Colored prayers, Imithandazo enembibala, Gekleurde gebede

We came upon this, clothes flapping in the breeze, laundry hung out to dry on a line zig zagging down a pretty alleyway in the middle of downtown Stellenbosch.   We stood and debated, was this real, some family’s clothes hung on a line here in town, in the tourist district, high up by the second floor?   They were real clothes.  Ordinary, very usable, real clothes.  Real clothes pins.    But it made no sense.  The lines were barely in reach of windows, and the lines were fixed, no pulleys to crank the clothes out and in.   And really, why would laundry be hanging in a commercial district?  We came to the conclusion it must be art.    

It incensed my kids. Especially Quince.  Why would someone waste perfectly good clothes like this when a person could be wearing them.  “Look at that cute little flowered skirt.   I would wear that!”  And how stupid to have all those clothes pretend drying on the line up there when there are so many people down here who need clothes.   I get why it made no sense to her.  I get why she hated it.  I get why it made her angry. 

But I loved it.   I loved  the movement, and the colors and the patterns.   The patterns on individual clothes and the patterns of them all together.   The shapes they made hanging there.  How the breeze caught the clothes and transformed them into new shapes.   A dress puffing up with air, suddenly becoming a twirling bell.  I loved how the blue sky and white buildings played their part.

Above all, though, I loved that this artist invited us to seek beauty in the ordinary.  To be present for the beauty in the moment.  To open ourselves to the richness that is everyday.

P.S.  I also get why the woman who washes and hangs some other family’s laundry for a living, and then goes home and does the same for her own family, likely by hand, might find this the most ridiculous idea of art ever.   We know life is not black and white, but grey. . .  and very, very colorful. 

Colored prayers, Imithandazo enembibala, Gekleurde gebede

The artist, Jacques Coetzer,  says, “A drive through the country side is often meditative, with mountains, field and sky drifting past.   Occasionally a flash of colour will sign domestic life, washing hung outside on a fence outside a homestead or labourers’ cottages.  Merrily blown about, strings of brightly hued clothing connect people and landscape, and so the very ordinary and intimate becomes public. Clotheslines, like prayer flags, can be imagined to send out personal mediations on the wind.”   

Wild Dog Chase

We race along the washboard road in the predawn darkness.  Salani, our ranger and driver, takes the bumps at speed, rattling our teeth, jarring our bones. Our speed turns the cold night air into a biting wind.  We put on all our layers and pull the blankets tight up to our chins. The wind gets into my inner ears and they throb.   The prize is worth it. We are on the hunt for wild dogs, spotted less than an hour earlier along one of the park roads.

To  the uniformed, wild dogs may not sound very exciting but they are endangered and rare, only 400 in South Africa and only 130 in all of Kruger National Park.   They have a reputation, undeserved, for being cruel and indiscriminate killers so farmers and early colonial game administrators called for their extermination. That and habitat lost have diminished the population to dangerously low numbers.   Fortunately, now there are measures in place to protect them and reintroduce them back into some game parks.  We have seen them only in a breeding program and so are thrilled at the thought of seeing them in their natural habitat.

As we speed along, the eastern sky begins to lighten and color.   The marula trees are stark but lovely, silhouetted black against the brightening horizon, seashell pink and butter yellow.  

 The colors which had drained from the earth the night before begin slowly seeping back in but early-morning pale and thin.   An soft mist hangs in the air compounding the effect.  The grasses appear silver, only the barest of yellows and greens showing through.  The rich oranges, reds and golds still sleep, waiting to come out, till the sun is higher, warmer. 

Salani is single-minded in his mission so we don’t slow even when we come across a small herd of elephants.  We pause, but only just, when we spot the impressive bull a 100 meters later.  Despite our unusual speed, the dimwitted francolins still believe they can outrun us. They sprint ahead of our vehicle, dodging left and right, sure that even if they can’t outrun us, they can out maneuver us.  Finally, they give up, veering off into the bush or taking flight, angrily chirping a warning.  

We pull alongside game vehicles coming from the direction we are going.  In rapid Tsonga, Salani exchanges information with the other rangers.  No one has seen the dogs.   The sun has now come up fully above the horizon, big and yellow and hot. Only the warmth doesn’t reach us, we still huddle beneath our blankets.

By now our pace has slowed.  Salani says he thinks we’ve gone too far, so we double back.  As he drives, he hangs out his window looking for tracks but with no luck.  The urgency is gone.

I know when Salani slows, and cuts the engine at a herd of impala he has given up the hunt.  Without speaking we all adjust our expectations and settle in for what is before us.  Cameras and binoculars come out.   We watch the long horned male in his sisyphusian  task of keeping his herd of 100 females and off-spring in a manageable area, circling, snorting, corralling.  We watch the young ones leap and kick up their heels.   The wind gone and the sun higher, our blankets come off.   In silence, we drink in the beauty of what has been given us instead.

Evening Game Drive

“September, October is the best time to come to Kruger,” Salani, our ranger tells us.  But we are here now, in April, when the animals hide deep in the long grass.  I don’t mind though.  I am no longer so greedy for sightings of the big five, to see lion with a fresh kill, mothers with newborn babies.   I am happy just to be out in the breezy, warm afternoon sun, driving again through the South African bush.

An hour into the drive, the sun is on its way down, lending her brilliance to the land, coaxing the gold from the long autumn grasses, lighting the rose tips like thousands of tiny flames.   The air is soft, warm, and full of bush smells.   Grass and dust, musky and animal, wild mint and light flower perfume.  When we dip steeply into a riverbed crossing, the temperature drops noticeably and the sharp scent of water and rocks fills our nostrils.   As we climb back up, the engine rumbles low like a lion’s soft warning roar.  Warm air and earthy grass smells envelop us again, and the engine’s growl  is drowned out by the clicking of crickets.  

Animal sightings are few on this trip.  Someone in our party, eager to see something, cries out, “Stop, what is that over there.  Oh, never mind. . . it is just a tree stump.”  It won’t be the last time one of us, our eyes straining to be the first to spot something, calls out excitedly  for us to look – what moments before had surely been an animal is now a rock, a fallen tree, a bush in shadow.  

And then my favorite part.  We stop for sundowners in an open field.   Glass of wine in hand, I can walk out into the grasses, immersed in the smells and sounds and feel.  The sun, though very low now, is still warm on our skin, no need for a jacket yet.  But, anticipating, I can feel the first faint licks of evening’s chill on my bare arms.   

Back driving, the sunset does not disappoint.  It is everything you want, lasting over half an hour.   Gold and pink with rays shooting up; you expect to see Jesus rising like in a religious painting.   Then red and slate grey clouds, and finally that deep blue with a sliver of rose where the sun has dropped deep below the horizon.   Only once the sun is truly gone do I need to slip on my jacket.

Then the spotlight comes out. Salani sweeps it back and forth, up in the trees, down to the grass, tracing the contours of the landscape with his light.   We marvel at his skill when he stops, puts the vehicle in reverse and shines the light high in a bush, pointing out a small lime green chameleon.   During my first couple of night game drives, I used to will the sweeping light to catch yellow leopard eyes, revealing that elusive night animal, tucked in the crook of a tree.  Now, as we drive, I am content to feel the changing air, smell the nighttime scents, watch the stars appear one by one and then thousands suddenly all at once. 

So I am surprised by how much my heart quickens when white breast glowing in the spotlight is a stock still Giant Eagle Owl perched on a tree branch.   We watch her as she slowly swivels her large head to look behind and then back to us. 

When Salani moves the light off the owl, puts the Land Cruiser in gear and we drive away,  I’m full.  The rest of the drive washes over me.   I feel blessed to have once again witnessed the ordinary and extraordinary of the bush transforming from day to night.

Coming Home From Kruger

Crazy I know - I spend two days in Kruger yet what do I post? A short video of cows. What can I say? I like cows. And this sighting completely cheered me on our overly long drive home.

Whipping along this country road we see up ahead a commotion. The entire northbound lane is taken up by this long procession of cows. We estimate 400. Babies, moms, steers, every color a cow can be, horns growing every which way. Bill is not very impressed by their udders (no comment) so he guesses not milking cows.

Every 50 meters or so is a herder with a long stick keeping them orderly- for the most part. But some of the cows have crossed over the road onto our side and are contentedly having a graze. Those cows following think grazing is a good idea and the line veers over across both lanes to the tasty grass. There is a bit of a stoppage until the herders get the unruly cows back on track.

Bringing up the rear of the procession is a bakkie, man hanging out the window waving at us like King of the Parade. More likely the farmer thanking us for our patience.

In this little clip, not particularly well shot because I was driving at the same time with cows all around (very safe I know), you'll see the camera dip down and get a nice shot of the steering wheel. This is when a rogue cow crossed right in front of me. All very exciting.

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).

Hints From Chinese Heloise

Yesterday when we walked into the tiny Chinatown shop specializing in tea, we noticed wedges of lemon, big chunks of skin still on pineapple, and onion quarters, edges drying and curling up brown, scattered randomly on shelves. We wondered if they were perhaps an employee's leftover lunch, forgotten in the midst of helping a customer. Being the curious people we are, we asked.

Turns out it is an ingenious, non-toxic, low cost remedy to take away paint smell. And very effective it seemed to us as neither of us had any idea the adjoining room had been painted the day before.

Everyday, a New Perfection

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Friday

Saturday

Good Morning Tuesday

Lighting Ambiance Insight from My Eight Year-Old

First, it is important that you know these two rooms are painted exactly the same color, the only difference is the type of light bulb. My daughter was in the one on the left - yes the one with the toilet - but needed to be in the one on the right because she needed to take a shower. She said, "But Mommy, this one is so welcoming, and that one is so isolating." Forget decor, forget fancy table settings, forget flowers (okay, don't forget flowers, I love them too much) - it is all about the LIGHTING people.