safarESEARCH; a master of research goes on safari.

Filling out my application for a Botswana visa, under “Reasons for Travel” I write “Tourism/Safari.” The visa officer reads through my application and says, “You are going on safari?” I nod. “So you like animals?” he then asks with all the gravity that would imply this is a prerequisite to get in the country. “Yes, love ‘em,” I exaggerate. (Who knows, maybe it is a prerequisite). “What do you do?” he asks me. To spare both him and me from this conversation, I tell him I’m a student, in London. “Ah, what do you study?” Uh-oh. “I’m doing a Master of Research in Humanities and Cultural Studies.” In the short silence that follows I wonder why I didn’t just say mathematics, while his face is overcome by various expressions all of which say “huh?” “Ahhhh,” he then proudly concludes, “now I see why you like animals.” What gave that away I wonder, “cultural,” or “humanities?”

***

College counselors are quite a daft bunch really. They’ll make you memorize words for the SAT, walk you through countless personality and career quizzes that are supposed to help you figure out (at the age of 18) what you want to do for the rest of your life, and then they’ll read through the “Picking a College” guide with you asking you whether you prefer east or west coast, snow or sunshine, jocks or hippies. All of this when they really should just give you one tip: pick a degree with a simple title. Or one that you won’t mind explaining for the rest of your life, to visa officers, at dinner parties, and chatty old ladies in the bank queue. Unlike the visa officer who concluded that my degree inspired or explained my love for animals, the chatty old lady might conclude you’d make a good wife. What about “humanities” or “cultural studies” suggests that I crochet doilies? (Coincidentally, or not, I do own a copy of Crocheting for Dummies. Don’t ask, I think I was trying to stop drinking at the time. Need I elaborate on how that went?)

***

When you tell people you have a degree in Humanities and Cultural studies, they will inevitably conclude one of three things. (Well three things besides that you like animals). One—that you’re really smart. Maybe my (fake) glasses already suggest this, but I think it’s the big words that give it away. Truth be told, I don’t really know what the “official” way to define what I studied is. I usually just give the usually vague string of answers, art, architecture, philosophy, literature, etc. But more importantly, I give myself a pat on the back when I manage to say the entire title of my degree without getting tongue-tied. Especially after my third glass of champagne. If you can do that, you’ve got to be smart. (Or, an experienced drunk? Let’s stick to the first option). Next, they may conclude that you’re incredibly “cultured,” as in, that you go to the opera “and all that stuff.” Which, coincidentally, I do, whenever I can, but this doesn’t have anything to do with my degree. Its not like they took us on fieldtrips to the theatre, much to my dismay. (In all fairness, this is what I thought I was signing up for—a Master’s degree in London’s West End.) And though I did get a few free cocktails at the TATE, that was more or less it. That and a professor or two hitting on me. Not sure where that falls, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t come under “culture.” And the third thing they might assume, is that you’re a people person. Fair enough, I did just say “humanities,” and that’s a closer guess than animals to be sure, but I wouldn’t call myself a people person. In fact anyone who chooses to devote a year of their life to research—to books and libraries—is probably not a people person. You can’t like people if they’ve managed to get the one copy of the library book you need before you. It just doesn’t work.

***

That said, I do have a general, vague, interest in people—from a distance that is. Whenever my father asks me why I need not one, but two degrees, to be a waitress, I tell him I’m making intellectual, and very important observations on people, and that I will one day get a very good book out of all of it. (Or at least a date!) Thanks to him, I don’t need the £6-an-hour (or whatever it is, I don’t even ask), that I’m earning—but I do love the idea of being paid to people watch. I love to wonder what is going on in people’s lives, I love to imagine what they were thinking that morning when they put those shoes on, I love to imagine whose bed they found those shoes under moments earlier...

***

And so, having been duly granted my visa for Botswana (whether on account of my love for animals or not), I headed off on safari and did what I do best—people watched. And never before has my “shoe question” been more relevant. Seriously, what are safari tourists thinking when they put those shoes on, and that outfit?! I don’t get the whole head-to-toe-khaki thing. Those animals have been standing still for decades watching safari vehicles come by. Its not like they’re going to run away at the sight of a white shirt. (Trust me, I do after all, have a Master's in a love for animals!). Besides, its not like you’re going to be chasing the animals for chrissakes! All you’re doing, rather decadently, is sipping on G&Ts and watching them go by. A ballgown and white gloves would work just fine too. (Ok, even I don’t go to this extreme, but I’m never above a little pearl necklace or Hermes scarf to top off my outfit). And, ps, if “camouflage” is what you’re going for—a two-foot zoom lens probably isn’t the way to go. If anything, that’s what would scare an elephant away—the poor thing never imagined something larger than its penis existed! Interestingly, just as the saying goes that there is more drama backstage than onstage, I’d venture to propose there are more wild instincts at play within the safari jeep than outside it. What else are all those men with their zoom lenses doing but competing for who has the biggest ‘one’?

***

Luckily, being a local, I manage to experience the “luxury”—if you can call it that—of safari, at a reasonable cost. But its incredible how much money foreigners spend on the whole “experience.” Think of it, the flights, (the vaccinations!), the accommodation, those cameras (read: egos), and (need I mention them again?) those outfits! Whoever came up with those pooey outfits is, pun intended, rolling in it. Not to mention that upon their arrival at the 5-star lodge, some sly guide has probably told them that tipping is the way to go in this country, so they go through dropping twenties at every stop thinking the job wouldn’t get done otherwise. Look, I am after all a waitress, so more than anyone, I’m all for tipping. But when you’re paying thousands of dollars a night for your accommodation, you really don’t need to tip housekeeping for bringing you fresh towels. Or your game drive guide. Yes, its nice to, and I sometimes do…but part of the reason you’re paying those astronomical prices is because they’re all inclusive—driver, towels, G&Ts and all.

***

Anyway, I don’t really care how much money people spend or how they choose to spend it, that’s their own business. Considering my love of Hermes and…well, let me not even get started on that list…I’m really not one to talk. What gets me is that they pay for allllll of this and more, when actually, all they really want to see is a lion. Forgive me for asking the obvious question, but couldn’t ya just go to the zoo? The minute you pile into a safari jeep with all the pairs of khaki-clad, zoom-toting, mountain-climbing-boot-wearing Germans, Americans and Spaniards you’re going to make boring small-talk with for the next two hours, someone is bound to turn to the driver and say, “Albert, vil ve see ze lions today?” Poor Albert has already been driving them around for two days, pulling every possible bit of mildly interesting animal trivia out of his ass to keep them engaged, explaining gestation periods and courting rituals of every bird, bee and buffalo they spot, and yet all they’re really after is a lion. One single lion would make the entire trip worthwhile. Can I make another obvious suggestion and recommend the musical The Lion King? He may not be real, but at least (for only $99.99!) you’re guaranteed to see him, centerstage. The only downside besides him not being real is that you wont be able to whip out your $5,000 Nikon and take a picture of him. But I’m sure they sell pictures at the giftshop on your way out.

***

The saddest thing about all of this is that for some reason, these unknowing tourists expect the amount of dollars they spend to directly correlate to the guarantee of what they will see. As if more zeroes means more lions. I’ll let you in on a little secret, it doesn’t matter how much you tip Albert, he just cannot make the lions appear! He’s a game drive guide for god’s sake, not a magician, or a circus tamer. Which is why everyone goes to Kruger National Park these days. Everyone. Even, VOGUE tells me, Ivanka Trump! Need I make the obvious guess here that Kruger is probably the most expensive safari you can go on? On my most recent trip, we sat around dinner one night, sharing game drive stories with the other guests at the lodge, as you do, and no one seemed to have any exciting stories to tell. Any exciting local stories that is. “Oh, our game drive was lovely today but we didn’t see any cats. Its ok, though, we saw them at Kruger.” Kruger Shmuger. Even though I’ve been on countless safaris in my life, I always see and learn something new and exciting (though perhaps its just the same information all the time, but my humanities mind cant retain any of it). For example, they say the wildebeast in Livingstone National Park are the only animals who have an actual predator in the park, despite the fact that there are no cats. Apparently there is some type of butterfly, or moth, (don’t quote me, I’m telling the story as I remember it!) that lays eggs in the animal’s nostrils, and when they become larvae, or caterpillars, whatever, they crawl up to the animal’s brain and begin to eat it! This causes the animal to…first, yes, go mad and run around in circles (much in the same way our indecisions might, for example?), and then die. Sad story, but fascinating no? Now, where can I get some of those little suckers to put up those annoying tourists’ noses!?

***

Sorry, that was mean. I don’t really want to kill them, I don’t even really hate them, I just find them annoying. They’re the outdoor equivalent of those suckers in the library who take your book! (You wanted proof that I’m not a people person?) But what that trip did get me thinking was, whatever happened to exploration? As I write this, I glance to the left of my screen and notice an internet window opened, at the top of which reads “Safari.” Surely there’s a reason why Apple chose not to name their internet browser Explorer like Windows, and went for Safari instead. It’s the same thing, right? Isn’t a safari supposed to be an exploration? A free, directionless, expectation-less roam through a national park where you never know what you’ll come across? Maybe a lion, maybe a creature going mad and running around in circles, maybe elephants fornicating. (Sorry to be so clinical, but I just love that word. Let me say it again, fornicating). Granted, this last one is definitely worth seeing. And probably one you won’t find in a zoo or Disney musical. Sorry. But sometimes you don’t see any of these things…sometimes its just a lilac breasted roller…or a carmine bee-eater…tiny little birds perched on the branch of a tree…that only inspire you to wish you had a bigger one—zoom, that is. But listen to the calls of those birds, or even just their names…isn’t there something blissfully poetic in this too? (There must be, for there is no other way I would have remembered their names. In case it isn’t obvious, I’m not a bird person either.)

***

Its funny how whenever I spew out the title of my degree people choose either to focus on the “humanities” or “cultural studies” part…nobody ever rests on research. But that is what I am, a Master of Research. And the most important lesson in research is that the book you are looking for is usually right next to the one you thought you were looking for. Which not only says that we never really know what we’re looking for, but that we shouldn’t ever aim to know what we’re looking for; you can’t explore with expectations. So it is, I imagine, with all explorations, safaris included. Don’t go on a game drive in search of a lion. Its about the ride…its about what happens along the way. Doesn’t abandoning ourselves to the wilderness of chance offer us the very chance to experience the wild?

***

I’ll pause there for a moment to raise the second most important lesson in research. When you can’t make it to the library, Google will do. One of my favourite things to do is apply this “abandonment of expectation” to Google. To not look for anything specific, but let Google, with its fabulous suggestions and guesses, lead me on. If you haven’t ever done this, you should. When you type the word “why” into google and wait a moment—it will give you some suggestions. I’m not entirely sure, but I imagine these are the most popularly searched questions. Today, the top hit is “why can’t I own a Canadian?” Erm, (wow!) clearly, because with your intellect you shouldn’t be granted possession of anything, let alone anyone. Other winners include your typical seven-year-old questions such as “why is the sky blue?” and “why do cats purr?” and my all-time favourite of today, “why is my poop green?” I don’t know dude, but if I were you I wouldn’t be sitting in front of my laptop, I’d be well on my way to the doctor. Under “how,” the top hits are “how to solve a rubix cube” and “how I met your mother”—which may be the title of a movie or something, but I do like the idea that someone is asking Google to answer for their MILFing! Under “when,” there is of course “when in Rome,” because I’m sure countless people hear that expression and have no idea what it means, and then coming in close behind that is, “when will I die?”

***

Wow. Maybe technology really has made amazing advances and will soon be able to answer all our questions. Or maybe our computers have just gotten into the wrong (or seven-year-old) hands. But if there is something funny or quaintly naïve in these questions, there is also something very wrong in them. Googling “how to solve a rubix cube” defeats the purpose moron! Have we become intolerant of uncertainty? Are we no different to those tourists who ask poor Albert if they will see lions today? Why are we so desperate to know what will be? Whatever happened to the days of que será será? Can’t we just sit down with the rubix cube of life and figure it out as we go along? And God forbid, take pleasure in the puzzle? It seems not. Then again, what do I know? All I have is a degree in a love for animals…

The United Kingdom of Don't Touch That...?

The first time I went to New York, before I was old, educated, or cultured enough to have any sort of appreciation for museums, and hence any desire to visit them, the only one that held any appeal for me and the only one I ended up going to was Madame Tussauds. Now I would hesitate before even calling this a museum, and I certainly doubt I will ever enter one again…but back then, coming from the African jungle where there wasn’t even a cinema by way of entertainment, the idea of rubbing shoulders with the celebrities I had grown up watching, loving and envying on TV was mind-blowing, even though they were made of wax and would probably melt to the floor if the air-conditioning stopped working and the heat of New York summer snuck into the building. I kissed Brad Pitt, I impersonated Diana Ross and I looked high up into Shaq’s nose. I took pictures with all of them, and I couldn’t wait to get back home and convince all my highschool friends that Brad Pitt and I were now BFFs. Well I took pictures with all but one – Princess Diana was guarded by a velvet rope and therefore off-limits. A tad too late, they had finally decided to give the woman some space. The American friend I was with said, “I bet the Brits ordered that. They’re so damn uptight.” The Americans, of course, were much more liberal with their “kings”—you could lick Elvis if you wanted to.

But when I moved there years later, I learned that Diana wasn’t the only thing you couldn’t touch in New York, and it wasn’t only the Brits who were “uptight.” Far from being the land of liberty, America was the land of the velvet rope, the land of the forbidden, as Ben Stiller rightly calls it in Night at the Museum II, “The United States of Don’t Touch That”. There’s no playing ball on the beach, no walking on the grass in Central Park, no climbing the lions that guard the Public Library. What do you do on the beach other than play ball, or in the park other than walk on the grass, or with a statue but climb up and pose for a photograph…or god forbid, make out? We all know this—just as a diary with a lock and key invites you to open it, a glass cabinet to touch or lean on it, so a statue invites you to climb it, ride it, hug it, kiss it, or whatever else your imagination might drive you to do. Juliet’s breast in Verona has lost its color from all the people that have touched it. Lord only knows how many marble, cement and stone breasts, bums and balls I have touched, how many lions and horses I have ridden, how many generals and greek gods have given me piggy backs…all in the name of “original” tourist photography, or playing the fool.

But there is something deeper that occurs in this interaction with a city’s concrete zoo. Yes, we are indeed left with great photographs of ourselves draped across a copper steed, and priceless memories of teenage kissing sessions that lasted so long even the lion seemed to let out a yawn, but in doing so we also subconsciously feel we have left our mark on a city, the way it inevitably leaves its mark on us. Yes, in those moments, we once again become the schoolchildren who inscribed their names with compasses on the bathroom walls and wrote the words “was here” beneath them, the teenagers who fingered their love’s name on the fogged up windscreen of their first car, dogs who piss on their territory to say that’s mine. Of course, some people do go to these actual measures, take the notion of leaving their mark on the city’s monuments beyond the symbolic, which is probably why America has surrounded itself with velvet rope. But this is also why I feel I never “left my mark,” on it, why I never hugged, kissed or touched any part of it, and consequently perhaps why it never touched me.

When I came to London I immediately fell in love, and we caressed each other day and night. I spent many a night in Trafalgar Square leaning on Nelson's column waiting for a date, and many a sunny day there, sitting on the steps in front of the National Gallery, eating a sandwich and smiling as I watched children climb up the lions and say to their parents “Look!” “Look at me!” Yes, they were saying, “look at me, I’m on the lion,” but they were also inherently saying, “look at me, I’m a part of London, and it’s a part of me!” – partly what I imagine Antony Gormley had in mind with his "One&Other" project for the fourth plinth—where different Britons stand for an hour each day, all day, in an artistically symbolic installation where people become the people of the city, in the city, and on the city. Regardless of whether or not we may agree that this work is or isn’t art, I’m sure we could agree that it serves a priceless function in not only representing, but defining the city and the people who live in it, and in doing so, distinguishing it markedly from anywhere else, like say, the U.S of D.T.T.

When I read in the newspaper yesterday that Nicholas Penny, the director of the National Gallery was appalled by the roudiness and debauchery of the people in Trafalgar Square and felt that it was “destroying the tranquility of the National Gallery” and disturbing the high art and culture within the gallery’s walls, I couldn’t believe it. Granted he is defending tradition and old school values…but if that’s what he wants, then returning to the good old days also means returning to the days of very few people going to museums. Over the last few decades the number of museum-goers has more than doubled, and if this means the outside is noisy then so be it. It’s a price you have to pay for huge “price” you’re making compared to what you used to. Velazquez will be Velazquez—it will take a lot more than lion-climbing children and seemingly animalistic humans to disrupt that. And if this country turns into the United Kingdom of Don’t Touch That, I’m leaving. And don’t touch me on my way out.