I’ve been avoiding writing blog posts as I wanted to focus my verbal energies on my nascent book about living in Riemvasmaak.  That has gone fairly well.  I have produced a large chunk of text which now needs to be organised into a narrative arch and then further polished.  If anyone knows what to do after that, please fill me in!

Unfortunately, I don’t make any money doing this, just yet and as a starving artist (I’ve always wanted to say that), paying rent creates problems.  So, with heavy heart, I left the bustling metropolis of Cardiff for the relatively calmer pastures of London.  Here, I can get by rent-free while I pour myself into writing.  London has its distractions, however, and they have thus far succeeded in pushing my writing time back a bit on the priority list.  Those distractions include research for what I hope could be a series of articles, or perhaps another book.

I feel pretty good about my progress and hope to have some body of text vaguely resembling a book ready to be read by the time I return to the U.S. in October–which is the last bit of news:

I will be returning to New Jersey to celebrate and witness the wedding of one of my great seminary friends during the third week of October.  I am excited about the opportunity to see old friends and moreover, to make many heart-stopping visits to Hoagie Haven.  Post-wedding, it’s back to Louisville to spend time with the family through the holidays.  So for those of you in Louisville, start planning the Welcome Back Party!

Thanks to all for thoughts and prayers, calls and notes of encouragement!

Additionally, my editor from Glimpse has chosen that essay about living in Riemvasmaak for her column detailing the editorial process.

Check out the Glimpse Editorial Blog.

It’s a bit embarrassing to have a first draft published with mistakes highlighted and discussed, but it is indicative of the struggle I went through with this piece, and Sarah’s perspective on the other side.  She has invited me to post a response, which I hope to do in the near future…

@Dahveed_Miller:

writing from places ppl romanticize or ignore, anything but having the balls to go live: Notes from RVO 337 http://t.co/OkU7TxG

The editor of Matador, an online magazine for independent travel writing, just published one of my pieces.  And I learned about it from a tweet.  I feel uber-hip.

Click here for the story…

Special thanks to my Dad for final editing.

I enjoyed the process of writing for Glimpse.  I have spent years of my life writing academic papers (usually hurriedly, with little sleep and not a little beer)  to be submitted for a grade and never thought of again.  I used to joke that once I hit the prescribed word count, I would stop mid-sentence, press print and elatedly (if not belatedly) turn it in.  This was no exaggeration.  Most of my papers in graduate school really did go straight from screen to submission, without even a hint of revision.

“Creative Writing” (for that’s what they call it, it turns out) was never required, nor was it attempted in my normal life, for the most part.  I began to write “creatively” as a means of expression, to give critical thought and voice to my experience as I traveled and encountered new things.  I never really thought about the difference between this and how I had written in school, except that this was more fun and more fulfilling.

Nothing I had done in school had prepared me for the experience of submitting a piece of my creative writing for the editorial process.  I had become used to the red ink on a critical essay for class; I had not anticipated the emotions I would feel when I received my creative writing, basically my journal, with pages of feedback and critique.  My travel journal was a place of freedom.  I hid my embarrassment, fuming about my editor at Glimpse: “These are my thoughts.  If you don’t like them, too bad.”

Whereas I really wasn’t that concerned with how well I expressed my analysis of theological typologies, my creative writing was much closer to my heart.

After the initial shock, I began to appreciate the feedback from my editor.  After several months of the editorial process, I emerged a better writer.

I initially applied to Glimpse as a photographer.  It turns out that words definitely form the core of the program.  While I do enjoy that form of expression, photography is my passion.  I was allowed one photo essay of the four pieces that will eventually be published.  Where writing was sometimes a struggle, the photo essay was pure joy.

My photo essay is now live on Glimpse.  In pictures, it tells the story of a mass public protest action in Riemvasmaak.  I wrote this about the experience at the time.

You can find the photo essay at Glimpse here.

Special thanks to Erica for feedback on the original round of photos.  Thanks to everybody for your support!

Well, the day has come.  My first article, In the Shadow of Table Mountain, has “gone live” (do they say that?).  It is about my decision to leave Cape Town and move to the Eastern Cape.  They give me a twizzler for every comment, so if you leave me one on their website, I’ll give you half.

Several more articles will be published on their site in the near future.  Thanks for reading!

For those interested, this is the Mission Statement from Glimpse’s website:

Glimpse believes that independent travelers, particularly those who spend significant time abroad, have a unique and often overlooked opportunity to effect positive change around the world. This begins with bearing witness to place, people, culture, and especially the stories and struggles that might otherwise go unrecorded.

Our goal is to build a worldwide community of “Correspondents,” travelers with strong creative visions for storytelling through words and images, and to provide them with a professional platform–including stipends, community support, and one-on-one editorial training–for publishing high-profile journalistic work based on their travels abroad.

Those first few steps past customs can be isolating and disorienting, even if colored with a modicum of relief.

Until this point, you have something in common with all the strangers surrounding you. International travel–exciting, uncomfortable, perhaps even mind-altering–forges a common bond.   But more than that, the shared experience of life in the same city brings you together.  Even the tiny things reflect converging worlds, a sense of camaraderie and understanding.  At the Cape Town International Airport, we could hold a conference about Stoney Ginger Beer, the best way to braai, and the pros and cons of Wellington Sweet Chili Sauce.

In Chicago O’Hare’s Terminal 3, however, there is no one who I can nudge to communicate my appreciation of my first cup of Starbucks coffee in over a year.  I try to share with the barista, but receive no more than a blank look in response.  I pause in a row of seats with cold metal armrests to try and figure out what day it is, what time it is, and why am I so tired?  My neighbors–the airport requisite one seat interval between us–do not seem to have the same problem. The airline asks me to take a bump.  I explain that I will need to use their phone to inform my ride.  The attendant stares in disbelief: how can you be traveling, yet not have a phone?  ”It’s in South Africa, with the rest of my life!” I irrationally want to shout at her.

But that’s too forceful, of course.  And untrue.  Home is glorious in its familiarity. Family that loves you.  Old, comfortable relationships. Places of (personal) historical significance.  The food and drink your taste buds were raised on.  The morning newspaper which looks the same as it has for twenty years.  The sports teams you grew up cheering for.  Even old clothing you forgot you owned.  Re-acquainting is joyful.

Yet, it can be a bit lonely when your world is different.  It is always with mixed emotions that I return home.  I have changed.  Home has changed.

In addition to relational isolation, returning home also involves, preeminently, a broader cultural disorientation.  Whereas on one hand, previously harmonized mates struggle to understand your context, on the other hand, it is more complicated to understand the now estranged cultural milieu.

Contemplating my relationship with home, the old break-up standard enters my head: “It’s not you, it’s me.”  And with that in mind, I refer you to Sarah Menkedick’s reflections on her recent homecoming, Encounters With Ex-Boyfriends, in which she compares the United States with a former lover. Bracing myself against that icy metal in a bustling O’Hare terminal, trying to figure out where all the snow came from, Menkedick’s article helped structure some of my beleaguered emotions.  If you get a break from your eggnog, give it a look…

Within thirty minutes of disembarking the plane, I was standing in Kirstenbosch Gardens in the shadow of Table Mountain, flanked by verdant flora and stunning proteas, with the sun caressing my skin.  After the chilly, wet day in Port Elizabeth, it was easy for me to see why people fall in love with this city so easily.  I almost began to regret my decision to leave—almost.  The venue for the summer concert series is second to none—in the entire world.

Writing the date in my journal shocks me—could it really be mid-December already?  I have to remind myself that it is Christmas time when I see people wearing red Santa hats with the white fuzzy ball at the top.  It will reach ninety degrees in Cape Town on Monday.

My only previous hot weather Christmas came in Venezuela on a resort island (spent romantically with my roommate, John Mac).  I layed on the beach and then had a fish dinner.  Despite the news of icy conditions coming from Europe’s airports, I am happy to be spending Christmas back in the United States.

My acting debut as a Wise Man came on Thursday in front of 5,000 people at Carols by Candlelight, a Kirstenbosch Rotary tradition held at one of the world’s most beautiful venues, Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens.  It is really special to see 5,000 candles waving in front of you with Table Mountain over your shoulder.  Yet, it won’t feel quite like Christmas until I trade my shorts and sandals for a heavy coat.

I initially mistake the reflections of sunlight on the polished metal bench at the Port Elizabeth Airport for insects crawling around my couch back in Riemvasmaak.  Chairman once said to me, “you know the insects personally and they know you.  This one knows when he sees you, ‘that’s the owner of this house.’”

One of the many things you learn in the township is how to wait—often, for nothing in particular.  I have adapted.  The initiative and ambition that is so valued in the Western workplace has taken a backseat to endurance and perseverance.  I will have to realign myself.

Scarcity and transience causes a particular mindset: better to do it now—there may not be another chance.  I notice a peculiar, but now familiar anxiety as my phone charges in the outlet at the airport.  I must get as much as possible now, before it goes away.

My withdrawals from township style living are now being overcompensated with overindulgence.  Long hot showers, hours of surfing the internet, oversleeping in a full size bed with clean sheets, sitting on the couch and wasting time watching TV.

Leaving Port Elizabeth involved a second set of emotional goodbyes.  During my stay in Riemvasmaak, I spent about 5 nights per month in the “volunteer house” where a group of constantly shifting Dutch volunteers stayed.  I had come to treasure my relationships with the Ready 4 Life (the NGO I worked with) volunteers almost as much as those in Riemvasmaak.

There were two other volunteers leaving the same day as me, so we did the South African thing and had a braai.  It’s a nice “go to” tradition; you don’t have to wonder or worry about how to mark a special occasion.  It’s standard: you braai.

We all stayed up late, ate a lot and drank a lot.  The evening ended when the electricity went out while we played “Hearts.”  In South Africa, you have to keep careful watch over your electricity meter, as it works on the debit system.  You have to buy wattage in the form of vouchers at any supermarket.  If you run out in the middle of the night, like we did, you’re out until the next morning when the store opens.  An ancillary effect is that the alarm doesn’t function, another South African no-no.

I gave everyone photos with a message written on the back.  As I left, Frank told me, “You’ve made me change my mind about Americans.  I used to hate them all.”   It underscores the impact of meeting people and forming individual relationships.

Port Elizabeth will always hold a special place in my heart.  It is a place of unique opportunities, if also anxiety over sharp changes of plan.  Yet, everything that went awry turned out better than could possibly be expected.  Without my car breaking down there on the way to Mozambique, I never would have spoken to the PE Rotary club.  Without speaking to the PE Rotary Club, I would never have met Marieke.  Without meeting Marieke, I never would have heard about Ready 4 Life.  Without Ready 4 Life, I never would have had the opportunity to live in Riemvasmaak and become part of the community there.

Before leaving, I visited my neighbor’s homes to bring them photos I had taken.  Lozelle hugged me tight and claimed it was the nicest gift anyone had given her.  I told her she must be crazy.  Clara came to the door in only a bra.  Her husband described how happy because they didn’t have any photos of the youngest child.  They asked if I had any of the neighbor’s 2 year old son who had died two weeks ago.  At Christina’s home, 2 year old Mawethu said thank you (the first words I’d heard him speak) as he tried to eat his photo.

Zola was the most emotional.  I brought him photos of he and his 12 month old daughter.  He shoved me in joy as he saw me approaching with the photos.  He was so excited that he began swearing.  When I informed him that this was my last day in Riempi, he turned away for a long period.  I thought he was going to cry.  I tried to distract him with another subject.  He paid me one of the most meaningful compliments I’ve had here, “When I see you walking, I don’t even see you as white anymore.  You’re black, like me.”  His parting advice was to buy Spice Gold rum for the plane.

Four of the guys formed an entourage to walk me to catch the jigaleza (public taxi).  I tried to tell them that they needn’t waste their time, but they insisted on coming.  It was touching.  After so much solo traveling where I’ve departed by myself and arrived to the blank faces of strangers, it meant a lot to me (except for my wonderful parents, who have always been there to take me to the airport, no matter how early in the morning).  As opposed to kwaito or house music, the soundtrack for my exit was Phil Collins and Queen.

How do you keep in touch?  The vast majority of people don’t have email.  International phone calls are wicked expensive.  They have no address for “snail mail.” They could disappear and be erased cleanly from the system.  They have no permanent marks outside of relationships.