It’s a beautiful Saturday morning in Jo’burg, the sky bright blue against the green lawn outside. The aural landscape is soft for a change, there is only the sound of a grass broom sweeping the pavement outside, an anonymous sweeper until I raise the drawbridge of the electric gate. Even the dogs are quiet, I imagine their owners at home are a soothing presence, but ahhh, there’s one in the distance, starting up a hard-edged insistent noise.
I wonder if the good people of Johannesburg just get used to the high pitched neurosis of their dogs, whether the calls for attention get absorbed into their audio field, much like the squawk of the hadedahs. A friend from abroad was telling me about a meeting he attended where three hadedahs were stationed outside the window and making a huge racket. He couldn’t hear what the participants of the meeting were saying over the din, but the South Africans didn’t even blink and responded to every word effortlessly.
Makes me think of our selective perceptions, how we’ll adjust ourselves to feed into our desired destinations, sometimes oblivious to the nuts and bolts reality around us. I have just emerged from such a movie, a maddeningly foolish human folly. An aspect of me took over my brain, and led the procession into the script. The reality was that I met a man, and realised on the first day that he was not available. I even wrote my girlfriends that he was interesting, but a confirmed bachelor.
A week later, within which I had kept my distance for a few days, I found I was completely disarmed, spending long hours with him, having marathon text message sessions, late night drinks that resulted in pashing on the pavement, and I was falling in love. A mere 11 days later, I was head over heels and having an utterly intolerable time being with him, as he firmly declared, “I’m not available”.
How did this happen? How did I step into a movie where I kept moving with the delicious physical energy between us, and not only allow myself but even tell a friend, “I’ve met an amazing man”. Oh dear … even at this ripe age, my heart is prone to a vigorous gallop down the sunset cliché beach, eloping, loving, calling forth. I think I have been exposed to far too much fantasy, far too much romance. I blocked out the barking dogs sending me the message to back off, and found myself squirming with embarrassment that I had fallen so quickly, and told him so honestly that all I really want is to love a man, and be loved by a man. Which I imagine scared him off even further.
Thank God for John Demartini … I have been applying his method since yesterday, and have hoicked myself out of great despair and into acceptance that it is all perfect, all as it should be. At least I am in Africa, where the men are handsome and flirtatious, so there is a good chance I will find another one. I found myself laughing at my antics last night, amused at what I had done, and what a nutcase he must think me. 11 days and I’m yours, indeed!
That’s a pretty personal disclosure for a blog on returning to Africa, but really part of the context. A seduction gone pear shaped, alongside a challenging new project, couched in a nomadic existence lived out of a suitcase for the next few months and a very tender, well meaning, but occasionally clumsy heart.
The gift of my time with this lovely man was that I got to see how I long for the merge, and in that merge, how I abandon my solid ground. So yesterday I reclaimed the earth I stand on, and moved vigorously forward into planning the next steps in The Enterprise Powerhouse, my project to develop entrepreneurs from low socio -economic areas. Sound familiar? Anyone else out there revert to work when matters of the heart prove simply too complicated?
I made my way to Ivory Park, an hour away from where I am staying. I travelled up the N1, spent 15 minutes getting off the Allandale off-ramp (the person who gave me directions said to factor this in – traffic chaos here is a bit like the dog barking; simply part of a ragged, furious city, an annoyance caused by maddening incompetency, that one must get past). Through industrial areas and bits of leftover grassland, past a construction of an enormous mosque that will be beautiful, and will stand out on the horizon for miles. Is it the Wahhabis, or who is building this, I wonder? Men like ants sure footedly, lazily walking around its dome, harness free (Australian authorities would be red faced and outraged by now, having located which minister to blame and be going for their jugular in parliament and talk radio before 4pm).
To my right is the massive township of Tembisa, Ivory Park sits on its edge, a mix of shacks and RDP houses. I pass the vehicle licensing office, and have to weave around the touts who want to take my photo for my licence, or print forms to sell me in their van on the dusty side of the road. I want neither, and am just trying to find Pretorius Street, SOON, as I have 5 minutes before the learners I am interviewing finish their exam and I don’t want to miss them.
I drive fast down what is now a country road, turn right into a road with no name but bears a resemblance to something on my map, and am now driving straight into the township. I know that the training facility is on the edges of the township, so I know I’m wrong. I have a curious mix of feelings mainly hovering around caution. I don’t want to end up in the thick of the township on my own, until I know where I am and what I’m dealing with. The last time I was around this township I had a very bad experience where I nearly died, a distant memory by now but feeds in a little heartbeat. I drive a bit further and pull over at a tuckshop. There’s a guy generating lovely soapsuds washing a car, a woman getting a table ready to cook food on, two men sitting on plastic chairs drinking long necks of beer. I approach the woman, who has pale green eyes and ask her for directions. A few people gather round, and then the drinkers call me over and explain where to go.
Five minutes later I am at the school, and thankfully the students had started their exam late so I can relax. M, who runs the centre, sets me up at a computer so I can check my mail, and in between, we talk about what I am planning to do and what she suggests. She says South Africans are lazy; 30% of their students are Zimbabweans, prepared to work for their lives and to start businesses, whereas the South Africans just want to sit in a swivel chair and work for Vodacom. She’s funny, describes how she lost her job and started her own hair-braiding business before coming to run this centre, and she is South African, so its not across the board now is it?!
When the learners complete their test, I go and introduce myself, in English, and ask if anyone has thought of starting a business. Five people come forward, and we have a chat, which is mostly me chatting. There are four women and a man from the Northern Cape. He’s an entrepreneur – he has juice, impetus, a plan. I want him on board. The ladies are excruciatingly shy, they tell me their names, and their ideas for businesses – a gym, a spa offering manicures and pedicures and a laundry. Nice ideas – I like them, but it is very hard to have a conversation, as they are so shy. I know this from other interactions, and curse myself for not being fluent in an African language. I resolve to start studying this week.
So my first steps are taken. I have a venue, an IT training company behind me, a social enterprise that is working that wants to partner, a friend who loves the BEE (Black Economic Empowerment) Code, and who wants to work with me to integrate it into our project. There is much to be done, many meetings to be had, so it is just as well that my rapid fire love affair has ended, so that I can focus on the business of reality, which is doing the work I am meant to be doing, that I dreamed about two years ago and that I am now moving into. Not merging, but swimming, with strong strokes.
No comments:
Post a Comment