Time flies doesn’t it? 2 months ago I arrived. And in another two months I’ll be flying out again. How much has happened in just a few short months. Apologies that the blog posting has not been as regular. Maybe it’s uni assignments or weekends away or maybe it’s also because my life here is much less ‘the tourist’. Relationships are solidifying and therefore becoming more personal. Yet there is lots to tell…and load shedding is back on which means more quiet time to write.

I was invited along on a lighthouse hopping tour to Napier and back with my housemate and her friends two weeks ago . When I accepted the offer it had sounded like a very civilised, relaxed two days of sightseeing. Little did I know it would involve a preliminary adventure. After some messaging back and forth Jenny told me to get to the pick up place we would first have to take a taxi- an infamous South African taxi. At first I was like “yeah! awesome! finally!” but then I realised we’d have luggage and one or two valuables. hmmm…. What’s the game plan Jenny? So she gave me the low-down that morning. “You’re going to act cool, very cool, like you’ve done this many times. But at the same time you’re going to be very aware – aware of those around you and of your stuff. Hold onto your stuff. Give me your cards” (she stuffs them into her buttoned shirt pocket) “Nothing is going to happen but if it does we just give them our wallet.” Ummm ok….. She looks at my pulley bag and shakes her head. hmmm… I better go the backpack option. Don’t look so mug-worthy then.

After a re-pack we’re off and at a cracking pace. Jenny sees a taxi – white, stickered, music pulsing mini-bus – and holds out her hand like a pro calling out “we’re going to the macdonalds!”. Yes, yes we are. The screechy door is ripped open and the gaatjie (hacking noise + “eye chi”) bounds out. It’s like entering the Cango caves but now with some serious luggage and pace. Head down and move fast because the taxi’s already moving. The Gaatjie dives in and we’re all in, door grates shut. I look around. Mostly ladies. Phew. But don’t relax just yet. I realise although I may think there is little threat inside the vehicle I was now hostage to the driver who was taking full advantage, ducking and weaving and swearing at cars not getting out of his way. (Don’t they know he owns this road??). I’m sitting on a foamed bench and next to me is another seat that folds up for extra space. Let’s see how many people can fit hey. Jenny hands over our payment to the gaatjie who’s doing the multitasking dance – calling out to people on the street in his booming resonant voice, tuning the ladies in and outside the vehicle to which they respond with “oooooh!”, cracking jokes with the driver whilst seamlessly taking money and giving change. He falls into a debate with the woman next to him – is the smell he can smell KFC or fish n chips? Now it smells like fish…but now like chicken….what does she think? No no no he thinks it’s fish n chips. But maybe it’s both? – I sit back, soak it all in and smile at the lady next to me who reciprocates – a moment of bonding between two strangers, two people in a taxi. Quaking with home grown kwaito (local hip hop) as our gaatjie leans out the window again to tell the ladies how fine they’re looking today, we finally arrive at our stop. After an awkward scuffling which involved me clambering over the lady who’d taken up the fold up chair and Jenny launching herself over her with her bags fighting an exit path we emerged, a little scruffed up but still looking cool, very cool, and smiling on the inside. Yo, what a ride!

And so our weekend begins. The next two days we chill. Long open roads winding through the rocky, muscular mountain range and then straightening along shrubbery, we arrived after 3 hours in Napier (“Napeer” emphasis on 2nd syllable). It’s a quaint regional town close to the southern coast of the Western Cape which services neighbouring farms and houses a small number of locals, farm stores and cafes with local produce. You could almost hear the chickens and cows next door. Culinary highlights were the massive ribs for dinner – me gnawing away on their meaty goodness on a table almost exclusively vego – the breakfast spiced sausages and the farm baked bread (yes I may have had one or two crumbs) that looked like a large …e hem…phallus. A long walk through the veld (“feld”= field) to talk and think about life and the next day along rugged, whooping windy coasts cleared the lungs of the smog and grime that settles in when you live in the city. Climbing up 5 ladders to nearly be blown off the top of the lighthouse (another oh&s cracker) combined with some singalongs, long chats in the car and the best night’s sleep since I’d arrived in SA made me a very happy camper.

And just as well because the following week I was back at the home affairs department to sort out my citizenship/visa extension. For those of you who are saffas I’m sure you’ll know what I mean. For those who don’t all I’ll say is – waiting, waiting, waiting, forms, being grumped at, waiting, waiting, being pushed into while waiting, being told one thing by one person and then another by another, being told you need to go somewhere else and then wait again, until finally you leave with your heart and eyes racing ready to spit your story and anger out to anyone who is nearby. Needless to say I didn’t need much more pumping up to walk with a ‘don’t even think about it buddy’ attitude to get safely to my car past wolf whistlers and hang-a-rounderers of Wynberg.

The weekend after I’m invited to a Tanzanian women in Cape Town women’s evening fundraiser. And it was just around the corner at Woodstock Town Hall. Off I trot in my short tropical floral t-shirt dress (dress code was wear colour) with my phone tucked into the side of my knickers (I mean where’s a girl to hide these things??). I arrive to a delight for the senses. These women know how to dress! The hall was a labyrinth of reds, golds, blues, greens –  silky head scarves matching or supplementing the flurry of colour in their long dresses. It was all about conveying a sense of celebration and excitement and they did that also in their movements. Even before I’d sat down, some of the women were up and moving. And I mean moving – arms in the air, hips a-swinging, rambunctious singing and stomping.  I was keen to film them but then I realised my phone was ‘inaccessible at the moment’. Could I sneak it out? Better not. Bathroom run it is! By the time I’d got back my table was empty and the programme was about to start. hmmm… I’ll move to the kids table I think. Kids are always chatty.

The night unfolded smashingly. From the guest speaker who preached to us about women banding together and empowering each other like we were at a real African church service ‘Amen sister!’, to the children asking me ‘Aunty, aunty! Are you from India?’, to the impromptu dancing – people just couldn’t sit still when they heard music-, to us gobbling steaming spiced rice with chicken and finally everybody up and dancing – whole bodies in- and exhaling the music through large movements – no self consciousness, young and older alike, all just enjoying- enjoying the feeling of enjoying the music, of moving your hips and sharing that feeling with those around you. A little boy kept running up to me and feeling my legs; his mother said ‘ooooh! See he already likes the white women!’ and we all had a chuckle.

It was a new experience for me being the ‘different’ one. I noticed people looking at me – a curiosity sometimes joyful and other times hesitant or even suspicious. But before I knew it a velvet-skinned high cheek-boned beauty had grabbed my hand and then another and then we were all twirling each other around and laughing big belly laughs. We danced and we danced until my feet and my booty ached, and then the rnb music came out. Oh dear! So on it went until a handful of people were left. The next week at work the lady who invited me tells me they were all speaking about me afterwards – who was that white gal with those moves?! Yiiiieeeh, dis gerrl can dance y’all! (Jenny is teaching me gangsta-speak)

Go to: https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B0H91V5eCkkjbmlpb05Pd0dYYjg/edit?usp=docslist_api
for a video of the partying going off!

The week ended at Kirstenbosch gardens watching a stage of saffa musicians jam against the frame of table mountain and it’s fluffy cloud table cloth. Although we had a jig to Beatenberg it was Gangs of Ballet that knew how to work the crowd and get everyone singing, swaying, tearing and cuddling. It’s funny, at home if you go to an open air concert, parking anywhere remotely close to the venue is just impossible and human and ca
r traffic afterwards makes you sometimes wish you never even went. Thanks to some nifty car park spotting and driving I was home 30 minutes after it ended with plenty of time to bask in the warm fuzzy feelings of the day. Life here is so damn good.