Sentience in a seed-pod

All I want for my birthday: The Velvet Vulva Miniature

So I've realised that I've said mainly nasty whiney things about my recent trip. But I really did enjoy it. Got to see Niagara falls, and downtown Toronto, and the CN Tower. As a tourist experience, it rocked, and for the most part I like what I saw of Canadian culture. I enjoyed the company of the people I worked with, and I think the feeling was mutual. And now I know what not to do in Atlanta. I got to see an interesting side of life I think a lot of people miss out on. Pretty wicked overall.

Alright, I am now back in Cape Town, and, to quote Antonio Banderas in the movie Assassins, you fucked up, I am still alive. It was a long hard way home. The reason? Well, let me explain it to you.

Here is a picture of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta:

It's a pretty massive affair. In short, it's not the kind of place a laid back, take it as it comes kind of guy like me wants to be. People rushing all over the place, and necessarily so. Let's follow Geoff's thought patterns as he arrives at one of 30 or so gates on "concourse B, concourse B".

1. I'm sleepy.
2. Where's my boarding pass?
3. And I'm hungry.
4. But I'll probably eat on the plane.
5. Ok, no boarding pass.
6. That means I have to go get my luggage and check it in again.
7. Shit.
8. Why didn't she check me through and give me both boarding passes like I'm used to?
9. Ok, well it's probably some crazy American security thing.

So Geoff toddles off to the train, which takes him to the baggage retrieving and ticketing area past concourse T. It is important to realise that Geoff is now outside the secure zone, which means he will have to go through about 45 minutes of standing in line and waiting to be scanned and possibly searched to get back in. Geoff goes to his duly appointed baggage carousel. His luggage does not appear. Geoff waits for some time, during which his thought process looks like:

1. The board says this is the right luggage carousel.
2. But the board on the carousel itself doesn't have my flight number.
3. Maybe it's not the right carousel!
4. Loop to thought 1.

After about twenty minutes of waiting like this, Geoff ventures over to ask the baggage authority where his stuff is. They tell him his luggage has been checked through to Cape Town. Geoff is happy. He heads on to ticketing to get his boarding pass. After standing in line for a while, he gets his chance at the counter. He becomes concerned when there is a clucking and a shaking of heads. "I'll phone them," the counter lady says. Then, "I'm sorry, it's too late. I'll put you on standby for tomorrow." We now return to Geoff's thought patterns for comment:

1. Shit!
2. Loop to thought 1.

So Geoff proceeds to sort out a hotel and settle in for the night. Geoff is on standby, which under normal circumstances means he has a small chance of getting on the next flight when people don't present for their seat. Under current circumstances, he later discovered, Geoff has a better chance of becoming president of the US while simultaneously receiving oral pleasure at the hands of Gwyneth Paltrow and winning the UK lottery.
As most of you probably know, airlines usually overbook a flight purposely, because a lot of people end up as no-shows. I've heard different figures quoted, but it may be as high as 25% on average. I haven't checked this, so don't hold me to it. The problem with the US to SA flights at the moment is that everyone is showing up. So there aren't enough seats even for the confirmed passengers, let alone the standbys. In this situation, the airline asks passengers who have seats to give them up in return for some incentive. In our case, it was for a free ticket anywhere SAA flies, hotel accommodation and meal vouchers, and a gauranteed seat on the next flight. This is not a good thing to hear as a standby passenger, because there's no way you're getting on.
So, Geoff spent the next few days waking up at 6am, dragging his carcass to the airport, getting a ticket, shunting through security and then waiting until 10:30 in case he got on. Less than fun.
However, the optimist in Geoff now presents you with the list of positive things about this whole debacle:

• I made lots of new friends who were also on standby.
• I got to see bits of Atlanta.
• I waited a lot less than some other standby people, many of whom got there before me and hadn't left when I did.

So that chapter is now closed. There's one more thing I must say though. The Delta employees who struggled with the masses and did their best were absolutely smashing. They helped out a lot. But there was one woman, an SAA employee, who was routinely rude, callous and obstructive. Her name is Phillipa, and she scared me so much I couldn't even take a good photograph. But here it is: the blurred face of evil itself:

Yesterday somebody hooted at me and called me a faggot. I think it was because I was wearing my shocking pink untitled shirt. Anyway, it made me feel yucky, which is irritating because that's exactly what it was meant to do. The last time I was insulted unprovoked by a stranger was when I was called a white nigger in Nigeria.
I hate the fact that I can't do what I want to do and wear what I want to wear without people boxing me. I guess this is teenage angst I should already have squared away. Do I want to be understood? I think that'd be a little overambitious. But I would like people threatened by me to leave me the hell alone. Perhaps that's just my inborn British heritage.

Mark recently sent me an e-mail describing Canadians as passive aggressive. Over the week or so I’ve been here, I’ve been struggling to get to grips with how things function over here. The physical differences are fine – the different climate, time zone, currency, more foreigners than you can shake a stick at (even if they’ve been naturalised) and the hectic traffic going the way I don’t expect. What really gets me are the people, friendly as you like, but strangely distant. So I got to wondering: what is the collective personality of Canada?

In a Subway Sandwich on Yonge Street the other day I struck up a conversation with the server, a young Indian man who has lived in Canada for ten years. After heavily criticising my use of the word ‘bottomless’ to refer to a soft drink you can refill at your discretion, he plucked up the courage to ask me about my country.
“What are coloureds?” he asked.
I explained that it’s a silly distinction put in place by the famous institutional racism of the last forty years, but that it’s led to the evolution of a cultural identity that is as real as it is problematic.
“Oh,” he said. “Well, how do you like Canada so far? It’s different right?”
“Sure,” I replied, “Lots of things are strange here.”
“What’s the strangest?”
“That old ladies dress in miniskirts.”
He changes tack: “But we’re friendly, right?”
I explain that while people in Canada are helpful almost to a fault, and friendly on the face of things, they really don’t like to get involved. Ask someone about the sights in Canada and they’ll provide you with directions, viewing times and insider tips, but they’d sooner nail their foot to the ground than offer to accompany you anywhere. I consider myself a pretty outgoing person, and after a week in the country, still not a single person I’d consider writing e-mail to once I go back home. At this point I realise that this is sounding like an indictment on this poor fellow, chained to his counter and unable to offer to take me anywhere. So I qualify with: it’s a lot like back home.
It’s true – people in Cape Town are hard to get to know. A loner in Cape Town gets in only by dint of great effort and, let’s face it, an introduction. But there’s a difference, though I can’t put my finger on it. There are a lot of parallels between Toronto and Cape Town actually. Both are cosmopolitan societies with a liberal, famously gay friendly nature. Both are close to water, and have “beaches” even if Toronto only has Lake Ontario to stand in for the ocean. Both are pricier, trendier, and brasher than other sites in their respective countries.
Suddenly, it occurs to me that perhaps the differences I see have more to do with me than with the dynamics of culture. In Cape Town I have friends, and probably 95% of new people I meet are friends of friends. In Toronto I know no one other than the old Mississauga (read: suburb devoid of life or character) residents I work with, and I don’t even know them well. Moreover, I haven’t directly asked anyone to do anything other than give me advice, and I’ve got such advice in abundance. So I must ask: am I too passive aggressive for Canada?

I think about all the other places I’ve been where the people have made the experience worth throwing some favourable epithets at, like Brazil, like Thailand, Nigeria, and Laos. These countries are full of warm, passionate, outgoing people who are much more willing to get involved with strangers than I. People who invited me out at the mere mention of my far away Patria. I did no work whatsoever. I was passive, and they were aggressive. So perhaps I’ve been spoiled in my previous travels. I’ve come to expect a level of hospitality I’m not willing to extend myself. How rude.
So what can I say about Toronto? It’s a world of really nice people. It’s a world of some pretty cool things to see. But it’s not an easy social ride. Do some work Geoff!

Well, here I am. Canada. Land of maple leaves, ice hockey and Celine Dion. Land of British post-colonialism and American cultural colonialism. So, what’s it like, ey?
Well, I don’t feel like crafting a flowing and well-written missive. So I’m not gonna. Instead, witness my “Canadian Points to Ponder”:
The coolest show in the world is “I’m with Busey.”

1. “I’m with Busey” is not Canadian.
   
2. But it is shown here on the comedy channel.
   
3. The comedy channel also shows “The Kids in the Yard”.
   
4. I don’t think that’s actually the name of the show.
   
5. But whatever it’s called, it is Canadian.
   
6. Walking along Bloor Street in downtown Toronto today I walked past a bum. There are a lot of bums here. I walk past bums every day back home in South Africa. They just fade into the background. By bum I mean a homeless person, not someone’s culo. Anyway, the thing is I always feel authority over bums back home in South Africa, so when they ask me for money I shake my head and say no. But here, bums speak with Canadian accents. Suddenly, every bum speaks with the weighty voice of James Earl Jones, or that guy who always does the voiceovers for Paramount pictures. Now I’m fumbling, I’m making excuses… Why? I’m not trying to pick these bums up.
   
7. Or am I?
   
8. The riding on the right side of the road extends to everything. Queues start from the right. People stand on the right side of elevators. It’s confusing as hell.
   
9. The old people here dress funny. They wear mini skirts. They wear luminous blue shirts with olive green jackets and red neckerchiefs. They slick back their hair, or pull it into ponytails.
   
10. There are more foreigners here than Canadians. Well, that’s what it feels like anyway.

Later, girls and boys.

Alright. Now some of you may know me for my keen eye and attention to detail. I am a purveyor of truth. It's my truth, but truth nonetheless.

So it should come as no surprise that it is I who will bring to your attention the greatest fast food scandal since Hindus discovered cow in their MacDonalds fries...

Nandos is really "Tambe's Take-Away and Coffee Shop (Open 24 Hours)". Behold the awful damning evidence below.

I had supper with Linda last night. Linda is a German friend of mine doing an internship at a film company here in Cape Town. So we got to talking about how she needs a reference letter to get a job in Germany. Now, here in SA, no-one cares about a letter of reference - you pretty much just put the name and phone number of your chosen referee on your CV and your prospective employer may phone this person to find out if you have a history of genocide and/or terrorist activities (hint: you should coach said referee to deny such activity).

But, in Germany, your reference letter is critical to your appointment. It tells the new guys a lot about you. In fact, it tells them more than you would think. This is because some oddball German law prohibits you from saying anything negative about someone in their letter. This strikes me as patently dishonest and generally a rubbish idea, but it's better than for example the idea of making sausages your national trademark food.

What happens in practice (apparently), is that your reference letter is carefully crafted to exacting standards using a cunning secret code which everyone knows. Here are a few examples (real meanings in blue), some of which are roughly translated from the German in a way that not even I can understand:

1. He is always punctual.
   He's never punctual.
2. For the interests of the staff he proved a comprehensive projecting ability.
   He's gay.
3. He conducted himself with large eagerness to his tasks and was successful.
   He was a complete failure.
   

Nut jobs - the lot of them!