[I began this “talk” by quoting Moira Lovell, who told us, “You can break the rules when you know them.” I broke the rules by reading this out loud, as opposed to having memorised it, or presenting it. How many teachers told us not to read our orals/mondelings? It turns out, I can lecture and present… But, this I felt was a time for reading. Thanks Moira for giving weight to my decision so the audience didn’t think I was a charlatan.]

In Lasse Halstrom’s 1993 film, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, the opening sequence reveals a small, neglected midwestern American town, Endora. We’re shown Ramp Cafe, End-ora of the Line Drugs, Dairy Dreme, and Lamson’s Grocery, where the lead character, Gilbert, works.

Gilbert’s opening narration explains that the annual campervanners are doing the right thing, just passing through. He continues, “Endora is a town where nothing much ever happens, and nothing much ever will.” 

When I first watched the film, it resonated with me because that’s how I felt about Hilton, my home town. And for a lot of people it is just a place to pass through, or just drive past on the N3, or drive to, to drop kids off at boarding school. 

In the spirit of Gilbert Grape, I’ll walk you through my Endora. In 1983, my first home was the rondavel cottage at the Hilton Hotel. That’s where my dad worked. Further up the road, the Shell garage, the only petrol station in the village. In those days, Hilton was a village. Opposite the Shell, the Hilton Town Board Hall, where our folks went to pretend to look at our kak school art, while they drank beer and OBs at the annual Hilton Lions’ Fair. 

Hilton Pre-Primary is where I spent three magical years with crayons, finger paint, blunt-nosed scissors, and crusty Marmite sandwiches. Laddsworth is where I learned to love learning. 

The Fruit Basket, since demolished, is where we’d go after school… Or to the Spar, owned by the Footselars, for a Super Moo and chicken and mushroom pie. Often, we’d have to hang around in Hilton Drapers waiting for our mums to finish their “quick chats” and buy fabric to turn into matching primary coloured tracksuits. All the kids in Hilton were dressed in the same Butterick patterns… With either gumboots or Bata takkies from Kubela Stores. On Sundays, we’d head to the Hilton Tea room, clutching 50c coins to buy candy cigarettes and other guilty pleasures. The owners of the tearoom knew which parents had permitted us to buy the real Benson and Hedges Special Milds on their behalf.  

That was the colour of village life. Not quite Gilbert’s Endora, but still small. 

However, things were about to get bigger. Soon after Nelson Mandela was elected president, we started to hear whispers. The village grapevine, led by the Walkie Talkies (a group of early morning women walkers), had heard Hollywood was coming to town. 

Our village was summarily upgraded to a town. 

The proverbial “They” were remaking Cry the Beloved Country. Soon after, we heard They was actually South African filmmaker Darrell Roodt who was diving headfirst into the much-famed Madiba Magic by giving us the quintessential South African film. “And have you heard, big hitters James Earl Jones and Richard Harris are the leads?” Suddenly, Hilton Library’s copy of Alan Paton’s novel was flying off the shelves.  

These were the days when Cry the Beloved Country was a symbol of hope and reconciliation… Slightly precarious, sure, but we were heady with the allure of the new Rainbow Nation fragrance. This was well before social media – people hadn’t yet appropriated the book title in response to bad news about the state of the country… “Oh Good Lord! Cry the Beloved Country!” – the calling card of the disgruntled Facebook commenter in reaction to anything government-related. 

But, as with all things that happen in one’s childhood, it was over in a village moment. Hollywood came and went, and Hilton went back to being a village, the place where they filmed Cry the Beloved Country. That hotel became known as the place James Earl Jones stayed. That section of the Midlands… Where “They shot that scene from that movie… Oh, you know the one.”

Soon after the trains stopped running, and the abandoned train tracks became my teenage place for measured rebellion.  

We all have a favourite quote that we bring out whenever we can to sound smart. Mine, which I’m fast turning into a cliche, was introduced to me by Duncan Brown, in that building just over there, in a small classroom, during my honours English seminar on South African storytelling. 

“If this is your land, where are your stories?” 

In the same way that disgruntled Facebookers have appropriated Paton’s novel as a catchphrase, so too have I with J. Edward Chamberlain. 

If this is your land, where are your stories? The title of of his book on placemaking and connection.  

This quote is at the heart of my work and research, because the best way to change human behaviour is by changing the environment. Humans like to think we’re clever and not easily manipulated but just see what happens when a McDonalds rolls into town, or when bins get removed from parks, or when you walk into a library with a vuvuzela. 

My partner Jono and I focus on public space, because in this country social cohesion needs a bit of a nudge. And, developing equitable multipurpose public spaces, that become places, are how you start to see change.

So, how do you change public space?

Well, you just decide to do it.

Jono and I combine mural art, storytelling, and a lot of plants and fruit trees to activate places. We treat the land as ours, not Jono and mine, but the community’s and through investing in that we’ve shown the power of connection through belonging, representation, and inclusivity. Having free spaces is quite literally freedom. But it’s more than that, when people feel invisible its easy to forget them. Having access to public space means being seen, and being able to say this is my home too, I am here, I belong.  

Cry the Beloved Country is a story that, through its title, pages, and magnitude, tethers us to our local home, our national home, and our global home. 

Alan Paton wrote, “When people go away, even the ground cries out for them.”

Which, to be honest, doesn’t always ring true, as we’ve seen in recent news about 49 people who definitely use “Cry the Beloved Country” as a catchphrase to trash our country.  

But for those of us who are tethered, that’s the sum of Home. When we leave, the ground cries out for us. That’s our South Africa, in all its complexities.

I came back to Hilton five years ago, because I needed to be home. And, while I used to think that when Gilbert Grape says that “Describing Endora is like dancing to no music,” that was a bad thing, now I’m not so sure it is. For many of us, describing South Africa is like dancing to no music… It’s not easy, it’s difficult… But we do it because we love dancing and we love telling stories. As a continent of storytellers, stories are our heart. They’re how we say we are here. We claim this space. We are tethered. 

So, what can I tell you about the filming of Cry the Beloved Country? It turns out, not much, but I was invited here today because of a particular piece of writing. And because I’m a storyteller and a placemaker, I think I should stick to what I know. And because I’m not famous, most of you won’t have read this piece, but for those who have, you can use it as an opportunity to catch a snooze with zero judgement. 

Placeholders: In a Station of the Station

[originally published https://www.jackalandhide.co.za/2025/03/12/placeholders-in-a-station-of-the-station/]

My brother and I were furious and jealous when our fourteen-year-old cousin landed the prized role of an extra in Cry the Beloved Country. She was tall and mature for her age, and my older brother was the opposite– you could always spot him in the front row of every school photo, the designated spot for the short arses. Neither my brother nor I were even in the running for a look-in for a coveted extras spot, but that didn’t stop us from being disgruntled, and annoying our mother about how unfair it was. The whining was palpable. 

This is one of my most enduring memories of the Hilton Train Station – a backdrop for a movie, a place suspended in time, swarming with people wearing fancy hats and milling about. And, it also goes down as one of the most exciting times in Hilton’s history… We had celebrities in town and everyone was in a frenzy trying to catch a rare sighting of Richard Harris and James Earl Jones. That was another thing to be disgruntled and furious about. Why wasn’t our hotel (The Hilton Hotel) posh enough for them to stay at? Why were we the hotel for crew? More whining. To be fair, my mother led the charge on this particular bout of whining, as it’s no secret she’s long harboured a bit of a crush on James Earl Jones.   

I know there must be other memories of this central space from my childhood. If I really try, I can just about make out sitting next to my mother on a brown pleather bench seat. I’m not sure if some of the fabric has come away and was fraying or if that’s just the mystic chords of my memory editorialising. Torn and frayed pleather seats that snapped at bare legs were definitely in vogue for that era. In any event, my legs are stretched out in front of me, and there are a tiny pair of white patent leather shoes that I can just about make out. I’m on a train ride… I have no idea where the destination is, that bit has long faded. There’s another part of me that sees myself as part of a crocodile of Hilton Pre-Primary kids in primary coloured clothing snaking our way onto the train for an exciting excursion. Did this happen or is it something that seems plausible and has become a false memory akin to the “Mandela Effect”?  

And then suddenly, one day, the trains stopped. Bugweed crept in, weeds crept in, and sprawling creepers metastasised along the railway. That part of Hilton was gone, hidden… It became a place of “used to”. This used to be alive, now it’s abandoned until some intrepid teenagers or drifters rediscover it. Typically, it takes teenagers, drifters, or the homeless to re-occupy spaces that “used to” and breathe life into them again. These are the breaths that resuscitate the lungs of buildings and we see life through signs, symbols, marks, and abandoned artefacts (usually trash). But as they say, “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure…” More about that in a moment.  

A months ago, my partner Jono and I were discussing public space, and the conclusion was that we’re woefully ignorant about what’s on offer around us. The irony and shame are not lost on us. But that’s how we ended up at the Cedara Station. We decided we need to explore. 

As our car drove up the dirt road to Cedara Station, I thought about all the rumours I’ve heard about the space over the years. 

“Cedara Station is going to become an abattoir.” 

“They’re going to develop it.” 

“Cedara Station is going to become the destination for a train ride to and from Hilton, like in the old days.” 

We park up and I feel nothing. Usually my memory is a magic wand that can get stories out of anything. But nothing. In the words of Gandalf, “I have no memory of this place.” I can’t imagine what it used to look like, it is all completely new and I have no frame of reference to pollute my experience of how it used to be and how it is now.  

“Fuck this is cool…”

We walk through the long grass towards the station. This is the old platform, and using my experiential geography I imagine that tickets were sold just through there. I wonder how much they cost? If you walk into the station, there’s a big chunk of floor missing and you can see into the basement. It’s a swamp of ferns, chip packets, sweet wrappers, new and ancient drinking vessels, and other detritus. I notice the skeleton of a VHS tape and smile. I wonder what’s on it. Cry the Beloved Country? 

The handwriting on the wall shows that brave teenagers have walked across the beams to leave their marks. The Hilton Boyz are a gang of eight names. I’m not brave enough to walk along the beams, and I don’t think peer pressure from teenagers would convince me otherwise. Meanwhile, Jono has spotted a wall, and he begins setting up his cans the way he always does, meticulous, pausing every so often to glance at the wall, step back, step forward. It’s a musical-less dance.

I explore the space, this Khazad-dum of secrets. There are stories to piece together… The Hilton Boyz who want change and to be seen, the invisible boys of postapartheid South Africa. The rebellious spirits who’ve drawn penises on everything, Shocking, you may think, until you go into the myriad of museums and see that phallic symbols never go out of fashion. There’s an odd drawing, a Rorschach Test asking if you see boobs, balls, or a squirly stick figure. Underneath reads, 

Fuck

Sex

Is this advice or a list? 

I move on, hoping young teenagers get the message, “Fuck Sex, fuck it.” Sage advice. And then as if they’re listening Bathini, Bona, Batchi, and Bek… (the last name is smudged) caution me, 

“Book Before Boys Because Boys Bring Baby.” This is written in chalk, and as if in a secret teenage pact, the girls have written their names below. It’s official. A clubhouse rule.  

I’m proud of these girls, I wonder where they are now. In the library I hope. 

I vandalise their space by spraypainting my name, Dr Jackal, onto their walls. Adults were here. 

I now have a memory of this place. Memories of this place. People have left their marks, told their stories, shared their secrets, made promises. It’s easy to dismiss graffiti and to bemoan trash. I hate litter, I try to do my bit, but sometimes you just have to see it as a part of a story. The things they left behind. I’d rather it was in the bin, but sometimes a reframe protects the mind from futility. 

Jono finishes his piece. And we leave. But we’ve left our mark. We will linger here at this place that represents the past, a place that’s never coming back, a ghost of the way things used to be. The old South Africa. 

As we get into the car, I think of one of my favourite poems by Ezra Pound,

In a Station of the Metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd:

Petals on a wet, black bough.

“Shall we walk along the track now?” Jono asks. 

This is what we did as Hilton’s teenagers, but we are not teenagers anymore. 

We have permission, the space is no longer hidden. 

I’m not one of those homies who will ever show you my phone and ask you to look at videos or photos from a gig. At a push, you’ll get a video of my pigs. 

My preferred method of sharing is to write a review and tell you to read it, or to force you into listening to a story with a lot of hand gestures and unnecessary segues. Of course, this might be infinitely more excruciating than having to sit and watch a series of substandard cellphone videos of a blurry musician, through a tinny speaker, while getting sporadic commentary from the starry-eyed purveyor… “Wait for it, just wait for this bit coming up… You won’t believe it…” And trust me, like a clickbait headline, you literally won’t believe it. 

So, bust out the half time oranges and strap yourself in while you indulge me waxing lyrical about the Guy Buttery-Dan Patlansky musical fiesta that I’m still processing in my loud and what-the-fucked brain. 

Before I explain why my brain is so loud and hurty, let’s go back in time, a couple of weeks ago, to when I saw that these two legends were teaming up for a gig. I bought tickets almost immediately, even though the gig was at a school, forty minutes away, on a Sunday. 

1. School makes me a bit twitchy, especially single-sex schools. 
2. I live in a small town, also called a village, where I sometimes run for transport. If I ran to Michaelhouse, I would die. Hence it is not close enough. 
3. Sundays are usually when I dabble in puzzles, make a lot of food, or practise my act for best hermit under 45. 

You won’t believe I used to live in London and Cape Town. Anyway, you can clearly see that me going in guns blazing to secure my tickets is a testament to my enthusiasm. The thing is, when I want something, I also spiral by convincing myself that everyone else wants it as much as me, and therefore it has a strong chance of selling out. Cue the sleepless nights. Once I’d secured my tickets, I prepared myself by watching YouTube videos and telling everyone how excited I was. I will not apologise for this. 

OK preamble over, let’s get to the sexy chorus so you can sing along or pretend to know the words. 

Guy Buttery gets on stage. It’s unnerving because he looks a lot like a friend of mine, and they dress almost the same. Sadly, my friend is not as musically talented as Guy – I’d love to drag him out at parties to impress my friends. Anyway, Guy is understated and I dig that. I always love bathos, it’s one of my favourite literary devices. I think it’s because I’m a fan of delayed gratification and suffering for pleasure. I also love the absurd. And, if things turn into a fiasco I’m there for it. This wasn’t a fiasco, which is great news for the musicians, the backstage techies, and 99% of the audience. However, it was frequently offbeat (not literally) and a little bonkers. Back to bathos… Guy parks on his seat, picks up his guitar, and decides, naught, this isn’t going to work. He needs to buff his nails. 

On any other day, I would have shouted out something about “Guy Buffery”. It’s not a great joke, sure, but it was low hanging fruit, and I love a bit of strawberry picking. This day, my soul was more tempered though, and I think that worked out best for everyone.

In any event, I liked the fact that this bit of stage work did something to the audience. We relaxed, and were lulled into a false sense of security. Sadly, what happens next won’t blow your mind because you weren’t there, and hopefully you haven’t been duped into watching a shit cellphone video of the gig. But, hyperbole aside, it blew my mind.

In four songs, Guy told an acoustic story that took me back to the first time I heard Peter and the Wolf. I know that sounds completely bonkers, but this is my story and sadly you’re my captive who’s probably fresh out of half time oranges. However, instead of characters it was places that he invoked. His music felt like a journey through places that exist in my mind, and places that don’t. I have no idea if this was his intention but holy smackerel it was profound and beautiful and I was mesmerised. And then I was sad because there is sadness in beauty. And that’s OK. 

Before I got too sad though, he broke the fourth wall, which it really did feel like, even though this wasn’t theatre. Guy is a placemaker, and he just builds and bashes down metaphorical walls like a crazed tween playing Minecraft. On one hand he’s playing music that seems effortless, and on the other he’s telling a story about how this very music is a culmination of a 12-year project that nearly killed him. I bloody love a juxtaposition. And, aside from juxtapositions, bathos, hyperbole, tangents, and a couple of other things, boy-oh-boy do I love project-obsession. I love the graceful and terrible art of patience and time when creating. However, I do draw the line at 12-years. Nonetheless, I’m glad Guy is a better creative than me, his 12-year album is certainly something to write home about. Which is weird, because most people only write home to ask their parents for money. 

After a masterclass in acoustic guitar, it was Dan’s turn. I’m not sure if this is offensive, I have almost no filter as you may know, but here goes… 

Dan Patlansky is like a rockabilly South African hybrid Bruce Springsteen. 

There I said it. 

Feel free to send me shit (literal and figurative).

I like my rock with as much gravel as it would take to fix all the potholes in the greater Msunduzi area, and Dan delivers it in spades. He also makes loop pedals artful and not gimmicky. My English teacher once told me you can break the rules when you know them, and I feel like this applies to loop pedals. Once you’re a proper musician you can use one. And only then. 

I don’t have to tell you that Dan is obviously a proper musician because he can make sounds out of a Fender Strat (my personal favourite of all the guitar varietals) that would make even the hardiest sound engineering nerd weak at the knees. Honestly, if it came down to it, I would listen to Dan play Stairway to Heaven. And I’d like it. 

When he busted out Hendrix and made it his own, I was a bit alarmed. I wanted to use the term “world-class”. South Africans always have to strive to be “world-class”. Fuck that. Dan’s in a class of his own. At Michaelhouse, on a drizzly Sunday afternoon. 

And speaking of Michaelhouse, it seems prudent to give the Schlesinger Theatre’s acoustics a helluva shoutout, that space was humming like a 90s pentium computer. And, the invisible heroes, the sound guys… Well, let’s just say I haven’t heard sound like that since I stomped my feet at the Tomb of Agamemnon.  

The combined set with Dan and Guy was like an audiovisual Bromance experience… But with zero Bro Rogan vibes. And while I sat through their individual sets, and their combined set, I just couldn’t shake this one word. One wanky term that was prodding at my grey matter like an excitable toddler at a dinosaur convention. 

“Conceptual.”

“Fuck”, I thought, this music is conceptual. 

Conceptual and self-indulgent are often in the same WhatsApp Group. There is a subtle difference though. Self-indulgence is almost always a wank-fest, whereas conceptual can be a wank-fest but it can also be the Lance Klusener we all need to smash it into the cheap seats for six. Sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve been self-indulgent/conceptual enough to use a dazzling sports metaphor. 

Guy and Dan are conceptual. They push you to the brink of being almost very uncomfortable and then whip you back with a just-in-time bridge or with the familiarity of a riff to cling onto. It’s thinking music, and you have to go with it. 

You have to suffer for your art. 

It’s hard work. 

And the results sparkle, dazzle, confound, and linger in a world where ephemerality and limited attention spans promise the illusion of the next best thing. 

Heartland- either it’s the heart of a place, or it’s a shop that sells Live Laugh Love paraphernalia and motivational posters with dolphins… “All of the dolphins, none of the endorphins”. While the latter sounds fun to mock, in this case, I’m talking about the true origin of the term.

It turns out that Heartlands aren’t just reserved for places like the American Midwest and the Karoo.

The heart of a place is broad. Where exactly it is, depends on who you ask. The best Heartlands are those that you have to know about to gain access, and you won’t find them on maps. I’m distrusting of maps. Who decides the borders, and who decides what documentation you need in order to be there? Way better are hidden gems… Places where you have to be “in the know” to find them… The truest real estate.

As it also turns out, the best people can be Heartlands… As if by magic, people can become places. Certain people become important sanctuaries where you can go when you need to experience calmness and serenity. The kind of calmness and serenity that doesn’t need a swanky brochure, dress code, and overpriced spa treatment.

WELCOME TO STEVE… POPULATION ONE.

“Steve, you’re a Heartland because everyone who meets you is drawn to you in a way that’s magnetic without being creepy.”      

“Everyone who meets Steve immediately feels his energy and warmth.”      

“Steve, you would make the most phenomenal cult leader, if only your ego would allow for it. Instead, you’re a Heartland, because you have no ego, only equity.”      

The Heartland of Steve is an open-access space, provided you’re somewhat of a good person. As with maps, I’m also distrusting of people who label themselves as nice/kind/good. I’m the type of person who scrutinises kindness and looks for fault behind the thin veneer of perfection. Luckily, I’m not in charge of who enters Steve’s Heartland. Frankly, I don’t know how I got through the border.

Steve, you’re a pivotal space where kindness is celebrated and not one platitude or Live, Laugh, Love trinket is visible. It’s kindness without being told to “Choose Kind”. Your Heartland embodies kindness without sanctimony and postulating. It’s real and doesn’t make you feel like you need to rebel because it’s too vanilla and kumbaya. It’s the type of kindness that you stare in the face and think, “I want to emulate this”. It’s kindness that’s just there to wrap you in its warm embrace, to share a witty joke, and to feel truly seen.

Steve’s Heartland is unique because to benefit you have to show up and realise that this is not a place of flags, colonisation, and exploitation. To benefit and thrive, it’s 50/50. And this symbiosis is why Steve is a Heartland. Steve owns his vulnerability and has the bravery to ask for help, to tell you what he needs, and to lay out boundaries. It would be easy to set himself up for exploitation but that’s an unsustainable environmental model, and no one knows this better than Steve.

Steve embodies growth, and through his growth he encourages everyone to do better. Not because it’s a competition, but because growth is the future. When you’re around Steve you feel Life… There’s always music, laughter, good food, bubbling conversation, thoughtfulness, the warmth of feeling seen, and, dare I say it… To set off the LLL trifecta… Love. And if this is starting to sound like one of those sales pitches to sell timeshare at the world’s greatest Heartland, well don’t get too excited. Steve is actually a person, not just a metaphor, and he’s not for sale.

Plus, if the Heartland of Steve becomes too popular and commercial that’ll mean sharing, and it turns out, we’re not that kind.

This is particularly poignant because a lot of public advertising goes unchecked, and a few select people benefit from it and are making loads of dosh off it. What stings is that they’re profiting off our public space, off our visual landscape. It’s offensive. Graffiti on the other hand, is in many cases a visceral reaction to advertising, it’s showing that individuals share the space too… Who gets to decide what stays and what goes? 

I’m not here to espouse the virtues of graffiti, but I am here to say that how we react to it, how we respond to it, and how we deal with it is important. In December 2023, Jono aka Hide wrote an open letter to our town, Hilton, because someone (we now know it’s a group of young teenagers) was overzealous with a can of black spray paint. His letter was a masterclass in diplomacy. 

Sort-of similarly, a few years ago, someone tagged the Basilica de Santa Maria del Pi. This was illegal graffiti and the church denounced it… From there controversy erupted, the media got involved, and the church realised it had to reach out to a collective of mural artists. The mural artists and the church then developed a project to equally serve the views of the church, urban art, citizens, and public space. It was a superhuman effort in diplomacy and group work. 

The artist Aryz (Octavi Arrizabalaga) was commissioned because he is an artist who knows a whopping amount about religious art history. He was tasked with painting a 14m x 10m canvas to install in the church as a symbol of how modern art can be integrated into old spaces. In an interview, Aryz says, “For me, the dialogue between the piece and its surroundings is fundamental and there is a direct dialogue between the architecture of the church, and the piece.” The idea of street art and mural art is to always reference the space and that’s why it’s unique. Public art is as much about the space as it is about the piece… It’s a dance.   

Aryz, like most street artists, understands this dance because he began his journey with graffiti and learned about communicating through art and space. His style developed, and now he is a renowned street artist and canvas artist through his epic (and I mean that in the traditional sense of the word) installations. 

The Crianca (Child) project launched as a convergence of the past and the future and showed that there is a place for modern street art and mural art in traditional spaces. The overarching message is that if government institutions, municipalities, and cities were more open to discussions about legal and curated street art, then this would have a positive impact on stamping out or at least lessening illegal graffiti. The way to nurture local talent and allow it to grow, is not done through painting over illegal graffiti and ignoring the problem. It is done through active engagement, and opening up public space and dialogue to allow artists to work with communities to create everyday magic. 

“We live constantly overstimulated at a time when everything is immediate and it is almost revolutionary the fact that you can go to a place to look at a piece quietly. That a coat of paint on canvas can transmit or generate a feeling to a person like it has done for centuries, for me it’s magic. And that it continues to be meaningful in these spaces of reflection and contemplation is also magic. Because reflection and contemplation are fundamental in art. Because if a film, a text, a book, a song, or a painting can make you think… This is the meaning of art, because change can come from reflection.” (Aryz: 2023)

On our spectacular tour of Prague, where the old seems to be suspended in a time capsule, we were fucking delighted to know that Aryz was exhibiting less than 800m from our hostel. I didn’t know what to expect, but Jono was absolutely bibbing with excitement… I think the equivalent would be if I went to a book reading by Ivan Vladislavic. The exhibition titled Vestigio, immediately ignited something in me. Titles are important, and vestiges of the past have always resonated with me, I knew the exhibition was going to be incredibly rad. 

But not as rad as it was. 

Even if you’re not the type of person who likes to ponder over art and look for, “What is the artist trying to say here?” You’re going to dig what you see when you look at Aryz’s art. At it’s most basic level, Aryz uses a very specific and distinct colour palette and there’s a calmness to it. This calmness is juxtaposed with the fragmented nature of his compositions and the disturbing “seeing inside” element that he creates with some childlike brushwork and some more realistic techniques. This fragmentation is key because Aryz creates a disturbance in his pieces, whether it’s between traditional and postmodern, the past and the future, or nature and unconventional scenery. You look at his art, and you see the world. 

For the avid art lover, Aryz’s art is steeped in a vast knowledge of art history. He references many famous works in his pieces– from frescoes, sculpture, canvases, etc. For the viewer, this means that there’s a familiarity when you look at the art, even if you can’t quite put your finger on it. This creates a sensibility that’s both comfortable and jarring, serene and turbulent. The collage-like quality also provides energy and movement and there’s a humorous nod to the past that he employs. In old paintings, masters would often “correct” mistakes by painting over them. So, if a limb of an animal wasn’t quite correct, it would be painted over and the artist would try again. Often these mistakes could still be subtly recognised in the finished piece. Aryz uses this technique to play on the past, but he also reclaims these “mistakes” as a way to create movement and vitality. In the world of Aryz, it’s literally the more limbs, the merrier. 

Our visual landscape is so oversaturated that we are in the habit of looking, rather than seeing. Aryz gives a lens to reclaim space, history, and how we see the world around us. His work is important because it shows that separating the past from the present, traditional from the modern, and urban from the old world is a recipe for stagnation. Street art and public art are a dialogue that can connect and inspire, and they open our eyes to a new way of seeing. To see the world as it is, and to inspire change, we need to engage, and we need more spaces that stimulate contemplation and reflection. 

The difference between a cellphone shop in Germany vs one in South Africa is the fucking temperature. If you want the experience of buying anything cellphone-related while on the surface of the sun, then Germany is your place. The okes who worked there were as useless as you’d get in the South African equivalent. We arrived at the shop, and explained that we were tourists and needed a SIM card for tourists, and we were told to sit down. While we waited we couldn’t help but notice, through the veil of sweating eyeballs, that like South African cellphone shop attendants they seem to spend a lot of time huddled and chatting with fashion haircuts and lanyards and iPads and not a lot of time helping out. Eventually, someone helped us and after a long explanation explained we’d need a resident to come and sign for us. We asked if this was the only option and he said yes. 

I didn’t believe him so we searched for the Vodafone shop and were absolutely jazzed to see that it was as packed as the Vodacom shop at Liberty Mall at month end. But hotter. Obviously. We realised that communication was not worth this, and getting lost again in a shithole was preferable to spending a second longer in the moshpit of connectivity. At this point, I needed the toilet so I had to do the usual pay 1 Euro for the loo. However, this was a Euro well and truly spent because I was greeted by a self-cleaning, self-wiping toilet. The seat spins around while the mechanism disinfects and wipes the seat. This is literally the type of shit that I go bos for. If I could give my Blessedies one gift from Europe it would be this. We’d have to have it as some sort of timeshare though. 

In a last-ditch attempt, we asked a random internet shop to help us with our SIM card problem and he told us we needed to go to Ortel just over there… He points. It took less than five minutes to be helped by a very friendly guy from Pakistan who espoused the virtues of Hansie Cronje while we waited.

When I look back on this trip, one of the things I’ll get misty-eyed about is the train trip from Hannover to Czechia. The first leg was pretty standard, except I got on my first-ever double-decker train and I nearly pooed with excitement. Despite all the train changes we managed a lot better and also scheduled a two-hour stop in Bad Schandau. I like to think Bad Schandau is an MMA fighter. But actually, Bad Schandau is one of the most glorious places on earth and everyone should go there immediately. The scenery is absolutely insane and the River Elba seems to be bookended by sandstone and forest.

We knew when we’d got to Czechia because the scenery rapidly changed and our last train was straight out of My First Siberian Picture Book of Communism. The doors were manual and one passenger had to ask Jono to help her get off the train because she couldn’t manage to open the door herself. 

In Prague, we were greeted by one of many really grumpy Uber/Bolt drivers. Not only are they grumpy but the driving is downright terrifying. The zeitgeist around driving seems to be “go like the fucking clappers and then slam on brakes”. Repeat until destination. The trouble is that zebra crossings are HIGHLY observed and there are very few pedestrian traffic lights… You cross and drivers will stop. However, the first time you try this it’s harrowing because the cars do about 60km per hour before slamming on brakes to allow you to gently amble across.

Our hostel, read hostile, was straight from the chapter “Hostiletality for Beginners,” in The Compendium of Eastern European Communism.  Despite the numerous “artworks” peddling toxic positivity none of it seemed to rub off on the staff. The hostel was clean but gave off the distinct whiff of those halcyon days when you could choose between beige or oatmeal.

Prague is known for its excellent beer. However, a lot of restaurants and bars in Prague serve Pilsner Urquell only. I don’t know why. We found some delicious beers including Kozel and Bernard. When it comes to service, in most countries it’s customary to say, “Cheque please!” I’d like to establish a new tradition in Prague, “Czech please!” Service is not fast, nor is it excellent or even good. What is excellent is the Kentucky Fried Chicken, which we nicknamed Kentucky Fried Czech-en. You might think it’s weird to go for KFC over local cuisine but I’m too old to be force-fed an assortment of beige food just so that I can have an authentic experience.

Old Town is a magical land filled with wonder and delight at every turn. There are bunches of jewellery shops, sweet shops, ice-cream shops, and places promising to have the best Trdelniks. I find jewellery shops in tourist areas really weird. Who can afford to buy jewellery when they travel? How much jewellery do you need? Is this just aimed at men keeping multiple women happy? Every country has some special stone or piece of glass or some sparkly shit that they claim is unique… Why are people duped by this? However, the sweet shops were like the kid version of the jewellery shops. I’m not even a sweet person (in all the ways) but I nearly bought my weight in sweets because environment influences behaviour. When I’m presented with a gajillion barrels filled with a gajillion sweets and then the sweet shop is themed as a mine with a mine shaft and wagons and shit I’m all in. I don’t know how those places make money though because you’d have to sell a lot of sweets to pay for the cost of the mise-en-scene they’ve got going.

Our British waiter at our favourite restaurant close to our hostel explained that the reason the sweet shops are there is because they’re a front for drugs and money laundering. I don’t even care if this is true or not. Good stories are more important than the truth (unless you’re a journalist). 

For anyone who cares, and you should, the best Trdelnik is from TRDLO 13 Karlova. Trdelniks are like those spiralled potatoes on a stick that you used to get at the Royal Show. Everyone is eating them so they’re a walking advert. You can’t help but want one, and the smell is intoxicating. However, unlike the potato on a stick, which is utter crap, these are glorious. One of our favourite games was to watch people try and finish them and then commentate on how they were doing and who was likely to win. In one memorable race, a redhead and brunette were tackling their carboloaded Goliaths. The redhead got off to an excellent start and the brunette looked like she was done before she’d even reached bite four of the cone. However, she got a blast of second wind and was absolutely smashing through rings and ice cream in a sugar rush frenzy. She had about three rings to go when the redhead came back with all the excitement of 1990s Jaqui at a cake sale and the race was over. Once they’d finished you could just see the regret. Folks, this is a sharing food. Trust me. 

Another thing you might want to share is a Czech meal. My one attempt at sampling the goulash was the worst I’ve eaten. If you want goulash, Google a recipe and cook it yourself. 

In a strange twist of fate, we got one friendly Bolt/Uber driver. He was one of those who would be rated as 10 on the over-friendly scale if there was a form involved. Sadly, there was no form, but like I say (thanks Mands), “You either have a good time or a good story.” This driver was friendly so we immediately said, “You’re not Czech are you?” No, he’s Ukrainian. Thus followed the usual flow of how these conversations go. He told us about the fact that many of his friends have died, his town is all but destroyed, etc. His disposition was matter-of-fact and lively and he did a lot of punctuating with laughter to make us feel awkwardly at ease. Things took quite a turn though when a woman sent him a voicenote and he put it on speaker. We didn’t take much notice of the voicenote because it was in another language and at that point a tram came dangerously close to hitting us and he said, “Oh shit, I forget about the trams!” Bowels safely reinstalled to where they were supposed to be, we continued careering towards our destination.

That’s when he said, “My girlfriend keeps fucking me in the head!”

I made a noise to indicate my interest that he should continue along this story path. Apparently, the voicenote was from his ex-girlfriend, who seems a lot to me like she’s still his girlfriend. The “sitch” is that she wants more money and he doesn’t buy her the right stuff. Hence why she keeps phoning him and leaving voicenotes.

I asked if she was Czech, thinking from the disposition of those we’d met in the service industry, this would compute.

“No,” he says, “she’s Russian.”

Insert long pause. 

“Russian?!” Jono and I exclaim in unison. 

Not one beat skipped… “Yes, every day I get to fuck a Russian!” And then he emitted the type of belly laugh I’ve only seen from arch-villains in really offbeat foreign films.

I was in bits. But then he ruined it with a sigh and… “What can you do, women…?!”

On his imaginary rating form, he lost a shitload of points for that one. But I was in too good a mood to tell him off and give him a lecture on feminism.

And speaking of telling off. We found this spectacular outdoor space that’s this deck/platform and there’s a mobile bar and really great buskers. We saw two superb buskers and it was one of the golden travel moments where you keep pinching yourself and wondering if you’re actually alive.

You’ll know that Jono and I believe in paying for art and therefore we tipped the buskers a healthy amount. We were the only ones to do so and so Jono took it upon himself to introduce the other patrons to the phenomenon known as “not being a dick and paying musicians.” He started his mission on a table with some of Czechia’s finest teenagers. I’ve seen some faces I wouldn’t want to tangle with, but these five were something else. I watched the whole thing go down and let’s just say Jono was schooled by some of the most expert eye-rolling and bitch-face I’ve ever seen. They should become soap opera villains. Not to be deterred, the good-natured Jono persevered and once again was not thanked for his trouble. When we left a lot of people whispered and made faces and I’m glad we didn’t stay til dark because neither Jono nor I are very good at violence.

As we walked past the scary teenagers I did mutter, “You guys better Czech yourselves before you wreck yourselves.” That made me feel a lot better. Passive aggression doesn’t win in Czechia… But it soothes some of the wounds. 

I Googled “Are people in Czechia Friendly” and “Is Czech service bad” just to do my due diligence, and it was a mixed bag. Our experience was that we met some amazingly friendly Czechs but that was not the overarching experience. In general, the service was pretty slow and a lot of the places seemed to be understaffed. I don’t really care though… When I’m on holiday I don’t mind waiting and I’m not going to moan. BUT I am going to write about it. What you should know is that the Czech currency will fox you and we found ourselves giving someone over R200 in tip because we had a bunch of not-very-fancy looking coins that turned out to be quite fancy. 

Next Time: Are you ready for some of the best fucking art you’ve ever seen? Jono and I discovered one of the greatest street artists (possibly the greatest) was having an exhibition and we went to Czech it out. You’ll see pictures galore and who knows, I might Czech in with some more puns. 

It’s more of a lot when you exit the station after a very long stressful journey and are assaulted by some of the worst Death Metal ever to grace anywhere. For context it was about 4:30, very sunny, vendors were selling strawberries and penis asparagus, and there was a general, yeah I’m gonna do it, sense of “Friday Feels”. Contrasting Friday Feels with Death Metal feels like a great metaphor for how weird and fucked up Germany is. In a great way. Minus the amateur Death Metal (which we can always do without). 

One of the first things we noticed was how many recycling vending machines there are, and how many people spend time collecting recycling from bins to cash in at these machines. The deal is that trash goes in, and money comes out. It blows my mind. If we could do this in South Africa people would be robbing recycling like cash in transit heists. What’s weird though is at these machines it says, “Donate your recycling”. Jono thought this was clever marketing wording to get people to be more socially responsible, but my hunch was that the Germans could be as bad as some of my former students with Microsoft Word synonyms. 

People are lank active here. Even pensioners cruise around the Maschsee (big ass lake) with Zimmerframes and walkers. Everyone is out running, walking, and riding bikes. Parks are full, and citizens do a lot of work to make it nice. We can’t even get people to donate a few bucks to establish a UIP in Hilton, but in Germany there are loads of people gardening in public parks and planting seasonal vegetables. And the municipality has big budget here, so, the “Why should I do it, the municipality should do it” argument falls a bit flat. Anyway, it was lank inspiring to see all ages enjoying the spaces, respecting them, and being very active.

Speaking of being very active. It was suggested that Cate, Jono, and myself go for a nice bike ride to explore. My anxiety piqued quite a lot. I haven’t ridden a bike since I was at Laddsworth and it was my brother’s blue BMX that was many sizes too small for my girth. Plus, my mother only let me ride a bike around a windy dryer so while I can “ride”, I’ve only really gone in circles.

Imagine my delight when I had to ride a bike, with right-hand side rules, in a straight line, amongst other humans who are infinitely more dextrous and savvy than me. Apparently, the scenery was lovely. When people say, “It’s just like riding a bike,” there’s an element of truth, but it will take me a bit longer to move from a spinning bike that stays still and doesn’t wobble or try to throw you off because you don’t know it’s a back braker. Yeah that was a jol. Especially cos I was going down a slope (when I tell the story later I’ll say hill).

Seriously though… Hannover gets a five-star review for nature and green shit. The forests are amazing and we even saw trees that had been cut down by beavers to use in their next building project. Those little beaver gnashers are quite incredible… There have also been  numerous environmental interventions like creating bug and hedgehog hotels. Shit not. You had me at beavers and hedgehogs. Take my money.

One of the things I love most about travelling is going to foreign supermarkets. I really think that Rodney from the Quarry Spar should capitalise on what a tourist hotspot grocery stores can be. And I think he could come up with a lot of fun games to confuse tourists. Yesterday I mentioned how we are sorely ignorant about how German works. There’s an assumption that it’s a bit like Afrikaans and you can “get by”. Trust me, you can’t get by. It’s not intuitive and you will make a lot of mistakes. Fortunately, mistakes make better stories than nailing it so I’m not about to sign up to another Duolingo course. Fuck that, I go rogue… Full baby eagle soaring gracelessly into the unknown… With an interesting array of results.

Jono and I discovered Edeke and I can confirm that it is a banger– minus the fact it was long weekend and shops are closed on Jesus/God days so it was packed with last minute shoppers. Plus, we got “that” trolley. Jono and I always end up with the dodgy trolley with the wonky wheel, which is usually fine, but when you’re a foreigner the Germans take it personally and think you have it out for them. There was a general cologne of eu de judge because of how we were controlling our trolley. It looked like we were dicking around with an ungainly runaway feral, while everyone else had reined there’s in like fucking show ponies at a dressage event.

So much weird shit to report on regarding this shopping excursion. The Edeke centre looks a bit like Makro, but with more flowers and fewer stoners. Because of the long weekend there was a whole bazaar outside with people singing and dancing, beer tents, pretzels, the whole scene. However, of all the nice places to go why would you pick this spot? There’s literally forest and lakes for days but the shitty carpark was crammed. They must know something we don’t. Or maybe it’s just that German thing?

Our first mission was to figure out the recycling vending machine. Trash goes in and bucks come out. Except it’s in German. We were so chuffed to see nearly 8 Euros appear on the screen, ready to reclaim. And because it was the highlighted choice, using our expert intuition, we selected “Spenden”.

“Hell yes, we want to spend this shit in the shop!” We pocketed the voucher.

Next up was navigating the selection of very nice looking food and the obvious weird shit that floats my boat. I spent a lot of time in the aisle with the jarred peas, carrots, and sausages. Jarred food often reminds me of museum exhibits and formaldehyde. Why the fuck would you buy shit like this? Apparently, the Germans go gangbusters for this because the selection of these jarred treats was bigger than the crisp section. Like double. Almost no options for crisps (and you should see the flavours… lank weird). BUT if you’re looking for jarred sausages you can have them sliced, diced, grated, tiny, large, curried… If you dream it, you can have it. But why would you want to?

Chips are called “Golden Longs”. 

German bread is the best porn movie you’ve ever seen. It’s just Sharon Stone level. 

There were also a lot of eggs at varying prices. Usually I opt for the more expensive eggs that come with labels such as organic, free range, and so on. In Germany, I go for eggs that are labelled the cheapest. After unpacking the shopping at home I noticed the off piste egg packaging and then opened the box. It took a while for my brain to process what had happened because I’m not sure what kind of maniac stores boiled eggs out of the fridge, not to mention sells this Easter “favourite” long after Easter. So that was the end of the promise of scrambled eggs. “We’re having boiled eggs kids! And you can choose whatever colour you want!” Talk about a less kiff version of our mini cereal assortments we would take on holiday to Banana Beach.

After we secured our haul of groceries we went to pay and were very proud that we remembered to produce our recycling cash back. We were bibbing at the idea of nearly 8 Euros worth of free groceries.

“My English is not very good, but how you say this…

Um…

You’ve donated it.”

Germany really is one of the greatest places on earth.

Next Time: The adventure continues… I might even tell you the closely guarded secret of how to get a SIM card in Germany.

But let’s hold up a bit. The Uber driver dropped us at the wrong terminal and drove like he was channelling Meatloaf… And he’d do anything for a tip except stay in his fucking lane. “Harrowing” is a comment I’d use if I could be arsed to review him. Anyway, airports are shit I won’t bore you with too much detail… But get this…

You know how I like being smug? Well I was saying to Jono that one of my favourite things is hanging out at the airport before a flight… Taking the time to chill out with a glass of crisp icy wine and watching people and planes. Just soaking in those good holiday vibes. Jono was not convinced by my get to the airport earlier request, but he humoured me. After getting through security and passport control we were free to insert ourselves in what I would imagine to be several options at South Africa’s biggest airport. Imagine our collective surprise when we realised our inflight meal was probably going to present more options.

I don’t know what’s happened at OR Tambs (I’m trying that out), but there’s one place that looks anything like a bar/restaurant, and you can’t buy alcohol there. You have to navigate the grumpy-as-fuck wait staff and eventually ask someone with an alcoholic beverage and a guilty shamed face to guide you to the holy grail. Apparently this “diner” doesn’t serve alcohol because it, and I quote, “Takes business away from our friends across there,” she points. Their “friends” (“Ooo friend!… Airport friend!”) are the fucking Duty Free Shop. And get this… Thirty Eight South African Rand for a can of warm Black Label. How is that Duty Free? I opted for the 350ml bottle of white wine (R47) which I planned to just neck out the bottle like a thirsty thirsty hamster.

We wedged ourselves into the smoking area of the “diner” (judge away they’re disgusting and really really gross… Feel free to send hate mail) and the only friendly waitress (I’m sorry but waitron sounds like a transformer) brought us plastic cups and ice. Not quite what I had in mind for my soaking it all in experience. Nevermind, onwards and upwards.

Highlights from the flight included me being amazing and securing us spacious legroom seats, and also looking like flight wankers with matching neck pillows #couplegoals. Less highlighty was the fact that Jono’s entertainment console didn’t work, and mine was patchy at best. Even less of a highlight was that Jono moved to the spare seat next to me and ended up with one of those “elbow guys”. Elbow guys are like guys who wee standing up on planes. Just tuck your elbows in you savage. To add insult to injury “elbow guy” got the last chicken curry so Jono had to opt for the veg pasta. When I asked him to comment for my diary entry (My travel diary is excellent FYI– I don’t care that you didn’t ask), he said, “It was alright… It was like they were trying to make pizza into pasta where they used pasta as the base and put all the other shit on top.” The other shit was basically a bit of tomato sauce, a few plastic olives, and mozzarella. My chicken “Cape Malay” curry was pretty decent, but it’s best not to tell Jono.

Breakfast was a high-octane romp that began at 4am. Jono didn’t get a bread roll (stale) on his tray… Or maybe he did. In any event somewhere in between ordering a coffee and stirring in the milk he realised it had fled into the vortex. What followed was inevitable. Grumpy and tired, laden with blankets and pillows, and our fucking neck pillows, trying to search for the rogue roll. Jono’s coffee ended the same way as the bread roll. Gone like a scone (we didn’t get scones).

To appease the caffeine-depleted Jono, I did the right thing and gave him the bread roll I wasn’t going to eat.

A long time later Jono flagged down a flight attendant and received a cup of shitty aeroplane coffee. 

Breaking news! Discovered the world’s best-behaved toddler/baby (who can tell?). This kid did not peep and was totally lush (as in “that’s lush” not “he’s a lush”). Although, why do babies complain so much when they travel? If you’re a baby every trip is basically Business Class… And they don’t even pay.

In a fun turn of events when we arrived in Frankfurt we were told it was 257 Euros for a train ticket to Hannover.

Fun fact about Hannover. English people spell it Hanover. This is how I ended up with the Hiltermann/Hilterman caper that still haunts me.

The alternative was 57 Euro for a regional ticket to Hannover taking a cool 6.5 hours and 5 delectable changes. We were so tired that there was a scary moment when we actually considered 257 Euros… Praise baby cheeses (there was no cheese on the plane) that we came to our senses.

By this stage, Jono and I were lank sleep-deprived and I was out to murder those smug travellers with the suitcases that glide elegantly. Jono and I dragged our suitcases around and if I’m honest they behaved like petulant children throwing tantrums and digging their heels in. But, as they say, there’s only one way through it. After our second successful train change, we decided to buy coke and beer (Coca-Cola). Our third train change was where disaster struck… There was a very late platform change and this involved us running and dragging our bags onto a train that was a 50/50.

In Germany, when you don’t speak the language… 50/50 is clean not a vibe. And trust me, I have been building a body of evidence to back this up. More about that later.

This is why we decided to get off at the next stop, and how we ended up in Sontra. 

Sontra sounds like a kiff spot, right? “Sontra…”

“Sontra…”

Cue the tourism video soundtrack…

Sontra makes shitholes look like Monte Carlo. Sontra is what you would call a place where people don’t go. No homies anywhere. Everything is boarded up and filled with the shittest graffiti Jono has ever seen. In the world of reliable sources, I think that Jono is pretty credible. But literally, anyone with eyes wouldn’t argue. Shit graffiti par excellence. The aesthetic is what I’d term hopeless.

The metaphorical tumbleweed was alarming and helped us paint a future story where lost travellers find our skeletons in a few decades time. Recognisable only because of our matching neck pillows. Stephen King hit me up and I’ll debrief you.

Another crucial element to the horror is that we had no SIM card and zero cellphone connection. We were well and truly up shitcreek with a bag of shit and shit bags.

I made the decision to do a bush wee and another reccie. Across the platform in the tunnel (mmm wee smell) there was a not very visible sign saying “Bebra”.

STOP! Dilemma time. 

“Do we go back to Bebra?”

I went back to the original platform and told Jono about my findings. Thus began the dance of indecision fuelled by over tiredness. Do we drag our increasingly heavy bags down a lot of stairs… Through the tunnel of piss… And up a whole bunch more stairs? While we were deciding a train fucking appeared and we watched as people apparated from nowhere and boarded. We blinked and it was gone. “What just happened?!”

“That’s it, we’re going back to Bebra!” Down the flights of stairs, through the tunnel of piss, up the stairs… Huffing and puffing and dragging. Setting fire to my suitcase was becoming an alarming possibility. And then I remembered my dad’s philosophy of “If you can’t carry it don’t pack it!” I’m with you Terry. If you can’t carry your suitcase to Bebra and back then you’ve overpacked. New rule.

Once we got our heartbeats back to below dangerous Jono saw a pretty ropey faded sign that alerted us to the fact that we were quite possibly on the right train to begin with. Which is the platform we’d just fucked off from. It became possible, through muddy translation that the one train (Platform B) goes back to Bebra and the other (Platform A) gets you to wherever we needed to get to change to the final train to Hannover. It was arriving in about 30 minutes.

So yeah, we had to drag our fucking luggage back to Platform A.

Sorry Bebra, we’re not coming back.

But we’ll always have Sontra…

Next Time… Cycling and Recycling. Jaqui rides a bike for the first time in over 30 years and Jono and Jaqui learn what “donate your recycling” really means.

‘You either have a good time, or a good story.’ 

Well, strap yourselves in for a heroic tale about air travel, the weirdest guy on the aeroplane, an early morning hunt for a clinic at Nairobi Airport, a busting suitcase of pharmaceuticals, and Chlamydia.

For an extra bit of razzle-dazzle, throw in a high dose of sweating and fever and the moment where I, the hero of this tale, nearly found religion and prayed the plane would crash. But we’re jumping the gun here. 

It’s taken me just over three years to be able to write this story. Not because I’m ashamed, I’ll tell this shit to anyone who’ll listen. It’s just doing this story justice takes some mental gymnastics, and a good dose of Cystitis to relive the authenticity. So, fasten your seatbelts, put your seat in the upright position, and make sure your tray table is secured (both kinds). 

I decided to fly Kenya Airways because it was cheap and I boycott certain airlines for ethical reasons. My destination was London, and as I sat at Cape Town airport sipping on my farewell chardonnay I was excited because I don’t hate air travel. I’m lucky that I’m short, and I like free booze. This means flying isn’t kak, especially if you procure the right seat (I’m not here to give away my top travelling secret). What I will tell you is half my secret– I always go for the aisle because I get toilet anxiety. I like to move around, and I also like to see what people are watching on their inflight entertainment. This is a game I play and it never disappoints.  

I boarded the plane with giddy excitement and got settled in. I don’t need a lot to entertain me so I can break records for settling in. Meanwhile, Roger, two rows up was embracing his inner Mary Poppins. There he was vacillating over whether or not he needed anything out of the pink and white zip-up bag, and particularly anything from the yellow and green zip-up. As he spilt his contents over his aisle mates I took a moment to muse about how much I dislike people. Because really, is there anything worse than the anxiety-inducing goosebumps that come from being deathly still while waiting for everyone around you to settle the fuck down.    

Sit the fuck down Roger. 

A polite air stewardess gave him a settle the fuck down smile.

Then it happened. The human version of the artist’s rendering (in this case Larson). The guy coming up the aisle sweating and looking hella twitchy. Losing momentum as he got ever closer to his destination, “Oh for fuck’s sake!”

That’s correct, the middle seat, right next to me. Beyond kiff.

He didn’t say a word, which comforted me. Chatty, sweaty, and nervous is one of my least favourite trifectas. 

He swaddled the shit out of himself in his static aeroplane blanket and we prepared for takeoff. 

Things went as they usually do. Pre-dinner drinks, go through the entertainment console to decide on inflight viewing, “chicken or beef”… You know the drill. 

But here’s a bit of a departure from the prescriptive nature of cruising at whatever altitude the pilot just announced. Something really weird happened during my dinner. 

Sweaty-nervous-now-swaddled guy decided to use my tray table instead of his. Honestly, it was what I can only describe as trippy beyond reason. Usually, I’d speak my mind but this dude was so strange, all swaddled and away in his metaphorical manger. So I just gritted my teeth and willed a flight attendant to adios my tray pronto a la Hugh Grant in Nottinghill. I’ve never had someone push things aside on my tray to make space for their tasty beverage and bit of a bread roll they were still in the throes of working on. Still, my heinous travel mate was not the worst thing about this flight.

Shortly after dinner, I had to go for a wee. 

And particularly my fellow bitches, you’ll know all about the genuine terror of this scenario. Unless you’ve never encountered the absolute shithead that is Cystitis. As this is an aeroplane tale, and not a delightful 3 Act play, Cystitis entered like the nuclear winter that can only come from removing the foil lid off an aeroplane eggy breakfast. I’m not sure what kind of a psychopath wants to be awakened by excitable long-haul eggs at 5 am shortly before descent, but I, my friends, am not one of those humans.

This bout of Cystitis came with the usual constant need to wee and the unbridled pain involved in weeing out a quarter of a teaspoon every 30 seconds. Lucky for me, it also came with the fever that just courses through you and invades more than your tray table. After the denial passed, I knew I was in for some of the worst hours of my life. I may or may not have prayed for the plane to fall out of the sky, which means I must have been very bloody delirious to think that anything other than Urizone could save me.

The flight attendants smelled a rat, given how often I was going to the loo. Eventually one of them cornered me with a face muddled with concern and suspicion. Mostly a lot of suspicion. She was gracious when I explained that I was at the apex of the UTI journey. Sweaty swaddled guy meanwhile wasn’t looking so sweaty. I was now the weirdo.

The decade-long flight from Cape Town to Nairobi eventually ended and I was told that Hallelujah there is a clinic at the airport. In retrospect, it’s quite astonishing realising that airports have a whole host of behind-the-scenes shit we don’t know about.

Anyway I made it off the plane and wandered through the terminal in a fog of sweat. This is when the Ebola tent came into focus, like some sort of deranged mirage. One of the symptoms of Ebola is a fever so the red flags literally started surrounding me like a host of Beliebers. There’s no hiding how fucked I was and I tried my level best to explain that I had a bladder infection. A UTI. Cystitis. This got helpfully translated as a blood infection so the next thing I was hauled into Ebolaville for a welcome party. I asked to speak to a woman. Reluctantly the swarm of men gave me over to some woman who re-diagnosed my blood infection as a bladder infection and called off the hounds. But she couldn’t help me. This was a place for Ebola, nothing else. She gave me some vague directions to a clinic just outside the airport. 

So the next fun leg of my trip was to clear customs and enter Nairobi to locate the clinic in an underground parking. I have never been so grateful to have a South African passport so I could fuck off into the balmy Nairobi morning without much hassle of a visa. After a bit of a walk and several toilet stops, I found the clinic which had a helpful sign saying it was closed.

‘I could just curl up and die here?’ I thought to myself cheerfully. No such luck, it turns out I do have somewhat of a survival instinct after all.

I soldiered on like the rabid little bladder infection kitten that I was. Meow. 

I don’t remember how I found the information office containing those three very cheerful morning people. They informed me that there’s a doctor at the departures desk where people check in for their flights. Trust me when I say that I was dubious about this. You mean to tell me that qualified doctors in High Visibility vests just hang out at airports all Dr Willy Nilly? 

Dubious. 

But desperate.

So back I trotted on the hunt for this mysterious doctor who was beginning to seem more and more like a fob off.

So there I was, looking for a dude I was told would be in a high-vis vest with a suitcase. Now I don’t know if you’ve ever been to an airport before but this seemed like a helluva ask. A bit like finding a needle in a massive fucking stack of needles if you ask me.

Persistence, fever, and the urge to wee spurred me on and the next thing I’m consulting with a bearded chap who asks if he can borrow a pen. I explained my symptoms and he gave me a lovely concerned bedside manner. He didn’t continue with the patient-doctor caper for very long and eventually, he reached next to him and heaved a massive suitcase onto his lap and began unzipping his Aladdin’s trove of pharmaceuticals.

He asked what I would like and I politely told him antibiotics.

“Super,” he said and began scrappling around like a kitten in a litter box.

He gave me some vague options, so like the former PhD student that I am, I opted for the fastest and shortest course.

The box is something I wish I had a photo of. 

If you’ve ever seen a company logo designed by the owner’s daughter who’s “a whizz with computers,” it was not even in the same ballpark. I did more impressive shit with Word Art in 1998.

Dubious… but desperate I chugged the first little white pill with as much spit as I could muster. Then I tried to close the box containing the blister pack but it came apart. Obviously.

For my troubles, the consult was 30 American dollars because that’s how much I had on me. I also received a scrap piece of paper with scribbles on it. The legitimacy quite frankly astonished me. Plus he pocketed my pen.

The next part of my quest was a bottle of Citrasoda. The excellent doctor told me where I could find a pharmacy in the departures area so off I trotted, buoyed by vaguely-modern-medicine. The pharmacy felt like one of those shops where “if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it.”

Seriously okes, literally no prices on anything.

Oh fuck, here we go.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, my friendly doctor was there smiling and rubbing his hands together. He ushered me to the pharmacy guy (pharmacist?) and they had a huddle over a very small bottle of Citrasoda. It was decided that the going rate was 24 of her majesty’s finest pounds. More than a pound of flesh by any measure, but if you’ve ever had Cystitis in Nairobi Airport with a devastating 6-hour layover and only one working women’s toilet, it’s money well spent. Or stolen.

I bade a fond farewell to the charlatan doctor, because apart from the fact he had just ripped me off spectacularly, I had an antibiotic coursing through my fevered sweaty bod, and a bottle of Citrasoda worth more than saffron. 

When I landed in London I felt magically healed. The next few days went without much incident, minus a few absolutely banging hangovers and some poor decisions around late-night chicken. It was the morning after spending a night in Bath that things really took a turn for the worse. Not only was the hangover el diablo, but my wee was a melange of rust and razor blades. The journey back to London in heavy traffic with two delightful crying children was the stuff of dreams. There are moments to treasure, and those 5 hours spent on whichever one of Satan’s motorways we were on will remain etched into my memory forever.

I’m grateful to the NHS and the fact I’m still registered with a clinic. I was told to wee into a cup and then hold my sample while I waited for the doctor. People looked alarmed and impressed and I thought this could be my time to forge a career as an Influencer and snap selfies with my scarlet urine. I could call myself Crimson Tide.

The doctor eventually called me in and remarked that it was some of the gnarliest she’d seen. For context there were homies sporting Croydon facelifts in the waiting room, so forgive me for bragging amongst such stiff (pun intended) competition. I regaled her with my story and I don’t think she was with me at all. It was only when I produced the scribbled bit of white paper with only one eligible word, “doctor”, and the empty box and leaflet for the antibiotics that she seemed mildly convinced.

She scrutinised exhibits b and c. Exhibit a was still chilling there all red and angry looking. 

The doctor sat back and looked like she was on the verge of a faint chuckle.

Well, my dear, I’m happy to say that after this dose of antibiotics, you won’t have any issues with Chlamydia. Unfortunately, you have a ferocious case of Cystitis that we’ll have to throw the book at. 

Talk about silver linings.

If you like duck I’m about to share one of the best ways to cook it. How do I know it’s good? Well, I have this on good authority from my family. Why should you trust them? Well, there are several PhDs among them so you can trust them as experts. And they’re experts, not because they are smart (which they are), but mostly because academic culture is a culture of food vultures who only go to conferences and meetings for the free scoff.

But before we get to the recipe I’d like to throw some irony into the ring.

You know those sanctimonious laborious preambles just before recipes about how joyous the author’s life is, and how she discovered this amazing recipe…?

Por exemplo…

I was on holiday in Sardinia the first time my fiancé Clayton and I tried North Peruvian pate de fois gras and Venezuelan Beaver Cheese. It was a sultry day and the crisp Sauvignon Blanc was the perfect foil to cut through the richness of our lunch platter. Clayton and I met at the Royal Society for the Association of Cheese Knaves in 2016 and our love for traditional methods of cheese making led us to completing not one, not two, not three, but four cheese pilgrimages. I made Venezuelan Beaver Cheese after our experience in Sardinia and I tried many recipes before I found the perfect one. [Insert pop up ad.] [Insert another pop up ad.] After months of trial and error here are the recipes that I tried that didn’t work. Scroll through them they’re pointless. Now enjoy the photos of Clayton and I in Sardinia with captions such as “say cheeeese” and “meant to brie”….

Recipe Blogs Can Fuck Off.

Don’t you just want to punch recipe bloggers in the choux buns for this kak? And the problem is that these preambles are part and parcel of the recipes that have 4.8 star ratings. So you have no choice but to engage with “Candy Floss” and her utterly naff parochial writing if you want a decent recipe. People like Candy Floss need to be told that no one cares about anything other than the ingredients and basic directions. Seriously how do you think Betty Crocker made her fortune? Not by inserting a copy of her memoirs into every blueberry muffin box. So apologies “Candy Floss” but just give us the recipe and go back to watching Cupcake Wars and creating an aura of “happiness lives here”… You really deserve it.

I’m all for recipe sharing… this is one of the main reasons why I collect cookbooks that I never cook out of. I just like to have unfettered access to recipes. I’ve yet to use Manifold Destiny and roast a chicken under my car bonnet. However, I really like that I have that option available to me if I ever feel like making something enticing out of the roadkill I find on the Heidelberg stretch of the N3 towards Joburg. Imagine the sheer delight of presenting a welcoming hostess with the gift of manifold genet just as loadshedding kicks in. I’ve also never trussed a chicken even though Thomas Keller tells me that only assholes neglect this absolutely vital process. Who even knows where their household string is? Seriously Thomas, get a life. Also what’s with calling it the French Laundry… do you even know how to use your washing machine?

This is why I don’t understand “Secret family recipes”. As far as I’m concerned they can piss off. Here’s the thing… I’ve shared loads of recipes and then had them served up as “Jaqui’s apple pie” or “Jaqui’s Yorkshire puddings”… And trust me when I say I wasn’t exactly jazzed that the shit being served up had my name attached to it. Anyone who watches cooking shows or cooks, knows that recipes don’t guarantee shit. So all I ask is that if you make this banger of a duck pie and fuck it up, please attach your name to the recipe and leave me out of it. Obviously if it’s a roaring success then I’m happy for you to take all the credit. I would.

So annoying “called it ironic to try get away with it” preamble over… let’s get you to where you belong… in the kitchen.

OK so the deal is I don’t use recipes but for the benefit of helping you create the best bloody duck you’ll ever eat… I tried really bloody hard to be accurate.

• 2 ducks (I get mine from my mother-out-law Her ducks are the best)
• 250ml-300ml decent/drinkable dry red wine
• 1.5 tbl spoons sugar (no one cares what kind you use or if it has a few coffee granules left behind by that heathen in your household)
• 2 tbl spoons of my secret ingredient for everything… Chinkiang Vinegar (photo below)
• 1 tbl spoon (make it generous) soy sauce
• 1/2 cup gravy powder (only Woolworths or Ina Paarman will do)
• 4-5 ClemenGold yuppiefruits from Woolworths (If you can afford tinned mandarins congratulations on your success in life and in that case you’ll need a tin) Okes, you can also use cherries if you aren’t paying off a bond or have school fees to think about
• 1 roll of puff pastry (if you’re the type who makes their own then you’ll have lost interest in this recipe after reading gravy powder)
• 1 egg for egg wash
• Water. It’s free

So you may think that this must be lank fancy because there’s some boujie shit on the list. Well try order duck pie at a restaurant and see how your overdraft facility looks. The other thing is please don’t try to use naartjies or oranges. You want fancy sweet fruit for this… and hard pith is the actual devil. Have some self respect and put that naartjie you’re holding into your child’s lunchbox, not in this epic pie.

So here’s what you do.

1. Roast the two ducks side by side on a wire rack placed in a big ass roasting tray. Pat the ducks dry. I often give them a good go over with a hairdryer (if it’s not loadshedding). Season the ducks with salt. Pour water in the roasting tray. The idea is to slow roast and steam. It’s a low slow cook so start with a hot preheated oven and then reduce the temperature to about 170ish. It takes about 3-4 hours.
2. While the ducks are roasting you make the luscious sauce. You need a big pot.
3. Reduce the red wine with the sugar. About half way through reducing the wine you add the vinegar and the soy sauce. Then you reduce some more. You’re looking at reducing by about half. Don’t make a sticky syrup or burn it. I can’t help you if you do that.
4. So a note on the vinegar. It’s the one vinegar I cannot live without and you can buy it from Asian supermarkets and online. You could probably use red wine or sherry vinegar if you can’t find it but honestly love yourself more and hunt it down because it makes EVERYTHING taste better.
5. OK now you make a gravy paste with the gravy powder and about 1/4 cup water. Then add the paste to the red wine story. Whisk so there aren’t lumps and add about a litre of water. This is the part I didn’t measure out. You want a nice sauce the texture of blood or whipping cream if you’re squeamish. You’ll need to whisk the gravy and adjust the thickness with more water or more reduction. Make sure you can’t taste raw gravy powder.
6. You’re going to need to taste it and adjust the seasoning.
7. OK so now for the mandarins. Peel them and de-pith. You want minimal pith. I cut some of the mandarin segments in half and left some whole.
8. I then squeezed in the juice of one mandarin.
9. When the duck is done this is the annoying but necessary part (and it’s so worth it). You need to strip the duck. Flake and peel off as much duck as you can and add in some of the crispier skin. I don’t like too much fat so I go easy on the skin.
10. Taste the magic you deserve it. Does it need more soy? Does it need more vinegar, more sugar, more citrus? This is your pie it has your name on it.
11. Right pie filling done. Stick the filling into whatever pie receptacle you fancy. I use Mauviel because have you seen it? Now you roll out the puff pastry so it’s a bit thinner. Then you chuck it on your pie filling as a lid.
12. You might be thinking I’m a heathen for not having a pie bottom… and usually I’d be right alongside you nodding my head and detaching a retina, but this pie is so rich and saucy that you won’t miss its panties/underpants. Trust me. Or don’t.
13. Egg wash next. If you don’t know about egg wash then I’m not sure I trust you roasting anything other than a Woolworths Chicken Schnitzel.
14. Bake at about 200 until it’s done. You’ll know it’s done because the pastry won’t be raw and it won’t look like Boo Radley.
15. I serve it with a smug face and whatever potatoes my ass fancies.

This may be controversial but this is better than a garage pie after a night at Crowded House.

You literally won’t believe who isn’t getting a good morning this morning.

The truth is that clickbait is bullshit.

However you clicked on it. It wouldn’t exist without you.

Ignore it.

Scroll past.

Engage with the good shit.

So every time you click on clickbait… that’s one less good morning.