Maybe the essence of searching
is being endlessly torn between
arriving somewhere and running away

Ungläubiges Kopfschütteln. Gänsehaut. Ein flaues Gefühl im Magen.
Ein wütender Mob. Gewalt. Hass. Die AfD bei 12 Prozent. Drittstärkste Partei laut Prognosen.
Was zur Hölle ist los mit den Menschen hier?
Was für Werte wollen die eigentlich verteidigen?

Humanität? Solidarität? Nächstenliebe? Hilfsbereitschaft?
Mir kommt das blanke Kotzen, wenn ich euch sehe.
Wie ihr parolenbrüllend all das verkörpert, was diese Welt zugrunde richtet.
Ein Horizont so klein wie euer Herz.
Und so beschränkt wie euer Verstand.

Mit Verachtung.

Sometimes, loving is

the bravest thing you can do.

Und ich frage mich, „wie?“. Wie zur Hölle könnt ihr erbärmlichen, rassistischen Arschlöcher solche Taten vollbringen. Menschen verachten aufgrund ihrer Herkunft. Ihres Aussehens. Ihres Glaubens. Und dann würde ich gerne auf euch losgehen. Mit nackten, wütenden Fäusten. Und so lange auf euch einschlagen, bis eure hässliche, kleingeistige Visage nur noch Matsch ist. Und dann überkommt mich das ungute Gefühl, dass meine moralische Überlegenheit in solchen Momenten eine ziemlich eklige Farce ist.

(Und trotzdem wäre die Welt ohne euch ein besserer Ort.

Dasselbe denkt ihr über mich vermutlich auch.)

The Day I almost got arrested. Or: Murphy’s Law.

This incident happened about one month before the end of my stay.
To save my poor mother's nerves, I only told my brother back then.

It was already a tiring and strenuous day as I had to wake up early in the morning after a night of sentimental goodbye-drinking to bring my favourite french flatmate to the airport. A serious cappuccino to go should have got me going, but it only caused an accelerated heart rate while my head was still tired. ‘Cause I already drove for two hours when I arrived at the office in the morning,  I was really glad not to go into field this day and have a more relaxed day at the office.


As the morning went by, a little drama arose as we thought to have lost all our backed-up data due to problems with the server, so we started to call RAs back into the office to get hold of their tablets, which seemed to be the only place the data was saved on. (This was when someone blurted out a comment about murphy’s law. Maybe the day got jinxed at this moment.) 
After a late lunch due to a delivery failure of our Nando’s food (which left us almost starving for over an hour #first world problems), we get a call from one of our FWCs who got stopped at a traffic control while driving a Mahindra with an RA-Team in the back. Apparently the car only showed a plate with the allowance to carry two persons while we always carry 8 people in the back. A bit irritated and panicky, we rushed to the traffic control with all the car documents from the office to prove that - in fact - actually everything was alright with the car and we have the right permits. 
When we arrived at the traffic control, a guy in a leather jacket approached us and started to ask questions. I was pretty confused as I had no idea who that guy was and why he was talking to us. I even figured he’s just a spectator who’s also a bit mental. Well... Turns out it was the supervisor of the Department of Home Affairs and my blurted-out answer „oh, it’s alright - we work together“ to the question „What are you doing here? How do you know this guy?“ (meaning our held-up FWC) was a very unfortunate one…
So, apparently this was not just a normal traffic control and our FWC was also held up because he didn’t carry his passport with his visa… So when we came there to rescue him, we apparently also didn’t carry our passports (I mean - who does that in a country where everyone always tells you how easy it is to get robbed?) So instead of saving him by bringing the car documents, we made it worse and I got myself into some deep shit. 
And the guys from Home Affairs started showing off their power. We had violated our terms of stay by not carrying our visas with us and would spend a night in prison. Also, what visas are we on? And if I am on a tourist visa, why do I volunteer as this is not permitted on a tourist visa (and another reason that could me get arrested). They were not amused. So wasn’t I.


This was when we started calling our neighbour (who is a magistrate) and our boss in England to get some legal advice. When they were taking us away in a police car to drive us home to get our passports, I was on skype with our boss who instructed me how to make up a believable story about initially wanting to travel the country and only visiting friends at the project and ending up staying because I was so moved by the work and all the children the project aims to help.

I am a very bad liar.

So while I was sitting in the car, silent and terrified after having told my story, my colleague - who was on a proper visa - tried to charm the lady from Home Affairs by casually chatting and being super friendly. Didn’t really work. She was like the iron lady. After ten minutes, he could finally get a little smile out of her - and her colleague, who was driving, even offered us a piece of candy. The ice was, well, not really broken, but at least starting to melt.
 Back at the police control on the highway, our neighbour had arrived and was waiting for us. He actually interrupted work to come and save us, this angel of our project (he also built two tables for our office and towed broken-down cars to the mechanics - not counting the endless amount of food and beer he supplied us with during Braais and casual social gatherings). Gladly, he didn’t have to show off his power as the police finally let us go - me with a warning that they actually will arrest me when they ever catch me working again. (And trust me - they weren’t joking on this matter).
 So we could finally drive back to the office. Two poor colleagues of ours were waiting for us at our car the entire time and so were the 8 RAs. They were incredibly sweet, supportive and worried and I felt so bad for them to be stuck there for so long. When we drove back, we also had to find a way not to run into the police control again as the seatbelts in the backseat of our car weren’t working. 
What a day.
 The initially held-up FWC was brought to the police station to wait for someone to get his passport from Alice (which is about a 40-minute-drive away). Poor guy. But his girlfriend rushed to King in no-time, bringing his passport and rescuing him. (I’d say she’s definitely a keeper.)


In the evening, when I popped down at our neighbour's with some thank-you-beers, he actually told me that he looked into the legal works and the Department of Home Affairs could have gotten me arrested for 14 to 48 days without seeing a judge or anything. Fuck.

Gladly, I'm sitting on my porch now, safely back in Germany. But boy, I guess I really just escaped prison that day. (So maybe Murphy's law didn't kick in with all its force in the end...)

Beautiful People and a Braai.

I love living in the Eastern Cape. Its randomness and the smiles on peoples’ faces. Its wildflowers and its cows grazing next to the road. And the stars on its night sky and the full moon lightening the fields in front of a village palace. I love its stories about hit donkeys and angry ancestors. I even started to love its chaos. But what struck me most are its people. I love our RAs and their spirit. I love to hear them sing songs about Mahindras and songs about being incomplete every time someone’s leaving. I love their laughs and sometimes even their stubbornness, but mostly their jokes and seeing their smiles not only on their lips but also in their eyes. I love their warmth and how welcoming they were. I will miss all this. I think it changed me for the better. Or at least I hope so.

If I could carry just a fraction of their warmth in my heart when I go, I’d feel blessed forever.

A night full of laughter and tons of grilled meat. A cook looking irritated at my veggie patties. A goodbye and lots of booze. An encounter with the security guards I wished I could have avoided, but a lovely girl who saved me by smuggling Amarula in like a badass. The most beautiful songs in the world sung by the most beautiful voices. A lot of great dancing and some failed attempts (by me, of course). Tough negotiations about how many cows I’m worth and a two-hour drive in the back of a Mahindra I thought would never end. But oh, the beautiful night sky. And the moon. And the cold. But with so much warmth in your heart*, you don’t care about the cold anymore.

*I leave it to my readers to speculate on the source of this warmth. It might have been alcohol-related. But it might as well have sprung from the midst of some singing and dancing with those awfully lovely and bright Xhosa-souls.

About losing your language

Sometimes it feels like I am losing the ability to express myself in my mother tongue. It is a strange feeling. As if my synapses aren’t working properly anymore. As if I lost all my thoughts. 
When I am trying to write E-Mails in German, I don’t know how to say things. How to form my messed-up thoughts into proper sentences. How grammar works. (And let’s not even start talking about proverbs and sayings…) The problem is, I also still struggle with English and though I’m understanding most things and I actually feel almost fluent at it, I still make tons of mistakes and I’m still lacking so much vocabulary that I don’t know where to begin… So my linguistic skills are fading away and I feel like I am robbed of something I always considered crucial to my character. Being able to master the (german) language, being able to write and express myself, being a painter with words - yeah, that was how I saw myself for a long time. Or at least for some moments. And now? Now I feel like my thoughts have dyslexia or something… In both languages. (And I know that there is a better way to express this, but the words escape me). My brain is mutilated and I don’t know how this could happen. I am lacking a crucial part of myself and so far it doesn’t seem like I will get it back… Maybe multilinguality is not for everyone. Or maybe I am not what I thought I am. Maybe my skills are lying somewhere else…