Swindled, again!

No essay this week. No compassion for snakes. Probably because of too many episodes of Dirty John in a row;Tender is the Night; and the first chapter of The Last Battle (Shift the Ape’s manipulation of Puzzle the Donkey is a brilliant introduction to emotional bullying, gaslighting and guilt-tripping for anyone interested in furthering their studies on this or helping their children understand such matters). So only this picture of these dogs I’ve sent looking for Sipho the painter who swindled me out of a lot of money. Last month on account of his supposed dead only son, and then last week on his graduation after 19 years of after-hours studying and nearly committing suicide. He said he would bring it back, but of course he hasn’t. For all my soft-hearted friends who have confirmed falling for tricksters over the years. Cling on to the light people. If Sipho the painter comes to your door do not let him in.

Goodbye to Theme Hotels

Never ever in my life have I been inside a beach cottage where there is not a mirror within a frame made of stuck on shells. Just last Saturday I went to the most unimpeachably tasteful beach cottage in the world, with a garden full of irises and a huge kitchen and wraparound veranda with views of the sea and whales. And there was such a mirror. There were also flop-down blinds with crabs on them (main bedroom), and lighthouses (the family room). In another beach house, one belonging to my parents, there is such a mirror. There are also pictures of fish on every other bit of wall and the knobs of each drawer are made of fake shells. The lights are made from bleached driftwood gathered up off the beach, with energy-saving bulbs stuck on them. 

In an effort to understand humans who like to organise their world into themes, I, myself, have absolutely tried out compartmentalisation as a method of living. Over the years I have indeed made quite a few shell necklaces and sometimes even cuttlefish and coral mobiles while staying at beach cottages. When it comes to beach house interior decorating, I actually totally get it. Because you might be in the kitchen, say, and you might for a minute or two accidentally think about something horrible. But then you reach out to open the cutlery drawer, place your hand onto a shell knob and yay, you remember: Everything is okay. For I am at the beach.

Themes can be useful in other ways too. Like once we went to the Nieu Bethesda for Christmas. This is the weirdest place on earth and of course there are no shell mirrors here. Here the themes are mostly Owls and Statues Facing East, and fathers being locked in rooms where the walls are made of broken black glass. All the mirrors are reflecting the moon and the sun. And the sun is SO HOT in Nieu Bethesda we had to sit in the drains (leiwaters) all day to keep from getting heatstroke. 

So perhaps to distract from all of this, a friend we were with suggested we have a Swedish theme for Christmas lunch. In retrospect a very good idea to be thinking about somewhere cold and not quite so weird, and therefore feeling more comfortable. In other words: Everything is okay. For I am actually in Sweden.

But at the time, I just couldn’t reconcile all the themes. Baby Jesus, Owls, Too many Presents, Hot versus Cold. Sheep everywhere, but no shepherds. So I just came out and said that embarrasingly, for a supposed travel journalist, I know very little about Sweden apart from wishing we had Ikea in South Africa. And Google said at Christmas you fasten candles onto your head during lunch, and I just thought the way in which I would do that particularly, might in fact be very offensive to Sweden. 

Then, the other day, after not thinking about this topic for quite a while, Thea and I accidentally went to a Theme Hotel for the weekend. Of course we didn’t mean to. From the internet it looked like just another midlands hotel with houses on stilts in the trees. And it all started off pretty ordinarily. Acceptable, general and semi-enjoyable South African midlands’ themes: wholly wanky baristas; crystals at the crystal shop; cows and pigs, dreamcatchers; mist; green-ness. But it started to unravel.

I’m not saying as we arrived at the actual Theme Hotel it suddenly burst out snowing. Or that I mysteriously pricked my finger on a spindle and then exactly three drops of blood fell out of it. That would be taking the genre of subjective journalist beyond its maximum capacity. It was more subtle. It was more like in the beginning of the movie Gaslight, when the guy just ever so slightly makes the lights flicker. 

We were allocated the Fantasy House. It was small and wooden and there was a mirror on the wall. This one was not made of shells, but of dark wood. And in a very German font, were carved the words, Who is the Fairest?

And even though I was now trying my best not to think about Snow White and how frightening it is, or let the theme of Pathological Envy and Women with Narcissistic Personalisty Disorder spoil my weekend get away, it started to become more and more difficult to get away from it. Seven knives, seven forks, seven everything in our cottage. We found a pouch for poison at the museum, and a discarded vanity case. Also no one was eating any apples. Not even the horses. They just would not. 

By the time we went into the dining room for supper, the brothers Grimm had truly taken hold. In the corner, sitting on a fancy chair, was a particularly thin-lipped woman. She was absolutely scoffing down what looked to me like very fresh bleeding heart (venison was on the menu). I admit I couldn’t directly look at her because I was too scared, but I just knew in my head, that drool, blood, control, power and jealousy were all sliding down her pointy chin, over the extruded veins of her neck and dripping red splotches onto a snow white napkin. And that she believed she was eating her own step-daughter, while in the kitchen a huntsman was wiping slain deer off his arrows. 

And so after this we went home, because we had had enough and we didn’t want to think about Snow White or the horrors of coming of age anymore, while trying to be on holiday. We had gaslighted ourselves so much we had forgotten about going to farmer’s markets and scones with cream, missed out on visits to ceramic studios and meeting the woman who lives nearby and has apparently been abducted by aliens three times. This is the danger of an environment controlled by theme. Just way too prescriptive.

And once we were back at the coast, thankful and safe, I just knew once and for all, that was it, for me and themes. I know I have given them a very good chance. Except for beach cottages with shells around the mirrors and drawer knobs to remind us that everything is actually okay; farewell themes. Even when, on hearing this, Thea told me about a Hamster Hotel in France. For Humans. With a wheel to run on and sawdust to sleep in and all-things hamster, I said no. I said we will never ever go to that hotel. 

Lyra and the snakes

Last Saturday Lyra was sad and I thought she might want to be back in the womb. So I strapped her to my tummy and walked along a foresty path towards the sea. The next best place I know to where she had come from. It was all going fine until I stopped with a fright and she started crying again. Even closer than a foot from us was a green snake. Just blatantly sliding around a tree.

So I said to her, in a lilty voice: that snake, is not a snake to be upset about. Even if it is poisonous. Because we can see that snake. Simply out and about on a tree. With it’s pretty spots and a very long tail.

I said that even if my friend Ernest is right and that snake is not what it seems, but in fact an ancestor come back as a snake to say hi, we still don’t need to be at all worried. Even fake snakes are okay, if you can see them. Even if our ancestors were scary and detached and depressed and really unaffectionate and mean, this was because they lived through hard times, like the war. And people who live through wars see the worst things and then they have shell-shock and post-traumatic stress disorder and go all numb and sometimes can only think about their own pain and then they kill themselves. So we must try and forgive them and be understanding, when they come to visit us. 

And then I told Lyra about the time Ernest brought a python to my house in his van. He rang the bell and said, Jess, I have something to show you. So I went downstairs and there was an alive python and a dead goat. He said the python had gone into his neighbour’s house in the night and they wanted to kill it but they were too scared, so they phoned him for help. Luckily. Because Ernest knows you must never kill pythons. Pythons are Royal Ancestors. Instead you must kill a nearby baby goat. Then put them both into your van while you are at work and then later on set them free in a nature reserve. 

Ernest knows all this because he really loves and understands animals. Including fake spirit animals. He said when he was child he used to watch cats all the time. So he could sit in a tree and pounce on birds and catch them. But he never ate them. He showed me so many pictures on his phone of animals he has rescued. Donkeys with sore ears, lots of three-legged dogs, half-dead pigeons. Even unhappy and lost cows. Pythons are just big and needy and a bit smothering in their affection. So if they hug you: don’t move at all. Don’t even breathe. Just ignore them. Then they will eventually let you go. 

Even if you see a cobra, it is fine. They are just a little bit insecure and lonely. You just have to talk to them. My friend once told me about when a cobra came right up to her. It seemed to be very cross and put its hood up and hissed at her. But she just calmly said to the cobra, you don’t have to be so angry. You are a snake, but it isn’t your fault. Just like I am Aquarius and I can’t help that. You are very beautiful and you need to just chill. And after a while it calmed down and went off into the trees.

All of these snakes are okay, I said to her. Because we can see them. The only very bad snakes are called snakes in the grass. There really is no solution to these snakes and I don’t know what happened to make them such assholes. And they are always a surprise so there is no point in knowing about them in advance. Maybe you will never meet one and that will be wonderful. Because if you do, you won’t want to skip through a meadow of poppies with only your flip-flops on ever again. And that will be a very sad day.

happy orchid and sorry about the cat

This year we gave my dad a book called Happy Orchid for his birthday and some special orchid food and an actual orchid. This is because he has now realised he likes to grow things. He says he likes having things he has nurtured around and about the house. He has even slipped the unslippable: the bougainvillea. I also bought him a book about topiary in case he wants to eventually sculpt his bougainvillea into a beautiful peacock, but that book is stuck at customs. Before my dad used to kind of leave growing things to my mum. She is particularly good at this. Once her friend gave her the seed pod of a baobab tree. She simply stuck it in the ground among the lettuces and the snapdragons and now every time there is a thunderstorm and a lot of lightning, a baby baobab emerges. I am sure this could be explained by a clever scientist, but each morning after a storm, it seems like a mini miracle to me. She has given away lots of baby baobabs because there is no space for them all in her garden.

Of course we really wanted to give my dad a kitten for his birthday, because a few days ago his actual cat, Oedipus, died. And he was very sad. Because he loved this cat, who was born in a hole in a tree in my parents’ garden. And, untrue to his namesake, Oedipus did love my mum, but even more especially loved my dad. He definitely didn’t want to kill him, even accidentally. In fact my dad was the only one who could get near that cat. No one else. Not even me. Not even the vet. Actually the vet got quite upset when the cat attacked him, even though my dad always wrote WILD in the space for temperament on the form.

But sadly this cat used up its gift of nine lives very quickly. Once Jack was sitting by the window in the kitchen on a normal Tuesday and suddenly Oedipus came flying passed him, having jumped from the top storey or perhaps even the roof. Another time when my cousin’s dog came for tea, Oedipus ran straight through a glass door and then up a tree without even stopping. Oedipus was actually more like a very untame tiger, than a domestic cat. Irreplaceable. And we couldn’t get my dad a kitten because of what Hamlet said to Horatio about the funeral bak’d meats too coldly furnishing forth the marriage tables. When he was upset about his mum getting remarried so quickly to his uncle.

Anyway, happy birthday Dad. Happy death day cat. And happy birthday Jack and Thea. And happy birthday me, because we are all born within days of each other. In different years of course, but none of us, especially not Thea, feel even a second older than 10.

How to be a BFF and hold a snake

As I walked up the hill to St Josephs to look for the South African Depression and Anxiety Group, I was trying to realistically picture what it would be like. Maybe like a very busy call centre. Or Gatwick Arrivals, but without the aeroplanes. Or even what the newsroom was like on deadline. Given that I live in one of the harshest and most violent countries in the world. With one of the lowest life expectancies. Where the graph between rich and poor is the steepest and everyone has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from Apartheid and surviving HIV.

And would the people there be happy or be sad? Perhaps everyone would be just be swimming around in a literal Sea of Despond. Maybe the floor would be wet and slippery from all the crying. Or maybe hundreds of people would be gently sitting around in soft rooms listening to Bach. Feeling better. And some would be in even brighter rooms painting murals of rainbows. Maybe even there would be some behavioural psychologists left over from the seventies: agoraphobes would happily getting in and out of lifts or little dark cupboards. Or perhaps people would be there very proudly holding snakes for longer and longer each day.

But when I got there, of course it was not like that. I simply walked through a series of blank and empty rooms. One large one, many small. One table with pamphlets about Suicide and Addiction and a kettle on it. And then I found one lady. That was it. One small, friendly, cheerful lady, called Lynn.

While I waited for her, as usual I then started to wonder what exactly I thought I was doing. With only white middle class credentials and the same rank of suffering. Without even an updated cv. Of what use could I actually be? And then I thought of course: infographics. I could help Lynn to make a beautiful scatter graph of Bewildering Things that Happen on the x-axis and then Rising Up Like New Bread on the y. Or a simple two-toned bar graph of things you think are scary but actually are not. Like for instance, sharks.

When she sat down opposite me, I merely said more confessionally than anything: “Hi, I’m Jess. I am a journalist and I like to run and draw. And I have a dormant postgraduate degree in Psychology.” And then, “Is it only you, here?”

Lynn then explained that the KZN wing of SADAG had only just started, and that sometimes there were more people in the room. Some actual psychologists, but mostly trained volunteers running support groups. And we agreed and acknowledged that just helping to keep people in South Africa alive was a very big task, whether or not they were happily alive, was another whole thing.

And because there are not enough mental health professionals to go around, among many other peer support programmes, SADAG decided it might be helpful, to go back to the Friend zone, so to speak. So many people, both great and small, say they don’t know what to say when their friend tells them about something sad that happened to them. They say, I would like to help her, but I don’t know how. I am afraid I will say the wrong thing.

So this is one of my new projects. A lot of research, evaluation and a beautiful book. With drawings and plain words and instructions: what to say when someone tells you about something awful. Or that they don’t really want to live anymore. Or what to do if your best friend has disappeared or gone very quiet, or perhaps is simply just not at all hungry.

I don’t know if I can do this very well, or appropriately. But so far I’ve got Ethical Clearance. And in a year or so, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, check out what Zimbabwe has been up to https://www.friendshipbenchzimbabwe.org/ and these awesome popular culture videos produced a few years ago by illustrator Katy Davis https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZWf2_2L2v8 and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Evwgu369Jw. If you have ideas and what to be involved, please contact me.

Please defriend me

One winter we went to the Drakensberg. It was very cold. When we woke up in the morning, Thea opened the curtains and everything was white with snow. For people like us who live in the tropical swamp which is Durban, this was an awesome way to greet a new day. We were beyond excited and it was just beautiful. All the trees were drippy and transformed. We couldn’t find the cars. Everyone was ecstatically sliding about, especially the dogs.

My friend was coming up later that day, and in my anxiety to encourage her to come quickly and share in all this bliss, I sent her a host of pictures. Us joyously capering about in a brand new snowy world.

And her response, let us say, was disappointing. Her interpretation was that I was showing off. The subtext she read, was Look at Us Playing in the Snow and All that You are Missing Out On. At the time, I put this down to perhaps a misunderstanding, or grumpiness, or too little coffee on her behalf – perhaps 4.30am is a little early for whatsapping. I put it away and forgot about it, for I am pretty good at The Benefit of the Doubt.

But then just last week, I posted another joyous picture: this time of children jumping into the ocean and playing on the beach. I wrote about what a lovely day it was. My intention was to spread the love. I like to commune with others. I like to share things. I want people to do this too. I thought everyone, even angry people, even people living in Jo’burg or in other, more landlocked places, would be happy to see gleeful children playing in the waves.

But alas, not so. Among those who were indeed able to set aside memories of their fairly dud Saturdays and share in the wonder of this hour – one freely available to all coastal dwellers, let’s face it – this seemed to elicit a river of envy, a leaky flood-plane of passive-aggression. One does become hardened and accustomed to this by (interchangeably) midlife/midnight, depending on how much whiskey; and within the distressing moment, can always hold on to the truth that both Beauty and Envy are in the eyes of the beholder.

But in case you have forgotten this age-old adage. Or about how social media works. Or if you feel sad about being misunderstood. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If my pictures annoy you, and you think I am a narcissist, or if my posts are filling you with envy and anger please defriend me. I beg you. In the end it is really not going to work out for us. And if you think I am too sensitive, that is simply not for you to decide.

The other day, I was having coffee with my normally pretty perky friend. A friend who posts a lot of stuff on social media. Her children, her lovely holidays, cats and dogs being friends, people playing the piano to orphaned elephants. I like this stuff. That is why I look at it. And I see what my other friends who are far away are up to, what they think is awful, what they think is super-funny. I love their weekend snaps and their children growing up to be mini sassy Ingrid Bergmans. But while we were chatting about this, her usually bright eyes went all cloudy and suddenly huge droplets of water came spouting out and raining down all over the tablecloth. And she began to say no Jess. We are narcissists. We take things personally because we think it’s all about us. We are nosey and stalky and by sharing our children’s athletic triumphs they too will turn into mini-Trumps or come to nothing more than Mantlepiece Trophies. My beautiful friend, a source of joy for so many, now gaslighted to shreds, had fallen into that trap.

And I reminded her, that until People Out There, both walking through the halls of Real Life, Instagram and Facebook, prescribe meaning to what she says, her intentions belong to her, and their envy belongs to them. That there is nothing needy or wrong with wanting to connect. It is what life among others is actually for. Sadly narcissists cannot do this. And no true Narcissist ever asks the question she had just posed, of their own flawless personality. Well if they do, the answer is Yes, and they are very proud of getting top marks on the Levenson Scale of Psychopathy.

I don’t think this cheered her up particularly, and of course I am a peacock in many ways. But as solace, for the more sensitive among us, for all my friends who tell me they surround themselves in bouncy white light just to get through the day, here is the thing:

There are many wholly valid reasons why people are not on social media. We know all about its sinister side. We can choose to say goodbye. We all know interaction In Real Life is much better for us. We all know it is addictive and can be stalky and waste a lot of time. Once someone hacked into my Pinterest account and posted before and after pictures of a woman who had been on a gene-based diet (the before pictures of her squashed into a bikini, did unfortunately look a bit like me). This was scary and mortifying, and i’ve never been back to that particular platform.

But despite all this, and contrary to popular wisdom, narcissists are among those conspicuous by their absence on social media.

They don’t like it. They don’t like other people and they are not at all interested in what they are doing, unless this in some way benefits them. The very concept of sharing and liking and wow and heart emoticons is a confusing principle for the narcissist. They are entirely self-referential, so they think everyone is constantly competing. Of course they mistrust your motives. You are merely a reflection. They can’t bring themselves to like your picture of a horse. And they can’t bear to wonder why, so instead they blame and scapegoat the platform, and mock those upon it. Believing themselves needy and inferior, their shamed friends and partners have to invisibly check their accounts on stealth mode.

Narcissists say they are entirely above the whole phenomenon. They are far too important and far too busy to engage in the pathetic humdrum of Bourgeoisie connection. Standing on other people’s fingers on the way up the ladder is hard work. They say there simply is not enough time for pictures of sad elephants. Downtime is for competitive games.

They may have tried it out perhaps, because everyone desperately needs attention. But not even 10 000 likes bought on Instagram will ever be enough to fill up the leaky bucket that has become their soul. And the discomfort they feel watching someone else’s kid excel at backstroke just becomes too taxing. Their heads are just about exploding with hatred and their eyes are virtually popping out. And then they are in a extra bad mood because they are anxiously and hastily organising extra backstroke lessons for the little mini-extensions of themselves and looking for a minion to help with lifts.

Look, this is an unusually depressing essay, I realise that. This one does not have Joy as it’s theme. This one is about Spoiling Joy. I could post a meme of the White House in the picture section with the caption. Does this spark joy? Like I saw today on Facebook. And the answer will be no. We can do our best, but we can’t always be Frida Kahlo being carried through the streets of Durban with happy eyes and unplucked brows. If I make you feel shit, please defriend me. As the Icarus Project wrote “The year is 2035. Marie Kondo holds up the condemned man to the crowd. “Does this man spark joy?” The crowd jeers, “No he does not!” She nods silently and throws him into the pit.

The south coast

If you are ever feeling sad, then you can just watch this video of these girls and then some dogs playing on the beach that I made on Saturday. It is not a very good video because i’ve only just started learn now to do this properly. And I want to be able to slow it down when the people all join hands and do cartwheels, and speed up the boring bits and make the clouds more contrasty. And I will work this out soon. Don’t worry.

We were invited down the coast and I took all my new equipment to take amazing photographs of the most amazing place in the world to write a million articles about it all. And then do an awesome photo-essay for this page to encourage everyone to go there, because it is the best place.

But unfortunately for these good intentions, our host was a famous chef and I was too occupied with eating to do anything else. My mouth was always too full to even talk, but when it did, it was saying why after at least 10 years (if you add up all the times) of chiselling mussels and oysters off these rocks, have I never put them in a paella that tastes this good. And my stomach was saying stop you are too full. And then my brain was saying you can’t go for a swim now, because you will drown. But then I remembered that is a lie told by lazy people who like to nap after lunch. And don’t enjoy swimming as much as me. And so with stomachs as big as pregnant baluga whales, we left them to it, wobble-scampered through the garden, over the railway, and there it was. This perfect beach on this wonderful day. And I balanced my camera on a bit of rotting driftwood, and I would say at least half fulfilled my assignment with this joyous hour condensed into about 40 seconds.

how to cook a wolf and like a man

Today I was just so happy, as I am every 12 months, that we decided to invent years. Because at this time on the calendar you can hug all your friends all the time and give them lots of presents and say how much you’ve missed ones that have come back from where ever they have been. And no one thinks you are too much of this and too much of that, or in the least bit too affectionate or too emotional. Because it is the right and appropriate time of year for that. You can sleep quite a bit and throw away all your old earrings and resolve to only wear amazing earrings from now on. You could maybe cut yourself an awesome holiday fringe if you want, or cut your friend’s fringe if they also want a new look.

You can go to the beach every day. You can send people you love lots of messages and you have time to put any horrible witches or bullies or wolves that might have been bothering you straight into a hot air balloon. And then you can send them off and watch them floating into the burning sun or falling into the deep ocean. (This is easier if you are in Durban at this time of year). The same can be done to any mistakes you’ve made, if you’ve really tried your very best to fix them.

You can watch Lord of the Rings for a whole nine hours in a row if you like and think of Gandalf saying You Shall Not Pass to the Balrog demon and then Run Fools and about how you could use that in real life. You can resolve to meet your deadlines and become a very good photographer by going on a course. If you are really very lucky, you could be about to become an aunt in the very next year; or perhaps even someone’s fairy godmother.

Also, one of the best things to do is to read lots of cookery books, and decide to be healthier and better in the kitchen, every day. Which is what inspired this burst of joyful resolution in the first place. I recommend of course MFK FIsher How to Cook a Wolf, even though it is not 1942 anymore, nor war time (strictly speaking) and even though I know everyone already is. Particularly: How Not to Boil an Egg, How to Rise Up like New Bread, How to Make a Pigeon Cry and How to Pray for Peace. The Measure of My Powers, and quite obviously The First Oyster. Or you could read How to Cook Like a Man, by Daniel Duane, although I confess I did not. I just took a picture of the cover. And also thanks everyone for liking my page. Happy new year. Again.

happy new year

I promised Elda that I would do an essay a week next year and I also promised her I would try and be more showy. So to honour this, I’ve made a Facebook page, and I’m telling everyone. This will hopefully force me to keep my promise. To wish everyone a happy Christmas and super-fun holidays, here is a picture Caelin took when we went on a Sunday drive to do a story for Getaway. It is in the January 2019 edition. There were quite a few lovely surprises on this day. I hope everyone’s 2019 is full of lots of these types of days and lots of love.

When words fail you must draw a tiger

Some people like me find focusing on one thing for a very long time quite difficult. Kind spirits say it is essential for channeling the creative force to suddenly cut your hair in the middle of the morning or have a walk to pigeon valley to look for the rabbits or the black mamba. Going to the spar at like 11 is also good, or maybe going to the beach just quickly. Others are less encouraging of these methods of living, but no doubt more productive. They can helpfully sometimes hand out ritalin and lectures on knuckling under, or choosing one thing. And they say, have you done this, and what about that. And focus. And they are right and successful. But all I can say for now is that it is difficult to make a living solely on writing about road trips to the best prawn curry in the world (but do look out for that in January’s Getaway) or mountains that go into outer space. Or what to do when your hamster is afraid of thunder (Hamster Quarterly). Or why my friends surround themselves in barriers of bouncy white light before they leave the house (no place for this just yet).

Quite often editors say no that is not a good idea for a story at all. Sometimes they send me away to places and then tell me to turn around because the town is on fire. To make a living many freelance writers maybe do deals like with Nikon and Eurorail and then don’t get off the train and sell the camera in Siberia. Just to keep warm.

Mostly nowadays you also have to add in very good pictures. It’s like when you send a text. Sometimes perhaps a unicorn emoticon or a praying one says it all just perfectly. Sometimes an actual photograph of the frightened hamster in the storm. You need to be able to embrace more and more methods to get your point across. You have to be flexible. Sometimes a voice note, or a song, or a video clip but seldom leaving a message like in the olden days. So today I’m drawing a picture of a lady with headphones on for a UNAIDS podcast. I am also working on putting a drawing I did of a tiger into this drawing I did of a forest. This is because yesterday William said he wants to put my drawing of a tiger on the water bottles he sells to everyone. Hooray. And It should be jumping through a forest. Because Summer is coming and we need to drink, and life without awesome tigers jumping through forests on water bottles would be BORING!

The worst story I won't write

A few weeks ago Thea and I went for a swim at a big public pool. There was hardly anyone there because it was raining, but the lifeguard smiled and said come on in. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. We got in and started swimming. As I did backstroke, he limped towards the deep end, his feet slightly strangely splayed out as he went. And I realised who he was. And I thought this is really very very fucked up. This guy is just walking around this swimming pool on a normal Monday making sure no one drowns. This guy, who only a few months ago was all over the news in every country. Famous because men with chainsaws attacked him and tried to cut off his legs. His assailants only got half way through his calves, took a call and then disappeared. Mhlengi got to a hospital and his legs were sewn up. Perhaps it is just normal and the best thing to go back to working at a swimming pool after something like this happens. I don’t know.

I didn’t actually recognise Mhlengi from the newspapers, but because, in a separate coincidence, before all this happened, we met on a photoshoot for a story I was writing about his coach. Apart from being a lifeguard, Mhlengi is a triathlete. At this time, I was writing a lot of ‘triumph through suffering’ stories mainly about athletes conquering adversity through sport. People were telling me stories about strokes, heroin addiction, cancer, being blind, being desperately poor, having a broken heart, being run over and having a leaky gut. About being at your weakest and your strongest at the same time. Heavily influenced at one point by the movie Phantom Thread, I might even have compared the existential crisis of the upper echelon ultra-runner to knowingly eating a huge poisonous mushroom omelette.

I had never written about someone who had been attacked with a chainsaw however, but I decided to leave Mhlengi alone. CNN and the BBC descended and the world reacted. Hundreds of thousands of rands were donated to pay the medical bills. In my neighbourhood, where the attack happened, people starting drinking a bit earlier in the day. Fear and neurosis levels soared to record heights. Even the bushes on the roads where he cycled seemed to be simmering with PTSD*. People stopped riding bicycles. There are a lot of freelance tree-fellers in Glenwood and many went bust. More people moved to Durban North. Ex-pats felt justified. Everyone had a theory. It was a premeditated attack. Nothing was stolen. And then after a while it all died down again, and everyone kind of forgot, and then from time to time, said, I wonder if the guy who was attacked with the chainsaws is okay now. I mean come on.

Last Friday I went back to the pool. I wanted to ask Mhlengi if he was alright or if he felt abandoned now that time had passed. He said he had a lot of support, and he said that he was not scared, but he was ‘looking out’.

“What is the point of crying,” he said. “I grew up tough. From when I was a boy herding cattle I had to deal with the worms in their intestines when they died. When I was a child young virgin girls had to watch out because of muti and Albino people were never buried, for the same reason. My father survived two bullets to the torso, and one ricocheting off the wall. Since I have been alive I have been struck by lightning twice, but luckily it got the jukebox and my cellphone instead. I have been knocked off my bicycle three times. I was in a car accident where a truck killed my friend. I was an alcoholic and a drug addict and I got through that by running, cycling and swimming. I have been held up at gunpoint three times. And I have been stabbed in the head.” He showed me the scar. “I don’t think the same chainsaw people will come back. It will be something different.”

At this point he went to attend to some swimmers and I wrote a text to my friend Richard about all this. Richard said 'Holy jesus. what a fucking nightmare. Please go home and sit down quietly with a glass of wine and a Victorian novel.”

I asked him if he wanted to tell the story of the attack. He said he was tired of talking about ‘the incident’ and it made him emotional. Actually, I know that really he just wants to be a lifeguard and get on with his training. But anyway, it is not up to him, what gets written anymore. Because as usual, an agent now decides. An agent in London, who says he will take Mhlengi to the Olympics. Have a look at their website http://supremerocket.com/

The agent wrote to me. He said, “Dear Jess, ‘we want a story that can go hand in hand with our trajectory… we wish however a story of conquest and not a story of survival… a story of pure love for the sport and how that can bring the force you need to become truly impressive… we also wish to keep Gwala away from any political position (apartheid included) as he and all athletes are international and the sponsors, the fans and the people that work with him and donated and helped him now and in the future. So politics has no place in sports… let’s see that together we make a great material beneficial and inspiring to all.” For real. He wrote me that text.

*When you have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, you are mostly just getting on with your day, keeping memories and anxiety, sadness, grief, anger, all that stuff just beneath the surface or away in a separate box. Sometimes though, for years afterwards, something or someone triggers the memory. Perhaps it is a small thing, like a car exhaust backfires. Perhaps it seems like something unrelated: someone shouts at you, or someone you trusted betrays you, or you experience loss, or you read about something that happened somewhere else. Anything, probably inconsequential to the person sitting next to you. And your whole body is transported back to the time you were first afraid. It feels as if it all happening again right then. All that terror, wham, right back. My Psychology thesis results showed that up to 70% of children aged 6 - 8 living in hotspots around Pietermaritzburg in the nineties had either witnessed the death of a loved one or the destruction of their home. Many had been hurt themselves. Their drawings were of tiny people with huge ears (listening for danger) in the corners of the pretty big pieces of paper I gave them.

Vultures

Last time we were together Teagan and I were swimming with moray eels. Hippos were to the left of us, sharks to the right. We went tiger fishing and we were entertaining people on boats in the middle of actual nowhere. And best of all taking amazing photographs and playing with her drone. This time we are going to the mountains to walk and run a very very long way. And hang out with vultures (and a few other journalists). I can't wait. Yay. And I've finally updated the writing page on my website. 

Beauty left intact

In response to a deadline for a travel piece on Athens, I decided I would tell the editor that it had all been said already, very, very well, much better than I could ever say it. That I had nothing new to add, and the best writer about it was John Keats. So here is a photograph I took of an octopus on a vase, and the poem Ode on a Grecian Urn. Although Keats was unpopular with his contemporaries, this really is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know. Beauty is truth, truth beauty.

They didn't like that email. So then I thought about going on an Assertiveness Training Workshop, in order to get my point across to editors more effectively. My friend Rich Keeley once went on one. He said it was quite hard at first. They make you go round in the group and say your name. And then you have to say something you are good at. You can't say, "Hi, I am Rich Keeley and I am very good at pleasing people". They won't let you because you have naturally already ticked that box. You have to say something more useful. Rich said "Hi, I am Rich Keeley, and I am very good at making Compilation Tapes (It was the nineties)". 

"Hi, I am Jess, and I am good at looking at art? Super Mario Cart? Birthday cards? Having Fun? Saying Yes instead of No? Trying to make people feel loved and happy?" And then hopefully after a 12-week programme, perhaps I could mention a more adult skill that people in higher positions in society feel is worth paying for. "Hi I am Jess, and I am very good at going on holiday, so here is my piece about Athens. Take it or leave it." And by the way, other editors have sent me tiger fishing and to Kosi Bay and to Paradise Valley to write about picnics and twice editors said, please go for a long run in Lady Grey and decide why.

Or how about "Here is my piece about Athens with no mention of Keats, or in fact the Acropolis or the Parthenon either". It is called Beauty Left Intact. It is about going to the Archaeological Museum to smell Aphrodite's perfume and decide if it is more rose or orchid. And seeing sparkly duck vases and ancient well-used golden combs that people have lovingly and compassionately made for each other. Never mind amazing octopus vessels, and lovers that shall never kiss on urns, and little ancient greek figures of women as violins. And amazing torsos of athletes. The curves and folds of goddesses. Does no one remember that appreciation of people and their form and other works of art leads to Love? Socrates said so. 

But apparently neither Keats nor the smell of Aphrodite, nor even Socrates is enough for a travel piece on Athens. 

The thing is, going to the Parthenon, is fine and it is very majestic. No straight lines, Doric columns, perfect proportions. Strong amazing Caryatids holding what would be a roof up. And it is good for the imagination to think Oh yes, I see, that is where Zeus's head is meant to be. Incredible Zeus's head which cracked open to give birth to Athena (who I quite admire, but not as much as Psyche, Ariadne, Arachne, and Daphne, who didn't start any wars over who was the most beautiful or turn other women into spiders or crane birds. They just calmly fed cake to dogs, hung themselves or begged to be turned into trees). 

But there on at the Parthenon, slipping on the sweaty marble, were people saying "Now don't come Acropolis", and thinking that was funny. Which started making me a bit irritable. And the English family debating whether to actually buy a ticket to go in, "We can kind of see it from here, don't you think? So we could just buy a postcard, find a taverna, drink twenty pints of Mythos, and then go and see all the best bits at the British Museum on a day when it isn't so hot." 

And then I had to explain to the children why it was all bashed down. Well, children, war: the Phoenicians, Venetians, (some Earthquakes I know that), the Turks, Christians, basically everyone ever that we are descended from (although not this time the Protestant Irish or the white colonialists of South Africa), and worst of all the Scots, all trying to destroy it, because of jealousy and religion and Authoritarian Personalities. And then they stole the good bits out of the rubble for themselves. And nothing has really changed. And then I had to pause, remind myself about beauty, and sit and watch this incredibly funny video which Richard sent me, which I refer to at least five times a day.

I don't know people. I'm not saying read Deepak Chopra or everyone do yoga or compulsory flower arranging. But maybe at least try knitting? Being nice to trees. Or ask Wikihow to put up better step-by-step comics on Compassion? Less shouting? Gracious acceptance that Keats said it better. Free pottery classes for all. Maybe that's it. I mean I was super-proud of making a ceramic lego bookend. I felt so pleased and productive. Then someone else made A Mermaid Cut in Half bookend, which was frankly a lot better. But books are always falling off bookshelves. Everyone could make any kind of bookend and it would all be fine. 

Greece prologue: Hello Aphrodite

Once upon a time when the world was new there was just Chaos. Then Darkness. Then Light. There was Gaia (the Earth) and Uranus (The Sky). First Gaia and Uranus produced twelve magnificent sons and daughters (Thea, for example, mother of both the Sun and the Moon, so very important). Then they had some less magnificent children: The Cyclopes triplets (ugly and one-eyed) and the Hecatonchire triplets (a very bad combination of Fury, Long-limbed and Sea Goat). Each of these had fifty heads and 100 hands and were fierce and violent. Gaia loved them nevertheless, but apparently, Uranus did not. He could only peek at them through his fingers, and even then he just couldn’t stand them. By all accounts he was both horrified and afraid. So, in a powerful act of denial and cruelty, he shoved them back into Gaia’s womb.

One can only imagine Mother Earth’s agony and anger. All those mutant submerged heads and hands waving around inside her. She wanted revenge, so she made a very very sharp sickle which she hid in a slit in the mountain. She found an accomplice – her power-hungry son Kronos (who according to some was dark, gorgeous and in personality a combination of Hamlet, MacBeth, Hannibal Lecter and Morrissey) – and they waited. When the moment came, Kronos, reportedly without a moment’s moral hesitation, swept the sickle up in a giant arc and sliced his father’s genitals off his body. And from the blood and semen on the site of the castration sprang even more horror: Remorselessness, Jealousy, Rage and Vengeance.

Then Kronos picked up the severed bits and he threw them, oozy, bloody and slippery across Greece. And they landed, plop, right in the exact place (36.224047, 23.061508) where now, July 2018, Jack and I were swimming: Palaiopolis, Kythira. Neither Jack nor I are Creationists, but I must say, when our watches went “beep beep beep, you are here at the place where they landed”, the water seemed thicker and saltier, and Jack was looking rather peaky and saying “I feel a bit weird.”

And many I’m sure will say what type of mother reads her prepubescent son such utter frightening nonsense and then swims around in it. Some even said it out loud. One said, “I think Pythagorus, Socrates and Plato would be better as a Prologue to a holiday in Greece. The founders of Western Rationalism”. These guys were very important, of course and I looked up my notes from Philosophy 101. But frankly at the moment I’m a bit bored of everyone being so rational. And Jack is fine at Maths and Knowledge. And I’m tired of the Socratic Method. IE: I have a good idea. I tell people and then they all pick at it and ask a zillion clever critical questions until I realise it was a rubbish idea. How can one enjoy and take seriously that as a method of enquiry?

So instead, in preparation for our holiday we read the Greek myths (a variety of sources: the Collective Unconscious, Wikipedia, Apuleius, Ovid, Hughes, Fry, others), and excerpts from The Birthday Letters (I did leave out The Dogs are Eating Your Mother).

Think of Artemis and Actaeon, I suggested to my son, as we bobbed around in the warm foamy water. Now that was maybe worse. Artemis: totally glorious chaste Goddess of Hunting and the Wilderness, was bathing in the forest when the hunter Actaeon happened upon her. This was not his fault. Even according to Ted Hughes’ translation: “Destiny, not guilt, was enough/For Actaeon. It is no crime/To lose your way in a dark wood.”

But as I said to Jack, Actaeon should have known better than to simply stare transfixedly at her, which he did. Men need to pull their socks up. She was in fact so angry she threatened a terrible fate upon him should he ever speak again. Either he doubted her power, forgot, was scared or didn’t listen to her properly as he fled, because he immediately called out to his hunting party, was therefore changed into a stag, ravaged and killed, and I’m afraid by some accounts also dismembered by his very own hunting dogs. #metoo wrote Artemis on Facebook.

There are tons of these stories I could tell you. Like never ever give your boyfriend a ball of string for his birthday. Even if the very next day he intends to go into a twisty labyrinth and slay a minotaur and the string will be beyond useful for getting back out again. If you do this, it will end in tragedy, I promise you. I know this absolutely for sure. It actually happened to me, and I really wished I’d read about Theseus earlier. He will go on to rule Athens, but he will desert you and for a period of time you will become an alcoholic. Rather use the string to knit yourself a comforter, which you then will not need.

Others too are very useful: like the one that says you might get turned into a cow if you become enchanted with a married philander. Or how if you start off all chatty and beautiful, but fall in love with a narcissist by mistake, you will eventually only be able to repeat the last words he says to you and then fade away, like Echo, into nothing (nothing) (nothing).

Some support the patriarchy, need revising and are just not true. Like the one where if you have small delicate feet you end up with a prince. Or the one that says you will eventually please your mother-in-law if you know your grains from your poppy seeds, love all ants, cut the wool off dangerous golden sheep, and descend to the underworld and barter with Persephone for beauty cream.

But anyway, back to dismemberment. Jack and I were not swimming around Kythira Island for hours and hours because we like scary sadistic literature. Or because Ted said “the dismemberment of the hero symbolises the obliteration and death of the Ego that must occur before the poet can find his true voice” [Regeneration]. Or in order for me to lecture him about consequences. But because it is Beautiful.

Kythira island is all dark crevices, full of flowers and grapes and dripping with honey. And the sea is ridiculously sparkly and aqua, with exquisite patterned pebbles on the floor and zillions of super cute and merry silver fish everywhere. We swam for hours because the place we wanted to get to, the resting place of patricidal castration, was also exactly where Love and Beauty was born.

From the fizzy whirlpool of the blood and semen of a tossed out gonad, writes Fry “Out of the spindrift of surf and seed emerged the crown of a head, then a brow and then a face. But what kind of a face? A face more beautiful than creation has yet seen or will ever see again. Not just someone beautiful but Beauty itself rose fully formed from the foam.” She lifted herself from the spume and the spray and transported herself via shell to Cyprus. Aphrodite, of course. We wanted to say hello.

THE LAST GREAT TENNIS MATCH

For as long as I can remember, my father has said if I beat him at tennis he would buy me a car. These are the kind of reckless things my dad and I like to say to people. Call it genetics, learning, copying, imprinting, being born under the star sign Aquarius, nevermind, we do it. And then we find that we are in tricky situations. Last year was particularly bad for me. So many situations. A few involving tennis and playing the piano. But we always try to do the right thing, within the situation. The photograph of my dad above is a very good example. My father, on a cricket tour to Britain, at the London Playboy Club. As the caption says, the Proteas were praised for their impeccable behaviour.

On the morning of our last great tennis match – just outside the tiny town of Winterton – we both woke to that familiar feeling. Regret. After an evening of me leading with the chin, exaggerating, categorically stating things to be true and arguing about my car, I had finally said, "Okay the only way to settle this is by doing what we have always done. Seeing if I can beat you at tennis. See you in the morning." 

That night my family were all saying, "Jess your car is not safe and you are being irresponsible". I was saying, "Oh no. It's the opposite. My car is very safe. I always leave the windows open and the car unlocked. No one ever steals it". I remember haughtily also saying, "Sometimes even, I can't get the key out of the ignition so I simply leave the key in the ignition. When I get back the car is always there. This makes me feel very very happy. Happy and Justified. And then I say to my friends. 'See its fine. We are all fine. Look at me walking through this park with nothing happening to me. Look at me leaving my car like that'." My family were shaking their heads. My dad was insisting on buying me a car. I was insisting that he didn't. I said, "Dad, you had bad cars. You drove those cars until they collapsed or you decided to give them away to the blind society. And you know that it is nice to do the opposite of what people tell you to do". He said that he had cause enough to be rebellious. That he toppled Apartheid and then the next government. 

It is true, most days I do not have a cause and don't know what to do with my reactive nature. I did not topple Apartheid. But I was there, a sensitive child, already on a government list of people to watch out for, arrested as a toddler for watching a multi-racial cricket match. From my step, at the top of our stairs, out of view, I listened to adults under house arrest talking about Apartheid. About pouring hot soup out of windows onto the heads of the security police. About my father leopard crawling along hospital floors to get to the victims of police torture; hiding people; tricking security guards by talking about the rugby; locking would-be assassins in the toilet; always opening parcels around the pillars of our verandas. I watched as thousands of rolls of toilet paper got delivered to meetings of the End Conscription Campaign, and metres of instant lawn was dropped off at our house (which already had grass around it). I answered death threat phone calls and told the 'mystery' caller to fuck off. And when my dad didn't come home, I waited up for him, intuiting that he was in great danger. He says now, we were in no danger. That I have an over-active imagination, and most evenings he was playing squash. 

Many weekends we did play sport. He taught me to play tennis and hockey and I bowled cricket balls to him until my shins were bruised. He felt bad about this but I got tough. My dad was a very good sportsman. He played such good cricket at school the masters had to keep giving him roast chicken. We played many tennis matches. I never won. But he said my piano playing was so good I could be a concert pianist, even though it wasn't. He said I could definitely be a prima ballerina and a very good runner. And now I find myself thinking I can do things, that many people would not think they can do. This is enough for me. He was on the school parents' committee and the teachers always remarked that he had good bone structure. He took me to operas all over the world, in Italian colosseums with a candle-lit librettoes, and on floating stages in Austria. We always played very loud music in the car. Still sometimes we cry in the car when the music is very beautiful and he taught me to say 'there has been a death in the family' to newspaper sellers who then bow their heads in sympathy.

Pushing things, like we do, does have consequences however. Too many squats in a zealous competition led to my dad's first knee operation. Many, many more. On the morning of our last tennis match, I woke up to the knowledge that I had challenged a man who can no longer bend, to play tennis. Two false hips, one working knee, a dodgy shoulder. A car – not worth more than R300 000 – was at stake. These were the rules we had set out: one set only; in the morning before it is too hot; win by two; Duckworth Lewis if it rains; as many anti-inflammatories as he likes; no shrieking; if I win he buys me a car. If he wins, I buy him nothing, because I don't have any money. Another very hard rule: no backing out.

I said "What have I done?" to my mum. "How sore is his shoulder, really? How many anti-inflammatories did he take? Do you guys have medical aid still? Was he serious about having a helicopter on stand by? Oh, how could I do this?" She said something like, "Well you can't back out now." Jack was helping my dad do up his shoe laces. My dad was stretching out his replacement knee and and wincing. He said he was trying to push his shoulder back into its socket. I was saying, "Please can we just forget about this tennis match. Can we just knock? Can we rather play for a bicycle?" John was saying, "just hit the ball away from him, and you will win."

We walked together to the tennis court and we took pity on each other. Another similarity we share: always root for the underdog. But we didn't know which one of us that was. We said, let's just knock, for we are too sensitive and emotional. This is silly. So we hit the ball to each other nicely. Then we said, shall we just play one set? And we played and he won, easily. 6-4. 

The best thing ever

The best thing ever is to be paid to go on holiday. Especially if you get to go down the south coast which is my favourite place. The budget was not large, but I am scared of fancy-pants places. I am French-Irish working class stock - little bit of poshness thrown in, but nevermind that. Tidal pools are the south coast’s answer to the north’s infinity pools and after Richard Carstens, took his thyroid clouds and mushroom ice-cream and headed for the Western Cape, most restaurants offer seafood baskets, ribs and milkshakes. My favourites. My best bit of the weekend was when Jack and I met James Mac. Here is an extract:

‘I come here every day,’ he says. ‘From Maritzburg.’

'For the fishing?’ I ask.

‘I come to heal,’ he replies.

I nod in sympathy. Even on a family-focused weekend, opportunities abound for tired parents to stare into the ocean in a trance of cathartic blankness as their offspring build castles and chuck sand at each other.

‘It’s not for emotional healing,’ he clarifies.

‘It’s my foot. I accidentally hammered a nail all the way through it with a mallet. The salt water is helping the wound.’

Jack and I go for a swim to heal our wounds. The sea is warm and not too rough. There are no shark nets. ‘No one has ever been eaten,’ says a lifeguard."

To read some more you have to buy Getaway in July or else since the next issue is very nearly out, Sonya won't mind if you read it on my Writing page, as long as it makes you buy the next issue instead. Jack went shark cage diving, which you can also read about. And then Teagan came and took photos of us on the beach holding fruit. It was rad. 

Two new features for Men's Health

In the last few months I've made some new friends and shared their stories. I was lucky to do the Monde Khanyana feature: The Wildling (Men's Health April 2017) with my BFF photographer Roger Jardine. We had fun and in 24 hours we used chewing gum in three very different ways, which I shall write about in a blog soon. Check him out (rogerjardine.co.za). I also wrote about Hylton Dunn, a man who has said he'll get me running 100km along the mountains... a very brave man in more important ways too. Thank you both. Check out my writing page to have a look.

Paying work

I have added a new page to my website! A WRITING page. Two more features to come in the next month or so. Getaway and Men's Health. JAWESOME.