Me versus My Mind

So here is just a snippet of my mind when left to its own devices. First I must let you in on a secret. Sometimes in the middle of the day, when I am feeling particularly exhausted, I reach for a spoonful (or two) of my homemade hot fudge. Which like all drugs does the trick for a bit but ultimately, of course, then makes me feel worse.

So today when the thought crossed my mind I said "No, self. Have a piece of fruit instead."

A banana caught my eye and before I could stop it my mind said, "Wouldn't that banana be good with some hot fudge on it?"

I can't compete with that kind of devious genius.

My Wonderful Paradoxical Girl

The reason I am focusing on my beautiful girl in these past couple of posts is that she and I have had a wonderful 5 days on our own. Bill, as mentioned in a previous post, fled to Kenya when the power went out, and Alexander is on the Pridwin Grade 6 School tour to Mpumalanga.

Quince has bought herself two books in the past week - both of which I made her use her own allowance for as they went against my feminist and atheistic morals (I once had a great discussion with a Christian colleague about how an atheist could have morals when not guided by a religion- another story).

The first book is a big-ol' Barbie fairytale book. Just as awful as it sounds. Skinny, white, long-blond haired girl fairies marrying princes, evil stepmothers and sisters and other predictably bad messages.

The second was from the Catholic book sale at her school - One Minute Devotions for Girls - I think she was bit seduced by the pretty pink cover and pocket size. Full on little lessons about loving God (fine), trusting God (okay, fine) and chasing away the devil (not fine). She reads them to me in the car. I can barely stand it but who am I to thwart my darling's attempts to figure out how she wants to engage with religion. I personally prefer her worshiping of the Greek Gods. Just two days ago, she asked me if I wanted some blessed water- which I agreed to since it had been blessed by Athena - her favorite Greek Goddess. (this was right before she began meditating - see photo in post below)

Given her recent bombardment of messages about a girl's happiness coming through marrying princes (Barbie Book, Ella Enchanted, and the school play, Cinderella, all in the space of 5 days) I thought a conversation about what really makes one happy was in order. Her response, a job which pays well, finding a husband (like Daddy - she said - sweet) and having kids.

First, I tackled the job which pays well part - you know, more important that you find work you love, blah, blah, blah. "Quince, what kind of job do you think you would love?" "I think I would like being a secretary and filling in forms." I reminded myself there is nothing wrong with being a secretary but not what I imagined for my girl who is a star at math, has always up until yesterday said she wanted to be a vet, and is one of the most creative people I know. "Hmmm," I said, "What about being the boss?" "I don't want to be the boss - then I'd have to share all my money. If I am a secretary I get to keep all my salary.'' Quick correction on the error in that thinking and then in for the crux of the matter. "Quince, what do you think a boy would want to be - the secretary or the boss?" "The boss." Jesus help me. I know the next logical step was to explore her thinking around that a bit, but I was too shocked at how at 8 1/2 she has already been indoctrinated with such gendered thinking about work. I'll have to come back to this one with her.

I then, very incompetently, attempted to tackle the husband and kids part. Nothing wrong with husband and kids mind you - and yes, they can be a great source of happiness. But I got a little worried when she referred to her future husband as her prince -- maybe I am just too jaded in my middle age and should leave her to her fantasies. Thoughts?

The Secret (and Genius) Life of Plants

One of the highlights of our stay at Mopane Bush Lodge in July was the morning walk with the Lodge Manager, Andrew Rae, an incredibly knowledgable and personable ranger. He shared all kinds of facts and tidbits about the bushveld animal and plant life.

I was particularly struck by two stories he told us about plants. Near the Limpopo River live the Fever trees - just as Rudyard Kipling wrote about. Earlier in our trip we had gone to the Treetop Walk on the Limpopo River at Mapungubwe National Park and I noticed that there were these big, yellow barked trees each with one big black limb - how strange I thought. Turns out that the ground water near the Limpopo contains a lot of salt - but since these poor trees can't really rely on some factory filtering their water for them, they have no choice but to drink it up. Smart things that they are, they funnel all the salts into one sacrificial limb so the rest of the tree can enjoy pure non-salty water. Clever, huh?

The second even more amazing thing Andrew told us about are these acacia bushes with huge thorns. Apparently, the leaves of these bushes are especially delicious to giraffe and eland. You'd think the thorns would be all the defense the bushes would need, but the giraffe and eland use their long tongues to weave past the thorns to get at the tender delicious leaves. The wily acacia then employs its second defense. As soon as it senses its leaves are being devoured it emits a tannin into its leaves making them much less tasty. Within 5 minutes the giraffe is on its way. I think this is wonderous- but it doesn't end there. The bush also emits a chemical into the air which gets picked up by neighboring downwind acacias letting them know evil leaf eating beasts are about. By the time the unknowing giraffe wanders to a nearby acacia, the leaves are already filled with tannins. But giraffes are no dummies - they have learned to go upwind to find the next acacia. Oh cruel nature!!

>

The Magical Baobabs

I was looking through Chapter 5 of The Little Prince trying to find a clever quote to include in this little bit about baobabs, but the Little Prince doesn't like these magnificent trees and in fact digs the babies up as soon as they become distinguishable from rosebushes. I guess if left to grow they would soon overtake his asteroid and the roots would tear it to bits, so it is understandable that he views them as quite a menace. But they don't seem to pose any such threat to earth and so I love them! I have been thinking about doing a blog on baobabs for a while now - well actually just a blog where I posted a bunch of pics of them. But then, the universe had other plans for me. While at the local library with Q and A, what was on the return book cart but a children's book, This is the Tree, The Story of the Baobab. So the book inspired me to learn a bit more about these plant mammoths. My favorite fact - "the flowers begin to open around sunset, lasting only until the next morning. They give off a strong, rotting smell which attracts bats, bluebottle and nocturnal moths." Bats pollinate the tree when they crash into the flowers as they are chasing insects. But don't pick the flowers because legend has it that you will be killed by a lion. Baobabs are ginormous - up to 10 meters in diameter. They have been hollowed out and used for prisons, stables, bus shelters, dairies, and weavers workshop. We went into one 47m circumference tree that had been made into a pub, which I felt was a bit degrading for such a noble tree. This tree has been carbon dated to +-6000 years old!!!! When the compost that had formed inside the tree was cleared out there was evidence of both Bushman and Voortrekers having lived inside. All parts of the baobab seem to be useful as food or medicine. If you find yourself hungry and stranded, cook up the leaves or roots. Need mouthwash - dry the root and pound into a powder, which just might cure your malaria too. And don't worry too much if you cut the bark in the process as it will heal itself. If the Little Prince had only known how wondrous these marvelous trees are he surely would have figured out a way to have at least one on his asteroid.

Minefields and Flowerfields of Crossing Cultures

Part 1

Recently, on a work trip to Jordan, I was marveling - again- as I watched my Jordanian colleague deftly capture the proceedings from a group discussion on flipchart paper in Arabic.   Silly but it still shocks me how anyone can write that beautiful, magical script at all, much less so quickly.   Then, of course, because Arabic is written from right to left, and because she is making a list, the designating numbers are on the right side of the paper, with the attached item streaming left.   I noted these things quickly and matter-of-factly.  But then, for some reason I can’t explain exactly, when I noticed she was putting the period/full stop to the left of the number, I got a rush of delight.    

 The delight of discovery.  Of surprise.  Of difference.  Of being reminded so gently and simply that my most basic assumptions of normality, of the natural order of things (in this case quite literally) are, of course,  not absolutes.  It reminded me why I live life the most eyes wide open when I am in cultures other than my own – I am addicted to the rush of discovery of difference.   

Part 2

Truth be told, when I  saw this full stop on the left side of the number, alongside the joy was a tiny feeling of shame.  Shame at this sign, albeit small, of my ever present cultural arrogance.   I knew this when I had to suppress my desire to nudge the person next to me (a Jordanian) and point this wildly wonderful practice out.  I’ll leave it to you to play the scene out.  (Now I know that even if I had nudged my neighbor, the fall-out would have been negligible, pretty much just me looking a little foolish at being delighted by what to him would have been the most mundane and normal of practices. )

Part 3

What I most love about this example is the metaphor it holds for the minefield and flower-field possibilities of crossing cultures.   In this case, my assumption of sameness was corrected easily, privately and painlessly by a flipchart right in front of my eyes – and I got the joy of discovery of difference – what I will now call the flower-field effect.  But what about all those times I assume sameness with no flipchart in front of me showing me, no in fact, not the same.   This gets compounded when my other-culture colleagues, friends, hosts, might also be bound in their assumptions of what is normal, what everyone knows.    We miss one another, we don’t make progress, we offend, but are baffled as to why.  Given my frustrated work experiences in Jordan, I am guessing that those times happened often. 

Part 4

At end, I am grateful for this most tiny of punctuation marks reminding me to go slowly, question even when I am sure, watch, watch, watch, be alert for when my normal doesn’t seem to hold.  And then, the times when I see it, when I see the difference, to take it in, examine its meaning and extract what it tells me, especially what it tells me about my own culture.  

Because after all, ultimately, the gift of swimming in the oceans of other cultures is that you no longer swim blind in your own.  

Post Script:   If you ever happen to need to staple a document written in Arabic, please remember to staple it top right corner.  

Weaver Birds

All of a sudden, about a month ago, I noticed the yellow weaver birds were yellower and busier and all over the place. Spring is the time for romance, so the males had replaced their dull winter coats in favor of bright lemon yellow ones in hopes of attracting a lady friend. Although an attractive plumage will get a female to look his way, the ultimate test comes in his home construction skills. The male works diligently, pulling leaf fibers into fine strips, and using only his beak, masterfully weaves them and twigs and grass into an elaborate pouch shaped nest. The female, using criteria known only to her, inspects and gives the nod of approval or the thumbs down of rejection. If not happy, she will dismantle the nest and the weary male must begin again. P.S. Shhhhhh, don't tell anyone. Not one of these photos is mine - I just can't take a good bird photo,especially with my phone, so I resorted to stealing from the internet.

The Original "Life is the Small Stuff"

Following are some little things I noticed on the journey from Johannesburg to Haiti. Of course, the big things will be in Haiti itself, but that is a different blog.

1)  I’ve come to the conclusion there really isn’t such a thing as a workable sleeping position on an overnight flight.  I would find a comfortable position, only to find my head dropped down to some awkward place or a body part aching after about ½ hour.  So I’d change positions -  ahhh, this feels better, this is the right position.  In ½ hour another part of my body would be aching.   After about 3 rounds of this, I realized the "ahhh" was just the relief of giving that particular body part a break at the expense of another. And that was with having the seat next to me open. Eish, maybe on the way home I'll find the magic position.

2)  Despite what travel agent says, you must collect your baggage at JFK even if connecting to another international flight.   Despite what flight attendant says, you must pass through customs even if you are connecting to another international flight.   Which normally for a law abiding citizen like me wouldn’t be a problem, but I was carrying highly illegal contraband – biltong.   I chatted up the customs agent so he would be distracted from my obvious criminality.  In hindsight this is probably exactly what he is trained to notice – nervous chit chat.  However, he choose to let me go.   You might want to make a note – do not include me on any criminal adventures you may be contemplating as clearly I would give us away in no time.

3)   Check-in kiosk for my connecting flight didn’t pull up the Port Au Prince part of my itinerary - just the return flight to Joburg.  Made me a bit nervous – glad I had 3 ½ hours between flights.  All was better though when the desk ticket agent looked at my passport and saw that we shared the exact same birthday, month, day and year.   I took it as a good sign, if not for the whole trip, then at least for the JFK airport part of my journey.

4) As I walked the long journey from one place to another at JFK, I kept feeling like I should recognize someone.  After all, I was in my native country.   Not one person though!  Weird.

5) Security in America is intense.  You walk through this machine and hold your hands in a “Hands Up” position and then it x-rays you – right down to your body parts.  Then you wait by the TSA agent till she receives a call on her radio telling her what to check.  Person in front of me got her left and right forearm patted down.  The call for me came through – left forearm and HEAD!  Head?  Yes, I got my first head pat down.  And my right arm felt a little left out.

6) Addiction or Pavlovian response I’m not sure.  Every airport in America has a Starbucks, so the minute I touched down – actually before we even took off – I started thinking about a Starbucks Grande Nonfat Chai – my beverage of choice from years ago.  Even though my gate for Port Au Prince was 12,  I had only a momentary hesitation when I found out the one and only Starbucks was at Gate 47.      The walk was worth it - tastes so delicious – just like I remember it.

7) Waiting now at Gate 12.   At least 250 people waiting.  Only a few white faces sprinkled in amongst the Haitian and Haitian Americans.  Creole all around me.   I am definitely not going to Kansas.

8)  At least 10 elderly passengers have been wheeled up in wheelchairs.  There is a story there.

9) Waiting in the gangway to board the plane.   AA agent comes pushing someone in a wheelchair down the gangway saying, “excusez moi, s’il vous plait” over and over so she could pass.  You should have heard the angry chatter from the waiting line. No idea what folks were saying as it was all in Creole, but they were pissed!!

10) Once on the plane though lovely to see how helpful folks were to one another. Particularly a couple of men who took it upon themselves to help the elderly (and the short) put up their baggage in the overhead bin and find their seats.

11) Hats must be big in Haiti.  One lady got on the plane with 6 hats, all nested inside one another, on her head. Another had a sporty little hat on, tag still hanging off the back.  An older man had on a very dapper little hat with an identical one just underneath.  I had to take a close look at one lady as she looked like she was wearing a covered lampshade on her head, but I realized that it was just protection for the hat underneath.

Life is the Small Stuff - the Plane Ride Home

What follows is a set of observations, little stories gathered on my plane ride from Haiti back home to Johannesburg.


An American colleague in Haiti told me that Haitian rum is well worth taking home.   Unfortunately, I hadn’t had any time or means to get to a store to buy some during my days there.  I had no hope that I would be able to buy it at the airport given my experience at arrivals.  Picture an old, small, run down arrival terminal with one baggage carousel .   My guess is that it never was a luxurious airport to begin with but now even less so since half was destroyed during the earthquake.  So, after clearing security, imagine my delight when I saw a tiny closet of a room with a pass through window where the only product for sale was duty-free Barbancourt Rum.   Had a bit of communication difficulties at first – my poor French, lady behind the counter doing her best with English.  I wanted to know what kind of rum, of the 5 available, she recommended for a mojito? Cocktail? Mixed drink?  None of these words worked, and I realized when she pointed me to the cafe/bar next door, that she must have interpreted my efforts at communication as desperation for a cocktail then and there.   I managed to convey that I was not a drunk dying for a fix and I ended up with 3 nice bottles – one white, one reserve, and one fruit (just to try it) for $27 total.

Arriving at JFK
The Good News:   almost without exception, every official I encountered was friendly and helpful.   Friendly immigration guy with a classic Brooklyn accent took the time to inform me about hotel shuttle procedure; Information desk guy gave excellent AirTrain instructions; guy at Federal Circle AirTrain stop was almost overbearing in his effort to be helpful.

The Bad News:  It is winter in New York and that is depressing.   Everyone on the AirTrain looked drawn and pale, even brown skinned people looked pale.  And why, oh why, oh why, do we insist on wearing dark, drab colors in winter. You look outside and everything is grey.  The color has simply drained away.   Why then wouldn’t we choose clothes that look like gardens to get us through these cold lifeless months?   Imagine how different our moods would be if everyone wore winter coats with flowers on them?   Big gold sunflowers, bright red dahlias, soft pink tulips?   Of course,  I wouldn’t expect that everyone could pull off the bold garden coat.    But is it too much to ask that instead of the navy down jacket we insist that the store carry coats that are willow tree green, sunshine yellow?  Can someone please make this happen before I come back?????

Back at JFK in the morning to take the final leg of my trip NYC to Joburg.   Do the “Hands in the air or I’ll shoot” pose at security.  Wait for the call to come through.  This time my head and left arm raise no suspicion.  But apparently my rear end does.  A rear end pat down.   Very nice way to start the day.

Just FYI there is No Starbucks in Terminal 4 at JFK.    There are at least 3 Peets, which I know is fantastic for all the dark roast lovers out there, but I was jonesing for a Starbucks Chai given my Pavlovian Addiction (and you would get this if you read my last post from the trip over).  Peets, which never used to carry Chai, must have decided to lower its standards because I see on the menu board, which is titled in big capital letters HAND CRAFTED BEVERAGES (ridiculous), that  it now carries a Masala Chai Latte.  My conclusion:   It is expensive and yucky and best to take it off their menu of “HAND CRAFTED BEVERAGES.”      

I am guessing that there must be a law in NY that restaurants – or maybe just coffee shops –post the calorie count of their offerings.   I realized that after my Medium Chai, egg/ham thingy, and a medium peppermint mocha (which I tried to see if I still like them – I don’t), I came close to consuming my entire recommended daily caloric intake.  Wow.  Good to know.  Thank you government regulation!

Today’s copy of USA Today – you know the free copy that comes outside your hotel room door and that you enjoy with your Peets chai --  had an article about this new sampling machine which registers your age through some sensors and if you fit the right profile  - in this case, an adult – it will dispense a sample of Temptation dessert.   Comment from Stephen Keith Platt, director of the Platt Retail Institute, a research and consulting firm specializing in the consumer experience, “This is wow.  I’ll now have the ability to interact with a cool device that dispenses a unique product versus walking up to some old lady with a white apron on.”   I think I wouldn't like this S.K. Platt guy very much.

NJ mom with 9 and 13 year old girls getting ready to board flight to Joburg.  Dad sits only a few feet away but with his nose buried in his centimeter wide blackberry, he has created a mile of psychic distance.   Clearly, the mother has a plan for getting the family through this flight and ready for SA.  Says, “girls, get ready because in a few minutes I am changing my watch to the time where we are going.”  To younger daughter, “you will be going to sleep at 4:00 this afternoon because that is 11pm SA time.  I have medicine to make you go to sleep.”  When she implements the next phase of her plan it become evident that she has lost the power to boss her elder daughter.  The elder one reads while Mom leads the younger one in pre-board exercises.  I don’t think she has much longer with younger daughter as I have never seen such lackadaisical arm circles.  As I move away, I hear her say, “well, honey, why don’t you do downward dog.”  

I got a little panicky yesterday when I saw I was reaching the end of the one and only novel I brought along on this trip and still had the 14 hour NY-Joburg plane ride ahead of me.   (The book is The Help – which I could do a whole other ranting blog post about but probably won’t.)   So, I treated myself to a browse at Hudson books in the airport.   When traveling in the states I would occasionally allow myself to buy a book at the airport, but always felt somewhat guilty about spending the money as I could always get the book at our local library.   Now, though, with books so expensive in South Africa, and the libraries not very well stocked, I treated myself to not one but two books!   It made me realize that good libraries are in my top 5 things I miss about America.

At 9:55 am, boarding time, I am waiting by the gate when a slightly disheveled young woman with shiny gossamer threads in her hair arrives just as a tall (as tall as me and I love her for that) well put-together late thirties woman arrives. Shiny thread girl turns to well put-together woman, and with a big bubbly grin says, “I knew it - you too for gate B 26. I knew I recognized your accent!”  Just then an announcement informs us that our boarding will be delayed for 20 minutes due to flight crew caught in NY traffic.  Bubbles turns to new best friend and says, “Come on, let’s go get a margarita!!”  Well put-together woman, smiling uncertainly, follows Party Girl Bubbles without a word, as if caught in the spell of her shiny threads.

Can I make two movie recommendations from my there and back viewing?   Win-Win with Paul Giamatti is excellent (great story with multiple threads, believable dialogue, likable and real characters) as is a South African film, Black Butterfly (about poet Ingrid Jonka).   Two very strong unrecommendations:  Larry Crowne with Tom Hanks (Tom, you disappoint me with this silliness) and The Notebook (reminded me of that schlocky Titanic).