Dense Breast Tissue: You NEED To Know!

What does one do when you are terribly homesick on a Sunday night? How about cooking for 5 hours? If nothing else, exhaustion sets in after about 3 hours and after 5 hours you are ready to blog about it with a glass of red wine and feet up! It started with Skype calls to my friends in South-Africa. How I miss them! How I wish I can be there more often!     

I needed to build a bridge tonight and more than any other blocks; food, flavors and spice can transport me from the here and now to a moment captured from the past. I needed to pour my heart out by re-creating the memories of past comforts and peace – a gift to myself to ease the ache of separation.

(Side Note: The difference between a gift and a present? A present is something that you want the recipient to have. But a gift is something that the recipient would want.)

Naturally, an over-achiever would not be happy with just one dish; instead I chose to make four complicated and involved, from scratch, ensembles that could have secured me a spot on the Food Network. The first was from home; a quintessential South-African dish that crosses racial and cultural boundaries, called “Bobotie”. Malayan in origin, it shares a similar flavor profile with Indian undertones. Over the years, I have added my own twists and turns to a version that reflects my style and taste. It is a wonderful marriage of spices, dried fruit, ground beef and custard – think shepherd’s pie meeting Quiche with curry and garam masala.

My next labor of love were samosas: delightful little triangle bites filled with all sorts, and in my case, curried lamb with peas. Not only is it a much-loved dish in South-Africa, but it was also one of my most favorite street foods in India. Making the filling, then form and hand stuff the triangles, were an intense exercise in patience and devotion. Oh, but how sweet they were!

But my masterpiece was a chicken tikka masala. It is satisfying to create the layers of flavor and the complexity of a sauce known by many, but all my own. Not much of a recipe follower, instead, I trusted my taste buds to balance toasted cumin seeds, coriander, paprika, curry, garam masala and so much more. Rounding out the group was another classic, lamb biryani, which will always transport me back to Delhi, to my first supper after the Himalayan 100 mile endurance race.         

The stormy weather outside was a fitting backdrop to my head space as a great downpour reminded me of nature’s way to yield to heartbreaking sobs and a good cry. Never underestimate the healing powers of our tears, or the rain, as it cleanses and washes away much of our frustration and pain.  To ease my kids’ fears when they were little, I constantly told them that a rainstorm was God watering His garden and that all the flashes of lightning was God taking pictures of the beautiful flowers.

My internal struggle to balance the puzzle of my life is ongoing. My American polish shines bright over the strata of the underlying characteristics from my third world love affairs. I have lived the privileged life for so long that I wonder if I can traverse back along the path to a more rugged and uneven route.

My South-African roots run deep and it seems the older I get, just like an Alaskan salmon swimming back; the place of my birth is calling me home. I miss my people, my culture, and above all, the land, whose sunsets, smells and sounds bring pleasure to my soul. My African dream hopes to carry me home one day.     

India struck a profound chord that is hard to explain. Having travelled extensively across many continents, I have never felt so instantly connected to a time and place as I did in this very complex country of extreme contradiction. And maybe that is exactly what attracted me the most to India’s core, as I recognized the extremes that exist within me.

From the sheer wonder of the Taj Mahal, the intense poverty in Mumbai, to the greatness and splendor of the Himalayas, to Varanasi, one of the oldest living cities in the world; I was thrilled by a tapestry woven with threads that took my breath away.

Varanasi (Banares) was the city whose spirit still echoes loudly and whose memory I unwrap often to enjoy like a special treat. Situated on the banks of the Ganges, it is the sacred city to both the Buddhist and Hindu and the holiest of all pilgrimages. As I stood under the tree where Buddha gave his first sermon, my wish was that I could be touched by my own enlightenment. I longed for the same peace I felt from the orange clad monks I encountered at the monasteries I visited.   

Watching dawn break over the Ganges, Holy River for the Hindu, wrapped in my beautiful sari, when twilight painted the world in blue ambient light, just before the first rays of the sun washed the temples and shrines in a golden hue along the river; I watched as thousands of people bathed in the blessed waters. I wished I could shed my own robes and baggage that easily, and stepped into my own waters of reverence.  

Being cremated on the Ganges is the supreme wish of a Hindu and the cremation flames have burned for more than 5,000 years at two ghats on the river, without ever being put out, ever. As I watched their flames from the middle of the river, I thought of the rituals and traditions that define the cultures we belong to. And I understood how much I am a nomad, sharing in many: some borrowed, some inherited and some acquired along the way, not always sure where I belong.

My Indian feast included witnessing exquisite pieces of art dating back to 2,300 BC. One of my most  favorite was a two-inch incredibly beautiful crystal sculpture of a woman’s head. I had no idea that the art of crystal was that old! I can still see her flowing hair and defined eyelashes in a piece that would have made Picasso envious. And it made me happy to know that humans were capable of creating such beauty so long ago. Regardless of the cultures that we belong, or the rituals we embrace, in the end, it is our humanity that ties us together. And I can embrace all the threads that have been woven into my complex design. 

Gift and present, I’m taking some of my homemade samosas tomorrow to a South-African Indian friend that calls Dallas home – somehow it seems to be the fitting close to my effort to build a bridge between the worlds that collide in my heart.

In my younger days I used to have a rule to only stay in places with working plumbing. Consequently camping was not my forte!  My initial reluctance to embrace al fresco sleeping stemmed from a weekend of complete misery in Cape Hatteras on the Outer Banks of North-Carolina.  Shortly after I arrived in the US, friends talked me into beach camping. The bugs ate us alive, my borrowed sleeping pad deflated during the night and I ended up down the hill with rocks hugging me as if I was a lost daughter. And the fine beach sand . . . how persistently it invades everything!

My dearest mates in South-Africa, Mark and Simone, have always considered my education lacking, especially given that I’m a “regte boere meisie”, and took it upon them to expand my camping skills while I was visiting in 2007. Bundu-bashing is a required activity for any true-blood South-African, and deep in the Kalahari Desert is about as wild as Southern Africa gets. That was where we were heading! And our bush plumbing included a little chair with a hole in the middle and a small shovel to dig and bury.        

It took days to get all the provisions needed and I was dumb struck at the inventory of supplies our two Landies will carry. Khutse Game Reserve in Botswana is one of the most remote wildernesses on earth and only accessible by 4×4’s. Due to its isolation you also have to be fully self-contained and carry enough water and gasoline for days. My friends don’t do anything shabby and a white tablecloth, fine French Champagne and a fiberglass ice chest found spots to ensure that we would camp with flair. Packed to the hilt, my friends, I, their 2 teenagers (Natasha and Kimberley) and their 5-year old, Alex, left Johannesburg for the long drive north.

(Side note: Ok, so I don’t really know how to drive a stick-shift car. And if you ask Simone, she will tell you that I have no clue. So, without any doubt, me driving to, in or from the Kalahari Desert was never on the table! And as a serious type-A, control freak and contingency planner, I rented a satellite phone before we left. Not that it did us any good, as it never found a signal.)          

Many hours later we arrived at the Khutse gate. It was late afternoon and the guard showed us on a map how to reach our designated camping spot with a pit latrine as the only luxury. There were no other living souls in site and without any lodges, chalets, rest camp or supply stores; “isolated wilderness” became very real. Simone had to drive into the setting sun and the rutted, sandy road made me consider converting to all the religions of the world – just in case. It was a nightmare! We were skidding from side to side and soon lost track of Mark’s Landie ahead. As night was falling we arrived at our spot, still having never seen another human. Khutse is famous for its hyena and lion, and without any barriers, we knew that becoming dinner was not far-fetched.

I was introduced to a head lamp and pitched a tent for the first time under close supervision. I learned that in the bush, with wild animals all around, you use your cars and tents, with wind screens, to make a circle. Yeah, I know, I would not have made it on the prairie either! And then we discovered our first major hurdle – we had a flat tire – and a “moerse groot probleem”!  

Having set up camp, we got the fire going and soon the smell of boerewors and lamb chops filled the air. The bush is alive at night and we could hear the roars and laughs of the nearby lion and hyena. Our lux, bush pit latrine was some ways away, and walking over there gave you chills down your spine as you wondered how many pairs of eyes were watching your moves. Botswana did not allow guns upon entry and our only weapons were a long sjambok, an axe and a shovel. My tent buddy was 18-year old Kimberley, a seasoned bush camper, and at 3am when I had to go, the one who stood guard with the sjambok, in case a rogue predator was out on the prowl.

(Side note: Khutse Game Reserve and the Kalahari Desert are located along the Tropic of Capricorn, which marks the most southerly latitude at which the sun can appear directly overhead at noon.)

The next morning we discovered our second major hurdle – some pipe, to cool the engine, of the second 4×4, had broken. And the phone could not connect to any of the dozen satellites circling the earth. Apart from being lousy at driving a stick-shift, I have also never changed a tire. It was my lucky day, because not only did I learn how to change a tire, I also learned how to fix a hole in a heavy-duty tire, under a tree in the middle of the desert! It took most of the day, beneath a blazing hot sun, several ice-cold G&T’s, much sweat and plenty laughter.

We have a saying in Afrikaans – ‘n boer maak a plan – and this “boere meisie” finally earned my way. I suggested to Markie that maybe we should use aluminum foil to build a new pipe because foil could withstand the engine heat. What do you know, it worked, and we drove all the way back to Johannesburg with a homemade foil pipe – maybe I would not have been totally lost on the frontier!

The African sky is flawless and unforgettable. By day it is an endless dome of blue and by night, a canopy of black velvet on which the stars sparkle like scattered diamonds. You can reach out and grasp the Milky Way between your fingers. And the ever-present beacon in the southern sky to guide me back to the African part of my heart, the Southern Cross. During those nights in the Kalahari, the sky was a masterpiece.

We ate like kings, laughed, danced around and begged the storm clouds to reward us with rain, met our neighbors whose roars made us shiver at night and generally had the time of our lives. I learned that you stash your trash inside the car or suspended from a tree, you keep the bonnet of your car up so animals cannot jump on, and that you can squat with a flashlight and a sjambok and still keep your shoes dry.       

Without any blood family, my friends mean the world to me and Simone is the sister I never had. The time together in the African wilderness was another vivid color woven into the fabric of my life. I discovered that bundu-bashing was in my blood, and when we broke up our tent, that we had slept on a cyclone of scorpions.    

These days working plumbing is of no importance, and a tent under a tree in an isolated wilderness, or a hut in the Himalayas; are all places I cherish and seek out. In such settings, stripped from the gloss of our conveniences and close to the essence of nature; I have found that I can hear my thoughts and listen clearly to the voice of God.       

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           (Translations: regte boere meisie - real Afrikaans girl, bundu-bashing – travelling thru remote & rough terrain, Landie – Landrover, moerse groot probleem – big trouble, boerewors – South-African sausage, stick-shift – gears, sjambok – horse or cattle whip made from the hide of a hippo or rhino, ‘n boer maak a plan – a farmer makes a plan, bonnet – hood)

Twenty years . . . twenty years . . . that is how long ago I arrived in the Western Hemisphere with two suitcases and not knowing a soul on this side of the Atlantic. But the story of how I became an American from Africa started long before I checked into the Holiday Inn across from the Winston-Salem Coliseum, on a very cold winter’s night, in early January 1991, in North-Carolina.   

It started as a teenager back in South-Africa when books took me on great escapes to far-away worlds and gave me the dreams to one day discover their allure in person. America has always been the land of big opportunity and for a penniless dreamer like me, back in 1980’s Apartheid South-Africa; it held such promise. But how could I ever get there?

I waitressed at a great Jazz restaurant while at the University of Pretoria, and on Sundays they had a brilliant five piece band that always dedicated the song “New York, New York” to me. I truly believed that my vagabond shoes would lead me there, and that I would wake up in the city that never sleeps. One way or another.  

(Side Note: Even in South-Africa you could not get anybody to pay you to study law or politics, and as a broke, but smart, high school graduate, I had to settle on a field that offered scholarships – Computer Science. How I hated its logical and unemotional decision trees, its flow diagrams and instruction code! Little did I now then, that they held my ticket to America.)

But before I joined the real world in the tedious toil from 9am to 5pm, I wanted to spread my little wings. I managed to negotiate a 6 month absence from Total Oil before I had to start re-paying, by working for them, the scholarships they granted me. With a backpack, no real plan, and just enough money for a roundtrip ticket to Europe, I landed in London. And as luck had it, I found a short-term job that paid me 20 pounds per day to be a companion to rich, elderly English ladies. It was 1988 and a really good gig with all my expenses paid, lunch at the local Pub and afternoon hour with Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry and great conversation . . . and my nights free to watch the Seoul Summer Olympics!

(Side Note: I don’t remember the lady’s name I looked after, but she was an accomplished pianist that performed at the Royal Albert Hall in London in her youth. We spent many days listening to the music of Beethoven, Mozart and the other celebrated composers of our time and I still vividly remember her ebony, grand piano and her frustration with her loss of control over its keys. )

I spent the next four and a half months traversing Europe on my Eurail Youth Pass, sleeping in hostels, or spending the night on an overnight sleeper train to save the cost of a bed. My backpack had 3 pairs of jeans, a few T-Shirts, a sweater, rain jacket, and one little black dress and nice shoes. I learned during that time how little we need and how much I loved the discovery of an unknown place. With no agenda and letting the wind take me to the next stop, I visited many of the great cities I read about. And my love affair with journeys and travel had begun.

Back in South-Africa, I struggled with the routine of day-to-day and a year later I packed my backpack once again and trekked for seven weeks thru the Middle-East, solo. Turkey was the country that captured my heart and I still long to return to its treasures. One day I will again eat fresh fish off the boats in Istanbul, while overlooking the Bosporus Straight, re-visit Ephesus and Troy, and once again enjoy the ancient region of Cappadocia.

But America was still out of reach. The dollar was strong, distances fast and the infrastructure not exactly friendly to budget travel.  I had 2 years left on my contract with Total Oil, and by now I had been transformed into a first-rate and high performing computer programmer. And then the stars aligned, the opportunity presented itself and I leaped at the chance . . . . Headhunters were recruiting skilled programmers in Johannesburg . . . . Back then we were in short supply in the US! OK! Having never owned a car, I drove to the interview in Sandton City on my little moped and hoped for the best. Two days later they made me an offer to relocate, but on condition that I had to report in North-Carolina 30 days later.  Where was North-Carolina? Who cared! I was coming to America! Without any family, closing shop in South-Africa was a speedy affair and buying me out of my contract with Total Oil, a complete no-brainer.

When I landed in Winston-Salem, I had $1,000 in my pocket, a work visa, two suitcases, each weighing 20kg, and a bottle of port from 1966, my birth year, which was a farewell gift from a friend. Seven days later, I only had a work visa, a cheap car, and $200 to my name . . . Looking back it is amusing to me that I grew up in one of the most dangerous countries in the world, but I got robbed upon arrival in America.

(Side Note: I paid $350 for my first car. It was a golden 1970’s Chevette without a working speedometer or emergency brake. The radio worked, the AC sometimes, and the engine sounded like the hacking cough of a dying smoker. When I replaced it six months later, I donated it to become scrap metal. )

The second night in my new apartment, a Saturday, all the pipes burst from the freezing cold, and I had to crash on the couch of a co-worker. Delinquents raided the empty apartments and stole everything I owned. A little rough start to my American dream! But the kindness of strangers helped me out. My boss, a short Italian from New York City, took me home and introduced me to his wife. She had MS and could no longer walk but she opened her closets to me and invited me to her suits from decades before. And I was so very grateful.       

This great land of opportunity has been even kinder to me and today I have so much, but I still like to think that I can travel lightly and need little, and the only collections I keep, are my photographs and memories.

Being on safari in the African bush is one of my most happy places. While living in South-Africa, we frequently spent long weekends in a game reserve, enjoying sundowners overlooking a water hole. Going out on a game drive holds the ultimate element of surprise as you never know what will be waiting around the next tree. The animals are wild, the game reserves vast, and many times you come up empty handed after hours of searching. But many times you strike gold and the memory will stay with you long after you have left. Over the years I have collected a treasure trove of bush tales. I have witnessed my fair share of fresh kill with lion or other predators satisfying their hunger. We have a saying that regardless whether you are a gazelle or lion, when the sun comes up you’d better be ready to run! Or you will either starve or be killed.

A few years ago I watched a large herd of Wildebeest cross and while walking, a mother birthed her young. It was remarkable to see the herd form a protective circle around her and her calf and even more astonishing how fast after both mother and baby had to keep moving with the herd. Following a pack of African wild dogs hunting, also called painted dogs, was another tremendous treat. Endangered, with less than 5,000 left in the wild, they are one of the most successful hunters on the savannah and working as a team, they patiently wear their prey down.

The slender cheetah always brings out my protective side – they are fighting for survival and are another species severely endangered. Having the distinction to be the fastest land animal,   its black “tear marks” run from the corner of its eyes down the sides of the nose to its mouth. Legend tells us that a lazy hunter stole three baby cheetah cubs and Mother Cheetah cried so long and hard over the loss of her cubs that the tear stains marking her face were permanent. And to this day, all Baby Cheetahs are born with black tear markings on their lovely faces, from the inside corners of their eyes to the outside corners of their mouth, as a tribute to that loving Mother Cheetah. Of course it also keeps sunlight out of the cheetah’s eyes and aids in hunting and seeing long distances.

Leopard is the most elusive predator and it is sheer luck to spot one in the wild. They are solitary and opportunistic hunters, can reach high speeds and are unequaled in their ability to climb trees even when carrying a heavy carcass. I became a very lucky person in August while staying at Thornybush Game Reserve. Not only did we see a female leopard with her cub within hours of a successful Impala hunt, but we also got to meet Bamba Nyati one night. What a magnificent creature! Fully grown, he was the epitome of an agile and stealth hunter and guarded a vast territory that included dominance over three female leopards. It took almost two hours to locate him after we first heard his territorial grunts in a dense dried river bed. It took tremendous skill between the tracker and the ranger to finally spot Bamba Nyati. His name means “Buffalo Killer” after a famous kill he pulled off when first spotted by the local rangers and trackers. We followed him for a while thru the bush and were warned to stay seated and very quiet in the open Land Rover. The ranger accurately judged Bamba Nyati’s path and soon he came towards us. His movements were relaxed and in the glow of the spot light you could see the ripple of his muscles and sense the sheer power hidden within. He calmly approached our vehicle and within moments he was inches away from my side. As I looked into his golden green eyes, I thought he may just climb up and onto my lap! Instead he just scent marked our vehicle and disappeared into the night. Wow, what a sighting!

But my luck was still pouring in. On our early game drive the next morning, we found Bamba Nyati along the northern fence line. He has been in a major territorial battle with another male leopard on the adjacent Timbavati Game Reserve and the two  had been trying their best to intimidate one another, forcing one to back down. The concerns were that one of the two will eventually cross the fence lines and attack the other. We watched him for a while and I was sad when it was time to leave. I thought of him often and wondered if he successfully defended his boundary. A few weeks ago I got an e-mail update from our ranger: Bamba Nyati did cross into Timbavati where the other male was waiting. The rangers lost sight of him but located him a week later  near the Thornybush game lodge with fresh scars on his face and chest, but otherwise in good health. Both leopards are back to patrolling their boundaries, growling and calling, but for now it seems that their altercation resulted in a truce. For the moment anyway.

The bush has taught me many lessons in patience and stillness. It is thrilling to see wild animals in their natural setting but the joy for me will always lie in just being present. To hear the animal night calls, watch the Milky Way in a star studded sky, smell the earth and feel its peace seep slowly into the corners of my soul, these will always be the gifts I receive from visiting the bush. And the affect lingers long after I have returned to my hectic urban life. I’m envious of the rangers and trackers that spend their time in the pursuit of finding the next sighting and wish I could find a way to join their ranks, but it is only a dream. All I can do is to wait for the next time I can hurry back to its splendor. And I hope that Bamba Nyati will be smart enough to negotiate a peace treaty with his neighbor. Allow me to make the introduction:

Fresh off two 10 hour plane rides back from South-Africa, nostalgia has set in. How sweet it was to be in my country with my people for three whole weeks. Every time I leave I wonder when I can be back. The older I get the more I need the beautiful African light to brighten my life and to draw me back time and again. Its warmth touches my heart and soul, and in the words of an African proverb: a life without color is like a life without sun.

America will always be my adopted home and I’m grateful for all the tremendous opportunities this land has given me. I love the people and feel proud to call Dallas home. It is just that I’m not always sure where I belong. I know that after 20 years in the US it will be very difficult to relocate back to South-Africa but a part of me so wish to try. And maybe it is just time for me to accept the fact that I will always be a transnational – straddling two continents and never really belonging to either.

The emotions that tie me to the country of my birth can best be expressed by the writer Andre Brink: “A love that can be explained is not love. But the fact that it cannot be rationally explained does not invalidate it.” Living in South-Africa with all the dangers and insecurities brings an urgency and immediacy, a relevance, to each day that is absent in Dallas. Here each day is easy living. Crime is low, people are polite and behave lawfully, living a culture of compliance. It is vanilla with little variation. There: chaos and anarchy is at your doorstep and follows you everywhere you go. But with the mayhem comes an explosion of vibrancy.

My heart swelled with pride during the 2010 World Cup. Bafana! Bafana! And South-Africa pulled it off. Success on the world stage. I love hearing the national anthem:  Nkosi sikelel’ iafrika (God Bless Africa) – especially the Afrikaans bits in the 2nd verse will always send a longing chill of home down my spine.  I guess in plain old English I am just homesick. But in Arikaans, my mother tongue, the word is much better - heimwee - it holds the right quality of sadness.

After travelling for more than 24 hours door to door, I was again reminded how far away my two worlds are from each other. I’m the glue that bind them together. I want Africa to crawl under my kids’ skins, to have a special place in their hearts. I want them to enjoy the magic of the African light often.  And when I die, I want one third of me to be taken home. The other third can find a place here in Dallas and the last third: a place near the Whale Sharks in Belize.

And I find comfort in the old Zulu saying: There is no spirit that does not come home. My spirit will just have to travel.