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…”

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…