Redsaid

My sister and I hoofed it down Cape Town's World Cup Fan Walk on Tuesday night, before the match during which our Dutch forebears ended up slaughtering the poor Uruguayans.

Despite the heritage thing and the colour of this blog, we were rooting for Uruguay all the way. (Hey, I can't claim a Dutch passport, can I? So they can just suck it, for all I care. On Sunday, I'll be supporting Baspaña Baspaña all the way!)

Our journey on that chilly evening was decidedly lengthier than the designated Fan Walk. We ended up parking FAR away, so had to walk quite a distance to join the other fans, but every step of it was thoroughly enjoyable. (Says the girl who breaks into a sweat when she gets out of bed - which is why she mostly remains there.)

The walk through the designated city streets to the stadium was awash with colour. (Especially orange.) It was also crowded. Crazy. LOUD!  And hilarious. I grinned like a goof the entire way. Although, on second thoughts, that may have been a grimace due to the pain. Yes, I wore sensible shoes - as if I own any other kind - but when your feet hardly touch the ground during your regular existence, you are definitely going to feel it once they do. I also made my sister pose in front of anything that even remotely resembled soccer-themed memorabilia - which means that she was striking a pose at least once per minute - so that I could snap blurry pictures of her on my cell phone.

She was NOT a very cooperative model, so she was promptly fired (although she'll deny it of course and continue to insist that she quit), and then I retired my noble effort at taking commemorative pics. After the cocktails we picked up along the way (because it's important to remain sufficiently hydrated while taking exercise, didn't you know?), there was no chance that I would have been able to focus properly again anyway!
 
During this World Cup on our shores, I have learned that football fever is a highly contagious condition indeed - even affecting and infecting those of us who are usually immune and indifferent to anything even vaguely sports related.

I've also discovered that I would actually like FIFA to keep governing the country. So they're not paying taxes? Well, neither are many members of our current regime! My sister and I both noted how the police were out in full force. Whether on horseback, on foot or in their patrol cars/vans, their presence made us feel so safe, we didn't even mind walking back alone through the near-deserted downtown streets later that night. Something that would be sheer stupidity/madness at any other time - even though it has to be said that, in 'normal' times, Cape Town is still far safer than Jo'burg and Pretoria.

Also notably absent were beggars, street kids and hookers. Which made us wonder: what did FIFA do with (to?) them?

I also learned that seven Uruguayan fans have the capacity to be noisier than 70 000 vuvuzelas being blown at once.

But the most important thing I am taking away from this World Cup?

I'll tell you later. Sorry, it's simply too horrifically traumatic and still too raw to even talk about right now...   
 

It is almost fitting that the good news came on Memorial Day, because although the true meaning behind the day is incredibly sombre - to remember and honour all of America's war casualties - the Memorial Day long weekend also marks the unofficial start of summer in the US. And that has traditionally always been a happy event.

Today my sunny autumn day here in South Africa became unexpectedly brighter when I found out that one of the American dreams I have harboured since returning to South Africa - a dream I had almost completely written off because I've come to believe (and I've been told) that it was simply too improbable to ever happen - is actually about to come true after all!

Here's a hint... it involves the colour green.

No, sadly, it's not THAT green thing. My South African immigration liar (note: the fact that she is the same nationality as I am was a mere coincidence and definitely not any prerequisite I had when I was frantically searching for someone to take my case) was not suddenly overcome with contrition for taking all my money and then allegedly (note: I said allegedly) never doing anything for me. (Me, bitter? Never!) My case files, which, according to her legal secretary, had inexplicably and mysteriously 'disappeared', were not miraculously retrieved all these years later and filed, leading me to realise my ultimate American Dream of finally obtaining that much coveted and long awaited Green Card (which is oddly not even green at all).

But even though it's not THAT green thing, THIS green thing is a very worthy consolation prize. It is also something I have been coveting for years.

It is this:

Six years ago today I woke up in a tiny rowhouse in Hampden, a quirky neighbourhood in the city of Baltimore. On that day, instead of simply rolling over and falling asleep again – as was my usual habit – I actually got up, ran to the computer, logged on and squealed with disbelief and delight when I saw this.

When I entered Emily’s Win-A-Blog contest, I never in a million years thought that I even had a remote chance of winning it. For some time, I had been quietly following her blog (which is now, sadly, defunct, because the girl is leading an offline life brimming with fullness, love and success). When she announced the contest, I merely took a shot because it was a way of reaching out to her, this fellow redhead who I had come to admire so much, without seeming like a complete stalker.

I don’t think Emily is aware of this, but at the time of the contest (and for a long time before that), I had been gripped by an ongoing, soul-sapping depression. When I wrote my three entries for the contest, it was the first time I had done any writing or anything remotely productive in ages.

But something about her contest managed to reignite a bit of a spark in me. After a long stretch of barely existing in a fog of monotony and constant malaise, I desperately needed something to look forward to again. That contest became it for me. And when I miraculously won, it also gave me a reason to get out of bed again. I am honestly not exaggerating when I say that this blog has quite possibly saved my life.

Little did I know back then how blogging would not only help to slowly usher me back into the land of the living, but what a huge role it also eventually ended up playing in helping me to actually earn a living as well.

Yesterday, in an e-mail (that was only just a tiny bit less sappy and sentimental than this post) to Emily, I wrote: “By the way, can you believe that redsaid.net will be SIX years old tomorrow!? I can't believe how many career opportunities that blog has brought me. Thanks to it (and you!), I'm now making a living as a freelance writer in online media and I’m also actually being paid to blog! So yes, chicka, I'll be forever grateful to you and that Win-A-Blog contest of yours.”

Despite my horrible neglect of it, I still love this blog as much as that first day I saw it. I’m still crushing on Joelle’s gorgeous design. I am still thrilled whenever I receive a comment. (If it hasn’t abated after six years, I think it’s safe to assume that the novelty will probably never wear off.) I’m also beyond thrilled that some of you, who have been here since that first day, have stuck around and that you still bother to read and even comment on my infrequent ramblings.

I know that real writers always say that they mostly write for themselves. But I am pretty sure that I would not have bothered to keep this up (even as sporadically as I have been) without any of you. So thank you very, very much.

P.S. Oh, and Dee? My blogging career would not be complete without me breaking yet more things in the template which made other somewhat important things disappear from the blog... Oh, and all my hot links seem to have changed from purple to bright blue!? So if you have a moment to spare, I would REALLY appreciate your help again please, oh Web Goddess Who Is Now A Qualified Mistress*! I PROMISE I will never ever try and tinker with your code EVER again! No, really. This time I mean it.

*She's a chick with a hot-off-the-printer Master's Degree, geddit?

Because Nostradamus foretold it.

Okay, okay, and because, in the more immediate here-and-now, the lovely Duchess is making me do it! Well, that's not entirely true. I kinda may have voluntarily signed up for it. But it WAS still her idea!

Also, I will not be the only one accosting total strangers. So magnetic is her charms, and so great is her idea, that there are many other chick bloggers from all over the world that have also enthusiastically pledged their participation.

What exactly is it that we will be doing with/to/for strangers, you ask? Don't worry, nothing sinister. (At least, not intentionally so.) On an assigned day during the month of May, we will simply commit a totally senseless act of kindness for a complete stranger. And then we shall all blog about it.

There are not too many rules. Only that our chosen gesture of kindness need not cost any money, but if it does, we should not spend more than ten bucks max.

I have not confessed this to the Duchess yet, but this is actually going to be quite a challenge for me. You see, since I work from home and am therefore a teensy bit on the reclusive side, I do not encounter too many strangers (or even acquaintances) during my day-to-day existence. So this might require me to actually - *GULP* - get out of bed for a change! And perhaps SPEAK to an actual human being?!?

I'm afraid that, since I only ever venture out to forage for food occasionally, my social skills these days subsequently leave much to be desired. I don't know how to communicate with other humans anymore unless I get to type what I'm trying to say on a computer. And even that, as you can clearly see, is a skill I have yet to master! In preparation for my participation in the project, I did make a concerted effort to speak to my sister the other day, but I only just managed a few grunts.

So I'm going to need ideas here. What can I do to successfully complete (and yes, it would be nice to survive) the project and not cause someone in Stellenbosch to have a heart attack from fright when I approach them? (So yes, please, I obviously want my victim stranger to survive as well. I think causing someone's death, apart from defeating the purpose of the entire exercise, would also just be too totally over the top.)

What if I just accept the Facebook friend request from that random Turkish dude? I have NO idea who he is, but he's been sending me repeated friend requests for years. So if I finally be-Facebook-friend him, won't THAT count as my senseless gesture of kindness towards a stranger??

Dammit.

P.S. If you are a girl blogger and you also want to play, shoot the Duchess an e-mail at jill[at]theduchessguide.com and read her far more eloquent explanation of what exactly we will be doing here. 

I saw this while I was dead tired, and - make no bones about it - I just about killed myself laughing. (And now I'll stop with the lame puns.) Thank you, News24, for making me giggle for a change.

(I should actually create a category called Extreme Puppy Love for this one. But before you roll your eyes and hiss at me, cat lovers; please retract those claws, because for once this is not about MY adoration for dogs. In fact, I have nothing on the person I’m about to tell you about.)

A distant relative of mine is a rocket scientist. Apart from the obvious brilliance his occupation requires, he also has a kind and gentle soul and a fondness for dogs.

His love for creatures of the canine persuasion is indiscriminate. He is not bogged down by technicalities such as pedigree or size. I found this out for myself a few years ago when he gave me a lift back from the town of By George! to Stellenbosch. His two dogs accompanied us on the trip, because the three of them had been on holiday together.

I remember the one dog in particular. His name was Jakkals (which is Afrikaans for ‘fox’), but Jakkals the dog did not resemble the sly and pointy-nosed species he was named after. Not even remotely. Maybe his name was ironic, or perhaps he had looked much different when he was a puppy. Doubtful, though. Like me, I suspect that Jakkals was also the runt of the litter, because the mature Jakkals that I got to meet had a perfectly rotund body that was precariously balancing on four disproportionately skinny legs. (Kind of like me! Except for the four  skinny legs part... I don't even have ONE skinny leg!)

Upon first glance, his lineage became perfectly clear: Jakkals was a purebred pavement special. It didn’t matter though, because one look into that odd-looking little mutt’s sweet brown eyes and my heart was stolen.

Throughout the four hour drive (which actually took longer due to bad weather), I reached back frequently and petted him and the other dog. When they finally dropped me off at my sister’s that night, I said my goodbyes, thanked him for the lift and went on my way.

A few weeks ago I ran into that very same relative at the grocery store. We had not seen each other in more than a year. “How are you? And how are the doggies?”

His expression immediately changed. “Haven’t you heard? They’ve both died.”

I felt so horrible for him. Those dogs were like children to him! I reached out and squeezed his arm. “I’m SO sorry to hear that!”

“Yes, thanks,” he said. “They were both old, but still… I miss them terribly. Especially Jakkals.”

Suddenly he smiled a bit. “But you know, after Jakkals died, I had to go overseas for a satellite launch.”

Aww, I thought to myself. So the poor, grieving man immediately and bravely plunged back into his work. “Good for you!” I said.

“Yes, I had saved some of his fur and took it along. And while putting the finishing touches on the satellite before the launch, I attached it to the satellite.”

"Wait... you attached the FUR?" I wasn't sure that I had heard him correctly.

He nodded, squinted up at the Stellenbosch sky and solemnly said: “So now, twice every day, a little piece of Jakkals orbits by here, looking down on us!”

I was immediately so overcome… with the giggles. In my mind's eye, I saw the satellite, completely covered in dog fur. Luckily I managed to scrounge together enough decency and self-control to at least hold my laughter until I was in my car.

 Bow-WOW! Jakkals had gone from being an underdog in life, to being a posthumous astrodog! I always knew that the pup had it in (or shall we rather say on?) him to end up among the stars…

And I don’t think too many other dog owners will ever be able to match – let alone top – such a send-off for their dogs!

 

“’Ello there. Eet ees so nice to meet you.”

Her English was fluent, but the unmistakable French accent elegantly, musically rolled from her tongue. It filled me with immense joy, not merely at the prospect of having the opportunity to practice my pathetic, near non-existent French, but also because it prompted me to immediately – and mistakenly – assume that she, like me, also hailed from the Mother Continent.  

“D'où est-ce que tu viens?” I asked, just to be sure.

Her eyes widened with delighted surprise. “Tu parles français!”                                                      

“Non, non! Je ne parle pas français. I’m South African!”I quickly explained, before she even had the opportunity to enthusiastically launch into rapid-fire, French-as-a-first-language dialogue. She seemed highly amused when I told her that I could not speak her language in her language. “I can only say a few phrases. I’ve always adored the language though and would love to speak it fluently one day.” Suddenly embarrassed, I deflected the subject back to her. “So tell me, where are you from?”

The answer she gave me that day now haunts me. Over the past few weeks, thoughts of her and her family have dominated my mind. But on that particular day, more than a decade ago, it was just one of the many thrilling aspects about her.

 

Over these past few days, I think I may have broken my own record (and possibly even the world record) for accidentally breaking things within a short space of time. (Well, I did break both my arms - one at a time - when I was a kid, but that happened about four or five years apart.)

On Monday, I broke another coffee mug. On Wednesday, I broke a bottle of exquisite perfume (Eden by Cacherel. It was a lovely scent and it was still more than half full... my heart was as shattered as the perfume bottle. On the bright side: the rug in front of my closet now smells FANTASTIC.) And today, while tending to my sick-with-a-stomach-bug sister, I managed to drop a glass Coke bottle on my toes... which now FEEL as if they ought to be broken but aren't.

So in keeping with the theme of this smashing week, I have decided that tonight is as good a time as any to break my silence as well.

Now, normally my lack of blogging is due to my extreme laziness. This time, however, I was literally stunned into it. Around mid-November, I received some dreadful news. Seriously, I still go NUMB when I think about it. It involved just me and I only told my one sister, two close friends and - since she had the unfortunate timing of e-mailing me right around then and she happened to casually and politely ask how I was doing - her.

Usually, when I'm shocked (or happy, or sad, or watching Animal Planet), I cry my eyes out. Well, I did this time too (no sense in breaking tradition, is there?), but I was so sick with shock, fear and stress, that instead of reaching for the comfort food as I usually do when faced with something scary/stressful/sad, I actually stopped eating for a few days. Which, truly, is a remarkable accomplishment for the likes of me! The last time I had experienced this same kind of awful terror and stress-induced dieting, was from October to December of 2005, when my American Dream died a swift and painful death.  

Luckily, after weeks of being suspended in agonising limbo, I found out that things are going to be okay after all, but not until after I had withdrawn from the world for a bit. (That's my way of tackling problems: burrowing deeper under the duvet and hoping that all my troubles will be gone when I surface again!) Hence the silence.

Now, since the silence has been officially broken, here's the not-quite-so-breaking-anymore news:

Not only has my aunt fully recovered from her stroke, she is even BETTER than she was before! Case in point: after years of reading with glasses (I sometimes even had to read the menus out loud to her and my mom in dimly lit restaurants), she now reads perfectly without it!! Isn't that freaky? Less than two weeks after being released from hospital, she repainted the inside of her entire house. The doctors are completely amazed at her recovery. My mom said they were literally gawping at her when she went for her follow-up visit.

Oh! And I've experienced fame (well, we use the term extremely loosely) @ last as a twit-lit author (word we also use loosely): see here, but first be warned that you are about to encounter my hideous real name again. I make a brief appearance after all the really brilliant stuff and the truly talented people.

There is a bit more news involving horticulture, more gifts received (sent from locally and abroad), wildlife and what age I look (again!), but that'll have to wait until later. My stupid toes are still throbbing so much, I think I have to hop around and utter a few offending words and phrases again. I recently read that cursing when you're in pain actually helps to alleviate the soreness. So far it hasn't worked for me... but I'll gladly give it another &*%$#@!!!F!F!F shot! 
 

I don't indulge in cross-posting too often, so I'm hoping that you'll forgive me for shamelessly copying a post I wrote for my other (equally neglected) blog. Not because I think it's particularly well-written (please, I wish! I'm still me, no matter where I blog!), but because my subject is a dear friend who has just released a CD and I'm trying to do whatever I can to drum up some support for him. He absolutely deserves it!

It was a summer night in Washington, D.C. during the late ‘90’s when I met him for the first time.

Some of the other South African Au Pairs and I were in the Zoo Bar – a joint so named because of its proximity to the National Zoo, and not merely because the patrons had a tendency to behave like animals after knocking back a few. The tiny space was air-conditioned and we sidled in deeper, past the rest of the Friday night revellers, seeking liquid confidence and respite from the sticky and oppressive humidity outside.

Despite the blast of refreshingly chilled air enveloping us inside, the crowd was positively cookin’. A swinging jazz band was performing some cool, foot-tapping covers. A lifelong lover of jazz, I craned my neck from where we had managed to inch our way closer to the bar counter to try and get a better view of the musicians.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the sax player. He was playing a solo and getting increasingly lost in the music – venturing to that other-worldly plane where people travel to when they are engrossed in doing what they were absolutely BORN to do. With his head thrown back, eyes closed, fingers darting lightly across the keys; his passion for his instrument was evident, surging through his entire body. “Wow, he’s goooooood,” I thought to myself, thoroughly impressed.

A few lively tunes later, he leaned towards the mic and said: “Thank you! We’re just going to take a short break. We’ll be right back.” I perked up immediately. That accent… it was unmistakable. But I asked the bartender anyway, just to be sure. He confirmed with a cheerful shout: “Hey Syd! We have some more South Africans in the house over here! And they’re all prettier than you!”

When Sydney Banda warmly shook our hands that night – fellow countrymen from diverse backgrounds thrown together by happenstance on the other side of the world – I had no idea that this extremely kind and remarkably talented guy was to become one of my dearest friends and that our friendship would span across years and continents.

A few days ago, I opened a parcel postmarked Washington, D.C. and squealed with delight. It was from Sydney and it contained his long awaited CD, Groovin’. I couldn’t open it fast enough to play it, but had to pause when I saw that he had kept a promise he had made me a long time ago: in a sweet and touching gesture, he had inscribed and autographed the inside cover of the sleeve for me.

The road to this glorious moment, of having an actual 12-track CD filled almost entirely with his own music (only two of the twelve tracks on the disc were not composed by him), has been a long and often difficult one for Sydney.

His musical journey began in the dusty streets of his childhood hometown, a township in KwaZulu-Natal called Enkukwini. In that township, located near a small town called Stanger, six-year old Sydney found music when he began making and playing rough, homemade guitars hewn out of petrol cans with strings fashioned from fishing line. “At that time,” Syd writes in an e-mail to me, “every township kid had or played a homemade guitar.”

When he was nine years old, he switched from playing homemade guitars to a red plastic pennywhistle, an instrument he showed a natural talent for by mastering it within three months.

“At age eleven, my aunt bought me my first Bp Horner pennywhistle. I taught myself how to play it and at the age of thirteen I had my own pennywhistle band called MawMaw.”

MawMaw played kwela and jive – lively, traditional music with a jazzy twist. They performed on street corners until the police came and chased them away. Eventually the police stopped shooing them. Not because they had given up, but because by then, the music and the skill of the young musicians had won them over. “Finally they ended up enjoying it too!”

Around 1959/1960, young Sydney got his first big break when he was invited to play with the Can-Can Jazz Band at the Stanger Town Hall.  “That was my first time performing with amplified musical equipment.  I got my first publicity, with my picture appearing on the front page of the local newspaper.”

The band master for that performance was a local police officer called Mr. Sibiya. He invited Sydney to his house in Tshlenkosi township and there, Syd first encountered the instrument which was to become his meal ticket: the saxophone. Over the next two months, Syd walked 11 kilometres to Mr. Sibiya’s house and, once again, taught himself to play another instrument.

Sydney’s skill on the sax has served him well. It supported him through years in Malawi and later also in the United States – still his home today. In the States, career highlights have included playing at President Bill Clinton’s Inaugural balls (both in 1993 and 1997), performing for Prince Charles and Camilla when they paid a royal visit to Washington, D.C. and performing for other big name celebs such as Naomi Judd (yes, indeed, mother of actress Ashley and singer Winona) and Dame Helen Mirren.

With Groovin’, Sydney has decided to strike a sentimental path, revisit his youth and return to his original musical roots. Although he can be heard playing the sax, this album is entirely devoted to the pennywhistle. He still has the original Horner Bp pennywhistle given to him by his aunt, which can be heard on a number of tracks on the album. In addition to that pennywhistle, he also plays a Horner C and G on the CD.

The album is marketed as World Music, but it has an unmistakable Afro Pop flavour. The only two covers on the track are Red River Valley and a gorgeous arrangement of the Irish classic Danny Boy. Sydney chose Red River Valley because it was one of the first songs he played professionally. Danny Boy was added at the request of a friend, who (correctly) thought that it would sound great on pennywhistle. The rest of the tracks were all composed by Sydney.

To sample all the tracks and buy a copy of Sydney’s album, visit the CD Baby website. 

I was outside, standing on a chair and fiddling with my satellite radio's antenna, when my new neighbour rounded the corner.

"Biscuit! Biiiscuuuuiiiit!" He called. When he saw me he stopped. "Hey there! Have you seen Biscuit?"

Since this was shortly after the Great Arachnid Slaying of 2009, I was still a tad jumpy. I warily looked at him. "What exactly IS this Biscuit you are looking for?" I stood on my toes, already imagining and dreading his answer. A venomous snake? A non-poisonous snake? (I don't care. My terror doesn't know the difference.) A rat? A mouse? Or by any hopeful yet unlikely chance... a Biscuit as in Sea Biscuit? (Not that I'm all that comfortable around horses either, mind. There was that frightening experience with that volatile little Shetland pony when I was about ten years old which had left me traumatised for life. No, I'm not going to talk about it. Let's just say that, just because it is small, it doesn't possess any less horse power than regular-sized horses! Nasty little bugger...)

I knew it wasn't a dog, because NO dog gets past me without being petted and belly rubbed to within an inch of its life. And at the time, he had already lived here long enough that I would have noticed/heard a dog or a cat.

He ignored me.

"BIIIIIISCUUUUU... Oh, THERE you are!" I whirled around to look in the same direction of the garden that he was walking towards, just in time to see a huge light brown blur out of the corner of my eye. I froze. "Oh, hell..." I thought. "It's one of those mutant-sized cane rats... the same ones they put on leashes and use in Angola to sniff out landmines!"

Imagine my absolute relief when the blur morphed into a harmless, hopping bunny! A BUNNY!

"Oh, CUTE man!" I said (perhaps a tad too loudly and enthusiastically) and jumped off the chair.

He scooped up the utterly charming Biscuit and brought him over to me. "Yes, he can even do tricks. Here, let me show you." He put Biscuit down at my feet and snapped his fingers, while I looked on with great skepticism. "Circle, Biscuit! Circle!"

Apart from twitching one of his long ears and his trembling whiskers, Biscuit remained utterly motionless. "Oh, Biscuit! Come ON!" For a dude with big ears, Biscuit sure did not listen! My neighbour looked at me. "I PROMISE you he can do tricks. But..." his face fell. "Usually he only listens to my ex-girlfriend."

I couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing. "Ooooh, ouch! Shame! That's gotta hurt!"

He also laughed, but not QUITE as heartily as me. "Yeah. He really really loves her. And he's possessive! When she's holding him and anyone dares to come near her, he actually tries to nip them!"

I knelt down and petted Biscuit. "Oh, you good boy, you!" I said and wished I had a large carrot to give him for displaying such loyalty and devotion towards the ex-girlfriend.

A few weeks later, I saw a gorgeous girl with long, blonde hair outside. She was sitting in our shared courtyard, a content Biscuit cradled in her arms. Seriously, that bunny was SWOONING. "You must be the ex-girlfriend!" I said, and promptly told her the story. Turns out that they now have joint custody, because Biscuit was pining for her too much. (I strongly suspect that he was not the only one, though! And what better ploy to keep on seeing her than to get the bunny involved... sneaky guy!)

Oh, and Biscuit can indeed do tricks. She showed me!  And boy, did that bunny ever show off...