When you say my name, I disappear.

It’s been a long time folks. April since my last true non-world cup post. Communication is one of the most important aspects of being human. More than anything else, it is language that distinguishes us from the animal kingdom. When we express ourselves, no matter what we’re expressing, we feel free and alive. The greatest way to relive the most joyous moments of our existence is to unfold them to a friend. The most effective medicine in unloading our sadness, anger, and frustrations in life, is to divulge them to an even better friend. In short, when we are restricted in our communication, either through shyness, language barriers, or just not knowing what to say, we feel stifled- our inner state yearning to be expressed in the outer world. When communication is natural and open, our words take off to the sky, carrying our soul to a place of intimacy, love and laughter. A place in which our humanity only begins to come close to reaching its potential. As difficult as it has been, not having a chance to write to you folks for several months has been tolerable. Not being able to talk to many of you for a semester is also something I can deal with. But imagine, not only being unable to talk to you, but being prohibited from talking to anyone. Imagine, if this prohibition was not only for 6 months, but for three years. A great man by the name of Robert Sobukwe did not have to imagine this scenario. He lived it.

The head of the Pan-African Congress (PAC), Robert Sobukwe was reputed to be a remarkably charismatic man, capable of connecting with, inspiring, and mobilizing the African people on an unmatched level in the struggle against apartheid. In 1960, he was arrested for openly defying the pass law, which required all blacks to carry a small passport size pass, detailing the limits of their personal freedom of movement. After serving the three year sentence, afraid that his organizational skills would provide too big of an advantage to the struggle, South African parliament created the “Sobukwe Clause”, authorizing the Minister of Justice to renew Sobukwe’s imprisonment at his discretion. The authorities immediately re-arrested Sobukwe and sent him to Robben Island.

When he got to Robben Island, he was placed in a small two-room cottage, which was to be his residence of solitary confinement for the next three years. The government, concerned with his influence even from Robben Island, prohibited him from speaking to any of the other prisoners. He was sentenced to silence. But this did not stop him from communicating to his fellow inmates. Every day, he would go out to the gate of the fence that surrounded his cottage as the other prisoners on the Island were walking towards the Lime Quarry to begin their day’s labor. In his palm, he would hold a handful of sand, squeezing it tight, the grains dropping piece by piece towards the ground. With a face of determination, he would look at his comrades in the eye and they would understand exactly what he was saying through this symbolic gesture: “Through our blood, sweat, and tears, this land of Africa will return to our hands.” More than this, he was able to communicate his decision on various political tactics, and he continued to guide the PAC from solitary confinement through signaling various hand gestures to the prisoners walking by.

Memory often serves to store what’s important, and Robert Sobukwe’s story was by far the most memorable part of my trip last month to Robben Island. To tell you the truth, going to Robben Island was a bizarre experience. What was once a prison to Nelson Mandela, Walter Sisulu and Govan Mbeki, has now become a full blown tourist site, complete with snack shops (I can’t believe I find myself complaining about this), tour buses with cheesy catch lines written on the side – “the journey is never too long when the destination is freedom”-, and even the occasional penguin crossing (apparently as common in Cape Town as the rat in New York). Put simply, the place felt more like a Disney ride where “anything is possible as long as you believe,” rather than a historical site that was once used not only to uphold apartheid through imprisoning the leaders of the struggle, but was also a place where many atrocious forms of torture took place.

However, we did get a glimpse of the real history of this place through a tour of the prison guided by an ex-prisoner. The most heartening and real moment occurred when he held a simply question and answer session in one of the larger cells, inviting the group to break down the barriers and ask any question on our minds. The room fell silent as he told his story in a soft-spoke voice, nervously turning his ankles back and forth on the cement floor. During the Soweto uprising in 1960, a policeman murdered his pregnant girlfriend right in front of him. Immediately after, he joined the armed resistance against apartheid, hoping to bring down the system that justified such injustices. He planned an attack on an un-manned oil rigger out at sea, but ultimately failed to explode the target due to a miscalculation he made. Nevertheless, he was caught, convicted of sabotage, and sentenced to life in prison on Robben Island. I asked him what it’s like working as a tour guide every day in a place where he spent so many years as a prisoner. He responded simply by saying: “A man has to eat to live. He has to have money to eat. He has to work to have money. Sometimes it is hard being here, but that is why I do it.” It’s sad to think that although this man has not been imprisoned for 16 years with the dismantling of apartheid in 1994, the lack of economic opportunities in South Africa have kept him literally in prison until this day. When asked what types of punishments the prisoners received, the tour guide offered his response in the form of a clear, unquestionable hierarchy from bad to worst. A bad punishment was solitary confinement for 3 days, with minimal food and water, no contact with anybody else, and 24-hour lock down in the cell, with no time for exercise or fresh air. A worse punishment would be the same type of solitary confinement conditions, but for 14 days, with food being provided off and on for only three days at a time. But worst than either of these punishments was not being able to receive mail or have visitors. I was shocked. The prisoners were only allowed to receive one letter and have one 30 minute visit every 6 months, yet to have this tiny bit of personal connection to their loved ones taken away was considered unquestionably worst than being subject to the tortuous experience of hunger and solitary confinement. Perhaps in prison, human nature is highlighted more truly, with physical and material needs playing of second-rate importance to the human desire to communicate and connect to those closest to us.

Ok, now to break down my trip from the past 2 months. To give you guys an easier time digesting it, I’m going to write this blog like a play: Two Acts broken down into specific scenes. Ladies and gentlemen, kindly take your seats. The show is about to begin.

ACT ONE – APRIL

SCENE 1-Passover

As what can be expected from any Passover away from my mother’s matzo ball chicken soup or Auntie Gilda’s “tasty” cream puffs, during pessach I generally feel extremely weak and lose weight. Being a big carb man, I make sure to digest loads of matza, especially the shmura stuff, but this never compensates for the fact that almost everything else that tastes good contains corn syrup or other kitniyot that I’m forbidden to eat as a consequence of my polish ancestry. (I’m thinking of starting a campaign against this religious prohibition as well as a movement towards Jews that keep Halaal (Jhalaal). If you are interested in signing up for either group, please contact me personally (No Joke!).) Yet, as any Passover in exile goes, the first two sedders got me padded with a nice layer of fat that helped me stay warm for the hibernation of the 6 days that were to follow. The first sedder was quite an interesting scene that juxtaposed active youth with passive elderly. The sedder was headed by a vibrant, verbose baal teshuva. Oozing with energy and a deep bass voice, he led a fun filled sedder, full of stories told very loudly (whether it was out of consideration for the weak hearing of the elderly or neglect for the folks sitting right next to him such as me, I do not know), traditional family songs with the lyrics handed out to the crowd in attendance (for it as nothing short of a show), and even a chance to throw toy frogs and ping pong balls, in a gesture to simulate the ten plagues. On the other side of the table, were the elderly, who did as elderly do best- sit quietly and pretend to listen. Although I am only 22, I found myself empathizing most with the elderly, and by the end of the meal, I found myself with the grandma of the house, showing her how to turn off and on the lights in her own room and tucking her in bed. As odd as it is to say, there is something that feels nice and full circle of taking care of an old person. Her generation gave birth and provided my generation with immense opportunities and resources, and in return, I had the privilege to put a blanket over her body and help her go to sleep for one night. The second sedder took place at the Horowitz’s, the place where I am currently writing and staying for a week. It was an entirely different scene, offering everything a 22 year old could ask for. The Horowitz’s personally drove my friends and me to their home, offered us an arrangement of wines and drinks before the meal even started, hosted a crowd of interesting people, (including a pretty theater actress as well as a judge that helped write the constitution of Namibia) bought an entire kosher chicken specifically for my dietary needs, and flew threw the sedder so fast I don’t even remember it happening. All I could say in gratitude was- DAI ENU! (Translation: It would have been enough!) But there was more- they had video games. Lots of video games and we played them for a good while after the meal. One of the sons drove my friends and me home and we hung out some more at my place. Although untraditional, it was a very liberating sedder, to say the least.

SCENE 2- TWO OCEANS MARATHON

Before I write about the Two Oceans Marathon, I would just like to make one thing clear: The Two Oceans Marathon has nothing to do with two oceans. Many people mistakenly believe that the Cape Point, the beautiful tip of the Cape Peninsula that is just a 45-minute drive from the heart of Cape Town, is the point where the Indian and Atlantic Ocean split. This belief is simply false. I know I have written about this in the past, but just to reiterate an important geographic fact, the true divide of the oceans occurs at Cape Augulus, a 3-hour drive from Cape Town, and the true southern-most tip of Africa. Nevertheless, much of the branding in this city ignores this fact, and the phrase “Two Oceans” is used as an effective marketing strategy all over Cape Town, including the “Two Oceans” aquarium, as well as the “Two Oceans” Marathon. Despite this geographic inaccuracy, this race is an incredible ultra-marathon (56k!) event that I am eager to share with you.

The night before the “Two Oceans” Marathon, a friend of mine, Jon Bellar, told me of an opportunity to do some promotional charity work for “Old Mutual” alongside the marathon track. Basically, “Old Mutual” would outfit a squad of UCT student with “Old Mutual” gear and then send them off to various points in the marathon to serve as human advertisements. In return for the students helping to get the “Old Mutual” name out, the company pledged to donate a generous sum of money for every willing participant, with most of the money going to SHAWCO, a student volunteer organization on campus, as well as a small cut going to the students themselves. It sounded like a great way to provide some greater purpose to the passive activity of watching the marathon, and I jumped on board right when I heard of the idea.

Waking up at 4 AM after only 3 hours of sleep, I was so exhausted that I nearly decided to abandon ship and snooze through the morning. Via text message, Jon confirmed that he was still down to go, so I had no choice but to throw on some clothes, and run towards the bus station to catch a ride to the marathon track before I missed my lift. Upon getting to the station, Jon and I were greeted by a crew of student organizers who immediately loaded us up with “Old Mutual” gear. I threw on an “Old Mutual” shirt, whistle, hat, and even grabbed an “Old Mutual” branded Vuvuzela (if you don’t know what these things are, just watch a single game of the world cup- you will see them everywhere. Plastic horns that make a loud, obnoxious sound and people blow them all the time for no particular reason. Think Rosh Hashanah 24-7. Not very fun. There’s a reason we only blow the Shofar once a year. ) We were then thrown into a mini-bus and whisked off towards some unknown destination. The scene was very reminiscent of my early year experience with selling Sax Appeal (Look to post 1 for more on this.), especially considering that Robyn (the one whose laugh sounds like a lion roaring) happened to be thrown into the same mini-bus as me. Sweet.

Arriving in the middle of a big hill in a location that I still cannot identify, the mini-bus threw us out onto the street, the air and sky still cold and dark. For the first 30 minutes, we sat still, bored and unsure of what we were supposed to be doing. Then, a small car pulled up alongside us, the driver getting out and opening the trunk to reveal two huge speakers and a panel of DJ equipment. Within minutes, the technology was hooked up, the music was pumping, and as sophisticated and serious students are trained to do- we proceeded to groove. To the beats of everything from Bob Marley to Akon, we took our moves to the middle of the street, grooving right through the very rising of the sun and passing morning traffic. I’ve enjoyed dancing at many occasions- parties, concerts, weddings, religious weddings (a whole different beast with the serious circle dancing), bar-mitzvahs, etc.- and this early morning dance session definitely goes up there with the greatest. The music was blasting full volume, the entire group was getting really into it, we were in the middle of a hill side street surrounded by mountains, and our moving bodies warmed up in sync with the on-coming red glow of the sky. Adding to the energy, we made use of the vuvuzelas, twirling them in the air, blowing them to the rhythm of the beat, and walking in such a perfect line, that I guarantee we could have competed with any marching band. Folks, I’m telling you, it was a scene right out of Newsies.
Being close to the end of the marathon, this intense dance session went on in the middle of the street uninterrupted for the next few hours. Finally, once the runners came by, we continued to sway and swagger, but now we redirected our energy towards cheering on the runners, providing them with extra encouragement as they strived to maintain pace in the midst of this very challenging hill. The front runners, with the inner-focus of a professional chess player, paid no attention to us and probably didn’t even realize that we were there. Yet, once the cream of the crop passed, everyone from the above average runners to the straight up walkers seemed to be very grateful for our enthusiastic cheering. The double eye-brow raise was by far the most common form in which they expressed their gratitude. (Trying excitedly waving to strangers and see what type of reaction you get. I guarantee you will see plenty of double eye-brow raises.) Reading their names on their shirts from afar, we shouted things such as “Richard, your mom would be proud of you!” or “Diane, your son is really impressed with your hard work!” Sometimes, from the really excited runners, we even got an occasional pound or high five, which definitely helped to keep our spirits high in the midst of a very long day of cheering. In addition, there was a group of promoters across the street working for “Absa”, a rival bank to “Old Mutual.” Although they were actual promoters and paid much more than us, the competition between us added to the fun of the day, as each group tried to out-promote and out-cheer the other. It was color-war all over again, except instead of supporting a team with a particular color, we pledged our loyalty to the Old Mutual, cheering about various interest rates and loan options.

All morning, Jon and I were eyeing this particular mountain right beside our hill. At a certain point, the cheering got to be too much for us, and we decided to make a little trek up to the top of the hill. The little trek turned out to be a wee bit longer than we expected, as we had to blaze our own trail and climb rocks that were gradually becoming wet and slippery due to a mountain top cloud that met us half way up our trek. Finally, upon arriving at the top, in a lord-of-the-rings fashion, we blew our vuvuzelas as a signal of our victory over the mountain. Surrounding us were more mountains, and looking out to both the East and West, we could see a body of water in each direction. The view was terrific (yet, remember, both bodies of water were still part of the Atlantic!) On our way down, we blazed a different path, carefully stepping over fallen bushes and tree branches. On one step I found myself standing directly above an extremely poisonous snake, which startled, and quickly slithered away from me. We made it down safely and overall the day was a huge success; Jon ran the last 10 KM of the race on fresh feet, triumphantly passing the other runners who were worn down from having already stamped out 42 KM, and I walked away with the digits of a fellow volunteer, who happened to also be a very pretty South African girl.

Scene 3- Table Mountain Scramble

In the middle of a boring, nothing-to-do Sunday, a few friends- Martin from Sweden and Ian from Cornville, Arizona (A real place. No Joke. Unexpectedly, there is no corn in Cornville. I guess it’s one of those no ice in Iceland/ no green in Greenland things), and I decided to take a short hike up to Rhodes Memorial, a beautiful lookout point in the middle of Table-Mountain centered around a monument of a man riding on a horse. The rider is supposed to be Cecil Rhodes, one of the “great” imperialists of his time who “earnestly” wanted to spread the goodness of the British people. He was once quoted as saying of the English: "I contend that we are the first race in the world and that the more of the world we inhabit the better it is for the human race." Ironically enough, the prestigious scholarship in his namesake, the Rhodes scholarship, recruits applicants who strive for social justice and have compassion with discriminated members of society. Rhodes must be TWISTING in his grave. Yet, despite all of Rhodes moral shortcomings, he was a legend at getting magnificent monuments built after him, and Rhodes Memorial is known to be one of the best. In the spirit of Rhodes, upon reaching this magnificent point, my friends and I wanted to climb further, reach higher, and test the limits of the human potential! We made our way through some bushes and began an ascent up the mountain on a small dirt path. Upon reaching a flat point in the trail, we took a break to enjoy the even higher view. Yet, the moment was all but still and quiet, as jet-engine like winds blew across the mountain with such force that we had to fight to prevent being blown off the edge. Taking advantage of this force of nature, we decided to test how far this wind could carry our spit. Within moments, we were jumping for joy and handing each other high-fives in excitement of our spit flying well over 15 meters. After the spitting session, we deliberated on whether we should return home or continue with the spirit of adventure, following the path or non-path until we finally reached the centre of Cape Town. Reasoning that since we could see Cape Town’s skyscrapers it must not be that far, 20 minutes or half an hour max, we decided to continue with the trek. Three hours later, tired, dehydrated, and with way too many Israeli pickles and peanuts on our hands (it was a snack I brought up intending to eat when we reached whatever our destination was to be), we ended up in the centre of Cape Town, desperate to catch a mini-bus taxi home. Although the hike ended up being a bit longer than we expected, the adventure was worthwhile due to the numerous memorable sites and moments along the way. An abandoned house in the middle of the hill with a homeless person sleeping inside of it (whom we are lucky to have not woken) was one of the places we explored. Another place we saw was an abandoned shooting range, covered in empty bullet shells. Ian from Cornville also happens to be a soldier in the US army and he carefully explained to us the make, model, strengths and weaknesses of each bullet. After losing the trail, we were forced to go through some heavy bush, with the skyscrapers serving as our only compass towards our destination. A slight obstacle of a high-speed highway met us in our way, especially difficult to cross due to a curve in the road that cars whizzed around just beyond where we were standing. We came up with a plan that one of us would run across first to get a better view of the curve and make sure that the coast was clear for the rest. What this plan failed to neglect was the fact that the first person would not have a look-out man, making him vulnerable to cars zooming just behind the blind curve. Elected first person to cross, I opened my ears carefully, listening for any engines in the distance. Upon hearing a moment of silence, I made a quick move forward to suddenly see a red vehicle coming towards me, propelling me to make a move back to safety just as fast. My hear-beat quickened, concerned more for startling a driver into a swerving accident than for a car actually hitting me. After a moment’s breath, I took my chances yet again, this time making it across, arms raised in air. After guiding my friend’s across the street, we continued towards Cape Town, passing a field of burning grass as the last memorable moment before getting into town. Dehydrated and loaded with too many Israeli pickles and not enough water, we made a quick stop for some water and bread at the Indian Bazaar, which sells incredible Naan for only 5 rand (70 cents). We stuffed ourselves into an already over-crowded mini-bus and slumped in our seats, exhausted and happy to go home. Lesson of the day: don’t cross highways and when you go for a hike, bring a better balance of pickles and water. Pickle juice just doesn’t quite do the job.

Scene 4- Old Biscuit Mill

Basically, imagine the most savory smells, the most scrumptious tastes, the most melodic music, and the most beautiful looking and elegantly dressed people, and you have imagined the Old Biscuit Mill (even the dogs that people are walking are guaranteed to be cute.) Like any open market, once a week various restaurants and food producers set up a stand at the Mill, inviting people to taste their various foods and buy what they like. However, as alluded to above, what makes the Old Biscuit Mill special comes down its pure quality. Rather than talk about the structural construct of the good looking people’s faces or the theory behind the pleasant music that was played, I will only elaborate on that which is most important- the food. (Seriously, where you expecting anything else?) Close your eyes (might be tough if you are reading this) and imagine. Before even walking into the actual market, you stop at a place across the street where an Israeli sells sensational hummus and babaganoush. You speak to him in Hebrew to distract him as you sample his food repeatedly. Leaving his store and walking into the main tent of the market, you are greeted by a stand displaying an assortment of olives. Soaked in everything from garlic to rosemary and ranging in colors from green to purple, the choice of olives is overwhelming. Yet, don’t worry, there are plenty of toothpicks to try them all, and despite the fact that ultimately the woman behind the stand wants to make a sale and profit, she encourages you to taste as many olives as you would like (at a certain point, you might get some “are you serious?!” looks, but that’s only after you’ve tried ALL the types of olives, MULTIPLE times). A walk a little further brings you to the fresh bread section, where you are greeted by loafs of French, ciabatta, rye, sourdough, and other types of this universal staple. You buy a loaf and put it in your bag immediately, because by the time you’ve sampled all the stands, it is very likely that the bread man will be sold out. Walking on, you sample some more olives at other olives stands, Acting curious, intrigued, and like you’ve never seen an olive before always helps bring out an encouraging “try another one” reaction from the stand people. “Wow, what is that?” “Oooo, that smells good,” or just a jaw-dropping stare are all effective ways of getting that second sample that we all we all know everybody is looking for. Moving forward, you taste cheeses, avocado, tomatoes, and bread, and if you are really skilled, you collect enough various samples from all these stands that you are able to combine them to make a delicious sandwich, without having spent a dime! You move on to the fresh juice section and are sure to sample at least three flavors before buying the freshly squeezed pomegranate juice, which you knew you were going to buy all along. Slowly, you move into the next section, where you relish in the smell for as long as you can, because you know that if you keep the same kind of kosher as me, this is as close as you will get to tasting any of the tender meats that are being cooked, grilled, and fried. You take a walk around the entire section, in awe of the diversity of cuts. You make a note of all the “vegetarian” stands, serving foods such as pizza, caprice sandwiches, and potato pancakes (like bubbie’s latkes, just “slightly” supped up with basil, fresh cow-milk, and potatoes shipped directly from Ireland.) You buy a beer, and make a round of all the stands again, because it is just so much fun to look at food that you know you can never eat! Finally, you make a choice. You go for the latkes covered in lox and a poached egg, because it’s as kosher as it’s going to get. You sit down. You eat. And then you do it all over again and again until there is no more food or they kick you out.
Just an ordinary day at the Old Biscuit Mill. And remember, folks, this miraculous event happens once a week. Like Kiddush at shul…

SCENE 5- Cape Town Museums

One particular weekend, Ian and I decided to dedicate an entire day to exploring the museums of Cape Town. All the Cape Town museums are connected through a common organization and network called Ikozi, which means fire pit. Like people coming around a fire pit at night to share their stories, the museums surround Cape Town tell the history of the city from different perspectives. I won’t go into too much detail as to the content of the museums, but if you want to learn more, I simply recommend googling: “Colonialism, slavery, and Cape Town,” because sad but true, that was a recurrent theme throughout the day. (On a side note, I was recently watching a world cup game at a fan fest in Cape Town, in which there was an ad promoting the history of the city. Along with recognizing Mandela and the struggle for liberation, the ad showed pictures of colonists landing ashore and building houses, with bold subtitles declaring “Courage,” “Vision,” and other various virtues. The Ad closed by saying “Cape Town, don’t forget the history.” This is a city whose history can not be discussed without mentioning slavery and discrimination. It seems as if the makers of the ad, which neglected to mention these horrible memories, did the only forgetting of history. Sure, I would never expect a promotional ad to brag about slavery and oppression, but better not create a history promotional ad at all than create one that censors these elements that are a fundamental part of this city’s story.) However, I will relay a few highlights from the day. Our first stop was a giant star shaped structure in the middle of the city, which used to be a castle for the early colonialists to defend themselves from the natives. Upon entering the castle, we saw a man dressed in medieval clothing, talking to a modest crowd with a very small canon at his feet. Running over to the scene, we caught him talking about how the canon works. He then asked if anyone knew what the humpty dumpty song was all about. Everyone answered that it was about an egg falling off a wall, and as expected in these types of situations where the answer is seemingly obvious, we were all wrong. The man went on to tell us that real story of humpty dumpty was about a particular British canon falling down during the destruction of a castle wall in England. The man then unfolded from his pocket a big piece of paper with a drawing of the egg humpty dumpty, taped it to a milk crate that was positioned in front of the canon, and told us to move back. He lit the fuse, placed it on the canon, and BOOM! Fire exploded from the front and back of the canon, the whole thing wheeled itself backwards from the force of the blast, and humpty dumpty was shot down off the crate, with a million little holes in his head from the gunpowder spray. Looks can definitely be deceiving- that baby canon was comedicaly powerful.
Later in the day, we went to the slave museums, which was built in what was once a slave house. My favorite exhibit in this museum was the life of Nelson Mandela as chronicled by Zapiro. Zapiro (real name: Jonathan Shapiro) is a famous South African cartoonist, who uses satire to address the political and social issues facing the country. Please, please, please, google this man’s name and check out some of his comics. If you know anything about South Africa’s history, you will find them hysterical. And if you don’t know anything about this country, do some research just for the sake of laughing at his comics!

The day finished off with some nice down time in the company gardens, the central park of Cape Town. Little kids ran around feeding squirrels while I sat on a bench and read Mandela’s autobiography “A Long Walk to Freedom” ( “A Book that everyone should read” according to the Boston Globe).

Scene 6- Dr. Zaid, The Witch Doctor.

One day, my friend Mickey came over to my room to show me an ad in the newspaper about a witch doctor named Dr. Zaid. In the ad, Dr. Zaid guaranteed that he could cure AIDS, give people good luck when gambling, and grant you powers so that you can “touch a girl and she will follow you.” The guarantee was so strong, that except for an initial consultation fee of 50 rand (7 dollars) you only had to pay him fully once your wish was fulfilled. Mickey wanted to see what this was all about, and together with Ian and me, the three of us decided to make an appointment with Dr. Zaid, the Witch Doctor.

When we arrived in his office, we were shocked to see how nice the place looked. Decked out in leather couches and a big flat screen TV, it was clear that Dr. Zaid’s practice was doing well. Dr. Zaid wasn’t there and an assistant came over and told us that he was running a little late and would be there soon. This didn’t bother us in the least bit, because within minutes we discovered a stack of DVDS, one of them which was titled Multi-in-One- essentially the ultimate bootleg DVD, a collection of dozens of movies on a single disc, all with Chinese labels of course. We stretched out on the sofas and started watching the movie “Do the Right Thing.” Instantly, I was intrigued. The assistant repeatedly came back into the room, telling us that Dr. Zaid was still running late. At a certain point, it didn’t really matter to us and we would have actually preferred if Dr. Zaid came even later than he did, just so we could have had a chance to finish the film. After about an hour into the film, Dr. Zaid finally came, and he welcomed us into a dark side-room, taking his shoes off before he entered, apparently as a sign of respect. All of us hesitated before taking our shoes off, wanting to show respect to his practice, but at the same time worried that we were walking into some scam and that our shoes would “magically” disappear while we were in the dark room of “magic.” Nevertheless, we rolled the dice, took our shoes off, and stepped our socks into the dark room. It was everything you expected from a witch doctor’s office: black cloth covering the wallpaper, a stack of hay as tall as me in the corner of the room, a tub of dirty water with grass in it, a set of antlers, a few more things I just don’t even know how to describe, and of course, one single light bulb in the middle of the floor to mysteriously illuminate it all. Now you see it, now you don’t. Of course, with no chairs in the room, Dr. Zaid sat down, and all of us followed suite with such a deliberate attempt to show comfortability that it was just straight up awkward. Dr. Zaid stressed that it was better if we each met one-on-one, but we were worried that would cost us extra consultation fees, so we made it clear that we wanted to meet together.
He looked at me first, and asked slowly and deliberately, “What is it that you come here for?”
I told him, “I’m interested in the touching a girl and having her follow me deal. I have one girl in mind. She is highly unfriendly and I couldn’t imagine her ever wanting to follow me. “
He responded, “Yes, if you touch a girl, she will follow you. But you have to do exactly as I say. First, it must be someone that you are interested in. Someone you want. Someone you want to marry. Because after you touch her, you will be able to do whatever you want with her. She will marry you. What you have to do is this. You must go up to her and give her a little tap on the bum”
While saying this, he made the motion of giving someone a tap on the bum, with a dead-serious look in his face. Mickey and me couldn’t help ourselves and we burst out laughing.
This upset Dr. Zaid, and he said: “This is why I do consultation one-on-one. This is not good that you are laughing.”
While Mickey continued to burst out next to me, I did my best to gain my composure and explained: “It’s just, I don’t get it. Does it have to be on the bum?”
“Yes” Dr. Zaid replied.
“What about on the shoulder, or the arm, or the leg? Isn’t the leg close enough to the bum to count?” I questioned.
“No, it must be on the bum,” he confidently replied.
“Well, obviously a girl is going to follow me if I tap her on the bum. She’ll chase me down and slap me. That’s not the type of following that I’m looking for. I don’t want the police after me, Dr. Zaid.” I told him.
“No, no, no,” he reassured me, “you see, girls, they sometimes say that they don’t like that. But we all know that they want that. A little tap on the bum. Not so hard, a little tap.” He paused, “But it must be on the bum.”
I had to use all the self-control I had within me to keep myself from bursting out loud, which was made all the more challenging by Mickey’s snickering in the corner. At times, I couldn’t help myself, and I let out the kind of devilish laughter that was made all the sweeter because I knew I wasn’t supposed to.
“After you tap her on the bum, like this.” He does the motion once again, while continuing, “then she will come to you, and you can do whatever you want. You can ask her to marry you. And she will”
“Just like that? A tap on the bum and she’s my wife, that’s it?” I ask skeptically.
“No, that is not everything.” Dr. Zaid responds. “There is a little more that I must tell you. It is about the magic. But I will only tell you once you pay.”
“How much?”
“400 Rand (60 dollars)”
“That’s a lot!”
“No, no, don’t worry. 200 you pay now, and the other 200, after you tap her. On the bum, of course. After you see that it works.”

I explained to him that it was completely out of my league to pay 400 rand to tap a girl on the bum and that I thought I only had to pay 50 rand and then I would learn all the secrets. He moved onto my friend Ian, without hesitation. Ian told him that he was interested in gaining luck for gambling, and Dr. Zaid said it was quite simple. Ian would have to pay 200 rand and Dr. Zaid would give him luck for gambling, telling him where to go gamble. Then Ian would gamble and, of course, make money, but he would have to come back and bring the money to Dr. Zaid. At this point, Dr. Zaid would talk to the ancestors, and they would tell him what Ian should do with his money. The most important thing, Dr. Zaid emphasized, was that Ian do exactly as the ancestors told him. If he didn’t listen to the ancestors, many bad things would befall upon him. While this was going on, I couldn’t help but wonder how this communication with the ancestors worked. Did they speak through the hay stack of the bull horns? It seemed to me that the only safe bet here was that these ancestors were good businessmen, and Ian could expect nothing less than the request for a healthy tip for their services, with paralysis and death looming as threats if proper payment were not delivered. Even though I don’t believe in this stuff, I still wouldn’t want to mess around with these ancestors. To my ultimate shock, Ian actually thought about signing up for the lucky charms, just in case it worked. For his own sake, he had enough sense to say that he’ll think about it before handing any cash over.
Dr. Zaid then asked Mickey what he wanted, and Mickey smoothly replied that he wanted nothing more than to see his friends succeed.
So as our meeting with Dr. Zaid appeared to come to an end, Dr. Zaid told us to think about it and to come back soon. We’ve all thought about going back to finish the movie, but again, you can only mess with magic for so long until it turns on you.
We opened the door, and luckily for us, our shoes were still there. Perhaps the fact that they weren’t stolen is a good enough testimony to the truth of Dr. Zaid’s magic.

Scene 7- Afrika Burns

Based on the Burning Man festival in the States, Afrika Burns is a 5 day desert camping retreat of eating, partying, burning giant art sculptures, and gift giving and receiving. The idea behind the festival is to create an artistic atmosphere of communal sharing, in which every camp brings something to give to others, and in turn, entitles them to receive the gifts of the rest of the campers. Money is absolutely forbidden, except of course the 450 rand entrance fee to get in, which goes to crucial logistical needs, such as setting up outhouses to keep the camp site sanitary for its 2,000 plus inhabitants. The camp site is in the middle of the Karoo desert with zero access to electricity or running water, demanding of campers to bring these basic necessities with them. It was astonishing how much these festival goers could create on their own, as flashing lights and wild displays covered the site and created a city like environment cast in the desert, resembling the Las Vegas strip more than an isolated campsite. I’ll go into more details in a moment, but first, the trip there.

Packing four people into my friend Maya’s tiny gulf, with all the belongings we would need for the long weekend, the car was so full that the shocks were almost bottomed out from all the weight. The real journey only began three hours into the drive, when we reached the edge of the Karoo desert. Driving through the Karoo, we slowly made our way through the bumpy dirt-roads, driving past endless open fields and hills of pure nothingness. Occasionally, we passed by small farming shacks, but they all seemed to be abandoned. Finally, as we made our way over a ridge overlooking a valley below, Maya and her friend Phumi, both who had been to Afrika Burns before, immediately shouted “Stop!” They quickly exclaimed that without a doubt, we were going the wrong way. We found ourselves lost in the middle of the desert. After a quick U-turn we proceeded to inspect each and every form of shelter along the way, hoping to find some form of human life to guide us in the right direction. First stop, an abandoned cattle farm. No one there. Second stop, an abandoned sheep ranch. No on there. The sun was setting and our situation was looking dire. Finally, in the distance, we saw smoke and followed the trail that led to its source. Upon arriving at a small fire, we met an extremely friendly Afrikaans man with his wife, who happened to be grilling delicious lamb chops on the open flame. After offering us a drink, which we had to unfortunately decline due to the urgency to reach Afrika Burns, they pointed us in the right direction, and we were once again on our way. Although ideally we would have been watching the sun set from our already set up camp, looking at the desert sky glow like a rainbow on an isolated dirt road definitely had its own beauty to it. (As the great Bruce would say, “That’s the Beauty To It!”) However, when the sun finally set, darkness surrounded us, and the spooky scene was made all the eerier by the abandoned cars scattered alongside the road. You see, when people get a flat on their way to Afrika Burns, the excitement to arrive at the campsite is so great that people will actually hitch a ride to the camp and only come fetch their cars on the way back from the long weekend, not wanting to miss a moment of the experience to change a flat.

Driving further on, we saw a car driving that was clearly in trouble, as the exhaust pipe was emitting a dark black smoke and the rear right tire was clearly flat. The drivers were apparently oblivious to all of this, as they drove on with music blasting and the front headlights turned off. It was pretty clear that their party was already started. We hailed them over, and after making them aware of their problem, they explained to us that they had a spare tire, but no jack to switch it with. How convenient. This led to us having to completely unpack the tightly packed trunk to gain access to our jack. When we finally reached the tool, we discovered that it didn’t even fit their car. Frustrated, we packed our stuff back up and wished the best of luck to the delirious fellows, who bid us farewell with some foul smelling hugs. Driving down the road, we could see the dudes jumping in their own car and continuing down the dirt road with the flat unfixed and music blasting just the same.

Finally, we arrived at Afrika Burns and were greeted by some ladies speaking in Eastern European accents who were dressed up in Alien suites. After taking inaugural shots of “magic” juice and laying the throng down on the initiation bell, we drove in the main site, to be welcomed by a scene that was truly out of this world.

The best way to describe Afrika Burns is that it was a combination of a child’s wildest dreams and fantasies from age 3-12 all placed together in a single place. There was a huge blow-up tent (when I say tent, think circus size) that was shaped like a giant squid. Inside the squid, there was a dance floor that was popping until 3 AM with a live DJ and a very spaced out crowd. Just by the squid, there was a giant jelly fish that covers a section of tables, for chill time. One tent was designed around an Alice and Wonderland theme, with a huge rabbit hole followed by a tiny wooden door that you have to walk to lead into enter a room covered in fake grass and little tea cups and plates. Everyday at 4, teatime was held here, which included socializing, blasting music and free cake. Tea was certainly not the only herb passed around. A hot-spot for the night life was the desert rose, which was simply a huge 10 meter rose that land-marked a tent with a very sweet dancing vibe. There was music playing literally 24 hours a day, so if you wanted to move, there was always an option. (Although this sometimes meant some very strange choices). Another unique place to dance was a portable, full size living room, fully equipped with couches, tables, and paintings of snobby elderly women. This was actually the best party place, especially on the night that it was parked next to a GIANT Lego man (classic childhood fantasy.) Getting around the huge camp was never a problem. One option was hoping onto the back of a full hay-truck, whose bed was loaded with a huge set of speakers and a live band. The musicians always made sure there was room for fans to jump aboard as the truck drove around the camp. Another alternative was a wacky giant motorcycle that was actually used as a vehicle in some Hollywood movie. My personal transportation preference was the pirate ship van. I just such a kick climbing up the side ladder of the van, to find myself in the middle of a giant pirate ship structure with a mast towering over me. As the pirate ship van drove around aimlessly through the night, there was no need to ask permission before hopping on; being a gift giving society, at Afrika Burns, literally anything goes. (Example: one very tall man was painted blue and walked around dressed up like an Avatar for the entire weekend. He also happens to be a teacher at UCT. The weird things people do in their weekends.)

However, the most common mode of transportation people used were bicycles. Burrowing an especially small bike (think tricycle size) from someone in my camp one afternoon, I left it by another tent to join a group of guys driving out to the well for a swim. When I came back, the bike was gone and I panicked because it wasn’t mine. For the next two hours, I proceeded to walk around the entire camp, questioning every little child where they got their bike from. I walked into people’s dinners asking if they’ve seen a small blue bike. No luck. Finally, I gave up and took another bike to provide me with transport for the evening. All of a sudden, just when I got the new bike, someone whom I never met came over to me and told me that they found my bike. Perhaps they knew me from all the little kids I harassed about their bikes, but either way, I was greatly relieved. For the rest of the night, I was stuck with two bikes on my hand, riding one with one hand while holding the second with the other. I placed both bikes down for a moment and two little girls picked them up speeding away for a joy ride. I chased after them as fast as I could, explaining to them that those bikes are not to leave my sight. Perhaps there are indeed some challenges living in an open gift giving society in which anything goes. Private property, is indeed sometimes nice.

Some of my favorite gifts: A station where you can choose a postcard, write a note, and the people running this tent will actually send it out to who ever you address it to. One postcard had a picture of a naked man jumping in the desert and I just had to send it out to Lionel Lyon. If you don’t get it, don’t worry, I know he understands. Another station I got a kick out of was the stone giving station, in which you pick a stone that speaks to your spirit. Although this might have not been the nicest thing to do, I decided to sort of mock the whole thing, by taking it VERY VERY seriously. Placing various stones on my heart, I would tell people around me to be quiet and listen intently in the silence, determined to find a Stone that truly “spoke” to me. Once I found the right stone (it’s green and I still have it in case you want to see it), I proceeded to talk about my deep connection with it for several minutes. I got such an inside laugh out of the whole thing. However, I think the people running the station thought I was serious and didn’t pick up on the joke, thankfully saving them and me from any embarrassment. Our camp had a bread-making and kite-making station for our gift, but there really is not much more to say about that. We never actually made kites, and we ate all the bread that we made. In terms of food, our camp ate like royalty. Through a connection of Maya’s, we stayed with a camp of 15 people in which everyone threw down 700 rand before the trip began. This enabled us to eat gourmet through the trip, which included meals of fried eggplant appetizers and Indian Curry. No more about food for now, there are just too many other points to cover.

One very strange event that occurred: I was sitting silently with a few strangers on a giant harp-like structure and a man painted blue on a bike came up to us. After briefly introducing himself as Thundercat, asking our names, and offering us some dates, he proceeded to pluck at some of the strings coming out of this sculpture, making sounds of various pitches with the pluck of each string. For the next 10 minutes, he continued to do this, composing an improvised masterpiece for our crowd of three. When he finished, he simply bowed and biked away. We all clapped and had a good laugh, and then returned to peaceful silence. A few minutes later, I turned my head and saw Thundercat in the distance. He was getting his picture taken while doing headstands in the portable living room- naked.

The most exciting part of Afrika Burns was by far the various burns. The entire festival revolves around the burning of the various sculptures set up around the camp, with different sculptures being burnt each night. These were without a doubt the biggest fires I have seen in my life, stretching easily 20 meters into the sky. The most memorable fire was the burning of the Lego man. Standing at around 5 meters high, the Lego man was exactly what you would expect- a huge replica of the Lego man, walking on some blocks, with a few spare giant blocks on the side to establish the setting. When the Lego man was lit, the first thing to go down was the head, which fell from the top and rolled towards the giant crowd encircling the structure. One of the fireguards walked over to the rolled overhead, which was now engulfed in flames. He casually took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, leaned down, lit the cigarette from the actual burning head, stood there, and calmly looked down at the dead Mr. Lego man while smoking the cigarette that he lit from his head. It simply doesn’t get more gangster than that. What also made the burning of Lego man memorable is the stampede of naked women who decided to run around the fire, passing all the fire guards, when the flame was at its peak. Watching the naked women juke out the fire guards back and forth was a hilarious site indeed. Then, from the midst of all the naked women, one stayed back to be met by a naked man that emerged from the crowd- none other than my friend, Mr. ThunderCat. The ensuing improvised dance that was performed between these two creatures can be best described as simply beautiful and a pure freak show.

Driving back home from Afrika Burns, I couldn’t help but think, who are these people?! Where do they come from? Do they live in our cities, towns and homes? What do they do on a day to day basis? Do they shop in our grocery stores? My car pulled over to the side for a quick pit stop and I decided to relieve myself by some bushes on the side of the road. As I was walking towards my car, another vehicle pulled over and a man popped out of the shotgun seat. He immediately looked at me as if we were long lost friends and shouted out, “Hey David.” Confused and unable to identify him, I look back at him, not knowing what to say. He then made a plucking gesture in the air and sang a single note from his mouth. “Thundercat!” I blurted out, which upon hearing this, he smiled and went back into his car and drove away. I guess these people aren’t that weird after all????