Mollie Stone Pride

The always beautiful Mollie Stone

Any other night I would have been rashed if I had to dress in my three-layer suit after a long Tuesday at St.Anne's.  But yesterday was different.  That evening we sported our white sweaters, knee length skirts (some rebellious girls didn't follow that rule), and our flimsy white bows for an important purpose: it was the birthday of our boarding house, Mollie Stone!  Besides a delicious three-course dinner, a short but relaxing chapel service, and a war cry rally on Front Lawn, a house's birthday is accompanied by many other upsides.  First, on your house's birthday you don't have to go to chapel.  While everyone enjoys a bit of spiritual uplifting in the mornings, having 45 extra minutes to loaf around the dorm in the morning is much more enjoyable! Second, you wear your comfortable sport kit (consisting of track suit pants, a blue game shirt, track suit jacket, and a pair of arch-supporting tennis shoes) instead of the normal uniform (track suit pants, long sleeved collared shirt, tie, sweater, and the notoriously uncomfortable school shoes). 



The dreaded traditional school shoes



At quarter to 7 pm the whole of Mollie Stone arrived at the dimly lit, ancient chapel.  The main part of the chapel has been used since the school was first founded in 1877 and the holy feeling comes naturally to the environment through the wooden benches, vibrant stain glass windows, and woven seat cushions.  The girls from all five forms sat together, unlike the usual grade-dividing seating arrangement we normally sit in which enhances the apparent grade hierarchy at St.Anne's.  I'd like to say that we were all sitting silently and patiently in our seats, embracing the moment of house unity but...I'd be lying.  Instead, girls rapidly chatted and attempted to whisper (emphasis on attempted) as if they had not had the opportunity to gossip literally since they awoke at 6 am.    But all the background noise ceased as the reverend approached us all and began to speak in her soothing tone.  That chapel service was one of the most intimate I have experienced during my stay; the prayers were meaningful and relevant, the girls were awake (yes, sometimes during early Tuesday morning chapel some girls tend to doze off while bowing their heads), and the hymns were sung to the best of the girls' abilities. 

It's a good thing I wasn't zoning out during this service as I heard the reverend calmly say, "And now I'd like to call up Katie so we can pray for her before her departure on Thursday."  I felt my poker face drop and a blushing expression of embarrassment swept across my face.  I've realized that for an actress I'm not very good at suppressing blushing and embarrassment on my face.  But nevertheless, I embraced the reverend's loving intentions as I walked to the front of the chapel.  As I turned around to face the rest of the Mollie Stoners I saw that I wasn't alone, but instead I was surrounded by some of the closest friends I've ever made.  Mostly fourth and fifth form Mollie Stoners, girls began to grab hold of some part of me, my shoulder, arm, sleeve, even to another person who was touching me so we could all be connected.  Reverend began leading the prayer and we all allowed our heavy heads to bow.  I listened intently as the reverend prayed that I might have a safe return home, embrace all that I've learned while at St.Anne's, and remain in the girls' hearts long after I've physically left this place that at first was just an educational institution but now rests with me as a home.

As we led from the Chapel to the Dining Hall for the main attraction, the meal, we were immediately hit by the luminescent orange the covered the Dining Hall.  Our house color has never been used on so vast a level;  the napkins, table clothes, flowers, and even the juice glowed varying shades of orange!  At each table the different groups of people at St.Anne's who are attached to Mollie Stone were represented: one girl from each form and a teacher, and at my table we were seated with Mrs.Mansfield, our beloved house mother! 

This Mollie Stone house dinner was a momentous occasion with all of the forms meshing together, the different age groups chuckling fondly over Mollie Stone memories together, and might I just add that the three-course meal should have been served in a gourmet restaurant, not at a boarding school.  However, the night was also one that brought tears to my eyes (and that's saying something--at boarding school I've learned to "suck it up" and "rub some dirt in it" and not cry no matter the situation.  But this night I couldn't hold back the tears).  This year is Mrs.Mansfield's last and in so many ways an important part of Mollie Stone will go with her when she departs.  Our Head of House described Mrs. Mansfield as "the perfect combination between strict and lenient", the reason why Mollie Stone's parent meetings attract non-Mollie Stoners too, and "the most loved of all the House mothers".  As our Head of House presented Mrs.Mansfield with a bouquet of orange flowers, the room went fuzzy as my tears broke through the dam that had suppressed them these past two months. 

But knowing Mollie Stone girls we couldn't end the night on a sad note: instead (after cleaning up the Dining Hall and rearranging the tables for breakfast the next morning) we all sprinted onto Front Lawn, the massive chunk of grass in between the other boarding houses (Andrews, FB, MB, Macrorie, and Usherwood), and sang our Mollie Stone war cries.  Mind you, even with stomachs full of lamb chops, pudding, prawns, and potatoes, we still managed to sing three war cries with such dedication that we disturbed all of the boarding houses during their study times.  Heehee.  Walking and taking it easy as we headed back to Mollie Stone, I looked around at the mob of girls; sure, we might all come from different families, homes, backgrounds, and origins, even countries, but we all were united by a common force: Mollie Stone.

In a Hypnotic Hippie Daze...And Lovin' It

I literally couldn't think.  I couldn't really do anything but zone in and out of some floating fantasy land.  The worry less feeling didn't seem natural...but I oath nothing sketchy was involved, it was just the product of a soothing noise, reverberating out of a colorful round bowl.  The man who owned the white tent with all the stones and wooden jewelery sported a leather fringe vest and was known as the master of the soothing hippie bowl; he would simply ding the dense stubby wand against the side of the bowl and slowly brush around the edges like Sandra Bullock playing the water glasses in Miss Congeniality with her pointer finger.  Robyn and I floated out of the tent and back into the loud Hilton Arts Festival environment of mini donuts, drunken "free spirits" and dream catchers.  Apparently we were the only ones affected by the soothing hippie bowl; Abi and Anthea were chatty and searching for economically-friendly souvenirs in the market place.  But I was forced out of my carefree zone as I had a split second to weave out of a mother and her baby stroller's way: the Hilton Arts Festival, despite it's chill vibe, was no place to wander without a purpose.  If you did let the crowd carry you, you might not be back in time for dinner. 

This annual fair, sponsored by a local newspaper, is located for three days on the posh, prim and proper Hilton College campus in Hilton, South Africa near Pietermaritzburg. I found it surprising that even though the Hilton residents mock how small and cozy their unmapped town is, the Hilton Arts Festival still attracts international attention every single year, accompanied by foreign tourists, world renown performers, and American exchange students!

While the main attractions usually are the plays and band performances, I didn't actually make it around to a "formal" performance, but that doesn't mean I didn't see talent!  Just walking to buy a water bottle (it was a sweltering Spring day) I was charmed by a Swiss fiddler who knew about 10 traditional American songs by heart, a struggling Rhodes University student with a knack for playing the guitar in unorthodox ways, and a pink-haired lady explaining her new form of art (it is so intricate, even I can't explain it properly).  So one might ponder, "Katie...If you didn't go to any formal performances or plays or whatever, how did you spend two 11-hour days at a single festival?"  Well let me explain:

• Artsy People--It is a proven fact that artsy/dramatic people make life more enjoyable.  They also live longer due to stronger heart muscles as a result of laughing so often.  The artsy to preppy ratio at this festival was easily 5:1.  And thus, the arrogant, mood-killing people that so often surround and oppress the happy were outnumbered and basically invisible at this festival.  Both nights at the festival we stayed till 11 pm on Saturday and 6 pm on Sunday hanging out with chill people, playing guitars on grass, not worrying about the grass stains, and having fat chats about the most random things.  And honestly, that's the way to go. 
• Original Shops--First of all, admit the fact that after a while chain stores get old.  Ex: Aldo, American Eagle, even my beloved Urban Outfitters.  Don't you just wish you could walk into a store and find totally unique and newfangled purchases?  Stores these days all sell the same products in the same range of colors in the same range of sizes and to be frank, it's boring.  Catch phrase of the weekend: "Not at Hilton Arts Festival!"  With one tent per 8 feet, this festival offered quite a bit of variation; food tents were mixed in with jewelery shops, kids toy shops speckled in between handbag tents, and cupcakes melted next to health sandwiches.  This diversity of shops enabled something for everyone and thus, nobody gets bored!
• Hilarious Company--Abi, Anthea, and Robz, some of the most amusing people on this earth, immensely contributed to the most priceless weekend of these past two months.  Abi knew legitimately every single person living in Hilton.  Every two steps the rest of us would be introduced to one of Abi's friends from this school or this party or this place--and pretty soon those people became our friends too!  Since this festival tends to attract the theatrical, free-souled, and loud residents of Hilton and the greater world community, instant chemistry was the norm this weekend.  I would pull up a chair and within 30 seconds the other person and I would be entranced in a fat chat about the most random topics, and y'know what?  We didn't care!  We didn't care that it wasn't your "typical conversation topic" because why does it have to be?

After spending a weekend at the Hilton Arts Festival I have finally come to understand why this 3-day party attracts so many people from so many places: I've never seen anything like it.  Sure, festivals and fairs seem like fairly common weekend outings, but no Festival in the Park in Charlotte can compare to the Hilton Arts Festival's ethnic and retro vibe, the diversity in food and stores, and the raw talent that was showcased by varsity students and experienced musicians alike underneath every tree.

The Chill Vibe of Ballito

4:30 AM may sound like an early time to wake up on a Monday morning but trust me, it feels earlier than it sounds.  But as I fastened my St.Anne's tie around my starched shirt collar (I have officially learned how to tie a tie properly!) I centered it in front of the top shirt button knowing that I wouldn't have wanted to spend my weekend anywhere else besides Ballito with my friend Robyn.

All my other weekends had been slam packed with exciting touristy activities (Don't get me wrong, all my weekends have been AMAZING) but this past weekend had no schedule, no fees, no waiver-signing.  Robz and I sprung off our beach weekend marathon with an unconventional Saturday afternoon picnic!  Instead of packing an apple pie, carrots, and sandwiches in a woven straw basket, we stuffed ice cream, chocolates, sodas, chips, and grapes (had to bring something healthy) into a cooler.  We plopped down onto our two towels, beholding an everlasting view of the ocean, munching on Simba chips and testing out different food combinations during our four hour picnic.  Around 5pm the ocean waves began to crash hectically onto the shore and the wind picked up several knots; I didn't need to be back at Camp Seafarer to know that we'd better get off the beach.  Fast. 

Back in the comfort of Robz's home, a mixture of sleek city interior and yet simultaneously a panoramic beach view, we had to quickly get cleaned up for Robz's neighbors who were coming over for dinner that night.  Judy, Robz's 12-year-old sister, sprinted into the computer room an hour later, ecstatic about the idea of making a dessert for our guests--after two months of Home Economics classes at St.Anne's I figured it would be a piece of cake (Haha sorry, no pun intended) to create a dessert...I was wrong.   After much deliberation and website hunting we decided on a marshmallow pudding.  It seemed simple enough; we followed the recipe, mostly consisting of melted chocolate, flour, sugar, condensed milk, and marshmallow and plus I'd watched half an episode of Master Chef Australia everyday for the past week; I figured that we'd ace the recipe.  However, only after we had sloshed all the ingredients into a bowl and were stirring it around did we realize how sketch the recipe sounded: It said to place the pudding into the oven for 1 minute.  1 minute? What is that going to do?  And plus, the recipe didn't even specify the oven temperature.  Lesson learned: Never trust the Internet. But we couldn't just stop then, we had a whole bowl of ingredients; we figured that we weren't brought up to be cowards and wimps.  We had to experiment, be chaotic and improvise a little!  I know you're dying of suspense so let me just tell you the ending result: It was a multi-layered pudding/jelly like substance with melted pink marshmallows on top--I loved it.  I would call it an "acquired taste".

Later that night I met Robz's next-door neighbors, a family with several kids, the eldest boy, Hlubi, is 19 and in varsity and the youngest girl is about 4!  The 19-year-old is possibly one of the most talkative people I've met, finally someone who talks as much as I do!  He reminded me almost of Gus; he showed us his high school choir's performances while singing along and doing the dance moves in exact timing with the Youtube video (the taped and live performances were impressive, I must say!).  The five of us eldest kids, Robz, Hlubi, Judy, Hlubi's little sister, and I watched Made of Honor (Patrick Dempsey rocks any neighborhood gathering) and by the end of it Robz, Judy, and Hlubi's little sister had gone off to bed.  But Hlubi and me, being two of the chattiest people on this earth, stayed up and watched Will Ferrell in The Other Guys, he and I basically talking through the whole movie.  We literally talked about everything from the NFL, to China's future, and even why Americans are the only people in the world not embracing rugby.  But eventually at 2 AM on Sunday morning after Will Ferrell delivered his last punchline of the movie, Hlubi knew he had to head home and I knew I'd better get some sleep. 

The next morning I changed straight from my pajamas into my swimsuit and Robz and I hit the beach!  After attempting to obtain a beachy tan, we headed to the wonderland in every girl's dreams: the mall.  Our shopping excursion lasted four hours--now that's intense shopping.  With plastic bags full of souvenirs, jewelery, and gifts, Robz and I headed back to her casa and gladly flopped on the couch with a piece of traditional milk tart  to witness the USA rugby team (It's pathetic, I didn't even know we had a rugby team!) get pumbled by the Irish.  But, as Robz's dad put it, the USA's result wasn't that bad: they "came second"...out of two teams!

My last night in Ballito was true to the nature of the town, chill and relaxed.  I painted my toenails (my goodness, they were in desperate need!) while Robz worked on her English essay and Hlubi entertained us with his stories.  We attempted one last food experiment: transforming banana flavored cereal, ProNutra, into cupcakes...they weren't bad, but then again, they weren't good either.  But I would still give Robz and me a thumbs up for effort!

The exceptional quality of Ballito's relaxed vibe is that the chillness rubs off on everything: the weather, the land, the food, and of course, the people.  Everyone lets their inhibitions and worries go when they're tanning and swimming at Ballito's beaches.  The air there just carries the scent of picnics and sunscreen, afternoon swims and food experiments all the time.            

If I'm Going To Be 5 Inches Away From Sharks, Better Be In A Metal Cage

Wetsuits are not the most flattering piece of fabric ever created, just saying.  But true, it did keep me warmer than the J.Crew bathing suit I was wearing under the spandex-tight, meant-for-a-taller-person wetsuit.  I was less nervous than my mother (It was the fourth time she texted me: "If you don't feel safe, don't go!") even though she was the one sunning on a striped towel on the Nantucket Beach and I was about to go shark cage diving.  We (Katie, Jane (her madre), ML, and I) were all zipped up, waiting for the bait to attract the Great White sharks...dun dun dun.  Be scared.  Ha, jokes, you don't need to be scared--the four of us would join four other curious people in a metal cage attached to our 30-person boat and from there the "unknown" would take place.  And by the "unknown" I mean we would bob above the water and when a shark would jet towards the floating bait near the cage a man on the boat would scream in an undeniably Afrikaans accent "Shark on your right!"  And down we'd go--our heads fully submerged under the water, our eyes bulging in the hope of catching a glance of sharks' ferocity that has been portrayed in so many movies. 

You may foolishly be thinking "Gosh, Katie's so brave.  I could never go shark cage diving!"  You flatter me.  I purposely wedged myself between Katie and ML so I wouldn't be on the edge of the shark cage--at least then I could insure that I'd have some kind of buffer if the worst occured...sorry, Katie!  Within 10 minutes of floating in the 12 degree water and after a mini underwater photo shoot in our scuba gear with ML's snazzy waterproof camera, I heard "Shark!  Shark on your left" through my water-clogged ear.  I clutched the designated hand bar and sunk my head underwater.  I couldn't see a thing--the visibility in the water was terribly fuzzy and filled with random airbubbles.  Then suddenly the shark's tail whipped the side of the cage and dove by the front of the cage, just missing the bait by a few inches!  It was at least 12 feet long and wider than two barrels.  It's pointy teeth could have been featured on a Crest commercial--they reflected the beams of light while the shark's jaw flexibly swung open like a backyard fence. 

We reinacted this process 12 times in 30 minutes!  This water was literally swimming with sharks.  Back on deck, un-wetsuited and in dry clothing, a cheese and tomato sandwich brought me back to reality: I'd just been face to face with 12 sharks and the only thing protecting me were a few metal bars. 

"Durban Backs the Boks" RUGBY TIME

I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I draped a South African flag poncho around my shoulders and fastened a South African headband around my forehead--the night was about to get wild.  Saturday marked the night of the big international game: Australia v. South Africa! Compared to American football rugby is not as similar as I anticipated: 

1. It's more continuous--however, the amount of time saved because of the continuity of the play is eaten up by the amount of injury time.  Rugby (no matter how exciting) seems like a sure way to break a limb.
2. I still don't understand most of the rules of rugby but if American football players were told they couldn't pass the ball forward...we'd have another NFL lockout in a minute.
3. No padding.  Rugby players are REAL men.
4. No cowbells.  I felt a little responsibility to represent the hillbilly-infested part of the States and ring a North Carolinian cowbell in the air but somehow I resisted the urge.
5. When going to buy food during halftime you won't find peanuts and popcorn.  Instead, it's hardcore kettlecorn and biltong.  And personally I had no problem with the culinary options.

South Africa lost, sadly, but that did mean less people were chugging celebratory beers! It took a while to scrub off the Springbok face tattoos but rugby is a true national experience.  However, while I'd like to say that rugby is the uniting force in South Africa that brings every social class, ethnic group, and age together...I'd be lying.  It was obvious as we drove through the city just 5 hours before the big game, looking wildly for Springbok gear and jerseys, that for certain groups in South Africa rugby isn't their party.  While driving through the center of town (where most of the street trading businesses are located) someone in our car pointed out that the people selling their goods on the streets "are generally more into soccer".  If you've seen the movie Invictus (brilliant movie, by the way), ponder about why different ethnic and socioeconomic groups prefer, or don't prefer, rugby. 

Carpe Party---"Seize the Party"

Friday night was possibly one of the best nights. ever.   After 45

minutes of photos and laughs at predrinks we headed over to St.Anne's to meet our partners.  The poor Michaelhouse boys, they had been there since 6pm and the  majority of girls arrived at 6:45.  However everyone looked so glammed-up and beautiful I'm sure the guys didn't mind the wait.  The Hilton bus was still on its way so I met my friends' partners who were from Michaelhouse--they're all very European and have the spiky

styled hair (very un-American, hey?). 

The only way one can tell apart Michaelhouse guys from Hilton guys by their appearance (yes, there is an attitude/humor difference as well!) is the difference between the emblem on their blazer and their ties.  So when navy blue and white ties (Hilton's) began walking around I knew that Johnny had to be somewhere close.  I wove my way around the candy-cane ties (Michaelhouse) and some other ties from other surrounding boys' boarding schools until the back of a head looked familiar--I was right, it was Johnny's head!  Now don't judge me for the struggle to find Johnny; at 6:45 pm the sun's already gone down and there was a light drizzle Friday night. 

Johnny presented me with flowers and I thanked him graciously.  (I'm so glad I
asked him to be my partner--he was so funny and talkative the whole night and
all of my housemates couldn't stop raving: "Your partner is so much fun!")  Then the introducing began--everyone wanted to meet the "American couple" and so we were constantly introducing ourselves and each other to our various housemates/friends.  At 7pm it was time to "lead in"--mind you, that doesn't just mean "walk into the dining hall"...OH NO, it means "go through a screaming tunnel of all of the St.Anne's girls that are blocking your way to the dining hall and shouting your name and taking your photo like you're a celebrity".    Not that I had any problem with celebrity treatment (heehee). However all the guys were quite intimidated by the idea of walking through 300 wild St.Anne's girls but when we told them that they wouldn't get food unless they went through the tunnel...well, let's just say we're pretty convincing.  We began the trek from the bottom of the front lawn to the dining hall. 

Once we were actually inside we were directed to a place for photos--kinda like the prom photos with the backdrop that you see in the movies.  Then the line continued into the actual dining room that was decorated in the Tiffany & Co. colors--it's amazing what a few Marilyn Monroe posters and candles can do to a bleak dining hall.  But it wasn't time to chow down yet--we had to introduce our partners to Mr. Arguile, St.Anne's headmaster.  He was standing there with his wife and as the pairs of partners got closer to Mr.Arguile eventually it was time for Johnny and me.  With my arms still holding onto Johnny's I said: "Mr.Arguile, I'd like to introduce my partner, Johnny."  Johnny said: "Pleased to meet you, sir."  And Mr. Arguile's response was "Oh, an American accent!  Have fun at the formal." After almost a half hour of bustling around taking photos, saying hi to everyone, and seeing everyone's dresses the meal actually started.  We had chicken (surprise, surprise, we have it everyday practically), potatoes, and vegetables.  Then end of the evening was topped off by a beautiful sparkly blue cupcake.


In between dinner and dessert the dancing began and it was that fun group kind of dancing where everyone is jumping on one foot and singing along!   Not the awkward grinding that happens in the USA.  To bring back the memory of one of the most quotable speeches that Mr.Wall, the head of the CLS Upper School, gave to us the night before Homecoming or Sadies, he said, and I quote, "Don't grind lest ye be ground".  If only kids at CLS actually took his advice they'd see that group jowling is so much more fun.  Around midnight us Stoners aka Mollie Stone girls (some of us dancing and some of us skipping and some of us shuffling into our house) said goodnight to Ms.Mansfield (our house mom who was patiently waiting at the door, like a mom waiting to hear every detail of the party) and our heads were still filled with a sparkling memory but we realized: this fabulous night had come to a close.  Now it was time to take off all the makeup, remove the 5 inches we'd earned with the help of heels,  take down the hair.  But it had truly been a night to capture--in photos and memory.  But it wasn't time to sigh and curse at the inevitable passage of time because there was still something to look forward to:

THE AFTERPARTYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY

I can't reveal all the details of the hectic afterparty because:

1. I wouldn't do it justice
2. We all enjoy a bit of privacy, right? 
3.  If I tell you about how awesome my afterparty is then you'll have ridiculously high expectations for YOUR afterparty and you will end up being disappointed.

If you are really oh-so-curious about the crazy details then please write me a hand written letter with a kind request.

So with all of that in mind, let me just say: IT WAS AWESOME.  Hands down it's in the top 5 weekends of my life.  It was one of those rare occasions when I have no inhibitions, no worries, no nothing.  You just go with the flow.  And honestly, that's what a worth while afterparty is all about. 

No matter how much stress goes into the shoes, the dress, the hairdo, or the makeup, when it's time to party, hey, it's time to party.  Live in the moment and don't worry about the details.  Be realistic with your expectations but when your imagination is spreading its empire, run with it. 

Y'all, who forgot the tea?

From the bottom of my red, white, and blue heart I can honestly say that America is pretty darn cool.  We're covered in sand, mountains, snow, beaches, lakes, we're culturally diverse, we stand for freedom, justice, yeah, yeah you get the point.  However, America is not up to par on one specific subject:  tea.  During our rebellion against Britain who forgot the crate of tea? C'mon y'all, you can't forget stuff like that. 

Tea.  Sigh.  The miracle drink.  For those of you who doubt tea's magical powers, let me enlighten you. 

1. Tea can be served at any time of day; breakfast, mid-morning, lunch, mid-afternoon, evening, and bedtime. 
2. Tea is prime for dunking rusks/biscuits/cookies.
3. Tea can be served hot or cold.
4. Tea can be made as personal or generic as the drinker's stomach desires.
5. Tea is an excuse to buy colorful mugs, etc.

So, 'nuff said.  Why is America missing out on this yummy phenomenon?  I'm outraged.  I'm making a vow, right here, right now, to bring back the legend of tea with me upon my return to the USA.

"Cheetah Girls, Cheetah Sistahs"

I glanced down at my hand--it smelled like a mix of Bubba and raw meat.  I'd just stroked two of the 10,000 living cheetahs left in the world.  I squinted my eyes into the searing South African sun as the cheetah trainer said with disbelief in his voice, "In about 15 to 20 years, cheetahs will be extinct.  The whole lot of them."    Within 30 feet from me were three cheetahs; one male, two female.  The trainer continued: "So on the right we have Mikka, the male, and on the left, two females, Savannah and Shadow.  Hopefully they'll mate and produce offspring but if Savannah and Shadow don't like Mikka or Mikka is sterile, nothing will happen."  Nothing will happen.  That meant, one less cheetah to carry on the genes.  One less cheetah in Africa.  In the world.  Eventually "one less" would add up and there would be none.  Did these animals, each with over 3,000 spots on their bodies, feel the pressure?  Did Mikka feel the pressure?  He's being tested this week to see if he can have offspring.  If he couldn't...it would be devastating.  One less cheetah makes a huge difference when there's only 10,000 left around the world.  That number might sound like a pretty good chunk until you hear that there are an estimated  690,000 elephants in Africa alone.  20 years from now when I tell my kids I pet a cheetah in the summer of 2011 they'll look at me and say:  What's a cheetah?  And I'll have to describe the graceful and lightning-fast animal to them because chances are they'll never see one.

South African Slang List

People in Michigan call it "pop" , my dad calls it "cola" and everyone else calls it "soda".  Slang is EVERYWHERE and it can certainly change the course of a conversation if someone has no idea what a word means.  Hence, I am starting a ZA slang list that is imperative for any foreigner that wishes to blend in.

South African Slang-->American Translation + example
bru---brother (Wassup, my bru?)
chuffed---happy (She was so chuffed when she saw all As on her report card!)
crusty---nasty (Her hair was so crusty after going three days without a shower)
hosing--laughing hysterically (When I told her the joke about the two muffins in the oven she was hosing herself!)
jam--jelly (It still works to say PB&J in South Africa since the J can stand for jam or jelly!)
jelly---jello (When I was sick all I wanted was that blue jelly)
jersey--shirt (She got syrup on my jersey!?!?! Noooooo)
jesus sandals--cheap leather sandals (I heard the party is going to be pretty casual--I'll just wear my jesus sandals!)
joll/rage/rave---party (It's a shame I can't remember last night, I heard it was a sick joll)
keen--- want to do something badly (I am so keen to go on exchange--I'd do anything!)
late for you--doesn't work in your favor (Dude, never wear that shirt again--it's late for you.)
rashing--annoying (Really, guys? Can you please stop making those noises--you are so rashing!)
sherbet--darn (Sherbet! I dropped my sherbet!)
shot--thanks (Bru, shot for dropping my stuff off last night)
skiff--- to judge, to eye up and down (Emma and Mary had always been enemies and it was obvious when they skiffed each other in the hallway)
smart---sharp (Stacy London and Clinton Kelly, hosts of What Not to Wear, always wear such smart shoes)
varsity--university/college (I'm trying to get as far away from my parents as possible...I'll go to varsity in England!)

Snow...in July?

It had been raining for three days.  But not that this-is-so-pleasant-rain, no, it was the-almost-snowing-but-not-quite-rain.  I thought Charlotte didn't get that much snow; I didn't count the three-inch sleet we get every year as snow.  But after many of the girls told me they'd never even seen snow I suddenly began wishing the 2 degrees Celsius would drop down to 0 degrees C.  Soon an exciting message reached ML and me: a St. Anne's family wanted to take us and two other exchange students towards the Drakensburg Mtns to see the snow!!!  Snow in July--UM, YES!  So we slid on our UGGs, pulled our beanies over our heads, and found a warm haven for our hands in a pair of gloves.  In South Africa, when it snows, nothing else matters besides seeing the snow.  People go onto random farmers' property and use the farm's hill for sledding and snowman construction.  Drivers pull over to the shoulder of the highway and all the passengers evacuate the van to roll around in the flurries.  Parents take their kids out of school and insist the snow is much more important than Maths class.  In July in America I'd usually be sporting a swimsuit and shorts but here I was sheltered from the cold, woven beanie to UGG boot. 

Bubba, we're not in North Carolina anymore...

Charlotte Douglas Airport--4 am in the morning...we look a tad bit tired, huh?

I felt like I had landed on Mars.  Jokes, not really, but South Africa felt foreign, all right.  My mom's idea of packing all my books into my carry-on backpack sounded like a superb plan at first (you know, to avoid losing all the school books in case my luggage got lost) but after 17 hours of lugging the 30lb bag on my back through security, baggage claim, and boarding three flights, all I wanted to do was chuck my backpack down the toilet in the airplane.  My back ached, my head pounded, my eyelids threatened to collapse shut, and I REALLY WANTED TO TAKE A SHOWER.  But when Mary Lauren, my American co-exchange student and travel companion, and I walked into the Durban Airport, nothing else mattered besides a greatly important fact: We were in South Africa.  We were thousands of miles, three flights, and many phone calls away from home.