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.

Resolution (Kygo Edit)

I like preserving things for the future, whether they be photographs found at flea markets of people I don't know or the 3kg of plums I bought because the sign read "Aus Südafrika". The photos can be stored for whenever I know what I want to do with them, but the plums were already looking fragile after their long trip. Because I did not want to get spuitpoep (haha, diarrhea) from eating them all in a day or two I baked muffins for my class (adapting this plum, hazelnut and chocolate cake by substituting some of the flour for cocoa and adding almonds, not hazelnuts). However, it felt like a drop in the bucket because I still had 2.5 kg of plums. What to do? I still have plum jam, so no more of that.

The solution was plum chutney. My sister and I have an obsession with adding Mrs. Balls chutney to almost every meal, but it isn't readily available here. Therefore I thought the plum chutney could be a decent alternative (although nothing beats Mrs. Balls).

My mother has a little book called voedselpreservering which would have been greatly helpful since I was not sure of the amount of vinegar, sugar, etc. to add. In the end I combined these two recipes (Spicy plum & apple chutney and Richly spiced plum chutney) and phoned my grandmother for help. It turned out ok, but the consistency is too jam-like. Ah well, at least it is chutney. Nom nom nom.

Apples, onions, garlic, spices, cinnamon, star anise.

 

The finished product. In the end I had 8 or 9 jars :)

Snow (Hey Oh)

Flensburg is a fickle mistress, my friend.
When I think it is cold, it isn't really cold.
When I think the sun shines, it disappears just as I leave the house.
When I think it won't rain it does.
Pfft.
But the weather in Flensburg does provide me with magnificent changing views of the harbour.
Here are some taken in the last week :

Double Rainbow. 

Very high tide. 

Yesterday morning.

Yesterday afternoon.

Two hours ago.

Right now. 

Memphis, Tennessee

I am wrapped in two blankets like a piece of chocolate inside a croissant. It is -1° outside. I can't remember the last time I saw, never mind felt, the sun. I intensely miss sunshine, not only for the warmth it brings but also for its ability to make people feel happier. Here we're all bulbs, hiding underneath layers of black cloth, waiting to bloom.

This lack of sunshine reminded me of a film a friend gave me a few years back, entitled That Evening Sun. Based on the short story I Hate To See That Evening Sun Go Down by William Gay, the imagery in the film reminds me of life at a slower pace, of cicadas, of sipping mojitos and not doing much because the heat is all-consuming. I'd like to be there, now, chilling with Abner Meecham on some porch and contemplating life in a strong southern accent.

According to the weather report, it is just going to get colder. Here's hoping that with the cold the wind stops, the rain becomes snow and the sun can finally peek from behind the clouds.

Hard to Find

I have been struggling with terms of 'arrival' and 'departure'; with being stuck in-between and searching how to 'get there' even if I don't know what/where there is. And then my friend K sends me the answer in an email - "maybe life is just limbo". By definition life is an in-between state: you are born, life happens, and then you die. If you do not believe in life before birth or after death, your existence is lived in-between.

Then I read Jonathan Harris's "Navigating Stuckness":

I thought of my life as a series of chapters, and I realized that each time I’d been majorly stuck, it meant that a life chapter was ending, and that a new one needed to start — like the stuckness was always a signal indicating imminent change. My life has had a bunch of different chapters, each one beginning with the fresh-faced idealism of a new approach to living, and each one ending with a period of stuckness and a moment of crisis.   

Hopefully the moment of crisis can stop dragging itself out for as long as possible and turn into a new chapter soon. I think it has already started: I found a job, I found people I enjoy hanging out with, I founded a language tandem and don't complain too much about it permanently raining anymore.


Jonathan Harris has also done numerous interesting projects, so check out his TED talks (on The Web's Secret Stories and The Web as Art), the I want you to want me project or his Cowbird profile

.

This tree of ours may grow tall in the woods/ But it's the roots that will bind us here

It has been a listen-to-Ben-Howard-on-repeat kind of day.

Where the Humans Eat

As part of a group project on youth culture for university I went vegan for two weeks. On day 13 I cheated by drinking shots of Bailey's (it contains cream). The vegan experiment in itself was challenging because it was quite time-consuming to buy products that contain no animal by-products. Also, I missed cheese and butter and non-70%-chocolate.

But in itself the project wasn't life-changing. Rather, the book Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer was. I had never before really thought about the conditions the animals were kept in because they aren't treated terribly at my uncle's farm. Sure, he probably sees his animals as a business investment, but I like to believe that he enjoys working with the animals and does not torture them. The farms Foer describes have nothing to do with farming: they are factories designed to produce as much as possible in the shortest amount of time, without consideration for the pain and suffering of the animals that constitute this produce.

I also wrote about this on our eating-vegan-blog, called Eat Your Vegetables. The articles in German are by my fellow students, and the English ones are written by yours truly. The video above is one of a few by restaurant chain Chipotle in the States, whose Food with Integrity program supports ethical approaches to farming (click here for my post on factory farming).

Although I won't say that I am a dedicated vegetarian now, I will admit to being more conscious of what I buy and generally don't eat any meat here. In SA, that might be different because I know the animals are treated better (depending on where you buy your meat from, naturally). In general I think it is not necessary to label your own food consumption too much. Instead, I wish more people would read Eating Animals and be more aware that as consumers they have the power: if you want to buy the cheapest produce, you should know how the animals are treated in life and in slaughter, and then reassess whether the life of another living thing is worth the few moments on your taste buds. For those of us with the means to buy whatever food we want I think this is the most important realisation: you are choosing what to eat, and thus dictating production.

Little Talks

Driving to the airport there are two signs: Arrivals and Departures. But I feel like I have neither really departed nor arrived. I have landed, not arrived. My luggage is here, my things are here, but all the emotional baggage remains lost somewhere between here and home.

It is a strange in-between. Maybe it is just being-20-something and realising that at some point I need to find my own life. Today I made an appointment to go to the dentist for a check-up and it felt like an enormous achievement. My mom had always done it for me. I never realised how much admin it takes to be an adult. 

Hopefully with time it will get better, both the becoming-an-adult part and the not-feeling-like-this-is-home part. In the meantime I am a tourist in the place where I live. 

Arriving at Glücksburg

This is Denmark, apparently. 

The next day I walked around the harbour with my roommate because it was such a lovely, clear day after weeks of dappled rain.

I live in the blue house :)

Black Gold

There is a patisserie called MyDarlings on the corner of Lynnwood and Brooklyn street. I had never noticed its blue-and-black striped exterior even though I had driven past it hundreds of times. And then, on a revolutionary day, my mother and I had wanted to go to Aroma coffee but it was full so we discovered MyDarlings, which is right next door to the coffee shop.

On that day we shared one of their mud cakes, and if ever I would be served the death penalty it would be on my last-meal list. Outside it looks like an ordinary chocolate muffin, but when you take a bite it is gloriously pudding-like inside and very decadent. And somehow the outside-cakey-consistency works fantastically with the chocolate-mousse interior.

Since then I have been trying to recreate the mud pie, but have never really succeeded. There is one recipe though that comes quite close, namely this one for Miniature Chocolate Mud Pies. I have baked it once in SA and now tried it again as a Christmas dessert.

Here is the original recipe with my adaptations in brackets:


1 cup chocolate wafer crumbs (I used choc butter cookies)
1/2 cup cocoa powder
1 tbsp water
2 tbsp all purpose flour
2 tsp vegetable oil
2 1/2 oz light cream cheese
2 tbsp chocolate chips (normal 70% chocolate, chopped)
2 large eggs
2 tbsp hot water
1/4 cup low fat sour cream
1 tsp instant coffee
3 tbsp corn syrup (or golden syrup)
1 cup brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla


1. Preheat oven to 350 F (180°C). Spray a 12 cup muffin tin with vegetable oil.

On the left: molten chocolate and coffee mix. On the right: crushed chocolate cookies. 

2. In small bowl combine chocolate chips, water and coffee.  Microwave for 40 seconds or just until chocolate begins to melt.  Stir until smooth. (Instead of microwaving everything I simply let the mixture stand for a few minutes and the heat from the water automatically melts the chocolate)

3. In small bowl combine wafer crumbs, water and oil until mixed.  Divide and pat into bottom of muffin tins. (I added some of the chopped chocolate pieces)

4. In bowl or food processor add sugar, cocoa, flour, cream cheese, eggs, sour cream, corn syrup and vanilla.  Puree until smooth.  Add chocolate mixture and puree until smooth. 

5. Divide among muffin cups and bake for 12 minutes or just until centre is still slightly loose.  Cool and chill before serving.  Remove from tin with a knife. 

Hmmm delicious :)





Per serving:
• Calories 220 • Protein 3.6 g • Carbohydrates 30 g • Fiber 1.5 g • Total fat 5.8 g • Saturated fat 2.1g • Cholesterol 23 mg • Sodium 62 mg
• prep time 15 minutes
• bake time 12 minutes
• make ahead Can be baked 2 days in advance and refrigerated.

Rewrite

"Sometimes I wish there was someone I could write a letter to. I look at piles of mail on the floor. They have someone to write to. I bet its not a bad feeling. To be able to reach out. And believe in your heart that someone will be there. I wish I could believe that, too."

 - Henry Rollins

I am lucky to have people who send me things in the mail. The short rush of joy as I open the letter box and see something has arrive for me is such a high. I don't understand why people take drugs, they should just send one another letters instead. Not knowing if or when the letter will arrive causes enough anxiety and receiving something in the mail that is not a bill is so wonderful than one needn't look elsewhere for excitement. 

My mom sent me some of my clothes and things (a flour sifter! measuring spoons and cups! a peppermint crisp! my one blanket!) for which I had to go to the customs office. Yesterday I went again to fetch a surprise Christmas packet a friend had sent (Mrs. Balls chutney! earrings! a personalised calendar!) and also got a letter in the mail from another friend. I know the best people :) 

Pakkie 1

Pakkie 2. Nice stamps :)

Start

Sometimes you don't know what the hell you are doing.
You get caught up in a senseless routine. Everything seems horrible and pointless.
You don't know why you chose this, because in that moment it equals misery.
Sometimes you just need a win.

And that is what I got: I won.
I have an exciting history with winning: it is never the lotto or a car or money, but it is always an experience. Somehow I end up winning adventures.

The first three times these experiences took me to France (or rather, the French embassy did as part of the annual Francophonie celebrations) and every time I met the most wonderful people. We came from all over the world to share our passion for similar subjects(be it language, the arts or photography), and we bonded in those hot Paris/Perpignan summer weeks filled to the brim with lessons in Frenchness: in between language courses we ate baguettes and went on a cheese tasting, we climbed the Eiffel tower and the steps to Montmartre, and the one time we took the TGV down to Perpignan for the Visa pour l'Image photojournalism conference.

Through one another we learned about other worlds as well: practicing an Iranian dance on the Pont des Arts; eating a maple-shaped cookie whilst hearing about life in Canada; wondering about the strange habits of the girl from Azerbaijan or being taught by a young Serb how my camera works. We reveled in being a young, multicultural group on an all-expenses paid trip to France. The memories from those trips, and the new friends from all over the world will stay with me longer than winning an object in any case.

This time the win was again unexpected. I was skyping with my mother when an unknown number called on my cell. I thought it was the bank or some government agency wanting my non-existent money. Instead, it was a nice man from some company explaining that I had won a dinner for 10 people, cooked in my kitchen by a professional chef. It was part of a promotion by Telekom at various German universities and I had entered through Facebook.

Elisabeth Opel showed up loaded with fabulous food and I had invited some of the other students. It ended up being another fantastic experience. Somehow we managed to squeeze into our little kitchen and different teams worked on different dishes. As a starter we made a parsnip soup; the main course consisted of Spätzle with filet, an onion sauce and onion rings; and dessert was Kaiserschmarrn with apple compote. They had asked if I wanted a specific dish and since I haven't had a traditional German meal in a long time that is what I asked for.

Parsnip soup with croutons and duck breast. 

Spätzle with filet and onion rings. Although Spur's onion rings will always remain #1. 

My German grandmother used to make Spätzle as well with Rouladen and she'd fill our plates with a second enormous helping as soon as they were empty. I don't remember much about her, but her food was always delicious. Her dishes were traditional and time consuming and not really suited to the climate of SA. It must have been strange for her to come to such a hot country knowing only recipes that were suited to the cold - somehow rich and creamy does not work as well when it is 35° (except if it is a rich and creamy ice cream). Now my mom makes Spätzle on occasion as well as a special treat.

Kaiserschmarrn

With the courses we consumed 6 bottles of white wine, 2 bottles of sparkling wine and 2 bottles of red wine so irrespective if you liked the food or not you would have had enough to drink to make up for any distaste.

Hello new friends.

So glad I now have an apron. 

I was a bit apprehensive at the beginning of the evening, because in Pretoria I would know exactly whom to invite and how to lay the table. I'd have had everything we needed in an enormous kitchen, and we could've eaten outside on the porch, enjoying the spring. Here, the kitchen is quite small and none of the utensils are mine (I have a knife). Also, I just invited the first 10 people that I saw during the course of that day, so it could have been quite a fail. Luckily everyone was really into the cooking-together thing and I hope that it may have sort of laid a good foundation for moving from being merely people who study together and are all new in this city to actual friendship.

Tribute

Rougesang by dood van Mandela

ondergronds het ’n rif geskuif

die aarde struikel

verward swik die son

toe sy asem hom verlaat het in die nag

het die sterre geduisel

want alles is verstrengel

wurgend aan sy dood

sy dood en die dood alleen

ineens is alles droef

asof ons in ’n groot skadu staan

asof glas deur ons breek

asof klip in ons splinter

asof ons gedagtes in fluisterende wanhopige groepe rondvlug

soos assegaaie in die grond bly vassteek

trillend

in Qunu weier die beeste vanoggend om uit die kraal te gaan

by Lusikisiki lê die visse na aan die oppervlakte

in Mvezo maak die korhane geen geluid nie

die gedagte aan Mandela laat ons binnekante knak

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

ons kan selfs nie die mond oopmaak nie

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

om te begin praat oor sy dood om te praat oor sy dade

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

oor sy bloed wat pyl soos ’n luiperd na geregtigheid

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

om te vertel van sy werke, sy sagte ongelooflike krag

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

die lieflike nate van sy blommende vergewende kopbeen

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

die stormram van sy tong

wat toekomste tot ’n verbonde kern wring

ons kan nie reg laat geskied aan Ons Grote

(ons wou sy sterwende liggaam nie sien nie)

ons wil dit nie sien nie

in die voetpaaie, op die sypaadjies, in busse langs die paaie

bondel ons swyend bymekaar, ons die gewones

ons sprinkel ons trane oor hom

ons besprinkel die erflating

van die Vreeslose Kryger wat ons eenmaal regeer het

ons besprinkel die lyk wat gewas moet word

ons besprinkel die geopende bloed van Mandela

ons gewones was hom nie met water nie maar met liedere

met droefheid neem ons sy liggaam

ons was dit, ons bad dit

met hande wat hom liefhet, raak ons aan sy dade

ons gee hom aan, van hand tot hand

hoog bokant ons koppe

die man wat ons van onsself gered het

o singende bloed van die seun van uNosekeni

o palms van Mvezo vol sterre en reën aan die oewers

o arms van Qunu wat ’n land se diepste wonde omhels

die Groot Aanmekaarbinder

niemand se strottehoof kan Mandela se lied end-uit sing nie

niemand ontglans ooit ons Groot Saambinder vir ons nie

niemand oortref hom in morele gesag nie

geen leier is nog ooit só deur sy mense lief gehad nie

hy wat ons beste gesig was

hy wat ons aan onsself teruggegee het

die beliggaming van die wêreld se smagting

na iemand wat omgee

wie se dade onbeskaamd goedheid wou bring

geliefde Mandela, bring seën op ons, jou kinders

laat jou lewe sy vingerafdruk op ons almal laat

dit sal lank duur voordat ons ooit weer ’n mens so edel

iemand so genesend en koppig mooi

so taai van inbors so streng insluitend van beginsel

so elegant en oorrompelend van hart in ons sterflike arms kan hou

– Antjie Krog

(Gebaseer op die weeklaag geskryf vir Moshoeshoe 1, “LITHOKHOKISO tsa Moshoeshoe le tse ling” deur David Cranmer Theko Bereng.)

Maya Angelou also wrote a tribute poem entitled His Day is Done. 

My salvation lies in your love

Yesterday, incredulously, I watched as President Zuma announced Nelson Mandela's death. Until now he had always bounced back from his numerous hospital stays. What it must feel like to be home, now, to share in the sadness of his passing and the joy his life had brought. In Germany an epic storm is causing floods and blowing away trucks, but what nature inflicts on itself seems tame compared to what people can do to others - it took an indomitable will and a humanity that most lack to be able to forgive one's oppressor as Mandela did.

My whiteness and my youth prevents me from truly understanding what the struggle was, what had been sacrificed and what it meant to live in a country where race controls your life. Actually, no : I have never not had freedom, but I know that race is still a deciding factor in SA. It is a ripple underneath everyday life that somehow refuses to disappear. I notice when I am the only white person because I feel it makes me vulnerable. white + girl = better watch your back. Not always, not everywhere, not because everyone is some criminal, but simply because the ripple of racism is closely followed by the ripple of crime and corruption that washes over any hope for a better future.

I wrote at the beginning that it is astounding what one person can do to another. I wonder if now we have moved past racism to class difference being the main social problem: those who have nothing see no moral qualms in killing another for a cellphone. However, if you have a roof over your head and enough money in your bank account you might wonder how someone could be so dismissive of the rights (and in the worst case scenario the life) of another.

It is difficult for me to speak on these issues while sitting in another country, starting a new life here. But within two weeks three of my friends were assaulted in one way or another and it is very hard to remain 'Proudly South African', to say wonderful things about your home and assure people that the crime is 'not that bad'. I miss my family, my friends and my country all the time, especially after hearing news like this. I miss the sunshine, December holidays at the beach and not looking like a pale vampire. I miss feeling like I belong.

But I also enjoy not having to be afraid all the time and being able to walk home, alone, at 3 AM after a friend's house warming and not worrying about being robbed.

As the blanket of sorrow falls over South Africa and everyone is in a state of mourning, I wonder what Madiba's death will mean for the future of the country. What influence did he still wield, if any? How will power relations in the ANC shift? Will Zuma stay on for a second term? Why do people not see that at least in part they are voting for their own demise? It will be an exciting time to observe what happens to Mandela's legacy, and whether the people of the rainbow nation will manage to find a pot of gold at its end or fail in this endeavour. I choose to cling to optimism because historically South Africans have fought too hard to attain the rights listed in the current constitution. It cannot have been for nothing.

The Blower's Daughter

The harbour on a beautiful day.

The university started a week late because a strong wind arose and blew parts of the roof away. It was tragically funny because I had been very excited about starting the Master's degree, and yet my inner student also had to rejoice in not having any classes.

Instead I wandered to the Ostseebad, a beach a few kilometres from my apartment, and was confronted with the damage the wind had done. At the university it was shocking not only to see the destruction but also to realise that the building, which is only 10 years old, was shoddily built and that instead of parts of the roof falling on cars in the parking lot nearby they could've landed on one of the students or lecturers. But luckily no one was hurt, insurance claims must have been filed and now the main building is being repaired/renovated.

The Ostseebad also has a park and quite a few of the trees had been felled by the wind. I only took a few photographs because the sun had set and the inner voice that tells me darkness=danger forced me to return to the safety of my room.

I went again a few days later, this time before sunset (light=safe). Haha, it wouldn't have been so safe if one of the trees had fallen on me.

  

Oh no Cinderella, the sun is setting. Time to go home. 

This ability to walk around alone at all times is strange to me. The cold hand of fear refuses to let go and there always remains a subconscious scanning of my environment, checking for suspicious characters. Maybe that is another reason I am missing the sun and its warmth so very much: darkness means danger and an autumn where the sky is mostly covered by heavy clouds, obscuring a sun which only rises from 8-16 o'clock, well, hides not only the light but also its security.