Change In Plans

Greetings from Cape Town!  This was written a couple of months ago, but I figured I would post it anyway.

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We have had many adventures and misadventures since I last wrote in this blog.  I hope that my reader hasn’t gotten impatient and looked elsewhere for platitudes and unfunny stories about our kids.  Our “plans have changed again”, in the sense that I took a full time job after a couple of years of goofing around, we really committed ourselves to living in South Africa, and we got a puppy.

Rather than writing a long summary, I think I will write a few short posts, and try to leave out the boring stuff.

Two weeks ago Friday was Tallulah’s 7^th birthday.  It was fun for us to remember her 4^th birthday, in 2008 at the Umaid Bavan Palace hotel in Jodhpur, India.  The staff there was wildly indulgent, and she got three chocolate cakes during the course of the day.  With three cakes, she insisted that she had three birthdays, and that she was 7 years old.  Zola was 8, and I think she did this to drive him crazy, which it did.  Now suddenly, she is 7, and I feel the sad sweetness (or sweet sadness) of her childhood racing away from us.  Prestalgia for our daughter as a little girl.

For her 7^th birthday, India and Tallulah organized a cheetah-petting party for 30 girls at Spier wine estate in Stellenbosch.  Spier is more like an entertainment  destination than a wine estate: it has a cheetah-rescue center, predator-bird rescue center, a big outdoor African-themed restaurant, an outdoor amphitheatre, wine-tasting rooms. I am not even sure there are vineyards.

We rented a mini-bus to take 10 girls, and all of the others came with India and a few other Moms from Tallulah’s class.  On the way out, the girls sang funny (surprisingly bawdy) songs and radiated enthusiasm and confidence that I hope they keep for their whole long lives.

The cheetah handlers selected a big male, and had him lie on a table in a courtyard.  As the handlers held the cheetah down (gently), the girls approached in pairs, and were allowed to pet him.  It was all very professional and calm.  Zola and I went up together at the end.  I had never seen a cheetah except from a game vehicle, and had always thought of them as pretty wimpy, relative to the lions and leopards, and even the hyenas.  Cheetahs run down their prey and trip them with an ankle tap, and suffocate them before eating, rather than tearing them to pieces while still alive.  They suffocate by clamping their jaws around the windpipe of the poor antelope or bok who is becoming dinner.  I saw a cheetah kill in Kenya many years ago, and it was somehow seemed quite civilized (maybe not for the antelope!)

Up close and personal, the cheetah was magnificent.  Huge, and muscly, and beautiful.  His tail alone was nearly a meter long.  He projected violent power masked by grace and calmness.

After everyone had petted the cheetah, we assembled the girls and marched them off toward the outdoor restaurant for cake, and face painting and games.  We walked down a narrow outdoor passageway, with high walls on one side and a chain-link fence on the other, and a wooden gate at the far end.  Behind us we heard a shout, and saw two small, female handlers struggling to restrain the cheetah.  Then the cheetah broke loose, and ran down the corridor through the screaming kids.  Newsflash: cheetahs run really, really fast.  It took 10-15 seconds for the panicked handlers to catch up at the far end of the, grab the leash, and get the cheetah away from the girls.

The cheetah had a muzzle, so I wasn’t too worried about anyone being bitten (or ankle tapped and suffocated, I guess).  I was scared that the big animal would run over a small person, or even just whack someone with his tail.  It would have been a tough thing to explain to parents who had entrusted their baby to us for the afternoon.

Fortunately, no one did get hurt.  Some of the girls later claimed dramatically to have claw marks, but I saw most of those little scratches being self inflicted with fingernails.

The party was a big success.  Faces were painted, games were played.  The cake, a three-dimensional cheetah lying on a field of green icing, was devoured.  I spent the evening driving the mini bus all over Cape Town, delivering 7 year olds to their parents.  It is one of the few times I have felt unambiguously useful as a parent.

Happy Birthday, Tallulah.

Greetings from Cape Town!

Like suburbanites the world over, I was sitting on the front porch drinking coffee and reading the Sunday newspapers this morning.  The waves were massive and messy, and there were no surfers or body boarders out, even though it was sunny.  Mid-winter in Cape Town is pretty sweet.

From the corner of my eye, I saw a giant flipper come out of the water about 250 meters off shore.  I grapped the binoculars (and Tallulah), and we watched a viagra right whale breach and flop back into the waves.  It is the beginning of calving season, and the whales are moving down toward Hermanus in large numbers. 

We saw the whale spout a few times, breach again, then wave a flipper and swim off toward Cape Point.  Unbelievable and amazing.  I tried to get a picture, but it just looks like foamy blue ocean.  Anyway, a photograph couldn’t capture the blueness of the sky, the rocky mountains behind me, the lushness of the mid-winter fynbos, or the kids playing happily on the beach.  The sighting will have to live on in the mind’s eye.

We have two sets of friends coming from New York this week for a visit.  For all of them, it is their first trip to South Africa.  I hope they see the same natural beauty that has kept us coming back to Cape Town for the last 20 years.

Greetings from rainy Cape Town!

About half an hour ago, I heard beautiful singing from the windows
outside my office.  I thought it must be a church group, or (unlikely)
related to Friday services at one of the local mosques.

I looked down to the street, and discovered a tiny protest rally under
way by the South African Communist Party.  About 12 singing protesters,
surrounded by roughly an equal number of police officers, all blocking the
entrance to the offices of a law firm.  I am slightly surprised to find 12
practicing communists outside of North Korea or Cuba, but in SA the
dialectic continues.

Two women held a printed banner reading “Socialism is the future.”   Next to them,
two men held a hand-printed banner reading (with less conviction)  “Socialism is a future.”

Many of the other protesters were holding up signs written on A4 sheets
of white printer paper.  I was too far away to read the handwriting on the signs, so the
purpose of the rally remains a mystery.  The singing sounds wonderful, though.

Earlier this morning, I ran into one of India’s long-standing friends and former
colleagues at a coffee shop.  Albie Sachs has been a playwright, a freedom fighter,
a constitutional scholar (and co-author), and one of the original justices on
the post-apartheid constitutional court.  I would normally describe him as
“a man in full,” but that would be ironic, because he lost an arm and an eye in
when the apartheid government tried to assassinate him in Mozambique in the 1970s.

Albie retired from the bench, but was completely up to speed on India’s new campaign for Safe
Spaces.  He is writing a movie script, and raising a 4-year-old son (Albie is 71).   Zola’s
Grade 6 Social Sciences class did oral reports on Albie’s life.

We chatted for a while about politics, and I realized that this was a little like having a conversation with
John Marshall back in 1805. Life in a young democracy can be frustrating and a little scary, but
it is never dull.

Greetings from Cape Town, where Spring is in the air.

I have been negligent about writing anything for the last several weeks, so
you have missed our trip to the U.S., my Mom’s birthday party, our three
weeks at the Beaverkill (just great for all concerned), a quick trip to London,
an Irish wedding, a long flight home, and re-immersion into our
South African lives (in progress).  Whew!

Not enough time to recount it all in excruciating detail.  Just a short
post on two achievements by India and Tallulah.

The “Run Outside” part of this post’s title is in honor of India completing
the Hout Bay Trail Challenge two weeks ago.  HBTC is generally considered
the toughest trail run in the country: about 36 kilometers (the route changes
year to year) and about 7,000 feet of climbing, all on narrow dirt and sand
tracks.

India started in the dark at 7am (she sent an SMS at 6:45 reading, “I am cold and
lonely and a little bit scared.  I hope someone adopts me.”).  She staggered across
the finish line at 3pm, completely shattered.  To make the “Challenge” more of a
challenge, the organizers added 6 kilometers and another 400-500 meters of
climbing to last year’s route.  The winning time was about 60 minutes slower than
last year’s winning time.

India is super tough, but she ended up exhausted and with huge respect for the HBTC.

The “Play” part of the post title is for Tallulah’s participation in the St. Cyprian’s School
140th Anniversary play this week. 

About 400 girls were on stage for the finale, but Tallulah shined like a very happy little star. 
She has been singing all of the numbers, and dancing around the house for weeks.
Watching with pride - sports, concerts, plays, ballet - is one of the greatest things about being a parent.

Greetings from Cape Town!

We have been back in South Africa for about 16 months, and I am starting to recognize patterns a little bit.  A few that come to mind are described below.

Labor strikes

- April and May are strike season.  Last year, I could not believe how much strike activity there was, and how little people seemed to notice.  Seeing a slightly reduced, but similar, pattern this year, I realize that labor action is just part of the annual rhythm in post-apartheid South Africa.  Contracts are coming up for renewal, and the combination of strong unions, a history of mass action, and a still hugely inequitous division of income mean that there will be strikes.  Over time, organized labor’s influence will decline, and workers and management will figure out a more collaborative means of resolving differences.  In the meantime, every April/May, we will expect strikes.

Easter traffic - the top story on the hourly news broadcasts over Easter weekend is always about traffic.  South Africa has a four-day weekend for Easter, and kids are on school holidays.  There is also a massive religious gathering (>1 million members of the Zion Christian Church) in a remote northwest corner of the country.  A big percentage of the population is on the road.  The Thursday and Friday news is always about how many cars are going through various traffic pinch points, mostly between Johannesburg and Durban, and where the impossibly long, multi-kilometre, traffic jams are.  There are also lots of interviews with traffic police, promising to crack down on speeders and drunk drivers.  The news later in the holiday period will be about the number of traffic deaths, with commentary on whether they are higher or lower than last year’s totals.  There will also be stories about the horrific accidents that kill >10 people at a go.

Road Racing - Closer to home, I am observing India’s behavior pattern before a big race.  She is running the 2 Oceans ultramarathon tomorrow morning.  Whenever she is extremely fit, and  gearing up to run a fast race, the few days beforehand are tense, and she has a host of small physical maladies.  Advil gets taken, general fretting occurs, and she says, “I am just hoping to finish.  I don’t care about my time.”  I think she will run her personal best tomorrow, and will finish in the top 2% of women over 40.  Just a guess.

Reading - Also closer to home, I am recognizing a pattern in Zola’s behavior.  Whenever he and I are driving somewhere together, I want to talk and spend quality time with my son.  He just wants to read his book (he is plowing through the CHERUB series of spy-kid novels by Michael Muchamore at the moment).  I think I was exactly the same when I was 11, and I would guess that my parents felt the same way.

Surfing

- Finally, I spent the last two mornings surfing at Muizenberg on the Indian Ocean coast.  Muizenberg is the surfing equivalent of a green beginner slope on a ski mountain.  The water is warm, the waves  (even when they are big), break slowly and gently.  A few hours at Muizenberg, on the big boards, and I convince myself that I can actually surf.  As happened again this evening, I take this new-found confidence into the colder and much more treacherous waters in Llandudno, outside our house.  Suddenly, I can surf Llandudno much better.  I come back to the house full of excitement: I can surf.  This is proof.  Two more sessions in Llandudno, and I will be humbled and demoralized (and physically battered) again.  The highlight today was that Zola went out and surfed in the deep water at Muizenberg.  He looked great and had fun.  My selfish hobby can sometimes be recharacterized as Dad & son time.

Summary - pattern recognition is the single biggest benefit of aging.

Kids on Beach

Greetings from Cape Town!

The title of this post is a lame leonine play on words. The fact is that I am bursting with husbandly and paternal pride.

I got back from Istanbul on Friday afternoon.  Right after I landed, India, Tallulah and I piled into her car and drove up the West Coast.  We went about 120 kilometres north of Cape Town to the village of Langebaan. Zola stayed over with a friend back in the city.

The last time we stayed in Langebaan was 1991, when I gave a speech to a Rotary Club there. It has not changed very much.  India and I  had forgotten how beautiful the lagoon and the islands immediately west of the village are.  For dinner, we sat at the same outdoor restaurant that we had eaten at 20 years earlier, watching the sun set over the still water and the low hills.  Magnificent South Africa.

India was out the door before 5 am to catch a bus which took her to the starting line of the West Coast Marathon. The race was supposed to start at 6:30, but there was a big logistical mess.  Only 8 of the scheduled 21 buses showed up, so the organizers announced a one-hour delay. By now, the sun was up, and the temperature was already about 85 degrees. India rallied a group of rebel runners who wanted to start immediately, concerned about cooking in the sun.  The organizers threatened to disqualify her and her little posse.

After much to-ing and fro-ing, India and the rebels were allowed to take off at roughly 6:50. Because the start time was ambiguous, her race time and finishing place were also ambiguous.  As far as I could tell, only one other woman runner crossed the line before her, so I am giving her credit for second.  26 miles in scorching heat, and she practically skipped across the finish line, smiling and giving high fives all around.  Superstar.  Well done! 

It was really hot - nearly 100 degrees and no shade.  A large man in his 50s collapsed in front of me, about 100 meters from completing the half marathon.  His running partner and I put his arms over our shoulders and we dragged him, semi-conscious, toward the medical tent (and finish line).  A race official shouted at me, “Sir, this competitor will be disqualified for having accepted your help!”  I said, “Ma’am, with all due respect, I think being disqualified is the least of his worries at the moment.” 

Many of our South African memories seem to occur at the intersection of drama and officiousness.

Showing no ill effects, India showered, packed our things, and we raced back to Cape Town by 1pm.  Having passed all of the qualification exams only a week earlier, Zola was competing in the two-day Western Province Surf Lifesaving Championships.  We got to Clifton Beach just as the competition was starting.

Surf lifesaving may be the best sport ever.  The athletes (called “nippers” for unknown reasons) compete in running races on the beach - relay races, sprints, flag races, long runs - and swimming races in the open ocean.  There are lots of varieties and combinations (e.g., run-swim-run), and ocean races involving lifesaving equipment like malibu boards.

The nippers get a lot of exercise, they learn skills and learn to respect the ocean, and it is fun.  It also involves spending a lot of time with your opposite-sex team mates while you are all wearing bathing suits.  What’s not to like?  During the competition the nippers have to wear little club-colors skull caps with chin ties, and these don’t look very cool.  Aside from that, though, what’s not to like?

Like all South African sports, surf lifesaving is brutally competitive at provincial (and national) level.  There were about 250 athletes from 10 different clubs.  Zola had never competed before, and he had just squeaked through the qualifying times in the swim, so we hoped for the best.

Zola competed in every single one of the 12 events over the two days.  He was middle of the pack in the running events, which was fine.  His relay team nearly made it into the finals, but were disqualified when one of his team mates dove over the finish line with a flourish.  You may be sensing a theme: South African race officials seem to love disqualifying people.

I was most proud of Zola for his performance in the ocean-swimming events.  In each event he had to sprint into the water: cold and full of jelly fish, but fortunately no big waves on the competition days.  He swam out about 40 meters, turned right at a buoy and swam 60 meters parallel to the beach, turned right again, and swam back to the beach. In some events he paddled a flotation device, a long malibu board or a boogie board, and in others it was just a swim.  Also, some events were relays and some were individual.  There was a lot of swimming.

In the first two individual events, Zola came last in his heat of about 20 boys.  He stumbled out of the surf, frustrated, but sprinted across the finish line as best as he could.  In the malibu race, he was spitting mad because another boy had kicked him in the face and knocked him off the board.  Probably not on purpose.

In the last individual event, Zola was in last place when he turned at the first buoy, and in last place when he turned back towad the beach.  Rather than giving up, though, he swam as hard as he could, and passed two boys before they got to the beach.  He ran across the finish line with a huge smile.

The final event, after two tiring days in the sun (I am completely sunburnt, incidentally) was the famed “Iron Nipper.”  This comprises all of the individual ocean events done back to back.  It takes about 20 minutes of heavy exertion to complete.  Although he was nervous, Zola didn’t hesistate.  He ran and swam, ran and paddled, and ran and paddled, and ran.  He finished second to last in his heat, but tried his hardest every second of the way.

When the competition ended, there was a prize giving.  While the judges tallied scores, and chose the provincial team, and got out the medals and trophies, the civilian adults stood in the Clifton clubhouse and drank beer in the shade.  The kids sat with their clubs on the beach.  The tallying took a long, long time. 

The kids started singing their clubs’ fight songs, loudly and proudly, and without a shred of self-consciousness or irony.  Each club tried to outdo the others.  Soon, kids were dancing arm in arm, and shouting their songs, and laughing and mock-taunting the other clubs in the fading sunlight.

From the clubhouse balcony, I watched Zola in the crowd below, and felt almost weepy with pride and love.  Singing with his team mates and friends, his arm around one of the girls he may have a little crush on, laughing, and feeling blissfully like part of the group.  If he hadn’t qualified and competed, this moment would never have been available to him. 

Zola didn’t win any medals, and he certainly didn’t make the provincial team.  His club came fourth in the province, which seemed like a good result, and he contributed a little to that.  He can practice his swim strokes, and be more physically fit, and understand the technique and the tactics a lot better next year.  He already has the determination and the willingness to try.  Maybe this is my response to the Tiger Mom.

film jumping broom

Note book title and lion in background

Tallulah with Mimsey

Greetings from Cape Town,  and happy Argus Day!

Every year, on the second Sunday in March, a small army (35,000 cyclists) takes over the Cape Peninsula for a day.  The Argus Cycle Tour is 109 kilometres, and is quite an awesome event.  We watched bicycles blaze down the steep hill by our house for about an hour this morning, the riders smiling and laughing, with only 20 kilometers to go.  As every Capetonian will tell you, the Argus is the largest timed cycling race in the world, and may be the most beautiful.  Every year I promise myself, “next year.”  This year I mean it.

The single road leading into our little village is closed for the day.  Instead of 80 surfers in the water there are only 30, some of whom sleep on the beach the night before.  I am still the worst one out there, but I am inconveniencing fewer people.  Kids play in the streets, and families organize “meet your neighbor” parties.  We went to a three-hour brunch followed by a three-hour lunch.  The isolation and the disruption of normal give Argus Day the feeling of a snow day, but without the snow (and without the 10 below). 

Last night we hosted a small dinner party for some visting friends, which somehow ended up having about 30 guests (including about 12 kids).  The evening ended with all of the kids watching “Marmaduke” projected onto the wall of our bedroom, thanks to the cool new movie projector we got for Christmas. 

Tallulah and friends

The big event of the weekend was the daughter-Dad campout at St. Cyprian’s School on Friday evening.  About 120 six-to-eight year old girls, and their Dads (or “Dad-like male adults”) braved a night under the stars on the school’s field-hockey field.  The campout was a special experience for Tallulah and me: I’m not sure who enjoyed it more.  It also provided insight into what the world would be like without the sensible influence of Moms (and the annoyance of brothers).

The beginning of the evening, when teachers and Moms were still around, was extremely well organized.  Swimming for an hour, then songs and games (while Dads put up tents), then a break, then story time.  By the end of story time, though, essentially all female adults had departed.

For dinner, the school provided huge charcoal grills and packs of sausage and lamb chops.  After the Dads burned meat, groups of Dads and girls sat on the grass to eat.  No one seemed to have any salads or side dishes, or even any cutlery.  Everyone ate meat with their hands, and wiped their greasy fingers on the grass.  Soon after, many of the girls were wandering around with big bags of potato chips and cheese doodles, offering them to their friends, and still not quite believing the junk-food license they were being afforded.  Salty snacks and charred meat: the official food groups of the daughter-Dad campout.

By this time, most of the Dads (me included) were sitting in camp chairs, talking to their friends and having a glass of wine or a beer.  The girls roamed from tent to tent, playing flashlight tag and singing school songs and laughing.  Tallulah remembered that we had chocolate for s’mores, and handed out huge chunks to every girl around.  She got me to lead a game of freeze tag with about 20 first graders.  This was fun until I tripped over the guy wire of a tent at full speed, and nearly broke every bone in my body.

Eventually, girls fell asleep on Dads’ laps, or crawled into their tents and collapsed.  Many of the Dads stayed up until very late, telling funny stories and solving the less-pressing problems of the day.

By 6:30 in the morning, it was light out, and the games of tag and the songs had started again.  Tallulah popped out of the tent as if her hair were on fire, and she was back in the mix with her friends.  Watching the sun rise against the broad face of Table Mountain was beautiful.  After coffee (thank goodness), breakfast and another swim, we made our way home. 

We like it here.  Tonight, both kids were asleep before 9pm.

Greetings from OR Tambo International Airport in Johannesburg!

As an American, it is difficult to describe how completely South Africa goes on vacation when mid-December rolls around.  Schools are out, government offices close, construction workers go on leave (”builders’ holiday”), business activity just stops.  Phones go unanswered, e-mails get immediate “Out of the Office until January 10th” responses.  It may be like summer holidays in Continental Europe, but feels even more comprehensively switched off.

Every family that is mobile flees Johannesburg for the beaches of Durban, Cape Town, or Plettenberg Bay.  Traditionally, the start date of the exodus was 16 December, a public holiday in the old South Africa (Day of the Vow) and the New South Africa (Day of Reconciliation).  Traditionally, also, many people drove from the highveld to the coasts: loading up the staion wagon, attaching a little trailer for the luggage, and setting off on the highway.

Things have changed.  The holiday exodus now seems to start about a week earlier, once schools are out.  Also, rich South Africans have gotten richer, so driving 16 hours seems like an unnecessary pain in the neck.  Tout le monde flies, and therefore, every seat on every flight to Cape Town has been full from Monday to Friday.  This brings me to the point of this post.

I had a full day of meetings scheduled today in Johannesburg, but they all cancelled.  “Let’s pick this up after the holiday!”  Compliments of the season!” 

I also had a full day of meetings in Cape Town, which I had thought I would miss, but suddenly was able to attend.  I lucked into a seat on a 9:25 flight, and would have been in the office in Cape Town by noon.

The incredibly bad and frustrating 1Time airline had a “change of equipment” on the 9:25 flight, so half the passengers got bumped.  I was in that unlucky (or unearly) half, and threw a completely inappropriate shouting and counter-slamming temper tantrum at the counter.  Normally, I am not like that, but twice in a row, 1Time has cancelled a flight when I was in a hurry (Memo to self: don’t fly 1Time!).  Hello Ugly American!

The temper tantrum had the desired effect, though, and they jumped me to the front of the list for the proverbial “next available flight,” again on 1Time. Every seat on every flight for the other airlines is full, so this felt like victory.

In my ill-tempered excitement, I left the notebook which records every important element of my professional life sitting on the check-in counter.  I only discovered this 15 minutes later when I was buying a cup of coffee.  I had to make the walk of shame back to the scene of my temper tantrum.

I said to the agent, “Uh, I was here a few minutes ago, and I think I, uh, left a notebook.” She said, coolly, “Yes.  I remember you.”  Long story short(ish), the agent had “No idea where the notebook went.  No idea.  Next!”  Divine retribution.

Eventually, I found the notebook at the “flight controller’s” desk.  When I set down the hot and full cup of coffee on his desk to pick up the notebook, my hand brushed the cup and knocked it over.  If this were TV, it would have spilled everywhere, making an awkward situation worse.  Fortunately, the coffee lids in the Johannesburg Airpirt are made of stern stuff, and disaster was averted.

In future, I will try to be a nicer person under pressure.

Hours go by.  I took the Gautrain back into Johannesburg and met friends for breakfast, and then came back to the airport, ready to go.  Further divine retribution: the 12:45 1Time flight to Cape Town is now listed as “indefinitely delayed.”  I asked the flight controller what that meant, and he said, “It means there is an indefinite delay in the departure of the plane.”  Ah ha!

As noted above, there are literally no seats on any other flights on any other airlines.  Like Schrodinger’s Cat, I am in a state of limbo.  Unlike Schrodinger’s Cat, however, I can treat myself to lunch at Nando’s and make a few phone calls.  It could end up being a long day.

Greetings from Cape Town!

Warning: this post contains two maudlin poems and a string of unconnected thoughts.  The first poem is by Carl Sandburg.

I was thinking about this poem for two reasons.  The Atlantic Seaboard in Cape Town almost never has a marine layer, but on an otherwise sunny Friday afternoon, the fog rolled in from the sea.  Zola and I were down on the beach playing soccer with some kids, and in a matter of minutes, the sun was obscured, and everything looked like a dream sequence from a David Lynch movie.  The almost-Caribbean blue of the water contrasting with the greenish gray of the air and the sky. 

I went out and surfed (badly) in the heavy fog.  The only adjective I could come up with to describe it was “trippy.”  To my delight, Zola came back down to the beach in his wetsuit, and joined me with his boogie board in the surf.  He said it was too beautiful to not get out into the middle of it.

The other reason for the Carl Sandburg poem is that India got Tallulah a kitten on Friday.  They have named the kitten Tigger.  Our neighbors, Mel and Roxy, are giving away the offspring of their hellcat, Bubbaloo.  The kitten acquisition was not exactly authorized: I sort of hate cats.  It is difficult for me to say no to Tallulah under any circumstances.  It is impossible to say no when she is dancing around the house singing, “The wonderful thing about Tiggers, is that Tiggers are wonderful things!”  A moment of weakness that I will have years to regret.

Other unconnected thoughts.

Zola finished exams this week, and has essentially finished Grade 5.  During the course of the year, he had 64 “cycle tests” and “assessments” plus 16 full-on exams.  He passed Afrikaans, which was a big boost to his self-confidence.  I question an educational system that expects 10-year olds to behave with the maturity and self-discipline of university students, but we are proud of him for getting through it.

For the last several months, India has been working with a group of fifth-grade girls from a very tough township called Manenberg.  Every Friday, she goes out to their school, Red River, and leads them in physical exercise and games.  She is trying to instill life skills and self-confidence, and understand the challenges they face.  She likes spending time with the girls, and it gives her insight into the policy realities of trying to improve girls’ lives more generally.

Yesterday morning, India rented a municipal bus, picked up 35 of the Red River girls in Manenberg, and led them on a hike up Lion’s Head mountain.  A wonderful initiative, but  this story ends sort of badly.

I walked with Tallulah at the back of the pack.  Zola was somewhere in the middle, remarkably composed as the only boy amongst 35 girls his same age.  Lion’s Head is not particularly dangerous, but it is a real mountain hike.  Everyone got to the top all right, and there were pictures and celebrations.  On the way back down, a group of girls at the front were running.  One girl, Kayleen, tripped, and fell about 15 feet off a small cliff.  She broke her arm, loosened a few teeth, and was badly cut up. 

The mountain rescue service sent a helicopter for her, which was pretty dramatic.  India held Kayleen for an hour, getting covered in blood, until the paramedics stabilized her and flew her down to the base of the mountain.  India ran down, and rode to the hospital in the ambulance with Kayleen. 

In the meantime, the drama level ran high amongst the 34 remaining girls.  A lot of them were scared and crying.  Fortunately, a community group from Maneneberg happened to be hiking down at the same time, and many of the adults knew these girls.  They helped calm them, and get everyone down to the base of the mountain safely.  It was a nerve-wracking experience, particularly doing all of this and keeping an eye on Tallulah.  The only humorous moment was when we were nearly at the bottom, and Tallulah asked me to carry her, saying, “Dad, my dogs are barking!”   Aside from that, it was tense and unpleasant.

India stayed at the hospital for five hours, until Kayleen’s cuts were sutured, and her arm was set.  Kayleen’s mother arrived eventually, but the mother-daughter dynamic was frosty and formal.  Not sure what is going on there.

Poor India felt horribly guilty and responsible, even though it clearly was not her fault.  All of the Red River girls really hope that India continues working with them.  I hope so too.

The second poem is called “Eight Bells,” and was written by my mother’s cousin, Peter Davis.  Peter wrote this on the occasion of his father’s death in 1998.  Peter himself died last week, and Mom sent this around.  It is longer than Fog.  I found it beautiful and unbearably sad.  I wonder what my own kids will remember when I am dying?  I hope we don’t find out for a long time.

Eight Bells
1
Our father lay dying at 2 a.m.
He is my favorite, said Eileen.
Each midnight she’d toast 4 slices of raisin

bread, buttered.
He would eat them whole, she explained.
We stood around his bed.
Here, see how the skin is mottled. This
is the process.
2
It comes like the tide.
See how the mottling has moved from
leg to hip. Seven breaths like breakers
on a ragged coast, then 40 seconds of silence,
repeating, through the day and night.
2:05 a.m.
It’s happening, Eileen says. She holds my father’s
left hand. My sister, Helen holds his right

hand. He opens his eyes. My sister
says, Hi Daddy. We’re here Daddy.
We love you. It is 2:07. He closes his eyes and does not breathe.
I kiss my father’s forehead.
3
I walk down the hall, past
prints of landscapes,
dancers,
a fire extinguisher,
to the nurse’s station,

to make some phone calls,
thinking of my father singing,
“I’ll Be Around,”
in front of the mirror shaving when we were kids,
in the car on the way to the football games,
at family reunions,
at the nurse’s stations during the last days of his life.
He had a wonderful voice. I was having difficulty
keying phone numbers. He was an excellent punster
and had a fine sense of humor that often involved
shooting one of several persons.
4
Knock knock, he said, on countless occasions.

Who’s there, someone would answer.
Orange juice.
Orange juice, who?

Orange juice sorry you made me cry,
he would say, and everyone would make a face

like it was lemon juice,
and he would fill the room
with that wonderful wild-ass laugh.
5
They came into his room, one by one,
on the last full day of his life.
He was very special, they said.
He was such a love, said one.
He always said I love you to me, said another.
He had an extraordinary appetite, said a male nurse,
and a smile like sunlight, he added.
6
During the last full day and night before
he died, we sat and stood around his bed:
Jessica, Will, Pete, Carol, Elizabeth,
Tucker, Mark, Deb, Helen, Byron Jr.,
and Linda. Will started the “Whiffenpoof
Song” and we sang together. Jessica
told Byron how unspeakably handsome
he was and how much she loved him. Elizabeth
and Helen kissed and stroked him, and told him
everything was okay. Tucker distributed
his usual rib-cracking hugs. Will put
on the Mills Brothers, one of Byron’s favorites.
Pete (that’s me) read poems by Charles Bukowski
and Mark Strand. I saw my brother, Mark, fill
with grief and silence. My little brother,
Byron Jr. held his father’s foot through
the sheets — silent–tears catching the dim light.
7
I see my father, much younger than I
am now, refereeing football in West
Barrington, leaves airborne in the fall sunlight.

I see him driving to Howard Johnson’s
with the windows down and the radio
blaring double play, Pesky to Doerr to Goodman.
I see him snag a football one-handed
at full gallop.
I hear him singing
with that wild light in his eyes: “Only You,”
“Slingin the Ink,” “Over There,” Then Thousand
Men of Harvard,” Baby Won’t You Please Come
Home,” and my personal favorites — “I’ll
Be Glad When You’re Dead You Dirty Dog,” and
“Hooray! Hooray! My Father’s Gonna be Hung.”
8
I see my father running free, before
a fair wind off the New England Coast,
a single sail, on a great circle: “From
where we come is to where we shall return,”
reads my calendar for October.
He was the last of his generation.
Eight Bells, Dad. What’s the course?
We relieve the watch.

Greetings from Cape Town!

What is it all about?

This has been an emotionally volatile last few days.  On Sunday we learned that close friends have separated (messily, it seems) after 15 years of marriage.  On Tuesday, another friend from the same community died of cancer. He was a young 49, and can only be described as a man in full.  He will be missed.  There was also a very high-profile murder of a young English woman in Cape Town on her honeymoon over the weekend.  This jangles my nerves (maybe irrationally) about security concerns here.

These events have had India and me talking seriously, and had us exchanging phone calls and e-mails with our friends in the U.S.  I can’t make any sense of it.  It has made me more aware of what I am calling “the fleeting sweetness of normalcy.”  This time we have as a family, just normal day-to-day living, without any (evident) life-changing stress or pressures, is incredibly precious. 

I need to treasure these times, and engage emotionally more with India and with the kids and with family and friends.  

In that spirit, Zola and I played the board game “Life” after dinner this evening.  He asked for the actual off-line game in a box for his birthday, after playing the iTouch version for the last year.   Tallulah was my designated spinner and life-decision advisor. 

The game itself was not very competitive.  Zola ended up a multi-millionaire doctor, and I ended up nearly penniless as a computer programmer turned accountant.  Five times during the game he ended up on spaces that required him to “sue me for $100,000.”  I was deep in debt for most of the game, and had to live with my six offspring in a mobile home.  It was interesting to me that Zola and Tallulah  automatically put the drivers on the right side of the little cars at the beginning of the game.  They are becoming South African.  It was also interesting that when I chose to make my character gay (ie, I put a little blue figure into the passenger seat when I got married instead of a pink figure), both kids noticed and objected.  Maybe we should have lived longer in the West Village.

As we made our way around the board, though, I was thinking about our friend’s untimely death, and about the highs and lows of my own game of life. 

Just in the last two weeks, there have been so many small, almost mundane highs: hosting Tallulah’s 6th birthday party on the beach…

Birthday games on Llandudno beach

attending last night’s US vs. South Africa soccer match at Cape Town Stadium, with Zola and three of his friends; helping a new friend with his unbelievably great small business; having dinner in Istanbul; running part of the Three Peaks Challenge with my beautiful endurance-machine wife; having a great afternoon of surfing with Zola at Muizenberg; Tallulah getting accepted (finally!) into the private girls’ school that we have been coveting since we got back to Cape Town. 

Even the mere fact of lying on our living-room floor with two great kids, playing a game that I loved when I was Zola’s age.

I am thinking about how many things have to be going well for any of these events to take place, and for us to enjoy them.  We have to be alive, for one thing, and healthy, and have a little bit of money, and be physically together and reasonably functional.  Pedestrian and bourgeois miracles, perhaps, but I sure am appreciating them at the moment.

Tallulah singing in her school play