Shaky flakes

A little digital love triangle picked up steam in the night of Thursday on Friday. Three young men, but small bits of time away from earning their degrees and once part of the same fellowship, shared their thoughts about surviving the whims of places that had been home before.

My law school friend started the conversation with a nostalgic reminder of teeth-staining buckets of red wine consumed on a road trip to nowhere leading us along a farmer with a rugby-ball-sized beet, a wildly burning gas canister thrown in the wrong direction, a starry night viewed face-up on the tar of a windy forest road and all the randy banter about girls in general and in particular. The last sentence he typed down was about his poor roof covered in 9 feet of pure white snow, and the absence of sunlight, which had been behind cloud covering for over a week.

I had just worked a shift at the nightclub, came home, finished another chapter for my thesis and saw a snowstorm brew and cover Amsterdam in a layer of lofty white flakes. When i was done typing for credit I answered the fellowship with an e-mail about the woes of the weather, and decided not to go to sleep yet. While the sky was filling itself with a pink light so pretty it would be kitsch if you'd copy it in a painting, I donned my hiking boots and decided to go for a stroll in the city I hadn't seen so eerily white.

I wondered where they had come from, the tough men, perseverence etched in their brows covered with a tiny film of sweat, fuming fag in the corner of their mouth, scraping and clattering with shovels and brooms in front of shops and houses. The snow had stopped falling and the sun broke through the clouds, right at the horizon for a few minutes. A junky asked me if I was the police, I told him I wasn't but asked why he thought I was. "Because you're smiling like that!" Another snowstorm swept in from the direction of the nascent rays, piercing my eyes with tiny artificial tears, trying to catch the last glimpse of the radiance in a sleep-deprived haze.

When I got up later that afternoon the snowing had continued, leading to a thick carpet of surplus bringing out the best and worst in people. Before I manically went on a moonscape-themed walk through the animated Vondelpark, I read the response from the third musketeer. He told my law school friend that it can be therapeutic to write on your living room wall that "everything is gonna be ok!", and explained he hadn't been so busy with life in a long time, fucking three girls at the same time and doing several jobs. He complimented me on a literary toast that will be the end of today's essay, summing up the spirit of the bond I feel I share with these two characters situated thousands of miles apart.

"Here's to the brave heroes who travel the seas to park their vulnerable selves in constantly changing constellations far away from home... there's something about sharing this that makes us invincible."

Immediate immersion

The memories, triggered by the smell of a plant, the sight of a canal house facade, or the the soft sunrays on my skin appear as fast as lighting and can instantly bring the taste of vinegar or honey to my mouth. With the familiar, there is no way to take the back seat. The intimicy can be confronting or soothing, but the immediacy and closeness won't allow mental distancing. It's all here, it's up up to me to find a way to deal with it.

Within a week or two I've found my feet to the extreme: a new house, cell phone plan, bike wheel and a runny nose. My body is here, yet the mind still wanders and wonders. My mother sometimes reassures me that this feeling is caused by travelling per airplane: my understanding is travellign back by bus, and is probably held up somewhere between Uganda and Sudan.

Facebook seems my sole connection to the realm that was my home for more than a year, and I stare long hours at the status reports of friends, their messages and their photos. Although i would like to see it differently, filtered by the PC they cannot not compete in colour and richness with the everyday events that unfold around me, as simple as the sound a free cup of coffee from the machine at my bank makes, or the yelling of a kid in the street to her parents at the second floor that she wants to take her bike out for a ride.

Confined to my thesis work, I can decide when to face the music and when to withdraw, but with a big window facing West it is impossible to ignore the sunset. I was told that the huge red ball was a symbol for the African continent, but he's certainly here today and in combination with those famous Dutch clouds that have been a popular subject since the 17th century, I can't help but to marvel at the splendour of the sights on offer in the now... and in the here.

The retun of leaving

Those who imagine life to be a piling up of events won’t get more from their closeness to an ending than the knowledge that yet another thing has come to pass. But those who picture life to be a circle can at such instance look forward to the return of what has been. Since instead of further away from it than ever, you'll get closer to the beginning than you’ve been for a long time.

Within less than a month my return to the continent will be a fact. The electronic payment functioned as a signature, underwriting a contract with myself. From that moment on, the city didn’t feel as before. Did anything change around me? I can’t seem to blame my surroundings: it is my perception of them that has suddenly turned around.

One of my theories explaining this is that reality will be adapted to our wish to be consistent in what we say. Since I know that I will depart, I can no longer position the place I’m leaving above my destination. That would render my behaviour a-logical: “although I want to be in Cape Town, I decide to leave it”. With Amsterdam regarded as a better location, my decision is suddenly sound. That in this case I allow myself to pervert honesty for logic is astonishing.
Or was this thinking as wishful as I thought it was? It rather seems that the honesty considered to have been given up upon booking my flight back, had become the victim of my wanderlust a long time before: right when I booked my flight to come here.

As usual, the truth is located somewhere in the middle. The feelings built around my leaving posses an enormous ambiguity, and are located deeper than the expected circumstances than weather patterns, friends and family, natural beauty or security. It’s the smaller things that are hard to be put into words that have taken over my thoughts and fight for right of way, vulnerable as they are for the ‘test of time’ and ‘out of sight, out of mind’.

And the circle nears completion. The same sense of immediacy brought about by the first months of my stay has returned and urges me through surroundings that scream their particularities at me with renewed vigour. This time not because they want to be learned, but this time not to be forgotten.

South Africa in disbelief

Watching movies, we are taught in Film Studies, involves suspending your disbelief. Neglecting that what see isn't real. That normal rules do not apply. I have found that the suspension of disbelief is evenly important when supporting Bafana Bafana in the World Cup.

In the weeks leading up to the first match I was about as hopeful about a South African success as I was about a solution in Copenhagen or world peace in the next century, but the atmosphere in the country has been so excessively optimistic that the Bafana fever crept in between he lines. By the time Friday morning swung around I had joined the ranks of millions of yellow-clad pop-up soccer fans. It all culminated in Tshabalala’s fantastic opening goal in the 57th minute, leaving a nation breathless suspending their disbelief for some 20 minutes.

But Mexico provided an equalizer, SA didn’t manage to get a win, but combined with the nil-both result of France-Urugay, the draw was enough reason for a nation to take to the streets, and the Cape Town city bowl buzzed with excitement until the early hours of the morning. Even though the rain moved in, the sound of vuvuzelas did not subside, and on our icy drive to Port Elizabeth was furnished with garage personnel kicking balls around and the ever present South African flag flying from mirrors and antennas.

When South Africa – Uruguay the kicked off last night the disbelief was still was still very much absent in the fan park in rain and wind plagued PE, where thousands had filled the cricket stadium to watch the game on big screen and cheer on the home side. The atmosphere was amazing, flags were waved to Nkosi Sikelel’i, Waka Waka and the Coca Cola theme song alike, and the sound never let up. Not when Forlan’s shot hit the roof of the goal, giving the Uruguayan side an edge. Not when Suarez eagerly fell to the floor, and not even when saviour of the first match Khune received a direct red card. We were sure that substitute goalie Josephs could repeat the trick he had shown earlier in a win over Guatamala by stopping a penalty. But Forlan’s shot whistled past, touching but his finger tips and hugged the net. Then silence hit the stadium and the fan park. After hearing the constant blear of horns for hours in a row, there is no sound more impressive than that of a silent crowd of thousands.

Bafana did not deserve the fans leaving the stadium early, but it seemed as if the spell was broken. The disbelief that so many had kept up brazenly started to crumble like a sandcastle at rising tide. Me and my friends rooted for a draw in the France – Mexico match earlier this evening, cheering on the goal-evasion techniques of the lofty Jabulani ball, but saw France helplessly being butchered by the eager Mexicans on their way to the round of 16.

With a 5 goal difference with Mexico in SA’s disadvantage, we must now believe in a 3-0 win against France, and a 3-0 win by Uruguay over Mexico, where either of these teams can do with a draw to proceed. It is a long shot. But the ball is round. France isn’t that impressive and Uruguay has shown their goal-scoring abilities. And even though I know the odds are stacked sky high against Bafana Bafana, on Tuesday I, and with me the rest of the country, will readily suspend our disbelief once more.

My thesis on the World Cup

A little thought experiment. Picture writing a thesis. Not the easiest of jobs, but with the right mix of concentration and endurance it is doable. People have done it before, people do it all the time. So, theoretically speaking: No biggie.
Good. Now add being bombarded for months with slogans like “Live it! Love it! Louder!” and “Feel it, IT IS HERE!”, screaming and cheering people in advertisement for products ranging from soap to insurance and a 1/3 of every news bulletin dedicated to the FIFA 2010 Soccer World Cop. Things build up.

Ok, we’ve got it so far. Now note that the things mentioned above start influencing the direct everyday world around you. People start asking you: “Can you feel it? It is here!”, people rock up to formal work meetings in football jerseys, strangers stop you in the street to discuss the chances of the home side. Soccer becomes the norm.

And then the final blow: the structure of the outside world changes accordingly. Roads are blocked off, bands of foreign nationals, recognised by their flags and colours, roam the streets. On familiar places unfamiliar things arise, like stadiums, fan parks, marimba bands and the never ending supply of paraphernalia. And the vuvuzela’s. Morning, midday, afternoon, evening. And night. Oh, the piercing sound of a vuvuzela penetrating the confines of my bedroom at five in the morning.

There’s a limit to what a person can handle. And the meaning of some words gets lost in the above process of transformation. Like the word ‘thesis’. It rings a bell. Somewhere. But it is drowned out by the trumpeting sounds around me, the enveloping madness of a people unitedly excited. So I don’t know what you are going to do with your day, BUT I’M OUTTA HERE!

Professing no excuses

Some start feeling old when they discover wrinkles or a grey hair hiding, others start feeling the years when people start offering them help with crossing the street. I realised my bout with the early stages of youth was over when groups of people my junior started addressing me with the title "sir".

Tutoring at UCT's Film & Media department has added a new dimension to my experience in academia. Having studied at four different universities, I thought I knew what i would be in for at the helm, but the tingle and excitement of a new direction made themselves known during the sessions, and especially the marking of work in English on an unknown scale was a source of lengthy careful consideration.

(UCT works with an interesting 0-100 scale where 0-49 is fail, 50-59 is pass, 60-69 is lower 2nd, 70-74 is upper 2nd and a frist ranges from 75-100, but no mark hardly ever exceeds 80%)

One element of the teaching that has brought me considerable joy has been listening to the excuses students have told me. Being a student myself, it is frighteningly easy to spot the shams from the tragedies and the brazen lies from honest explanations. And yes, in one of my tutorials the most fantastical story proved to be true, but that was the proverbial exception to prove the rule. Snakebites and broken legs are still relatively scarce, even here in Africa.

Apart from challenging me, the experience of teaching UCT's first and second years also made me aware of my capability to impart knowledge and facilitate learning in providing points of attention and space for discussion. Just like I had hoped before, I was fit for the job and found that having English as a second language did hardly obstruct me, if at all.

And now the drawing to a close of the semester in a few weeks time radiates a faint feeling of loss, as I will miss the sessions with my students. I have found a direction I like to continue in the future. And this future doesn't have to be tomorrow or next year. I don't need to be a professor before 35. But eventually, that seems to be where I would like to end up someday.

At a loss

On Saturday 2nd of January, Krishna, lover and friend, died in an accident in Kenya, the land of her birth.

On Saturday 20th of February, housemates Emma and Kolade married in Fisk Hoek in the presence of both their families and a colorful ensemble of friends.

Dealing with the loss of a life so precious to me and the celebration of a chosen commitment between two people who shaped a home for me in Cape Town is too much of a contrast to be compared. Although were only two months into 2010, I know for certain I will never forget this year.

I knew Krishna from Melbourne, where both of us were on exchange. When I returned to Southern Africa last year we met up again in Johannesburg. After spending a week in her freezing cold student room we left for Swaziland. We spent a few days with my family there and made a tour of the country by car, after which we left for Mozambique by bus. Via Maputo we ended up in Tofo and stayed in a little hut on of a seaside dune. After a last, icecovered night in Johburg, I embarked on a plane to Cape Town.

Although on the other side of the country, Krishna and I stayed in contact at varying levels of intensity. When she was in here in Cape Town in spring for a scholarship interview we spent the weekend together, taking her along to some of my ‘local favorites’. Several weeks later I wasn’t surprised several weeks later to hear from her that she had won the scholarship, which allowed her to come and study an honors degree at the University of Cape Town. Knowing that I’d have her around the corner delighted me, and I was glad that her sister had found them an apartment in Rosebank. On the first of January Krishna sent me the following text: “A very very very HAPPY NEW YEAR to u! Lots n lots of love n a biggg hug! :)”. Around 10.00 the next day I sent her an answer and at 13.00 my phone rang. Phillipa’s voice trembled as she told me when I asked her how she was doing: “Not too good, Krishna died in an accident….”

The last 7 weeks have not been easy. There are still days I go to sleep sad and wake up with tears burning behind my eyes. The car she was in wasn’t even moving when a speeding truck tipped over onto it. It is almost a miracle that her sister and friend came out of it without even the smallest scratch. She died on the spot, without making a sound. She didn’t see it coming.

Never before did someone so close to me die. Never have I so urgently felt the grief of an empty spot. Subconsciously I still expect her to appear out of nowhere. At the university she never got to study at I see her dark hair and small figure passing by several times a day. She will always remain 21, and I will never see her again.

When I came to view the room in Agust, Kolade showed me the house. The vast amount of books, outdoor shower and artsy paraphernalia convinced me in no-time. Announced as writer but soon also appearing very able in the roles of academic teacher, second hand dealer and public prosecutor, Kolade soon turned out to be the ideal sparring partner for verbal contortionism and warfare. I met Emma several days later and we later found out we both realized within the first minute that living together would be no problem. The source of Emma’s professional multiplicity is her broadly oriented personality, and with a background in gender activism, academia and management there are few issues she doesn’t have an opinion formed on. Todd, an HIV/Aids researcher with a surprisingly modest household footprint, complemented the household a month later.

Emma and Kolade are despite their Christian marriage not each other’s first. Emma came from a previous connection and needed to get some weight off her shoulder, while Kolade was in a fairly casual period of his life. The surprising fact that they stuck together says a lot about the effect they must have had on each other. The wedding day was one of those few exceptionally hot days in Cape Town. While the thermometer indicated 36 degrees, a ripple of wedding programs progressed up and down the church benches rythmically. Kolade’s family from Nigeria was represented by his mother and older brother and Emma’s entire family had made it down from the Eastern Cape. Kollade actually made air punches while pronouncing “I will!” and Emma must have suffered from sore jaw muscles for days afterwards from all the smiling. Ice cold champagne has never tasted this good.

The wedding was amazing and the improvised party afterwards including the last bottle of champagne in an overloaded car was unique. Still, to me all the joy and happiness appeared tainted. Every once in a while my thoughts were with Krishna. Shit things are just so much worse than good things are nice. And espacially on a day of such high spirits, the parched empty void of loss becomes so much more visible.