Dispatch from Johannesburg, Saturday May 7

As always it’s a quite disorientating to arrive in another country, another culture, another large city. Everything is strange and new-- the airport , the money, the language, how to get from here to there, and most of all the largely hidden, but novel customs and habits of the local people. The saving feature is that airports and then people who service them are built around moving travelers from one place to another, or getting them to their destination in the city. Still, learning the exchange rate to get an idea of how far your money goes with our limited math (less and less these days with the American dollar), and finding a place to stay amid the shouts of touts wanting you to go to their places from which they get a cut. It didn’t help that I left my new 50 Rand phone card in the telephone (in my defense we were used to the kind that you punch in numbers rather than insert in the phone).
What makes this all harder is that this sudden burst of mental energy comes at the end of a long, long flight (26 hours from leaving our hotel in Christchurch NZ to arriving in Johannesburg with a layover in Sydney). Look on your map, and you will get an idea of the huge distance from New Zealand to South Africa. We also didn’t want to sleep very much on the flight, which is the best escape from the boredom of being cooped up for so long in a crowded metal tube, since we’d be landing at 4 in the afternoon and would like to adjust quickly to local time. I don’t know how flight crews do it—keeping 400 or so passengers from going stir crazy for 19 hours, cleaning bathrooms, and tending to mothers with crying babies and cranky passengers. (There was one good movie on the flight, "Ray," which neither of us had seen before.) It all brings to mind the prayer from our last dispatch: "we pray, with your wisdom all who are striving to protect travelers from injury and harm." We are always amazed at the number of really old people (older even than me), who put their sometimes frail bodies through this grueling marathon of travel.
We finally landed Africa, the mysterious continent, the place of our dreams, but we we’re too anxious and travel weary to really savor the moment. After making our way through the familiar routine of customs we emerged into the big, noisy, international arrivals hall. Fortunately we already had in mind a place to stay near the airport (a backpackers type of accommodation, a type of place with which you’re now familiar) so we could grab an early morning flight to Durban, and the Marriannhill monastery, our first destination in SA. Unfortunately, the place turned out to be a bit on the seedy side, and on our short ride there got acquainted with the less desirable sides of life these days in Johannesburg. Judging, perhaps unfairly, from the part we saw in the fading light of dusk near the airport, it’s huge, thoroughly modern, but also somewhat ragged and dingy-- quite a change from prim and proper New Zealand.
The most striking and ominous visual feature is that every house has eight to ten foot brick or iron fences, often with dogs patrolling the perimeter, and iron bars on all the windows. Arriving at our "backpackers" place, the driver electronically opened a sliding iron gate and we slipped inside what amounted to a security compound complete with razor wire spiraled along the tops of the brick walls. In one way this instills confidence, in another, it arouses fears—and sadness. What kind of society makes all this necessary, especially when you’re used to the "security" of a lock on the front door back home?
We arrived hungry (even after three airplane meals compliments of Quantas) and we were searching for a place to eat, since we didn’t bring any food to cook for ourselves in the kitchen. The proprietor informed us that walking to the nearest restaurant after dark was out of the question, but fortunately a Danish couple who arrived at about the same time, and had been here before, had booked dinner at a local hot spot called JosÈ’s. This was, somewhat incongruously, an old fashioned Greek restaurant, carefully presided over with genial pats on the back and hearty laughter by JosÈ himself. The dinner was grand, with huge servings of lamb, calamari and vegetables, and the service by young black men was attentive, friendly, and often even joyous.
At around 8 the bistro revved up with excitement as a couple of Greek dancers arrived and "Zorba the Greek" music blared from the speakers placed around the room. I couldn’t figure out what was happening as I saw JosÈ pass around what looked like cheap plates to the waiting crew, and to every table. Then the dancing began, with the girls, later hand-in-hand with the black waiters, weaved their way among the tables with rhythmic clapping. Then at JosÈ’s signal, everyone crashed their plates on the ground and shouted "OpÈ", which from then on was littered with chards crunching underfoot. Everyone loved it, especially the largely Africaner patrons.
Well, I’m up early again (5 am), my inner clock paying no heed to local time, but I love sitting down in the quiet of the morning to reflect a bit on our experiences. We’ll be leaving this morning for a 10 am flight to Durban, and a drive to our monastery. We’ve booked a flight on one of those cheap upstart airlines sprouting up all over the world— Kulula.com, sporting the most whimsical web sight I’ve ever seen for a business. Some of you may have flown with Southwest Airlines, famous for the "unprofessional" and refreshing quality of their flight attendant’s orientation banter. Well, Kulula tops them all. The chief flight attendant announced that, for example, anyone caught smoking would be expelled from the plane but allowed to ride the wing to the destination. In event of emergency, we were told to bend our heads forward between our knees and "kiss your ass goodbye." At the end of the flight they
announced that the attendants would be going through cabin picking up trash, but, if anything was left, could it please be something the attendants would enjoy eating, or, well--money. It’s refreshing to chuckle through the obligatory announcements, and this crew were comedic pros as well as fine flight attendants. I trust the airline was a little less whimsical about airplane maintenance and pilot training. The flight was only around $50 US per person, not much more costly than the big intercity busses, and lot faster.