Category: Uncategorized

Hot or cold. So glad I bought an extra bottle of water yesterday.

9h45 min SFO to LHR
8h10 min layover at Heathrow
1 hour delay
10h20m LHR to JNB
5h15 min layover
1h45 min JNB to UTT

And I’ve arrived. In the same clothes I left San Francisco in on Saturday night. And it’s now Monday evening. My co-workers pick me up at the airport. Hugs abound. I’m so excited to be in Africa, in the country, the real, rural country, true Africa country, ready to see our projects.

We have dinner and there is nothing more than I want than to take a hot shower and crawl into bed. Into a warm, soft bed to ward against the chill of the winter-turning-to-spring frigid night air. I let the water run to warm it. It’s ice cold. I switch the lever on the tap – I’ve discovered often it is installed backwards. A minute later icy water is still streaming from above. Oh. Oh. Oh.

How badly do I need a shower?

I’ve been in the same outfit for 39 hours and 15 minutes. The majority of that time was spent sitting in a small confined space in recycled air on an airplane.

I need a shower pretty bad.

I steel myself. The cold water numbs me. I get wet, then turn off the water to lather my hair and soap up. I turn the water back on to rinse. My head aches where the stream of water pelts my head. And then it doesn’t. Pelt my head, that is. The water has dwindled from a solid stream to barely a drizzle. The water completely stops. No! No! No!

I’m not a princess. I can rough it with the best of them. When I’m expecting it. Tonight I wasn’t. At all. Let the adventure begin.

Dizzy from lack of sleep (I’ve just traveled 32 hours), I wait for my checked luggage. My large suitcase arrives. I pull it off the baggage carasoul. It feels remarkably light.

I wait for my backpack. I see a spot of purple and move closer. As I pick it up, I notice it’s very sticky. Oh no. Something has exploded.

I make my way through customs and immigration and head straight to the ladies’ bathroom. The bathroom attendent watches me silently as I empty out the contents of my backpack, liquid hair product dousing just about everything. One by one, I wash each item, then dry it under a not very strong warm current of air coming from the hand dryer. Half an hour later, I’m done.

As I’m leaving, she mumbles, “Welcome to South Africa…”

In London, I stop at an airport kiosk to buy water for the 10 hour flight to Johannesburg.

Before I left San Francisco, I gathered all my British coins and put them in a ziploc bag. I figured I might as well use them.

As I approach the counter, I think I have counted out the 3 pounds 10 pence necessary for my purchase. The clerk laughs at me and says, “We don’t accept that money anymore!”

This time I really am surprised. “Why not?”

“We haven’t accepted those coins for ages.”

I’m perplexed. How can money just stop being used? True, the coins were from a trip that I took while in high school, almost 25 years ago. But still. We’re still using quarters that old here in the US. I smile, and ask her for help counting out the coins in my ziploc bag. She divides them into coins currently accepted and coins not currently accepted.

I have just enough to pay for the water. As I’m walking away, I see that the queue has expanded exponentially while the clerk was helping me count money. Yes, I’m one of THOSE travelers.

Yes, I’ve officially become one of THOSE travelers.

I place my bag on the scales at SFO while checking it. 72 pounds, reads the scale. oooh.

I smile politely at the counter agent and make small talk. She asks about the new pages added to my passport. We chat about the weather, about travel, about the types of planes I’ll be flying on. She looks at the weight of my bag.

“Ma’am, you’re overweight. You’re allowed 2 bags, but each can only be 50 pounds.”

I feign surprise. “Really? If I have one bag, is it allowed to be 100 pounds?”

“No, regulations state that bags can only be 50 pounds, or you have to pay extra.”

“Okay, I’ll pay the fee.”

Trying to be helpful, she asks, “Don’t you have another bag?”

“No, I just have the one. Except I do have a small backpack that’s empty that’s in my bag.”

“Why don’t you repack your things. Put the heavy items in the backpack. You only have to get rid of 20 pounds.”

“Okay, shall I go to the side here? And bring the bags back when I’m repacked?”

“Oh, no. Just do it here.”

I look behind me. There are several people waiting in line to check in. I’m one of THOSE travers, the type that holds up lines. But I do it. Put all my books and toiletries in my backpack. As I put my toiletries in, I wonder if that’s the best move. I dismiss my worries, confident that the plastic bag they are in will prevent any leakages.

And I’m off to South Africa, via London.

Place a large suitcase in the middle of the floor.
For two weeks, throw stuff in that you think you might need.
Hours before being picked up for the airport, add misc. clothes and shoes.
When your ride arrives, zip up said suitcase and try to lift it.
Try to lift it again.
And once again…

To get into my office, I take a flight of covered stairs that are outdoors. Recently, a pair of birds have built a nest in the corner of the roof over the stairs. Birds are delightful, except when they repeatedly crap in the same place, and that place happens to be the stairs that I take every day to enter and exit my office.

Did I mention that my office is located in a National Park? And that you’re not allowed to disturb birds or their habitat during mating season? Which happens to be now? Which means that for the next several weeks entering and exiting my office will invoke incredible anxiety about whether or not the birds will choose the exact moment when I am entering or exiting to relieve themselves?

It’s like a game of double dutch jump rope every time I enter or exit. I take a step forward, then back, then forward, then back, then run forward (either up or down the stairs at break neck speed), usually accompanied by a scream.

I was describing this process to my dear friend Collin. I sighed heavily and uttered, “My goal is just to make it through mating season without getting shat upon.”

He laughed, turned to me, and said, “Isn’t that everyone’s goal?”

I marvel at those ladies. You know, those ladies, who, no matter what time of day, no matter where they are, are well coiffed. Their makeup is perfect, and not a single hair is out of place. When I see them, I wonder, “How do they do that?”

I’ve never had the time or patience to wear makeup or blow dry my hair, much less style it.

Today, however, I decided to venture to their world. Tonight was Ev and Sara’s wedding. I made an appointment with my hair stylist, Jay, whom I adore. I told him I was going to a fancy schmancy wedding and I wanted to look beautiful.

“More beautiful, darlin‘,” he replied.

I love my hair dresser.

He pulled and tugged and dried and curled and pinned my hair. I sat quietly, dying to know what he was doing at the back of my head, but trying to exercise patience. When done, he handed me a mirror. “I love it! It’s so elegant!”

“Here, darlin‘, let me do your makeup.” I was enthralled. I was going to be one of them — one of the well-coiffed.

He dabbed and patted and used fancy brushes on my face. He smudged colors on my eyes and my cheeks. With tweezers he dipped trios of eyelashes into glue and placed them gently on my top lids. When done, he handed me the mirror again.

I was one of them. One of the well-coiffed.

But not for long.

I didn’t realize the wedding would be outside. In addition to being chilly, summer in San Francisco is windy. Very, very windy. The wind challenged my beautifully coiffed hair. I felt hair pins slipping out. As I reached up to secure them, I noticed something fly insanely close to my eye. And then again. And again. Oh, no. The fake eyelashes were flying off, trio by trio. Giving up, I faced the wind, and let them all fly.

Note to self: being well-coiffed takes time, patience, a great hair dresser, and climate control.

I wheeled the cart full of plastic bagged groceries to the car. As I lifted the first bag into the trunk, the bag split and my cucumbers and tomatoes spilled out. I caught them before they hit the asphalt and gently placed them where they wouldn’t get squished. I lifted the next bag more gingerly, and as I lowered it into the trunk, the pistachios tumbled out. As I loaded bag after bag of groceries, all but three split.