Open letter by Pete Davies
Dear World Cup visitors,
Now that you are safely in our country you are no doubt happily realising you are not in a war zone. This may be in stark contrast to what you have been bracing yourself for should you have listened to Uli Hoeness or are an avid reader of English tabloids, which as we all know are only good for wrapping fish ‘n chips and advancing the careers of large-chested teens on page three.
As you emerge blinking from your luxury hotel room into our big blue winter skies, you will surely realise you are far more likely to be killed by kindness than by a stray bullet. Remember that most of the media reports you have read, which have informed your views on South Africa, will have been penned by your colleagues. And you know what journos are like, what with their earnest two thousand word opuses on the op-ed pages designed to fix this country’s ills in a heartbeat. Based on exhaustive research over a three-day visit.
Funnily enough, we are well aware of the challenges we face as a nation and you will find that 95% of the population is singing from the same song-sheet in order to ensure we can live up to our own exacting expectations.
We are also here to look after you and show you a good time. Prepare to have your preconceived notions well and truly shattered.
For instance, you will find precious few rhinos loitering on street corners, we don’t know a guy in Cairo named Dave just because we live in Johannesburg, and our stadiums are magnificent, world-class works of art.
Which is obviously news to the Sky TV sports anchor who this week remarked that Soccer City looked ‘ a bit of a mess’. She didn’t realize the gaps in the calabash exterior are to allow in natural light and for illumination at night, and not the result of vandalism or negligence.
The fact that England, the nation which safely delivered Wembley Stadium two years past its due date, is prepared to offer us South Africans advice on stadium-readiness should not be surprising. The steadiest stream of World Cup misinformation has emanated from our mates the Brits over the past couple of years.
If it’s not man-eating snakes lurking in Rooney’s closet at the team’s (allegedly half-built) Royal Bafokeng training base, then it’s machete-wielding gangs roaming the suburbs in search of tattooed, overweight Dagenham dole-queuers to ransack and leave gurgling on the pavement.
In fact what you are entering is the world’s most fascinating country, in my opinion. I’m pretty sure you will find that it functions far more smoothly, is heaps more friendly and offers plenty more diversions than you could possibly have imagined.
In addition to which, the population actually acts like human beings, and not like they are being controlled by sinister forces from above which turns them into bureaucratically-manipulated robots.
Plus we have world’s most beautiful women. The best weather. Eight channels of SuperSport. Food and wine from the gods themselves. Wildlife galore. (Love the Dutch team’s bus slogan: “Don’t fear the Big 5; fear the Orange 11”).
Having said all that, Jo’burg is undoubtedly one of the world’s most dangerous cities. Just ask those Taiwanese tourists who got out of their hire car to take close-up snaps of tawny beasts at the Lion Park a few years back. Actually, ask what’s left of them. And did you know the chances of being felled by cardiac arrest from devouring a mountain of meat at one of our world class restaurants has been statistically proven to be 33.3% higher in Jozi than in any other major urban centre not built upon a significant waterway? It’s true. I swear. I read it in a British tabloid.
Having recently spent two years comfortably cocooned in small town America, I’m only too aware of how little much of the outside world knows about this country. The American channel I used to work for has a massive battalion of employees descending on World Cup country. It has also apparently issued a recommendation to its staff to stay in their hotels when not working.
Given that said corporation is headquartered in a small town which many say is “best viewed through the rear-view mirror”, I find the recommendation, if it’s true, to be utterly astounding. In fact I don’t believe it is true. Contrary to the global stereotype, the best Americans are some of the sharpest people in the world. The fact they have bought most tickets in this World Cup proves the point.
Of course I have only lived in Johannesburg, city of terror and dread, virtually all my life, so don’t have the in-depth knowledge of say, an English broadsheet journalist who has been in the country for the weekend, but nevertheless I will share some of my observations gleaned over the years.
Any foreign tourist or media representative who is worried about his safety in South Africa should have a word with the Lions rugby fans from last year, or the Barmy Army cricket supporters (lilywhite hecklers by day, slurring, lager-fuelled lobsters by night). They managed just fine, just like the hundreds of thousands of fans who have streamed into the country over the past fifteen years for various World Cups, Super 14 matches, TriNations tests and other international events. Negligible crime incidents involving said fans over said period of time.
Trivia question: which country has hosted the most global sporting events over the past decade and a half? You don’t need me to answer that, do you?
In addition. Don’t fret when you see a gaggle of freelance salesmen converge on your car at the traffic lights (or robots as we like to call them) festooned with products. You are not about to be hijacked. Here in Mzansi (nickname for SA) we do a lot of our purchasing at robots. Here you can stock up on flags, coat hangers, batteries, roses for the wife you forgot to kiss goodbye this morning and a whole host of useful merchandise.
Similarly, that guy who runs up as you park the rental car outside the pub intends no malice. He’s your car guard. Give him a buck or two and your vehicle will be safe while you refuel for hours on our cheap, splendid beer. Unless someone breaks into it, of course.
We drive on the left in this country. Exercise caution when crossing the road at a jog-trot with 15 kilograms of camera gear on your back. Exercise common sense full stop. Nothing more. Nothing less. If you want to leave wads of cash in your hotel room like our Colombian friends, don’t be surprised if it grows wings.
Bottomline. Get out there and breathe in great lusty lungfuls of this amazing nation. Tuck into our world-class food and wines. Disprove the adage that white men can’t dance at our throbbing, vibrant night-clubs. Learn to say hello in all eleven official languages. Watch at least one game in a township. You will not be robbed and shot. You will be welcomed like a lost family member and looked after as if you are royalty. Ask those Bulls rugby fans who journeyed to Soweto recently.
With a dollop of the right attitude, this country will change your life.
It’s Africa’s time. Vacate your hotel room. Join the party.
Waka waka eh eh
By Peter Davies
AND
From mom to daughter on her 1st birthday
Dear Marlo,
Today you turn one year old. In dooce terms, that's twelve months. Years from now when you and your sister look back on what I've written here and you realize that I wrote a lot more about her first year than I did about yours, I kindly ask that you forgive me. It is, after all, completely your fault. You require a lot of time and work, more than I could have planned for, and to make it up to you I promise to buy you an occasional piece of clothing that hasn't already been worn by your sister. Like, for Christmas.
That's the thing, though. Leta didn't have a big sister that first year, and you do. And what an incredible thing she is for you to have. Your father and I are important, yes, but your big sister is everything to you. She is who you want to see first in the morning, and while I am in the other room preparing a bottle I always wait for your squeal when Dad turns on the light in your bedroom and you see Leta in the doorway. You sound exactly like a pig being gutted alive by a flock of mangy vultures. Totally adorable.
You call her GeeGah. Yes, that's right. You're already starting to form words. You can say Mama, and Dada, and Coco, and DUCK! for Chuck. You also refer to my niece Mariah as Riah. Your gift for repeating sounds is uncanny, actually, although I still haven't been able to get you to refer to my assistant as Tyrant. That's a difficult, one, I know. But we're working on it. He doesn't have any kids, doesn't want any, and he asked me the other day why your hair is so scraggly. Couldn't we put some gel in it, or something? CAN YOU EVEN BELIEVE THE NERVE.
I told him right then that his next assignment was to change your poopy diaper. The one that had come out of the sides of your pants and was now dripping on the floor. His response was to faint and hit his head on the wall. Good thing he has insurance!
I've written about this before, but we are not used to having such an active child. You are crawling all over the place now. Speeding in and out of rooms, up and over every obstacle in your way. Climbing up onto the couch by yourself. You are a human wrecking ball and hit your head on everything. That's part of the soundtrack to our lives these days, the thud of your head on the floor or some other hard surface. I'm always quick to run and make sure you're okay, but your father tells me to chill out, you need to learn the physics of your head. And I'm like, but what if in that process she suffers brain damage? And he's all, well then we'll know she's a slow learner!
Other than some brief, almost unbearably whiny periods when your two bottom teeth were coming in and you were learning how to crawl, you have been pretty much the most delightful baby on the planet. At times, I can hardly stand it because you're generally just so happy about being alive. And that mood is contagious. I dare anyone to spend an hour around you without walking away singing a show tune and skipping like bow-tied buffoon. Your giant blue eyes, your miles-deep dimples, a smile so vibrant that it swallows all the light in the room. Along with electrical cords, dog toys, rocks, and your favorite, shoes. Yummy, yummy dirt-encrusted, feet-smelly shoes.
"What does she have in her mouth?"
"My shoe."
"Why are you not stopping her?"
"Antibodies!"
Tell you what, in preschool if some kid drags in a disease on his shoe, you're going to be the only kid who doesn't get sick.
It was a year ago that I was walking around all day thinking I had a chronic case of gas when really I was in labor with you. And then finally when I'd had enough I idiotically took that sleeping pill, and BOOM! Less than three hours later you popped out, and everyone in the room gasped at your size. That whole thing was in there?! And then they laid you on my chest and the first thing I remember thinking was, AWESOME! NO MORE PAIN! And then, wait a minute. I don't have dimples, and neither does Jon! I gave birth to the wrong baby!
Turns out your father's sisters do, so we decided to keep you.
You were never a crier, didn't ever shed a single tear until you became mobile. And now, oh my, the tears. The deadly silence before the wailing. Because you hit your head again, or you're stuck, or we won't let you chew on the dog's tail. And boy, do you play it up. Like every incident is the end of the world. And when I pick you up to comfort you, you snuggle in, rest your head on my shoulder and heave a sigh so heavy as if to say, "Guys, I know that what just happened was a tragedy for all of us, but I've decided I can move on."
Marlo, there could not have been a more perfect addition to our family, and with you we are complete. Yes, it was a circus before, but now the music is louder and the tricks are even more death-defying. You are pure joy, a bundle of electrifying awesomeness that just keeps getting better. Like, just last week I discovered that you like bananas, and every morning when I cut one up to put in my cereal, I leave several bites for you. And while I eat my breakfast, I feed you tiny bites of banana, and you smile like a total goofball each time you see a piece coming. Like, I'm a momma monkey feeding her wacky baby monkey. I looked up at Jon while you were humming on a piece and said, "I never knew this, but this right here is everything I wanted in life."
He rolled his eyes appropriately.
To celebrate your first year your father and I have set up a little slide show of photos set to the song "Elevator Love Letter" by a group called Stars. It has nothing to do with babies or children or even family in general, but it was the song your father and I were listening to on the way to the hospital when I was about to give birth to your sister. For months after she came into our lives and changed it forever I couldn't listen to this song without crying, because life had become so complicated and confusing. And this song reminded me of what life was like before then. What life was like when I wasn't a mother.
It's been six and a half years since then, and now I've got two beautiful girls. And instead of feeling confused, I feel at home. So blessed. So complete. So right where I'm supposed to be. This song now reminds me of the journey I took to get here.
Happy birthday, Lil Donette Butternut!
Love,
Mama
Marlo turns one from dooce on Vimeo.
----
No comments:
Post a Comment