Gay Pages Winter 2017 : Full Article

I was humbled to be featured in the Winter Issue of Gay Pages 2017 and to share the reasons I left to travel with its estimated 45 000 readership. It was a great experience shooting with Zander Opperman and coming up with the concept and drafting the full article below with Kevin Du Plessis:

1 May 2012, Cape Town, South Africa

So diary, here I am. Five operations in and still no solution in sight… Doctors can’t seem to figure out what’s wrong with me. I am feeling super hopeless. My parents have offered that I move back in with them while I try and see their doctors back in Pretoria but if they can’t fix it down here, why would they be able to up there? What about my life and my job… I can’t believe what started with a little toothache two years ago has caused this ugly growth on my jaw… today at Woolworth’s the cashier went, ‘Whats wrong with your face?’ I am feeling so stuck and helpless…. what am I going to do?

18 February 2013, Johannesburg, South Africa

Diary!!! Today is the day! I’m about to board my plane to Seoul, where I am going to be an English Teacher. The 6 months I spent in and out of hospitals in Pretoria felt like an eternity… I was so upset to find out that the dentist who was supposed to treat a simple cavity, assisted by a ton of other medical negligence, had caused near fatal Ludwig’s Angina. With something as simple as extracting the tooth, I am finally starting to recover. Being bed ridden for the better part of last year, with a face pump stuck to me, has made this 22 year old body so skinny and weak… I won’t lie Diary, with this ugly new scar on my jaw, I am not feeling very confident in my looks. I am however determined to get my body healthy and strong again and to never feel that stuck again. Let’s go see the world!

24 August 2014, Busan, South Korea

Wow Diary, has it really been more than a year? Korea has been so good to me. Adapting to the culture has been an adventure and I am happy to say that everything I was scared of at the airport was for nothing. I love my work, the culture (especially the food!) and have a vigorous fitness regime. I am now a qualified personal trainer, I speak Korean with confidence and have already traveled to see the terracotta soldiers in China and Tokyo Disney! Also Diary, very exciting! I shared some pictures of my travels and my fitness progress on Instagram and a renowned Egyptian photographer in Seoul asked if he could photograph me in Busan’s beautiful bamboo forest. I have worked hard to get my health back, and because I know it can all get taken away tomorrow, why not? It would be a nice way to remember my time in Korea. I hope he can edit out the scar, haha!

20 December, 2014, Hong Kong, China

Diary I can’t believe that in a few short months so many photographers have reached out and asked to work with me. I am not extremely tall, the scar is still quite clear and at 24 I thought I was too old to be a “model”… the response to the bamboo forest photos have been extremely humbling.  I have been shooting with some of my heroes and hopefully my photos prove that taking off your clothes can be empowering rather than sleazy if it showcases the beauty of hard work. So many kind people have sent messages telling me I inspired them to get healthy and fit. Right now I am in Hong Kong shooting with theADDDproject who have come up with an amazing concept covering me in googly-eye stickers spreading my message of self empowerment to the thousands of queer readers of DNA Australia and the huge blog Fashionably Male. Strike a pose.

4 September 2015, New York City, USA

Diary, I started talking to French Photographer duo, Exterface and South African menswear genie Stiaan Louw over a year ago. I think their gorgeous collaborative work empowers gay men to take charge of their sexuality in their conceptual underwear. I am such a fan. When they suggested we work together I  was so excited till I realised they were on other side of the world… so I thought guess it’s something to dream about hey Diary? Enter Madonna. My Idol was set to start her tour in Miami and I blew all my savings on getting front row tickets on opening night. Tickets booked, I counted down the days only to learn that she was postponing the show to dates I couldn’t attend. But instead of seeing my girl live, I decided not to cancel everything and go enjoy a holiday states side. Good thing I did or I wouldn’t be standing here with the Exterface Boys… In New York City… In custom Stiaan Louw! Being photographed at such an iconic location – the baseball pitch in Central Park – is nothing short of magical. The look is so playful and through the conversation created by presenting sports gear in a homo-erotic way I feel the photos will release so many feelings we gay man suppress while watching or playing sport. NYC! Absolutely the concrete jungle where dreams are made.

13 February 2016, Tokyo, Japan

Diary, almost 3 years ago a naive and sickly looking little farm boy stepped off the plane in Seoul. How is this my last month living in Korea?! To celebrate all the places I have seen and all the amazing highs I have experienced my best friend from South Africa has to come explore Japan with me. Best of all Diary! It turns out the tour Madonna postponed has come to Asia and we are sitting in the shadow of her famous Erotica-era corset as framed in the Hard Rock Cafe anticipating seeing the icon tomorrow! I am so grateful to my experiences in Asia and abroad for giving me my health back. Diary I think I am ready to return to South Africa but not before I tell you this! I am going to perform at Asia’s largest Gay Festival in Bangkok this April as the first western GoGO dancer in GCircuit’s decade long history. Far-Eastern cultures are often so repressive when it comes to sexuality so I am thrilled to be a part of one of the most visible and celebrated pink events on the continent. What a way to say Cyonara Asia!

21 August 2016, Paris, France

Diary, today has been a day of days… Paris is everything the little boy who studied French in High School could dream off. All the more because today I shot in custom Stiaan Louw for a second time with Exterface on their home ground. Stiaan has been calling me one of his muses and designed an enchanting collection of intimate wear named after me for their new brand EXSL. Diary! The items are a mixture of hard metallic harnesses and softer pastel creations. People the world over are sharing images in these items, proudly flaunting their queerness and their bodies of all shapes and sizes. Who would have thought, my first cover shot in Paris with love. What next?

01 May 2017, Pretoria, South Africa

Diary look at this, “Congratulations – You’ve been selected by Sync Model Management.” I read this email just as I was finalising the arrangements for a two month teaching stint in Shanghai. Five years ago I would beat myself up daily about never getting healthy again. I would never have thought I would be so blessed to be an underwear model for a top gay brand, featured in queer publications around the world – no less traveling to 25 countries fit and healthy – spreading what I hope is a message of body positivity and self empowerment through fitness. This is the life I dreamed off trapped in my hospital bed. What does the future hold? I’ll keep you posted Diary!

5 Swazi Surprises

It wasn’t long after returning to the motherland that my feet were itching for an adventure again. When I say itching for an adventure I meant my mom was heading for a week at the Royal Swazi Spa and asked me to go along. Five Star Spa? Why not!

Swaziland and Lesotho are two landlocked countries within South Africa. While I have been to remote places like Battambang in Cambodia, I am ashamed to say that I have not yet visited either of these two kingdoms just a few hours drive away from where I grew up. Which probably reflects the silly ingrained notion in today’s culture that to travel in Africa is somehow less awesome than traveling elsewhere, even in South African minds. The trip was refreshing and here’s why:

Its gorgeous and green

There is this view of “Africa” as this dystopian hell hole of drought and fire – something I am always quick to dispel when I meet people from abroad. But even by South African standards Swaziland is gorgeous. Nestled among mountain tops the part of the country I saw around Mbabane looked like it was some green thumbed deities’ playground

Taiwanese men can opt to spend their military service in Swaziland.

 

Very interestingly as part of a development agreement with Swaziland the Taiwanese government sends a group of agriculture science students, among others, to come do research and aid the kingdom. So my guide for most of the week was a sweet Taiwanese kid introduced to me by a friend back in Taipei who managed to show me all the best sights of the town.

They have so many road bumps.

The roads are generally in good condition, but to get anywhere takes some time as there are speed-bumps responsibly built every few hundred meters. Add Africa time to any ETA.

Swaziland’s Ngwenya Glass Blowing Factory 

While I struggled to see any sort of glass blowing in Venice, Swaziland’s Ngwenya has a open factory where you can view the process from a overlooking balcony for free and at your leisure with a beautiful showroom and a quaint shopping village nearby. Needless to say it left a better impression on me than the “famed” glass blowers of Italy.

It has the world’s second largest stone, after only Australia’s Uluru

Doubtlessly the highlight was of my trip was a hike up the Sibebe Stone. I couldn’t believe that Southern Africa has this wonder and that it receives very little publicity. A fairly easy hike lets you ascend the verdant hills overlooking the hilly plains below. As the landscape appears from the clouds, cows with enormous horns graze alongside the paths until you reach the peak which is perfect for a little nap in heaven’s sunshine. No tourists, and not in a desert, Sibebe Stone is a lovely alternative to its big sister down under.

So, shall we check out Lesotho next?

My Euro Soundtrack 3: Paris – “You Better Work Bitch!

“You wanna party in France? You better work bitch”

This is the song that will forever make me think of my first time in Paris. For that silly lyric mostly but also for some Godney revelations. In many ways coming to the French capital was the final realisation of my goal to tick some items from my bucket list when I left for Korea. And here I was!

There have been only three places I have visited that were exactly what I needed them to be. Luxor, New York City and Paris.

Luxor was able to impress a sense of realism onto my childhood fantasies by illustrating how the Ancient Egyptian capital actually looked. New York City on the other hand stole my heart with the collections of art and that sense that it really is the centre of the world, the quintessential modern city.

But Paris ❤

Paris was the dream of a young adolescent gay boy who took French class in High School cause it was an invitation out to a world a little bit bigger than suburban Afrikaner South Africa. Probably the first place I wanted to visit, even before my obsession with Ancient Egypt began, as the years rolled on I got scared to visit. The visa requirements always seemed so strenuous and I had built this place up so much – I practically knew the layout off by hand from all my research and daydreaming back in school – what if it was so unwelcoming as everyone had warned?

Emerging from the subway at Barbès – Rochechouart stumbling past cafes in the shadow of the Sacré-Cœur Basilica on the way to my generous friend and host’s apartment immediately took me to my teacher, Mrs Van Der Westhuizen’s classroom.

Here I f-ing was. In Paris.

Looking at the church that stared back at me in that classroom for 5 years. In the flesh. This is when I knew Paris and I would have our romance, un coup de foudre.

The next day after I had my breakfast, an omellette du fromage naturally, I walked down from Montmartre to the Louvre. Imagining there would be a line for the ages I thought let me just get some snaps then return for another visit when it was quieter. Much to my delight I practically walked in and was face to face with the Mona Lisa almost immediately before pouring over the Egyptian exhibits. From the Place De La Concorde a friend and I, who had come to join me at the Louvre, chatted through the Tuileries and then strolled along the Champs-Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe and then to the Sein to take in my first view of the Eiffel Tower with a Nutella Crêpe in hand. On this first perfect day I was ticking off all the things I wanted to see. Everything was there just as the books had promised. The dilemma then, what next?

“You better work, Bitch!” Britney’s voice rang through my head as I checked my bank balance that evening. Not so perfect. France was the final stop of my 9 countries in 9 months plan, and while I decided to spend my hard earned Korean savings on a trip of a lifetime, I didn’t plan to be well, broke. At this point, apart from the “study grant” we earned as camp tutors in Italy, I hadn’t been earning a salary for about 6 months living my #bestlife in expensive Europe. And it was petrifying.  I still had so much to see! Versailles! The view from Montparnasse!! Musée d’Orsay!!! As I saw my Parisian dreams sink away I decided to borrow money from some friends, the first time I had ever done so and been in actual debt… “You wanted to party in France? BITCH!” I thought to myself.

After some cheap wine from the supermarket, I realised this was all actually a very welcome wake up call. Traveling is amazing – it is probably itself the passion I keep searching for. What isn’t so wonderful is the physical and emotional exhaustion that comes from permanent travel and that feeling of insecurity. I dreamed of making this my lifestyle, but somehow I would need to restructure what I was doing. I was loving Paris, but missing my past lives in Korea and South Africa. It was in the city of lights that I decided that I would go back to South Africa and just recover for a bit before deciding what my next adventure would be. Whether it would be a mobile or stationary life I wasn’t sure, but it was here in one of my favorite places I knew that just experiencing new things was no longer enough.

But for the moment I put that aside and breathed in every Parisienne cliché I could. Apart from the art, visiting the graves of world famous celebrities at Père Lachaise, getting lost in the garden labyrinths of Versailles with an old friend, another highlight of my French sojourn was the opportunity to be a cover model and shoot with the boys from Exterface in custom designs from Stiaan Louw for their EXSL range. Our second collaboration after working together in New York about a year before, I was wasting no time listening to Britney and getting to WORK, BITCH!

My Euro Soundtrack 2 : “I’m so into you”

After my time in Italy I traveled to Barcelona, Spain to meet some friends and for the world’s biggest Circuit Parties. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sober for much of it. What I do remember between Sagrada Familia and the beaches, was the summer anthem by Ariana Grande, so press play and let my pictures hablan.

I’m so into you, I can barely breathe
And all I wanna do is to fall in deep
But close ain’t close enough, ’til we cross the line, hey yeah
So name a game to play, and I’ll roll the dice, hey

Oh baby, look what you started
The temperature’s rising in here Is this gonna happen?
Been waiting and waiting for you to make a move
Before I make a move

So baby come light me up, and maybe I’ll let you on it
A little bit dangerous, but baby that’s how I want it
A little less conversation, and a little more touch my body ’cause I’m so into you, into you, into you
Got everyone watchin’ us, so baby let’s keep this secret
A little bit scandalous, but baby don’t let them see it
A little less conversation, and a little more touch my body ’cause I’m so into you, into you, into you, oh yeah

This could take some time, hey
Made too many mistakes
Better get this right, right, baby

Oh baby, look what you started
The temperature’s rising in here Is this gonna happen?
Been waiting and waiting for you to make a move
Before I make a move

So baby come light me up, and maybe I’ll let you on it
A little bit dangerous, but baby that’s how I want it
A little less conversation, and a little more touch my body ’cause I’m so into you, into you, into you
Got everyone watchin’ us, so baby let’s keep this secret
A little bit scandalous, but baby don’t let them see it
A little less conversation, and a little more touch my body ’cause I’m so into you, into you, into you, oh yeah

Tell me what you came here for
’cause I can’t, I can’t wait no more
I’m on the edge with no control And I need,
I need you to know You to know, oh

So baby come light me up, and maybe I’ll let you on it
A little bit dangerous, but baby that’s how I want it
A little less conversation, and a little more touch my body ’cause I’m so into you, into you, into you
Got everyone watchin’ us, so baby let’s keep this secret
A little bit scandalous, but baby don’t let them see it
A little less conversation, and a little more touch my body ’cause I’m so into you, into you, into you

So come light me up
So come light me up, my baby
Little dangerous
A little dangerous, my boy
A little less conversation and a, little more touch my body
’cause I’m so into you, into you, into you

My Euro Soundtrack: 1 – Be Italian

We made it… we think? After travelling south on the convenient highs peed Frecciarossa train at our first transfer no longer would “amazing” or “high speed” ever be used by anyone in our group to describe the public transport. After a few polite (?) yelling matches with some people at the train station we understood that to get to the sleepy town of Castel San Giorgio from Sorrento we would have take a bus with no discernible timetable or place to purchase tickets (that the bus driver might or might not check) . We take the first bus that looks right and get off  at a point we think we heard correlate to our vague instructions. Point is, we made it – we think.

Next minute a tiny car rolls up, inside a very large guy opens the window and asks if we are the English Tutors. His T-Shirt reads “FUCK HELL”. “Yes?” we answer uncertainly. He gets us into the car, doesn’t say much and drives us to a house where we would be spending a week of forced holidays before continuing on to teach in Sicily. As we unload our bags we learn that the owner of the house is called Mr Nasti.

The name seems apt: everywhere 70’s era catholic iconography and dated furniture are scattered around the clearly out of use house…. most hauntingly a limbless statue of  Padre Pio – a deceased priest –  looms over the beds of the boys. Not much time passes before fuck hell asks if we are hungry. “Maybe” we reply with some further hesitation.

Next he drives us to a gas station. Turns around eerily and says “tonight you eat gas” – fearing that we might be in some weird horror horror film and on the verge of yelling “No!” Fuck Hell bursts out laughing at his own joke and we are even more scared. Soon we learn that the gas station is also a restaurant/ karaoke bar/ supermarket (and a club after-hours apparently). So the joke was no that we were gonna die, LOL, but more like “oh hey… this is a restaurant…”

Not knowing wtf is going on we are shown to our seats right in the middle of the room filled with older people singing and hollering. The bad echo only lets up when wine is flowing and the most delicious pizzas are in front of us. Fuck Hell tucks in and tells us about what we can do in the coming week – Amalfi, Capri, Vesuvius, Naples, Pompei – mixed out with some funny stories . Turns out the big guy was just a bit hangry and is not threatening at all. We made it! We get smashed, impress everyone by singing some of the few English songs on offer before sleeping off the long travel fatigue in the surprisingly comfortable Nasti House under the watchful eyes of armless Padre Pio. Bellisimo!

 

Last summer I spent 2 months teaching in Italy with the ACLE Theatre English Camps. I started off with a weekend in Milan before receiving “training” with other young people from all over the English speaking world in the northern mountain village San Remo. From here we scattered across the country:  I then spent a week teaching some spoiled kiddies in Gorgonzola, yes the one where the cheese is from before the week spending the week with Fuck Hell described above.

The majority of my time teaching, however, was spent on Sicily. Two weeks on the inland town of Partanna, nestled between rolling hills of olives and grapes staying with the most attractive and welcoming host family a program like this could dream of, one week in a coastal suburb of Mesina, complete with beachfront 180 view over the black pebbled beaches and the Strait of Mesina, before rounding off my “profesional” responsibilities in a town near Palermo.

All of this before spending 10 days giggling with a co-tutor from Boston along the well beaten path from Turin to Genova  to Venice to Florence and finally to Rome. Fast forward past some time in Spain & France and I ended of my due mesi in Milano.

Throughout my very thorough tour of  Italy I kept thinking all of this seems so familiar. I mean sure there were many crazy stories like the one above, or another where the whole beach practically argued passionately about a jellyfish or where we were taken to see an “actual” case of stigmata, but in general, architecture, landscapes and art seemed very #seenit. Not to diminish its beauty or its impact off course but it was just a bit bizarre considering in my life I had never been to Italy or even Europe for that matter.

While walking the streets around the Duomo in Milano I got flashbacks of the much cheesier Monte Casino in Johannesburg. When asked if had eaten a certain dish before I thought back to of all the other times in my life around the world where I’ve eaten “Italian” – i mean pasta for crying out loud. The Cathedrals in Amalfi and Palermo, even the St Peter’s in the Vatican City, looked vaguely familiar and I didn’t have the usual culture shock I had when I went to a new country or place. Even the language wasn’t as overwhelming or foreign. This is not to say I wasn’t enamored and immediately Italian – it just felt a bit, i dunno, risk I say cliched?

One evening while having dinner with my generous host family in Gorgonzola one of the dinner courses was a selection of cheeses. Interestingly a whole massive wheel of Parmigiano cheese was rolled out and we we were each given little spades to hack at it with. Now I have eaten Parmesan a million times in my life before but this shard of authentic Parmigiano was truly and honestly next level, same with the cherries that were served for dessert and most of the food that I ate everywhere.

It is with a little degustation that you have a bit of a “duh” moment and realise that everything you recognize  as “Italian” is nothing but an imitation of the original – one of the juggernauts of western culture. No wonder it is everywhere. Milano did’t imitate stupid Montecasino in Joburg, its the other way round, and one bite of authentic mozzarella di bufala cheese from the Salerno, or Sicilian wine to understand that the self made pasta of your pretentious friends will never compare to what your house mom’s nonna whipped up in an evening. The cathedrals and glorious art works are only familiar because they have been in photographs and films, and mimicked for literally hundreds or thousands of years.

---

I kept singing the song from the Musical 9, Be Italian, sung by Fergie as a beach dwelling prostitute educating some eager boys on the virtues of being Italian – another interesting imitation of the wonderful original perhaps? So here let me take the song and impart it with some of my authentic Italian experiences. This is my version of Be Italian:

So you little Italian devils, you want to know about English?
Eraghina will tell you. If you want to make your teacher happy, just recite what I tell you, because it is in your book! teaching piccy

Be Italian
Be Italian

Take a chance and try to steal a fiery kiss 

Be Italian
Be Italian

When you hold me don’t just hold me but hold this
Please be gentle, sentimental
Go ahead and try to give my cheek a pat
But be daring and uncaring
When you pinch me try to pinch me where there’s fat
HA!
Be a singer be a lover
Pick the flower now before the chance is past

Be Italian
Be Italian

Live today as if it may become your last!

Hey!
Be a singer be a lover –
Pick the flower now before the chance is past venice vogue

Be Italian
Be Italian

Live today as if it may become your last!

Thoughts on coming and going

“If you are leaving to find yourself. You won’t” I remember how a now forgotten friend quibbed at me at some dinner party I went to when I was falling out of love with my life in Suid Afrika and making my decision to travel extensively. I didn’t take his advice to heart however: I was determined to return, if I returned, having found #me.

And sure, it was all about me. No more stale relationships, no more attempts at a career, bye bye dysfunctional family – me, myself and I are going to go live life thanks to my very hedonistic and selfish desires.

The irony is that for all its selfish foundation – how you experience so many sights, sounds, tastes and experiences are based on others.

I heard somewhere that ultimately the point of life is to learn to live in peace with other people. I soon discovered that in my quest to find myself I found so many others. And that has become my obsession and my problem with travel.

When I was a teenager sights gave me with what I needed when I went to a new place. The Mosi-oa-Tunya was humbling, the tombs of the great pharaohs inspiring and even in my own country I discovered ugly stories buried in many beautiful places.

Travel, to process passively, how history or nature interacted with a place seemed this infallible teacher. The brief trips I had as a kid created this belief and pressed me to make my decision to leave. To see more. Believing my quest to understand others would be found by gazing at dead structures, natural phenomenon or preserved stories.

ราชอาณาจักรไทย, that predictable launching pad of self discovery proved me wrong. I remember the gilded Buddhas and the pristine beaches, the Tuk-Tuks and the rows of foot massage chairs of course but what I will remember ultimately was my bravery/stupidity to give in to the allure and to run away with a stranger, to forgo the values I thought I had.

When the fantasy was over and lust was spent I had no idea how to get back to reality. I tried taking a moto taxi. I got on it and although I knew it was probably not gonna take me back to my hotel, I took a moment to bask in this high I was feeling:

An encounter with another. Someone who is different. Yet, for a moment you were not strangers, you were yourselves void of projections or societal performances that come with actually knowing someone or that come with with the threat of knowing them in future. As foreigners you suspend your trust issues and you were sharing as an authentic self as you wanted. You could be your best or worst self. You could be anyone. Who would know? Who would care? As I reveled in this feeling the sun rose through the haze over the silhouettes of a scattered skyline and framed everything in a fresh hue of a new day. Who would you meet next?

This is what I wanted.

It was no longer enough to passively see. So this would become my ritual in 西門町, in 鼓楼, De Waterkant, Oxford Street, SoHo, 12th Beach, ក្រុងសៀមរាប, Cataluña, 이태원 and countless other places.

Hiking along the Great Wall at 金山岭, sitting on the Star Ferry to 九龍, wandering through the streets of 新宿二丁目 or Hell’s Kitchen, crossing the Harbor Bridge, enjoying the shade of the Colosseo or standing in the line of Lincoln’s gaze, I found myself often rushing these touristy moments itching for extreme encounters from those who are as different to me as possible.

I started to believe that that was the only way to travel and get an authentic experience because ultimately the sights were merely a backdrop to the lives of the people who lived there, yes, but to those living there now.

There are exceptions of course. Standing overlooking the Manhattan skyline, letting my eyes wonder in Van Gogh’s The Starry Night, living out my cliched fantasmes parisiens – sprawled drinking wine and eating cheese on the Tour Eiffel lawn, it was easy to forget about that itch for a moment.

But before long that selfish traveler inside would override the needs of the tourist and the need to collect moments would become the priority. And because I can’t share it with myself I’d like to borrow someone to share it with. In my mind that moment is infinite. We might not speak again, but life is a witness to that moment.

No one can take it from me. From us.

Whenever I would get tired of this ritual i would turn to nature to feel a connection with something other than my ever expanding ego and desire to collect stories of others.

Swimming with sea turtles along the Great Barrier Reef or seeing bio-luminescent plankton light up darkness at កោះរ៉ុង, seeing the stark contrasting colors of Uluru, jogging along kilometers of Bamboo Forest that frame the 태화 River or on white sand where Table Mountain becomes blue in the distance was the only time I could take a break from that insatiable need to connect in this way.

Others, of course, do not always share this view. They are ultimately also on their own “self-finding-journeys” or whatever that may be. In their mind a moment might be measurable – finite and forgettable. To them they are not taking part in your journey, but you are a pawn, a piece, a fantasy – an irritation- in theirs.

Because of others a place might receive a certain tint. Lush Tegallalung will always remind me of greedy taxi drivers, Turino of desperate pickpockets and the Petronas Towers of forgetting myself. It is easy, but irritating, to focus on how some made you feel unwelcome in 新天地 or scoffed at your attempts to speak their language in 서귀포시.

What is harder is recognizing that these are the experiences that keeps the ego in check and actually helps you grow the most. Which brings me back to that question, why was I away from “home”?

I don’t think its to find myself. Annoyingly that Cape Town acquaintance was right. What I think so far of non-stop travel is that is an overwhelming, exhilarating, exhausting and ultimately humbling tour-de-force of humanity’s contradiction – of its kindness of its cruelty, of its self obsession, of its empathy and ultimately its search for meaning.

You become grateful for those so-called stale relationships, that dysfunctional family and experiences that you left behind, in my case, 4 years ago.

Beach Bum, Broke in Bali

Sitting at the pool at the upmarket W Retreat and Spa, Semenyak, I found myself in a curious position. Draped over the posh resort’s couches overlooking one of Bali’s breathtaking sunsets, I sat with two older Australian tourists and three younger local Balinese guys. There was some chic lounge music playing and all around the pool people were sitting in their sunglasses as if they were posing for some kind of shoot – looking beautiful but miserable in the last glow of the gorgeous day past.

Our table in contrast was loud and borderline obnoxious. “Its her birthday!” screams the balding sunburned Australian man as he pours me another glass of expensive champagne. Next to him is seated a very slight local boy, I met the evening before at one of the gay bars in full drag. This pretty boy fishes out the strawberry from his own glass and feeds it to Australia with a bright smile, all the while holding hands and looking very much in love.

“Cheers!”yells the birthday girl. 40? 45? I think as the table raises their glasses before she in turns kisses her very masculine and robust companion who, as he lies on her lap, looks like the epitome of Bali’s island style in a cut off vest and board shorts, his bare feet dangling over the edge. I am told he was their driver to some temple that morning.

Bali. I had never really thought of coming here but because I was in the area I decided to come and see what all the fuss was about. My flight over from Singapore, while short, was easily the worst of my life. A little boy for some reason kept yelling at the top of his lungs what the plane was doing. “THE PLANE IS TAKING OFF DAD!” Perhaps in a bid to outdo her brother his sister was crying solidly for the duration of the flight in a volume that made everyone in the plane visibly uncomfortable. While I am not really superstitious I have a stupid belief that a flight to a country is usually an omen as to how the trip will be. In retrospect I imagine it was life’s way of saying to me, PREPARE.

Stepping off the plan at Ngurah Rai International Airport I felt incredibly pleased with myself however as this was country number 20 I had visited. If I could survive solo traveling in China, or hiking blizzards in Korea, an island paradise would be cake. So I decided to ignore the bad omens.

This arrogance proved to be my downfall as I felt for scam after scam. First, my taxi from the airport was ridiculously overcharged, next my hotel “resort”in Ubud conveniently left out the fact that they were quite a bit out of the town and in-fact a hotel school, Uber drivers would try and add in an extra zero to take advantage of the confusing exchange rate and I was sold a package tour when I just wanted a beer.

Bali’s redeeming quality really is how breathtaking its natural and cultural resources are. Despite a week of being treated like a walking ATM, it was really impossible to stay angry looking at a sunrise atop Volcanic Mt Batur and the surrounding crater and glittering lake beyond. Or when you were drawn in by the flawless performances of Balinese Sanghyang dance and of course wandering the lush terraces of Tegalalung.

Well impossible until I realized somewhere between temple hopping I had lost my Cheque Card from my Korean Bank where all my money was saved until I made a plan to settle in a new country after leaving my job there. Added frustration was that because I was no longer a registered alien worker with them I couldn’t access my online banking profile from abroad with no Korean telephone number which too had to be cancelled upon emigration. Add to this arriving in Semenyak late on a Friday afternoon as the bank’s English helpline was closing for the weekend.

FUCK. Who was this traveling buffoon?

I used my last cash to pay one night at the hotel upfront and began scrambling trying to make a plan. An angel came in the form of a friend who wired me some cash via Western Union. Enough for a week at the hotel and a little extra to spend. My hotel was down the street from the little strip of local gay bars, so what else was there to do? Drink.

If you had put me in the situation at W before the weekend I was about to start I probably would have been a bit disgusted by the set up. Rich, older westerners apparently coming to rape and pillage the beautiful island paradise. But what I realized this weekend (and honestly the week after till my flight left) spent frequenting the gay bars and making friends with the local guys, barmen, gogo boys and drag queens, it really isn’t as sinister as all that.

“Why spend my life working 9 hour days in a field or in a hotel reception, when I can enjoy my home country with someone who treats me well and makes me feel loved”said one of my new friends. As a hot younger tourist would walk in he would catch my eyes wondering and say “so predictable”and then explained how he found the older types more appealing cause they are kinder, less arrogant and obviously also more generous. While I am not saying this kind of trade, if it can even be described as such, is right (or wrong) and my experience offers just a glimpse into local life I would say that it seems that both parties play the situation to their benefit. A funded holiday romance seems better than coming to this romantic place alone.

When I finally got through to the bank on Monday they said my replacement emergency card would arrive Thursday just in time for my flight to Bangkok on Friday. I found myself playing the game a little as well due to necessity, saying yes to meals offered to hang out with me and even gogo dancing one evening to get my bar tab covered. Nothing as crazy as spending the night at a visitors villa but it did let me check my privilege and it did humble me enough to get rid of my naivety and “experienced traveler”arrogance.

When I see the side eye from all the other travelers sitting around us at W, the Australian fellow asks yet again “more champagne?”, I say “Absolutely.”

Shanghai, wait, Singapore Surprise

After two wonderful weeks with Sack, he left early in the morning on to India and I had an evening flight to Shanghai. I spent my last day in Cambodge at the local gym working out shirtless as is the apparent sweaty custom before having my final Loc-Lac and heading to the airport.

I had been to Shanghai before but it was a very hazy party weekend. This time I was eager to see the city on one of their awesome 72 hour transit visas. I read somewhere online that although South African passport holders were not on the list we still qualify. Well I think I did…

SMART HUH?

“Do you have a visa sir?” Interestingly enough I had an actual tourist visa that had expired just the day before, but I said I plan only to be there for 72 hours and showed her my flight out of Shanghai. She assumed that South Africa, as a country of the Commonwealth, which spends millions kissing China’s ass, should be on the list of approved countries. Checked me in and I was on my way.

OR WAS I?

As I settled in at a coffee shop I heard “ËAR HEART VERMACK PLEASE REPORT TO CHECK IN GATE so and so”. Ugh. Turns out the article I read was for a 24 hour transit visa #idiotabroad. So they said if I could book a flight from Shanghai that would be less than 24 hours away I could board. I scrambled for a few good minutes but all the flights were stupid expensive. So I decided to rather spend one more night in Siem Reap and make a plan back at some hotel I booked in the Tuk Tuk back to town…

Grumpily I looked at flights and I saw one to Singapore for a reasonable price. “Singapore is like Hong Kong without the cultural backbone”, I remember a friend telling me once. Fun… but I was ready to go from ancient temples and dirt roads to skyscrapers and some air-conditioning so thought I could use it as a stop over to get to Bali. I texted some friends and it was set, “back-boneless” Singapore it would be.

24 hours later as I got on the subway from Changi Airport I immediately knew my friend’s summation was harsh. Just on the one line I could see stops named for influences from all over. How could a place that makes such references icons be without culture?

I thought Singapore is both rooted in her traditions while glittering and modern at the same time. On any given day you can have breakfast somewhere near the intricate divine statues adorning the facades of Hindu temples in Little India, have lunch (and drinks) in the shadow of a Mosque at Arab street before seeing the harbour come alive with lasers and 21st century extravagance around dinner time. Yes you might pass through 10 malls on any given trip between these destinations, that are all welcome air conditioned respites from the thick humidity outside, but I don’t think these consumerist havens detracts from what the city has to offer. Don’t even get me started on the magical Avatar-like gardens by the bay!

The ultimate Singapore surprise to me was however that although I was without my closest friends for my 27th birthday, the friends who welcomed me here with a night stay in a Presidential suite, for instance, or a surprise birthday cake at midnight on the big day would have me believe otherwise <3.

So as great as an unexpected week in the city of Merlions was, I had gotten my fill of civilization again and was on my back to an airport again. Although this time I tripled checked whether South Africans needed ANYTHING for Indonesia – cause Bali was not a place I wanted to skip.

Remember the Ramada – Kuala Lampur & Cambodia

“OMG look at this place!”after a long flight on top of finishing 3 awesome but exhausting years of teaching in Korea our grand tour of freedom has finally begun. Dramatic? A little, I guess, but listen to this,”If we ever fight on this trip, REMEMBER THE RAMADA”

My best friend from Korea and I would spend a long weekend in Malaysia’s capital, staying at the Ramada, as a kind of stopover on our way to our main destination – Cambodia. After this he would go to India and I to places yet determined.

So what is so damn special about the Ramada?

To help you understand let me take you on a (quick) separate journey; a journey of an unwilling friendship forged with the fire of Korean bbq, socially lubricated with many litres of flavored soju, seasons of Project Runway and RuPaul and some intense bonding trips where we hiked for 14 hours over “Dinosaur” ridges or ran for 22 km along the border with North Korea.

For the sake of this article lets call my friend Sack, cause I know it will annoy him. But long journey short, through these experiences, and yes some petty fights we were now #besties and saying goodbye after 3 years together.

The Ramada was special because A) usually we would be cheap on our trips in Korea and stay in nasty “love motels” and hostels and this was a 4 star suite and B) it was the first time probably ever we were not being annoyed by each other.

Kuala Lampur (KL) was really such a lovely surprise. I went in with zero expectations and freedom’s first stop sure was sweet; Tropical weather, exotic but delicious street food (stingray anyone?), a sexy party scene with welcoming locals and a beautiful sights to see when we were sober enough to do so. Both of us were fans of traveling solo cause people so often suck but Sack was proving to be the perfect travel companion. As we were sipping our Appletinis overlooking the infinity pool and a sunset over KL’s skyline on our last night in Malaysia we decided to REMEMBER THE RAMADA (but really the wonderful time we had in KL) if by the off chance we would annoy each other in Cambodia.

Cambodia, and more specifically Angkor, had been on my bucket list because of its archaeological stature. As a kid, I was obsessed with Egypt, and I have been dreaming of seeing the only temple complex larger than Karnak. FINALLY I would be able to see her grandeur amidst the forests and my Lara Croft fantasies. But first we decided we would give the rest of the Khmer kingdom a proper tour as many friends said it was something quite special. I summed up my feelings about it on Insta,

While Angkor drew me here I was pleasantly surprised by friendly Kampuchea. The Killing Fields in Phnom Penh were sobering, the oceans at Koh Rong Sanloem sparkle like the sky at night and at Battambang millions of bats set out to hunt overhead every dusk. Angkor and her temples were wonderful, but Cambodia is so much more than decaying stone. Do yourself a favour and visit this beautiful place  អរគុណ លា កម្ពុជា

And for all of this Sack was so wonderful. We were angry at disrespectful tourists together at the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, we were giddy as we cruised tipsy along the Mekong, both of us took volumes of pretencious pictures for each other whether it were on the nearly departed beaches of Koh Rong or walking the streets of Battambang, it was just perf.

UNTIL ANGKOR WAT.

Yes. Now a little backstory, Sack had visited Angkor before. He did the whole tour and lived this whole 3 day history extravaganza on a previous trip. It was also extremely hot. Cambodia I will remember for being cheap, beautiful and HOT. It seems #seenit boredom and heat as separate factors two elements might be okay for a Sacky to deal with, but not together.

ANGKOR DAY 1: Up early, the usual chatty sack is quiet and off taking photos by himself. Rushing through the temples. LORD. So sweaty and hot. Wonder what is wrong? REMEMBER THE RAMADA GURL. REMEMBER.

When we would return to our very lovely hotel after a long hot day of touring and we would jump into the pool, get wasted on poolside cocktails, my Ramada Sack would return. Where have you been?! I held faith that Day 2, would be better.

ANGKOR DAY 2: “It looks like a used car lot” We are looking at Banteay Srei. Don’t many consider the most beautiful of the temples? Keep calm like you did this morning. BREATH. I thought it was pretty beautiful? Guess today won’t be better… REMEMBER THE RAMADA! But also remember this skank had your back when you were stuck in Hong Kong without a penny. And that just a few short days ago you were blissfully blazed on the white sands of the islands down south and that it is just very, very hot. REMEMBER.

Pool routine and some massages later, Sack was happy again. “I am gonna go back to Angkor tomorrow. I’d like to go look at the reliefs one more time. You wanna meet back here?” I said to my friend drifting in the water opposite me. “No, no I will come with. Might as well…”

UGH. As we pass out I prepare mentally for Day 3.

ANGKOR DAY 3: “Look at the detail here… Isn’t this place gorgeous… Must have looked so good back in the day… Want me to take a picture of you?” Thank you Shiva and thank you Ramada for coming through. The b*tch is back!

After spending a good few hours at the hallmark of Khmer architecture we took the back exit to avoid crowds and to meet our Tuk-Tuk driver. As we left I asked the driver to pause so I could take a picture of the orange sun setting over the vast moat that surrounded the lake. As I got out I saw Sack having his own “Another Photo. Ugh… REMEMBER THE RAMADA” moment a few feet away.

I looked at my sometimes grumpy yet always generous friend and thought, “YES ANOTHER ONE. Thank you for today and for three unforgettable years”.

 

9 countries in 9 months

Its been such a journey since I left Korea, from rural Cambodia to sleek Singapore, being a beach bum in Bali to shaking said bum in Bangkok. I was also a responsible teacher in Sicily before partying very irresponsibly in Spain. And I finally made it to Paris ❤

I am back being a tourist in my homeland and surrounds and excited to bring some more African flavor to the Gyptian Test. I look forward to sharing my stories with you soon! E