Change In Plans

Greetings from Cape Town.

Zola was invited to his first “boy-girl” birthday party last Friday.  More accurately, it was a “girl-boy” party, since the birthday girl and five of her girlfriends invited Zola and two other boys.  It was meant to be a sleepover, but India and I were not exactly comfortable with that idea.

India dropped Zola off at Lily’s seventh-floor apartment at 3pm.  He insisted that he wanted to be picked up in an hour.  When Zola walked into the apartment, the 11-year-old girls started snapping pictures of him with their cell phones, causing him to blush uncontrollably.  India wanted to say hello to Lily’s father, but was told he was “out,” and would be back “soon.”

Around 4:30, I came to get Zola on my way home.  I stood outside the apartment door and heard delighted shrieks and giggles coming from inside.  When I went in, all of the kids seemed very excited: flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, breathing a little heavily.  Zola said that they had been playing tag.  He begged to stay for another hour.

At 6pm, I came back, sharing an elevator ride with a pizza-delivery man.  When the door opened on the seventh floor, Zola ran past me, being chased by one of the girls from the party.  Laughter and shouting echoed up and down the hall.  When I told Zola it was time to go, he got very upset and ran away from me.  “Please can I stay Dad?  Please, please, please???”  I agreed that we would pick him up after dinner.

The doorman in the lobby laughed at me, when I came out of the elevator alone.  “Still the boy does not want to come?” he asked, rhetorically.

Finally, on my third trip back, I insisted that Zola come home.  The kids were all sort of cuddled together around the TV, watching a romantic comedy.  I also met the Dad, who was lying in his room playing video games.  He told me he had “let the kids kind of do their own thing.”  I was glad he was there, and he seemed comfortable that nothing too racy was going on.

In the car on the way home, Zola seemed very pleased with himself.  Under duress, he admitted that there had been games of “Spin the Bottle” and “Truth or Dare,” but there had only been hugging.  No kissing, no three minutes in a closet.  He later said that a couple of times the “dare” was to kiss someone on the hand.

I think the party was almost entirely innocent, but all of the kids may be having feelings that they don’t understand, and can’t explain.  It certainly was exciting to be chasing each other all around the show.

In the few days after the party, Zola started acting very moody and distant.  This is completely uncharacteristic for him: he has been the shaggy, happy dog of kids since he was a baby. 

Finally, on Tuesday afternoon, he and I had a chance to really talk.  There was nothing in particular bothering him, and there was nothing more to tell us about the party (as far as I know!).  We exhausted pretty much every possible topic that might be bothering him.  Finally he said, “Dad, I think it’s just puberty.”

Uh oh!  He’s 10.  I don’t think we are ready for this at all.

Greetings from Cairo!

I left the Beaverkill yesterday afternoon, gone to Egypt for two days of meetings.  Aside from extreme heat, these two places have practically nothing in common.

This evening, about an hour before sunset, I go out to run a nine-kilometer loop that I like.  It is about 95 degrees Fahrenheit.  The dust and the exhaust hang in the air like a gauzy veil, thick enough to taste.

My hotel is on the east bank of the Nile.  I start by heading north along the river, and crossing over on an old railroad bridge.  A few couples court chastely on the relatively private pedestrian walkway: young men in tight t-shirts and young women in burqas.  

On the west bank of the river, the Giza District, the stairs from the bridge drop me on a  busy road that I have to cross immediately.  There are no pedestrian crossings or traffic lights or road lanes. The cars come at me in a slow, but continuous, multi-lane stream. I skip across and hope for the best.  Not sure how you would do this with kids.

Rather than running the direct route, southwest along the river,I duck into an old, medina-like part of the city called Berbera. i think it is very old. Narrow dirt streets and gray cement storefronts. Men playing dominoes and smoking sheesha water pipes outside of small shops, where meat is grilling over charcoal.  Sharing the streets with donkey carts, mopeds and soccer-playing kids.  It seems poor, but not desperately so.  Every minute or so I am glad to catch a glimpse of the river a few blocks away, down a cross street.  It would be easy to get completely lost in the darkening streets, with rows of identical, sand-colored apartment buildings above them.

Exiting the labyrinth, I run west along the Little Nile for a way, next to a row of big, ramshackle houseboats bobbing in the water.  One morning a few months ago, on this same run, I saw the American University crew team rowing along this stretch of river.  This evening, I only see a few tiny feral kittens, dirty and thin, and probably not long for this world.  Cars rush past me as I balance on the narrow sidewalk, hoping I don’t trip and sprawl into traffic.

Crossing the Little Nile again, I am on Zamalek, a big island in the middle of the river.  I sort of know where I am, and run due east toward the main channel of the Nile.  I run past an outdoor weight-lifting center, and a few dusty restaurants with seating next to the water.  Zamalek is a rich part of Cairo, and there are many trees (with dusty leaves). and few cars.  I turn right (south) near the river, and run through a neighborhood filled with private schools and embassies. 

All of the policemen in Cairo have switched into white uniforms for the summer.  It reminds me of Fleet Week in New York.  Outside the embassies, mustachioed policemen in white wave their old, wooden-stock AK-47s around lazily as they talk with their fellow guards.  Everyone seems hot and a little lethargic.  Many of the street-side parking spaces are being used as informal outdoor repair shops.

The guards outside the Iranian Embassy wear all-black uniforms, with patches reading “Special Forces” on their arms.  They have better machine guns too.  One black-clad guard has taken his boots off, and is kneeling on a mat, praying in what must be the direction of Mecca.  His automatic weapon is laid at the top of the mat - closest to Mecca, I guess - and one of the other guards stands watch while he prays.  He has huge holes in the heels and toes of his socks, which make him seem a little more friendly somehow.

I pass more embassies and the few boutique shops, and make a sharp left near a giant tree which is exploding with cheerful birdsong. I am running south along the river again, and then up onto the six-lane bridge that takes me back to the east bank of the Nile.  The bridge is jammed with cars, but has wide sidewalks and a cool breeze.  I stop to admire the Nile, most storied of rivers. Although it flows through the city with speed and power, the river is only about 200 meters wide: . I’m not sure what I expected the cradle of human civilization to look like, but I did expect it to be bigger. The sun is just setting now behind me: a fiery, dust-enhanced ball.

At the end of the bridge, I go down the rickety metal stairs, turn left and run north.  The road along the river is the scariest and most chaotic in Cairo.  There is a wide sidewalk between the road and the river for part of the way, but for several hundred meters, pedestrians (including me) share space with oncoming traffic.  Usually the traffic is not moving very fast.  I convince myself that if worse comes to worst, I can jump up and hang from the top of the plywood wall next to the road, like an ice- hockey ref avoiding a puck along the boards.  A few times, I nearly leap for it, but the cars miss me, sometimes with headlights flashing in aggravation. The diesel exhaust is choking.

Finally, I am across the busy road from the hotel.  Crossing is like playing the old video game, Frogger.  Cairenes just glare at oncoming traffic and march forward, but I am nowhere near that brave.  Instead, I have five minutes to cool down on the far sidewalk, before a break in traffic allows me to make a dash for the middle, then for the far side.

It’s dusk, and the temperature has dropped to about 85 degrees.  On my third visit, Cairo is growing on me.

When I sat down to write this post about being in the U.S., I thought it would be about divorce, disease, and death. 

Three sets of friends are separating and/or divorcing: it is painful to contemplate and painful to watch.  Another friend is battling cancer.  He seems upbeat and engaged in his rich life and wonderful family, but it is nonetheless scary and uncertain. 

Most sadly, a young friend from the Catskills was killed in a skiing accident in New Zealand two weeks a go.  She had been a camp counselor for both of our kids, and was a lovely, strong, confident, inspiring young woman.  There is no way to understand or put any kind of positive spin on her death.  At Zola’s insistence, he and I went to the funeral in New York yesterday.  It was excruciatingly sad.

Amidst all of these bad things, India and I have been trying to focus on all that is good and positive in our lives.  We have been appreciating the simple, but miraculous, joy of watching Zola immerse himself in play dates and sleepovers with his camp buddies.  Tallulah and I spent the morning catching fish and frogs in the little pond on our property.  We have organized dinners, and long runs, and bicycle rides, and rugby games.  Relishing the sweet and fragile transience of this part of our lives.  We are healthy and happy, and surrounded by people we love.

There is no positive spin on the divorce, disease, and death.  But we are appreciating this time together, and appreciating life’s rich pageant.

Greetings from Nashville!

Within a day, both kids both mentioned that everything in the U.S. is big: the cars, the roads, the plates of food, and the people. Big, big, big. Aside from that, they are purely happy to be in the warm embrace of grandparents and cousins and familiarity. Six months in South Africa, and the heartland feels foreign, but they like it.

For India and me, being here stimulates a more complicated set of emotions. We are happy to be with India’s family, and happy to see our kids so happy. That’s straightforward. We both feel a little guilty for living so far away, and for not participating actively in our families’ lives. We haven’t made it up to see my Mom (who just had her hip replaced) and step-father, but I feel sad to not be be closer to them. And I feel sad that the kids aren’t closer to any of their extended family.

On a personal/professional front, being here makes me keenly aware of how much time has passed since we had a stable and forward-moving existence.

For two years we have had a vagabond existence: moving, experiencing, repositioning, growing. It’s been fun, but many months ago, I reached the limit on my capacity for uncertainty and change. I have wanted nothing more than to be stable, working full time, making progress toward longer-term objectives. Cleaning out boxes of work papers and financial records in my in-laws’ garage brought this need to work to an emotional boil. The rest of the world has long since moved on, and I need to climb back on to it. Soon enough, I hope.

For India, being here reminds her of who she grew up wanting to be. She wanted to explore the world, live in the outdoors, know interesting people. She is happy that she has shaped her adult life in line with those dreams, but even she is feeling a need to stabilize and get embedded in longer-term relationships and objectives.

This all reads a little more angsty than I actually feel. We are happy to be here, and we treasure our family and friends. The next few weeks, in New York and at my Mom’s, will be fun and will refresh a lot of important relationships in our lives.

There are opportunity costs in all choices: if we live there we can’t also be living here, if I stop working and spend time with my family, have to accept that I have lost momentum, stature, etc. Generally I am good at ignoring opportunity costs, but being here confronts us with them directly.

When we go back to South Africa in mid-July, though, I think we will be good and ready to really start living there.

Greetings from Cape Town!

Excitement for the 2010 Soccer World Cup has been building in South Africa for the last six years.  Outside each of the big airports there is a huge display that has been counting down the days since 2007.  When we would arrive for holidays in past years, the displays would read some impossibly large and irrelevant number: 837 days to go! or 514 days to go! 

When we moved back in December, the day count was just over a hundred.  The marketers did a great job of building the excitement countrywide: special celebrations 100 days out and 50 days out, celebrations for the official openings of the new stadiums, etc.  Continuous radio advertisements that all ended with a booming voice saying, “Can you feel it?  It is here!”  Starting several mnths ago, every Friday became “Football Friday,” and millions of people wore yellow South African team jerseys to work.  In the last month, suddenly the blare of the long plastic vuvuzela horns became ubiquitous: bwaaaah bwaaaah bwaaaaah bwaaaah bwaaaaaah bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

The World Cup on its own is a huge spectacle: 64 games, 3 million tickets, billions of people watching on TV, etc.  For South Africa, it is an historic nation-building moment.  There are still naysayers who argue that the money spent on stadiums could have been spent on houses or just given to the poor.  Maybe easy for me to say (we have a house), but the galvanizing effect on the nation’s conscience has been worth the investment.  Collectively, South Africans seem to be looking at each other and saying, “Wow!  We are actually pulling this off!  We did it!”  Having a lot of new infrastructure - airports, roads, train lines - is good too.

More immediate than the theoretical socioeconomic benefits, the experience has been amazing.  I was in Johannesburg on Friday, the opening day, trying to get to the airport to fly to Cape Town.  Everyone else was trying to get to fan parks or to the game itself.  It seemed that every foot of roadway was crowded with cars flying South Africa flags, horns blaring, vuvuzelas blowing.  It was an excruciating two and a half hour drive drive. I missed my first flight in eighteen months, and came extremely close to wetting my pants, but the atmosphere in the streets was electric.  Even in the airport, dozens of people were blowing their vuvuzelas in noisy enthusiasm.

South Africa tied Mexico 1-1 in the opening match.  When South Africa scored the opening goal, the entire country erupted in cheers.  It’s like nothing I have experienced before.

On Friday night, we went to the opening game in Cape Town.  The weather was warm and beautiful, the new stadium was spectacular, and the whole experience was exciting and fun.  The kids’ school is about a five minute walk from the stadium, so parking at the school was awesomely convenient.  We put Tallulah on my shoulders, and just blended in with the huge, festive crowd.  The game itself was a little dull: France and Uruguay tied 0-0.  But the experience and the positive feeling (and the giddy, deserved self-congratulation of South Africans) was great.

Our second game, on Monday night, reminded everyone that it is winter in Cape Town.  We got soaked by a cold rain walking to the stadium.  When it started to hail, India found us shelter in the back of a bratwurst-seller’s kiosk on the fan walk.  A smiling German sausage man came back to his tiny grilling area and found four of us huddled together for warmth.  He was gracious, particularly when we ought some bratwursts and congratulated him in German for his country’s 4-0 win over Australia the day before.

When the rain let up, we raced to the stadium to get under cover before the next downpour.  It rained on and off during the game.  Our seats were just at the edge of being covered: if the wind blew offshore, we were dry.  If it blew toward the mountain: drenched.  India was good natured but unamused: she bundled herself up like an Arctic explorer and lurked in the fully covered part of the stands.  Zola and his friend, Dante, and I cheered our lungs out and pretended it wasn’t actually raining.  We were glad that Tallulah had declared, “If it isn’t South Africa or America playing, I don’t want to go.”

Despite the rain, everyone had fun.  South Africa is pulling off this great event.  It is wonderful to be here.

Greetings from Singabezi, Zambia, an island in the middle of the Zambezi River.

Through poor planning and miscommunication, we did not file our permanent-residency applications in South Africa before India’s and the kids’ temporary-residence permits ran out. To stay on the right side of the law, we were compelled to pay a small fine and take a brief ‘visa holiday’ outside of the Republic of South Africa.

The rules require that we go to a non-neighbouring country, so the easiest trip was to Livingstone, Zambia. This is just over the border from Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe.

My vision was that we would fly in, get our passports stamped, and go back to Cape Town. If necessary, we could stay overnight at an airport hotel. Fortunately, India saw this as an opportunity to do something fun, so she booked us at this lodge in the middle of the river.

There are five tents and a little central area. The river, which is very high at the moment, rushes past us on all sides. We were told not to let the kids play at the water’s edge, because a crocodile could take them. On the boat ride out, we saw half a dozen big crocs, lazing in the sun.

So we are chilling out, in splendid isolation, for a few days. I use the term “splendid isolation” ironically, because I’m generally much happier being around people. India is happiest out here: she sees nothing ironic about the splendidness. If this is the most significant fault line in our marriage, I think we are doing okay.

Today we went down and walked around Victoria Falls from the Zambian side. As I noted, the river is high, and the falls were absolutely full. The power and noise of a mile of water tumbling 300 feet over the edge of a cliff is quite awesome. We walked down into the gorge, and got completely drenched by the spray. To save a dollar, I was the only one who did not rent a poncho, and my shorts are still damp 10 hours later. Zola laughed hysterically and skipped around in the downpour.

Later in the day, we visited a primary school located next to Tongabezi Lodge. The school feeds all 168 students twice a day, and has a beautiful small amphiteater and a music program. The school has been supported by Tongabezi and by foreign visitors for the last 20 years. What they do, and the success they have had, is impressive. The best part was seeing their computer lab, with 1d kids crowded around four computers, taking a quiz about seed dispersal through a British website. They have fast wireless internet access. This seems like a complete game changer in a school in rural Zambia. The computers were powered by car batteries.

So, here we are on the island. No internet (unlike the school on the banks), no electricity, and patchy cell-phone coverage. I need to learn how to relax, and enjoy a special place. Zola and I are studying hard for his exams, which start next week. Eight consecutive school days of 90-minute exams. It seems like a lot for a 10-year old. He is nervous, but surprisingly focused on studying, and I think we will be okay. More generally, I think we will be okay as well.

Incidentally, we have always like the fact that Zola’s name means “calm, peaceful, or tranquil in Xhosa. Down in South Africa, it is a nice point of contact for him and for us. We found out today that in Nyanja, one of the main Zambian languages, Zola means “to apply lotion.” Our guide thought this was very funny, and I suppose it is.

Note: this post is a month out of date.  India is fine now, but this was a rough experience for her, and for the rest of us.

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For anyone who travels a lot on business, the greatest fear is a real medical emergency back at home when you are inaccessibly far away.

When I left for Cairo last Saturday afternoon, India was fine.  By mid-afternoon on Sunday, she sent an e-mail reading, “I must have the flu.  Shivering and shaking, and threw up on the beach.”  We talked and e-mailed back and forth, as she started feeling worse and worse.

India is as hard as nails, and for the first couple of days she kept assuring me (and herself), that it was nothing serious.  Zola was grown up about helping around the house, taking care of Tallulah, and taking care of himself.  India felt the situation was manageable.

On Tuesday morning, she finally went to see our family doctor in Cape Town.  He diagnosed a bacterial infection, and gave her some oral antibiotics, but couldn’t realy tell much else.  She spent the day driving around, and taking care of the kids.

From the other end of the telephone line (unfortunately 10,000 kilometers away), I could hear her condition getting worse.  Her fever climbed to about 104,and she became increasingly incoherent.  Her breathing was erratic and gaspy, and she coughed continuously.  On Tuesday evening, our doctor friend, Paula, drove to our house, and took India to the hospital.  The kids went to stay with our friends, Paul and Lucille.

Once she was in the hospital, getting intravenous antibiotics and rehydrating, India and I both figured that she would start getting well almost immediately.  South African private health care is excellent, but this particular hospital seemed disorganized an understaffed.  They kept forgetting to re-attach her IV, or to give her paracetamol, or to keep her properly hydrated.  More important, no one seemed to have any idea what was really wrong. 

Unfortunately, on Tuesday night, by the time we realized that I really needed to be with her in Cape Town, I had missed the one flight per day from Cairo to Johannesburg.

Throughout the day on Wednesday, she wavered between feeling bad and worse.  Our phone conversations were surreal.  I would excuse myself from a meeting in Cairo, hear my wife in pain and sometimes in delirium, feel absolutely powerless and very scared for her and for us, and then go back into the meeting.  The emotional dislocation was unlike anything I had felt before.

Finally, I got on the Wednesday night flight, and got to Johannesburg early on Thursday morning.  With good fortune, I skipped directly onto a Cape Town flight (getting on line at the ticket counter three minutes before a 200-person group visiting from Rutgers University showed up), and I was in Cape Town by noon.  When I got to the hospital, India was a little better, but in very rough shape.  The antibiotics appeared to be winning out over the infection, but she was still very sick.

That evening, she had laparoscopic surgery.  Complicating (or maybe explaining) the situation, she had tested positive for pregnancy, and our doctors were worried that it was ectopic.  It turned out not to be, but the surgery confirmed that her internal organs were all inflamed and infected.  The pregnancy, which we wre assured was non-viable, was an emotional twist that we were completely unprepared for.

On Friday, India really got much better.  Whether the antibiotics or her immune system won the battle over the infection, we don’t know.  By Friday evening, though, she was off the IV, feeling very grumpy, and ready to go home.  Both kids were tearful with relief when we brought them to see her.  I think was more scary for them than it was for India or for me. 

Finally, on Saturday morning, we brought her home.  Tallulah made a huge poster, copying the words “Welcome Home” from a balloon we had bought at the hospital.  We are all very happy and relieved to have her back, but still completely clueless about why she was sick.  India’s plans to run the Two Oceans ultramarathon in early April are off, which is sad for her.  She was in great shape, and would have had a phenomenal time.

All of this has been scary, and disruptive, and unpleasant.  We are glad that the worst is behind us.

Greetings from Cape Town!

We have had a tumultuous, action-packed last several weeks.  India was deathly ill in mid-March (more on that later), and spent an awful week in the hospital.  I have been to Egypt twice, for extended visits, and to the U.S. once, on a two-day bounce dive.  The kids finished their first term at South African school, and spent the holiday on safari with us in the Northern Cape and in KwaZulu Natal.

India’s family came to visit South Africa, and joined us on the trip to KZN.  Our brother-in-law flew back a week ago, but India’s sister and her three kids, and her parents, have been staying with us in Cape Town.  They were scheduled to fly home, via Amsterdam, four days ago (incidentally, while I was up in Cairo).  The Icelandic volcano has caused a massive change in plans for them, so they are staying in Cape Town, more or less indefinitely.  The airlines are saying that April 29th is a reasonable expected departure date.  It is nice having them here, but a bizarre turn of events.

So, our lives go on here, with the house filled to capacity.  The “peace” in the title of this post is because I am sitting on the deck at daybreak, watching and listening to the waves break on Llandudno beach.  It is too early for surfers or people walking on the beach.  The waves are pounding the rocks, and a fine marine layer of mist is settling in.  It is difficult for anyone to get very agitated when the scenery is so magnificent and calming. 

Driving home from a dinner party last night, I said to India, “I love living here.”  We have many parts of our lives still to sort out, but the basic decision to return to Cape Town feels like a good one.

I am on my way from Cape Town to Cairo, to spend a week doing some work.

The phrase “Cape to Cairo” was once widely used to describe the ease that the old South African army would have in fighting other African countries. As in, “Cape to Cairo in a month.” It is also a classic dream road trip. India is probably brave enough to try it, but I wouldn’t be.

At any rate, it should be interesting. I’ve never been to Egypt before. The economy is booming, Cairo is meant to be sensorily overwhelming, and it will be good to be doin substantive work.

No one is happy about me being away from home for a week. All of us feel, finally, as though we are getting into a rhythm in Cape Town. Zola is getting the hang of his 13 subjects and lots of homework and activities. Tallulah has been to the horse-riding center enough times that she has favorites among the horses. India is well known in her boxing gym.

I will be back soon enough, and we will continue settling in. We have a slew of activities and visitors in April, but fundamentally, it has started to feel as though we are living in South Africa. Life is good here.

Greetings from Cape Town!

 I have been listening to a lot of talk radio on SAfm as I drive around in the car, usually going to or from the kids’ school.  SAfm is part of SABC, the government-owned public broadcaster.  It takes the public-service part of radio seriously, so a huge percentage of the airtime is devoted to call-in shows discussing politics and issues of the day.  What amazes me is how frequently the on-air guest will be the government minister who is relevant to the issue at hand, fielding calls from cranky and frequently disrespectful listeners.  Democracy.

That introduction was a long-winded way of saying that I feel qualified to opine on what South Africa is talking about.  If not the whole country, at least the cranky and disrespectful part that calls in to radio shows and berates government officials

2010 Soccer World Cup - the tournament starts here in about four months, and it is a national obsession.  Mostly it is just referred to as “2010,” although apparently FIFA, the soccer governing body, hates that, and insists on “the FIFA 2010 World Cup.”  This topic is discussed from every possible angle on a continuous basis.  Sample topics: How will SA’s prostitution market be affected? Will the roads be ready? Will the South African team score even a single goal? Would all of the money spent on stadiums and aiports have been better spent on houses and schools instead? Why are there no women refs in the world cup?. 

Vuvuzelas - this is really a sub-topic of the 2010 conversation. A vuvuzela is a cheap plastic horn that a soccer fan bows.  One vuvuzela is loud.  If  25% of the fans in a 100,00-seat stadium are blowing vuvuzelas, the sound is continous and mind scrambling, like something that the army’s psychological ops unit would use to persuade hostage takers to surrender.  The question is whether to allow them in the stadiums during the world cup.  The topic immediately brings up issues of race and class and “traditional culture” (vuvuzelas are popular among poorer and blacker South Africans), of national pride and insecurity (”Won’t Europeans think we are uncivilized?), of individual vs. collective rights.  Not sure what the decision will be on vuvuzelas in the stadium.

President Zuma’s love life - in January, in a traditional Zulu ceremony, President Jacob Zuma got married for the fifth time.  One wife divorced him many years ago, and one died, so the marriage represented only his third simultaneous wife.  The marriage seemed to burnish President Zuma’s credentials with some constituencies, and led to a polite national discussion of “traditional African values”, and “tolerance of many lifestyles in the New South Africa.”

Three weeks ago, the story came out that the President had fathered a child, his 20th (!)  born last October.  The mother is not his new wife, but the unmarried daughter of a hugely powerful and (allegedly) ruthless soccer-team owner named Irvin Khoza.  Khoza’s nickname is “the Iron Duke,” and he is a giant of South African business and is the chairman of the … FIFA 2010 World Cup organizing committee.  The closest analogue I can think of in the U.S. would be if President Obama fathered a love child with Ivanka Trump.  Weird, for sure.  President Zuma has acknowledged paternity, and paid “damages” to his erstwhile friend, the Iron Duke. 

The love-child scandal has been big news, but not so big that the President resigned, or got impeached or anything.  He has sort of promised that he won’t do it again.  Keep in mind, that President Zuma was acquitted of raping (but acknowledged having sex with) the unmarried young daughter of another friend a few years ago, and that South Africa has a tremendous HIV/AIDS problem.

Lifestyle audits - like in many places, a lot of South African politicians seem to live a lot better than you would expect on their government salaries.