Ches and I had the last hip hop class of the year last night. A group of us are going to Poen's farm in the Free State this weekend to chill in the mielie belt for some much needed rest and relaxation.
Maybe I will get my head around my book launch next weekend amongst a throng of Massey Ferguson tractors and the deceptive yet earthly-pleasant stench of bovine manure, and just how I'm going to quell my nerves. Speaking in front of people always scares the bejayzuz out of me.
Anyway. So we've perfected our hip hop routine, and plan to show about 15 of our closest friends this weekend, just what we have learnt over the last month.
I'm gonna wear cargo's and a tank top.
Ches is gonna wear high tops and a backwards trucker cap.
We will become Rihanna and Justine Trousersnake. After we're maybe suitably caned to the eyeballs and everyone else can bear to watch.
Personally, I think our dance routine will be just great, if I manage to do that turny thing properly. And with poise. Christ. Missing the poise. Must find poise. Must somehow find poise.
So our dance instructor is upping and moving to Australia, as her husband has been relocated. So, she, Ches and I, and another girl we've got to know well in our lessons – who Ches thinks looks like Denise Richards – we all had a drink or two together at Billy's after our final lesson with her.
Interesting bird, is our dancing instructor. She's lived everywhere. Buenos Aires, Rio, Sudan, Ghana, name it – she's bought furniture in the country, basically.
So she was giving me the lowdown on the highlife and where I need to take my sambaring ass when I'm in the South American cities.
She lived in the jungle. How cool is this Betty? They lived in the jungle where anacondas spawned, terrifying, dangerously venomous and fang-infested snakes kind of willy-nilly slithered everywhere, and spiders, and parrots just chilled in their back yard in Brazil.
I mean, she had to scythe her way through the back garden to get to her washing line.
Now, seriously – that's cool. That's taking yourself out of a comfort zone and throwing yourself into the depths of...lethal creature hell – and embracing it.
She said in Rio, the common phrase is “Do You Bang?” It doesn't mean in literal terms “Do you fornicate,” it means “How you doing.”
I'm going to be Banging that term home wherever I go. That's if that is the correct phrase. We did have one or two drinks last night, after I'd schvitzed out half my body weight while dancing non-stop.
I reckon I'll be fine throwing out terms like, “Bom Dia Lourenço Marques Nando's Espetada Obrigado Bartholomew Dias,” as an entire sentence like I know what I'm fucking talking about.
And in Argentina, “¿Valenthia Quesidilla Que, Manuel? Castenettes Burrito Tortilla El Gringo, Sangria?” you know, just string a few well known nouns together. Some men may even think I'm charfing in a barbaric fashion.
Or just show them a copy of the song I once composed. That should impress the fuck outta them.