Jaz & Miguel (4 page)

Although it was technically winter (the seasons being all backwards
in the Southern Hemisphere), Jaz's skin had begun to feel dry and sore from the
Jozi wind.
Jozi
, that was a new word she'd learned—a local way of
referring to Johannesburg (or Jo'burg). And then there was also
Egoli
,
which not only meant "Place of Gold" (Johannesburg being one seriously
big gold-mining area) but which was also the name of a majorly long-running
soap opera that had some
hot
African (black) as well as African (white)
studs
in it.

It was Thandie (short for
Thandile
, which means "beloved"),
Jaz's new best friend, who had chosen the word "stud" although Jaz
had yet to confirm if the men of whom she'd spoken indeed met the requirements
for such an honorable title.

She'd met Thandie that morning in the Wits Great Hall, a massive
structure that looked a bit like the US Supreme Court from the outside. All the
foreign students were getting together to go to Soweto, but Thandie (a local
who was also doing the IHRE program) decided to tag along because she "had
nothing better to do that day."
Thandie had been
holding a Colleen Hoover book in her hand and Jaz, without questioning or
thinking, ran up to her and grabbed it, saw that it was
Hopeless
and then, without prompting and with eyes wide open on both their
parts, they started firing off all their favorite quotes—almost
word for
word
—back and forth as if they were in a tennis match!

She knew they would be best friends forever.

Thandie was short—real short, like five-three or so (which suited
Jaz just fine with her own meager five-five) and had long, beaded-braids that
stretched down to a little below her shoulders. Her nails sparkled with blue
and gold nail-polish and, from the number of guys she'd turned her nose up at
and showed her palm to, it was clear that she had more than a few (unwanted?)
admirers (some of them a real catch in Jaz's opinion, actually).

Jaz had been more than a bit "threatened" by Maxine and
her five-nine (not to mention her legs). But Maxine had also proven to not be
much of a conversationalist—her favorite "genre" being Elle Magazine
(true story—that was actually what she'd said when Jaz asked her what genres she
liked reading ...). As for Candy, she'd needed some girly things and came by
Jaz's place the night before and Jaz made her a coffee but the ensuing silence
only left them both feeling a little uncomfortable.

With Thandie (a girl whose vocabulary shamed Jaz's own) it was immediately
different. Jaz felt she could really relate to her, and they spent most of the
time on the bus to Soweto talking, Thandie explaining different things about
their culture and about the land. She explained about the shanty towns (which
the locals called "townships") they'd seen intermittently on the way.
Many of them lacked basic facilities like running water, or even electricity.
One of the poorest and most notorious of them (although they didn't drive past this
one) was a place called "Alexandra" and Jaz remembered it as being
the name of the place that had suffered those riots only weeks before she'd
left, and which had caused the US to issue those travel warnings.

After the trip, Jaz was taking a break by the pond in the center of
the Wits East Campus quad (just ahead of the Great Hall), leaning against a low
brick wall underneath a tree with almost blue (yes, blue!) leaves she couldn't
quite name, and looking at two fountains in the pond spraying up
intermittently. Thandie had left to go to a mall in a place whose name Jaz had already
forgotten.

She'd forgotten many names. Everyone used them like she was supposed
to just understand them all but all she did was end up getting confused. She
knew Soweto, but she'd already forgotten the name of the place they were heading
out to after the weekend. She knew
Johannesburg
(of course) and liked
the
Jozi
appellation as well.

"Howzit."

Howzit.
That word she recognized. And
she could tell that the male voice uttering it was directing it at her. Jaz
looked up to find a well-dressed man of about twenty, in a light-blue button-up
shirt and khaki slacks, donning spectacles that made him look like a Harvard
grad and shoes that looked like they'd been shined for two hours. He carried a
notebook (the kind you write on) under his left arm. A sharpened, yellow pencil
stared menacingly at her from above his left ear.

"Howzit," she said back, proud of how the word had now
become part of her own language, as if she'd been using it her whole life. The
first time she'd heard it (at the airport), she'd looked at the person blankly,
waiting for the "going?" at the end of the sentence. After hearing it
two more times and realizing that
howzit
was
merely a statement and not a question (one meaning simply "hello")
she'd smiled and shook her head, chalking the experience up to yet another one
of the many, many things she still had to learn about this country.

"I'm Sandile," said the guy, now extending his hand to
her.

"Jaz—with one
Z
, not two." He stared blankly at
her. "It's Jasmine ... actually. Just—just Jaz." She wondered why he
hadn't replied to her when she realized she'd never reciprocated the handshake.
Damn it!
"I'm sorry!" Jaz was always
pretty nervous when meeting new people, but especially boys. And, particularly,
good looking boys. She extended her hand in one convulsive movement.

Sandile laughed.

"Scared of a black man or something?" he said openly to
her.

Her face went serious.

"I'm joking! Sheesh!" he said. "Thandie told me you
were all into this political correctness shit. Just relax!" He sat down
next to her and she scooted over to let him into the shade, but he seemed happy
to just sit basking in the sun, closing his eyes for a second as he looked up
into it. She noted he had a ... different ... kind of accent, sort of a mixture
of the white and black accents she'd heard from others.

"You know Thandie?"

"Yeah, we dated once ... a
long
time ago. So, how's
South Africa treating you?"

"Oh, you mean despite all the complexities of language. I mean,
howzit
and
broe
and ... urgh!"

"And don't forget
lekker
?"

"
Lek-
what?"

"It means 'cool, awesome.' It's Afrikaans."

Jaz thought for a moment. "Afrikaans ...."

"The Dutch-based language," he said

"Oh, right .... Right! That's the confusing thing—it's called
'Afrikaans' but it's spoken by the white"—she hesitated—"Africans."

Sandile laughed. "I see you're still doing that white-African-black-African
thing. Thandie told me about that, too."

Jaz shook her head, embarrassed, and raised her palm to her
forehead.

"Don't worry about it. Just say whatever makes you comfortable.
The only word you shouldn't use for us is 'kaffir.' That one generally doesn't
go down too well."

Jaz's jaw dropped. Did he just say—?
God, these people are in
your face down here.

"But, back to your question," Sandile continued, "it's
not only the whites that speak Afrikaans. Many blacks speak it, too. Then, of
course, there are the coloreds—you know what coloreds are, don't you?"

"B—black people?"

Sandile gave out a laugh that came from his nose and Jaz was feeling
more and more embarrassed. "Man, 'coloreds' are neither black nor white.
They're an ethnic group, mostly concentrated in the Western Cape. Their skin is
darker than white, but few have skin as dark as mine, for example. Their
predominant language is Afrikaans, although that's not a hard and fast rule.
They have a mixed ancestry—maybe Dutch, maybe even a bit of Xhosa. But they're
an ethnic group unto themselves with their own customs and music and culture."

Clearly she hadn't read
enough
books about South Africa
before coming here (or had read all the wrong ones). "I see," said
Jaz, a little confused, and finding it hard to separate the racial connotations
she'd always associated with the word 'colored' and now the fact that she was
expected to use it as the sole descriptor for an entire ethnic group.

"Anyway, you'll get the hang of it all soon enough. And, as I
said, few people really get offended by things down here. There are so many
more important things to worry about."

"I hope I do get the hang of it."

Sandile smiled and a brief silent moment passed. "So, excited
about the trip on Monday?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am," she said quietly. "It'll be good
to meet some of the other local kids. Thandie was the only 'local' who went
with us to Soweto today."

"Yeah ... she generally gets her way." They laughed again.
"Well," he said, "I'm another one of those locals." He
extended his hand out again, but this time he gave her a three-part shake and
explained that it was a traditional African handshake.

"Yes," he continued, "I'm also in the IHRE program."

"Oh, really?" Jaz's mood brightened. Somehow she liked
Sandile. "That's awesome!"

"No, it's
lekker
," he said.

They sat in silence for a while, looking out at kids in various
colors of shirts walking on the grass and making their way home, some of them
milling about, one trying to kiss a girl who promptly pulled back and ran, the
failed suitor then extending his arms out to his side in dismay.

"So, what's with the pencil?" she asked, breaking the
silence. She took another sip of the mango and orange LiquiFruit she'd bought
earlier (something which tasted not unlike Juicy Juice back in the States).

"Ah, that!" He grabbed it and looked at it. "I'm a
journalist wannabe. Oh, that's not why I'm talking to you." He waved his
hands defensively and then stopped. "Well, actually it is ... but it's
not. God, I sound like you now." Jaz laughed (also through her nose, some
of the juice making its way up there and burning it). "No, look. I've got
like a local news-blog and I do articles on different things. I did come and
talk to you because Thandie said you're pretty cool and I was hoping we could
all be friends. But I
also
wanted to ask if
you'd mind being interviewed for an article I'm doing about all the Europeans
and Americans here."

"Sure. I could introduce you to some of the other girls from
the US as well. What's the blog address?"

"
Sandilesaysitatwits.blogspot.com
," he said. "Yeah, I'm hoping they'll give me a column in
the
Times Live
or the
Mail & Guardian
one of these days. Maybe
when they see my brilliant writing skills online they'll take me up." He
stood, getting ready to go. "Although, part of my problem is I write and
write and write and write and never post anything. I have about three years of
material on my computer that I haven't gotten the guts to put online. Maybe I'll
put it all in a book someday."

"You should."

He shrugged.

"The …
Times Live
and
Mail & Guardian
—are
those newspapers?"

Sandile nodded.

What happened next was something that left Jaz shocked, and a little
afraid.

As Sandile had stood there (half-standing, half getting ready to go)
minding his own business, a basketball—out of nowhere!—came out and hit him on
the head! It wasn't too hard, but it caused him to grimace and almost drop his
glasses. And, when she turned and saw the white guy sauntering over toward him
(a smile of satisfaction on his face), her stomach sank, and the hairs on her skin
bristled.

Could this be the racist South Africa she'd always heard about?

Typical!

"Hey man!" said Sandile, rubbing his temple.

The tanned boy who'd thrown the ball carried a sordid grin, his wavy
hair flapping against his brow in the wind. Black, baggy shorts with the number
twenty-three in red on them swayed loosely above his white high-tops. His gait
was casual, relaxed, like a lion surrounding a kill. Jaz was sure he was about
to ….

She didn't know what he was about to do—maybe start hitting Sandile
... or
beating
him?

She did the only thing she thought to. I mean, she was from the USA,
wasn't she? The Land of the Free and Home of the Brave; The March on Washington
and MLK and
I Have a Dream
and—

She quickly pushed off the wall and positioned herself between the
threatening boy and Sandile who was now behind her.

"Stop!" she said, her hand out like a US Marshal—all she
needed was a friggin gun holstered at her side and her hand hovering above it
like hot-damn John Wayne I say.

The boy did stop, his smile now gone, replaced by a cocked head and
raised eyebrow as if to say,
Huh?

And from behind her, she heard Sandile's voice. "Jaz?" And
his voice did not sound angry, but caring, as if about to tell a child the
truth about Santa Claus.