A little Soutie...

It has taken me a month (or maybe more) to overcome my dread of Blackberry-cramp to write a new blogpost. Sorry, guys. But better late that never, huh?
In the last month I've spent more time in Cape Town and Port Elizabeth than Grahamstown. Craig and I have both been unable to help hating, ever more frustratingly, the winter of our Grahamstonian discontent - hence why we take shelter in our hometowns so often and for so long. And more and often, much to my repatriated pride, I'm beginning to wonder if our decision to flee home was just a wee bit too hasty? Perhaps if we'd rearranged our living and spending arrangements, and stayed on another 2 years, we may have been able to return to South Africa with the ability to buy property : and also to have waited for the best possible job-offers in Port Elizabeth. (I didn't mention settling in Cape Town: my dear, darling husband is VIOLENTLY averse to the apparent iniquity of (my) Mother City... *sigh/adolescent_eye-rolling*) And though these thoughts of a too-hasty-return plague us more and more often, the deep joy and peace of being in Africa, and in the divinely appointed bosom of our wonderful families still (kind of) keeps these almost-doubts at bay.
Our little house, decrepit, devoid of storage so we drown in cyclic chaos and regularly prone to heavy flooding and blocked drains hasn't helped our sense of homecoming serenity. Even my life-creed of: "what is healing but a change in perspective" didn't help, despite the gorgeous idea of Anais Nin's: "In chaos is fertility." Our most recent little domestic crisis is an about-to-overflow septic tank right at our front door!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I'm not a fan of using more than one or two exclamation marks, but this sh*tty problem is the final, final straw. Really.)

When we first got to Grahamstown, we rented a delightfully quaint Settlers cottage with a 'Bible' front door (a wooden cross set into it) and warm, creaky yellowwood floors that gleamed with the polishing of 200 years of feet. (See pic insert) The garden's dappled shade saved us from the dry, summer's heat - and this garden taught me to cherish our indigenous floral heritage --- and to develop a succulents obsession (and a minor cuttings-kleptomania!) We also indulged in almost nightly braais - slap-bang in the middle of 'winter'. Glorious. Heavenly. Utopic!
And then, we moved into the school's accomodation: a miniature section of a boys' hostel, replete with a urinal and two small and low-set basins. Fab. Utterly v*kken fab.

Ag - I really shouldn't complain - but hell's bells: the fact we still pay rent for this humiliation... Aai, aai, aai...
But having to live like this, with pilfering and sloppy builders, floods and frog infestations (I didn't mention that, did I?) is humiliating and exhausting. The other thing about moving into such a tiny little dorpie is that I am so far away from the my family, AND there are no jobs for me as a writer and artist. Unless you are a teacher or lecturer, there is very little scope for a meaningful career.

And so, my advice for those of you planning a homecoming is this: save your geldtjies bedonderd -- and make sure the city or town you choose to settle in contain your family, friends and career opportunities.

PS. A big, big 'sorry' about my unusually sombre approach in this post, and even though I nearly deleted it all (twice!) I felt that we should always give what we have learned to others.

'Men must live and create. Live to the point of tears.' Albert Camus