a new face

My last post caused a surprising degree of tension among friends and family alike. Many were offended by my wording, that I was "finally" proud to be American, and that I was ashamed to be identified as one before Obama was elected as our next president. Even for those of us who travel occasionally out of the country, many of us can often miss the blatant disgust many in the world feel towards our country, misinterpreting it for snobbery or aloofness. It is often neither. Rather, this dislike stems from a perceived snobbery and aloofness on our part.

It has been difficult to convey these perceptions to my critics. But the point of my argument was illuminated in a conversation with a woman yesterday. She congratulated me on our new president, and we began to talk about the shifts that this election would bring. In the interest of not misquoting her, I will not quote her entire sentences. However, my new acquaintance said that before the election, to say one was "American" was like a "germ," that everyone would want to avoid you. Furthermore, she said that she "couldn't help it," that "whenever I see an American I see Bush." We are a direct reflection of our leadership. It is the beauty and the bitterness of democracy.

That afternoon, I also saw on a magazine cover a picture of Obama and the future first family, with the headline, "The New Mandela." Mandela was South Africa's Moses, the saviour of the downtrodden and the hopeless nation. He was also a symbol of South Africa's re-entry into the world after years of embargoes and international isolation. We must be critical of turning Obama into an untouchable, mythical figure, but the comparison is intriguing. It is our time to reconstruct the identity of our nation and re-enter the world.

I have been relatively successful in deconstructing our negative stereotype and shifting my non-American friends' perceptions of our country, but ideally, I would prefer to not wear the mask of the enemy at all. Is it possible for us to have a positive stereotype? And what would that stereotype look like?

"The Obama Dividend"

In his New York Times op-ed today, Nicholas Kristof, a two-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize for journalism, makes note of my contribution to his blog (and my most recent blog post). I am trying to contain my excitement. Enjoy.

you say you want a revolution

I watched the election results pour in tonight from a bar in Cape Town, South Africa. It is clear that the energy and electricity of our country and the significance of this election has vibrated across the world, and for the first time in recent memory, I can shout in the streets that I am American and be proud of the progress, hope, and color that now defines us. For too long, “American” has been a dirty word, and I have been ashamed to hang an American flag, to wear red, white and blue, or to tell anyone that I come from the country that has inflicted so much pain and destruction on the world.

But this morning, as my friends and I left the bar where we were watching CNN and walked along the bustling main road, all South Africans shared our joy and screamed out windows, honked horns, waved and showed huge smiles. We are not alone in our struggle any longer. We have rejoined the world. And I couldn’t be happier.

See Nicholas Kristof's NYT blog, "On the Ground," for my contribution.

down the rabbit hole

"The air is on fire,” she said. Her heavy Norwegian accent permeated her words, rippling like birdsong in her speech like the heat that rippled on the skin of the desert engulfing us. We were on the longest road in South Africa without anything on it; no villages, no electric poles, no cell phone reception, and no sound save the sound of our tires scraping the dust road and the whipping of the wind as the car cut through the void. Mountains merged in the distance, unreachable and unmovable, and valleys of sharp black rock and yellow and violet wisps of flowers looped in and around us. The sun was insurmountable, hot and heavy and a sandy yellow. We were driving deeper into the heart of the Great Karoo, no-man’s land, middle of nowhere, down the rabbit hole and into a vortex of surreal experience, radical expression, dreamscape. We were driving to Afrika Burns.

Tankwa Town, a village that sprouts out of the ground for only a week once a year, composed of hippies, drummers, potheads, painters, bakers, dj’s, bar tenders, dancers, and everyone 

in between, is a five hour drive northwest of Cape Town. We took the N1 through harsh violet mountains and tunnels and vineyards and fruit orchards, through Ceres and beyond, taking an off-road, R355, to lead us onward. We hit a sharp rock on the homestretch, busted a tire, and we danced like flower children in the heat of the oncoming summer as Alex changed the tire. We kept driving, took another off-road into a private nature reserve called “Stonehenge,” and landed in the middle of Tankwa Town, our new home for the next two days. We set up camp as the sun began to set and the sky glowed yellow and rose.

The hyper-reality and bizarreness of the first night at this massive radical art festival in the middle of the South African desert threw me off the ground and into a strange, dislocated place. The village was set up in a massive ring, with people setting up tents in different camps. In the middle of the ring was a large, white dome called “The Wish” and the Man, a derivative of the Burning Man in Nevada with a Khoisan twist; the design originated from a San cave painting of multiple people merged into one figure, a symbol of communal experience. He/She/They would be lit on fire Saturday night. But Friday night, we hopped from camp to camp where tents were lit with lights and held bars (Afrika Burns is a gifting community, so everything, EVERYTHING, was free: booze, roti, chai, bread, drugs, fruit, jewelry, postcards, et cetera), trance music, rock music, creative seating, and vibrant dancing people.  I kicked off my shoes and danced in the dust, and the wind picked up and sent yellow and red flags shooting out straight.  Fires burned.  The music was like a carnival, people were dressed for the circus, and the stars pulsed.  When the lemon pie moon floated on the horizon and bounced higher, it illuminated the world with a blue white glow, and we no longer needed our flashlights or torches or hesitant footing to guide us across the desert plain, littered with shrubs and thorns.  We walked confidently across the emptiness.

I woke up Saturday morning when my body became too hot to sleep any longer.  The sun rose fast, and the heat rose faster.  We ate muesli with soya milk, banana, and strawberry jam, and whole wheat bread spread with lime green avo.   And then we ventured out across the camp to explore the art installations and the generosity that our neighbours were releasing to us.  We painted our bodies inside the Wish, 

and I played with the light and the lens. We checked in our egos as the Ego Booth, and emerged from the "Ego Tunnel" with paint marked on our faces like warriors. We were welcomed into tents offering freshly baked bread (they had constructed their own oven) with honey and butter, cool aloe and honeybush tea in shallow white bowls, and small glasses of ginger chai. Children biked by wearing pink wigs and with streamers flapping behind them, calling out, "Marshmallows! Marshmallows!" and handed us a skewer with a line of pink marshmallows stacked on one another. When it became too hot to bear it any longer, we retreated to our camp and had pasta salad with pesto, tomato, chickpeas, and avo. Our tent was sweltering, though, and I knew I could not stay inside all afternoon. I grabbed my book (Salman Rushide's The Satanic Verses) and found the chai tent. I collapsed on their pillows and slept away the heat of the afternoon. When I awoke, they offered me crackers with mussels and tabasco sauce and red wine, and then I returned to my tent as the afternoon began to cool.

The sun began to set and the sound of drums began to rise. I walked over to the drum circle and my friend Sam offered me his djembe. We played for a long time. I could say an hour, I could say 15 minutes. We had no clocks, no watches, no conception of time save the sun and shadows it cast. My hands and arms ached all night afterwards, but it was the most beautiful measure of pain. I returned again to the chai tent where they fed me more chai and vegetable roti, and I returned to our tent to pass out in the cool, dark night with Miriam, who had been feeling unwell. I slept through the music vibrating across the plain and woke to find the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. We did not know how, but far off in the distance, yellow stars were slowly curving into the sky to join the white ones that were burning billions of lightyears away billions of years ago. And they did not extinguish. They created their own constellation of golden luminosity in the black sky.
I woke Miriam and we were silent in awe. We joined hands and started walking in the direction of the stars, caught in rapture at their beauty and curious to break their mystery. When we were only a few hundred metres away, the Man was lit. We kept holding each other's hands and raced towards the Burning Man, closer to the screaming and cheering and dancing. And then we watched all the extremities, the hands and legs and heart and heads scald off the figure, crackle and smoke up. The core, the centre beam, burned for hours. The soul was the last to go.

Lily and I decided earlier to write down our fears and burn them in the fire. She ran up to me once Miriam and I arrived, face flushed and glowing. "Did you burn your fear?" she shouted.

"I lost it!"

"What do you mean you lost it? Find something else to replace it, quick." I ripped a thorny branch out of the earth. We ran screaming at the fire and threw it in, and Lily shouted, "THAT WAS HER FUCKING FEAR!!!"

Miriam and I sat for a long time looking at the roaring fire, watching naked people dancing off in the distant field and dressed in only painted hearts and fairy wings, and stoned people dancing like wild leaves, and sober people sitting and standing and watching the flames, just like us. After we'd filled our eyes and ears and hearts, we danced. And danced. And we kept dancing all night long until the moon rose and long after.

waiting

Thabo Mbeki resigned his leadership of the dominant ANC (African National Congress) party and his presidency of South Africa on 21 September. Ehud Olmert resigned his leadership of Kadima and his position as Prime Minister of Israel the same day. Many of us in South Africa hoped President Bush would follow suit, but I guess you can't ask for everything.

We can wait. The world has been sitting on its hands for the last eight years, willing the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to end and oil prices to fall and jobs to reappear and for Americans to get a clue. The spiral keeps tunneling deeper. But if we can learn anything from Africans, it is the refined art of waiting. And I am not only talking about how Africans will stand in a grocery queue for twenty minutes waiting for check out, or sit on the curb for an hour with the rain pelting their head waiting for the bus, or sit in their market stall in silence for an entire day waiting for one customer to glance at wooden elephant statues on display. I am also talking about how Africans will forgive, almost to a fault, everything that has been inflicted upon them, and continue to wait for an improvement in circumstances that may never come. They wait in Khayelitscha and wait for the day their children will live somewhere other than a corrugated tin and wood plank shack that floods during the winter and spring, and they wait for they day when a black woman's ambitions will soar higher than the position of a cleaner. But many black South Africans, at least those with whom I am friends and with whom I have shared conversations, do not seek revenge on the roots of the problem, on apartheid and white Western exploitation. Revenge does not solve anything. They forgive and they progress when they can and wait when they cannot.

And so our country too, the United States, is learning to sit for hours in the rain, waiting for it to evaporate off our skulls and constricted chests. We are not waiting alone, though. That hope and waiting is shared by the world, and especially by Africans. Calm, silhouetted images of Barack Obama are tattooed on street signs, on garbage cans, and on walls. His myth and his symbols stretch out in a network around America. I do not believe in myths; I am too jaded and realistic for that. But I believe in policy, both hard political and economic plans and strategies and soft cultural permeations. The latter is already making headway domestically and globally through visuals and discourse, and the significance and applicability of the former is becoming all too relevant in the last few weeks alone in America. So we can wait. And we can forgive. And we will eventually move forward.