Welcome to the corner of Gay and Porn.
For those of you who haven’t visited, this is where we’ve lived the last 5+ years. Soho, the pink, pulsing camp-and-sleaze-infested heart of London, England. I love this place. So much so that in May I will naturalize as a proper British citizen. Shortly after, I will join the BNP and complain about all the immigrants coming over here and taking all our British jobs and all our British women. That, my American friend, is irony.
Come summer, our roof-garden will be positively lush due to Cathy’s ministrations but in the meantime— do you see any trees out there? Any creatures save for dogs, pigeons or scuttling, unwashed masses? Any wilderness to speak of besides that of the human spirit? No? That’s because there is none (and no, the neighbor’s patio doesn’t count and after a while the famous parks and gardens come to resemble cemeteries without the headstones).
If, over the course of this narrative, you start to wonder ‘why so many animals?’ I ask you to please refer yourselves back to this picture. Cheers!
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Welcome, friends!
Here are the questions that race through my mind as I begin the process of pimping-out my usual, greatly-feared, under-appreciated, passive-aggressive holiday letter:
1. By creating a blog am I, by default, a narcissist?
2. Is that question in itself narcissistic?
3. Why am I doing this as opposed to working on my novel? (I did the book all morning— get over it. How deep is a hole? It will be finished when it’s finished. Stop asking— and no, I’m not &$#ing touchy!)
4. In this economy, is it still in proper form to share your travels? Especially when you’re an addict? And finally:
5. Can you handle the emotional meltdown that’s coming?
Here’s the nut of it people: I live too bloody far away from most of you and airfare being what it is and the fact that none of you live near decent snorkeling means I probably won’t be visiting anytime soon. Them’s the breaks. However, if you’ve been directed here it means I miss you. Hell, I wish you could come over for dinner. I’d make chili. Cat would choose the wine. But until that day comes this is my attempt to keep in touch, to share stories beyond the small-talk. So while I wait to hear about the crap that matters to you, this is the crap that matters to me. Besides, this isn’t just about South Africa— which is a wild, intense and compelling subject in it’s own right— this is about how and where Cathy and I are as people, how we relate to each other and to the world at large. Also, we both feel very blessed and humbled, not only by the opportunity to travel and explore but by being able to share with all of you fine folks across the globe. Okay, meltdown over.
Finally, In my family, blame must be assigned BEFORE any solutions are sought. To that end, I would like to take a moment to blame media- aficionado and Black Rock City refugee, Nick Cain for inspiring this course of action. All angry letters arising from material posted here should be directed to: nickhasnosenseofhumor@refusestoletmeposthisemail.com
Other than that, enjoy the blog!
And yes, you will be tested.
Octopus on tripadvisor.com →
ps. (you knew it wouldn’t end smoothly): If anyone’s interested in our travel specifics, please check out my posts on Tripadvisor and watch me fawn and bitch like crazy.
First Impressions: Johannesburg
Let me start by saying that exploring the African bush on foot is a lot like walking around Johannesburg. My first impressions were that both require:
1. A high level of awareness.
2. Backing slowly away from threat displays.
3. Not going out alone at night.
4. A local guide. Preferably with a rifle.
That being said, we stayed in Jo’berg with our good friends Bruce and Mark, a married, gay (get it together, California!) couple who have been together 17 years. Bruce, a South African native, has recently returned to Jo’berg after launching a successful restaurant in London and Mark— get ready to squeal all you Jews out there!— is a gynaecological surgeon. They are both doing what they can to uplift the lives of those around them— not by blind charity but by paying the college tuition of their workers, and their workers’ children. By providing safe, affordable housing to their lovely housekeeper, Rosie. By making sure the local guards are paid a living wage— and that by shaking down their stingy neighbors. It’s bloody heartwarming is what it is. And okay, so they have electrified fences surrounding their well-appointed, art-infested house (as do most their neighbors) and a rotating cadre of Zulu guards living on their street, but the overall vibe is surprisingly normal. In at least one suburb, everybody smiled, waved, knew each other’s name. They looked out for one another. There were black and white staff at the restaurants, serving black and white and mixed race tables. The crime was certainly there in the papers, on the streets after midnight, and in the townships, but there was also an over-riding sense of hope, urgency, and normalcy. Statistics aside (South Africa is ranked #1 per-capita worldwide in violent assault, armed-robbery and rape; #2 in murder after Colombia) we quite enjoyed our stay in this young, intense and house-proud nation, one which boasts perhaps the best constitution on the planet. Recently a priest was thrown in jail for refusing to marry a gay couple. Imagine.
Still, I don’t think I’d feel comfortable flying into Jo’berg for the first time, getting a hotel and renting a car. Too many places to make a wrong turn. Too many intersections teeming with beggars, some obviously pretending to be blind and most claiming refugee status from the train-wreck that is Zimbabwe.
As the saying goes:
Swaziland is a kingdom run by a king.
Monaco is a principality run by a prince.
Zimbabwe is a country.
(say it a few times until the penny drops.)
The food was amazing, though you really have to get your meat on to appreciate it’s full glory. Kudu biltong. Ground beef, banana and chutney boboti (bah-booty!) Springbok carpaccio, which made me feel the way I do about sushi, only about a mammal. For the vegetarian, however: hope you like Greek salad!
The prison on Constitution Hill— where some the worst abuses of Apartheid were perpetrated— made for a humbling day-trip. There were the overcrowded, segregated cell-blocks that held Nelson Mandela and Mahatma Gandhi. Here was the infected gruel they ate. This is where they were stripped, searched and beaten in full view of other prisoners.
“Hold on, when was this place finally closed?” I asked the guide.
“1983.”
Oh. That’d be when I was playing Pac-Man at the car wash, then.
Overall though, I felt a raw, untamed edge to the whole of South Africa— from Jo’berg to the Kruger and back— which kept me on my toes almost the entire time we were there. After the relative security of London, it was a welcome buzz. I woke up alert, excited and ready to face the day. And whether it was the Cape buffalo snorting at our open car from three meters away or the shady dudes with bloodshot eyes checking me out as I walked with Mark to the grocery, I always felt completely aware. And in that way safe. Well, safer, anyway.
The designer and her model.
Introducing Rosie, Bruce and Mark’s genial, fastidious housekeeper and friend. She created this much-treasured chapeau— which was seldom off my head— out of disposable plastic bags, if you can believe. She also makes colorful, sturdy handbags and rugs out of the same material, tearing the plastic into strips before weaving them.
If any one is interested in buying or commissioning a piece, let me know and I’ll pass the info on to Bruce. Act now and you’ll also get a handsome set of…
Cathy and Mark playing with cubs at the breeding sanctuary. Note the fab Rosie-bag to the left.
Animal Bottoms of Southern Africa: the Inception
We were driving through the lion sanctuary outside Jo’berg when Cathy had her art-flash.
It was triggered by a white lioness crouching to drink at the side of the road.
“Look at that fabulous bottom,” she said. “The strength, the curves…” Suddenly she got this weird, distant look in her eye.
“Take a picture,” she insisted, while Bruce and Mark chortled in the front seat.
“Of it’s ass?” I asked her.
“Yes, of course of it’s arse, you turnip, are you deaf? I feel a painting coming on.”
This instruction would be repeated many times over the course of our trip. Far be it from me to question the artist. Anyway, that’s the only explanation I have for what follows. Currently, back in London, as I type, Cathy sketches. Bottoms up, everybody!
The elephant in the shower.
After getting up at five in the morning and unsuccessfully stalking elephants for several hours, we returned to camp one fine morning where, while taking a shower, I noticed this guy having a dirt bath just outside the camp perimeter. Figures. A trip highlight nonetheless.
Wild Bottoms of Southern Africa: The Indemnity
After a five-hour drive from Johannesburg, we arrived in a bush pub outside the town of Hoedspruit. There, we filled in indemnity forms which basically relieved Transfrontiers (http://transfrontiers.com/safari_itineraries.asp) of all responsibility for any horrible fate that might befall us whilst walking or driving around in the bush. Things like mamba venom, malaria, tick-bite fever (which one of the guides was currently suffering from) tusk gore, rhino tramplage, croc predation, rifle misfire, Larium-psychosis-induced homicide on the part of frightened guests, heatstroke, anthrax, etc. Tell the truth I wasn’t paying much attention. There was a orange bishop weaving a nest in the reeds behind us (see “Twitching” below). And a paradise fly-catcher in the tree above. Oh, and a Cape buffalo across the marsh, my first. Besides which, lunch was about to be served. And there were mosquitoes.
From what I did gather, however, Klasserie, the area we would be staying in, was a 22-square-mile unfenced private reserve located within the boundaries of Kruger National Park, itself a massive stretch of wilderness the size, they proudly informed us, of Israel.
“This safari is not about getting people up close to the Big 5 on foot,” said Ingrid, the flame-haired lady in charge.
That’s funny, I thought to myself. That’s exactly what I thought we paid for.
“If it happens, great, but we expect you to listen to your guides. They’ve got 30 years experience between them. Only run if they say run— especially from large cats…” ( I’m paraphrasing here because, again, I wasn’t really— hey, what kind of lizard is that over there? ) “The last thing any of us want,” she continued, “to is have one of you injured by an animal, or an animal shot to protect you. If the guides have to use their rifles in defense they will probably lose their jobs.
“If you do come across big game on foot— especially in the dense brush we have now— most likely you will have a quick look and then back carefully away. Again, this safari is not about getting guests in dangerous situations. This safari is about seeing things you generally miss from a vehicle. Tracks, spoor, birds, insects, behavior, zzzzzzz.” Is it lunchtime?
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