Brief Update

I've been putting off posting for too many reasons, both here and, (perhaps) ironically, at my blog about procrastination.

I'm here to give the briefest update:

• Arrived in Luanda February 15.
• No mosquito bites yet, they seem to be avoidable if you take the right precautions.
• Still living in a hotel with six suitcases between Mr. Expat and myself.
• Our belongings, which were packed into a sea-freight and an air-freight shipment in Cape Town on February 10, are still in Cape Town.  
• Will be going back home in a few days for an undetermined amount of time, until work things and living arrangements get settled. 

I should provide a more detailed update sometime soon.  Hopefully.  

Things to Love about Cape Town

I've had this list of things in my head for a long time, but haven't gotten around to posting...(hence my new blog, Project ProcrastiNOT!)  But since we are leaving for Luanda in (eek!) two and a half weeks, I thought it would be a nice farewell to the Mother City.  Here are some of the things I've found particularly intriguing about Cape Town:

New Year, New Locale, New Resolve

Ok, let’s go ahead and just put it out there: I haven’t been the best at updating my blog.  I haven’t always been the best at keeping up and following through with my projects.  But this year will be different! For more about my resolve to finish the projects I start, check out my new blog, Project ProcrastiNOT.

Don’t worry, I haven’t started something new just to abandon this blog.  Actually, regular updating here is one of my resolutions.

A lot has happened since the last post.  We spent three weeks in London, a month in Tulsa, OK, and came back to Cape Town in time for summer weather.  We have furnished our apartment and have been given a new place to call home: Luanda, Angola.  We’ll be moving there in about three weeks time.  I’m sad to leave Cape Town, but I know that Luanda will have it’s own highlights as well as challenges.

Living in Cape Town has been amazing!

Rhinos Poached for Horns in South Africa

I saw four of the six resident rhinos when I visited Aquila in March

Although I come from a family of varying degrees of vegetarianism, I have never been passionate about animal rights. Or being green. Or voting. You know that Helen Keller quote: I am only one, but still I am one? It’s a nice thought, but I still struggle with the concept. You might call it indifference, but since college, I hadn’t felt that prickly need to reform the world. And if I had, I accepted I’d be trodden on by the stampede of the inevitable. But they say that experience creates understanding and living in Africa is certainly a new experience.

Mr. Expat’s phone chirped last Sunday as we sat on the couch, watching

pirated episodes of Big Bang Theory on the computer. A colleague sent the message that poachers had attacked at Aquila Game Reserve, a private facility about two hours from Cape Town. The poachers had gone after three animals, leaving one dead and another sans horn. They must have been scared away soon after; the third rhino, a female, had been darted but not dehorned.

Poachers and hunters evoke in me, for some reason, some undefined Jungle Bookish picture of fictional cartoons in khaki outfits salivating over elephant tusks. Again, experience creates understanding. This attack on the Aquila rhinos anchored me to the topic, drawing me in. Mr. Expat and I had been to Aquila when I visited in March, only five months ago. I can’t recall having seen a rhino before that trip; they became some of the most memorable animals from the safari.

We saw several during the game drives, including a mama and a baby rhino who reminded me of a puppy, bucking and scampering, trying to get attention from its mother. Rhinos are funny, I thought. Strange looking in a cute way--that dumpy body and long head topped with little ears rolled up like two rough calla lilies, forehead swooping low with the face crammed down at the bottom. The horns were impressively long and very pointy, the baby’s stumpy cone still growing. Aquila’s rhino population was 6 and we saw 4 of them.

Rhinos are poached for their horns, which are made of keratin and are sharpened over time from rubbing them along the ground. The horns have been used across many Asian cultures for medicinal and ceremonial purposes. In Yemen, daggers made of rhino horn called jambiya are seen as a symbol of manhood and commitment to the Muslim religion, and were traditionally awarded to young men at the age of twelve, although now craftsmen are encouraged to use substitute materials, such as garnet in their making of jambiya. It is now internationally illegal to trade in rhino horn.  Other historical uses of the horn include cooling fever, curing rheumatism, gout, hallucinations and “demon possession,” as well as water purification in Greece and poison detection in 5^th century BC Persia all the way up to royal England of the 18^th and 19^th centuries.  The last belief may have some grounding in empirical evidence—the keratin of the horn may have reacted chemically with the alkaline of certain poisons (pbs.org).

Rhinos and Zebras co-existing at Aquila

I was very sad to hear of the attack on the Aquila rhinos.  The pictures of the carnage are disturbing. Like a molar ripped out at the root with no anesthesia, the rhino face without its horn is a weepy, bloody hole. When the horn is humanely cut above the rootline, it can still regrow; some farmers and reserves have taken to preventative horn cutting to deter poachers but still, legal dehorning requires a permit and must be performed by a wildlife vet (stoprhinopoaching.com).  Unfortunately ABSA, the surviving dehorned rhino, was suffering from the hack job done on his face with a chainsaw, and died a week after the attack, one of 279 killed this year.

So what’s the moral of this story? I don’t have a tidy way to wrap it up; I’m still understanding the effect of ABSA’s death and the reality of rhino poaching. I’m also curious to know how other people choose their causes. What cause do you stand for, and what inspired you to align yourself with it?

INFORM YOURSELF! 


Please visit the following links and familiarize yourself with the dangers presented by rhino poaching. (Warning: some pictures are pretty graphic)


PBS: Fact or Fiction



Aquila Game Reserve


Stop Rhino Poaching


International Rhino Foundation


Getaway Blog detailing ABSA's progress

The Show Must Go On...

"Damn everything but the circus." Corita Kent

In the past, whenever something in my life was not going according to plan, whether work or school or relationships, I would vow to run away and join the circus. This response the may have spawned from watching Toby Tyler too many times as a kid (1960 Disney movie in which a runaway befriends a chimpanzee, Mr. Stubbs, and a precocious horseback rider). And this summer, I obsessed over Water for Elephants, with its sequins and Reese Witherspoon in her 1930s, blonde-pincurled and red-lipped charm.  Both the movie and the book depict the difficulties and hardship of life on a train and work with a traveling circus; I find the gritty underbelly of showbiz is a paradox not uncommon to things so alluring and glossy on the outside. 

Coworkers and friends

The closest I ever got to joining the circus was my career as a ballroom dance instructor. I had loved it, mostly, but the illusion created by rhinestones, feathers, swirling spandex and suede-bottomed shoes had been hollowed out after two years of exhausting work and no life outside the studio.

A few weeks ago, Mr. Expat and I went to Vaudeville, a dinner show here in Cape Town. The exterior was flat and white, but inside swags of burgundy velvet draped from the ceiling, framing the back wall of booths reminiscent of luxurious passenger cars from the time of Minnie the Moocher. Men bought fake mustaches boutique near the entrance as ladies pinned feathers into their headbands, their cheeks glittering with face paint. We were escorted to our table, front and center, and were ready to enjoy the show.

In the background you kind of see the train car inspired booths. 

Acts included a waifish opera singer and an aerial acrobat who wrapped, twisted and unwound himself from a silk scarf hung from the ceiling. A violinist, suspended upside down from a cable, swung violently from one side of the audience to the other playing feverishly all the while. 

The best was the fire man. Dressed in a red and black vest and bowler hat, he twirled a fire rope in each hand. Like blazing nunchuks, he created wheels of flames on either side. He manipulated the rotation to raise these wheels overhead before lowering them back to each side, coming down the stairs of the stage into the audience and scaring the shit out of us. At the end, wheels still alight, he sank down to the ground, burning wheels still bright. From his knees, he leaned back until his back touched the ground, churning those fire ropes, and slowly made it to his feet again.

Watching all the acts gave me a pang of excitement but I was left cold when I realized that my ongoing dream of joining the circus was probably not going to come true.  Not that I truly believed I would actually join the circus, but it occurred to me that now, as a newlywed, I couldn’t even entertain the idea. A circus performer lifestyle, just doesn’t seem conducive to a happily married lifestyle. Consider the hours, the company, the traveling--unless we started our own Von Trapp-style family outfit in which everyone has a role as we travel the globe as lion tamers, acrobats or musicians who play instruments upside down. 

This guy leapt, whirled and twirled
like a martial artist on a string.

Panicky, I mentally raced through a whole list of dreams that now seemed unobtainable. In high school I imagined becoming a geneticist or Lois Lane like reporter, but my father always thought I'd make a good lawyer. My experience in ballroom had me convinced I should hand over my life to own a studio, and of course, I'll never forget the circus. Unlikely scenarios perhaps, but now my ability and willingness are not the only factors to consider.  I had thought I understood the “compromises” heralded in successful relationships but was now starting to realize it's not just about money or whose turn it is to do the dishes or what color to buy the new towels, but actual life decisions that impact your shared future and Holy Cow, is this what it means to be grown up and married?? The reality of my life as a married woman had conflicted with the theoretical circumstances of my dreams and I was left feeling like someone had snatched the tablecloth from underneath my elbows without disturbing any of the place settings. 

The following week, Mr. Expat was stressed at work writing a big proposal. Graphs, calculations and teleconferences with supervisors left him grumpy after long days at work until finally, one evening I picked him up from work as usual. He opened the back door (as usual) and slung his backpack in the backseat without saying hello (not as usual). He opened the driver's side door slowly and sank into the seat without a word. I could tell it had been a hectic day and I waited for him to speak first. “Forget this," he said, tipping his head back on the headrest. "Let’s join the circus.”

Something Old, Something New

Thursday, July 14

I have a standing lunch date with the hammock.

I have never been an outdoorsy girl. But this afternoon, like many others since arriving to South Africa, I revel in the sunshine. Neither too hot nor too cold, this “winter” weather is a pleasant departure from the 100+ temperatures back in Oklahoma. Reclining in a purple and green Venezuelan hammock strung up on my balcony, I watch as cranes maneuver back and forth in the Port of Cape Town.  With my left leg curled underneath me and my right leg extended over the edge of the hammock, I push off the ground with my big toe, rocking gently, just enough to outstretch my hand until I feel the cool perspiration of my beer bottle on the nearby table.  

Our first car, alternately and affectionately
known as the "Ferrari" or "Little Red"

It is a relaxing contrast to the hectic days earlier this week: I filed a traffic Accident Report at the police station; my husband left for Angola on a short business trip; I even served as impromptu interpreter at the hospital after I overheard paramedics say they needed a Spanish speaker in the emergency room. An Argentine man returning to Buenos Aires after a trip to China had collapsed from chest pains shortly after landing at the Cape Town airport and was rushed to the hospital. He spoke no English.

All this after only three weeks in Cape Town! Any of these adventures deserves special attention, but let’s start at the beginning.

Thursday, June 23

Two days after our small, casual civil ceremony in Tulsa, Mr. Expat and I began our too long journey back to the Mother City with five suitcases and four carry-ons between the two of us. My mother and youngest sister accompanied us to the airport. As we checked in, the grumpy airline employee informed us of the overweight charges. Mr. Expat, expert packer, had already anticipated the charges in addition to our one extra bag, however had underestimated the extent of the damages. At first we seemed doomed—four out of five suitcases were overweight at a hundred bucks a pop, and another $250 for the fifth case. What did it take to change this dismal scenario into a more favorable scene where a smiling clerk bids us bon voyage and provides security passes allowing Mom and Sis to see us off at the gate? That would be a question for my new husband, whose Number One Tip for travel is to carry extra cash.

About 1/2 of a single suitcase belongs to Mr. Expat

Family Portrait on our wedding day

Still savoring the afterglow of the wedding, Mr. Expat and I passed the time in true newlywed fashion.  We marveled at the transformative power of a document to declare us Husband and Wife and contemplated whether we felt different. We took turns saying the words aloud: “My husband and I are traveling to Cape Town,” and “My wife would like the chicken.” In my experience, traveling for more than 20 hours is infinitely more pleasurable as a newlywed! The trip itself was uneventful other than the cold that Mr. Expat had developed in our last days in Tulsa and so thoughtfully shared with me.  We arrived on a Friday night, and the memories of my first weekend in Cape Town are a sniffly, joyful blur of Kleenex, miso soup and tuna nigiri, and driving on the left side of the road. 

What I do remember is that walking into the apartment felt like coming home. Literally. Here was my Something Old: the blue and yellow dishtowels from our Bakersfield apartment, the bedroom furniture and a countertop ironing board we bought after a daytrip to the Ikea in Burbank, the yellow woven placemats we picked out in Venezuela in 2007. It was both comforting and unsettling, living among such familiar artifacts from a previous life in this completely new setting, as if my coming here instilled in these things a new sense of purpose, a new set of expectations.

There were new and unfamiliar things too, a pristine white two-seater leather couch, begging for a feminine decorative touch, and exotic knick-knacks from worldly adventures: a curved dagger in its sheath from Dubai, a set of nesting dolls from Belarus on a shelf next to a small-eared wooden elephant from West Africa. My favorite Something New? The hammock, the balcony and the city sounds it offers—rushing highway traffic, beeps and crashes from the cranes at the Port—the sounds of a city at work, people with places to go, futures being built.

Sunset at Sea Point

From To-Dos to "I Do..."

Late Tuesday night, my phone buzzed, indicating I had received a message. It was Mr. Expat.  It was around 7 am Wednesday morning in Cape Town, and he was just waking up. Blackberry has an array of smiley face icons to choose from when sending a message, and this morning he initiated our text conversation with a yawning face. He then sent a series of charming emoticons, from a wide grin to a happy face with a party hat to a dancing face with jazz hands splayed. Who says men are poor communicators? 

BBM emoticons, courtesy of Syreeta Gates

“Why are you waking up in such a good mood?” I wrote him.

“In a week from today, I’ll be on my way,” he replied. I thought about the timeline of the past couple months, and also about the upcoming week. We had now entered that deliciously romantic time warp phase familiar to any love sick person in a long distance relationship. Every day looming ahead seems like an eon, yet, once the day arrives, everything that lead up to it will become one big blur. So many things have to be done, items crossed off the list, before Mr. Expat arrives that it seems impossible to imagine him actually being here.

-------

“Are you nervous?” 

I’ve heard the question too many times to count. At first, I thought people asked because of the interesting circumstances surrounding the proposal, but after visiting different blogs and discussion boards, I think this is a common question directed towards many brides-to-be. And I found out that many of them responded how I felt: not nervous, just happy or excited. 

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be nervous about. I’ve lived in other countries before, and English is a main language in South Africa, so although I’m expecting your average dose of culture shock, I don’t think it will be anything too major. I’m getting married, yes, but to a man whom I’ve known for years and have also lived with, the love of my life. On one hand, the progression of events seems natural. On the other hand, some of the changes about to take place are so grand that my new life is almost hard to picture.

Every bridal magazine that you pick up is full of lists--checklists, worksheets for your checklists, lists of tips, lists of resources, lists of dates and timelines. There are even books that are lists only. I once loved making lists; my sister gave me a little green notebook for Christmas one year “for making lists.” I even would make lists of all the categories of lists I had. Now I use these lists as a procrastination tool, and fill up my time thinking about doing things on the different to-do lists, adding and editing, rearranging and fretting. And thinking about the items on your to-do list has got to count for something, right?

The type of person who thinks lists of every sort will help a bride feel organized (The Knot, perhaps?) must be the same type of person who asks every bride, “Are you nervous?” The more I think about this question, and the lists, and the days preceding my fiancé’s arrival, the more a feeling inside me grows. I know what you’re thinking but, no, I wouldn’t call it nervous; it’s more complex than that. I don’t know what to call it, but the word anxious comes to mind and I wonder why. What’s the difference between nervous and anxious? I asked my mother this question and she thought “anxious” was a more chronic state-of-being, whereas “nervous” was more circumstantial or specific to a certain event. But to me, anxious has a different meaning altogether.

I remember hearing the word anxious for the first time. I was almost six, and my younger sister and I were at home, waiting for our parents to return from the hospital with a brand new baby sister. My aunt from Mexico City was there watching us, and my mom had been in the hospital for several days. I was excited, missed my mother terribly, and was ready to see the new baby, kiss and pat her and present her with gifts. “I’m so anxious!” my aunt said. And even though I didn’t know the word, I understood her meaning. To me, “anxious” is a Can’t Sit Still-ness—an ants in your pants feeling, what I imagine Restless Leg Syndrome must feel like, but for your mind and not your body.  And that’s the feeling that I have—excited and happy, in awe of what’s coming and ready for change but maybe with a little bit of nervous mixed in.

I may write another post of the actual checklists that I have been writing, and some may actually find them helpful: in about five weeks time I’ve had to (and am still having to) organize my move to South Africa and a civil marriage to take place in June, as well as start the beginnings of plans for an actual ceremony later this year. However, in this post, I would like to share some of the things that I’ve done in the past weeks that were NOT actually on any of my to-do lists, nor that you will find in other bridal checklists or blogs, but that I have found to be very helpful nonetheless. My hope is that brides-to-be (or anyone else, for that matter) can use this list as inspiration for avoiding that anxious-that-is-not-nervous feeling in their own list making.

 

My Amy Tan Collection



1. Reread all of Amy Tan’s novels, in chronological order AND make my mother watch the over two hour movie of the Joy Luck Club.  (I’m saving her memoir, one of my all time favorite reads, for the plane ride).

2. Eat macaroni and cheese like it’s going out of style.

3. Watch marathons of all three seasons of RuPaul's Drag Race.

4. Indulge a morbid fascination by watching the live footage of the Casey Anthony trial, as well as basically any talk show on Headline News recapping that day’s new details.



5. At least twice a week, give in to the craving for frozen custard. With hot fudge.

6. Go to Hobby Lobby AND Michael’s, multiple times, buy things. (Hey, this is actually productive and wedding related! But also leads to the next item…)

 7. Alternately ignore, or stare forlornly at the piles of my stuff waiting to be packed. Stuff includes clothes, books, craft items that may or may not be wedding related. 


Kitchen table with wedding crafts, and bridal shower gifts and things waiting to be packed

 

8. Gawk at the careless science experiment that is “The Bachelorette.”

9.  Inspired by  RuPaul marathon, create drag queen alter ego (right).

10.  Outfit French bulldog with wig and cap.