A Matter of Time and Its About Time
Most people who know me offline know that I spent some time overseas in Africa. Some are interested to hear more about the experience.
A very short breakdown of that time to set up the story. I moved to CapeTown on the southern tip of Africa in early 1993. I left a month before the first democratic elections as things had gotten out of control personally and nationally. It had become time for me to go. I spent just about a year in Capetown, did some travelling to Namibia, Jo'burg and a few other places but was limited by free time and not ever quite enough money.

I saw many demonstrations, toyi-toying masses of all colours but mostly black, brown and shades in between, some white faces in the crowds but mostly native blooded folks. And I'm refraining from breaking into a post about the differences between full blooded Africans and the mixed blood coloureds. Its just too big an issue for a post right now. But remind me to write about it later and I will.

I was never shot at directly although I was in areas from time to time in which gunfire could be heard. I was never attacked physically, for being either white or American. I felt threatened only on a handful of occasions and removed myself from a location only once or twice because of a perceived threat to my being.

Mostly I worked and played in the coastal towns outside of Capetown, much like Santa Cruz and not by accident. Towns with great names, cool white sand beaches and quality living. Towns like Green Point, Moiulle Point, Sea Point, Clifton, Camp's Bay, Bakoven and Tamboerskloof (actually not on the coast, its on the flanks of Table Mountain but its such a cool name that I had to include it). But I'd also lived on the other side of town, beyond the first few predominantly black towns, not townships or shanty towns though. The shanties sprung up around the national highway and sprawled over the horizon, dusty, hot, slow air penetrated by thick lazy bees and machine gun bullets.

But I just lived in a town called Observatory, nice place, easy access to the city, nice big wide streets that made it easy to push my crappy old Honda CB500 in the rain when it would quit on me. A week or a month after I moved away, the local bar was bombed, that's about as close as I really came to dying because of the political situation.

I came close to dying bunches of other times but those were for other reasons and for other posts.

But here ya go, South Africa to Pay Reparations to Victims of Apartheid Crimes.

I could continue to write on about all the things that happened when I was there. The people I knew, the places we went, the motorcycle accidents (sorry Layne but I was wearing a helmet in both and still got good and mangled.