I’m quite at home in South Africa.
Despite having spent exactly half of my life in the USA and being very much an American (whatever that means) it’s fun being here. My enjoyment is accentuated by the mammoth trip to get here. I had to skip Togo after Ghana and come to South Africa a week early but that’s fodder for another column.
But, here I am, almost surrounded by mountains, in South Africa’s Western Cape, and, as comfortable as I am in the land of my birth there are things I refuse to do:
I refuse to obey the parking attendants (known here as car-guards) who routinely direct me to parking spaces reserved for the elderly.
I will not eat pizza with a knife and fork.
It’s cute, quite endearing, to see grown men (rugby types) pinning already-sliced pizza with a fork to a china-plate and cutting it with a knife then daintily placing the loaded little square of pizza (you won’t believe the topping options – pineapple, banana, biltong (beef-jerky), bacon, avocado, peppadews!) into their mouths WITH A FORK.
“Pick it up. Use your hands,” I want to yell, “It’s PIZZA!”
I do love driving in the land of my birth.
Driving on the left, seated on the right, shifting gears with my left hand in a manual-car-dominated-market, comes naturally to me. But, I will not mount sidewalks to get ahead in the traffic. I draw the line at playing chicken or dare with taxis refusing me access or attempting to eject my rented Suzuki Swift by edging closer and closer until my dashboard lights are flashing and Swifty (we South Africans often give cars nicknames) rattles and shakes with surrounding taxi music. I catch the harrassing taxi driver’s eyes and they are smiling broadly and he waves to welcome me into the game of real-life bumper cars.
I think it quite safe to generalize that when you, yes you, visit African countries (there are 54 of them) you will find incredible friendliness. You will be met with warm hospitality, and meet people who will be very interested in who you are and in what brings you to their part of the world. It is likely they will have an awareness of your part of the world that astounds you.
United States citizens who enter and exit our great nation on occasion will surely be surprised at how friendly and welcoming the immigration and customs and security officials are in other countries. I am yet to hear, anywhere in the world, the yelling at passengers at security and experience the brusqueness and suspicion that routinely meets travelers entering the USA. I’ve been reconditioned to expect friendly exchanges: the South African official welcoming me in Zulu and witnessing his delight at hearing my feeble attempts at a response in Zulu. Another immigration officer, a man of advanced age, stamping my passport to exit South Africa for Washington DC, expressed playfully to a roving colleague, again in Zulu, “why doesn’t the old man stay home” only to be taken aback with laughter when I thanked him using a most respectful Zulu title reserved for older men than I am!
Entering Ghana late last month caps all of my immigration experiences.
Before seeing my passport the official told me I looked very tired and looked like I needed a massage. When I asked if such services were available in her immigration booth she dead-panned “not from me, but from her” pointing to her booth mate checking in passengers from an adjacent line.
Both women roared with laughter, “Welcome to Ghana,” she said.
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