Don’t be content with lies: Happiness is improbable when you are in bad physical condition. Happiness is waking up in the morning with zest for life, feeling tip top, light in your step, bright in the mind, fresh from the inside out!
The minute he walked in, I knew, I’d seen those eyes before – up close. I’d been mesmerized by those eyes, for one night. They were not his eyes exactly, but they looked exactly like his. Big, and innocent, staring at the world in wonder. Childlike innocence written on his otherwise uneventful sun-kissed face.
I asked him to dance. He looked confused at first, then stepped forward, and took me in a close dance hold – Chest to chest, cheek to cheek. I’d seen those eyes before. And where I’d seen those eyes, before, I’d seen the face of someone else I’d seen before. But only when he smiled. This must be what time travel feels like. Memories of things I’d not thought about came flooding back, the time I saw those eyes before. Intoxication makes me see deeper than I normally see. It can makes me feel deeper than I normally feel. It makes my hands instruments of a mysterious goddess of sensuality. My alter ego. My true self.
He looked like the gentlest most joyful soul I’d never have expected to meet. I saw him as he came in. He looked at me. I looked to my food. I was not interested in some Brit looking for an exotic fling. There were two of them. Then suddenly he was leaning over my table, right over my food. “Can I smell your lobster?” He asked. Too shocked to reply (it was too late anyway as he was sniffing it already) I smiled. They went to sit. When I looked up, only once I did, he was staring at me with those eyes. Those big eyes were swallowing me whole. And I had no choice in the matter. At the counter paying my bill, the two of them appeared. Then we were talking, and they were persuading me to stay another day, There was no resisting it, even though I knew it would change this place for me forever. I had no choice. When he told me the story of his name, I was destined to never forget.
Holiday romances are unforgettable.
In December last year, I undertook a solo trip around South Africa on a motorcycle I hardly knew. It was immensely challenging and equally rewarding. I blogged about it on my adventure blog. There were so many many fears and challenges to face. It gets like that when one does things alone.
My trip started in Cape Town. In 15 days I had covered about 4000 tough, tough, tough, kilometers. I had been riding in rain for 3 days. That’s three wet and cold days, not seeing the sun. Finally, approaching Port Elizabeth, the sun peeked its pretty little face through the clouds and warmed my whole soul. It could only get better from there, I thought. It was about 1000 km to go for home, and all tar (Much of my trip had been on dirt). I had covered about 4000 km in total, when, in the region of Port Elizabeth, this happened:
My chain snapped, hitting a hole in the engine casing, causing all the oil to pour out of the engine. I was not sure what I could do . I was glad at least that the chain did not get stuck in the wheel (which is a terrible terrible thing), and also I was glad that I did not slip in the oil as I made my way to the side of the road. Another thing I was grateful for was that my engine still sounded ok when I switched the bike off. No loud bangs or other metallic knocking noises. At times like these, its good to remember what there is to be grateful for.
It was about 40 minutes before sunset. The police cars I tried to flag down just drove past. Stranded on the freeway, I did not know anybody in PE, I did not have any roadside assistance, my cell phone battery was on half full. I hoped that would be enough.
I called a roadside assistance service which I was not a member of. I was about to allow them to approve my immediate membership which would cost me a ton of money on the spot, when I thought to check with them how long they would take to come. When they said it would be at least two hours, I decided to take a breath and think about it first. In the meantime, I called to the police hotline, and after much struggling and about 3 calls to them they finally understood that I needed somebody to come and stand by me while I waited for some roadside service in the dark on the freeway. It was too dangerous alone.
By the time the two man police team arrived, I had called another pickup service. There had also been a man kind enough to stop and offer me help. He had gone to organize a pickup truck of a friend, and they would take me to the nearest police station. This was as far as my mind could function. What I would do after that I was not sure. But I was sure I would be several thousand rand poorer than I was before this experience.
While waiting on the road, I started calling and messaging people back in Cape Town to ask if they had any contacts of mechanics and other people who might be able to help me. One guy, a motorcycle dealer, a ‘friend’, who I was sure would have lots of contacts, got back to me immediately. But he was not very encouraging. He didn’t give me any contacts, but did ask me how I thought a mechanic would be able help me. I just told him not to worry about me, and thanks. In my mind I was swearing profanities of course. One can always tell a good friend from those who are just in for the good times in situations like these. Another guy, one of my good friends, a mechanic who was actually looking after my cats while I was away from home gave me a bit more hope. He asked me to send him a photo of the broken stuff, and after seeing it, he assured me all I needed to do was get some steel putty to plug the hole where the oil came out, and fix the chain somehow. Then I would be good to go again. Now that’s a friend. That was what I needed to hear. Worst case scenario, I could could call a listed mechanic and ask him to come collect the bike from the police station for fixing.
The policemen were really great. They told me their life stories (which is a story for another day) and then they asked me about what the pickup service was going to charge me, and after they heard how much it was they said no, people are crazy, and they would get their police salvage vehicle to come pick me up (for free), and take me to their police station. That was the start of my good luck. We waited long, but eventually it came, and we loaded the bike on the back and drove off (no ropes!). The police station was not very far. The guys assured me that the chief of the station who would be in the next day knows a lot about mechanics and would be able to help me. Then they took me to a hotel, which turned out rather scruffy, but it was a roof over my head for the night at least.
Next day, I was still very unsure of what I was going to do, but I bought a coffee and when to drink it by the river. Two chaps on a motorbike also came to the river and were smoking some ganja. I asked them if they knew anybody who could fix a chain, and they said, well, they’d fixed their own bike’s chain the night before. They were so kind to agree to go check out the bike at the police station before they went to work. After seeing it, they said, it was not complicated, it could be fixed. I didn’t even need to buy a new chain, they would get a spare link themselves. I myself had to hitchhike a ride to police station as there were no taxis from the hotel. I spent much of the morning laying on the grass at the police station and then it struck me to go and check with the chief of the station. Just in case he could help me as the guys of the night before said. My word, in two ticks, so to speak, my bike was fixed. The chief and all his deputies were getting their hands dirty, driving around getting parts and putty for my bike on the tax payer’s money. Everyone at the station was kind and friendly. Before 3pm, I was on the road again, And the whole experience cost me less than a Macdonald’s happy meal.
See you again same time next year
Disclaimer: I’m no expert, so all of what I write is only based on what goes on in my busy head from time to time.
This post is regarding my current experience with the rather ridiculous game which the unevolved man plays with women. I read alot of posts and blogs on relationships, particularly failed ones, particularly when I’d been emotionally burnt. The theme is usually the same. Don’t chase, don’t act desperate, do not give up your life and sacrifice your all, do not ask about commitment … blah di blah, di blah di blah. I always think, “who can you be but who you are?”
I don’t know if I fall into any kind of category of womanly behavior, I probably do, I just wouldn’t be able to say which one. Its hard to ‘watch’ onesself and be completely objective. What I do know, is that I’m rather interesting, quite easy going, have no problem doing things on my own and being alone. I have a good sense of humour, and I don’t look too bad either. But the outcome for me when it comes to romantic interaction basically seems like one which is experienced by the ‘desperate’ woman.
Basically, I think it comes down to partly my own fault because I do tend to be courteous and I usually am overly accommodating in general. I think its part of my upbringing to do my best to make people feel welcome and comfortable even if it costs a bit of sacrifice from my side.
I’ve tried following the popular relationship advice. Basically the advice is to be a feisty bitch, and go out and have a good life irrespective of what anybody else wants from you. Its possible, but often hard to do when one’s head is not fully in that space. To be honest, up to now this has worked for me in attracting that neanderthal-like male who plays that ridiculous game of chase if she’s being a nasty bitch and run when she’s being nice. In my opinion, this is kind of alright when it comes to a booty call, but I sure as hell don’t want to be playing this game in a long term relationship. So many women get caught up in this kind of thing for years with the same old monkey.
Its good to feel grounded, and have a couple of good booty calls who are chasing so fiercely, because I really don’t feel to go out of my way to accommodate them (mostly because I now only do what I prefer). One day though, I’d like to experience the interaction with a more evolved man. Maybe I’m too much of a monkey still to know and evolved man when I see one.
I do not claim to be an expert on dance. I do enjoy it. Whatever I’m going to say here is just based on my own experience and are ALL my own opinions. They do not come from any dance ‘Rule book’, or professional analysis on anything at all.
Westernized forms of Latin dance Look like drag queen dancing. There’s too much sharp snapping of the sexual zones of the body. Too much “ass out” kind of stuff going on. For the purpose of competitive events, where did anybody gain the right to create uber technical rules that people can be judged by about the dances (not including originally western dances like Waltz etc.). Honestly even the make up on the women look like drag queens, and the male dance partners seem tooooo feminine. I have nothing against homosexual people, don’t misunderstand. I just think that westernized Latin dance compared to where Latin dance originally came from is like a drag queens walk compared to a feminine walk.
Here is a mild example of what I don’t like: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1M3amNpmsks
And here is an example of what I do like:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLHP8hl7GfM
A good dance is smooth. Now, in my opinion its all about making the woman feel good (beautiful, admired, sensual, feminine etc.) It is one where the man and the woman feel comfortable with each other. Where the man and the woman allow each other to enjoy the closeness of their bodies without being creepy. Sometimes, it does get so comfortable that one could take that chemistry off the dance floor and into the bedroom with a complete stranger. But so what. I think it happens when you are able to read even the slightest intention in the dance from whoever you’re dancing with. There are people you’ll have this dance chemistry with, and its a very rare thing.
My opinion on what a good male dancer dancer is: He asks a woman to dance. I don’t know about elsewhere in the world, but for some reason the general way that things happen on the dance floor in South Africa is that women literally CHASE men to ask them to dance with her. I think it is just a result of the fact that generally here there are more women attending dance classes than men, so men are usually more in demand. And it ends up spiraling out of control ending up with a very unhealthy reversal of gender phenomenon. Now I’m all for being a strong woman, but on the dance floor, I like the traditional kind of male/female interaction (So shoot me if you want to). He is confident and in control without any kind of force or arrogance. He is in the lead, but respectfully so. He is gentle, in the most manly way. Without being creepy, he makes a woman feel like he is dancing with her, and he is enjoying it, no matter what his/her level. He is less concerned about impressing the ‘audience’. He does not get close to breaking her arms or her back trying to get her to do moves so that he can look cool to whoever is watching him. He does not make her feel bad for making ‘mistakes’. He does not force her into anything. He does not behave like a peacock on the dance floor.
In general, my opinion of a good dancer is one who thoroughly enjoys it, and is not dancing for the sole purpose of looking good, and impressing and subsequently intimidating innocent bystanders. He/she makes others who don’t know how to dance (yet) feel welcome. It is generally not so in South Africa. And its a god damn shame.
Well folks, after all of that, Its me heading off to the first party of the Mzansi Salsa festival in South Africa which I have alot of opinions about here. Maybe I’ll tell you about them later ;). Its a Halloween party, so I’m just dressed all in black with heavy eye liner and red lipstick and some crazy goth neck jewellery. If anybody asks what scary thing I am, I’m going with the story that I’m one of those evil sexy hell dwelling women that make hell a better place to be.