On June 1st, I set off with two ladies who, I am now delighted to say, are two of my most beloved friends, Abi(gail) and Fran(ces). They two would be traveling together consistently from the 1st of June until the 4th of July. I, however, would leave them midway through June to attend World Cup games, only to meet up with the girls again in Port Elizabeth and Grahamstown, for the National Arts Festival.
We left early, to the tune of 5:30am, and drove West, through KwaZulu-Natal and up into the Drakensberg. We stopped for lunch in Golden Gate, having the first of many picnics in strange and forbidden, lovely and secluded places. From there, we drove on to Clarens, a quaint little town (or so we thought at the time: the towns only became quainter and littler as we continued on our journey) where we were kicked off a playground by restaurant management, drank some delicious locally brewed WHEAT beer (Christmas came early!), and window-shopped to our hearts’ content. Satiated with the town’s cuteness, we climbed back into the car to drive across the flatlands to Bloemfontein, oh terrible place!
I shouldn’t be so hard on Bloem, I’m sure it can be lovely, but compared to everywhere else in South Africa, Bloem is rather bleak. Despite Bloemfontein’s dullness, we shared a lovely evening with a Durban friend, Alex, who cooked the most amazing Thai green curry for us (I am now obsessed with making my own Thai green curry following Alex’s recipe. Last night, I made it with tofu: delicious!).
The next morning, we hit the road early (as would become our theme), and drove and drove and drove through the flattest country imaginable. Mountains loomed in the distance, but they never quite seemed to get any closer; once we conquered one mountain range, another sprang up.
Luckily, we had a break in this monotony. A man driving a bakkie for the company “Hyper Pool” kept over and under-taking us, trying to pass on the yellow line (aka: the shoulder). Abi was so irritated with him! He is driving like an idiot, she moaned. But I couldn’t help but notice that every time he passed us, or we passed him, he would look into our car and smile. We decided to play a joke on him, on this 200 kilometer stretch of road that otherwise would have been the bane of our existence. We wrote him a note, with a phone number. (Now, all you shocked parents out there, take a deep breath and remember that I am writing this now, so clearly we were not abducted, or stalked or anything, or at least not for long.) The phone number, of course, was not our own, but rather a dear friend and avid jokester, Keith. The idea was that Hyper Pool would phone Keith, and he would pretend to be me, sitting in the back of the car. Unfortunately, Keith was unavailable, and the joke fell flat. However, we all, the four of us, had such a laugh. When we pulled off the road in Colesburg, we wrote another note “Have a good day, Hyper Pool!” and he laughed, smiled, and waved as he drove on. It really was a delightful moment.
Colesburg, a stop necessary for petrol ended up being the most delightful little town. Middleburg, another such imperative stop, ended up being disastrous. Whereas Colesburg was quaint and precious, Middleburg was hustling with rude people, bad smells, and art for sale that was not fully dry.
Soon, though, we left the main road, and drove those 30-some kilometers on the gravel road into Nieu Bethesda, where we would spend the next two nights. Nieu Bethesda is a town of 60 people (or so the inhabitants say. More specifically, there are 60 white residents, clearly the eight hundred colored people living just across the road do not count.), and made famous by Miss Helen Martins and her Owl House (immortalized by Athol Fugard in his play, The Road to Mecca).
The theme of our time in Nieu Bethesda seemed to have been “making friends with the locals.” Our first encounter was with an old man with white hair riding his bicycle down the road, with a little dog in the front basket, very Wicked Witch of the West style (although, I realize that the WWotW put Toto in the back basket). We soon learned that his name was Oom Luow, and that he could speak all languages except for Greek (Russian was Greek to him, Spanish was Greek to him, Italian was Greek to him…). He invited us to his house for tea, and we reveled in the thought of how delightful tea with Oom Luow would be.
That afternoon, we walked through Nieu Bethesda, finding the local brewery (hurrah!) and a suspension bridge over a dry river where horses munched on grasses. After making dinner in the backpackers, we ventured out into the town, under the light of the stars (there are no streetlamps in Nieu Bethesda), in search of coffee. We ended up in the post office, yes, the post office, where we enjoyed a delightful warm beverage or bowl of delicious butternut soup (I really cannot resist butternut soup!). In the post office/restaurant/shop we met some locals and visitors who were thoroughly enchanted with us and reminded us that we must attend the opening of a new restaurant the next night, the Karoo Lamb. We had known about this opening, but now with friends made, and a promise of dancing (which, unfortunately, would come to pass) we knew we had to attend.
The next day, I woke up sick (thanks allergies! There were a couple of cats who lived at the backpackers, and their dander was everywhere.), but that did not stop the three of us from having grand adventures. We began our day by visiting the Owl House, a strange and surreal space surrounded by concrete statues and whose walls were covered in glass shards. I will not go into the history of the Owl House here, it is much too long and detailed, but I will merely state that the Owl House is a place of abuse, depression, exclusion, and pain as well as a place of art.
Then, we ventured into the dry riverbed for a fossil tour. A great many fossils were discovered in Nieu Bethesda, and some are still encased in the rock in the river, allowing for guided tours to the ancient creature’s locations. We learned a great many things on this tour, namely the seven steps to becoming a fossil, should we decide to do so (Step One: Die, Step Two: Don’t be eaten…), and that Frances has “the eye,” or the ability to find fossils.
That afternoon, we rented bicycles and rode around Nieu Bethesda, all parts of it. We rode up into the township, where Frances and Abigail were able to dust off their rusty Afrikaans and talk to a great many children. We ended up using a lot of Afrikaans on our trip; once you leave Durban, nearly everyone is Afrikaans. This tid-bit came as quite a shock to me, seeing as everyone has always told me that Afrikaans is a dying language. Au contraire! It is alive in thriving all over South Africa!
In the evening, we attended the official opening of the Karoo Lamb (or as Abi always said, the Lamb Karoo). There, we mingled and mixed, ate delicious poijke (? Afrikaans for a stew), and drank free wine. We met the woman who translates all of Athol Fugard’s plays into Afrikaans (um, wow!) and this woman, this incredible woman, who would be performing in the Athol Fugard Festival this coming September. Her name, we learned, was Ansie, and she would be playing in a French farce (apparently the director HATES Fugard, who is also a resident of Nieu Bethesda) as a bitch. Oh yes, this Tanie (auntie) would be a bitch, for the first time in her life, she said, she would get to be a bitch. Of course, by this time we were rolling with laughter.
We ended up spending most of our evening chatting with Tanie Ansie, she told us about being a bitch, about her paintings, about how—“I’m going to be a little naughty now”—she loves men’s bums. And, of course, who was Tanie Ansie married to? Oom Luow, naturally! Then we knew we had to go for tea the following morning.
But the night at the Karoo Lamb was not over yet! Casper, a rather drunk and friendly old Afrikaans man insisted on dancing. First he jumped onto the table and danced as Fran, Abi, and I sang “Doe a dear,” and then later he yanked me from my seat, pulled me close and danced some Afrikaans dance with me that involves a lot of spinning. Oh my word. I was overwhelmed to say the least.
But perhaps the highlight of the evening, and the event that most affected the rest of our trip, was Oom Luow singing a song about a baboon and a harpy in Afrikaans that shifted into a rendition of “You are my Sunshine.” Of course, we three sang along, and continued to sing “You are my Sunshine” daily for the rest of our trip, often in three languages at once (English, Afrikaans, and French).
We pulled ourselves away from the Karoo Lamb, and went to bed, only to wake up early to have tea with Tanie Ansie and Oom Luow. And tea did not fail to amuse! The best story we were told was about the thing that Tanie Ansie loves most in the world:
You take your toast. And you put your butter on your toast. Then you take your fig preserve, and you put it on your toast. And you take a bite. And you see your teeth marks in the fig. And you close your eyes. And you savor the moment. And it is like an angel peed on your tongue.
Really? Like an angel peed on your tongue? To most of us, that sounds rather nasty. But, apparently, it is an Afrikaans phrase commenting on how yummy something is. Well, okay, if you say so.
Our visit with Ansie and Luow was absolutely delightful beyond words; it was hilarious, generous, and unforgettable. As we were leaving, they gave us tomato jam, fig preserve, pomegranates, and a bottle of rose liqueur to keep us company on the road. We devoured them all, except the rose liqueur, which was kind of odd.
It was on Day Four that we left Nieu Bethesda and drove to De Rust. On our way, we stopped in Graff-Reinet, where we met Raymond, the would-be curator of the Owl House, who was able to give us a much more detailed history of the place. We also had our picnic lunch at the Valley of Desolation; a stunning sight, pictures cannot do it justice.
Finally, we made it to De Rust, checked into our lovely backpackers, and ate homemade organic pizzas from the bar.
The next day, we walked down the one street in De Rust, realizing that what everyone had said about De Rust was true… there was nothing to do in De Rust. So we hopped in the car and drove to Merringspoort to have our picnic under a giant waterfall. Then, we continued on to Prince Albert, a lovely Karoo town, where we walked through the quiet streets and had tea and cake in a lovely little restaurant. From there, we ventured into the Swartberg Pass, but only a bit, before heading back to De Rust for the evening.
The next day, otherwise known as Day 6, we hit the road again, this time with our destination being Stellenbosch. We were planning on taking the N1 to Stellenbosch, but had been advised by our friends in De Rust to rather take the Route 62; it takes the same amount of time and is much more beautiful.
Thank goodness we listened! The R62 wove us through vineyard after vineyard, between mountain ranges, and through fields of grapes. The towns we encountered along the way were charming relics of a simple life. Barrydale was the home of a large Dutch Reform Church. We parked on the side of the road, to have tea under its shadow. When our rucksack was spread on the street, tea bags, sugar, milk, cups, biscuits, the church opened its doors and the congregation poured into the streets. We awkwardly swept up our small picnic and tried to look less out of place.
The town of Montagu, unfortunately, did not have a Capulet Café; obviously missing a classic literary reference.
Robertson, it so happened, was hosting the Wacky Wine Weekend as we were driving through. All of, seemingly hundreds of, wineries opened their doors to the public for wine tastings and food pairings. We found a suitable vineyard and pulled in. Being hungry, we grabbed our picnic bag and headed out into the grapes to eat our lunch, hoping that we would not be found out. After the usual picnic of bread, butter, tomatie confeit, jam, and olives, we meandered into the winery where we cajoled the owners to give us a free wine tasting.
We made it to Stellenbosch earlier than expected, after driving through the new Huguenot tunnel, a few kilometers of road through a giant mountain. Driving up towards the mountain range, dark clouds loomed, falling over the mountain in waves of darkness. But the other side of the tunnel was not so treacherous; the clouds hovered only over the mountains, threatening the intrepid traveler.
We arrived at Nic Spaull’s house after a sort of accidental tour of downtown Stellenbosch. That evening, we ate and talked well into the night.
The next day was dismal; our first day with rain, lots of rain. Our magnificent plan to go to a wine estate was dashed by the dreary weather. So, we stayed inside for the morning, took it easy, rested. That afternoon, we traveled into Stellenbosch and, crouching under umbrellas, toured art galleries and window-shopped. We later met Nic and his roommate Johan for dinner at a burger joint, featuring delicious veggie burgers.
The following morning, we three girls left for Cape Town, determined to see a wine estate on the way. We chose Vergelechen, a centuries old estate with giant trees. Again, it poured with rain; we found ourselves stuck in a historical exhibit about slavery on the estate. Needless to say, we decided to make a run for it. We dashed into the wine tasting room; it was just after 10am. There, the two boys behind the counter, taking a liking to us, fed us all the free wine we wanted (which was not much; it was 10am!), and refused to let us pay for it.
When the rain let up, we walked through the gardens and found an old house with an antique grand piano. The woman guarding the house said that Frances could play it. Fran played to her heart’s content, while Abigail and I listened. It was such a beautiful moment.
On we journeyed to Cape Town, where we would be staying with Hannah, a friend of Abi’s. Hannah volunteers her time in the Bookery, a non-profit organization that builds libraries in underprivileged schools. Their day-to-day operations include covering and cataloguing the hundreds and thousands of books that cover their headquarters on Roland Street. Abi, Fran, and I immediately became a part of the crowd at the Bookery; we covered books, and participated in a night vigil for education with youth from Khayalitsha.
The night vigil was, as Abi so eloquently puts it, AGONY. The event started at 11:30 with over one hundred people walking from the bottom of Rondebosch to the top of UCT campus (a straight up-hill walk) in the middle of the cold winter’s night. The youth covered themselves in blankets, as we held on to ropes (very Kindergarten class-style) and walked. The walk was long, over 30 minutes. The organizers told the youth that this was not a celebratory march; they could not sing or talk too loud: this was a serious affair.
When we arrived at UCT campus, we were, again, told not to make any sounds. We arranged ourselves silently around lit scented candles in brown paper bags. There was a program. People spoke. Some youth sang, very out of tune. In between speakers, there were awkward “uh, who comes next?” silences, that just made the event seem longer. If we had been able to keep warm on the walk, we were all now freezing, shaking with the cold. The youth were cuddled up to each other, some standing, some sitting. Finally it was the end of the vigil; the youth had pledged to fast on July 30th for education, for real apparent reason, and it was time to sing the National Anthem. I have never, in my life, heard an anthem sound more like a funeral dirge. The song was dead, the people were dead; nobody really cared. We were too frozen to care.
Luckily, the organizers woke up to the fact that it was freezing and that walking back down to Rondebosch was a terrible idea. Those with cars went and fetched them, so that we could all get lifts back, instead of making the frigid walk again.
Abi, Fran, and I piled into Hannah’s car, along with a couple of the kids. One of them, the boy sitting in the boot, told us stories and jokes as we drove: There was a man, sitting under a tree. Another man came by and asked, “Are you Relaxing?” The man under the tree thought the other man was asking if his name was Relaxing, so he said, “No! I am not Relaxing!” Then another man came by and asked, “Are you Relaxing?” The man said, “No! Why you people think I am Relaxing, I am not Relaxing!” The next day, the man from the tree went on a walk, where he saw a white woman sitting under a tree. He goes up to her and says, “Hey! Are you Relaxing?” She says, “Yes, I am Relaxing.” The man yells, “How! Everybody thinks I am Relaxing, but it is you who are Relaxing!” And he claps her in the head.
I suppose it really was not a funny story at all. But we all laughed nervously.
We spent our other time in Cape Town walking the streets, window-shopping. We also took the train to Simon’s Town.
Everyone always says, “You MUST take the train to Simon’s Town!” So we did. But we realized that when people were saying that you must take the train to Simon’s Town, they were really saying that you must GO to Simon’s Town. The train itself is awful. It is a commuter train, but one that is poorly maintained. The train rattles down the tracks, and you do get some really beautiful views of the water, but you get the same views if you drive. The train itself does not go all the way to Simon’s Town either; you must get off the train and get on a crowded bus to complete the journey.
Simon’s Town itself is beautiful, and we had a picnic near the Simon’s Town pier, near the vocal group that does terrible interpretations of Ladysmith Black Mombazo songs. The one guy came up to us, looks at me and says, “I have to ask you a favor.” Uht-oh, I thought. “Will you marry me?” Um, no thanks, but thank you for asking.
He was only one of many men that in one way or another propositioned Abi, Fran, or me on our trip. The best, the very very best, was a man at a jazz bar in Cape Town. Abi had let out one of her laughs that shakes the room with its joy, and this man says “Whoah! You just ripped my soul out.” Then he leans across Abi to pat her opposite shoulder and says, “Its okay, at least you are attractive.”
After Cape Town and our time with Hannah, we traveled back to Stellenbosch to meet up with Nic and his friends, so that we could travel to Sutherland, notoriously known for being the coldest place in South Africa, for a weekend of star-gazing.
However, this was also the day of the opening of the World Cup. We stopped off in Paarl to watch the opening ceremony. Unfortunately, the people we were with were more interested in the ceremony than the game, so I was only able to wheedle us to stay for the first half of the match: we missed all the goals.
We were on the road, passing through a toll, when all of a sudden, everyone started hooting; giant trucks, little cars. Everyone was smiling and waving. We knew, in that moment, that South Africa had scored. We flipped on the radio, and listened in astonishment. South Africa had scored the opening goal of the World Cup.
We arrived in Sutherland late at night. Delene made butternut soup, and the boys made a large fire. There were seven of us on this weekend adventure: Abi, Fran, and I, Nic, his roommate Johan, and their friends Josh and Delene. Johan, Josh, and Delene are Afrikaans. And although I know Afrikaans people, and had met quite a few of them on our trip through the Karoo, this was the first time I was really spending time with proper Afrikaners. And I loved it. Abi now says that if I weren’t American, I would be Afrikaans. It is probably true.
We spent our day in Sutherland taking hikes into the hills, having conversations, and playing a bit of Frisbee. That evening, we drove into Sutherland, actually an hour drive down a dirt road from where we were staying, 50k outside of town on a farm. That night, Sutherland earned its name as the coldest place in South Africa. Despite layers upon layers of clothing, I was shaking with the cold.
It was a cloudy night, so we ended up watching a variety of presentations on stars and the universe, before heading outside to look through powerful telescopes at the stars. Most of the first moments of the evening took place in Afrikaans, forcing me to ask our Afrikaans friends for translations. But, before the main presentation, the man in charge said, “It has come to my attention that some of the people here cannot speak Afrikaans, so we will do this presentation in English.” On the one hand, it was very generous of him to cater to our (specifically my, but also Abi and Fran’s) needs, but on the other, there we were in an Afrikaans speaking community, demanding, through our ignorance, that they change their language to fit our needs. No one asked if anyone at the assembly did not speak English…
Eventually the cold became too much, and Abi and I found ourselves inside by the fire. The Tanie at the stargazing house brought us mattresses and pillows so that we could lie down (it was nearly midnight at this time), and we took a good rest until it was time to head back to our farm.
The next day was dreary in Sutherland; the rain came down, making the gravel roads slippery. Driving our 50k from the farm to the main road was actually terribly treacherous. The car swerved, lost control, and Johann did all he could to keep the car from tumbling down the hills. Luckily, we made it safely through.
We spent the night in Stellenbosch, before heading back to Cape Town on the Monday. Our day in Cape Town was brief. We arrived at Frances’ friend, Tammy’s, house, but she did not. Finally, we were able to get a hold of her sister, when we found out that Tammy had popped her Achilles’ tendon or something while at the gym, and was in the emergency room. Yikes! Finally, Tammy arrived home, wrapped in a cast and preparing for surgery the next day.
We went to bed early because my flight to Durban was at some atrocious hour, such as 6am.
I left the ladies, and flew back to Durban (Sidenote: This was now Day 15, or June 15th). The woman who sat next to me on the plane had been in a concentration camp for 5 years during the Holocaust. She spoke of the day that the Canadians came and liberated her camp. She said the first words she ever heard in English were the words spoken by the man who opened the bunker where the kids slept; he yelled, “Jesus Christ, Kids!” In the lorry, she sat on a man’s lap, named Wayne, and he gave her chocolate. She promised to name her first son Wayne; she had three daughters.
The reason I left the ladies was because I had World Cup tickets. My few days home in Durban, however, ended up being some of the most adventurous of my June adventure.
When I arrived at the airport, I called my friend Doug, who was supposed to fetch me in my car. As it turned out, however, my car had caught on fire, making it pretty much impossible to get me from the airport.
I should be more specific.
When Doug tried to turn on my car, it would not start. (I am fairly sure that Doug neglected to turn off the anti-hijack) He tried to jump start the car, pushing it down the hill. When that did not work, he found some jumper cables and tried to jump the car. The cables then caught on fire, in my car. So I suppose it was not technically my car that caught on fire, but it is more dramatic to say that my car caught on fire.
I phoned Mike, and he was able to come fetch me from the airport. I got home and found my car. I got the car towed to my mechanic, where, magically, only a fuse needed to be changed before dear old Manuel was running again.
On Wednesday, four Americans from my hometown that I had never met arrived in my Durban home. The story as to why these four guys stayed in my apartment is quite an odd one. Basically, my dog, Genevieve, at home in North Carolina likes another dog that lives in our neighborhood. Because Genevieve has a friend, my mother has to be friends with the dog’s owner. The dog’s owner has a son who was coming to South Africa for the World Cup, so my mom suggested that they contact me. To these guys however, contacting me translated into asking if they could stay in my house. They ended up staying with me for two nights.
Also on Wednesday, I attended my first World Cup game, Spain vs. Switzerland. Oh yes, I saw Spain play, and lose. Our seats were in the second row behind the goal posts. Although being so low to the field meant that our depth perception was a little wonky, it was incredible to be so close to the players.
The week in Durban was also full of other emotional trauma, which I will not go into detail here, but rest assured that utter internal chaos ensued!
That weekend, I went up to Pietermaritzberg to visit my boyfriend, thus continuing my travel trend of not staying in one place for more than two or three days.
It was back to Durban on Sunday, and then off to Johannesburg on Monday.
I arrived at OR Tambo, and was collected by some Norwegians that I had never met. I was doing my World Cup traveling with fellow Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar, Zack, but he was at a Rotary function and therefore unable to fetch me.
We met up with Zack after his meeting, and immediately drove to Pretoria. This was a surprise to me, as I thought we were staying in Jozi for the night. I phoned my dear friend Sandile to see if we could come stay with him a night early. Luckily, Sandile is a wonderful person and was more than accommodating.
The next morning, we woke early and drove to Polokwane, up in Limpopo province, for the Greece vs. Argentina game. We arrived in Polokwane early enough to go to the fan park to watch South Africa beat France. The crowd was ecstatic, flags waving, vuvuzelas blowing, a cacophony of sound and movement.
The Greece/Argentina game was wonderful. I was secretly hoping that Greece would win the game, but unfortunately, Argentina scored two goals late in the second half, making a Greek victory impossible.
That night we drove back to Pretoria, arriving around 3am. It was a terrible drive, to put it bluntly. Everyone else from the game had also chosen to drive back to Pretoria or Johannesburg, and so traffic was absolutely horrendous.
I awoke the next morning with the knowledge that it was the day of the USA vs. Algeria game; the real reason I left the girls, and the game that would decide the fate of the United States in this World Cup. I spent the morning wandering around Pretoria, eventually walking to the stadium, just for fun, and to scope out the good parking spots.
That afternoon, I painted my face. 13 stripes, 50 stars. Put on my USA shirt, wrapped a flag around my body like a cape, and stuck flags in my hair. I was ready.
Zack came to fetch me and we headed off to the stadium. We drank a Bud Light (a truly American day would not be complete without a terrible American beer!) and spoke to other fans.
I must admit that I stood out, even without my face paint and flags. The boyfriend and I had painted a large sign that I waved above my head at all possible time: A flag waved in the background, and big blue block letters screaming “YES WE CAN” jumped off the sign. I was told that I made people’s day. The sign was a huge hit. Although some other punk with a “yes we can” sign made it onto international TV, not me. I was very upset.
But I soon got over it.
Our seats were supposed to be somewhere in the nosebleed section, but Zack did not believe in sitting in his allocated seats. He missioned around until we were sitting about 15 rows up on the centerline. Right below Bill Clinton. After the game, I turned around, and saw him with my own eyes. I wanted to yell, “Hey Bill! You like my sign?” I don’t know if he would have liked my sign.
I have never yelled as loudly as I did when Landon Donovan scored the winning goal in the 91st minute. I stood on my chair, waving my sign above my head, screaming as loud as I possibly could. The USA had made it through to the Round of 16.
(I must here admit that if the USA was to lose, as we did in the Round of 16, I am glad that it was to Ghana. It was important to have an African team in the Cup as long as possible. Don’t even get me started on Suarez.)
After the game, we bolted; literally running out of the stadium. It was important to Zack to beat all the traffic out of Pretoria. We were meant to stay in Pretoria another night, but Zack had decided that he was going to Johannesburg, which would have left me stranded in Pretoria without a lift to the airport the following morning. I phoned my friend, Lionel, and he generously let me stay with him the night after the USA game and took me to the airport the next morning. I cannot thank Lionel enough!
I flew to Port Elizabeth. I stayed the night in PE and the next day was reunited with Abigail and Frances! It was a glorious reunion! I had missed them so much during those two weeks that I was away. Traveling with them, I learned, was so so so much better than traveling without them!
On the drive to Grahamstown, for the National Arts Festival, we recounted our many adventures of the past two weeks. I told them about my car being on fire, the four Americans, the soccer matches, the emotional turmoil. They told me about Buffalo Bay, coffee dates, and being locked out of houses.
In Grahamstown, I stayed with Brittany, a dear friend and Rotary Ambassadorial Scholar that I met in North Carolina during our outgoing scholar seminar. She and I were roommates at the conference. It was the weekend of my grandmother’s funeral, and Brittany was so lovely and caring to me. When we realized that we were both going to South Africa, we knew we would have to get together.
Abi and Fran stayed in Frances’ little sister’s apartment. I suppose I practically stayed there too. The three of us spent all of our days together, seeing shows, so it was natural for us to stay together in between shows as well.
I could detail every show that I saw in Grahamstown, but that would be tedious (and I am getting tired of writing). What I will say is that some shows were beyond inspirational and some were absolute crap.
Some of the gems: Karoo Moose (an ensemble show about a moose set loose in the Karoo), Decadence (an explicit story of sex), Inua (a physical masterpiece surrounding Nordic myth), Tin Bucket Drum (a one woman show telling the story of a young girl with a rhythm in her heart), and Kaput (women playing men in a critical comedy about the middle east).
Another play that would have been a gem was Miskein. Miskein was a story of two friends, both with dead end jobs, who meet at a bar every evening to share a beer and share man time. Throughout the course of the play, it comes to light that the one friend is in love with the other. I would not call this a gay play, but rather a play that explores a friendship that goes deeper than is possible to speak about. When this love is expressed, the other guy physical rejects his friend, ending the friendship. I wept. The story touched my heart.
I ran into the actors later on that night and decided to tell them just how touching the show was. I spoke to the one guy alone first (the one who fell in love); he was receptive to my comments and thanked me. When I saw the other guy later, he literally ignored me, laughed at what I said, and interrupted my conversation by talking to his friend while I was speaking.
It was such a negative moment. It was one of those “how dare he” things. There I was attempting to be honest and complimentary, and he dismissed me. I am not trying to be all high and mighty here, justifying myself and the importance of my comments, but he was just plain rude. Artists who cannot listen, cannot hear, cannot be humble for a moment are not artists that I want to support. I don’t care how talented you are, if you are not a nice person, I do not want to see your art.
That was pretty much my only truly negative moment in Grahamstown. The rest of our 9 days there were filled with positive moments, lovely moments, precious moments.
One of these times was our first full day in Grahamstown. That morning, Abi, Fran and I attended Ellis Pearson’s show, Man up a Tree. Afterwards, we stuck around to speak to Ellis, since I know him. We had a lovely conversation with him, with Abi speaking her heart to Ellis (Abi has been inspired by Ellis for a long time, so getting to speak to him was very magical for her). Later that day, we met my friend James for tea, and Ellis was with him. We laughed, talked, and chose our fantasy classic cars from a book. James and Ellis invited us to an improvised musical evening that night, which we attended.
A group of 15 or so people crowded into a barn filled with musical instruments; traditional and not so traditional. Together we played pianos, cellos, guitars, drums, but also kazoos, bottles, bells, horns, and spoons. The music we made resounded throughout the house. It was a time of honest, humble creation. A time of no judgment, just the magic of strangers in a room, creating something together. Something fleeting, something that cannot linger, but something special nonetheless.
We three took a day off from the festival and drove to Addo Elephant Park, where we were surrounded by herds upon herds of elephants. Although we did not see much of anything else, the elephants were enough to satisfy us.
Oh yeah, I also got my ears pierced for the first time...
On Sunday, July 4th, I traveled down to Port Elizabeth and then flew to Durban. Abi and Fran drove back to Durban that day as well. (I had already booked my Grahamstown flights when Abi and Fran approached me about the road trip, so unfortunately I could not travel with them.)
I landed safely in Durban, and immediately turned around and drove to Pietermaritzberg for a braai at Stu’s house. He and his roommates had invited their families over to see their new digs (house). It was perfect timing that this braai was on the 4th of July, America’s Independence Day.
Even after my excessively South African experience, I was still able to feel slightly American, to be attached in some small way to my roots.
And so my five weeks on the road ended. I would not change a single thing about my time with Abigail and Frances, and I am so so grateful that they invited me on this awfully big adventure with them. We are already dreaming of our next big trip, perhaps throughout all of Southern Africa. But in the meantime, we are committed to making little bits of theatre and keeping each other motivated and inspired.
I really do love South Africa.
so I read all of this and it was spectacular. thanks for the insight into your exciting life! glad your travels went well and all made it home safely... -elizabeth gardiner
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