Archive for the ‘hell is other poeple’ Category

Let me tell you about my week

February 21, 2014

I am too lazy to type anymore, and I already wrote a column today, so I am simply going to post a bunch of pictures with snarky captions.  Here’s what I did this week.

I went the doctor and because it was a cheap $25 clinic doctor it took four hours.

What's the big deal. We have free sign language in South Africa too. Anyone can do it, right?

What’s the big deal. We have free sign language in South Africa too. Anyone can do it, right?

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I live in a pretty multicultural community.

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How come everybody in LA has the lowest rates? Cause everybody in LA lies.

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I made a school project and dropped it at the Orange Senior Center for my extras along with copies of the photos.

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You don’t want to know what happened as a result of this photo. Too much drama, man, too much drama…

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Her: Hahahahahah
Him: [boobies] I’m a winner.
Her: Hahahahahha!
I bet the clients at Hustler Casino look nothing like him.

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I went for a romantic stroll on the beach alone on Valentine’s day. This is my favourite beach writing. But I didn’t write it, and I wouldn’t.

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I’m grateful that I saw this. I wanted to share it with another human being but a blog and whatsapp to a sleeping SA will have to do.

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Because my internet still wasn’t working, I went to Amoeba Music at 10pm, and bought Season Three of Curb Your Enthusiasm.

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Don’t want to get into an accident with this dude. Something tells me he’s packing.

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Serious Drought Help Save Water. I drive past this sign about 8 times, every day. Rents may be lower in LA but after you factor in gas, I reckon it’s as expensive as New York…

I feared that this would become my future. After all, this guy apparently went to USC film school and look where he wound up.

I feared that this would become my future. After all, this guy apparently went to USC film school and look where he wound up.

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But it’s not all bad. While I was doing my laundry I found the best sandwich shop, ice cream parlor and smoothie place ever on Pico. I hope NPR never finds it or it’ll get full and probably expensive.

And then there’s stuff like writing, sleeping… and eating that I skipped. But I did it.

And that was my week in pictures. How was yours?

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Parking in LA is the tampon of living in LA

February 10, 2014

It’s bloody hell. Actually that was a gratuitous pun. It’s a pain in the ass… no I don’t do that with tampons. Okay, done with the puns, then. Parking…

You can live in a suburb, like mine, where you rarely need to walk to do your daily stuff. I have coffee shops, supermarkets… and amazing 24 hour spas, cheap massage places, great takeout, all within 10 minutes’ walk of my apartment.

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Boba. Coffee Boba. Apparently this will kill me. But have you tasted it? It is heaven.

But even if I didn’t want to leave my neighborhood, I’d still have to move my car at least once a week, on Wednesdays, for 3 hours – and that’s if I were not parked in the anti-gridlock zone (move your care between 7 and 9am) or on the street cleaning street (move your car between 2-5am), or the no parking on Thursdays zone…

You can live without a car in LA – there is plenty of public transport everywhere except Santa Monica. But why would you want to? If you wanted to live in a village, you wouldn’t be in LA to start with. Only the rich people in LA want to live in a village (they live in Santa Monica) because hey, rich folks can leave the village in a limo whenever they like. The point and joy of Los Angeles is how much it has to offer. The small problem with it is that it’s so sprawling and crazy that you absolutely need a car to actually LIVE there… and that’s why parking is like tampons here. Why tampons?

Cause, sure, you could make do with rags, or pads, for a few days, or just squat over the toilet. But who wants to do that? Nobody, that’s who.

So of course, everybody overcharges like crazy for parking in LA. A spot with an automated gate will push your rent up by $300 in Hollywood. Something off street will be around $75. And there’s a queue for that. It’s about two years long in Koreatown. I often park about 10 minutes walk from where I live. I have a sure bet spot that opens up often outside what I suspect is a crack house.

Head to a popular beach for a dip? Parking is $15 flat at Huntington. How about Hollywood Boulevard? Well, it’s $5. I’ve been here so long I was excited by that price, tonight. That sounded cheap.

I parked in a 2-hour government run parking spot. $4 for that two hours. Then I ran back and fed the meter for another 20 minutes – 50C. Then I left the event I’d been invited to by Eventbrite, by someone I still have not identified. But thanks – a really cool gig called Hollywood Shorts. More on that sometime soon.

Can you read the sign? It says five dollars, right?

Can you read the sign? It says five dollars, right? Wrong. If you get to the gate, it says $5 per 30 minutes in very, very small print. Flat rate is $20 til midnight.

The superbowel… my journey in Koreatown.

February 3, 2014

I felt a rare passion for the game. Rare because I never cared about it before, not because I have a clue what’s going on, or because I care who wins. It just represents something about the USA that I seem to be excluded from and want to be in on.

I have changed, I realise. The last time I was in South Africa, as much as I love my homeland, I felt like I didn’t belong among my pregnant, married, and increasingly suburban friends. I have missed having what they have – I’ll never share it with them… I have missed that bar stool forever. And coming back, I felt… like I didn’t belong. Among my 22-28 year old American friends. Cause I’ll never be that young and sure of myself again.

So I bounced around my apartment reading books with jetlag for a day, then got sick, then went to Sundance, came back still sick, and made plans with a friend to watch the game.

Now. I have this thing that I can’t give up. I should but I don’t. I think it’s a major qualification for MAKING MOVIES, which is my new job, so probably a good thing, apart from the fact that it hurts so bad.

So I googled for a while and found a bar 2.5 miles away and walked there, alone. I thought maybe there, I’ll connect with someone who like me wants their life to explode, who wants to connect, who is a grown up but also can’t stop growing. I set out walking.

The sky boiled with rain above me. As I passed men walking I realised how much the world has changed for me since I was like… 25. I used to know that when men looked at me it was lust. Now, they still do. But is it lust or curiosity? “Why are they so big?” “Why is she still alone?”

Proof that people are assholes. And that dogs are gross, basically.

Proof that people are assholes. And that dogs are gross, basically.

Somebody died at this bus stop on Normandie.

Somebody died at this bus stop on Normandie.

I feel sorry for myself sometimes but wtf. I have slept in worse places, in hotels that offered worse, but never owned a mattress this bad.

I feel sorry for myself sometimes but wtf. I have slept in worse places, in hotels that offered worse, but never owned a mattress this bad.

A hostel / gallery thing of some sort. I wanted to check it out but I think it was closed for superbowl.

A hostel / gallery thing of some sort. I wanted to check it out but I think it was closed for superbowl.

I arrived. It was a bar full of people who were nice to me but hey... they had their friends already. And my team was losing so hopelessly that i left before half time and after a half pint.

I arrived. It was a bar full of people who were nice to me but hey… they had their friends already. And my team was losing so hopelessly that i left before half time and after a half pint. Broncos! Sigh.

Chickens! For some reason there's a display case full of them. My mom eats, keeps and is obsessed with chickens - she even collects chicken shaped things that have some function apart from being... chicken. Is she secretly Korean? Or just a bit creepy maybe. She might be. We are related.

Chickens! For some reason there’s a display case full of them. My mom eats, keeps and is obsessed with chickens – she even collects chicken shaped things that have some function apart from being… chicken. Is she secretly Korean? Or just a bit creepy maybe. She might be. We are related.

Walking home on Western. It's the shortest route. The sunset was a sad one and I felt like the only living girl in LA.

Walking home on Western. It’s the shortest route. The sunset was a sad one and I felt like the only living girl in LA.

The Wiltern. If I have a film company in the US one day, I want offices here.

The Wiltern. If I have a film company in the US one day, I want offices here.

Once were video stores.

Once were video stores. Am glad that was never my dream.

This is like a blast from the past. But in the USA, you can still advertise drugs. A superbowl ad pushes military service and Budweiser. Fucking sinister, in my opinion.

This is like a blast from the past. But in the USA, you can still advertise drugs. A superbowl ad pushes military service and Budweiser. Fucking sinister, in my opinion.

I spotted about 8 coffee places I never noticed before. All within .5 miles walking of me. Google maps sucks compared to actually being there.

I spotted about 8 coffee places I never noticed before. All within .5 miles walking of me. Google maps sucks compared to actually being there. This good, for me.

Some history at a traffic light.

Some history at a traffic light.

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See the guy on the left in the photo? He followed me all the way home. I felt he was non-threatening, cause he kept his distance. I realise now he probably did it cause he thought I was taking pictures of him. But I didn’t even notice him at the time. He’s one of the many homeless people living along Olympic Boulevard, named to celebrate the 1988 games.

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I figured out just yesterday how to sneak on to our building rooftop. Every time I feel sad, it helps to go there. So that's what I did at the end of tonight, and here is what I saw.

I figured out just yesterday how to sneak on to our building rooftop. Every time I feel sad, it helps to go there. So that’s what I did tonight, and here is what I saw.

Total walking today: about 5.2miles. Whenever I can, I walk. I see the world differently that way.

When all else fails, work. That’s my plan and I’m sticking to it.

Nieu and old and new Bethesda

December 29, 2013

Being on holiday in South Africa is a chance to open your eyes, open your mind, and sometimes escape your worst fears. Of course, not everybody gets that.

It's hard to tell what century it is from here.

It’s in the middle of somewhere beautiful.

It’s hard to tell what year it is in Nieu Bethesda, at night. It’s starlight – bright bright stars like you haven’t seen for years. But in the day it’s differently populated, by latter-day hippies. The township and the town intersect much more than in most small towns because it’s all so close, and the houses are close to the same size. Easy to see why lefties love it there. There’s a gentleness to it. You can sleep with your doors open and mean it.

Or – you can if you leave your fears behind you.

I’d come freshly inspired by an amazing experience in Cape Town – read the column on News24.

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This is where my bag went missing. Each of those little white dots is a minibus taxi that arrived / left full of strangers.

My mom and I took long walks around the small town, looking at things, talking about the year gone by, sliding around in the mud from the afternoon rainstorms. And we saw two sides of the town.

Honesty shop - you go take what you want, and put your cash in a tin by the door.

Honesty shop – you go take what you want, and put your cash in a tin by the door.

The shop is guarded only by this terrifying dog.

The shop is guarded only by this terrifying dog.

And then there was this ugly-ass house. Even from a distance, you could tell the people who built it didn’t understand where they were.

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Why did they make a double story – ruining the next door neighbors’ view – when there’s so much space to build?

We went in for a closer look.

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KKK overtones. Ugly. And as another resident says: “So unnecessary.” Not surprisingly, this brick box full of fear belongs to people from Joburg who, to the locals’ relief, only come to town for a few weeks a year.

 

For every sad story, there's a happy one like this.

For every sad story, there’s a happy one like this.

For every extremist with a gun, there's a tannie with ostrich feather dusters who appeals to your better nature.

For every extremist with a gun, there’s a tannie with ostrich feather dusters who appeals to your better nature. A photo from a coffee stop in the Karoo… Translation – “God says: You may not steal and that is that! So eat and drink, look and dig around and pay and drive safely on with a clean conscience. Amen! Amen!”

South Africa has been good to me. I know not everybody has it so lucky. But I wanted to put it out there, over the chorus of whining from homesick, paranoid expats all over the world. I’m in my happiest place on earth.

I bit a man, like any bitch would

November 21, 2013

When I was 10 years old, I bit a man. I might have been 11 or 12, but I still felt 10. Sometimes I wonder if I ever grew up at all.

He was one my my parents’ friends. He was staying with us, and while he stayed with us, there seemed to be a lot of small parties – dinner parties, picnics with booze on the lawn near the rabbit cage. I didn’t like him much for some reason. At the time I thought it was because whenever he cooked dinner it was something like fresh picked wild mussels. They were a huge treat for my parents and I remember it was fun picking them, but they tasted creepy as shit when I was a kid. Let’s call him Jacob, although it was another biblical name. He was a small man, very intense.  His wife had recently died and he was upset so we had to be nice to him. Kids don’t get that – but we tried.

It wasn’t the first time I bit a man. I once bit my primary school teacher on the leg. He was talking to my mother because I’d jumped out of the window during class and I didn’t want him to get me into trouble. I didn’t draw blood, though. I also once bit an editor on the arm during a party. I confess I don’t remember that very well, but we laughed about it the next day while cutting. It wasn’t an aggressive thing at the time I’m sure, or he would have been angry with me. I know I wasn’t angry with him. Yeah, embarrassing. I also bit my friend Sam once (she’s female though) and this is sorta why I should never drink tequila, or maybe at all.

Anyhow, back to Jacob. He liked to sleep late and didn’t like that my dogs kept him up. I had a dog and her name was Kumptie, which was a name that really embarrassed my father, cause it sounded EXACTLY like “Cuntie”, and I used to call her a lot, in parks. She had puppies. And they made a lot of noise. She wasn’t a great mother really – she sorta ignored them. I filled in where I could.

The day I bit Jacob, he and my parents were having a picnic or something in the garden. My puppies were playing nearby and he started playing with them. I kept a protective eye on this. I didn’t trust him.

dontslapme

Then one of them gave him a playful bite.

And he SLAPPED the puppy, so hard it squawked.  I went for him but my parents stopped me. Kumptie, nearby, went for him too.

“They’ll never learn if you don’t!” He protested as I was dragged off him, together with the puppy’s birth mother.

Shortly afterwards and next thing I remember, I found Kumptie chained up in the back yard, where we hung our laundry. Who had done this? I needed to know. Before I even unchained her. I demanded to know. Turns out it was Jacob. I found him outside by the Braai, and I ran up to him and bit him as hard as I could. If she couldn’t defend her pups, I would do it for her.

This time, I drew blood. I remember the feeling of shame and power mixed up there. I wasn’t the kind of kid who hurt or bullied others, and I’m still not. I get angry but I don’t hit. But this huge adult who had hurt my puppy and abused my dog screamed and ran away and that was amazing.

Oddly, my parents weren’t nearly as pissed at me as I assumed they’d be. They did send me to my room while they took him to the hospital. They did tell me that human teeth are more toxic than animals’ teeth, and that Jacob had to get a Tetnes shot. And Jacob went away after that. I was also told not to bite anyone again. I said it would depend what they did to my puppies.

The next time I saw Jacob, he was at a hippie-style retreat for drug addicts and people who’d generally wigged out… you know, one of those late-80s South African ones where you pick strawberries, and milk cows… and supervise visiting children. My school class was there, for a farming educational. I remember that I was very sick with flu (and my parents didn’t believe in anti-biotics) and in my fever, as I lay dying on my roll-up mattress in the heat of summer, he appeared to me and I just remember screaming “Get away from me”. And passing out.

He later married a reborn Christian woman who greeted us at the airport a few years later saying “Hi, I’m Veronica*. Have you found Jesus yet?” And I’m sure she looked right at me. I wonder if she knew. And I’m still wondering what story he told her.

I’m always amazed when people accuse me of being frightening, when I count what I’ve told you as pretty much the sum total of my violent behavior in life. Maybe they are frightened of my words. Maybe they just think someone will believe their story. Maybe they are friends of Jacob. But even in my most paranoid moments, even I doubt there’s an entire network of puppy beaters out there, conspiring to ruin my life.

If a puppy slaps another puppy that's okay.

If a puppy slaps another puppy that’s okay.

Florida: Hell’s waiting room?

November 17, 2013

I nearly studied Screenwriting in Miami – having lived in Durban, KwaZulu for four years and remained homesick for it all my life, I romanticized the sticky air, the warm sea, the art deco buildings. I imagined myself drinking large cocktails and doing Cuban dances while a deeply-tanned man licked sea salt off my neck as the sun set, and holidaying Hollywood stars (mostly Michael C Hall) roller-skated past on the promenade.

Doesn't it look just like Durbs, only sorta glam?

Doesn’t it look just like Durbs, only sorta glam?

I’ve always wondered how life would have turned out if I had gone there instead of to nearly-LA. And recently I found out when I visited a friend who’s there, attempting to pay back his crazy-ass student loans with a job he landed.

As the plane touched down… GU-GUNK… the muggy half-light seemed full of promise. Or was it foreboding? Didn’t look like much, but my friend picked me up and I comforted myself that Miami Beach would be totally different.

The Motel was a slightly decayed art deco building only a block from the beach. Of course the booking site never mentioned that they were doing street work right outside it… or that the mattress was so old that you wound up rolling into the middle during the night – I guess the elasticity does get eroded by years of semen stains. But maybe they could replace it every eight years? Every 20 years? And with it, the almost plastic comforter.

What I realised quite soon was that mattress, smattress. What kind of moron comes to Miami to sleep? Miami is all about the party. The hotel offers a drink special of $20 for all you can drink, as long as you only drink Bud lite. That’s $20 per hour. Unfortunately I couldn’t take advantage of this dodgy bargain as I am going through a dry patch. A swim in the sea was the highlight of my day. But it doesn’t touch Durban’s South Beach for beauty or brains, or waves. Limp about summarizes it.

I went swimming. It was okay, lonely but okay. For some reason everybody there prefers to look at the sea and pose near it.

A lot of seagulls, and they aren't camera shy.

A lot of seagulls, and they aren’t camera shy.

Seeking food, we went exploring. Pizza. Pizza Pizza. Some chicken.

For some reason, things in Miami are often called "Duck" something. Like this Miami Beach fried chicken place. It should have been called Salmonella Something. Notes piece of chicken on shoulder.

For some reason, things in Miami are often called “Duck” something. Like this Miami Beach fried chicken place. It should have been called Salmonella Something. Notes piece of chicken on shoulder.

And Cuban Food. Which for some reason costs three times as much in Miami, Florida, as it does in Orange, CA. Running from the main drag, we ate outside at David Cafe (bill, for so-so entrees and a soda, hit $45 once the compulsory tip was added). While we ate, a drug dealer and his bashed up helper did business from the garden patch, for some reason bothering to pretend they were looking for their keys and continually finding them and losing them again. A homeless man who seemed to be their buddy sang for us for a while, and said it would take a dollar to make him go away.  Whatever. I was enjoying the entertainment – you can’t be fussy in Miami.

I tried my best to enjoy it. Usually I can amuse myself anywhere. We went to an art museum. It was nice. Small. But nice. Nice enough.

A really bad maze. Only a drunk person would get lost there. But I guess it is Miami. Mazes are meant to be thoughtful but this one was just... I don't know. A bad wave.

A really bad maze. Only a drunk person would get lost there. But I guess it is Miami. Mazes are meant to be thoughtful but this one was just… I don’t know. A bad wave.

My favourite artwork sums up Miami - consumer culture dressed up as something more.

My favourite artwork sums up Miami – consumer culture dressed up as something more.

I realised that Miami reminded me not of Durban, but of Sambave, a tiny seaside hell hole in Madagascar my ex and I got stuck in once when a political crisis caused the government to close all the airports for a few days. Overcast. Lots of prostitutes. A faint air of desperation.

Maybe Miami wasn’t for me? Next stop, the Recovery Capital of America, Delray Beach, where there’s an AA/NA/CA meeting every hour in about ten locations simultaneously, and everybody is either using drugs, trying to stop, or making money out of health care benefits.

Surprise surprise, Delray Beach was even more depressing than Miami, and unwalkable to boot – there really aren’t any motels in Delray so I was stuck on a highway near Boca.

Florida is full of little land-ghekkos. They run around with their tails up. I get it. I would too. They're my favourite thing in Florida.

Florida is full of little land-ghekkos. They run around with their tails up. I get it. I would too. They’re my favourite thing in Florida.

This is the promise, I guess.

This is the promise, I guess.

I walked to the beach from my hotel on the highway. On the way I crossed a river and saw people fishing and some birds.

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jeanbarker_bocabeach

Boca Beach… looks okay. Once you’re in the water it’s awesome.

Here is why they rarely swim. I call them cowards - the water was warm and the currents were nothing. Pussies. No offense to vaginas, which rock. Colloquial intentions only.

Here is why they rarely swim. There are meant to be bluebottles and jellyfish and sea lice – terrifying in theory.  I call them cowards – the water was warm and the currents were nothing. Yes a few bluebottles but that’s called nature, idiots. Pussies. No offense to vaginas, which rock. Colloquial intentions only.

Boca Beach, where most people seem to BYOB their beer of choice, Coors. I saw a dad finish of a few before taking his daughter swimming.

Boca Beach, where most people seem to BYOB their beer of choice, Coors. I saw a dad finish of a few before taking his daughter swimming.

I couldn’t help thinking how much more interesting the least interesting suburb in Joburg, or Belville, Cape Town was than this place. Then I discovered that everybody there knows someone from South Africa. And they’re very concerned about our crime rate.

Look where the orange is from.
 Look where the orange is from.

Turns out Florida is a prime destination for White South Africans who left after Apartheid ended. It’s also where Americans go for cheap labor (yes, you guessed it, mostly black or at least whatever they don’t consider to be their people) and where you’re allowed to shoot someone for knocking on your door while being black.

A lot of wealthy, seniors retire to Florida – it’s a prime place to die. I ask, why bother? Just skip the line and go directly to hell.

florida-birds-leave

3.30pm. It’s not raining but the birds know it’s time to leave.

It’s a weird thing to say, but being in Florida reminded me of how I felt as a kid in South Africa when it was still apartheid. Except without the youthful endorphins. I will never be back if I can help it.

Perrier and Diesel redefine #LAME

November 12, 2013

Scary is: the perversion of great ideas. Taking something noble and using it as a veneer for greed or cruelty turns my stomach. So I want to throw up frequently – when communism is used to oppress, when faith is used to justify murder, when war is sold as heroism.

And don’t worry if you’re not creative. Diesel will sell you a lie you can buy.

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You didn’t write any stories, but you bought the T-Shirt, so you’re cool. Another similar shirt says “Creativity is my weapon”. Actually, if you shop for T-Shirts at Diesel, I’d say money is your weapon, 1-percenter.

Really?

It makes for a pretty bottle. I probably bought it for the label without thinking.

It makes for a pretty bottle. I probably bought it for the label without thinking.

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Perrier “inspired” Andy Warhol. No… you idiots. No… you didn’t. You amused him, at most.

And really, does nobody see through this? Warhol was commenting on pop culture, on commercialism. And here it is, exploiting him. Yuck.

‘Wherever you go, whatever you do, your intelligence will be unwelcome.’ – Albert Camus

American Airlines supports war

November 7, 2013

Being pro-war (usually phrased as ‘behind our troops’) seems profitable – tire companies, airlines, ice cream companies … They all think it’s good for their image or their business.

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This isn’t something I’ve noticed outside of America. Yet it’s absolutely the norm here to encourage kids to be heroes for the cause of “freedom”.

Don’t tell me this doesn’t look the way it is…

November 1, 2013

Are the recent UK Visa Laws a teeny bit racisty? I hate to say it – but is there any other way to see it?

I’m angry that I have to work so much harder now, as a South African citizen and holder of only a South African passport, to go to the UK or anywhere in Europe. I want to meet my niece and nephew. I want to go to the film festival in Paris where my short is screening. But I can’t risk booking the ticket. The visa process could take as long as 60 days!

So I started looking into when South Africa became country non grata, and wound up writing a column about it for News24 this week (will link when it’s live). Here are the bare bones of what I discovered when I researched this issue.

South Africa is a member of the British Commonwealth of Nations.

Commonwealth nations lie all over the map.

Commonwealth nations lie all over the map.

But all nations in the commonwealth are not equal in the eyes of the Brits. If you’re from Canada, Australia or New Zealand you’re welcome in the UK without an invitation. Just show up and you’re in. If you’re from South Africa, Zambia, Malawi, Mozambique, Swaziland… Let’s see… Jamaica… India… you are required to spend a small fortune and up to 60 days applying for a visa before they’ll be kind enough to let you come to their damp island and spend your hard earned inferior currency. At one point, South Africa was on the English guest list. This was when we still had apartheid.

Have a look and see who's not welcome. Then think a bit about why.

Have a look and see who’s not welcome. Then think a bit about why. If you’re from the USA – not even a commonwealth member – you get a free pass too.

Here it is put another way… for the slow people.

ukvisarequirementsguide

And I think this probably means I won’t be getting a visa anytime soon!

The Cruel Smell of Roses

October 30, 2013

Whenever I feel sad and lost and lonely in America, overwhelmed by questions like “Why do they stir their coffee with straws?” or “Why do they think ‘In God We Trust’ is not religious?” or “How is my money worth 60% of what it was when I got here?” I go for a walk around my neighborhood. It’s my alternative to buying a bottle of red wine and drowning my sorrows, because when I’m sad, I don’t know the meaning of “a couple of glasses to relax”.

It smelled of bath salts I bathed in once, when I was 15 and I accidentally went on a date with a preacher's son. True story.

It smelled of bath salts I used when I was 15 and I accidentally went on a date with a preacher’s son. True story.

So instead I walk around, smelling the roses. Orange is flat – it’s a lot like the Cape Flats except the streets are cleaner, there’s no crime, and the low-ceiling, two bedroom houses cost about R3-5million each. The smelling the roses thing started because I wanted to see which ones had a smell, and which ones didn’t. Then it was supposed to cheer me up.

sign_parkingwitch

Got to admit, this was sorta cute. A witch above my least favourite parking sign, which over the years has cost me about $120 in fines. In the USA, you actually have to pay your fines or they put you in County Jail eventually. No wonder their prison population is growing so fast when they criminalize you for being disorganized / poor.

creepycat

A black cat crossed my path. Literally. And it’s got a really weird eye.

But my rose smelling thing always backfires. there’s something about the smell of roses that makes me terribly sad, these days. And it doesn’t help that it’s Halloween. I know it’s supposed to be fun, but the macabre shit all over the place just freaks me out. I don’t get it.

I find this in poor taste. But then again, I'm not American. I think the alienation this makes me feel is scarier than all of it.

I find this in poor taste. But then again, I’m not American. I think the alienation this makes me feel is scarier than all of it.

I can’t wait til it’s over and Orange can start redecorating for Christmas instead. The out-there Christianity is tiring at times, and the carols drive me up the wall, but at least they’re not terrifying.