complied, and sang with the girls. It was an amazing bridge over the world. And I must admit I was a little jealous.

Friday was off to Rugby. A dismal dreary rainy day, like all we have seen recently. The Sharks (our Durban team) won, but it was a game filled with intercepted passes and general lazy playing.

Saturday was bliss. Before coming to SA, I watched various documentaries, one, specifically, on Ladysmith and their style of music, Isicathamiyia. So, when I stumbled upon the 12th Annual Isicathamiyia Festival in Durban, I knew I had to go. An all night competition, starting at 6pm and ending around 9am, I drove off, by myself into the CBD (Central Business District, well known as the place that white people don’t go for fear of muggings, rape, hijackings—Whatever, stop reinstating the culture of fear), to the Playhouse Theatre for the festival.

I arrived at 6pm, and waited in line. Just in front of me was an older white gentleman, the only white guy in sight. We ended up chatting, as white people do, and he invited me to sit with him and his wife. I obliged. Of course, everyone thought I was their daughter. So when they left at 8:30, and I stayed, I was asked, “Why didn’t you leave with your parents?” “I met them today,” was my dry response.

The event kicked off with, what the emcee called, “an a cappella collaboration.” A group of six white college guys entered, and sang in German or Italian or something, barbershop sextet. An Isicathamiyia group entered, shocked by the white boys. Then they sang. Both groups looked at each other, and then mixed up, forming one line. They all sang together. In IsiZulu. And all danced in unison. The audience fell into hysterics. The white boys were doing the Zulu dancing! Later on in the evening, I was having a conversation with one of the staff members at the theatre, and he said that he was so shocked that the white boys could sing the Zulu and do the dance! I thought, but did not say, well, do you think those boys are fluent in German? Of course not, they rehearsed. They practiced. Of course they can sing in Zulu.

Each of the 147 groups competing at the festival had 5 minutes to perform. The groups traveled from all over KwaZulu-Natal and the Eastern Cape, some for hours and hours, just to be onstage for these 5 minutes. Each group had its own costumes, but all wore suits, shiny shoes, and white gloves. One man stands forward as the leader of the group; he is expressive and vibrant. The chorus stands behind, executing specifically choreographed moves, until the climax of the song, when everyone breaks into unison Zulu dancing—my favorite part.

I only made it through 9 hours, by which time I was falling asleep in my chair. During this time, I saw between 50 and 60 Isicathamiyia groups, and 30 women and 30 men compete in a fashion show competition. The men and women strutted around stage, while the audience leapt into the air, cheering, and yelling for phone numbers from the women.

I went alone to the festival, but around 11pm, some of my dear friends from FrontLines arrived, and we hugged profusely. I ended up sitting with them in the front row, and we commented on the music and whooped and hollered when we were thoroughly impressed.

I slept until noon on Sunday. Then I played Frisbee.

All in all, a good, but lazy week.

And so, this is my time in Durban. In one week, I can see outrageously commercial theatre, a rugby match, music from all around Africa, and a cultural festival of 15 hours duration. This week, it is back to school, back to teaching. And on Friday, it is off to Johannesburg for the Frisbee competition.

And so, it seems fitting that I officially announce to you, the cyber-world, my intention to stay in Durban next year. You may recall a job application in Chicago; that did not come through, but I am actually really glad that it didn’t. I am not done in Durban yet. There is so much I have not seen, have not done, in this part of the world, and I need more time to explore, to experience.

So, I will be back for Christmas, and will make the obligatory and heart-filling rounds in North Carolina and Chicago. Clear your calendars. And then sometime in January, I will fly on back to the middle of the hot humid Southern summer.