Writer's Block

I guess this is writer’s block, cause when I returned to Durban about a week ago, I had earnest intentions of posting another blog. My whirlwind first couple of weeks in Southern Africa had calmed to a cool breeze and I had experiences galore to document. But I leave Durban tomorrow, and paper is avoiding my pen like it’s filled with acidic ink.

For example, I wanted to write about the two faces of Mozambique I experienced. Tell you about the parties and crowds of Easter Weekend—beers for breakfast and the masses from Jo’burg. About the Afrikaner guy who good-naturedly swiped the beer out of this American’s hand, drank its remains, then bellowed to the barkeep, “Fucking Brandy and Coke…Double!” then made me chug it. How after the long weekend passed and the beaches emptied, I surfed the bluetiful white sand point break solo. I wanted to write about this, but American Idol was on and it was down to the top ten. Allison needed my support.

I wanted also to write about Adriaan, my new friend who I went to Mozambique with. Tell you about his slick ways of getting us to the front of what would have been a three hour border queue, talking fast to officials and distributing Red Bulls and chocolates to appease the people we cut in front of. I was going to tell you all about it, and man, you woulda loved this guy, but the scab on the back of my hand wasn’t going to pick itself.

If not for this damn writer’s block, I would have told you in stunning detail about my trip to Kruger National Park with my friend Lianne and her mother Maryanne. About the pride of lions that guarded the dead rhino from the pesky vultures, and how majestic the giraffes and elephants looked mere meters away from our car. Oh, and the description that never was, of us sipping tea on our front patio watching buffalo meander to the riverbank for a dawn drink? I assure you, you would have been transported to Africa. Been able to smell it. But my book was getting good; the main character, Oscar Wao, had just tried to kill himself. I couldn’t leave him alone.

Who knows, maybe I could have even worked in a couple of amusing moments. Like when Lesley’s four and half year old son, Dylan, asked on Election Day why people were voting again, didn’t Obama just become president? Or when Adriaan called Asian-American Rob “China” (South African equivalent of “Buddy”), only to be politely corrected that he was, in fact, Philipino. Jeeze, you woulda laughed. But cricket was on and I was just beginning to understand the rules. It’s like Baseball on Valium.

For a few days I intended to write about the series of people I’d met that lead me to these remarkable experiences: Jesse took me to a party at Greg’s house in San Clemente when I was 18. A few years later Greg introduced me to Twiggy on the bluff at Mavericks. When Twig heard I was coming to his hometown, he had his girlfriend Kate get me from airport, I could stay at their house. Kate said she’d arranged a ride for me to Mozambique with her old boss, Adriaan, if I so desired. I did, and joined Adriaan and a crew that included Lianne and Lesley; these amazing people responsible for the fun I was having. I was going to link everyone in a thoughtful, flowing way. Even had the first line in my head, “If ever I had doubts that relationships were the key to a rich life, my time in South Africa has squashed them.” I wanted to add to this, I really did. But I was meeting Adriaan at The Bush Tavern for lunch and beers. Priorities.

So I guess you’ll have to wait for this invisible enemy to surrender before I can conquer this blog again and provide you with a distraction from work. It seems South Africa is doing a good job of distracting me from mine.

Author’s Note: I realize that writing these blogs is not my work, but it’s the closest I’ve got at the moment, so just let me have it, ok? However, if anyone has any ideas of how I can make this my work, I’m all ears.