Part of my new teaching role includes coaching our student enterprises, particularly leading up to next week’s “Board Meetings.” But I don’t know this until Ryan interrupts me filling out my Nigerian visa application on Wednesday afternoon (The “hair color” dropdown offers Black, Brown, Red, White... guess I’ll go with white?). “Alli, so you’re supposed to be coaching Ten50 right now…” What is Ten50? The on-campus hair salon for students, of course.

Ryan leads me to the lobby of the library, where Ten50 is meeting in their “salon.” The room – no, the closet – is painted red and black, a basin in the corner, with a shelf full of Relaxers and Olive Oil treatments. I’ve only ever seen olive oil in a kitchen. When I peek in through the doorway behind Ryan, Takalani just drops her chin, raises her eyebrows over the rims of her glasses, eyeing “Really, Mr. Ryan? Of all the staffulty coaches, you brought us the one white woman… with…white hair?” Ryan introduces me, their new “coach,” and the team members look down at the floor and then at me, and then at the floor again before continuing the debate of which kinds of hair to buy. You can BUY hair? Apparently, the South Africans have different tastes than the Nigerians, and we don’t even know what the Kenyans want. And then the debate over how to handle the “customer” whose hair started falling off after they used cold water post-relaxer (There’s no hot water pipe in the “salon”...). Hair falling off isn’t exactly a business booster. Yep, you guys are in trouble, I think, as I pick out a split end of my white hair.

Our BUILD curriculum encourages our kids to Believe, Understand, Invent, Listen and Deliver. Now, I was the student, and it was time for me to U. Big time. So I googled. I youtubed. Chris Rock’s documentary Good Hair was blowing my mind. “When you’re hair’s relaxed, the white people are relaxed. If your hair is nappy, they’re not happy.” 

I am starting to doubt whether this counts as valid market research.

Back at home, Anj can’t stop laughing at me. Of the sixteen SEPs I could have added value to, I get paired with the one that I have no frickin’ clue what’s going on. As part of my Understand phase, I decide I’m going to try wrapping my hair the way Anj does with her purple silk. So I shower, drying my hair into a big “white” mane, and then try to tame it by twisting it into a low bun before twirling my head in my coral and pink Marine Layer infinity scarf. I don’t think it gets any whiter than Marine Layer. One, two… five times. I look at myself in the mirror and – damn. I look as legit as this is going to get. Excited, I burst into Anj’s room to show off my accomplishment even though she’s undoubtedly sleeping. But shes not. She’s doubled over the toilet.

Laughing… but nothing about this looks funny to me. Until I look into the toilet and there is her Invisalign retainer, sunk all the way to the bottom of the bowl. Just another evening at 8 Pam Road.

When I wake up in the morning, I can hardly wait to unwrap my soon-to-be smooth locks. But instead, once I wiggle my scalp out of my scarf, I’ve unleashed a beast that looks more like Medusa than Marilyn Monroe. I think I’ll drop the scarf and stick to scrunchies from here on out. As I frantically try to straighten this mess, I open gmail to an email from Betty:

Alli I heard your giving black hair tips? lol seriously? Well here's some to pass along, they should try to deep condition their hair whenever they wash it which shouldn't be too often as we have dry hair. They should use minimal heat or gel on their hair because both cause breakage. If they have a relaxer they should wrap their hair at night or at least wear a scarf. If they have braids they should oil their scalp regularly. Just remember your hair is completely different from theirs, so don't tell them any of the things that you would normally do with yours like wash it every day or wet it&go. Also they should get trims every few months, black women are terrified of scissors near our hair even though split ends are way worse.

I don’t think this qualifies as part of my “coaching” role, but I have to learn somehow, right?

And now it’s Thursday, and my hair appointment (read: bonding experience) with Ten50 is coming up on Saturday. “Ms. Alli, about your, uh, appointment. We don’t want to… you know… blow anything up in the park, yet, you know? So we’re going to just stick to conditioning and maybe some curls. Sound good?” I was sort of hoping for legit braids for that night’s Kanye concert, but I guess “some curls” will have to do.

Two weeks ago, I got pulled from my desk down by the printer, where my homemade name plate proclaimed “Alli McKee, Special Projects Manager” in blue cursive. Josh, the Director of the Center for Entrepreneurial Leadership started talking. “So as you know, we have an open teaching spot all of a sudden. And we need to fill it, fast. You’ve expressed interest in getting more involved with the kids. Would you be interested?” I pretended to think about it for a minute but my glow probably gave away my hand. “You have to, you know, act like a teacher though, you know? You can’t like come into work late.” Point taken. So someone has been noticing. As just like that, I became a teacher. Starting at 7:45am on Monday morning.

Our first week’s lessons explored identity and the “mental models” that shape the way we think. To demonstrate how quickly we are to act on stereotypes, we began Monday morning with the “There’s been a Tsunami and you have twenty minutes to save 11 of the following 18 people off of the Island, Go!” game. An HIV positive man. A 40-year-old terminal cancer patient. A Catholic priest. A conservative Imam. An 87-year-old lady. Your 87-year-old grandmother. But, Ms. Alli, we have to preserve the culture! A convicted rapist. A homophobic journalist. An openly gay man. An illegal immigrant. We should take him because he’s probably good at swimming. A blatantly racist person (ended up doggy-paddling for his life alongside the boat, just about every time). And after our kids played  God, condemning these “people” based on their labels, it became clear – our first instinct is to judge based on the “mental models” shaped by our own identities and experiences, rather than treating people as human beings.

But often, even simple “mental models” are tough to crack. Last Tuesday, TIA stood for “This Is Absurd.” And there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Six minutes into my daily drive, I’m about to turn right on William Nicol and a yellow striped taxi van bursting with human limbs just barrels through its STOP light, crunching the hood of a pickup-truck-with-tiny-tires into a deep V. Red lights are for wussies. After about four spins, the tiny-truck slows, its face smashed in, fluid projectiling from the teeth of its grill, steam bursting from the hood. Reverse, and time for a wider turn.

About 8 minutes later, I feel like I’m in Yellowstone. A fire hydrant has burst and water is… everywhere. As cars wade through the small sea that has pooled in the middle of this 8 lane intersection, rainbows burst through the sky, exploding in the spray of the wheels. Such beauty peeking through the chaos.

I’ve come to appreciate this morning’s commute as classic African absurdity. You have to embrace it. That’s half the fun, eh? So when it’s my first real day of teaching class, and the power outage makes my Powerpoint pointless, you can guess what my reaction is. Inappropriate laughter, of course. No first impression is quite like sitting in the grass (amidst piles of pigeon poo, no less), blocking the glare with cupped hands as the broken fan is burning the hell out of your thighs. “Can you guys see this?” I wince as I can practically feel the boils rising from my flesh. I think they like me, they really like me.

The biggest barrier to holding class outside was not my burning body, or my dying battery (SA electric currents have fried its life to a tender 26 minutes, on a good day). It was… the Pigeons. The highlight of Monday’s Assembly had been Cristina’s straight-lipped update on the strategies and tactics of the newly formed Special Pigeons Unit. SPU, as I lovingly call it, had a “three-pronged approach,” she warned us (in a Patton-esque voice so threatening that I wondered for a minute if we were all pigeons ourselves. We’re coming for you.) “We’re in their heads. This. Is. Serious.” By the time she got to describing the third and final tactic (an installed weapon called “Eagle Eyes” to scare the crap out of the pigeons – literally), I had put myself in a headlock, desperately trying to stifle my laughter. “Oh yes, I teach leadership.” Setting a good example, Ms. Alli. But I couldn’t help it. We were learning that we had to eat in the dining hall with all of the doors closed (to be enforced by armed guards), hotboxing out the pigeons, and the human beings along with them. But ensuring the pigeons perished was far more important. A few human casualties are to be expected in times of war, you know.

Still laughing about the Special Pigeons Unit, I went to call Anj to check on dinner plans, side-stepping piles of pigeon poo. But alas, my airtime was out. So I hopped in Nugget and drove to the closest Cell C store to top off on my way home. Kicking myself for complaining about AT&T so aggressively. Especially when the Cell C store had (conveniently) decided to move the week before. So my parking garage and mall adventure was all for nothing, except a bit of exercise. I was frustrated driving home, until I saw the latest headline from The Star pinned to a streetlamp. GREEN LIGHT FOR TEEN SEX. I’m driving through the intersection getting my daily “news” and realize both the green and red lights are illuminated. Optimism says go…? Still reeling over The Star. I’m not even mad, I’m just impressed. As Ryan put it, “A. In terms of teen sex, pretty sure the light’s been green for some time now. B. The Star, how low will you stoop for R5?”

It’s been a long day in Africa. So I decide to wind down by going to see Life of Pi in 3D… at Monte Casino. I thought Beach Movie on Laskin was fancy because it serves Blue Moon in 16oz glasses. But Monte Casino was a whole new level. Having flashbacks to my days living in the Flamingo, (nothing like a stop at the craps table on the way to the Harrah’s breakfast buffet, eh Dan?), I fumble through the slots in search of the cinema.

I won’t spoil it, but Life of Pi is not exactly a stress-reliever. Siberian tigers in 3D never are, really. So walking out to my car, I was already a little shaken up before the Segway cop patrolling the parking lot pushed me over the edge. What IS this day? I got about 2km out of the Monte Casino roundabout number 3 before a police man who was furiously wrist whipping his flashlight. Is he flashing at ME? I just hear in my head “Never stop for cops at night” and am tempted to keep going, but, paralyzed by the vision of Richard Parker roaring in my head, I pull over. “License.” I’m waiting for the “and registration” but we’re not in the movies anymore. I finger through my stack of cards – Gautrain Gold Card, my American Express that’s been expired for years, my debit card, my credit card, a business card from a new friend I met in Cape Town (worth it), my Virgin Active card (Eish, I should go to the gym someday soon…), and then finally my driver’s license. “California?” Snicker. “I’m so sorry,” I apologize, “Is everything OK? I just came out of the casino, and …” I look down to see a dark dashboard. Idiot! I can’t figure out when to keep my lights on and off in this stinking car. I hadn’t even had so much as a diet Coke, either. “It was so bright in there, officer,” I stumbled as he shook his head. “Just go.”

My very first police pull-over. Ever. Flashbacks to riding three deep in the front seat of Skylar’s Big Blue Buick on the Virginia Beach Strip. “But officer, it’s so bright!” hadn’t worked as well for us that time. But then again, her 16-and-three-month-birthday isn’t exactly my 26 is it? This time, at least I can blame it on a Segway.

And the decision is made. Today, I think I’ve proven my “mental model” true. Some days, Africa is, in fact, absurd.

Our welcome back community event was an all-ALA day called "Africa: Land of Opportunities" last week. As part of the program, I gave the following talk and wanted to include it here:

"When I moved here in October – 17 hours and $1700 dollars away from my home in Virginia Beach, Virginia, my parents insisted that I save my savings instead of coming home for such a short time for Christmas. I’d only missed one Christmas at home in my entire life. And it didn't go over well. So this year, I knew better.

I surprised them, and showed up on the doorstep dressed as Christmas Tree McKee. It would have been so much better to the tune of Dean Bradford’s Ice Ice Baby, but it was a successful surprise nonetheless.


The problem with surprise Christmas visits, though, is that you don’t get any presents. Because not even Santa knows you’re coming. On Christmas morning, my three younger siblings sat in piles of wrapping paper while I sipped my third cup of coffee more focused on overcoming my jetlag than my little brother’s inability to find any tags that said “ALLI” under the tree. It was my turn to be surprised though, when my mother handed me a small package wrapped in ribbon. “The lady in the store said this would be good if I had a bohemian daughter,” she said. “Normally, I’d give this to your sister, but given the way you’ve been acting lately with this whole “Africa phase” I knew it would be perfect for you.” So here it is guys, this is what my mother thinks of when she thinks Africa. This is what I come from.

And I’m telling you because it’s an important part of the story behind Canvas, the global art exchange I started with a classmate from grad school in 2010. Fresh off a StartingBloc Fellowship, I was eager to save the world with one of these things I’d just learned about called a “social enterprise.” We got our inspiration when my cofounder, Adam, had traveled to Nicaragua on an Alternative Spring Break trip that year and had returned with a suitcase full of souvenirs from machetes that I don’t know how he got through customs, to paintings on rolled canvas.

 

Being the art lover, I was eager as he unrolled it in all of its glory and told me the story of how he’d found this little lady at some market who had begged him to take it for anything because she hadn’t sold anything in weeks. So he paid her the equivalent of seven US dollars. I was in shock. I’d somehow just sold one of my own paintings the other week for two thousand dollars and frankly, I didn’t even think it was that good, especially compared to this! We’d found an opportunity. What if we could get on this social enterprise train and help these poor artists sell their works at fair prices and turn a profit?

But searching time was tight with our full time consulting jobs starting soon. Poor artists in developing countries don’t exactly pop to the top of Google searches, so we had to gamble, and Africa felt like a good bet. One of my best friends from college, Sydney, had just returned from Tanzania. “Syd, were there, you know, poor artists?” I remember asking her. “Tons,” she replied enthusiastically. So we booked our tickets.

Days of searching in Dar knowing no more Swahili than “Mambo! Poaah!” it wasn’t a surprise that Adam and I hadn’t come across many leads. But our perseverance paid off when our took took driver Mr. Thomas dropped us at an alleyway lined with paintings leading to a big warehouse. Tinga Tinga Arts Cooperative.

We walk in the door, and wow. We’d found it. I’m crying, Adam’s crying, and these artists are looking up over brushes dipped in bicycle enamel shaking their heads, Mzungus, but we were too far under the spell of the paintings to notice. Floor to ceiling, it burst with color. It was spectacular. 

We fumbled through Swahil-ish with the sales woman and found ourselves in the middle of negotiations with the cooperative’s board in their “boardroom” aka “back room.” With some gestures and grunts and stick figure drawings with dollar signs on scrap paper, we had made a deal. Canvas was going to bring Tinga Tinga to America, and lift these poor painters from poverty while doing it. The chairman Abdullah anointed Adam “Kaka Tinga Tinga” and me, “Mama Tinga Tinga.” We were part of the family.

When Adam and I returned to America, we started setting up a website. The key was to tell the stories of the creators behind these canvases. Because that was what was going to sell the paintings. The artists would earn some shillings to feed their families and the collectors would leave with brighter walls and warmer hearts. Win win.

So to tell the stories on a budget, we sent these disposable cameras with prompts on the back across the world. Exposure 27. This is a picture of me. Exposure 9. This is something I need. Exposure 2. This is something I want to make better in my life. And so on. Weeks, months later the battered box returned, full of these self-told stories.

But when I started sifting through prints and looking – really looking – at the photos, I realized that we hadn’t known these people at all. For “Mama Tinga Tinga” I was doing a pretty bad job at knowing my own kids. I didn’t know that Mrope had an infant. Or that Emilius had a zebra print sofa and a pretty big TV in his kitchen. I looked back at the picture of us with the artists framed on my desk in San Francisco and laughed at myself.

It looked more like a really easy game of “Where’s Waldo” than a family portrait. I’d spent all of this time in Africa and yet I’d fallen for the trap myself, and hadn’t really looked beyond the surface.

If I am honest, Canvas was founded on my own oversimplified perspective of Africa- on my own stereotypes. But I can see now, the more I learn living here, that there is real opportunity with Canvas. The real opportunity is its ability to burst the bubbles that we live in. Selling paintings alone is not enough to lift these creators – or Africa for that matter- from poverty. And it’s not just about that. The power of these pieces of art – of these canvases- is that they get people thinking beyond their own limited experiences. They start the conversations that can help break the very naïve misconceptions about Africa (and the world) that started this social enterprise in the first place. They can turn the idea of one African continent into a group of human beings. And that’s when change happens.

After my mother gave me my “Africa phase” present, I pulled a big tube out from under the tree and handed it to her. I watched as her face lit up when she unrolled a bright orange and yellow print that I’d brought back from Durban.

She hadn’t asked me much about my time here, at all really, and yet I was suddenly being interrogated about the artist, where he was from, what he was like. I told her about my new friend who is applying for scholarships to go to art school in Germany. Who Facebook chats me weekly to ask about the weather up in Joburg or to send me pictures of his latest work to see what I think. And just like that, for my mother, that canvas made “Africa” come alive."

Happy 2013. Nothing like getting back into the swing of things with a Sunday Funday rooftop dinner party. Anj whipped up her Cajun chicken pasta as Sayo popped champagne bottles (stepping outside on the patio, only to aim the bottle inside, straight for our chandelier) for Dimitri, James, and Cathy. With the peach roses and chocolate that Cathy so kindly brought over, it looked more like Valentine’s Day than New Year’s but we’ll take it. Eager to catch up, the Cape Town crew began our story before we’d even finished cheers-ing. “Woah, one at a time,” James interrupted, “I’m getting a Crash vibe here. I like it.” He egged us on…

New Years Eve, the holiday of high expectations, is usually a let-down. But this holiday weekend, we got way more than we expected, or deserved.

Sleeping three deep in a two-twins-pushed-together made waking up a bit easier on New Year’s Eve day, despite the jet lag (Ambien hangover) from which I was suffering. After a breakfast of stale croissants with diabetic jam, Anj, Betty and I drove to Ocean View Drive to pick up Dimitri to join us on our excursion to Simonstown and the Cape of Good Hope. Par for the course, Sayo was still in bed, surrounded by the whole group trying to come up with a New Years Eve plan. “Just go. We’ll get it sorted,” he assured us, still under the sheets in his sweats that say “I <3 Mom” down the right leg. We trust you, Sayo.

With Dimitri snapping away with his Nikon and Betty DJing with musical music, we were cruising down to Simonstown to see our penguin pals. After seeing the little fellas waddle along big boulders in water that looked (but probably didn’t’ feel) like Virgin Gorda, we headed to the Black Marlin for a nice seafood lunch. Anj decided on the Kingclip du Jour because when you’re at the seaside staring out towards Antarctica, you can’t not, right? When our food finally came, they delivered her not a plate, but a sword full of fish. So while we pulled out our butter knives to de-shell our prawns, Anjarae had Excalibur swinging in front of her face, dripping in bacon grease. Over our casual lunch, we laughed about how Betty’s “resting face” keeps her from getting approached by strangers, whereas Anjarae and I are too friendly, and end up in heart to hearts with strange old men. “I mean, we just don’t say no to anyone!” I yelled out mid-cackle. The table behind us, full of Excaliburs as well, turned around and stared for a good fifteen seconds. Uh, I think there’s been a misunderstanding?

After a gorgeous afternoon belting out “Pink pajamas penguins on the bottom” and “He Lives in You” to the baboon-infested Cape of Good Hope, we were wind-whipped and exhausted. Rally time. We headed back to Ocean View Drive to find out our epic New Year's Eve plan. Back on the patio, the sea split the sky in two. Malibu, upgraded.

But the tranquil setting didn’t match the scene before us. You could smell the stress from the overflowing ashtray on the teak table. “So do you want the conclusion or the story?” Dubi asked us. And here we go, folks. NYE let-down number 25 of my life.

Long story short, the EPIC plans had… fallen through. We were out of options, and it was looking like we were going to be eating pizza in our pink pajamas in our Cape Town Lodge twin beds at this rate. Sayo’s “I don’t call the shots, mate” wasn’t exactly helping as Dubi’s stress mounted. On the phone trying to coordinate with Anna, he was fumbling “yes, yes we’re all here. We’re trying to figure it out! It’s Anjarae, and um, Betty, and um, uhh that white girl from Bain’s here, too.” I'm guessing that's supposed to be me?

Back at the hotel, pizza in PJ’s was looking like an upgrade until we finally pulled together “dinner” at Lucy’s in Greenside. An apartment crammed full of girls getting ready, drinking Patron out of Solo cups like the 25-27 year olds we were, the “what to wear” advice was flying. Most notably, we peer pressured Anna into wearing Erica’s heels because they make your butt look SO good! It didn’t matter that they were two sizes too big. You can stand in them right? You’re FINE! It was New Year’s Eve, after all. If not now, when?

Fast forward to Caprice, where Dubi and Chuchu have secured a table, likely by choppin' their money. We beg for our “welcome drinks” from Don, the "cute bartender," even if it IS almost midnight. Broken bottles are everywhere, creating quite the hazard once the 3…2…1…HAPPY NEW YEAR champagne shower begins. Silk dresses become see-through, mascara masks are running, and hair everywhere is straight up Mufasa. It’s not pretty. In those good-looking-but-two-sizes-too-big heels we insisted she wear, Anna falls victim to the slip and slide of the dance floor. Blood’s flowing and next thing she knows she’s in the “clinic” (read: back room crack den) getting her two inch gash first aided by the club’s owner. Happy New Year!

Sayo and I are singing highlights from Les Mis and as we look around, our once-beautiful friends are starting to look like the opening scene of “At the End of the Day.” One victim is sitting at the table, neck-rolling one too many times, eyes at half mast. So Sayo does what any good friend does. He grabs the bottle of tequila, and “hydrates” her. One can imagine what follows. 

It’s ugly. We have messy couches, messy cabs, more falling, blood flowing and as Anj put it (rag in hand), “It’s just so. bad.” And yet trying to make “sober” conversation with the cab driver to distract him, asking how his grandmother made it to South Africa from Ghana and whether his wife was happy he wasn’t there to ring in New Years with her… these all seem like perfectly reasonable ways to undo any damage that's been done.

From the ashes we rose! One little New Year’s surprise was Dimitri asking Don, the cute bartender, for his number to give to Anjarae. Apparently a 3am “I can’t read the last four digits!” fit was thrown while in the McDonald’s drive-thru number three. The leftover nuggets didn’t look so good the next morning, but the digits seemed to be clearer, so there was hope. 

All ten of us pile into a taxi for six, which made for quite the entrance when we pulled up to the One&Only hotel. Shockingly, we were the obnoxious table at lunch, laughing loudly over our Amarula milkshakes, playing Miss Mary Mack and reciting our respective lines from middle school plays. The highlight: Sayo as the Constable in Sweeney Todd, “ Ello, ello ello, whAT’s goin’ on ‘ere, thEN?” It’s not about the number of lines, mate. It’s the quality of the delivery. Afterwards, we went by a day party at The Grand and tried to fit in with the locals from “SudAfukA." Surrounded by plastics - hair, boobs, bodysuits, the works - we stood out pretty clearly from the entertainment.

When we couldn't take anymore elevator house music and noodling in the sand, we met the crew back at the Clifton beach bungalow. One of those perfect sunsets where everyone glows and the sand turns pink and the shadows are sharp against the turquoise silver sea. Anj and I stood against the rocks, still warm from the sun, and took it all in with gratitude. This is incredible. A dance lesson full of new Nigerian moves and a few dance offs to Oliver Twist later with our new 7 year old friend, and we were on our way to Long Street.

Enter Don, "cute bartender." He wanted to take us up to Signal Hill with his brother, insisting it was the "local thing to do." My expectations were low, but The Twin Peaks of Cape Town, offered a breathtaking view of the city glittering against Table Mountain’s silhouette. Such peace, broken by the echoing hum of Long Street bars below. As we stared out into the night, Don asked us about Joburg, where he'd grown up before moving to Cape Town to bartend. I told them where I worked. “Oh, that school off of, uh, Beyers… something road?” Feeling like a "SudAfukAn" myself, I asserted, “Oh yes, Beyerskloof Road." But Anj caught me, “That’s the name of the wine, Alli.”

I was embarrassed...until the brother asks us, “So why do you think there isn’t a hotel on top of Table Mountain?” Is this a trick question? But Don knows the answer. “Uh are you serious? Clearly it’s because they’d have to take the bricks up on the cable car like 100 at a time! It would take too long.” That should have been the sign to get the hell out of dodge and leave them pondering these mysteries of the universe alone.

But hours later and we’re still talking to them, about the “evils of the ANC” (that was all them) to Don’s modeling career (showing us his fancy Look Book as he narrates: “That’s me with facial hair. That’s me without facial hair. That’s when I was wearing business casual. That’s when I wasn’t wearing business casual. That’s me with a six pack. That’s my strong jawline”). As he's narrating his physique for us, I can only shake my head.  Sometimes I wonder if we’re in the Truman Show.

The next day, we bask in the sun over the most lovely heaping salad lunch at Roundhouse at the base of Table Mountain and then lounge in plush  pillows by the sea. Looking up at the blue of the sky, I’m in awe that this place exists. Cape Town has surprised us this go around, that’s for sure, and we’re sad to leave. But when we arrive at the airport 50 minutes before takeoff and all of us get free Business Class upgrades back home to Joburg, I guess we can handle this.

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.