Oh, How I Wish It Wouldn't Rain!

DAY TWO

It's really hard for me to explain my love affair with Soweto. Maybe it's the warmth of the people--so genuine and so unaffected by what's going on in the outside world. Maybe it's because even though there's a very distinct line between the haves and the haves not, they all seem to get along.

Mostly, I suspect it's because of Soweto's history. It served as the launching pad for many of the uprisings against apartheid in the '70s. In some ways I wish I could have seen it then as I'm sure it was an extremely different vibe. Thankfully, however, there are inspirational reminders of this city's horrid past.

One of the most poignant ones is the Hector Pieterson Museum. Pieterson was only 13 when he became the youngest casualty of the 1976 Soweto uprising. There's an iconic photo of Mbuyisa Makhubo, 18, carrying his Pieterson's bloody body away from the melee along with Hector's older sister Antionette. He subsequently hopped into a car and rushed Pieterson to the nearest hospital. No one really knows what became of the driver or what happened to Makhubo as both were consistently harassed by police following the incident. Some say Makhubo escaped to Liberia, others claim that he was killed before he could get away. Antionette, however, is still alive and works in the museum honoring her brother's memory.

It's really sobering once you realize that this was something that happened in your lifetime. The levels of hatred and violence back in the day are truly perplexing. But as the South Africans say: One must forgive but never forget.

Across the street from the HPM are vendors selling everything from handmade carvings to jewelry. With the exception of the batiks, this merchandise is not what you would call high quality. I think some of it might even be made in Taiwan! The other downside is that the vendors will harass you a bit, but you feel compelled to spend a rand or two because these are just men, women and children trying to make an honest living.

Hopefully, they used some of the funds I spent toward a good dinner. I bought a dashiki--just because i liked the colors; a batik for my friend's kids' room; one of those crazy horns left over from the World Cup; and two homemade patchwork hangings.

I would have bought more but because I only came armed with R300, which is roughly $50, I was out of cash by the time I spotted these fabric wall hangings made by the vendor's grandmother.

My friend Judy was with me and just raved about them. I, actually, hadn't noticed them until she said something but then had to have them. There was no ATM close by and Judy had no money. Friend that she is, however, she somehow found it through other sources.

Together, we jocked the vendor down from R600 to R400. Shortly afterward I saw another tourist hand the same vendor US dollars. So, after brief negotiations, I was able to buy another one for $45. Happy birthday mom.

Soweto wasn't my only stop of the day. I also went by Nelson Mandela's home, his foundation and the museum containing some of his personal effects. There I spent a great deal of time in the street watching boys play soccer with a ball that looked as though it should have been retired 10 years ago; snapped some shots of a street performer and was embarrassed that I was out of both currencies when he passed his hat to me; and engaged in some conversations with school kids who wanted me to take their picture.

And then came the rains--again. The day had started off with a downpour but we were very blessed that the rains stopped long enough for us to explore our destinations with no need of an umbrella. Lunch was the second best part of the day. We stopped at a place called Vikali Grill. It was buffet and very, very tasty--especially with a glass of pinotage.

By 3 p.m. I was back at the hotel, desperately needing a nap before meeting up with friends for dinner at Bukhara, a fabulous Indian restaurant in the Mandela Square mall adjacent to the hotel. There I met up with Arlene, a beautiful woman with a gracious spirit whom I had met nearly two years ago in Cape Town. We were joined by Judy, her son and his girlfriend, and a jazz writer from Toronto.

Good times. The skies are clear again.

Say, What's the Word? Johannesburg!

The flight from Los Angeles to Johannesburg, South Africa is not an easy one, but it's always pleasant for several reasons. One, i always fly South African Airways and the service is impeccable. Two, I love Africa and just the thought of returning there and engaging with all the wonderful people trumps the pesky child in business class who spent much of our 15-hour flight crying.

This time Im here for the Cape Town Jazz Festival. I'll get an opportunity to shoot and interview some top jazz musicians, do a little safari, visit Soweto (which is one of my favorite places on the planet), eat some great food--particularly the curry (Indian) at Bukhara in Mandela Square and just mix it up with the people.

DAY ONE

I am exhausted. Didn't sleep much on the plane--despite the comforts of business class. The Joburg airport is much different from what it was when I last here, just before the World Cup. It's bigger, sleeker and even more user-friendly. After clearing customs I'm greeted by Joe of JMT tours. He's been my driver ever since I started coming here nearly four years ago. Joe is terrific not only because he knows so much about Joburg, but because he is so passionate about his work.

When we arrive at the Sandton Sun, in Joburg's swanky financial district, I heard those dreaded words: "I'm sorry Ms. Turner your room isn't quite ready yet." That was a blessing and a curse. a blessing, because it gave me an opportunity to engage in some great conversation with strangers; a curse, for the obvious reasons.

Yet, when my room was ready less than an hour later, I could not sleep! Oy! I got only about an hour of sleep before boarding a bus to visit a cultural village north of the city. Part of it was because I needed to catch up on emails after not having access to the Internet for nearly a full day; and I got caught up in CNN's coverage of the tragedy in Japan. Today's news, 8,100 dead.

And then there's the drama in Libya.

The ride to Lesidi took nearly as long as the flight. It appears that Joburg's rush hour begins around 3 p.m. on Friday afternoons. And, it didn't help that several of the traffic signals along the two-lane route to the village were not functioning and that it was raining. I took a rather blurry shot of a rainbow, the first one I had seen in a long, long time.

At Lesidi we were greeted by this darling little boy and a Zulu chief, who gave us a crash course in Zulu and other tribal customs. Mostly what I remember is that women don't have too many rights in that culture! Then we watched the dancers and feasted on traditional fare before heading back to the hotel. I fell asleep just seconds after putting the "do not disturb" sign outside the door.




Next up: Soweto.

sunrise
sunset

some mornings you wake up, taking it for granted that you did.

and, even though i know better after 15 consecutive years of sunday school and countless fire-and-brimstone sermons, i go to bed at night fully expecting that i'll live to see another day and seldom feel thankful that i did.

and on those all too rare occasions when i do remember to thank god for allowing me to see another sunrise, i often think about putting a big "thank you" sign above the bookcase in front of my bed to remind me for the times i forget to do so.

but i keep forgetting to do that, too.

this morning i got up and learned via e-mail that one of my dear friends had lost the youngest of her two kids. he had died in his sleep the day before. i couldn't help but wonder if he had taken it for granted that he would wake up saturday morning. if not, perhaps he should have. at 19, zachary was supposed to have a gazillion more mornings to express his gratitude for the blessing of opened eyes.

that's just the way it's supposed to be.

as the news of zachary's passing began reaching my former college classmates, my initial sadness was magnified by the reactions of the mothers whose children did wake up on sunday morning. they say there is no greater pain than losing a child and each and every one of them felt our friend's pain because they were all wondering: what if?

it's one thing to lose a child from natural causes or in some sort of tragic accident. it's quite another thing when a seemingly healthy child just never wakes up.

as the day progressed there were more reminders that nothing is guaranteed. my annual sunday morning pilgrimage to the larchmont farmer's market was a bust as there was some sort of street fair in its place. that proved to be a good thing though. it forced me to explore other options and while doing so, i began thinking about what a strange season this has been.

several of my once happily married friends are no longer happy or married and the ones that are still together are so not happy. michigan state is undefeated. medications have way too many side effects and are making the sick sicker. mrs. cleaver and mr. cunningham, tv's two paragons of virtue, passed within a week of each other. babies are dying of cholera in haiti. i didn't get invited to the company party. and people are still losing their jobs, homes and self-esteem even though the government tell us that the economy is bouncing back.

and now there is one less manchild roaming the planet.

it all kind of plays out like a marvin gaye song from the '70s. had his daddy not murdered him on april fool's day 16 years ago, the legendary crooner would probably have closed his eyes that night, stepped into the light the following morning and evolved into a legitimate modern-day prophet writing lyrics that would subsequently instruct us how to navigate these challenging times.

mercy, mercy me.

i could go on. there are myriad examples of things that have gone awry in this wild, wacky and sometimes wonderful season. but right now, there's no time to compile such a list.

i've got some work to do.

i gotta go make myself a sign.

thanks zach for the reminder.

peace.

i've written a letter to daddy

dear dad,

it seems odd that this is the first ever father's day letter i've written you and you're not around to even read it. hopefully, however, you can feel it. i'm starting to feel your presence more and more each day and that's been quite comforting as i face the anniversaries.

my first father's day without an earthly father.

your first birthday celebration in heaven.

and the anniversary of your passing.

sometimes it seems very surreal. but you'll be happy to know that i have good friends who have helped me get through the rough spots. and, that i'm doing ok. i have a job that i actually like--most days--and i'm focusing more on my passions, which i think would make you happy.

also, i'm thinking about getting a puppy! what kind do you think i should get? yeah, i know, i'm always gone, but you know me, i'm very resourceful!

well, i didn't want much. i suppose you're trying to get some rest so you can get up and watch the final round of the u.s. open. hopefully john h., cephus and mr. white are keeping you company. and i hope you're not losing all of your money to mr. jenkins playing cards. :-)

happy father's day. i think i'm about to do some things you'd be proud of. love you. miss you much. i'll write again soon. promise!

sunset at chelsea pier, new york, ny, may 14, 2010

some people celebrate their birthdays once a year,
while others celebrate their re-births every day.
some folks think age ages them,
while others prefer to contemplate the essence of time.
some people blow out their candles and make a wish,
while others are content to let their little lights shine.
some people look forward to unwrapping presents in pretty paper,
while others realize that the best gifts will never come in a box.

gifts like these 85 personally selected words.

happy birthday today and always.

mom, arnie, cousin marg back in the day!

eulogy for arnie

it's funny how that old african resolve always get you through the rough spots.

whenever i'm on the continent that's the one thing i'm always drawn to. it comforts me when i see despair. it strengthens me when when i feel as though i can't take another step. it inspires me when i see a half-naked child living in a one-room shanty smile at me as if jesus were standing behind me with a winning lotto ticket.

i'm searching for that resolve today as i prepare to send my cousin to the other side. like some of the africans i've encountered over the years arnie's life was less than idyllic. he served his country at a time when his country did not serve him. he made brave choices that set him apart from the norm at a time when that sort of bravery wasn't openly embraced.

yet, he still smiled.

that old african resolve shielded him from harm. it gave him the strength to ignore the haters and live life on his terms. those of us who knew and loved him may not always have embraced his way of doing things, but we certainly admired his defiance--even at the end.

because of the way arnie died, some of us will inevitably buy into the notion that it wasn't his time. i'm one of those people. i've heard the stories of how he wouldn't accept help, how he lived in a state of perpetual isolation, how he routinely rejected all of the things that would have made his final days on earth so much more pleasant.

and because all of our collective efforts were unsuccessful, we will undoubtedly blame ourselves for not having done more. i'm in that group, standing first in line.

but it's at times like these when we're told we must hold on to the good and move on.

i have so many great memories of arnie. he was inarguably the best cook in the mcdonald clan. i used to ask him to make his famous mustard coleslaw without the onions for me. he'd complain a little bit, but he always came through. i remember going to arnie and hat's house on oak street and eating city chicken, freeze pops, barbecue, baked beans and literally drinking cups of arnie's barbecue sauce because it was so dang good.

and they both taught me how to bake cookies from scratch--a skill, sadly, that has gone the way of the 8-track.

it didn't seem odd to me then that he lived with his mom until she died. it didn't seem weird that when he wasn't cleaning the homes of the rich folks up on the hill that he was finishing off six packs of hudepohl with his buddies in the kitchen. Nor did it seem unusual that he spent his off days watching soaps, cooking and frying hair.

that's just who arnie was and i had no problem accepting him then or now.

other than his cooking, arnie also had a great record collection. he always had all the best grooves. he introduced me to sunny and jr. walker's shotgun--tracks that still make me move to this day. and, you better not scratch his vinyl or there would be hell to pay. worse yet, lose one of his lou rawls albums like i did when i was a kid. i suspect, however, my brother gary had something to do with that. arnie could be a little obsessive, too. he'd order hundreds of vhs videos, cassette tapes and cds from the various clubs he'd join. his video and music library rivaled my own. and he was always buying junk he didn't need.

his things became his companions. they didn't talk back when he was at his most cantankerous.

and i'll remember that his heart, like hat's, was as big as mother africa. arnie was no saint, but he was saintly and sometimes that's an even better attribute to possess. just last christmas he gave me an unexpected and very generous gift, which made me gasp when i opened it. i didn't always call him when i was home and seldom visited, but none of that seemed to matter when i rang and thanked him this time. he was chipper and essentially told me what was his was mine. and that if i needed any financial help to just call him.

he also told me he loved me.

that's the last time i spoke to arnie even though i had meant to ring him again--just to check up on him. but, you know, i got caught up in the hollywood game--trying to squeeze a dollar out of a dime and find ways to deal with other less significant life issues. coulda, woulda, shoulda.

i never want to sing that song again.

all deaths teach us invaluable lessons once we're able to wrap our heads around losing someone we'll never physically encounter again. arnie was blind at the end of his life yet he saw far more than i can see now with my nearly 20/20 vision. he saw that the way to make it through life is to be who you are. it's not so much that he didn't give a hoot--although he really didn't--it's just that at the end of the day sometimes the only thing you have left is your resolve.

arnie wasn't much of a church guy but i'm hoping that the god of infinite chances whose mercy is so omnipotent and everlasting will look upon this fallen soldier, knowing that his heart was always in the right place and say: "well done, son."

londontown

i am so happy right now. i've just spent an evening at a restaurant called bistro in covent garden where people were dancing, shouting and kissing each other randomly. where am i? i be in london luv and per ususal loving every freaking second of my visit.

but more on that later.

this is a town that i've loved since the first time i came here in the late '90s. i love the vibe, the people, the portobello market, covent garden, notting hill shops, ken high street, the west end, soho, picadilly and all the rest. unfortunately, this trip will be shorter than most, but this time i will leave london with more clarity and purpose than ever before.

london has given me myself back.

i know that sounds a little crazy and that sentence is way cryptic, but those of you who know me well know how tough the past 10 months have been on me. on top of the recession cutting into my income, one of my best friends lost her husband, one of my other best friends died suddenly, as did someone else very special to me. additionally, i lost a mentor and a slew of relatives including my beloved father, the one person who always had my back no matter what. any tinge of happiness i've experienced during this time just pales in comparison. it's been rough navigating the grief.

there's no road map for that.

but friday night, i put all my grief in my back pocket and went for it. i hung out with my bff kolton and some of his friends and by evening's end i had no worries at all. we drank mojitos on the corner of dean and greek in soho literally surrounded by tigers, bears and pussycat girls.

tonight, i went out to dinner with my friend steph, who has graciously put me up in her flat for the past couple of days. bistro--and you should all check it out-- is one of the best dinner bargains in a city where food, clothes and everything else are notoriously overpriced. you can get a starter, entree and dessert for 10 pounds, which is roughly $20.

initially, we sat there and ordered our dinner and chatted. thee food was good but we did send the house wine back--an italian red--because it was weaker than grape juice. we opted for a suitable south african pinotage instead.

and then the mayhem started.

after having carried my heavy camera around for two days and two nights, i decided to leave it at home this time so i could just blend in with the locals. but when a guy got up and started dancing to some '80s oldie with one of the eight women at his table (he was the only guy), it was on. everyone in the tiny dining room started clapping and singing along. the people sitting next to us became our new best friends and by the end of the night we were all facebook friends.

when "play that funky music white boy" came up in the rotation, the same guy got up and was dancing at the head of his table. at that point i'd had enough and just had to join him. i rolled up behind him, rubbing my pelvis into his backside and it was on. everyone cheered us on and his female companions began snapping pictures of us. me, the ugly american in the obama t-shirt and cargo pants; and he, the bawdy brit in his striped button-down and jeans.

a motley pair, indeed.

and then when they played gloria gaynor's "i will survive," everyone in the house rose to their feet singing, dancing and liberating themselves from whatever shackles had held them down all week. i don't think i've ever witnessed a more joyful scene in a public restaurant and felt compelled to shout out: "i love this town!"

much to my delight, someone shouted back: "we love that you love us!"

make no mistake. i've been prone to these types of spontaneous outbursts before, but this was a different kind of release. i actually hadn't been in a very good mood all day. my back hurt and i was still jet-lagged. but right after dancing with mr. guy all the frustration of that day and all the pain that had been heaped upon me throughout the year dissipated.

yep, it all went away. if only for a night.