All that you CAN leave behind

So I decided on another update seeing as I have one or two stories to tell. Stories and revelations. As the sun shines brightly here in Bogota for the first time since my arrival, I’m reading of floods back home in SA and Mozambique. And what of the power cuts that send the rand tumbling, cripple the economy and enrage all of you unlucky enough to be suffering through it? further a field, the world now seems to be in the grips of what looks like a recession, with the US stock markets tumbling to their worst levels since 9/11. Amy Winehouse and dearest Britters won’t be around for too much longer and Brokeback Heath is gone. RIP.

It all gets me thinking of how removed I am from all of this, especially the stuff going on in SA. It happens slowly I guess, but one day you wake up and realise that many of the things you were evidently and unpreventably immersed in, are now only living in your memories. …and if they only exist there, what is it that now fills your life? what indeed!?

I suppose it was obvious for some to see and I was rationally aware of it too, but my day to day life in SA was overflowing with my own frustration at being stuck. Treading water. Even suffocating. I often lacked motivation and frequently felt like escape was the only way of dealing with the otherwise seemingly insurmountable and mundane (for me) innards of my life.

Hilton today....new, improved and more deadly than ever!

The dreams I had were speculation at best and my own description of them sounded hollow and unachievable to me. Who am I kidding here? Do I really think that this ‘movie script’ is within my reach? I often quietly resigned myself to failure, but tried to console myself by thinking that I will at least have given the kid a good last run. I felt like it was only a matter of time before I would have to fold up the dreams and ideals and pack them away forever, only to be reminisced over and never to be delved into again. I berated my own child-like pursuit of what?... I couldn’t even tell that!


I recall dreams in the last couple of years where I’m desperately trying to run, but my legs won’t move and its as if they are asleep. I am willing them to bear me away, with everything that I can muster, but I remain stuck and in pain.


Things have turned out differently though.


I read about Selebi, Zuma, speeding MPs, corruption, politics / sport and I can almost hear the collective gnashing of teeth as everyone stumbles and fumbles onward. And yet I’m not a part of it now. It almost leaves me with a feeling of guilt. almost.


I’m still close enough to feel the gray sadness and I fleetingly grasp the almost imperceptible weight of it all. Its that gnawing subconscious questioning of your circumstances, which you beat down whenever the whining and whimpering becomes too loud. Almost like an annoying and mangy stray dog that you keep shooing away from your front gate, while cursing under your breath at its undeserved ability to tug at your dirty conscience. Can anyone tell that I just read Disgrace by JM Coetzee?


So, here I am, looking back at it all while flinching, blushing, grinning at how obvious it all was and how easy it is to make another choice. This is not an advert for Trainspotting, by the way.
How exactly is it all different then, and what is it that changes? Small things I guess. Here are some personal manifestations of the change that is more generally within reach for all of us. Firstly, and somewhat amusingly, I’ve started cooking meals. I last did this some years back. I made a demon chicken curry with plantain the other night for Sergio, his sister and some of their friends. We savoured the meal with some Bombay Sapphire gin, which I lugged all the way from SA, and tonic with slices of cucumber. Sergio cranked up some Vusi Mahlasela and I breathed deeply. This was damn good! The essence of my home, my place, coursed through my veins, even as I sadly reflected on all the imperfections.


In a way I’m quite domesticated now. You’ll spot me in the supermarket picking out some weird and exotic fruit for the next day’s breakfast, or slowly reading the labels on a Chilean bottle of Chardonnay, which I’ve decided will go well with the evenings meal, or inspecting all the different kinds of honey for one that best goes with my precious mint and green tea. Yup, there I am, shuffling around the isles with my shopping basket and Wayuu pouch, ready to carry home my prizes. Maybe I’ll be sitting in the old part of town with a book, some music and a cup of that awesome Juan Valdez coffee.


(Incidentally, I am fast running out of books. I’ve read four in the last three weeks! I’m
now ceremoniously jogging my way through 100 years of Solitude. Kind of fitting with my being here and all. I shall have to find an English book store soon. This is not easy)


I walk. lots. and I smile when I’m doing it. I used to walk only when I felt like I was at deaths door.

Going for a walk around Bogota...always armed with Wayuu pouch!

But, I can’t possibly explain all the small things that have changed. More important is what the collective points towards. All I can say is that the bigger picture of my life has flipped on its head. Efforts to escape, frustration, self loathing and even my own attempts to destroy have been replaced with calm, excitement, bucket loads of stimulation and feelings of wonderment, motivation and most importantly belief. Belief in that which you can’t necessarily see, and all that you can leave behind.


My life is by no means a lovely garden filled with yellow tulips and ripe bananas, not at all, but I am free of a number of things that I seriously doubted would ever leave me. Look, shady politicians, for instance, are everywhere. That’s not what I’m driving at here. Its more like a realization that we are all far from nailed to the things that we painfully accept as permanent and diseased parts of our lives. Too strong? Maybe, but it takes a little strength sometimes.
Just this week I struggled with local universities, UNISA, FNB and even my previous employer who, it appears, over paid me to the tune of 60 grand in December. Ouch. It hurt to pay that back and I wished that the payroll department’s incompetence would just have extended a little further than merely making the mistake in the first place.


Everyday I blunder through basic interactions with my broken Spanish. I strain to fill all the gaps in my understanding. I push myself to attempt and conquer things that others hardly give a second thought to. Catching a bus. Asking for help. Getting information. But, through it all there is something that’s now awake, breathing, ticking. I intend to keep nurturing it, feeding it, until it fills me and I know I can forever take comfort in its voice, now my own. I know that all sounds fairly dramatic but I’m making a fist of trying to explain something which takes a lot of digging to unearth.


Next week I will leave for Medellin, where numerous challenges also lie waiting for me. I’m excited, hoping for that perspiration of the soul that comes after its had a good work out.
Many people create markers and physical indicators to measure their own success, whether it be socially, professionally / financially or even in their relationships. How strange then that I now posses very little in the way of tangible trappings or concrete confirmation to satisfy these self-imposed and publicly endorsed appraisals, and yet, I’m more filled with contentment than at any other time in my life. I have no job yet, no comforting circle of friends, no significant other to call when all else fails. No one is telling me how much potential I have. There is no back slapping or mollycoddling here. Instead and unconventionally, I have confidence, motivation and most importantly, inspiration. That is all. Is it enough? Sure feels like it, but I’ll keep you posted for sure.


Right, so that’s it for my philosophical ranting. Tune in for more next time I send a mail!I don’t have that much to share in the way of oddities this time around. Maybe it is because I am now also becoming odd. More odd. What I do have to share is just one mildly amusing story:Sergio meets me in La Candelaria (old part of town in Bogota) last week Friday afternoon. I’m with his sister and some university friends, playing tourist and gaping at the old Spanish style buildings with all their colours. The cobbled streets add to the scenery and it very much resembles Granada or Seville in Spain. Sergio has other, more pressing things on his mind. He’s not had a joint for weeks and its starting to tell. The man is edgy and clearly frustrated at not knowing how to resolve this matter in a city which is fairly new to him too. Personally, I think there is another factor that also adds to the edginess, but the males among you can guess at that one.

Maria Amelia (Sergio's sister, on the right) and university mates

Today, though, Sergio has a plan. One of his shady friends has kindly informed him that there is a shop, right here in La Candelaria, that sells what he is looking for: clean green sweet smelling salvation! I asked him if this was a bit like the Rasta House in Yeoville, Jozi and by all accounts it apparently closely resembles this kind of setup. That means that you walk into this place, ask for the sort and amount you are looking for (ward to), pay and enjoy. Sort of like a take away...for dagga. Did I mention that Sergio was also the one to find the Rasta House in Yeoville? This man has street cred dammit!!So, in the interests of observing new local customs, I decided to accompany my trusty friend on his quest. First though, we had to have a beer… just to take the edge off the week that was. You can’t undertake a mission like this when you’re sober in any event. It requires the cool confidence that comes with imbibing alcohol.


Step one completed, we made our way through the maze of small streets, while Sergio recounted the directions given to him. So, we get to this quiet little road with children playing on the streets, some small cafe’s and bars and a guitar shop. I’m not seeing the neon sign that says ‘Weed sold HERE!’ and Sergio also seems to be quite confused about where to go. He decides to make another phone call to get some clarity on the situation, while I wander up the road inspecting the little shops. In front of me is what appears to be just the front room of an apartment. Its almost as if the whole front wall has been removed to reveal a severely obese old lady, who looks like she has had multiple strokes, sitting in a large armchair, staring impassively out at the street. Each eye is looking in its own direction (impassively of course) and I am somewhat taken aback with the thoughts of Buddha, bull-frogs and chameleons rushing through my head. She has both hands tucked into here apron and on her lap, which adds to the poor man’s Buddhist likeness. The room is separated from the street by a small gate spanning what used to be the front wall I guess. The room is dark. At the one end of the front wall opening there is a cage with 6,7 maybe 8 canaries jumping around inside. They’re all different colours (painted?) and at various stages of terminal illness / suicide. Some of them hardly have feathers left. They are making quite the racket. I’m wondering if the old lady passes the time by watching them fall off their perches one by one when she is not watching the shadows moving across the street outside.

Look like your average neighborhood?.....Marijuana is sold here!

So, I’m watching this with some amusement when Sergio crossed the street, walks past me, neatly opens the gate and enters the room with Buddha frog woman! Surely this must be a mistake!? This sorry spectacle is a weed selling operation?


He approaches the old lady who blinks at him with what I’m assuming is her good eye. Hand in front of his mouth, he murmurs what must be Spanish for ‘Have you got the stuff?’. The sickly canaries are screeching like demented banshees by now. The drama of it all!


I’m half crouching behind him waiting to engage fight or flight mode if some burly ogre man should appear with a machete or worse! This is just too weird!


Well, she merely removes one of her hands from the apron and in it she is clutching two neatly tied plastic pouches crammed full of marijuana! I’m completely stunned at this stage and can’t believe what I’m seeing! Sergio hands over a 20 000 peso note and the old ladies other hand appears with change.


We walk out of the room with not so much as a backward glance, being careful to close the little gate behind us. Kids on the street are looking at us with a knowing glint in their eyes. I’m wondering where the camera’s are hidden because this can’t be real. There is something quite wrong about taking weed from an elderly lady I reckon...like taking candy from a kid?! I don’t know, but the chuckling does not stop for a number of blocks.Needless to say the stuff is horrible and reduces one to a massively gluttonous, retarded and eventually comatose waste of life. I woke up on Saturday, certain that I had a hernia from over eating and vowing to never touch this devil’s lettuce again!

A look of innocence as Sergio and I escape the scene of the crime!

It was a damn funny experience though!

Well that’s it for now. I must run and soak in the warm afterglow of Polly’s scintillating performance against the Windies. Thank goodness for Cricinfo.com!