There’s a holiday special at Gautrain. You can park your car at the Sandton station for R1 per day until the end of January. For the twelve days I’m gone, that’s cheaper than the 0.25km cab from my front door. Brilliant!

Well, simple supply and demand laws were in effect and after twenty minutes of circling through B1 and B2, I think I got the last spot. So naturally I missed the 5:57 train that I’d had “soo much time” to get to. As I’m boarding the 6:27 train I decide to confirm with the security guard.

“The one rand a day special parking applies if I’m coming back on January 2^nd right?”

“Only if you go the airport AND come back. Those are the Ts and Cs.”

“No problem, I think my flight gets in around 8:30pm on the 2^nd from Cape Town, so I’ll just take Gautrain back instead of driving back with my house mate.”

“Mama, Gautrain stops at 8:30 every night. You’ll have to pay the regular rates…425R for five days and then 85R each day after that.”

Ah, crap. I’m trying to do math in my head, and reach for my phone to do it for me, but realize that I don’t even think my punch pad has a calculator. Feeling very grateful that I can play Luxor Quest instead. Let’s see, 12 days… 425R plus seven times 85R… What is that, 1020R? One thousand, twenty rand instead of twelve. Are you frickin kidding me?

And then my plan comes to me. I’ll ride home with Anjarae, then start my first day back at work at the Gautrain station at 6am, when I can buy another ticket, ride to the airport, and then go back on my Gold Card, earning the 12R parking. I work haaard for the money.

I’m sitting on the train, laughing to myself at my absurdity, and at the book I’m "reading"—Gary Chapman’s The Five Love Languages. It was recommended highly from our “self-help” bookshelf at home…Don’t ask. While it’s actually pretty interesting content (about how people communicate love differently – through words of affirmation, quality time, gifts, acts of service, and physical touch), the quality of writing is almost as bad as the purple cover (depicting a couple walking along the beach with a big heart drawn in the sand). 

Being a self-diagnosed QT girl myself, I can’t control myself when I read tip number 10 for my “spouse” (I’m single, by the way):

“10. Camp out by the fireplace (or an orange lamp). Spread your blankets and pillows on the floor. Get your Pepsi and popcorn. Pretend the TV is broken and talk like you used to when you were dating. Talk till the sun comes up or something else happens. If the floor gets too hard, go back upstairs and go to bed. You won’t forget this evening!”

No, he won’t forget this evening, Gary, because it will be the night I dump him. After throwing the "orange lamp" at him. The man sitting opposite me keeps looking over but his lazy eye makes it unclear whether he’s looking at the 7 year old boy with a Christmas tree shaved into the side of his Mohawk (Where are your parents?) or at me, looking like a desperate divorcee trying to get her lover to speak her “love language.” The redeye outfit -fat pants and a fleece- aren't helping my cause. Is there any hope for me, Gary?

Seventeen hours and an Ambien later, I’m woken up by US customs forms fluttering in my face. “Ten minutes to touchdown.” And just like that, I’m in New York. This is the first time I land in the US where I don’t reach for my phone. The girl next to me, however, exclaims “Twenty-FOUR voicemails? Didn’t people, like, know that I was in Af-ric-aa?” Probably all from her mother. “Oh hey, Mom! I know, it’s like, such a pain for you, but we got in 30 minutes early. When they were like ‘We’ll be landing at 5:30 instead of 6’ I was like ‘Oh Shaaaame!’” Oh, Is it?

The arrivals hall glowed like a hospital. In line to be welcomed “home,” the man in front of me turns around and points to my chest. Oh crap, which airplane meal did I spill on myself? “You work at ALA?” he asks. My fleece, phew. And I’m awake, babbling excitement. A friend of Fred’s he was on his way back from meeting with him. And then it’s his turn, and boom, bang, he’s stamped and gone.

After 40 minutes of staring down the luggage belt and the SAA203 crew had dissolved, I knew I was screwed. Thinking of the Christmas presents inside, my toothbrush, and most importantly, the giant foam Christmas tree costume I was going to barge into my house in and yell “SURPRISE!!!” in a few hours to my (poor) unsuspecting family.  

But I wasn’t the only one. A tall, slender, spandex-ed 20-something paced and stopped next to me, putting down her bags and bending at the hips to stretch. Lower and lower until her palms were on the floor. Yuck. And she had transformed into full-on yoga class in the middle of the baggage claim. Whatever works for you, sistah.

When that North Face duffle came around the bend, I was so happy I almost took out the Christmas tree costume then and there to wear it through customs. But then I’d have to repack it, and … myeh. That and the snapping German shepherd didn’t look like he liked Christmas very much.

I recheck my bag with an attendant singing Feliz Navidad to himself, jollily swaying in his oversized coat. I find my way up to AirTrain towards Terminal 5, and step into the train. It’s crammed with beanies and down coats. The girl next to me has her lavender scarf pulled up to her nose, her purple hooded coat pulled down to her eyebrows, so only her glasses show. Her earbuds trail down to her iPod and she doesn’t look like she’s moved in months. Everyone is so stiff. I can’t move either, but it’s because my stomach matches the red bikini I read in yesterday on my roof deck. I feel like doing jumping jacks and yelling “LIVE a little, people!” but I’d rather sleep in my childhood bed tonight than the psychiatric ward.

The lines at JFK. Eish. The security line was a tease, starting near the entrance but then snaking further away before it got closer. Away from the entrance, but towards the Dunkin' Donuts. And I wish I had gotten a donut. I don’t even like donuts, but it seemed like the festive thing to do. The line snakes around again, and I’m face to face with...yoga girl. She gives me a once over and passes me with a “I’m skinnier than you” look. Yes, yoga girl, yes you are.

At the security conveyor belt, I know why the line is so long as the woman in front of me asks me to pass her a bin. “Another one. Another one. Yep, one more. Ohh, another one…” until she has lined up eleven bins for her family of four. But I can’t really judge, as I have three bins to myself, two for each laptop. “Charlie, don’t forget your DS!” she nags as she strips down to her see-through heather lululemon bodysuit. No need to go through the body scanner, lady. 

All clear, and what’s waiting for me on the other side? Dunkin Donuts, courtesy of JetBlue, being doled out at the base of the giant Christmas tree decked in blue and silver balls. How PC of you, America. I don’t like donuts, but what the hell, I think, as I pick out my free donut. “Green, not the blue one, thanks,” I request, out of respect for baby Jesus. My face covered in all-natural lime green icing, I realize I do like donuts, just as yoga girl speedwalks past with a judgy look.

Might as well just embrace it and get a coffee, too. It’s what the NYPD would do. At the Illy stand, I order a nonfat Caramel latte because, what the hell, it’s Christmas. And as I dig through my purse, pulling out bills of water buffalo and Nelson Mandelas, the barista says, “That’ll be five forty-four.” And then I realize. Crap, I’m “home.”

9:47am. I turned the key in the lock and stepped out on our porch. The end of the world is in about three hours, according to the Mayan calendar (and the flurry of Facebook posts). What would I actually do if the world were ending? I’d be with loved ones. But I can’t, because they’re all sleeping, an ocean away. I’d call them. But who wants to go out struggling to hear crackling voices over Skype?

I look at our braai full of pigeon poop.  The algae-green pool festering in the backyard below. The parking spots. Reserved Unit 7. Unit 7. Unit 7. Unit 8. Who lives in Unit 7, anyway? I see the tips of slippers shuffling on Unit 17’s porch below as she hangs the laundry out in the fresh air. I close my eyes, feel the breeze, and open them back to the cranes towering over a building, with the metal spikes of its spine still exposed. I wonder what it would have become if they’d been able to finish it before this all ends.

And then, I know. I’d drive to ALA.

But first, I go back into the aircon and sit down to the dining room table littered with laptop chargers and Moleskines and Kindles and receipts and iPod cords. I open my Outlook, searching subject lines for “MBA Rec” and start replying. I’ve come to the realization that I can’t apply to business school this year. I need to slow down. And just like that, I’m speeding down William Nicol drive, the rush of warm morning air drying my hair into Mufasa, singing First Aid Kit's “When I Grow Up.” And it’s time to go try to change the world, just in time for it to end.

We had ten minutes to chug as much coffee from the breakfast buffet as we could before the Shearwater bus picked us up at 6:40am and we joined the ranks of the other crazies rafting the Zambezi. The coffee hadn’t kicked in yet, but the Indemnity Form sure woke us up:

The Zambezi River in the gorges below is classified as a Grade Five river, defined by the book of the British Canoe Union as follows:

“Extremely difficult, long and violent rapids, steep gradients, big drops, pressure areas.”

We all got a little quiet, and when the guide started handing out flippers instead of rafting shoes, I knew we were screwed. At the lip of the gorge, we got our temple-pinching helmets, cracked paddles, and life jackets that felt like Louis XVI style corsets (and smelled like they hadn’t been washed since the French Revolution, too). We tottered down the metal slatted stairs into the gorge. After bouldering big black rocks and waiting for the boat to be blown up, our team of 8 saddled up and started practicing our paddling. With Kazi at the helm yelling “We’re not mov-ING!” as we went at what felt like full speed ahead like a drunkenly uncoordinated centipede, I wouldn’t say it was a strong start. But as we rowed deeper into the Boiling Pot, the view of Victoria Falls crashing down with the sunlight coming through the mist was spectacular. The big scaly crocs watching us flail along the river must have agreed.

It had begun. After Rapid No. 1’s enormous churning waves, we asked Kazi, “What was that one?? A five?” He shook his head. “Complimentary rapid. No number.” Shit.

As we approached Rapid No. 5, “Stairway to Heaven,” uneasy after the barely-made-the-four-before, Kazi laid it on thick. “This is going to be a 16 foot drop. When I say paddle hard, I need you to paddle. Hard. When I tell you to get down, I need you to get. Down.” The young couple next to us whispered panic. Her longsleeved black and white striped shirt and knee-length Jorts were not quite ready for Adventure. Sorry, sis-tah. You’re about to be drinking some wat-tah. But me, I grew up in the ocean. I can take a watery tumble or two, no problem. Bring it on, baby.

“HARDER! HARDER!” The drunken centipede tried to sober up its flailing paddles. Barraged by a thousand fire hydrants, I was tumbling, kicking my now-heavy TOMS furiously for air, grasping my paddle as my only weapon against this anaconda that had just engulfed me, and my lungs. Just when I thought I’d gone blind and drowned, another snack for the crocs, my face exploded to the surface. But only for a second before the white thrashing beast took me down again. Bobbed back up, gulping, then down again. Back up, a gasp of half-air, half-water. My own boat out of sight, I was alone in the battle. Zambezi 1. Alli 0.

Or maybe even -1. Pushed down again, but this time by two hands reaching out for the shoulders of my life jacket. Down and buoyed up, over the roll of the side, face down into the raft’s floor full of drowned beetles. Rescue! Pulling my matted hair out of my eyelashes and my helmet up from my chapped chin, I was certainly impressing the boat full of studly young South Africans whose muscles I had just spit up Zambezi water on.

I sat cross-legged at the bow with a front row seat for the next few rapids. But without a paddle (or my dignity), I was feeling more like Elian Gonzalez than Rose in Titanic as I waited for my heartbeat to return to my chest.

A pog on the playground, I got traded back into team Kazi just in time for Rapid No. 7, Gulliver’s Travels. Kazi wasn’t a big fan of positive reinforcement and the “WE’RE NOT MOVING! HARD-ER!” hadn’t exactly worked the last time, so he used the fear factor. “We can NOT go over on this one guys. There is a very, very big hole. A very, very huge hole that we can NOT go into. We need to take her from the very far right, or else we are in very, very big trouble.” I thought of Ms. Meeks’ 9^th grade English class when she banned us from using the word “very” because she said it was devoid of meaning and just lent itself to exaggeration. But in this case, I think Kazi meant every “very.” We paddled like hell.

And yet somehow, the hole was like a magnetic portal to the underworld drawing us in. The boat started to tip, steeper, steeper, until we were vertical in the slope of this “hole.” And when we say “hole,” it was a giant vortex that looked more like the Cracken’s front door than a river rapid. We managed to only lose one of Team Kazi off the bow, though. Casualty of war.

I don’t quite know how to describe the absurdity of the waves that followed. Swallowing the entire boat whole in a flurry of foam, flinging us into the boat like fish flopping for air caught in a fisherman’s net on deck. Doom.

Nineteen rapids and a torturous climb up the Gorge later, I was back on land but felt like I was tumbling through the rapids bareback. Until I got a Zambezi beer in hand. Picked up a Ten Trillion Dollar bill from a peddler representing the Reserve Bank of Zimbabwe and a certificate that read:

Alli McKee successful survived the biggest, meanest, white water in the world – the mighty Zambezi River, in nothing more than a rubber raft.”

I felt like sending them both to Obama with a "You're Welcome" note to make his day.

After sleeping in past our 4pm alarm and waking up half naked tangled in a towel and a mosquito net, I piece together that I must have picked the bed over the shower, and wow, am I sunburned. But a cool, refreshing shower isn’t in the cards for us tonight, because you have to pump the handle up and down for 50 degree Celsius water to spurt out in boiling bursts. Yelping in pain trying to decide which hurts worse, the burning water, my burned skin, or my bloodied rope-burned knuckles, I find myself wishing for the Zambezi.

We decided to try out Gautrain this go around. After all, it is conveniently close to our house. When I went to go buy my Gautrain Gold card, however, it took me about 14 tries with my Visa. Credit or Cheque? Budget or Straight? 6 months? 1 year? 2 years? I don’t think I need financing on $11.00, but thank you. Enter PIN. I don’t HAVE a PIN, it’s a credit card! Declined. Canceling Transaction. I gave up and just paid the 241 ZAR with three 100 ZAR notes. Change given only in coins flashed up, before a barrage of gold flurried down into the change dish. I scooped two overflowing handfuls of coins as Anjarae shook her head at me. Mid-shake, a guard taps her on the shoulder and threatens to fine her 700 ZAR for consuming chewing gum. Priorities, Joburg. Priorities.

Once we’re on, it’s smooth sailing and 15 minutes later, we’re checking in to our flight. Anjarae and I celebrate when we earn Baobab Lounge access. The one thing the thousands of dollars spent on my US Airways Mastercard were good for. Shrinkwrapped muffins.

We go through security, where the guard compliments Anj on her “nice tan.” I felt left out. Passing through immigration, I chat it up, fishing for compliments myself. “Helloooo! Yes, from the USA, but I’ve been here in SA for a while! Practically a local!” As he raises his eyebrows fingering through passport pages in search of my visa, I backpedal, “Well not a while, I mean, less than 90 days, a while!” For the record, immigration officers aren’t the ones to brag to about being “practically a local!” Doesn’t go over well.

We get our anti-mozi Tabard and our Light Feel Nivea and we’re ready for the bugs and burns. We can just wait to get cash when we get into Zimbabwe. They’ll have an ATM. They won’t have a Baobab Lounge…

Four poppyseed muffins, two coffees, and a pile of plastic wrap later, it’s flying time. As the waiter comes by to grab our rubbish, I feel a little judged and feel like defending myself, but he’s already gone. We board, and a short flight later we land in Zim to palm trees and WELCOME TO VICTORIA FALLS. It feels more like Vegas than Africa.

Except for the fact that there are way more ATMs in Vegas. In line for a double entry visa (since we’ll be doing Zim-Bots-Zim) we realize that single entry visas cost 300 ZAR and double entry visas costs 450 ZAR. Luckily, I fish around my purse and come up with a 200, two 100s, and… 63 ZAR in coins from this morning’s Gautrain change. For once, Anjarae the J (MBTI language for organized, prepared, perfect travel buddy) doesn’t have much of anything. And turns out there aren’t any ATMs – anywhere – in the airport. “What are our next steps?” she asks. “I’m a beggar.”

We try to whine loud enough to muster someone’s compassion (for the two Americans… good luck) but we’re in line with a bunch of statues over here. Finally the stodgy woman behind us can’t play deaf anymore. Her gold star necklace gleams as the only put-together piece of her – disheveled gray hair and wrinkled yellow shirt indicate that this woman’s been flying for a long time. “Are you guys short on cash?”

Relief. “Thank you! Is there any way we can borrow 100 ZAR?” We weren’t going to get away that easy. “The one thing my travel agent told me was to have enough cash for Zimbabwe visas,” she snorts. “That’s the ONE thing.” We got it, lady. Last time we got the “the one thing…” was in Namibia when we were supposed to take air out of our tires at Sossusvlei but didn’t because we assumed there would be an air station with gauges if we really had to do it.  You can imagine how that ended up…

This was looking like we were headed for two for two. But she thumbed through her wad and handed over a 100 begrudgingly. With her name and address. “I’m staying at Ilala Lodge. You can bring the money there. It’s on the Zambia side. In Livingstone.” Convenient. We were going to cross this border, go into Zambia for $50US and then back into Zim for $30 to give her back the 100ZAR (That’s about $10 for you Americans out there). Too relieved at having enough money to be annoyed, I slide my three towers of power towards the guard, 20 ZAR per stack and look up at him shaking his head. “We take no coins.” You gotta be kidding me. This country without its own currency is going to tell me they won’t even take my frickin coins?? Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

A young man behind us hands over his Korean passport. He looks prepared. I beg him to trade us his soggiest 100 ZAR note for a crisp 20 ZAR note and 93 ZAR in metal. Shiny new! He apologizes. No extra, sorry. Anjarae begins begging, going one by one down the line as I’m stalling with the guards. As I hear Anj sweet talking behind me, my line buddy opens his wallet to a fold – no, a BULGING fold FULL of ZAR. “Wait, I’m sorry,” I interrupt, “but is there any way we could please trade you?” He looks at me blankly. Shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t want coins.”

And here we are, one foot in Zim and stuck at the border. It’s almost at the point of one boob or two when Anjarae returns with the most valuable 100 ZAR note ever to exist.

We make a bathroom stop so we don’t wet our pants laughing in the taxi to the hotel. I can’t believe that the ultimate J took a break and that somehow I, the P (MBTI language for unprepared, spontaneous, and worst packer ever), sort-of-saved the day with some cash. (I decided to wait until later to point out that had I pressed the correct credit card button this morning at Gautrain, we would have entered with a spare 100 ZAR note to wipe our noses with…) I squeeze into the tiny bathroom stall with my pack on my back,still laughing to Anjarae. As I try to unjam the door to get out, I say to her, “I just love how my P-ness is rubbing off on you.”

The absolute horror on the face of the next woman in line as I finally burst out of the stall was replaced with pure relief when I came out alone. 

The International Exhibition of Black Music is a must. Kudzi was right. A Samsung smartphone about twenty generations beyond my everyday punchpad guides you through the six rooms and the 13 hours of songs and videos that fills them. Seeing as Theo and I had 45 minutes during our lunch break, it wasn’t overwhelming at all.

The “Legends of Black Music” room was lit only by 24 waist-high crystal cylinders projecting images of Legends from Billie Holiday to Michael Jackson, with a few new names for me, like Fela Kuti, peppered in there, too.

“Mama Africa” room showcased the origins of African music by region, highlighting the “spectacular wealth” of rhythmic traditions. DJ Mujara and Township Funk. Tumi and the Volume. The visitors headbanging in their bulbous headphones were as entertaining as the music.

From “Mama Africa” we passed through the “Birth of the Black Atlantic” passage. Big eyes stare through chicken wire. A poem projects on the floor, its white-hot letters dancing around my feet. One step forward, two steps back. “The dead are never gone…”

The “Sacred Rites and Rhythms” room engulfs you, bringing alive the connection between music and the spirit. The drums beat and you’re one. With no way out.

The next room is red, lined with giant white egg-like chairs like the ones in Men in Black and is filled with videos and timelines flashing English-Francais-English-Francais of the explosion happening in black culture around the world. “You can restrain movement, but you cannot restrain imagination.”

With Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” video I’ve given up trying to look professional in my pencil skirt. Having dropped my bag into one of the eggs, I am straight up getting down. Flashback to Outside Lands this summer, with Madison silhouetted atop shoulders in Golden Gate park, aglow with Stevie’s stage lights.  And a moment where I miss my SF crew and so badly want to share this with them. To get Steve on Alex’s shoulders in the middle of this museum (and probably put Madison on mine) as we Kumbaya to “Isn’t she loveee-ly…”

My phone glares. 12:47. I have to leave…17 minutes ago. Theo and I whip through the “Global Mix” room with its turn table (Miss you Rap City!) and Graffiti screen. I’m so happy in cursive was my parting mark. On our way out, Theo added a “FOR REAL!” to the “It makes my skin go cold it is so fabulous!” on the feedback board.

I frantically fumbled for words driving back. “I know what I want to do with my life right now. I want to make people feel the way I do right now. The absolute joy. But why?  Why does music leave me with this feeling? Is it from me? Is it other people? It’s not me. Yes, it’s other people. Art – that exhibition, that music – brings joy because it makes me feel connected to something beyond myself, beyond my own experience.”

I am not Black. Though I’m not quite “White” either. More like ”Pink” after this past SPF-free Saturday. And I am certainly not musically inclined. And yet walking, no, dancing, through that Exhibition, I felt a part of something, of these people, of their history, of their story. We were in it together.

Back at ALA, it was House Choir night, and I had been tapped to judge, sandwiched between Sharmi and Gavin. Each House performed a Glee-inspired mash-up. Niger house opened up with a little “Stand By Me” and “Redemption Song” combo followed by their original score, “Africa Unite.” It was beautiful. Made extra beautiful by Faith’s red boa. Hiding my house pride under the judge’s table, I tapped my feet as my own house, Volta, performed  “Volta Style” which rivaled the remix quality of Romney Style in my unbiased opinion. Basked in green light, their house spirit had never been stronger, united by Kate’s drumming. After Tana concluded, we had a “Special performance” from the Staffulty.

I dodged the floodlight as the MC stalled, and slipped through the dark into the backstage cubby to slip on my secret weapon – my Christmas tree costume. (Yes, I took up half a suitcase to bring a foam Christmas tree costume across two continents and an ocean.)  Faith’s keyboard and Kate’s drums got us going, and from nowhere, a band of gangsters appeared. Chemeli wearing a clock, Robyn stepping out of MTV circa 1986, and the return of Faith’s boa. Alright STOP. Col-lab-or-ate and Lis-ten.

Chris Bradford comes out for the final verse and, without missing a single word, finishes strong with Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it,  dropping the mic. All I could see through the fog (and my rather itchy head hole) was a sea of smartphones flashing. 

“Did you SEE Dean Bradford? Did you see what colors he was wearing? Red, yellow, and blue! Just like Superman! We all have crushes on him now!” 

And once again, music takes us beyond our own humanity.

I’m a master of procrastination. But nearly two months in, I’m running out of days to push off getting my volunteer work permit. So Tuesday morning I force myself to get my medical certificate, radiological report, affidavits and finger prints done, once and for all.

I did not expect the adventure I got. I started off at the “Village Doctor” where I was told that Dr. K wouldn’t be in until 10am, despite the 8am opening time. I received some particularly cryptic directions to the hospital where I was to get my chest X-Ray done for my TB clearance (skin tests are so last season), and so naturally I ended up in the soiled linens ward. Four stops later (including the back of Food Services), I made it. Manila folders stamped MAMMOGRAM and ULTRASOUND were being doled out, as I was ushered into the changing room, and I think of how far away I am from home, and how lucky I am that this is all silly rather than serious.

“Take everything off your chest.” I changed into the scratchy maroon V-neck and waited in the passage for the technician to bring me into the dark room. “Please remove your neck chain,” she sighed, exasperated, as I unclasped my peace sign necklace and set it in the dip of the chair. I stepped forward, chin to the metal, and with one deep breath was barraged with alien clacking noises from some pre-Star Wars movie. Then, “We’re done here.”

Knowing my way around now, I went back to change, but this time in the closer changing rooms. Stripping down and putting my “soiled linens” in the green plastic basket, I turned around to see the figure of a man staring back at me. Men’s changing room. Pulled a Dan Levy on that one. Can I call you Kitty?

My manila folder in hand, I made my way back through the maze to the Village Doctor. The nurse brought me a coffee while I waited… in a silver mug with DIVA written under a big princess crown. What are you trying to say, lady? The “checkup” consisted of a flashlight in my left eye, a peek into my right ear, a stethoscope to what I’m pretty sure was my liver, and a tongue depressor shoved into my mouth as I was trying to answer the question, “Why do you want to come to SA when all we want to do is go to the USA anyway?”

Finally getting to work was a relief. When I got to my desk by the printer, my black Bain & Co gym back was sitting in a pile of red sand. Hmm. Went to move my bag and it felt so.. light! Unzip and find the first casualty to SA theft – my yellow Nikes. Best “I can’t go to the gym today” excuse I’ve had yet. Once the irony of the situation settles and I can stop laughing, I start to feel a little bit violated, and then just sad. Not sad for me, but for the thief. Who would want my still-Nambian-sandy and smelly shoes?

At this rate, it would be hard for the afternoon adventure to disappoint. Time to go to the police station for affidavits and finger prints. Only for this one, I got warning at least. “Beware,” Ryan had said. “It’s like a refugee camp in there.” As he drew it all out, I stopped listening after “Go past the clothesline” because I was laughing too hard.

I was brave, though, and walked into a waiting room with people smattered across a semicircle of chairs. “Where’s the end of the queue?” I asked. “It’s you,” I got in return. Thanks for that. Twenty minutes later, my birth certificate and police clearance substitutions – two one-page affidavits- were taken care of with two very swift, very forceful stamps. “Do you want to…um… see my passport?” Nehh.

A man with tinted glasses asked me to follow him to the fingerprinting office by grabbing on to the back of his belt to “make sure you find the way.” Thanks “Officer,” but I think I got this. Past the “hole in the fence,” I fill out more forms while another officer inks up his block. “You know you’re really amazing,” he tells me as he looks at my forms. I go to thank him for the compliment but he cuts me off. “You put SA address in US forms and US address in SA forms. Why are you so confused?” Not what I was hoping for. He smushes my right thumb, rolling left to right on the tacky ink, then left to right on the starched paper. My fingers in his grip, I feel like a kindergartener who completely failed the Mother’s Day card fingerprinting project and had to get the teacher’s help so she can take something home to Mom.

Clean up consists of dipping my fingertips into a giant bleach bucket of neon pink rose-scented soap swirling with gray ink leftovers. Good thing I cancelled last week’s manicure, because my nailbeds are permanently caked with black ink. I shower, guys, I swear.

Payment was the best part. I wandered past flower beds, barbed wire, and get a healthy boob grab from a woman not in uniform who I sure-as-hell hope works there. “Sistah, over here,” she says as she pushes me through a passageway – and into a brick wall.Is this the finance department? Thank you, Officer. We couldn’t keep the peace without you.

Paris came to Joburg last Saturday night. Our Cruella de Ville cigarette holders tucked into our clutches, Anjarae and I sidestepped puddles in new heels before ducking through the line of white Audis into Bain’s Christmas Party.

It was lovely. Arts on Main had been transformed. Champagne glittered in hand as berets and baguettes flitted around the courtyard, being sketched in their bougie glory by the artist hired to sit in the corner. James led the charge with his baguette in hand, Sayo a close second with his oh-so-suave scarf, and Dimitri aptly donned a bowtie.

The dinner call sounded and we clanked past Faith 47’s The Long Wait, up the stairs to the dining room, careful to hold our skirts against our legs juggling our champagne flutes, purses, and our dignity as we scaled the spiraled staircase. The room that was usually full of glorified Goodwill racks on Sundays was instead glowing with candlelit petal-ed tables laden with buckets of wine. A caricaturist now, the artist had moved to her own table and was sketching the Bainies in all of their glory. I insisted that Anjarae and I sit for a portrait. Very flattering… 

So we tried the photo booth in the next room instead. Much safer option.

Text from Fred. “Where are you?” I was missing ALA’s Cultural Exchange to sip Chenin Blanc by candlelight. I felt guilty. The Staffulty was all getting together at Chez KVG and I knew I needed to be there after the Bain party peaked, even if it meant getting in a cab in the middle of the CBD at midnight by myself (breaking at least three “rules”). When my cabbie stopped for petrol a few blocks into the CBD, I waited in the back seat stricken with anticipation of the worst. I tried to make small talk to ease my mind. “So you’re from Zimbabwe. What’s your family like?” I pried, as I slid my iPhone into my dress in preparation for whatever this band of guys next to my window was planning on doing to us. This is it, I’m going down. “50 Rand of 93.” Really? Where we going on $5 of gas?

While I didn’t get taken down at the petrol station (and I was overreacting), 120 Church Street couldn’t come fast enough. Ryan answered Veda’s phone and the gate slid open. I tottered through the gravel, my heels scraping and sinking into the ground. “Did you just come from a wedding?”  Um, something like that.

Kathlyn and Veda splashing around in the pool (the same pool that I’m pretty sure was green with algae when I was here for the EL retreat the other day), Liz snuggling into Gavin’s sweatshirt, Chemeli sampling the vial of Hugo Boss Nuit, the palm trees glowing…Midnight! Clare’s birthday!

I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Feeling like I’m with family. We laugh and laugh until early morning. Like summer down at the cabanas at home with Beau and Liza, the kind of nights that pass unbelievably quickly snuggled up in sweatshirts, laughing into the sea. Watched the stars sparkle until morning, fighting over whether that one was a satellite or a shooting star. Or a plane. The red blinking light gave it away. Talking until the stars disappeared and the grass turned green again.

Sunday after an all-nighter was a struggle. Drove back down to Arts on Main to meet Kudzanai Chiurai for lunch. The Ethiopian tea garden and the coconut chopper had replaced the champagne and rose petals. Transformed back, the courtyard bustled with young families and the hippest hipsters of Joburg alike, buzzing with caffeine from our favorite coffee bar (where the baristas wear SOME LIKE IT BLACK tshirts).

Kudzi came out and hugged me with his sheepish smile. We sat down at Canteen and dove into a philosophical conversation about creativity. He pulled the ashtray towards him, speaking thoughtfully between drags as I scribbled in my Moleskine. He talked about the world shifting from capitalism to socialism. The rain. We talked about the walls in Sandton, in Zim, and about how they sterilize communities and enable the dehumanization that drives crime rather than allowing for the community connectedness that prevents it. Raindrops turned into ladles-full of warm water, and the sky exploded with thunder and cracked with lightning. Drenched, I pause. I’m having lunch with Kudzanai Chiurai entrenched in a philosophical conversation about the future of our generation. Is this a modern Midnight in Paris moment?