braai

Braai: a barbeque. (for more information, kindly follow this think link to our ever clever friend Wikipedia)

If I were to summarize last evening using only sensory adjectives, I would definitively state that it was hickory smokey, glowing, red, purple, translucent blue, tingly cold, kernel popping, soft, round, bright bright bright, frenzied, bubbly without bubbles, Destiny’s Child tunes, something like chicken.

Around six o’clock, just after the sun had pulled the covers back over its head, Julio, Abby, and I hopped a cab to a distant, residential area. Our friend MK had graciously invited us to join in a braai he was hosting at his house, and we were all quite curious to see what the event entailed. Twisting around dirt roads, past endless jumbles of squat houses with barred windows, each breathing its own chilly glow of fluorescent exhalation, I found myself once again marveling at the human being’s incredible ability to make his own space, no matter how arbitrary the placement might seem. After a pretty significant ride, we swung left into a dead-end street and pulled up to a monitored gate. We called MK, who came to let us inside, and then trailed his feet to a large pool/tennis court area, surrounded by groups of nice, neat, townhouses of sorts. A hot grill was flaming by the poolside, and we were greeted by a wonderfully familiar group of people. It was one of the first times here that I felt the relief of clicking into the crowd, even if I didn’t remember everyone’s names at first.

Most of the women and men that we’ve befriended here (or really, who’ve befriended us) are students, teachers, or alumni from a private high school in Gabs. I find them all to be really fabulously entertaining and spirited, and they’ve all come from different places with pretty different stories. Despite the fact that I’ve had fun chatting with strangers in clubs or at bars, it was really nice last night to just sit around and talk, laugh, sing, or engage in silly antics with people whom we actually “know” now. The last week had me reeling from a blow of intense homesickness and the panicky claustrophobia of isolation, so last night’s dosage of good old youthful fun came just in the nick of time. I felt myself soaking up the sounds of new voices and rhythms of speech like paints on a dried up water color palette, and as the night progressed the colors swam together in a most pleasant mush of rainbow brightness.

The evening ended with a stop at some of the fellows’ flat, where they were kind enough to lend me a few much longed-for books. My social network, both real and literary, shrunk significantly upon my arrival. Thus, I work to steadily increase the friend population in both worlds.

A review of the past few days: they’ve been rather internally chaotic and externally tear producing, so I’d rather not dwell on whatever emotion rocked my previously stable rock. I found myself embarrassed by some unintentionally irresponsible behavior, and also the terrifying realization that there were moments when danger was far more present than it should have been (yes, I know, this is purposefully vague. I’m fine and everyone’ fine, but it is hard to remember 24/7 that things work differently here than I am used to at home, and that there are some situations where what I would instinctually identify as good judement in the states is surprisingly bad here.) I’ve also been pinballing in this prison of my hostel and am nursing some bruises from collisions with mental barriers. Before I drift off into the land of unintelligible descriptors, I’ll close the lid on the subject.

In other thoughts, momentum is something I would like to regain, as I’ve felt my creative energies plateau a bit as of late. Writing, drawing, reading, and mixing and making sound have been the main sunlight of my days so it’s really important that I not let the futility devils dance around on my shoulders too much. Their songs are slow and their beats are lazy and the habitual thumping of their steps can become rather mesmerizing.

Additionally, I’ve found that I’ve had less patience as of late for aggressive men and rude comments. It is a daily thing here to get catcalls and too-long stares (I don’t attribute them to anything I wear or the way I behave necessarily, just more so to the general theme of white/foreign woman) and I’ve finally decided that my desire for dignity and polite treatment outweighs my desire to display total tolerance. Of course, I rebuff people kindly, but I’ve also stated adding a little more force and a little more authority to my responses. It is really grating to be constantly objectified and bothered.

And lastly: I was just thinking about Oral History and I feel that the field should be renamed. The title seems much more appropriately connected with the culinary and dental subjects, perhaps philosophy as well, and I think that a lifelong chronicle of consumption, sore throats, dental notes and vocal tropes is rather dazzling. It ranks up there with the idea of infinity and outerspace.

To conclude, HI. Hi, hello, dumela. I miss you, I miss you terribly, and I’m curious to know about this and that and everything and nothing. Have you done anything wild? Did the dog run away? How’s the city? How’re the suburbs? How is that boy? How is that girl? How many streets have you discovered in the past week? Friends, family, potential friends, animals, plants, and vegetables, news from you is always received with trembling fingers and jittery mouse clicks, so write me or spam me or even sing me a song – I would love see and hear it all. Of course, I promise some sweet treats of verbal eats in return.