Inside South Africa (page 6 of 11)

From this singer... there's something of Amélie in him.

And if we said the opposite Or if we said nothing If we built the story backwards...

From this singer... there's something of Charlie in him.

It's impossible to remain in doubt—you owe it to us to investigate, return to the scene hoping to meet the artist, who would turn out to be a woman, and it would be a portrait of her husband, who...

Who would be the adversary? Between us, who would be the cleverest?

Go back there? Again? And ask the grump about his gender identity? You want my scalp or what?!

No point debating the sex of angels when examining this (unless we consider she wears pearls and he wears leather, which would be totally retrograde). Yet, it’s the most political of all. S and A stand for South Africa (the artist’s wife confirmed it to me). From that wrestling match of a relationship, all that’s left is a broken heart. Hello... Mandela?



(If the photo is tilted, it’s because the elephant on the right is heavier and is weighing down the foundations)

the Elephant Curve?😮

From this wrestler’s clinch, a broken heart remains.

A beautiful image, a melancholic symbol bathed in twilight hues, and yet, in that embrace that overwhelms, can’t we also see the mark of an unbreakable bond?

L’entrompage catcheur is a desperate confrontation, a violent embrace to avoid sinking, to swing two broken fragments against each other, to reunite them into one, whose fracture will tell the story. And the scar will make it stronger...

Hello... Mandela?

I neither wanted nor could allow myself to succumb to despair. That path leads to defeat and death.

When the building goes Construction of two hundred and fifty new homes is underway in the township. Some residents of the historic city are worried: "They can fit two thousand people in there. And we already don’t have enough water for the gardens!" The municipality issued a reassuring statement: the goal is to decently house those who live in makeshift shelters at the back of courtyards and gardens. I went to see the construction site: twenty-five square meters total, the parents' bedroom for seven, the kids' room for four, a two-square-meter bathroom, and the rest for the living-dining-kitchen area. The small houses are spaced ten meters apart in all directions on less than ten hectares of rocky land. At least they won’t waste water on gardens. Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, a couple of doctors practicing in Cape Town are building a 450-square-meter retirement home on three hectares of fertile land. *

A matter of the heart Fifty years ago, Chris Barnard achieved a world first in South Africa: a human heart transplant. He had practiced extensively on dogs with fierce determination. Opposed to apartheid and leveraging his newfound fame, he demanded to be allowed to hire Black assistants. When the minister himself refused outright, Barnard threatened to accept one of the offers he had received in America and won the day. Later, he transplanted the heart of a white donor into a Black recipient. All hearts are red, just as bones are white. Two years after his feat, Chris, forty-seven, left his wife for another heart. Barbara’s, nineteen. No need for a transplant anymore. *

Risking it to be sure Johannesburg was suffocating him. In this sprawling city—the world’s largest man-made forest—beautiful, wild, and cruel, he felt like he was in the grip of a boa constrictor. So, Athol sought a place more suited to his condition and, defying his parents, settled in the desert. He’s long been fascinated by snakes. Here, he’s available at any hour to remove a reptile from your floor. For free, just out of love for people and these creatures that terrify them. He takes them away in a box, finds them the best spot in the desert, and releases them. He’s particularly wary of the Cape cobra, for the lightning speed of its venom, and the Puff adder for its strike. He works with his face uncovered and bare-handed. Only once in fifteen years has he been bitten. Helicopter, coma, luck: the venom (gratefully) spared him. A rare thing here, he never drinks wine. Only whisky, and only after ten p.m., when the likelihood of a call fades. His antidote. Why take such risks? To feel alive. *

What a couple! Siemon is a painter obsessed with hyenas. Hyenas he distorts across his canvases. His partner, Gabriel, is also his Pygmalion. Together, they rule the local art scene. *

Endangered species When he’s here, you’ll see him running in the mountains in the cool early hours. Wearing heavy boots, a backpack, sharp-eyed, his face carved by a machete. A dog on a short leash, a mass of muscle, a scruffy face oddly black and white. It’s his training. Along with others like him, he’s hired by reserves and parks to protect wildlife from the greed of poaching kingpins. A Kenyan might stand a chance, but certainly not a Mozambican or Zimbabwean. A white South African, he counts himself among the endangered species. On his bakkie, the sticker reads "Save a rhino, kill a poacher," but with his mom, who’s retired here to write, he’s a sweetheart. *

A little delicacy! Lying on the deck, the stars are watching me. Some already dead, they say (when science borders on mythology). True to my Havana, I smoke without shame, and between them and me, a cloud forms (the myth remains intact). Will it rain at Christmas? (If I may offer a tip to the traveler who fancies themselves a nomad in the desert and wants to enjoy a Havana. You have nothing but your knife, and the cigar is a bit dry—you’ve already used up your humidification packs to keep it at the ideal humidity. Don’t risk uncapping it dry and damaging the wrapper. Lightly lick it while giving it a slight twist, then carefully cut the few leaves at the head that were glued by the torcedoras’ saliva.) *

I brought you some veggies When invited for a drink or a braai, you at least bring a bottle of wine. Then maybe some jam, chutney, a jar of olives, or cookies. The best is if it’s homemade. Tonight, Derryn arrived with a bunch of onions and a bundle of celery from her garden. *

Mel-Anchole Cows are often poorly regarded. Here, some civilized folks suspect them of spending their lives watching trains and polluting the atmosphere. Elsewhere, they’re considered sacred. Here, they’re valued fairly: it takes ten to equal one woman. They’re beautiful, with velvet eyes, sleek and supple coats, and those horns... which you’ll wear. Here, Zulu kings only kept white ones. Here, they remain a symbol of wealth, spirituality, and political power. So you see the likely future president of South Africa posing among his herd of Anchole cattle, the largest in the country, wearing a red shirt and calfskin loafers. Yet, despite their two-meter-wide horns, they spare him. Is it because they connect him to his father, a cattle farmer in Venda before he was forced to move to Soweto? *

Worry After finishing his studies, this young man with a hipster vibe decided to raise chickens. Free-range, because it’s the only way to look them in the eyes. He sells his produce at the market but is worried: egg production is flat, feed prices are rising with the drought, and he and his wife haven’t taken a vacation in four avian generations. I finish him off by pointing out that the yolks are pale. Of course, he can’t count on the carotene from desert plants, nor any worms for them to peck at. But there’s a natural solution to reassure customers: marigold flower meal. He gives me that stupid look people attribute to chickens, imagining I’ll turn his own worries into meal. I reassure him and worry him: marigold meal is as expensive as saffron. I offer to fill in for him for a few days in the fall. He looks at me with egg-shaped eyes. I agree to a trial period. I see wings sprouting. *

December 17, 2007 That day, landing in Cape Town, the start of a strange life split between two hemispheres. 10 years (damn, already!) 9 different countries 8 mechanical breakdowns 700 books—not a desert island 60, 600, 6,000, 60,000, 600,000, 6,000,000 Africans The Big Five (and the Small Five too) 4 aces (on top of the four-leaf clover) 300,000 kilometers 2 cars (and a few borrowed ones) One question: again? Zero! I’m leaving the desert for Brittany via a layover in China (Addis Ababa).

Just to note, these elephants are never pink...😉

10 years (damn, already!)

Little player! !😉

Great photos, as usual! 🙂

I just didn’t quite get the end:

One question: again? Zero! I’m leaving the desert for Brittany via a layover in China (Addis Ababa).

It’s true that Ethiopia feels very Chinese 😕. Apparently, there are 800,000 of them in Abyssinia... safe travels back to the Breton climate! 😎

Hi V....ou

I went to see the construction site: twenty-five square meters total, the parents' bedroom for seven, the kids' room for four, a two-square-meter bathroom, and the rest for the living-dining-kitchen area. The little houses are spaced ten meters apart in every direction on less than ten hectares of rocky land. At least they won’t waste water on gardens. Meanwhile, at the other end of the city, a couple of doctors working in Cape Town are building a 450-square-meter retirement home on three hectares of fertile land.

I recently read an article in Le Monde that highlighted how the inequality gap keeps growing and how these disparities are even more glaring in developing countries. Looks like South Africa is right on trend!!!

Two years after his feat, Chris, forty-seven, left his wife for another heart. Barbara’s, nineteen years old. No need for a transplant anymore.

After the heavy stuff, something lighter? Just like the news!

The cow is often poorly regarded. Here, civilized folks suspect it spends its life watching trains and polluting the atmosphere. Elsewhere, it’s considered sacred. Here, it’s valued fairly: you need ten of them for one woman.

And now we’re stirring up feminist outrage

8 mechanical breakdowns

Do you keep track of your mechanical breakdowns? Do you also count how many times you had to dig yourself out of sand or mud?

I’m leaving the desert for Brittany via a layover in China (Addis Ababa).

A few years ago, Vancouver on Canada’s Pacific coast had the same effect on me. It was already Asia!!! When we talk about tectonic plate movement, it’s nothing compared to the movement of populations!!!!! It’s through people that continents get closest!

Is your move to Brittany temporary?

Hugs!

Hey Michel,

You’re always there at just the right moment for *the* photo!!!!!😂

Hi there,

Couldn't help myself!

😉

The hearts are missing 😏

Hello Jean Luc, So, a trip to the Kalahari in a Defender planned to help someone in danger? Or to find a hidden bottle? Seriously, do you want to leave South Africa? For good? Yet your writing shows a real love for this country and its people🙂 As usual, I love it and read it with pleasure!

@Max The Defender was sold and the house was on the market. Time to ask myself questions I’ve now found answers to: I bought a new car and took the house off the market. Karoo—live somewhere else?

@Magryelle Which country, indeed, to be closest to the issues shaking the world: economic inequality, racial questions, resource ownership. I do bodybuilding—I cultivate my alterophilia, me, a misanthrope by birth.

@Diamina

And now we’re stoking the wrath of feminists

To make it up to you, I’ll give you the diamond I just fished out in Port Nolloth.

@Michel-the-naturalist Doesn’t the color of elephants vary depending on the type of grass consumed by the observer? 😉

Coming soon (maybe)...

And to the question—sedentary or nomad—have you found the answer? 😉

Wouldn’t this photo have been taken in the Richtersveld? 😉

Hi there! The (naturalist?) is heading back to South Africa for 3 weeks. A route that’s a real classic—almost retracing Ms. Atilla’s steps, just after her. Should we see some kind of South African camaraderie here? Or is it the wisdom of experience? Hope the grass has grown back by now. Glad to see the traveler’s still around! Michel

Prince Albert is such a beautiful little town where life seems so good! And South Africa is buzzing with unmatched potential right now, so staying a little longer... to see which way the wind will turn...

A moth-eaten myth A myth conceived in another era and overtaken by the century. One you’ve worn out as much as it’s worn you out. We had to part ways, once again. At first, it was perfect—it took its lumps, it doled them out. Then it grew tired of this breakneck pace, and I grew tired of its whims. The new one looks more modest. Gone is the Empire’s arrogance, replaced by the Levant’s smoothness. Not a star’s career, but an honorable service record. I crossed North America with its cousin over a semester, on a zigzag diagonal from British Columbia to Florida, and often slept inside it. But over there, you quickly hit the limits. Now it’s time to see what it’s really made of before heading into the Kalahari’s sands or up the torrents of Lesotho. There’s no shortage of testing grounds in the Northern Cape. Namaqua Coastal is ideal for deep sand, and the secondary tracks of the Richtersveld Community Conservancy for the rough stuff. Though it lacks the joint flexibility to climb trees, it’ll live up to its name, Pathfinder—even if its plastic skirts could use a trim and it could stand a few extra centimeters of ground clearance. As for my co-pilot, she thinks it’s a considerate car. *

Until now, in the diplomatic suitcase, the traveling library rode in a shoebox: literature on the move. This time, it’s borrowing a fine wine case: literature on the zigzag. Among the good vintages, the thousand roborative pages of Microfictions 2018 (Régis Jauffret), which I’ve sliced into mille-feuille booklets and bound with reinforced tape. More flexibility in the case, and no elbow tendonitis. *

Close call Abriella, eleven years old, just set a world record. She’s the youngest person to swim from Robben Island to the mainland, fulfilling the dream of apartheid-era prisoners held there. Her brother is named Alcapone: now that’s an adventurous family. During this crossing, over 200,000 rands were raised for a Red Cross hospital serving sick children. *

The nobility of water In Cape Town, prolonged drought—and, some say, incompetence—led authorities to urge the city’s four million residents not to use more than 50 liters of water per person per day. Otherwise, the last drop from the last tap would fall in April. That Day Zero has now been pushed back to June. In this residential suburb, signs reading “Borehole,” “Boorgat,” “Own water,” or “Eie water” reassure passersby in their own language: these Babylonian gardens owe nothing to municipal water. They’re all on their own supply!

In the small town where I usually stay, we’re better off: the daily municipal water cap is 90 liters. The community set up a phone number to report wasteful citizens, guaranteeing anonymity to tipsters. Next thing you know, they’ll be rewarding them with a jerrycan of the precious stuff. The powerful borehole that once fed the English’s Versailles-like fantasies gave out after two neighbors drilled even deeper last year. Another, more modest borehole delivers a steady trickle, like a lifeline. We’ll have to cut back further on water-dependent surfaces, speed up the return to the original state. Some pioneers have already abandoned their lawns’ roots—those that tied them to Ireland, England, Holland, or Brittany. Others won’t consider changing a thing: the water lords, a few hundred people who own historic homes and benefit from “leiwater,” whose flow never weakens. This association has its own mountain intakes and distributes water to its members via open canals. You’ll see kids washing in them and neighbors scooping water for their little gardens. Beyond this tolerance, the water owners resist any interference or sharing. With every lord, dishonor is never far. *

When the moon throws him off while traveling, the homunculus thinks he’s the one who moved. He has to stop fidgeting to realize she’s the one playing games—taking off when she pleases and never rising from the same spot two nights in a row. Tonight, she’s playing peekaboo behind the intangible ficus with its thousand waxy leaves, which from my chair look like just as many stars. And the delicious gin infused with Karoo herbs has nothing to do with it. *

Fluid physics The semi-desert Namaqua is famous for blooming in spring. Less known—probably because it’s only crossable by 4x4—Namaqua Coastal is hardly less flowery and stays that way year-round thanks to moisture from the Atlantic. Sure, it’s not Holland’s tulip fields, but the succulents thrive here, and they’re beautiful plants, even without flowers. Campsites are scattered along the shore, but the south wind that rides the cold Benguela Current never lets up. Park authorities built stone circles six meters across and a meter and a half high. In the center, a spot for the fire. The wind, surprised by the obstacle, redoubles its fury inside the pitiful shelter, whipping flames in every direction. In the end, you’re roasted like a sausage twenty meters from the ocean you can no longer see, your eyes stinging from the smoke. *

Hit the road, Jack Before heading into Namibia, this German photographer boasts about learning the ropes in the Australian outback and Canada’s far north. He’s just published a photography book with an original layout and some clever design touches, but his shots are... ordinary. That’d be fine if he didn’t devote ten pages to bush survival and etiquette. He’s right to say that on tough tracks, it’s important to know exactly where your wheels are. His suggestion for practicing? On a normal track, aim for an abandoned can, elephant dung, or a forming termite mound, then check your rearview to see if you crushed it. Repeat. The problem is, kids here turn aluminum cans into survival sculptures, dung beetles feast on elephant poop, and no one taught termites the rules of the road. A Panzer. As for his colleague, a Cape Town photographer complaining about barely scraping by—cause or consequence—she’s mostly into herself and never misses an AfricaBurn, which tears through the Karoo’s silence every late April. *

Decoys and callers Safari used to mean hunting; then, as the times softened, it became a photographer’s game. The shutter hurts less than the trigger—for the hunter and the hunted. But now photographers whip out their phones, whistling recorded bird calls to lure them into the frame. Sometimes to the point of seriously disturbing them. Trophy hunters, image hunters—will there be birds who’d rather take a bullet than these permanent nuisances? (I hear some jokers use voyeur drones to violate birds’ airspace, stealing their point of view without adopting it.) *

Beef at the campsite To go with the surf on Namaqua’s coast, The Köln Concert (K. Jarrett); with the rustle of the Orange River’s little rapids in the Richtersveld, Universal Syncopations (M. Vitous); in the Cederberg’s silence, Timbuktu (A. Bouhafa), music from the eponymous film, for its gentleness despite the fury. *

From the track, the car’s headlights cast random flashes on the mountain. Time to drop anchor. *

I’d have loved to have the status of a drifter, but I walk backward like a klutz. I had to take the garage route. *

A lovebird ruffles its dorsal crest of feathers and, borrowing Aldo’s swagger, circles a female. Just as he’s about to close the deal, the dove flies off. Chagrined, the jilted suitor suddenly takes an interest in breakfast crumbs, determined not to let the shadow steal the prey. *

An all-too-ordinary evening There’s Peter, who fought in Rhodesia and later ran a business in KwaZulu-Natal before living like a refugee in his own country; John, a building contractor; Ellen, a project manager in economic cooperation handling European funds; Allan, a mathematician turned climatologist; and others. After a few drinks, black Africans get saddled with every flaw. No apparent racism—these folks are just stating facts, sharing their experiences. And they laugh about it. I slip away into the night for a doubly salvific cigarette and confide in a mixed—well, gray—cat. Some pile up handicaps: they have the flaws of the qualities they lack. *

For six days, I’ve been simmering a Karoo lamb with local herbs. For five nights, from one opportunity to the next, from salads to braais, I’ve had to host and be hosted while the lamb freezes in the fridge. What’s the point of fleeing to the desert? *

Hello Jean-Luc

I often read you silently—so silently that I forgot to thank you for "a wildly beautiful and cruel world"... which I really enjoyed 🙂. Muriel