on the art of writing and eating haribo smurfes.

my friend julia told me on skype the other day that i was very funny after i made some sort of clever remark and she burst out laughing. that was nice to hear. i trust her judgment above most; definitely more than my own and lately i have not been feeling very funny. i have not been feeling very ... anything at all really. most days i would prefer to stay in bed and once i am out of bed i would prefer to be back inside or at least have a blanket with me that i can pull over my head. not that there is a good reason for it, because everything is just freakin' fine.

the past month has been rough. while my dad is recovering nicely and i managed to get from feeling freaked out and completely overwhelmed to pretty normal, i now struggle to get from feeling okay to feeling excited. excited about what? well, to tell you the truth i am not picky at the moment, i would like to feel excited about anything really.

yesterday was the first day i was getting somewhat excited about writing again. i didn't exactly have a writer's block, but i was definitely unenthusiastic about writing the last few weeks. but now i had to get down and dirty as i had some assignments long overdue for the travelettes. i found my excitement while writing about the khmer rouge and the killing fields and while that is undoubtedly a bit weird to get excited about, i was happy to have the mojo back. and though it may sound even weirder, i think i wrote one of my best stories yet.

now i feel like all i want to do is write. funny stories, sad stories, fragmented words, coherent dreams. okay, well i don't think i ever had a coherent dream in my life, but you know what i mean. i write right now after too much rosé, i think about sentence structure in the shower, and i felt happiest today when i wrote a little blog post for my company in german. yes, me, happy to write in german! i know it is unheard of, but seeing my fingers fly over a keyboard is the only thing that has brought me some level of positive emotion lately.

i never really told anyone but i was supposed to do nanowrimo in november. that is basically an online program with an online community that anybody can sign up for who has the plan to write a book.

i hate to admit it, but yes, i am one of these bloggers - i want to write a book. there is a handful of people who read all my stories and who keep on telling me that i should write a book. complain to them, but for some silly reason i eventually started to believe it. yeah...i'm a sucker. the only thing that has kept me so far is my own lack of discipline and nothing else. so i thought nanowrimo was the perfect outline to help me get organized and commit to writing 50.000 words in november come rain or shine. well my november came with my dad almost dying and that made me less productive than sunshine and no wind on a saturday afternoon.

i already had had a post planned about my workstation at home. then i adapted and prepared a post showing you my newfound workstation which was a fancy desk at my radisson hotel room. but i realized that all i could manage to do was to eat wiener schnitzel from room service and haribo smurfes and of course wash both down with copious amounts of wine while watching gute zeiten, schlechte zeiten. all i wrote in two weeks was text messages to my sister, my brother, and my three best friends and sometimes even these were copied and pasted.
i wasn't able to do anything else and i felt bad for it. i felt worse for it, because i had signed up and tried and realized i couldn't cope. maybe some people can find an input, an inspiration in absolute misery. i think it would actually be quite great. but that wasn't me. my book wants to be funny and witty and clever. it will need the right kind of light inspiration. seeing as my fingers are flying right now, maybe it needs to be wine fueled, maybe it needs cape town sunshine, and wind that drives me a bit mad.
i am actually not sure yet. but i know it will come when the time is right. till then i will enjoy eating smurfes and just be happy that my dad and i both coped, even when there is no funny story to prove it.

Secret inspiration.

A somewhat happy Monday to everybody!

 I mean as happy as a Monday can get. The quotation mark was purely inspirational. I’m trying to make the Monday sort of okay by reading a bunch of inspirational quotes – I know, what am I thinking? – and it seems to be working. If found some that I really like on Laws of Modern Man via Miss Emma Jude and realized that though I’m obviously not a man, most of them still apply. For obvious travel agent of doom reasons this is the one that has stuck most:

So, thank you Mr. Robert Brault from Connecticut! I think those words of yours are very wise and I’m working hard to make them true for me.

On a completely unrelated note and inspired not by a quote, but by all the secret suppers popping up like there is no tomorrow, I have written a secret story. If you read it, you will understand why it’s secret. Limited edition only and never to be published, email me if you want it: anysroad at gmail dot com.

From Morocco with meatballs.

Before you start reading and get disappointed: no, there is no recipe for meatballs in this post. Go google! Just a little visual reminder of the dish I could have (or maybe did) eat every day:

I know I have been lazy, but I promise I will tell you stories of Morocco. Ever since coming back however I seem to lack energy. I blame it on my now again almost sugarless diet. It makes me grumpy and sleepy. But that shouldn’t concern you and you deserve stories. I did think about how and if one can squeeze two weeks full of magic, excitement, and enough mint tea for a year into a blog post. Or two. Or three. Or how many would it take? And in what order?
Chronologically? Makes sense. Then I would have to start with Casablanca though and as my travel companion Peter spelled it out nicely– Casablanca is a dive. We all got ripped off in the taxis and the only beautiful thing there to see is Mosque Hassan II, which closed due to Ramadan. I however almost managed to still get ripped off there as well (which I only realized later after borrowing someone’s French number chart and could figure out how much they wanted from me). Then a stranger asked me whether I was American and my immediate response was: Why? Am I fat? (Forgive me my wonderful, slim American friends! I don’t even know where that came from…I think it was my guilty conscious because of the sugar loaded mint tea.) My taxi driver later just stared at me when I told him I was from South Africa and declared: But you are not black! I refused to reply to that or tip him. Good about was the ice cream that night, though topped immediately by the one in Essaouira and Marrakech. So no, Casablanca was no good and chronologically is out.

Mosque Hassan II - Casablanca's one and only gem.

Maybe order of importance? I wouldn’t even now where to start, except to put Casablanca last on the list. It was definitely a highlight when the carpet shop owner told me I was beautiful and his assistant offered me 600 camels, which with a value of 10-30k/camel would make me quite bling in camel terms. Since nothing came of it though as I gracefully accepted the compliment, but declined the assistants offer, so it won’t make for a fulfilled story with happy end.
I also thought to just bail and not right anything with the excuse of the trip motto what happens in Morocco stays in Morocco. Then I thought everybody's dirty mind would just go crazy and in the end sharing is caring.
Lucky for you, I decided to just do what I do best and tell you random stuff about the trip. Stuff that I liked, loved, or had always dreamed of. Experiences I will remember for years to come and the little things that made this trip one of the bestest* in my life. So stay tuned for tales of the scary lady in the hammam, my no-shop stop in Marrakesh, scary cats in the desert, and how we had drinks with an STD…

*I am still aware that this is not a word. It should be though. I love it and it looks right to me. Sometimes there are situations when best just doesn’t cut it. Spell police, if you were there, you would understand.

Challenge accepted!

Today feels like a cloud has lifted over my head. I won’t bore you with the details of why and how and what. I think I have been wining enough already lately and don’t feel like doing it anymore. I have been unhappy with myself and thus have been a complete monster to everybody around me (though I partially blame the full moon for it too this week!) and then yesterday I found this on Facebook:

I thought the only nice thought I had was the thought of eating a bag of wine gums with tropical flavour. Which I did later and it was great, but I was still a bit concerned about my facial expression if a bag of sweets was the only good thing to keep me going. So I decided after I came home from teaching that things needed to change… once again. For the next fourteen days the motto is:

Be kind.

Do yoga.

Learn French.

Write a story.
Every day.
It’s even up on my blackboard, because that’s how much I like checking things/days off lists. As it goes with good resolutions, you get instant gratification once you have made resolution the so I went to bed yesterday feeling quite peachy. During the night I got promptly smacked on my wrist, probably because I didn’t deserve to already feel so good for a resolution just made, but not lived through yet. Thus I had a dream about my ex, the new girlfriend, lots of potatoes, and a braai with them. Again, I blame the full moon, but I behaved like such a bitch in my dream, I even refused to come out of my room and stomped my feet all while making snotty comments about the girl. My mother was there too and had to tell me off… grrr. But I also loved the dream in a way. Who can blame me for enjoying a dream where I could just behave like a child? Rolling my eyes and just being really immature about the fact that the ex has a new girlfriend, something we can’t (or shouldn’t as I recently learned the hard way…) do in real life, but secretly kind of want to. Then again, you know, things really have to change when your mother is coming to tell you off in your dreams…therefore…let the challenge begin!

Tree, rainbows, and one party bus.

I bought a travel blanket for Zambia and Morocco. Well, actually it is more a shawl or a throw and I just couldn’t resist and needed a reason to purchase thus called it a travel blanket. Two weeks after returning home the blanket still smells like a mix of fairy tales and adventures. Actually the smoke from the campfire is still sticking to it, but since I don’t do campfires in real life it just equals the smell of Zambia for me.

As you know through bits and glimpses now I went to Livingstone for a week to plant trees with Greenpop at the beginning of the month. The idea came up after I managed to survive the weekend at Platbos, realizing that maybe it was time to face two of my biggest ‘fears’: Camping and sharing close quarters with someone I don’t sleep with or who is not on my top ten friend list. I was fortunate enough to never have to share a room with a sibling and the only time I had to team up was for one year in the dorms. That went alright till my roommate decided to pick up a stranger in a bar one night and take him home. I was greeted by his sight in her bed the next morning from across the room. Awkward to say the least and I am still wondering till today if a stranger admired my uncovered butt at some point during the night. After that it was no more room sharing for me so the prospect of sharing a tiny tent, well, to call it even worse would be an understatement.
Though this time I didn’t even think about it too much, I just really, really wanted to go to Zambia and plant some trees. It helped to be overly well prepared, as I usually am, and to take a sleeping bag the size of a toddler (I am still surprised the airline didn’t charge me extra to take it…), but I can proudly report I was the only person not cold! Also a big thank you right here goes to Micah, my tentie for the week, who made it cool to share a tiny tent and who just overall rocks.

What can I tell you from my trip? I kind of don’t know where to start as there was just so much… stories experienced, stories told, newness which became daily life overnight, sunburned shoulders and a fat Labrador doing yoga, Nshima for lunch and the pleasure of a slice of orange on a hot day, lions touched and elephants ooohed and aaahed over… little things coming together in one big bubble like a dream when it happened and still like a dream now that it’s over.

Excuse this story for being a bit incoherent, but I find it hard to wrap such week with so much here and there, this happened and then that happened, into one neat package. I’d rather tell you how I remember it. The little bits. Like the one time when we took the bus to the Victoria Falls to see the lunar rainbow, which I didn’t even know existed. How lucky did we get that there was a full moon when we were there! Or that day when we came to a school that gets frequent visits from elephants passing by and we had to ‘hide’ the banana tree saplings from their view.
Then there was the afternoon we went to play soccer at the local club and all ended up dancing like crazy people, which sort of didn’t stop when on the bus back to camp. Then the bus broke down. But that was another night and it wasn’t the same old crappy, but beloved party bus, it was the fancy one. Go figure.

New friends were made immediately after I managed to get through immigration despite my expired dollar bills. More on the first bus ride to camp and then each day after that. Muscles popped up we didn’t know existed, greeted with joy the first time around and cursed when they started to ache.
Lots of talking. From early mornings till late at night, in the showers, overlooking the crocodiles, on the bus, off the bus, during breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even I talked in the morning though not before 7am. Baby steps, people, baby steps. As you know I am more of a sit around the camp fire (yes, the campfire is a new addition to the routine), drink whiskey and then talk – in the evening/at night – kind of girl. There was plenty of that too. Which would explain the adventure smell on the blanket. There was also lots of dancing by the campfire. Also applauding for various reason or just because we could and hurrahing too.
Of course there were trees. Baby trees and grown-up trees, magic trees and thorny trees, leafy trees and painted trees, trees on the bus, trees on my lap, trees in the ground. Mr. Shorty and Mr. Tall tree and their neighbour the honourable Mr. Annika Bran tree. Tree stories were followed by tree songs and skits, often funny, always smart, and sometimes a tiny bit sad.
Then there were the people from Zambia we met. The kids who showed us naughty dances, the boy who declared “I’m the handsome one in the class” only to be met by roaring laughter from his classmates, and Philippa who went mulching with me and called me her daughter. There was uncle Benge who draws the best warthog ever and Kebby who has planted 9 million trees in his life. New friends who immediately became old ones. Stories, handshakes, and laughter shared while we all gave little trees a new home.

So now you see how it was impossible for me to try to put such a trip into a nutshell, right? I don’t need to tell you that it was probably one of the best weeks ever. Or how grateful I am to Greenpop for making it possible and being all around awesome. Or that if you laugh at the picture below, I shall never ever speak to you again. Right?

Do not judge! I was really hot and probably severely dehydrated and didn't know what was happening to me.

The handsome one. But which one?

Just another ordinary rainbow.

The capes are not a money making scheme. You will need one or other.

Baby banana tree.

Trees riding shotgun on the party bus.

Good yoga motto.

Dangerous lions to be found everywhere.

Instant gratification. Or not.

This is a story for the girls. Mainly because I think and hope that guys don’t indulge in silly mind movie fantasies like girls do. Don’t we all? It may just be me, but I sincerely hope not, because that would mean I am making a complete fool of myself here. I will take the risk and be it for the reason that tomorrow’s post will be written already and I can actually use my lunch break to by that spare tire instead.

I did something right tonight. Something very right and all my girlfriends will rejoice and hit me on the shoulder (you know like guys do when they tell their buddies they got laid). I spoke the truth once again. And this time it’s forever.

Here is the question now: Why do we rarely get the same emotional satisfaction from doing the right thing as we get from doing something stupid? Why is there almost never an instant gratification when we do something right? Sure we know that we are doing the right thing, but we are usually doing it with tears pouring down our face, feeling really, really kak. Of course later we see reason. Days, weeks or months will pass and we will say with a little knowledgeable smile: Well, I just knew I was doing the right thing.

Really? And that knowledge helped us through, right? Right? Bu-fucking-hu. No, of course it did not.

Because now I sit here and what do I want most in the world? After that beautiful moment of speaking the truth and doing the right thing…I want to be Cina-stupid-rella. Here is how the story would go:

·         I hear a car fast approaching and coming to a screeching halt in front of my building.

·         Close-up on him, jumping out of the car, barely slamming the door shut, running to my house and ringing the doorbell like there is no tomorrow.

·         Then he runs up the stairs, me standing in the doorway.

·         I look surprised, only a bit distressed (to make it more realistic), but still dramatically beautiful. The raccoon eyes of smudged mascara have magically turned into luminous smoky eyes. Which always helps to look dramatically beautiful.

·         What does he want? Oh, of course he wants me and only me. Now and preferably forever. He has just realized what an idiot he has been all along.

·         (And then I will be the idiot, only we won’t call it that, because it’s in my head and therefore perfect.) I will sink into his arms, kiss him and forgive and forget.

·         Happily ever after can commence.

If the doorbell were to ring now we would make for a really tragic ending as I would have a heart attack. No such luck. Instead I get an SMS, which says: Sorry, talk again when you feel better about it.

Great. Life is just really great. But at least I can say I did the right thing tonight. Right?

A little update for all of you who care – I walked into the office this morning and my boss asked whether I had been naughty again (Meee? Naughty? Never!). Obviously I had been quite the opposite of naughty, but she said I had a twinkle in my eyes. This is what I’m talking about – instant gratification.