Another small thing I noticed today is not only does the traffic drive on the left, so do the escalators.

Drove past a parcel of land today that reminded me very much of southern Minnesota. Rolling hills, fields, bailed hay. A few trees grouped together. In many ways I am finding that South Africa reminds me of home. The main difference is the lack of snow, and the majority is black. But there are a great number of pickups (called a "buckie" here), everybody loves to barbecue and fish and waterski and golf.

The people too remind me very much of the folk in Minnesota. The sense of humor, how they carry themselves, their subverted racism towards the blacks. The younger generation is very European, although I must note I haven't had much opportunity to meet many, and I am in the city. Joburg feels very much like Minneapolis. The population is quite similar, most people live in the suburbs, the downtown empties at night and goes to sleep. The area I am staying in is basically as good as it gets. It is very much like any rich, white suburb in terms of makeup, development, and location.

Sitting here in Sandton Square having a glass of wine and writing postcards on a beautiful warm evening in Johannesburg watching all these beautiful young women, in tight shirts, sitting with their boyfriends.

There was this woman - just absolutely amazing - walking around selling roses in a similar fashion to the Indians that do so in cafes in Washington. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful. When she stopped at my table I was going to buy a rose for her. She almost reminded me of Katya. To buy her a rose, and maybe see if that rose could turn into a drink, and then from a drink, at least another friend in South Africa. What a smile she had, a smile sparkling with the stars gliding though the plaza. A smile selling roses from a grass basket. A smile so soft, contrasting with a tight black shirt, nothing else from the waist up. Stripped yellow and black pants loose yet giving just a hint at what was underneath. I saw her go though the tables when I was having dinner across the way. Kudu is what I had. Very tasty, in a peppercorn sauce. Plenty of onion, with a touch of green and red peppers for texture. A pinch of garlic for a lasting finish, and the peppercorns for kick.

There she was again, later now as I order another glass of wine and the fountain changes height, writing postcards in the light of the candles on my table and the stairs highlighted in little white lights. This tall white light carrying roses in a wicker basket walks though the tables where the others are sitting. Stopping, giving her pitch, overpowering the candle with her smile. Our eyes meet. She moves on to the next table. I don't think she's made a sale yet tonight. Denied again, she moves to a table with two couples, one of the girls the object of my previous distraction. Short black hair, slightly wavy and ending right before a white shirt so tight I can see the flowers on her breasts and the brassiere. black and white, white and black. The two deny each other. A metaphor for this country, this time, this century?

Our eyes meet for a second time, as she leaves her opposite to move on to another cafe. No roses, no wine. Life becomes a little more lonely, the stars shine a little less bright, the candle seems a bit warmer than before.

The cafe is closing down now, and I have an early morning tomorrow.

Sitting outside on the plaza, midmorning, having a small breakfast. The fruit juices here are all very fresh. If they were this good in the States I would likely eat more healthy.

Met yesterday with our South African fixer, Mike Cadman. Mike is a TV person who is an outdoors writer when he's not doing TV. He used to do a lot of work for CBS, but it sounds like a lot of jobs dried up with the end of Apartheid. Right now he's about to start working on a pilot for a series on fly fishing in Africa. He gave me some tips and advice for our expedition through Botswana. Sounds like much of the route is very sandy road. Sounds challenging, but not unlike driving through snow, which is never seen here. In his opinion, the trip will be a great adventure, but a safe one at that (mom was a little worried; I had to set her mind at ease).

All these people going about their lives very much like everyone else around the world. Perhaps I came to South Africa with a preconception that life would have a different attitude here. Life goes on, the South Africans know. But as I spend more time here I am seeing that the optimism I first felt is tempered by an almost tense caution. Like hackles raising on a dog sensing a coming storm. The storm may come to pass, but the dog stays on guard.

A war over race will likely never happen here. I think everyone, white and black, in South Africa realizes this country has too much to loose. But old habits can be hard to break.

I met a man named Robert today. He served with the South African forces in Angola. Their war is some years past not, but the wounds run deep and the gangrene of animosity festers on. Much like the continued animosity many still have towards Viet Nam here at home, thirty years after the war. Except the Viet Cong never lived among us, and Dien Bien Phu was half a world away.

Robert says he has no grudges, but does admit it is difficult respecting a person of authority who ten years ago he fought a war against.

Maybe here in South Africa is an emotion that America had between the civil war and industrialization. An emotion of mistrust in peace.

Mistrust I think I can understand. What is truly amazing is the reconciliation happening in South Africa, the pace of the change from Apartheid to real democracy.

The battle for legal and human rights that simmered and boiled in America for a hundred years happened here in less than a decade. The problems that remain are the more difficult ones to solve; problems we still struggle to cope with in America, problems of inequity in opportunity.

Off to Cape Town in a few hours. Diving into the maelstrom of the US TV Pool.