Remember that time when we were kids and they were constructing those new apartment homes just outside our subdivision? They had the dirt lots all nicely packed and staggered, like a gentle sloping dirt staircase up to the foothills. And we would hide behind the one single-family home sized dirt pile and chuck solid chunks of dirt at on-coming cars. Remember that? And remember the softer pile of dirt colored poo we left in our drawers when we heard the screeching sound of an automobile anti-lock breaking system for the first time? Remember that fear and anxiety lurking in our loins?
That’s what it’s like to sit at a stop light in Johannesburg at night.
A dichotomy of all things polar, and bi, Joburg has left me with an apprehensive and unsettling aura marinated in the protective and hospitable grips of my local colleagues, not unlike the welcoming feeling of Australians and the personally catered hospitality of Japan. It’s like knowing I’m going to get stabbed in the neck or chest plate, but when I get home, there’ll be a freshly drawn bubble bath flanked with scented candles and an ice cold Hansa Pils resting under a dimly lit yet freakishly large Makiwa Mutomba piece.
Sitting there. Staring. Staring at my disproportionate, bubbly genitalia.
To put your mind at ease, take comfort knowing that when you park your car, there’s security patrolling the lot whilst you eat. I use the term, ‘whilst,’ because Rue is still learning the proper North American usage of the word, 'whilst.' I like security. They even wear brightly colored traffic vests. Which is necessary for the Zimbabwean at night. But when you emerge from your 250g Filet-submerged-in-chalet-and-black-peppercorn-cream-sauce drowned in a classy, expressively firm and well defined Stellenbosch to find your car stolen, take comfort in that, “Hey, they had a gun,” comments are better then tipping them as you drive off only to watch them throw the change on the ground. It ain’t so bad if you understand and accept the fact that it was security who called their buddies in the first place to come steal your car.
Fu*k that was a good steak.
That’s what it’s like to sit at a stop light in Johannesburg at night.
A dichotomy of all things polar, and bi, Joburg has left me with an apprehensive and unsettling aura marinated in the protective and hospitable grips of my local colleagues, not unlike the welcoming feeling of Australians and the personally catered hospitality of Japan. It’s like knowing I’m going to get stabbed in the neck or chest plate, but when I get home, there’ll be a freshly drawn bubble bath flanked with scented candles and an ice cold Hansa Pils resting under a dimly lit yet freakishly large Makiwa Mutomba piece.
Sitting there. Staring. Staring at my disproportionate, bubbly genitalia.
To put your mind at ease, take comfort knowing that when you park your car, there’s security patrolling the lot whilst you eat. I use the term, ‘whilst,’ because Rue is still learning the proper North American usage of the word, 'whilst.' I like security. They even wear brightly colored traffic vests. Which is necessary for the Zimbabwean at night. But when you emerge from your 250g Filet-submerged-in-chalet-and-black-peppercorn-cream-sauce drowned in a classy, expressively firm and well defined Stellenbosch to find your car stolen, take comfort in that, “Hey, they had a gun,” comments are better then tipping them as you drive off only to watch them throw the change on the ground. It ain’t so bad if you understand and accept the fact that it was security who called their buddies in the first place to come steal your car.
Fu*k that was a good steak.
