Part 3: The Stride

Well, I broke my toe. It's not really purple anymore, but it's still swollen and bent. The good news is that I had already broken the toe next to it, and splinted them together back then. Accordingly, they healed sort of together, which means that the one that's broken now is pre-splinted!

(Note to the reader—I lied earlier when I said that I didn't make any changes. For reasons of good taste, I deleted a picture of my broken toe here. The pursuit of journalistic truth is all well and good, but there are limits.)

I was playing frisbee at the time. We've been having 4-5 games a week after dinner. It's been fantastic—everyone is getting so good.

I had a restful break, although it was freaking cold. Not just outside either—my mom keeps the thermostat at an invigorating 57 degrees. It's good for the brain, apparently, and you don't have to take off your coat and hat when you come inside. That would've been fine if I hadn't gotten used to 75 and sunny every single day, and if I weren't allergic to my hat.

[Image to be added: Winter break — Hard to believe I wore my hair like that for as many years as I did.]

But here I am again, back in Joburg. It's hot and humid, and we're at 5500 feet. Even the West Africans say it's hot. I break a sweat drying myself after a cold shower. I can't imagine what it would be like at sea level.

Anyway, we got our uniforms. We'd been wearing these track suits before, which are maroon and since we only had one set, usually quite smelly. But now we have our uniforms, which are... unique. We'll start from the bottom. There are black shiny shoes, which remind me of The Electric Kool-Ade Acid Test. Then there are black pants, or a longish black skirt, if you're a girl.

This seems pretty normal so far, you're thinking. You're right. But I haven't described the tops.

There are two of them, a maroon one and a brown one. I don't know if you're aware of this, but the Swahili word for maroon is damu ya mzee, which translated literally means "the blood of an old man." The maroon polo shirts they make us wear epitomize this translation quite well. They're hideous.

The girls get a little dress thing with a black sash to put around their waist or wear as a scarf. As a scarf, they look like members of a gospel choir. Around their waist, they look like airline stewardesses from the sixties.

These maroon shirts are incredibly ugly, but at least they are a recognizable garment. The brown shirts, which are identical for both girls and boys, are something else entirely. Imagine a beige shirt.

Then imagine it with 3/4 length sleeves. Then imagine it without a polo collar, but instead with this freaky-ass little thing sticking up around your neck, but tapering to a cul de sac in the center of your chest. Then add a pretty sketchy celtic cross design in black thread beneath the cul de sac. Then you have in your head a picture of the brown shirt.

I actually prefer the brown ones because I hate maroon so much, and because I can pretend like I'm in 1984. Not the year, but the Orwell novel about a post-apocalyptic future. All you have to do is greet everyone by "comrade," and you're there.

Anyway, I've attached some pictures for your enjoyment/pity.

[Image to be added: ALA uniform — What I would give to have one of these now...]

[Image to be added: Staged "Multi-racial group of students having fun on the quad" pictures]

So there's a new student. His name is Felix, and is from Oxford, England. To distinguish him from the Ghanaian Felix, we call them black Felix and white Felix. I'll let you guess which one is which.

He's very smart, and has a vicious sense of humor. It's great, because before him, the only person I could comfortably ridicule to the best of my ability was my roommate. He seems like a nice guy, and is even paler than I am. (Wow!)

He's also a good frisbee player, although some of the Africans are now getting quite good. We've had a game almost every day, which has been fantastic.

The big thing we're doing, besides classes, is preparing for the grand opening, the first day of which coincides with my birthday. Desmond Tutu is coming! Yesterday we had a lecture on body language with a focus on toes, which really isn't that much more inane than any of the other things they tell us in the auditorium.

That seems to be it. I hope you all had a wonderful holiday, and I hope the next six months of your lives are agreeable and pleasant. See you in the summer!

p.s. If you see anyone else on this list, make sure you say hi from me.

[Image to be added: More staged marketing pictures. Just great.]

—fas co gris

I don't really remember when I wrote last, because the past few weeks have been shockingly eventful. First, I turned 19. I shared my birthday with this guy from Nigeria, Daniel O., who was turning 16. There was a surprise party, with two cakes—one black and one white. This was to make sure it was quite clear whose cake was whose. Also, Mom sent me a birthday gift—a world map, which is totally glorious and impresses everyone who comes into my room.

The big thing was not my birthday, however. It was the Grand Opening of ALA. This happened last weekend, on Friday and Saturday. It was a big deal, and we had been preparing for it for weeks. I, personally, had to give a speech and I was also in charge of the stage lights. But anyway, on Friday, 150 people, including famous people like Mandela's wife and a bunch of ambassadors, Nigerian businessmen and CNN anchors showed up. We toured them, gave them two shows, two meals, and also showed off our community service projects. I only made an ass of myself once, when this Nigerian girl named OY introduced her guest, who was apparently some famous CNN person. Since I don't watch CNN, and since she's only on CNN International, I'd never seen her before. I assumed she was OY's sister, actually, because she had similarly violent arm movements and extravagant laughter. Turns out she's actually a 42-year-old internationally recognized journalist, which doesn't really qualify her to answer the question I asked her: "Does OY act this crazy back at home?" My bad.

[Image to be added: OY and the CNN journalist — Easily one of the more racist moments of my life.]

Saturday was even more hectic. They took us early in the morning to this corporate meeting center called the Campus in Sandton. It was huge, with all kinds of restaurants, hotels, and meeting places. The food was delicious. We were there for the day-long Leadership Symposium, which I thought was going to be unbearable. Fortunately, I was completely wrong—the speakers were outstanding, especially this Nigerian guy who won a Pulitzer prize and this other Nigerian guy who was an investment banker. There were a few boring ones, but I was sleepy enough that I could just fall asleep. It was great, except for when I woke up with a loud yawn that could be heard 15 feet on either side of me.

After the symposium ended, they brought us to the Sandton Hilton, where we changed into formal clothes, and prepared for the evening's entertainment. It was a Gala Dinner, and the keynote speaker was Desmond Tutu. He showed up a little early and hung out with the students, which was sweet. We sang him our school song Shule ya Afrika, and then mingled for a while.

I really dislike mingling, and I ended up talking to this really short American guy who wanted me to send him my speech because he thought it would inspire his son. I'm thinking I should talk to Papa about the feasibility of becoming a hermit for my career. At least I wouldn't have to mingle.

Also, we had "partners" (read: date) for the evening, and my partner, Sila, is kind of like Heather in that she doesn't like new people. So she was no help, and soon enough my smile muscles were aching. Luckily, it was time for dinner. My partner abandoned me and went and hid somewhere, so I was left alone at this table of Nigerians. They were very nice, and I chatted extensively with them. It was actually quite enjoyable—we laughed loud enough to draw looks from other tables. The food was great too.

Then Desmond got up to give his speech. It was absolutely hilarious—Desmond Tutu is probably the funniest Anglican bishop in history. That may not be saying much, but he had a great joke about Adam and Eve, and a great story about Nobel Peace Prize winners. Apparently someone once asked him what you have to do to be a Peace Prize winner. Desmond replied that you needed three things: a name that is easy to pronounce, a big nose, and sexy legs. I was crying from laughter.

There were some other speeches, mostly about how ALA desperately needs money, and then they had an auction for this ceremonial brick. It went for 650,000 rand, which is a lot of money to spend on a brick that you don't even get to keep. Then this guy, Hugh Masekela, who is more or less the South African Louis Armstrong, played. There was some dancing, and then we went back to campus. We got back at 2:00 am.

And then that was it. Other things have happened, of course. My roommate broke up with his girlfriend, Valentine's Day is coming up, Felix (the British guy whose nickname is "'Arry Pottah!") fell in love with this girl named Jihad, there was a writing exam, there was a flash flood that soaked a bunch of rooms, including the other American's, and I've had a few glorious ping-pong and frisbee victories. This guy who is the Kenyan Nelson Mandela came, and was awesome, and today I have to give an interview for the Gap Year program.

That seems to be about it. Oh wait—everyone, I've invited pretty much everyone here to come visit me in the States, and it looks as though a few may actually come because they are going to do summer programs in Boston. So if you want to meet some really cool people who you wouldn't meet otherwise, come visit me in Maine. It'll be sweet.

[Image to be added: Halloween at ALA was a pretty excellent experience.]

—fas co gris

It hasn't been too long since my last update, but it's been an eventful couple of weeks, so I figured I better hash out another one to keep you all in the loop. Oh god, I just used a piece of management jargon. If there is one thing entrepreneurship class has taught me, it is to despise management jargon with all the deepest levels of my being. Brainstorm on that, Ms. Hastings.

So we just had our midterm break, which was four days off. I was exhausted when it began, yet I barely slept the entire time, mostly because I was engaged in a very delicate process of attempting to date a Moroccan girl named Salima. I'd been engaged in this process for some time, even getting myself rejected twice. But, as they say, the third time is the charm, and so now I'm pleased to announce that we're dating. Of course, a quick glance at my Facebook page two days ago could have told you the same thing, but whatever.

In other news, we went to an amusement park called Gold Reef City. It was awesome—the rides were totally legit, and it was one of the most fun days I've had in a while. The only bad part was the Tilt-a-Whirl, which is called a Tornado in South Africa. I don't really know why I went on it—I've always hated those things. Anyway, I got all queasy. All in all, it was a fantastic day though.

Even better, however, was on the first day of break, when the frisbee crowd got up at 5:30 to t the d as the sun rose. It was nothing short of a religious experience, even though my team lost both games. I recommend checking out the pictures on Facebook.

There's a strange obsession sweeping ALA about my roommate. Something like 30 people have changed their profile pic to this one ridiculous picture of him, and there are all kinds of groups starting about him. It's kind of strange.

What's doubly strange is that there is also an obsession for my former roommate, Xavier. As most of you know, Xavier is in college, and seems to be living up to Dr. Reider's description of him as a "complete [expletive deleted]-up." Yet, all of these girls, two Xhosa (pronounced click-osa) girls in particular, seem to have fallen in love with him after looking at some picture he put up of himself in these stupid-looking shades. I try to tell them that he's actually kind of short and silly, but they don't believe me.

Anyway, we're in the middle of mid-term exams now, which are all ridiculously easy, except for Geography, which is nearly impossible. I've never taken any test as difficult as these. It doesn't help that my Geography teacher apparently heard about my new relationship and gave me a lecture on male responsibility today. She suggested that if I screwed up with Salima, it would be reflected in my grade. This is clearly not a good sign.

Another highlight of the midterm break, which I forgot to mention earlier, was our second trip to the Market Theater in downtown Joburg. We saw this surreal play called Thirst. The basic metaphors were Africa = thirsty desert and "thirst of life" = love. Not so sure what that all means, but the singing and dancing were awesome. Afterwards, however, I had one of the worst nights of my life. I went to bed late, only to be woken up at 3am by some Kamikaze mosquito with a deep attraction to my eardrum. I tried for a while to kill it by its sound, but this mostly just meant I kept hitting myself in the side of the head with increasing force and anger. My head throbbing, I eventually got up and turned on the light, to find that this mosquito had already bitten me, and was flopping around filled with my blood. I slaughtered it, laughing gleefully, then went to the bathroom, where I found all these frogs hopping all over the place. Naturally, I had to catch them and free them, but they were giant strong African frogs with incredible leaps and vigor, so this took another half hour until I had thrown them all out of the window. Then, finally, I went back to sleep, only to wake up at seven because this idiot Julius thought it was Monday when it was in fact Sunday and ran around yelling at everyone to get up because he apparently thought he was the only one who knew what day it was.

I'll leave you with a deep Swahili saying, which I discovered today. Ukizowea kutumia kikombe na kisahani cha nakshi mbalimbali, basi utapata mke (au mume) asiye kufu yako. This, of course, means that if you habitually use a cup and saucer of different designs you will marry beneath you. Michael, I hope you're reading this carefully.

—fas co gris

It has been an eventful few weeks here at ALA. Eventful is putting it a bit mildly, actually—school has only just reconvened and already campus is in complete uproar. But first things first—my break.

The plan was that Granny and Papa were to fly out to Cape Town, where I would meet them after flying out of Joburg early in the morning. Unfortunately, I failed to set my alarm properly, overslept and missed my flight. I had to rebook, which was easy. The complicated part was finding the phone number of the Cape Grace Hotel in Cape Town. I had no internet, no way of finding a Cape Town phonebook, and no idea whether South Africa has 411, let alone what number you dial from my US cell phone. Luckily, I have my sweet parents, sleeping innocently in Grand Rapids, where it was 3:30 am, with absolutely no idea they were about to be called upon to google a phone number for me. Thank goodness my parents are not my grandparents (can you imagine what Grandpa might say if Dad ever called him at 3:30 am asking for some hotel phone number?), and they found me my number, and I was on my way.

All of this drama was not my main concern. My main concern was Salima, who had sweetly promised me to get up at the crack of dawn to see me off. I slept through this, and as there was still some hope I might make the plane, I had no time to find her and grovel, and no phone number to call to get ahold of her. Eventually I realized I could call the campus pay phone and ask for her. Unfortunately, the number which my contacts told me was the campus payphone was actually my ex-girlfriend Jojo's phone. This was a bit awkward. But with time I got through to Salima, who was super-pissed, really tired, but thankfully forgiving. So all in all, it was quite an ordeal—you might even say Xavier-esque.

Cape Town was fantastic. The sights were cool, the food delicious, and the bed comfortable. Robben Island and the Kirstenbosch were particularly awe-strikening, as the Reids say. I've decided it's right up there in my list of favorite cities, which actually includes pretty much every big city I've been to. I am, after all, from the sticks.

After Cape Town, we headed up north to Limpopo province for a safari. The trip was uneventful, thank god, and after a little flying and an hour of brain-shattering washboard gravel roads, we arrived at the Royal Legend Game Lodge. It was quite a place—air conditioned huts, good food, and very kind, if a bit odd, people. My biggest concern was the ants, which seemed to consider the hut their turf. Luckily, our butler, Gideon, made sure to show me where the insecticide was when I checked in. This proved to be very useful—I estimate I killed approximately 10,000 ants in four days. By the end, I'd used the spray so much that my ankles and feet were actually deadly to any ant who dared walk on them.

Also, the shower water smelled like a slow moving stream, but all in all, it was great. I've stayed in far worse accommodations—at Edgemont, for instance, the bathing system doesn't just smell like a slow-moving stream, it is a slow-moving stream. Also, of any infestations at Edgemont, ants are the least of my problems—my parent's college friends are far more concerning. The animals were absolutely spectacular at the Royal Legend. I got lots of sleep, and I read a fantastic book. By the time we left, I was sad to go—thank you Granny and Papa for a fantastic holiday.

When I got back, I found the campus steeped in drama. Everyone was running around like ants who have just realized they're being bombarded with aerosol death. Naturally, over the break, there were a few new relationships—Stephen and Fatou, Rumbi and Brian.

Ordinarily, this would have been enough to put everyone in a tizzy, but there was one shocking episode as dramatic as Hamlet's third (fourth?—I'm thinking of the "to be or not to be" one) soliloquy.

Unfortunately, I was involved, although I will maintain to the death that it was only tangentially. Really, the main players are Felix (the British kid) and Jojo. Doubly unfortunately, the details are a bit raunchy to lay out in an email that is going to my grandparents. However, it's been the major event in the last week of my life, so I can't leave it out entirely. Suffice to say it involved an unwise bet, ice cream, Rebel Without a Cause, and flagrant violation of several school rules. If you want more details, and you are under 20 years of age (sorry Mom and Dad), you can Skype me, or email me to hear more.

[Image to be added: Felix with cake on his face — Suffice to say it was a very unwise bet.]

Anyway, all of these confusing circumstances and misunderstandings led to a hell of a lot of drama on campus. I assumed I would pass through all of this relatively unscathed because I am, in fact, innocent, but then in the midst of some Facebook research to determine whether this was true, I noticed some ominous-sounding status updates on Jojo's profile. I don't want to get too bogged down in the excruciating details, but we'll leave it at that I was eventually cussed out and slapped for the first time of my life. It was quite surreal, actually, because I couldn't understand much of what she was saying, or why James from Liberia was videotaping the whole thing, or why Sila from Nigeria kept walking around with a fake mustache on. I should be thankful, I suppose—at least this time there was no cake involved.

I'm somewhat concerned that my life is beginning to sound like a Bertie Wooster story. Hopefully this will pass—Wodehouse may be great reading, but it is terrifying to live.

That seems to be about it for news. Fall has come (it actually feels like fall!), things are good with Salima (despite my incompetence at setting alarm clocks), and pretty soon I'll be back in Maine, coaching young sailors to great victories (at AYC, finishing is usually considered a great victory). So, all in all, things are going well.

I hope you all are well, and that you will relay to me any thrilling anecdotes you have.

—fas co gris