Leaving Africa (Or: Why Cricket is a Stupid Sport)

Whoever the hell thinks baseball is boring, needs to bloody well watch cricket. Seriously now. When Raphael went on and on about the need to understand what crumpet was before you knew what cricket was, I thought he was just giving Casey Jones a hard time – but having watched part of a game on TV today, I can say in all honesty that this is the stupidest, most ridiculous sport, of all times.

Now – I say I watched part of a game on TV today, not the full game, and you may think that I didn't give it my all – but understand this, you can only ever watch part of a game in one day. We'll get to that.

Cricket is baseball where people just bunt. They bunt all day. That's it, bunt here, bunt there – but when you bunt you don't have to run. Nope you can just decide that you don't think you bunted far enough, so you stand still. And then you get to bunt again! And if you do think that you made a good bunt you get to run in a straight line back and forth with your buddy until you think, no – we'll stop now, and bunt some more.

And when you've bunted too long the game takes a break so as the players may enjoy their tea, and have a nice light lunch. Oh yes, lunch breaks are built into the rules of this game, my friends. And then after lunch you bunt some more. At about this point you'll have tallied up 254 runs, or points, or whatever they are called. Then for some unknown reason (depending on the rules – because there are multiple rules for this game, nothing can be easy here – you have too many outs, too many overs (i don't know), or you just decide to pass) the other team starts up, and it's their turn to bunt. But the day is growing late by this point, so the game is called. Not to worry, it will start up again tomorrow.

Oh yes – Cricket is played over five days. This is a game that would make competitive Risk: The Game of Global Domination playing seem interesting an lively. When any game ends at the end of the day with 239 to 5, but that means nothing because it will swing right back the next day – well what type of people have patience for it?

And what if you get out on day 1 – do you bother to suit up for the next four days? Or do you just buy some Mad Libs to entertain yourself and your teammates with? Because they sure as hell aren't having fun – only two men on the offense at a time, and this can last hours. Hours.

So next time someone tells me baseball is boring – well just be bloody glad it ends after three hours.

And that was my final experience of Africa. What a way to end it.

From that travesty I headed to the airport, and boarded my flight for Dubai. I watched GI JOE on board, and something else too – equally good, and yes GI JOE was mind numbingly good people. I don't know what was expected, because it delivered just what I had wanted it to. Marvelous.

And then X hours later, I was in Dubai, and another chapter had closed on my tour. Africa is all behind me now.

African Carnivore

Lets talk about food – because that's all today was about. Food. I did absolutely nothing all day. This is true. I woke up, had breakfast – toast bread with this weird jam jelly spread that tastes like i don't know what – but it's red and delicious – and cereal with milk that lasts 6 months before going off (i don't know...) and then that was it. I bunkered down for the day.

I watched tv, I read my book, I watched more TV. Dennis the Menace? What a terrible cartoon. You think it was terrible, but you don't really appreciate how terrible it is until you're in Joburg watching it, cause any other activity has a 50% chance of leaving you dead.

Well it does in my mind anyway, 'cause my mind is a hell of a place.

Fact: Joburg has the highest concentration of awesome street art. And no, I still can't take pictures of it. I just see it as I drive, quickly, past. That's really the best way to enjoy it – right? No... curses.

I've been told my outlook is a refreshing one. Everything is an adventure. Even walking to the street. Who knows what danger lurks around what corners? Here's the thing – I've wandered around, on my own, through lion preserves. I mean, it was by accident, but still, and yet I won't go down the street to buy juice from the corner store.

I miss juice. Honest and true. Remember all that juice I drank in Europe? I want juice back now. In mass quantities.

Anyway, then seven o'clock pm came around and food became the factor again.

Colin came and grabbed me so as we could head out to dinner. This is a good guy. He lives a good thirty minutes from my hostel, and the restaurant is an hour from there – this is at the very least three hours of driving for him so he could take me out to dinner. I owe a lot of people a lot of stuff if they ever come visit me back home. But then that's what travelling is like, isn't it? You realize that there are really fantastic people in this world. Even in terrifying places like Joburg. Seriously – walked around a lion park, but not down the street to get milk.

So we drive into the middle of nowhere, where I'm reminded that I'm safe, once more, and then told to lock the doors – seriously people, why does that always, without fail, follow the “you're safe” line? And the fact that the needle was running near empty of the fuelometer? That was filling me with confidence. Luckily we couldn't get lost as Homer Simpson's voice was guiding us all the way – constantly interrupting my impromptu learning about the South African parliamentary system, which I found quite enlightening. I never care to learn about a country until I'm there, and then I'll be enthralled to hear anything about it. My guide was quite learned on the subject too. If I was asked the same about Canada I would have froze and redirected the question to something about Battlestar Gallactica. Why not?

So where did we go for dinner? A little place called Carnivores. What makes it so special you might ask? Well it's a fixed prince menu, so you just sit down – and then the onslaught that is your potentially never ending feast begins. All I could think of was how much Tsangerang would absolutely love to be here. And it pained me that I will never get to share in the thrill of eating here with him. So this next part, it's dedicated to you Monsieur Tsangerang:

You sit down at the table, and then drop this giant turning table of sauces – cranberry, garlic, apple, chili, and it goes on and on. Then on the second level are the salads. Greek, coleslaw, corn and pineapple (which you think is distressing – and i thought so too – but it works, it really works,) and of course there are more.

Then a man comes and throws a whole load of bread on the table, you saw it in half, and think that it's a trick, a trick to fill you up, but the homemade butter is too much of a draw, and you devour it. And it is good! And then they bring out the soup, and you still have no idea what's going on, because people are just bringing you food but it's cream of spinach, and since you like both those things you dig into it. Then the soup disappears, and the magic hit parade that is carnivores begins. And you'd cry – you'd literally shed tears of joy – if you had any idea what was next to follow.

A South African flag is placed atop your salad/sauce wheel. This will become important later on. But worry not of it yet, for now is the time of the feast.

You see, for the next – however long you want – men with giant spits of meat will come to your table, and shave it off with knives that could easily slit your throat, and find themselves just in range and position to do such a deed, but fear not – for these spit handlers are professionals. You hope. And first they bring you beef, would you like some? Of course.

Then before you can eat that, the next man is on you with kudu sausages, followed by pork ribs, then some sort of antelope you've never heard of hits the plate. You eat as fast as you can, but new men with new meats keep coming. Eland is devoured, some chicken, crocodile – which is a trap, because in the time it takes to debone it, your plate will be filled high by other exotic treats, and lamb, and it just goes on and on. And every day is different.

Every day they have different games. Sometimes zebra, sometimes springbok. Who knows what treats await you? It's an all you can eat buffet without the pesky need of having to walk and fill your plate yourself. Because who needs that hassle? And it's good. It's all good. And you keep eating, and you keep eating, and after hours you find yourself full. You're not sure how you got this way, and it shames you to admit it, but you can eat no more. And here is where you'll cry once more, but not out of joy, but out of painful sorrow.

When you have had enough – or all that you can stuff inside yourself without causing you bowels to rupture – you need to surrender. You need to submit. You need to take the South African flag from its proud position and cast it down on the table before you. And then the plates will all be cleared, and you can select a dessert from their extensive menu.

But there is no pleasure in this desert. There is no sense of accomplishment. Only a sense of hallowed failure. And you know, you understand, that there is no way to win. There will never be a way to win. Each time you go, you will have to submit. No congratulatory sparkler awaits your valiant effort. Only flag lowering defeat.

And though you had a lovely meal, and a lovely time, with lovely people – you just can't help feeling as you've lost a little bit of yourself, devoured by the god awful carnivore.

Soweto: I Have No Idea What I'm Thinking

Well, my second day in Joburg. And how was it? Not all that bad, I must say. Though I slept a lot. I slept a huge bloody lot today - but I woke up at a good time, and saw the day, so that's what counts, yeah? Up at nine in the morning, I met someone who claimed to be my guide for Soweto and the Apartheid museum.

So first off, what is the Apartheid museum? No - we don't need explanation on that, do we? Just go watch Lethal Weapon 2, or something like that. It should clear one or two things up. And then, what is Soweto? It's the South Western Township. Have you seen district 9? You know the slums and shanty towns there? Well that is what part of Soweto looks like. It's not all like that anymore. Nelson Mandela set to work creating proper homes for all those who qualified. Although qualifying wasn't the easiest thing and so some of the shanty towns still exist. Couple that with the fact that homes take time to build, and once given this home some people have chosen to rent it out, to make money, while living in a little shack off the main building - well, Soweto has issues.

And that's to be expected when you shove a great number of your population into one area. Still - after only sixteen years South Africa doesn't look like it's doing all that bad. Sure it's awkward when you see all the cleaning staff as black Africans who don't really talk all that much, while the business owners are white Africans. But they don't have to carry around passbooks declaring themselves a specific colour. And if you look into the history of these various colours, you may find yourself painfully scratching your head. And your colour - it wasn't set in stone. You could fight it. Blacks became Asian, Asians became coloured, coloured became white. No blacks ever became white, or whites black.

There's a lot of history in this town. And trying to explain it all, with my limited knowledge would just be a painful process. So I can only really state what I've seen. And remember, seeing isn't always believing. I have my lens, you have yours, and everything gets muddled up somewhere in between.

The day started as my guide drove me over to the Apartheid museum. At this point I wasn't entirely sure that he was my guide, and slightly scared that he was my future murder. These are the thoughts that come to you when you find yourself in the middle of downtown Joburg early in the morning. "Look around," he said, "you'll see no white people here."

He went on the explain the odds of getting mugged here weren't all that bad. "50% chance of safety if you're white." Hurray! But with a guide, "90% chance! But lock your door."



Contrary to what I was told yesterday, most car thefts are from a lot, not from hijacking. So once more, I feel secure in my belief that no even the Joburgers really know what's what here. And that's great and fine. And with my 90% chance of safety I was feeling pretty good. Except for the fact that I wasn't really sure this guy was a guide. We pointed to a badge that he wore, with the South African flag in the background. This was supposed to have assured me of everything there was to know about him, and his profession. Here's the thing, I could have made one of those badges in about three minutes with seventy nine cents worth of supplies from any local craft store. Well maybe not a local craft store here - but one back home.

So as we got on the highway, I still had that "maybe I'll die," kind of feeling. Remember that lens I was talking about? That's the one.

I was alone on this tour. It wouldn't have been so bad if there were other people, but there were not. And that made me question why there were not. Still, it was too late now. The die had been cast. And I was in the car. Hey, why were we slowing down? What was going on. Was there an accident? A tractor trailer had pulled off on the grass, trying to hop the median, and gotten stuck. And other mini buses were turning around and driving the wrong way on the highway. What was happening?

"It's a police roadblock," I was told. "They set up these roadblocks, check cars, and see if there are any problems. I have only one problem. I own the government money, you know, for tickets."

My guide was a charming guy, and his voice was very - I don't know, encapsulating? His voice was one that set you at ease, and so you wanted him to win - to somehow get through this checkpoint without being caught. And yet at the same point, I'd be more assured of my safety were we stopped and he was checked out.

We began to run the gauntlet. We made it passed thirty pulled over cars, only two officers left to pass and we were free. Bang. We were pulled over. They began to chat in Afrikaans. At one moment the office looked over at me, and asked me how I was doing, I told him fine - just dandy. Lovely. Then more Afrikaans.

As we drove away, my guide explained. "This was a nice officer. Good guy. He said, do you owe anything? And I said yes. But then he sees my license. Very important. Not my drivers license, this," he held up a card, beaming. So much pride. "My official guide license. Two years in school to get this, lots of money, but now I can be a guide. I can show my country to the world. The police are told to be good to us when we are with a client. And you behaved well, he like you, and so he says that this is where I can go to pay my tickets. I know where I can go to pay. I just don't have money. But he was a nice man."

He then went on to explain how important licensed guides would be next year for the World Cup. In fact when we were out today he took a meeting and was offered a job with a big company running World Cup tours. "I want to show my children a new fence around our house, a new gate, and say - this - THIS - was my world cup." So much passion, so much energy. This was a man who cared for his job, his country, and his family.

This is something you don't see in North America. This is something that would probably make you seem crazy in North America. And that's too bad. But over here, it was fantastic.

To the Apartheid museum. I spent three hours inside, learning the history, the turmoil, and hardships of South African history. And when I think back now, I can't really recall what I learned. But I have a good base knowledge of South African history now - and I knew nothing of it prior to entering this museum, so clearly a lot stuck with me.

I also know about Nelson Mandela and his wacky dance, as well. He was a well known name to me before, but now I have some base knowledge on him as well.

And after watching the police beatings and attacks on the South Africans in the 1980s, well District Nine becomes all that more relevant.

After the museum we drove through Soweto, and I saw the range of houses from very poor, to quite well off. "These houses, you think the money is clean, but no - very dirty. Dirty money got them here." And you're not sure. You wan't to believe that's not the case - but...

It's a strange place, with strange things. And it's a world beyond. And you know that if you got out of the car, and wandered some streets, it could become a most troublesome occurrence. You know that because you are white, and they are black, odds of talking with one another, or getting to know one another is not very likely. And then you remember it has only been sixteen years since these people were physically kept apart from people not of their race. And - it's South Africa. It's just too much to take in.

I've been told that the South African blacks face the same issues as our North American natives. But - this doesn't seem quite right to me. Not at all. Within sixteen years the South Africans have done a lot with their land, have started to integrate, and have started to educate, and move up within their society - something that would have been impossible, quite literally, two decades past. And then you look at the North American natives, and you wonder - well, you wonder.

A lot has happened in so short an amount of time. You wonder what other changes you'll see over the next five.

I saw Soccer City on the drive back. So that's lovely too.

I fell asleep at 9pm, sleeping 12 hours. Ridiculous.

And that, is that.

Exploring Joburg - kinda sorta

Here's the thing - there's another post that goes before this post, but that post is on my laptop, and I can't use my laptop, because South Africa has the most messed up plug socket the world has ever seen. It's true. You know those ten in one travel adapters you have? Well throw them the eff out, because you're in South Africa now, and they're here to play. And you know what - don't try to use them in Namibia either, because they were owned by South Africa, and I bet that little tiny country that exists as an island withing South Africa (a modern day cold-war Berlin) probably uses them too. They're giant, they have three circles, and no one knows what to do with them.

You all know the trick (oh I'm sure you do) about how if you have a European dual plug plug thing, but all the outlets are those annoying British monsters with the three rectangular pegs, well - sure - you can make those fit together. Who hasn't tried forcing the round peg through the square hole after all? Once you realize that they're basically the same thing, except for the mysterious third piece it all starts to come together, after all. That third piece just flips a switch that opens the socket up. So if it hasn't already been broken, when you are putting your round pegs through the square hole, all you need to do is jam a pen, or a spoon, or something - preferably note metal, though I've seen it done without ill effect, into the third hole and bingo bango you're up and running. Now you're playing with power - Nintendo power.

But there is no luck here. Because the South African plugs hate you. Which really means the pre-world war two Brits hate you. But enough of that. Suffice to say, you're getting this post now because I can't post the other. So just deal with it. I'll throw the other one up out of order, and you'll just think, well isn't that lovely. You don't care. You just got three weeks all at once. I just wrote three weeks all at once. This blog is in a big cluster of a problem right now. Time to just call death blossom on the whole thing. But no - I want to have memories. It still terrifies me, how long it will take to get the photos in. Facebooking the pictures is taking long enough.

You know when you wait for ten minutes while they're all processed, just to have it crash when it gets to the upload part, and they haven't saved the processed ones anyway, so when you reupload, it has to do it all again, and you just hope it works the next time? Yeah - that's the best. And don't even get me started on how when you upload not all of them are really "there."

Ai ya.

But that's quite enough of the intro. Time to get onto the meat of this post. I'm in Joburg. And don't call it J-Burg cause then people will laugh at you, and you shall cry. You must.

I landed well enough, after writing about a tenth of the story I wanted to - apparently it took two hours? Wheels up to wheels down. Will I finish it? Who knows now. I hope so. So there I was in the airport, once more getting through customs without a hitch. African customs are the best customs. Listen up America, you need to just chill - all your bombs happen ON the planes, not once people have got off them, yeah? And you stop the ones up there too. Just because I have a beard doesn't mean I hate freedom. I love freedom. U.S.A. U.S.A. U.S.A. Please let me in in March. 'kay?

So my hostel said it would pick me up - and that's a good service here. I just had to call them. Right - how do I do that? I have no phone. And no idea how to use pay phones. You may remember the problems this caused in Copenhagen. You probably don't. Go through the archives. I have no time for hyperlinking. Though I keep wishing I did.

But the two lovely Winnipeg girls who thought I was insane (more on that in the mysteriously passed over post that lives on the laptop) told me that I could just have tourist information call for me. Let me tell you, tourist information was not happy with my request - but they called anyway. And then thirty minutes later a white van with a sign that said "Diamond Diggers" showed up. I got in. Now, if you know that this hostel picks up, it's easy to - say - make such a sign and troll for people getting into the country. I tried my best not to focus on this. The sign was laminated after all. That was a nice touch creating less fear.

So there I was wondering if I had just got into a car with someone who was about to kill, and or, rob me. I asked questions about the hostel, and about tours offered, and other such things. Apparently they're all booked out for the world cup already. After ten minutes of this talk I was pretty sure he wasn't a murderer. Why entertain my inane questions for so long? It started to rain. A huge pool formed at the end of an onramp. Three cars could not get on the highway. I was told they'd need to wait an hour, otherwise they'd run it, and stall. That was fun. I was less terrified.

Then we turned into a barb wired alley, with no one around, and I though, self - you're going to die. And that made me unhappy, as I'm sure you'll understand. But no, it was just the car park, and there was the hostel. All was well. I paid for my room, paid the twenty rand a day for breakfast (so as I can have something with my Malaria pills.) and then I handed off all my clothes, and fifty rand. In theory I will have them returned clean, and dry. We shall see. But it was getting sketchy here, so I had no choice. Washing is no problem, but if the rain keeps up - well that would be unfortunate. I am too scared to check the forecast. They lie, at any rate.

I did some internetting - how I've missed free net access - tried to solve a virus problem (still fighting the one I got from Chef's laptop... I feel like I should alert her, but until I know how to fix it, and care enough to look into it - i'm busy - I shouldn't worry her. Besides, without net access she won't be able to clean it anyway. It's all good. It just affects people who key into her system anyway. P.S. Everyone should learn how to turn off Window's stupid AUTORUN stuff. It's the devil. And if you find a USB key on the ground? Don't plug it into your system. Not before you've tested it somewhere that you don't really feel all the concerned about.)

On the internet, I hooked up with a buddy that I met in Iceland all those months ago, who lives here. He said he'd be over in a bit. And he was. And now my plan of not leaving the relatively safe compound was set aflame.

Within moments I was being driven through the streets of Joburg. "Remember how you said you were terrified of downtown Johannesburg?" he questioned. Did I ever! "Well this is it." Hurray!

But he tried to put me at ease, claiming that it wasn't nearly as bad as people made it out to be, "wait - you locked your door though, right? Lock your door!" and so I locked my door. Safe, indeed. I was told that while cars had become more and more difficult to steal, it was still relatively easy to hijack one when the key was in, and the vehicle was running. But, you understand, the city is safe.

And then we passed his old apartment, "no electric fence?" I commented. "You know," he said, "I lived there two years and never noticed." This was not a person all that worried about security, although when we got to his new place and required one electronic opener for a gate, and another for a door, and more keys for the metal bars to the house, I suddenly realized that not being too worried about security was completely, and utterly, relative. Life is different here. "Once the bars are on your windows, the security is free, so why not?"

Inside he apologized for the messy state of his place. It looked about as clean as my apartment ever was, at the best of times. And then we attempted to make hot chocolate. This failed due to the microwave breaking at the most inopportune of times, the dial snapping off. Hot chocolate was made on the stove. It was enjoyed with a bottle of Castle, stout. If you ever see this beer, get it. I'd have regular castle, but not the stout until now. It very literally tastes like no other beer I'd ever had. It's creamy. Look - I'm not saying it was good, but it was unusual, and that is reason enough to try it.

His sexologist roommate came home, demanding the answer to the question of "who are you?" I meekly replied, then returned the question, "I live here." Answer enough. While I was only a fraction less terrified of her, as I was of past guide Raymond, all seemed well when we started talking about LARPing. Don't know what LARPing is? That's for the best. Pat yourself on the back. Don't look into it. It's not worth it. It will only end in tears.

I had a lovely night there, and was offered to crash over, but it would require putting people out to drive me home in the morning, and I wanted to do the tour of the South West Township tomorrow - which I would definitely miss if I trusted myself to wake up at a normal hour. That, and there was a slight thrill in driving through downtown Joburg at midnight. All of these things combined into leaving early, and not having a few more castles.

Some of the roads were flooded.

I heard more tales of local crime before I left, and decided that I wasn't quite sure what Joburg was like. I also realized that the locals don't seem to have a clue either. They either play up their city's crime, and then wander around at night, or talk about how safe it is - and refuse to leave their homes. Walking the city was compared to wading through a pool with crocodiles. Well, actually alligators was the metaphor used, but it wasn't local enough... though alligators are less dangerous, so perhaps I'm screwing everything up by changing it. So forget that. Walking through the city centre was compared to walking through a pool of alligators. Sure it could be fine, but - you know - why bother. Apparently things were a lot safer fifteen years ago. This is not an un-awkward realization.

Another fun fact, Joburg has one of the worst laws I've ever heard of. If you stay in a building for three days without someone kicking you out, you have legal squatters rights. You can not be evicted unless someone finds you another place to live.

You can go into an abandoned building and three days later it is yours. This makes sense. I don't mind this part of the squatters law. But let me explain where it gets sketchy, shall I? If I move into your house, when you're on vacation, and spend three nights there - guess what? I live there now, legally. There's nothing you can do. Sure you still own the place, but you have no legal way to kick me out. Now if I'm understanding this correctly, if I spent the three nights at my buddies house, while I was in town, I would legally become a tenant. He could not force me to move. The law could not force me to move.

Maybe there's something about me needing to be South African? I'm not sure. But that's the law as it was explained to me. Really people - really? How could this not be a terrible idea?

And facebook - why do you hate me? Just let me upload my pictures!

So Joburg - I don't know what I think of it, and I don't know that I will in three days. This city is just too different. And you can't explore it. And - it is what it is. To truly understand it, I assume you must be a local - born and raised. And even then you'll probably just known enough to know it's beyond comprehension.

Last year they lit someone on fire for being foreign. But it's a safe city. You did remember to lock your doors right?