Jo'burg, South Africa: Day 4

Midnight

At first, it could have looked like the midwest, the streets of Jo'burg, and it did. BMW's buildings, flawless roads. But that's only because for the first two days, we stayed on the highways. But, after the show at the Market Theatre, we drive through the veins of Jo'burg to drop home an elder, Zwesh, who teaches with each breath. I want the drive to last forever, how I love inhaling his wisdom.

It is five of us in the car: Teba driving, Linda in the passenger seat, Zwesh, me and Ishle. It's night life. We drive through a poor area, where the clubs are. The streets are packed with young people walking with the current, walking towards a good time. Linda is having an intense conversation about her country Zimbabwe, her mother. I feel more drowsy than I've ever been but I am stimulated. We round the corner to a main street in the hood, and it's flooded with cops, pulling every car over. Every one draws in a breath.

I watch Teba's jaws tense. Over the past couple of days we've had conversations about South Africa's cops. In fact, its an aspect of South Africa that many people resent the most. Not all, but many cops are thugs. Like in Jamaica and in Haiti and, they pull folk over and take whatever money they have. Recently cops stopped Teba and rifled through his wallet, asked him for his last 20 rand. Teba said no and they looked through his car for more stuff to take. They ended up taking his CD that he recorded.

We are stopped by a woman cop. She has no malice in her eyes; she is doing her job. She asks Teba for his license and looks at his tags. Everything is up to date and she allows us to go along about our way. Not two minutes later, we are stopped again by a male cop. This cop is angry, speaks to Teba more harshly. Teba's jaws tense up again and he tells the cop that we've been stopped already, his voice sandpapery with a slow building rage. Zwesh, who is Teba's mentor, calms him from the backseat. He sees what I see in this cop. He is angry.

He tells Teba to pop the trunk and get out the car. The energy in the car is tense. Teba does as asked and the man searches the trunk. A car full of artists, all he finds are musical instruments including Ishle's guitar, Linda's mbiri. I finally exhale when Teba climbs back into the car and continues us to our destination.

11:15am

It's Sunday and I have a gig at St. John's College Poetry Festival. I know nothing about the institution, except that I'll be working with high school kids and a "motley smattering of adults" was the organizer's quote. I have two workshops and a performance to deliver. A broken traffic light on the floor makes me sad. It reminds me of a broken body. I ask Teba if he's seen this before. He says there are dismantled traffic lights all over South Africa, that its not an unsual scene. I have never seen such a sight, not even after the slew of Florida hurricanes that I have lived and slept through.

There's young boy in the street with a sign that says: "My dog was arrested for eating neighbor's chicken." He needs money to bail his dog out. It's so bizarre, I don't know what to think. I'm wondering if its a gimmick like the richest homeless man in Tallahassee, the one off High Street with a sign that says: "Why lie? I can use a drink." I wonder: is this boy trying to be funny or tragic?

The streets around St. John's college are canopied by trees and the streets are wide and clean. It turns out the campus is so big, we end up way on the other side. I'm supposed to be there by 11:30 to teach my workshop. I'm technically on time, but on the wrong side of campus. I see rugby fields, flower gardens with bird baths. What is this place? I wonder. What kind of high school is this? It seems to be for the priviledged.

Teba is on the phone with the organizers, trying to figure out where to go. I get out the car and walk over to the flowers. I grab a handful of South African dirt and sprinkle it into a plastic bag, for my roommate Kristine. She asked me to bring her back dirt. It is dark and moist. My hands feel cleaner for having touched it.

11:50am

I walk into a workshop 20 minutes late, 20 people anticipating my arrival. No time for intros, I dive right in. I haven't taught since last semester, at Juilliard and I realize how much I've missed teaching. Like performing (and teaching is a performance of sorts) I don't need to do it all the time, but I enjoy it when I do do it. Joy the organizer was right, it is mostly high school kids with a motely smattering of adults. They are quiet, and seem a bit nervous. I wonder why. I ask them to raise their hand if they've ever written poetry. One girl raises her hand. No wonder. I realize that with this group, I must start at the very beginning, with my Thich Nat Hahn exercise. I make them write so much, their hands hurt. Lunch time.

I get the scoop from Joy, the organizer. St. John's College is an Anglican boarding school for boys. It was originally a monastery, peppered with monks. On our way to lunch, Joy tells me that all of the girls present at today's festival were bused in from other schools for the purposes of the poetry festival. The campus is breathtaking. What a gift. I am never surprised but always astounded by how the other half lives. On the other side of St. John's College is the ghetto. Teba says that a few ghetto youth were bused in for the poetry festival also.

1:45pm

The auditorium is packed with mostly students, but also faculty and parents. I have a great time presenting my work and speaking to the kids on an inspirational tip. I do a vast array of my work: immigration poems, Why Won't Glenda Pray, Locksmith. I answered the students' questions at the end. Their questions were very stimulating: "How have you been received in South Africa?", "What is the business aspect of poetry like?", "Were you born a poet, or cultivated as one?" A really young boy asked: why did you choose poetry? I replied, "It chose me darling. I have nothing to do with any of this." He nodded. I think he understood.

Do you know these students bought more product from me that afternoon than my prior two shows combined? They bum rushed my table as poets bum rush the page.

By my second workshop, which I taught right after I performed, I am mentally exhausted. This second group is much more rambunctious than my first. They are buzzing with energy. I mistake a gerund for a present participle, which an English teacher kindly pointed out. Oh, our thousand parts of speech! After the workshops the group gathers together to say cheese!

4:00pm

I made one goal and one promise before I left Brooklyn. The goal: to fill my small suitcase with CD's and empty it with sales. The promise: that I would leave every rand I earn in Africa, and return the suitcase full of Africa. Teba takes me to the African Arts and Crafts market, a warehouse of stalls filled with goodies and good people ready to bargain. Earrings made of ostrich eggs, rings and bracelets made of bone, and cow horn. Necklaces made from rare green amber. Sandals made from horned mammals. Dashiki dresses from Africa to Taiwan. Sculptures carved from iron wood, the hardest wood in the world. I patron a handful of stalls, bargain with the best of them and make new friends who I will always come back to and patron when I return to South Africa. I am no terminator, but I will be back.