Blog fail

Sorry, all. I've been a bit disoriented the last couple of weeks. I guess I could blame it on the malaria meds (I'm on the hallucination-inducing ones), or perhaps the fact that I actually have work to do for my classes. In fact, after an entire semester of doing, well, nothing, it's hard to just accept that I need to write a single-spaced eight-page paper today or else I'll die.

Last weekend, I went to Robben Island -- where Nelson Mandela stayed in prison for 20-plus years, along with other anti-Apartheid activists -- which was interesting. The staff of the museum lives on the island, which is a good 30-minute boat ride from Cape Town's Victoria and Albert Waterfront. All the tours were led by ex-Robben Island prisoners, so they told us about their experiences. The cells were pretty small -- Mandela didn't have a lot of room to spread out, for sure -- but other than that, there was a little garden in the middle, meals were provided to them, they were on an island and away from Cape Town... I mean, not to be blasphemous, but it seemed like a pretty sweet deal. Except for the physical labor business: Mandela got so much limestone in his eyes over time that he can't handle glare. Photographers are forbidden from using flash when taking his picture.

The same day I went to the District Six Museum, which I found a little more emotionally exhausting. My main complaint about Cape Town has always been how, for such an old city, it feels so modern. I'm not saying modernity is bad, but I was expecting a more historic feel along the waterfront. Instead, the waterfront is so touristy and shiny and new: in short, completely fake and un-African. I feel like I'm in some suburb's supermall rather than on the Cape Town waterfront. Except for the Bo-Kaap (the primarily Malaysian/Muslim area of the city, with plenty of mosques and delicious Malay food), Cape Town isn't really too iconic. Except for the Houses of Parliament and the Dutch East India Company's Gardens in the center, it's kind of a faceless metropole.

But after seeing the museum, I realize this could just be a result of apartheid. During the 1970s the city government eradicated this vibrant (albeit poor) community: the Africans (blacks) were forced into the townships (shantytowns outside of the city) and the others were forced into different neighborhoods in accordance with the Group Areas Act which segregated areas of town by race. The museum was not geared toward an international audience but rather the ex-inhabitants of District Six, so at times it was hard to follow, but it was really affecting. To this day, it seems few people actually live in Cape Town; if they're rich they live in the rich, white suburbs, and if they're poor they live in the poor, black suburbs. It's unfortunate, though, to think of how the whole character of the city could have been so different. Worst of all, the city claimed it was demolishing "unstable" buildings -- which most of the time just needed a fresh coat of paint but were otherwise intact -- and saving money by driving out the members of the community, but it spent millions of dollars and failed to erect what it promised. In short, all that money was spent for nothing.

On a somewhat lighter note, last night was the AIFS farewell, end-of-semester dinner. At least, that's what my pounding head tells me. I think I finished almost an entire bottle of wine. My tolerance is really increasing this semester. We went to Five Flies, this semi-snooty restaurant/cigar bar where the average two-course meal was R185 (about $20; though to put this in perspective, you can get a normal meal in town for less than R40). And for all my attempts to be cultured, I always feel out of place in fancy restaurants. There were at least four knives, and I kept forgetting I'd already used one and ended up using all of them to butter my bread. Then, of course, there was the R114 bottle of wine. The meal was delicious: I ended up ordering smoked snoek (fish) with pesto for a starter, then springbok with port sauce for dinner. The sauce was delicious, the springbok (in European/African style) was basically rare, but it was amazing. I don't even like red meat that much, but it was wonderful. Plus, I have a feeling I might not be eating springbok for awhile. Or rhino. Or ostrich. Or kudu. I guess I have had a fair amount of game meat since I've been here...

As always happens whenever I pound down a few (two? three?) glasses of wine, I start to get a little tipsy and a lot sentimental. So even though I wasn't in love with everyone in the program, by the time our program director, Hestea, said a few words and congratulated us on our "unique decision" to study in Africa, I must say I was touched. Not as much as Stephanie, who looked like she was tearing up, but it was a nice way to end the semester. Also, since I realized how much last night's dinner cost, I appreciate it even more. AIFS is kind of cheap sometimes (always) but it was a classy place. There was all sorts of artificial nostalgia: a 12-minute PowerPoint chronicling our journey since January and the lifelong friends we've made (or not!), tzatziki sauce and potato chips, randomly inappropriate pictures of shirtless men that will haunt my dreams. It was swell.

Okay, to the people from my program who I love (you know who you are, and chances are we've had fairly long conversations in the very recent past), ignore the previous two sentences.

But really, with Kruger National Park and Mozambique looming in the not-too-distance future (three days), I'm pretty excited. But I'm also ready to come home. I miss the U.S. I miss broccoli-cheddar soup, hot dogs and chicken fried steak. And a country that wouldn't appoint a rapist president. So I'm thinking I'll be sort of ready to leave, when June 12 arrives. But we'll see.

Mozambique preparations

It's sad that most of the big decisions in life aren't clear-cut. Clearly, Bridget Jones had to choose Mark Darcy, because Hugh Grant was sort of a nympho-jerk. But when I was trying to figure out which malaria medication to take today, I totally couldn't decide which one was Mr. Darcy and which one was Hugh Grant.

Yes, malaria is kind of a problem in the Eastern Cape, and up through Mozambique, which is where I'm going after I finish writing 13,000-or-so combined words for my history, English and film classes. And provided I finish my Afrikaans presentation on Oprah. So there are mainly three options to impede (and hopefully, well, stop) the spread of malaria:

1) Mefliam -- take 1 tablet/week from 1 week pre-departure to 4 weeks afterward.
PROS: Really cheap (R130)
CONS: Side effects include hallucinations, confusion, psychological trauma, nightmares.

2) Doxycycline -- take 1 tablet/day, from 2 days pre-departure to 4 weeks afterward.
PROS: Also cheap (~R150)
CONS: Sun sensitivity (if used too often, by people in malaria-prone areas, can lead to super-sensitive, thick skin. Yum), stomachaches, nausea.

3) Malanil -- 1 tablet/day, from 1 day before to 7 days after.
PROS: NO SIDE EFFECTS!
CONS: COSTS R800 (almost $100).

So, do I want to lead a trippy existence the duration of my trip and possibly be too confused to know what's going on, or do I just want to have constant nausea and sunburns, for a low monetary cost? OR do I want to shell out an inordinate sum of money (about one-fifth of the cost of the entire trip) for just this medication? It's a toughie.

Cinco de Mayo!

Hola! Andale! Si! Feliz Cinco de Mayo, everyone! As you can probably imagine, there is no place Cinco de Mayo-er than Stellenbosch, South Africa, where I have seen 0.00001 Mexicans so far. (I'm assuming at least one of the "coloureds" has some Mexican ancestry. It's plausible, right?) Here's some fun I have Mexi-planned for tonight, in honor of this special day:

1. Deciding on a topic for my modernism semester essay, due in one week. Considering this is the class with the professor who hates me, I should probably be worried, but I haven't even started the paper. Santa Anna would be proud.

2. Trivia night at the Irish pub. You Mexi-can, too! I might get the Gulliver's Travels question right, again, because apparently that's the only book the trivia writer's ever read. Si, amigo.

3. Cleaning my dorm. There's toilet/sink/bedroom cleaning to be done and, well... okay, I'm going to take the high road here and not make some menial labor joke. Because that would not be politically correct (which is, after all, the whole point of Cinco de Mayo).

4. Washing my clothes. (Where is Maria when you need her?)

Let me just say, I am 1/8 Hispanic. So I kind of have an "in", in case you were wondering, the same way members of the gay community have reclaimed "queer". Go out and spread the joy and love that is Cinco de Mayo, amigos! (Time for me to Wikipedia Cinco de Mayo.)

Politically-correct picture from http://www.shirtsnob.com/

Fat and exercise

I have no problem with my weight. What I have a problem with is my random storage of fat deposits that interfere with my Jessica Alba impersonations. Like Jess has neck fat or a tummy!

Anyway, in a last-ditch effort to whip my bod into shape I signed up for a Pilates class last semester. I didn't even know what Pilates was, other than that affluent white women were always talking about doing it, and honestly, that was really all I needed to know. I like dressing up like I'm going to work out, because it's like I'm on a mission. Further, I like to imagine (delusionally? Perhaps) that people are like, "wow? She's going to work out? I am just so completely impressed by how healthy she is. Maybe someday she and I will be BFFs... please, God?". You know what? That isn't a delusion. I know that's what people are thinking.

But yeah, that's where the fun ends. Because after you get all dolled up to go to the gym you actually have to... go to the gym. And though, in theory, I liked the idea of working out my abs, I didn't end up liking the whole, uh, working out part. Because -- and after years of being MIA from the playground and dodging high school phys. ed requirements by doing marching band (phew!) -- I think I never realized that exercise isn't nearly as fun as it looks when you're the one exercising. Moreover, Pilates is difficult. I mean, really hard. We had a weightlifter in that class, and his veins were always popping out of his neck in a really gross way, practically mocking me for trying to lose some of that derriere.

So, even though I nodded and smiled sweetly at the instructor when, at the end of the semester, she asked the class how many of us would do Pilates exercises regularly in the future (wow, I lie a LOT), I knew it wasn't going to happen. Just like wearing a hat or getting work done while baking cookies. Or Michael Cera not being typecast, again.

Unfortunately, the Ghost of Pilates Past has followed me here. After doing my physical therapy stretches religiously for about a week, I demonstrated "bird-dog", the first in my four-stretch series, for the therapist (note: I was not involved in the naming process. Because "bird-dog" would not have made it to the cutting-room floor, if I'd had my way. Lame!).

"Hmm," she said, pursing her lips. Not a good sign. "See... these exercises... you should be working really hard when you stretch, keeping a neutral spine," she explained.

Turns out I was doing it completely wrong. That's why it wasn't that painful. So I'm back to Pilates, doing ridiculous sit ups that should ideally strengthen my back. While working out my abs and thighs intensely. Argh. Looks like I have no choice but to get in shape. Help?

P.S. The pictures: my submissions for the Cold Mountain cover art contest (mountains at the Cape of Good Hope, Cape Town's Table Mountain during ascent to View Point) and a church in town.

As you were coming down from swine flu hysteria...

So, the Wine and Cheese Festival turns into much less of a party when you're lactose intolerant. Just fyi.

It occurred to me today that I'm going home in (a little less than) 1.5 months. Eek. I still need to go to Durban and Namibia! And a safari! And self-actualization! It's a little... stressful.

When we first got here, one of our orientation sessions was about culture shock. I forget what the graph looked like, but it went from "OMG culture shock" to "OMG I love it here" to "okay, I'm analyzing your culture more, and I sense there are some problems" to "OMG I can't go home I love it here too much". So I think I'm in the analytical-problem phase. Zuma aside, here are some aspects of South Africa that have been (dare I say it?) pissing me off lately.

1) Malls. We went to this super high-tech mall in Cape Town last weekend, the fanciest mall I've ever visited. It was like Vegas: lights everywhere, super fake marble interior, interactive map. But the thing is, while my bedroom might tell you a different story, I kind of like order in my life. It's why I love passing judgment on people's terrible life decisions and labeling others "idiots" within seconds of meeting them. It's nice to have some semblance of organization. And this isn't just limited to relationships: I like to have some order in places like shopping malls, where, without order, it would sort of suck. You know how there's this unspoken rule about which side of the walkway to walk on? And if you dare to walk the wrong way, you get trampled, like Simba's father in The Lion King, because everyone's all going in one direction? Yeah, not so in South Africa. People walk everywhere: on the left side, on the right side, on your face. I nearly had a nervous breakdown dodging all the corpulent shoppers and strollers. Strollers are the worst. Little kids think they're just entitled to everything.

2) Cavemen who live in my dorm. Okay, since I've bared it all (literally) in this blog (I'm writing in the nude right now), I see no reason to pretend I didn't come here expecting to meet the love of my life or something. After all, the South African lady I sat next to on the plane ride over here was just coming back from her daughter's wedding to some guy she met while studying in Spain. If any Olsen twins movie ever made is any indication, we all know that if a (heterosexual) girl goes on vacation, she'll soon befriend and mac on a (heterosexual) foreign male. And apart from the sweater-clad cute-o-saurus in my Hemingway class, the males here fail to impress.* They continue to run around yelling "luuuuuuuuugh" and "gaaaaaaaaaah" each afternoon in random intervals. And somehow, I'm not jumping to impregnate any of them.

*However, in light of recent events, I'm going to have to say that a) French boys have nice accents and are nice conversationalists; and b) some Dutch boys aren't so bad, either. Great. I come to South Africa and find the European boys the most intriguing. However, my standards of male hotness are shifting. Am I growing up?

3) Pizza. I miss real pizza. Star Pizza? The pizzas here lack flavor and good tomato sauce.

4) The accent. Like, I mean, I love it, but at the same time, is the pronunciation of one's R's enough to utterly confuse people here? I've adopted a faux S.A. accent to limit the amount of confusion that results when I say just about anything.

Actually, the Afrikaner South African accent is the easiest to understand; I find it really difficult to understand the Xhosa and Zulu speakers.

5) Lack of a car. At first, it was cute. "It's better to walk and explore the town on foot," I thought. "Think of all the calories I'll burn." Then it was slightly annoying, but there was a goal in mind. "Well, I'm getting leg muscles, for the first time in my life." I put up with lugging groceries home and sweating my face off (I hate sweating before noon; it just doesn't seem right somehow) because I had a goal. And maybe I've lost those leg muscles or something, because my legs don't look that impressive anymore. If I'm going to be a weakling, I want a car. I'm never taking it for granted again.

Also, they apparently have inspections here, but judging by some cars' emissions, I'm thinking they have tons of cars on the road here that would NEVER be allowed back home. Also, VW Bugs -- cute in theory, ugly and cramped inside. Not unlike some brown-haired, blue-eyed bloggers I know...

P.S. Pictures are of the Stellenbosch Museum's colonial Dutch houses. Sadly, they're much more plush than is my dorm room.

April is the cruelest month

I miss Hispanic people.

You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think

I've been thinking about the phrase "you can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can't take the trailer park out of the girl" today. Not because I'm from a trailer park, unless you call White Lake Hills -- a, like its name implies, mostly-white-middle-class residential development where the average age was 50 and after 7 p.m. almost all the residents had gone to sleep because that's what old people do -- a trailer park. Which you would not, because it was not. But in the gourmet-food sense, I'm trailer trash. I eat french fries with mayonnaise. I enjoy cheeseburgers. I've been known to eat a potato-chip-peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. I use just your average olive oil, nothing special. And today we went to the South African Cheese Festival, where I was shown, yet again, my gustatory limits.

Yes, an entire festival devoted to cheese. Has there been a better idea, ever? Nevermind the fact that I'm probably lactose intolerant, I enjoy dairy more than anything else in life. And nothing goes with cheese quite like wine. Or ice cream. Or biltong (the South African version of beef jerky, only better), in a variety of flavors: bees (the guy assured me it was "beef", but in Afrikaans), rhino, kudu, springbok, ostrich. Or chili-flavored chocolate. Or salami-flavored chocolate. Luckily for me (and all the South Africans with extremely warped tastebuds who actually like that stuff), these were all in abundance.

Also, let me just say, if my planned career fails to pan out, I might just become a chef. The uniforms are adorable, and I love watching Top Chef, if only to salivate at that pretty blond guy and the weird-yet-powerfully-appetizing dishes they put together. Mango-bacon sausage with parsley? Sign me up.

And, in between all the cheese stalls (call me old-fashioned, but I still love aged cheddar and edam the best) were wine stalls galore. For the price of admission, you could try literally hundreds of wines. Because I had a little wine tasting of my own in the dorm a few nights ago which ended rather badly, I wasn't quite in the mood to be pouring shiraz down my throat, but I took one for the team. (The team = me.) And though I was hoping to, as the semester progressed, become like Paul Giamatti's wine snob character in Sideways -- minus the huge eyes, scarily-receding hairline, annoying verbosity and getting the cute blonde at the end -- I still wouldn't be able to tell a Shiraz from a Pinotage if I met them in a dark alley. I do know pinotage = hermitage + pinot noir. (Note: if I'm wrong, forget I said that.) But I like red wine better than white, and I tend to gravitate toward the pinotage. And only wimps drink rose wine (sry, roommate). Plus, Vitamin C. And higher alcohol content than in beer and cider. Need I say more? Though, to be honest, the whole "hints of freshly-mowed grass" thing... I'm a little skeptical about that. Who's going to call b.s. on your palate?

At around noon, we sat in on a cooking class. Like The Food Network, only live! And this chef was saucy: she stuck her fingers in several men's mouths ("oh, taste this!") and overtly flirted with the middle-aged male audience members she selected to help cook the lamb. She was really obsessed with double entendres, good-quality olive oil, Moroccan spices and parsley. I really enjoyed the highly-inappropriate comments she made about the poor nerdy guy's attempt at rubbing the lamb shank with olive oil: "Oh, wow! Lucky you!" at the wife, while Mr. Glasses gently massaged the meat. Plus, she'd constantly refer to food products as "sexy", especially the apples, which were caramelizing quickly. It almost made me forget how she basically advertised herself the entire time: "This isn't just any sea salt. This is JENNY MORRIS sea salt!" as she handed another unsuspecting audience member his free gift.

And when the stuff was all cooked -- seven dishes in all, including a bread pudding with ricotta cheese, caramelized apples, raisins and honey that has got to be one of the tastiest things I've ever had, even though I'm really not a fan of bread pudding at all -- the audience hurried over, all 80 of them, to partake in what we'd been smelling for the past hour. I don't even enjoy red meat tremendously, but the lamb was seasoned deliciously (also, South Africans enjoy their meat practically still moo-ing; my middle name is "Medium-well, please", so it's been a bit of a learning process) and the cheese/tomato/olive dip was superb. I love the way gourmet cooking makes everything taste delicious, even the ugmo vegetables, like asparagus. I think it was the most delicious food I've had so far.

But the line, it seems, was drawn at some of the weirder goat cheese concoctions. I like goat cheese, but the more aged and sharper it gets, the less I like it. There was one version of particularly soft goat cheese with wine mixed in that was disgusting. Also, the chili pesto (is nothing sacred?) failed to impress. I swear, Afrikaners are obsessed with biltong and chili. And with invading others' personal space. I am so American.

To conclude: in six hours, I failed to get drunk, but I tried some excellent wines, cheeses and bread. It was a little warm and a lot crowded, but I wish I had more days where I could spend hours stuffing myself with delicious-and-slightly-unhealthy food with little to no consequences.

P.S. That's a cheetah in the picture, plus me creeping up on the unsuspecting feline (thus the shadow). Moments later, I had that thing in a headlock.