JOURNAL BEGINS: JANUARY 11, 1998

This is a journal, maybe it’s a book, maybe it’s one long letter.

REMEMBERING APRIL 4, 1996

All I could do was wave good-bye one last time. I wiped the tears from my face and took a deep breath. I picked up my bags and walked beyond the passport control officer. I didn’t look back after that.

 The gate for my airline was far, almost at the very end of the airport. I was already late and I had to run. It was completely awkward because my carry-on bags were extremely heavy. When I had checked in earlier, I was informed that my check-in luggage weighed too much. I had already parted with half of my belongings, the rest I had salvaged by stuffing into my carry-on bags. They were filled with all these books and extra clothing.

 So, there I was sweating and struggling, trying to run down this long corridor, while trying to stop the tears that were running down my face.

 Finally, I saw my gate number. I could see the door was still open and the lady who receives your boarding ticket was standing there. I stopped just before I got to her. I needed a moment to myself. I put my bags down and wiped my face, trying to regain my composure. Afterwhich, I fumbled to find my ticket. My hands were shaking, I was truly a wreck. I picked up my bags and walked towards the lady at the gate.
 “Mr. Marc Boone?” She said.
 “Yes,” I answered.
 “We’ve been waiting for you. We got a call from the front desk saying you were on your way.”
 “Oh, thanks,” I said. I gave her my ticket. She tore something off and said, “Enjoy your flight!”
 “Yeah, Thanks.”

 I walked into that long tube that connects the airport building to the plane as she closed the door behind me. How appropriate that a door should close behind you when a chapter in your life is ending, especially an airline door.

 When I found my assigned seat, I tried to put my carry-on bags on the top shelves above my seat but it was full.. I had to put them under my seat, in between my legs and even on my lap. I was uncomfortable, but to exhausted to care. I just collapsed. I don’t even remember if I had a window seat. I just remember feeling numb. At least now my tears had all dried up. I just kept hoping that I wouldn’t be seated next to some kid or some talkative old lady. I needed to be by myself. I must have gotten my wish because I don’t recall who was seated next to me, I blocked the person out the entire ride.

 Before I left Amsterdam. I had asked my friends to write something in my memoir book. I hadn’t read anything, now seemed like a perfect time. I was missing them already. But the plane was getting ready to take off. I decided to postpone the reading until we were in the air. I said a prayer as the plane took off.

 When we had finally levelled off, I took out my memoir book and began to read the messages my friends had written. The first one was from Mila. 

Marc-I feel like this is one of those high school year books where you write, ‘yah, you’re cool, had a great year, good luck, blah, blah, blah….’ remember those? But this is definitely not one of those. To write anything even somewhat profound, i feel i would want to carry this around with me for awhile, let it grow on me. But there’s not enough time for that, is there? Wish we could start books like these when we first arrive in a place instead of when we leave. But I suppose you have one of those kind of books inside you, to take with you as well. I hope there’s something meaningful from me in that book then- because i can’t find the words for this one.I will see you again my friend-And will miss you greatly until then.-Mila 

I was turning misty blue again as I read each message. When I finished the last one, I closed the book and put it away. I thanked God for the love of my friends. I thought of my friend Noushin for awhile. But then I had to stop myself. She was going to make me cry again. It’s bad luck to take tears into your new chapter.

Instead I thought of Greece. The plane was going to make an over-night stop in Athens. I’d been there once before with my friend Sietske. It was an awful trip. Some crazy Greek man was making a nuisance of himself by stalking Sietske and me. He followed us from Athens all the way to an island called Naxos.

He was desperately trying to seduce Sietske with his charm, but instead he was freaking her and me out. Poor Sietske was so scared that she insisted we cut our trip short a whole two weeks and sneak out of our hotel in Naxos. From there we took a ferry boat back to Athens where we waited hours for the next available flight back to Holland.

My thoughts kept taking me back to Holland, so I tried to think about South Africa.

Truth be known, I had no idea what I was going to do for work once I got there. This was no vacation. My intentions were to live there permanently, although I had never been there before and didn’t know a single person. All I had was the name of the people who were going to meet me at the airport, the name of the person I could stay with for awhile and some phone numbers. My boyfriend, Cecil, had set this up for me. Cecil was a South African I met in Amsterdam while he was studying at a university there. He had another six months before he finished his studies. From there, he planned to continue more studies in America. He was studying Theology and eventually wanted to return to South Africa as a Reverend and preach in a gay and lesbian church he helped founded before he left. Unfortunately, Cecil and I weren’t compatible as lovers and we broke up a month before I left for South Africa. We were still friends and he was one of the people I waved good-bye to at the airport.

I was taking $1,700 with me, that’s all. So I had to make that last until I found a job. I’d been a teacher before in New York, my hometown, and was eager to do it again, but there was no job waiting for me and that was creating anxiety in me…………..That train of thought wasn’t getting me anywhere either.

So, instead I decided to think about all the hot black man I would meet in South Africa, something that I’d been deprived of for the last three years I had been living in Holland. I got a serious hard-on. Luckily, the bags in my lap hid it from the sight of any kids or little old ladies or whoever may have been seated next to me. Finally, I had a good train of thought to follow, so I closed my eyes and dreamt away. I fell asleep only waking up for food, drink and the toilet.
The plane arrived in Athens in the evening. There was a bus waiting to take passengers who were continuing to South Africa to an over-night hotel. Movement was awkward again because of my carry-on bags.

Travelling on the bus, I looked at the Athens urban landscape by night. It made me think of Sietske, then Noushin, then Mila, then Helen, etc, etc. etc. I felt something began to swell up inside of me. First, I felt it in my stomach, then in my chest, then it moved further up into my throat, it threatened to surface again, but I resisted. There was no time for it. I took a deep breath and swallowed it back to the pit of my stomach. I was letting go of it. Not permanently, just temporarily, until it didn’t hurt so much to think about, until I was in a safe place……to remember. I always do that.

I did it when I left America to move to Holland and now I was doing it again. It’s the only way to keep focused on the new adventure ahead. Thinking about the friends, family and the situation you’re leaving behind can pull you right back into it, or at least make you scared of what’s ahead. My friends and family would be fine, I wasn’t too sure about myself.

I was just looking out of the bus window in some daze, trying hard not to think too much, especially about anything that would cause fear. But the fear was there, blocking out positive thoughts, until they both cancelled each other out, leaving me numb again. Even the Athens landscape seemed numb, like a city called Limbo instead of Athens. There were no lights, just a void of darkness on each side. I couldn’t make out what was outside of that bus window. I didn’t care.

The bus finally arrived at the hotel. That’s how I remember it, travelling in nothingness, until out of nowhere, a hotel appeared.When the bus stopped, we were instructed by the driver to check into the hotel. Like a zombie from the city of Limbo, I did as I was told.

I vaguely remember checking in at the reception. The person behind the desk said they needed to hold unto my passport. Then I was assigned a room and told that dinner would be served shortly in the cafeteria. I went to my room. It was a nice one, beautiful in fact, and that one positive thought was enough to shift me from my zombie-trance.

I dropped my bags on the floor and went to the bathroom where I kept splashing cold water on my face. I remember I couldn’t get the water cold enough, I wanted it to shock me back into reality. But then a fleeting thought of reality crossed my mind. Maybe the water finally did get cold enough, because I felt a shiver down my back. I quickly turned the water off and dried my face. For some reason, I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror.

I went downstairs to the cafeteria to eat. When I entered, I immediately recognized a few faces. The thought shocked me. Where do I know these people from? I tried to place them but I couldn’t remember. So I found an empty table and sat there. The waitress came over immediately and I chose something to eat from her verbal menu. Suddenly, I remembered where I knew some of the people from. They were from the plane or maybe the bus, maybe both. The thought made me nervous. I began to feel awkward, so I tried to look busy. I’m sure I was smoking up a storm. It was these two white guys that triggered my memory. I remember seeing them somewhere inbetween Amsterdam and Athens. They looked like hippies and part of me wanted to talk to them. Maybe find out what they were going to do in South Africa. I hadn’t talked to anyone since I boarded the plane, only the staff. But then, there was this other part of me that needed to keep silent.

I wrote this short story once about this man who travels through different states (of minds). He travelled great distances and each city he passed through was a different state (of being). He was searching for the “City of Peace.” But to get there, he had to journey through the “Lonely Fields,” the “City of Excess,” the “State of Misery,” and the “City of Resolution. Inbetween each city, there was a large strip of barren land called the “Silent Zone.” He could talk once he arrived in a city, but when he crossed the Silent Zone, he could not, for it was an ancient an obeyed law, that any man that crossed the barren land must do it in silence. Because the Silent Zone was your state (of mind). No one could interfere with it. You had to deal with it …….alone.

That’s the best explanation I can give for my solitude. So when my food arrived, I ate it in silence and quickly went to my room. When I got there, I turned on the television, partly disobeying the rule of the Silent Zone. I turned to CNN and watched till I got sleepy. I started fantasizing again about all the hot black men I would surely meet in South Africa. I was getting excited all over again. I turned off the T.V. and went over to the balcony, this time not caring about my visible hard-on. I opened the balcony doors. It wasn’t much of a view, only a big empty parking lot, beyond that, nothing. It was too dark to see any further on. I walked outside trying to clear my mind, I needed to say a prayer and I didn’t want to do it with a raging hard-on. The night air took away the lust that swelled up between my legs. I was calm and ready for prayer, which I said in the open air.

I got into bed, leaving the balcony doors open to catch the breeze. And again all these hot sex scenes came into my mind. They didn’t bring on fear or anxiety, so I didn’t try to resist them, instead I indulged in them, masturbating to them, falling asleep shortly after.

In the morning, I received a wake-up call from the front desk, informing me that the bus would be taking us back to the airport in an hour and breakfast would be served soon. I quickly showered and packed, then headed down to the hotel cafeteria. I ate my breakfast in a rush. Even now, I wonder what I was thinking. Maybe I wasn’t thinking about anything. I just remember trying to keep my mind blank. There was too much to think about and nothing could be done right now……..only to think about it, which would make it worse.

When the bus did arrive, the other passengers and I handed in our keys, signed out, got back our passports and boarded the bus. On the drive to the airport, it was strange to see that same Athens landscape in the light. The night before, it was dark and I couldn’t make out anything, now all I could see were billboards. They were everywhere. There was also this long fence. It must of went on for miles. It followed us from the hotel all the way to the airport and it was about a 20 minute drive!

I never did like Athens. It’s so big and over-crowded, plus it’s dirty. It’s got that hectic city vibe that I hate. We arrived at the airport and boarded fairly soon.

Again, I don’t remember who I was seated next to. I must’ve blocked them out too. And again, I said my little prayer before take-off……..I’m a bit scared of flying. I once read that the most dangerous times for plane crashes is at take-off and landing. Once we were in the air, I relaxed. I liked Athens as we were leaving. Maybe because I was half way pass the Silent Zone. Who knows what I was thinking on that plane, but I do remember having a conversation in my head with my mom.Not too long before my mom died, she talked a lot of regrets, things she wished she could’ve done.
“It’s all about dreams,” my mom would have me believe, “and at the end of your life, how many did you make happen?”
“Two so far, I’m working on the third now, mom.”

Our first stop in Africa was in Nairobi, Kenya. We stopped for about half an hour to allow new passengers to board. This time I must’ve have had a window seat because I remember looking down at the people loading luggage aboard the plane. They were all black! In fact, everyone was black! Inside the airport too. Even the people boarding were black! WOW! I thought. The last time I saw so many black people was, well when I was home, in America. I was ecstatic. I looked at them closely, at their dark skin and facial features. They looked fucking good to me! I had been starved for black people living in Holland, and seeing so many of them was like a feast for my soul.
I watched them the whole time while we were on the ground, then I watched the ones that were on the plane when we were in the air. I was a bundle of curiosity. I wondered about their names, where they were going, what they do, how do they live! But I still didn’t actually want to talk to anyone yet, except for the stewardess. Adrenaline was running through my body and I was actually getting excited. Not numb. Not calm. Not reasonable, but bonefied, adrenaline-induced excitement! It was only a few more hours till we got to South Africa. I was tingling!

“We’ll be touching ground in Jan Smuts Airport in about 20 minutes,” the pilot said over the plane’s intercom system, along with some information about weather conditions in Johannesburg. My heart was racing with a mixture of excitement and nervousness. I knew they would soon be telling us to buckle our seatbelts and stay in our seat, so I went to the toilet before it was announced. I needed to check myself, make sure I was looking decent. Cecil had arranged for three of his friends to pick me up at the airport. When I got to the toilet, I checked my face for any signs of fear. Staring back at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t tell what expression I had. I guess because the feelings were all new to me, not each individual feeling, but experiencing them simultaneously; anxiousness, pride, sorrow, courageous, joy, resolution, doubt, satisfaction, calmness, and of course fear. They were all there, competing with each other for ultimate control. I knew that any single incident could give one the upper hand, eliminating the competition.
I splashed cold water on my face and popped some gum in my mouth to get rid of the stale airplane breath, then hurried back to my seat.
The plane was starting to go down for the landing. The signs for the seatbelts lit up, and some announcement was made. It was late afternoon in Johannesburg on April 4, 1996.

I braced myself and said a little prayer for a safe landing……WE MADE IT! The people on the plane were clapping and whistling. They must’ve been praying too, so I clapped with them and for the first time since I left Holland, I smiled.

I was seated all the way in the back of the plane, so I decided to wait patiently for the front passengers to leave first. I looked out of the plane window to catch a glimpse of all the people loading and unloading luggage as I had done in Nairobi. I remember thinking, “Huh!?” There were so many white people and light skinned people, where in Nairobi, they were all black and dark, “Whatever,” I thought, “Maybe it’s a South African airport thing.”

The aisle was clearing, so I decided to gather my things up. When I could move freely through with all my extra baggage, I walked down the aisle, bid the cabin crew farewell and left the plane.

I must’ve gone through costumes and passport control, of which I don’t remember. After leaving the plane, my memory picks up again walking through the “Nothing to Declare” exit and out towards the crowd of people waiting for new arrivals.

Now, I was a bit nervous. Fortunately, there were no shakes, so I knew the nervousness was contained and controllable. I was walking with this trolley that had my carry-on bags plus the luggage that I was unloaded from the plane. It was a hell of a lot of stuff!

So, there I was, walking out into this large crowd of people waiting to see their loved ones. People were being greeted with hugs and kisses. A sudden and unexpected feeling of loneliness came over me.

Cecil had given me the names of the three guys who were to pick me up, he had even described them, but I couldn’t remember any of that now. I was hoping they’d recognize me. I walked in slow motion, toward the railing where the crowd had gathered, hoping someone would call my name.

Damn! No one called my name. I stood in the midst of the crowd, not knowing what to do. All around me was the cheerful sight and sound of people being reunited, I felt like a deserted island. I wasn’t feeling lonely any more, I was feeling scared shitless! Most of the people from the plane had disembarked, and the crowd I’d taken shelter in was dispersing too. I was shitting bricks. Soon I would be standing alone like some idiot, some scared, pitiful idiot.
All of the negativity inside me was waging a war against positive thoughts. I couldn’t let that happen.
“JUST CALM DOWN!”

“O-K,” I thought, “Before this crowd disappears, you’ve got to make a plan.” I had a lot of numbers that Cecil had given me. They were the telephone numbers of his friends in Johannesburg. I figured I’d find a phone and call. I pushed my trolley to a clear space to see if a phone was near. I spotted one and as I was going towards it, three guys came up to me. One of them said,

-“Is your name Marc Boone?”
-“Yes,” I shouted.
-“Hi, my name is Tsepo, this is Paul and this is Tsipang.” I shook their hands so gratefully, you wouldn’t believe it.
-“Cecil said you’d be arriving today and asked us to pick you up,” Tsepo said.
-“Thanks, good ole’ Cecil!”
-“We saw you get off. We were in the back of the crowd. We recognized you immediately. But then you disappeared in the crowd. We only saw you again just now.” Tsepo explained
-“Oh,” I lied, “I was just checking to see if I had all my luggage.”
-“I’ve got a car, shall we leave?”
-“Fine with me,” I said.

They each took a bag and walked in front of me, leading the way. It was only then that I was calm enough to look around and actually take in what I was seeing.

Looking around the airport, there were loads of people, most of them were white……..”This is soooo weird.” I thought, “This definitely wouldn’t happen in Nairobi!” We left the airport building and walked out unto the parking lot to the car. When we got there, we all put the bags down as Tsepo unlocked the trunk. This was the first time I was actually outside, on South African ground, or rather cement. It was a nice day. A bit hazy, but warm and breezy. I looked around. Everything seemed so familiar, the cars, the tall buildings, the high-way which I could see further up. Even the way Tsepo, Paul and Tsipang were dressed, in their sneakers jeans and T-shirts. There was even a Coca-Cola advertisement, it was like deja vu. I definitely wasn’t expecting to be greeted with such familiarity. Who comes to Africa and expects to see America? Even in the airport, people were wearing conventional western clothing. Not like Kenya, where I saw people wearing beautiful head wraps and colourful printed dresses with loads of beaded jewelry……….’’Oh well, I guess it’s a South African airport thing. Maybe they dress in western styles when they go to the airport.”

-“So, how does it feel to be in South Africa,” Tsepo asked after all the bags were loaded into the trunk.
-“I feel at home.”

We all got into the car. I was offered the front seat and Paul and Tsipang sat in the back. I was feeling a bit more settled now and needed to talk. I felt as if I had just come from the Silent Zone.

So I decided to strike up a conversation with Paul and Tsipang since they were hardly talking at all. I told Paul that Cecil had spoken a lot about him and I was finally glad to meet him.

-“Yes.” He said quite flatly.
-“Do you live near-by?”
-“Yes.” He said.
-“This is my first time in Africa.”
-“Yes.” He said.

Hmmmmm……. I thought maybe he didn’t know much English. I decided to try and talk with Tsipang.

-“And Tsipang, am I saying your name right?”
-“Yes.”
-“Well, you three are the first friendly faces I’ve seen in South Africa.”
-“Yes.”
-“I thought it would be a lot hotter, but the weather is quite comfortable.”
-“Yes.”
-“I hope I don’t get jet lag.”
-“Yes.”

This conversation was going no where. So I decided to be slick and ask a question he couldn’t say “yes” to…..

-“Had you been waiting very long?”
-“Yes.”

“Oh fuck it!” I thought. Let me stick with Tsepo, at least he knows how to keep a conversation going.

-“So Tsepo,” I said, “Was it a long drive from where you stay to the airport?”
-“No, not at all. I stay in Berea, which is quite close, it’s about a 20-30 minute drive. It was no problem.” 

I liked Tsepo. He was sweet and had a warm smile, plus he could hold a conversation.

I kept looking out of the window, expecting to see something different. Some weird looking tree, maybe a man riding a donkey, who knows? But there were only billboards and information signs, so Tsepo and I talked while he drove. After driving for about 15 minutes, Tsepo asked me where I would be staying. I told him that Cecil mentioned a guy who lived in Yeoville named Simon who said II would be welcome. I asked if they knew where Simon stayed.

-“Simon?” They all said quite puzzled, “Are you sure?”
-“Yeah,” I said, “That’s what Cecil told me.”

Their reaction made me nervous as hell. I was thinking, “oh shit, oh shit, oh shit oh shit, what’s going on!?” Tsepo knew exactly where Simon lived and he drove me to his flat in Yeoville. When we arrived, I was told to wait in the car while two of them went to talk to Simon. I knew something wasn’t right, but what could I do but follow their wishes. Tsepo volunteered to wait with me while Paul and Tsipang went up to talk to Simon.

When I’m nervous, as I was, I tend to block out things, like people and places. From the moment I mentioned Simon’s name and got that puzzled reaction, I started blocking out the enviroment.

But now there was nothing I could do, but wait and see what would happen next. So I tried to relax and suddenly, I could see around me again. I checked out the neighbourhood. It was mostly medium-sized brick flats. Very normal looking and very dull. No bright colours, no sign of traditional Africa, not even any influence in the architecture. I could’ve been some place in Queens, New York. There were a few people on the streets, but they too seemed liked they could be from Queens, New York.

HOW BORING! You travel 3000 miles across water and land, and you end up with the same sights.

That’s when I called on my experience from travelling: RETHINK WHAT YOU KNOW; GIVE UP WHAT YOU THOUGHT IT WOULD BE LIKE SO THAT YOU CAN BE OPEN TO WHAT IT ACTUALLY IS, AND ENJOY THE EXPERIENCE.

While Tsepo and I waited downstairs, he showed me how to give a proper South African handshake. It was a damn helpful hint. All over the world, white people basically do the standard handshake. But when you’re dealing with black people, there’s always some variation. So we stood outside practising as many different black handshakes as we had learned in our lifetime.

After about 15 minutes, Paul and Tsipang returned and said it was fine to go up. As everyone grabbed a bag from the trunk again, something that my brother said when I told him I was moving to South Africa popped into my head, “Well Marc, you surely didn’t make your life easier.” I guess he was right, but being me, I didn’t have a choice. Anyway, we all went up to Simon’s flat.

Simon greeted us at the door to his flat quite friendly, but I spotted the shock on his face when he saw all the bags. He politely told us to put them all in the corner. Simon was with his boyfriend which he introduced me to. Simon was black, about 35. His boyfriend was white and a bit older.
We all sat down to some beers. I was thankful for them. I was feeling awkward and needed to unwind.
The booze did help ease the tension and soon we were all laughing and asking questions about each other.

Simon was a gay activist. He was the first black openly gay male in South Africa. During Apartheid, he defied the government laws by publicly announcing that he was homosexual. He ended up in jail, for treason and defying the Immorality Act and served five years in prison. That is where Simon said he contracted the HIV virus. He was presently lobbying the government to supply condoms to all prisoners in jail. Looking at Simon, it was hard to believe. He was such a little guy. He didn’t look like a revolutionist, he looked like the average guy next door, but then again, revolutionists are not born that way, they’re made that way.
During the course of our conversation, Simon told me that Cecil had never asked if I could stay with him. Cecil had only mentioned that a friend of his would be visiting. That was it. Cecil never even said exactly when I’d be arriving.
FUCK! I was extremely embarrassed and mad as hell at Cecil for putting me in this situation. How evil that he would do that to me and how cruel to put Simon through this, like he needed the extra baggage…..literally!

I knew I had enough money to survive for awhile, I just needed a little time to figure out where I could live more permanently and time to look for a job. I apologised for the inconvenience and told him that Cecil said he’d spoken to him and it was agreed that I could stay.
-“He lied.” Simon said blankly.

I asked if I could stay for three weeks. During that time, I would arrange another place to stay. Simon agreed and we went back to drinking until it got late and Tsepo, Paul, and Tsipang had to leave.

After they left, Simon had his boyfriend set up a bed for me in the living room. They both wished me a good night and went to their bedroom to sleep. I laid there in the small folding bed in the living room. It was dark, except for this flashing neon light that invaded the room from outside. It was this big fucking flashing red Coca-Cola sign on top of this skyscraper apartment building across the street. “So this is South Africa,” I thought. I had three weeks grace period to get myself together. I told myself, I was man enough to work through it, I had money, health, and brains. I could do it. I remember feeling betrayed by Cecil. I also felt scared and lonely, maybe a bit stupid for not taking it upon myself to ensure things had been worked out. But either way, I couldn’t turn back now, and those negative feelings wouldn’t make anything easier, or solve the situation I was in. I tried to let go of them, except for the hatred I had for Cecil. That one was fermenting inside of me, I was getting drunk off of it. The only thing I could do was wait till it was out of my system. I said a prayer, then I cursed Cecil, then I fell into a restless sleep.

The days passed easy enough with Simon. We talked a lot about his activism. It had taken him around the world. He showed me pictures of him with international celebrities like Elton John.
Simon was now doing a lot of work in SOWETO. He had founded the Township Aids Project (T.A.P.).
There he helped gays and lesbians deal with their HIV status and provided counselling and information.

I told Simon about me, being born in Queens, New York; about my only brother Michael; about my father’s death when I was four; my mom’s death when I was 23; about my move to Amsterdam and why I moved to South Africa. We became semi-comfortable with each other. I still knew I was an unexpected guest and that made me somewhat of an unwanted guest.

Simon was very busy during the days so I spent most of my days checking out the neighbourhood alone and seeing about job possibilities, but everyone needed work, so employment opportunities were very scarce. I kept getting lost. Yeoville was O.K. Like I said, it looked like some areas in New York. It had a mixture of small flats and houses. The houses were mainly single floors, plain brick and pretty boring. The difference was that you had to look over these huge protective fortresses that surrounded them to actually see them. Depending on how high the fortress was, sometimes you could only see the roof of the house. Some of these homes even had barbed wire or electric fencing around them. Some even had sharp, broken glass along the top of the fences…..”Fuckin’ paranoid white people,” I thought.
Yeoville was mostly black, but there was a significant amount of whites. I didn’t take much notice of the white people. I didn’t know if they were racist. I just assumed they were. It was strange for me at first, because in Holland, all my friends except for one, were white. But this was not Holland.
I was checking out the blacks, but cuties were scarce. Most of them were short and not very good looking I have to admit. The whole scene was something out of America when I was growing up in the 70’s. Back then, most black people I knew didn’t have much money. In my neighbourhood people looked like shit. Most of us wore ‘high water’ pants, pants that were handed down to you from generations before you, so they never fit properly, usually too short. When money is scarce, there’s only enough for one pair of shoes and that was your school/church shoes. They were made of this hard cheap plastic. Some of us had to wear it with everything we owned including our play clothes and our short pants. I also remember everybody was always so ashy, like we couldn’t afford lotion.
And then there was the problem of what to do with our hair. We used to make fun of guys with nappy hair. The joke at the time was, “Damn, you got mo’ peas in yo’ Head than Del Monte!”
“Peas” referred to the pea-like balls of hair black people get if they don’t comb it and “Del Monte” was the name of a canned vegetable company. Back then, black girls didn’t know what to do with their hair either. They were hot combing it, but it was just some dry brittle shit on the top of their head. No style, just burnt straw on their head. Well, that’s how many of the black South Africans looked to me……..like black Americans from the 70’s. I’m positive they would’ve looked so much more beautiful in their traditional clothing with their natural hair like the Kenyans, no like themselves, either way, they weren’t getting this western clothing thing right.

Other impressions that struck me was the red dirt. When I’d pass through the park, instead of brown, the earth was red! I thought it was so cool. I actually played in it.
Then there was the sight of black women who carried their babies on their backs. There wasn’t a baby carriage in sight. They had their babies pulled tightly to their back with a blanket or towel wrapped around them from their chest. You could only see the baby’s head. It made me a bit nervous to see their heads dangling without any support, but I assumed tradition had proved it to be a safe method. There was also many black women carrying things on their heads. They’d walk on hectic, busy streets amazingly balancing some big or small item. Sometimes with a baby on their back and parcels in their hands! I thought, “Damn, this not right! What man let’s a woman do all that?” My first reaction was to offer help…….I never did though.

One of my favourite sights was seeing men walking down the street holding hands. I asked Simon about it and he said they weren’t gay. He said it was a part of South African culture and the men did it all the time. I thought it was a beautiful display of male bonding.

The different languages were also a change. Simon said there were 11 official languages. I couldn’t decipher one from the other. I simply loved the fact that these were the voices of South Africa.
Beyond that, it was an overcrowded, standard western neighbourhood with your supermarkets, banks, businesses, cafés, post offices, etc, etc, etc, When I say overcrowded, I mean over-the -top crowded!
The sidewalks were swamped with people selling anything and everything from vegetables, to clothing, to shoes, watches, pictures, ornaments, books, whatever! It made free movement difficult and I thought, what’s the use in having stores, They’re taking up all the room!

Not too far from Yeoville, was an area called Hillbrow. It was sooooo fucked up! Put it this way , it’s nickname is “Hellbrow.” I kept ending up lost there. It’s definitely a place you don’t want to be lost in. It’s like dangerous parts of Harlem where the projects are. Hillbrow is clustered with all of these tall buildings that are everywhere. No houses, just huge apartment buildings right next to each other, on top of each other, going on and on and on.
When I got lost, I didn’t dare ask for directions. When you’re in the heart of the ghetto, and you’re not from that ghetto, you don’t ask for directions. That’s like asking to be a victim. You just keep walking, even if you’re getting more lost, and act like you know exactly where you’re going. It was a bit difficult to act normal because everybody liked to stare. There were loads of people hanging out everywhere and as you passed they took time to stare you down. There were also a lot of beggars and homeless people in Hillbrow. There were many street kids who openly sniffed glue. The place was filthy and loads of hustling going on. I also remember the onslaught of music coming from everywhere, it all seemed to come at you at once, from shops, cars, flats, wherever someone could find an outlet, it seemed they used it to plug in their radio.

Simon warned me about Hillbrow. He said that it had gone down from what it used to be. Supposedly, once it was the hippest place in the country, with a great history behind it. It had been one of the few spots during the later apartheid years, where blacks, Asians, and whites could mix somewhat freely. It was a cultural melting pot, with loads of artists, writers, and philosophers. It had been a mostly white suburb, with blue collar workers along with well-to-do business professionals. People with different sexual orientations and different religious backgrounds all came together in Hillbrow. It was once alive with outdoor cafés, jazz clubs and fancy restaurants. Looking at it now, that story was hard to believe. Simon said that Yeoville would turn into another Hillbrow in about 10 years. Simon said it took Hillbrow only 7 years to decline. “How?” I asked. I was told that too many blacks moved in and the whites ran away and reinvested in other areas. The initial blacks that moved in were not buying businesses, only renting flats. So when the white owners of businesses left, the neighbourhood economy went down, sending the property value down too. Shabby, cheap businesses popped up, including a lot of bars and shebeens. Then the drug lords moved in, after that, no one cared anymore and that was the end.
“What a familiar story,” I thought. Simon went on to say that the only reason it was taking Yeoville longer go down was because it was 50% flats and 50% houses, whereas, Hillbrow was all flats. Houses gave Yeoville some relief from being too over congested.
What Simon was saying was scaring me. Hillbrow was a violent town, but Johannesburg in general was pretty violent. Crime is almost a necessity for many of people. With no jobs, inflation, lack of education, lack of housing, lack of medical care, etc; crime is a part of survival. No one is just going to let themselves die. They will lie, steal, and kill in order to stay alive. There are so many desperate people here and that makes this place unimaginably scary in so many ways that go beyond the crime problem. Hopeless people have nothing to loose.
ENOUGH ABOUT CRIME IN JO’BURG AND BACK TO MY STAY WITH SIMON………..
After a week and a half of living with Simon, I got a call from Martin. Martin was Cecil’s ex-boyfriend. They were together for two years, up until Cecil moved to Amsterdam to study. Cecil had talked a lot about him. He even gave me Martin’s number. Martin had tracked me down at Simon’s. He said he had received a call from Cecil asking him to check in on me. Martin was living with Paul, (the quiet guy who picked me up from the airport), and two other guys that I had not met. He said they all discussed it and thought it would be a good idea if I stayed with them. They lived in Hillbrow!
Well, it wasn’t my first choice, but beggars can’t be choosy. I still hadn’t found a place to stay and it was almost two weeks. I never did feel completely comfortable staying with Simon. He was nice to me, but I knew I was an imposition. “ What the HELLbrow,” I figured I could have a little more time to look for my own place while I moved in with Martin. I felt wanted and at least I was an invited guest, so I gratefully accepted his offer. He said I could come tomorrow. “Wow,” I definitely felt wanted, but I told him that was a bit too soon. I thought it would be a little rude to just up and leave like that. I thought it would be nice to hang out with Simon, now that he would be having the peace-of mind knowing that I would soon be leaving. We decided that I would leave at the end of the week. He also told me that he’d come over tomorrow to meet me.

I was really psyched to meet Martin. I knew that he and Cecil had lived together for awhile. They moved in together after Martin’s wife caught him and Cecil fucking. She moved out with their two daughters and Cecil and Martin moved in together. I knew that Martin and Cecil had a rocky relationship when they were lovers, but since then, had maintained some sort of friendship.
That night, Simon stayed out. I was alone and got very reflective and decided it was time to touch base with my family and friends from America and Holland.I had about a dozen or more letters to write. It was also time to give Cecil a piece of my mind. But truthfully speaking, I wasn't mad at Cecil anymore. He got me here any way that he could, even if he lied. Besides, he did contact Martin, and somehow I thought everything was going to be fine……..for better or worse, I made it to South Africa, thanks to Cecil.

The next day I met with Martin. He came over around seven in the evening, after work. He was a bus driver. I was getting ready for some party that was in the same building. Martin already knew Simon and we all sat down to some beers and started talking. I had bought a bottle of vodka earlier, so I was busy getting pissed on that. Martin was extra friendly, even flirtatious. It was cool with me. He was very sexy and I thought it was innocent enough. Martin was medium height, with a thick, solid build, dark skinned, and very manly.
The best thing about that night was meeting Sue. Sue’s been my best friend in South Africa and that night was my first time meeting her. Sue is tall, sexy and light-skinned with long black curly hair.
Simon, Martin and I were getting plastered when someone knocked on the door. It was Sue and her friend Jim. They kind of knew Simon and just happened to stop by. (Later, when Sue and I would become better friends, she told me Jim and her had just come from the same party that I was on my way to. The host told Jim that a cute American guy was staying with Simon, and they decided to come and check me out.).
At first, I thought Sue and Jim were “ coloured” people. “Coloured” is a South African term given to people of mixed heritage. Usually, it’s black and white, but it also includes mixes with Asians. I was warned that some of these people thought they were better than blacks. Growing up in America, where it can also be colour conscious, I was not in the mood to deal with that shit. So, I was a bit distant at first, but then they told me they were from England, living in South Africa. Jim had been here for six months. Sue had just arrived a month ago. Suddenly, they became very cool. Sue and I hit it off fabulously. The conversation stopped being a five way and turned into a two way between Sue and me. The girl was charming, funny and sweet. I liked her straight away, well, after I found out she wasn’t coloured.
So, to make a long story, a bit shorter, Sue, Martin and Jim left and Simon and I went to the party in the building.

Simon and I enjoyed our last week together. It was a great relief for me, not feeling like a burden anymore. I finished writing all my postcards and letters and mailed them off before the end of the week.
Martin came to pick me up on Sunday to take me to his flat. I thanked Simon for his hospitality and we parted on good terms.

When I got to Martin’s flat, I met his other roommates.  There were three of them and they were all gay!
There was Paul, (from the airport), Randy, (Martin’s boyfriend), and Jon, (Martin’s cousin). It was a two bedroom flat and it had all the luxuries of a comfortably furnished home and it was clean as a whistle. There was a living room with a couch and two love seats, a coffee table and a large wall unit, which all the seats faced. The wall unit had a TV, a stereo system and a VCR.
The bedrooms looked comfortable too. Everything looked as if it was in its own special place. Martin and Randy’s bedroom had a queen size bed with all these big frilly pillows on it. A bit camp for me, but it looked cosy……Goldilocks would have loved it!
Then I went to Paul and Jon’s room. They had two twin size beds with a small night table placed between them. There were also these white curtains with a red and purple floral print which also matched the linen on the bed. I remember thinking, “whose the queen of this castle!?’

Paul said that I would be sleeping in his and Jon’s room and he would sleep in the living room on the floor. I felt like a princess! This place was straight out of a fairy tale….literally!
I thanked Paul for the offer but said that it was no way that I could inconvenience him like that. They all insisted, but I said there was no way I could take another man’s bed.
After awhile, Jon told me that Tsipang, (the other guy from the airport), was Paul’s lover and he was always sleeping over so it would be better if they slept in a private room. So I finally agreed to take the bed and we settled my things in the room.

I don’t remember how I felt or what I did the first days that I moved in with Martin, Randy, Paul and Jon. Besides the neighbourhood, I felt very comfortable. They all made me feel welcome.

Martin and Randy had jobs, so they were at work during the day. Jon and Paul didn’t work so they’d clean, wash, iron, shop and take care of all household duties. They were super neat. They’d take breaks from their domestic chores every week day between four and six p.m. to watch the American soaps, “Days of Our Lives” and “The Bold and the Beautiful.” Back in America, “All My Children” was my preferred daytime soap, but South Africa only had the corny soaps like “Santa Barbaric” and “Sunset Bitch.” Slowly but surely, and through lack of choice, I began to get into “Days” and “The Bold.”
It was annoying, besides the boring story-lines, those soaps are three years behind America. The hair styles, make-up and clothing made it unbearable to watch at times.
The rest of the time was spent with the TV on with no sound and the radio blasting. Radio Metro was the radio station that everyone listened to at the time. It was funky. Mostly black American music, like soul, R & B, and hip hop. They also played local South African music. “Kwaito” is the name of the most popular form of local music. It came from the township, and it was definitely a black thing. It was really taking off at the time. It took me awhile to appreciate it. In the beginning it was always some repetitious lyrics along with a repetitious beat being played on a synthesiser. It lacked soul to me, but it was surely getting blacks on the dance floor in South Africa.

We lived on the 15^th floor. Every time I left the building, everyone’s radio would be screaming at the top of its lungs as you passed their flat. If you didn’t listen to Radio Metro, you’d have to turn your radio up full blast in order to hear it. If you didn’t have a radio, you could hear your neighbours, from four floors down! No one really needed their own radio, cause if one person had a radio in the building, we all had one.

At about six thirty p.m., Randy would come home from work and start preparing dinner for everyone.At about seven p.m., Martin would arrive from work. Everyone in that flat catered to him. The flat was in his name and he was the big money maker. That made him king of the castle. Soon after Martin got home, he’d settle in front of the television and watch the news. One of the guys would bring him a cup of tea and see if he needed anything else. During that time, much of the news was filled with information about the new constitution, including a clause in it that made it illegal to discriminate against gays and lesbians.

It was great seeing Mandela. He looked so funky in his colourful African shirts. I felt so proud just seeing a black man as president. But there was a lot of disappointment that the economy hadn’t gotten better. People also complained that the distribution of wealth, from some whites to some blacks had not progressed. Some people even said that things had become worse….take Hillbrow for example!
Either way, there was still a feeling of optimism and everyone respected Mandela.

A lot of coverage on the news was given to the Truth and Reconciliation (The T.R.C.) hearings that were being broadcast live. It was extremely depressing. It resembled a court case. Several people, including Arch Bishop Desmond Tutu, sat at a long table, they were the jury, for lack of a better word. They were seated in front of another table filled with people who had been victims during the apartheid government. Behind them, were loads of listeners, spectators and the press. The victims, about 95% black, told heart wrenching stories of how they had been abused and/or violated by people during apartheid. There were countless gruesome accounts of rape, murder, beatings, forced removals from land, forced separation of people and family members, hijackings, kidnapping, imprisonment, torture and other cruel acts. After the victim told the jury what happened, usually breaking down into tears in the process,  the perpetrator (s) of the deed was called. If they were actually present, they were seeking amnesty.  In which case, all they had to do was to admit to the crime and be subjected to questioning from the jury and the victim(s). The victims’ question was usually, “WHY?” The perpetrators’ response was usually, “I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT I WAS DOING AT THE TIME. I WAS FOLLOWING GOVERNMENT ORDERS.”
Then one of the jury members would ask, “DO YOU REGRET WHAT YOU DID?”
The answer was always, “YES.”
Then the perpetrator was free to go……..at least that’s how I saw it.
There was this one grizzly scene when the mother of a victim asked his killer how he killed her son. The killer said, “I strangled him.” The mother said that no marks had been found on his body. The killer said he used a special method that left little scarring. The victim’s mother asked him to show her how he killed her son. The killer got a volunteer from one of the spectators seated behind him. Quite calmly he asked the volunteer to lay on the floor. Then he simulated the strangling process that he used on her son.
During the demonstration there were gasps and cries from the audience. Then the killer thanked his volunteer and the court moved on to the next case. It all seemed like a farce to me. In fact, no one I knew really understood the Truth and Reconciliation process. They just wanted the perpetrators tortured and shot. At the very least, they wanted them imprisoned.
Everyone, from the man on the street, to the top of the military officials, blamed the government for turning them into savages. The lower government blamed the higher government. The highest member of the government was P. W. Botha, one of the last presidents during apartheid. He refused to come to the trial due to failing health. He ignored all of the subpoenas. As far as I know, he got away with it.The T.R.C. was making a lot of people bitter and angry.

Compensation for victims mostly came in the form of an apology. Some got money. A few got land restitution. Maybe some were satisfied with the apologies and an explanation of what happened to their sons, daughters, family and friends……..but why it happened? Everyone knew but no one knew. P.W. Botha left the answer to our imagination.

 The proceedings went on for months. Many of us who watched the proceedings, became de-sensitised. How many tears can you cry? How many horrific stories can you hear before you just start thanking God, it wasn’t you.  Someone once said, “The death of one person is a tragedy, the death of thousands, is a statistic.”

I cried in the beginning, then I just stopped watching all together.For me, the T.R.C. reflected the mix of optimism and hopelessness that pervaded the mindset of many South Africans in1996.
On one hand, you had this trial going on. It showed that the new government was powerless to right the wrongs of apartheid. The African National Congress ,(the A.N.C.), was suppose to be the government for the people. If the government was powerless, that meant the people were still powerless. That powerlessness translated into frustration. If frustration goes on to long it can develop into hopelessness.
On the other hand, you had Mandela as president, what more optimism did you need.
Everything was in transition. Not many knew what it meant. What would happen now? Where do we go from here? No one knew.

The T.R.C. was the major news headlines back then. Since it was conducted in English, I could follow it. Other than that, most of the news was in Zulu. Many of the television programmes were in different languages, but more than half were in English and most of them were American sitcoms and movies.
T.V. was a major part of everyone’s life in the flat. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I’d go out on the balcony and have a cigarette. Thanks to good weather, I could stay for hours on that little balcony, sandwiched between all the clothes that were hung up to dry. Sometimes I’d stay out there until Randy called me in for diner. First he’d serve Martin. Then he’d hand everyone else their plate which he had already dished up. That was his chore for the household. Usually dinner was “pap” and “fleece.” Pap is a south African food, sort of like grits, well not quite, but it’s the closest reference I have. Fleece is meat. That’s usually what the meal consisted of. No veggies, just pap and fleece and a bit of gravy. I liked the pap and Randy was a good cook, so the fleece and gravy was always tasty.
Jon would come in with a tray full of soft drinks, and we’d all sit and eat in front of the T.V.

After dinner, Paul and Jon would collect all the plates and glasses and clean everything spotless.
By that time, Martin would receive visitors. There were always visitors in that flat! They’d visit anywhere from an hour to three days! Most of the time there was a bit of preliminary talk between Martin and the visitor. I never understood the conversations, because unless I was being spoken to, the household spoke in Zulu or Shonghane. I never cared, living in Holland, I was used to not understanding a lot of what is said around me. I figured I’d try and learn Zulu, but I was in no hurry. I liked being in my own world. Besides most people in the world talk shit anyway, You really don’t need to hear most of it.
The visitors didn’t say much anyway. After an hour, they usually turned into vegetables. They’d find a seat on the floor and stare at the television. Most of them just took up space. Their only cue to leave would be if the T.V. was switched off, and just like a hard slap, they’d be knocked out of their trances.
If Martin said he was going to sleep and didn’t turn off the television, the visitor would linger, maybe even sleep over. The trick was you had to turn of the T.V. if you wanted them to leave! I never knew who most of these visitors were, nor did I care. The funny thing was, if the visitor did manage to stay over, the next day he or she would be taking over the household duties. They’d wash Martin’s clothes in the bathtub, vacuum, do the dusting, wash dishes, even polish the balcony floor. Paul and Jon were always relieved of the chores when visitors slept over.

Needless to say, I had never seen anything like it. But when in South Africa, do as the black South Africans do. So I volunteered to take on the household duty of shopping and cooking. I couldn’t cook pap though. It was difficult. You had to turn this thick pasty stuff in a pot for a long time. The stuff turned so thick and heavy, your arms would be sore and tired from the constant turning. Especially if you were making a pot big enough to feed five to six people. I tried once then I never tried again until years later. I cooked rice and pasta instead and I added veggies to our menu. And for the next four weeks that I stayed there, Randy relaxed with his cooking chores.

Other than that, I spent most of my days going through the classifieds and calling and faxing my C.V.
Jon needed a job too. He was twenty-two and he had never worked before. Jon was such a cutie. He was short and dark with the smoothest complexion ever. I was so into him, but I never let on. I hung out with him the most. Randy and Martin were at work during the day and Paul was out a lot too. So it was Jon who showed me around Hillbrow. 
Jon was disappointed with having no money and having to depend on Martin for everything. I suggested we look for jobs together. He had finished metric, (high school), and that was all some jobs required.

Once after we’d gone through the classifieds together and collected names and numbers for job possibilities, we went to the public phones to call. We took out our list of numbers and started phoning. Jon was calling for some sales job and a lady named Nancy was his contact person. Unfortunately, Jon had never called for a job before. When he phoned he asked for Nancy. Then he said, “How’s it Nancy. This is Jon, you got that job for me?” That was the end of that conversation. Later, Jon and I practised telephone skills. But I didn’t have luck with the classifieds either.

When we were at the flat, I spent a lot of time on the balcony. I was the only one that smoked, so it became my little get-away, a perfect excuse to dodge visitors. I’d be puffing away looking down on the hectic streets of Hillbrow. Donny Hathoway’s song, “The Ghetto,” always played through my mind during this time. I was looking and listening to the sounds of the ghetto. The blaring music, people shouting and screaming, and gun shots adding to the noise pollution.

The streets were filthy and overcrowded. Most people were just hanging out, sitting on stoops or congregating on the sidewalks, by the trees, on the side of the street, wherever there was enough space to congregate. Across from my balcony, I could see the other apartment buildings. Many, were in worse condition than the one I was in. The flats across from me were practically falling apart in front of my eyes. The paint was completely faded, only a dull greyish or greenish film over the building was left. There were large chunks of chipped brick and plaster in every eye space of the building, cracked windows and clothes hanging on their line on every balcony, even hanging from the windows. In fact, that’s what I remember most about the Hillbrow landscape; dozens of run-down high-rise apartments with hundreds of clothes hanging on their lines. At least on the balcony, you were somewhat safe. Even though I always had this feeling that some sniper would start shooting at me just for the thrill of it.
Walking the streets was a different story. You were right ion the mix. Once I was walking, and right next to me was a man with his head busted open, bleeding and smoking a cigarette, walking in a daze.And since then, I’ve seen many variations of that same situation. I never offered to help. I was scared too scared.

Jon was very protective of me. Sometimes he’d walk behind of me, as if we were strangers, just so he could see if any one was targeting me.I was always trying to be careful. For example, I didn’t talk much while walking on the streets. An American accent was a dangerous thing to have. People who don’t belong, are more likely victims in the ghetto.

Once when I was out by myself and I noticed a guy following me. The streets were busy, but that’s no protection.  I was on my way to a watch repair shop. When I got there, he followed me in and pretended to be browsing. I acted like I didn’t notice him. The sales guy asked me something and I answered with my American accent. I saw the guy who was following me, look towards me. I was really scared.  I stalled for time and as soon as he turned his back, I slipped out of the store. Right in front of the store was a big cement pot plant. I sat down on it. Then the guy comes running out of the store obviously looking for me. I was right in front of him. When he saw me, I starred right into his eyes. He didn’t know what to do. He fumbled in his pockets as if he was searching for something. I just starred at him calmly as I lit a cigarette. Finally, he walks over to a street vendor and starts talking to her. I sat there finishing my cigarette until he finally left. Then I got the hell out of there, looking over my shoulders the entire time.

As time progressed in the flat, eventually Paul and I started talking a lot. He told me he was an Elder at this gay and lesbian church in Hillbrow. “COOL!” I thought, “A gay church, how exciting!” I was brought up in the catholic church. Even though I didn’t practice any religion, I was still very spiritual.  I was dying to go. Cecil had mentioned the church in Holland. He had said that Paul and he had founded the church together. This is the church that he had hoped to return to as a Reverend after completing his studies in the States. I had forgotten all about it in the rush to survive. We made a date to go next Sunday.

When Sunday came, I was still psyched to go. The pastor was going to pick Paul and me up. I wore my new second hand suit that I’d bought in Amsterdam just for church. Originally, Cecil was trying to find accommodation for me in SOWETO, at his community church. That’s when I ran out and bought the suit. I was feeling great in it. I hadn’t had the occasion to wear a suit in almost 10 years, and I was loving the opportunity to do so.
Eventually, the pastor came and he drove Paul and I to the church.

What the church really was, was a basement in a hotel that looked like some decorated auditorium.“Great!” I thought, just like my mom used to say, “Honey, black people can worship anywhere.”

Paul and the pastor left me seated alone while they went backstage to prepare for the sermon. It was a couple of minutes before it started, so I did a quick scan for cuties. There were about 35 members seated on folding chairs facing the stage. There was about 10 alter people that were standing on the stage, facing the audience. The church was about 70% male.
Some people were preparing for the service, (mostly the lesbians), but there was an awful lot of cruising going on. I guess I wasn’t the only one with that idea. The people were young but looked a bit worn out if you asked me. There was just way too many bad hair-dos, more like hair-don’ts! Obviously, a lot of fans of Nat King Cole were present. I decided to concentrate on the sermon.

The service started out with the choir singing gospel songs in Zulu and English.They were awful. The pastor came on when the choir finished singing. He and another pastor greeted the congregation. Paul and two other men stood in the back next to the choir. The first pastor talked about a deed that Jesus had done. Then it went to testimonies. Paul started it off by testifying how good the lord had been to him. The two men next to Paul followed by giving their testimonies. Then they asked for a witness from the audience. Some members gave witness to their testimonies and then the choir came back on. Everyone stood up and swayed along with the choir. There were screams and shouts of approval. I tried to get into it. I was actually doing O.K, until they asked all visitors to remain standing while everyone else sat down. Only me and two other white people remained standing. The two white people had been filming the service, (I can’t remember what for). Anyway, they got off easy. They only had to say their names. I was introduced as a friend of their brother Cecil and asked to come up and give a speech. I hated that! I decided to do it as quick as possible.
I went to the front of the stage and thanked them for having me. I said that it was a priveledge to be there and Cecil had talked fondly of the church and its members.  I thanked them once more and returned to my seat. It wasn’t until I was already seated, that they began clapping. when I say it was a fast speech, I do mean fast.
The pastor thanked me and the service continued. I was more uncomfortable than ever. I knew that some of the guys had been checking me out during the service. I’d been ignoring them, acting like I was concentrating on the service. They hadn’t been able to get a good look at me, until the pastor called me up for that damn exhibition. I could just feel them sizing me up…… Oh well, that is the nature of cruising.

Towards the end of the sermon, Martin arrived. Boy, was I glad to see him….a familiar face I could talk to.  After the service, I headed straight for him. As we were talking, some of the members came up to us and introduced themselves. They were all friendly, some a bit too friendly, but harmless. I was feeling a bit overwhelmed and asked Martin if he was ready to leave. It was fine with him. He never attended the church anyway. I decided it was a fine enough place but I definitely wouldn’t be there every Sunday.

Firstly, I didn’t feel very spiritual there; Secondly, it was too cruizey; Thirdly, there weren’t enough cuties; and Fourthly, black people can worship anywhere.

I decided never to go back the following weekend after I went to Skyline, Skyline is a mostly black gay bar located in Hillbrow. Skyline was tacky. The space was decent enough, but the atmosphere was cheezy. There was this whack jukebox that played mostly American songs from the 80’s. Every new song it played seemed to be by Toni Braxton. The black gay South Africans loved her, especially her sad ballads. I learned to hate Toni.

Anyway, the pastor and many of the church members were there. I forgot to mention this one cutie I did see in the church. I don’t know what you call the person that blesses the members, but that was him. In church on Sunday, the pastor asked all members who wanted a blessing to come up. This cutie would place his hand over the person’s forehead and say a prayer. I thought he was cute at the time, but I didn’t consider him. I figured that any man that blesses people was way out of my league! But there he was in Skyline. We started up a conversation. Soon after he started flipping his hand on my crotch. I was definitely getting turned on! I didn’t stop him and he continued doing while we were talking. We were having a normal, non-sexual conversation and all of this activity was going on below the belt. But after 15 minutes, it was becoming boring. He never did anything further than a crotch flip! The cheap thrills was becoming tacky, not to mention frustrating. Finally, I say to him, “Listen, if I’m letting you flip my crotch, obviously, I’m interested.” So, he said, “Well,  what do you want me to do?” So I say, “Look, I’m lonely tonight, can you make a firmer proposition other than flipping my crotch?” He walked away and didn’t talk to me anymore. Maybe I should’ve been embarrassed, but I wasn’t. He was wasting my time.
I even ran into other church members at another gay club called 58, also in Hillbrow. This place was a real dive. It was soooo sleazy, but I prefer sleazy over cheezy any day! But it was weird to see church people there. That’s when I decided to never go to that church again. I figured I’d much rather hang out with the members at Skyline or 58 instead.

The days went by fine enough at Martin’s flat. I was getting along with everyone. I even met Martin’s two daughters. They came over for a week. One was nine and the other was seven. The older one was tall and thin. The younger one was short and chubby. She had these teary eyes that always looked as if she were on the verge of crying,  but they were like that even when she smiled and laughed. They were the first South African children I spent time with. Since, Martin had to work, I hung out with them during the day. We went to the park, sometimes with Jon. The two little girls and me got along perfectly with each other and that’s in spite of us not knowing each other’s language. They were great fun, especially the way they’d light up when I gave them some sweets. And the youngest one, smiling and grinning eating her sweets with those same teary eyes.

While I was at Martin’s, I received my first responses from the letters I wrote. It was so cool to hear from my family and friends. I thought about them all the time. I couldn’t wait till I was settled in my own place so I could start inviting them over.  I got letters from my friends, Noushin, Naaja, and Regina. They were absolutely excited for me and wanted to know a million things.  I also heard from my cousins, Stephanie, Deb, and my aunt Claire (my mom’s sister). Aunt Claire was about 74 at the time. She said she only believed I’d actually moved to South Africa when she got my letter. Her health was failing, and me moving even further away was difficult for her to get used to. But she insisted she was happy for me.

My brother, Mike, also wrote. He made his concerns clear:             

DEAR MARC,

I GOT YOUR POSTCARD FROM JOHANNESBURG, S. A. IT LOOKS QUITE METROPOLITAN, THOUGH IT DOESN’T LOOK LIKE NEW YORK CITY. I HOPE YOU CAN FIND PEACE AND HAPPINESS THERE IF THAT IS WHAT YOU WANT. I AM APPREHENSIVE AND HAVE MY WORRIES FOR YOU. I HOPE YOUR DECISIONS ARE WISE AND THAT YOU FIND YOUR WAY AND WHAT IT IS YOU ARE IN SEARCH OF.

I KNOW YOU COULDN’T TELL ME A LOT IN A POSTCARD, SO THERE ARE A LOT OF QUESTIONS I HAVE. BUT I DON’T REALLY WANT TO ASK THEM NOW………..

He signed it, “KEEP THE CHIN UP AND DON’T GIVE UP! LOVE MIKE” 

When I was growing up, my brother and I had our problems. We both had our list of things that we wished we could have changed about each other. One of the things on my list was his quietness, it used to bug me. He was so quiet, I didn’t know what to think of him. I didn’t know if he loved me, so I didn’t know if I loved him. It took me well into my 20’s to understand this guy does love me! He taught me that quietness does not mean lack of love and I learned to accept that and respect him for what he was. I guess around that time I also learned what unconditional love was. 

I also received a letter from Cecil. It was short. He didn’t respond much to the negative things that I said about him. He was just happy to hear from me. I was actually missing Cecil. How could I not. I was here because of him. I was in his country. I was with his friends. I wished he was here.

A fond memory I have while living at Martin’s flat was the time we went to Bush Backeridge in Mpumalanga. Mpumalanga is another province about four hours drive from Jo’burg. Bush Backeridge is the name of a village in Mpumalanga and it’s where Martin is originally from. Martin borrowed a car and decided to drive down with some other people. There were two cars. I drove in the car with Martin, Jon and another guy whose name I don’t remember. Randy and Paul stayed home.
In the other car was a lady in her late 40’s who’d been in an accident and injured her leg. Her leg wasn’t healing properly. The medical doctors weren’t helping at all, so she decided to see a sangoma, (a traditional healer), who lived not far from Bush Backeridge. Her son was driving and there were two other guys in the back seat.

It was my first time leaving Jo’burg since I arrived. It was amazing to see the dramatic change of landscape as we were leaving. After 30 minutes of driving, you leave the big buildings behind. Soon, you start to see fields. I remember seeing all these strange and wonderful birds along the trip. There were no zebras or giraffes running in the fields though, but I no longer expected to see things like that. By now, I had figured out that South Africa is not a national park. But up until now, I just thought of it as some industrialised country with nice weather…..but now, it was becoming beautiful! We passed dusty, barren areas and lush green ones. We drove pass mountains and lakes, long dirt roads and paved ones, It was like all the different landscapes of the world on the road to Mpumalanga.

When we finally got to Martin’s mom’s house in Bush Backeridge, it was midnight and it was pitch black outside. Martin must have been driving from memory, because I couldn’t see a thing. We had been travelling on a dirt road with no lights for some time. As we pulled up to the house, which I couldn’t see, both cars started honking. Martin was whistling and clapping. Suddenly, some people came out with candles and they were whistling and clapping too. I don’t remember faces, only these candle lit silouhettes directing us to our rooms which had already been prepared for us. There was no electricity, so the candles lit our way. I was escorted to a room with a large bed. The son of the lady with the bad leg shared it with me. We got straight into bed. I remember hearing a lot of hushed voices and seeing flickering candle light passing overhead from the space above the door. I fell asleep soon after .

The next morning, I woke to a knock at the door. The person knocking said something in a language I didn’t understand. The lady’s son, who I shared the bed with translated. He said that breakfast was being served so we got up and dressed immediately. A young lady with a child wrapped on her back came in shortly. She greeted us and came in with a tin cup with water, then disappeared. The son told me it was water for brushing our teeth. He lead me outside where we quickly brushed our teeth and then went back into the house and into the dining room. There was only a long table with six chairs around it. Jon joined us as well as two other men we had travelled with. Shortly after we were seated, two women came with our breakfast. It was eggs and bread. I asked Jon where Martin was and was told that he’d gone out earlier with his mom. The five of us had a lively conversation while eating.
When we’d all finished, I offered to clear the table. The men told me to leave iot for the women. I insisted it wasn’t a problem. But they insisted that it was a problem and would not let me take their plates. So, I took only my plate to the kitchen. When I got to the kitchen, there were about five women sitting on the floor., including the young lady with baby wrapped on her back. The other four were big and middle-aged. “How fucked up!” I thought.  These young guys, not one over 25, were enjoying their meal at a nice table and these old women were cramped in a small kitchen eating on the floor. When they saw me, they all stopped eating. The lady with the baby quickly got up and said, “Sorry, sorry.” She took my plate, put it in a bucket and went to collect the other plates from the men. The other women on the kitchen floor seemed as if they were in a state of shocked. They weren’t moving, they just stared at me. Finally, I said “Sawa Bona,” which means hello in Zulu. They greeted me back with a warm smile. I smiled too and told them my name was Marc. They didn’t understand English, so I just said thank you, and returned to the dining room. The young lady was just finishing clearing the plates.  When I sat back down, one of the men said, “We told you to leave your plate. Food and dishes are for women.”  “Oh, I didn’t know,” I said.
Soon the young lady returned with tea for each of us, then quickly vanished.

As we were finishing our tea, Martin arrived with his mother. Martin called me outside to meet her. I was followed by the young lady who was carrying a plate in her hand. She gave the plate of eggs and bread to Martin and left. Martin introduced me to his mother. I said “Sawa Bona,” as we shook hands South African style. She didn’t speak any English. Martin kept talking to her in their language. I kept hearing him repeat “Americano,” which he said several times. She smiled and I returned her smile.
When Martin’s mother left, he walked me to the side of his house where his granny lived. She was outside tending to a small chicken farm. We exchanged an introduction of smiles also. I felt completely comfortable, in spite of not understanding their language. They all made me feel at home, or at least, welcome in their home.

Martin was the man of the house. He was helping to support all of them, plus he was the eldest son.  Martin had a lot of things to tend to, so he was either busy or not around for the two days that we stayed there.

I was introduced to a number of people. There were so many children and women. There were a few men around, but none of them over 30. Everyone was busy with chores, which left me with a lot of time to myself. I could finally take in what was around me. Bush Backeridge was a rural village. The house they lived in was pretty big. It was one main house with three other rooms that had been attached to it, and one separate one where granny lived. Martin had paid for most of the additional rooms that had been built.
The main house was made of bricks and plaster. The added rooms were made of plaster only. All the roofs were made from scrap aluminium sheets. There were minimal furnishings inside the main house.I only saw three rooms in the house. The room where I slept, which had a big bed and a closet. The kitchen, which had an old stove that was heated with burning wood and always had a big pot of pap cooking on it. And the third room was the dinning room where I ate my breakfast.

They had loads of land. You couldn’t even see any neighbours. As far as you could see, the land was flat, dry and dusty. It was pretty barren, except for the patches of grass that sprang up randomly.  There was a long dirt road not far from the house. On the rare occasions that a car passed, it would create a red dust storm that would trail behind it until it finally disappeared. There was constantly people walking in the road. As they passed, they would wave. It reminded me of Shelbyville, Tennessee, where my mom is originally comes from. When I was young, mom would take my brother and I there to visit my grandfather. He lived on this plantation-like farm, which had almost as much land as Martin’s family.There was also this long dirt road next to my grandfather’s house. Whenever I played next to the road, whoever drove or walked by greeted me with a smile and a wave. They were mostly people I had never seen before. You don’t do such things in New York City, so I always thought the people from Tennessee were a bit weird, until my mom explained, “That’s just southern hospitality!”

Across from Martin’s house and on the other side of the dirt road, there was all this tall brown grass. It was almost as tall as me and had been burnt crisp from the sun. I couldn’t see because of the high grass, but was told just beyond it, was a small shop that sold canned goods, cold drinks and cigarettes.
I wanted to explore more of the area but wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. All the people I’d come with were busy and I didn’t want to go out alone. So I stayed close to the house. There were loads of young children playing around the house. I found a stick and began drawing the face of a smiling girl in the dirt. Underneath I wrote, “Sawa Bona.” The children all circled around. We all started laughing. I thought of Martin’s daughters and wished I had had some sweets to offer them. I felt warm and humble inside. Somehow, this is more of what I’d pictured South Africa would be like.

Later that day, Martin and Jon returned and asked me to come with them to a nearby village. They were taking the lady with the bad leg to see the sangoma. Martin, Jon, the lady, her son, and I piled in the car and drove off. When we got there, it was a very isolated area. There were only two round huts with thatched roofing that pointed up in a triangular shape in the midst of that same flat, dry land. There were three women seated outside one of the huts cooking pap in an enormous pot on top of a blazing fire. Around them were four children playing with old tires and wire toys. Jon told me the women were the three wives of the sangoma and those were his children from the different wives. “WOW,” I thought, “a heterosexuals dream!” The women greeted us very warmly with smiles and chuckles. Martin got out of the car while the four of us remained inside. He went inside one of the huts.
Shortly after, the sangoma came out with Martin. Jon, the son and I got out of the car and greeted him. I can’t remember what he looked like. I only remember he and his wives were dressed in traditional South African clothing.
The sangoma went back into his hut. The son went to the car and lifted his mother from her seat. I only realised then that she was able to walk. Martin led the way as the son carried his mother into the sangoma’s hut.

Jon and I returned to the car. We left the doors open and relaxed in the shade of the car.After a few minutes, Martin came to the car and asked if I wanted to watch. I asked him what the sangoma was going to do. Martin said he was going to consult the ancestors to find out what the problem was. Then he would treat it with prayer and muti (medicine).

I was damn curious but I didn’t want to get involved. I was scared some spell might rub off on me. So I declined the offer to watch. Martin left us and returned to the hut. Jon and I got out of the car and sat under a tree a bit of a distance from the huts, the wives and the children. I started hearing chanting and some yelling coming from the sangoma’s hut. I became alarmed when the screams became louder. I wasn’t sure if they were from the lady or the sangoma. But Jon assured me that it was all very normal. I have to admit, it was a bit scary. I wasn’t scared for myself, just freaked out, because I really didn’t understand what the hell was going on.

While living with Martin, I had been warned to stay away from certain people, because they might put some “muti” spell on me.
My father was Jamaican, and his people were very superstitious. An aunt from my dad’s side would threaten to put a voodoo curse on me if I didn’t behave. She had this little red and green beaded pouch that she wore around her neck. That’s where she said she kept some of her voodoo supplies. Whenever she thought I was misbehaving, she’d look at me, then frown while nodding her head and then hold on to the little pouch around her neck. That used to scare the shit out of me! Whenever I was around her, I’d just sit there like a zombie, scared of doing something wrong and having some curse slapped on me by my dear auntie. I hated her.

With bad memories like that, until I understood more about sangomas and their practices, I was staying clear.  Obviously, the screams didn’t help. I just sat listening and watching the three wives prepare their meal.
The sangoma finished what he was doing in about 30 minutes, afterwhich, the son carried his mother back to the car. She looked exhausted. The sangoma came out a little later with some muti which he handed to the son. We said goodbye to everyone and headed back to the house. When we got back, the lady was carried to a room to rest.
The men all came out and started discussing plans for the evening. It was decided that we would go to the local shebeen. Martin left soon after to run some errands with the lady’s son. Jon and me just hung outside talking.

If you’ve ever seen the movie, “The Color Purple,” you have a vague idea of what it was like at Martin’s mom’s house. I’m actually referring to the scenes with all the children that were always running around Mr.’s house. It was pretty similar. At Martin’s mom’s house there were loads of barefoot kids running around. Their hair was all knotted and they were all dusty from playing in the dirt. There must’ve been seven or eight very small children and even more youths just hanging, sitting, talking or drinking beer around the house. I had no idea who all those kids belonged to, but they played all day long among themselves.

I recall this one girl. She must’ve been about six. She had open sores all over her legs and arms. She was playing with this dirty, platinum blond, doll. This doll was as tall as her. It was old and most of it’s hair was gone. The doll was so dirty that only its blue eyes were clear. It was creepy.  It had one missing leg and one missing arm. The little girl was trying to carry the doll on her back. She had the doll’s one arm around her neck trying to hold it, and the doll’s one leg around her waist.  She couldn’t balance it on her back and the doll kept dropping. She’d pick it up and try again. It would fall again and she would pick it up and try again. She did this for a long time, over and over again.

Everyone at the house entitled me to my own space. I liked that. Not many spoke English, so it was fine.
The only thing that I did not feel comfortable with was the outdoor toilets and the bath. The outdoor toilet was a shabby wooden enclosure with a deep hole in the earth. It was filled with piss and decaying shit. Whatever was rotting in that hole, had been doing it for years. The smell was horrific. There were flies, bees, spiders, ants and other insects that I had never seen before coming from that hole! It gave me an instant headache. The kind of headache that hits you right between the eyes! I pissed in it, but I was too scared to shit in it. I held in my shit for two days. When I did finally get back to Hillbrow, my shit had petrified. I felt like I was giving birth just trying to get those stones out of my system.

The bath wasn’t that bad, but it was uncomfortable. It was a small metal basin. You couldn’t sit in it. You had to stand in it and pour the water over you. After each person used it, it was cleaned and filled with water that had to be boiled. There was no hot water. All the water came from an outside pump. “no wonder everyone is so dusty,” I thought. Well, I didn’t feel the need to take this awkward bath, so I never did. I became dusty too. That wasn’t a problem for me. It was the lack of shitting that was hectic, especially with the loads of pap I was being fed.

When the night came, all the men loaded up in both cars and we drove to the shebeen they had spoken about earlier. The shebeen was actually someone’s garage that had been converted into a bar. It was big and in a nice open space. There were loads of people hanging outside. The local music, Kwaito, was pumping! People were getting down! We all got out of the car and joined the fun.

Inside, there were tables, loads of chairs, a pool table and a long table the back with the radio on it that served as the bar. The people inside were all pretty much dressed the same. They mostly wore checkerd shirts, never tucked in, baggy slacks or jeans, canvas sneakers and fisherman style hats. The look is known as the “pantsula” style. You see it all over South Africa, but there, it was the standard dress code.

I was drinking vodka which I had brought with me from Hillbrow. I was pretty drunk and enjoying the place thoroughly. I loved the atmosphere. The dress style was different, the music, the people, the venue, the dancing, everything was just so exciting and new.

I remember being a bit annoyed with Martin though. He kept introducing me to loads of people. I was just way too drunk for introductions. I just wanted to blend in,  talk shit and dance. I was in no frame of mind to have serious conversations about where I’m from or what I was doing in South Africa. I had to escape from Martin, so I snuck outside by myself. There was serious partying outside too! There were loads of people dancing around the shebeen and even in the road. Everyone looked nice and drunk. Jon found me and we shared some vodka together. We talked and laughed outside for awhile.

Later, when the heat was off, I went back inside with Jon. Luckily, Martin was no where in sight. Jon and I started dancing together. There weren’t many women there so a lot of men were dancing together. After the song, I sat down. Jon stood over me and took a sip from my drink, then he pulled me close to him, lips to lips, and pushed his drink from his mouth into mine. “WOW!” I loved it! It was so smooth and slick. It happened so fast that I hardly realised what was going on, much less anyone else. .This place was very, heterosexual and I loved Jon’s boldness. And besides, I’d had a crush on Jon since I moved in.
At that point, I immediately said, “Let’s go outside.” I didn’t wait for a response, I just got up and walked out. Jon followed me to an empty van that was parked some distance from the shebeen. There was no one around. I didn’t say any thing, I just started kissing him. Jon returned my kiss, but then he got nervous and stopped. He said we’d continue another time. I didn’t want to stop, but Jon convinced me that it was not the right place. When we got back to the shebeen, Jon and me kept very separate from each other. Martin found me again and said that he needed to talk to me. He led me outside. He told me that tonight was our night, and when we got back to the house, he was going to arrange that we slept in the same bed. He said that I could do anything that I wanted to him. I didn’t know what to say! But he didn’t wait for an answer, he slipped back into the shebeen. I was shocked that Martin would be so daring so close to home. Besides the people he lived with in Hillbrow, no one knew Martin was gay. He was basically in the closet.

I can’t remember the rest of my time at the shebeen. I just remember being very nervous on the drive back to the house. Martin and I had done our fair share of flirting, but whenever he came on too strong, I reminded him that his boyfriend Randy was a friend of mine. And since we all lived together in that flat, I wasn’t about to do anything. Martin always seemed to respect that. I also knew that there was a bit of resentment between Martin and Cecil. Martin told me himself, that Cecil was his first male lover, and he lost his wife and children because of their relationship. He was devastated when Cecil left to study in Amsterdam. Martin got so depressed that he got sick and even had to be hospitalised. I wasn’t sure if Martin was trying to use me to get back at Cecil…..besides, it was Jon that I wanted!

Luckily, when we got back, Martin had to go unexpectedly on a night vigil for someone who died. So again I shared the bed with the son. I was very relieved. As I was preparing for bed, Martin and some others were preparing candles and discussing the meeting place for the night vigil. The son told me that they would remain there until dawn, praying and talking about the recently deceased person.

The next morning, we had our eggs and bread breakfast and got ready to make the long journey back to Johannesburg. I said goodbye to Martin’s mom and his granny and the dozens of others that had come to bid us farewell. There was no tension between Jon, Martin or me. In fact, it was like nothing happened last night.

On the drive back, I slept most of the way, only waking when Jon or Martin would wake me to look at some beautiful scenery. They woke me once to look at all these trees. I thought they were palm trees, but they were actually banana trees. It was a banana farm that went on for miles. Thousands of banana trees clustered together, it was like the whole world had gone bananas!   

In all, I lived about a month with Martin, Jon, Paul and Randy. After we returned from Bush Backeridge, I stayed for another two weeks before I moved out.

This is a soap opera summary of my last two weeks:

I tried to get it on with Jon, but it never happened. Martin told Jon that he wanted me. Jon was scared that if Martin found out about us, Martin would kick him out. Jon and me kissed once or twice more, but his fear of Martin kept us apart. While I was still living there , Martin and Randy broke up. Since Jon didn’t want me, I gave Martin a blow job. Martin and Randy got back together, so Martin and I stopped fooling around. Then I met a guy from SOWETO and we became lovers. That’s when Jon decided he wanted me. So I broke off with the guy from SOWETO, so I could get it on with Jon. But Martin and Randy were breaking up again, so Jon feared that Martin would want me. Again, Jon became too nervous to get involved with me……Jon was just too indecisive for me, he was wasting my time.

While I was living in Martin’s flat, I ran into Sue. She told me that her and a friend were renting a house in Yeoville and they needed a third roommate and asked if I was interested. I said, “Great!” I never felt completely comfortable living in Hillbrow and the situation with Martin and Jon was getting extremely messy. So, in less than four days, I moved out of Martin’s flat and into my new house with Sue, Tina and her son. That’s when Sue and I became the best of friends. I lived with them for about four months until I fell in love with this guy named Sipho. We became lovers and I moved in with him and his other two roommates, Phindi and Moira, in their flat in Yeoville. I broke up with Sipho after two months and moved back in with Sue. Sue had moved out of the house and got her own flat in Yeoville, where she was living alone. I stayed with her for about two months until I moved into a house, in Yeoville, with two other girls, Nikki and Cindy. We got kicked out of the house after three months and had to find another flat……..the flat where I’m now living. I now live with Nikki and Charles.
Sounds confusing? I’ll explain all the in-betweens later……..

                                                                                JANUARY 16, 1998

This is a journal, maybe it’s a book. Maybe it’s one long letter.

This is an account of my time spent in Johannesburg, South Africa from 1996-1998. It is my perceptions and reactions to the places and people I have seen, my thoughts as I have lived them and felt them and now try to recall them…………….

EVERYTHING THAT HAS HAPPENED IN YOUR LIFE IN THE PAST BECOMES A MEMORY THAT IS RECALLED AND PRESERVED BY THOUGHT:

My mom died. I got married. I moved to Holland. I moved to South Africa.

IF YOU ADD DATES TO YOUR MEMORIES, YOU CAN ESTABLISH THE SEQUECE OF YOUR LIFE:

My mom died in 1991. I got married in 1992. I moved to Holland in 1993. I moved to South Africa in 1996.

IF YOU ADD DESCRIPTION AND REFLECTIONS TO YOUR MEMORIES, YOU HAVE THE STORY OF YOUR LIFE:

The turning point in my life was my mom’s death in 1991. I felt empty. I tried to fulfil that emptiness by getting married a year after she died. That wasn’t the answer. So, in 1993, I decided to fulfil my dreams of travel and move to Holland. The desire to explore new countries and cultures stayed with me. So, in 1993, I moved to South Africa.

But memories sometimes fade, then the sequences start to get jumbled. Sometimes I remember things that have happened but I can’t remember the order in which they happened.

That’s why I need to remember. I need to add dates to those memories. I need to reflect on them and describe them, so they don’t fade.

This Journal/Book/Letter is intended to preserve that memory. It is dedicated to myself and my friends and family, because on April 4, 1996, when I boarded that plane for South Africa, it was the last time that I saw any of my family and old friends. There are those that I have not even talked to since then. They’ve become a memory. This is to tell them, as well as remind myself, what I’ve been doing all this time, since I disappeared one day on a plane leaving for Johannesburg and not looking back.

I’m looking back now, trying to fill in the missing gaps, trying to make up for all those postcards I never wrote….and I had my reasons. Just putting that into words, I’ve thought of a title for this Journal/Book/Letter:

“POSTCARDS AND LETTERS FROM SOUTH AFRICA”

For those who knew me before I moved to South Africa, I know I’ve changed a lot. So much has happened since then. The language has changed. The climate has changed. The people have changed. Television and radio have changed. The food has changed. Life has changed. My dreams have changed.

LIFE IS WHAT GETS IN-BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR DREAMS.

I’m 30 years old. I’m a waiter in an urban shebeen called “One Drop.” I live and work in a loud, dangerous town called Yeoville. When I first moved here, I stayed with Simon. He estimated that Yeoville would turn as bad as Hillbrow in 10 years. I’ve been here for almost two years and I don’t think it will take that long. It gets worse everyday.

I live with two other people, Nikki, an English girl, and Charles, a South African. We live in a two bedroom flat.

The American dollars that I brought over with me, ran out about a year and a half ago. Since then, I’ve lived by the rand (South African currency). I make 600 rands ($100) a month as a waiter, not including tips, but black people don’t tip much here. I haven’t travelled much outside of my neighbourhood since I’ve been here. I mostly dress in T-shirts and jeans like most people. This is my life right now.

JANUARY 17, 1998

SOMETIMES, I wonder how I got here, but of course I know. I guess I mean how I ended up like this, but of course I know. I just can’t believe it sometimes. I just don’t feel like I’ve accomplished much, EXCEPT FOR THE ADVENTURE OF TRAVELLING! I was 25 when I moved to Amsterdam. I lived there for three years. At 28, I decided to move to Jo’burg. I never missed America until I moved here.

Right now, I’m sitting in my bedroom. I live in flat #2 Rocklyn Court, 10 Page Street, Yeoville, Johannesburg, 2198.

I’m writing at my desk, by my window. I don’t have much of a view. All I can see outside my window is this big fortress-like thing that surrounds my flat. I don’t know exactly what else to call it. It’s not quite a fence, not quite a gate either. It’s basically a tall cement wall with a door. Many of the homes and flats have it in Jo’burg. It’s as much a part of the landscape as the jacuranda and palm trees. It is also one of the things that I hate most. But in all honesty, you get used to it. Crime and fear is so out of control, that people feel forced to enclose themselves up in these fortresses. You don’t describe the colour of your house, you describe the colour of your fortress. I must say, I do feel better with it there. This is one crazy town, and I live on the ground floor of it!

When I was living in Amsterdam, one of the people I kept in touch with was Naaja, my best friend and university buddy from New York. She always used to think that my life was so exciting because I was living so far away. It had its moments, but it’s not like I joined the circus and weird and wonderful things happened all the time. I’d ask her, “So, what’s going on with you?” A lot of times, she’d just say, “Nothin’.”  “Naaja,” I’d say, “I haven’t talked to you in so long, how could nothin’ be going on?”
She’d say, “Oh you know, The same ol’ same ol’.” Most of the time, it was the same ol’ same ol’ for me too, the same shit in a different place. But just saying that won’t keep a conversation going.

Anyway, that’s why I thought instead of just selecting moments that have already happened and writing about them, I wanted to share the moment as it happens. Cause to me, the same ol’ same ol’ which happens to us everyday, is worth talking about. ……

So now, it’s 2 O` Clock on a Saturday afternoon on the seventeenth of January. I’m dead tired, so I look like shit! I haven’t shaved my hair in about a week. It’s long enough so that my balding hairline is obvious. Thank God I’m tall! These black South African men are so short, I can get away with it They can’t see on the top of my head. It’s these whites and coloureds that get tall here. But I don’t hang out with much of them anyway.

I’m going to make a couple of calls to some friends and make some party plans for tonight. I’m suppose to be going to a gay shebeen in the Alexandra township tonight. I’ve never hung out in Alexandra, and the thought of hanging out with some township stud is hot!
Even if I do meet some stud, I won’t be doing anything naughty. I’ve got a man. A damn good one. We’ve been seeing each other for about a month, (in gay terms, that’s well over a year!). I pride myself on my loyalty. I’ve never cheated on any of my boyfriends. In all honesty, I usually don’t stay with any of them long enough to cheat on them.. I feel it’s the best way. I simply get out before it comes to that. I made that decision after dating this guy from SOWETO. We were seeing each other for one week, when all of a sudden, Jon tells me he wants me. So I dumped my lover from SOWETO the same day in order to be with Jon. He was very hurt but he said at least I didn’t lie about my reasons or do anything behind his back, in that way at he could leave with some dignity. I liked that…..Leave, but leave them with some dignity. That bit of respect allowed us to continue being friends even after our break-up. 

BACK TO WHAT I’M DOING. I’m going to shave my head and then I’m going to take a nap. I need to get some strength for tonight. I’m still a bit fragile from Thursday night. After writing in my journal, I went clubbing at my regular hang-out, “58.” That place is soooo sleazy! You don’t walk into 58, you sssssslither into 58. Well, I got so drunk there on Thursday, I’m still a bit hung over two days later! I remember we started the evening a little earlier than usual. We started drinking at seven in the evening and kept on till five in the morning.  I usually try not to drink until 10 at night if it’s going to be a long night. I’ve already bought my bottle of vodka and it’s tucked safely away in the freezer until the clock strikes ten!

Before I take that nap, I must confirm my plans for tonight. I need to call my friend, Roberto. He’s my gay buddy. We hang out all the time, especially when gay activity is concerned. He’s arranging the plans for Alexandra tonight. I need to call him to make sure things are set…………

                                                                SAME DAY , 7:40 p.m.

I’ve taken that nap. I’ve shaven and showered. I’m all dressed up and I’ve got no place to go. I talked to Roberto about an hour ago and he told me that our plans got cancelled, or as he put it, “postponed.”

So I’ve been sitting here feeling sorry for myself. What a waste of a Saturday night, what a waste of vodka! I never drink alone. Both my roommates are out and I’ve got no one to hang out with. Before I started writing again, I smoked a big fat joint. At least I can do that alone…..sometimes that’s the best time! You can just be alone with your thoughts, like in the Silent Zone. I love being stoned. I grew into it while living in Holland. It’s legal there, so it’s access unlimited. The cool thing about it being legal there, is that it takes away the criminal element. It’s not a shady deal. In New York, I didn’t smoke so much, but my roommate at the time did.  Every now and then I’d go to score with him.  We’d have to go to this shady neighbourhood . The dealer lived in this run down house in Queens. There were always these creepy guys hanging around. You had to go through his drive-way to a small dark backyard in the back of his house. The whole house was dark except for this red light coming from the upstairs bedroom window. It was mixed with blue flickering light from the television. You had to knock twice on the wall of the house.  Then this little cup attached to a string would come down. You’d put your money in, the cup would go up, then come back down with your dope.

Holland was much more civilised. There you could order your weed at a coffee shop from a menu. And what choices to choose from! Some American tourists used to love being photographed while smoking a joint next to a Dutch police officer. In New York, I didn’t appreciate a good high. It always made me paranoid. I didn’t know how to relax with the feeling. I was also a bit of a glamour queen back then, and smoking made me feel dirty and greasy. Fortunately, I got over all that in Amsterdam. I had enough time and accessibility to get over all my initial problems with it……..Here’s how I did it:
The way to get over the paranoia, is to just smoke pass it…….keep smoking until you just couldn’t give a shit anymore (being in a safe enviroment helps).  Next, if you can’t relax, again you haven’t smoked enough! Try not being scared. Letting go helps. If you are a naturally self-conscious person, this stuff is not for you. You have to have a bit of  “who gives a fuck” attitude. That’s because you might say a silly thing or two, maybe talk too much or too little. You may even look a little different, but then again, do you really give a fuck? If the answer is yes, this stuff is not for you.

I don’t mean to go on about drugs like this. So why am I doing it? Because I’m stoned. And also because I said I was going to share the moment with you, and at the moment, this is what’s on my mind.

For the record, I’ve tried almost every drug. But for the last six years, the only drugs I do are alcohol and weed (we call it “dagga” here in South Africa). I’ve never been addicted to any drug. I’ve always tried to take precautions like doing some only once, like the time I smoked heroine. I wanted the experience not the addiction. Some experiences I don’t want. Like the time I was offered cocaine. I was told to snort it. I said, “ No thanks, I’m old fashioned when it comes to my drugs. I eat them, I drink them and I smoke them, that’s enough !” So I rolled it in a cigarette and smoked it instead.

Don’t you just love tangents! All kinds of nasty little secrets just pop up.

I could tear this page out. But why should I? When I’m writing I keep thinking I’m writing to a good friend, maybe the greatest friend I ever had,  someone I could tell anything to. And that doesn’t make me want to shut up. It makes me want to tell more. I'll write more tomorrow.

end of first three chapters