04.24.09
64_There are three of us?
_When you live in a city as big and wired as Chicago you can feel the hedonism that built its foundation, connected all its grids, and aligned all its street post become a part of you. What I learned from living in Chicago so far is that it’s easy to deny how much you have in common with someone you don’t know. I see the same faces when I travel down public transportation. I hear the same songs walking from venue to venue, playing gig to gig. I pay the fare for a stranger because it’s the mutual acknowledgment that we all need to help each other. It is that need for some anonymity in connection that brought me to the scene. Most importantly it’s that same connection that attracts me to music. When kid asked me to get on board I knew if I was going to be writing about myself I would also be writing about music. Appropriately enough that is what I will be doing. Mostly because it connects us which is why I won’t only be talking about the music I like but the music you enjoy also.
_So send me some suggestions and join me in a larger discussion about the music around us. As for now things are moving quickly, Kid ran into a band in South Africa that you’ll be hearing about pretty soon and if you think his story of life abroad was exciting wait to you hear about life in the South African music scene. It would be an oversimplification to say that I’m excited.
Hope you are too.
_stat.
04.13.09
63_Travel Log: Hermanus
_Alright, this is the last of the travel logs. It’s also the one about shark cage diving. I mean, after this I’m just going back to Mossel Bay to party with the rose girls and then back to school, so nothing else to report really. But this one is exciting.
_The trip from Cape Town started pretty typically: The BazBus driver, after picking up the last backpacker, found the one-way street blocked by an illegally parked car. So he laid on the horn for about two minutes straight and woke up the entire neighborhood. Then some lady started pounding on the driver’s window and wanted him to step out and fight. Words were exchanged, the only ones I caught were the driver telling the lady “You do not know my father’s beliefs.” It was hilarious. After we backed out of the street the driver told us that the lady was probably on drugs and that when he got back to Cape Town he’d call his friend in the police and have her arrested.
_So we drove out of Cape Town and towards Hermanus. The BazBus dropped me off at some waystation where I was picked up by the backpacker’s staff. I spent my Easter Sunday walking around Hermanus (cute town) and braaing with the hippie/surfer backpacker staff. There is nothing more entertaining than Afrikaans hippies/surfers. Let me tell you. The only trouble was figuring out how I was going to somehow wake up early enough for the shark cage dive until I found out that all the other people sleeping in my dorm were going on the same trip. So it wasn’t a problem.
_The shark cage team picked me up sometime around 6:45 this morning and took us to Gansbaai (pronounced, because this is South Africa, as “Heinz-Buy”) where the docks are. Along the way I realize that I was ten times more afraid of the driver’s driving than I was of any sharks. At the office they gave us breakfast and explained all the safety precautions and then took us out to the boat. The boat being was a thirty foot deal with a roof/deck over the back where you can watch the sharks from above.
_Now here’s how it works. The boat goes out towards these islands that are home to massive fur seal colonies, which the sharks love to eat. In search of food, the sharks (which are all over seven feet long and with weight in the tonnage) hang around the islands and follow their noses to anything tasty. So the boat anchors and then starts throwing chum (fish oil and blood, basically) into the water. There’s also a bait, which is a clump of fish heads attached to a twenty foot long rope. As soon as the sharks start to check out the bait, they lower the cage.
_The cage is about eight feet by ten feet and about four feet wide. There’s just enough room for five people to stand shoulder to shoulder with about and inch and a half between their knuckles and the outter bars of the cage. And there aren’t many bars, by the way. The divers enter the cage from the top, bob with their heads above the water, and then when the crewmember with the bait says so, they duck down and watch the sharks go by.
_But the cage is perfectly safe because the sharks don’t really trust it enough to try and eat it. But the crew does drag the bait close to the cage to give the divers a better view, so the sharks do bump into the cages from time to time.
_So once the sharks started to bite (and sometimes they don’t bite at all and the trip gets scrubbed, so we were lucky), they suited us up in wetsuits (some of which looked like they were the bait for the last dive) and sent the first rotation in. I was in the third rotation. Shark cage diving involves a lot of patience (and a lot of getting used to the incredibly cold water), but the payoff is worth it. The crewmember with the bait doesn’t tell you where the shark is coming from, he only tells you to keep your eyes on the baitline and then to get ready and then when to get down, so you get the full excitement of seeing a shark coming at you at full speed with no idea where it came from. It’s actually more fun when the visability is low.
_So as the second rotation climbed out, I grabbed some wetboots and a hood and strapped the goggles on. I sank into the freezing cold water and wasn’t really concerned about shark teeth at that moment. The German guy in the cage said it best:
- ME: Water’s cold
- HIM: You think it’s cold?
- ME: Yeah.
- HIM: Oh. Cause I think it’s fucking freezing!
So we’re bobbing there, watching in the direction of the baitline, trying not to die of hypothermia, which is a much greater risk than the sharks. Finally after about ten minutes the crewmember says “Down!” and we sink in. The visability wasn’t that good, but the shark came close enough, along the side of the cage, taking a playful half-bite at the bait. Apparently sharks bite things to test whether they want to eat it or not, which is what they were doing with the bait. So once we got to see a good shark go buy, the popped open the top of the cage and started to take us out. But it takes a couple minutes to get everybody in and out, so while I was waiting to get out another shark went by, this one (maybe the same one, it’s hard to tell), took a bit of a bigger bite at the bait and I got to see all those friendly rows of teeth.
_So I got out and started to warm up in the sun and watched the other divers go in. All in all we saw a total of five different sharks (apparently), one of which breached the water without warning and actually ate the bait. Luckily the crew had a spare. Almost no one got sea sick (you’re on a tiny little boat for four hours bobbing up and down), except for the two Indian guys who never even made it into wetsuits. Once everyone was freezing cold they took us back in, gave us lunch and beer in the office and played a DVD they’d compiled of all the highlights, including the shark eating the bait.
_And then, to top off my African wildlife experience, I saw a baboon! It was roadkill! We had to slow down to a crawl to keep from running it over! Welcome to Africa!
- Kid
04.12.09
62_Travel Log: Cape Town Part 2
_I was sitting in the bar at the backpacker with Tiny, the most New York-ish girl I’ve ever met in my life, talking about home, and we decided that describing Cape Town is pretty easy: It’s New York City with a mountain in the middle of it and palm trees. But there are some great and wonderful differences. For instance, if you leave your purse sitting out while you run to the bathroom, it will get stolen, as opposed to just probably. Tiny and I were actually drinking at the bar because this had happened to her purse earlier in the day.
_I left her to drink her sorrows away while Travel Mania (the American guy who’s been traveling all of South East Asia, India, China, Pakistan and Africa with his wife for nine months), one of the other backpackers and I went to an African Game restaurant to get the warthog special. Warhog spare ribs are good eating. We chowed down, listened to some nice live African music at the restaurant and then parked ourselves at the bar in the backpacker and had a few while Tiny talked. When Tiny starts talking, you get to switch to autopilot and enjoy your beer. Every ten minutes just say “Oh sure” and you’ll be set for the next three hours.
_But the next day it was Travel Mania who was doing the talking because he was amazed at the miraculous return of Tiny’s purse. We decided that the US intelligence network is scary efficient, because this is how it had to have happened: Tiny’s purse gets robbed of its cash and credit cards and left on the other side of town, with the cell phone and camera still inside. Luckily Tiny had a photocopy of her passport in her bag. So, someone, probably a cop, returned the bad to the US consulate. The only way they could have found her, based on her bag, was to somehow figure out that she was staying at the backpacker which only takes cash, so it wouldn’t have shown up on a credit record. So we figured she must have drawn cash at the ATM in the backpacker and the Consulate traced her withdrawl record or something. So they call the backpacker who says “Oh she’s on a wine tour” and the Consulate gets the name of the tour group. They call that, get the name of the tour guide, and the next thing Tiny knows, she’s sitting at lunch on a guided wine tour in Stellenbosh and her tour guide hands her the cell phone and says “It’s the US Consulate, they have your bag.”
_I mean, it had to have been something creepily cloak and dagger like that. How hardcore is the US Consulate in Cape Town, South Africa, man? I didn’t know they had James Bond working for them. And then Tiny spent an hour and a half talking about how her phone is her life because she works in the fashion industry in New York and gets free Red Bull.
- Kid
04.10.09
61_Travel Log: Cape Town Part 1
_The Bazbus is awesome, but it totally sucks when you’re sandwiched in between a British scuba diver and an American teacher without any room to spread out while Cool Runnings is playing. Luckily we stopped to let some people off and I got some room to spread out, or I might have died.
_I got to the backpacker pretty late, but was determined to get drunk. I was also really really tired, so I didn’t make it out of the backpacker’s bar, but that worked out. Someone broke a bottle in the liquor fridge and in the process of cleaning it out, the bartender/manager guy found some bottles of Polish swill that weren’t on the books. We did the only responsible thing and drank them both.
_After sleeping away the hangover, I went out onto Long Street to do the tourist thing. I got some lunch that actually had flavor, was real food and involved no meat whatsoever. I didn’t know you could get that in South Africa. I took some pictures of Long Street, stopped in the Adult World porn store and found out that some of the Frenchies on exchange at Rhodes were staying at the same backpacker as me. I had plans to go out to some club that night and it turns out that the Frenchies had the same plans.
_So I waited in the bar, played with the bartender’s cat and had a couple while the Frenchies did the tourist thing. When they got back we headed out to Claremont to go to this place called Tiger Tiger. Once there we met up with Gregoire and proceeded to down shots of Olmeca tequila and Black Label beers like they were going out of style.
_Now, here’s something you should all know about Cape Town: everyone is gorgeous. I’m not entirely sure if it’s because they don’t allow ugly people, or if they just haven’t heard of ugly people yet. It could be either or.
_But despite the fact that everyone is ten times hotter than 90% of the United States, they were all dressed exactly the same. The guys all had jeans and button downs and the girls were all wearing variations of the exact same dress. It was the least diverse crowd of good looking people ever. So I kinda felt like a tool because I was dressed exactly the same as them. I took solace in my tattoo. As soon as you find yourself in a nightclub in Cape Town surrounded by people better looking than yourself wearing the same outfit as you, it’s comforting to know that no matter what, you will always be different from them, thanks to that patch of ink chiseled into your chest.
_So we danced and got drunk and, as always, wondered why the DJ randomly switched from awesome dance music to dance versions of bad nineties rock songs halfway through the night. When we spent most of our cash we called the cabbie, who the Frenchies loved because he was playing the French version of Frank Sinatra on the way over, and headed home to get drunk in the backpacker’s bar and pass out.
- Kid
04.09.09
60_Travel Log: Plettenberg Bay to Mossel Bay
_First of all, thanks to everyone for giving their opinions/e-mails about traveling abroad. Keep the opinions coming.
_Anyway. After I’d rinsed my mouth out a few times and gotten the taste of soap out, I took a nap and then headed to the braai. The Afrikaans word “braai” is their word for barbecue and it means the event, the actual barbecuing structure and the action all at once. They’ve made an art out of it. I didn’t have any meat to throw on the grill, but I figured I’d hang out and see who turned up.
_It turns out that most backpackers in South Africa have bars and/or some access to alcohol attached to them so that I could take advantage. So I’m sitting there around the fire, drinking a beer when an Australian/English/French/Irish overland adventure group turns up with their ostrich burgers. So I’m talking to them (and Sexretary, I totally understand all of your criticisms of Australian guys now), watching the fire when the Norwegians, Dutch and Germans show up and throw their kebabs on the grill. So I found myself getting drunk with a representation of the entire English speaking world and about 2/3rds of the European Union. I had a couple beers, many glasses of boxed wine and then passed out about the same time that the adventure group started playing Uno. Read the rest of this entry »
04.07.09
59_Travel Log: Grahamstown to Plettenberg Bay
_I sorta hate travel logs like this because they tend to be self-indulgent, but I guess I owe it to you guys to give you a bit of a glimpse of South Africa. And I didn’t bring my digital camera for fear of it getting stolen, but now I regret that decision.
_The term ended on Friday and vac(ation) officially started on Saturday. There was a point on Friday night when Cuzzie, Corbs and I were sitting at Friar’s Nightclub bitching about our respective girl problems. I told them that the only reasonable thing to do would be to get drunk, forget girls and dance. They agreed. Which is probably why my vac started with our house warden knocking on my door at 10am, telling me that I needed to clear out. Luckily I’d packed the night before.
_I met Mumbai outside and we got picked up by a family friend of his. After we got our bus tickets and some much needed still-drunk lunch, we went back to family friend’s house and spent the day the way that all first vac days should be spent: asleep. Eventually we woke up, got some food and watched premier league soccer until Calypso came to pick me up. Calypso, her sister and I all went out for a quick drink, which turned in to a long drink. Which, amazingly, managed to turn into me meeting Mumbai at the bus stop at 7am. Read the rest of this entry »
04.03.09
58_Study Abroad: The New Glitterati Weighs In
I received this e-mail from The New Glitterati in regards to our ongoing Study Abroad series:
I am a personal believer that anytime you construct a formula that involves the words “[.....] was the best time of my life,” then clearly something is missing. Because I am a firm believer that NOTHING should be the “best” time of your life; that things are always getting better in some way or another, and that there is always more. And, besides, if you go INTO a situation believing that this is, in fact, the very thing that will become “the best time of my life,” you have already defeated yourself. At every turn, you will question.
“Is this REALLY the best beer I’ve ever drank on a Tuesday afternoon in March in a town five thousand miles away from where I was born? It SHOULD be, because it is beer that is involved with the supposed BEST TIME OF MY LIFE. But, quite honestly, I’ve had Boones Farm that’s been more refreshing than this piss-can I’m holding, and I’m kind of tired of trying to pretend that I’m having the BEST TIME OF MY LIFE when all I freaking want to do is go back to someone’s dorm room and watch re-runs of ‘Family Guy.’”
Honestly, studying abroad is exhausting. Sure, there are elements of the exotic and the fun. And, I will say this, you WILL look back on this as something having caused significant change. You cannot put yourself through such an experience and NOT come away with something valuable, but what that particular value is may not make itself known for days, months, or even years post-travel. I am only, just now, recognizing what studying abroad and traveling multiple times in my life has done for me. All positive things, no doubt, but I couldn’t look back at any of them and say “THAT WAS THE BEST TIME OF MY LIFE.”
In order to make that claim, you must first live the experience with the idea that, yes, there are many things you will do that will eventually seem unique even if they don’t now. You must live the experience, the homesickness, the tiredness, the people you’ll meet, the newspapers you’ll read, the weird foods you’ll find yourself craving when you’re “Back in the ‘States.” Live it. And just do it. Wake up every morning and know that, even if it doesn’t feel like it, it IS significant. But don’t EVER let someone tell you it’s the BEST TIME OF YOUR LIFE. That’s just crazy talk.
Now go drink some Australian/South African wine that you can’t find over here, and say to yourself, “I’m doing this in [insert country here,] so it’s different, but not necessarily the BEST THING I’VE EVER FREAKING DONE.” Just live it. Do it. Find unique opportunities.
And, above all- learn to savor the small things. Homesickness is potent, powerful, and awful. But busy-ness is the very best cure for that. Distract. Don’t let yourself have too much downtime, and you soon won’t find room for homesickness. You’ll be so busy, time will fly. And then maybe, with any hope, it will someday rank in the Top Ten of your life experiences.
Take care, Kid and Sexretary.
xo
The New Glitterati
_And I agree with her assessment and her advice. I suppose some my disappointment is my own fault due to my extensive downtime. I came here to get away from being busy, so I didn’t sign up for any of the activities societies or anything, which would have helped a bit of that boredom/disappointment.
_And I also agree with the comments on The Sexretary’s post that sometimes the best parts are not the fun parts. I am about to take a week or two long vacation to Cape Town and the only thing I definitely have planed out is how I’m getting to C-Town. Beyond that, the adventure will be finding my way around, meeting other travelers, etc. The fun will be not having planned out all these amazing activities and just seeing what happens.
_I do wanna go shark cage diving, though.
- Kid
04.02.09
57_I might be first in line for my return flight…
Quite right, Kid. I have plenty to rant about. However, I’ll spare you all the dramatics and stick to the facts.
I’ve been quite a good traveler thus far, sending out weekly e-mails and updates to my family, giving them the censored and family-friendly details of my life Down Under, with pictures and everything. When I get the sporadic response from a family member who actually took the time to read the email, they write such gems as these:
“You sound like you’re having a great time!”
or “I’m so glad you’re adjusting so well!”
or “I would have loved an opportunity like this when I was your age!”
All nice sentiments, but none of them true (the exception being the last, I suppose. I won’t shit on other peoples dreams). I’m not having a great time and I’m not adjusting that well. I’m tired of Australia and I’m ready to go home. I was ready to go home the day I got here.
They say homesickness comes in waves, but in any ocean, there’s always a current. The homesickness – it never completely goes away. I think, in the back of my head, I always want to return to the familiar, to the comfortable, to the things and places that are uniquely mine.
As Kid noted in his post, we’re calling for all study abroad-ers to weigh in on the myth(?) of study abroad being “the best experience of my life multiple-exclamation-points.” We’ve been debating this idea for almost two months now, and seem to have come to the conclusion that it’s the kind of sentiment that comes from the oh-so-fortunate individuals who live their out own version of The Real World, whose “great memories” are found at the bottom of a bottle of Smirnoff or in the bed of a stranger. (Note: I’m not saying that the consumption of alcohol and engaging in sexual relations with strangers won’t ever serve to be great memories. They’re just not necessarily the only ones I want to return home with).
I say things like that, and get the same indignant response:
“It is what you make it. If you’re not having a good time, it’s because you’re not making a good time.”
Touche, my friend. But think about this: maybe studying abroad, living lost in the middle of another country with no friends, no place to call home – maybe that’s the kind of experience that makes it all that more clear to us where our home really is, and that’s why the time we spend away is so much harder to get through. For some people, they find their home in flat in Florence or a village in Ghana . For others, the experience helps them remember that as much as they may shit on their country and on their home and on their crappy apartment with the heat that won’t kick in fast enough, that’s the only place they can really call home and mean it.
For now, I’m just holding out hope, because given the fact that I have a bottle of vodka taking up space in my fridge, courtesy of Kid, maybe this weekend will be a turnaround. Maybe I’ll find something like home here.
Or maybe not. Stay tuned.
- The Sexretary
