Word Whirled: Octavia Butler

Octavia Estelle Butler



I was fortunate enough to see the magical Octavia Butler at CUNY Graduate Center on Wednesday. Oh Oh Oh. I asked her a question about writing the novel, and her advice totally helped around my problem! I ended up writing furiously in my journal today on the train, hearing voices, seeing places...thank you, oh Sci Fi Goddess of my youth! You can see more the talk here, at a live journal website of her fans. (Warning: Don't look down too far, it contains Fledgling spoilers!) Someone was kind enough to transcribe nearly the entire talk, and include her response to my question about process.

Yes, I already finished Fledgling, today, WAAAH! and the ending hints at a sequel...YEAH!

Word Whirled: Elizabeth Alexander

I love her. I saw her wonderful self reading tonight at the Center for Book Arts with Mark Nickels. You all must read American Sublime, it is -- well, sublime.

Also in attendance tonight was Thomas Sayers Ellis, who, along with my friend John Keene and fellow Cave Canem and Darkroom Collective pal Tracy K. Smith, won Whiting Awards last night! Yay! Congrats guys!

The Tuna Helpers: Because I Loves Them!

More Tuna Helpers -- I loves them! Especially when I saw them at Mo Pitkins in the East Vill and Adrienne climbed across the table singing Phantom and swinging a ghostie from her helmet...and their constumes are to die for, especially Khattie's expose' suits. Grrrr!


And this is my favorite song by them, Turtle, from I'll Have What She's Having:

its not that we're frightened by you
it's just some things take a hold
like the biggest hug
or the tightest glove
and just to move your fingers
you have to fall in love

a turtle hides in its shell
because it keeps her well
she fits comfortably
she sucks in her feet
and she pulls in her arms
and then her head and her tail
come in to keep away from harm
holding herself until she's safe

I'm not used to being held
even though I have a shell
held is like a blanket
with arms sewn inside of it
I stick out my feet
and I pull out my arms
and then my head and my tail come out
to snuggle in the warmth
holding

Teach for Hysteria: Lesbians Look Like Everybody Else

Today in advisory, the kids were in one of the very interesting life discussions that I have learned is a trademark of the high school aged person. They are constantly defining and redefining the world around them -- which kids of all ages do, sort of, but for the first time, these guys are sometimes talking about ME. i.e. the pink lesbian in the room.

Today, there was some comment as three girls clustered around the computer, and the Divine Miss M. turns around and says,

"You can't say what lesbians look like, they could look like anything. You never know who could be a lesbian. You can't say just cause someone looks like something they a lesbian. Anyway, if they is, there's nothing wrong with it. My cousin is a lesbian so I know."

Lecture done, she turns back to the computer and her girls.

Another comment I don't hear from the table of boys, and the Divine Miss M turns around again and says calmly, "I ain't calling her out. She don't care who know. And I don't have a problem with my cousin, she don't have a problem and I don't have a problem." She turns around again.

One of the boys tries to tell some joke about it, but no one takes the bait. The conversation turns to the PhD student from Columbia who wants to study teens and video games, and if she'll give them free ones.

Animal Farm: A NEW KITTY FETISH

I want this kitty. My birthday's coming.

Word Whirled: Charm City Kitty Cabaret Et Moi

This is where I spent a total blast of a weekend performing, thanks to my ex-13 times removed, Jay. Who knew Baltimore housed so many cool, cute folks? In truth, the refugees from DC gentrifuckation have been telling me about it for years, but I couldn't quite believe them. I mean come on -- The Corner, Homicide: Life on the Streets -- for god's sake -- The Wire! (Sonia Sohn -- yum).

We put on this great show at the theater two nights in a row, banjo, dancing, puppet show, tranny slides, meat coma rock-out, celebrity Queer Factor, and me. Afterwards, we went out and closed down the bars. It was totally fun. I laughed so hard my cheeks hurt. I wish we could have done it for a week!

Oh, and check out my new favorite band, The Tuna Helpers. Delicious!

Teach for Hysteria: Back on the Block

YES! Back to teaching. Well, really I have been back teaching for about a month and a half now, at lovely La La High School, where I actually like going. Where my classes have no more than fifteen students. Where I don't cringe every time I have to walk by an administrator, or take alternate stairways to avoid the office. SIGH.

Oh but nothin's ever easy in this wide wide world. For one, I haven't received a paycheck since...ummm...let's see...August 30th. Oh wait, that was the much less money cuz I was out for a month summer paycheck. Let me start again.

I'm teaching at this dreamy place, and I HAVE BEEN DOING IT FOR FREE. So far.

Oh yes, gentle readers. Our friends at Psycho Man Middle School were at it again. They threw a wrench that wasn't hard to throw since the DOE was already wrenching me and my life's been wrenched since my mom died. I will tell you the details in horror stories to follow, but I just wanted to let you know that more adventures in adolescence and bureacratic ineptitude will be forthcoming. So stay tuned!

Homophile: Gideon Ferebee, 1951-2005

I'm pulling out my hair with regret since I have been thinking steadily of Gideon for two years, googling him, thinking I need to find him...hesitated because I didn't want someone to give me this news. Wish I had not been so afraid. This is from The Washington Blade.

Gideon Ferebee, poet and activist, dies at 54

By KATHERINE VOLIN
Oct. 07, 2005

Gideon Ferebee, Jr., a longtime central figure in the local black gay arts scene, died Sept. 24 of pancreatic cancer at his Washington, D.C. home. He was 54.

Ferebee, a poet, actor and activist, will be long remembered for considering the plight of the black gay male long before such discussions were more common, said Ron Simmons, his longtime friend.

“He was an openly gay man, black gay man who really thought about that,” Simmons said. “There might have been plenty of black gay men who were out, but they didn’t talk about what that was like in the world, but I could talk to him about that. It wasn’t just about fashion and who had who, but it was really going into something meaningful.”

Collaborating with other artists and black gay men and lesbians marked Ferebee’s life. Simmons said some of his best memories with Ferebee came through their involvement with a group of artistic friends. The group included Essex Hemphill, an African-American gay poet, and Sharon Farmer, an African-American lesbian photographer who served as White House photographer for former president Bill Clinton.

“There was a group of us who were black gay and lesbian artists,” Simmons said. “We would just hang out and chat, we would eat together, we would have fun together. I really can’t describe what it was like, because it doesn’t exist anymore. A lot of the members have passed from HIV. Every week, there was something to see. There was somebody’s house to go to, there was something to do. I can’t describe it. You just had to have been there. It was incredible.”

Role in Us Helping Us

Ferebee was an early member of Us Helping Us, a community-based AIDS service organization focused on reducing HIV infection among African Americans. Simmons, executive director of Us Helping Us, said that Ferebee was essential in determining the course the organization would follow.

In 1992, when Us Helping Us founder Kwabena “Rainey” Cheeks asked Simmons to be the organization’s executive director, Ferebee, Simmons and Cheeks sat down to map out the direction they wanted Us Helping Us to take, Simmons said.

Ferebee was diagnosed with HIV in 1989. His partner of 16 years, Leroy H. Sutton, Jr., died of complications due to AIDS in 2000.

As Ferebee got older, he became increasingly concerned about predicaments facing gay African Americans, longtime friend Greg Ford said.

“He became more accepting of himself and more open about his homosexuality,” Ford said. “And not just more open about being gay, but more open about the validity of the black gay community.”

Ferebee’s poetry and writing also contributed to his work within the black gay community. He wrote three books, “Searching for the Boy,” and “Reflections of,” both poetry collections, and “Out! To Lead,” a self-published compilation of 15 essays that called African-American gays and lesbians to engage in leadership roles.

“They were insightful because nobody was writing about that stuff,” Simmons said. “You could count the number of books that talked about the black gay experience probably on one hand during those days.”

Ferebee started writing poetry at age 16 while attending Bronx High School of Science in New York, according to a biography published with one of his books.

The youngest of 10 children, Ferebee was the first in his family to graduate from college when he completed his studies in theater arts and political science at Indiana’s Valparaiso University in 1972, his sister Ellen Ferebee said.

“Gideon was an independent thinker and very analytical,” Ellen Ferebee said.

Ferebee moved to Washington, D.C. in the early 1970s, and quickly made the arts scene his home. He parlayed his love of theater into the now-defunct D.C. Black Repertory Company, the Minority Arts Ensemble and Station to Station, a collective of black poets he helped found in 1980.

Funeral services were held at Frazier Funeral Home on Saturday, Oct. 1. A memorial service will be offered at 6 p.m. on Oct.29 at the Washington Ethical Society 7750 15th St., NW.

Muse: Name That Group

te busque debajo del colchon
y en el polvo de la habitacion
te busque con un ordenador
y con la antena del televisor

te busque por toda la ciudad
y en el pozo de la soledad
te busque en los ojos del dolor
y en los ojos de la diversion

te busque en el oro y el placer
y en el cuerpo de alguna mujer
te busque en las drogas y el alcohol
y en los vicios y en la corrupcion

te busque en los templos de oracion
y en los libros que hablan del amor
te busque por toda la ciudad
y en el pozo de la soledad

te busque en el corazon
y alli estabas por un rincon
te busque en el corazon
y en silencio
oi tu voz....

The other night I dreamt...

The other night I dreamt of a colored boy with a lion’s tail, curled on the ground and wearing a white shirt, sucking his thumb, smiling just a little bit.

Last September...

The View of the Ocean
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

My friend Renton drowned there.
He was pretty, black and gay.
He was a skater, an actor, a Trini.

There were lots of pretty black gay people

View of the Party House from the Beach
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

dancing, eating, laughing.

I swam in the pool.

I Went to Fire Island

The Neighbors
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

for the first time in September.

South Africa: Sala Kahle!

Well, folks, enkosi for checking out the adventures of Soucouyant down under. It was a long and mind expanding trip. And here we conclude our account.

If you have any questions or comments, please click comment and let me know. Unless you absolutely don't want me or anyone else to know who you are, just put your name or initials under your anonymous sign ins. It's just nice to know who's here.

Stay tuned for more about the ongoing sagas.

Oh, and a shameless plug for my friends from New Orleans, the singing group Mothertongue. Their album is now available from Amazon. If you hate Amazon too much, contact them directly at the link above. They are playing these days in the subway, and have a show this Friday in DC.

South Africa: African Penguins at Boulders

African Penguins at Boulders
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

After being so clever about them at uShaka Marine World, I finally got to see my darling penguins! Boy were they cute! And boy do they smell! This one is being fed by its parent.

Along the beach, some brave and bizarre souls swam with the penguins in the icy water.

View of Cape Town from the Rhodes Memorial

View from the Rhodes Memorial
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

Bad, bad Cecil Rhodes. Sort of like a cross between Andrew Jackson and Robert Moses.

There is this huge, hideous monument to him on the side of Table Mountain. You can have lunch up there. We just had hot chocolate -- it was COLD.

Cape Town Street Scene

Cape Town Street Scene
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

Oh! Back home at last! Oh, the streets of Cape Town with your crowded taxis and grungy hippies, hip hop colored boys who claim themselves black, and graffitti galore.

Contrary to what we were often asked, we did not "go out" in Cape Town, which is apparently famous for its night life. Maybe if you are young and white it's great fun, but I had the most fun hanging out with Naomi's friends,South Africans black and colored, other Fullbrighters who weren't annoying, and her friends from Kenya and Zambia.

We hung out in Observatory, made dinner for people, (and sometime breakfast and lunch), went sightseeing, went to a very interesting Future of Hip Hop Conference...

The panel was organized by an African American woman who was studying at the University of the Western Cape, Cape Town area's black university, and this other local colored hip hop dude. There were a bunch of American women there, her friends, also studying at UWC.

It was a weird moment where a lot of the South African's commments and ridicule of earnest Americans, black and white, attempts to "help" them but who ended up helping themselves instead, either by research or a line on a resume, that read, 'Organized Hip Hop Conference in South Africa.' Or there are the feel gooders people look at with a cynical eye, who build a school, help some kids, and then go back to their comfortble lives.

Cape Town has a hip hop scene whose roots remind me of the growth of hip hop in California -- far from the center of its birth, slightly behind the NY scene, but not too far and with its very own flavor. The first big rap artists in South Africa were colored guys from the Cape Flats, the colored townships, and hip hop is still mostly popular there. Not surprising really. African Americans and "colored" people have similar histories...

Another embarrassing moment in Americans in South Africa was the poetry show that happens every year when US spoken word people go to South Africa. The show opens with a local poet or two, then the Americans. This year it was Carl Hancock Rux, the Last Poets, and Beau Sia. They were fine, though problematic (except for Baba Oyewole). The moment I'm talking about was the year before.

You know who goes to shows like that, where politically you're preaching to the choir. Apparently last year, the reports went, Jessica Care Moore forgot, and proceeded to call colored people political sell outs who were fucked up and self-hating...apparently it went on for a while. One of N's friends was like, "There she is, talking to the most politically progressive people in Cape Town, insulting everyone and their families who came to that show, generalizing in the most remedial way." He shook his head. "Americans!"

Incident in a Gas Station on the Road to the Cape

Into Cape Town
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

As we got into the Western Cape and down into Cape Town through these awesome beatutiful mountains, where the weather became more Cape wintery -- overcast and rainy.

The Eastern and Northern Cape Provinces are mostly colored. Colored people are descended from Khoisan, Xhosa, West Africans, Indonesians (I think mostly from Bali and Java) and Europeans. They are mostly Afrikaans speaking and in Cape Town, many are Muslim.

There are some black/colored "issues"(use your imagination)and relations can be bad. In fact, Naomi had already had some rude treatment from colored people in Cape Town. Though we are both the same color as lots of colored people, we don't otherwise look like them. In fact, people are constantly talking to Naomi in Xhosa or Zulu.

So, given all of this, it was not really all that surprising as we stood in line at the Shell station fast food line to get some fries and drinks that, in a line that was otherwise all white people, the colored woman behind the counter skipped us entirely and went on to serve the white woman behind us.

I was lost in the sauce, staring at a sign and didn't even notice, but Naomi did. "Did you see that?" she asked and I peeped it immediately. "That's it!" She stalked away out the door.

When they noticed we noticed, there were some words exchanged in Afrikaans, and another colored woman came to take our order. When I asked her why her friend skipped us, she said she didn't know. "Yes, you do," I said. "Don't you?" She nodded. "You know that's not right."

"I know," she said quietly, "I'll take your order now."

"That's okay," I said. "Can you get the manager for me, please?"

On the way, she told her friend what happened in Afrikaans. The manager, a white man, of course, came out and said he saw everything on the closed circuit camera and that the women behind us had been there before us, and the woman had been helping her before...

"I'm not stupid, and she was here AFTER us. You should be ashamed of yourself. This is how you treat people? I'll be sure to notify the proper authorities and organizations." He blanched, just a bit.

"Come," he said, "I'll take your order."

"That won't be necessary," I said. "There is no way I'll be spending my money here, ever. This is ridiculous and you should be ashamed of yourselves. Disgusting." And I joined Naomi outside.

We were thirsty for the next two hundred miles, but it was a good and bitter thirst. Assholes.

The Great Karoo

The Great Karoo
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

It's just beautiful.

So many fences, though. Guess who owns the land? Remember the Voortrekker story?

A voluntary redistribution of land by the government is underway, in an attempt to avoid, as we heard many South Africans of all races say, another Zimbabwe.

(Zimbabwe was in the news the whole time. Weird to be back here and not to have heard anything at all about it.)

After we left Pretoria, our furthest point north in central South Africa, we turned due South, headed for Bloemfontein, SA's third official capitol. We had a bite to eat there, and then continued on through the Karoo.

We pushed on and chose a place to spend the night -- Colesville. And it WAS cold! FREEZING.

We drove through a tiny township into the tinier town at around 6 in the evening. The place was deserted, but we were spotted by some young entrepreneurs who raced to catch us to get some "spare change." We pulled in the gate and went and saw the inevitable old white lady who ran the place.

The first thing Naomi wanted to know about was the heat. The temperature outside and inside were the same, testament to this being the enormous winter coat and thick wool scarf our older white friend had on as she sat in the livingroom.

Lady: Oh, yes, darling, there's heat, of course, a nice pad in the bed.

Naomi: What about when we get OUT of bed?

Lady: Oh, yes, darling, don't worry, you'll be quite warm.

Naomi: We'll be warm all right. IN BED!!

I gently guided her by the elbow before our older white friend's face was in too much danger of being slapped. "What is wrong with these people?" hissed Naomi.

Indeed, that mattress heating pad was rather toasty, but only IN BED. It was too cold to even brush our teeth in the morning. We peed, grabbed our stuff and ran ahead to the car and its blessed out-of-bed heating system, narrowly missing the entrepreneurs as we high-tailed it out of town.

More About Pretoria

Pretoria
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

So, we were in Pretoria.

Some nice things about Pretoria: after Jo'burg it was really really nice and quiet; it's pretty; and we met a beautiful public health officer from Malawi who cracked us up with stories all during breakfast. We loved her! She showed us pictures of her gorgeous twin daughters and regaled us with stories about huge storms on the lake (she's actually from the island in the center of the Lake Malawi) and the oppressive regime cutting her brother's afro in the airport when he came home for a visit.

Bad things about Pretoria: it's the home of apartheid, the National Party, and one of the most infamous prisons in South Africa, that is notorious still for its mistreatment of prisoners.

Neither I nor our chirpy little ole white lady hostess could understand why, but Naomi was determined to go to the VOORTREKKERS Monument. Something about staring into the face of evil.

"Why do you want to go there for?" LOWL asked with a dismissive wave. "Garbage it is, that whole thing."

Since my job is to love her and take her where she want to go, we drove around the back of town, up a dry and dusty huge hill and saw the forbidding thing looking out over the plain. Naomi's got those pictures. Ick.

*The VOORTREKKERS MONUEMENT commemorates the "Great Trek" the Afrikaaners made when the British chased them into the interior -- and further into Xhosa, Sotho, Khoi, and Zulu lands. It is a real source of "Oh Pioneers" pride and the National Party used to have all these events celebrating it, their bravery, tenacity etc, where you see all these women wearing those terrible bonnets and they reenact the wagon trips.

Pretoria

Pretoria
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

The lovely guesthouse where we stayed in Pretoria.

Soweto: The Hector Pietersen Museum

hector pietersen museum
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

Hector Pietersen was the first child, though not the last, killed in the Soweto children's uprising, gunned down by a policeman in the street as the children assembled in a peaceful demonstration against the apartheid educational policies.

The museum focuses on the history of Soweto, actually founded by a black man who negotiated with the white politicians in the city to create an organized settlement for blacks in the area who had left the countryside find work.

There were all these things the early white governments did to decrease the Africans' ability to sustain themselves on their lands, from taxes to forced and brutal land removals. There is a Masada-like story of how one group of people refused to pay taxes, and held out, starving, on the top of some hills.

In the museum are tons of video monitors with people of all perspectives talking -- from children, elders, police officers, city officials -- about the uprising and further actions up to the elections. It is full of photographs and posters. The one thing I noticed is that the museums, though they are English heavy, are accessible to people of all literacy levels.

Soweto

Soweto
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

That same day, we went to Soweto. We scrounged around for maps and asked the black staff people at the guesthouse, but it was still really hard to figure out the place, since the signage is a little random. We wanted to make it to this neighborhood that has these music clubs and restaurants and stores, but after some wandering we couldn't find it. Still, we made out way to the Hector Pietersen Museum, saw Nelson Mandela and Bishop Tutu's houses, and drove around a little bit. I still don't have the words to describe being in that legendary place of such bravery and cruelty, to stand where children died fighting for freedom.

On the way in, you see the power stations, that fed the white neighborhoods, whereas Soweto residents had no electricity for years.

An interesting tidbit I didn't know: SOWETO sounds like an African word, but it's not. It is just an acronym for SOUTH WEST TOWNSHIP.

Another interesting and oft-quoted tidbit about Soweto? It contains the largest concentration of millionaires in South Africa.

Solitary Confinement Cell at the Apartheid Museum

solitary confinement cell at the apartheid museum
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

A model of the cells where prisoners were put in solitary. Daylight and air come from a tiny vent in the ceiling.

"Native Identity Card" -- Apartheid Museum

"Native Identity Card"
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

One of the identity cards used to classify and control the population during the apartheid era.

Later, people were allowed to appeal their designations, and some successfully switched their "race."

Entrance to Museum -- I was Non White

Entrance to Museum -- I was Non White
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

When you get your ticket, you are given a card that says "White" or "Non-White." Then you go through a separate entrance, and see a separate exhibit for the first few yards. From my side, I could peek through the mesh at the "Whites" but I couldn't see exactly what they saw.

Yebo!

Apartheid Museum in Jo'Burg
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

We finally, finally got to Johannesburg, or Egoli, "City of Gold." It's a gold rush city, built in the middle of the mines, and remains the economic, entertainment and political powerhouse of South Africa.

For the first time, on the turn offs from the highway, we saw townships ("locations") that ranged from the small shanties, to actual houses of one to three storeys. Johannesburg is also the only city we saw with a vibrant, black downtown. Finally, it felt like Africa.

We stayed in a cute hippy neighborhood in a little B&B that catered mostly to business guests. The neighborhood was also pretty unsegregated, with both black and white employees and customers.

The major drawback of Jo'burg is that is it really really dangerous. It is the one place where, when people talked about car jackings, rapes, murders or robberies to be careful of, they were often speaking from PERSONAL experience. So many people, black and white and colored, before during and after our time there, warned and warned us, that we actually put our NY skepticism aside and were super careful. That means, for example, not stopping at red lights (the cops won't ticket you apparently, and none did anything to us) and not going anywhere downtown at night, or walking far even in daylight. It was hella stressful.

My one regret was that I didn't get to the Stoned Cherrie store, or any of the other stores of the new black designers. I did get a Stoned Cherrie t-shirt at Woolworth's though.

Last thing about Jo'burg, the tv there was really good! They have these evening soaps with multi-ethnic casts, where the characters speak in mostly Zulu and English. The news is on for like three hours,as the different channels play the news in most of the eleven official languages. We watched it in Sesotho just for fun.

Then we saw the sights. We went to the apartheid museum in Jo'Burg, a stark building with the history of the rise and fall of the apartheid era, that begins with the known history of humans in Southern Africa -- in other words, from almost the beginning of our human origins.

Across the street from the Apartheid Museum? The rollercoasters of Gold Rush City Amusement Park, Jo'burg's answer to Great Adventure.

South Africa: RRRROAR!

Lioness Prowls Close
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

Okay, she mostly huffed, but she passed so close to the rover at Schotia, that Naomi almost crawled over me to get away from those huge paws. (For some reason I couldn't get this photo up before)

Xhosa House in the Eastern Cape

Xhosa House
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

These are what houses look like, usually in a compound of several buildings, some square, usually this color or a pastel pink. The peak has a tire on the top, with colored glass set inside. The bricks are made from the earth, the squares cut out and dried in the sun.

A View of the Eastern Cape: Driving North from Smeary

driving through the eastern cape
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

Beautiful, but there is so little fresh water. The Indian Ocean beckons.

uShaka Marine World

uShaka Marine World!
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

We went with Jen to the newly opened uShaka Marine World ("u" is a proper name marker) and Water Park. All sorts of Durban-ites were there, which was a relief, mostly parents watching their kids float around the artificial river in inner tubes. There was a shark feeding and penguin show. We tried to watch the seal show but it was a bizarre play we couldn't quite understand.

At the penguin show, the presenter guy asked the audience questions about penguins. I couldn't help myself.

Penguin Guy: Which are the largest penguins in the world?

S: (chirping in from the back when no one answers -- IDIOTS!) Emperor!

(Jen and Naomi who were sitting down in front look back at me and shake their heads laughing.)

PG: Very good! Now, why don't polar bears eat penguins?

(S. sits quietly, not wanting to dominate.)

IDIOTS in CROWD: They're afraid of them?

PG: No, no.

IDIOTS: The bears live on the ice and the penguins live in the sea?

PG: (laughing) No, no!

IDIOTS: They don't like the way they taste?

S: (about to burst wondering how people know so little about their own country's wildlife but whispering nonetheless) They don't live in the same place.

IDIOTS: (staring)...

PG: What do you mean?

S: They don't live in the same place. (Looking around, gathering momentum, increasing teacher's voice.) Polar bears don't eat penguins because polar bears are only in the NORTH POLE. Penguins are only in the SOUTHERN HERMISPHERE. They each don't even know the other exists! (triumphant)

(Later)
IDIOT MAN: Where are you from, dear?

S: New York City.

IDIOT MAN: Ah ha.

S:...

Urban Durban looks like Coral Gables, Fla

Urban Durban looks like Coral Gables, Fla
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

We knew we were close to Durban when the townships began. It was chilly, and the smoke from the wood fires hung over the metal roofs like low-lying clouds.

A law student friend of mine was working in a legal clinic there, and we stayed with her for a few days in a cottage apartment behind this huge house on the top of a hill.

It was a relief to finally stay with a friend, to be around Americans, and, frankly, since my friend and her roommate were white, to not have to approach going out with trepidation. We'd already had one yucky encounter with non-service in Plettenberg Bay and weren't looking forward to the next one.

We went with my friend to a gay bar, where a baby dyke tried to pick her up, though she was only straight person in the place. A white fag was chatting us up as we were leaving, crying, "Shame!" as we insisted it was late and we had to go. To encourage us, he went to put his arm around Naomi, but caught himself and put it quickly back down.

Durban is pretty, slightly safer than Cape Town and Jo'burg, and there are lots of Indian people there. It was also where we got our introduction to SA mall culture. In Durban and beyond, people were constantly encouraging us to go to the mall -- in this case the largest mall in Southern Africa, Umhlanga (pron. oom-shlanga). Instead, we went to the new aquarium, named after Zulu King Shaka.

South Africa: "The Blahk Stahff Have Lost My Keys!"

Okay, so we made it past the children and mildly curious adults as it got darker and darker. From the direction of the sun, I knew we were angled toward the coast. But when was this road going to end?

Several bone jarring, crater-like potholes later, we reached the top of a hill with a magnificent view of the Indian Ocean gleaming in the sunset and saw a sign for "Hole in the Wall." A small village sat at the bottom near the beach. As we got to the bottom of the hill, we saw a huge white wall and a huge gate with barbed wire on top -- our vacation village destination. The car in front of us pulled in, and a small man approached us, barely concealing his surprise when he saw who was in the car. He asked us for our names, Naomi signed his clipboard, and we were in.

A half moon of dingy attached bungalows surrounded a central area of worn grass. A few weary looking white women and men shooed children into the cabins and cooked their dinners on the brai (bbq) while chatting in Afrikaans.

I volunteered to go get the keys and make the payment, which was just fine by Naomi. At this point we just wanted the night to be over so we could get out of this place. I entered the lobby, passed the dry and dusty fountain in the center and went up to the receptionist, a blond haired woman whose raised eyebrows and smile accented her sky blue eyeshadow and blurry red lipstick. As she completed the paperwork, I looked over the extensive list of rules. My eyes stopped on a confounding sentence: Due to questions of thefts, there are NO GILLIES ALLOWED. We regret any inconvenience this may cause.

As my mind struggled with this new lexical item, the receptionist let out a mew of frustration. I looked up to see her smeary red mouth downturned into a pout. "OH!" Smeary whined. "I am ever so sorry. But it looks as if the BLAHK STAHFF have lost my keys!" Just then another woman came in.

"You lost the keys, Deidre?" she said harshly. "Well, you better find them!" With that she turned her prodigious ass around and left. Smeary's face fell. She whined and huffed. I waited.

A group of women in maid's aprons walked in laughing and talking in Xhosa. "Bertha!" called Smeary, "Bertha!" The women stopped talking, looked at Smeary, said something else in Xhosa and laughed. "Bertha" went behind the receptionist desk and calmly handed Smeary a set of keys hidden in plain sight on a nail behind the desk, and then took off for parts unknown with her colleagues.

As Smeary sheepishly let an increasingly grumpy Naomi and me into our bungalow, I barely registered her and Naomi's discussion about the inspection and the fact that there still was no key she could give us to our room. All that kept echoing in my mind the rest of the night, as the hours dragged on ("You mean we've had dinner, showered, had sex and it's STILL only eight o'clock?"), as we snuggled under the zebra print sheets and our leopard print fuzzy comforter, as the paintings of lions stared at us staring at each other, was BLAHK STAHF BLAHK STAHF BLAHK STAHF... When Naomi asked later why I had taken so long with Smeary, and what exactly was the deal with the keys, I just said, "Smeary's slow." I'd tell her the story another day.

We woke up the next morning at like six, loaded the car, and Naomi was kind enough to let me see Smeary one more time to check out. She was chatty, seemed awed that I was from New York, and informed me delightedly, "I found the keys!" She encouraged me to go to the beach. I had already been to the "beach" -- a couple Indian kids vacationing showed me it was just beyond reception. I'd peeked through the bars that separated the vacation village from the thatched roof houses on the shore and saw more small children waiting there to ask the tourists for "spare change." When I'd approached, they'd gotten up and pressed their faces against the bars, asking the security guard posted there something in Xhosa while pointing at me. The beach? As she prattled on, Smeary neglected to mention I'd have to walk through several villagers' back yards to get there. "Uh, no, we don't have time," I lied.

When I passed the beach gate on the way out of reception, it was lined with little kids, boys and girls, jostling each other to get a glimpse of ME. When I passed, they chattered excitedly. For the first time, I was glad I didn't know what they were saying. I smiled, and beelined it to the car. Inside, Naomi was semi-fuming. "What took so long THIS time?"

"Well, baby," I began...

(Oh, and by now I am sure you can guess what a gillie is.)

South Africa: Driving While Black

One of the more uncomfortable aspects of traveling along our route was our clear status as honorary whites. South Africa has a great infrastructure by which European tourists can access and enjoy its natural beauties. There are lots of "backpackers" -- hostels and B&B's of various grades-- places to stay and sights to see. The roads are mostly AMAZING with lots of gas stations at regular intervals with perfectly clean bathrooms. The Shell Petrol station bathrooms had MARBLE sinks, no less. Of course, in every bathroom was a Xhosa or Zulu woman constantly cleaning it, handing you toilet paper, etc, for tips.

Most of the places we stayed, while extremely reasonable for us, were out of the price range for most South Africans. While at most places, our hosts treated us with kindness and respect, we suspected it was because we were Americans, with an assumed ability to pay and not totally being thought of as "like our Blacks" (a direct quote from Naomi's fellow airplace passenger).

I know that our comfort level diminished with each stop in an all-white backpacker after having passed black people walking en masse from work back to the small townships outside of the tiny towns. Every evening as we went to our sleeping place, we saw these large groups of walking commuters.

Pre-Durban, we were the only black people in those places, with an occasional colored family. As we got closer to Durban and Jo'burg, our relief was palpable as were became just another car of black girls driving along.

Most disturbing to me was the children on the side of the road on the way to this "highly recommended" place called Hole in the Wall, on the coast. When we first turned down the road, the kids stopped and watched the car, waved at us, and so did some adults. But as we got closer down the nineteen mile aisle of dusty bumpiness, the kids realized where we were going, since at this point, if you lived there, you'd be home by now, nahmean? and for the last three miles, all the little kids who spotted us ran alongside the car crying "Spare change! Spare change!"-- left hands under the elbow of the outstretched right arm, the position in which you accept things from other people.

Naomi and I looked at each other and repeated our mantra for fucked up situations: "We can do anything for just one night." Right?

Ngungi Cattle by the side of the road, Xhosa village

Ngungi Cattle by the side of the road, Xhosa village
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

Undaunted by our racist German companions, we drove on through the Eastern Cape. The infamous Trankei was one of the notorious homelands under apartheid, and where activists were exiled to die. It is also one of the places were Xhosa society is still strong. Along the road we saw a group of boys whose bodies were covered in the white powder of a rites of passage ritual and women wearing the skirts with classic Xhosa geometrical designs.

The land of the villages is held in common, and unlike other towns we had seen, there were few fences. The beloved Ngungi cattle were everywhere grazing freely, and they had the right of way. I quickly learned that if one cow bounded across the road in front of the car, the rest of its herd was sure ot follow, moving more quickly than their sedate appearance would lead you to expect.

The roads were not that different than the southern roads, and as we got closer to the north, we saw another rarity in the south: black people actually driving cars.

White Rhino at Schotia

White Rhino at Schotia
Originally uploaded by soucouyant.

Further on down the coast, we went to Addo, and checked out the wild things at the Schotia Game Reserve. After driving around lots of windy dirt roads that our guide, Brandon, navigated with the ease of a migratory bird, we pulled up to the lion gate. As we rounded the corner, we saw HER. SHE was a big as the range rover. Her head was like four feet long. SHE gazed at us through tiny beady eyes. As the silence and the tension grew, Brandon, whispered, "Time to go, now," and we slowly slowly pulled away before SHE decided to charge us.

Other people we spotted: ostriches, warthogs, lots of different antelope, giraffes, hippos (really dangerous!)and five lions, including two cubs. The lions huge enclosure was LITTERED with antelope skeletons.

At dinner, the German tourists we were with warned us against going to Umtata or Durban, and against driving through the Eastern Cape altogether(they still called it the Afrikaans name, Transkei). Enormous holes in the roads, cattle and people wandering suddenly and dangerously, and across the road, and, we later surmised, too many Africans and Indians. SIGH. Brandon was kind of quiet, he's from the Durban they were trashing, and loves it and the Transkei country.

Misc: A Blip and Technological Advance

Well! I am so very very happy to inform you good people who continue to check my ridiculously UN-updated blog that I have finally been able to download Firefox (don't ask why I wasn't able to do it before I have no idea why) and so now I will no longer be frustrated by my inability to do simple things like bolding and italics and adding images without twisting my brain with HTML codes. I will be happily playing with this in the future. Yeah! Good times! There is lots to say about a lot of things, most importantly the ever-popular and continously unfolding saga of my escape from the citadel and the clutches of Psycho Man. And my amazing friends from New Orleans are here on the East Coast, getting their lives together as best they can. More on that, too.