I feel like I'm just treading water

Not Waving but Drowning
BY STEVIE SMITH 1902–1971

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Do the hard times come to a screeching halt at some point? Do things start making sense and all of a sudden you know, you just know, what it is you are doing?

These are restless nights, man. And not just for me. I am not restless in isolation. All around me there is fear mongering towards a generation so unsure of ourselves that we are deer in the headlights, unable to move in any direction even when we know the fucking 18-wheeler is barreling down the highway at top speed and won't stop to spare us. From all sides come the nagging questions about what our plans are, what we intend on doing with our lives, whilst at the same time being told that there are no jobs, that by the time we retire the retirement fund will be empty, global warming will have killed off all the polar bears, China will take over and disasters upon disasters upon disasters will happen. And this is not even considering the small catastrophes that happen at 4 PM on an ordinary Wednesday, the ones where the unthinkable occurs to the ones we love. 

So I am in a constant state of panic about not being able to manage it all, about unsuccessfully multitasking, about where to come 2016. For now there is a plan, for the next 6 months there are barely hours left to breathe. But come 2016, the Fates are reinventing my wheel for what feels like the umpteenth time. 

Logic and experience tell me it will be ok. Everything will be ok. You can't plan this, you have to leave some things in the hands of whatever comes next. Logic and experience tell me I can handle all of it. But still. At times I wish I was made of lesser stuff, that I needed someone besides myself to tell me it will all be ok, that I could remain in one place for the sake of one person, that life within boundaries would be my choice. Instead, an anxiety about wanting more than walls and 9-to-5s and a daily dullness challenges the fear I have of being much too far out all my life and not waving but drowning.

I couldn't want you anyway

Almost every Tuesday the nameless Zimbabwean would come to deliver the free weekly paper. I'd make him a sandwich, grab some fruit, and come out to hand him the food in between the bars of the enormous black gate. Me in the prison of my own home, handing him what probably amounted to the only sure meal of the day.

In light of the recent wave of xenophobic attacks I wonder what has become of him. Moreover, what has become of us. What have we as a people chosen to be, in this situation? When do other people cease to be people? When does one think it is within your right to take two Ethiopians, lock them into a container, and burn the container down? How can any person not see another as sister, brother, mother, father, as someone worthy of life? This I cannot understand. 

In 2008, when the first wave of xenophobic attacks happened, I was also safely far away. I was a foreigner in a foreign country, deserving of necklacing simply for existing there if one follows the logic of the perpetrators. Now, again, I am far away, a foreigner in a country I happen to have a passport for. 

This hatred for another, an Other one does not know, is overwhelming. At this hour, the personal, the political and the public fuse into an aching in the night for something to be better, at least for a moment. In South Africa, locals are murdering foreigners just for being foreign. In the Mediterranean, 800 people escaping their home countries in the hope of a better life elsewhere capsize and die. In Johannesburg, my friend worries because her insurance will not cover a treatment she needs. In Switzerland, after a glimmer of hope another friend has had unnecessary complexities added to her life. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, my mother is dealing with her own mother, forgetful, demanding and impatient at 86. My sister is ill and we are talking past one another, if at all. I worry about having saddled myself with too much, about the work interfering with the thesis, but depending on the money earned for survival nonetheless. I worry about what will happen come September 1 2015. I worry what will come next. 

In this light, in this hour, darkness drowns out the light, causing negative epiphanies. Everyone worries mostly about themselves, perhaps it is time that I follow suit. I am reminded of the Steinberg article about how things don't matter enough here, because the everyday is not tinted with the presence of danger and risk in most of the things we do. If I don't finish the thesis in time, I can get an extension. If the move to wherever doesn't pan out, fuck it, I'll stay another month. There are back-up plans in place for everything. 

But perhaps it is exactly this sense of things mattering that am desperately looking for again. Making that sandwich mattered. Giving mattered. Today an acquaintance asked if I could organise some bread for him (I work at a bakery) and although I was not working today, I gave him the contents of our freezer (which amounted to 3 loaves, 15 rolls and some scones) for an impeding trip. I enjoy giving without consequence, I enjoy being able to help. But this, this was strange. This felt strange. This was not a sandwich. This did not matter, because although here I might know his name, this person is flesh not friend and the bag of bread an empty gesture. 

Unless

There is something about the courage of others that makes us extremely nervous. It calls into question every safe decision we’ve ever made, and forces us to ask what we’re really protecting when we do things in the most comfortable way possible. [...]

 The biggest regrets we have [...] are the decisions we don’t make because we think we’re guaranteed something. We choose college because we think we’re guaranteed a job. We choose staying home because we think not traveling guarantees more money. We choose not leaving our hometown because we think it guarantees us friends and comfort. We choose to stay in unfulfilling relationships because we think it guarantees we will never be alone. [...]

And then we are confronted with the reality that none of this was ever guaranteed, and we only gave up on the thrill of our dreams because we were too afraid to see what else was possible. We convinced ourselves that we were investing in something, when all we were doing was excusing our cowardice.

in The Things You Will Always Regret If You Don't Do Them by Charlotte Green

I was thinking about having to save money, about it being too great a risk, about not being able to do it on my own. Then I spoke to my friend for a long time and, as always, she had the answers. Or rather, she knew how to ask the right questions. I went online and proceeded to book the ticket to London for 4 days. Because why not. Because I shouldn't fear my own capacity to discover what is new. Because that is why I left home, after all. Not to study at some silly hippy university that can't provide paper to its students during exams and doesn't even have a remotely decent library. Not to get into student debt for the first time in my life. Not to miss my people so very much. No. I left to see the new.

And now my attempt at adventure has been foiled by a tiny fact: lack of a credit card. Should I not be rewarded for my wanting to pay it all by debit? Hah. No. Anyways. New plan. New destination. Kopenhagen can be reached by train. And the Bahn accepts my card. Always onward, tilting at inner windmills.

Powerless

It was about 10 PM. The man walked across the street, wearing a black coat and carrying a small plastic bag in his right hand. I noticed him because no one walks here at night. Darkness threatens safety more than anything you could actually see.

Within the broad category of horror films there is a sub-genre focusing on home invasions. Think of films such as Panic Room, Funny Games, The Strangers or Inside, which share the common theme of someone inside being threatened by something/someone outside. Now, for most people this remains merely a type of horror movie, something to watch and then to forget.

Sadly, in South Africa home invasions are a very possible threat, with escalating violence attached to mere break-ins in recent years. I will not pretend to be an expert on the underlying social issues of the country, on whether race plays a role (or the size of the role) and on the occurrence and effect of home invasions in other countries. But I live in a house with two laser beams in the garden, an electric fence, an enormous black gate, slam-lock doors inside the house, burglar bars in front of all windows/doors and more keys than I have fingers.

And this is not because we bury ourselves underneath some irrational fear of everything outside of our walls. It is because I can't remember how many times people have broken into our house; it is because we have a community watch where people have radios and drive patrol through the neighbourhood because the police have proved incompetent at best; it is because 4 men where in our house and assured me they wouldn't rape me; it is because at night we treat traffic lights like yield signs; ultimately, it is because once the fear has taken hold it grows like a cancer and there is no cure in sight.

It shouldn't be strange for someone to walk home at night. I shouldn't always have think about keeping a good distance from other cars when I am stopping at a robot just in case I get smash-and-grabbed and need to escape. We shouldn't have to patrol our neighbourhood. The one should not be afraid of all that is other.

Yet I don't see anything changing soon, especially if the Rand keeps weakening, poverty keeps increasing, people cling to mistrust and the rainbow nation focuses more on sticking to its individual colours than to creating a beautiful whole. Sure, things are changing, we keep evolving as a young democracy, but it always seems to me as though the population is out in the wilderness somewhere, searching for a better life for all, whilst the politicians are like monkeys in a cage, throwing shit at one another.

I'll be moving to Germany soon, not to become some expat who keeps assuring everyone that 'leaving was the best thing I ever did' but who still clings to past illusions of this country. Rather, I am going to continue my studies, with no further plans. But it will be interesting to live in less fear. Here, I often hear myself saying: this is the way it is, so we live with it. This is not the way it should be. We are immensely privileged to live in such a diverse country, where both the nature and the people are astounding, and no one should be struggling this much for basic health services, basic education, basically feeling safe.

Walk it off.

It was not like touching another living thing. Snakes, dogs, cats, lovebirds, horses, sheep, cows, humans, everything that breathed still somehow conveyed its being-alive-ness. I mean, Jesus, that snake-touching was no fun because it was a 3m python, but still, through the clammy coldness it was alive and, well, it could (try to) eat me.

Not the elephant though. The elephant felt strangely like touching a stuffed museum exhibit. Her skin was harder than I had expected, seemingly impenetrable, with bristles sticking out and a layer of mud caked on. I knew she was observing me, and feeling me sort of man-handling her stomach, the bottom of her back foot, the hairs at the end of her tail and the patch of skin behind her eye with some kind of special gland in it (I wasn't listening as intently as I should have to the elephant handlers). It was as though I was playing every part in the parable of the blind men and the elephant, except that I knew I was touching an elephant.

Only upon touching the back of her ear did it feel less like interacting with a 7t dirty rock and more like she could crush me whenever she felt like it. I felt an interesting contradiction between fascinatedly touching something so big and powerful, but at the same time so silent and vulnerable. All the elephants at the sanctuary near Hartebeespoort are orphans. Their families had been culled because of overpopulation in the Kruger National Park, and they were the only ones that could be relocated. So aside from the threat of crocodiles mauling their trunks, predators attacking them and humans killing them for their ivory, the elephant is on the endangered species list because it needs space to survive, and we are encroaching on its habitat.

It was a bit sad to have to resort to making an interaction with elephants all about taking photographs. On the tour one hears almost everything one can about the loxodonta africana. Then one proceeds to feed them handfuls of pellets, after which one enters one by one to pat the elephant down and pose for a photograph. At the end one walks around an enclosure, with the elephant's trunk in hand.

The entire visit was very cool to experience, but it also felt a bit rehearsed, as though we were at Disneyland queueing to go on a ride. Here we were just queueing to touch something frightening and beautiful. For instance, for the trunk-in-hand walk, I know the elephant did not want me to hold his trunk (I was walking with a different one than Ms. Elephant) because he kept pulling it away. Which I can understand, I also don't like holding people's hands. But then the handler would authoritively say a command, and the trunk would be back in my hand. Sorry Mr. Elephant.

If you are ever in Gauteng and don't know what to do, this is great. But I would bear in mind that this is an animal that could crush you, and not merely a great photographic opportunity to show to your friends back home.

Hello Ms. Elephant

Designed/ to keep me discreetly/ neatly in the corner

Whereas Pretoria is a well-trained dog, with its neat city grid and orderly street signs, Johannesburg is a constantly changing beast, a chimera of (all) sorts that breathes fire and continuously threatens your comfort zone. It is exhilarating though, crossing the border of whatever is familiar and heading to a place where the guide fuels the fear by telling you that if you stray, you will get robbed. Even the four security guards lined up in an orderly fashion in front of an office building smile when they say we should watch where we are going.

I don't know if we looked like victims because we were in full tourist gear (think backpacks, cameras, tickets for the hop-on-hop-off bus and a twinge of fear) or because our whiteness made us stick out like gulls in a sea of seals. Fear gains power if you are in an unknown area and have heard of its dangers. Hell, we live in South Africa, anything is dangerous, so I think most people just get on with their lives. If violence wants you, it will find you. All you can do is not be stupid (as in don't go into dark alleys, don't dangle your 7D from your neck, don't flash your Rolex), and find a little courage to remind you that most people are just like you and have no desire to rob or harm you. And for the few that do, well, we'll cross that bridge of trauma if/when it plants itself in our path.

We went to Joburg because a friend is here from Mexico and it seemed like a good excursion. We went up the Carlton Towers to see all of the city at our feet; we saw the Oppenheimer Park and the old Rissik Street post office; we marched onwards to the Johannesburg Library and peeked inside the Rand Club. Then we caught the bus to the Apartheid Museum (more on that in a future post). Afterwards we tried to get into the Origins Centre at Wits, but they were really unhelpful so we headed to the Wits Art Museum with the exhibition of Gerard Sekoto's work currently on show. Finally we went to Constitutional Hill and returned to Pretoria exhausted.

Most noticeable however were all the signs and graffiti. When you reside in suburbia it is all homes and fences and lawns, so to see some colour was one of the best parts of the day.

At Constitution Hill, the Bill of Rights is carved into the door.

Metal plaques with words from the South African public, who were asked to pen down their hopes and ideas in 2004. 

Monster Maker

Ja. You should watch this video.
Although Two Door Cinema Club is a real band, and I'm guessing the Canadian guy meant that he played the band, not the made up album, at his radio station.




Maybe it is not that funny. What would you do if someone stuck a microphone in your face and asked you about all of these bands you've never heard of. It's not like Jimmy Kimmel is going to show the people that said they didn't know what the hell the interviewer was asking about. And if I have learn't anything about humans, it is that we are terribly afraid of looking dumb. Sure, these Coachella attendees look slightly silly for saying they want to see imaginary bands, but hipsters have to keep their cool, man. You can't look like you don't know about the underground bands. Unknown bands should be your thing, so you have to know.

Whatever. This was funny.

It seems the day that your house burned to the ground was the day that you'd always planned to leave anyway

After one month of not being here, I have nothing really to do now. Nothing pressing.
University is done. At least for now.
One interview lined up. Dress up. Prepare a lesson plan. Know you can do this.

But what if it does not work out? 50% fear and 50% excitement all twisted into one whilst awaiting change.
If this is not the one, maybe Istanbul or Mexico City will have me.

Or I'll stay home forever, tending the garden, cleaning the house, battling with the swimming pool, cooking and looking for a husband.

Bahahaha. Never.

Dark Storm

N4 just before entering Hatfield

It had been excruciatingly hot all day. The kind of heat that makes one listless, unable to move, unable to concentrate, unable to do anything besides taking a long nap. 

A friend proposed an art exhibition to go to that night, and on my way there the sunset was marvellous. This image does not nearly describe the colour of peaches and raspberries and cherries and blueberries all merging into a glorious end to the day. 

It is strange to think how we are never afraid at sunset, but as soon as the last rays are gone and darkness descends, real and imaginary monsters find their ways to scare us. A sound, which during daytime would not even have been noticed, can make the heart quiver in the night. Maybe it is the threat of the hidden, of that which we cannot see, of the surprise that might be lurking, of an unexpected pounce on our sense of security. 

Here comes your man

My man is menacing. Evil. Take all the superheroes in the world, banded together Avengers-style, and they'd also be shit-scared of him. That is why I dutifully give him R2 every time I get back to my car after a day at the university and it is still in the same condition as what I left it. 

You see, my man is the car guard in one of the streets around Tuks. Although it is still a walk, it is the nearest street without little no-parking-Ps everywhere. And I've gotten enough parking tickets, so it is a bit of a must to park with Dr. Evil if there is no space in the designated student parkings. Which is often the case. 

It pissed me off. Badman is not there when you park in the morning, but stands guard when you get back. Although he had done nothing, and it should be your right to park there without being menaced by some random tsotsi, his whole demeanour is like a prison-escapee. But since I don't want my tyres slashed or the car stolen I dutifully give him R2. Nothing more, nothing less, so that he will leave me the fuck alone. 

Same in any language

About thirty people are shouting at me, enthusiastically. "Commerce!Commerce!Commerce!" I am bewildered. What arrrrrre they saying? Because they are all speaking at the same time, and not in unison, I don't really know, but smile politely and pretend to have understood.

Today was the first day I ever interpreted, officially. At the moment the university is hosting a course for diplomats from francophone countries in Africa, and some of the Masters and Honours students are helping with the interpreting. Most of the visitors do understand English, but to make some points clearer it helps to have someone. Perhaps that someone is not me, yet.

The diplomats know we aren't professionals, but still I was stressing. It was like a first date, except that the butterflies in my stomach were evil and eating my insides. I prepared, read some articles, found some terminology I thought was relevant, and remembered to translate, above all, "le sens" (the sense) and not the individual words. But what you do at home is not the same as when you have to interpret words and acronyms that you don't even know in English.

After a while I decided to fuck translating the slides and simply pronouncing English words in a French way. I just made notes, and when I didn't know the word or expression, the group was more than willing to help. They were all very friendly and understanding, and after an hour, I felt a lot more at ease. I'm sure a professional would have cringed and thought that it was a bit of a pathetic effort.

But the diplomats came up to me afterwards to say "good job" and to give advice on how to improve, which is great. I think good interpretation comes with experience. I'm glad I tried this, and will do so again for Wednesday's session. It can only get better.

Someone ( I found either Roosevelt or Vonnegut as sources) said that you should do something everyday that scares you. I'm scared of lizards, sharks and people breaking into my house/car and hurting me. Academia normally doesn't scare me. Speaking in front of people is also mostly fine. This, however, was terrifying. It was the fear of not understanding, of misinterpreting, of not finding the right words, of embarrassing myself, and most importantly, of failing.

But without trying, you can neither succeed nor fail. So suck it, evil intestine-eating butterflies. I got this.

create

I copied this from a post by Park Acoustics on facebook

Sopnat*

Party in the park. Everyone is enjoying the pick-nick but the sky is clouding over and it seems like a good idea to at least pack some of our things back in the cars.

Later on the sky breaks and it is pissing. We head for the cars and people go their separate ways. I am afraid and can almost not see. The girl I have to drop off at home is japping on about her boyfriend troubles and when he will come fetch her and bla bla bla. She is not sober and repeating herself - I have heard the story numerous times this afternoon already. So, I don't listen. It is wet, the streets are flooding and it feels like I am riding on an orca, not in a car. When I can finally boot her out, I turn the Jezabels up and focus on the road. Hitting the highway is hard because the robot is out. Also, there is a bus stranded in the middle lane and its warning lights aren't on. 

The droplets seems like little ghostly feet running away from me. Everytime I cross under a bridge there is a moment of calm from the heavy rain hitting the car, and a black strip of asphalt. The next instant the tiny feet are back again, scurrying away from me. 

Even though I have driven this road about twice a day for the last three years, the familiar is scary now.

* the title means "wet like soup" in Afrikaans.

Moredom

photo taken by me, in Berlin, 2008

People ask: "So, what do you want to do with your life?"
As though I should have a plan. As though there is a map I could follow, where destination:life is clearly marked and every step along the way is a guaranteed success.

I answer: "I have no idea."
And it is more than great.

Listen to me now, people. There is no fear of the future. There is nothing you cannot be ( well, yes, naturally there are limits, but not if you really want something).

We can be pastry-chef-editors.
Or English-Lit-Lawyers.
Or Mechanical-Engineer-Photographers.
Or Bedroom Philosophers dabbling in daily shifts at McDonalds.
Or Ballerinas with poetic ill-skills.
Or a Humanitarian with a degree in caring and IT.

Others get on bikes and drive across Africa. Others find fulfilment in the amount of zeroes in their bank-accounts. Others like spending their days in virtual worlds. To each his own.

I just think that my fellow 20-somethings are caught in this desert of insecurity about their life: on the one hand there are so many possibilities to embrace, there is a whole world to discover. But on the other hand the constant threat of recessions and global crises and financial ruin and abandonment and hopelessness looms behind us. It feels as though so much is going wrong and one wants to act and march on the Union Buildings and hold banners and shout in megaphones, but what for? What are we supposed to be fighting for? Previously it was simple: peace and love. Now? Also peace and love. But the planet is suffering and we need to think green and save the prisoners of conscience and fight against oppression and secure a future and help each other and all of this whilst still living and having fun doing so.

The other day some of my friends where discussing how after obtaining this degree, they wish to do something more than what it will say on the piece of paper. To be more than Commerce or Arts or Engineering or Science or Whatever. Basically, to be more than one thing. Some people prefer knowing almost everything there is to know about their field, and being experts at what they do. I would also like to be an expert, but in the end, I prefer to know a lot about many different things than just settling for one speciality.

So what lies in the future? Here is another answer: I am/will be/want to be/could be/should be/ would be/ want to be a living thinker, a graphic designer, a photographer with film, a manipulator of words and images,  a historian-artist-writer-discoverer-music-listener-editor-translator-picture-taker-non-conformer-lover-hater-human-being. 

Giving

My friend needed some extras in a silent/black-and-white short-film she is doing, so I spent the day at Church Square drinking Oom Paul's coffee and talking to interesting people. There is nothing like a discussion on the merits of pornography and its audience as background noise to a silent film... However, while walking the 20 metres from Capital Theatre to the Café, my friend's cellphone was stolen.

I don't think people who do not live in a society riddled with crime will understand this, but when we go out, we keep our handbags in the boot of the car, we lock everything ten times, we are hyper-alert at traffic lights and we have all been robbed. Or at least we all know someone. And it pisses me off. There are so many anti-crime associations and organizations aimed at helping whomever needs it. One would think that every person would want to do honourable work, would want to contribute meaningfully to their community. And yet, we have become nonchalant about crime, it is just part of our lives, like corn flakes for breakfast or the Gautrain not coming to Pretoria yet even though they advertise it on TV.

On my way home from the shoot, the radio-presenter was recounting how the day before, he was out with his girlfriend when a car with two respectable-looking young women stopped next to them and the driver asked if she could quickly borrow one of their cellphones because both their batteries were flat and they needed to reach someone. So the guy's girlfriend lent the girl her phone, and while she was still typing an sms, they sped off in the car with the phone.

Unbelievable, isn't it?!

One tries to be helpful, but the accumulation of bad stories really does make one mistrust everyone. I don't stop to help someone with car trouble out of fear that it might be a ruse to kidnap me. I don't give people rides if I don't know them, again out of fear. I think there exists a contradiction in the communal South African character: one the one hand, we are an incredibly friendly and open people, but on the other hand this aspect is reserved for foreigners and we are excessively mistrusting of our fellow citizens. Now don't go saying it is a racist thing, and that this mistrust is based on our history of racial segregation. It is not a case of "us" and "them" in terms of race, but in terms of class. The rich do not trust the poor, but I assume this is a universal phenomenon. Perhaps here the discrepancy between rich and poor is just too huge a chasm and that if one lives in poverty, one does not know how to get out of it.

I also don't know. I mean, my cellphone and money was stolen out of my handbag at a house party with only 20 guests. My sister was burgled in front of our door. Last year October four men broke two gates and a wooden door in a matter of seconds in order to get into our house. Constantly someone is being robbed of some possession.

I can understand if one steals out of a true need, say, for want of food or water or shelter. But it seems to me that crime in South Africa has become increasingly violent for the most meaningless things: people being killed for a cellphone, young schoolgirls raped on their way back from school, someone being smash-and-grabbed while stuck in a traffic jam. It is all just so stupid, and I don't know really what one can do. How can we react?

Already, most people in the big cities live in gated communities, neighbourhoods organize neighbourhood patrols and most citizens want to work with the police. But there is also a sense of helplessness, as the police force appears to be the most corrupt of all and they never solve a case. There is the idea that if no one died, it wasn't serious.

I think we as a country need to change drastically: we need to focus extensively on the education and integration of the lowest classes, re-teaching a value system and moral code that underlies every respectable society. There needs to exist a communal sense of what is wrong and right, and in everyone's mind the desire to do good must outweigh the desire for objects and status by any means possible. Also, the government needs to commit to a complete eradication of corruption.

Naturally this is an ideal that will take generations to achieve. But I believe that we need to instil in our generation this sense of morality that somehow has been lost after the atrocities of previous ages. There are two options for each individual: choose to see humanity as too flawed to do good, or choose to see humanity as having an essentially optimistic and embracing character. After all, each community reflects the collective choices of individuals, and at the moment it seems that South Africans are choosing indifference to their environment as opposed to wanting to change it for the better.


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