An African Thanksgiving

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Nothing makes you feel more American than living in another country. Which is perhaps why it was so important to me to celebrate Thanksgiving this year. That or the craving that started about a month ago for turkey and dressing and sweet potatoes and green bean casserole with those little crunchy onions on top…alas, I decided to take on the task of preparing a mini-Thanksgiving feast for Roger and myself.

But as usual, the wine got me into trouble. A few bottles with Gary and Laurel gave me the misguided confidence I needed to invite everyone to my house to celebrate “my” holiday.

At the time, I wasn’t considering the fact that my kitchen cabinets contain exactly one frying pan, one pot and one roasting pan. I own a single bowl and two wine glasses. Oh, and I come to discover that you can’t even get sweet potatoes here. Or cranberries. Not to mention, where was I gonna find a turkey?

What the hell was I thinking?
The question runs through my mind more than a few times as I scour the aisles of four different grocery stores. Yes, you heard me right – FOUR different stores. Memories of Kroger flash through my mind like a cheesy montage in a movie. Sigh. Apparently, this country has not yet heard of “one stop shopping.”

Wednesday night, Roger and I start the preparations. We spend most of the evening in the kitchen, but Roger makes everything fun. Thursday morning, however, I begin the serious stuff. Armed with the only knife I own, the chopping begins…and never seems to end. In fact, the only thing I’m doing more than chopping is washing. Yes, trust me when I tell you, you should not attempt to cook a big meal with a single knife and one bowl and one pan. I think I washed that bowl seventeen times. It won MVP of the meal prep. And it’s not even a very big bowl. I ended up mixing the stuffing together in the roasting pan.








Needless to say, my turkey did not look like this one.

I know, I know. I’m boring you with the details, but suffice it to say – cooking a Thanksgiving feast for eight is no easy task. And I’m sure you hadn’t noticed, but I tend to get a bit stressed about, well, everything. But when Laurel and the kids arrived, she promptly opened a bottle of champagne and suddenly I realized that everything was under control. I did it. Pretty much anyway. I set the food up buffet style and everyone piled their plates with food. We sat down to eat and with that first bite, the season of gluttony began.

Now, in the days leading up to Thanksgiving, I had numerous people ask me what Thanksgiving was all about. I had explained how the Pilgrims struggled upon their arrival in America and the Indians helped them through a hard winter and afterwards they all sat down together for a meal to give thanks that they had “made it.” This little blurb sounded about right. Wasn’t that what I had learned in school? Except it occurred to me that we celebrate Thanksgiving in November which was leading into winter so why would they be giving thanks before it even started? No one called me out on this (probably because in this hemisphere, November is the beginning of the summer), but when I realized the contradiction I immediately went to the internet to get to the bottom of it.

Turns out that yes, the Pilgrims had a rough first winter, but the Indians shared a few crop-planting secrets which resulted in a fabulous November harvest (assuring plenty of food for the coming winter). So they all sat down together to give thanks. It’s actually a really cool holiday, when you think about it. People putting aside their differences and helping each other out. The Pilgrims and the Indians probably weren’t giving thanks to the same God, but they weren’t worried about that. They were simply expressing thanks.

Laurel asked me to explain the significance of the day to Connor and Dale, which I did in far too much detail. I then asked everyone to go around the table and say something that they were thankful for. We were thankful for family, friends, health…the normal stuff mostly. Except my father-in-law, of course, who said he was thankful to be such a wonderful person. I said I was thankful that I didn’t burn the turkey…and that Roger didn’t say he was most thankful for his X-Box and Guitar Hero 2.

It was an excellent evening, if I do say so myself. We sat around the table for hours just talking and laughing and being together. We drank wine and ate turkey and then apple pie (Dale had seconds of course). While the sadness that I was not celebrating with the rest of my family in Washington DC was ever-present, it did not consume me. I looked around the table at one point and was comforted by the fact that I was still celebrating with family. A family very unlike my family in America, but they are my family nonetheless. And I am thankful for them. All of them. And it was nice to have an evening to tell them so.

So now I’m going to keep the sappiness going and tell you the same thing…
I am thankful for each of you.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!!

The Pollyanna of Parktown North

I’m afraid my post last week may have frightened a few of my loved ones, which was not my intention. So, Mom, I’m fine; I promise. And Jen, while I’d love to receive a plane ticket back home, I’m afraid Roger will be slightly upset if it’s not round trip. But don’t worry, guys! Joburg’s not that bad. And I’m pretty street smart, I think. Maybe not in the conventional way, but I’m careful. I listen to my instincts. I’m aware of the world around me. And I am a world traveler after all. I’ve lived in some of the world’s biggest cities. And hey – if you ever visited my home in East Atlanta, you know I can hold my own in a tough neighborhood.

And speaking of my former ‘hood – let me assure you that my current neighborhood is definitely a step up. To be honest, I was probably more likely to be shot on Flat Shoals than I am on Jan Smuts Ave! To prove my point – I certainly would never have gone out for a jog in East Atlanta, but here I go running four or five mornings a week. At first I only felt safe running in the park – and only if I brought Moose. But I quickly grew bored of the tiny park, and Moose quickly grew bored of jogging. So now I go jogging by myself – alone on the streets of Parktown North.

There aren’t many other joggers in my part of town, but that’s not to say there aren’t pedestrians. No, the streets are full of people walking to work – people who have taken the notorious "death taxis" into the city from the townships. These taxis usually unload on the main roads, and like clowns pouring out of a car at the circus, the passengers exit the taxis and disperse in the various directions of their employers. Yes, it is these people that I pass each day on my morning jog. I pass them on their way to the homes where they clean, or tend the garden, or cook. I pass them as they make their way to the cafes, shops and markets where they make a living. I don’t stop to chat, so I don’t know the details of their lives, but I do know this – they come to this nice neighborhood five, six, seven days a week, but they do not live here.

At first I was slightly afraid of my fellow pedestrians. After all, at six o’clock in the morning most of them weren’t looking particularly cheerful or kind. And no one ever smiles or says hello. Certainly not me. Here I am in the big bad city. Now is no time to talk to strangers, right?

As I jog, I used to consider what I would do if one of these people cornered me and tried to attack me – tried to take my pink iPod shuffle or my new Polar watch. Would I be able to describe them to the police later? I’ve always been amazed when a witness to a crime can describe the suspect’s appearance, and an artist can produce an accurate likeness. Would I be able to give such a description? Sometimes after I’ve passed someone, I will think about how I might describe them. Wide set eyes. Narrow jaw. Shiny skin. But this line of thinking is depressing. And didn’t I say that I refuse to be ruled by fear? So what if they look kinda grumpy? It’s six a.m. – who looks particularly perky at that time of the morning anyway?

So then I decided to change my approach. I decided to talk to strangers. Now, I say “Hello” and “Good morning” to everyone I pass, and magically, their faces transform. The sour expressions disappear into sparkling eyes and toothy grins and sometimes even a “Hello, Lovey!” (the elderly African woman’s favorite term of endearment). I’m not sure that they are genuinely pleased to say hello or if they feel they have to smile back at me. I don’t know, but it feels good to make a connection. In a world where racial tensions are high, I think it’s important that we acknowledge one another. To pass on the sidewalk without a word – well, it’s almost as if we’d rather pretend the other one didn’t exist. It’s as if we aren’t ready to see each other as friends, as equals – as if we aren’t ready to see each other at all. But to say hello…to smile and connect, if only for just a second – it feels good. It feels right.

But I’m not gonna get all self-righteous about it either. I’m no Pollyanna. There’s another reason that I smile and say hello. The way I see it, if I was a criminal looking to attack someone, I’d much rather hurt the girl who didn’t acknowledge my presence over the girl who smiled and made eye contact and said hello. Wouldn’t you? The theory hasn’t exactly been scientifically tested, but I’m going with it.

So I smile and say hello, but at the same time, I can’t help but feel slightly ashamed. After all, I’m jogging through the streets in a desperate attempt to burn off my culinary indulgences. They walk those same streets on their way to jobs where they will barely earn enough money to feed their families. They aren’t worried about the effects of last night’s fettuccini on their thighs. No, they are just hoping to have dinner on their table tonight. The irony is not lost on me, and yes, I feel ashamed. Not for being blessed with more than I need, but for not being grateful enough for it. I am ashamed for obsessing about something so trivial…for worrying about “too much,” when the real tragedy would be “not enough.”

Once again, I digress. But you can’t talk about crime without talking about poverty. There is a reason Joburg has so much crime – because there are so many people here going without. People trying to pay rent and feed families and buy clothes on about fifteen dollars a day – earned in homes where the ‘madam’ probably spends more on a pair of shoes than her maid earns in a month. Is it any wonder people resort to begging and stealing?

I realize that my thoughts on the subject are slightly naïve. I see enough senseless violence in the news every day to know that crime is not as simple as the needy taking what they need. And even if that were the case – it wouldn’t make it right.

But tonight I’ve rambled far too long already to start an analysis of the relationship between crime and poverty. Let’s just say I’m in the middle of an up close and personal lesson on the subject, so I’ll get back to you with my discoveries.

I’ll also get back to you on how my “Pollyanna” self-defense is going.
So far, so good.

"Be aware of the world around you."

I can still hear my father’s voice saying those words. “Be aware of the world around you, Little Girl.” Sure, usually when he said it, I was about to step in a fresh wad of chewing gum, but I think he had a broader lesson in mind. It’s a lesson I’ve thought about pretty often over the past seven months. Be aware of the world around you.

To me, those words mean a lot of things. Look out for chewing gum and dog poop, of course, but more importantly – know what’s going on around you. Don’t hide from it. Understand what’s happening and be ready for it. Don’t bury your head in the sand. Be alert. Be vigilant. Be smart. Be aware of the world around you.

The other night Roger and I went to the movies, and on our way back to the car, we passed a girl crying outside of an ATM with several police officers surrounding her. Of course I had been chattering mindlessly as usual and hadn’t noticed the somber situation. Once in the car, though, Roger asked me if I’d observed anything unusual.
Huh?
So much for being aware of the world around me. Roger reminded me that I must be careful when using an ATM, but he also stressed that I should try to be more aware of what is happening around me. Once again, I could hear my father’s voice and realized that twenty years later, I’m no more “aware” than I was when I was eight years old, about to put my foot in that chewing gum. Roger must have seen the fear in my eyes, because he then reassured me that I shouldn’t really worry about it because I would never be out by myself at night anyway. And he’s right. I don’t leave the house alone after dark. Funny huh? A girl who used to think nothing of a late night stop at the grocery store or walking through a parking lot at midnight. Now, if I volunteer to go pick up take-out for dinner, I am only ‘allowed’ to go if I take Moose in the car with me (him being so vicious and all…).

So yes, I’ve had to make some adjustments in order to survive in this city so notorious for its crime. I don’t go out alone after dark. I’ve learned to lock the doors as soon as I get in the car. I keep my purse underneath the driver’s seat so that no one can break a window as I sit at a red light and lift it from the passenger seat. I know to have the automatic gate key in my hand and ready to press the button before I turn into my driveway (most people get carjacked while sitting outside their own homes, waiting for the gate to open). I’ve gotten used to the fortress-like walls that surround every home, the electric fences, the barbed wire, the laser beams, the security guards patrolling the streets.

When I put it that way, it seems like Joburg is a scary place to live, and it can be. But fear is a little like an over-protective parent. It’s smart to listen to your parent’s advice, but you can’t let them make all your decisions for you. Likewise, I believe it’s important to listen to your fear. Pay attention to those hairs that stand up on the back of your neck, but you can’t let fear rule your life. And just as you’ve developed an understanding with your over-protective parents, you must learn to handle your relationship with fear.

Living in Joburg, it’s impossible not to be a little afraid, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. That fear keeps me alert. It makes me aware of my surroundings. It reminds me to be on the look out for danger. Then again, sometimes I think the real danger of living in this city is turning into the kind of person who sees a threat in every unfamiliar face. The kind of person who assumes the worst of every stranger. And while I’m afraid of becoming a victim, I’m terrified of becoming that kind of person.

So I will try to be cautious and “aware of the world around me,” but I will not allow fear to keep me locked inside my own little fortress. I refuse to live each day with the belief that every stranger is just waiting for an opportunity to hurt me. I won’t let this city take away my ability to see the good in people.

Of course, I suppose that’s easy for me to say – I’ve never been a victim.
And God willing, I never will be.

Home Invasion

I intended to sit down this afternoon and write a little essay documenting my profound observations about crime in Johannesburg. The question keeps coming up, and I’m never quite sure how to answer: Do I feel safe here in this city so notorious for its crime? So, I’ve been compiling my thoughts on the subject and I finally felt ready to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard).

My afternoon did not go as planned. Instead of a leisurely afternoon at the computer, I spent the past three hours trying desperately to rid my home of an invader. It’s true. But this was no burglar. This was a bird-lar. Yes, this afternoon, I came home to find a bird frantically flapping around my living room.

I should start by explaining that when the weather is nice in South Africa, everyone leaves their doors open. Wide open. Windows too. And screens? What’s that? Come on, you’re in Africa! We are one with nature here. Bugs? Who cares? And what’s a little dust and dirt when you have a maid to clean it up?

So I leave my doors open. After all, I’m in Africa. This is how we live, right? I try not to freak out about the daddy-long-leg spider crawling across my floor or the mosquito buzzing in my ear at night. It’s just a part of life here. So slather on some mosquito repellent, and sweet dreams, good night.

These birds though…

Eventually the bird invader calms down and finds a comfortable spot to hang out in the rafters. I’m staring up at the offending creature, trying to figure out the best course of action when this bird…this BIRD decides that now would be a good time to empty its bowels.

You have got to be kidding me, right? I watch in horror as he let’s another dropping fall and the reality that a bird is pooping all over my living room sets in. I can feel the heat radiating from my face. I feel nauseous. I think my head might explode. I stomp my foot. I clench my fists. I open my mouth but have no control over the shocking words coming out of it.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU @#$%&*!

Perhaps now is a good time to mention the mulberry bush. Yes, we have a mulberry bush. You know – the kind that produces that nice blackish purple fruit? Well, the birds love that damn fruit. And guess what it does to their droppings? Yes. Big drops of blackish purple gunk. Scattered across my living room floor. I’m certain this bird has diarrhea.

“YOU LITTLE @*%&, GET OOOUTTTTTT!”

The bird does not seem at all offended by my obscenities. I run to the kitchen for a mop and proceed to jump up and down (still screaming obscenities), thrusting the head of the mop at the bird. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to achieve with this maneuver, but I only manage to scare the bird even higher into the rafters. And now he’s perched right above my couch.

“OH NO YOU DID-ENT!!”

I manage to push my couch across the room while still shaking the mop. I’m starting to sweat. I’m hating this bird like I have never hated any living creature, and I feel the need to tell it so.

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!”

But maybe this is the wrong approach. I’m clearly scaring it higher when I need to be luring it down. I run back to the kitchen for a piece of bread. I’m breaking off bits of bread and tossing them at the bird, but the stupid bird doesn’t even notice. Moose however, thinks this is great fun, but I don’t have the energy to scold my dog for eating the bread. I’m too busy hurling chunks of bread at the bird. I’m no longer sure if I’m trying to feed it or hit it. Hmm. I’d rather hit it.

I decide I need a ladder. If I can reach it, I’ll use my mop to beat that little @#$% senseless.

Okay, let’s pause for a moment. I know what you are thinking. Who is this person? What kind of girl would want to kill a helpless creature who just happened to have wandered where it shouldn’t after overindulging in a few mulberries? You’re completely right – that girl is crazy! Surely that mop-waiving, swearing psycho is not me.

As I run to the garage in search of a ladder, I have a minor out of body experience. The Real Me is watching Crazy Me and thinking that I should simply go to the main house and ask Roger to come help me rid our house of this invader. But Crazy Me suddenly has a desperate need to prove that she is strong and independent and fully capable of rescuing her living room from a purple-pooping bird all by herself. Crazy Me takes the ladder back to the living room.

But eventually, Roger comes back to find me in my swearing and screaming and mop-waiving state. And of course he does the only thing that could piss me off more than another mulberry-dropping. He laughs. I turn my attention away from the purple-pooping bird and decide my efforts are better spent beating my husband senseless with the mop.

“IT’S NOT FUNNY!”

“It’s kinda funny.”

“ARRRGGGGHHH!!!!”

I can’t even form words anymore. Who knew I had all this rage inside me? I haven’t thrown a tantrum like this sense I was three years old.

Roger gets a broom and climbs the ladder. He extends the handle of the broom towards the bird as if he’s Snow White and this damn bird is going to flitter over and perch on his broomstick. Right. I tell Roger he is an idiot. Roger does not appreciate my thoughts on the subject.

Eventually, we team up and chase the bird around the living room, banging on the rafters with our broom and mop every time the offending creature tries to land. After a good fifteen minutes of this ridiculous routine, the bird is as exhausted as we are and flutters down to the floor where it suddenly sees the light and makes its way to the open door.

“And STAY out!” I scream as I attempt to slam the sliding door shut. But the thrill of victory is short-lived. I look around my living room and see the many purple presents the bird has left behind. My living room looks like a Jackson Pollack. Seriously. There are even a few drips on the wall.

I take a deep breath and look at Roger who is trying very hard not to laugh. I’m trying very hard to resist the urge to punch him in the nose. But I control myself. Instead, I take my mop and use it for the purpose it was intended.

So how do I feel about crime in Johannesburg? We’ll get to that some other time I guess. However, if a burglar ever does get into my house, he better watch out for me and my mop.