“I won’t be here for a couple of hours, I need to take my car to get a tracker installed for when it gets stolen,” my colleague announced this morning.

I laughed. “Not when, if. If your car gets stolen.”

“No, no, no. Here, it is not a matter of if, it is a matter of when….”

From reading my posts, you might think I love many things: Google (I’d marry you if I could, oh fount of all knowledge), anything that sparkles (bright and shiny does it for me), just about anything with sugar in it (with the exception of cheesecake, bleh!), and adorable endangered animals.

Yes, I do love all of those things.

But most of all, I love Puff n Sip. What is that? you might ask. Let me tell you.

Puff n Sip is a tradition started by my dear friend Stas. Otherwise known as Cactus. But that’s another story.

It wasn’t a tradition when he started sending the emails every Wednesday, announcing a meeting place at a local watering spot, then venturing on to Cigar Bar, where cigar aficionados could puff their hearts away. But week after week, he sent out the emails, and the faithful came. And it became a tradition. Something everyone could look forward to every Wednesday night.

I’ll admit, I haven’t attended every Wednesday night. However, that doesn’t diminish my love for the mid-week gatherings. Because when I do show up, I’m greeted by hugs and love, as is every visitor. And when I’m not there, I know that there is love waiting for me once I do return.

We noticed the fliers in the hotel lobby. Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Playing at the State Theater, just down the street. A world renowned South African group, playing in their home country. What were the chances we could get tickets the day of the show?

Pretty good, actually.

We were shocked the theater was only about half full. The show was amazing. Harmonies, and laughter, and dancing, and more laughter. We clapped and sang along. Two hours later they performed their last song, walked off the stage, and the lights rose. We looked at each other, quizzically. If we clapped more, wouldn’t they come back for one more song? Encore! Encore! People excused themselves as they stepped over us, still sitting in our seats, willing them back to the stage.

Alas, they were done.

I’m trying to fall in love with you, South Africa. I really am. I want to love this country of yours, of struggle, of independence, of beauty.

It hasn’t happened yet. Each time I arrive to ORTambo, I open my heart, ready to be swept off my feet.

You know how some countries are like an old friend, welcoming you with hugs and kisses and all over, nothing-but-goodness, when you arrive? Well, South Africa, you are more like an asshole who’s always up in your face and yelling belligerently. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

It’s hard to love you, but I’m trying.

At lunch, we, three adult women, are discussing our past, our insecure periods.

She, the African, says: In high school, I was so skinny, I ate, and ate, and ate. I just wanted an ass. I wanted calves. I wanted to be popular like the chubby girls.

We, the Americans, say: We always thought we were so fat. We dieted, and refused to eat, and exercised. And look back on the pictures now and realize how skinny we were. And never knew.

She, the African, says: But have you always been so skinny?

Me, the American, laughs: By American standards, I’m considered heavy. Maybe if I lost 10 – 15 kg, I would be considered skinny.

She, the African, in utter surprise: What? No… You are not heavy. You need meat on your bones. African men, they do not like the bones. You need to be solid.

We, the Americans, look at each other and smile. Oh, to be African…

I’m in Pretoria. At the Court Classique hotel. I have to wonder about an establishment that uses an alternative spelling in its name. I approach the lobby, walking through a gaggle of ducks. No, a gaggle of geese. But they weren’t geese. So according to Google (my love, oh Google, my dear) a brace of ducks, or a flock of ducks, or a flush of ducks, or a paddling of ducks, or a raft of ducks or even a team of ducks. Ducks abound. Quack, quack, quack. I ask my driver/protector, “Do you hunt?” He replies, deadpan, “Not ducks.”

We avoid the ducks and continue to the lobby. I notice there is a preponderance of feathers. Not duck feathers, but fluorescently dyed feathers strategically placed in what could be considered lovely arrangements. Or not. The lobby boasts a display of hot pink feathers amid a profusion of silk Gerbers and Snapdragons and other such flora. The restaurant, aptly named “Orange” professes vibrant orange feathers surrounding, almost suffocating, a single rosebud in a vase on each table. As I walk to my suite, more feathers, in increasingly non-natural shades, appear.

Not exactly my version of “classique” but hey, who am I to define fashion?

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…”