Steve Martin, did I forget something?

(Warning: This blog bears no connection to South Africa, except for that I had this dream here in my dorm room. I wrote it in an email to someone and, since it was written, couldn't help post it for your entertainment.)

Last night i had a dream, that I was doctoring in the hospital. I had on my white coat (which is not a long one, it goes to my hips) but i'd forgotten to wear clothes under it. So I was just trying to make do and hoping no one noticed, because there wasn't much else I could do because I had to see patients. One of my patients was Steve Martin. Apparently (dream knowledge) I'd been taking care of him for a while and he was IN LOVE with me. At the point of arrival in my dream, I was accustomed to his professions of adoration and attempts to hold me captive each time I saw him. This time was no exception and he grabbed my hand from his place in his bed and said something like, "Let's not torture ourselves anymore. You know your 'yes' is the only medicine for me." I gave a professional (and dream-familiar) response, "Steve Martin, I am your doctor. You know that is all I will be to you. This is inappropriate." Then he apologized tearfully, which made me feel bad because, let's admit, Steve Martin is a good guy and fairly attractive for his age! But I remained in doctor-mode and carried on checking the rate at which his fluids were running and going over his at his vital signs chart. Then, I took off my white coat to do an exam and looked down, only then to remember I'd forgotten to wear clothes! And I thought to myself "DAMN! Now Steve Martin is really going to get the wrong idea!!" And he did.

So the dream moves into like a movie-script-like sequence (specifically a made-for-T.V., Daddy-issues, Lifetime movie.) He tried to kiss me or something and I jumped back and fumbled to put my coat on. I asked Steve Martin not to tell anyone what happened, which gave him the impression that something HAD happened. So as I was avoiding his groping hand and buttoning up my white coat and explaining that I'd merely forgotten to put on clothes that morning, his family, including (who in my dream I knew to be) his ex-wife and daughter come in. They were furious. Not so much with me, because they liked me and knew he'd been making advances on me. But with him because they were already semi-estranged from him because he was a jerk (heh. good movie.) I chased them down the hallway (tugging at the bottom of my white coat) as they stormed away because I needed to speak with them in that family-doctor circle they have in movies to explain medical stuff. As they stood there tight lipped and said they didn't care about his diagnosis, I broke into tears and went on a rampage about how good of a person Steve Martin was, despite his mistakes (and his weird propensity to try to win me over with origami and hot tamales) and how he never stopped talking about how proud he was of his daughter and how much he loved her and how he'd disappointed his ex-wife, who deserved better. I told them they were lucky to have a man like that in their lives and how I wished Steve Martin were my father (which I admitted to them was weird since he was always trying to take my clothes off and pull me into his hospital bed) but how they shouldn't be so hostile about his shortcomings. The daughter and ex-wife also broke into tears and we all hugged and they thanked me and apologized and we cried and cried...

All the while I have no pants on.

To continue on the ever-popular topic...

Its amazing how often it comes up. In fact, you can't really get through a conversation without someone mentioning crime. For example, the following have all been personal moments of complete normalcy which have occurred in the last week:

1. Driving in the car with a friend, I remind her, "Put your purse under the chair" so she doesn't fall victim to the familiar "smash and grab" tactic where someone breaks the car window and reaches in either to grab your hair/face/etc or just the bag if possible. This is so familiar that you stay alert at all times when driving, knowing exactly where are the beggars and sellers who surround your car at robots (stoplights) and keep your car in first gear to pull away if necessary.

2. Deciding I can't stay at a friends house for the night since the car is parked outside. Andrea: "Do you think my car will get stolen?" Friend: "Hopefully not." An unsatisfactory answer when I was fishing for, "No. I don't think so." (In the US, I'd only settle for "Preposterous! Why would you worry about that?!?") At which point, I decide it isn't worth the risk despite extreme fatigue and the chance for a delicious breakfast. Note: This thought also occurs on a regular basis where ever the car is parked: at the movies, in a shopping mall, out for dinner, and so on.

4. Going to the movies, a friend left the cinema to go get sweets (candy) before the movie started. The lights went down while he was gone, but he never came back to his spot. Given that the cinema was quite dark, in the States I'd assume he couldn't find us, had sat somewhere else, turned his phone off for the movie and I'd find him after the movie without giving it another thought. But TIA. So we got nervous that he'd disappeared so we went searching: Up and down the aisles of the cinema, around the mall, in the boys and girls bathroom, even call in back-ups to help us look... My heart was racing. I was sure he'd been kidnapped and mugged and who knows what else. I missed the most of the movie and was exhausted with worry by the time he finally emerged from the pitch-black cinema wondering why I was walking down the aisle.

4. Insisting to my friend, recently arrived from Canada, that she can't walk the 2 blocks home at 10 p.m. because it is unsafe. The group of South Africans I was with agreed wholeheartedly and barricaded her route out of the house. I drove her home and agreed with her as she decided outloud, "This is going to get real old, real fast."

These experiences were all in the last week! Scattered in between were even more discussions of related topics such as (but not limited to): corrupt cops, non-observance of traffic laws, a missing CT scanner from the hospital, the reality of revenge/hate rape even on campus and the fact that Johannesburg is a more dangerous place to live than most countries currently engaged in war (such as the DRC.) You get the picture. Crime is a way of life here and, as a result, fear becomes the way of life for the rest of us.

But let's not be so dreary. After all, it is reality and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it. . Which bring me to experience #5:

5. Going to a "We got robbed but they didn't take the stereo so the party is still on" party. And, yes, they really did get robbed. Its a German and an American couple who live in a decent (American embassy provided) home of which the entrances all take more 3 locked and guarded gates/doors. So they are fairly certain it was someone who was familiar with the house (they'd had a plumber there, a furniture delivery, etc.) and now have taken to leading things like deliveries through a maze of doors to the back to reveal the least amount of the house's interior as possible... doing so out of a level of distrust for which they feel guilty. However, despite all this, their persistent sense of humor about the situation provide solid evidence that they've been in SA long enough to adapt and survive the only way we know how. To laugh... and to hold a clever thieves and incompetent cops party to make that easier. I did my part by going as the McDonalds Hamburglar (I, too, really needed the laugh!!)


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Note to certain friends at home: If I could have found one, I'd have worn a B&W stripped sweat suit like the real Hamburglar. My excuse is limited timed and costume resources and even very few clothes here in SA. I remain loyal to our success as Awesome Ninjas who could rip the face off of those Sexy Ninjas any day!

The Case of the "Missing(?!?)" CT Scanner.

Kalafong hospital is the public hospital where Serithi (my research team) is based and I spend some clinical time on the wards.

When you arrive at Kalafong hospital, you drive up to a gate where a guard comes out and asks why you are there. He checks in the boot of your car to make sure there isn't anything contraband and asks if you have a laptop or anything to declare. If you do, you have to write it on a check-in sheet so when you leave, they don't think you stole it. When you do leave, you stop again at the gate. They check the boot. Then they let you out. This procedure is pretty standard at the public hospitals. I do a similar routine each morning at Stanza, the health center in which I work.

Recently, they've had a crack down at Kalafong. NOW when you leave you have to get out of your car. Open the boot yourself. They look inside the car and all your bags more thoroughly. I didn't think much of it. But then I heard an explanation for the increased security from a med student friend:

"Someone stole a CT scanner."

Most of you will hear this and have the same reaction as I did: "That can't possibly be true!"

This would be justified with a sequence of thoughts likely starting with, "How the hell would you steal a CT scanner??" After all, a CT scanner is a very large machine. Probably the size of a a small boat and heavy as electronics can be!

This thought might be followed by more musings such as "Who would want a CT scanner? ... Could they really sell it somewhere to get money? ...How would someone in that market even how to set up the electronics for such a complicated machine?" And so on.

These thoughts reveal our ignorance and disbelief of the extent and inner workings of theft and crime. However, when compared to the first thoughts of a South African medical student, they also provide a sobering commentary.

Their thought process starts the same as ours: "That can't possibly be true!"

"Exactly!" we think as we ready ourselves to discuss the logistics of stealing the machine. But then their insight unexpectedly changes course and leaves us, well, speechless and contemplative even though the comment was merely intended for and succeeded at bringing out a chuckle from the group:

"...There is no way a SA public hospital EVER had a CT scanner!"

The TRUTH about South Africa

I admittedly have failed as a foreign correspondent to the masses awaiting my reports of living abroad in this wonderful and backwards place. Ok. Admittedly, the proceeding sentence was a gross exaggeration from start to finish. "Foreign correspondent" = blogger. "Masses"= friends and family. "wonderful and backwards"= ... well, let me get to that.

The one word that actually might be true is Failed. Failed I have. It has been extremely difficult for me to write. I have started a few essays and, in despair, gave up usually less than halfway through unsure of why everything just sounds wrong, why my fingers just freeze up at the keyboard as I stare blankly at the screen. It seems I can’t focus on summoning the force necessary to pull the thoughts out of my mind and, simultaneously, navigate the through the words on the page. It is exhausting. (Picture me as Sesame Street’s Don Music ending his masterpiece composition by banging his head on his piano keyboard in frustration, “I’ll NEVER get it right!”)



And there is already a lot of banging your head in frustration South Africa! And even more exhaustion. So I think I’ve chosen to avoid the frustration and exhaustion that would come from writing about the day-to-day frustration and exhaustion. Having said that, my New Year’s resolution was to write- to post blogs for the people who are interested, and to journal as a reference for my future book (which my mentor/preceptor has already entitled “Trials and Tribulations in South Africa: a series of short and not-so-short stories from Andrea Dean.” This was right before she officially crowned me the most unlucky Yale-associated student ever to grace University of Pretoria. A position I feel honored- amongst other emotions- to hold considering one of the last students had her car stolen.) So it is now January 28th and I am attempting to write, my surgery providing a legitimate excuse for the late start. I suppose it isn’t so bad. At least it is the opposite of the gym-goers who start Jan 1st and are only now gradually letting you annoyed regulars have your treadmills and free-weights back. I can still follow through.

Before I started writing, I needed to think about why I couldn’t write. I love to write. I thrive on it. It keeps me sharp and sane. But here, why couldn’t I do it?

My answer began to reveal itself as I began reading Rian Malan’s more recent book “Resident Alien.”

(Note: Some of you know Malan’s “My Traitor’s Heart” which I read as a junior undergraduate student and again during my time in Namibia when my class was able to meet him briefly only to be, quite frankly, unimpressed by his blasé and seemingly sour character. Nevertheless, as a white (half Afrikaans and half English) male who lived through the height and fall of apartheid, Malan presented a view of South Africa that was unlike all others. It wasn’t hateful, but was not an outpouring of blind compassion either. It wasn’t unrevealing of the errors of the country, but it wasn’t full of desperation either. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t angsty. It wasn’t cold. What was it?. I often cursed Malan for his negativity, yet somehow he resonated with me. I admired him in spite of myself. All this unconsciously, in a paradox I'm not sure I could appreciate at the time. A paradox I now understand as, well, “South Africa.”)

As I opened Malan’s introduction, he started by quoting an American journalist friend who said “No one can write fast enough to tell a true story.” I paused to roll my eyes. It brought to mind college hill in Providence, where colored plastic body parts are wrapped around tree trunks in the name of art and hipsters in tight jeans are scattered along the sidewalk, where I’ve been known to mutter “Fucking RISD students” as I drive past. But Malan was a step ahead of me.

His next paragraph starts, “In America, this is an artsy verdict on the limitations of the form. In South Africa, it’s like a law of nature: there is no such thing as a true story here. The facts might be correct, but the truth they embody is always a lie to someone else… Atop all this, we live in a country where mutually annihilating truths coexist entirely amicably. We are a light unto nations. We are an abject failure. We are progressing even as we hurtle backward. The blessing of living here is that every day presents you with material whose richness beggars the imagination of those who live in saner places. The curse is that you can never, ever get it quite right, and if you get it close, the results are unpublishable.”

At this point I pictured Malan banging his head on his typewriter (I still picture all journalists with typewriters) and crying “I’ll never get it right!” and I thought of Don Music at his piano and I thought of me at my laptop… and I knew Malan was onto something.



I won’t try to rephrase Malan because he nailed it- this confusing and impossible experience that is South Africa. I want to write about everything, but nothing I write will actually be worthwhile.

I can’t bring you the usually sentiments from the third-world, the ones about the injustice of dire poverty, the ones that I used to spit out like rapid fire when I went abroad, the ones that make you feel connected to something you’ll never actually know. (Though I have some of those.)

And I can’t bring you tales of the rainbow-nation, the ones about progress that is thick in the air, the ones that make us believe in humanity, the ones that leave us feeling hopeful for the future. (Though I have some of those.)

I can’t bring you the stories of being in what appears to be persistent apartheid South Africa, the ones where people are full of hate and fear, the ones where we curse the powerful, rich, white men, the ones that make us assess our own privilege. (Though I have some of those.)

… and the list of “some of those” could go on…

The problem is, I can’t write one without writing the others. I can’t even tell one story separate from the others. In this country, they are intertwined, co-experienced, fluid, yet persistent, all are alive in every moment, moving, but not changing. Where in most places, to tell the partial story is merely inadequate, here i in South Africa, the partial story fares much worse. It is a lie.

Perhaps even at a deeper level than suggested by Malan, I don’t even feel comfortable relaying the facts. It seems straightforward enough to transcribe the series of events which happened when I was mugged, or I travelled to Kruger National Park, or I started work in Kalafong Hospital, or any other adventure. But even these facts are confusing and impossible on their own. On their own, these facts are untrue. Without including the subjective (the fear, the guilt, the intrigue, the anger) the objective does not exists.

Art is about expressing the subjective, which naturally fluctuates with experience and time (as it is to be human.) This task is not entirely difficult under normal circumstances. But South Africa, things are different because not only is the subjective fluid, but the objective moves quickly and erratically. The subjective chases it around, flapping its wings breathlessly and rarely lands long enough to see and appreciate it, much less capture it or describe it in words.

I realize this blog says nothing. That is ok with me. I am using today to premise what will come, since request have been made. I’ll try for at least some small stories, antidotes if you will, probably seemingly without substance. But I assure you, it is in these short stories (ones that take less than 15 minutes to write) that truth lies and only in them that I can accurately record at least a hint of my experience. I’ll do my best…

“We yaw between terror and ecstasy. Sometimes we complete the round trip in just fifteen minutes.” –Rian Malan.