Saturday, April 10, 2004  

What friggin' day is it?

I'm at the convention center where the jazz fest is being held, and I'm rocking the Internet at about 14.4k. South Africa seems to love its dial-ups---except on holidays and Sundays. We switched lairs yesterday (I think it was yesterday), and the business center at the new joint has been closed for the most part. How can a man live without his WWW at LAN speeds?

Yesterday we went to Robben Island, where Mandela was imprisoned. It was one of those things that you must see while here but you're also going, Why am I here? While not as sickening as, say, visiting Dachau, it still makes you want to run around and kick some former politico's ass.

Today we went to wine country and got wino'd. The WE is Gil Robertson, who writes about lifestyle stuff in a syndicated column in African-American newspapers, and Tariek, our excellent guide. Everyone else is our original party was working, getting interviews, etc. I'm happy to say that I am not working; I'm touristing since none of my main interview requests came through and our multiple and conflicting itineraries makes it impossible to be both a working journalist---Sean Barlow of Afropop and Dan Ouellette of DB & Billboard---and a junketeer---me & Gil.

I started today by walking around Cape Town with a travel writer named Maria from El Mundo newspaper in Madrid. We went to a flea market and to a part of town where the houses are painted in Carribbean-style colors. Then I returned to the hotel to bust a move to the wine tour.

I'm glad that after we went to wine country today, Tariek was willing to honor our request to visit a township---that is a black settlement on the outskirts of Cape Town. People are forced to live in shantytowns, in appalling conditions, all as a leftover result of the strict racial seperation instituted under apartheid. (The shantys were almost exactly like those I saw in Kingston, without the zinc fences). We stopped at a township center where the local craftsmen sell their wares, and we picked up some damn nice pieces for good prices.

Tomorrow we go to Cape Point, which is supposed to be killer scenic. I hope they have high-speed Internet out there.

Note: If any of my pals or family want to e-mail me, use my christopherporter dot com address. I can't seem to log-in to my JT account. 14.4 in the hizzo.

The only thing worse than people describing jazz---I've heard a lifetime's worth of cliches this weekend, such as the very serious "Jazz is flying being on a trapeze without a safety net" and "It's like jumping off a cliff, man"---is people humming jazz: "Skeedily bebop ba boo da...." in the hotel hallways. Plug...me...ears, mate.

I'm off to the "afterparty" jam session now. There was one of those the other day too, and I lasted about 5 minutes. Jazz is the best music in the world---and the worst. Because when it's great, there's nothing that can compare. When it stinks, there's nothing more pretentious and indulgent. In those cases, just hold your nose, leave the venue, and put on some punk rock, some house music, some dub, some pop. I hope they have located cymbals for tonight's jam; a combo of tom-toms, bongos and a piano vamp leave much to be desired.

Did you know that this is the 10th anniversary of the end of apartheid---and the 10th anniversary of me drinking a lot of Black Label beer with Gary during the 1994 NHL playoffs? AND BLACK LABEL IS LIKE THE BUD OF SOUTH AFRICA. Synchronicity, my breddaz & sistahz.

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