Dance dance dance

My hand is covered in bandages. Okay that’s a little dramatic. Two band-aids, but still… When I was making chicken piccata I burned my hand with the oil spatter and now I look like the victim of some horrible accident. Worry not, it was worth it; the chicken was incredibly delicious. I will even post the recipe here so those at home can experience its wonder. I have been cooking SO MUCH because ingredients are so comparatively inexpensive and my friends and I have nightly potlucks and I like to show off and experiment. As a result I have been eating very well, but for the next week that has to stop.

Due to a monetary blowout last night, I have to reduce my food budget by half for the next week to compensate for my extravagance. Last night was my friend’s birthday and the celebration was held at a trendy sushi restaurant/bar in the glitzy suburb of Rivonia. What my friends and I did not know was that the cab fare would be astronomical, at least by our standards. When we finally arrived we saw the prices on the menu and flinched, but decided that since we were there, we might as well enjoy ourselves. Out came pizza, sushi, champagne, cheap beer (we were trying to be frugal so we stuck to the beverage of the working class, the South African PBR without the hipster connotations: Black Label) and hubbly bubbly (what we at home call hookah). Next we traipsed past Vietnamese restaurants and strip clubs to enter a club called “Manhattan”, housed in a building that looked suspiciously like a Marriott. Yet again I got in without ID because I am American. I suppose I should carry my driver’s license, but I’d rather exploit my nationality than risk losing such a valuable piece of identification and having to go to the DMV when I get home. Inside the club was filled to the brim with what I assume is the South African glitterati; stick thin, highlighted, tanned, white young folks throwing back expensive liquor and dancing to last year’s pop hits. Scratch that, music from years and years ago. We heard “Stacey’s Mom” by Fountains of Wayne. I think the funniest moment of the evening was when the DJ played “Scotty Doesn’t Know” from the film “Eurotrip” and everyone knew every word. The rest of the night was a blur of over-moussed hair and bad music, and I was happy to pay the exorbitant fee to cab home and go to bed. While we were waiting for the cab a few white South African men, hearing our accents, decided to engage us in a conversation about politics. They berated us for supporting Obama, and implied that they preferred the Apartheid government to the current ANC leadership. This caused me to raise an eyebrow or two, and I told them that I disagreed. My friend Sam was a little more forceful. Then they had the nerve to scold us for judging them based on their political views, and one of the jerks said “I hope you’re here for the next xenophobic attacks. And I hope that they choose Americans!” We ran away to the safety of the cab where a girl said to us “Geeze, they were just joking!”. I struggled to find the humor in the system of Apartheid. My bad. I keep meeting drunk racist jerks at bars, which leads me to believe that I am frequenting the wrong establishments.


8 am today: Woke up, made coffee, got dressed, and went to my internship, where I am right now. While I adore the organization, I am frustrated because I have so little to do. I am waiting for my superiors to give me the articles to edit and format so I can make the newsletter, but since none of them are in the office I haven’t really had any tasks to complete. Today I organized some expense reports, wrote my friend Grace an e-mail, worked on a mix cd, and am now updating my blog,

While my study abroad experience isn’t entirely hedonistic, a great deal of it is. My friends and I discovered that a nearby theater has 40 Rand Tuesdays, where for a little more than $5 we can see professional theater. And it’s good. Last week we went to see “10 Bush”, a brutal sort of fairy-tale about breaking a curse set in an African Village. Performed on a stark empty stage the actors stayed on stage for the entire performance, creating scenery using props and their bodies. Fruits, vegetables, and milk were used to create special effects (I ducked a few times. In “Crocodile Tears” (the last play that I saw) they threw pulpy smashed oranges at the audience and so I was worried that they would repeat that practice but luckily the fruit remained on stage). Although the play was long, it was incredibly engaging and compelling. The play was mostly in English but many of the insults or punch-lines were in Zulu, which was pretty interesting because half the audience would react enthusiastically and the other half would sit in their seats, bewildered. This is an interesting characteristic of South African theater, an an art form influenced by its country that has 13 official languages and a diverse population. I can’t wait until next Tuesday when I can return to The Market Theater for another performance. Oooh and tonight we are going to see the movie “The Dark Knight” and I CAN’T WAIT!

Morning, Noon, and Night

This morning I rolled out of bed, threw on jeans, and went to The Nunnery (really) to see a play called "Crocodile Tears". I was shocked that a 10:30 am show tackling issues of the female experience had a packed house. For a little over a dollar I was able to see a raw, vibrant, dynamic, at time frenetic original piece of theater that addressed universal and resonant issues of feminism, the media, violence, etc in a South African context. Afterwards in a Q and A session with the cast, a man said that he saw parts of himself in a particularly uncomfortable scene about female objectification and sexual violence taking place at taxi stands. He said that in part he blamed the women for provoking his lascivious gaze by wearing mini-skirts, knowing full well that it would attract male attention. At that moment I felt incredibly angry and uncomfortable, but the situation was diffused when a castmember thanked him for his honesty and moved on. I didn't know how to react to this honesty. Part of me wondered how he could have sat through the performance which confronted a lot of situations of female oppression, and still say something so blatantly offensive, but on the other hand, it was interesting how receptive people were to his opinion. Last night I was in a group of people and we were talking about the upcoming US elections, and someone said "All you Americans are so open about how you vote for. I thought it was supposed to be a secret" and I said "Well if I were voting for McCain, I wouldn't tell anyone." As a liberal arts college student I don't really encounter much variation in the political ideologies of my peers. Generally we all consider ourselves "for good and against evil", but described in more PC terms. I would like to be in an environment where alternative opinions are encouraged rather than vilified, but to engage in that discourse I would have to be receptive to opinions that are just....wrong. Like that sexist jerk. Oh well, deep breath. I'm working on it...

So people have asked about my living situation. I will take pictures when my room isn't so...messy. But it's nice.

This awesome little fast food joint called "Sharp Sharp" opened up in the Matrix (the student center) last week. Now, for about 5 rand, or less than a dollar, I can purchase a container of Biryani and Curry. Samoosas (yes, two O's) are about 11 cents and a Bunny (half a loaf of bread, hollowed out and filled with curry) is 4.50 rand. I am eating like a queen. I have also discovered gelato, and since a cone is less than a dollar, I fully expect to balloon out while abroad. At home I've been experimenting with lentils, lamenting the fact that they are never as tasty when I make them as when I get them at my favorite Indian restaurants. Does anyone have a good lentil recipe? Cooking on a two burner hot-plate is a challenge, so my meals have been pretty simple. Chicken with forty-cloves of garlic stew, green onion, cherry tomato, and feta omelettes, lentil soup, various pasta dishes. Finding tomato sauce at my local Pick and Pay (a grocery store) has been pretty fruitless so I've been experimenting with canned tomatoes to make the perfect sauce.

Every day I am confronted with various evidence of my American privilege, but never was it so evident as on Tuesday, when my friends and I were going to a bar called Doors. We got to the front of the line, and to my shock the bouncer asked for ID. I have NEVER been ID'd since I got to South Africa; their legal drinking age is 18 and I don't think I look particularly young. The bouncers informed me that I couldn't get in without a valid ID, even though I had my Wits Student ID on hand. Anyhow, I panicked at the prospect that I might not gain admittance, but one of my friends coolly stated to the bouncers "It's cool...She's American." and with that they let me in and gave me a free shot. My nationality, my accent, my strange ways all have certain cache. People are impressed when I can name the president of South AFrica, much less discuss the upcoming elections. Once when I told someone I was from DC, they said "Oh, right by Daddy Bush" , which is sort of a funny image. Oh gosh. My American friends and I constantly have to debunk the image of Americans as hummer-driving, blood-thirsty Neanderthals.

Oh man. Doors was hilarious. First of all, no one told me it was a Metal bar. Think all black attire, long hair, multiple piercings, and ear-drum lacerating American metal blaring from the speakers as various misanthropes head-bang on a dance floor. Cut to me, wearing a blue cotton dress with hearts on it.

The South African night life has presented me with many hilarious contradictions. The punk club with a "Coldplay" poster on the wall. The gay bar filled with skinny elderly men. The house party where the host insisted that everyone admire his scary picture of a sad vegetable clown. Okay, maybe he was just insane. Anyhow, I've been having so much fun sampling various scenes.

A View From the Van

The information superhighway now runs through my room. YIPPEEEEE!
These pictures were taken in Kruger National Park and at my homestay in Hamakuya. Unfortunately while in Kruger I had to stay in the vans instead of freely communing with the animals. Supposedly this was for my own safety, but I bet they did it so I wouldn't hug an elephant to death. I can get a little overenthusiastic about those creatures.

Here they are called Zebra (rhymes with Debra)!




This is where my homestay took place, in a village called Hamakuya, in the home of a woman named Phyllis.

The view from Phyllis' house.
These are three of Phyllis's children: Thanzi, Mukhethwa, and Ntungfhadzeni.


When I uploaded my pictures I realized that most of them are elephants, and I ran out of memory before I saw anything else. Since my power animal is the great and wise elephant, I couldn't bear to delete a single shot, which is unfortunate because many of them are crappy pictures. Oh well As soon as my friends make their pictures available I can show you the other animals that I saw.


Elephant love.

A baobab tree. Probably older than the hills.







I have NO IDEA what I was doing. While we were investigating Kruger National park I got to ride in the jeep instead of in the stuffy vans for about an hour. It was lovely.














My favorite beast of all: Baba Ganoush (my dog).

Not part of the massive update

I'll talk about my week in Northern South Africa when I can upload the photos. This blog will be mega-interactive, just you wait.

So. Classes start tomorrow and I am utterly unprepared. Right now I would give vital organs for an internet connection in my room and a 5 subject notebook, both of which have proven very difficult to acquire. On the bright side, I caught the bus to the glitzy Rosebank mall yesterday and bought the correct converter, as well as an $8 french press, some cheese, and a fuschia towel. Now I can watch my Six Feet Under dvds in my room while drinking coffee. What a difference a few things make. I hope I can find somewhere around here to rent DVDs.


While I am in South Africa I will be interning for an organization called the Khulumani Support Group, and their website is www.khulumani.net. The purpose of the organization is to advocate for those affected by Apartheid era violence.


This block I am taking "The Media and Human Rights", "African Literature and Human Rights". as well as a human rights core course and a course to supplement my internship. I am sure that by the end of this program I will be ready to sell out and work for a multi-national corporation, mining or selling cigarettes to infants, my sensitivity to the plight of man dulled by overexposure to the discourse on human rights. Maybe.

MASSIVE INFORMATION ATTACK part 1

There is way too much to say.
Due to shennanigans regarding converters or adapters of whatever those magical tools are called that allow me to use my American electrical plugs in the exotic South African outlets, I cannot charge or use any of my electronics. This means no pictures, music, or even computer time for me. I am a slave to the computer lab until further notice.

The Flight (Tuesday, June 24th- Wednesday June 25th):
Was marvelous. I pretty much slept through the whole 18 hours, waking every six hours to be fed remarkably delicious airplane fare. It was too bad I was so drowsy, because the plane had a very posh open bar, which some one my colleagues took advantage of. Hilarity ensued but I missed it because I was fast asleep.

The Hotel Devonshire (Wednesday, June 25th- Friday June 27th) :
For our first two nights in South Africa, the IHRE program stayed in the hotel Devonshire, located in Braamfontein, which is just minutes from the Wits University Campus. The hotel featured an excellent buffet, but a few of my friends found hairs in their sheets, so I would give it an overall negative review. We spent our first days stuck in a conference room being "oriented", which means they repeated everything we had been told at our American orientation, except in South African accents. What I've learned: ATMs are very dangerous places. Do not answer my cell phone on the street. Stoplights are called robots.