Ok, so I wasn’t the most thoughtful critic while in South Africa. Alright, I was downright frigid, but with temperatures below 30 and no proper winter attire, it wasn’t just my heart that was frigid. Now that I am out of the country and can feel my toes again, I am able to look back on the fuller portion of the (frozen) glass.
Although it was easy to assimilate, like I said in my last entry, it was not as easy to acclimate. Fifteen hours before touching down in Johannesburg, I was wearing a short sleeved t-shirt and fanning myself with my boarding pass. When we landed, I was climbing into my thin shirt and trying to find some way to convert the boarding pass into heating fuel. However, the cold followed me from the tarmac to the house. Most South African homes do not have centralized heating, unless you count the small space heater centrally located in the living room. I spent much of my four evenings vying for a position in front of that space heater. Yet, the worst cold moments were at bedtime, second only to showering in the mornings. At night, I felt like I was sleeping in ALL of the clothes I had packed, while shivering under five layers of blankets, including two comforters, and three layers of pajamas. But, there was some reprieve. Although space heaters have to be turned off at night because they can start fires, the solution is hot water bottles. After growing up predominately in the South, where winter temperatures are around 50 degrees, I can’t say I can remember seeing a hot water bottle, much less using one. The two bottles and I became great mates during my four day stay and I think they are the greatest invention since sweet tea. I cuddled one close to my chest on top of all the layers of clothing, with another one placed at my feet underneath the five layers of blankets.
That hot water bottle came in handy when I came back from my two nights on the town with my friend, Danelle, and my brother, Jordan. Danelle took us to a local bar called the News Café as treat for Jordan, who is only 18 and can drink in South Africa, but not for another three years in the United States. I ordered a double gin and tonic because it is my favorite drink. Although the bar was outdoors, heated only by a plastic overhang and a couple gas-powered heat lamps, and I was wearing nine layers, including socks, boots and a winter coat, the bar was fun. Lit by the lamps and a few neon signs, a red glow lit up the seating area. Although red is typically coupled with heat, this one taunted us.Despite my disposition to the cold weather, I noticed South Africa has some of the finest service industry protocols and demeanors. From small diners to lunch at fine restaurants, waiters seem genuinely pleased to meet you. Having a best friend/waitress in the American food industry, I understand that a lot of times the smiles and greetings are faked for a better tip. However, our waiter at the News Café, having noticed my American accent, asked me “Miami or New York?” I had to laugh, as if all of the Americans live in Miami or New York. Thank goodness I live in neither. I said, “Daytona Beach, about four hours from Miami” and he then asked me how I liked South Africa. Before I could respond, he said, “Oh, I love America. And don’t be shy. South Africans love Americans”. A bit flabbergasted, we ordered and our drinks arrived promptly. Our drinks came in a glass, not plastic cups, and our waiter opened my can and poured in my mixer for me. At this point, Danelle had handed Jordan a cigarette and had put an unlit one to her mouth. Without hesitation, our waiter leaned in and lit Danelle’s cigarettes for her. And without hesitation, I grabbed the cancer stick from my brother’s mouth and used the ash tray our waiter brought along.
The following night we went to Hatfield Square, a square in the middle of the University of Pretoria lined by numerous pubs and bars and frequented by the students. The previous night when we arrived, the square was jammed packed with students and only the waifs of their smoke could permeate the thick crowd. On a raised platform above the crowd, an Afrikaans band was leading the drunken crowd in a melody about “f-ing police cars”. We opted to go home and snuggle with our hot water bottles instead. At least they brought the rubbers. This night the band was gone and the bars were a bit more manageable. If you drink nothing else while in Pretoria, I strongly recommend this blend of crème soda and cane liquor called the “Green Monster” at Herr Gunters. It is a toxic green concoction that tastes more like a vanilla-flavored cold beverage than a drink that, after two drinks in, you begin to forget what your name is and that you don’t speak any Afrikaans. At a little over a $1 a drink, I bought three rounds for three people at R81 (<$9), and three each is really all one needs. Once again, had I not been hearing Afrikaans, I would’ve thought I was on campus at any big university. This evening, recordings from Panic at the Disco (just couldn’t escape it), Pink, All-American Rejects and Akon accompanied songs like “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and “Save Tonight” as the musical entertainment. Much like any Irish pub in Daytona, the local rugby team, fresh from the field, was seated in Herr Gunter’s guzzling down Windhoek beer and carousing with the local female population.
I am sorry to report that my best times in South Africa were spent in a bar. However, next time, I will come during their summer. Maybe then the drink will be frozen on purpose.
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