Blogapalooza: The Curse

Isn't the blogosphere fabulous? Just when I was feeling like my social life was a bit sad, I've been invited to a party! And you're invited too. In the spirit of Halloween, travel writer Angela Knickerson of the blog Just Go! is encouraging her readers to share their scary or strange journeys at a blogapalooza party. So after you read my scary and strange tale, check out Just Go! where you can link to the other party participants. Just be sure to have nice manners and leave a comment when you read something you like. Happy Halloween! (photo courtesy of eraut on flickr)

The Curse
It was a dark and stormy night…in a far and distant land…one man wakes from his bed and bravely opens the door of his tent. But with his first step into the desert, he leaps backwards. His foot has landed in something slimy. Something squishy. Something…pink? He leans toward the mysterious item. Using the toe of his shoe, he flicks the offending object out of the path. Still unable to make out what it could be, he takes a lighter from his pocket and creeps towards it. The small flame gives just enough light to make out the mysterious blob and confirm his worst fears. It is…a raw chicken breast. There is no escaping it now. The group of travelers has fallen under the Curse of the Raw Chicken Breast.

If you’re a regular reader, you already know that my journey through India was both spectacular and strange. The cows, the Eastern toilets, the high-viz massage, the locals…but strangest of all was this Curse of the Raw Chicken Breast. It appeared outside of our tents in the middle of the night, only to be discovered by my brother-in-law in the wee hours of the morning. Overwhelmed with fear and confusion, the four of us debated what it meant for us. Why had we been singled out with this strange curse? And what ill fortune would it bring? We spent the remainder of our journey inquiring of the locals as to what it meant – to have a raw chicken breast lain at your doorstep. But of course, they feigned ignorance, pretending the question was odd. One taxi driver even laughed it off, mumbling that Americans had quite the imagination…but we weren’t fooled. They were clearly conspiring against us, but we knew we’d been cursed.

Once home, I continued to research what the mysterious chicken breast could symbolize. A google search turned up nothing, but I persevered, researching Eastern legends and folklore only to come up without answers. I became obsessed by the curse, suddenly seeing the raw chicken breast as the possible reason for everything going wrong in my life – from an unsightly zit to a traffic fine! It was at this point I realized that perhaps the very point of the curse was to drive the cursed one mad with suspicion and curiosity!

So now I put it to you, my readers. Give it to me straight…what do you know about the Curse of the Raw Chicken Breast? Use whatever means available to you (if only your imagination) but give me some answers!

Alison in Africa

After ten days of gallivanting around South Africa with two of my favorite people, I'm happy to report that despite my frequent whining, I still love this country. Spotting giraffe in the bushveld, tasting South African wines at the vineyards, experiencing Table Mountain, seeing where the Indian Ocean meets the Atlantic...there is much to take your breath away in South Africa.

Of course, even had we not been surrounded by incredible beauty, I have no doubt that Alison, Roger and I would have still had a blast together. The three of us could've spent all our time in Soweto playing Gin Rummy and still have had the Best Week Ever.

Now I don't want to go on and on and make you too jealous, but of course I have to share a few pictures, you know, just so you don't feel left out.

Here we are in "the bush."

And before we get to the Cape Town pics, a quick anecdote.

So, we drove back from the game reserve on Monday afternoon, and Roger dropped Alison and I off at the African Craft Market on our way back into town. Roger told us to call him when we wanted to be picked up; he was headed back to the house for a short reprieve from all the estrogen.

Of course, while we're shopping, the power goes out. Typical. We abandon the souvenir shopping for a quick lunch at an outdoor cafe - ordering one of the few items on the menu that the kitchen can make without electricity.

"It's just like you said on your blog!" Alison says as we make our way back through the dark mall to the place where Roger will pick us up. "Robyn doesn't lie," I say, shaking my head with a smile. (Why I'm speaking in the third person I'm not sure.)

Oh, but wait...because this isn't the only time Alison will utter that sentence today.

We get back to the house to discover the Laundry Nazi has struck. Alison is amazed to discover that the M-I-L has ransacked her suitcase to liberate the dirty laundry. Now, of course she was trying to be helpful (even I can see that), but when Alison inquired if it would be acceptable for her to go upstairs and rescue a few items from the drier, I had to answer honestly. Hmmm. How did I put it? Oh yes, it was something like: "Alison, you're my BFF and I'd do anything for you...but nobody interferes with the Laundry Nazi."

"Wow," Alison said for the second time that day, "It's just like in your blog!"

See? Robyn doesn't lie.

Now, onto the Cape Town pics...




















Alison climbing up to Cape Point.















At the Simonseg wine farm.













Too much wine, perhaps?















Silliness on Table Mountain...must be something in the air up there.




























Overlooking Franschoek.

Beautiful! Gorgeous! Wish you were here...
And now you practically were.

Welcome Alison!

Eighteen hours is a helluva long time to be in a plane. Trust me, I know this all too well. I also know that the financial cost of spending those eighteen hours in a plane,well, it ain’t cheap. That’s why I haven’t been too upset by the fact that I’ve been here in South Africa for nineteen months and haven’t had any American visitors…until now, that is. That’s right; Roger and I are welcoming our first American guest today. I’m headed to the airport in just a few hours and will be ready and waiting with a big obnoxious sign that reads “Welcome Alison!!!!”

It’s no surprise that Alison is my first guest. In the fifteen years I’ve known her, she’s never turned down an opportunity for adventure. And coincidentally, our adventures have often run parallel. From her road trips to Nashville to visit me at Vandy, to travelling through Europe together, to our shared summer in New York, and of course, when my semester in England was winding down, it was Alison who suggested I extend my stay and meet her in London for the summer (where I subsequently met the impossibly charming boy who would become my husband). Yes, Alison is always up for an adventure. In fact, after her graduation from the University of Georgia, she bravely moved up to Boston where she didn’t know a soul. She decided it would be a cool place to live, so why not? (She soon discovered that it was indeed cool. In fact, so cool it was cold. Freezing actually. Then she came home.) Alison embraces life in a way that inspires everyone around her. That’s not to say she doesn’t stress and worry and take forever to make decisions, but in the end, she chooses adventure every time. And I love that about her.

I’m absolutely thrilled to show Alison my world. Tomorrow we leave for the Wild and Free Game Reserve where we will hang out with the animals for three days. After that, it’s back to Joburg for a night before leaving for Cape Town where we will see Cape Point and Table Mountain and Robben island and of course spend a day in Stellenbosch touring the wine farms. What could be better than that?

So, I’ll be out of action for a week or so. Then again, perhaps I’ll check in once or twice and post a few photos…just to make you jealous of course.

B*tch

Okay. I tried to be someone else for awhile, but it just doesn’t work for me. As hard as I try not to, I can’t help but obsess about who I am and why I am the way I am. And I’m currently obsessed by the nagging fear that I’ve become a bitch.

I know, right?

I mean, I’m a nice girl! People like me! I like people! But not anymore it seems. Now, I only speak when spoken to, and sometimes I don’t even do that. I find myself looking past the people who approach me. Ignoring their requests for help. Brushing them off with an insincere “sorry” or “no thanks.” I don’t even recognize the person I’ve become. She’s an uncaring, unfeeling monster!!!

I don’t mean to be. And I certainly don’t want to be. I blame, at least in part, the fact that I still have a problem understanding the South African accents. I do okay when people speak slowly and e-nun-ci-ate, but really, how often does that happen? And I struggle even more with people whose first language isn’t English but Afrikaans or Xhosa or Zulu. Most of them have a good understanding of English and someone who’s used to the accent can probably understand them just fine, but me, half the time I don’t even recognize that it's English they’re speaking!

I ask them to repeat themselves; I really do try to understand, but how many times can you politely say “Sorry?” and “Excuse me?” and “Would you mind saying that again?” before moving onto a frustrated “What?” and “Huh?” before you just give up? I don’t know! But somewhere in the past eighteen months I have – given up, that is. Because I no longer ask people to repeat themselves I simply say “Sorry” and move on…

A few months ago I was at the mall with Roger and a man approached me. Now, Roger and I always hold hands at the mall – because we luv each other – but also to avoid losing each other in crowds. See, with Roger’s ridiculously long legs and my well, um, not so long legs we tend to get separated if not attached. So we hold hands, but Roger still has a tendency to stay three steps ahead of me, dragging me along behind him like a willful two year-old. (So rude, right?)

I say all this so you know that Roger barely noticed when the man approached me at the mall. Roger was practically in the parking lot and I was still in the lobby when a confused man approached me to say…something. I couldn’t understand him. And as I bounced back to Roger’s side (the man stalled me for a moment, causing me to rebound like a rubber-band back to my husband) I said to him, frustrated, “He needs help, I think!”

Roger read the concern on my face and looked back. I explained that I couldn’t understand what the man was saying but thought perhaps he was lost or needed some other kind of assistance. Roger left me standing there as he went back to the man I’d pointed out. I watched the interaction from the doorway. Roger says something. The man says something. Roger shakes his head and marches back to me, rolling his eyes.

“He just wanted money,” he explains as he takes my hand once more.
“Oh,” I say, feeling kind of silly. “I thought maybe he was lost and I was being rude.”
“I know,” Roger sighs. “But you weren’t.”
“But I might have been.”
“Not likely.”

He’s right. It’s not likely. In fact, most times in this country if one stranger approaches another it’s either to beg for money or pester you to buy some useless piece of crap that they’re selling. That’s why I’ve taken to saying “Sorry,” or “No thanks,” whenever I’m approached. Even if I don’t understand the question. It’s just my instinctual response.

But it makes me sad…and it just doesn’t seem right.

Last week I was running in the neighborhood, and I spotted two men up ahead, standing on the corner by a parked truck. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I have a vision of me being shoved into the back of the truck, kicking and screaming. I wonder how long it will take Roger to realize I've been kidnapped, then I think about how sad he will be without me. Despite all this, I keep running, and just as I feared, the man steps into my path, motioning for me to stop. He's saying something but I can't hear/understand him, so I give my standard “Sorry!” followed by a ridiculous, “I’m…uh…busy!” as I run off.

I continue down the street, relieved by my narrow escape, when I start to process the scene in my memory. The man was holding a slip of paper, and only in retrospect do I suspect that it probably contained an address...for a delivery perhaps? It’s likely that the men were just lost and needed some directions. I should have stopped. What kind of person am I? Why didn’t I just stop? I briefly consider turning back but feel too silly about the whole thing. Plus, in all honesty, there are no street signs around here so while I know the area well, I’d have no idea how to give directions. I keep running.

Now in that instance, accents had nothing to do with it. It’s my newly ingrained fear of strangers that prevailed. And maybe, maybe, that’s not such a bad thing. I don’t know. But I don’t like how it makes me feel about myself. I used to be quite the Pollyanna. Interested in meeting new people, fascinated by the quirks of strangers, eager to offer help to someone in need…but not anymore. Now I feel like a hermit. Unable to communicate with new people and too scared to try. Silly, huh? Is this something that happens to everyone with age, or is this a result of living in a foreign country?

I don’t know. But I miss the old me. Hopefully, she’s still in there somewhere, and I’m making a conscious effort to find her.

Happy Ending

Believe it or not, I try not to use this blog to complain too much about my life here in South Africa. But every good story requires conflict, and I am trying to keep you ‘turning the pages,’ so to speak. That being said, you probably hear a bit more of the negative than is really accurate. So I think it’s only fair to tell you, for the most part, life is good.

Monday after work Roger and I met up with some friends at a neighborhood café. We find a big table outside and order cocktails. Raspberry mojitos. Gin and tonics. Martinis.

“Man, Robyn what’s going on in that country of yours?" someone says. "Thanks to you guys, the JSE (Johannesburg Stock Exchange) is down 30%!”

“It’s scary, huh?” I reply, knowing better than to launch a debate regarding the sensitive subject of what’s happening and why.

“Yeah, times are tough,” someone else chimes in as the waitress delivers our drinks. We wait for her to leave before Roger starts to snicker. The rest of us join in, laughing at the irony.

“Yeah, here we are on a Monday, having cocktails on the patio and ‘times are tough’,” Roger says, pointing out the obvious.

We all continue to laugh, but it feels a bit ominous, like the opening scenes of Cinderella Man, where you see how comfortable everyone was before things got bad.

I’m quite content here in this opening sequence. In fact, I think I’d like to spend a little more time in Act One. But as I mentioned earlier, every story requires conflict, and the first act closes with an event to begin the protagonist’s battle. Then, in Act Two, the hero experiences a crisis followed by an indefinite series of ‘struggles.’

So…what struggles lie ahead? That’s the question of the day, right? How much worse can it get? And how quickly can we get through it? I don’t know about you, but I think I’d like to skip most of Act Two and jump directly to the protagonist’s epiphany, when the hero realizes the need for change, changes, and proceeds to live happily ever after.

Of course, real life doesn’t follow a plot template. Then again, each of us plays the hero in our own life story, and it’s comforting to think that no matter what lies ahead, our story will end with a Happily Ever After. So - in the spirit of the story - as protagonists, I think we have to ask ourselves, what change are we fighting? What can we learn from our struggle? When will we realize the need for change?

Now I’ve promised not to talk politics, and that’s not what I’m doing here. I’m not talking about “Change” in the campaign slogan sense of the word. I’m talking about personal change. Because, just like the characters in our storybooks, each of us has a Flaw and we’re all resisting Change, even when it’s for the better.

Personally, I think I’m still struggling with the “take-my-blessings-for-granted” flaw. I certainly hope it doesn’t take losing everything to learn my lesson, but if this were a real story, that’s probably how I’d write it. So I suppose I should be thankful that my life isn’t a novel, and hopefully, I won’t have to experience the drama of Act Two in order to become a better, more appreciative person in Act Three.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, while I’m scared of what lies ahead, I’m intrigued too. Whatever it is, I feel confident that we will get through it, but I’m on the edge of my seat to see exactly how it plays out…

Geography Lesson

Alright, so I’ve been checking youtube weekly in the hopes that I could find a certain Steers commercial to share with you, but it’s hopeless. Roger says it’s because we’re just getting high-def and digital television here, so it’s not as easy to transfer stuff from television to the internet. So while I was able to find this little gem, no one has managed to post the one I was looking for. That’s why, instead of showing you this perfect example of how Americans are perceived abroad, I’m utilizing my writing skills to describe it.

Here goes:

Two red-neck looking men stand in a crowd watching a car race. They speak in really, really bad American accents. (The first time I saw it, I had to confirm with Roger that they were trying to sound American – it’s that bad.) They’re talking about the new “Biltong Burger” from Steers, a chain fast-food restaurant here in South Africa. Now, biltong is kind of like beef jerky, but seriously, so much better. I know, it sounds gross and girls aren’t supposed to like things like beef jerky, but it’s not and I do. I’m not sure how it would taste on a burger, but probably pretty good.

But I digress.

The two American rednecks go on to discuss that Steers is giving away a trip to the 2009 Indy 500. Very exciting. Then we flash to an image of a tasty biltong burger while an announcer tells you to buy the burger and win the contest (or something to that effect). We flash back to our rednecks in the crowd. And here is (the gist of) what they say:

Redneck 1: So, what’s biltong anyway?
Redneck2: I dunno.
Redneck1: And where’s South Africa?
Redneck2: I dunno…somewhere in Mexico, I think.

ARRGH!!!!

I know. It’s best just to laugh. And I would, if it wasn’t so typical of how Americans are perceived. But stereotypes exist for a reason, and I guess we’ve earned it. So, do me a favor and get out the map, will you? And I’m going to do the same. Obviously, I know where South Africa is, but I’m not exactly great with geography. I mean, I know Pakistan doesn’t border Iraq (sorry, couldn't resist!), but I could still brush up on a thing or two. We all could, and maybe then I could put together a better defense when confronted with such slanderous advertising!

On the other hand, I doubt many South Africans could pick out Illinois or Mississippi on a map, or list the capitals of all the countries of Europe (something Mrs. Burnett taught me in the sixth grade and most of which I still remember!). So, please don't get me wrong, I'm not saying we as Americans deserve to be singled out in this way, but like it or not, we have been, and I'd like to do everything in my power to prove the whole stereotype wrong.

Are you with me?

NOT playing at a theatre near you.

I love movies. And not just the movies themselves, but the whole movie going experience. I think it appeals to the side of me that secretly despises multi-tasking. After all, the dark theatre allows for no distractions (apart from the popcorn and M&M’s and gynormous Coke Light, obviously). I love it. In fact, many times, it doesn’t even matter if anything good is playing, I still want to go (especially here in South Africa, where a ticket is only sixteen Rand – that’s about two bucks).

So I go to a lot of movies. Enough to see the same commercials and previews over and over again. But that's to be expected when you go to the movies as much as I do. However, over the past four, maybe five, months I have seen one preview in particular enough to make me want to gouge out my eyeballs with the straw of my Coke Light.

It’s Hansie. And I hate him.

What’s that, you say? You’ve never heard of Hansie? I’m shocked. I thought for sure this movie would be an international blockbuster, rivalling Ironman and Harry Potter for certain.

No?

Oh, what a sheltered life you lead, so let me fill you in on what you’re missing. After all, I’m quite the Hansie expert, having seen the seemingly endless preview seven gajillion times.

Hansie was the captain of the South African cricket team in the years following apartheid. The preview makes it look like he was some kind of national hero, the golden boy leading the cricket team to greatness…that is, until he took thirty thousand US dollars to ‘throw’ an important match. That’s right; Hansie sold his soul to the devil for thirty grand. Doesn’t seem like a very clever hero to me. Anyway, the preview shows Hansie crying and apologizing to the country and the country shunning him, but then he dies (the preview doesn’t specify how…I think an airplane?) and his wife is crying and telling the country that he was “still Hansie” even though what he did was bad. It doesn’t say if the country forgives him or not.
I don’t really care.


Yes, I got all of this from a very long, very melodramatic preview, but a preview nonetheless.





Okay, I could write a whole other rant about previews that give too much away, but this one…this one is ridiculous. I guess it doesn't matter though, because every South African already knows the whole pathetic story anyway. And now, I too know way more than I ever wanted to about Hansie. So why would I need to see the film? There isn’t enough popcorn on the planet to make me sit through it. In fact, the mere sight of the movie poster makes me throw up a little bit in my mouth.

Yes, I realize my reaction is a bit extreme and perhaps irrational, but I’m not going to read too much into it. I’m not going to suggest that perhaps I’m directing my occasional frustration with living here in South Africa on a poor dead sports star. That would just be silly. And anyway, this isn’t that kind of post. No, this information is simply meant to broaden your knowledge of the international film circuit and perhaps impart a little South African sports trivia.

But if you want to share in my torment, you too can watch the trailer on the official Hansie Movie website. ARRGH!!!!